Paul Levinson's Blog: Levinson at Large, page 359

Free Peek at The Silk Code 750 AD

"My favorite section was a long historical flashback, set in the eighth century ..." - The New York Times Book Review

Part II: The Tocharian Chariot
Chapter Two  
                                       TARIM BASIN, on THE SILK ROAD, circa 750 AD

A man of 40 and a man of 14 sat on a hill overlooking a river that some called the Tarim, near a settlement that would someday be called Aksu in a province known as Xinjiang.
"So the T'angs no longer have their secret," the 14-year old said. "Soon the whole world will know how to make their precious silk."
The older man, who was the younger's father, frowned.  "Secrets come and go.  All that really matters are the realities they contain."
"You take no pleasure that we have finally broken the Eastern hold?"
"They never had that hold in the first place.  There are things about silk--"
A third man, age 16, came running up to them. "Father, Gwellyn, there's a dead singer down by the river."
The three walked quickly, without words.  All knew there was no point talking about the singer, until they actually saw the body.
The older man gasped when he saw it.  Skin, parched with age, over thickset bones.  Eyes mossy green, framed by brows that protruded like cliffs, and the withered remnants of half-closed lids.... "Yes.  He was a singer."
"How long has he been dead?" Gwellyn, the 14-year old, asked.
"A very long time," the father answered.
"Was he a maker too?" Allyn, the 16-year old, asked.
"Impossible to tell just by looking at his corpse."
"What should we do with him?" Gwellyn asked.
"Burn him.  Then grind up his bones and spread the dust to the wind, as the laws prescribe," the father answered.
"Should we tell anyone about this, or--," Allyn persisted.
"No. Just do as I instructed."
Gwellyn rankled. "It doesn't seem right just to destroy all trace of him, without even telling anyone, as if he never existed."
"That's the very reason we must do this," the father replied. 
                                                                            * * *Gwellyn looked at his face in the river, muddy red first blush of beard on ancient silt of a similar color.  His blue, deepset eyes were lighter than the water, but heavier now with the burden they carried.   He could still see the singer, first stretched out by the water here, as he had been found, then burned, charred, ground into dust, as his father had commanded.
"Legend says the singers looked like us, before they died." Allyn had joined him at the river, and had guessed what was still very much on Gwellyn's mind.  Likely because it was still on Allyn's.
"And the sorcerer of death gave them their brutish appearance?" Gwellyn asked.
"Father says sorcerers are for children," Allyn replied.  "He says men of reason look for explanations in the natural world.  I suppose he got this idea from the Philosopher."
"From Aristotle?  From the Byzantine teachings?"
"Yes," Allyn replied.  "You know the texts -- Father keeps them next to his favorite spices."Gwellyn nodded.  "He wants me to continue with the lessons -- so I can read those teachings for myself."  Gwellyn sighed.  "Comes from being a Shaman's son.  You've read those teachings already. Do they speak of singers and their changes after death?"
"No," Allyn said.  "The Byzantine writings speak of the need to find explanations in natural causes, in the world at hand."
"Ah, I see," Gwellyn said.  "So what does Father think are the natural causes for the singers and the way they look in death?"
"Father says it's an illness," Allyn replied.  "Except it is deeper than just an illness, and it's very old, and it will still be alive long after we are gone."
Gwellyn's brows furrowed.  "I never thought of an illness as alive."
"Well, they are in some way tied to life," Allyn said.  "Our livestock get sick, fruit trees get sick, we get sick, but rocks and tents do not."
"Are we sick with this ... this illness now?"
"No one knows," Allyn said.  "Perhaps we are.  There's an idea -- very ancient, Father told me -- that everyone has illness.  And the difference between those who get sick and those who do not is that the healthy ones have also an illness of illness that preys upon the illness, renders the illness lifeless so it can do us no harm."
"This second illness is our friend," Gwellyn mused, "like a dog who stops a wilder animal from attacking us in the night."
"Yes."
"But how do we know which is which?" Gwellyn asked.  "How can we try to keep out one and welcome the other?  Where do we find illness when it isn't already within us?"
"The legends say everywhere.  In the food we eat, the air we breathe, the women we love."
"Women?" For the first time Gwellyn smiled, because making love was still a thrill to him that far outweighed any thought of illness, even one which might cause death.  His smile deepened, as he attached a specific face and body, one which he had seen just last week, to the general prospect of making love.
"Yes," Allyn replied, smiling a bit too.  "And we them.  The legends say we are all brothers and sisters in illness."
Gwellyn nodded, but he was thinking more of Daralyn's face and body than his sisters'...Allyn continued anyway.  "Some of the legends say that our seed can do more than one thing, that sometimes it can leave evil inscriptions in the souls of women it may come to know."
                                                                           * * *Daralyn was a woman Gwellyn had very much enjoyed coming to know, and in fact was still enjoying.Despite her name, Daralyn was not entirely of Gwellyn's people. Though she had muddy red hair, her eyes were almond, and their color an iridescent edge closer to brown than blue.  Her maternal grandfather and perhaps others in her line had come from the Land of Silk. She had high intelligence, noble bearing -- altogether fit, Gwellyn's father had concluded, to educate his son, five years younger than she, in some of the world's ways.
They lay in each other's arms, her legs still wrapped yet relaxed around his waist, after a third round of love making.
"There are really only three kinds of people in this world," Daralyn said, picking up a thread of conversation from their last brief interval of rest.  "Our people; the people from the Far East, of whom I'm also a part; and the people from the hot, humid southern land."
"The singers look like none of those," Gwellyn said.
"Maybe that's because they're dead."
Daralyn meant that as a joke, and Gwellyn laughed, but he still took it seriously.  "Has anyone ever seen one of them alive?"
"I don't think so," Daralyn said.
"Then why do we call them singers?" Gwellyn asked.  "Surely they don't sing when they are dead?"  He thought again about how he had helped destroy the corpse they had found, how they had committed those smoky green eyes, that neck like a tree-trunk, to the flames...  Would he have felt even worse about destroying it if there was some chance that that neck could sing?  Or was there a way of singing without words, without the impact of vocal cords upon the air, an impact that a corpse could have on the world without actually singing?
"I'm not sure," Daralyn said.  "Whenever I've heard them called by a name, it's always been the singers.  I think someone once told me that the way they talk is by singing -- that they have no words to speak, just melodies and harmonies to sing."
"But that sounds like someone must have seen them alive," Gwellyn said.
"Melodies sound like life, yes." Daralyn smiled. "I like that.  But you're right -- no one has seen them alive.""But how can that be?" Gwellyn asked.
"I don't know," Daralyn replied.  "Maybe they were alive a long time ago, before any one of us or our people, but other people saw them then, and passed word down to us about what the singers were like when they were alive."
"But they don't look like they have been dead that long..." Gwellyn didn't want to, but he blurted out to Daralyn what he and his brother had done with the corpse.  He felt better after his confession in his lover's arms.
"True, they don't look like they have been dead that long," Daralyn said soothingly, stretching out her legs over Gwellyn's.  "But if no one alive has seen them alive, what other possibility could there be?"Gwellyn considered.  "How long can a corpse stay a corpse?"
"Not very long," Daralyn said.  "Usually they're picked clean. But I've heard stories of people found in the ice, almost good enough to kiss, though they were dead for fifty years."
"I wonder," Gwellyn said, "if there are some illnesses that work like the ice, but from the inside."  And he was struck again by the thought that maybe he and his brother had ground into dust something -- someone -- which was somehow still alive.
                                                                             * * *
He took in the deep cerise of the setting sky.
"Looks good enough to drink," Jakob said, and joined in the contemplation.
"Yes," Gwellyn said, "like the wine of your Passover. But the only trace we soon will have of this sky will be in our minds."
"Many of the beautiful things are like that -- perhaps that's why they are beautiful."  Jakob was a merchant from Antioch. He had travelled the Silk Road many times in his long life, the hostile northern route as well as kinder southerly.  He had strode upon the Indian Grand Road too, and traversed the Spice Route by water in pursuit of trade with the Byzantines, the Persians, the Mohammetans.
Gwellyn regarded Jakob as a master of judgement in things beautiful. Yet... "I could write a description of it anyway," Gwellyn said.  "I could try to capture that color in my words, so that others could know of it."
The older man scoffed.  "Impossible.  Your very words would change the color they were attempting to describe -- like trying to fathom the texture of a snowflake between your fingers."
Gwellyn looked back up at the sky.
"Writing is wonderful," Jakob continued, "but it is not for everything.  The Philosopher's mentor's mentor -- Socrates -- had no use for it.  He said reliance on it would cause our memories to dissolve."
 Gwellyn smiled, because he knew enough to know that he had just gotten the better of Jakob at least in this tiny round.  "And how do we know this?" Gwellyn inquired.
The smile was returned.  "Yes, fortunately -- or unfortunately -- for Socrates, Plato troubled to record in writing the objections of Socrates to writing.  Otherwise, we would never know of those objections.  I'll grant you that.  Just as Julius Caesar himself wrote somewhere that he admired the Druids, because they refrained from writing.  And we would not know of Julius Caesar's admiration for lack of writing had he not troubled to record that admiration in writing.  But that still does not mean that writing is advisable in all circumstances."
"When is it not advisable?"
"Writing is a chariot to the future," Jakob said.  "It usually conveys the voice of someone no longer present.  If I say something now that confuses you, you can ask me to explain. If I write something that confuses you, and you read it after I am gone, whom do you ask for clarification?  I myself am not in the chariot -- just my words."
"But aren't your words -- in writing -- better than no words at all?"
 Jakob stroked his grey-white beard.  "Yes.  But that is not the choice. We will always have words.  The question is whether we prefer them to be spoken or written.  For the keeping of records of commerce, I agree that writing is best.  For communication of confusing things -- like philosophy -- I would rather pass my words on to someone else by speech, so he can question me, and understand my meaning, and then pass his words on to someone else again, who can question him."
"I still think writing is more dependable," Gwellyn said.  "What if someone makes a mistake as the words are being passed along from speaker to speaker?"
Jakob shrugged.  "That could happen, yes.  But words in writing are in their own way not very dependable either.  The Library at Alexandria has been burning on and off for centuries!"  Jakob lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, louder actually than his normal speech.  "They blame it on the Mohammetans. But my friends tell me it's the Christian bishops too -- they're afraid of the learning!"
Gwellyn took no offense, being a believer in neither Mohammet nor Christ. He believed in the sun and the stars and the moon and the trees -- true to the Druid lines that still ran through the mixed weave of his people.  But unlike the Druids, he believed in writing.
And so he was horrified by the burnings in Alexandria.  Just as he had been horrified by burning the corpse by the river.
"We found a singer by the river last month," he said.
Jakob put an urgent, bony finger to his lips.  "It's better not to talk about such things!"Gwellyn laughed in exasperation.  "I see.  The singer is not only someone I can't write about, but someone I can't talk about!"
Jakob held up a quieting hand again, and whispered even more intensely than about the burnings in Alexandria. "You want to learn more about the singers?"
Gwellyn nodded.
Jakob sized up his young friend, so passionate for wisdom. "All right," he said.  "I'll tell you where you can go to find out more about them.   It will require a long trip, by sea. And years, perhaps, of your life."
Read more of The Silk Code -  Kindle US ... Kindle UK  ... Kindle France ... Kindle Spain ... Kindle Italy ... Kindle Germany ... Kindle Japan ... Kindle India ... Nook US ... Nook UK ... Kobo


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Fringe 5.7: Father and Son

Two men, father and son, each more intelligent and focused than they've been in the past, each moving Fringe 5.7 forward tonight.   One is fearing what he is becoming, and wants it undone.  The other is reveling in it, and will take it to the max, in the name of revolution, success, and revenge.

I actually like Walter the way he is now - more like Walternate, as I mentioned last week, or more like William Bell, as Walter puts it, and whose influence was very much in play tonight.  Walter is afraid he'll lose the kindness, the humanity, that winning quality that he had in such profusion along with his cracked craziness in seasons past.  I actually don't miss that too much, maybe not even at all.  I like seeing Walter operate at his full intelligence.
Olivia knows there's something very different about Peter.  We know its the effect of putting in the tech, and Olivia knows too by the end of the episode, because Peter tells her.  His mental capacity has made him into another Hari Seldon (see Isaac Asimov's Foundation series; I also said Nate Silver was a Hari Seldon in real life, after he predicted the results of the 2012 Presidential election so perfectly).   But back to Fringe - Peter can follow the precise movements of everyone around him, including Observers, which means he can predict the future pretty well.  Add to that the acute Observer hearing, and an ability to work out complex mathematical relationships instantly, and you have a pretty impressive revolutionary in Peter.  We already saw, last week, how the tech has increased his physical strength and his control of his body.
Olivia's worried.  She doesn't want to lose Peter again.  And he's already lost a tuft of hair.  Is he on his way to becoming a Bald Observer?  Is that Peter in the future in the picture top left of this blog post? But there's no way our people will be able to prevail over the Observers without Peter's powers.   Peter already has had some impressive initial success - tonight some more classic Fringe science - and there's clearly more to come.
If our side wins, will Peter surrender the tech, take it out of his head?  Hard to see this happening.  Will Walter really have those pieces of his brain removed again?  I don't want to see this happening.
Can both survive the end of this season?   I just dont' know ... 


See also  Fringe 5.1: Paved Park and Shattered Memories ... Fringe 5.2: Saving Our Humanity ...Fringe 5.4: Ghosts of Fringes Past ... Fringe 5.5: "You Don't Even Know What You Don't Know ... Fringe 5.6: "Dad"

See also  Fringe Returns for Season 4: Almost with Peter   ... Fringe 4.2: Better and Worse Selves... Fringe 4.3: Sanity and Son ... Fringe 4.4: Peter's Back, Ectoplasm, and McLuhan ... Fringe 4.5: Double Return ... Fringe 4.6: Time Slips ... Fringe 4.7: The Invisible Man ... Fringe 4.8: The Ramifications of Transformed Alternate Realities ... Fringe 4.9: Elizabeth ... Fringe 4.10: Deceit and Future Vision ... Fringe 4.11: Alternate Astrid ... Fringe 4.12: Double Westfield / Single Olivia... Fringe 4.13: Tea and Telepathy ... Fringe 4.14: Palimpsest ... Fringe 4.15: I Knew It! ... Fringe 4.16: Walter Likes Yiddish ... Fringe 4.17:  Second Chances ... Fringe 4.18: Broyled on Both Sides ... Future Fringe 4.19 ... Fringe 4.20: Bridge ... Fringe 4.21: Shocks ... Fringe Season 4 Finale: Death and Life
See also Fringe 3.1: The Other Olivia ... Fringe 3.2: Bad Olivia and Peter ... Fringe 3.3: Our/Their Olivia on the Other Side ... Fringe 3.5: Back from Hiatus, Back from the Amber ... Fringe 3.7: Two Universes Still Nearing Collision ... Fringe 3.8: Long Voyages Home ... Fringe 3.10: The Return of the Eternal Bald Observers ... Flowers for Fringenon in Fringe 3.11 ... Fringe 3.12: The Wrong Coffee  ... Fringe 3.13: Alternate Fringe ... Fringe 3.14: Amber Here ... Fringe 3.15: Young Peter and Olivia ... Fringe 3.16: Walter and Yoko ... Fringe 3.17: Bell, Olivia, Lee, and the Cow ... Fringe 3.18: Clever Walternate ... Fringe 3.19 meets Inception, The Walking Dead, Tron ... Fringe 3.20: Countdown to Season 3 Finale 1 of 3 ... Fringe 3.21:  Ben Frankin, Rimbaldi, and the Future ...Fringe Season 3 Finale: Here's What Happened ... Death Not Death in Fringe  

See also reviews of Season 2: Top Notch Return of Fringe Second Season ... Fringe 2.2 and The Mole People ... Fringe 2.3 and the Human Body as Bomb ... Fringe 2.4 Unfolds and Takes Wing... Fringe 2.5: Peter in Alternate Reality and Wi-Fi for the Mind ... A Different Stripe of Fringe in 2.6... The Kid Who Changed Minds in Fringe 2.7 ... Fringe 2.8: The Eternal Bald Observers ... Fringe 2.9: Walter's Journey ... Fringe 2.10: Walter's Brain, Harry Potter, and Flowers for Algernon ... New Fringe on Monday Night: In Alternate Universe? ... Fringe 2.12: Classic Science Fiction Chiante ... Fringe 2.13: "I Can't Let Peter Die Again" ... Fringe 2.14: Walter's Health, Books, and Father ... Fringe 2.15: I'll Take 'Manhatan' ... Fringe 2.16: Peter's Story ... Fringe 2.17: Will Olivia Tell Peter? ... Fringe 2.18: Strangeness on a Train ... Fringe 2.19: Two Plus Infinity ... Fringe the Noir Musical ... Fringe 2.21: Bring on the Alternates ... Fringe 2.22:  Tin Soldiers and Nixon Coming ... Fringe Season 2 Finale: The Switch

See also reviews of Season One Fringe Begins ... Fringe 2 and 3: The Anthology Tightrope ... 4: The Eternal Bald Observer ... 7: A Bullet Can Scramble a Dead Brain's Transmission ... 8. Heroic Walter and Apple Through Steel ... 9. Razor-Tipped Butterflies of the Mind ... 10. Shattered Pieces Come Together Through Space and Times ... 11. A Traitor, a Crimimal, and a Lunatic ... 12, 13, 14: Fringe and Teleportation ... 15: Fringe is Back with Feral Child, Pheromones, and Bald Men ...17. Fringe in New York, with Oliva as Her Suspect ... 18. Heroes and Villains across Fringe ...Stephen King, Arthur C. Clarke, and Star Trek in Penultimate Fringe ... Fringe Alternate Reality Finale: Science Fiction At Its Best


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Fictionwise Closing Its Digital Doors

I received word earlier tonight that Fictionwise will be permanently closing on December 4, 2012.
The site was a pioneer in e-publishing when it launched back in 2000.  It began as a short story site, and only published short fiction which had been published "professionally" elsewhere.  I did quite well with them back in the day, and still have 22 short stories (actually, short stories, novelettes, and novellas), all science fiction, on the site.   Indeed, given that all of those stories were reprints, the money was especially sweet.  But in many ways the very notion of "professionally" published showed the site was wedded to the past.
Barnes & Noble bought them out in 2009, and the handwriting has been on the wall - or the screen - since then.  Fictionwise was no match on its own for Amazon, and Barnes & Noble apparently looked at them as a poor relation from the other side of the tracks.
I'll miss the site.   You can get to the site here,  in case anyone wants to look around.  Fictionwise branched out into nonfiction of all lengths and books.
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Bones 8.6: Veteran's Day

A powerful one-of-a-kind Bones 8.6 tonight, in more ways than one.

There's a convocation of interns, all assembled by Bones to help identify some of the many unidentified remains at the Jeffersonian.  Bones has read Phil Jackson's book, and she's all enthused about the possibilities of team play.  She even slaps the "hindquarters" (her word) of each of the assembled interns.   This is about as funny as the show gets.

The victim is apparently just a homeless man, but the hard work of the interns and everyone else identifies him as a Desert Storm vet.  And he turns out to be much more than that.  He's a 9/11 hero, who saved three lives against all odds when the Pentagon was hit, and then died alone, 10 days later, of a cracked rib that bent inward do to his heroic live-saving exertions.

All of this gives the interns a chance to each talk about their 9/11 experiences - where they were on that day, and how it affected them.  Arastoo is especially moved, being Muslim, and feeling deeply that the terrorist attack in additional to everything else hijacked his religion.  Cam was working in the coroner's office in NYC, and she was of course profoundly affected, too.

But Bones, as it often does, saves the most profound for last.  Bones unexpectedly starts crying back home with her "mate" (her word for Booth), and tells him and us that she too worked after 9/11 in New York, digging after the towers fell.  She tried to be strong, and didn't cry then.  But now, because of Booth, she can finally cry.

What an ending, to a beautiful Veteran's Day show, which could also be shown somewhere every September 11.

See also Bones 8.1: Walk Like an Egyptian ... Bones 8.2 of Contention ... Bones 8.3: Not Rotting Behind a Desk  ... Bones 8.4: Slashing Tiger and Donald Trump ... Bones 8.5: Applesauce on Election Eve

And see also Bones 7.1: Almost Home Sweet Home ... Bones 7.2: The New Kid and the Fluke ...Bones 7.3: Lance Bond and Prince Charmington ... Bones 7.4: The Tush on the Xerox ... Bones 7.5: Sexy Vehicle ... Bones 7.6: The Reassembler ... Bones 7.7: Baby! ... Bones 7.8: Parents ...Bones 7.9: Tabitha's Salon ... Bones 7.10: Mobile ... Bones 7.11: Truffles and Max ... Bones 7.12: The Corpse is Hanson ... Bones Season 7 Finale: Suspect Bones

And see also Bones 6.1: The Linchpin ... Bones 6.2: Hannah and her Prospects ... Bones 6.3 at the Jersey Shore, Yo, and Plymouth Rock ... Bones 6.4 Sans Hannah ... Bones 6.5: Shot and Pretty ... Bones 6.6: Accidental Relations ... Bones 6.7:  Newman and "Death by Chocolate" ...Bones 6.8: Melted Bones ... Bones 6.9: Adelbert Ames, Jr. ... Bones 6.10: Reflections ... Bones 6.11: The End and the Beginning of a Mystery ... Bones 6.12 Meets Big Love ... Bones 6.13: The Marrying Kind ... Bones 6.14: Bones' Acting Ability ... Bones 6.15: "Lunch for the Palin Family" ...Bones 6.16: Stuck in an Elevator, Stuck in Times ... Bones 6.17: The 8th Pair of Feet ... Bones 6.18: The Wile E. Chupacabra ... Bones 6.19 Test Runs The Finder ... Bones 6.20: This Very Statement is a Lie ... Bones 6.21: Sensitive Bones ... Bones 6.22: Phoenix Love ... Bones Season 6 Finale: Beautiful

And see also Bones: Hilarity and Crime and Bones is Back For Season 5: What Is Love? and 5.2: Anonymous Donors and Pipes and 5.3: Bones in Amish Country and 5.4: Bones Meets Peyton Place and Desperate Housewives and Ancient Bones 5.5 and Bones 5.6: A Chicken in Every Viewer's Pot and Psychological Bones 5.7 and Bones 5.8: Booth's "Pops" and Bones 5.9 Meets Avatar and Videogamers ... Bad Santa, Heart-Warming Bones 5.10 ... Bones 5.11: Of UFOs, Bloggers, and Triangles ... Bones 5.12: A Famous Skeleton and Angela's Baby ... Love with Teeth on Bones 5.13 ... Faith vs. Science vs. Psychology in Bones 5.14 ... Page 187 in Bones 5.15 ...Bones 100: Two Deep Kisses and One Wild Relationship ... Bones 5.17: The Deadly Stars ...Bones Under Water in 5.18 ... Bones 5.19: Ergo Together ...  Bones 5.20: Ergo Together ... Bones 5.21: The Rarity of Happy Endings ... Bones Season 5 Finale: Eye and Evolution



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Boardwalk Empire 3.9: Impaired Nucky

A simmering placeholder Boardwalk Empire 3.9 last night, as Nucky slowly recovers from the concussion he sustained at the end of the last episode in the bombing of Babette's.

The most significant piece of news is that none of Nucky's colleagues - Studs Lonergan, Waxey Gordon, and of course Arnold Rothstein with Lucky Luciano and Meyer Lansky - are willing to back Nucky's play against Gyp and Joe.   They don't want to side with a losing hand.   Of course, since the series will continue, we all know that, somehow, Gyp (a fictional character) and Joe (a real character) will be dispatched by someone in the end.   Joe in fact was killed at some point, likely by Lucky and Meyer, and Arnold won't survive into the new age of gangsterism in the 1930s, either.

Meanwhile, the other thread of note in episode 3.9 is Richard finally finding some affection, with the daughter of the embittered vet we met a few weeks ago.  He still seems a long way from catching up with Nucky about Jimmy, and this may or may not happen, this season or ever.

Nucky may now grow closer to Margaret, with Billie gone, but it may be too late.   Margaret tells Owen she's ready to leave with him as soon as everything's settled in with Nucky - presumably meaning when he's recovered from the bomb blast.

But his business dealings will never be settled, and are headed for a crisis, to say the least, which means that Margaret may wind up staying with Nucky for a long time.  And that raises questions about Owen - how long can Nucky count on Owen's loyalty?

As for the audience, we can be counted upon to keep Boardwalk Empire in our sights as it wends its way through one of the significant decades in our history.


See also Boardwalk Empire 3.1: Happy News Year 1923  ... Boardwalk Empire 3.2: Gasoline and the White Rock Girl ... Boardwalk Empire 3.3: The Showgirl and The Psycho ... Boardwalk Empire 3.5: "10 L'Chaim" ... Boardwalk Empire 3.7: Deadly Gillian ... Boardwalk Empire 3.8: Andrew Mellon

And see also Boardwalk Empire 2.1: Politics in an Age Before YouTube  ... Boardwalk Empire 2.2: The Woman Behind the Throne ... Boardwalk Empire 2.3: Frankenstein and Victrola ... Boardwalk Empire 2.4: Nearly Flagrante Delicto ... Boardwalk Empire 2.5: Richard's Story ... Boardwalk Empire 2.6: Owen and Other Bad News for Nucky ... Boardwalk Empire 2.7: Shot in the Hand  ...Boardwalk Empire 2.8: Pups with Fangs ... Boardwalk Empire 2.9: Ireland, Radio, Polio ...Boardwalk Empire 2.10: Double Shot ... Boardwalk Empire 2.11: Gillian and Jimmy  ... Boardwalk Empire Season 2 Finale: Stunner!
And see also Boardwalk Emipre on HBO ... Boardwalk Empire 1.2: Lines and Centers Power ...Boardwalk Empire 1.10: Arnold Rothstein, Media Theorist  ... Season One Finale of Boardwalk Empire



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Homeland 2.7: Love Me Tinder

So I've been thinking all season that the Dana-Finn story is the weakest in Homeland, a distraction from other great stuff going on.  Dana certainly played a crucial role last season, getting her father not to blow himself and VP Walden to the smithereens in the safe room.  But this season, the teenage romance seemed nothing special and obvious, until episode 2.7 tonight, when Dana & Finn suddenly pulled Brody and Carrie and the whole season in their direction, briefly but significantly.

Dana and Finn at the center was brief, because they're no longer even a couple at the end of the episode. Dana's insistence that the two tell their parents about the fatal hit-and-run leads, unsurprisingly, to Finn being willingly whisked away on the VP's orders.  But Dana's having none of the VP's wanting to bury the hit-and-run, and she gets Brody to stand behind her.

This proves to be Brody's most defiant act since he went over (presumably) to the CIA, but even that is short-lived.  Carrie intercepts Brody and Dana in front of the local police station, and, getting a moment alone with Brody, Carrie lays it out to him that his deal with the CIA and therefore his freedom would be blown if Brody and Dana go into the police.   A little heavy handed - and I don't know why the CIA couldn't just have pulled some strings to get the local police to back off - but it works.  And it affirms the CIA's continuing power over Brody.

Speaking of pulling strings, Saul pulls a few to get a woman terrorist a better cell in prison - with a view - to get her to identify the terrorist who led the deadly assault in Gettysburg in the last episode, but it's all in vain.   One of the things that gives Homeland a keen edge is the mix of successes and failures in the CIA operations against Nazir, and after the turning of Brody, we were due for two failures.  We got one last week and another one tonight.

But with a dangerous silver lining, too, as Carrie and Brody seem to be really enjoying each other's company.   Powerful tinder for the story ahead...

See Homeland 2.1-2: Sneak Preview Review ... Homeland 2.3-5: Sneak Preview Review ... Homeland 2.6: What Brody Knows
See also  Homeland on Showtime ... Homeland 1.8: Surprises ... Homeland Concludes First Season: Exceptional




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Dexter 7.7: Shakespearean Serial Killer Story

Dexter's enemies are getting more dangerous in Dexter 7.7.  Isaac is out of prison, admiring Dexter, but ever more determined to kill him.  LaGuerta is beginning to get closer to Dexter as the Bay Harbor Butcher.  And Hannah-

But she's not Dexter's enemy, she's his lover.  The episode begins with her having a knife to Dexter's neck, but that's just prelude to another round of loving.   Last week, Dexter could have killed her but made love to her instead.  This week, Hannah turns the tables.

Dexter, ever perceptive about his own condition, is now more aware of how right Hannah is for him.  Better than Lila, who had a pathological thirst for his murderous ways.  Better than Rita, who turned a blind eye towards those ways.  And better than Lumen, who needed Dexter to come to terms with the violence that had been done to her.

Hannah, in contrast, could be just old-fashioned love.  Except, not old-fashioned, nothing is old-fashioned in Dexter.   This is a love between two killers, each beyond the pale in their own ways, brought together by a natural, even beautiful erotic and deeper attraction.  What could get in the way of this?

Deb.  She likes Price.  And she knows that Hannah killed him - before Dexter could act in a less violent way to get Price out of the way.   But Hannah has done such a good job of dispatching Price that there's no way Deb and the police can bring her to justice.  I'm glad of that, because I like Hannah and Dexter - they're a great couple.

But Deb, who has figured out that Dex at some point wanted to get Hannah on "his table," but has no idea he got her in bed instead, finally calls upon Dexter to "make it right, do what you do".  So the guardian of Dexter's humanity, the devoted sister who made an heroic attempt earlier this season to "cure" Dexter, the sister who also began to understand the merit of what Dexter does - is now so furious at the brilliant serial killer Hannah that she's calling upon her serial killer brother to do his thing.

This story is the best in all the years of Dexter - a Shakespearean serial killer story.


See also Dexter Season 7.1-3: Sneak Preview Review ... Dexter 7.4: The Lesson in Speltzer's Smoke ... Dexter 7.5: Terminator Isaac ... Dexter 7.6: "Breaking and Entering"
And see also Dexter Season 6 Sneak Preview Review ... Dexter 6.4: Two Numbers and Two Killers Equals? ... Dexter 6.5 and 6.6: Decisive Sam ... Dexter 6.7: The State of Nebraska ... Dexter 6.8: Is Gellar Really Real? .... Dexter 6.9: And Gellar Is ... ... Dexter's Take on Videogames in 6.10 ...Dexter and Debra:  Dexter 6.11 ... Dexter Season 6 Finale: Through the Eyes of a Different Love

And see also Dexter Season Five Sneak Preview Review ... Dexter 5.4: Dexter's Conscience ...Dexter 5.8 and Lumen ... Dexter 5.9: He's Getting Healthier ... Dexter 5.10: Monsters -Worse and Better ... Dexter 5.11: Sneak Preview with Spoilers  ... Dexter Season 5 Finale: Behind the Curtain

And see also Dexter Season 4: Sneak Preview Review ... The Family Man on Dexter 4.5 ...Dexter on the Couch in 4.6 ... Dexter 4.7: 'He Can't Kill Bambi' ... Dexter 4.8: Great Mistakes ...4.9: Trinity's Surprising Daughter ... 4.10: More than Trinity ... 4.11: The "Soulless, Anti-Family Schmuck" ... 4.12: Revenges and Recapitulations

See also reviews of Season 3: Season's Happy Endings? ... Double Surprise ... Psychotic Law vs. Sociopath Science ... The Bright, Elusive Butterfly of Dexter ... The True Nature of Miguel ...Si Se Puede on Dexter ... and Dexter 3: Sneak Preview ReviewReviews of Season 2: Dexter's Back: A Preview and Dexter Meets Heroes and 6. Dexter and De-Lila-h and 7. Best Line About Dexter - from Lila and 8. How Will Dexter Get Out of This? and The Plot Gets Tighter and Sharper and Dex, Doakes, and Harry and Deb's Belief Saves Dex and All's ... Well

See also about Season 1: First Place to Dexter 





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Brain Power: From Nathaniel Hawthorne to Tiffany Shlain

Tiffany Shlain has done it again.  The director of the acclaimed Connected and The Tribe movies has given us another slice of her vision that probes and provokes our understanding as it delights our senses and coaxes our smiles.  As is the case with all of Shlain's movies, you feel after seeing it that you saw something you already once knew, but needed to be reminded about, and now that you've seen it again the ideas and the rhythm are even more important than you realized.

The idea of Brain Power: From Neurons to Networks is the chestnut that the Internet is like our brain.  The metaphor actually goes at least as far back as Nathaniel Hawthorne and his character Clifford in The House of the Seven Gables (1851), who muses, "Is it a fact - or have I dreamed it - that, by means of electricity, the world has become a great nerve, vibrating thousands of miles in a breathless point of time"?

It was short arc from the telegraph in Hawthorne's time to the web in ours - with McLuhan's global village in 1962 along the way - and, come to think of it, Shlain's Brain Power does have the memorable quality of a dream.  But it also has the focus of an important scholarly pursuit, and Shlain's thesis is that the Internet is not just like a human brain, but the brain of a human child.  This is because the human brain for the first years of its existence is hard-wired to learn - or, in neuronal terms, make connections.   Like links online, connections in the brain literally build, enrich, and expand it, with an initial strategy of the more links the better.

Part of growing up - for the web as a whole and the brain of every person - is pruning the links and connections that don't work, or don't work out well.  Shlain also raises concern about stress and overload suppressing the growth of good connections.   I've always thought that what we suffer from is not overload but underload, or not enough good connections and apps to make sense of what the world has for us.   That's why, when we walk into a library or bookstore, we may feel a fleeting tinge of overload with all the books before us, but it quickly passes because we have the navigational app to make sense of what we see, to know where to find the biographies, the fiction, and so forth.   Human beings, as William James, another Victorian, noted, are in the business of multi-tasking, or wringing order from the confusion of the world.   Overload can be exhilarating.

One thing's sure.   There's no overload or confusion in Shlain's marvelous 10-minute movie.   You'll feel exhilarated and pleased after you see the children and parents on the screen, the cool animation (a Shlain trademark) and world-class art (including quick takes of what famous illustrators such as Joel Iskowitz think the brain is),  the ideas that flow like a sparkling fountain on a summer day.   Take a sip - it will expand some of your good connections.




You can see Brain Power, for free, right here. Paul Levinson's books ... Paul Levinson's music

Fringe 5.6: "Dad"

Fringe continues in its final season to be the finest science fiction on television - this year, to be sure, and in some ways of all time, too.

The specific story in episode 5.6 concerns a "pocket universe" that Walter discovered back in 2016, as our world reeled and collapsed under the Observer invasion.   The pocket universe, on a floor of an apartment building, contains all sorts of goodies, including ceilings that suddenly turn into floors, and an entrance accessed by a virtual square dance.  As I often noted in my reviews of Fringe in the first few years, it had a 1950s Science Fiction Theater flavor, which was well recalled tonight in the pocket universe.  But that was probably the least important part of tonight's story.

More important is Peter's transformation, due to the Observer chip he embedded in his brain last week.  Tonight we see that it is giving Peter some or all of the Observer powers.  He recovers more quickly from blows (likely due to the chip's shunting of their impact and pain to less vulnerable parts of his body), calculates kinesthetics and distances more quickly on the move, is a more effective hand-to-hand fighter, and can move with awesome speed.  The question of course now looms larger than ever of whether this transformation will undo and destroy Peter, as the Observer that Peter gets the better of darkly hints.  We do need to take this with a grain of salt, since Observers can be vicious liars in their goal of undoing us.

Peter still has his redeeming humanity, at least as of the end of this episode.  Walter has been acting less like Walter and more like Walternate all season.  It's likely because his brain has been reconstituted to completion.   John Noble does a great job portraying this.  At times tonight, Walter even sounded like Walternate.  But Walter is still Walter, at least insofar as his being sensitive to his own transformation, and worrying that it's turning him into something he wasn't and didn't want to be.

Peter picks some of this up, talks to Walter, and tries to reassure him that he won't let Walter turn into a a ruthless man.  As part of that reassurance, Peter calls Walter, his father, "Dad".

It's a single word, but it speaks to the profound humanity of this series, and why I'm going to miss it keenly when it concludes.




See also  Fringe 5.1: Paved Park and Shattered Memories ... Fringe 5.2: Saving Our Humanity ...Fringe 5.4: Ghosts of Fringes Past ... Fringe 5.5: "You Don't Even Know What You Don't Know

See also  Fringe Returns for Season 4: Almost with Peter   ... Fringe 4.2: Better and Worse Selves... Fringe 4.3: Sanity and Son ... Fringe 4.4: Peter's Back, Ectoplasm, and McLuhan ... Fringe 4.5: Double Return ... Fringe 4.6: Time Slips ... Fringe 4.7: The Invisible Man ... Fringe 4.8: The Ramifications of Transformed Alternate Realities ... Fringe 4.9: Elizabeth ... Fringe 4.10: Deceit and Future Vision ... Fringe 4.11: Alternate Astrid ... Fringe 4.12: Double Westfield / Single Olivia... Fringe 4.13: Tea and Telepathy ... Fringe 4.14: Palimpsest ... Fringe 4.15: I Knew It! ... Fringe 4.16: Walter Likes Yiddish ... Fringe 4.17:  Second Chances ... Fringe 4.18: Broyled on Both Sides ... Future Fringe 4.19 ... Fringe 4.20: Bridge ... Fringe 4.21: Shocks ... Fringe Season 4 Finale: Death and Life

See also Fringe 3.1: The Other Olivia ... Fringe 3.2: Bad Olivia and Peter ... Fringe 3.3: Our/Their Olivia on the Other Side ... Fringe 3.5: Back from Hiatus, Back from the Amber ... Fringe 3.7: Two Universes Still Nearing Collision ... Fringe 3.8: Long Voyages Home ... Fringe 3.10: The Return of the Eternal Bald Observers ... Flowers for Fringenon in Fringe 3.11 ... Fringe 3.12: The Wrong Coffee  ... Fringe 3.13: Alternate Fringe ... Fringe 3.14: Amber Here ... Fringe 3.15: Young Peter and Olivia ... Fringe 3.16: Walter and Yoko ... Fringe 3.17: Bell, Olivia, Lee, and the Cow ... Fringe 3.18: Clever Walternate ... Fringe 3.19 meets Inception, The Walking Dead, Tron ... Fringe 3.20: Countdown to Season 3 Finale 1 of 3 ... Fringe 3.21:  Ben Frankin, Rimbaldi, and the Future ...Fringe Season 3 Finale: Here's What Happened ... Death Not Death in Fringe  

See also reviews of Season 2: Top Notch Return of Fringe Second Season ... Fringe 2.2 and The Mole People ... Fringe 2.3 and the Human Body as Bomb ... Fringe 2.4 Unfolds and Takes Wing... Fringe 2.5: Peter in Alternate Reality and Wi-Fi for the Mind ... A Different Stripe of Fringe in 2.6... The Kid Who Changed Minds in Fringe 2.7 ... Fringe 2.8: The Eternal Bald Observers ... Fringe 2.9: Walter's Journey ... Fringe 2.10: Walter's Brain, Harry Potter, and Flowers for Algernon ... New Fringe on Monday Night: In Alternate Universe? ... Fringe 2.12: Classic Science Fiction Chiante ... Fringe 2.13: "I Can't Let Peter Die Again" ... Fringe 2.14: Walter's Health, Books, and Father ... Fringe 2.15: I'll Take 'Manhatan' ... Fringe 2.16: Peter's Story ... Fringe 2.17: Will Olivia Tell Peter? ... Fringe 2.18: Strangeness on a Train ... Fringe 2.19: Two Plus Infinity ... Fringe the Noir Musical ... Fringe 2.21: Bring on the Alternates ... Fringe 2.22:  Tin Soldiers and Nixon Coming ... Fringe Season 2 Finale: The Switch

See also reviews of Season One Fringe Begins ... Fringe 2 and 3: The Anthology Tightrope ... 4: The Eternal Bald Observer ... 7: A Bullet Can Scramble a Dead Brain's Transmission ... 8. Heroic Walter and Apple Through Steel ... 9. Razor-Tipped Butterflies of the Mind ... 10. Shattered Pieces Come Together Through Space and Times ... 11. A Traitor, a Crimimal, and a Lunatic ... 12, 13, 14: Fringe and Teleportation ... 15: Fringe is Back with Feral Child, Pheromones, and Bald Men ...17. Fringe in New York, with Oliva as Her Suspect ... 18. Heroes and Villains across Fringe ...Stephen King, Arthur C. Clarke, and Star Trek in Penultimate Fringe ... Fringe Alternate Reality Finale: Science Fiction At Its Best


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Free Taste of The Silk Code

Part I: The Mendelian Lamp


Chapter One    Most people think of California, or the midwest, when they think of farm country.  I'll take Pennsylvania, and the deep greens on its red earth, any time.  Small patches of tomatoes and corn, clothes snapping brightly on a line, and a farmhouse always attached to some corner. The scale is human...Jenna was in England for a conference, my weekend calendar was clear, so I took Mo up on a visit to Lancaster.  Over the GW Bridge, coughing down the Turnpike, over another bridge, down yet another highway stained and pitted then off on a side road where I can roll down my windows and breathe.Mo and his wife and two girls were good people.  He was a rarity for a forensic scientist.  Maybe it was the pace of criminal science in this part of the country -- lots of the people around here were Amish, and Amish are non-violent -- or maybe it was his steady diet of those deep greens that quieted his soul.  But Mo had none of the grit, none of the cynicism, that comes to most of us who traverse the territory of the dead and the maimed.  No, Mo had an innocence, a delight, in the lights of science and people and their possibilities."Phil." He clapped me on the back with one hand and took my bag with another.  "Phil, how are you?" his wife Corinne yoo-hooed from inside.  "Hi Phil!" his elder daughter Laurie, probably 16 already, chimed in from the window, a quick splash of strawberry blond in a crystal frame."Hi--" I started to say, but Mo put my bag on the porch and ushered me towards his car."You got here early, good," he said, in that schoolboy conspiratorial whisper I'd heard him go into every time he came across some inviting new avenue of science.  ESP, UFOs, Mayan ruins in unexpected places -- these were all catnip to Mo.  But the power of quiet nature, the hidden wisdom of the farmer, this was his special domain.  "A little present I want to pick up for Laurie," he whispered even more, though she was well out of earshot. "And something I want to show you. You too tired for a quick drive?""Ah, no, I'm ok--""Great, let's go then," he said.  "I came across some Amish techniques --  well, you'll see for yourself, you're gonna love it."* * *Strasburg is 15 minutes down Rt. 30 from Lancaster.  All Dairy Queens and 7-Elevens till you get there, but when you turn off and travel a half a mile in any direction you're back a hundred years or more in time.  The air itself says it all. High mixture of pollen and horse manure that smells so surprisingly good, so real, it makes your eyes tear with pleasure. You don't even mind the few flies flitting around.We turned down Northstar Road.  "Joseph Stoltzfus's farm is down there on the right," Mo said.I nodded.  "Beautiful."  The sun looked about five minutes to setting. The sky was the color of a robin's belly against the browns and greens of the farm.  "He won't mind that we're coming here by, uh--""By car?  Nah, of course not," Mo said. "The Amish have no problem with non-Amish driving.  And Joseph, as you'll see, is more open-minded than most."I thought I could see him now, off to the right at the end of the road that had turned to dirt, grey-white head of hair and beard bending over the gnarled bark of a fruit tree.  He wore plain black overalls and a deep purple shirt."That Joseph?" I asked."I think so," Mo replied. "I'm not sure."We pulled the car over near the tree, and got out.  A soft autumn rain suddenly started falling."You have business here?" The man by the tree turned to address us. His tone was far from friendly."Uh yes," Mo said, clearly taken aback.  "I'm sorry to intrude. Joseph -- Joseph Stoltzfus -- said it would be ok if we came by--""You had business with Joseph?" the man demanded again.  His eyes looked red and watery -- though that could have been from the rain."Well, yes," Mo said.  "But if this isn't a good time--""My brother is dead," the man said.  "My name is Isaac. This is a bad time for our family.""Dead?" Mo nearly shouted.  "I mean ... what happened?  I just saw your brother yesterday.""We're not sure," Isaac said.  "Heart attack, maybe.  I think you should leave now.  Family are coming soon.""Yes, yes, of course," Mo said.  He looked beyond Isaac at a barn that I noticed for the first time.  Its doors were slightly open, and weak light flickered inside.Mo took a step in the direction of the barn.  Isaac put up a restraining arm. "Please," he said. "It's better if you go.""Yes, of course," Mo said again, and I led him to the car."You all right?" I asked when we were both in the car, and Mo had started the engine.He shook his head.  "Couldn't be a heart attack.  Not at a time like this.""Heart attacks don't usually ask for appointments," I said.Mo was still shaking his head, turning back on to Northstar Road. "I think someone killed him."* * *Now forensic scientists are prone to see murder in a ninety-year old woman dying peacefully in her sleep, but this was unusual from Mo."Tell me about it," I said, reluctantly.  Just what I needed -- death turning my visit into a busman's holiday."Never mind," he muttered. "I babbled too much already.""Babbled?  You haven't told me a thing."Mo drove on in brooding silence.  He looked like a different person, wearing a mask that used to be his face."You're trying to protect me from something, is that it?" I ventured. "You know better than that."Mo said nothing."What's the point?" I prodded.  "We'll be back with Corinne and the girls in five minutes.  They'll take one look at you, and know something happened.  What are you going to tell them?"Mo swerved suddenly onto a side road, bringing my kidney into sticking contact with the inside door handle.  "Well, I guess you're right about that," he said.  He punched in a code in his car phone -- I hadn't noticed it before."Hello?" Corinne answered."Bad news, honey," Mo said matter-of-factly, though it sounded put on to me.  No doubt his wife would see through it too.  "Something came up in the project, and we're going to have to go to Philadelphia tonight.""You and Phil? Everything ok?""Yeah, the two of us," Mo said.  "Not to worry.  I'll call you again when we get there.""I love you," Corinne said."Me too," Mo said.  "Kiss the girls good night for me."He hung up and turned to me."Philadelphia?" I asked."Better that I don't give them too many details," he said. "I never do in my cases.  Only would worry them.""She's worried anyway," I said.  "Sure sign she's worried when she didn't even scream at you for missing dinner.  Now that you bring it up, I'm a little worried now too.  What's going on?"Mo said nothing.  Then he turned the car again -- mercifully more gently this time -- onto a road with a sign that advised that the Pennsylvania Turnpike was up ahead.* * *I rolled up the window as our speed increased.  The night had suddenly gone damp and cold."You going to give me a clue as to where we're going, or just kidnap me to Philadelphia?" I asked."I'll let you off at the 30th Street Station," Mo said. "You can get a bite to eat on the train and be back in New York in an hour.""You left my bag on your porch, remember?" I said.  "Not to mention my car.""All right, I'll drive you back to my place -- we can turn around at the next exit.""I'd just as soon come along for the ride, and then we can both go back to your place.  Would that be ok?"Mo just scowled and drove on."I wonder if Amos knows?" he said more to himself than me a few moments later."Amos is a friend of Joseph's?" I asked."His son," Mo said."We'll I guess you can't very well call him on your car phone," I said.Mo shook his head, frowned.  "Most people misunderstand the Amish -- think they're some sort of Luddites, against all technology.  But that's not really it at all.  They struggle with technology, agonize over whether to reject or accept it, and if they accept it, in what ways, so as not to compromise their independence and self-sufficiency. They're not completely against phones -- just against phones in their homes -- because the phone intrudes on everything you're doing."I snorted. "Yeah, many's the time a call from the Captain pulled me out of the sack.  Telephonus interruptus."Mo flashed his smile, for the first time since we'd left Joseph Stoltzfus's farm.  It was good to see."So where do Amish keep their phones?" I might as well press my advantage, and the chance it would get Mo to talk."Well, that's another misconception," Mo said.  "There's not one monolithic Amish viewpoint.  There are many Amish groups. They have different ways of dealing with technology.  Some allow phone shacks on the edges of their property, so they can make calls when they want to, but not be disturbed in the sanctity of their homes.""Does Amos have a phone shack?"  I asked."Dunno," Mo said, like he was beginning to think about something else."But you said his family was more open than most," I persisted.Mo swiveled his head to stare at me for a second, then turned his eyes back on the road.  "Open-minded, yes. But not really about communications."  

"About what, then?""Medicine," Mo said."Medicine?" I asked."What do you know about allergies?"My nose itched -- maybe it was the remnants of the sweet pollen near Strasburg."I have hay fever," I said.  "Cantaloupe sometimes makes my mouth burn. I've seen a few strange deaths in my time due to allergic reactions.  You think Joseph Stoltzfus died from something like that?""No," Mo said. "I think he was killed because he was trying to prevent people from dying from things like that.""Ok," I said. "Last time you said that and I asked you to explain you said never mind.  Should I ask again or let it slide?"Mo sighed.  "You know, genetic engineering goes back well before the double helix.""Come again?""Breeding plants to make new combinations probably dates almost to the origins of our species," Mo said.  "Darwin understood that -- he called it `artificial selection'.  Mendel doped out the first laws of genetics breeding peas. Luther Burbank developed way many more new varieties of fruit and vegetables than have yet to come out of our gene-splicing labs.""And the connection to the Amish is what -- they breed new vegetables now too?" I asked."More than that," Mo said.  "They have whole insides of houses lit by special kinds of fireflies, altruistic manure permeated by slugs that seek out the roots of plants to die there and give them nourishment -- all deliberately bred to be that way, and the public knows nothing about it. It's biotechnology of the highest order, without the technology.""And your friend Joseph was working on this?"Mo nodded.  "Techno-allergists -- our conventional researchers -- have recently been investigating how some foods act as catalysts to other allergies.  Cantaloupe tingles in your mouth in hay fever season, right? -- because it's really exacerbating the hay fever allergy.  Watermelon does the same, and so does the pollen of mums.  Joseph and his people have known this for at least 50 years -- and they've gone much further.  They're trying to breed a new kind of food, some kind of tomato thing, which would act as an anti-catalyst for allergies -- would reduce their histamine effect to nothing.""Like an organic Claritin?" I asked."Better than that," Mo said.  "This would trump any pharmaceutical.""You ok?" I noticed Mo's face was bearing big beads of sweat."Sure," he said, and cleared his throat.  He pulled out a hanky and mopped his brow. "I don't know. Joseph--" he started coughing in hacking waves.I reached over to steady him, and straighten the steering wheel.  His shirt was soaked with sweat and he was breathing in angry rasps."Mo, hold on," I said, keeping one hand on Mo and the wheel, fumbling with the other in my inside coat pocket. I finally got my fingers on the epinephrine pen I always kept there, and angled it out.  Mo was limp and wet and barely conscious over the wheel.  I pushed him over as gently as I could and went with my foot for the brake.  Cars were speeding by us, screaming at me in the mirror with their lights. Thankfully Mo had been driving on the right, so I only had one stream of lights to blind me. My sole finally made contact with the brake, and I pressed down as gradually as possible. Miraculously, the car came to a reasonably slow halt on the shoulder of the road. We both seemed in one piece.I looked at Mo.  I yanked up his shirt, and plunged the pen into his arm.  I wasn't sure how long he'd not been breathing, but it wasn't good.I dialed 911 on the car phone.  "Get someone over here fast," I yelled.  "I'm on the Turnpike, eastbound, just before the Philadelphia turnoff. I'm Dr. Phil D'Amato, NYPD Forensics. This is a medical emergency."I wasn't positive that anaphylactic shock was what was wrong with him, but the adrenaline couldn't do much harm. I leaned over his chest and felt no heartbeat.  Jeez, please.I gave Mo mouth-to-mouth, pounded his chest, pleading for life.  "Hang on, damn you!" But I knew already. I could tell. After a while you get this sort of sickening sixth sense about these things. Some kind of allergic  reaction from hell had just killed my friend.  Right in my arms.  Just like that.EMS got to us eight minutes later.  Better than some of the New York City times I'd been seeing lately.  But it didn't matter.  Mo was gone. I looked at the car phone as they worked on him, cursing and trying to jolt him back into life.  I'd have to call Corinne and tell her this now.  But all I could see in the plastic phone display was Laurie's strawberry blonde hair.* * *"You ok, Dr. D'Amato?" one of the orderlies called."Yeah," I said.  I guess I was shaking."These allergic reactions can be lethal all right," he said, looking over at Mo.Right, tell me about it."You'll call the family?" the orderly asked. They'd be taking  Mo to a local hospital, DOA."Yeah," I said, brushing a burning tear from my eye. I felt like I was suffocating.  I had to slow down, stay in control, separate the psychological from the physical so I could begin to understand what was going on here.  I breathed out and in. Again. Ok.  I was all right.  I wasn't really suffocating.The ambulance sped off, carrying Mo.  He had been suffocating, and it killed him.  What had he been starting to tell me?I looked again at the phone. The right thing for me to do was to drive back to Mo's home, be there for Corinne when I told her -- calling her on the phone with news like this was monstrous.  But I  had to find out what had happened to Mo -- and that would likely not be from Corinne. Mo didn't want to worry her, didn't confide in her. No, the best chance of finding out what Mo had been up to seemed to be in Philadelphia, in the place Mo had been going.  But where in Philadelphia?I focused on the phone display -- pressed a couple of keys, and got a directory up on the little screen. The only 215 area code listed there was for a Sarah Fischer, with an address that I knew to be near Temple University.I pressed the code next to the number, then the Send command.Crackle, crackle, then a distant tinny cellular ring."Hello?" a female voice answered, sounding closer than I'd expected."Hi.  Is this Sarah Fischer?""Yes," she said.  "Do I know you?""Well, I'm a friend of Mo Buhler's, and I think we, he, may have been on his way to see you tonight--""Who are you?  Is Mo ok?""Well--" I started."Look, who the hell are you?  I'm going to hang up if you don't give me a straight answer," she said."I'm Dr. Phil D'Amato.  I'm a forensic scientist -- with the New York City Police Department."She was quiet for a moment.  "Your name sounds familiar for some reason," she said."Well, I've written a few articles--""Hold on," I heard her put the phone down, rustle through some papers."You had an article in Discover, about antibiotic-resistant bacteria,  right?" she asked about half a minute later."Yes, I did," I said.  In other circumstances, my ego would have jumped at finding such an observant reader."Ok, what date was it published?" she asked.Jeez. "Uh, late last year," I said."I see there's a pen and ink sketch of you.  What do you look like?""Straight dark hair -- not enough of it," I said -- who could remember what that lame sketch actually looked like?"Go on," she said."And a moustache, reasonably thick, and steel-rimmed glasses."  I'd grown the moustache at Jenna's behest, and had on my specs for the sketch.A few beats of silence, then a sigh.  "Ok," she said.  "So now you get to tell me why you're calling -- and what happened to Mo."* * *Sarah's apartment was less than half an hour away.  I'd filled her in on the phone.  She'd seemed more saddened than surprised, and asked me to come over.I'd spoken to Corinne, and told her as best I could.  Mo had been a cop before he'd become a forensic scientist, and I guess wives of police are supposed to be ready for this sort of thing, but how can a person ever really be ready for it after 20 years of good marriage?  She'd cried, I'd cried, the kids cried in the background. I'd said I was coming over -- and I know I should have -- but I was hoping she'd say `no, I'm ok, Phil, really, you'll want to find out why this happened to Mo' ... and that's exactly what she did say.  They don't make people like Corinne Rodriguez Buhler any more.There was a parking spot right across the street from Sarah's building -- in New York this would have been a gift from on high. I tucked in my shirt, tightened my belt, and composed myself as best I could before ringing her bell.She buzzed me in, and was standing inside her apartment, 2nd floor walk-up, door open, to greet me as I sprinted and puffed up the flight of  stairs. She had flaxen blonde hair, a distracted look in her eyes, but an easy, open smile that I didn't expect after the grilling she'd given me on the phone. She looked about 30.The apartment had soft, recessed lighting -- like a Paris-by-gaslight exhibit I'd once seen -- and smelled faintly of lavender.  My nose crinkled. "I use it to help me sleep," Sarah said, and directed me to an old, overstuffed Morris chair. "I was getting ready to go to sleep when you called.""I'm sorry--""No, I'm the one who's sorry," she said. "About giving you a hard time, about what happened to Mo."  Her voice caught on his name.  She asked, "Can I get you something?  You must be hungry."  She turned around and walked towards another room, which I assumed was the kitchen.Her pants were white, and the light showed the contours of her body to good advantage as she walked away."Here, try some of these to start." She returned with a bowl of grapes.  Concord grapes.  One of my favorites.  Put one in your mouth, puncture the purple skin, jiggle the flesh around on your tongue, it's the taste of Fall.  But I didn't move."I know," she said.  "You're leery of touching any strange food after what happened to Mo.  I don't blame you.  But these are ok. Here, let me show you," and she reached and took a dusty grape and put it in her mouth.  "Mmm," she smacked her lips, took out the pits with her finger.  "Look -- why don't you pick a grape and give it to me. OK?"My stomach was growling and I was feeling light-headed already, and I realized I would have to make a decision.  Either leave right now, if I didn't trust this woman, and go somewhere to get something to eat -- or eat what she gave me.  I was too hungry to sit here and talk to her and resist her food right now."All right, up to you," she said.  "I have some Black Forest ham, and can make you a sandwich, if you like, or just coffee or tea.""All three." I decided.  "I mean, I'd love the sandwich, and some tea please, and I'll try the grapes."  I put one in my mouth. I'd learned a long time ago that paranoia can be almost as debilitating as the dangers it supposes.She was back a few minutes later with the sandwich and the tea. I'd squished at least three more grapes in my mouth, and felt fine."There's a war going on," she said, and put the food tray on the end table next to me.  The sandwich was made with some sort of black bread, and smelled wonderful."War?" I asked and bit into the sandwich.  "You think what happened to Mo is the work of some terrorist?""Not exactly." Sarah sat down on a chair next to me, a cup of tea in her hand. "This war's been going on a very long time. It's a bio-war -- much deeper rooted, literally, than anything we currently regard as terrorism.""I don't get it," I said, and swallowed what I'd been chewing of my sandwich.  It felt good going down, and in my stomach."No, you wouldn't," Sarah said.  "Few people do.  You think epidemics, sudden widespread allergic reactions, diseases that wipe out crops or livestock or people just happen.  Sometimes they do. Sometimes it's more than that." She sipped her cup of tea. Something about the lighting, her hair, her face, maybe the taste of the food, made me feel like I was a kid back in the 60s. I half expected to smell incense burning."Who are you?" I asked.  "I mean, what was your connection to Mo?""I'm working on my doctorate over at Temple," she said. "My area's ethno/botanical pharmacology -- Mo was one of my resources.  He was a very nice man." I thought I saw a tear glisten in the corner of her eye."Yes, he was," I said.  "And he was helping you with your dissertation about what -- the germ warfare you were talking about?""Not quite that," Sarah said.  "I mean, you know the academic world, no one would ever let me do a thesis on something that outrageous -- it'd never get by the proposal committee.  So you have to finesse it, do it on something more innocuous, get the good stuff in under the table, you know, smuggle it in.  So, yeah, the subtext of my work was what we -- I -- call the bio-wars, which are actually more than just germ warfare, and yeah, Mo was one of the people who were helping me research that."Sounded like Mo, all right.  "And the Amish have something to do with this?""Yes and no," Sarah said.  "The Amish aren't a single, unified group -- they actually have quite a range of styles and values--""I know," I said.  "And some of them -- maybe one of the splinter groups -- are involved in this bio-war?"      "The main bio-war group isn't really Amish -- though one of their clusters is situated near Lancaster, been there for at least 150 years.  But they're not Amish.  They pretend to be Amish -- gives them good cover -- but they're much older. People think they're Amish, though, since they live close to the land, in a low-tech mode.  But they're not Amish.  Real Amish are non-violent.  But some of the Amish know what's going on.""You know a lot about the Amish," I said.She blushed slightly.  "I'm former Amish.  I pursued my interests as far as a woman could in my church.  I pleaded with my bishop to let me go to college -- he knew what the stakes were, the importance of what I was studying -- but he said no. He said a woman's place was in the home.  I guess he was trying to protect me, but I couldn't stay.""You know Joseph Stoltzfus?" I asked.Sarah nodded, lips tight.  "He was my uncle," she finally said, "my mother's brother.""I'm sorry," I said. I could see that she knew he was dead. "Who told you?" I asked softly."Amos -- my cousin -- Joseph's son.  He has a phone shack," she said."I see," I said.  What an evening.  "I think Mo thought that those people -- those others, like the Amish, but not Amish -- somehow killed Joseph."Sarah's face shuddered, seemed to unravel into sobs and tears. "They did," she managed to say.  "Mo was right.  And they killed Mo too."I put down my plate, and reached over to comfort her.  It wasn't enough.  I got up and walked to her and put my arm around her. She got up shakily off her chair, then collapsed in my arms, heaving, crying.  I felt her body, her heartbeat, through her crinoline shirt."It's ok," I said.  "Don't worry.  I deal with bastards like that all the time in my business.  We'll get these people, I promise you."She shook her head against my chest.  "Not like these," she said."We'll get them," I said again.She held on to me, then pulled away.  "I'm sorry," she said.  "I didn't mean to fall apart like that."  She looked over at my empty teacup. "How about a glass of wine?"I looked at my watch.  It was 9:45 already, and I was exhausted. But there was more I needed to learn.  "Ok," I said. "Sure. But just one glass."She offered a tremulous smile, and went back into the kitchen. She returned with two glasses of a deep red wine.I sat down, and sipped.  The wine tasted good -- slightly Portuguese, perhaps, with just a hint of some fruit and a nice woody undertone."Local," she said.  "You like it?""Yes, I do," I said.She took a sip, then closed her eyes and tilted her head back. The bottoms of her blue eyes glinted like  semi-precious gems out of half-closed lids.      I needed to focus on the problem at hand.  "How exactly do these bio-war people kill -- what'd they do to Joseph and Mo?" I asked.Her eyes stayed closed a moment longer than I'd expected -- like she'd been daydreaming, or drifting off to sleep.  Then she opened them and looked at me, and shook her head slowly.  "They've got all sorts of ways.  The latest is some kind of catalyst -- in food, we think it's a special kind of Crenshaw melon -- that vastly magnifies the effect of any of a number of allergies." She picked up her wine with a trembling hand, and drained the glass. She got up.  "I'm going to have another glass -- sure you don't want some more?""I'm sure, thanks," I said, and looked at my wine as she walked back into the kitchen.  For all I knew, a catalyst from that damn melon was in this very glass--I heard a glass or something crash in the kitchen.I rushed in.Sarah was standing over what looked like a little hurricane lamp, glowing white but not burning on the inside, broken on the floor. A few little bugs of some sort took wing and flew away."I'm sorry," she said.  She was crying again. "I knocked it over. I'm  really not myself tonight.""No one would be, in your situation," I said.She put her arms around me again, pressing close.  I instinctively kissed her cheek, just barely -- in what I instantly hoped, after the fact, was a brotherly gesture."Stay with me tonight," she whispered.  "I mean, the couch out there opens up for you, and you'll have your privacy.  I'll sleep in the bedroom. I'm afraid..."I was afraid too, because a part of me suddenly wanted to pick her up and carry her over to her bedroom, the couch, anywhere, and lay her down, softly unwrap her clothes, run my fingers through her sweet-smelling hair and--But I also cared very much for Jenna.  And though we'd made no formal lifetime commitments to each other--"I don't feel very good," Sarah said, and pulled away slightly. "I guess I had some wine before you came and--" her head lolled and her body suddenly sagged and her eyes rolled back in her skull."Jeez!  Sarah!" I first tried to buoy her up, then picked her up entirely and carried her into her bedroom.  I put her down on the bed, soft silken sheets, gently as I could, then felt the pulse in her wrist. It may have been a bit rapid, but seemed basically all right.  I peeled back her eyelid -- she was semi-conscious, but her pupil wasn't dilated.  She was likely drunk, not drugged. I put my ear to her chest.  Her heartbeat was fine -- nothing like Mo's allergic reaction.  "You're ok," I said.  "Just a little shock and exhaustion."    She moaned softly, then reached out and took my hand.  I held it for a long time, till its grip weakened and she was definitely asleep, and then I walked quietly into the other room.I was too tired myself to go anywhere, too tired to even figure out how to open her couch, so I just stretched out on it and managed to take off my shoes before I fell soundly asleep. My last thoughts were that I needed to have another look at the Stoltzfus farm, the lamp on her floor was beautiful, so was Sarah on those sheets, and I hoped I wasn't drugged or anything, but it was too late to do anything about it if I was...

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