From: djb6@ellis.uchicago.edu (Dennis Brennan)
Subject: [R] Karl (Dennis is back!)  Das Boot
Reply-To: djb6@midway.uchicago.edu
Organization: University of Chicago Computing Organizations
Date: Wed, 30 Sep 1992 22:10:40 GMT

ADMIN:  Yup, I'm back at the good ol' U of C again.  Thanks to ...sage's
generosity and patience I had been able to stay (rather minimally) active
in a.p.d-i'land over the summer, but thanks to the miracle of Macintosh
LocalTalk, I'm back in the flesh.  Thank you, Pete, for putting up with
me for the last few months.  I will return the favor in any way that I am
able (and will finally get a chance to look over your novelization of the
Dougl thread!)

************************************************************************
Karl was more cheerful than he had been for the last few days- an obvious
consequence of withdrawal from Rameshander soil.  From one of the upper 
decks of the _Arcas_ he sat and leisurely observed the frolicking of the 
porpoises that followed the boat.  Sitting near him was one Kendu Boru, 
an elderly clerk vacationing away from his home in Aragat.  The two old
men chatted amiably about their respective experiences in Pashar.  Mr.
Boru, as it happened, had done rather extensive traveling within the country
and had even seen the legendary Tombs of the Elders- monumental pyramids
outside of the city of Orluccar marking the resting places of deceased 
Shaherans.  To Karl's surprise, this man seemed to have enjoyed his stay
in the abominable slaver country.

As Karl sat and reminisced, he suddenly felt a terrible sting in his left
thigh.  Touching the painful part with his hand he observed that there 
was a small pinprick wound which bled lightly.  Bidding Mr. Boru's leave,
Karl rose and sought out Radan, trusting his healing talents to deal
with the nuisance injury.

Within a few hours after Radan had caused the tiny puncture to disappear,
Karl's mood began to blacken again.  He rested fitfully and was tormented
by strange paranoid dreams of betrayal and unholy metamorphosis.  Tossing in
his bed, his arm struck a candle on the bedside table, knocking it to the 
floor, where the flame ignited a plush rug.  Frantically Karl buffetted
the burning carpet with his pillow until the fire was extinguished, but
now his room was full of smoke- and did he put the candle there or did
someone else- in anticipation of Karl knocking it down- damn, the porthole
wouldn't open and it's getting difficult to breathe- the wound, smoke, fire,
Gods, someone was trying to kill him!  Air!  I must have air!

Karl smashed his hand through the porthole glass, ventilating the cabin
well enough to avoid smoke-inhalation but lacerating his arm in the process.
But he was certain- someone was definitely trying to kill him, a conspiracy,
perhaps?  Of course, he would have to take precautions.  Going unarmed was
out of the question now, simply inconceivable.  Karl procured a ridiculously
large and unwieldly ornamental sword from his luggage (a memento of an old
service done in the name of a now-dead nobleman), fastening the scabbard
to his waist.  He left his cabin, locking the door carefully and placing
a hair across the doorjamb to indicate any entry during his absence.

Thus armed, he went to confront the perceived author of his anxieties...

db
 


-- 
Dennis Brennan
djb6@midway.uchicago.edu