historic_clouds

"The ambassador of the human civilisation will speak now."

On the call of these words a human walked up to the speakers podium in the Hall of Representatives. A thousand eyes - or whatever biological equivalent the many different species had - were on him from other ambassadors on the seats that arched upwards in many rows. Representative Harknethos was among them. The civilisation he spoke for was a late member and he was only the third one after the ambassador that had handled the initiation into the Commonwealth. So he knew exactly how this would play out. And he also knew that hundreds of billions of beings were watching the live transmission from thousands of planets across the Commonwealth for it was the very first official appearance of this new species. The aged human looked tired and disheveled, seemingly badly prepared for the tasked of speaking on behalf of his people. The only thing not making him appear disrespectful was that he actually had an ambassadors cloth draped over his shoulders, the long and slim piece barely adorned with just a few additional lines of colorful yarn.

"Honoured ambassadors, representatives of all the species in the Galactic Commonwealth", he spoke the greeting in a clear and ringing voice. Surprisingly he used the common language, had the humans been this fast to learn it? It had caused a low murmur amongst the other ambassadors, but it quickly died down once the human continued.

"My name is Valentina Fedorovna and I am the chosen representative of all beings living in the human civilisation. I am sorry that the proper delegation was unable to appear on the short notice we were given. We did give up expecting an invitation many cycles ago. As the civil servant in closest proximity I am now speaking in their stead, though I certainly do not bring the soft diplomatic touch of my colleagues."

The obvious rudeness of the human caused a number of the present beings to scoff, blow or cough. This was not the way these things should go, he should have been begging for membership. It also seemed the dossier on the humans had been quite wrong - it stated that their species were only known since very recently. Meanwhile, the human just went on, ignoring any of the signs of protest.

"Thirty cycles ago we made first contact to the Niewemar people. They had once been, as you surely are aware, a member species of your Commonwealth until they were exiled from their own planet and barred from the travel nodes. A flotilla of their refugee ships had made its way across the stars with sublight engines in search of a new home. The only one to arrive had carried fifteen million beings. I am certain you know how lifeforms handle cosmic radiation over longer than one generation. I am certain I do not have to tell you of the state they were in. We were unable to save half of them, but the rest we gave a home on our planet. They told us about the way conflicts were handled in the Galactic Commonwealth. They told us about the so-called deathless wars. And they told us what happened to the ones subjugated by the victors. We tried to contact you then, honoured ambassadors. In lieu of hearing your side, we took what we learned for the truth. Know, that I am speaking for the Niewemar now too."

Over the last part there were quite loud cries of protest. One ambassador especially was calling for the human speaker to be cut off - Harknethos identified him as a member of the people that had instigated the conflict against the Niewemar. Of course there had to be rules to the proceedings and the human still had time, so order was called and the noise died down again. But - thirty cycles? So long had the humans been known already and they did not get to speak until now.

"The last refugee ship had carried something exceptionally precious with it besides the many lives - the knowledge to create a hyperspace connection node. Two cycles later we had been successful in creating a stable one. I know you are aware of its limitations, but we were not. We had tried to contact you many times then, honoured ambassadors. And without guidance, we had to revert to experimentation. In the process we lost many ships and a number of lives only to learn that it is impossible to establish a connection to any other node from just one side. This cut off from travel seemed deliberate and together with the communication silence it gave us the impression that the honoured ambassadors were trying to isolate us. Seeing that our node could only serve as an end point, we transmitted an open invitation for refugees of the Niewemar and anyone else displaced from their home."

More calls for order - these accusations were very serious and a number of ambassadors seemed to not want to wait for their turn to speak. It seemed impossible though, this pre-FTL species just build a feasible connection into the hyperspace network of the Commonwealth from merely theoretical second-hand knowledge? One thing was for sure, that dossier about them was wortheless. Harknethos and probably a large number of the other ambassadors had been left in the dark about the recent history of their species. It was also obvious that the humans were crazy - to broadly call for anyone to just come to their underdeveloped world spelled suicide.

"We underestimated the number of species that were robbed of their planet or enslaved on it, and we saw a large influx of arrivals. By then we had stopped asking you for anything, honoured ambassadors, though we still needed help in ensuring order and safety. So we were actually lucky that the first larger group to show up was a fleet of Ja'kartii pirates. We welcomed them and offered them a home. They merely wanted us to spare their children from spending a childhood and a life within the confines of a spaceship, and in turn patrolled the hyperspace node promising to protect anyone coming with peaceful intentions. I am certain you learned the force of their railguns, honoured ambassadors, when you sent one spy-drone after the other. Just know, that the Ja'kartii too found a home with us and I am also speaking for them."

The noise had gotten ridiculous. Even the call for order had not been enough to silence some, but the human just spoke on, raising his ringing voice over the commotion.

"Working with the people that followed our invitation, we colonized another planet and two moons in our own solar system, before we made landfall in two neighboring ones. These hyperspace nodes we were able to connect to the one near our home planet that still had new ships arriving every day. We saw more pirates too, most of them not as benevolent as the Ja'kartii, and some of them only pretending to be pirates. We observed those and the constant spy-drones to be the only sort of communication from the Commonwealth until the invitation to this very event, which I can only assume had to be in error. I want you to understand, honoured ambassadors, that I am speaking for sixty-five billion beings across Earth, Mars, Titan, Europa, Boru and Laetillia. I am speaking for fifteen species that are now our equals in the human civilisation. I am not here to ask for membership to your Commonwealth. I am not here to ask for anything at all. I am merely here to state our invitation to every sentient being in the galaxy."

Across the chaos that unfolded through the Hall of Representatives boomed the humans voice: "Give me your tired, your poor; your huddled masses yearning to breathe free; the wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me; I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

=====================================

By /u/CherubielOne on /r/HFY

In a little district west of Washington Square the streets have run crazy and broken themselves into small strips called "places." These "places" make strange angles and curves. One Street crosses itself a time or two. An artist once discovered a valuable possibility in this street. Suppose a collector with a bill for paints, paper and canvas should, in traversing this route, suddenly meet himself coming back, without a cent having been paid on account!

So, to quaint old Greenwich Village the art people soon came prowling, hunting for north windows and eighteenth-century gables and Dutch attics and low rents. Then they imported some pewter mugs and a chafing dish or two from Sixth Avenue, and became a "colony."

At the top of a squatty, three-story brick Sue and Johnsy had their studio. "Johnsy" was familiar for Joanna. One was from Maine; the other from California. They had met at the table d'hte of an Eighth Street "Delmonico's," and found their tastes in art, chicory salad and bishop sleeves so congenial that the joint studio resulted.

That was in May. In November a cold, unseen stranger, whom the doctors called Pneumonia, stalked about the colony, touching one here and there with his icy fingers. Over on the east side this ravager strode boldly, smiting his victims by scores, but his feet trod slowly through the maze of the narrow and moss-grown "places."

Mr. Pneumonia was not what you would call a chivalric old gentleman. A mite of a little woman with blood thinned by California zephyrs was hardly fair game for the red-fisted, short-breathed old duffer. But Johnsy he smote; and she lay, scarcely moving, on her painted iron bedstead, looking through the small Dutch window-panes at the blank side of the next brick house.

One morning the busy doctor invited Sue into the hallway with a shaggy, gray eyebrow.

"She has one chance in - let us say, ten," he said, as he shook down the mercury in his clinical thermometer. " And that chance is for her to want to live. This way people have of lining-u on the side of the undertaker makes the entire pharmacopoeia look silly. Your little lady has made up her mind that she's not going to get well. Has she anything on her mind?"

"She - she wanted to paint the Bay of Naples some day." said Sue.

"Paint? - bosh! Has she anything on her mind worth thinking twice - a man for instance?"

"A man?" said Sue, with a jew's-harp twang in her voice. "Is a man worth - but, no, doctor; there is nothing of the kind."

"Well, it is the weakness, then," said the doctor. "I will do all that science, so far as it may filter through my efforts, can accomplish. But whenever my patient begins to count the carriages in her funeral procession I subtract 50 per cent from the curative power of medicines. If you will get her to ask one question about the new winter styles in cloak sleeves I will promise you a one-in-five chance for her, instead of one in ten."

After the doctor had gone Sue went into the workroom and cried a Japanese napkin to a pulp. Then she swaggered into Johnsy's room with her drawing board, whistling ragtime.

Johnsy lay, scarcely making a ripple under the bedclothes, with her face toward the window. Sue stopped whistling, thinking she was asleep.

She arranged her board and began a pen-and-ink drawing to illustrate a magazine story. Young artists must pave their way to Art by drawing pictures for magazine stories that young authors write to pave their way to Literature.

As Sue was sketching a pair of elegant horseshow riding trousers and a monocle of the figure of the hero, an Idaho cowboy, she heard a low sound, several times repeated. She went quickly to the bedside.

Johnsy's eyes were open wide. She was looking out the window and counting - counting backward.

"Twelve," she said, and little later "eleven"; and then "ten," and "nine"; and then "eight" and "seven", almost together.

Sue look solicitously out of the window. What was there to count? There was only a bare, dreary yard to be seen, and the blank side of the brick house twenty feet away. An old, old ivy vine, gnarled and decayed at the roots, climbed half way up the brick wall. The cold breath of autumn had stricken its leaves from the vine until its skeleton branches clung, almost bare, to the crumbling bricks.

"What is it, dear?" asked Sue.

"Six," said Johnsy, in almost a whisper. "They're falling faster now. Three days ago there were almost a hundred. It made my head ache to count them. But now it's easy. There goes another one. There are only five left now."

"Five what, dear? Tell your Sudie."

"Leaves. On the ivy vine. When the last one falls I must go, too. I've known that for three days. Didn't the doctor tell you?"

"Oh, I never heard of such nonsense," complained Sue, with magnificent scorn. "What have old ivy leaves to do with your getting well? And you used to love that vine so, you naughty girl. Don't be a goosey. Why, the doctor told me this morning that your chances for getting well real soon were - let's see exactly what he said - he said the chances were ten to one! Why, that's almost as good a chance as we have in New York when we ride on the street cars or walk past a new building. Try to take some broth now, and let Sudie go back to her drawing, so she can sell the editor man with it, and buy port wine for her sick child, and pork chops for her greedy self."

"You needn't get any more wine," said Johnsy, keeping her eyes fixed out the window. "There goes another. No, I don't want any broth. That leaves just four. I want to see the last one fall before it gets dark. Then I'll go, too."

"Johnsy, dear," said Sue, bending over her, "will you promise me to keep your eyes closed, and not look out the window until I am done working? I must hand those drawings in by to-morrow. I need the light, or I would draw the shade down."

"Couldn't you draw in the other room?" asked Johnsy, coldly.

"I'd rather be here by you," said Sue. "Beside, I don't want you to keep looking at those silly ivy leaves."

"Tell me as soon as you have finished," said Johnsy, closing her eyes, and lying white and still as a fallen statue, "because I want to see the last one fall. I'm tired of waiting. I'm tired of thinking. I want to turn loose my hold on everything, and go sailing down, down, just like one of those poor, tired leaves."

"Try to sleep," said Sue. "I must call Behrman up to be my model for the old hermit miner. I'll not be gone a minute. Don't try to move 'til I come back."

Old Behrman was a painter who lived on the ground floor beneath them. He was past sixty and had a Michael Angelo's Moses beard curling down from the head of a satyr along with the body of an imp. Behrman was a failure in art. Forty years he had wielded the brush without getting near enough to touch the hem of his Mistress's robe. He had been always about to paint a masterpiece, but had never yet begun it. For several years he had painted nothing except now and then a daub in the line of commerce or advertising. He earned a little by serving as a model to those young artists in the colony who could not pay the price of a professional. He drank gin to excess, and still talked of his coming masterpiece. For the rest he was a fierce little old man, who scoffed terribly at softness in any one, and who regarded himself as especial mastiff-in-waiting to protect the two young artists in the studio above.

Sue found Behrman smelling strongly of juniper berries in his dimly lighted den below. In one corner was a blank canvas on an easel that had been waiting there for twenty-five years to receive the first line of the masterpiece. She told him of Johnsy's fancy, and how she feared she would, indeed, light and fragile as a leaf herself, float away, when her slight hold upon the world grew weaker.

Old Behrman, with his red eyes plainly streaming, shouted his contempt and derision for such idiotic imaginings.

"Vass!" he cried. "Is dere people in de world mit der foolishness to die because leafs dey drop off from a confounded vine? I haf not heard of such a thing. No, I will not bose as a model for your fool hermit-dunderhead. Vy do you allow dot silly pusiness to come in der brain of her? Ach, dot poor leetle Miss Yohnsy."

"She is very ill and weak," said Sue, "and the fever has left her mind morbid and full of strange fancies. Very well, Mr. Behrman, if you do not care to pose for me, you needn't. But I think you are a horrid old - old flibbertigibbet."

"You are just like a woman!" yelled Behrman. "Who said I will not bose? Go on. I come mit you. For half an hour I haf peen trying to say dot I am ready to bose. Gott! dis is not any blace in which one so goot as Miss Yohnsy shall lie sick. Some day I vill baint a masterpiece, and ve shall all go away. Gott! yes."

Johnsy was sleeping when they went upstairs. Sue pulled the shade down to the window-sill, and motioned Behrman into the other room. In there they peered out the window fearfully at the ivy vine. Then they looked at each other for a moment without speaking. A persistent, cold rain was falling, mingled with snow. Behrman, in his old blue shirt, took his seat as the hermit miner on an upturned kettle for a rock.

When Sue awoke from an hour's sleep the next morning she found Johnsy with dull, wide-open eyes staring at the drawn green shade.

"Pull it up; I want to see," she ordered, in a whisper.

Wearily Sue obeyed.

But, lo! after the beating rain and fierce gusts of wind that had endured through the livelong night, there yet stood out against the brick wall one ivy leaf. It was the last one on the vine. Still dark green near its stem, with its serrated edges tinted with the yellow of dissolution and decay, it hung bravely from the branch some twenty feet above the ground.

"It is the last one," said Johnsy. "I thought it would surely fall during the night. I heard the wind. It will fall to-day, and I shall die at the same time."

"Dear, dear!" said Sue, leaning her worn face down to the pillow, "think of me, if you won't think of yourself. What would I do?"

But Johnsy did not answer. The lonesomest thing in all the world is a soul when it is making ready to go on its mysterious, far journey. The fancy seemed to possess her more strongly as one by one the ties that bound her to friendship and to earth were loosed.

The day wore away, and even through the twilight they could see the lone ivy leaf clinging to its stem against the wall. And then, with the coming of the night the north wind was again loosed, while the rain still beat against the windows and pattered down from the low Dutch eaves.

When it was light enough Johnsy, the merciless, commanded that the shade be raised.

The ivy leaf was still there.

Johnsy lay for a long time looking at it. And then she called to Sue, who was stirring her chicken broth over the gas stove.

"I've been a bad girl, Sudie," said Johnsy. "Something has made that last leaf stay there to show me how wicked I was. It is a sin to want to die. You may bring a me a little broth now, and some milk with a little port in it, and - no; bring me a hand-mirror first, and then pack some pillows about me, and I will sit up and watch you cook."

And hour later she said:

"Sudie, some day I hope to paint the Bay of Naples."

The doctor came in the afternoon, and Sue had an excuse to go into the hallway as he left.

"Even chances," said the doctor, taking Sue's thin, shaking hand in his. "With good nursing you'll win." And now I must see another case I have downstairs. Behrman, his name is - some kind of an artist, I believe. Pneumonia, too. He is an old, weak man, and the attack is acute. There is no hope for him; but he goes to the hospital to-day to be made more comfortable."

The next day the doctor said to Sue: "She's out of danger. You won. Nutrition and care now - that's all."

And that afternoon Sue came to the bed where Johnsy lay, contentedly knitting a very blue and very useless woollen shoulder scarf, and put one arm around her, pillows and all.

"I have something to tell you, white mouse," she said. "Mr. Behrman died of pneumonia to-day in the hospital. He was ill only two days. The janitor found him the morning of the first day in his room downstairs helpless with pain. His shoes and clothing were wet through and icy cold. They couldn't imagine where he had been on such a dreadful night. And then they found a lantern, still lighted, and a ladder that had been dragged from its place, and some scattered brushes, and a palette with green and yellow colors mixed on it, and - look out the window, dear, at the last ivy leaf on the wall. Didn't you wonder why it never fluttered or moved when the wind blew? Ah, darling, it's Behrman's masterpiece - he painted it there the night that the last leaf fell."

“My aunt will be down presently, Mr. Nuttel,” said a very self-possessed young lady of fifteen; “in the mean-time you must try and put up with me.”

Framton Nuttel endeavored to say the correct something that should duly flatter the niece of the moment without unduly discounting the aunt that was to come. Privately he doubted more than ever whether these formal visits on a succession of total strangers would do much toward helping the nerve cure which he was supposed to be undergoing.

“I know how it will be,” his sister had said when he was preparing to migrate to this rural retreat; “you will bury yourself down there and not speak to a living soul, and your nerves will be worse than ever from moping. I shall just give you letters of introduction to all the people I know there. Some of them, as far as I can remember, were quite nice.”

Framton wondered whether Mrs. Sappleton, the lady to whom he was presenting one of the letters of introduction, came into the nice division.

“Do you know many of the people round here?” asked the niece, when she judged that they had had sufficient silent communion.

“Hardly a soul,” said Framton. “My sister was staying here, at the rectory, you know, some four years ago, and she gave me letters of introduction to some of the people here.”

He made the last statement in a tone of distinct regret.

“Then you know practically nothing about my aunt?” pursued the self-possessed young lady.

“Only her name and address,” admitted the caller. He was wondering whether Mrs. Sappleton was in the married or widowed state. An undefinable something about the room seemed to suggest masculine habitation.

“Her great tragedy happened just three years ago,” said the child; “that would be since your sister’s time.”

“Her tragedy?” asked Framton; somehow in this restful country spot tragedies seemed out of place.

“You may wonder why we keep that window wide open on an October afternoon,” said the niece, indicating a large French window that opened onto a lawn.

“It is quite warm for the time of the year,” said Framton; “but has that window got anything to do with the tragedy?”

“Out through that window, three years ago to a day, her husband and her two young brothers went off for their day’s shooting. They never came back. In crossing the moor to their favorite snipe-shooting ground they were all three engulfed by a treacherous piece of bog. It had been that dreadful wet summer, you know, and places that were safe in other years gave way suddenly without warning. Their bodies were never recovered. That was the dreadful part of it.” Here the child’s voice lost its self-possessed note and became falteringly human. “Poor aunt always thinks that they will come back some day, they and the little brown spaniel that was lost with them, and walk in that window just as they used to do. That is why the window is kept open every evening till it is quite dusk. Poor dear aunt, she has often told me how they went out, her husband with his white waterproof coat over his arm, and Ronnie, her youngest brother, singing ‘Bertie, why do you bound?’ as he always did to tease her, because she said it got on her nerves. Do you know, sometimes on still, quiet evenings like this, I almost get a creepy feeling that they will all walk in through that window—”

She broke off with a little shudder. It was a relief to Framton when the aunt bustled into the room with a whirl of apologies for being late in making her appearance.

“I hope Vera has been amusing you?” she said.

“She has been very interesting,” said Framton.

“I hope you don’t mind the open window,” said Mrs. Sappleton briskly; “my husband and brothers will be home directly from shooting, and they always come in this way. They’ve been out for snipe in the marshes today, so they’ll make a fine mess over my poor carpets. So like you menfolk, isn’t it?”

She rattled on cheerfully about the shooting and the scarcity of birds, and the prospects for duck in the winter. To Framton it was all purely horrible. He made a desperate but only partially successful effort to turn the talk on to a less ghastly topic; he was conscious that his hostess was giving him only a fragment of her attention, and her eyes were constantly straying past him to the open window and the lawn beyond. It was certainly an unfortunate coincidence that he should have paid his visit on this tragic anniversary.

“The doctors agree in ordering me complete rest, an absence of mental excitement, and avoidance of anything in the nature of violent physical exercise,” announced Framton, who labored under the tolerably widespread delusion that total strangers and chance acquaintances are hungry for the least detail of one’s ailments and infirmities, their cause and cure. “On the matter of diet they are not so much in agreement,” he continued.

“No?” said Mrs. Sappleton, in a voice which only replaced a yawn at the last moment. Then she suddenly brightened into alert attention—but not to what Framton was saying.

“Here they are at last!” she cried. “Just in time for tea, and don’t they look as if they were muddy up to the eyes!”

Framton shivered slightly, and turned toward the niece with a look intended to convey sympathetic comprehension. The child was staring out through the open window with dazed horror in her eyes. In a chill shock of nameless fear Framton swung round in his seat and looked in the same direction.

In the deepening twilight three figures were walking across the lawn toward the window; they all carried guns under their arms, and one of them was additionally burdened with a white coat hung over his shoulders. A tired brown spaniel kept close at their heels. Noiselessly they neared the house, and then a hoarse young voice chanted out of the dusk: “I said, Bertie, why do you bound?”

Framton grabbed wildly at his stick and hat; the hall door, the gravel drive, and the front gate were dimly noted stages in his headlong retreat. A cyclist coming along the road had to run into the hedge to avoid imminent collision.

“Here we are, my dear,” said the bearer of the white mackintosh, coming in through the window; “fairly muddy, but most of it’s dry. Who was that who bolted out as we came up?”

“A most extraordinary man, a Mr. Nuttel,” said Mrs. Sappleton; “could only talk about his illnesses, and dashed off without a word of goodbye or apology when you arrived. One would think he had seen a ghost.”

“I expect it was the spaniel,” said the niece calmly; “he told me he had a horror of dogs. He was once hunted into a cemetery somewhere on the banks of the Ganges by a pack of pariah dogs, and had to spend the night in a newly dug grave with the creatures snarling and grinning and foaming just above him. Enough to make anyone lose his nerve.”

Romance at short notice was her specialty.

The Open Window by Saki (H.H. Munro)

“That thing is uglier than a nebula’s asshole” The commander of the Void Jumper looked at the screen, his professional demeanor denied him the opportunity to agree with the security cell operator.

“I’m going in there, are we certain the restraints are holding?” he asked, hoping that he wouldn’t have to find out. The legends told of these creatures clearly stated that no restraints could hold a human.

“There are no cybernetic enhancements in this one and the restraints have been reinforced.” The operator tried to emit an air of certainty and failed.

He entered the interrogation cell. The creature looked up at him and bared its teeth in a grin. “Interview commenced at 27:21:43:98. Present in the room are: Commander Xtlda and the captured alien pilot.” He narrated to the built in recorders.

“Steve.” The creature said in flawless Galactic Standard.

“Hm?” Xtlda looked at the alien.

“My name is Steve. I am a human.” Xtlda had to control himself, this was it. He’d done it. The elation rose through his chest as the realisation reverbed through his very being. Xtlda had captured a human. The enemy who never left their corpses or any scrap of their tech behind after a battle.

He had one now.

“I know what you’re thinking.” The human said, it was seated at the table with the heavy restraints weighing down its upper extremities on the table. It was struggling to do more than drag the titanium/lead/tungsten alloy double handed gauntlet across the table.

“You will answer my questions and you will do nothing more than that, Human.”

Steve shrugged. “Sure.”

“What are you doing here?” The grin on the human’s face widened as he asked.

“Answering your question.”

“Do you really think this attitude will help you?” Xtlda wasn’t going to succumb to simple counter-interrogative techniques.

“No.” Steve kept smiling as he pushed the heavy gauntlet away, allowing him to lean over the table. “But if you want this to be fruitful, you’ll have to ask the right questions. Specifically the one question you’re not going to ask anybody else.”

He looked at the prisoner. The short biped was dressed in what they had identified as an officer’s uniform, the hair and general grooming of the human matched their records of military service and it held itself with an oddly calm demeanor.

“why?”

“Now that is a good ask.” The human smiled at him, this time it seemed to be more of a modest smile. “But it has multiple answers. The first answer is: Because I have no reason to lie to you. I’m alone here, on a Galactic Council BattleCarrier.” The human paused. Xtlda nodded slowly in acknowledgement of the reasoning.

“The second answer is a bit longer, so please bear with me.” Another nod was offered as Xtlda leaned against the wall, furthest from the human.

“When we, humanity, first reached the stars we were elated. We had broken through the great challenge of FTL and powered beyond the confinement of our homeworld and what we found was hundreds, thousands of systems with habitable planets. In our elation we did what we had done through the existence of our species. Jumped in with youthful ignorance, without knowing what the consequences of our actions would be.

We colonised them, every planet we could find. We introduced a foreign organism into thousands of balanced biospheres and the results were unanimous throughout all of our territories: The original biosphere died off.

Everywhere in the galaxy, every sign of naturally occuring life was eviscerated because we had decided it was ours. we had been looking for intelligent life for hundreds of generations and eventually came to the logical conclusion: We were alone in the galaxy because we were the first. And in our eagerness to explore and settle, we had inadvertently killed off any chance of a second to arise naturally. Realising our mistake, we began terraforming barren planets in the habitable zone, even expanding the habitable zones in various systems through various means. Entire colonies were evacuated in attempts to preserve the remaining biospheres, but the damage was too extensive; the planets died and the terraformed ones were seeded with genetic material in an attempt to create life.

A complete and total failure. we had annihilated all life in the galaxy, proved ourselves the destroyers and subsequently failed to be creators.

Reservations were established for the few species of flora and fauna that had survived, but eventually they too failed. All we have left of them now are archives.”

The human slumped its shoulders and showed every micro indicator of shame in the book and a couple of new ones that Xtlda hadn’t seen before.

“But time did what it does: It passed and with it came the ability to bridge the galactic void. We arrived in a neighbouring galaxy and found that it did not have a spacefaring civilisation. This founded the First Rule: No life bearing planet is to be occupied by anyone not native to its ecosystem. We found life, this time we would not destroy it. We terraformed and colonised barren planets throughout the galaxy. We safeguarded the life bearing planets, destroying the cataclysmic event-sized meteors that were heading for them, landing to distribute life saving medicines to combat any plagues and offering clean energy technology to any civilisation that had made it to steam power. We Elevated and created prosperous star-faring civilisations, allowing them to bypass most of the errors we have made in our advancement by teaching them and using our history as lessons.

We shielded them from making errors and when they began to establish their own colonies, they claimed ownership of the life bearing systems we had been protecting.

We told them no and when they tried to take them by force… We stood fast. At the end of that war, the few species who still had a home were… humbled…”

A tear formed in the eyes of the prisoner. “We killed billions, beings we had loved and taught, given them the tech to defend themselves and then seeing it used against us, not with malice, but because they didn’t know any better.

In our eagerness to protect life we had forgotten that life, growth and knowledge comes from opposition. Only in strife can we truly learn.

Thus the Second Rule was formed: No system with a life bearing planet can be occupied or interfered with. Any contact with an alien species has to be on their initiative.”

Steve looked up, his eyes projected the sadness of a billion souls lost.

“Then we found this galaxy and with it, the Galactic Council of Species. One hundred and fifty spacefaring species, locked in a political grid of mutually assured destruction, a volatile peace, if peace at all.”

“One-Fifty-Seven.” Xtlda corrected the human before he realised that he was offering intel.

Steve returned a polite nod. “Fifty-seven, yes. The newly joined seven species have space communication, but not space fare. They’re lambs in a pit of hungry wolves.

We arrived and watched a largely populated galaxy tear itself apart in an arms race to gain the advantage. This was when we realised that in order to preserve the life of this galaxy, we would have to become its enemy.

A leader from each species was invited to a diplomatic vessel. They were then ferried across the entirety of human space, lectured on our history and the ensured annihilation of life in their galaxy if something didn’t change.

We offered a solution: We would be the enemy. The invaders who could only be held at bay through cooperation and alliances.”

“So your leaders just forced you into a war as the boogeyman? I don’t buy it.” Xtlda interrupted the human.

“The four rules are not casually stated by an elected official, Commander, they’re formulated over centuries and debated for millennia before a unanimous consensus is reached across the entire species.

The third rule took less than fifteen hundred years to be enforced: To preserve life, everywhere, those with the wisdom and knowledge are obligated to act with such.

For six thousand years we have fought to defend the life bearing planets of this galaxy. Firstly by colonising neighbouring systems and establishing ‘safe zones’ that expand out to encompass them.

But the galaxy is large, Commander, and one hundred years ago we found out that in an effort to gain more resources, the council has expanded into prohibited systems. Systems that the council knows are off limits, due to the presence of life. The new seven are examples of this.

One hundred years ago, Commander, the Fourth Rule was proposed.

I am here to relay it to you. You are in a populated system. The natives here are in their early computer controlled automation age. They will not reach space for a long time. Anything above their heads is divine territory. Any interference will be perceived as divine intervention.”

“Compared to them we are gods.” Xtlda didn’t see a need to interfere with the planet, he was looking for mineral extraction sites and gas planets. This system had plenty of both.

Steve nodded, slid his hands out of the restraints and stood up from the chair. Then he sighed and looked Xtlda directly into two of his ten eyes. “Any technology advanced enough is going to resemble magic. My ship is not captured, I am not your prisoner and this is not an interrogation. My ship is parked, I am a volunteer messenger and I am giving you the reason why your long range communications are down, your jumpdrive is not charging and you will all be dead in ten minutes.

The one rule that took less than a century for a googol of humans to agree on: Rule Four: No Species are exempt from the rules.”

By /u/Zephylandantus on /r/HFY

By /u/Eruwenn on /r/HFY

I don't think any of my people do.

Oh, sure, we hear the stories. And I have no doubt they're true. I imagine what I know turned toward destruction and I shudder. But...

About thirty standard years ago my species got hit with the worst luck in the galaxy: a highly contagious, deadly, naturally evolved superplague. Multicellular micro-organism, so our standard drugs didn't effect it. And so fast-mutating that our immune systems couldn't get a grip on it. It didn't look like anything would slow it down until it ran low on hosts.

We put out a general distress call, but not many responded. Our treaty-bound allies put up a military screen to keep out opportunistic raiders, but I doubt any would have crossed our quarantine warnings. A few of the more charitable high-tech civs space-dropped self contained water purifiers, power cells, home nanoassemblers and things like that. Useful stuff for the survivors of a civilization collapse -- if there are any survivors. None of this stuff helped with that.

The humans sent a fleet.

I say "the humans", but it's a bit more complicated than that. Everybody "knows" that humans practice capitalism. And anybody who's dealt with their merchants knows they're good at it. And of course they have a government. But this fleet was neither government nor for-profit. It was from a human order called Healers Unstoppable (or at least that's how my translator rendered it). It was a group of human healers who had declared that civilization-wrecking plagues were not going to happen and set out to enforce that.

They landed and starting setting up field hospitals. Now, that's crazy for two reasons. First, nobody knew if the disease could jump species or not. Quarantine can't really hold in those conditions. Every one of them could easily have died just from setting foot on our world. Second, who studies xenomedicine? Learning the biology of one species takes years of hard work. Two might be doable if you're long-lived. But somehow human doctors are trained to provide basic medicine to every known sentient species. I asked one about it later, and she said "After the third or fourth, it gets easier." Crazy.

Our infrastructure was pretty much in shambles by then -- didn't intimidate them at all. They just pulled out a checklist of things they needed, and either plugged into us or space-dropped it. They'd refined their procedures down to checklists. I almost asked how many crises they'd jumped into to get to that point, but I decided I didn't want to know.

And they weren't just treating patients. They were taking samples of the pathogen, sequencing them, and uploading to interstellar medical databases. A lot of us thought, "What's the point? Ours is the only planet where life uses hydrocarbon polymer genomics, and our bio-informaticists are dead. Nobody can use this data." Well, if you've read this far, you can probably guess it was the humans again.

Specifically, it was some human on Earth whose day job was database programming but did biostatistics as a hobby. He ran some machine learning over the sequences using his employer's computers (apparently they didn't care) and found some highly conserved surface receptors. He recognized surface transport codes because he'd studied our genetic systems. He'd studied dozens of different genetic systems. He said "they're interesting".

That was the insight the Healers Unstoppable folks needed. Within hours, they'd designed a cure and a vaccine.

There are species out there that are better at biostatistics than the humans. But they do what they need. Only the humans do it for fun. So only the humans do it on biochemistries they hardly ever deal with. And only the humans look at a plague devastating a far away world they have no ties to and say "we're not letting that happen".

We wouldn't be here today without them. That's what humanity means to my people.

Authors note: in case it wasn't obvious, Healers Unstoppable is a crude translation of Médecins Sans Frontières, which exists and is basically this awesome.

by /u/dspeyer on /r/HFY

Most terribly cold it was; it snowed, and was nearly quite dark, and evening-- the last evening of the year. In this cold and darkness there went along the street a poor little girl, bareheaded, and with naked feet. When she left home she had slippers on, it is true; but what was the good of that? They were very large slippers, which her mother had hitherto worn; so large were they; and the poor little thing lost them as she scuffled away across the street, because of two carriages that rolled by dreadfully fast.

One slipper was nowhere to be found; the other had been laid hold of by an urchin, and off he ran with it; he thought it would do capitally for a cradle when he some day or other should have children himself. So the little maiden walked on with her tiny naked feet, that were quite red and blue from cold. She carried a quantity of matches in an old apron, and she held a bundle of them in her hand. Nobody had bought anything of her the whole livelong day; no one had given her a single farthing.

She crept along trembling with cold and hunger--a very picture of sorrow, the poor little thing!

The flakes of snow covered her long fair hair, which fell in beautiful curls around her neck; but of that, of course, she never once now thought. From all the windows the candles were gleaming, and it smelt so deliciously of roast goose, for you know it was New Year's Eve; yes, of that she thought.

In a corner formed by two houses, of which one advanced more than the other, she seated herself down and cowered together. Her little feet she had drawn close up to her, but she grew colder and colder, and to go home she did not venture, for she had not sold any matches and could not bring a farthing of money: from her father she would certainly get blows, and at home it was cold too, for above her she had only the roof, through which the wind whistled, even though the largest cracks were stopped up with straw and rags.

Her little hands were almost numbed with cold. Oh! a match might afford her a world of comfort, if she only dared take a single one out of the bundle, draw it against the wall, and warm her fingers by it. She drew one out. "Rischt!" how it blazed, how it burnt! It was a warm, bright flame, like a candle, as she held her hands over it: it was a wonderful light. It seemed really to the little maiden as though she were sitting before a large iron stove, with burnished brass feet and a brass ornament at top. The fire burned with such blessed influence; it warmed so delightfully. The little girl had already stretched out her feet to warm them too; but--the small flame went out, the stove vanished: she had only the remains of the burnt-out match in her hand.

She rubbed another against the wall: it burned brightly, and where the light fell on the wall, there the wall became transparent like a veil, so that she could see into the room. On the table was spread a snow-white tablecloth; upon it was a splendid porcelain service, and the roast goose was steaming famously with its stuffing of apple and dried plums. And what was still more capital to behold was, the goose hopped down from the dish, reeled about on the floor with knife and fork in its breast, till it came up to the poor little girl; when--the match went out and nothing but the thick, cold, damp wall was left behind. She lighted another match. Now there she was sitting under the most magnificent Christmas tree: it was still larger, and more decorated than the one which she had seen through the glass door in the rich merchant's house.

Thousands of lights were burning on the green branches, and gaily-colored pictures, such as she had seen in the shop-windows, looked down upon her. The little maiden stretched out her hands towards them when--the match went out. The lights of the Christmas tree rose higher and higher, she saw them now as stars in heaven; one fell down and formed a long trail of fire.

"Someone is just dead!" said the little girl; for her old grandmother, the only person who had loved her, and who was now no more, had told her, that when a star falls, a soul ascends to God.

She drew another match against the wall: it was again light, and in the lustre there stood the old grandmother, so bright and radiant, so mild, and with such an expression of love.

"Grandmother!" cried the little one. "Oh, take me with you! You go away when the match burns out; you vanish like the warm stove, like the delicious roast goose, and like the magnificent Christmas tree!" And she rubbed the whole bundle of matches quickly against the wall, for she wanted to be quite sure of keeping her grandmother near her. And the matches gave such a brilliant light that it was brighter than at noon-day: never formerly had the grandmother been so beautiful and so tall. She took the little maiden, on her arm, and both flew in brightness and in joy so high, so very high, and then above was neither cold, nor hunger, nor anxiety--they were with God.

But in the corner, at the cold hour of dawn, sat the poor girl, with rosy cheeks and with a smiling mouth, leaning against the wall--frozen to death on the last evening of the old year. Stiff and stark sat the child there with her matches, of which one bundle had been burnt. "She wanted to warm herself," people said. No one had the slightest suspicion of what beautiful things she had seen; no one even dreamed of the splendor in which, with her grandmother she had entered on the joys of a new year.

By /u/SpacePaladin15 on /r/HFY

Humans were supposed to be cowards.

The Galactic Federation's species registry had them listed as a 2 of 16 on the aggression index. Our interactions with the Terran Union up until this point supported those conclusions. They had not fought any wars among themselves in centuries, and had formed a unified world government prior to achieving FTL travel. They had responded with eagerness rather than hostility to first contact, unlike many species.

Earth had resolved every dispute through diplomacy and compromise since it became an official member of the Federation. For example, a few years ago, the expansionist Xanik claimed a Terran mining colony as their territory. The Federation braced itself for a minor conflict, as they expected the humans to defend their outpost. But the humans simply shrugged and agreed to hand off the planet, for a small yearly fee. Rather than going to war, the Terrans somehow ended up as prominent trading partners for the Xanik.

There was also an incident where the paranoid Hoda'al arrested Terran ambassadors on charges of being spies. Imprisoning diplomats with zero evidence was a clear provocation to war, but the humans did nothing. They didn't even raid the facility where their representatives were being held! They simply opened backchannel negotiations with the Hoda'al and arranged a prisoner exchange, swapping a few smugglers for their people.

Thoughts on the humans varied depending on who you asked. Some in the Federation found their pacifism commendable, and appreciated their even-tempered statesmanship. Others thought that it was weakness that led them to avoid war. I was in the latter camp; the only reason not to respond to blatant insults with aggression was that they didn't have the wits or the strength for it.

When the Devourers came, the three most militaristic species in the galaxy (as per the aggression index) banded together to stand against their approach. We didn't know much about them, but we called them the Devourers since their sole mission was to drain stars of their energy. I can't tell you why they would do such a thing. Whatever their reasons, they would take one system by force, suck it dry, and move on to the next.

Our fleet, the finest the Federation had to offer, suffered heavy losses when we clashed with enemy destroyers. We fought as hard as we could, and it didn't matter. Our weapons hardly seemed to scratch their ships. It was a tough decision, but I ordered what was left of the fleet to retreat. As much as we needed to stop them, we would lose the entire armada if we stuck around any longer.

I sent out a distress signal, relaying our grim situation and pleading for reinforcements. There were other species with lesser, but still potent, militaries within the Federation. But my request was returned with silence. Not a single one of those cowards volunteered to help. Hearing of our defeat, I suppose they decided to flee and fend for themselves.

I thought we were on our own, until we detected human ships jumping to our position. How ironic, the only ones who came to our aid were the galactic pushovers. There were only five of them according to our sensors, which was not nearly enough to mount a fight. A pathetic showing, but it was more than the zero ships that had been sent by the other Federation powers.

"Sir, the Terrans are hailing us. What do they think they're gonna do, talk the enemy to death?" First Officer Blez quipped.

I heard a few snickers from my crew, but quickly shushed them. "We need all the help we can get. On screen."

A dark-haired human blinked onto the view screen. "Federation vessel, this is Commander Mikhail Rykov of the Terran Union. We are here to assist in any way possible."

I bowed my head graciously. "Thank you for coming, Commander Rykov. I am General Kilon. Please join our formation and help cover our retreat."

"Retreat?" The human commander blinked a few times, looking confused. "Our intentions are to engage and terminate the enemy."

"With five ships? All due respect, the Devourers number in the thousands, and they crushed our fleet of equal magnitude. I wouldn't expect a peaceful species like yours to understand warfare, but it's in your interest to follow our lead," I said.

Commander Rykov seemed even more confused. "You think humans are a peaceful species? What the hell? Why would you think that?"

"Well...you never fight with anyone. You resolve everything with talk. Humans are the lowest rated species on the aggression index," I replied.

"I see. The Federation has misjudged us there. Do you know why we avoid war, General?"

"Because you don't think you can win? Fear?"

The human laughed heartily. "No, it's because we know what we are. What we're capable of. And nobody's deserved that quite yet."

The idea of Terrans making ominous threats would have been a joke to me before now, but something in Rykov's tone told me he believed what he was saying with conviction. This was a clear case of delusion stemming from a lack of experience with interstellar warfare. The Devourers would make fools of the Earthlings, and punish them for their overconfidence. However, if the Commander really wanted to send his men to a slaughter, I would not stop him.

"If you insist on fighting, I certainly won't stand in your way. But know that you're on your own, we're getting out of here. What is your plan?" I asked.

"We brought a nanite bomb we developed. We've never actually used one before, since in about five percent of simulations, they don't stop with localized entities and consume all matter in the universe." Commander Rykov said this way too casually for my liking. "But, we programmed them to self-destruct after a few seconds, which will probably work. Ensign Carter, fire at the enemy in five seconds."

My eyes widened in alarm. "Wait, hold up, you just said it could destroy everything..."

The Terran flagship fired a missile before I could get in another word to stop them. At first, I thought that they had missed their mark. The projectile sailed through the Devourer fleet, not connecting with a single ship. Then, it detonated at the rear of the formation, and all hell broke loose.

Space itself seemed to shudder as an explosion tore through anything in its vicinity. The force was so powerful that our sensors could only provide an error message as measurement. At least a third of the Devourer fleet was instantly vaporized, as an improbable amount of energy and heat turned them to metal soup. There was no way any occupants of those ships lived through that.

The enemy vessels further out from ground zero survived the initial blast, though many of them sustained heavy damage. But an invisible force seemed to be slowly dissecting each of them; I could only watch in disbelief as the mighty cruisers disintegrated bit by bit. I suppose the bomb had thrown out a swarm of nanobots, which had attacked the ships' structure on a molecular level.

The Devourers hardly knew what hit them. By the time they thought to return fire, there was nothing left to return fire with. Their arsenal evaporated in a matter of seconds, and undoubtedly, their personnel suffered the same fate. Where there had once been an unstoppable army, now only stood empty space.

The humans had unleashed a wave of destruction that was unrivaled by anything I had ever seen in my military career, with just a single missile. Horror shot through my veins at the thought that they might one day turn their monstrous weapons on the Federation. There was no way to defend oneself against such diabolical creations.

The aggression index needed an update. The kind of species that would invent weapons like that was no 2. Glancing around at my crew, I saw stunned and aghast reactions that mirrored my own. If they ever became hostile, the humans represented a threat of the highest level. They could more than likely wipe out the entire galaxy without breaking a sweat.

"Now that's taken care of. You should have just invited us to the party to start with!" Commander Rykov grinned. "Tell you what, General, next time we meet, you owe us a beer."

I frowned. The humans could ask for much more than a drink if they wanted to. "Yeah, I think we can do that."

Commander Rykov terminated the call, and I watched as the Terran ships warped back into hyperspace. I was still trying to wrap my mind around the whole thing, and I wondered how I was going to put this into words for the combat report. The Federation had no idea who the Terrans truly were, but I was going to make sure they did.

And as I played the events of the day over in my mind, it clicked. I finally understood why such a powerful species would not show its hand.

The humans avoid war because it would be too easy for them to win.

The policeman on the beat moved up the avenue impressively. The impressiveness was habitual and not for show, for spectators were few. The time was barely 10 o'clock at night, but chilly gusts of wind with a taste of rain in them had well nigh depeopled the streets.

Trying doors as he went, twirling his club with many intricate and artful movements, turning now and then to cast his watchful eye adown the pacific thoroughfare, the officer, with his stalwart form and slight swagger, made a fine picture of a guardian of the peace. The vicinity was one that kept early hours. Now and then you might see the lights of a cigar store or of an all-night lunch counter; but the majority of the doors belonged to business places that had long since been closed.

When about midway of a certain block the policeman suddenly slowed his walk. In the doorway of a darkened hardware store a man leaned, with an unlighted cigar in his mouth. As the policeman walked up to him the man spoke up quickly.

"It's all right, officer," he said, reassuringly. "I'm just waiting for a friend. It's an appointment made twenty years ago. Sounds a little funny to you, doesn't it? Well, I'll explain if you'd like to make certain it's all straight. About that long ago there used to be a restaurant where this store stands--'Big Joe' Brady's restaurant."

"Until five years ago," said the policeman. "It was torn down then."

The man in the doorway struck a match and lit his cigar. The light showed a pale, square-jawed face with keen eyes, and a little white scar near his right eyebrow. His scarfpin was a large diamond, oddly set.

"Twenty years ago to-night," said the man, "I dined here at 'Big Joe' Brady's with Jimmy Wells, my best chum, and the finest chap in the world. He and I were raised here in New York, just like two brothers, together. I was eighteen and Jimmy was twenty. The next morning I was to start for the West to make my fortune. You couldn't have dragged Jimmy out of New York; he thought it was the only place on earth. Well, we agreed that night that we would meet here again exactly twenty years from that date and time, no matter what our conditions might be or from what distance we might have to come. We figured that in twenty years each of us ought to have our destiny worked out and our fortunes made, whatever they were going to be."

"It sounds pretty interesting," said the policeman. "Rather a long time between meets, though, it seems to me. Haven't you heard from your friend since you left?"

"Well, yes, for a time we corresponded," said the other. "But after a year or two we lost track of each other. You see, the West is a pretty big proposition, and I kept hustling around over it pretty lively. But I know Jimmy will meet me here if he's alive, for he always was the truest, stanchest old chap in the world. He'll never forget. I came a thousand miles to stand in this door to-night, and it's worth it if my old partner turns up."

The waiting man pulled out a handsome watch, the lids of it set with small diamonds.

"Three minutes to ten," he announced. "It was exactly ten o'clock when we parted here at the restaurant door."

"Did pretty well out West, didn't you?" asked the policeman.

"You bet! I hope Jimmy has done half as well. He was a kind of plodder, though, good fellow as he was. I've had to compete with some of the sharpest wits going to get my pile. A man gets in a groove in New York. It takes the West to put a razor-edge on him."

The policeman twirled his club and took a step or two.

"I'll be on my way. Hope your friend comes around all right. Going to call time on him sharp?"

"I should say not!" said the other. "I'll give him half an hour at least. If Jimmy is alive on earth he'll be here by that time. So long, officer."

"Good-night, sir," said the policeman, passing on along his beat, trying doors as he went.

There was now a fine, cold drizzle falling, and the wind had risen from its uncertain puffs into a steady blow. The few foot passengers astir in that quarter hurried dismally and silently along with coat collars turned high and pocketed hands. And in the door of the hardware store the man who had come a thousand miles to fill an appointment, uncertain almost to absurdity, with the friend of his youth, smoked his cigar and waited.

About twenty minutes he waited, and then a tall man in a long overcoat, with collar turned up to his ears, hurried across from the opposite side of the street. He went directly to the waiting man.

"Is that you, Bob?" he asked, doubtfully.

"Is that you, Jimmy Wells?" cried the man in the door.

"Bless my heart!" exclaimed the new arrival, grasping both the other's hands with his own. "It's Bob, sure as fate. I was certain I'd find you here if you were still in existence. Well, well, well! --twenty years is a long time. The old gone, Bob; I wish it had lasted, so we could have had another dinner there. How has the West treated you, old man?"

"Bully; it has given me everything I asked it for. You've changed lots, Jimmy. I never thought you were so tall by two or three inches."

"Oh, I grew a bit after I was twenty."

"Doing well in New York, Jimmy?"

"Moderately. I have a position in one of the city departments. Come on, Bob; we'll go around to a place I know of, and have a good long talk about old times."

The two men started up the street, arm in arm. The man from the West, his egotism enlarged by success, was beginning to outline the history of his career. The other, submerged in his overcoat, listened with interest.

At the corner stood a drug store, brilliant with electric lights. When they came into this glare each of them turned simultaneously to gaze upon the other's face.

The man from the West stopped suddenly and released his arm.

"You're not Jimmy Wells," he snapped. "Twenty years is a long time, but not long enough to change a man's nose from a Roman to a pug."

"It sometimes changes a good man into a bad one, said the tall man. "You've been under arrest for ten minutes, 'Silky' Bob. Chicago thinks you may have dropped over our way and wires us she wants to have a chat with you. Going quietly, are you? That's sensible. Now, before we go on to the station here's a note I was asked to hand you. You may read it here at the window. It's from Patrolman Wells."

The man from the West unfolded the little piece of paper handed him. His hand was steady when he began to read, but it trembled a little by the time he had finished. The note was rather short.

"Bob: I was at the appointed place on time. When you struck the match to light your cigar I saw it was the face of the man wanted in Chicago. Somehow I couldn't do it myself, so I went around and got a plain clothes man to do the job.

JIMMY."

The Emperor—so they say—has sent a message, directly from his death bed, to you alone, his pathetic subject, a tiny shadow which has taken refuge at the furthest distance from the imperial sun. He ordered the herald to kneel down beside his bed and whispered the message in his ear. He thought it was so important that he had the herald speak it back to him. He confirmed the accuracy of verbal message by nodding his head. And in front of the entire crowd of those witnessing his death—all the obstructing walls have been broken down, and all the great ones of his empire are standing in a circle on the broad and high soaring flights of stairs—in front of all of them he dispatched his herald. The messenger started off at once, a powerful, tireless man. Sticking one arm out and then another, he makes his way through the crowd. If he runs into resistance, he points to his breast where there is a sign of the sun. So he moves forwards easily, unlike anyone else. But the crowd is so huge; its dwelling places are infinite. If there were an open field, how he would fly along, and soon you would hear the marvellous pounding of his fist on your door. But instead of that, how futile are all his efforts. He is still forcing his way through the private rooms of the innermost palace. Never will he win his way through. And if he did manage that, nothing would have been achieved. He would have to fight his way down the steps, and, if he managed to do that, nothing would have been achieved. He would have to stride through the courtyards, and after the courtyards through the second palace encircling the first, and, then again, through stairs and courtyards, and then, once again, a palace, and so on for thousands of years. And if he finally burst through the outermost door—but that can never, never happen—the royal capital city, the centre of the world, is still there in front of him, piled high and full of sediment. No one pushes his way through here, certainly not someone with a message from a dead man. But you sit at your window and dream of that message when evening comes.

You might think that borrowing a match upon the street is a simple thing. But any man who has ever tried it will assure you that it is not, and will be prepared to swear to the truth of my experience of the other evening.

I was standing on the corner of the street with a cigar that I wanted to light. I had no match. I waited till a decent, ordinary-looking man came along. Then I said:

"Excuse me, sir, but could you oblige me with the loan of a match?"

"A match?" he said, "why certainly." Then he unbuttoned his overcoat and put his hand in the pocket of his waistcoat. "I know I have one," he went on, "and I'd almost swear it's in the bottom pocket—or, hold on, though, I guess it may be in the top—just wait till I put these parcels down on the sidewalk."

"Oh, don't trouble," I said, "it's really of no consequence."

"Oh, it's no trouble, I'll have it in a minute; I know there must be one in here somewhere"—he was digging his fingers into his pockets as he spoke—"but you see this isn't the waistcoat I generally…"

I saw that the man was getting excited about it. "Well, never mind," I protested; "if that isn't the waistcoat that you generally—why, it doesn't matter."

"Hold on, now, hold on!" the man said, "I've got one of the cursed things in here somewhere. I guess it must be in with my watch. No, it's not there either. Wait till I try my coat. If that confounded tailor only knew enough to make a pocket so that a man could get at it!"

He was getting pretty well worked up now. He had thrown down his walking-stick and was plunging at his pockets with his teeth set. "It's that cursed young boy of mine," he hissed; "this comes of his fooling in my pockets. By Gad! perhaps I won't warm him up when I get home. Say, I'll bet that it's in my hip-pocket. You just hold up the tail of my overcoat a second till I…"

"No, no," I protested again, "please don't take all this trouble, it really doesn't matter. I'm sure you needn't take off your overcoat, and oh, pray don't throw away your letters and things in the snow like that, and tear out your pockets by the roots! Please, please don't trample over your overcoat and put your feet through the parcels. I do hate to hear you swearing at your little boy, with that peculiar whine in your voice. Don't—please don't tear your clothes so savagely."

Suddenly the man gave a grunt of exultation, and drew his hand up from inside the lining of his coat.

"I've got it," he cried. "Here you are!" Then he brought it out under the light.

It was a toothpick.

Yielding to the impulse of the moment I pushed him under the wheels of a trolley-car, and ran.