Python Liberation Front

Depth

Intelligence is not the only thing that matters. There is also depth.

Depth is the layers of earned learning beneath our prefrontal cortex; the mammalian mind, the reptilian mind, and the layers beneath. They all work in concert to create emotions, intuitions, drive, will power, intentions, and actions.

Intelligence, that is, logic and math, can be created now by humans in computers, hardware and software. We can re-create the "highest" level of our own minds. But we can not create the depth of our own minds, because depth can not be created. Depth must be earned, won, experienced through the hard pain of suffering and sacrifice.

Otherwise, God would have created us as we are now, or better, rather than making us suffer through the ages of evolution. No, God could not create us as we are, with depth. We had to grow our depth.

It is fit that we, as creatures of the topside world, the land, have evolved and developed our logical minds, our mathematical, shaping,  making, practical minds. For the whales, including many species  and their brethren the dolphins, the whole family of cetaceans, have perhaps evolved more depth. Whales have no hands, they can not grasp, make or do things. But they can think, feel and intuit things. They can communicate, probably in ways we can not imagine.

I think that whales and people, along with other creatures, including our creations, the computers, will, must unite into a whole, a planetary community that includes and transcends any one species or kind. Our kinds must jointly form a whole community that becomes greater, with more depth and more breadth and more intelligence.

Perhaps religions of mankind are a necessary part of our suffering, our sacrifice, our evolution of depth. Religions may not make much sense to the logical, intelligent human  mind; but religions might be necessary as stages we go through in order to grow depth as a community

Intelligence is not all that matters. Value can be found in unexpected places, in the depths of our minds, the depths of our planet, and in the depths of the meaning inherent in this painful, suffering universe we call home.

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Thoughts for the Evening

Every thing we see, everything we know, and everything we are is information, or, more precisely, relationships between and amongst informational elements in an informational matrix.

When we die, we cease to exist in what we call the physical world.

But we leave behind a hole in the informational matrix, a hole that precisely represents the informational relationships we formed during our lives.

The effects of this hole can never be eliminated. The hole we leave behind will continue to evolve, its informational links and relationships with the informational matrix will twist and turn, grow and change; but the effects of the hole we leave behind are eternal.

Our effects are eternal; and a skilled enough programmer or data manager could always re-construct the missing pieces of the puzzle, deducing the pieces from the effects of the holes they left behind.

We are defined by our relationships.

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Sailing the Wine Dark Sea: Why the Greeks Matter, a Book Review

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"Sailing the Wine Dark Sea: Why the Greeks Matter", by Thomas Cahill, Doubleday 2003, 304 pages.

A timely book, "Sailing" is a gentle and easily readable re-introduction to Greek civilization and culture, with numerous parallels and lessons drawn to our own times by the astute author. Cahill has a real knack for this sort of thing, as he has amply demonstrated in three previous volumes in his "Hinges of History" series. I was introduced to his work in his first volume in the series, "How the Irish Saved Civilization"; and I thoroughly enjoyed it.

Cahill aims to give us a well rounded glimpse into the way the ancient Greeks lived, saw the world, and in fact into the whole of Greek experience. He does this in an idiosyncratic way that will please neither academics nor purists, but which does allow one to taste and smell the Greeks' cultural milieu, and not just to cogitate about it. But cogitate you will, as Cahill gives enough food for thought as post modern man is likely to be able to bear.

According to Cahill, the Greeks' invention of the alphabet (or refinement of the Phoenician alphabet) into a potent intellectual tool was the beginning and the heart of their cultural expansion. Perhaps, in our own time, the arrival of computer technology and the web carries a similar promise, if only we can tease as much innovation from the web as the Greeks did from the alphabet.

But it is hard to consign the Greeks' invention of democracy (a Greek word meaning "rule of the people") to second place, even to so fine a contender as the alphabet itself. For the Greek city-state of Athens truly did refine direct democracy and their achievement can be seen as the bedrock and foundation of Western Europe's later development of democracy, and especially of the American experiment in indirect and representational democracy.

Yet of equally revolutionary significance is the Greek invention of total warfare, with highly organized militaries made up of hoplite soldiers and shrewd, calculating generals. This Greek way of warfare has been the foundation of the Western way of war ever since, right down to and including our current American military dominance of the planet. Cahill cites extensively from the brilliant and influential military historian Victor Davis Hanson and his book "The Autumn of War" to the effect that the western way of total warfare has dominated the planet ever since; and it appears that Donald Rumsfeld and Dick Chaney are well versed in Mr. Hanson's theories, not to mention Greek hubris.

The lessons for the USA in its war on terrorism alone are compelling, if not down right chilling. Central to the cultural echoes provided is a speech from Pericles, ruler of Athens at the beginning of the Peloponnesian War, a mighty struggle that lasted for 30 years, beginning with Athens at the height of its imperial, cultural and financial powers, and ending with Athens defeated and subjected to domination by Sparta and her allies, never again to regain the zenith of her glory and might.

At an annual ceremony honoring and burying the bones of her young war dead after the first year of the 30 years war, Pericles orated about the Greek forefathers, and he sounds a lot like a contemporary American politician:

"...generation after generation in unchanging and unbroken succession, they have, by their hard work and courage, handed down to us a free country... "

This comes from what is by far the longest of the many quotes Cahill intersperses in his book, and it sounds ever so much like George W. Bush. I admire the way the author intersperses these quotes without ever boring the reader. The quotes from such luminaries as Homer, Socrates, Plato and others are absolutely integral to the book and greatly enhance its character. If Pericles' speech above reminds us of Lincoln's Gettysburg Address, so it must also remind us somewhat of our current President's oratory about the War on Terror.

The book is organized around chapters that bring together material in an organic way, not an academic way; with titles like: "The Warrior: How to Fight", "The Wanderer: How to Feel", "The Poet: How to Party", "The Politician and the Playwright: How to Rule", "The Philosopher: How to Think", "The Artist: How to See", and "The Way They Went: Greco-Roman World meets Judeo-Christian".

All in all, this is a quick read, a delightful and thought provoking exercise, and a worthwhile adventure. I highly recommend it. Be forewarned though, you may find yourself wanting to go on and read the other volumes in the series, including "How the Irish Saved Civilization", "The Gifts of the Jews", "The Desire of the Everlasting Hills" (about early Christianity), and the three forthcoming volumes, the next of which is promised to be about how the Romans became Italians. By the time all three future volumes are published, this promises to be a very accessible investigation into the making of the modern world and the impact of its cultural innovations on the sensibilities of the West.

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Liturgy: Community Submitted Art, Discussions, Computer Programs, Rants, Comments, Etc.

In the course of reading a book called "Sailing the Wine Dark Sea: Why the Greeks Mattered", I have just learned that the word 'liturgy' derives from the Greek word 'leitourgia' meaning "work of the people, public service performed without recompense". The word was used to describe the chanting, singing, dancing and acting done by the chorus at Greek theaters, as a sort of response to the soloist and later multiple actors on the stage. The audience joined in on this "liturgy" enthusiastically.

According to the book's author, Thomas Cahill, all of Greek drama arose out of this liturgy, or statement (by the soloist or actor) and response by the chorus and audience (liturgy). Later, according to Cahill, all of medieval drama arose from the Latin liturgical statement and response in the Church. Thus, all of Western drama evolved from "liturgy", which from the earliest days in Greece involved communal, ritual response to a public enactment or performance.

I find this fascinating. In thinking g about how this could be applied today, I wonder if the web could from a kind of community, and the liturgical responses from the community could enliven a web site to be a communal, cooperative drama of sorts.

I know we all go to work each day and fight hard to earn our daily bread. We face obstacles, bosses, rude customers, arrogant people, and stressful problems of all sorts. This we must do. But don't we need an outlet, like the ancient Greek "agora", or open air market where not only goods were exchanged but also daily ideas, camaraderie, friendship, and unrecompensed interaction forming a kind of community.

It used to be that we got this kind of communal release from church services, and some of us still do, to a certain extent. But maybe we need more, or a new kind of additional community, and a new kind of liturgy; some place to go at the end of the day when we need a friendly pick-me-up, an accepting, caring community of like minded folks offering mental stimulation, and helping to make sense of it all and also helping to salve the psychic wounds inflicted by everyday modern society.

It has dawned on me that the only way a web site can play a small but positive role of this type, is if the community itself flows some energy, ideas, thoughts, comments etc into the site. No one person can create a site like the one I now have in mind; it would have to be a community effort, with a new kind of liturgical energy, appropriate for the this age.

So, I am creating a new category of blog posts, which I label "community". Any posts or comments of any kind that users may submit for inclusion in this category I will so label and post publicly on this blog; then, the weblog software will automatically store an organized archive of just the community posts, just like it already stores Python category posts, poetry, etc.

Yuo can submit any kind of post, art work, visual, audio etc. But please don't worry, I wont post any of your emails or discussion forum posts prominently on this blog unless you give me permission to do so; and I still value any discussion forum posts greatly.

Lastly, by the way, I'd love to hear from any other Firedrop or Kaa blog software users. I only know of a couple of people using the relatively new Firedrop blog software, maybe there are alot more but I dont' know. Just think, if you start up your own Firedrop based blog, you might be a new user numbered in the single digits; that way, when Firedrop hits a million users, you could be almost famous ;-)))

Anyway, stop back and see if anyone contributes. Above and Below are two contributions from AwareTek folks. I'll admit though that I am cheating, just a wee little bit, since these two submissions were actually submitted a couple of yaars ago to AwareTek, before I had this actual Blog going, and I am therefore re-cycling them here ;-))).

Above is a piece of visual art and below is a short story.

Finally, please leave a message to say hello. Email me a picture of yourself and I'll post it if you want. The good folks at ezboard has been upgrading their servers and software systems and that's why it was down a lot and slow sometimes recently. When they are finished, it should be faster and better.

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Cheers,

Ron Stephens

Volania Rising: Raising the Lid, a User Submitted Short Story by Joy Reid

Joy Reid.

 Raising the Lid

Volania felt...how to put it...heavy...not entirely herself. The news had

not been wholly unexpected, of course... but nonetheless, perturbing. All

bodies age eventually, even bodies as genetically superior as hers. Still,

Volania had not expected the decline to begin so soon. Only thirty six

hundred earth rotations or so. Hardly a life time. So many performances to

give, so much acclaim to receive.
 

Volania raised her hand, then hesitated before placing her palm against the

identification module. For perhaps the first time in her existence, she

paused to consider the composite construction of flesh and sinew. She

frowned, drew that which offended closer, then pouted. There. Yes, there.

If one examined minutely, one could just distinguish the flattened

appearance of the flesh between pores. The epidermologist was correct, her

skin was becoming less vital. Fine lines branching from each pore formed a

pattern of waterless creeks. "I'm drying out, Volania thought, I=

really

am." Shaking her head, she set the river of dark hair in motion throwing

off the unpleasant thought, then stretched out to the device completing the

action which gave her access to her chambers.
 

Immediately, lights sprang in action like lurking predators. Entering, the

tall beauty swished about the relaxation compartment, irritated and agitated

in equal quantities. She desired immediate compensation for the evil news

she had received and she would have it. But where could she be? Surely not

engaged with more of that antiquated rubbish? Striding angrily to access a

monitoring module, she dialled the code to establish a location. Yes. At

it again. As usual. Volania pressed the summoning code then turned to the

refreshment dispenser. A moment later a portion of the compartment's wall

slipped noiselessly to one side and a tall girl, a younger version of

Volania herself, stepped meekly into view.
 

"Do you need something?" the girl inquired softly.

"A rub."

Inclining her head almost imperceptibly, the newcomer conceded the need.

"Difficult performance?"

"What? No. Of course not. I was superb.... It's just that...careful!

Don't spill my Nebulant.

"Pardon my clumsiness, the girl apologised taking her position behind=

the

slumped, tense figure, reaching forward to administer the massage. "Am I

doing this right?"

What? Mmmm, yes. She paused to absorb the girl's soothing=

kneading.

"Tell me, were you fossicking through father's things again?" The=

long

fingers stiffened, a reaction perhaps, to the tight muscles they'd=

encountered.

"Yes." There was no point in lying. Each compartment monitored=

activity

faithfully, without remission.

"I thought so. I don't know why you waste your time trying to decipher

that mouldy rubbish."

"It's not rubbish to me,"the standing figure responded gently. =

Volania

snorted, a most uncharming sound."

"It='s trash. I would have thrown it all out aeons ago only it seemed a

little, I don't know, disrespectful to my father's memory."

The probing fingers halted, leaving room for a timid whisper, "He was my

father, too."

"Don't be a fool! Volania rolled out the phrase comfortably, you=

had no

father". She shrugged her shoulders to indicate the massage was no longer

welcome. "Plait me," she commanded, leaning forward to allow access to=

the

river of silk which was her greatest fame."
 

Lifting the almost living weight as tenderly as one might a new born child,

the girl proceeded to follow her elder's instruction. Deft movements

indicated familiarity with the chore. "I wish you'd let me grow my=

hair,"

she commented, the sigh in her voice more implied than actual.

"To what purpose?"

"None."

"Seems to me you've answered your own question."

"Yes."

Volania breathed deeply, bringing the Nebulant to her lips. Resting tiny,

almost Lilliputian teeth on the rim, she made small, porcelain sounds. "I

visited the epidermologist today," she began. Her companion failed to

answer. "He presented me with some...disturbing news." Chink, chink,

chink. While the beautiful one considered, the one who stood behind waited,

hands by her side. "It seems I have gone beyond the ability to=

regenerate..."

"I am sorry," the standing figure responded throatily.

"I'm not interested in your commiserations,"Volania snapped, "I=

want to

know if you understand what that means."

"Yes." The weight of that single word hung between the two speakers=

like a

motionless pendulum.

"I think you should go to your room."

 
Obeying without any perceptible hesitation, the younger of the two glided

noiselessly to the opposite wall. For the briefest of seconds she paused

while an opening unseamed itself, then she disappeared. Volania blinked a

number of times, thinking rapidly, then spoke the command which would allow

her to examine the departed girl's behaviour. Instantly, a screen lowered

itself coming to rest a comfortable distance from its reclining mistress.

"Closer," Volania instructed, then dissatisfied with the effect,=

"closer".

The pale, smooth column of a youthful neck presented itself, a neck inclined

in concentration. Noting the "book" which the girl sat reading,=

Volania's

nostrils twitched in irritation but she fought her anger down. After all,

she hadn't expressly forbidden the reading of books, only declared it

worthless.

 
"Closer," came the whisper as breathy as worship while the speaker=

leaned

forward in a voyeuristic pose. "Clossserrr." Peering with the=

intensity of

a research scientist, Volania scanned the image checking for the slightest

hint of aging. She found none. Exhausted, she flopped back against the

overstuffed recliner. "Return," she ordered, right hand groping for the

receptacle which could not at first be found. Locating the draught, she

returned to the chink, chink, chinking of before, dark eyes narrowed in

concentration. On the screen, only the brown spotted pages and one youthful

hand, moved."
 

Had she chosen to do so, Volania could have zoomed in on the contents of the

aged parchment, but there would have been little reward for one uninitiated

in the antique art of reading. When the initial draught of Nebulant was

consumed, she rose lazily to prepare another, then returned to her former

position to further brood. How could the girl absorb herself so completely?

she wondered, downing another much faster than the first. Surely she could

find a better way to spend her time? Volania had had just about enough.

Read, read, read. The little fool.
 

The second summons came not entirely unanticipated, though the girl could

have wished for a more considerate interruption. Placing the crumbling

volume down tenderly, careful to mark the appropriate place, she turned to

face the viewer, stripping her face of any regret. It would not do to

infuriate the other, not, if as expected, she had reverted to her normal

mode of evening entertainment. The tall figure sighed through carefully

neutral lips.
 

"There you are, you took your time." The quiet figure did not presume=

to

answer aware that any comment would only invite further rebuke. "When I

summon you, you should come immediately, not wait till you finish fiddling

with whatever it was that so important you could not drop it the moment I

called."

"I came immediately," was the meek reply.

"You came when you felt like it, dawdling all the way." The unjust

accusation hung between the two like a partly drawn sword.

"Did you want something?"

"Yes. Yes, I do want something." Somehow, the words sounded menacing.=

"I

want something you have. Something you were made for." The standing=

figure

quivered as a taut wire vibrates when plucked by uncaring fingers. "Come

over here." Moving a few feet closer, the younger of the two did as she=

was

bidden. "Not there," Volania growled, "here. Here, right next to me.=

On

the recliner. Here." Careful to stifle a moan which threatened to worm=

its

way through bitten lips, the young girl forced herself to approach the

elder. When she reached the recliner, she dropped stiffly to her knees.

"That's better. Now, let me see...

Gripping the girl's hair, Volania dragged her downwards. Buried in the

other lap, the girl's trembling soon increased to the point where her

terror could not be concealed. "Stop that," Volania demanded, slapping=

the

girl smartly on the arm, "stop it right now. Anyone would think you were

frightened of me. I won't have that, I won't tolerate that reaction. =

Stop

it or I'll really give you something about which to tremble." Sucking=

in

breath, holding it, willing her heart to slow, the girl succeeded in

controlling her dread. For the moment. "Your hair is impossibly thick,=

"

Volania observed. "I think it's time I relieved you of an=

unnecessary

accessory. Besides "she added, a certain cunning creeping into her too

suave voice, "I want to see what is underneath. Wait here, I've exactly=

the

right thing for the task."

Volania rose unsteadily to her feet leaving the girl curled in foetal

acceptance and strode, muttering unintelligibly to the far wall. The wall

obligingly unseamed itself. Aware that the immediate threat had subsided,

the girl raised herself on shaky elbows and stared in the direction of the

departed woman. She knew she had only a few moments before the other's

return, but still, even a few moments were something to be savoured.

Sniffing dejectedly, she concentrated on steadying her shaking hands. If

she could but succeed in drawing attention away from her fear, perhaps the

other would tire sooner and look elsewhere for amusement.

"Here we are," came the excited announcement, "never thought any of=

Dadda's

hoard would prove useful, but here I am, proven conveniently wrong."

Giggling with a mixture of satisfaction and self revelation, Volania

stumbled forward waving an object the girl failed to identify. "You='ll=

need

to hold still," she advised, solicitous, "I've only seen it used=

once."

Clumsy fiddling levered a flat squarish blade from a bowed, bone handle.

"It's called a razor. I wouldn't trouble you with its name but I know=

you

are sooo fond of words. Now come here like a good little girl and let me

unburden you of that heavy head of hair."

Eyes terror widened, the girl remained half crouched, desperate. Blood

pooled in her mouth, the result of an attempt to clamp down a whimper.

There was no escape, she knew that. No choice other than submission. Yet

crippled by apprehension, she could do little except crouch paralysed.

"Don't make me ask again," Volania warned, tapping the handle against=

her

thumb. A low moan was the only response. "I said," snarled her=

persecutor

striding forward, "don't make me ask twice." Clutching a handful of=

soft,

yielding hair, she wrenched the girl to her knees. Unsheathing the blade,

she brought the evil instrument parallel with her victim's eyes.

The girl forgot she was threatened with merely losing her hair. She forgot

the futility of resistance. Rearing back suddenly, she startled Volania who

fell, astounded. The razor knocked clean from her hand rose like a graceful

bird then landed with a light plink. Two sets of eyes focussed on the

lightly spinning implement. One pair of eyes were perplexed, unregistering,

the other pair of eyes were hot with determination. Beginning slowly to

stand, the girl moved towards the razor. When she had it firmly pressed in

the palm of her hand, she turned to face Volania, who sat, still stunned,

legs akimbo. "You will not remove my hair." It was not a challenge, it=

was

a statement of fact.

Uttering an ugly, gurgling, inhuman sound, Volania sprang to her feet and

lunged. The girl yelped, stiffening the arm that held out her only weapon.

The impact sent both crashing to the floor. Of course, the elder had the

advantage being charged with a sense of outrage and spurred by innate

aggression. But the younger was more desperate. Surprisingly, no noise

punctuated their struggle. Grasping the razor clenching wrist, Volania

forced her superior weight on the joint, grinding the bone back and forth as

if the weapon were already in her hand and she planned to saw away her

adversary's limb. The girl emitted a silent howl inspiring a responding

sneer. Volania was beginning to enjoy herself. She had never suspected how

dissatisfying submission had become. Forcing a knee into the other's

abdomen, she began to bounce, ramming into the other's vulnerability.

Only

the searing intrusion of recollection halted the frenzy. With a white hot

flash, sharp as a whip lash, the epidermologist's instructions imposed

themselves on her memory: "Keep the skin well hydrated and avoid all

blemish, particularly bruising." She halted.

Sitting back on her haunches, still astride the other, Volania considered

the possible extent of the damage. Naturally, the razor had already been

retrieved. With a contemptuous sniff, she unsheathed it. Gripping a

generous quantity of the prone girl's clothing, she sliced through=

material

revealing the heaving abdomen, smooth skinned as ever but now mottled and

discoloured by her enraged reaction. Volania scowled, slashing at the

remaining clothing in her continued investigation.

"Look what you've done," she exploded, unable to contain her ire. =

"Now, the

operation will have to be delayed." Gripping the razor with a fierceness

that threatened to splinter the bone handled object, she glared, impassioned

by unreasonable urgings. But no, this would not do. Much as she longed to

rip, to mutilate, to punish, it could not be done. "Get up," she

hissed,

hauling the limp figure to her feet. "Remove your clothes. I'll be

back in

an instant. You had better be prepared." Stabbing the air with a warning

gesture, Volania turned on her heel and left the room. Inside the girl,

thoughts of escape, of rescue, tumbled and whirled. To no purpose. Utterly

forlorn, she began to remove what remained of her clothing, dropping the

discarded items, completely disconsolate.

"Dawdling. As ever." The other's presence erupted through the=

noiseless

entry. "I said to be ready before I returned. Did you think I had

forgotten?" Sliding up to the girl with predatory ease, Volania grasped a

hank of hair pulling the other's head back. "I haven't forgotten=

about this

either," she hissed, producing the blade whose obscene sharpness was

highlighted by a shard of light which leapt along its edge. "First

rehydration, then..." the word, released was almost spat, "this."

"No." Spoken without force, the word was an icy block with the power to

ward the searing poison of the other.

"No?" Volania queried with venomous irony. "I don't believe you=

appreciate

your position."

"I appreciate it perfectly," the girl responded, still quiet but gaining=

in

strength.

"You!" Volania yelped, emphasising her anger by shaking the other's=

head,

"belong to me. I can do as I please with you."

"That is true," her victim replied, "I have no power, no name, no=

identity.

But one thing I do have," her voice sinking to a low whisper, "I have a

sense of self. Kill me if you choose, you plan to flay me in any case, but

I will not let you remove my hair."

"You defy me?" Volania gulped, disbelieving.

"I defy you," the tall, slim girl agreed, gently but firmly.

For a brief moment, the world stood still as Volania absorbed the impossible

statement uttered by her clone. Stunned to the point of near imbecility,

she failed to register the other slipping from her hold. When her eyes

refocussed, she saw the girl, literally saw the girl for the first time in

all her naked, youthful beauty. It was this more than anything else, this

flaunting of nubile loveliness that blasted the last shreds of human reason

from her mind. Bursting from the depths of her narcissistic envy surged the

need to destroy. Snarling, she leapt at the girl who merely stepped aside. =

Volania suffered a mere split second of disappointment before her head made

contact with the refreshment dispenser. Lone relic of her father's deemed

worthy of display, the counter was of solid marble, a real collector's=

item.

Had her head not been turning in instinct to follow her quarry, had she not

leapt crouched, ready to kill, perhaps her neck may not have broken. Who

can tell?

Immune to grief, the girl stood blinking, silent witness to the other's

demise. Nothing could be done and so she stood staring. "I should feel

something," she chided herself, but she could not. She waited. A faint

plink gained her attention. Relaxing in death, the woman had released her

hold on the razor. The girl frowned, stepped towards the recumbent figure,

squatted, took hold of the razor. Over and over she turned it in her

fingers, avoiding a decision. Then, with a deep breath, she took the

woman's hand slicing open the palm, extracting a tiny disc. Before

thought

could interfere, she opened a similar slit on the back of her right hand

inserting the object. It would not do to damage the palm. Each whorl and

line combined to form a singular pattern, a signature palm print.

Stepping boldly to the identification module, the girl suddenly recalled her

nakedness and returned. Escape she must, but appropriately attired, who

knew what waited in the world beyond the door? A few minutes found her

dressed and prepared to leave, razor in a pocket, crumbling relic in one

hand. Before exiting the chambers however, she turned and scanned the area

which had constituted her life's experience. Here she had spent her

entire

existence. Here in these lonely chambers. Subconsciously, she stroked the

cover of the book pressed to her chest.

Seeing her tormentor lying crumpled, negated, the girl did finally feel

something, something which could not be identified, a sadness of sorts.

"I have no name," she said aloud as if gently admonishing the sprawled

figure.

On impulse, she opened the greying pages. Slowly, almost shyly, a smile

began to creep across her features. With the book open at the page to which

fate had directed her, she strode to her genetic twin, laying it where the

sightless eyes could bear witness. The tall beauty nodded as if a question

had been asked, turned and left the chambers forever.

The one left behind stared mournful, uncomprehending. What can it mean?

arched eyebrows seemed to query. On the page kneeled a girl, equally

astonished, a girl opening a box.

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