mirror of
https://github.com/CHOMPStation2/CHOMPStation2.git
synced 2025-12-10 18:22:39 +00:00
386 lines
23 KiB
Plaintext
386 lines
23 KiB
Plaintext
/*
|
|
CKEY: Schnayy
|
|
CATEGORY: Fiction
|
|
*/
|
|
|
|
/// Beyond the Door - Philip K. Dick
|
|
|
|
/obj/item/weapon/book/bundle/custom_library/fiction/beyondthedoor
|
|
name = "Beyond the Door"
|
|
desc = "A hardbound book titled 'Beyond the Door' by Philip K. Dick."
|
|
description_info = "This book is titled 'Beyond the Door' by Philip K. Dick. There is a blurb on the back: <BR>\
|
|
Larry Thomas bought a cuckoo clock for his wife - without knowing the price he would have to pay."
|
|
|
|
title = "Beyond the Door"
|
|
icon_state = "book1"
|
|
origkey = "Schnayy"
|
|
author = "Philip K. Dick"
|
|
|
|
pages = list({"<html>
|
|
<head>
|
|
<style>
|
|
h1 {font-size: 16px; font-family: Impact; color: white; margin: 15px 0px 5px;}
|
|
h2 {font-size: 13px; font-family: Courier New; color: white; margin: 15px 0px 5px;}
|
|
body {font-size: 13px; font-family: Verdana; background-color: #000000;}
|
|
</style>
|
|
</head>
|
|
|
|
<body>
|
|
<center><h1>Beyond the Door</h1>
|
|
<h2>by Philip K. Dick</h2></center>
|
|
</body>
|
|
</html>
|
|
"},
|
|
{"<html>
|
|
<head>
|
|
<style>
|
|
body {font-size: 13px; color: black; font-family: Verdana; background-color: #FFFFFF;}
|
|
</style>
|
|
</head>
|
|
|
|
<body>
|
|
<b>That night at the dinner table</b> he brought it out and set it down beside her plate. Doris stared at it, her hand to her mouth. "My God, what is it?" She looked up at him, bright-eyed.
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
"Well, open it."
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
Doris tore the ribbon and paper from the square package with her sharp nails, her bosom rising and falling. Larry stood watching her as she lifted the lid. He lit a cigarette and leaned against the wall.
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
"A cuckoo clock!" Doris cried. "A real old cuckoo clock like my mother had." She turned the clock over and over. "Just like my mother had, when Pete was still alive." Her eyes sparkled with tears.
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
"It's made in Germany," Larry said. After a moment he added, "Carl got it for me wholesale. He knows some guy in the clock business. Otherwise I wouldn't have-" He stopped.
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
Doris made a funny little sound.
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
"I mean, otherwise I wouldn't have been able to afford it." He scowled. "What's the matter with you? You've got your clock, haven't you? Isn't that what you want?"
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
Doris sat holding onto the clock, her fingers pressed against the brown wood.
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
"Well," Larry said, "what's the matter?"
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
He watched in amazement as she leaped up and ran from the room, still clutching the clock. He shook his head. "Never satisfied. They're all that way. Never get enough."
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
He sat down at the table and finished his meal.
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
The cuckoo clock was not very large. It was hand-made, however, and there were countless frets on it, little indentations and ornaments scored in the soft wood. Doris sat on the bed drying her eyes and winding the clock. She set the hands by her wristwatch. Presently she carefully moved the hands to two minutes of ten. She carried the clock over to the dresser and propped it up.
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
Then she sat waiting, her hands twisted together in her lap - waiting for the cuckoo to come out, for the hour to strike.
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
As she sat she thought about Larry and what he had said. And what she had said, too, for that matter - not that she could be blamed for any of it. After all, she couldn't keep listening to him forever without defending herself; you had to blow your own trumpet in the world.
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
She touched her handkerchief to her eyes suddenly. Why did he have to say that, about getting it wholesale? Why did he have to spoil it all? If he felt that way he needn't have got it in the first place. She clenched her fists. He was so mean, so damn mean.
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
But she was glad of the little clock sitting there ticking to itself, with its funny grilled edges and the door. Inside the door was the cuckoo, waiting to come out. Was he listening, his head cocked on one side, listening to hear the clock strike so that he would know to come out?
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
Did he sleep between hours? Well, she would soon see him: she could ask him. And she would show the clock to Bob. He would love it; Bob loved old things, even old stamps and buttons. He liked to go with her to the stores. Of course, it was a little awkward, but Larry had been staying at the office so much, and that helped. If only Larry didn't call up sometimes to-
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
There was a whirr. The clock shuddered and all at once the door opened. The cuckoo came out, sliding swiftly. He paused and looked around solemnly, scrutinizing her, the room, the furniture.
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
It was the first time he had seen her, she realized, smiling to herself in pleasure. She stood up, coming toward him shyly. "Go on," she said. "I'm waiting."
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
The cuckoo opened his bill. He whirred and chirped, quickly, rhythmically. Then, after a moment of contemplation, he retired. And the door snapped shut.
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
She was delighted. She clapped her hands and spun in a little circle. He was marvelous, perfect! And the way he had looked around, studying her, sizing her up. He liked her; she was certain of it. And she, of course, loved him at once, completely. He was just what she had hoped would come out of the little door.
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
Doris went to the clock. She bent over the little door, her lips close to the wood. "Do you hear me?" she whispered. "I think you're the most wonderful cuckoo in the world." She paused, embarrassed. "I hope you'll like it here."
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
Then she went downstairs again, slowly, her head high.
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
Larry and the cuckoo clock really never got along well from the start. Doris said it was because he didn't wind it right, and it didn't like being only half-wound all the time. Larry turned the job of winding over to her; the cuckoo came out every quarter hour and ran the spring down without remorse, and someone had to be ever after it, winding it up again.
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
Doris did her best, but she forgot a good deal of the time. Then Larry would throw his newspaper down with an elaborate weary motion and stand up. He would go into the dining-room where the clock was mounted on the wall over the fireplace. He would take the clock down and making sure that he had his thumb over the little door, he would wind it up.
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
"Why do you put your thumb over the door?" Doris asked once.
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
"You're supposed to."
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
She raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure? I wonder if it isn't that you don't want him to come out while you're standing so close."
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
"Why not?"
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
"Maybe you're afraid of him."
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
Larry laughed. He put the clock back on the wall and gingerly removed his thumb. When Doris wasn't looking he examined his thumb.
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
There was still a trace of the nick cut out of the soft part of it. Who - or what - had pecked at him?
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
One Saturday morning, when Larry was down at the office working over some important special accounts, Bob Chambers came to the front porch and rang the bell.
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
Doris was taking a quick shower. She dried herself and slipped into her robe. When she opened the door Bob stepped inside, grinning.
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
"Hi," he said, looking around.
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
"It's all right. Larry's at the office."
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
"Fine." Bob gazed at her slim legs below the hem of the robe. "How nice you look today."
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
She laughed. "Be careful! Maybe I shouldn't let you in after all."
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
They looked at one another, half amused half frightened. Presently Bob said, "If you want, I'll--"
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
"No, for God's sake." She caught hold of his sleeve. "Just get out of the doorway so I can close it. Mrs. Peters across the street, you know."
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
She closed the door. "And I want to show you something," she said. "You haven't seen it."
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
He was interested. "An antique? Or what?"
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
She took his arm, leading him toward the dining-room. "You'll love it, Bobby." She stopped, wide-eyed. "I hope you will. You must; you must love it. It means so much to me - he means so much."
|
|
<hr>
|
|
</body>
|
|
</html>
|
|
"},
|
|
{"<html>
|
|
<head>
|
|
<style>
|
|
body {font-size: 13px; color: black; font-family: Verdana; background-color: #FFFFFF;}
|
|
</style>
|
|
</head>
|
|
|
|
<body>
|
|
"He?" Bob frowned. "Who is he?"
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
Doris laughed. "You're jealous! Come on." A moment later they stood before the clock, looking up at it. "He'll come out in a few minutes. Wait until you see him. I know you two will get along just fine."
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
"What does Larry think of him?"
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
"They don't like each other. Sometimes when Larry's here he won't come out. Larry gets mad if he doesn't come out on time. He says--"
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
"Says what?"
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
Doris looked down. "He always says he's been robbed, even if he did get it wholesale." She brightened. "But I know he won't come out because he doesn't like Larry. When I'm here alone he comes right out for me, every fifteen minutes, even though he really only has to come out on the hour."
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
She gazed up at the clock. "He comes out for me because he wants to. We talk; I tell him things. Of course, I'd like to have him upstairs in my room, but it wouldn't be right."
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
There was the sound of footsteps on the front porch. They looked at each other, horrified.
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
Larry pushed the front door open, grunting. He set his briefcase down and took off his hat. Then he saw Bob for the first time.
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
"Chambers. I'll be damned." His eyes narrowed. "What are you doing here?" He came into the dining-room. Doris drew her robe about her helplessly, backing away.
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
"I-" Bob began. "That is, we-" He broke off, glancing at Doris. Suddenly the clock began to whirr. The cuckoo came rushing out, bursting into sound. Larry moved toward him.
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
"Shut that din off," he said. He raised his fist toward the clock. The cuckoo snapped into silence and retreated. The door closed. "That's better." Larry studied Doris and Bob, standing mutely together.
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
"I came over to look at the clock," Bob said. "Doris told me that it's a rare antique and that--"
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
"Nuts. I bought it myself." Larry walked up to him. "Get out of here." He turned to Doris. "You too. And take that damn clock with you."
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
He paused, rubbing his chin. "No. Leave the clock here. It's mine; I bought it and paid for it."
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
In the weeks that followed after Doris left, Larry and the cuckoo clock got along even worse than before. For one thing, the cuckoo stayed inside most of the time, sometimes even at twelve o'clock when he should have been busiest. And if he did come out at all he usually spoke only once or twice, never the correct number of times. And there was a sullen, uncooperative note in his voice, a jarring sound that made Larry uneasy and a little angry.
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
But he kept the clock wound, because the house was very still and quiet and it got on his nerves not to hear someone running around, talking and dropping things. And even the whirring of a clock sounded good to him.
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
But he didn't like the cuckoo at all. And sometimes he spoke to him.
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
"Listen," he said late one night to the closed little door. "I know you can hear me. I ought to give you back to the Germans-- back to the Black Forest." He paced back and forth. "I wonder what they're doing now, the two of them. That young punk with his books and his antiques. A man shouldn't be interested in antiques; that's for women."
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
He set his jaw. "Isn't that right?"
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
The clock said nothing. Larry walked up in front of it. "Isn't that right?" he demanded. "Don't you have anything to say?"
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
He looked at the face of the clock. It was almost eleven, just a few seconds before the hour. "All right. I'll wait until eleven. Then I want to hear what you have to say. You've been pretty quiet the last few weeks since she left."
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
He grinned wryly. "Maybe you don't like it here since she's gone." He scowled. "Well, I paid for you, and you're coming out whether you like it or not. You hear me?"
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
Eleven o'clock came. Far off, at the end of town, the great tower clock boomed sleepily to itself. But the little door remained shut. Nothing moved. The minute hand passed on and the cuckoo did not stir. He was someplace inside the clock, beyond the door, silent and remote.
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
"All right, if that's the way you feel," Larry murmured, his lips twisting. "But it isn't fair. It's your job to come out. We all have to do things we don't like."
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
He went unhappily into the kitchen and opened the great gleaming refrigerator. As he poured himself a drink he thought about the clock.
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
There was no doubt about it - the cuckoo should come out, Doris or no Doris. He had always liked her, from the very start. They had got along well, the two of them. Probably he liked Bob too - probably he had seen enough of Bob to get to know him. They would be quite happy together, Bob and Doris and the cuckoo.
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
Larry finished his drink. He opened the drawer at the sink and took out the hammer. He carried it carefully into the dining-room. The clock was ticking gently to itself on the wall.
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
"Look," he said, waving the hammer. "You know what I have here? You know what I'm going to do with it? I'm going to start on you - first." He smiled. "Birds of a feather, that's what you are - the three of you."
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
The room was silent.
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
"Are you coming out? Or do I have to come in and get you?"
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
The clock whirred a little.
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
"I hear you in there. You've got a lot of talking to do, enough for the last three weeks. As I figure it, you owe me--"
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
The door opened. The cuckoo came out fast, straight at him. Larry was looking down, his brow wrinkled in thought. He glanced up, and the cuckoo caught him squarely in the eye.
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
Down he went, hammer and chair and everything, hitting the floor with a tremendous crash. For a moment the cuckoo paused, its small body poised rigidly. Then it went back inside its house. The door snapped tight-shut after it.
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
The man lay on the floor, stretched out grotesquely, his head bent over to one side. Nothing moved or stirred. The room was completely silent, except, of course, for the ticking of the clock.
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
"I see," Doris said, her face tight. Bob put his arm around her, steadying her.
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
"Doctor," Bob said, "can I ask you something?"
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
"Of course," the doctor said.
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
"Is it very easy to break your neck, falling from so low a chair? It wasn't very far to fall. I wonder if it might not have been an accident. Is there any chance it might have been--"
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
"Suicide?" the doctor rubbed his jaw. "I never heard of anyone committing suicide that way. It was an accident; I'm positive."
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
"I don't mean suicide," Bob murmured under his breath, looking up at the clock on the wall. "I meant something else."
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
<center>But no one heard him.</center>
|
|
<hr>
|
|
</body>
|
|
</html>
|
|
"})
|
|
|
|
/// The Man From Snowy River by A.B. "Banjo" Paterson
|
|
|
|
/obj/item/weapon/book/bundle/custom_library/fiction/manfromsnowyriver
|
|
name = "The Man From Snowy River"
|
|
desc = "A hardbound book titled 'The Man From Snowy River' by A.B. 'Banjo' Paterson."
|
|
description_info = "This book is titled 'The Man From Snowy River' by A.B. 'Banjo' Paterson."
|
|
|
|
title = "The Man From Snowy River"
|
|
icon_state = "book3"
|
|
origkey = "Schnayy"
|
|
author = "A.B. Paterson"
|
|
|
|
pages = list({"<html>
|
|
<head>
|
|
<style>
|
|
h1 {font-size: 16px; font-family: Lucida Console; color: #623A13; margin: 15px 0px 5px; border-color: #623A13; border-style: double; border-radius: 5px;}
|
|
body {font-size: 13px; font-family: Verdana; background-color: #D2C2B2;}
|
|
</style>
|
|
</head>
|
|
|
|
<body>
|
|
<br><br><br>
|
|
<center><h1>The Man From Snowy River<br><br>
|
|
<font face="Times New Roman" size="4" color="#623A13">A.B. Paterson</font></h1></center>
|
|
</body>
|
|
</html>
|
|
"},
|
|
{"<html>
|
|
<head>
|
|
<style>
|
|
body {font-size: 15px; font-family: Times New Roman; color: #623A13; background-color: #F5F0EB;}
|
|
</style>
|
|
</head>
|
|
|
|
<body>
|
|
<hr>
|
|
<center>
|
|
There was movement at the station, for the word had passed around<br>
|
|
That the colt from old Regret had got away,<br>
|
|
And had joined the wild bush horses - he was worth a thousand pound,<br>
|
|
So all the cracks had gathered to the fray.<br>
|
|
All the tried and noted riders from the stations near and far<br>
|
|
Had mustered at the homestead overnight,<br>
|
|
For the bushmen love hard riding where the wild bush horses are,<br>
|
|
And the stockhorse snuffs the battle with delight.<br>
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
There was Harrison, who made his pile when Pardon won the cup,<br>
|
|
The old man with his hair as white as snow;<br>
|
|
But few could ride beside him when his blood was fairly up -<br>
|
|
He would go wherever horse and man could go.<br>
|
|
And Clancy of the Overflow came down to lend a hand,<br>
|
|
No better horseman ever held the reins;<br>
|
|
For never horse could throw him while the saddle girths would stand,<br>
|
|
He learnt to ride while droving on the plains.<br>
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
And one was there, a stripling on a small and weedy beast,<br>
|
|
He was something like a racehorse undersized,<br>
|
|
With a touch of Timor pony - three parts thoroughbred at least -<br>
|
|
And such as are by mountain horsemen prized.<br>
|
|
He was hard and tough and wiry - just the sort that won't say die -<br>
|
|
There was courage in his quick impatient tread;<br>
|
|
And he bore the badge of gameness in his bright and fiery eye,<br>
|
|
And the proud and lofty carriage of his head.<br>
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
But still so slight and weedy, one would doubt his power to stay,<br>
|
|
And the old man said, "That horse will never do<br>
|
|
For a long a tiring gallop - lad, you'd better stop away,<br>
|
|
Those hills are far too rough for such as you."<br>
|
|
So he waited sad and wistful - only Clancy stood his friend -<br>
|
|
"I think we ought to let him come," he said;<br>
|
|
"I warrant he'll be with us when he's wanted at the end,<br>
|
|
For both his horse and he are mountain bred.<br>
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
"He hails from Snowy River, up by Kosciusko's side,<br>
|
|
Where the hills are twice as steep and twice as rough,<br>
|
|
Where a horse's hoofs strike firelight from the flint stones every stride,<br>
|
|
The man that holds his own is good enough.<br>
|
|
And the Snowy River riders on the mountains make their home,<br>
|
|
Where the river runs those giant hills between;<br>
|
|
I have seen full many horsemen since I first commenced to roam,<br>
|
|
But nowhere yet such horsemen have I seen."<br>
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
So he went - they found the horses by the big mimosa clump -<br>
|
|
They raced away towards the mountain's brow, <br>
|
|
And the old man gave his orders, "Boys, go at them from the jump, <br>
|
|
No use to try for fancy riding now. <br>
|
|
And, Clancy, you must wheel them, try and wheel them to the right. <br>
|
|
Ride boldly, lad, and never fear the spills, <br>
|
|
For never yet was rider that could keep the mob in sight, <br>
|
|
If once they gain the shelter of those hills."<br>
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
So Clancy rode to wheel them - he was racing on the wing <br>
|
|
Where the best and boldest riders take their place, <br>
|
|
And he raced his stockhorse past them, and he made the ranges ring <br>
|
|
With the stockwhip, as he met them face to face. <br>
|
|
Then they halted for a moment, while he swung the dreaded lash, <br>
|
|
But they saw their well-loved mountain full in view, <br>
|
|
And they charged beneath the stockwhip with a sharp and sudden dash, <br>
|
|
And off into the mountain scrub they flew.<br>
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
Then fast the horsemen followed, where the gorges deep and black <br>
|
|
Resounded to the thunder of their tread, <br>
|
|
And the stockwhips woke the echoes, and they fiercely answered back <br>
|
|
From cliffs and crags that beetled overhead. <br>
|
|
And upward, ever upward, the wild horses held their way, <br>
|
|
Where mountain ash and kurrajong grew wide; <br>
|
|
And the old man muttered fiercely, "We may bid the mob good day, <br>
|
|
No man can hold them down the other side."<br>
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
When they reached the mountain's summit, even Clancy took a pull, <br>
|
|
It well might make the boldest hold their breath, <br>
|
|
The wild hop scrub grew thickly, and the hidden ground was full <br>
|
|
Of wombat holes, and any slip was death. <br>
|
|
But the man from Snowy River let the pony have his head, <br>
|
|
And he swung his stockwhip round and gave a cheer, <br>
|
|
And he raced him down the mountain like a torrent down its bed, <br>
|
|
While the others stood and watched in very fear.<br>
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
He sent the flint stones flying, but the pony kept his feet, <br>
|
|
He cleared the fallen timber in his stride, <br>
|
|
And the man from Snowy River never shifted in his seat - <br>
|
|
It was grand to see that mountain horseman ride. <br>
|
|
Through the stringybarks and saplings, on the rough and broken ground, <br>
|
|
Down the hillside at a racing pace he went; <br>
|
|
And he never drew the bridle till he landed safe and sound, <br>
|
|
At the bottom of that terrible descent.<br>
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
He was right among the horses as they climbed the further hill, <br>
|
|
And the watchers on the mountain standing mute,<br>
|
|
Saw him ply the stockwhip fiercely, he was right among them still,<br>
|
|
As he raced across the clearing in pursuit. <br>
|
|
Then they lost him for a moment, where two mountain gullies met <br>
|
|
In the ranges, but a final glimpse reveals <br>
|
|
On a dim and distant hillside the wild horses racing yet, <br>
|
|
With the man from Snowy River at their heels.<br>
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
And he ran them single-handed till their sides were white with foam. <br>
|
|
He followed like a bloodhound on their track, <br>
|
|
Till they halted cowed and beaten, then he turned their heads for home, <br>
|
|
And alone and unassisted brought them back. <br>
|
|
But his hardy mountain pony he could scarcely raise a trot,<br>
|
|
He was blood from hip to shoulder from the spur; <br>
|
|
But his pluck was still undaunted, and his courage fiery hot, <br>
|
|
For never yet was mountain horse a cur.<br>
|
|
<br><br>
|
|
And down by Kosciusko, where the pine-clad ridges raise <br>
|
|
Their torn and rugged battlements on high, <br>
|
|
Where the air is clear as crystal, and the white stars fairly blaze <br>
|
|
At midnight in the cold and frosty sky, <br>
|
|
And where around The Overflow the reed beds sweep and sway <br>
|
|
To the breezes, and the rolling plains are wide, <br>
|
|
The man from Snowy River is a household word today, <br>
|
|
And the stockmen tell the story of his ride.<br>
|
|
</center>
|
|
<hr>
|
|
</body>
|
|
</html>
|
|
"}) |