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Doc chuckled. "Such as that even human thinking is just a matter of how you program your own mind?—that we're all like the Machine to that extent?"
It was very evident that with these dauntless Territorials on the one side, and the fanatical Turks, fearless of death, on the other, these gullies and hillsides marking the topography of the Gallipoli Peninsula would prove to be a veritable shambles before the end came, no matter which won out eventually.
"Quite alone," the Aga said. He nodded sagely. "Yes, one need but read the lesson of history. The Corps Diplomatique will make expostulatory noises, but it will accept the fait accompli. You, my dear sir, are but a very small nibble. We won't make the mistake of excessive greed. We shall inch our way to empire—and those who stand in our way shall be dubbed warmongers."
“Oh, he’s quite a nice fellow—nothing startling.”
"You're stretching your analogy a little too far," Retief said. "You're banking on the inaction of the Corps. You could be wrong."
“—— misera ante diem, subitoque accensa furore”;
"What is it, Tom?--say on!"
“And why sor?”
“I find it a good sign when a case is obscure. If a thing is clear as daylight—eh bien, mistrust it! Some one has made it so.”
1.A German author, Mr. S. Wermert, who has studied conditions closely in Sicily, and has written a great book on the social and economic conditions of the people, says, in regard to the way the people live in the little villages:
2.Moving figures now caught their attention, three of them, and all stumbling along in the most reckless fashion. From their excited manner Jack immediately made up his mind they must be remnants of the force of gunners who had had charge of the battery. Wounded by some of the flying missiles when the shells burst around them, they had fled in a panic, that kept them pushing on even after the danger seemed past.>
“You’re right there, Jack; they can feel their injuries just as much as the rest. It was only proper that the boys should take care of their own first; but depend on it they’ve got too big hearts to let any enemy lie here in this hot sun and want for a drink of water. There, you can see they are carrying a Turk down on that stretcher.”
As best he could tell, he was in a sort of room no bigger than a prison cell. Perhaps it was a prison cell. Whatever it was, he had no business in it; for five minutes before he had been spaceborne, on the Long Jump from Earth to the thriving colonies circling Betelgeuse Nine. McCray was ship's navigator, plotting course corrections—not that there were any, ever; but the reason there were none was that the check-sightings were made every hour of the long flight. He had read off the azimuth angles from the computer sights, automatically locked on their beacon stars, and found them correct; then out of long habit confirmed the locking mechanism visually. It was only a personal quaintness; he had done it a thousand times. And while he was looking at Betelgeuse, Rigel and Saiph ... it happened.
McCray had never felt anything like it in his life. It was a situation without even a close analogue. He had had a woman in his arms, he had been part of a family, he had shared the youthful sense of exploration that comes in small, eager groups: These were the comparisons that came to his mind. This was so much more than any of these things. He and the alien—he and, he began to perceive, a number of aliens—were almost inextricably mingled. Yet they were separate, as one strand of colored thread in a ball of yarn is looped and knotted and intertwined with every other strand, although it retains its own integrity. He was in and among many minds, and outside them all. McCray thought: This is how a god must feel.
For the time being pretty much all the firing had ceased on the part of the invading war vessels. It seemed as though everyone were interested in the fate of the venturesome destroyer. Doubtless, had another battery fired from the shore it must have been instantly overwhelmed in the hail of explosives that would speed that way, since every Allied gunner seemed wild to have a share in the fun.
Hatcher. McCray recognized that this was a name—the name of the entity closest to himself, the one that had somehow manipulated his forebrain and released the mind from the prison of the skull. "Hatcher" was not a word but an image, and in the image he saw a creature whose physical shape was unpleasant, but whose instincts and hopes were enough like his own to provide common ground.