professor zender's experiment - 4. life during wartime

by coraline o'connell

illustrated by konrad kraus and roy dismas

editorial consultant: Prof. Dan Leo

click here to begin professor zender's experiment

click here to begin the 14th princess

time is time. it is what it is. it is not considered an "element", like air or water, because humans can not grasp or manipulate it in any way. it can not be stopped, slowed down, speeded up or reversed. you raise your eyebrows, dear reader, at such trite observations. but consider, that all of the philosophies and religions, the most successful and the most humble, all that have so exercised the passions and violent impulses of humans through the millennia, those that have commanded armies of tens of millions and those that consisted of a lone prophet being jeered and pelted on a street corner, have as their common thread that they do indeed aspire to stop, slow, speed or reverse time. the myriad movements and multitudinous prophets who filled the streets and squares of europe after "the great war" had their fair share of those who aspired to "reverse" time - to return to a golden age, usually one that the potential convert had living memory of. but by far the greater number appealed to the desire to speed up time, and bring the happy fruits of the perfected future to a swift, rather than a slowly gestated glory. how many would would be messiahs, standing in the soup and bread lines in their tattered overcoats and castoff military uniforms, seated on rain-slicked sidewalks or slouched across the bars and tables of unlit cafes, had to make a hard decision - the present or the past? how many knew the difference? how many made their choice based on what we may fairly call the "market" for one or the other? reader, it is no intention of ours to mock these poor fellows (and occasional fellowettes). who is to say that the positions taken in the highest chairs of philosophy and jurisprudence, may, in the parliaments and cabinets and privy councils of the world, are not dictated by similar considerations? ah, you grow restless again. civilized as you are, the signs are unmistakable. stop. i beg you! - well, i don't beg you, but i politely request that you bear with me... let us return to our tale. a tale, so far, of two men. one who has been somewhat perfunctorily introduced, the titular hero, professor zender. and one who has so far only been hinted at - the worthy professor's quarry, the moderately (very moderately) famous frommer. zender had spent the years of conflict in an advisory capacity to the minister of propaganda. in the early days he had visited the offices of the minister only when summoned, which was not often, and the visits hardly inconvenienced him or interfered with his schedule at the university. as the conflict wore on, his attendance was demanded more frequently. by the end of the hostilities zender was, for all practical purposes, the minister and ministry of propaganda. fortunately for himself, such decrees and pronouncements as he issued were not acted upon as there was no one left to act upon them. all the clerks and functionaries in the department had been theoretically sent to "the front". actually many of them had just walked away and gone - where? some back to their native villages in the former empire, others to the streets and coffee houses where they would, in the coming days, become the objects of the professor's curiosity. zender stayed at his post until the end, spending much of his time at his desk reading fichte and schopenhauer and looking out the window at a solitary tree, not much frequented by birds. on the day that "peace" was proclaimed, zender left the empty office of the ministry of propaganda in the old imperial building (the one behind the palace), locked it, pocketed the key, walked down the corridor (none of the other offices on the floor, the seventh, seemed occupied), down the sadly unpolished broad staircases to the sound of an occasional typewriter still clacking birdlike somewhere in the labyrinth, and returned to his office at the university. he had not held military office or worn a uniform the whole time. nor had he, during the conflict or at any other time in his life belonged to a political party. nor expressed any adherence to a church or religion. his colleague morgenstern was at his desk in the modern history department. he barely glanced up from the two page newspaper he was reading. like zender, he had been absent for long stretches during the conflict. they had never discussed with each othertheir occupations during these absences . "good morning, zender." "good morning." zender placed his walking stick in a rack beside the door. he hesitated. "been back long?" morgenstern seemed mildly amused by the question. "a couple of days." "the place seems quiet. any staff on hand?" "some." "can a man still get a raspberry torte around here? is frau grimm still here?" "my, you have been gone a while, haven't you? when was the last time you popped round?" zender shrugged. "four or five months ago." "i see. no, frau grimm disappeared a few months ago. but we have a replacement who can whip something up for you. who won't poison you at any rate." "and coffee?" "oh, coffee has never been a problem, the count has seen to that." "ah. and how is the count?" "as ever." "not been discomforted by events, has he?" "oh no. it would take more than a world war to discomfit the count." "quite. the bells still in order, then?" "yes. just ring and fraulein mommsen will be with you." morgenstern turned his gaze back to his paper. "perhaps not as quickly as frau grimm used to be." zender entered his private office. as head of the department only he had one. he did not ring for fraulein mommsen right away but stood looking out the window. he ran his finger along the windowsill. it appeared to have been dusted. the desk also looked dusted. he had not left anything in the office that might be stolen. he sighed. would everything be as before? he hoped not. 5. schon

hiram and hermione - 3. the fish are biting

by florine di fabrizzi

illustrated by roy dismas , danny delacroix and eddie el greco

editorial consultant: Prof. Dan Leo

click here to begin hiram and hermione

click here to begin the 14th princess

earth is an old planet. old and terrible. filled with secrets too terrible to be told. asia is the oldest continent. esteemed scholars in the universities of europe believe that humans first appeared in africa. others, equally esteemed, posit that civilization, based on war and human sacrifice, first arose in the mountains of central and south america. the empire of atlantis arose in what is now french guinea. nothing of the sort happened in north america, home of the current united states. great beasts filled the plains and swamps of north america and were followed timidly by the mild mannered inhabitants, who were grateful to be allowed to live. that was a long time ago. today these same plains are filled with little white houses with red windowsills and white picket fences. women bake blueberry and peach pies and put them on the red windowsills to cool. dogs and hoboes sometimes steal the pies from the windowsills. dang it, mrs winters gets mad as all tarnation when that happens. this was the world of harriet harris, before the great disrespecter, death, showed his smiling face. and it was the world of bob fisher, idealistic young reporter, who longed to ask harriet's daughter, hermione, for her hand. the sun was shining as brightly as bob's eyes when he showed up at work on the morning that harriet harris got the news of her imminent demise from doctor wilson. sam wilson, the editor of the local newspaper, the times-gazette, thought it was a splendid day . he had not even started drinking when bob showed up, and it was already eight o'clock in the morning. "good morning, bob." "good morning, sam. any big stories to follow up on, or can i take my coat off?" and bob began to unbutton his coat. sam chuckled. his gray eyes twinkled. "well, i can think of one big story you can follow up on ." bob could always tell when sam was funning. "and what might that be?" "how the fish are biting up at shag creek!" "oh." "ha. ha! yes, i think you should go check that right out right away." sam shook his head. "you won't find a better day for it this year." bob had started to take of his hat but now he put it back on his head. "well, that's mighty white of you, sam." he looked out the window. "say, why don't you come with me? we can leave a note on the door. if something really big pops up, folks will know where to find us." sam stroked his chin. "well, that's not a bad idea. tell you what, why don't you go on up, and maybe i'll join you later this morning. i got a little business to attend to first." bob understood perfectly what sam's little business was. he was not going anywhere or doing anything without getting a buzz on first. "that sounds like a swell idea! i'll go home and get my rod and then i'll stop at millie's and get us some sandwiches and a couple of sodas." "great, kid, great. i'll see you up there." bob departed. outside the sky was a perfect american blue. what a glorious day! all was right with the world. 4. the announcement

professor zender's experiment - 3. the unseen man

by coraline o'connell

illustrated by konrad kraus and roy dismas

editorial consultant: Prof. Dan Leo

click here to begin professor zender's experiment

click here to begin the 14th princess

zobo went back into the shadows behind the bar. morden looked around casually. insofar as it could be ascertained in the gloom, none of the drinkers seemed to paying any more attention to the professor and himself. "why frommer, professor? perhaps i can answer your questions. about the times you are interested in. after all, i was here, no less than frommer." "i suppose you were frommer's right hand man," the professor replied good-naturedly. foul as it was, the schnapps he had imbibed seemed to have put him in a good humour, and relaxed his stern manner towards his former pupil. "well, no, but i did talk to him once or twice, at the bar." "ah, you talked to him once or twice at the bar. and what did you talk to him about?" "i can't really remember. i probably flattered him a bit, maybe tried to get him to buy me a drink." "and did he buy you a drink?" "probably not, i will tell you one thing about frommer. he was not very generous." "no?" "no, he didn't know how to take care of his men." the professor laughed at this. "what an expression! take care of his men! you make him sound like some type of military officer." morden was mildly discomfited by the professor's mocking tone. "well, it don't have to be military. i mean anybody who wants followers for anything, who wants to be a big shot and have people look up to him, he's got to know how to treat them, make them feel wanted. like he respects them." "and you, morden, have you ever wanted to have followers - followers that presumably you would treat right." morden took a sip of his drink. "oh, no, i just try to get by." "a most judicious stance. tell me, what do you remember of frommer's ideas? did they impress you?" "ah - well as to that---" "do you remember what his ideas were?" "why, i can't say that i do. the usual, i suppose, for that sort of fellow. times were bad, it was somebody or other's fault, they had to be dragged into the light, it was time to take to the streets. all that. then you pass the hat." "i see. and who exactly was to blame according to frommer and his followers - his loyal men. the bankers? the jews? the pope?" "i can't really remember, professor. i am sorry. it was a while ago." "let me ask you this, then. if he is passing the hat among his followers, and then is generous with his followers, what is the point? is he not just giving back what he has taken in the first place?" "oh of course, in the beginning. the trick is to attract some attention, then get some swells on board, maybe even some ladies. then you have got something, then you can treat your fellows right." the professor nodded, satisfied. "i see you are indeed acquainted with the drill. good." he took a taste of his drink and looked around the room. "now we just have to find frommer." "but don't you yourself know what frommer was about, professor? if you don't, why are you interested in him in the first place?" "i told you, i am studying the ratio of action to words and fantasies in the industrial nations." "oh, of course." "it is not frommer's ideas - such as they were - or his words that i am interested in, but his translation of them into action." "i remember now." "let me ask you one last question about him. how seriously do you think he believed in what he was preaching?" "oh as to that i couldn't say. i never could read minds." and with that, morden finished his drink and put his glass down on the table with a thump. ah, poor readers- such as may still be with me - perhaps at this point you are feeling as much exasperation with my poor self as the worthy professor zender is feeling with the inarticulate morden. patience, patience! but i see i am already trying your patience. therefore i will share with you the little information that the professor had already acquired about frommer, prior to taking the step of searching for him. frommer is a recognizable type. a type thought of as "modern" in this "modern" world, but does that mean anything? perhaps such men (and very occasionally, women) existed in babylon, in tyre, in atlantis, in cities forgotten to history. the key word is "city". "city" defined as a congregation of humans large enough to admit of anonymity for individuals - for an individual to be able to "melt into the crowd". a villager can be ostracized by his fellows. he can be driven from the village into the wilderness, he can be stoned to death, he can be ignored by his fellows, he can be, in the curious british term, "sent to coventry". but he can not exist among his fellows unseen. but the the unseen man is still a man. like his brothers left behind in the village, he still talks, if only or mostly to himself, and he still dreams. his talk is the same talk - pathetic boasting. his dreams are the same dreams - of impossible conquests. sometimes the unseen man puts himself forward as a leader of his fellows. more often, as a prophet or religious teacher. (if he has any interest in attracting female followers, this seems his best course.) in the last resort, he is a poet - or perhaps a combination of prophet of poet. fame attends these poets in about the same proportion as it attends the preachers. a villon or a rimbaud emerges from the shadows as often as an augustine or a luther. but i digess. i apologize again, dear reader. oh, to have been born into an age when digression was a virtue, a sign of - smile if you must, but not laugh - "culture". ah, i have brought a smile to your lips at last! so. frommer was a member of this tribe of poet-preachers, who appeared in the cities of europe and asia in locust-like numbers in the aftermath of the late hostilities, when it seemed that every man who had survived the bombs and bayonets was ready to do battle with pamphlets and proclamations...

4. life during wartime