=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
             RUNE'S RAG - Your Best Electronic Magazine
             ~~~~   ~~~   ~~~~ ~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~
          Dedicated to Writers and Readers of every genre.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

Published by:
Arnold's Plutonomie$, LTD.                             Vol. 2  No. 1 
P.O. Box 243,                                          JAN 94
Greenville, PA 16125-0243
**********************************************************************
Modem submissions to: WRITERS BIZ    
1-412-LUV-RUNE (1:2601/522 Fido)           
**********************************************************************

       "Women, not only, breed life into men, but, breed them,
        for life." -- Francis U. Kaltenbaugh

       "Life is too short for reading inferior books. -- James Bryce

       "Thinking they'll understand what I mean, is like winking
        at a person in the dark." -- RUNE

       "Not so, my heart; but there is fruit,
        And thou hast hands." -- George Herbert
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

   Rune's Rag is going to be a representation of as many authors
as I can coerce into submitting high quality material. All genres 
will be represented. We will strive to present a useful vehicle -- 
where, you, the reader will receive valuable reading pleasures.  
Some of the features will be pure unadulterated escapism, to merely
stimulate your pleasure centers -- while others may curl your hair. 

   You, the reader, will have a voice in what is presented. There 
will be a letters column, space permitting, giving you the reader a 
voice. You are the most important part of the reader-writer process. 
Enjoy! If you are an author please submit to the above address. 
Thanks. See the last section of the magazine for more information.
______________________________________________________________________
WELCOME, To RUNE'S RAG --
Your Editor - Evie Horine, Managing Editor - Rick Arnold
______________________________________________________________________
Copyright 1994 ARNOLD'S PLUTONOMIE$, LTD., All Rights Reserved
----------------------------------------------------------------------


TABLE OF CONTENTS:

THE EYES HAVE HAD IT........  David Bealer.............02
THE SOAP THIEF..............  Theodore Francis.........03
DUROPA -- a serial..........  Francis U. Kaltenbaugh...09
THE MONSTER MEN -- a serial.  Edgar Rice Burroughs.....16
WhatNots....................  Various..................24
Poetry .....................  Various..................26
HOLIDAY OF RELUCTANCE.......  Patrick Curry............28
RUNE'S RAG                PAGE 2                        JAN 1994

THE EYES HAVE HAD IT
  by Dave Bealer
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

        "Don't sit so close to the television!  You'll ruin your
eyes!"  Familiar words from childhood for members of the first
true "TV Generation."  If only mother knew what we were in for
once we grew up.  Those of us in the "information professions"
spend entire days staring at modified TV screens that are typi-
cally less than 2 feet from our faces.  Increasing numbers of
employers are admitting the effect that extended CRT usage has on
the eyes of their workers.  Low radiation CRTs, screen filters and
free eyeglass plans are the common reactions of corporations to
this problem. 

        Low radiation CRTs are becoming more common, and mesh
nicely with the low energy consumption policies of the "green
computing" movement.  While these policies are a good idea, they
are hardly original.  Most programmers have had personal low
energy consumption policies, at least while on the job, for years.

    Screen filters have traditionally been the prescribed
answer to CRT induced eye strain.  Unfortunately the cheap filters
used by many firms quickly peel or become discolored.  Eventually
users come to feel they are viewing the screen through a piece of
flimsy stained glass.

    Many of us don't get enough of this abuse at work, so we
plant ourselves in front of PC monitors for hours at a time at
home.  The full color Super VGA monitors we use are getting larger
all the time.  The mega-monitors of the future will require humans
working within the hazard zone to wear modified welding masks to
protect their eyesight.  Of course the hazard zone will extend
from the front of the monitor out approximately 4.8 kilometers.

    For more than ten years I've been working with mainframe
computers, first in college and then for a living.  Since 1986
I've added to the strain by fooling with personal computers at
home almost every night.  Although I knew that my eyesight really
is getting worse (it goes along with being human), I never real-
ized how close it actually was to succumbing to my near-constant
computer use.  Something had to give sooner or later...it turned
out to be sooner.  Recently I began to experience sore eyes and
headaches near the end of my shift at work.  An eye exam showed
only mild astigmatism. 

    Astigmatism is really nothing to worry about, it merely
means that my eyes are misshapen.  Instead of their normal
spherical shape, my eyes now look like a pair of pears.  Red pears
at that, probably Bartlett(Williams).  The only good news was that
my distance vision is still reasonably good.  The exam resulted in
a prescription for reading glasses.  Oh, joy!  Fortunately my
employer has an eyeglass reimbursement plan for CRT users.

RUNE'S RAG                PAGE 3                        JAN 1994

    So here I am, one of the clumsiest human beings ever to
stumble around the planet, wearing a very expensive and fragile
collection of wire and finely ground, UV coated, scratch resistant
plastic.  This will last.  Sure.  I hear they've started a pool at
work to guess how long it will be until I sit-on, lose, or other-
wise destroy these silly things.  Nobody took a date more than a
month away.
========================      # # #     ==============================
Copyright 1994 Dave Bealer, All Rights Reserved 
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Dave Bealer is a thirty-something mainframe systems programmer who
works with CICS, MVS and all manner of nasty acronyms at one of the
largest heavy metal shops on the East Coast.  He shares a waterfront
townhome in Pasadena, MD. with two cats who annoy him endlessly as he
writes and electronically publishes Random Access Humor.  He can be
reached at: FidoNet> 1:261/1129  Internet: dave.bealer@rah.clark.net
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=


THE SOAP THIEF 
  by T.O. Francis 
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

    "She's done it again!" cried Lottie McMean. Her jowly face 
trembled with anger. She peered into the bright blue box, her 
lashes fluttering with disbelief. 

    "Not the soap powder again?" Josie Raymond whined, 
singsonging her exasperation. Her old, soft, but favorite 
slippers whispered hoarsely against the wash room's tile floor as 
she rushed to the basket where she had stored her supply of new 
and improved soaps, softeners and sundries. 

    Josie's nut brown hands, lined but well kept, snatched the 
brightly rendered box of soap flakes from the basket. She did not 
have to peer into her box. It had been half full when she and 
Lottie left for the Sam's deli, less than half a minute around 
the corner. Now, the box virtually leapt from its birth as if 
gravity had suddenly exempted the "all new, stronger" product 
from its law. 

    "It's empty," Josie sighed. She wrinkled one side of her pert 
nose causing a rise in a cheek splashed with dark brown freckles. 
She tipped the box toward her and aimed a very angry, brown eye 
into the yawning emptiness. "She is such a bitch ... we know it's 
her ... and she gets away with it every time" 

    Lottie cast a mournful eye at the front door. Sunlight bathed 
the baleful Bronx cement outside and cascaded inside past the 
plain but shiny pine door frame and formed a symmetrical box on 
the aging and chipped black and white checkered floor. 
RUNE'S RAG                PAGE 4                        JAN 1994
    The purloined soap powder had ruined Lottie's day: "My 
hair'll wilt in that heat; and I'll have to go back past Sammy's. 
I don't think I can resist the cheese cake a second time." Lottie 
licked large, full, lipstickless lips. "As a matter of fact," she 
added with an air of finality, "I'm sure I won't make it." She 
plopped her plump hands on her equally plump hips around which an 
one-size too small black skirt hugged with an earnestness a boa 
constrictor would envy. "Damn that Ernestine ..." she added 
almost as an aside. 

    Josie adjusted the blue and red scarf -- a riot of color tied 
into a neat triangle -- so that the slick fabric again covered 
the edge of her ebony hair. She had just washed and styled her 
hair and the scarf was a vital element in  the drudgery necessary 
to prepare her tresses for another day of torturous repetition of 
"Directory assistance, operator 11, what city, please?" 

    She tugged angrily on the two loose ends just below her chin. 
"This ticks me off," she chanted, with considerably less melody 
in her articulation. "Running back and forth to the store takes 
away from the time I was planning to spend with my Ralphy. That 
bitch!" 

    "And she knows that we know it's her ... that's what gets me 
..." Lottie whined. She ambled to the door and stared longingly 
down the block in the direction of the deli. She could hear the 
feral, beckoning cry of Sammy's cheese cake. The plaintive cry 
barely drowned the sound of Sammy's donuts. 

    Josie floated across the washroom and out into the sunlight. 
She dabbed daintily at a film of perspiration deposited on her 
lip by the wash room's humidity. "I can't spend another minute in 
there," she fretted, dancing in nervous semicircles ... It'll 
ruin my hair." She tugged at the seams of her skin tight, red 
peddle pushers that clung to her everywhere possible and left 
little to the imagination. Ralphy loved her in tight things. 

    "Well, I suppose the day's ruined already," she announced 
with a sigh tucked between anger and resignation. "The clothes 
are already wet ..." She shrugged. "Well, are you coming ..." 

    Lottie always found miraculous Josie's ability to transform 
herself from a meandering, molasses-footed, bowl-shaped plodder 
into a quick-stepping, sure-footed athlete with the agility of a 
ballerina. Josie was already two steps ahead, her head bent in 
intent investigation of the monetary contents of the small purse 
tightly secure in her hand. 

    "I hope I have enough for a slice of Neapolitan to go with my 
cheesecake ... " Her voice lowered to a guilty whisper. "Just 
seems like a sin to eat desert without having eaten a meal, 
right?" 
RUNE'S RAG                PAGE 5                        JAN 1994
    Josie agreed with singsonging a grunt, her mind still on her 
lost afternoon with Ralphy. 

    The laundry room was in a small street level room next to the 
entrance to the aging but well-kept tenement in which they 
resided. The brown-brick building, with its rows of windows 
pocked with air-conditioners, rugs hanging for air, the tiny 
glimmers of naked light bulbs twinkling from within, stared down 
upon the two women as they passed by the front entrance. 

    Children of all sizes and colors raced from shade to 
sunlight; from raging pump water to dry steamy blacktop, their 
voices pealing their unbounded joy. 

    "Hiya, ladies," a voice chimed in sharp staccato. 

    Josie looked up just as Rae Garcia, freshly divorced and the 
newest addition to their family of tenement residents, appeared 
at the top of tenement's cement steps. Lottie turned also but 
somehow managed several more steps -- sideways at that -- before 
deciding to stop and return Rae's greeting. 

    "What's up, Rae?" Josie replied, trying to match the cheery 
bounce in Rae's voice. 

    "Hiya, Rae," Lottie added, turning her head in the direction 
of Sammy's as if to catch a sniff of the sweet aroma of boiling 
pastrami. "We're on our way to Sammy's ... I mean to the grocery 
... " 

    "Ernestine made off with our soap powder again." Josie's 
voice was low and regretful. 

    Rae bounded down the cement steps. She was tanned a dark 
brown; the result of spending days at Orchard beach hunting a new 
man to take the place of the "leech bastard" she left behind in 
Spanish Harlem. 

    Rae was much younger than Josie and Lottie but experienced in 
ways the two older women could only wonder about. 

    "Well, she better not touch my stuff, babeee," Rae said 
between frantic clicks of gum that she seemed never to be 
without. 

    Rae tightened her hand around the neck of a pillowcase 
stuffed with clothes for the washing machines which she had slung 
mannishly over her shoulder. 

    "I don't know ... how you stop ... her ..." Lottie said 
between anxious glances toward the end of the block. "I've been 
living here for almost ten years and nobody's ever caught her 
red-handed." 
RUNE'S RAG                PAGE 6                        JAN 1994
    "She acts like the laundry room's her own very special 
supermarket ..." Josie insisted. The sun bit at the back of 
Josie's neck and she turned slightly to prevent an unwanted burn. 

    Rae alighted from the stairs with an exaggerated saunter. Her 
shredded hot pants, cut from a pair of old denims, showed her to 
be a woman who could handle herself and took no prisoners in the 
course. 

    "Do something to her fucking clothes when she puts them in 
the machine," Rae snorted with a defiant shrug of her shoulder, a 
shrug that set a large breast bobbling beneath a worn man's 
striped shirt. She touched a pinky to the edge of her lip glazed 
a blazing red. "That'll make her dig herself." 

    Lottie's feet bounced her several more steps in the direction 
of the corner. She banged her purse against a thick thigh in 
impatient rhythm. 

    "Well, that's the thing, see," said Josie, "she's got her own 
machine. So she only comes down to steal our wash powder and then 
rushes upstairs with our soap powder." 

    "And bleach ... and any thing else she can get her hot little 
hands on ..." Josie added without looking at either woman. 

    "Oh, yeah ..." Rae drawled like a Texas gunfighter meeting a 
challenge. "The day she takes my stuff is the day she stops 
taking stuff." Rae hefted the bag once to show that she meant 
business. "We had ways of dealing with bitches like her downtown. 
She better not touch my stuff ..." She looked up at the windows 
as if she were able to see Ernestine through the dirty brown 
bricks. I catch you later ..." She said in an accent tinged with 
mambo, beer and cuchifrito. 

    Josie watched for a moment as Rae's barely covered backside 
disappeared into the laundry room. "Maybe," she said to herself 
since Lottie had wandered out of earshot, "she'll be the one to 
teach Ernestine a lesson." 

    Ernestine Jacobs cradled her key tightly between index finger 
and thumb, the remaining bunch of keys tightly gripped in her 
fist. She eased the key into the lock and turned it softly. Easy 
does it, no noise. 

    The cylinder clicked, echoing softly in the cool, brightly 
lit hall. She slid her massive hips quickly through the door. And 
quickly locked the door behind her. 

    The fingers of one hand, the color and thickness of chocolate bars, 
clutched a large clear cup filled with a white powder. 

    She pressed a face much too thin for her large body against 
the door and peeked through the peek hole. 
RUNE'S RAG                PAGE 7                        JAN 1994
    She grinned broadly, her smallish, intent eyes detected no 
one in the hall. She closed the metal door to the peep hole 
softly. The women in the building were so stupid, she thought as 
she lifted the cup and examined its contents. 

    It was the new girl's soap powder, she had ... ahem ... 
appropriated. What was her name again. Oh, yeah, Rae. Thinks 
she's tough or something just cause she's from downtown. Hmmph! 
Let's see her do something about it. 

    Ernestine ambled into the kitchen. She raised the lid to her 
washing machine. Shimmering water played a ghostly pall on her 
face. She had run out of soap powder in the middle of the wash. 
The women in the building bought such cheap powder it was hard to 
get the whole wash done with just a cup full. 

    The powder formed a layer of white on the water's surface, 
rippling softly like snow blown across a field. 

    She dropped the cover heavily into place; twisted the cycle 
dial, listening to its comforting ratcheting chatter. The machine 
leaped to life with a guttural bark. 

    Ernestine leaned against the machine. She liked the gentle 
vibrations that shook her great breasts and caused her gigantic 
Bermuda shorts to shimmy sympathetically. She often found the 
machine's vibrations almost as relaxing as a man's massage. 

    But she had other things to do and reluctantly went about 
preparing the evening's meal. Her man, Roland, would be home soon 
with another batch of clothes black with oil and dirt from the 
gas station. 

    She had just plunged her hands into the cool water in the 
sink where she had set a arm's length of frozen fish to thaw when 
there arose a startling clamor from her machine. 

    Ernestine cringed against the icy coolness of the sink. "Lord 
have mercy," she howled, transfixed by a foaming white mass that 
pushed the cover of the machine open and spilled onto the floor. 

    Ernestine danced through the thick, spongy goo on tiptoes. 
She grabbed the red kitchen phone near the door. She peered 
anxiously at the numbers scribbled on the white paint around the 
phone until she found the washing machine repairman's number. 

    "It's shooting out of the machine like there's no tomorrow!" 
she cried into the phone and into the ear of the disbelieving 
repairman. "It's climbing up my sink!" she howled standing at a 
safe distance in the hall, her eyes riveted to the mountain of 
white that continued to grow even as she hung up the phone. 
RUNE'S RAG                PAGE 8                        JAN 1994
    Ernestine paced her living room floor. She could think of 
nothing but the motion picture in which a formless mass from 
unsuspecting and naive populace of a small town. She knew this 
mass in the space wreaked havoc on the kitchen was no kin to the 
monster that devoured those poor people but maybe this mass in 
the kitchen did worse. 

    Finally, the bell rang. Huffing almost hysterically, 
Ernestine directed the man to the machine with a firm push in the 
back and then repaired to the living room to await the verdict -- 
provided the white glop in the kitchen didn't devour the 
repairman. 

    Ernestine bit at short, ragged fingernails, listening to the 
clank of tools, whistles and gasps of surprise. Finally, the 
repairman, his blue coveralls stained wet and white appeared in 
the entrance to the living room. 

    He was a smallish man, balding with a face like a rat. He 
stood there with a handful of the white mass in his hand. His 
lips held part of a smile, part of a smirk that was still bent 
with bemused surprise. 

    "Well," she breathed, clutching her hands to her breasts. 

    "Well," he echoed, a twinkle in his eye, "it's mashed 
potatoes." 
=========================     # # #     ==============================
Copyright 1993 Theodore Francis
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Ted Francis worked as a reporter for a couple of small Northeastern 
papers during the sixties and seventies until his legs gave out (they 
say the legs are the first to go - they were right). Then he moved up 
(or down depending on your view) to copyediting. For several brutal 
years of commuting, he copyedited for such papers as the Bridgeport,
(Conn) Telegram and the Morristown (NJ) Record. Now he hustles computer 
application stories for a living (ha, ha... you call that a living).
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


RUNE'S RAG                PAGE 9                        JAN 1994


DUROPA
  by Francis U. Kaltenbaugh


     This flight was monotonous, detested by the crew, because 
of four weeks continuous travel and no stops. I never expected
this boring milk-run of passengers and cargo between space 
stations to be anything except boring. Routine maintenance was 
our only distraction, until today, which marked the beginning 
of the fourth week and an end to our boredom. 

     Running into the master control room of the mining base, 
I discovered he was gone. So were our expectations. "I am 
Captain Bel-onan, Commander of the vessel KerpO' Peku. May 
your great-grandchildren feed you well. Obtaining duropa is a 
requisite and our purpose for porting here." The male being 
I addressed was a Crasis. Their origins, always diluted by 
race and species mingling, made determining proper etiquette 
for interaction nearly impossible.

     "I am Adjutant Commander Meg-kwon, brevet to the base
Commander. Only the base Commander, our leader, Sol-ors, may
authorize issuance of duropa. He is within the base complex,
but, refuses to reveal his exact location due to assassins. 
The responsibility of locating him rests upon your brow," he 
said, with finality. 

     We left the control center that governed the entire 
mining base operations and all its complexes. If we couldn't 
find Sol-ors, there would be hades to pay. Only he could 
supply the needed duropa in time, or at least where to locate 
it on this privately owned asteroid.

     To acquire money to finalize payment for our space vessel, 
about a year ago, I offered my body for medical tests. During 
those early experiments, I was among the first to receive an 
inoculation with the antidote for QSVD, then treatment with 
duropa. This furnished me additional resistance against initial 
symptoms of QSVD (Quadral-Schistosomatic-Viral-Dementation), 
a mutated virus that immediately affects your brain's motor 
responses.  

     When ingested, you normally have five to ten minutes 
before becoming unable to walk, even crawl -- catatonic. After 
we became contaminated, my increased resistance allowed time 
to administer the antidote to the crew. They then inoculated 
all passengers with the antibody. However, all aboard our craft
required duropa for eradication measures to purge QSVD from our 
systems, or suffer a prolonged and agonizing death -- myself 
included.
RUNE'S RAG                PAGE 10                        JAN 1994
     Four distinct organisms comprise the mutant QSVD. If one 
organism does not maintain constant chemical contact with the 
other three, all four go dormant. An entities' circulatory
system serves as the needed communications link between the 
multiple organisms of QSVD. The antidote disrupts the chemical 
transfer between the organisms for at least four, and up to 
seven days for most humans and many creatures. After that time, 
they alter their chemical communications link and the antitoxin 
fails. Therefore, the need to obtain duropa immediately.

     "Detouring here, we have already expended three days 
travel time since our contamination. If we do not find Sol-ors 
soon, what shall we do?" asked my partner, Eik-bhilo. 

     Numerous times in perilous combat situations, we had saved 
each others lives. Long time friend, co-owner, and co-captain 
of our vessel, we had spent many years together in the U.S.C.M. 
(Unification Space Counsel Marines), which had created an 
everlasting covenant between us. 

     "There is duropa here! All we need do is find Sol-ors, if 
not him, then the duropa; we've no other choice." I added, 
"This far from major space lanes Sol-ors feels safe attempting 
anything he likes. He oversees this asteroid with its expansive 
mining base operations, and for personal gain runs an extensive 
black market ring." 

     She was acting very agitated; this was unlike her, 
Eik-bhilo was always cool and calculating under the most trying 
circumstances. I feared she may be experiencing some of the 
nasty side effects that can accompany the antidote. I would 
watch her closely, but required her assistance in finding the 
cure.

     I admired her for her outstanding performance and
expertise, while an officer serving the Marines. She is an 
intelligent, quick-witted, and strong-willed woman. I preferred 
her as a comrade in arms, over many of my contemporaries, 
especially in combat environs.

     Within a few days of each other, several years ago, both 
of us were due for separation from the Marines. We talked of 
our futures extensively, and decided to become masters of our 
own destinies.  After leaving the Marines, we purchased a used 
but sound and reliable space craft. We started a passenger and 
freight business, but it looked as though our profitable and 
thriving business may end abruptly -- *along with our lives*.

      The U.S.C. (Unification Space Counsel) mandated help for
those whom expected or had received contamination: "Upon 
request, dissemination of QSVD antidote and duropa shall take 
place for any vessel or base in need. Those failing to comply 
with this directive, shall receive immense fines, life 
imprisonment, or if adjudicated -- death." Sol-ors illegally 
blackmarkets the life saving drug and antidote.
RUNE'S RAG                PAGE 11                       JAN 1994
     Sol-ors was well known for hanging about the recreation 
areas, and participating in gambling with the freighter crews, 
extracting credits from their computerized bank accounts. On 
Bohunkia, there are only three recreation areas. Accessing them 
should be relatively effortless. All complexes connected by 
tunnels, eliminates the need for life support suits within the 
20 square kilometer main base. With only three primary locations 
to search, the odds of locating him were favorable.

     The main control center, seated at the hub of this wheel-
like structure, has several radiating tunnels to all other 
chambers. Many of the spokes have interlacing tunnels at 
irregular intervals allowing quick passage to various 
complexes. There is an outer tunnel connecting all radiating 
spokes that completes the wheel-like appearance. 

     Finding a personnel carrier would be our first step. We 
departed for the nearest recreation suite. After traveling a
short distance, we were in luck. Sitting near a tunnel exit, 
an unsecured carrier begged us to make use of it, so we did. 
As we were racing through a corridor, I expressed concern for 
the passengers and crew who remained on our vessel. At the
same time, giving Eik-bhilo an opportunity to reveal if she
were in distress.

     "You know, the earliest serum caused so much physical and 
emotional pain most killed themselves before treatment with 
duropa. The latest antidote allows you to maintain control of 
your motor skills, but you still might endure periods of 
excruciating pain along with other side effects. Because of 
these side effects, I have an uneasiness about what the 
passengers may attempt to do." 

     "The passengers all know the results from QSVD are death.
That alone could cause panic, but I doubt if they know the 
side effects from the treatment. I have seen the effects of the 
QSVD toxins and what they do. It is similar to venom from a 
mutated Earth spider. The victim's muscular-skeletal structure 
turns into a mush and over a two to three day period. The skin
then becomes a molko, a container, that retains the processed 
contents. Then the QSVD, at their leisure, consume the host. 
Worse than torture, it is a grotesque way to die!" exclaimed 
Eik-bhilo.

     The antitoxin provides the necessary time to obtain the 
essential duropa, which immolates then expulses the QSVD from
the body. When in deep space this isn't a simple task because 
of travel time. It was becoming the most dangerous aspect of 
normal space travel.
RUNE'S RAG                PAGE 12                      JAN 1994
     Many intelligent life forms were using the preferred 
DDST traveling method. This travel is a combination of 
telekinesis, teleporting, telepathy, and also prolonged 
REM sleep. Scientifically referred to as telekinpaporthy, 
most translate it to, and simply call it DDST (deep dream 
sleep travel). This affords them complete safety from the 
hazards encountered during conventional space travel, while 
freeing extensive travel-times. But, not all beings can use 
this ancient method of travel. 

     Some travelers get to their destination, however, since 
their natural body remains at the point of departure, they are 
unable to materialize an aggregate concretion. This lack of 
total mass disallows the desired interaction, with materials 
and inhabitants, when reaching their destination. A master of 
DDST can interact completely at his terminus. However, an 
accomplished virtuoso can transfer matter, not only from his 
point of origin, including himself, but from their destination 
and back. All use some form of inner-energy amplification. Of
course, for most, if relocation is permanent, or for long 
periods, relegation to conventional space travel is mandatory, 
as with our passengers.

     Arriving at the first recreation entryway, we parked the 
carrier. A guard came running in our direction. The guard had 
his hand weapon drawn! Authorization for drawn weapons is 
during life protecting crises only -- under penalty of death 
to abusers of this Unification Space Counsel Law. A feeling 
of relief washed over me as he ran by. Following him was his 
companion SPS-bot (Security, Protection, and Surveillance - 
robot). They quickly disappeared through an entrance two doors 
beyond us. 

     We entered the recreation hall; there were only six 
beings, three of them earthlings. All the humans were sitting 
at a table together, so we enjoined the earthlings first. "I 
am Captain Bel-onan, Commander of the vessel KerpO' Peku. 
Can you aid us in locating Sol-ors?" I asked.

     Punctuating my question was the unmistakable sound of 
a phaser firing at full power. All jerked their heads toward 
the doorway and then stared in anticipation. I ran to the exit 
followed by Eik-bhilo and looked down the hallway. A wisp of 
vapor trailed from the entrance the guard had taken.

     "Follow me," I said. 

     While hugging the wall, we stole our way to the entrance.
I halted just before the doorway and listened. No unusual 
sounds came from within, except the hum of machinery. I 
crouched low and peered inside. There was no sign of the guard
or the SPS-bot. A gut wrenching stench was emanating from the 
large room. Several sizable machines and control panels blocked 
my view. Cautiously, we entered 
RUNE'S RAG                PAGE 13                      JAN 1994
     We approached the first machine, a large apparatus, 15 
meters long and 6 meters high. On the floor, at the furthest 
corner of the machine, I detected a pool of vibrant green 
liquid; it was spreading. Retracing my steps, I then circled 
behind the machine. Eik-bhilo covered me from her position near 
the front. Attaining the far end, I realized the green liquid 
was the source of the abominable smell. A GarThune lay sprawled 
out to its full impressive length, nearly five meters. It had a 
gaping hole blasted in its midsection.

     These creatures averaged three to four meters tall, and 
you could find them wherever there were laboring tasks. Finding 
a female much over three meters in height was a rarity and the 
males always averaged four meters to a bit taller. A GarThune's 
strength, dexterity, and endurance are legendary, as is their 
exceptionally gentle disposition. 

     The most peace-loving mortals ever encountered in space, 
they invariably accept death before harming another life form. 
Many races accept them, because of their bipedal shape. They 
have similarities to humans, but are strikingly different: 
extremely pointed heads, long torsos, short very thick legs, 
and a snake-like scaled skin. Demand for them, in filling 
low-tech positions and as drudges, is high because of their 
four arms and hands. 

     This was the first I had seen one wounded, let alone
devoid of essence, and had no idea their blood could smell so 
foul. I conceived it odd, the guard killed such a gentle 
creature for no apparent reason. For their immense size, 
because there is so little water in their physical makeup, they 
are extremely light in weight, averaging only 115 kilos. I was 
eager to investigate the motivation behind such peculiar 
actions.

     I motioned for Eik-bhilo to come to my position. As she
approached me, she asked, "A GarThune killed! -- what do you 
feel is taking place?" 

     "I am unsure. We need to check the other recreation sites 
and find Sol-ors. This situation will have to wait."

     "I saw no movement and did not hear anything while 
overwatching your advance. The guard must have retreated 
through a rear exit." 

     As we left the room, others were gathering at the entrance
and peeking inside. We strode past them and mounted the carrier 
destined for the next rec area. There was little activity in 
the tunnel we used. This was very unusual for a mining base 
this size, population near six-thousand, usually the tunnels 
and rec areas are a madhouse of activity.
RUNE'S RAG                PAGE 14                      JAN 1994
     Reaching the site, we eagerly dismounted and entered. 
This was the main recreation complex and it had several rooms 
off the main hall; all rooms appeared deserted. There were no 
signs of fighting or commotion. Our situation was becoming more 
intriguing by the minute. Where were all the off-duty workers, 
freighter crews, and support personnel?

     Before leaving for the last recreation site I used my 
communicator to speak with Oku-pri, our ship's co-pilot and 
third in command. "Do you have anything to report? How are the 
rest of the crew and the passengers?" I asked.

     "Everything is under control. We've had to place six of 
the twenty passengers under restraints and one crew member. 
They were running around screaming and acting crazy. I feared 
they might endanger the others, or harm themselves," Oku-pri 
said. 

     "We're still searching for Sol-ors. Arm yourself with a
stungun; you may need it if the situation gets worse. Secure 
the weapons room and check the remaining crew members freq-
uently. Have the ship's medic sedate the restrained crew member 
and passengers. I'll report within five hours, if not, you 
must attempt to locate the duropa; out."

     "Sir, the ship's medic is who we restrained."

     "If you know how, sedate them yourself. You may have to 
do the same for the remaining passengers; out."

     As we were leaving the room, I heard a barely perceptible 
groan. I turned toward the sound. There was a service counter, 
holding food and drink dispensers, with an aisle behind it. I 
leaped over the counter, and upon landing, discovered my feet 
a few centimeters from the head of a monster sized GarThune. 
His vibrant red body was quivering uncontrollably. 

     The eyes of a GarThune are unlike a humans'. Their eyes 
are a solid saffron, no visible iris or pupil, and ellipsoid 
in shape. The narrower conic sections are at the top, giving
a teardrop appearance and they don't have eyelids. Conversing 
with one for long periods can become unnerving, because of 
their rapt attention and desire to maintain eye contact when 
engaged in communication with another life form. As he weakly 
moved his head in my direction, I felt his stare.

     He reached both of his right hands toward me. Kneeling 
close to him, I offered my hand. He grasped my hand and arm 
with his right hands rather fiercely. Green blood dribbled 
between his thin lips, as he attempted to speak. The stench 
of his blood assailed my nostrils, and my head abruptly jerked 
to one side quite involuntarily.  
RUNE'S RAG                PAGE 15                      JAN 1994
     "Stop Sol . . . ohhh mus . . . not con . . . ahhh," the 
GarThune gurgled.

     "A practitioner of KDK may have caused the departing of 
his essence, because there are no phaser wounds on his body. 
He is the largest I've ever seen, nearly six meters in 
height," I said.

     "I wonder what he was trying to tell us about Sol-ors?"

      "We better find him as quickly as we can. Something very 
strange is afoot. It sounded like he said, `Must not conquer' 
as he spoke of Sol-ors. If that is of whom, he spoke. Knowing 
Sol-ors as I do, since there is trouble involved, so is he." 

     "Did he have the strength to transfer anything to you?" 
asked Eik-bhilo.

     "I perceived no telepathic transfer from him. His essence
had left -- even before attempting to speak. He couldn't have
been suffering the last stages of QSVD; the duropa is here."

     I pondered the meaning of what the GarThune had attempted 
to tell us and if he succumbed to QSVD. There was so little 
activity in the recreation areas it aroused my suspicion. The 
deaths of GarThunes caused me much consternation, and I could
not determine a connection, but there certainly was a link.

     "We need to check the last rec area. I have a feeling 
we'll not find him there, but  . . . questioning a guard may 
help solve these riddles," I said.

     "What of the duropa, where can we find it? What shall we 
do? If Sol-ors is gone, so are our hopes."  

     "Never give up hope. Those without hope blur their 
essence. We shall prevail; we'll surely survive the remaining 
four days. There are nearly four hours before the fourth day 
begins. That gives us ample time to find the duropa -- even 
without the aid of Sol-ors. We have time to complete our quest," 
I assured her. She was certainly not acting like herself --
always level-headed and decisive.
=========================     ? ? ?     ==============================
Copyright 1993 Francis U. Kaltenbaugh
----------------------------------------------------------------------
  Get the next issue of RUNE'S RAG for the continuation of
DUROPA --  the adventures of Bel-onan and Eik-Bhilo by Francis
U. Kaltenbaugh.
---------------------------------------------------------------------- 
Francis U. Kaltenbaugh is a 40 something computer enthusiast,
who enjoys video stimulations. Two children keep things interesting,
one an 18 year-old Marine, and a ten year-old girl, whose only 
response is, Why? Francis, who has two books in progress and articles 
out everywhere, feels fiction is a mainstay of life for everyone.
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
RUNE'S RAG                PAGE 16                      JAN 1994


THE MONSTER MEN
by Edgar Rice Burroughs


Chapter 1, THE RIFT

As he dropped the last grisly fragment of the dismembered and 
mutilated body into the small vat of nitric acid that was to 
devour every trace of the horrid evidence which might easily 
send him to the gallows, the man sank weakly into a chair and 
throwing his body forward upon his great, teak desk buried his
face in his arms, breaking into dry, moaning sobs.

Beads of perspiration followed the seams of his high, wrinkled 
forehead, replacing the tears which might have lessened the 
pressure upon his overwrought nerves. His slender frame shook, 
as with ague, and at times was racked by a convulsive shudder. 
A sudden step upon the stairway leading to his workshop brought 
him trembling and wide eyed to his feet, staring fearfully at the
locked and bolted door.

Although he knew perfectly well whose the advancing footfalls were, 
he was all but overcome by the madness of apprehension as they came 
softly nearer and nearer to the barred door. At last they halted 
before it, to be followed by a gentle knock.

"Daddy!" came the sweet tones of a girl's voice.

The man made an effort to take a firm grasp upon himself that no tell-
tale evidence of his emotion might be betrayed in his speech.

"Daddy!" called the girl again, a trace of anxiety in her voice this 
time. "What IS the matter with you, and what ARE you doing?  You've 
been shut up in that hateful old room for three days now without a
morsel to eat, and in all likelihood without a wink of sleep. You'll 
kill yourself with your stuffy old experiments."

The man's face softened. "Don't worry about me, sweetheart," he replied 
in a well controlled voice. "I'll soon be through now -- soon be 
through -- and then we'll go away for a long vacation -- for a long 
vacation."

"I'll give you until noon, Daddy," said the girl in a voice which 
carried a more strongly defined tone of authority than her father's 
soft drawl, "and then I shall come into that room, if I have to use an 
axe, and bring you out--do you understand?"
Professor Maxon smiled wanly. He knew that his daughter was equal 
to her threat.
RUNE'S RAG                PAGE 17                       JAN 1994
"All right, sweetheart, I'll be through by noon for sure -- by noon 
for sure. Run along and play now, like a good little girl."

Virginia Maxon shrugged her shapely shoulders and shook her head 
hopelessly at the forbidding panels of the door.

"My dolls are all dressed for the day," she cried, "and I'm tired of 
making mud pies -- I want you to come out and play with me."  But 
Professor Maxon did not reply -- he had returned to view his grim 
operations, and the hideousness of them had closed his ears to the 
sweet tones of the girl's voice.

As she turned to retrace her steps to the floor below Miss Maxon 
still shook her head.

"Poor old Daddy," she mused, "were I a thousand years old, wrinkled 
and toothless, he would still look upon me as his baby girl."

If you chance to be an alumnus of Cornell you may recall Professor 
Arthur Maxon, a quiet, slender, white-haired gentleman, who for several 
years was an assistant professor in one of the departments of natural 
science. Wealthy by inheritance, he had chosen the field of education 
for his life work solely from a desire to be of some material benefit 
to mankind since the meager salary which accompanied his professorship
was not of sufficient import to influence him in the slightest degree.

Always keenly interested in biology, his almost unlimited means had 
permitted him to undertake, in secret, a series of daring experiments 
which had carried him so far in advance of the biologists of his day 
that he had, while others were still groping blindly for the secret of
life, actually reproduced by chemical means the great phenomenon.

Fully alive to the gravity and responsibilities of his marvelous 
discovery he had kept the results of his experimentation, and even the
experiments themselves, a profound secret not only from his colleagues,
but from his only daughter, who heretofore had shared his every hope 
and aspiration.

It was the very success of his last and most pretentious effort that 
had placed him in the horrifying predicament in which he now found 
himself -- with the corpse of what was apparently a human being in his
workshop and no available explanation that could possibly be acceptable
to a matter-of-fact and unscientific police.

Had he told them the truth they would have laughed at him. Had he said:
"This is not a human being that you see, but the remains of a 
chemically produced counterfeit created in my own laboratory," they 
would have smiled, and either hanged him or put him away with the other
criminally insane.
RUNE'S RAG                PAGE 18                       JAN 1994
This phase of the many possibilities which he had realized might be 
contingent upon even the partial success of his work alone had escaped 
his consideration, so that the first wave of triumphant exultation 
with which he had viewed the finished result of this last experiment 
had been succeeded by overwhelming consternation as he saw the thing 
which he had created gasp once or twice with the feeble spark of life 
with which he had endowed it, and expire -- leaving upon his hands the 
corpse of what was, to all intent and purpose, a human being, albeit a 
most grotesque and misshapen thing.

Until nearly noon Professor Maxon was occupied in removing the 
remaining stains and evidences of his gruesome work, but when he at 
last turned the key in the door of his workshop it was to leave behind 
no single trace of the successful result of his years of labor.

The following afternoon found him and Virginia crossing the station 
platform to board the express for New York. So quietly had their plans 
been made that not a friend was at the train to bid them farewell -- 
the scientist felt that he could not bear the strain of attempting
explanations at this time.

But there were those there who recognized them, and one especially who
noted the lithe, trim figure and beautiful face of Virginia Maxon 
though he did not know even the name of their possessor. It was a tall 
well built young man who nudged one of his younger companions as the 
girl crossed the platform to enter her Pullman.

"I say, Dexter," he exclaimed, "who is that beauty?"

The one addressed turned in the direction indicated by his friend.

"By jove!" he exclaimed. "Why it's Virginia Maxon and the professor, 
her father. Now where do you suppose they're going?"

"I don't know--now," replied the first speaker, Townsend J. Harper, 
Jr., in a half whisper, "but I'll bet you a new car that I find out."

A week later, with failing health and shattered nerves, Professor 
Maxon sailed with his daughter for a long ocean voyage, which he hoped 
would aid him in rapid recuperation, and permit him to forget the 
nightmare memory of those three horrible days and nights in his 
workshop.

He believed that he had reached an unalterable decision never again 
to meddle with the mighty, awe inspiring secrets of creation; but 
with returning health and balance he found himself viewing his recent 
triumph with feelings of renewed hope and anticipation.

The morbid fears superinduced by the shock following the sudden demise 
of the first creature of his experiments had given place to a growing 
desire to further prosecute his labors until enduring success had 
crowned his efforts with an achievement which he might exhibit with 
pride to the scientific world.
RUNE'S RAG                PAGE 19                       JAN 1994
His recent disastrous success had convinced him that neither Ithaca 
nor any other abode of civilization was a safe place to continue his 
experiments, but it was not until their cruising had brought them among 
the multitudinous islands of the East Indies that the plan occurred to 
him that he finally adopted -- a plan the outcome of which could he 
then have foreseen would have sent him scurrying to the safety of his 
own country with the daughter who was to bear the full brunt of the
horrors it entailed.

They were steaming up the China Sea when the idea first suggested 
itself, and as he sat idly during the long, hot days the thought grew 
upon him, expanding into a thousand wonderful possibilities, until it 
became crystallized into what was a little short of an obsession.

The result was that at Manila, much to Virginia's surprise, he 
announced the abandonment of the balance of their purposed voyage, 
taking immediate return passage to Singapore. His daughter did not 
question him as to the cause of this change in plans, for since
those three days that her father had kept himself locked in his 
workroom at home the girl had noticed a subtle change in her parent 
-- a marked disinclination to share with her his every confidence as 
had been his custom since the death of her mother.

While it grieved her immeasurably she was both too proud and too hurt
to sue for a reestablishment of the old relations. On all other topics 
than his scientific work their interests were as mutual as formerly, 
but by what seemed a manner of tacit agreement this subject was taboo. 
And so it was that they came to Singapore without the girl having the 
slightest conception of her father's plans.

Here they spent nearly a month, during which time Professor Maxon was 
daily engaged in interviewing officials, English residents and a motley 
horde of Malays and Chinamen.

Virginia met socially several of the men with whom her father was 
engaged but it was only at the last moment that one of them let drop a 
hint of the purpose of the month's activity. When Virginia was present 
the conversation seemed always deftly guided from the subject of her 
father's immediate future, and she was not long in discerning that it 
was in no sense through accident that this was true. Thereafter her 
wounded pride made easy the task of those who seemed combined to keep 
her in ignorance.

It was a Dr. von Horn, who had been oftenest with her father, who gave 
her the first intimation of what was forthcoming. Afterward, in 
recollecting the conversation, it seemed to Virginia that the young 
man had been directed to break the news to her, that her father might
be spared the ordeal. It was evident then that he expected opposition, 
but the girl was too loyal to let von Horn know if she felt other than 
in harmony with the proposal, and too proud to evince by surprise the 
fact that she was not wholly conversant with its every detail.
RUNE'S RAG                PAGE 20                       JAN 1994
"You're glad to be leaving Singapore so soon?" he had asked, although he
knew that she had not been advised that an early departure was planned.

"I am rather looking forward to it," replied Virginia.

"And to a protracted residence on one of the Pamarung Islands?" continued 
von Horn.

"Why not?" was her rather non-committal reply, though she had not the 
remotest idea of their location.

Von Horn admired her nerve though he rather wished that she would ask
some questions -- it was difficult making progress in this way. How 
could he explain the plans when she evinced not the slightest sign that 
she was not already entirely conversant with them?

"We doubt if the work will be completed under two or three years," 
answered the doctor. "That will be a long time in which to be isolated
upon a savage little speck of land off the larger but no less savage 
Borneo. Do you think that your bravery is equal to the demands that 
will be made upon it?"

Virginia laughed, nor was there the slightest tremor in its note.

"I am equal to whatever fate my father is equal to," she said, "nor do
I think that a life upon one of these beautiful little islands would be
much of a hardship -- certainly not if it will help to promote the 
success of his scientific experiments."

She used the last words on a chance that she might have hit upon the 
true reason for the contemplated isolation from civilization. They had 
served their purpose too in deceiving von Horn who was now half convinced 
that Professor Maxon must have divulged more of their plans to his 
daughter than he had led the medical man to believe. Perceiving her 
advantage from the expression on the young man's face, Virginia followed 
it up in an endeavor to elicit the details.

The result of her effort was the knowledge that on the second day they
were to sail for the Pamarung Islands upon a small schooner which her 
father had purchased, with a crew of Malays and lascars, and von Horn, 
who had served in the American navy, in command. The precise point of 
destination was still undecided -- the plan being to search out a 
suitable location upon one of the many little islets which dot the 
western shore of the Macassar Strait.

Of the many men Virginia had met during the month at Singapore von Horn
had been by far the most interesting and companionable. Such time as he
could find from the many duties which had devolved upon him in the matter
of obtaining and outfitting the schooner, and signing her two mates and 
crew of fifteen, had been spent with his employer's daughter.
RUNE'S RAG                PAGE 21                       JAN 1994
The girl was rather glad that he was to be a member of their little 
company, for she had found him a much traveled man and an interesting 
talker with none of the, to her, disgusting artificialities of the
professional ladies' man. He talked to her as he might have talked to 
a man, of the things that interest intelligent people regardless of sex.

There was never any suggestion of familiarity in his manner; nor in his
choice of topics did he ever ignore the fact that she was a young girl. 
She had felt entirely at ease in his society from the first evening that
she had met him, and their acquaintance had grown to a very sensible 
friendship by the time of the departure of the Ithaca -- the rechristened
schooner which was to carry them away to an unguessed fate.

The voyage from Singapore to the Islands was without incident. 
Virginia took a keen delight in watching the Malays and lascars at 
their work, telling von Horn that she had to draw upon her imagination 
but little to picture herself a captive upon a pirate ship -- the half
naked men, the gaudy headdress, the earrings, and the fierce countenances
of many of the crew furnishing only too realistically the necessary 
savage setting.

A week spent among the Pamarung Islands disclosed no suitable site for 
the professor's camp, nor was it until they had cruised up the coast 
several miles north of the equator and Cape Santang that they found a 
tiny island a few miles off the coast opposite the mouth of a small river
-- an island which fulfilled in every detail their requirements.

It was uninhabited, fertile and possessed a clear, sweet brook which 
had its source in a cold spring in the higher land at the island's center. 
Here it was that the Ithaca came to anchor in a little harbor, while her 
crew under von Horn, and the Malay first mate, Bududreen, accompanied 
Professor Maxon in search of a suitable location for a permanent camp.

The cook, a harmless old Chinaman, and Virginia were left in sole 
possession of the Ithaca.

Two hours after the departure of the men into the jungle Virginia 
heard the fall of axes on timber and knew that the site of her future 
home had been chosen and the work of clearing begun. She sat musing on 
the strange freak which had prompted her father to bury them in this 
savage corner of the globe; and as she pondered there came a wistful 
expression to her eyes, and an unwonted sadness drooped the corners of 
her mouth.

Of a sudden she realized how wide had become the gulf between them now. 
So imperceptibly had it grown since those three horrid days in Ithaca 
just prior to their departure for what was to have been but a few months'
cruise that she had not until now comprehended that the old relations of 
open, good-fellowship had gone, possibly forever.
RUNE'S RAG                PAGE 22                       JAN 1994
Had she needed proof of the truth of her sad discovery it had been enough
to point to the single fact that her father had brought her here to this
little island without making the slightest attempt to explain the nature 
of his expedition. She had gleaned enough from von Horn to understand 
that some important scientific experiments were to be undertaken; but 
what their nature she could not imagine, for she had not the slightest 
conception of the success that had crowned her father's last experiment 
at Ithaca, although she had for years known of his keen interest in the 
subject.

The girl became aware also of other subtle changes in her father. He 
had long since ceased to be the jovial, carefree companion who had 
shared with her her every girlish joy and sorrow and in whom she had 
confided both the trivial and momentous secrets of her childhood. He 
had become not exactly morose, but rather moody and absorbed, so that 
she had of late never found an opportunity for the cozy chats that had
formerly meant so much to them both. There had been too, recently, a 
strange lack of consideration for herself that had wounded her more than 
she had imagined. Today there had been a glaring example of it in his 
having left her alone upon the boat without a single European companion
-- something that he would never have thought of doing a few months before.

As she sat speculating on the strange change which had come over her 
father her eyes had wandered aimlessly along the harbor's entrance; the 
low reef that protected it from the sea, and the point of land to the
south, that projected far out into the strait like a gigantic index finger
pointing toward the mainland, the foliage covered heights of which were 
just visible above the western horizon.

Presently her attention was arrested by a tossing speck far out upon the 
rolling bosom of the strait. For some time the girl watched the object 
until at length it resolved itself into a boat moving head on toward the
island. Later she saw that it was long and low, propelled by a single sail 
and many oars, and that it carried quite a company.

Thinking it but a native trading boat, so many of which ply the southern 
seas, Virginia viewed its approach with but idle curiosity. When it had 
come to within half a mile of the anchorage of the Ithaca, and was about 
to enter the mouth of the harbor Sing Lee's eyes chanced to fall upon it. 
On the instant the old Chinaman was electrified into sudden and astounding
action.

"Klick!  Klick!" he cried, running toward Virginia. "Go b'low, klick."

"Why should I go below, Sing?" queried the girl, amazed by the demeanor 
of the cook.

"Klick!  Klick!" he urged grasping her by the arm -- half leading, half 
dragging her toward the companion-way. "Plilates!  Mlalay plilates --
Dyak plilates."

"Pirates!" gasped Virginia. "Oh Sing, what can we do?"
RUNE'S RAG                PAGE 23                       JAN 1994
"You go b'low. Mebbyso Sing flighten 'em. Shoot cannon. Bling help. 
Maxon come klick. Bling men. Chase'm 'way," explained the Chinaman. 
"But plilates see 'em pletty white girl," he shrugged his shoulders
and shook his head dubiously, "then old Sing no can flighten 'em 'way."

The girl shuddered, and crouching close behind Sing hurried below. A 
moment later she heard the boom of the old brass six pounder which for 
many years had graced the Ithaca's stern. In the bow Professor Maxon
had mounted a modern machine gun, but this was quite beyond Sing's 
simple gunnery. The Chinaman had not taken the time to sight the ancient 
weapon carefully, but a gleeful smile lit his wrinkled, yellow face as he
saw the splash of the ball where it struck the water almost at the side 
of the prahu.

Sing realized that the boat might contain friendly natives, but he had 
cruised these waters too many years to take chances. Better kill a hundred 
friends, he thought, than be captured by a single pirate.

At the shot the prahu slowed up, and a volley of musketry from her crew 
satisfied Sing that he had made no mistake in classifying her. Her fire 
fell short as did the ball from the small cannon mounted in her bow.

Virginia was watching the prahu from one of the cabin ports. She saw the 
momentary hesitation and confusion which followed Sing's first shot, and 
then to her dismay she saw the rowers bend to their oars again and the 
prahu move swiftly in the direction of the Ithaca.

It was apparent that the pirates had perceived the almost defenseless 
condition of the schooner. In a few minutes they would be swarming the deck, 
for poor old Sing would be entirely helpless to repel them. If Dr. von Horn 
were only there, thought the distracted girl. With the machine gun alone he 
might keep them off.

At the thought of the machine gun a sudden resolve gripped her. Why not 
man it herself?  Von Horn had explained its mechanism to her in detail, 
and on one occasion had allowed her to operate it on the voyage from 
Singapore. With the thought came action. Running to the magazine she 
snatched up a feed-belt, and in another moment was on deck beside the 
astonished Sing.

The pirates were skimming rapidly across the smooth waters of the harbor, 
answering Sing's harmless shots with yells of derision and wild, savage 
war cries. There were, perhaps, fifty Dyaks and Malays -- fierce, barbaric
men; mostly naked to the waist, or with war-coats of brilliant colors. The 
savage headdress of the Dyaks, the long, narrow, decorated shields, the
flashing blades of parang and kris sent a shudder through the girl, so 
close they seemed beneath the schooner's side.

"What do?  What do?" cried Sing in consternation. "Go b'low. Klick!" But 
before he had finished his exhortation Virginia was racing toward the bow 
where the machine gun was mounted. Tearing the cover from it she swung the 
muzzle toward the pirate prahu, which by now was nearly within range above 
the vessel's side -- a moment more and she would be too close to use the
weapon upon the pirates.
RUNE'S RAG                PAGE 24                       JAN 1994
Virginia was quick to perceive the necessity for haste, while the pirates 
at the same instant realized the menace of the new danger which confronted 
them. A score of muskets belched forth their missiles at the fearless girl 
behind the scant shield of the machine gun. Leaden pellets rained heavily 
upon her protection, or whizzed threateningly about her head -- and then 
she got the gun into action.

At the rate of fifty a minute, a stream of projectiles tore into the bow 
of the prahu when suddenly a richly garbed Malay in the stern rose to his 
feet waving a white cloth upon the point of his kris. It was the Rajah Muda 
Saffir -- he had seen the girl's face and at the sight of it the blood lust 
in his breast had been supplanted by another.

At sight of the emblem of peace Virginia ceased firing. She saw the tall 
Malay issue a few commands, the oarsmen bent to their work, the prahu came 
about, making off toward the harbor's entrance. At the same moment there 
was a shot from the shore followed by loud yelling, and the girl turned to 
see her father and von Horn pulling rapidly toward the Ithaca.

=========================     ? ? ?    ===============================
  End Chapter 1 --  Get the next issue of RUNE'S RAG for the 
continuation of THE MONSTER MEN by Edgar Rice Burroughs.
----------------------------------------------------------------------

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-  WhatNOTS, WHY NOT?  -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
                        =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
News you can Use     
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

   Now is the time to be thinking about your State and Federal income 
taxes. Start getting all those forms and that nasty shoe box full of
receipts and paper scraps together, now. It will make things much
easier on you; do it before those awful tension headaches begin, 
because once again you were not prepared. Stop telling yourself you 
will get to it as soon as your W-2 shows in the mail. Best do it now. 
Filing early does not hurt, really. I mean, I almost always get mine
done by midnight on the 15th of April.


   Need information, and it has to be inexpensive or free: Try the
Consumer Information Catalog, Pueblo, CO 80910. Or, U.S. Government 
Books, Superintendent of Documents, USGPO, Washington, DC 20402. This
provides a catalog of the government books produced monthly. Some very 
worthwhile information can be obtained from this source. Civil War buffs
may find this an invaluable source for books about this conflict. Books
that have been produced with government grants can be found in this
catalog, so there are some very diverse offerings.


RUNE'S RAG                PAGE 25                       JAN 1994


STUFF
=-=-=

The Information Super Highway
is Nearing Completion
  by Rick Arnold

    The dawning of the Information Super Highway is near. It 
is obvious, since we are getting inundated with commercials 
telling us what we are missing, but will soon have. There is even
competition among the biggies, reminding us that we already have the 
opportunity to need what is not yet available. Promises, promises. 
What will this Super Slab of knowledge be providing us? For one, it 
will be helping to cram more facts and information our way as fast 
as we can assimilate it. Are we getting enough now? But, what else
will be there during your travels?

    What worries me about this Super Highway is the number of bill-
boards, yes, commercials, that we will encounter as we are speeding
from one fount of information to another. How much will we be paying
to see these commercials as we are speeding down the information
highway. I suggest you wear a crash helmet along with your seat 
belts, while traveling the Super Highway. Or you can contact your
Senators and Congressmen to find out what is going to be on, in, and
around the proposed Super Slab of knowledge, and, how much is it going
to cost us?

MORE STUFF
=-=-=-=-=-

"They Won't Stay Dead"
a RAG of the past.
                  
    Brian Johnson publishes a little known zine, "They Won't Stay
Dead" ("TWSD") a bimonthly, which covers bad horror movies, amusement 
park nostalgia, drive-ins, obscure music, and more. His interest
in music is attributed to his endeavors as a guitarist with several
bands from the Greenville, PA area. He says of the content, ". . .
the Zine is not just the rantings of a maladjusted outcast." He has
done well researched articles on indoor funhouse rides -- to a former
TV horror movie host, from Cleveland, Ohio. Subscriptions can be
obtained by writing: "They Won't Stay Dead", 11 Werner Rd., Greenville,
PA 16125; you might even ask for a free example copy -- of course a
few bucks for mailing would probably give him motivation to send
a current issue.





RUNE'S RAG                PAGE 26                      JAN 1994

                   *=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=
                      POETRY SECTION
                   *=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=*=

                     Sonnet 18
                       by Bill Shakespeare

         Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
         Thou are more lovely and more temperate;
         Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
         And summers's lease hath all too short a date:
         Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
         And often is his gold complexion dimmed;
         And every fair from fair sometimes declines,
         By chance or nature's changing course untrimmed:
         But thy eternal summer shall not fade
         Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st,
         Nor shall Death brag thou wand'rest in his shade,
         When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st.
           So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
           So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

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

                (untitled, Chinese from 2 AD)

         Crossing the river I pluck the lotus flowers;
         In the orchid-swamps are many fragrant herbs.
         I gather them, but who shall I send them to?
         My love is living in lands far away.
         I turn and look towards my own country;
         The long road stretches on for ever.
         The same heart, yet a different dwelling;
         Always fretting, till we are grown old!

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

               Just Another Day 
                 by Rick Arnold

         Off to sustenance stamp office;
         What a great grand way of life.
         Filling out forms, answering questions,
         Personally, I'd rather find a supporting wife.
         Next. Off we go to the jobless office,
         Where rejection is standard fare.
         Filling more forms, we find here allusions.
         If I were younger, I'd think: cut my hair?
         Panhandling and uncaring, I'd rather be.
         'Stead of belittled and treated like chattel.
         Don't want to graze on society,
         Me, I'm not like your -- standard cattle.

Copyright 1993 Rick Arnold
RUNE'S RAG                PAGE 27                      JAN 1994


                     Day 166 
                       by Rick Arnold

         While the television's noise masks the silence, 
         Which is deafening, I listen.  

         This void, filled with: loneliness, 
         An old couch, a chair and lack of love -- 
         Is this apartment, where I reside.  

         Sleep, must be fought for to be obtained,
         Then quickly slips away faster than a dream.
         Pain has struck again, reminding me of life.  

         Awakened, by sounds of silence 
         Being disturbed by sounds, 
         Of what could possibly be her return 
         -- a door opening, a car stopping, a heart opening --
         With arms outstretched -- waiting . . .
         To receive a long needed embrace.

Copyright 1993 Rick Arnold
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

                               by Rick Arnold
  A DAY IN LIFE'S ABYSS . . .        
                               MAUDLIN 

I told you I was sorry,
You don't believe.
                           Words cause pain that make me grieve.
We talk, neither
Of us listens.
                           Viewing thoughts, my eyes glisten.
My back is turned,
But not from you.
                           Turning to look, you bid adieu.
I do what I must do,
Not always for you.
                           Too many years of life, you so few.
You say you must be held,
By whom?
                           Black thoughts, see impending doom.
I read, I write, I work,
But am thinking of you.
                           Burdened by time, all things askew.
Everything is undone,
Including -- WE.
                           Conclusions of one, makes it easier to see.
Perhaps it will be,
Better, if we is me!
                          I, myself with thoughts; what makes it--we?
Copyright 1993 Rick Arnold
RUNE'S RAG                PAGE 28                     JAN 1994
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

HOLIDAY OF RELUCTANCE
  by Patrick Curry
    
    In the dark, her hands gripping tightly the iron railing 
of the heavily rolling ferry, Clare stared out across the dark 
sea. She lifted her face, closing her eyes, and stood there in 
the salt spray. Her face looked peaceful as she enjoyed the 
moment, unaware she was being watched.

    Not fifteen feet away, Kenny O'Brian watched her from the 
thick shadows of a companionway. He might not get a better 
chance than this; she was alone, unaware . . . an easy target. 
He had followed her from Belfast, Northern Ireland, all the way 
south to Rosslare Harbor, where she had booked passage to France 
aboard this auto and passenger ferry. Four days now, and he still 
hadn't finished his task. He was conscious of the pistol holstered 
under his right arm. He was also conscious of his churning stomach. 
First time at sea and he was seasick. That is why he hesitated now. 

    He wasn't sure if he could do it -- kill her. At the moment he 
had trouble just keeping his balance. If he shot her from behind, 
he could push the body overboard. But there would be blood. His 
Control had seen to that when he had given Kenny the Browning 
automatic with custom rounds. They were low charged to serve two 
purposes: if a shot went amiss, the round wouldn't travel far, and 
it'd be unlikely for it to travel through an interior wall and hit 
someone else; also, the low charged round would do more damage at 
close range. The bullets were meant for one job only: to kill a 
person at close range. 

    Fifteen feet was close enough. "Just do it," he told 
himself. Yet he made no move, only stood there watching, sweat 
beginning to trickle down his back.

    Kenny took a step forward, out of the shadows, and into 
the cooling breeze of the deck. He licked his upper lip, tasting 
salt. Was it the sea spray coming over the side of the ship, or 
his own sweat that brought the moisture to his lip?  He reached 
with his left hand into his jacket, grasping the gun's cold grip. 
It felt natural, good, to hold the weapon. Then he crossed his 
right arm across his left, over his chest, appearing like only a 
man warding off the chill sea air. Hardly realizing it, Kenny 
took another step unto the deck. He stood in the open now. 
Exposed.

    He looked around, searching for other passengers on deck. 
No one else could be seen. They probably were in their quarters, 
lying on their bunks, fighting with their own cases of seasickness. 
An hour earlier, Kenny had even seen a crew member become violently 
ill in one of the public heads. The captain had spoken over the 
intercom, apologizing for the rough trip, blaming it on unusually 
strong equinoctial tides, or some such blarney.
RUNE'S RAG                PAGE 29                     JAN 1994
    He looked back to Clare. She hadn't moved. There was 
enough lighting on deck to illuminate her features. Kenny had 
seen photographs of her, and had followed her for the past four 
days, but he had never been this close to her before. Perhaps it 
was the lighting, or the way she held her head -- whatever it was, 
Kenny suddenly thought how attractive she looked standing there 
alone, her face peaceful, a faint smile upon her lips. She 
didn't seem affected at all by the heavily rolling ship.

    Kenny wasn't so lucky. Weak knees and basic nausea made 
even standing hard for him. Yet this might be the best chance he 
would ever get. "_Do it now, get it over with_."  His Control 
wouldn't wait forever. "It's a simple thing," Control had told 
him. "We're worried about you, Kenny . . . there's been talk."  
Kenny knew what the talk was about, and didn't want to think 
about it. Maybe his Control enjoyed irony. Maybe that was why 
Kenny was sent to kill Clare.

    Clare, a bar maid in a pub in Belfast. But also an 
informer against the IRA, responsible for leading British forces 
in capturing 6 fellow IRA members. It wasn't a clean take; two 
guys were killed in a brief firefight. That was why an IRA man 
was sent out against her. Clare had left Belfast, just to play 
things safe. Kenny was chosen by his Control for reasons Kenny 
could only guess at.

    Kenny shrugged the thoughts away, advancing forward, his 
grip on the gun tightening. Something moved off to his left, on 
the edge of his sight, a sound, a distraction. Two passengers 
came down a nearby stairway from an upper deck.

    Clare heard them too, and turned sharply to look, as if 
she had been startled. Kenny, now only a couple of steps from 
her, wasn't sure what to do. If she turned and saw him so 
close . . . . 

    He was already walking and couldn't seem to stop, so he 
turned slightly and walked faster, past Clare, toward the couple 
coming down the stairs. He could almost sense something as he 
past by Clare so close, maybe fear or surprise. He felt her eyes 
upon his back as he reached the stairs and the two newcomers, a 
couple of young lovers blocking his way on the narrow stairs.

    Kenny coughed once, loud, to get their attention. The young 
man stepped aside and Kenny hurried up the stairs, two at a time.

                              * * *     
    
    On his way back to his cramped and sparse cabin, Kenny 
stopped at the ship's duty free shop, and bought a small bottle of 
Bailey's. Sitting on his bunk, pouring the drink into a styrofoam 
cup taken from the ship's cafeteria, Kenny watched his slightly 
trembling hands, and mumbled a soft curse. Underlying his seasickness, 
he felt a thinness inside.
RUNE'S RAG                PAGE 30                     JAN 1994
    The cup was heavy in his hand, and he swallowed the drink in two 
noisy gulps. Maybe if he got drunk enough the nausea from the seasick-
ness could be forgotten along with everything else he felt at this 
moment.

    He poured another cup and held it up in a silent toast, not to 
himself in self-spite, but to his Control. The manipulative bastard. 
It was just his bad luck to get hooked up with someone like that, 
someone who know Kenny's past and even knew Kenny's father. "My dear 
old Da . . . husband, grocer, informer."

    He downed the second drink, and fought to keep it down. "_Are 
you enjoying your stroll on deck, Clare? What were you thinking about 
as you stood there watching the sea? Did you think of the six good men 
you informed on, maybe the two who got shot by the Brits when they came, 
armed to the teeth?_"

    He shook his head and poured another drink. He wished the 
business was done with, wished he hadn't hesitated, but that's what 
he had been doing for the past four days. Control knew what he was 
about; this was all a test, to see if he could measure up, be one 
of them. Damn it, he loved his home, and wanted it for his people 
as much as anyone, but maybe getting involved with the IRA was just 
a mistake, just a means of crossing his Da . . . young rebellion. 
But he didn't feel so young anymore, and a lot the IRA just didn't 
sit well with him -- like the drink in his stomach right now.

    He put the bottle away, no longer wanting it. "The sins of 
the father . . . ", the words came unbidden to him, as he lay back 
on his bunk. He reached out and slapped the light switch off. 
In the dark he kicked off his shoes and spoke softly, "I'll see 
you tomorrow Clare . . . but you won't see me."

                              * * *

    Kenny took breakfast early, and spent the rest of the day 
relaxing and trying to enjoy the sunny day. The ship still rolled 
beneath his feet a great deal, but it didn't seem to bother him so 
much. He caught glimpses of Clare from time to time, but didn't bother 
to shadow her; she wasn't going anywhere until the ship docked later 
that day at Le Harve, on French soil.

    He had made this journey once before while on holiday, and knew 
the routine. The French immigration and security at the port was 
slack. There would be no problems keeping the gun with him. What he 
was dreading was the call he would have to make to Control, updating 
him on what was happening.

    Around two in the afternoon, the captain announced over the 
intercom system that their arrival at Le Harve would be delayed by 
over an hour, blaming the bad news once again on those mysterious 
equinoctial tides.
RUNE'S RAG                PAGE 31                     JAN 1994
    This changed things possibly. He assumed Clare would be heading 
straight on to Paris by train, but now with the schedule awry, she 
might be forced to stay the night in Le Harve. 

    Kenny had planned on finishing things up soon, in Paris, but if 
she stopped in Le Harve and made an unexpected move, he might not 
be able to follow her. There was nothing he could do about it now 
-- no way to finish things while aboard; the cleaning women had 
chased every single passenger from their cabins so they could tidy 
all the rooms in one nonstop sweep from bow to stern. The decks, 
shops, lounges, and companionways were filled with people. Witnessing 
eyes were everywhere.

    Sometime later, a final message from the captain reassured the 
passengers that the French Railroad was trying to make special 
arrangements so that those continuing on to Paris would be able to 
do so this very same day.

    Another half hour and the ferry docked at Le harve. Anxious 
passengers disembarked with haste, not wanting to miss the last train 
to Paris. Kenny followed Clare down the long, enclosed gangway, not 
thirty feet behind her. The end of the gangway stopped at the stern of 
the ship, which was opened up, revealing the large onboard car park. 
The cars from Ireland were still being deployed across a short steel 
ramp connecting the ship to the concrete dock. Kenny caught a glimpse 
of water beneath the ramp, a yellowish-brown layer of foam, churned 
from the ships propellers, bobbed sickeningly on the dirty water.

    The passengers on foot moved alongside the passengers in their 
rumbling automobiles up a section of concrete ramp next to a large 
terminal/customs building. The ramp turned sharply right, cutting 
underneath the building and forming a short tunnel, dim except for 
the sharp daylight at the end.

    When Kenny turned the corner he glanced first to find Clare and 
then noticed two things in the light at the tunnel's end: first, he 
saw that there wasn't a single border guard to check the entering 
travelers; second, he saw the tunnel split -- one larger branch for 
cars and a slightly narrower one for foot traffic. The path for the 
pedestrians ended in a bank of metal detectors. No guards were in 
sight at the present, but following Clare through those detectors 
would send off the alarms, and guards would come quickly. He made a 
snap decision and turned around, moving quickly back down the ramp, 
back to the ship. He glanced around quickly. No one watched. Taking 
the gun from his shoulder holster, he tossed it backhandedly into the 
foamy water at the ship's stern. That done, he moved even faster back 
up the ramp.
RUNE'S RAG                PAGE 32                     JAN 1994
    Clare had just passed between the metal detectors, and Kenny all 
but ran to follow. When from a side door in the tunnel out stepped a 
border guard who hastily blocked the tunnel to detain the nearest 
group of passengers and check passports. Another guard appeared to 
help the process. Kenny pushed as far ahead as he dared without 
drawing the guards' attention to himself. A minute later a tall guard 
with 5 o'clock shadow passed him through with little more than a 
cursory glance at his passport.

    Finally out of the tunnel, Kenny made towards three large busses, 
operated by the French Railroad, waiting to transport the passengers 
directly to the railroad terminal.

    Clare sat on the first bus which was now full, so Kenny found 
room on the second bus. Ten minutes later he was holding second 
class tickets to Paris and watched Clare, an overnight bag slung 
over her shoulder, board the train. He waited until the last possible 
moment, watching carefully, before he himself boarded the train. A 
conductor at the car door gave him a disgusted look as he slammed 
the door shut. Kenny walked through the passenger cars once to find 
where Clare sat, and found a seat in the very next car. The trip 
lasted three uneventful hours. Night had come by the time the train 
pulled into the Paris terminal.

    Grabbing his own overnight bag, Kenny followed Clare out of the 
terminal onto the busy Parisian streets. He'd follow her to whatever 
hotel she planned on staying in, find a place to stay himself, and 
then make that dreaded call to Control.

    Clare had stopped at a crosswalk, waiting with a group of people 
for a break in the heavy traffic. The odd yellow headlamps of the 
Parisian automobiles rushed by almost blurringly in the night. 
Kenny walked up and joined the group. He looked to Clare, standing 
so close to the speeding traffic . . . A single push from behind 
could end it all right here. It'd be easy to disappear in the 
confusion and shock that would follow.

    Kenny looked to the left, watching the oncoming traffic. 
He could do this.

    He looked back to Clare. She looked down at a small wristwatch 
on her left hand, almost impatiently. Then standing up on tip toes, 
she looked off to the right for traffic. "_She's checking the wrong 
way,_" thought Kenny, as he watched transfixed as the Irish girl 
stepped onto the street. The left side of her body suddenly lit up 
in a bright yellow cast from an auto which Kenny could not see 
directly because of the people blocking his view.

    Startled, Clare turned to see the approaching auto. Unable to 
act, she just stood there. She felt something at her left shoulder; 
her overnight bag fell from her right hand to the pavement. Her world 
was filled with yellow light, exhaust fumes, a blaring horn. Then 
sudden darkness, as someone pulled her back to the curb.
RUNE'S RAG                PAGE 33                     JAN 1994
    She felt a breeze as the auto sailed by only a foot away. A moment 
later, when her eyes had readjusted to the night, she looked into the 
face of her rescuer. It seemed a kind face, though it wore a startled 
look -- as must hers, she realized.

    "Are you OK, Miss?" he asked in English.

    He was Irish, like her. "Yes," she answered. "Yes, I think so."

    "Wait here. I'll get your bag."  He darted past her to the street, 
before the next auto came, and snatched up her overnight bag. It 
hadn't fared as well as she. It was torn open at the top, a white silk 
blouse inside had ugly black marks across the front, and her personal 
journal book was torn as well.
    
    She looked up into his face. "Thank you."

    He smiled briefly, almost a sad smile. "Let me escort you to 
your hotel."

    "I think I can manage."

    "I must insist," he said. "My name is Kenny."  He extended a 
hand to her.

    "Clare," she said, taking the offered hand.

    "We'll get a taxi, if your hotel is far."

    "Um . . . actually, I don't have one picked out yet."

    "No matter," he said. "I can recommend a couple. Reasonable, clean 
and neat -- like a slice of life from home. I'm sure you'll like it."

    "Depends on the slice, I think."

    "Only too true, Clare."

    On their way to the hotel they chatted for a time, but just as 
she was beginning to get comfortable with him and really start to 
enjoy the conversation, he seemed to withdraw. By the last five 
minutes of the taxi ride, hardly a word was spoken between them.

    At the hotel she stepped from the cab, turned, and shook 
hands with him once more.

    "I guess this is goodbye," she said. "Thank you again."

    "I'm glad I happened by."  He smiled and let her hand go.

    "So that's it," she thought, and taking her overnight bag, she 
walked to the hotel's door. She was almost inside when he called 
out to her. She waited to see what he would say.
RUNE'S RAG                PAGE 34                     JAN 1994
    Leaning out of the open window of the cab, he suggested they meet 
beneath the Eiffel Tower (if she thought she could find it on her own) 
in the afternoon, and he'd show her some of the better cafes of the city.

    "That might be nice," she said.

    "Tomorrow then . . . at . . . four?"

    "Ok."  She went inside.

                            *  *  *

    Kenny watched her disappear into the softly lit lobby, then 
asked the driver to take him to another hotel. Once in his room he 
sat down in an uncomfortable looking wooden chair and cursed himself 
as he stared at the telephone sitting quietly on the end table. He 
considered calling his Control and telling all the details; the 
bastard would love the irony of it. Kenny couldn't believe he had 
done it, even now. He had made direct contact with his target, and 
she was still alive. Control would perhaps point out how Kenny could 
use that to his advantage, but he didn't want an advantage over 
anything now -- he just wanted out of this whole business.

    He reached for the phone.

    He dialed a number in Dublin. A voice answered. "Yes."

    "It's me, in Paris now."

    "I see . . . how soon before you come back home?"

    "Ah, tomorrow night or the next. I can't say."

    "It should have been done by now, Kenny. We're counting on you. I 
am counting on you. You're not loosing your courage, are you?"

    "No."

    "You're not turning out to be like your father are you?"

    "No."

    "Then what's going on?"

    "I . . . I lost the hardware, at the border. And haven't gotten 
any good chances to tie things up here."

    "I see. Well, first thing you do, tomorrow morning, go and find 
yourself a good straight razor. A man isn't quite himself until he's 
had a good shave in the morning. A good sharp blade is what you need. 
Am I right?"

    "Yes."
RUNE'S RAG                PAGE 35                     JAN 1994
    "Then do it. You'd be surprised how much brighter the day will 
look after a good, close shave."

    "Right."

    "Kenny."

    "What?"

    ". . . Just do it, then you can come back home. If you don't do 
your job, you won't have many friends left back here. I won't be able 
to stand up for you, so just get it done."

    Kenny hung up the phone and went to bed. Somewhere around 2 in the 
morning he drifted into an uneasy sleep.

                              * * *

    At four the next day, he watched Clare arrive at the park, in the 
middle of which stands that majestic, if less than beautiful, tribute 
to engineering: the Eiffel Tower. 

    Kenny had shaved twice that day. Both times with his electric razor.

    He found her sitting on a bench near one of the tower's massive, 
supporting legs. After a simple hello, he showed her many of the places 
he had discovered when he was here in Paris a few years ago, on a true 
holiday. He almost enjoyed the day, but too many of his smiles were 
forced. Still, they had spent hours together before Kenny got the 
impression that Clare began to want the evening to end.

    The sun had set, as they walked along the Seine, very pretty 
at night with the streetlamps on the far bank reflecting off the 
water's surface. They stopped at one point along the stone embankment, 
and Kenny looked down at the dark water. He felt Clare's small hand 
sneak its way into his. He felt her closeness, smelled the sweet 
fragrance of her hair, heard her soft breathing. But he never would 
recall if her hand felt warm or cold in his.

    Just by their feet a set of stone stairs, built off of the 
embankment wall, led down to a small landing at the water's edge. It 
would be so easy to push her down those dangerous steps. No one was 
around to see.

    He turned to face her. "_Just do it,_" he heard Control in his 
head, "_then you can come back home._" He moved closer.

    "_Just do it,_" the words rang out.

    He reached for her. She closed her eyes and lifted her face, 
just like he saw her do on the ship.

    "I'm sorry," he said.
RUNE'S RAG                PAGE 36                     JAN 1994
    Her eyes blinked open, searching his face. Her arms came up, 
touching his own. She leaned forward to kiss him. Her lips pressed 
softly against his for a sweet moment.

    "I'm sorry, Clare," he said again, breaking the kiss, pushing 
her away -- not far, but a single step was all it took.

    Her foot found only air, and she stumbled backwards on the first 
stair. She grabbed for him, calling his name, but she fell, tumbling 
down the stone stairs. At the bottom she lay motionless.

    Kenny could hear his own pounding heart, his breathing harsh and 
heavy. But over that he heard another sound, and he could not mistake 
its source. From the bottom of the stairs he heard a soft groan.

    She still lived!  He raced down the steps to her curled form. Her 
eyes were closed. He saw blood near her temple. She looked so frail 
and broken. The water of the Seine lapped steadily against the small 
landing, hardly a foot from where she lay. She was light, and the 
water so near.

    "_Finish it Kenny,_" he could hear his Control's voice. "_Do 
you plan to turn out like your father? An informer like her? Betrayed 
us, Kenny, both of them!_"

    Kenny reached out for Clare. "I am not my father," he said aloud, 
and took Clare into his arms. Gently.

    "It hurts," she told him, her face tight with pain.

    "I know. I'm sorry. I wish it hadn't happened. I'll. . ."

    "Shh . . . Please, Kenny, even my head hurts."

    Kenny smiled a moment. She couldn't be as bad off as he had 
thought if she could joke with him like that. "She thinks it was 
an accident," he told himself, wanting to believe that she believed. 

    "We'll get you back to your hotel, and clean you up, and take 
things from there."  She didn't answer him.

    Carefully he picked her up and carried her up the stairs.

    "Set me down please, I think I'll walk. It's only my head that 
really hurts the most."

    "You're brave, or stubborn. I'm not sure which it is," he said, 
as he set her down gently, his hands resting lightly upon her upper 
arms in case she wanted support.

    She took a few painful steps and said, "See, I'm fine. Besides, 
if you carried me into the hotel in your arms, what would people think?"
RUNE'S RAG                PAGE 37                     JAN 1994
    "Clare," he said, "I'm not sure I care anymore what people think. 
I have more than enough to think about, myself."
Copyright 1994 Patrick A. Curry
=========================     # # #    ===============================  
Patrick Curry, a self proclaimed renaissance man (or at least professes 
that he was born in the wrong century), Patrick's latest brain child 
was the revolutionary concept of Call Faking, he denies any affiliation 
with such groups as the company that invented "The Clapper" tm. He's a 
sailor, writer of music, lyrics, poetry, and other wordstuff. Currently 
married to his BBS, he's seeking a good lawyer.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= 

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Submission Guidelines for RUNE'S RAG
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

   RUNE'S RAG -- Your best Electronic Literary Magazine

This electronic magazine (no paper save a tree) is RUNES'S RAG, 
a general interest magazine, published monthly (or as triannual 
whichever comes second). The issues, some with a small text reader, 
are displayed in READROOM.TOC (tm) format or ASCII format.

Guidelines:

RUNE'S RAG, %ARNOLD'S PLUTONOMIE$, LTD., P.O. Box 243, Greenville, PA
16125-0243. Phone: 1-412-LUV-RUNE. Editor, Evelyn Horine; Managing 
Editor, Rick Arnold. 92.3% freelance written. A monthly international 
electronic fiction and non-fiction magazine (save your tree), publishing 
the best in fiction, non-fiction, poetry, satire, reviews, religion, 
interviews (anything relevant to readers). . .  humor noire. Bio given, 
space permitting. Publishes within 3 months of acceptance. Reports in 4 
weeks on queries. Takes first North American Serial Rights. Pays 90 days 
after publication. Pays $1.00 per article. Length: 100-20,000 words (work 
over 10,000 words will be serialized).

SUPPORT AUTHORS and the ARTS -- Send donations to RUNE'S RAG to ensure 
continuation of this publication; monies, hardware, and/or software is 
accepted and may be tax deductible -- contact your tax advisor. Or,
you can take a subscription to RUNE'S RAG, see the file SUBSCRIP.TXT.
TIPS: Send your ms(s) by modem, First Preference, to: 1:2601/522 
1-412-LUV-RUNE  Fax: 1-412-588-7863, should be same number (try it). 
Second Preference Mail: Disk media: 360, 720, 1.2m, 1.4m. in unarced
/uncompressed format, PURE ASCII text format on disk media. LEAST 
Preferred medium: paper, however, if the ms is under 1,000 words -- it 
will be considered -- we hate to perform data entry. 
ENSURE you provide a contact BBS with Fido Node number for NetMail, or
other E-mail address, home phone and your Postal Address, and always 
send/include a SASE, *especially* if you can not receive Netmail. 

LAYOUT: Standard submission format, flush left margin, ragged right,
with 65 column max right margin, blank line between paragraphs, spell 
checked, edited, and proofed by YOU! Pure ASCII only, please. We do
virtually no editing to your ms, except for layout into the e-mag to
fit format needs.
RUNE'S RAG                PAGE 38                     JAN 1994
Rights: Copyright of each separate contributing article is held apart
from the collective work as a whole, and vests initially to the
author of the contributed article. The copyright holder of the 
collective work acquires the right of reproducing and distributing the 
contributed article, as part of the collective work, any revision of 
that collective work, and any collective work in the same series.
In other words: The Authors retain copyright to their work! And have
only sold the first serial rights for publication purposes.

 So dig out those moldy oldies, dust them off and submit.  The worst
thing that can happen is -- you could receive one more, but, highly
personalized rejection message.

  This electronic magazine will attempt to remain a vehicle for new
authors to demonstrate their works to their most valued critic -- the
Reader.  RUNE'S RAG is OUT_ware, a SHAREWARE concept, not Freeware, to 
the end user -- the Reader. If warranted, a semi-annual or annual may 
be produced in hardcopy form. The hardcopy issue will be marketed for 
sale and the proceeds will go towards supporting the continuation of 
publication and payment to authors.

  I hope to obtain grant monies, as well as solicit from patrons of the
arts, so we may be able to pay contributors a better rate. RUNE'S RAG 
will be released into as many bit streams as possible for the widest 
dissemination.                          

 RUNE'S RAG is a member of EPubNet, which supports Electronic Publishing.
For more information on EPubNet -- contact (via data) Mike Taylor @ 
(1:273/937) 215-923-8026 or N.L. Hargrove (1:317/317) 505-865-8385. 

SUBSCRIPTIONS: You can have RUNE'S RAG delivered to your doorstep --
on disk, monthly. You will also get a FREE Book or other electronic 
publications added to your monthly disk. The Book, usually one of the 
Classics, will be added to your disk FREE of charge.
=========================    -30-     ================================
                              fin
Copyright 1994 Arnold's Plutonomie$, Ltd., All Rights Reserved.
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

 Subscription Order Form -- Jan 1994

SUBSCRIPTIONS: You can have RUNE'S RAG delivered to your doorstep, 
on recycled disk -- MONTHLY. You will also get a FREE Book on disk 
and/or other electronic publications. The FREE Book, usually one of 
the Classics, will be added to YOUR disk FREE of charge!

SIZE:            5.25" Floppy       3.50" Flippy

DISK TYPE:      [  ] 360K DOS      [  ] 720K DOS
         
                [  ] 1.2M DOS      [  ] 1.44M DOS
COST: 

1 Month Test Subscription......... $ 8.00   [  ]

3 Month Subscription.............. $21.00   [  ]

6 Month Subscription.............. $40.00   [  ]

12 Month Subscription............. $69.95   [  ]

*NOTE: A 12 month Subscription includes a 6 month Preferred Member
Status on WRITERS BIZ BBS. FidoNet, EPubNet, Echos, Files, Game and
Mail Doors, and More, 60 minute session, 90 minutes daily.
 
Mail Check or 
Money Order 
and this form TO:     RUNE'S RAG              Data: (412) LUV-RUNE
                      P.O. Box 243,                 (Fido 1:2601/522)
                      Greenville, PA 16125-0243
                      USA
YOUR Address:

Full Name ___________________________________________________________

Company _____________________________________________________________

Address _____________________________________________________________

City ______________________________________  State/Prov______________

Zip/Postal Code ___________________________ Country_________________

Signature: _______________________________________________

PASSWORD ___________________ 
for WRITERS BIZ BBS if 12 month Subscription.
(use something unique, less than eight letters or numbers)

Prices and FREE offers subject to change. See current issue for details.
RUNE'S RAG is copyright 1994 Arnold's Plutonomie$, Ltd., 
ALL rights reserved. Call WRITERS BIZ - 1-412-588-7863 home of RUNE'S RAG
