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"You admit that I shan't do any good to Hubert," he said. "Why are you so anxious that I should get myself into trouble by interfering—unless it is that you want to be rid of me? Because if that's all, I can go at any time of my own free will."
"Why, you don't mean to say that you're going--that she's going----?"
They not only looked upon him as a thief and murderer, but also as a fool not fit to live. If he were guilty of the crimes Mason laid at his feet, then hanging was too mild a punishment for him. By the same token, if guilty, he was a fool to permit a notorious outlaw to dictate to him just what to confess and whom to implicate. And if he were innocent of the crimes he was even a greater fool for submitting to Mason’s demand and declaring in an affidavit that he, not Mason, was the guilty man.
"She thinks he'll be against it," Mrs Kenyon said timidly. "But nothing has been said to him as yet. She—she would like Hubert to go away—but I can't see how—even if we accepted...." She glanced at Arthur as she concluded.
Faces were thrust close to Jack. One man even struck a match the better to see.
Simon Great smiled. "I can answer that question honestly, Miss Grayling, because the news is due for release. No. WBM is pressing for entry of the Machine in the Interzonal Candidates' Tournament. They want a crack at the World's Championship."
Unless you are something of a musician yourself, you will probably never have heard the name of Julius Harrison, for though he has fame of a kind, and of the best kind, he is scarcely known to the man in the street. Just as Rossetti is primarily a poet for poets, so is Julius Harrison a musician for musicians. Only one word describes him: distinguished. Very distinguished he is, with the refinement and sensitiveness of a poet, the intuition of a novelist, and the waywardness of all men who allow themselves to be governed by impulse.
In the suburbs of Manchester these people abound. I know a man still in his twenties who keeps hens for what he calls “a hobby.” Among his hens he finds all the excitement his soul needs. The sheds in which they live form the boundaries of his imagination. I should esteem this man if he kicked against his destiny; but he loved it, until the Army conscripted him. God save the world from those who keep hens!
Herrell McCray was a navigator, which is to say, a man who has learned to trust the evidence of mathematics and instrument readings beyond the guesses of his "common sense." When Jodrell Bank, hurtling faster than light in its voyage between stars, made its regular position check, common sense was a liar. Light bore false witness. The line of sight was trustworthy directly forward and directly after—sometimes not even then—and it took computers, sensing their data through instruments, to comprehend a star bearing and convert three fixes into a position.
The style of the narrative might have been freer, and greater space might have been allotted to reflections on the inner connection of the whole subject, if I had had before me better preliminary studies in the history of botany; but as things are, I have found myself especially occupied in ascertaining questions of historical fact, in distinguishing true merit from undeserved reputation, in searching out the first beginnings of fruitful thoughts and observing their development, and in more than one case in producing lengthy refutations of wide-spread errors. These things could not be done within the allotted space without a certain dryness of style and manner, and I have often been obliged to content myself with passing allusions where detailed explanation might have been desired.
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