amodaresi/NoLiMa · Datasets at Hugging Face

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It seemed perfectly natural to be awakened in the morning by Mrs. Enderby’s hand on her shoulder, and to look up into Mrs. Enderby’s flashing black eyes. Lexy had gone to sleep dominated by the thought of that masterful woman. She vaguely remembered having dreamed of her, and when she opened her eyes—there she was.
“Get up!” said Mrs. Enderby in a low voice. “Go into Caroline’s room. When Annie comes with the breakfast tray, take it from her at the door. I have told her that Caroline is ill with a headache. You understand?”
“Yes, Mrs. Enderby,” answered Lexy.
She sprang out of bed and began to dress, filled with an unreasoning sense of haste. It wasn’t a dream, then—it was true. Caroline had gone, and there was something Lexy must do for her. She could not have explained what this something was, but it oppressed and worried her. She could not rid herself of the feeling that she was not being loyal to Caroline.
“I don’t care. I’m not going back there.” I could hear the hurt in her voice, but I was too angry to care.
“Good. Cause I’d miss you if you did.”
“No you wouldn’t. You’re just saying that.” I wasn’t mad at Monica, but she was there, so all that jittery anger went in her direction. I couldn’t seem to help myself.
“I don’t lie to you, Zen.”
“I’ll bet you do sometimes. People lie all the time.”
She poked a finger through the hole in her tights, actually noticing it for the first time. “You’re right. I might say ‘good morn- ing’ when it’s actually a crappy day, or ‘that’s interesting’ when you’re telling me something about computers that I don’t care about. Sometimes the stuff we say when it’s not that important is automatic, just social noise. But I don’t think I have ever lied to you about anything that really matters. And I do enjoy having you for a roomie.”
“Yeah, right. I bet it makes everything harder, having me around.”
She thought it over. “Yes and no. I worry more about some things, like whether you have enough friends and if you’re getting a good education because honestly, this program you’re in sounds pretty bad. I wonder it’s fair to you to have to sleep in an attic closet on a mat instead of in a real bed in a real bedroom, if I’m giving you good advice, if I’m around enough for someone who’s only nineteen. But if I wasn’t worried about that, I’d just be worried about other stuff.”
“Could we possibly have a little supper?” asked Lexy politely.
“Yes, indeed you can!” said Mrs. Royce. “Right away!” But still she lingered. “Mrs. Quelton’s brother!” she said. “Well, I never!”
Then she tore herself away, leaving Lexy and Captain Grey alone in the parlor.
“Seems to bother her,” he said. “I wonder why!”
Lexy was also wondering, and longing to ask questions, but she felt that it wouldn’t be good manners.
“People in small places like this are always awfully curious,” she observed.
“Yes,” said he; “and Muriel may be a bit eccentric, you know. I rather imagine she is, from her letters. I’ve never seen her.”
“Never seen your own sister!”
Lexy would certainly have asked questions now, manners or no manners, only that Mrs. Royce entered the room again, to fulfill her promise to make a “nice wood fire.” Amazing, the difference it made in the room! The ugliness and stiffness vanished in the ruddy glow. It seemed a delightful room, now, homely and welcoming and safe.
“It’s real cozy here,” said Mrs. Royce, “on a night like this. I’m sorry the dining room’s so kind of chilly.”
“I feel anxious about Miss Moran myself,” said Dr. Quelton. “I’m afraid she’s a very imprudent young lady.”
But Lexy said nothing.
The doctor’s library had a charm of its own. It was a big room, careless, a little shabby, but furnished in fastidious taste and with a friendly sort of comfort. A great wood fire was blazing on the hearth, and Dr. Quelton drew up an armchair before it for Lexy.
“There!” he said. “Now you’ll soon be warm and dry. Anna!”
“Yes, sir!” the parlor maid responded from the doorway.
“Please tell Mrs. Quelton that Miss Moran is here.”
“Yes, sir!” repeated the maid, and disappeared.
Lexy sat down. Captain Grey stood, facing her, leaning one elbow on the mantelpiece. Dr. Quelton paced up and down, his hands clasped behind him. He looked like a dignified middle-aged gentleman in his own home.
A door opened somewhere in the house, and for a moment Lexy heard the homely and... and a cheerful Irish voice inquiring about “them potaters.” It was surely a cheerful and pleasant enough setting; but Lexy did not find it so.
“You’ll be shot,” he said. “You must be . The alternative is that you’ll lead them back to me. And if you do that, the whole game is up—your family’s lives, my life, your life, the lives of all my assistants and friends will be forfeit. It will be terrible. They will destroy this place. They will destroy your home, too.”
She didn’t report for her digging. That was OK. Lots of people didn’t show up to dig on the days when they were feeling too weak to hold a shovel. She wouldn’t be missed.
She had the fastest shoes that the wizard could print for her on her feet, though she’d carefully covered them in grime and dirt so they wouldn’t stand out. And she’d taken an inhaler along that would make her faster still. He’d warned her to keep eating after she took the inhaler, or she’d starve to death before the day was out. The pockets on both thighs of her jumpsuit were stuffed with butterballs wrapped around sugared kidneys and livers, stuff that would sustain her no matter how many puffs she took.
"I don't think I'm ready for that kind of commitment yet."
"As you wish." He smiled with understanding. "But let me just say this. It's not going to be easy, but nothing I've seen so far suggests there's any physical reason why you can't have a child. We just need to get you in touch with the energy centers in your body. Rightness flows from that."
"You really think so?" In spite of myself I felt my hopes rising, even though I had definite mixed feelings about his kind of "holistic" medicine.
"I'm virtually certain. But whether you want to continue with the program or not is a decision you'll have to make for yourself."
"Well, maybe when I'm feeling better we can talk some more about it." I definitely needed to reconsider my game plan. "For now, I think I'd better just get my things and—"
"As you wish." He sighed. "Your clothes are in your room. There's a closet in the corner by the window."
I shot a glance at him. "Does my Blue Cross cover this?"
“On the house." A dismissive wave of his hand, and another kindly smile.
"Sounds like the nav station." He clicked open his seat belt. "Something . . . Who knows? If you'd be happier, I'll go up and look."
I felt my palms go cold. "Doesn't seem too much to ask, considering."
The world down below us was a hostile mélange of towering trees, all straining for the sky, while the ground itself was a dark tangle of ferns, lianas, strangler vines, creepers—among which lurked Olympic scorpions and some of the Earth's most poisonous snakes. If we had to set down here—I didn't even want to think about it. To lower a helicopter into the waves of flickering green below us would be to confront the hereafter.
In his case it wasn't just the weather. He was fidgeting like a trapped animal, giving me the distinct sense he was doing someone's invisible bidding and was terrified he might fail.
"Well, why don't you try and fix it?" Was he trying to act calm just to impress me? "Can't you bang on the panel or something?"
"Okay, okay, let me see what I can do. Jesus!" He edged back into the cockpit, next to Villatoro. The wind was shaking us so badly that, even bent over, he was having trouble keeping his balance. Then he halfheartedly slammed the dark instrument readouts with the heel of his open hand. When the effort produced no immediate electronic miracle, he settled into the copilot's seat.
I had to take a deep breath. Then before I could have second thoughts I started typing.
<zen> It's not that.
<zen> Okay, first, I like you a lot. Insert mushy stuff here. Just so you know. I always liked you, but I didn't know how much until you were in that shed and I had to find you and I wasn't sure if I could do it in time.
<wheeze> I was SO happy to hear your voice that night. Insert sheer terror here. But I always knew I liked you. From the start.
<zen> I don't always get people. Even myself. I mean, I got diagnosed as having "oppositional defiant disorder" when I was eleven .
<wheeze> That's a thing? There should be a Nobel Prize for oppositional defiance.
<zen> It was mean to ignore your messages.
It's just so weird being here. I never told you why I left this place. I never even told Monica the gory details. But brace yourself, here it comes .
<zen> When I was thirteen, I suddenly had boobs that were like bizarrely big and every- body laughed at me and the boys stared and gig- gled and it was awful, but I was used to it because everyone always thought I was weird.
“Man, those guys are sick,” Van said. He scratched his arms, which had long, bloody scratches on them. His clothes were so covered in scurf they looked like they’d been dusted with icing sugar.
“I thought it was pretty funny,” Felix said.
“Christ I’m hungry,” Van said, conversationally.
“Lucky for you, we’ve got all the packets we can eat,” Felix said.
“You’re too good to us grunts, Mr President,” Van said.
“Prime Minister,” he said. “And you’re no grunt, you’re the Deputy Prime Minister. You’re my designated ribbon-cutter and hander-out of oversized novelty checks.”
It buoyed both of their spirits. Watching Popovich and Rosenbaum go, it buoyed them up. Felix knew then that they’d all be going soon.
That had been pre-ordained by the fuel-supply, but who wanted to wait for the fuel to run out, anyway?
› half my crew split this morning.
Queen Kong typed. Google was holding up pretty good anyway, of course. The load on the servers was a lot lighter than it had been since the days when Google fit on a bunch of hand-built PCs under a desk at Stanford.
Rebecca stood still for a moment until uncle Jerry took his seat again at the table, and then, unable to contain herself longer, cried, "Oh, Mr. Cobb, I've run away from the brick house, and I want to go back to the farm. Will you keep me to-night and take me up to Maplewood in the stage? I haven't got any money for my fare, but I'll earn it somehow afterwards."
"Well, I guess we won't quarrel 'bout money, you and me," said the old man; "and we've never had our ride together, anyway, though we allers meant to go down river, not up."
"I shall never see Milltown now!" sobbed Rebecca.
"Come over here side o' me an' tell me all about it," coaxed uncle Jerry. "Jest set down on that there wooden cricket an' out with the whole story."
Rebecca leaned her aching head against Mr. Cobb's homespun knee and recounted the history of her trouble. Tragic as that history seemed to her passionate and undisciplined mind, she told it truthfully and without exaggeration.
Uncle Jerry coughed and stirred in his chair a good deal during Rebecca's recital, but he carefully concealed any undue feeling of sympathy, just muttering, "Poor little soul! We'll see what we can do for her!"
> How about a party?
he typed.
> How about if we all get together somewhere like we're teenagers having a party and that way we'll have a ready-made excuse if anyone shows up asking us what we're doing there?
> That would totally work! You're a genius, Jolu.
> I know it. And you're going to love this: I know just where to do it, too...
> Where?
> Sutro baths!
What would you do if you found out you had a spy in your midst? You could denounce him, put him up against the wall and take him out. But then you might end up with another spy in your midst, and the new spy would be more careful than the last one and maybe not get caught quite so readily.
Here's a better idea: start intercepting the spy's communications and feed him and his masters misinformation. Say his masters instruct him to gather information on your movements. Let him follow you around and take all the notes he wants, but steam open the envelopes that he sends back to HQ and replace his account of your movements with a fictitious one. If you want, you can make him seem erratic and unreliable so they get rid of him. You can manufacture crises that might make one side or the other reveal the identities of other spies. In short, you own them.
I goosed the sports car forward, the tires crunching on gravelly asphalt. As I came to the outskirts of the town, a familiar shape rose out of the darkness and distinguished itself: Tresting’s truck.
I stopped the car and slid out, drawing the Smith & Wesson. I reached out my other hand to press against Tresting’s hood. The engine was cold. He’d been here for a while already.
I recognized the silhouette and let my finger up off the trigger. “Tresting. Shit.”
He lowered his weapon at the same time I did. “Russell? What you doing here?”
“Backing you up.” I straightened, staying wary. “Checker called me in.”
He sucked in a breath. “Course he did.”
“What’s the situation?” I asked, keeping my eyes on the darkened buildings.
He turned back toward the town. “Ain’t rightly sure. Nothing here.”
My spine prickled. “What do you mean, nothing?”
“Been through the place three times,” Tresting said. “Was real leery of surprises the first time through, but...nothing.”
That didn’t make any sense. “What about the tracker?”
She was in her robe, and he was in jeans and a UCLA sweatshirt. He didn't have any gel in his hair, which was matted down by the knit cap he'd been wearing. He looked adorable.
"They fired me this morning," he said.
"Oh, hon --" she said.
"I would have quit," he said. "I'm outmatched."
She felt herself blush. Or was she flushing? She was suddenly aware of his smell, the boy smell, the smell that she could smell in his chest, in his scalp, in his tummy, lower... She straightened up and led him into the living room and...
"When do you fly back, then?" she said.
He looked at her, smiling. "I don't know," he said. "I haven't booked a ticket."

It seemed perfectly natural to be awakened in the morning by Mrs. Enderby’s hand on her shoulder, and to look up into Mrs. Enderby’s flashing black eyes. Lexy had gone to sleep dominated by the thought of that masterful woman. She vaguely remembered having dreamed of her, and when she opened her eyes—there she was.

“Get up!” said Mrs. Enderby in a low voice. “Go into Caroline’s room. When Annie comes with the breakfast tray, take it from her at the door. I have told her that Caroline is ill with a headache. You understand?”

“Yes, Mrs. Enderby,” answered Lexy.

She sprang out of bed and began to dress, filled with an unreasoning sense of haste. It wasn’t a dream, then—it was true. Caroline had gone, and there was something Lexy must do for her. She could not have explained what this something was, but it oppressed and worried her. She could not rid herself of the feeling that she was not being loyal to Caroline.

“I don’t care. I’m not going back there.” I could hear the hurt in her voice, but I was too angry to care.

“Good. Cause I’d miss you if you did.”

“No you wouldn’t. You’re just saying that.” I wasn’t mad at Monica, but she was there, so all that jittery anger went in her direction. I couldn’t seem to help myself.

“I don’t lie to you, Zen.”

“I’ll bet you do sometimes. People lie all the time.”

She poked a finger through the hole in her tights, actually noticing it for the first time. “You’re right. I might say ‘good morn- ing’ when it’s actually a crappy day, or ‘that’s interesting’ when you’re telling me something about computers that I don’t care about. Sometimes the stuff we say when it’s not that important is automatic, just social noise. But I don’t think I have ever lied to you about anything that really matters. And I do enjoy having you for a roomie.”

“Yeah, right. I bet it makes everything harder, having me around.”

She thought it over. “Yes and no. I worry more about some things, like whether you have enough friends and if you’re getting a good education because honestly, this program you’re in sounds pretty bad. I wonder it’s fair to you to have to sleep in an attic closet on a mat instead of in a real bed in a real bedroom, if I’m giving you good advice, if I’m around enough for someone who’s only nineteen. But if I wasn’t worried about that, I’d just be worried about other stuff.”

“Could we possibly have a little supper?” asked Lexy politely.

“Yes, indeed you can!” said Mrs. Royce. “Right away!” But still she lingered. “Mrs. Quelton’s brother!” she said. “Well, I never!”

Then she tore herself away, leaving Lexy and Captain Grey alone in the parlor.

“Seems to bother her,” he said. “I wonder why!”

Lexy was also wondering, and longing to ask questions, but she felt that it wouldn’t be good manners.

“People in small places like this are always awfully curious,” she observed.

“Yes,” said he; “and Muriel may be a bit eccentric, you know. I rather imagine she is, from her letters. I’ve never seen her.”

“Never seen your own sister!”

Lexy would certainly have asked questions now, manners or no manners, only that Mrs. Royce entered the room again, to fulfill her promise to make a “nice wood fire.” Amazing, the difference it made in the room! The ugliness and stiffness vanished in the ruddy glow. It seemed a delightful room, now, homely and welcoming and safe.

“It’s real cozy here,” said Mrs. Royce, “on a night like this. I’m sorry the dining room’s so kind of chilly.”

“I feel anxious about Miss Moran myself,” said Dr. Quelton. “I’m afraid she’s a very imprudent young lady.”

But Lexy said nothing.

The doctor’s library had a charm of its own. It was a big room, careless, a little shabby, but furnished in fastidious taste and with a friendly sort of comfort. A great wood fire was blazing on the hearth, and Dr. Quelton drew up an armchair before it for Lexy.

“There!” he said. “Now you’ll soon be warm and dry. Anna!”

“Yes, sir!” the parlor maid responded from the doorway.

“Please tell Mrs. Quelton that Miss Moran is here.”

“Yes, sir!” repeated the maid, and disappeared.

Lexy sat down. Captain Grey stood, facing her, leaning one elbow on the mantelpiece. Dr. Quelton paced up and down, his hands clasped behind him. He looked like a dignified middle-aged gentleman in his own home.

A door opened somewhere in the house, and for a moment Lexy heard the homely and... and a cheerful Irish voice inquiring about “them potaters.” It was surely a cheerful and pleasant enough setting; but Lexy did not find it so.

“You’ll be shot,” he said. “You must be . The alternative is that you’ll lead them back to me. And if you do that, the whole game is up—your family’s lives, my life, your life, the lives of all my assistants and friends will be forfeit. It will be terrible. They will destroy this place. They will destroy your home, too.”

She didn’t report for her digging. That was OK. Lots of people didn’t show up to dig on the days when they were feeling too weak to hold a shovel. She wouldn’t be missed.

She had the fastest shoes that the wizard could print for her on her feet, though she’d carefully covered them in grime and dirt so they wouldn’t stand out. And she’d taken an inhaler along that would make her faster still. He’d warned her to keep eating after she took the inhaler, or she’d starve to death before the day was out. The pockets on both thighs of her jumpsuit were stuffed with butterballs wrapped around sugared kidneys and livers, stuff that would sustain her no matter how many puffs she took.

"I don't think I'm ready for that kind of commitment yet."

"As you wish." He smiled with understanding. "But let me just say this. It's not going to be easy, but nothing I've seen so far suggests there's any physical reason why you can't have a child. We just need to get you in touch with the energy centers in your body. Rightness flows from that."

"You really think so?" In spite of myself I felt my hopes rising, even though I had definite mixed feelings about his kind of "holistic" medicine.

"I'm virtually certain. But whether you want to continue with the program or not is a decision you'll have to make for yourself."

"Well, maybe when I'm feeling better we can talk some more about it." I definitely needed to reconsider my game plan. "For now, I think I'd better just get my things and—"

"As you wish." He sighed. "Your clothes are in your room. There's a closet in the corner by the window."

I shot a glance at him. "Does my Blue Cross cover this?"

“On the house." A dismissive wave of his hand, and another kindly smile.

"Sounds like the nav station." He clicked open his seat belt. "Something . . . Who knows? If you'd be happier, I'll go up and look."

I felt my palms go cold. "Doesn't seem too much to ask, considering."

The world down below us was a hostile mélange of towering trees, all straining for the sky, while the ground itself was a dark tangle of ferns, lianas, strangler vines, creepers—among which lurked Olympic scorpions and some of the Earth's most poisonous snakes. If we had to set down here—I didn't even want to think about it. To lower a helicopter into the waves of flickering green below us would be to confront the hereafter.

In his case it wasn't just the weather. He was fidgeting like a trapped animal, giving me the distinct sense he was doing someone's invisible bidding and was terrified he might fail.

"Well, why don't you try and fix it?" Was he trying to act calm just to impress me? "Can't you bang on the panel or something?"

"Okay, okay, let me see what I can do. Jesus!" He edged back into the cockpit, next to Villatoro. The wind was shaking us so badly that, even bent over, he was having trouble keeping his balance. Then he halfheartedly slammed the dark instrument readouts with the heel of his open hand. When the effort produced no immediate electronic miracle, he settled into the copilot's seat.

I had to take a deep breath. Then before I could have second thoughts I started typing.

<zen> It's not that.

<zen> Okay, first, I like you a lot. Insert mushy stuff here. Just so you know. I always liked you, but I didn't know how much until you were in that shed and I had to find you and I wasn't sure if I could do it in time.

<wheeze> I was SO happy to hear your voice that night. Insert sheer terror here. But I always knew I liked you. From the start.

<zen> I don't always get people. Even myself. I mean, I got diagnosed as having "oppositional defiant disorder" when I was eleven .

<wheeze> That's a thing? There should be a Nobel Prize for oppositional defiance.

<zen> It was mean to ignore your messages.

It's just so weird being here. I never told you why I left this place. I never even told Monica the gory details. But brace yourself, here it comes .

<zen> When I was thirteen, I suddenly had boobs that were like bizarrely big and every- body laughed at me and the boys stared and gig- gled and it was awful, but I was used to it because everyone always thought I was weird.

“Man, those guys are sick,” Van said. He scratched his arms, which had long, bloody scratches on them. His clothes were so covered in scurf they looked like they’d been dusted with icing sugar.

“I thought it was pretty funny,” Felix said.

“Christ I’m hungry,” Van said, conversationally.

“Lucky for you, we’ve got all the packets we can eat,” Felix said.

“You’re too good to us grunts, Mr President,” Van said.

“Prime Minister,” he said. “And you’re no grunt, you’re the Deputy Prime Minister. You’re my designated ribbon-cutter and hander-out of oversized novelty checks.”

It buoyed both of their spirits. Watching Popovich and Rosenbaum go, it buoyed them up. Felix knew then that they’d all be going soon.

That had been pre-ordained by the fuel-supply, but who wanted to wait for the fuel to run out, anyway?

› half my crew split this morning.

Queen Kong typed. Google was holding up pretty good anyway, of course. The load on the servers was a lot lighter than it had been since the days when Google fit on a bunch of hand-built PCs under a desk at Stanford.

Rebecca stood still for a moment until uncle Jerry took his seat again at the table, and then, unable to contain herself longer, cried, "Oh, Mr. Cobb, I've run away from the brick house, and I want to go back to the farm. Will you keep me to-night and take me up to Maplewood in the stage? I haven't got any money for my fare, but I'll earn it somehow afterwards."

"Well, I guess we won't quarrel 'bout money, you and me," said the old man; "and we've never had our ride together, anyway, though we allers meant to go down river, not up."

"I shall never see Milltown now!" sobbed Rebecca.

"Come over here side o' me an' tell me all about it," coaxed uncle Jerry. "Jest set down on that there wooden cricket an' out with the whole story."

Rebecca leaned her aching head against Mr. Cobb's homespun knee and recounted the history of her trouble. Tragic as that history seemed to her passionate and undisciplined mind, she told it truthfully and without exaggeration.

Uncle Jerry coughed and stirred in his chair a good deal during Rebecca's recital, but he carefully concealed any undue feeling of sympathy, just muttering, "Poor little soul! We'll see what we can do for her!"

> How about a party?

he typed.

> How about if we all get together somewhere like we're teenagers having a party and that way we'll have a ready-made excuse if anyone shows up asking us what we're doing there?

> That would totally work! You're a genius, Jolu.

> I know it. And you're going to love this: I know just where to do it, too...

> Where?

> Sutro baths!

What would you do if you found out you had a spy in your midst? You could denounce him, put him up against the wall and take him out. But then you might end up with another spy in your midst, and the new spy would be more careful than the last one and maybe not get caught quite so readily.

Here's a better idea: start intercepting the spy's communications and feed him and his masters misinformation. Say his masters instruct him to gather information on your movements. Let him follow you around and take all the notes he wants, but steam open the envelopes that he sends back to HQ and replace his account of your movements with a fictitious one. If you want, you can make him seem erratic and unreliable so they get rid of him. You can manufacture crises that might make one side or the other reveal the identities of other spies. In short, you own them.

I goosed the sports car forward, the tires crunching on gravelly asphalt. As I came to the outskirts of the town, a familiar shape rose out of the darkness and distinguished itself: Tresting’s truck.

I stopped the car and slid out, drawing the Smith & Wesson. I reached out my other hand to press against Tresting’s hood. The engine was cold. He’d been here for a while already.

I recognized the silhouette and let my finger up off the trigger. “Tresting. Shit.”

He lowered his weapon at the same time I did. “Russell? What you doing here?”

“Backing you up.” I straightened, staying wary. “Checker called me in.”

He sucked in a breath. “Course he did.”

“What’s the situation?” I asked, keeping my eyes on the darkened buildings.

He turned back toward the town. “Ain’t rightly sure. Nothing here.”

My spine prickled. “What do you mean, nothing?”

“Been through the place three times,” Tresting said. “Was real leery of surprises the first time through, but...nothing.”

That didn’t make any sense. “What about the tracker?”

She was in her robe, and he was in jeans and a UCLA sweatshirt. He didn't have any gel in his hair, which was matted down by the knit cap he'd been wearing. He looked adorable.

"They fired me this morning," he said.

"Oh, hon --" she said.

"I would have quit," he said. "I'm outmatched."

She felt herself blush. Or was she flushing? She was suddenly aware of his smell, the boy smell, the smell that she could smell in his chest, in his scalp, in his tummy, lower... She straightened up and led him into the living room and...

"When do you fly back, then?" she said.

He looked at her, smiling. "I don't know," he said. "I haven't booked a ticket."