http://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/35/pg35.html
Project Gutenberg's The Time Machine, by H. G. (Herbert George) Wells
Title: The Time Machine
Author: H. G. (Herbert George) Wells
III
'I told some of you last Thursday of the principles of the Time Machine, and showed you the actual thing itself, incomplete in the workshop. There it is now, a little travel-worn, truly; and one of the ivory bars is cracked, and a brass rail bent; but the rest of it's sound enough. I expected to finish it on Friday, but on Friday, when the putting together was nearly done, I found that one of the nickel bars was exactly one inch too short, and this I had to get remade; so that the thing was not complete until this morning. It was at ten o'clock to-day that the first of all Time Machines began its career. I gave it a last tap, tried all the screws again, put one more drop of oil on the quartz rod, and sat myself in the saddle. I suppose a suicide who holds a pistol to his skull feels much the same wonder at what will come next as I felt then. I took the starting lever in one hand and the stopping one in the other, pressed the first, and almost immediately the second. I seemed to reel; I felt a nightmare sensation of falling; and, looking round, I saw the laboratory exactly as before. Had anything happened? For a moment I suspected that my intellect had tricked me. Then I noted the clock. A moment before, as it seemed, it had stood at a minute or so past ten; now it was nearly half-past three!
'I drew a breath, set my teeth, gripped the starting lever with both hands, and went off with a thud. The laboratory got hazy and went dark. Mrs. Watchett came in and walked, apparently without seeing me, towards the garden door. I suppose it took her a minute or so to traverse the place, but to me she seemed to shoot across the room like a rocket. I pressed the lever over to its extreme position. The night came like the turning out of a lamp, and in another moment came to-morrow. The laboratory grew faint and hazy, then fainter and ever fainter. To-morrow night came black, then day again, night again, day again, faster and faster still. An eddying murmur filled my ears, and a strange, dumb confusedness descended on my mind.
'I am afraid I cannot convey the peculiar sensations of time travelling. They are excessively unpleasant. There is a feeling exactly like that one has upon a switchback—of a helpless headlong motion! I felt the same horrible anticipation, too, of an imminent smash. As I put on pace, night followed day like the flapping of a black wing. The dim suggestion of the laboratory seemed presently to fall away from me, and I saw the sun hopping swiftly across the sky, leaping it every minute, and every minute marking a day. I supposed the laboratory had been destroyed and I had come into the open air. I had a dim impression of scaffolding, but I was already going too fast to be conscious of any moving things. The slowest snail that ever crawled dashed by too fast for me. The twinkling succession of darkness and light was excessively painful to the eye. Then, in the intermittent darknesses, I saw the moon spinning swiftly through her quarters from new to full, and had a faint glimpse of the circling stars. Presently, as I went on, still gaining velocity, the palpitation of night and day merged into one continuous greyness; the sky took on a wonderful deepness of blue, a splendid luminous color like that of early twilight; the jerking sun became a streak of fire, a brilliant arch, in space; the moon a fainter fluctuating band; and I could see nothing of the stars, save now and then a brighter circle flickering in the blue.
'The landscape was misty and vague. I was still on the hill-side upon which this house now stands, and the shoulder rose above me grey and dim. I saw trees growing and changing like puffs of vapour, now brown, now green; they grew, spread, shivered, and passed away. I saw huge buildings rise up faint and fair, and pass like dreams. The whole surface of the earth seemed changed—melting and flowing under my eyes.
http://www.tv.com/shows/lost-in-space/the-reluctant-stowaway-96515/trivia/
tv.com
Lost in Space Season 1 Episode 1
The Reluctant Stowaway
Aired Wednesday 7:30 PM Sep 15, 1965 on CBS
QUOTES
Narrator: This is the beginning. This is the day. You are watching the unfolding of one of history's great adventures. Man's colonization of space. Beyond the stars.
From 6/22/2014 To 11/19/2014 is 150 days
From 11/19/2014 To 4/18/2015 is 150 days
http://www.springfieldspringfield.co.uk/view_episode_scripts.php?tv-show=the-last-ship-2014&episode=s01e01
Springfield! Springfield!
The Last Ship (2014)
Pilot: Phase Six
Rachel: You can just put that down over there.
Be careful.
That's delicate equipment.
I take it you're my new houseguest.
I'm Commander Chandler, ship's Captain.
From 9/15/1965 ( premiere US TV series "Lost in Space" & premiere US TV series "I Spy" & premiere US TV series "Green Acres" ) To 3/1/2015 is 18064 days
From 11/2/1965 ( my birth date in Antlers Oklahoma USA and my birthdate as the known official Deputy United States Marshal Kerry Wayne Burgess and active duty United States Marine Corps officer ) To 4/18/2015 is 18064 days
http://www.excite.com/tv/prog.jsp?id=EP019213490001&s=201503011900&sid=36009&sn=KAYUDT&st=201503012100&cn=103
excite tv
The Last Man on Earth (New)
103 KAYUDT: Sunday, March 1 9:00 PM [ Sunday 9 PM 01 March 2015 Pacific Time USA ]
Sitcom
Alive in Tucson; The Elephant in the Room
After a deadly virus sweeps the planet, Phil Miller searches for survivors; as he returns to his hometown, Phil starts to think he must be the last human on earth.
Cast: Will Forte, Kirsten Schaal Executive Producer(s): Will Forte, Chris Miller, Phil Lord, Seth Cohen
Original Air Date: Mar 01, 2015
Future Airings:
KAYUDT Sunday, March 1 9:00 PM Alive in Tucson; The Elephant in the Room
KAYUDT Saturday, March 7 7:00 PM Alive in Tucson; The Elephant in the Room
http://www.tv.com/shows/halt-and-catch-fire/close-to-the-metal-3034302/
tv.com
Halt and Catch Fire Season 1 Episode 4
Close to the Metal
Aired Sunday 10:00 PM Jun 22, 2014 on AMC
AIRED: 6/22/14
http://www.tv.com/shows/the-last-ship/pilot-phase-six-3032567/
tv.com
The Last Ship Season 1 Episode 1
Pilot - Phase Six
Aired Sunday 9:00 PM Jun 22, 2014 on TNT
AIRED: 6/22/14
2003 television miniseries "Battlestar Galactica" DVD video:
02:56:10
Number 6: Your escape is a temporary one at best. We will find you.
Gaius Baltar: Yeah, you can try. It's a big universe.
Number 6: You haven't addressed the real problem, of course.
Gaius Baltar: Yes, yes. There may be Cylon agents living among us, waiting to strike at any moment.
Number 6: Some may not even know they're Cylons at all. They could be sleeper agents programmed to perfectly impersonate human beings until activation.
Gaius Baltar: If there are Cylons aboard this ship, we'll find them.
Number 6: We? You're not on their side, Gaius.
Gaius Baltar: I am *not* on anybody's *side.*
JOURNAL ARCHIVE: - posted by H.V.O.M - Kerry Wayne Burgess 11:02 PM Pacific Time Spokane Valley Washington USA Saturday 22 November 2014 - http://hvom.blogspot.com/2014/11/battlestar-galactica.html
http://www.imdb.com/video/hulu/vi2308702233/
IMDb
The Internet Movie Database
Videos BETA > TV Episodes > Battlestar Galactica
Saga of a Star World, Part 2
Description: When the fleet stops at the planet Carillon to refuel and pick up supplies, a newly-elected member of the Council seizes power from Commander Adama.
Related Titles: Battlestar Galactica, Saga of a Star World
00:21:49
Athena - Battlestar Galactica bridge officer: Father? Father, are you all right?
Adama - Battlestar Galactica Commander - Council of the Twelve: If anyone amongst us can say that he's all right, after what has happened, I'd recommend them for catharsis treatment.
Athena - Battlestar Galactica bridge officer: That's not the Warrior I'm used to. Whatever happened to the joy of living to fight another day?
Adama - Battlestar Galactica Commander - Council of the Twelve: Ah, yes, the joy of living. You were aboard the Galactica. You didn't see them down there; their faces. The old, the young. Desperate. Begging - screaming - for a chance to come aboard. A chance to live. And there I was like God - passing out priorities as - as if they were tickets to a lottery.
[JOURNAL ARCHIVE 22 November 2014 excerpt ends]
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JOURNAL ARCHIVE: - posted by H.V.O.M - Kerry Wayne Burgess 11:02 PM Pacific Time Spokane Valley Washington USA Saturday 22 November 2014 - http://hvom.blogspot.com/2014/11/battlestar-galactica.html
http://www.oocities.org/elzj78/bsgminiseries.html
BATTLESTAR GALACTICA: Miniseries (2003)
Helo: That's six. How you comin' on that fuel line?
Boomer: Almost there. We'll be airborn pretty soon.
[JOURNAL ARCHIVE 22 November 2014 excerpt ends]
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Google Maps
I-405, Renton, Washington, United States
http://www.e-reading.org.ua/bookreader.php/80261/King_-_The_Stand.html
Stephen King
The Stand - The Complete & Uncut Edition
Chapter 23
Randall Flagg, the dark man, strode south on US 51, listening to the nightsounds that pressed close on both sides of this narrow road that would take him sooner or later out of Idaho and into Nevada. From Nevada he might go anywhere. From New Orleans to Nogales, from Portland, Oregon, to Portland, Maine, it was his country, and none knew or loved it better. He knew where the roads went, and he walked them at night. Now, an hour before dawn, he was somewhere between Grasmere and Riddle, west of Twin Falls, still north of the Duck Valley Reservation that spreads across two states. And wasn’t it fine?
He walked rapidly, rundown bootheels clocking against the paved surface of the road, and if car lights showed on the horizon he faded back and back, down over the soft shoulder to the high grass where the night bugs made their homes… and the car would pass him, the driver perhaps feeling a slight chill as if he had driven through an air pocket, his sleeping wife and children stirring uneasily, as if all had been touched with a bad dream at the same instant.
He walked south, south on US 51, the worn heels of his sharp-toed cowboy boots clocking on the pavement; a tall man of no age in faded, pegged jeans and a denim jacket. His pockets were stuffed with fifty different kinds of conflicting literature—pamphlets for all seasons, rhetoric for all reasons. When this man handed you a tract you took it no matter what the subject: the dangers of atomic power plants, the role played by the International Jewish Cartel in the overthrow of friendly governments, the CIA-Contra-cocaine connection, the farm workers’ unions, the Jehovah’s Witnesses (If You Can Answer These Ten Questions “Yes,” You Have Been SAVED!), the Blacks for Militant Equality, the Kode of the Klan. He had them all, and more, too. There was a button on each breast of his denim jacket. On the right, a yellow smile-face. On the left, a pig wearing a policeman’s cap. The legend was written beneath in red letters which dripped to simulate blood: HOW’S YOUR PORK?
He moved on, not pausing, not slowing, but alive to the night. His eyes seemed almost frantic with the night’s possibilities. There was a Boy Scout knapsack on his back, old and battered. There was a dark hilarity in his face, and perhaps in his heart, too, you would think—and you would be right. It was the face of a hatefully happy man, a face that radiated a horrible handsome warmth, a face to make waterglasses shatter in the hands of tired truck-stop waitresses, to make small children crash their trikes into board fences and then run wailing to their mommies with stake-shaped splinters sticking out of their knees. It was a face guaranteed to make barroom arguments over batting averages turn bloody.
http://www.e-reading.org.ua/bookreader.php/80261/King_-_The_Stand.html
Stephen King
The Stand - The Complete & Uncut Edition
Chapter 23
He hammered along, arms swinging by his sides. He was known, well known, along the highways in hiding that are traveled by the poor and the mad, by the professional revolutionaries and by those who have been taught to hate so well that their hate shows on their faces like harelips and they are unwanted except by others like them, who welcome them to cheap rooms with slogans and posters on the walls, to basements where lengths of sawed-off pipe are held in padded vises while they are stuffed with high explosives, to back rooms where lunatic plans are laid: to kill a Cabinet member, to kidnap the child of a visiting dignitary, or to break into a boardroom meeting of Standard Oil with grenades and machine guns and murder in the name of the people. He was known there, and even the maddest of them could only gaze upon his dark and grinning face at an oblique angle. The women he took to bed with him, even if they reduced intercourse to something as casual as getting a snack from the refrigerator, accepted him with a stiffening of the body, a turning away of countenance. They took him the way they might take a ram with golden eyes or a black dog—and when it was done they were cold, so cold, it seemed impossible they could ever be warm again. When he walked into a meeting the hysterical babble ceased—the backbiting, recriminations, accusations, the ideological rhetoric. For a moment there would be dead silence and they would start to turn to him and then turn away, as if he had come to them with some old and terrible engine of destruction cradled in his arms, something a thousand times worse than the plastic explosive made in the basement labs of renegade chemistry students or the black market arms obtained from some greedy army post supply sergeant. It seemed that he had come to them with a device gone rusty with blood and packed for centuries in the Cosmoline of screams but now ready again, carried to their meeting like some infernal gift, a birthday cake with nitroglycerine candles. And when the talk began again it would be rational and disciplined—as rational and disciplined as madmen can make it—and things would be agreed upon.
He rocked along, his feet easy in the boots, which were comfortably sprung in all the right places. His feet and these boots were old lovers. Christopher Bradenton in Mountain City knew him as Richard Fry. Bradenton was a conductor on one of the underground railway systems by which fugitives moved. Half a dozen different organizations, from the Weathermen to the Guevara Brigade, saw that Bradenton had money. He was a poet who sometimes taught Free University classes or traveled in the western states of Utah, Nevada, and Arizona, speaking to high school English classes, stunning middle-class boys and girls (he hoped) with the news that poetry was alive—narcoleptic, to be sure, but still possessed of a certain hideous vitality. He was in his late fifties now, but Bradenton had been dismissed from one California college twenty-some years ago for getting too chummy with the SDS. He had been busted in The Great Chicago Pig Convention of 1968, formed his ties to one radical group after another, first embracing the craziness of these groups, then being swallowed whole.
The dark man walked and smiled. Bradenton represented just one end of one conduit, and there were thousands of them—the pipes the crazies moved through, carrying their books and bombs. The pipes were interconnected, the signposts disguised but readable to the initiate. In New York he was known as Robert Franq, and his claim that he was a black man had never been disputed, although his skin was very light. He and a black veteran of Nam—the black had more than enough hate to make up for his missing left leg—had offed six cops in New York and New Jersey. In Georgia he was Ramsey Forrest, a distant descendant of Nathan Bedford Forrest, and in his white sheet he had participated in two rapes, a castration, and the burning of a nigger shanty town. But that had been long ago, in the early sixties, during the first civil rights surge. He sometimes thought that he might have been born in that strife. He certainly could not remember much that had happened to him before that, except that he came originally from Nebraska and that he had once attended high school classes with a red-haired, bandy-legged boy named Charles Starkweather. He remembered the civil rights marches of 1960 and 1961 better—the beatings, the night rides, the churches that had exploded as if some miracle inside them had grown too large to be contained. He remembered drifting down to New Orleans in 1962, and meeting a demented young man who was handing out tracts urging America to leave Cuba alone. That man had been a certain Mr. Oswald, and he had taken some of Oswald’s tracts and he still had a couple, very old and crumpled, in one of his many pockets. He had sat on a hundred different Committees of Responsibility. He had walked in demonstrations against the same dozen companies on a hundred different college campuses. He wrote the questions that most discomfited those in power when they came to lecture, but he never asked the questions himself; those power merchants might have seen his grinning, burning face as some cause for alarm and fled from the podium. Likewise he never spoke at rallies because the microphones would scream with hysterical feedback and circuits would blow. But he had written speeches for those who did speak, and on several occasions those speeches had ended in riots, overturned cars, student strike votes, and violent demonstrations. For a while in the early seventies he had been acquainted with a man named Donald DeFreeze, and had suggested that DeFreeze take the name Cinque. He had helped lay plans that resulted in the kidnapping of an heiress, and it had been he who suggested that the heiress be made crazy instead of simply ransomed. He had left the small Los Angeles house where DeFreeze and the others had fried not twenty minutes before the police moved in; he slunk away up the street, his bulging and dusty boots clocking on the pavement, a fiery grin on his face that made mothers grab up their children and pull them into the house, a grin that made pregnant women feel premature labor pains. And later, when a few tattered remnants of the group were swept up, all they knew was there had been someone else associated with the group, maybe someone important, maybe a hanger-on, a man of no age, a man called the Walkin Dude, or sometimes the Boogeyman.
He strode on at a steady, ground-eating pace. Two days ago he had been in Laramie, Wyoming, part of an ecotage group that had blown a power station. Today he was on US 51, between Grasmere and Riddle, on his way to Mountain City. Tomorrow he would be somewhere else. And he was happier than he had ever been, because—
He stopped.
Because something was coming. He could feel it, almost taste it on the night air. He could taste it, a sooty hot taste that came from everywhere, as if God was planning a cookout and all of civilization was going to be the barbecue. Already the charcoal was hot, white and flaky outside, as red as demons’ eyes inside. A huge thing, a great thing.
His time of transfiguration was at hand. He was going to be born for the second time, he was going to be squeezed out of the laboring cunt of some great sand-colored beast that even now lay in the throes of its contractions, its legs moving slowly as the birthblood gushed, its sun-hot eyes glaring into the emptiness.
He had been born when times changed, and the times were going to change again. It was in the wind, in the wind of this soft Idaho evening.
It was almost time to be reborn. He knew. Why else could he suddenly do magic?
- posted by H.V.O.M - Kerry Wayne Burgess 7:48 PM Pacific Time Spokane Valley Washington USA Thursday 26 February 2015
