Today's Featured Title Foundation and Empire (Foundation Novels) by Isaac Asimov ISBN / ASIN: 0553293370 Chapter One BEL RIOSE. . . . In his relatively short career, Riose earned the title of "The Last of the Imperials" and earned it well. A study of his campaigns reveals him to be the equal of Peurifoy in strategic ability and his superior perhaps in his ability to handle men. That he was born in the days of the decline of Empire made it all but impossible for him to equal Peurifoy's record as a conqueror. Yet he had his chance when, the first of the Empire's generals to do so, he faced the Foundation squarely. . . . encyclopedia galactica* 1 SEARCH FOR MAGICIANS Bel Riose traveled without escort, which is not what court etiquette prescribes for the head of a fleet stationed in a yet-sullen stellar system on the Marches of the Galactic Empire. But Bel Riose was young and energetic-energetic enough to be sent as near the end of the universe as possible by an unemotional and calculating court-and curious besides. Strange and improbable tales fancifully repeated by hundreds and murkily known to thousands intrigued the last faculty; the possibility of a military venture engaged the other two. The combination was overpowering. He was out of the dowdy ground-car he had appropriated and at the door of the fading mansion that was his destination. He waited. The photonic eye that spanned the doorway was alive, but when the door opened it was by hand. Bel Riose smiled at the old man. "I am Riose-" "I recognize you." The old man remained stiffly and unsurprised in his place. "Your business?" Riose withdrew a step in a gesture of submission. "One of peace. If you are Ducem Barr, I ask the favor of conversation." Ducem Barr stepped aside and in the interior of the house the walls glowed into life. The general entered into daylight. He touched the wall of the study, then stared at his fingertips. "You have this on Siwenna?" Barr smiled thinly. "Not elsewhere, I believe. I keep this in repair myself as well as I can. I must apologize for your wait at the door. The automatic device registers the presence of a visitor but will no longer open the door." "Your repairs fall short?" The general's voice was faintly mocking. "Parts are no longer available. If you will sit, sir. You drink tea?" "On Siwenna? My good sir, it is socially impossible not to drink it here." The old patrician retreated noiselessly with a slow bow that was part of the ceremonious legacy left by the aristocracy of the last century's better days. Riose looked after his host's departing figure, and his studied urbanity grew a bit uncertain at the edges. His education had been purely military; his experience likewise. He had, as the cliche has it, faced death many times; but always death of a very familiar and tangible nature. Consequently, there is no inconsistency in the fact that the idolized lion of the Twentieth Fleet felt chilled in the suddenly musty atmosphere of an ancient room. The general recognized the small black-ivroid boxes that lined the shelves to be books. Their titles were unfamiliar. He guessed that the large structure at one end of the room was the receiver that transmuted the books into sight-and-sound on demand. He had never seen one in operation; but he had heard of them. Once he had been told that long before, during the golden ages when the Empire had been co-extensive with the entire Galaxy, nine houses out of every ten had such receivers-and such rows of books. But there were borders to watch now; books were for old men. And half the stories told about the old days were mythical anyway. More than half. The tea arrived, and Riose seated himself. Ducem Barr lifted his cup. "To your honor." "Thank you. To yours." Ducem Barr said deliberately, "You are said to be young. Thirty-five?" "Near enough. Thirty-four." "In that case," said Barr, with soft emphasis, "I could not begin better than by informing you regretfully that I am not in the possession of love charms, potions, or philtres. Nor am I in the least capable of influencing the favors of any young lady as may appeal to you." "I have no need of artificial aids in that respect, sir." The complacency undeniably present in the general's voice was stirred with amusement. "Do you receive many requests for such commodities?" "Enough. Unfortunately, an uninformed public tends to confuse scholarship with magicianry, and love life seems to be that factor which requires the largest quantity of magical tinkering." "And so would seem most natural. But I differ. I connect scholarship with nothing but the means of answering difficult questions." The Siwennian considered somberly, "You may be as wrong as they!" "That may turn out or not." The young general set down his cup in its flaring sheath and it refilled. He dropped the offered flavor-capsule into it with a small splash. "Tell me then, patrician, who are the magicians? The real ones." Barr seemed startled at a title long unused. He said, "There are no magicians." "But people speak of them. Siwenna crawls with the tales of them. There are cults being built about them. There is some strange connection between it and those groups among your countrymen who dream and drivel of ancient days and what they call liberty and autonomy. Eventually the matter might become a danger to the State." The old man shook his head. "Why ask me? Do you smell rebellion, with myself at the head?" Riose shrugged, "Never. Never. Oh, it is not a thought completely ridiculous. Your father was an exile in his day; you yourself a patriot and a chauvinist in yours. It is indelicate in me as a guest to mention it, but my business here requires it. And yet a conspiracy now? I doubt it. Siwenna has had the spirit beat out of it these three generations." The old man replied with difficulty, "I shall be as indelicate a host as you a guest. I shall remind you that once a viceroy thought as you did of the spiritless Siwennians. By the orders of that viceroy my father became a fugitive pauper, my brothers martyrs, and my sister a suicide. Yet that viceroy died a death sufficiently horrible at the hands of these same slavish Siwennians." "Ah, yes, and there you touch nearly on something I could wish to say. For three years the mysterious death of that viceroy has been no mystery to me. There was a young soldier of his personal guard whose actions were of interest. You were that soldier, but there is no need of details, I think." Barr was quiet. "None. What do you propose?" "That you answer my questions." "Not under threats. I am old enough for life not to mean particularly overmuch." "My good sir, these are hard times," said Riose, with meaning, "and you have children and friends. You have a country for which you have mouthed phrases of love and folly in the past. Come, if I should decide to use force, my aim would not be so poor as to strike you." Barr said coldly, "What do you want?" Riose held the empty cup as he spoke. "Patrician, listen to me. These are days when the most successful soldiers are those whose function is to lead the dress parades that wind through the imperial palace grounds on feast days and to escort the sparkling pleasure ships that carry His Imperial Splendor to the summer planets. I . . . I am a failure. I am a failure at thirty-four, and I shall stay a failure. Because, you see, I like to fight. "That's why they sent me here. I'm too troublesome at court. I don't fit in with the etiquette. I offend the dandies and the lord admirals, but I'm too good a leader of ships and men to be disposed of shortly by being marooned in space. So Siwenna is the substitute. It's a frontier world; a rebellious and a barren province. It is far away, far enough away to satisfy all. "And so I moulder. There are no rebellions to stamp down, and the border viceroys do not revolt lately; at least, not since His Imperial Majesty's late father of glorious memory made an example of Mountel of Paramay." "A strong Emperor," muttered Barr. "Yes, and we need more of them. He is my master; remember that. These are his interests I guard." Barr shrugged unconcernedly. "How does all this relate to the subject?" "I'll show you in two words. The magicians I've mentioned come from beyond-out there beyond the frontier guards, where the stars are scattered thinly-" " 'Where the stars are scattered thinly,' " quoted Barr, " 'And the cold of space seeps in.' " "Is that poetry?" Riose frowned. Verse seemed frivolous at the moment. "In any case, they're from the Periphery-from the only quarter where I am free to fight for the glory of the Emperor." "And thus serve His Imperial Majesty's interests and satisfy your own love of a good fight." "Exactly. But I must know what I fight; and there you can help." "How do you know?" Riose nibbled casually at a cakelet. "Because for three years I have traced every rumor, every myth, every breath concerning the magicians-and of all the library of information I have gathered, only two isolated facts are unanimously agreed upon, and are hence certainly true. The first is that the magicians come from the edge of the Galaxy opposite Siwenna; the second is that your father once met a magician, alive and actual, and spoke with him." The aged Siwennian stared unblinkingly, and Riose continued, "You had better tell me what you know-" Barr said thoughtfully, "It would be interesting to tell you certain things. It would be a psychohistoric experiment of my own." "What kind of experiment?" "Psychohistoric." The old man had an unpleasant edge to his smile. Then, crisply, "You'd better have more tea. I'm going to make a bit of a speech." He leaned far back into the soft cushions of his chair. The wall-lights had softened to a pink-ivory glow, which mellowed even the soldier's hard profile. Ducem Barr began, "My own knowledge is the result of two accidents: the accidents of being born the son of my father, and of being born the native of my country. It begins over forty years ago, shortly after the great Massacre, when my father was a fugitive in the forests of the South, while I was a gunner in the viceroy's personal fleet. This same viceroy, by the way, who had ordered the Massacre, and who died such a cruel death thereafter." Barr smiled grimly, and continued, "My father was a patrician of the Empire and a senator of Siwenna. His name was Onum Barr." Riose interrupted impatiently, "I know the circumstances of his exile very well. You needn't elaborate upon it." The Siwennian ignored him and proceeded without deflection. "During his exile a wanderer came upon him; a merchant from the edge of the Galaxy; a young man who spoke a strange accent, knew nothing of recent Imperial history, and who was protected by an individual force-shield." "An individual force-shield?" Riose glared. "You speak extravagance. What generator could be powerful enough to condense a shield to the size of a single man? By the Great Galaxy, did he carry five thousand myria-tons of nuclear power-source about with him on a little wheeled gocart?" Barr said quietly, "This is the magician of whom you hear whispers, stories and myths. The name 'magician' is not lightly earned. He carried no generator large enough to be seen, but not the heaviest weapon you can carry in your hand would have as much as creased the shield he bore." "Is this all the story there is? Are the magicians born of maunderings of an old man broken by suffering and exile?" "The story of the magicians antedated even my father, sir. And the proof is more concrete. After leaving my father, this merchant that men call a magician visited a tech-man at the city to which my father had guided him, and there he left a shield-generator of the type he wore. That generator was retrieved by my father after his return from exile upon the execution of the bloody viceroy. It took a long time to find- "The generator hangs on the wall behind you, sir. It does not work. It never worked but for the first two days; but if you'll look at it, you will see that no one in the Empire ever designed it." Bel Riose reached for the belt of linked metal that clung to the curved wall. It came away with a little sucking noise as the tiny adhesion-field broke at the touch of his hand. The ellipsoid at the apex of the belt held his attention. It was the size of a walnut. "This-" he said. "Was the generator?" nodded Barr. "But it was the generator. The secret of its workings are beyond discovery now. Sub-electronic investigations have shown it to be fused into a single lump of metal and not all the most careful study of the diffraction patterns have sufficed to distinguish the discrete parts that had existed before fusion." "Then your 'proof' still lingers on the frothy border of words backed by no concrete evidence." Barr shrugged. "You have demanded my knowledge of me and threatened its extortion by force. If you choose to meet it with skepticism, what is that to me? Do you want me to stop?" "Go on!" said the general, harshly. "I continued my father's researches after he died, and then the second accident I mentioned came to help me, for Siwenna was well known to Hari Seldon." "And who is Hari Seldon?" "Hari Seldon was a scientist of the reign of the Emperor, Daluben IV. He was a psychohistorian; the last and greatest of them all. He once visited Siwenna, when Siwenna was a great commercial center, rich in the arts and sciences." "Hmph," muttered Riose, sourly, "where is the stagnant planet that does not claim to have been a land of overflowing wealth in older days?" "The days I speak of are the days of two centuries ago, when the Emperor yet ruled to the uttermost star; when Siwenna was a world of the interior and not a semi-barbarian border province. In those days, Hari Seldon foresaw the decline of Imperial power and the eventual barbarization of the entire Galaxy." Riose laughed suddenly. "He foresaw that? Then he foresaw wrong, my good scientist. I suppose you call yourself that. Why, the Empire is more powerful now than it has been in a millennium. Your old eyes are blinded by the cold bleakness of the border. (Continues...)

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The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy

Science Fiction Nov. 26, 2012

Today's Featured Title by Douglas Adams ISBN / ASIN: 0345418913 Chapter One  The house stood on a slight rise just on the edge of the village. It stood on its own and looked out over a broad spread of West Country farmland. Not a remarkable house by any means—it was about thirty years old, squattish, squarish, made of brick, and had four windows set in the front of a size and proportion which more or less exactly failed to please the eye. The only person for whom the house was in any way special was Arthur Dent, and that was only because it happened to be the one he lived in. He had lived in it for about three years, ever since he had moved out of London because it made him nervous and irritable. He was about thirty as well, tall, dark-haired and never quite at ease with himself. The thing that used to worry him most was the fact that people always used to ask him what he was looking so worried about. He worked in local radio which he always used to tell his friends was a lot more interesting than they probably thought. It was, too—most of his friends worked in advertising. On Wednesday night it had rained very heavily, the lane was wet and muddy, but the Thursday morning sun was bright and clear as it shone on Arthur Dent’s house for what was to be the last time. It hadn’t properly registered yet with Arthur that the council wanted to knock it down and build a bypass instead. *  *  * At eight o’clock on Thursday morning Arthur didn’t feel very good. He woke up blearily, got up, wandered blearily round his room, opened a window, saw a bulldozer, found his slippers, and stomped off to the bathroom to wash. Toothpaste on the brush—so. Scrub. Shaving mirror—pointing at the ceiling. He adjusted it. For a moment it reflected a second bulldozer through the bathroom window. Properly adjusted, it reflected Arthur Dent’s bristles. He shaved them off, washed, dried and stomped off to the kitchen to find something pleasant to put in his mouth. Kettle, plug, fridge, milk, coffee. Yawn. The word bulldozer wandered through his mind for a moment in search of something to connect with. The bulldozer outside the kitchen window was quite a big one. He stared at it. “Yellow,” he thought, and stomped off back to his bedroom to get dressed. Passing the bathroom he stopped to drink a large glass of water, and another. He began to suspect that he was hung over. Why was he hung over? Had he been drinking the night be- fore? He supposed that he must have been. He caught a glint in the shaving mirror. “Yellow,” he thought, and stomped on to the bedroom. He stood and thought. The pub, he thought. Oh dear, the pub. He vaguely remembered being angry, angry about something that seemed important. He’d been telling people about it, telling people about it at great length, he rather suspected: his clearest visual recollection was of glazed looks on other people’s faces. Something about a new bypass he’d just found out about. It had been in the pipeline for months only no one seemed to have known about it. Ridiculous. He took a swig of water. It would sort itself out, he’d decided, no one wanted a bypass, the council didn’t have a leg to stand on. It would sort itself out. God, what a terrible hangover it had earned him though. He looked at himself in the wardrobe mirror. He stuck out his tongue. “Yellow,” he thought. The word yellow wandered through his mind in search of something to connect with. Fifteen seconds later he was out of the house and lying in front of a big yellow bulldozer that was advancing up his garden path. Mr. L. Prosser was, as they say, only human. In other words he was a carbon-based bipedal life form descended from an ape. More specifically he was forty, fat and shabby and worked for the local council. Curiously enough, though he didn’t know it, he was also a direct male-line descendant of Genghis Khan, though intervening generations and racial mixing had so juggled his genes that he had no discernible Mongoloid characteristics, and the only vestiges left in Mr. L. Prosser of his mighty ancestry were a pronounced stoutness about the tum and a predilection for little fur hats. He was by no means a great warrior; in fact he was a nervous, worried man. Today he was particularly nervous and worried because something had gone seriously wrong with his job, which was to see that Arthur Dent’s house got cleared out of the way before the day was out. “Come off it, Mr. Dent,” he said, “you can’t win, you know. You can’t lie in front of the bulldozer indefinitely.” He tried to make his eyes blaze fiercely but they just wouldn’t do it. Arthur lay in the mud and squelched at him. “I’m game,” he said, “we’ll see who rusts first.” “I’m afraid you’re going to have to accept it,” said Mr. Prosser, gripping his fur hat and rolling it round the top of his head; “this bypass has got to be built and it’s going to be built!” “First I’ve heard of it,” said Arthur, “why’s it got to be built?” Mr. Prosser shook his finger at him for a bit, then stopped and put it away again. “What do you mean, why’s it got to be built?” he said. “It’s a bypass. You’ve got to build bypasses.” Bypasses are devices that allow some people to dash from point A to point B very fast while other people dash from point B to point A very fast. People living at point C, being a point directly in between, are often given to wonder what’s so great about point A that so many people from point B are so keen to get there, and what’s so great about point B that so many people from point A are so keen to get there. They often wish that people would just once and for all work out where the hell they wanted to be. Mr. Prosser wanted to be at point D. Point D wasn’t anywhere in particular, it was just any convenient point a very long way from points A, B and C. He would have a nice little cottage at point D, with axes over the door, and spend a pleasant amount of time at point E, which would be the nearest pub to point D. His wife of course wanted climbing roses, but he wanted axes. He didn’t know why—he just liked axes. He flushed hotly under the derisive grins of the bulldozer drivers. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, but it was equally uncomfortable on each. Obviously somebody had been appallingly incompetent and he hoped to God it wasn’t him. Mr. Prosser said, “You were quite entitled to make any suggestions or protests at the appropriate time, you know.” “Appropriate time?” hooted Arthur. “Appropriate time? The first I knew about it was when a workman arrived at my home yesterday. I asked him if he’d come to clean the windows and he said no, he’d come to demolish the house. He didn’t tell me straight away of course. Oh no. First he wiped a couple of windows and charged me a fiver. Then he told me.” “But Mr. Dent, the plans have been available in the local planning office for the last nine months.” “Oh yes, well, as soon as I heard I went straight round to see them, yesterday afternoon. You hadn’t exactly gone out of your way to call attention to them, had you? I mean, like actually telling anybody or anything.” “But the plans were on display . . .” “On display? I eventually had to go down to the cellar to find them.” “That’s the display department.” “With a flashlight.” “Ah, well, the lights had probably gone.” “So had the stairs.” “But look, you found the notice, didn’t you?” “Yes,” said Arthur, “yes I did. It was on display in the bottom of a locked filing cabinet stuck in a disused lavatory with a sign on the door saying ‘Beware of the Leopard.’” A cloud passed overhead. It cast a shadow over Arthur Dent as he lay propped up on his elbow in the cold mud. It cast a shadow over Arthur Dent’s house. Mr. Prosser frowned at it. “It’s not as if it’s a particularly nice house,” he said. “I’m sorry, but I happen to like it.” “You’ll like the bypass.” “Oh, shut up,” said Arthur Dent. “Shut up and go away, and take your bloody bypass with you. You haven’t got a leg to stand on and you know it.” Mr. Prosser’s mouth opened and closed a couple of times while his mind was for a moment filled with inexplicable but terribly attractive visions of Arthur Dent’s house being consumed with fire and Arthur himself running screaming from the blazing ruin with at least three hefty spears protruding from his back. Mr. Prosser was often bothered with visions like these and they made him feel very nervous. He stuttered for a moment and then pulled himself together. “Mr. Dent,” he said. “Hello? Yes?” said Arthur. “Some factual information for you. Have you any idea how much damage that bulldozer would suffer if I just let it roll straight over you?” “How much?” said Arthur. “None at all,” said Mr. Prosser, and stormed nervously off wondering why his brain was filled with a thousand hairy horsemen all shouting at him. By a curious coincidence, “None at all” is exactly how much suspicion the ape-descendant Arthur Dent had that one of his closest friends was not descended from an ape, but was in fact from a small planet somewhere in the vicinity of Betelgeuse and not from Guildford as he usually claimed. Arthur Dent had never, ever suspected this. This friend of his had first arrived on the planet Earth some fifteen Earth years previously, and he had worked hard to blend himself into Earth society—with, it must be said, some success. For instance, he had spent those fifteen years pretending to be an out-of-work actor, which was plausible enough. He had made one careless blunder though, because he had skimped a bit on his preparatory research. The information he had gathered had led him to choose the name “Ford Prefect” as being nicely inconspicuous. He was not conspicuously tall, his features were striking but not conspicuously handsome. His hair was wiry and gingerish and brushed backward from the temples. His skin seemed to be pulled backward from the nose. There was something very slightly odd about him, but it was difficult to say what it was. Perhaps it was that his eyes didn’t seem to blink often enough and when you talked to him for any length of time your eyes began involuntarily to water on his behalf. Perhaps it was that he smiled slightly too broadly and gave people the unnerving impression that he was about to go for their neck. He struck most of the friends he had made on Earth as an eccentric, but a harmless one—an unruly boozer with some oddish habits. For instance, he would often gate-crash university parties, get badly drunk and start making fun of any astrophysicists he could find till he got thrown out. Sometimes he would get seized with oddly distracted moods and stare into the sky as if hypnotized until someone asked him what he was doing. Then he would start guiltily for a moment, relax and grin. “Oh, just looking for flying saucers,” he would joke, and everyone would laugh and ask him what sort of flying saucers he was looking for. “Green ones!” he would reply with a wicked grin, laugh wildly for a moment and then suddenly lunge for the nearest bar and buy an enormous round of drinks. Evenings like this usually ended badly. Ford would get out of his skull on whisky, huddle in a corner with some girl and explain to her in slurred phrases that honestly the color of the flying saucers didn’t matter that much really. Thereafter, staggering semiparalytic down the night streets, he would often ask passing policemen if they knew the way to Betelgeuse. The policemen would usually say something like, “Don’t you think it’s about time you went off home, sir?” “I’m trying to, baby, I’m trying to,” is what Ford invariably replied on these occasions. In fact what he was really looking for when he stared distractedly into the sky was any kind of flying saucer at all. The reason he said green was that green was the traditional space livery of the Betelgeuse trading scouts. Ford Prefect was desperate that any flying saucer at all would arrive soon because fifteen years was a long time to get stranded anywhere, particularly somewhere as mind-bogglingly dull as the Earth. Ford wished that a flying saucer would arrive soon because he knew how to flag flying saucers down and get lifts from them. He knew how to see the Marvels of the Universe for less than thirty Altairian dollars a day. In fact, Ford Prefect was a roving researcher for that wholly remarkable book, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. Human beings are great adapters, and by lunchtime life in the environs of Arthur’s house had settled into a steady routine. It was Arthur’s accepted role to lie squelching in the mud mak- ing occasional demands to see his lawyer, his mother or a good book; it was Mr. Prosser’s accepted role to tackle Arthur with the occasional new ploy such as the For the Public Good talk, or the March of Progress talk, the They Knocked My House Down Once You Know, Never Looked Back talk and various other cajoleries and threats; and it was the bulldozer drivers’ accepted role to sit around drinking coffee and experimenting with union regulations to see how they could turn the situation to their financial advantage. The Earth moved slowly in its diurnal course. The sun was beginning to dry out the mud that Arthur lay in. A shadow moved across him again. “Hello, Arthur,” said the shadow. Arthur looked up and squinting into the sun was startled to see Ford Prefect standing above him. “Ford! Hello, how are you?” “Fine,” said Ford, “look, are you busy?” “Am I busy?” exclaimed Arthur. “Well, I’ve just got all these bulldozers and things to lie in front of because they’ll knock my house down if I don’t, but other than that . . . well, no, not especially, why?” They don’t have sarcasm on Betelgeuse, and Ford Prefect often failed to notice it unless he was concentrating. He said, “Good, is there anywhere we can talk?” “What?” said Arthur Dent. For a few seconds Ford seemed to ignore him, and stared fixedly into the sky like a rabbit trying to get run over by a car. Then suddenly he squatted down beside Arthur. “We’ve got to talk,” he said urgently. “Fine,” said Arthur, “talk.” “And drink,” said Ford. “It’s vitally important that we talk and drink. Now. We’ll go to the pub in the village.” He looked into the sky again, nervous, expectant. “Look, don’t you understand?” shouted Arthur. He pointed at Prosser. “That man wants to knock my house down!” Ford glanced at him, puzzled. “Well, he can do it while you’re away, can’t he?” he asked. “But I don’t want him to!” “Ah.” “Look, what’s the matter with you, Ford?” said Arthur. “Nothing. Nothing’s the matter. Listen to me—I’ve got to tell you the most important thing you’ve ever heard. I’ve got to tell you now, and I’ve got to tell you in the saloon bar of the Horse and Groom.” “But why?” “Because you’re going to need a very stiff drink.” Ford stared at Arthur, and Arthur was astonished to find his will beginning to weaken. He didn’t realize that this was because of an old drinking game that Ford learned to play in the hyperspace ports that served the madranite mining belts in the star system of Orion Beta. The game was not unlike the Earth game called Indian wrestling, and was played like this: Two contestants would sit either side of a table, with a glass in front of each of them. Between them would be placed a bottle of Janx Spirit (as immortalized in that ancient Orion mining song, “Oh, don’t give me none more of that Old Janx Spirit/No, don’t you give me none more of that Old Janx Spirit/For my head will fly, my tongue will lie, my eyes will fry and I may die/Won’t you pour me one more of that sinful Old Janx Spirit”). Each of the two contestants would then concentrate their will on the bottle and attempt to tip it and pour spirit into the glass of his opponent, who would then have to drink it. The bottle would then be refilled. The game would be played again. And again. Once you started to lose you would probably keep losing, because one of the effects of Janx Spirit is to depress telepsychic power. As soon as a predetermined quantity had been consumed, the final loser would have to perform a forfeit, which was usually obscenely biological. Ford Prefect usually played to lose. *  *  * Ford stared at Arthur, who began to think that perhaps he did want to go to the Horse and Groom after all. “But what about my house . . . ?” he asked plaintively. Ford looked across to Mr. Prosser, and suddenly a wicked thought struck him. “He wants to knock your house down?” “Yes, he wants to build . . .” “And he can’t because you’re lying in front of his bulldozer?” “Yes, and . . .” “I’m sure we can come to some arrangement,” said Ford. “Excuse me!” he shouted. Mr. Prosser (who was arguing with a spokesman for the bulldozer drivers about whether or not Arthur Dent constituted a mental health hazard, and how much they should get paid if he did) looked around. He was surprised and slightly alarmed to see that Arthur had company. “Yes? Hello?” he called. “Has Mr. Dent come to his senses yet?” “Can we for the moment,” called Ford, “assume that he hasn’t?” “Well?” sighed Mr. Prosser. “And can we also assume,” said Ford, “that he’s going to be staying here all day?” “So?” “So all your men are going to be standing around all day doing nothing?” “Could be, could be . . .” “Well, if you’re resigned to doing that anyway, you don’t actually need him to lie here all the time do you?” “What?” “You don’t,” said Ford patiently, “actually need him here.” Mr. Prosser thought about this. “Well, no, not as such . . .” he said, “not exactly need . . .” Prosser was worried. He thought that one of them wasn’t making a lot of sense. Ford said, “So if you would just like to take it as read that he’s actually here, then he and I could slip off down to the pub for half an hour. How does that sound?” Mr. Prosser thought it sounded perfectly potty. “That sounds perfectly reasonable . . .” he said in a reassuring tone of voice, wondering who he was trying to reassure. “And if you want to pop off for a quick one yourself later on,” said Ford, “we can always cover for you in return.” “Thank you very much,” said Mr. Prosser, who no longer knew how to play this at all, “thank you very much, yes, that’s very kind . . ” He frowned, then smiled, then tried to do both at once, failed, grasped hold of his fur hat and rolled it fitfully round the top of his head. He could only assume that he had just won. “So,” continued Ford Prefect, “if you would just like to come over here and lie down . . .” “What?” said Mr. Prosser. “Ah, I’m sorry,” said Ford, “perhaps I hadn’t made myself fully clear. Somebody’s got to lie in front of the bulldozers, haven’t they? Or there won’t be anything to stop them driving into Mr. Dent’s house, will there?” “What?” said Mr. Prosser again. “It’s very simple,” said Ford, “my client, Mr. Dent, says that he will stop lying here in the mud on the sole condition that you come and take over from him.” “What are you talking about?” said Arthur, but Ford nudged him with his shoe to be quiet. “You want me,” said Prosser, spelling out this new thought to himself, “to come and lie there . . .” “Yes.” “In front of the bulldozer?” “Yes.” “Instead of Mr. Dent.” “Yes.” “In the mud.” “In, as you say, the mud.” As soon as Mr. Prosser realized that he was substantially the loser after all, it was as if a weight lifted itself off his shoulders: this was more like the world as he knew it. He sighed. “In return for which you will take Mr. Dent with you down to the pub?” “That’s it,” said Ford, “that’s it exactly.” Mr. Prosser took a few nervous steps forward and stopped. “Promise?” he said. “Promise,” said Ford. He turned to Arthur. “Come on,” he said to him, “get up and let the man lie down.” Arthur stood up, feeling as if he was in a dream. Ford beckoned to Prosser, who sadly, awkwardly, sat down in the mud. He felt that his whole life was some kind of dream and he sometimes wondered whose it was and whether they were enjoying it. The mud folded itself round his bottom and his arms and oozed into his shoes. Ford looked at him severely. “And no sneaky knocking Mr. Dent’s house down while he’s away, all right?” he said. “The mere thought,” growled Mr. Prosser, “hadn’t even begun to speculate,” he continued, settling himself back, “about the merest possibility of crossing my mind.” He saw the bulldozer drivers’ union representative approaching and let his head sink back and closed his eyes. He was trying to marshal his arguments for proving that he did not now constitute a mental health hazard himself. He was far from certain about this—his mind seemed to be full of noise, horses, smoke and the stench of blood. This always happened when he felt miserable or put upon, and he had never been able to explain it to himself. In a high dimension of which we know nothing, the mighty Khan bellowed with rage, but Mr. Prosser only trembled slightly and whimpered. He began to feel little pricks of water behind his eyelids. Bureaucratic cock-ups, angry men lying in mud, indecipherable strangers handing out inexplicable humiliation and an unidentified army of horsemen laughing at him in his head—what a day. What a day. Ford Prefect knew that it didn’t matter a pair of dingo’s kidneys whether Arthur’s house got knocked down or not now. Arthur remained very worried. “But can we trust him?” he said. “Myself I’d trust him to the end of the Earth,” said Ford. “Oh yes,” said Arthur, “and how far’s that?” “About twelve minutes away,” said Ford, “come on, I need a drink.” (Continues...) Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher. Excerpts are provided solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site. BookDaily Top Five Killing Kennedy: The End of Camelot The Polar Express Life of Pi Team of Rivals: The Political Genius of Abraham Lincoln World War Z: An Oral History of the Zombie War

Science Fiction Dec. 2, 2012

Today's Featured Title Hellena's Fury: hell hath no fury like Hellena's Fury! by Gregory Coleman ISBN / ASIN: 1477266100 Deadly wake Helly’s mind overflowed with a sense of doom as somnolent feelings of sleep paid its nightly visit. It was an unwelcome visit to say the least, for in the last six months she’d experienced the most awefully dreadful nightmares. She didn’t understand why the hellish visions envaded the deep rom of her subconsciousness but could sense the presence of a pure evil in them. The fact was, the nightmares had been building up to something beyond even her darkest imagination. They’d become increasingly realistic over time, forcing her to feel she was losing what small fragment of sanity that may have remained. She’d begun to fight the onslaught of sleep with every fiber of strength she could muster. “It’s here again!” Screamed Helly-but the words never left her lips. The storming darkness and evil concealed within it approached much too quickly to flee it. Her heart pounded heavily in its cavity, each beat hitting with the thunderous pneumatic thud of a jack hammer inside her chest. The drumming rhythmic pulse reminded her that she was still alive, afraid and very much alone. Tightly clenched fist drove the jagged pale finger tips into her palms. The Crimson leaked and settled in the folds of old scar tissue in her hands. The anticipation of being overtaken was as real as the street lights that diminished one by one. The pitch black abyss slowed to a lull just above her. Helly watched in silent terror as light became dark and day funneled into night. A stream of ice cold blood throttled through her veins like nitrous oxide. She was shivering with fear. It all felt too real to be a dream and much too horrific to think otherwise. It was as if she’d somehow gotten trapped on the far side of hell but stranger, was the feeling of familiarity, like she’d been there before. Helly gagged as hot stomach acid violently rushed up into her throat. It was the thought of surviving another episode that sent the wave of knee buckling nausea through her. With promises of impending terror, the dark design absorbed and laid her afloat in a strange, weightless hollow. Suddenly from the deep subterranean regions of her mind, a stream of visions began to play out. Just like every time before, she held firm until the muscles of her eyes ached for relief. But this time was different, a sinking feeling of desperation and doom settled at the pit of her stomach. It was the feeling that something horribly bad was about to happen. Her eyes might as well’ve been welded shut, so much so, that the bulge of them seemed to press in against her brain. As she tried to block out the horrid expedition, it became evident there’d be no escape. Helly could barely remember a time in her life, when dreams were associated with the sweet and beautiful discoveries of the imagination. Those were the thoughts of a young girl of six but now 11 years past and her dreams had become a perpetual death sentence for her. As the shocking flurry of images came to life she found herself drowning in fear again The murky dreamscape gave way to a new realm that brought her senses to life. She begun to taste, smell and feel the horror as it settled at her feet. A fruitless grimace covered her face as she struggled in the abyss of damnation. The sensation of floating was soon interrupted with a depressing heaviness that filled her legs. Suddenly her feet were anchored down beneath a dark ghoulish fog drifting across the unseen plain. The thought of running was diverted with a heightened sense of awareness—the kind a deer might display just before a hunter moves in for the kill. She was being stalked like prey by a dark energy of infinite evil. A new wave of paralyzing fear crept up inside her again, leaving her helplessly stranded to face her monster. Helly had prayed for death many times before, but this . . . was not death—this was something much worse—worse even than Dr. Kovska’s horrific experiments. An orange ghastly hue outlined the lonely silhouette standing against the backdrop of hungry flames. Streams of perspiration slowly began to escape from every pore of her pale naked body. She threw her head up to the darkness above seeking relief from the inferno’s intensity—but escape was futile, she’d become a prisoner in her own mind. Helly’s thoughts drew to the invisible shackles that imprisoned her again. She tried peering through the dense mysterious mist below but to no avail. Death was nearer to her than she could’ve ever imagined, near enough to savor its distinct putrid bouquet. A hot gust of air flowed across her face like an old silk curtain. Its rancid contents took her by surprise and before she knew it, or could stop it, she began to empty herself. Time and again she was seized by the relentless waves of the disgusting stench. A deep ethereal emptiness moved through her lower bowels as dry heaves squeezed any remaining fluids from her body. The evil watched from beneath the shadows. Its presence seemed to grow with intensity as her declining resistance dissolved into nothing. Helly now realized that she was not having a nightmare, she was living it. Continues...

Ανέκδοτο: Τα κομπιουτεράκια+Ανεκδοτάκι για καλημέρα!

Ανέκδοτο: Τα κομπιουτεράκια…

Αναρτήθηκε από τον/την exomatiakaivlepo στο Δεκεμβρίου 2, 2012

- Τί έχετε μέσα στην τσάντα σας; ρωτάει ο τελωνειακός.
- Κομπιουτεράκια …απαντάει ο κρητικός.
- Κομπιουτεράκια; Μπορείτε να μου τα δείξετε;
- Αμέσως, λέει ο Κρητικός. 
Ανοίγει ο τελωνειακός την βαλίτσα και….
μέσα βρίσκει όπλα, μαχαίρια, σφαίρες, χειρομβοβίδες κ.τ.λ.
- Αυτή η τσάντα είναι γεμάτη όπλα, κύριε!!! λέει στον Κρητικό.
Και ο Κρητικός:
- Στην Κρήτη με αυτά κάνουμε τους λογαριασμούς μας!

http://exomatiakaivlepo.blogspot.com/2012/12/blog-post_54.html

Ανεκδοτάκι για καλημέρα!

Αναρτήθηκε από τον/την olympiada στο Δεκεμβρίου 3, 2012

Ένας διάσημος καρδιολόγος πεθαίνει και του κάνουν μία πανάκριβη και ευφάνταστη κηδεία . Ως σύμβολο του επαγγέλματός του μια τεράστια καρδιά καλυμμένη με λουλούδια βρίσκεται πίσω από το φέρετρο κατά τη διάρκεια της τελετής. Σε μια προσπάθεια να είναι η κηδεία ξεχωριστή, στο τέλος της τελετής η καρδιά ανοίγει και το φέρετρο κυλάει προς το μέρος της. Αφού μπει ολόκληρο το φέρετρο, η καρδιά κλείνει σφραγίζοντας το γιατρό μέσα της για πάντα. Τότε ένας από τους παρευρισκόμενους σκάει στα γέλια!

Όλα τα μάτια στρέφονται πάνω του και προσπαθεί να δικαιολογηθεί:
«Συγνώμη, να δηλαδή , πως να το πω, ξέρετε σκέφτηκα την κηδεία μου. Είμαι.γυναικολόγος.»

ΒΑΛΕ ΚΑΙ ΚΑΝΕΝΑ ΑΝΕΚΔΟΤΟ ΝΑ ΓΕΛΑΣΟΥΜΕ ΚΑΙ ΛΙΓΟ…

Αναρτήθηκε από τον/την olympiada στο Δεκεμβρίου 3, 2012

Ας γελάσει λίγο το 
χειλάκι μας…

· Στα διόδια Ελευσίνας η κοπέλα μου λέει 3,20 euro και εγώ της απάντησα… Με πρωινό;

· Εγώ πριν ανέβω στην ζυγαριά γδύνομαι για να μην έχω περιττά βάρη. Λογικό δεν είναι; Κι όμως ο φαρμακοποιός τσατίζεται..

· Που είναι εκείνα τα ωραία χρόνια που όταν κλαίγαμε μας πετούσαν ένα βυζί στο στόμα και μας λυνόταν όλα μας τα προβλήματα;;;;
Ο δόλιος έχω πλαντάξει στο κλάμα, αλλά βυζί δεν είδα ακόμα…. χάλασε η κοινωνία

· Παλιά χώριζες και διεγραφες μόνο το κινητό … τώρα θες διαγραφή σε twitter…delete και block σε fb,msn,skype….

· Aφού οι κατσαρίδες μπορούν να επιβιώσουν από πυρηνικές βόμβες και χημικό πόλεμο…τι σκατά έχει μέσα το teza;

· -Φίλε, το λέει και η θρησκεία, για μια γυναίκα αξίζει να καταστραφεις.
-Που το λέει;

-Στο κάτω κάτω της Γραφής.

· Τι είπε η κοκκινοσκουφίτσα όταν έφτιαξε πρώτη φορά προφίλ στο φεησμπουκ?
-Like Like είσαι εδώ?

· νέα εκπομπή στον Alpha , για τους άνεργους!!!!
" φάε πακέτο"…

· Στην Ελλάδα, η Φοροδιαφυγή είναι σαν την Πορδή..

Σε ενοχλεί ΜΟΝΟ όταν δεν είναι η δική σου…

· Σηκώθηκα πήγα στον καθρέφτη και τον ρώτησα αν υπάρχει πιο όμορφη από μένα….. Ακόμη λέει ονόματα!!!

· ΌΣες Φορές Κι αν Σκοντάψεις.. Όσες Φορές Κι Αν Πέσεις,….Εγώ θα Είμαι Εκεί….ΓΙΑ ΣΕΝΑ…

Με αγάπη,
το πάτωμα……

· Η μόνη απεργία που θυμάμαι να είχε αποτέλεσμα ήταν στην Κόρη μου τη σοσιαλίστρια!

· Τη δικιά μου την κορμάρα την έχτισα με καρμπονάρα..

· ΜΙΚΡΗ ΑΓΓΕΛΙΑ:Νησι με με 145 κατοίκους ζητά άλλους 5 για να μην εκκενωθεί…

· Η αμήχανη στιγμή που θεσσαλονικιά σε λεωφορείο φωνάζει :…
" ανοίξτε με από πίσω! " !!!!!

http://www.friendshipiseverything.blogspot.gr/

ΣΤΑΘΗΣ 5/12/2012

ΑΝΕΚΔΠΤΟ 2/12/2012

35551 by Αγγελική

Φράσεις που…έφυγαν νωρίς

Αναρτήθηκε από τον/την epikairos στο Δεκεμβρίου 7, 2012

Είναι φράσεις που μέχρι πριν τρία χρόνια, τις χρησιμοποιούσαμε πολύ συχνά , για να περιγράψουμε εικόνες και καταστάσεις της καθημερινότητάς μας.
Σήμερα έχουν εξαφανιστεί από το φρασεολόγιό μας, λίγο πριν εξαφανιστούμε και εμείς. Ο κατάλογος που ακολουθεί μπορεί άνετα να εμπλουτιστεί, από την πλούσια εμπειρία του καθενός. Εικόνες και καταστάσεις που έπαψαν να υπάρχουν, φράσεις που απέδρασαν από τις συζητήσεις μας.
Που να βρεις τέτοια ώρα ταξί.
Με πήραν τηλέφωνο από την τράπεζα και μου είπαν ότι εγκρίθηκε το δάνειο σπιτιού.
Σήμερα ο προϊστάμενος μου ανακοίνωσε αύξηση μισθού.
Ήμουνα για ψώνια στα μαγαζιά.
Φούλαρα το ρεζερβουάρ του αυτοκινήτου.Γέμισα την δεξαμενή πετρέλαιο για όλο τον χειμώνα.
Σήμερα στην δουλειά μας έδωσαν το ετήσιο μπόνους.
Μου ήρθε το εκκαθαριστικό της εφορίας. Έχω επιστροφή.
Βρήκα δουλειά!
Το ΜΕΓΚΑ είναι το πιο έγκυρο κανάλι!
Προτιμήσαμε να πάρουμε σπίτι με δάνειο. Οι δόσεις πια είναι σαν ενοίκιο.
Άνοιξα λογαριασμό καταθέσεων, στην τράπεζα.
Ευτυχώς στην Αθήνα δεν έχουμε άστεγους, όπως έχουν οι άλλες ευρωπαϊκές πόλεις.
Άσε, κερνάω εγώ σήμερα.
Αν κόψεις λεφτά από τον έλληνα θα ξεσηκωθεί. Κανείς δεν θα το τολμήσει να του περικόψει μισθό και επιδόματα, γιατί θα γίνει χαμός. Είναι ατίθασος ο έλληνας. Και υπερήφανος.
Έγραψα το παιδί στο ιδιωτικό σχολείο, στο φροντιστήριο, στα αγγλικά και το χορό.
Έχω πάντα φυλαγμένα στο σπίτι δυο τρείς χιλιάδες ευρώ, για μια άμεση ανάγκη.
Καλές δουλειές! (σε εγκαίνια μαγαζιού).
Πάω κάθε μέρα στη δουλειά με το αυτοκίνητο. (δύο στα δύο)
Τι να το κάνω το ποδήλατο;
Μα δεν βλέπεις ότι το γάλα έχει λήξει. Πέτα το μην πάθουμε τίποτα.
Τι δουλειά κάνει ο μπαμπάς σου; (σε ανυποψίαστα παιδάκια)
Σου έχω αφήσει λεφτά για να πληρώσεις το ΤΕΒΕ.
Πετάξου ως το φαρμακείο για να πάρεις το φάρμακο που πρέπει.
Με καλύπτει η συλλογική σύμβαση εργασίας.
Θα λείψουμε για τριήμερο.
Ήμουνα σε συναυλία της Δήμητρας Γαλάνη.  Ήταν πολλοί επώνυμοι εκεί. Είδαμε και τον Μανώλη Καψή.
Χαθήκαμε τι έγινε;  Έχω πολύ δουλειά τις τελευταίες μέρες. Πνίγομαι.
Απολύθηκε, αλλά τουλάχιστον, μετά από τόσα χρόνια, πήρε καλή αποζημίωση.
Ο Κουβέλης είναι σοβαρός πολιτικός.
Τι να πουν και οι Ισπανοί με 20% ανεργία;
Βρήκε και δεύτερη δουλειά για συμπλήρωμα. (για τον νιόπαντρο ανιψιό)
Σε δύο χρόνια βγαίνω στην σύνταξη. (λόγια ενός αφελούς 62χρονου)
Ε δεν είμαστε όλοι αριστεροί, σαν και εσάς κύριε Ψαριανέ! (φράση από τηλεοπτικό πάνελ).
Η πολλή δουλειά τρώει τον αφέντη. (Η ειρωνεία εδώ και για την πολλή δουλειά αλλά και για τον αφέντη)

Τέλος,
Οι έλληνες δεν είναι ρατσιστές. Ούτε φασίστες.
Και…
…Είστε τυχεροί παιδί μου, που δεν ζήσατε πείνα και κατοχή…

ΑΝΕΚΔΟΤΟ 17.12/2012

Ανεκδοτάκι με έντονη πολιτική χροιά…

Ανεκδοτάκι με έντονη πολιτική χροιά…

Αναρτήθηκε από τον/την olympiada στο Νοεμβρίου 26, 2012

Στο κουπέ ενός τρένου κάθονται από τη μια μεριά ένας Έλληνας και ένας

Γερμανός και από την άλλη μια γριά 80 χρονών και μια εικοσάχρονη
γκομενάρα  με μια σούπερ μίνι φούστα, πολύ προκλητική, χωρίς να
γνωρίζει ο ένας τον άλλον.
Όλη την ώρα o Έλληνας και ο Γερμανός έτρωγαν την κοπέλα με τα μάτια τους,
αλλά δεν τολμούσαν να κάνουν κάτι λόγω της γριάς.
Σε κάποια στιγμή το τρένο μπαίνει σε ένα τούνελ και τότε μέσα στο βαθύ
σκοτάδι ακούγεται o ήχος μιας σφαλιάρας… ΦΑΑΑΑΠ!!!!!
Σκέφτεται o Έλληνας: Ο άτιμος o Γερμανός βρήκε την ευκαιρία τώρα με το
σκοτάδι, έβαλε χέρι στη μικρή και αυτή του έριξε σφαλιάρα!
Σκέφτεται ο Γερμανός: Ο κωλο-Έλληνας έβαλε χέρι στη μικρή … κι έφαγα
ΕΓΩ τη σφαλιάρα!
Σκέφτεται η γκόμενα: Κάποιος απο αυτούς τους δύο μαλάκες πήγε να μου
βάλει  χέρι, το έβαλε κατά λάθος στην ΓΡΙΑ και η γριά του έριξε
σφαλιάρα!!!
Σκέφτεται και η γριά: Κουφάλα Γερμανέ … ΑΠΟ ΤΗΝ ΚΑΤΟΧΗ ΣΤΗ ΧΡΩΣΤAΓΑ!!

Γελοιογραφία εποχής…

Γελοιογραφία εποχής…

Αναρτήθηκε από τον/την olympiada στο Δεκεμβρίου 7, 2012

Οταν ο Κυρ έχει κέφια 7/12/2012

Οταν ο Κυρ έχει κέφια by Αγγελική

ΣΤΑΘΗΣ 7/12/2012

31209 by Αγγελική

ΚΡΙΤΙΚΗ ΓΙΑ ΑΘΕΟΥΣ?

Αναρτήθηκε από τον/την olympiada στο Δεκεμβρίου 13, 2012

π. Γεωργίου Οικονόμου, Δρ.Θεολογίας

Το παρόν υπόμνημα γράφεται εξαιτίας διδασκαλιών περί των παραπάνω θεμάτων μη συμφώνων προς την ιερή παράδοση της Εκκλησίας μας. Πριν όμως περάσουμε στην ανασκευή θέσεων είναι καλό να θυμηθούμε ότι σε αυτή τη δύστυχη πατρίδα υπάρχει – ακόμα ή έστω και πολυτρόπως καταλυθέν – Σύνταγμα θεμελιωμένο στο αίμα και τη θυσία των προγόνων μας. Στο αναθεωρημένο με το ψήφισμα της 27ης Μαΐου 2008 της Η΄ Αναθεωρητικής βουλής των Ελλήνων Σύνταγμα προτάσσεται το όνομα του Τριαδικού Θεού των Ορθοδόξων Χριστιανών «Εις το όνομα της Αγίας και Ομοουσίου και Αδιαιρέτου Τριάδος». Στο Α΄ Μέρος, Τμήμα Β΄, άρθρο 3 ορίζεται ότι «Επικρατούσα θρησκεία στην
Ελλάδα είναι η θρησκεία της Ανατολικής Ορθόδοξης Εκκλησίας του Χριστού. Η Ορθόδοξη Εκκλησία της Ελλάδας, που γνωρίζει κεφαλή της τον Κύριο ημών Ιησού Χριστό, υπάρχει αναπόσπαστα ενωμένη δογματικά με τη Μεγάλη Εκκλησία της Κωνσταντινούπολης και με κάθε άλλη ομόδοξη Εκκλησία του Χριστού. Τηρεί απαρασάλευτα, όπως εκείνες, τους ιερούς αποστολικούς και συνοδικούς κανόνες και τις ιερές παραδόσεις». Στο άρθρο 13 τονίζεται ότι «Η ελευθερία της θρησκευτικής συνείδησης είναι απαραβίαστη». Σύμφωνα με το άρθρο 14 για προσβολή της χριστιανικής θρησκείας επιτρέπεται ακόμα και η κατάσχεση εφημερίδων και άλλων εντύπων μετά την κυκλοφορία τους με εντολή εισαγγελέα. Τέλος, στο άρθρο 16, παρ. 2, ορίζεται με σαφήνεια ο σκοπός της παιδείας ως εξής: «Η παιδεία αποτελεί βασική αποστολή του Κράτους και έχει σκοπό την ηθική, πνευματική, επαγγελματική και φυσική αγωγή των Ελλήνων, την ανάπτυξη της εθνικής και θρησκευτικής συνείδησης και τη διάπλασή τους σε ελεύθερους και υπεύθυνους πολίτες».
Από την παραπάνω ενδεικτική αναφορά εξαιρετικά σπουδαίων σημείων του Συντάγματος της Ελλάδας γίνεται φανερό ότι η παιδεία, που παρέχουν οι λειτουργοί της στα ελληνικά σχολεία, οφείλει να είναι άρρηκτα συνδεδεμένη με την ιερή παράδοση της ιερής και αγιασμένης πίστης μας. Ο Βασίλειος Νικόπουλος, επίτιμος Πρόεδρος του Αρείου Πάγου, ερμηνεύοντας νομικά αυτές τις συνταγματικές αναφορές επισημαίνει δύο σημεία: «α) στήν ἑλληνική Πολιτεία ἡ παιδεία ἀφορᾶ τήν ἀγωγή ἐν γένει «τῶν Ἑλλήνων». Τοῦτο νομικῶς σημαίνει ὅτι ὁ ὁποιοσδήποτε ἀλλοδαπός ἐπιθυμεῖ νά φοιτήσει σέ ἑλληνικό σχολεῖο εἶναι ὑποχρεωμένος νά δεχθεῖ τήν ἑλληνική ἀγωγή καί παιδεία. β) Ἡ παιδεία τῶν Ἑλλήνων πρέπει, ἐκτός τῶν ἄλλων, νά στοχεύει καί στήν ἀνάπτυξη τῆς ἐθνικῆς καί θρησκευτικῆς συνείδησης τῶν μαθητῶν. Ἡ ἀνάπτυξη δέ τῆς ἐθνικῆς καί θρησκευτικῆς συνειδήσεως τῶν «Ἑλλήνων» πρέπει νά ἐπιδιώκεται μέ τή συστηματική διδασκαλία τῆς ἑλληνικῆς ἱστορίας, ὅπως αὐτή ἔχει ἀποκρυσταλλωθεῖ στήν ἱστορική μνήμη τοῦ ἑλληνικοῦ Ἔθνους, καί ὄχι ὅπως «κατασκευάζεται» ἀπό ὁρισμένους καλοβολεμένους καλαμαράδες καί ἀκριβοπληρωμέ-νους καί γι’ αὐτό «προσκυνημένους» θολοκουλτουριάρηδες ἱστορικοκαθηγητάδες, καί τῆς ὀρθόδοξης χριστιανικῆς πίστης, ἡ ὁποία εἶναι ἡ θρησκεία τῶν Ἑλλήνων. Μέ βάση τίς συνταγματικές αὐτές ἐπιταγές τό μάθημα τῶν θρησκευτικῶν πρέπει νά ἔχει ὡς περιεχόμενο ἀποκλειστικῶς καί μόνο τή διδασκαλία τῆς ὀρθόδοξης πίστεως τῶν Ἑλλήνων, διότι μόνο μέ αὐτή ἐπιτυγχάνεται ἡ κατά τό Σύνταγμά μας «ἀνάπτυξη τῆς θρησκευτικῆς συνείδησης τῶν Ἑλλήνων».
Μετά τις παραπάνω νομικού χαρακτήρα αναφορές, περνάμε στην εξέταση των θεμάτων του υπομνήματός μας σε σχέση με τον τρόπο διδασκαλίας τους στο ελληνικό σχολείο. Ο δάσκαλος, που ορκίστηκε κατά τον διορισμό του ότι θα τηρεί το Σύνταγμα, οφείλει να σέβεται τη θρησκευτική ελευθερία των μαθητών και μαθητριών του και να μη δηλητηριάζει τις συνειδήσεις και την αγνή και αθώα πίστη της καθαρής καρδιάς τους με προσωπικές (πιθανόν άθεες ή αντιχριστιανικές) ιδεοληψίες και φιλοσοφικές θεωρήσεις. Ούτε να εκβιάζει τις παιδικές συνειδήσεις τους με γενικές και αόριστες αναφορές στην θεοποιηθείσα επιστήμη. Αλήθεια αναρωτιέμαι, οι δάσκαλοι, που αμφισβητούν τις αγιογραφικές θεολογικές αναφορές στη δημιουργία, σπούδασαν φυσική, βιολογία, αστρονομία, πυρηνική και χαοτική φυσική και επί-ίστανται τόσο καλά αυτών των θεμάτων; Διάβασαν ποτέ ακόμα και αυτή την τόσο παρεξηγημένη θεωρία της εξέλιξης; Συνειδητοποίησαν τη διαφορά της θεωρίας περί κοινού προγόνου ανθρώπου και πιθήκου και άλλων θεωριών με διαλεκτική προσέγγισή τους; Ή μήπως και αυτοί οι επιστήμονες ήταν παρόντες και κινηματογράφησαν τη δημιουργία, για να λύσουν τις υπαρξιακές μας αγωνίες; Γράφει, σχετικά, ο ομότιμος καθηγητής Θεολογίας του Α.Π.Θ. Βασίλειος Γιούλτσης «Ἡ τεράστια πολυπλοκότητα τῶν ἐμβίων ὄντων καί τῆς ἰδίας τῆς ζωῆς δέν μπορεῖ νά ἑρμηνευθῇ μέ μηχανιστικό τρόπο, οὔτε καί ἔχει ἐντοπιστεῖ κάποιος φυσικός μηχανισμός αὐτο–οργάνωσης τῆς ὕλης πού μπορεῖ νά ὁδηγήσῃ σέ βιολογικές δομές τέτοιας πολυπλοκότητας, ἔστω καί μέσω ἐξελικτικῶν διαδικασιῶν καί σέ χρονικές κλίμακες πολλῶν ἑκατομμυρίων ἐτῶν». Έτσι, προξενεί εντύπωση όταν ορισμένοι υιοθετούν πολύ εύκολα διάφορες θεωρίες ενώ απορρίπτουν με ευκολία την θεοπνευστία της Αγίας Γραφής και διδάσκουν στα παιδιά ότι αυτά είναι παραμυθάκια. Ούτε καν μύθος! Γιατί άλλο πράγμα είναι ο μύθος, άλλο το παραμύθι και άλλο η αλήθεια.
Η αλήθεια, όμως, για εμάς τους Ορθοδόξους Χριστιανούς δεν είναι έννοια γενική και αόριστη. Είναι Πρόσωπο. Είναι το Πρόσωπο του Θεανθρώπου Κυρίου μας Ιησού Χριστού. Ο Θεός Λόγος, που υπήρχε προ πάντων των αιώνων, πριν τη δημιουργία του χρόνου και σύνολης της κτίσης. Που γεννήθηκε από τον Πατέρα Του και ήταν ενωμένος μαζί Του και είναι Θεός. Και έγινε σάρκα για μας. Ταπεινώθηκε, ξεφτιλίστηκε, δέχτηκε να Τον φτύσουμε, να Τον ραπίσουμε, να Τον μαστιγώσουμε, να Τον ποτίσουμε με ξύδι, να Τον Σταυρώσουμε! Για να μας χαρίσει την Ανάσταση και την αιώνια ζωή. Για να συγχωρέσει τις αμαρτίες μας με το Τίμιο Αίμα Του. Και εμείς τί του ανταποδίδουμε; Αχαριστία και αγνωμοσύνη. Απιστία και βλασφημία. Γιατί ή άρνηση της Αγίας Γραφής, Παλαιάς και Καινής Διαθήκης είναι άρνηση της Θυσίας Του, άρνηση του Σταυρού και της Ανάστασης. Μπορεί οι διηγήσεις για τη δημιουργία του κόσμου και του ανθρώπου να μην είναι επιστημονικά απόλυτα ακριβείς αλλά εξαρχής δεν είναι αυτός ο σκοπός τους. Σκοπός τους είναι να φανερώσουν θεολογικές αλήθειες, όπως ότι η δημιουργία είναι το πλημμύρισμα της αγάπης του Θεού. Ότι όλα έγιναν εν σοφία. Ότι κάθε άνθρωπος είναι εικόνα του Θεού και έχει τις προϋποθέσεις με τη Χάρι Του να γίνει όμοιος με Αυτόν, να θεωθεί. Ότι όλοι οι άνθρωποι έγιναν εξ ενός, όπως λέει ο απόστολος Παύλος, από τον Αδάμ, και αυτό φανερώνει την κοινή καταγωγή και την ισότητα των ανθρώπων. Κανένας ρατσισμός, καμία φυλετική διάκριση, κανένας ολοκληρωτισμός δεν μπορεί να θεμελιωθεί στο ευαγγέλιο. Σε αντίθεση με αυτό, η δαρβινική βιολογία περί ευγονικής και φυλετικής καθαρότητας παράλληλα με τη θεωρία περί της εξέλιξης των ειδών θεμελιώνει την ιδεολογία του εθνοφυλετισμού, που με φρικτό τρόπο εφήρμοσε το Γ΄ Ράιχ και ο Αδόλφος Χίτλερ.
Παιδιά του σχολείου, με την ίδια έπαρση, κοροϊδεύουν συμμαθητές τους, που πιστεύουν στα ιερά και ευγενέστατα δόγματα της πίστης μας, ως «χωματένιους ανθρώπους και λάσπη». Μήπως θα μπορούσαν αυτοί να μας δείξουν κάποιον άνθρωπο, που μετά το θάνατό του δεν έγινε χώμα; Εμείς, όμως, μπορούμε να δείξουμε! Τον Ιησού Χριστό. Τον Αναστημένο Κύριο. Την ελπίδα και την παρηγοριά μας. Τον φίλο μας! Αυτόν που θυσιάστηκε μια φορά, αλλά μας έδωσε τη δυνατότητα να κοινωνούμε το Σωμα και το Αίμα Του συνέχεια, να ενωνόμαστε μαζί Του και να συγκροτούμε ευχαριστιακά την Εκκλησία.
Αυτός ο Ιησούς, ο Κύριος και Θεός μας, ως άσαρκος Λόγος συν-δημιουργεί με τον Πατέρα και το Άγιο Πνεύμα τον κόσμο. Τον ουρανό και τη γη, τα ορατά και τα αόρατα. Τον αυστραλοπίθηκο (sic) και τον πίθηκο. Που είναι και αυτά ευλογημένα σαν δημιουργήματα, έχουν τον λόγο των όντων. Δημιουργεί, όμως, και τον άνθρωπο δίνοντας σε αυτόν μοναδικά θεϊκά χαρακτηριστικά, τα οποία δεν έδωσε σε κανένα από τα προηγούμενα δημιουργήματα: το κατ’εικόνα, το καθ’ ομοίωσιν και πνοήν ζωής. Του χαριζει την αιώνια ψυχή, γιατί ο άνθρωπος δεν είναι μόνο σώμα, αλλά το συναμφότερον ψυχής και σώματος, αδιάσπαστα ενωμένα από τη σύλληψη μέχρι το βιολογικό θάνατο, που είναι η μετάβαση στην αιώνια ζωή, στον αιώνιο παράδεισο ή την αιώνια κόλαση, σύμφωνα με τα λόγια του Χριστού.
Κάποιοι επιστήμονες αμφισβητούν αυτές τις θεολογικές αλήθειες και την ύπαρξη του Θεού και στη θέση Του βάζουν τον εαυτό τους ή την επιστήμη τους. Άλλοι επιστήμονες διά των αδιεξόδων των ερευνών τους οδηγούνται στην πίστη στον Θεό και άλλοι έχουν ούτως ή άλλως βαθειά πίστη στο Θεό και την Αγία Γραφή. Εμείς θα αναφερθούμε στους αλαζόνες, των οποίων η επιστήμη έχει τη μορφή της Βαβέλ, και μιλάν με επιβεβαιωτικό προς την αθεΐα τους τρόπο για φυσικούς νόμους, μεγάλη έκρηξη, ένα αρχέγονο κύτταρο και εξέλιξη του πιθήκου σε άνθρωπο (αν και σοβαρός επιστήμονας δε θα διατύπωνε ποτέ με αυτό τον τρόπο την εξέλιξη). Γιατί, λοιπόν, σήμερα που εξελίχτηκε τόσο πολύ η επιστήμη δε φτιάχνουν άνθρωπο από έναν πίθηκο; Τότε θα υπάρχει μια άλλη βάση συζήτησης και όχι θεωρίες, που αμφισβητούνται, αλληλοσυγκρούονται και ανατρέπονται αενάως από άλλες.
Δε θέλουμε να μακρύνουμε τον λόγο επί της δημιουργίας, αν και θα μπορούσαμε. Συνοψίζουμε επιγραμματικά λέγοντας ότι άρνηση της Αγίας Γραφής ως παραμυθιού, σημαίνει άρνηση του Θεού, αρνηση της Αγίας και Ομοουσίου και Αδιαιρέτου Τριάδος, στην οποία επιγράφεται το Σύνταγμα της Ελλάδας. Η δε διδασκαλία αυτής της άρνησης είναι αντίθετη με το σκοπό της παιδείας για καλλιέργεια θρησκευτικής συνείδησης αλλά και καταστρατηγεί βάναυσα τη θρησκευτική ελευθερία παιδιών και εφήβων εμποτίζοντας αθεϊστικό δηλητήριο στις εύπλαστες ψυχές τους. Γιατί πρόκειται για ένα φαινόμενο, που παρατηρείται σε όλη την κλίμακα της παιδείας, από την προσχολική ακόμα ηλικία μέχρι και την τριτοβάθμια εκπαίδευση.
Όσο για την αμφισβήτηση της ιστορικότητας του προσώπου του προφήτη Μωϋσέως μας προξενεί κυριολεκτικά μεγάλη έκπληξη. Ένα πρόσωπο κοινά αποδεκτό από τις τρεις μεγάλες μονοθεϊστικές θρησκείες (Χριστιανισμό – Ιουδαϊσμό – Ισλάμ). Ένα πρόσωπο προς το οποίο εξέφραζε θαυμασμό ακόμα και ο πατέρας της ψυχανάλυσης Φρόιντ. Ένα πρόσωπο με ιδιαίτερα παιδαγωγική σπουδαιότητα, καθώς ενώ ήταν δυσλεκτικός – βραδύγλωσσος οδήγησε έναν ολόκληρο λαό στην ελευθερία αλλά προπάντων αξιώθηκε να γίνει όχι μόνο μία αλλά πολλές φορές θεόπτης! Μήπως η αρχαιολογική σκαπάνη ή άλλες έγκυρες επιστημονικές μελέτες αμφισβήτησαν την ιστορικότητά του; Μάλλον αυτή η άρνηση του ιερού προσώπου της Παλαιάς Διαθήκης είναι τουλάχιστον ατυχής ή υποκρύπτει την αρχαιολατρική αντίληψη απόρριψης σύνολης της Παλαιάς Διαθήκης ως εβραϊκού κειμένου άσχετου προς την ελληνική παράδοση. Πάνω σε αυτό είναι αναγκαίο να υπογραμμίσουμε ότι η Παλαιά Διαθήκη για τους χριστιανούς δεν είναι η ιστορία των Εβραίων αλλά ένα βιβλίο θεολογικό, στο οποίο θεμελιώνεται η Καινή Διαθήκη και, αν το απορρίψουμε, συναπορρίπτουμε ολόκληρη τη χριστιανική διδασκαλία.
Κλείνοντας το υπόμνημα αυτό θέλουμε να τονίσουμε ότι γράφτηκε με περίσσευμα αγάπης προς την αλήθεια και αγανάκτησης για την (άλλες φορές αθέλητα και εν αγνοία και άλλες με προφανή σκοπιμότητα) διαστρέβλωση αυτής. Με ειλικρινή αναγνώριση της εξαιρετικής δουλειάς, που κάνουν οι περισσότεροι νηπιαγωγοί, δάσκαλοι και καθηγητές υπό εξαιρετικά δυσμενείς συνθήκες και την ειλικρινή ευχή σε αυτά τα δύσκολα χρόνια που ζούμε να αντλήσουμε δύναμη από την ιερή παράδοση της χριστιανικής πίστης μας, για να διεξέλθουμε την πρώτιστα πνευματική και ύστερα οικονομική κρίση και να αντισταθούμε στην αλλοτριωτική και νοθευτική προσέγγιση της αγίας πίστης του Δημιουργού Θεού μας.

Υ.Γ. Πριν τη δημοσίευση του κειμένου αυτού, έχουμε επίγνωση της πολεμικής, που πρόκειται να του ασκηθεί. Γιατί όποιος μιλάει για έθνος και πατρίδα σε αυτόν τον τόπο, ονομάζεται άκριτα και αυτόματα φασίστας και εθνικιστής. Όποιος μιλάει για τις ιερές παραδόσεις της πίστης μας ονομάζεται χριστιανοταλιμπάν και φονταμενταλιστής. Εντάξει, λοιπόν, όποιος θέλει ας ξεπουλήσει αυτές τις αιώνιες αξίες στο παζάρι του εθνομηδενισμού και της πολυπολιτισμικότητας, της αθεΐας ή μιας θολοκουλτουριάρικης μετανεωτερικής προσέγγισης περί «ανοίγματος», «αγκαλιάσματος» και μιας «αγάπης» γλυκερής. Η οποία, όμως, ουδεμία σχέση έχει με την αγάπη ως καρπό του Πνεύματος και ενέργειας – ιδιώματος του Θεού, που παρέχει Αυτός ως χάρη και μπορεί να βιώσει ο άνθρωπος ως εμπειρία μέθεξης, όταν ασκείται και αγωνίζεται να τηρεί με τη δική του συν-έργεια αυτή την πρώτη εντολή.

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