watch a movie or imagine scenes from a novel. W h e n we are stressed or frightened, our adrenal glands transmit a chemical jolt through the body, sending signals to increase the heart rate and pace of breathing. W h e n we are in shock from seeing trau matic or frightening things, our bodies send messages to shut down certain processes to preserve a core of life in an emergency. T h e word "horror" derives from the Latin word for bristling and reflects the body's automatic reaction to uncanny events, things that upset the normal order. Such sights trigger a physical reaction in the skin of the arms that resembles the response to cold air. T i n y muscles cause the hairs on the arms to stand up, a reaction called "horripilation," that means "bristling hair" or hair standing on end. Horror is hair-raising. Some scientists think this may be a survival from hairier times in human
no bearers? (But for doughty recent DR attempts to meet those two prob- lems, see Salmon 1998; Soames 2002; Braun 2005.) We have come to a deep dilemma, nearly a paradox. On the one hand, in chapter 3 we saw compelling Kripkean reasons why names cannot be thought to abbreviate flaccid descriptions, or otherwise to have substantive senses or connotations. Intuitively, names are Millian. Yet, because the original puzzles are still bristling as insistently as ever, it also seems that DR is pretty well refuted. This is a dilemma, or rather trilemma, because it further appears that we are stuck with one of those three possibilities: either the names are Millian, or they abbreviate descriptions outright, or in some looser way such as Searle's they have some substantive "sense" or content. But none of these views is acceptable. A few theorists have claimed to find ways between the three horns. As
couldn't see him. "Why?" I asked, still pulling against Jacob's grasp, desperate now to find the sun. But Jacob let go of my hand and yelped, suddenly shaking, falling to the dim forest floor. He twitched on the ground as I watched in horror. "Jacob!" I screamed. But he was gone. In his place was a large red-brown wolf with black eyes. The wolf faced away from me, pointing toward the shore, the hair on the back of his shoulders bristling, low growls issuing from between his exposed fangs. "Bella, run!" Mike cried out again from behind me. But I didn't turn. I was watching a light coming toward me from the beach. And then Edward stepped out from the trees, his skin faintly glowing, his eyes black and dangerous. He held up one hand and beckoned me to come to him. The wolf growled at my feet. I took a step forward, toward Edward. He smiled then, and his teeth were sharp, pointed. "Trust me," he purred. I took another step.
It was a little past 5 a.m., Washington time. In the embassy of Nippon, the code clerks who had waited all through the night for the 14th part were, on Counselor Iguchi's advice, being sent home. Just as they were climbing wearily into their beds, the naval attaché arrived and found the mailbox stuffed with cablegrams. The duty officer telephoned the clerks at their homes about 8 a.m. and ordered them back to work. A few hundred miles north of Oahu, the Japanese task force, bristling with guns, planes, and hate for Americans, bore down on the Pacific Fleet. A few hours earlier, a message had arrived from Tokyo that caused Commander Mitsuo Fuchida, the pilot who was to head the first wave of the air attack, to breathe a sigh of relief. It had been relayed from Yoshikawa, and it reported that no barrage balloons had yet been emplaced to protect the fleet from air attack. The same message also caused Commander Minoru Genda to sigh with relief. It stated that the
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