Far to the South, where Gol Kopjes rose like ruined castles from the short-grass plains of the Serengeti, a female wildebeest (A) chomped methodically at the close-knit (B) turf. Only her hindquarters, deeply scarred where a lioness had once almost succeeded in clawing her down, distinguished her from her companions, a harem of perhaps two dozen wildebeest cows, many of them accompanied by their calves, gathered together under the watchful eyes of a mature breeding bull. It was a pattern which repeated itself across the plains in every direction as far as the eye could see. Every year the wildebeest nations of the Serengeti congregated here towards the year’s end, and the scarred female had come with them. Mated the previous May, she had returned to give birth to her calf in the south-eastern corner of the park. The soils which carpeted the floor of the shortgrass
powers of new media: Is there not charms By which the property of youth and maidhood May be abus'd? Have you not read Roderigo, Of some such thing? In Shakespeare's Troilus and Cressida, which is almost completely devoted to both a psychic and social study of communication, Shakespeare states his awareness that true social and political navigation depend upon anticipating the consequences of innovation: The providence that's in a watchful state Knows almost every grain of Plutus' gold, Finds bottom in the uncomprehensive deeps, Keeps place with thought, and almost like the gods Does thoughts unveil in their dumb cradles. The increasing awareness of the action of media, quite independently of their "content" or programming, was indicated in the annoyed and anonymous stanza: In modern thought, (if not in fact) Nothing is that doesn't act, So that is reckoned wisdom which
"I'm right?" I gasped. "Does it matter?" I took a deep breath. "Not really." I paused. "But I am curious." My voice, at least, was composed. He was suddenly resigned. "What are you curious about?" "How old are you?" "Seventeen," he answered promptly. "And how long have you been seventeen?" His lips twitched as he stared at the road. "A while," he admitted at last. "Okay." I smiled, pleased that he was still being honest with me. He stared down at me with watchful eyes, much as he had before, when he was worried I would go into shock. I smiled wider in encouragement, and he frowned. "Don't laugh -- but how can you come out during the daytime?" He laughed anyway. "Myth." "Burned by the sun?" "Myth." "Sleeping in coffins?" "Myth." He hesitated for a moment, and a peculiar tone entered his voice. "I can't sleep." It took me a minute to absorb that. "At all?" "Never," he said, his voice nearly inaudible. He turned to look at me with a wistful expression.
she seriously hoped he might really soon marry Mr. Darcy's sister, as by Wickham's account, she would make him abundantly regret what he had thrown away. Mrs. Gardiner about this time reminded Elizabeth of her promise concerning that gentleman, and required information; and Elizabeth had such to send as might rather give contentment to her aunt than to herself. His apparent partiality had subsided, his attentions were over, he was the admirer of some one else. Elizabeth was watchful enough to see it all, but she could see it and write of it without material pain. Her heart had been but slightly touched, and her vanity was satisfied with believing that she would have been his only choice, had fortune permitted it. The sudden acquisition of ten thousand pounds was the most remarkable charm of the young lady to whom he was now rendering himself agreeable; but Elizabeth, less clear-sighted perhaps in this case than in Charlotte's, did not
original price! That's when she called me. I thought I knew what had happened but told her that, if I were to explain things properly, she would have to listen to a story of mine. Actually, it isn't my story; it's about mother turkeys, and it belongs to the relatively new science of ethology-the study of animals in their natural settings. Turkey mothers are good mothers-loving, watchful, and protective. They spend much of their time tending, warming, cleaning, and huddling their young beneath them; but there is something odd about their method. Virtually all of this mothering is triggered by one thing: the "cheep-cheep" sound of young turkey chicks. Other identifying features of the chicks, such as their smell, touch, or appearance, seem to play minor roles in the mothering process. If a chick makes the cheep-cheep
The oldest, most experienced, and closest to O.K.W. of the other cryptanalytic agencies was the Army's Heeres-nachrichtenwesens ("Army Communications System"), or H.N.W. The Chef, H.N.W., served on the Army general staff. Like the U.S. Army's Signal Corps during World •War II, it had both communications and intercept-cryptanalysis duties; like the Signal Corps, it turned over its solutions to Army intelligence for evaluation and use. Under Chi's watchful eye, it issued cryptosystems for the troops. For high-level communications, from the O.K.H. down to regiments, the Army used the glowlamp Enigma cipher machine. It was reliable, working well in the Russian winter and the Libyan summer. Signal officers thought it cryptanalytically secure if—as ordered by 1942 —keys were changed three times a day. Its chief disadvantage was that it did not print its output. Battery-powered and portable, it could be operated in a moving
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