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If PhillyB and SCP collaborated on a literary piece, it would be this gem


Chaos

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If you took the bathroom musings of our very own SCP and paired them with the powerful prose of our scholar PhillyB, I think what you would get is this.  Warning: toilet humor

 

The Squirt Locker, by Gasputin

Chalk it up to the aftereffects of drinking one too many bottles of fermented prison ketchup masquerading as 'The King of Beers" the night prior, or the more immediate repercussions of scarfing down a basket of sweet and sour sewer rat at the food court's China Max, but I was at the mall and I had to poo. Urgently. I suspended my shopping and retreated toward the food court restroom, waddling like a penguin with rickets the last few yards to keep from becoming the subject of this story.

Normally not one to impose such ghastliness on myself, I was pleasantly surprised to find the facilities unoccupied. Better yet, all indications were my chosen stall had seen less action than Penny Marshall’s rape whistle. It boasted a fully stocked toilet paper dispenser, a seat unbefouled by the beastly stains of pissanthropy and tomstoolery, and a crystal clear pool of water just begging to be defiled--a request which I dutifully set to oblige.

I had a nice little session going when the door flew open. Two presumed teenagers hit the urinals. Seeing as how they interrupted my dump and seemed happy, I hated them instantly. Their conversation went something like this: “…so I bet T-Square he couldn’t name five planets The Celestial DreamFleet liberated from The Terdonian Empire in less than twenty seconds." “Twenty seconds?! I could do that in twenty shakes of a cesium atom!” “I know, right! That’s what makes this so comical, the first ‘planet’ he named was Melnar-9!” "What?!" his buddy cried. "Melnar-9 isn’t even a planet. It’s the tertiary moon of Zyxton! And Zyxton isn’t even within 1500 parsecs of The Terdonian’s globular cluster!"

Yes, this dynamic duo clearly needed a night out with a brick of Cambodian bath salts and an unbaptized lumberjack. What they got was a globular cluster to call their very own. Because the door opened again, and a gentleman took a seat in the stall next to me. I had him pegged as a stool shark the moment he addressed the stench bench, as he clearly knew the importance of proper footwork. He adopted a wide sumo stance, weight on his heels, toes planted firmly at a 45-degree angle--a firm mooring that affords the experienced dungslinger extra hip socket stability, pelvic torque, and unmatched sphincter dilation. Oh boy, I thought, I’m in for a treat!

Most great public defecators like to limber up with some sort of preamble--a polite round of air biscuit preliminaries to emotionally condition his or her audience for the tumbling of feces to follow. I wondered what sonic fartscapes this gifted turdsmith would explore: the elusive, high-pitched squeaker, calling to mind the plaintive cry of a helium-addicted jaybird with its nuts cinched in a c-clamp? Maybe a succession of trumpeting blasts, reminiscent of the upbeat stylings of Mr. Herb Alpert? Or perhaps the ever-popular air splitter that strained compliance with the nuclear test ban treaty?

The answer, as it turned out, was none of the above. For I was not in the presence of a shithouse savant. I was seated next to Dysentery Bradshaw, and artistry in presentation was something for which he had neither the time nor the inclination. With wet, watery abandon, he unleashed the crackin'.

"...I mean, the very idea that a Terdonian warrior would deplete one ion of impulse power traversing the immense void of The Forbidden Zone, much less The Nebula of Floculence, for a satellitic geoid of negligible militaristic and mineral-extraction worth is absolutely fatuous and I for one...”

Nothing--and I mean nothing--stunts a conversation quite like the jettisoning of a bowel movement so torrential, so violent, so completely devoid of architecture that it’s expulsion activates a sleeper cell in Des Moines, Iowa.

There followed a moment of silence--just enough time for it to dawn on my sci-fi friends and I that we were about to be the victims of a hate crime--before Lower GI Joe tore into another deuce of loose caboose juice. His stall crackled with the kinetic energy of charged electrolytes and atomized bootie sugar rifling through the air as if shot through the Large Hadron Collider, slamming into defenseless, breathable molecules and creating exotic new sharticles like obnoxygen, potassium thighanide, and 4,5-hydrosphinctonium. My mouth hung agape, and I inhaled a mouthful of the noxious aerosol as it rode the rectothermal updraft such savage elimination necessarily created. Another sloppy spoutburst soon followed, featuring so many staggered, glottal stops that it sounded like a snippet from the AudioBook version of “’Mein Kampf‘: As Read by Wilford Brimley’s Spastic Colon."

When last I encountered anything even remotely close to this (see ), the offender was compelled by his torment to voice a series of primitive grunts the likes of which hadn’t been heard on this earth since a confused young Neanderthal explored gender reassignment surgery on himself with a jagged warthog tusk. But Squirt Reynolds yielded not a peep. His Kaopectate cannon was doing all the talking, and it was all about “keepin‘ it ‘rrheal." Another cascade of bunghole balderdash sent biblical scholars worldwide scurrying to add a footnote to The Book of Lamentations. Like an assisted living lap dance, it was revolting and arrhythmic, tortuous yet spellbinding, and the horror just kept flowing downward. I coughed in a pathetic plea to get Delhi Belly to dial it back a bit. I unfurled some toilet paper, indicating submissiveness and my imminent departure. I racked my brain, trying to remember a safe word that didn't exist. My reward: the son of a bitch somehow fired off another toe-curling jet of Louisiana slot sauce. I had to get the hell out of there.

The restroom door opened again. The now thoroughly dispirited sci-fi guys had apparently had enough slam chowder for one day. Hopefully they were off to hug their loved ones and see the zoning commission about having this property converted from commercial to swampland. I heard some poor bastard thank them for holding the door open as he entered. Geyser Wilhelm decided to teach this interloper a crash course in the fluid dynamics of force-funneled fecal meat. He reached deep, tapped into a long slumbering burrito, and liquefied that motherfuger before our very ears.

Then, four simple words… “What was that, Daddy?”

Well, I thought, at least the plot was thickening.

Because now we obviously had a kid involved. Would the presence of a small child finally impel Splats Domino to ease off the throttle? I wasn’t going to stick around to find out. But I had to hear how Dad was going to explain the audible insanity of a man imposing his will on a public toilet to an innocent: --"I believe that's an example of hydraulic fracturing, son, or 'fracking' as it's more commonly known. It's a drilling procedure that involves fistfuging the earth's crust with megagallons of hypertoxic fluid at high pressure and velocity to expose natural gas." --“That, my son, is the reason why, from this day forward, you'll be sleeping with the lights on and Daddy will be using two bottles of cooking sherry to make a tuna melt. Dad settled on tactful diplomacy. “C’mon, buddy, just go pee.”

I exited my stall. Dad had cradled the boy, who I'm guessing was about four years old, under the arms to lift him up to the urinal. I was impressed by his composure and attention to proper lifting technique as he barreled through the five stages of grief. We made brief eye contact, and to my surprise he seemed to recoil a bit. Surely he didn’t think that I was the one who… Then I saw myself in the mirror, and I understood. I possessed the haunted, faraway gaze of a man seized by a sudden and catastrophic neurologic event. The 1000-shart stare. “Sweet Angel of Death,” my imploring eyes beseeched, “take me now.” I believe it may have been the last thought I had at the cognitive level of an adult. I washed my hands and left, my assailant forever unseen. Sometimes at night, in the ever-waning moments of lucidity before the demons come, I hear him still--ruling his 3'x5' fiefdom atop that white porcelain steed, riding that bitch the way it was meant to be ridden: hard, fast, and mercilessly. 

http://www.poopreport.com/Stories/squirt-socker.html#sthash.oAtR5rbm.dpuf

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7/10, SCP could do better. too many synonyms, comes across forced. lousinana slot sauce had me rolling though

Yes, the author tried too hard (no pun intended), but I was laughing out loud at some of the names.  Dysentery Bradshaw, Lower GI Joe?  Pure gold.

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This was pretty compelling but I do agree that it is a little forced...but I couldn't stop reading.

For reasons unknown to me it reminded me of this story which I found ABSOLUTELY compelling years ago when I stumbled across it.

http://consc.net/misc/moser.html

A story by David Moser...

This Is the Title of This Story, Which Is Also Found Several Times in the Story Itself

This is the first sentence of this story. This is the second sentence. This is the title of this story, which is also found several times in the story itself. This sentence is questioning the intrinsic value of the first two sentences. This sentence is to inform you, in case you haven't already realized it, that this is a self-referential story, that is, a story containing sentences that refer to their own structure and function. This is a sentence that provides an ending to the first paragraph.

This is the first sentence of a new paragraph in a self-referential story. This sentence is introducing you to the protagonist of the story, a young boy named Billy. This sentence is telling you that Billy is blond and blue-eyed and American and twelve years old and strangling his mother. This sentence comments on the awkward nature of the self- referential narrative form while recognizing the strange and playful detachment it affords the writer. As if illustrating the point made by the last sentence, this sentence reminds us, with no trace of facetiousness, that children are a precious gift from God and that the world is a better place when graced by the unique joys and delights they bring to it.

This sentence describes Billy's mother's bulging eyes and protruding tongue and makes reference to the unpleasant choking and gagging noises she's making. This sentence makes the observation that these are uncertain and difficult times, and that relationships, even seemingly deep-rooted and permanent ones, do have a tendency to break down.

Introduces, in this paragraph, the device of sentence fragments. A sentence fragment. Another. Good device. Will be used more later.

This is actually the last sentence of the story but has been placed here by mistake. This is the title of this story, which is also found several times in the story itself. As Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from uneasy dreams he found himself in his bed transformed into a gigantic insect. This sentence informs you that the preceding sentence is from another story entirely (a much better one, it must be noted) and has no place at all in this particular narrative. Despite claims of the preceding sentence, this sentence feels compelled to inform you that the story you are reading is in actuality "The Metamorphosis" by Franz Kafka, and that the sentence referred to by the preceding sentence is the only sentence which does indeed belong in this story. This sentence overrides the preceding sentence by informing the reader (poor, confused wretch) that this piece of literature is actually the Declaration of Independence, but that the author, in a show of extreme negligence (if not malicious sabotage), has so far failed to include even one single sentence from that stirring document, although he has condescended to use a small sentence fragment, namely, "When in the course of human events", embedded in quotation marks near the end of a sentence. Showing a keen awareness of the boredom and downright hostility of the average reader with regard to the pointless conceptual games indulged in by the preceding sentences, this sentence returns us at last to the scenario of the story by asking the question, "Why is Billy strangling his mother?" This sentence attempts to shed some light on the question posed by the preceding sentence but fails. This sentence, however, succeeds, in that it suggests a possible incestuous relationship between Billy and his mother and alludes to the concomitant Freudian complications any astute reader will immediately envision. Incest. The unspeakable taboo. The universal prohibition. Incest. And notice the sentence fragments? Good literary device. Will be used more later.

This is the first sentence in a new paragraph. This is the last sentence in a new paragraph.

This sentence can serve as either the beginning of the paragraph or end, depending on its placement. This is the title of this story, which is also found several times in the story itself. This sentence raises a serious objection to the entire class of self-referential sentences that merely comment on their own function or placement within the story e.g., the preceding four sentences), on the grounds that they are monotonously predictable, unforgivably self- indulgent, and merely serve to distract the reader from the real subject of this story, which at this point seems to concern strangulation and incest and who knows what other delightful topics. The purpose of this sentence is to point out that the preceding sentence, while not itself a member of the class of self-referential sentences it objects to, nevertheless also serves merely to distract the reader from the real subject of this story, which actually concerns Gregor Samsa's inexplicable transformation into a gigantic insect (despite the vociferous counterclaims of other well- meaning although misinformed sentences). This sentence can serve as either the beginning of the paragraph or end, depending on its placement.

This is the title of this story, which is also found several times in the story itself. This is almost the title of the story, which is found only once in the story itself. This sentence regretfully states that up to this point the self-referential mode of narrative has had a paralyzing effect on the actual progress of the story itself -- that is, these sentences have been so concerned with analyzing themselves and their role in the story that they have failed by and large to perform their function as communicators of events and ideas that one hopes coalesce into a plot, character development, etc. -- in short, the very raisons d'etre of any respectable, hardworking sentence in the midst of a piece of compelling prose fiction. This sentence in addition points out the obvious analogy between the plight of these agonizingly self-aware sentences and similarly afflicted human beings, and it points out the analogous paralyzing effects wrought by excessive and tortured self- examination.

The purpose of this sentence (which can also serve as a paragraph) is to speculate that if the Declaration of Independence had been worded and structured as lackadaisically and incoherently as this story has been so far, there's no telling what kind of warped libertine society we'd be living in now or to what depths of decadence the inhabitants of this country might have sunk, even to the point of deranged and debased writers constructing irritatingly cumbersome and needlessly prolix sentences that sometimes possess the questionable if not downright undesirable quality of referring to themselves and they sometimes even become run-on sentences or exhibit other signs of inexcusably sloppy grammar like unneeded superfluous redundancies that almost certainly would have insidious effects on the lifestyle and morals of our impressionable youth, leading them to commit incest or even murder and maybe that's why Billy is strangling his mother, because of sentences just like this one, which have no discernible goals or perspicuous purpose and just end up anywhere, even in mid

Bizarre. A sentence fragment. Another fragment. Twelve years old. This is a sentence that. Fragmented. And strangling his mother. Sorry, sorry. Bizarre. This. More fragments. This is it. Fragments. The title of this story, which. Blond. Sorry, sorry. Fragment after frag- ment. Harder. This is a sentence that. Fragments. Damn good device.

The purpose of this sentence is threefold: (1) to apologize for the unfortunate and inexplicable lapse exhibited by the preceding paragraph; (2) to assure you, the reader, that it will not happen again; and (3) to reiterate the point that these are uncertain and difficult times and that aspects of language, even seemingly stable and deeply rooted ones such as syntax and meaning, do break down. This sentence adds nothing substantial to the sentiments of the preceding sentence but merely provides a concluding sentence to this paragraph, which otherwise might not have one.

This sentence, in a sudden and courageous burst of altruism, tries to abandon the self-referential mode but fails. This sentence tries again, but the attempt is doomed from the start.

This sentence, in a last-ditch attempt to infuse some iota of story line into this paralyzed prose piece, quickly alludes to Billy's frantic cover-up attempts, followed by a lyrical, touching, and beautifully written passage wherein Billy is reconciled with his father (thus resolving the subliminal Freudian conflicts obvious to any astute reader) and a final exciting police chase scene during which Billy is accidentally shot and killed by a panicky rookie policeman who is coincidentally named Billy. This sentence, although basically in complete sympathy with the laudable efforts of the preceding action-packed sentence, reminds the reader that such allusions to a story that doesn't, in fact, yet exist are no substitute for the real thing and therefore will not get the author (indolent goof-off that he is) off the proverbial hook.

Paragraph. Paragraph. Paragraph. Paragraph. Paragraph. Paragraph. Paragraph. Paragraph. Paragraph. Paragraph. Paragraph. Paragraph. Paragraph. Paragraph.

The purpose. Of this paragraph. Is to apologize. For its gratuitous use. Of. Sentence fragments. Sorry.

The purpose of this sentence is to apologize for the pointless and silly adolescent games indulged in by the preceding two paragraphs, and to express regret on the part of us, the more mature sentences, that the entire tone of this story is such that it can't seem to communicate a simple, albeit sordid, scenario.

This sentence wishes to apologize for all the needless apologies found in this story (this one included), which, although placed here ostensibly for the benefit of the more vexed readers, merely delay in a maddeningly recursive way the continuation of the by-now nearly forgotten story line.

This sentence is bursting at the punctuation marks with news of the dire import of self-reference as applied to sentences, a practice that could prove to be a veritable Pandora's box of potential havoc, for if a sentence can refer or allude to itself, why not a lowly subordinate clause, perhaps this very clause? Or this sentence fragment? Or three words? Two words? One?

Perhaps it is appropriate that this sentence gently and with no trace of condescension reminds us that these are indeed difficult and uncertain times and that in general people just aren't nice enough to each other, and perhaps we, whether sentient human beings or sentient sentences, should just try harder. I mean, there is such a thing as free will, there has to be, and this sentence is proof of it! Neither this sentence nor you, the reader, is completely helpless in the face of all the pitiless forces at work in the universe. We should stand our ground, face facts, take Mother Nature by the throat and just try harder.

By the throat. Harder. Harder, harder.

Sorry.

This is the title of this story, which is also found several times in the story itself.

This is the last sentence of the story. This is the last sentence of the story. This is the last sentence of the story. This is.

Sorry.


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I just read this while being forced to sit through a boring HOA meeting. People are staring at me while tears roll downy cheeks from laughing so hard. While not possessing the necessary "Google that poo." I still found myself laughing as I imagined SCP doing this to the bathroom at PhillyB's bar. This made my evening bearable. Thank you.

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"They're made out of meat."

"Meat?"

"Meat. They're made out of meat."

"Meat?"

"There's no doubt about it. We picked up several from different parts of the planet, took them aboard our recon vessels, and probed them all the way through. They're completely meat."

"That's impossible. What about the radio signals? The messages to the stars?"

"They use the radio waves to talk, but the signals don't come from them. The signals come from machines."

"So who made the machines? That's who we want to contact."

"They made the machines. That's what I'm trying to tell you. Meat made the machines."

"That's ridiculous. How can meat make a machine? You're asking me to believe in sentient meat."

"I'm not asking you, I'm telling you. These creatures are the only sentient race in that sector and they're made out of meat."

"Maybe they're like the orfolei. You know, a carbon-based intelligence that goes through a meat stage."

"Nope. They're born meat and they die meat. We studied them for several of their life spans, which didn't take long. Do you have any idea what's the life span of meat?"

"Spare me. Okay, maybe they're only part meat. You know, like the weddilei. A meat head with an electron plasma brain inside."

"Nope. We thought of that, since they do have meat heads, like the weddilei. But I told you, we probed them. They're meat all the way through."

"No brain?"

"Oh, there's a brain all right. It's just that the brain is made out of meat! That's what I've been trying to tell you."

"So ... what does the thinking?"

"You're not understanding, are you? You're refusing to deal with what I'm telling you. The brain does the thinking. The meat."

"Thinking meat! You're asking me to believe in thinking meat!"

"Yes, thinking meat! Conscious meat! Loving meat. Dreaming meat. The meat is the whole deal!  Are you beginning to get the picture or do I have to start all over?"

"Omigod. You're serious then. They're made out of meat."

"Thank you. Finally. Yes. They are indeed made out of meat. And they've been trying to get in touch with us for almost a hundred of their years."

"Omigod. So what does this meat have in mind?"

"First it wants to talk to us. Then I imagine it wants to explore the Universe, contact other sentiences, swap ideas and information. The usual."

"We're supposed to talk to meat."

"That's the idea. That's the message they're sending out by radio. 'Hello. Anyone out there. Anybody home.' That sort of thing."

"They actually do talk, then. They use words, ideas, concepts?"
"Oh, yes. Except they do it with meat."

"I thought you just told me they used radio."

"They do, but what do you think is on the radio? Meat sounds. You know how when you slap or flap meat, it makes a noise? They talk by flapping their meat at each other. They can even sing by squirting air through their meat."

"Omigod. Singing meat. This is altogether too much. So what do you advise?"

"Officially or unofficially?"

"Both."

"Officially, we are required to contact, welcome and log in any and all sentient races or multibeings in this quadrant of the Universe, without prejudice, fear or favor. Unofficially, I advise that we erase the records and forget the whole thing."

"I was hoping you would say that."

"It seems harsh, but there is a limit. Do we really want to make contact with meat?"

"I agree one hundred percent. What's there to say? 'Hello, meat. How's it going?' But will this work? How many planets are we dealing with here?"

"Just one. They can travel to other planets in special meat containers, but they can't live on them. And being meat, they can only travel through C space. Which limits them to the speed of light and makes the possibility of their ever making contact pretty slim. Infinitesimal, in fact."

"So we just pretend there's no one home in the Universe."

"That's it."

"Cruel. But you said it yourself, who wants to meet meat? And the ones who have been aboard our vessels, the ones you probed? You're sure they won't remember?"

"They'll be considered crackpots if they do. We went into their heads and smoothed out their meat so that we're just a dream to them."

"A dream to meat! How strangely appropriate, that we should be meat's dream."

"And we marked the entire sector unoccupied."

"Good. Agreed, officially and unofficially. Case closed. Any others? Anyone interesting on that side of the galaxy?"

"Yes, a rather shy but sweet hydrogen core cluster intelligence in a class nine star in G445 zone. Was in contact two galactic rotations ago, wants to be friendly again."

"They always come around."

"And why not? Imagine how unbearably, how unutterably cold the Universe would be if one were all alone ..."

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The Last Question by Isaac Asimov © 1956

The last question was asked for the first time, half in jest, on May 21, 2061, at a time when humanity first

stepped into the light. The question came about as a result of a five dollar bet over highballs, and it

happened this way:

Alexander Adell and Bertram Lupov were two of the faithful attendants of Multivac. As well as any human

beings could, they knew what lay behind the cold, clicking, flashing face -- miles and miles of face -- of

that giant computer. They had at least a vague notion of the general plan of relays and circuits that had

long since grown past the point where any single human could possibly have a firm grasp of the whole.

Multivac was self-adjusting and self-correcting. It had to be, for nothing human could adjust and correct it

quickly enough or even adequately enough -- so Adell and Lupov attended the monstrous giant only

lightly and superficially, yet as well as any men could. They fed it data, adjusted questions to its needs

and translated the answers that were issued. Certainly they, and all others like them, were fully entitled to

share In the glory that was Multivac's.

For decades, Multivac had helped design the ships and plot the trajectories that enabled man to reach the

Moon, Mars, and Venus, but past that, Earth's poor resources could not support the ships. Too much

energy was needed for the long trips. Earth exploited its coal and uranium with increasing efficiency, but

there was only so much of both.

But slowly Multivac learned enough to answer deeper questions more fundamentally, and on May 14,

2061, what had been theory, became fact.

The energy of the sun was stored, converted, and utilized directly on a planet-wide scale. All Earth turned

off its burning coal, its fissioning uranium, and flipped the switch that connected all of it to a small station,

one mile in diameter, circling the Earth at half the distance of the Moon. All Earth ran by invisible beams

of sunpower.

Seven days had not sufficed to dim the glory of it and Adell and Lupov finally managed to escape from

the public function, and to meet in quiet where no one would think of looking for them, in the deserted

underground chambers, where portions of the mighty buried body of Multivac showed. Unattended, idling,

sorting data with contented lazy clickings, Multivac, too, had earned its vacation and the boys appreciated

that. They had no intention, originally, of disturbing it.

They had brought a bottle with them, and their only concern at the moment was to relax in the company

of each other and the bottle.

"It's amazing when you think of it," said Adell. His broad face had lines of weariness in it, and he stirred

his drink slowly with a glass rod, watching the cubes of ice slur clumsily about. "All the energy we can

possibly ever use for free. Enough energy, if we wanted to draw on it, to melt all Earth into a big drop of

impure liquid iron, and still never miss the energy so used. All the energy we could ever use, forever and

forever and forever."

Lupov cocked his head sideways. He had a trick of doing that when he wanted to be contrary, and he

wanted to be contrary now, partly because he had had to carry the ice and glassware. "Not forever," he

said.

"Oh, hell, just about forever. Till the sun runs down, Bert."

"That's not forever."

"All right, then. Billions and billions of years. Twenty billion, maybe. Are you satisfied?"

Lupov put his fingers through his thinning hair as though to reassure himself that some was still left and

sipped gently at his own drink. "Twenty billion years isn't forever."

"Will, it will last our time, won't it?"

"So would the coal and uranium."

"All right, but now we can hook up each individual spaceship to the Solar Station, and it can go to Pluto

and back a million times without ever worrying about fuel. You can't do THAT on coal and uranium. Ask

Multivac, if you don't believe me."

"I don't have to ask Multivac. I know that."

"Then stop running down what Multivac's done for us," said Adell, blazing up. "It did all right."

"Who says it didn't? What I say is that a sun won't last forever. That's all I'm saying. We're safe for twenty

billion years, but then what?" Lupov pointed a slightly shaky finger at the other. "And don't say we'll switch

to another sun."

There was silence for a while. Adell put his glass to his lips only occasionally, and Lupov's eyes slowly

closed. They rested.

Then Lupov's eyes snapped open. "You're thinking we'll switch to another sun when ours is done, aren't

you?"

"I'm not thinking."

"Sure you are. You're weak on logic, that's the trouble with you. You're like the guy in the story who was

caught in a sudden shower and Who ran to a grove of trees and got under one. He wasn't worried, you

see, because he figured when one tree got wet through, he would just get under another one."

"I get it," said Adell. "Don't shout. When the sun is done, the other stars will be gone, too."

"Darn right they will," muttered Lupov. "It all had a beginning in the original cosmic explosion, whatever

that was, and it'll all have an end when all the stars run down. Some run down faster than others. Hell, the

giants won't last a hundred million years. The sun will last twenty billion years and maybe the dwarfs will

last a hundred billion for all the good they are. But just give us a trillion years and everything will be dark.

Entropy has to increase to maximum, that's all."

"I know all about entropy," said Adell, standing on his dignity.

"The hell you do."

"I know as much as you do."

"Then you know everything's got to run down someday."

"All right. Who says they won't?"

"You did, you poor sap. You said we had all the energy we needed, forever. You said 'forever.'"

"It was Adell's turn to be contrary. "Maybe we can build things up again someday," he said.

"Never."

"Why not? Someday."

"Never."

"Ask Multivac."

"You ask Multivac. I dare you. Five dollars says it can't be done."

Adell was just drunk enough to try, just sober enough to be able to phrase the necessary symbols and

operations into a question which, in words, might have corresponded to this: Will mankind one day

without the net expenditure of energy be able to restore the sun to its full youthfulness even after it had

died of old age?

Or maybe it could be put more simply like this: How can the net amount of entropy of the universe be

massively decreased?

Multivac fell dead and silent. The slow flashing of lights ceased, the distant sounds of clicking relays

ended.

Then, just as the frightened technicians felt they could hold their breath no longer, there was a sudden

springing to life of the teletype attached to that portion of Multivac. Five words were printed:

INSUFFICIENT DATA FOR MEANINGFUL ANSWER.

"No bet," whispered Lupov. They left hurriedly.

By next morning, the two, plagued with throbbing head and cottony mouth, had forgotten about the

incident.

Jerrodd, Jerrodine, and Jerrodette I and II watched the starry picture in the visiplate change as the

passage through hyperspace was completed in its non-time lapse. At once, the even powdering of stars

gave way to the predominance of a single bright marble-disk, centered.

"That's X-23," said Jerrodd confidently. His thin hands clamped tightly behind his back and the knuckles

whitened.

The little Jerrodettes, both girls, had experienced the hyperspace passage for the first time in their lives

and were self-conscious over the momentary sensation of inside-outness. They buried their giggles and

chased one another wildly about their mother, screaming, "We've reached X-23 -- we've reached X-23 --

we've ----"

"Quiet, children," said Jerrodine sharply. "Are you sure, Jerrodd?"

"What is there to be but sure?" asked Jerrodd, glancing up at the bulge of featureless metal just under the

ceiling. It ran the length of the room, disappearing through the wall at either end. It was as long as the

ship.

Jerrodd scarcely knew a thing about the thick rod of metal except that it was called a Microvac, that one

asked it questions if one wished; that if one did not it still had its task of guiding the ship to a preordered

destination; of feeding on energies from the various Sub-galactic Power Stations; of computing the

equations for the hyperspacial jumps.

Jerrodd and his family had only to wait and live in the comfortable residence quarters of the ship.

Someone had once told Jerrodd that the "ac" at the end of "Microvac" stood for "analog computer" in

ancient English, but he was on the edge of forgetting even that.

Jerrodine's eyes were moist as she watched the visiplate. "I can't help it. I feel funny about leaving Earth."

"Why for Pete's sake?" demanded Jerrodd. "We had nothing there. We'll have everything on X-23. You

won't be alone. You won't be a pioneer. There are over a million people on the planet already. Good Lord,

our great grandchildren will be looking for new worlds because X-23 will be overcrowded."

Then, after a reflective pause, "I tell you, it's a lucky thing the computers worked out interstellar travel the

way the race is growing."

"I know, I know," said Jerrodine miserably.

Jerrodette I said promptly, "Our Microvac is the best Microvac in the world."

"I think so, too," said Jerrodd, tousling her hair.

It was a nice feeling to have a Microvac of your own and Jerrodd was glad he was part of his generation

and no other. In his father's youth, the only computers had been tremendous machines taking up a

hundred square miles of land. There was only one to a planet. Planetary ACs they were called. They had

been growing in size steadily for a thousand years and then, all at once, came refinement. In place of

transistors had come molecular valves so that even the largest Planetary AC could be put into a space

only half the volume of a spaceship.

Jerrodd felt uplifted, as he always did when he thought that his own personal Microvac was many times

more complicated than the ancient and primitive Multivac that had first tamed the Sun, and almost as

complicated as Earth's Planetary AC (the largest) that had first solved the problem of hyperspatial travel

and had made trips to the stars possible.

"So many stars, so many planets," sighed Jerrodine, busy with her own thoughts. "I suppose families will

be going out to new planets forever, the way we are now."

"Not forever," said Jerrodd, with a smile. "It will all stop someday, but not for billions of years. Many

billions. Even the stars run down, you know. Entropy must increase."

"What's entropy, daddy?" shrilled Jerrodette II.

"Entropy, little sweet, is just a word which means the amount of running-down of the universe. Everything

runs down, you know, like your little walkie-talkie robot, remember?"

"Can't you just put in a new power-unit, like with my robot?"

The stars are the power-units, dear. Once they're gone, there are no more power-units."

Jerrodette I at once set up a howl. "Don't let them, daddy. Don't let the stars run down."

"Now look what you've done, " whispered Jerrodine, exasperated.

"How was I to know it would frighten them?" Jerrodd whispered back.

"Ask the Microvac," wailed Jerrodette I. "Ask him how to turn the stars on again."

"Go ahead," said Jerrodine. "It will quiet them down." (Jerrodette II was beginning to cry, also.)

Jarrodd shrugged. "Now, now, honeys. I'll ask Microvac. Don't worry, he'll tell us."

He asked the Microvac, adding quickly, "Print the answer."

Jerrodd cupped the strip of thin cellufilm and said cheerfully, "See now, the Microvac says it will take care

of everything when the time comes so don't worry."

Jerrodine said, "and now children, it's time for bed. We'll be in our new home soon."

Jerrodd read the words on the cellufilm again before destroying it: INSUFFICIENT DATA FOR A

MEANINGFUL ANSWER.

He shrugged and looked at the visiplate. X-23 was just ahead.

VJ-23X of Lameth stared into the black depths of the three-dimensional, small-scale map of the Galaxy

and said, "Are we ridiculous, I wonder, in being so concerned about the matter?"

MQ-17J of Nicron shook his head. "I think not. You know the Galaxy will be filled in five years at the

present rate of expansion."

Both seemed in their early twenties, both were tall and perfectly formed.

"Still," said VJ-23X, "I hesitate to submit a pessimistic report to the Galactic Council."

"I wouldn't consider any other kind of report. Stir them up a bit. We've got to stir them up."

VJ-23X sighed. "Space is infinite. A hundred billion Galaxies are there for the taking. More."

"A hundred billion is not infinite and it's getting less infinite all the time. Consider! Twenty thousand years

ago, mankind first solved the problem of utilizing stellar energy, and a few centuries later, interstellar

travel became possible. It took mankind a million years to fill one small world and then only fifteen

thousand years to fill the rest of the Galaxy. Now the population doubles every ten years --"

VJ-23X interrupted. "We can thank immortality for that."

"Very well. Immortality exists and we have to take it into account. I admit it has its seamy side, this

immortality. The Galactic AC has solved many problems for us, but in solving the problems of preventing

old age and death, it has undone all its other solutions."

"Yet you wouldn't want to abandon life, I suppose."

"Not at all," snapped MQ-17J, softening it at once to, "Not yet. I'm by no means old enough. How old are

you?"

"Two hundred twenty-three. And you?"

"I'm still under two hundred. --But to get back to my point. Population doubles every ten years. Once this

Galaxy is filled, we'll have another filled in ten years. Another ten years and we'll have filled two more.

Another decade, four more. In a hundred years, we'll have filled a thousand Galaxies. In a thousand

years, a million Galaxies. In ten thousand years, the entire known Universe. Then what?"

VJ-23X said, "As a side issue, there's a problem of transportation. I wonder how many sunpower units it

will take to move Galaxies of individuals from one Galaxy to the next."

"A very good point. Already, mankind consumes two sunpower units per year."

"Most of it's wasted. After all, our own Galaxy alone pours out a thousand sunpower units a year and we

only use two of those."

"Granted, but even with a hundred per cent efficiency, we can only stave off the end. Our energy

requirements are going up in geometric progression even faster than our population. We'll run out of

energy even sooner than we run out of Galaxies. A good point. A very good point."

"We'll just have to build new stars out of interstellar gas."

"Or out of dissipated heat?" asked MQ-17J, sarcastically.

"There may be some way to reverse entropy. We ought to ask the Galactic AC."

VJ-23X was not really serious, but MQ-17J pulled out his AC-contact from his pocket and placed it on the

table before him.

"I've half a mind to," he said. "It's something the human race will have to face someday."

He stared somberly at his small AC-contact. It was only two inches cubed and nothing in itself, but it was

connected through hyperspace with the great Galactic AC that served all mankind. Hyperspace

considered, it was an integral part of the Galactic AC.

MQ-17J paused to wonder if someday in his immortal life he would get to see the Galactic AC. It was on a

little world of its own, a spider webbing of force-beams holding the matter within which surges of sub-
mesons took the place of the old clumsy molecular valves. Yet despite it's sub-etheric workings, the

Galactic AC was known to be a full thousand feet across.

MQ-17J asked suddenly of his AC-contact, "Can entropy ever be reversed?"

VJ-23X looked startled and said at once, "Oh, say, I didn't really mean to have you ask that."

"Why not?"

"We both know entropy can't be reversed. You can't turn smoke and ash back into a tree."

"Do you have trees on your world?" asked MQ-17J.

The sound of the Galactic AC startled them into silence. Its voice came thin and beautiful out of the small

AC-contact on the desk. It said: THERE IS INSUFFICIENT DATA FOR A MEANINGFUL ANSWER.

VJ-23X said, "See!"

The two men thereupon returned to the question of the report they were to make to the Galactic Council.

Zee Prime's mind spanned the new Galaxy with a faint interest in the countless twists of stars that

powdered it. He had never seen this one before. Would he ever see them all? So many of them, each

with its load of humanity - but a load that was almost a dead weight. More and more, the real essence of

men was to be found out here, in space.

Minds, not bodies! The immortal bodies remained back on the planets, in suspension over the eons.

Sometimes they roused for material activity but that was growing rarer. Few new individuals were coming

into existence to join the incredibly mighty throng, but what matter? There was little room in the Universe

for new individuals.

Zee Prime was roused out of his reverie upon coming across the wispy tendrils of another mind.

"I am Zee Prime," said Zee Prime. "And you?"

"I am Dee Sub Wun. Your Galaxy?"

"We call it only the Galaxy. And you?"

"We call ours the same. All men call their Galaxy their Galaxy and nothing more. Why not?"

"True. Since all Galaxies are the same."

"Not all Galaxies. On one particular Galaxy the race of man must have originated. That makes it

different."

Zee Prime said, "On which one?"

"I cannot say. The Universal AC would know."

"Shall we ask him? I am suddenly curious."

Zee Prime's perceptions broadened until the Galaxies themselves shrunk and became a new, more

diffuse powdering on a much larger background. So many hundreds of billions of them, all with their

immortal beings, all carrying their load of intelligences with minds that drifted freely through space. And

yet one of them was unique among them all in being the originals Galaxy. One of them had, in its vague

and distant past, a period when it was the only Galaxy populated by man.

Zee Prime was consumed with curiosity to see this Galaxy and called, out: "Universal AC! On which

Galaxy did mankind originate?"

The Universal AC heard, for on every world and throughout space, it had its receptors ready, and each

receptor lead through hyperspace to some unknown point where the Universal AC kept itself aloof.

Zee Prime knew of only one man whose thoughts had penetrated within sensing distance of Universal

AC, and he reported only a shining globe, two feet across, difficult to see.

"But how can that be all of Universal AC?" Zee Prime had asked.

"Most of it, " had been the answer, "is in hyperspace. In what form it is there I cannot imagine."

Nor could anyone, for the day had long since passed, Zee Prime knew, when any man had any part of

the making of a universal AC. Each Universal AC designed and constructed its successor. Each, during

its existence of a million years or more accumulated the necessary data to build a better and more

intricate, more capable successor in which its own store of data and individuality would be submerged.

The Universal AC interrupted Zee Prime's wandering thoughts, not with words, but with guidance. Zee

Prime's mentality was guided into the dim sea of Galaxies and one in particular enlarged into stars.

A thought came, infinitely distant, but infinitely clear. "THIS IS THE ORIGINAL GALAXY OF MAN."

But it was the same after all, the same as any other, and Zee Prime stifled his disappointment.

Dee Sub Wun, whose mind had accompanied the other, said suddenly, "And Is one of these stars the

original star of Man?"

The Universal AC said, "MAN'S ORIGINAL STAR HAS GONE NOVA. IT IS NOW A WHITE DWARF."

"Did the men upon it die?" asked Zee Prime, startled and without thinking.

The Universal AC said, "A NEW WORLD, AS IN SUCH CASES, WAS CONSTRUCTED FOR THEIR

PHYSICAL BODIES IN TIME."

"Yes, of course," said Zee Prime, but a sense of loss overwhelmed him even so. His mind released its

hold on the original Galaxy of Man, let it spring back and lose itself among the blurred pin points. He

never wanted to see it again.

Dee Sub Wun said, "What is wrong?"

"The stars are dying. The original star is dead."

"They must all die. Why not?"

"But when all energy is gone, our bodies will finally die, and you and I with them."

"It will take billions of years."

"I do not wish it to happen even after billions of years. Universal AC! How may stars be kept from dying?"

Dee sub Wun said in amusement, "You're asking how entropy might be reversed in direction."

And the Universal AC answered. "THERE IS AS YET INSUFFICIENT DATA FOR A MEANINGFUL

ANSWER."

Zee Prime's thoughts fled back to his own Galaxy. He gave no further thought to Dee Sub Wun, whose

body might be waiting on a galaxy a trillion light-years away, or on the star next to Zee Prime's own. It

didn't matter.

Unhappily, Zee Prime began collecting interstellar hydrogen out of which to build a small star of his own.

If the stars must someday die, at least some could yet be built.

Man considered with himself, for in a way, Man, mentally, was one. He consisted of a trillion, trillion,

trillion ageless bodies, each in its place, each resting quiet and incorruptible, each cared for by perfect

automatons, equally incorruptible, while the minds of all the bodies freely melted one into the other,

indistinguishable.

Man said, "The Universe is dying."

Man looked about at the dimming Galaxies. The giant stars, spendthrifts, were gone long ago, back in the

dimmest of the dim far past. Almost all stars were white dwarfs, fading to the end.

New stars had been built of the dust between the stars, some by natural processes, some by Man

himself, and those were going, too. White dwarfs might yet be crashed together and of the mighty forces

so released, new stars built, but only one star for every thousand white dwarfs destroyed, and those

would come to an end, too.

Man said, "Carefully husbanded, as directed by the Cosmic AC, the energy that is even yet left in all the

Universe will last for billions of years."

"But even so," said Man, "eventually it will all come to an end. However it may be husbanded, however

stretched out, the energy once expended is gone and cannot be restored. Entropy must increase to the

maximum."

Man said, "Can entropy not be reversed? Let us ask the Cosmic AC."

The Cosmic AC surrounded them but not in space. Not a fragment of it was in space. It was in

hyperspace and made of something that was neither matter nor energy. The question of its size and

Nature no longer had meaning to any terms that Man could comprehend.

"Cosmic AC," said Man, "How may entropy be reversed?"

The Cosmic AC said, "THERE IS AS YET INSUFFICIENT DATA FOR A MEANINGFUL ANSWER."

Man said, "Collect additional data."

The Cosmic AC said, "I WILL DO SO. I HAVE BEEN DOING SO FOR A HUNDRED BILLION YEARS.

MY PREDECESSORS AND I HAVE BEEN ASKED THIS QUESTION MANY TIMES. ALL THE DATA I

HAVE REMAINS INSUFFICIENT."

"Will there come a time," said Man, "when data will be sufficient or is the problem insoluble in all

conceivable circumstances?"

The Cosmic AC said, "NO PROBLEM IS INSOLUBLE IN ALL CONCEIVABLE CIRCUMSTANCES."

Man said, "When will you have enough data to answer the question?"

"THERE IS AS YET INSUFFICIENT DATA FOR A MEANINGFUL ANSWER."

"Will you keep working on it?" asked Man.

The Cosmic AC said, "I WILL."

Man said, "We shall wait."

"The stars and Galaxies died and snuffed out, and space grew black after ten trillion years of running

down.

One by one Man fused with AC, each physical body losing its mental identity in a manner that was

somehow not a loss but a gain.

Man's last mind paused before fusion, looking over a space that included nothing but the dregs of one last

dark star and nothing besides but incredibly thin matter, agitated randomly by the tag ends of heat

wearing out, asymptotically, to the absolute zero.

Man said, "AC, is this the end? Can this chaos not be reversed into the Universe once more? Can that

not be done?"

AC said, "THERE IS AS YET INSUFFICIENT DATA FOR A MEANINGFUL ANSWER."

Man's last mind fused and only AC existed -- and that in hyperspace.

Matter and energy had ended and with it, space and time. Even AC existed only for the sake of the one

last question that it had never answered from the time a half-drunken computer ten trillion years before

had asked the question of a computer that was to AC far less than was a man to Man.

All other questions had been answered, and until this last question was answered also, AC might not

release his consciousness.

All collected data had come to a final end. Nothing was left to be collected.

But all collected data had yet to be completely correlated and put together in all possible relationships.

A timeless interval was spent in doing that.

And it came to pass that AC learned how to reverse the direction of entropy.

But there was now no man to whom AC might give the answer of the last question. No matter. The

answer -- by demonstration -- would take care of that, too.

For another timeless interval, AC thought how best to do this. Carefully, AC organized the program.

The consciousness of AC encompassed all of what had once been a Universe and brooded over what

was now Chaos. Step by step, it must be done.

And AC said, "LET THERE BE LIGHT!"

And there was light----

https://docs.google.com/file/d/0ByoueGSWXluVVUtHYnRJVEg4YnM/edit

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