AdamSmith

Jahwol! https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=QEJ9HrZq7Ro

My work is market research about engineering design (CAD/CAM/CAE} software. Every trade publication I sell little articles to has cut me off completely, because the advertising revenue they live on has dried up entirely. Every manufacturer of pumps, seals, pneumatic power transfer systems, etc etc, as well as every software developer serving them, has put a ‘lockdown’ on spending. Conserving cash on hand is the only thing on the mind of any businessperson in their right mind for now. Business execs all over the world that I can observe think this pandemic, and its repercussions, is going to go on and on much longer and deeper than we want to think. My long experience with them is they are usually right in their cold-eyed realistic judgments about such things. God help us all.

Apollo 11 launch, 1969, 4 min 33 sec before launch. ’We are on the automatic sequence, as the master ground computer supervises hundreds of events occurring over the last seconds before launch...’ Where has our collective national brain gone?

Maybe his PA (penile assistant)?

Worth a 4th or 5th repost...

Yeah. Hard to see how the Chief or even such as Alito would let the Court’s sovereignty among the branches go down the drain on such an in the broad view trivial question (for the Court) as this.

In my travels throughout other Asian countries & cultures, they all seem to universally dislike Koreans. For being prideful, haughty over other Asian cultures & traditions; cruel and abusive within even their own family units; on and on and on. The universality of these sentiments among every other Asian culture I have had contact with suggests something more than a coincidence.

Think Drumpf is about to dump Fauci. Trump's rebuke of Fauci encapsulates rejection of science in virus fight https://www.cnn.com/2020/05/14/politics/donald-trump-anthony-fauci-science-coronavirus/index.html We will see who wins this long-term battle. Sometimes brains beat brawn.

Agree. Even Rehnquist decided a little centricity rather than his own former extreme rightism was what a Chief properly owed the fair dispensation of sound jurisprudence, and laying down of reasonable precedence. And keeping whole the publicly perceived independent authority of the Court.

...One Barton St. Armand, professor at Brown, who presented a couple of papers at this event, being probably the best HPL scholar out there. https://www.amazon.com/H-P-Lovecraft-New-England-Decadent/dp/1492176133

H. P. Lovecraft scholarship[edit] As editor of the journal Crypt of Cthulhu[42] (published by Necronomicon Press) and of a series of Cthulhu Mythos anthologies,[43][44][45] Price has been a major figure in H. P. Lovecraft scholarship and fandom for many years.[46] In essays that introduce the anthologies and the individual stories, Price traces the origins of Lovecraft's entities, motifs, and literary style. The Cthulhu Cycle, for example, saw the origins of Cthulhu the octopoid entity in Alfred, Lord Tennyson's "The Kraken" (1830) and particular passages from Lord Dunsany, while The Dunwich Cycle points to the influence of Arthur Machen on Lovecraft's "The Dunwich Horror." Price's religious background often informs his Mythos criticism, seeing gnostic themes in Lovecraft's fictional god Azathoth[47] and interpreting "The Shadow Over Innsmouth" as a kind of initiation ritual.[48] Most of the early Cthulhu books by Chaosium were overseen by Price; his first book was The Hastur Cycle (1993), an anthology of short stories which traced the development of a single Lovecraftian element, and this was followed by Mysteries of the Worm (1993), a collection of Robert Bloch's Mythos fiction.[49] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_M._Price

'Cthulhu eats the little children, Eats them all day long...' The inimitable Bob Price https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_M._Price (defrocked former Baptist minister, now an avowed atheist) giving his canonical Sunday-morning closing event of the weekend-long NecronomiCon, the Cthulhu Prayer Breakfast:

Oneself attended this scholarly Lovecraft centennial conference at Brown U. in Providence, RI, August 1990... https://books.google.com/books?id=YdO2XRYNUuQC&pg=PA5&lpg=PA5&dq=h+p+lovecraft+centennial+conference+1990&source=bl&ots=OtUJ6fY2h9&sig=ACfU3U0nGdvWu5kFDLiJYGlmKi2fyZDXpw&hl=en&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwiK3_iBlK3pAhXnct8KHeZEC8QQ6AEwBHoECAgQAQ#v=onepage&q=h p lovecraft centennial conference 1990&f=false ...and several of the succeeding annual 'NecronomiCon' fan conferences held there. https://books.google.com/books?id=jwM5AgAAQBAJ&pg=PT565&lpg=PT565&dq=h+p+lovecraft+centennial+conference+1990&source=bl&ots=yozUX4rnKz&sig=ACfU3U1dksaV5L_F2_8N-0Qg5R5dUoEl0w&hl=en&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwiK3_iBlK3pAhXnct8KHeZEC8QQ6AEwBXoECAkQAQ#v=onepage&q=h p lovecraft centennial conference 1990&f=false

And BO would put in a whole second working day from 7:30 pm to like 1am, going up to his study on the 2nd floor of the residential wing — with “a cup of exactly 7 lightly salted almonds,” Michelle laughed in a TV interview — and read briefing papers, research articles about current Important Stuff, and relevant books. When was the last time we ever had evidence that DJT ever read a word in print?

Ward now started violently. “Well, Sir, what have ye found, and what d’ye want with me?” The doctor let a little time elapse before replying, as if choosing his words for an effective answer. “I have found,” he finally intoned, “something in a cupboard behind an ancient overmantel where a picture once was, and I have burned it and buried the ashes where the grave of Charles Dexter Ward ought to be.” The madman choked and sprang from the chair in which he had been sitting: “Damn ye, who did ye tell—and who’ll believe it was he after these full two months, with me alive? What d’ye mean to do?” Willett, though a small man, actually took on a kind of judicial majesty as he calmed the patient with a gesture. “I have told no one. This is no common case—it is a madness out of time and a horror from beyond the spheres which no police or lawyers or courts or alienists could ever fathom or grapple with. Thank God some chance has left inside me the spark of imagination, that I might not go astray in thinking out this thing. You cannot deceive me, Joseph Curwen, for I know that your accursed magic is true! “I know how you wove the spell that brooded outside the years and fastened on your double and descendant; I know how you drew him into the past and got him to raise you up from your detestable grave; I know how he kept you hidden in his laboratory while you studied modern things and roved abroad as a vampire by night, and how you later shewed yourself in beard and glasses that no one might wonder at your godless likeness to him; I know what you resolved to do when he balked at your monstrous rifling of the world’s tombs, and at what you planned afterward, and I know how you did it. “You left off your beard and glasses and fooled the guards around the house. They thought it was he who went in, and they thought it was he who came out when you had strangled and hidden him. But you hadn’t reckoned on the different contents of two minds. You were a fool, Curwen, to fancy that a mere visual identity would be enough. Why didn’t you think of the speech and the voice and the handwriting? It hasn’t worked, you see, after all. You know better than I who or what wrote that message in minuscules, but I will warn you it was not written in vain. There are abominations and blasphemies which must be stamped out, and I believe that the writer of those words will attend to Orne and Hutchinson. One of those creatures wrote you once, ‘do not call up any that you can not put down’. You were undone once before, perhaps in that very way, and it may be that your own evil magic will undo you all again. Curwen, a man can’t tamper with Nature beyond certain limits, and every horror you have woven will rise up to wipe you out.” But here the doctor was cut short by a convulsive cry from the creature before him. Hopelessly at bay, weaponless, and knowing that any show of physical violence would bring a score of attendants to the doctor’s rescue, Joseph Curwen had recourse to his one ancient ally, and began a series of cabbalistic motions with his forefingers as his deep, hollow voice, now unconcealed by feigned hoarseness, bellowed out the opening words of a terrible formula. “PER ADONAI ELOIM, ADONAI JEHOVA, ADONAI SABAOTH, METRATON. . . .” But Willett was too quick for him. Even as the dogs in the yard outside began to howl, and even as a chill wind sprang suddenly up from the bay, the doctor commenced the solemn and measured intonation of that which he had meant all along to recite. An eye for an eye—magic for magic—let the outcome shew how well the lesson of the abyss had been learned! So in a clear voice Marinus Bicknell Willett began the second of that pair of formulae whose first had raised the writer of those minuscules—the cryptic invocation whose heading was the Dragon’s Tail, sign of the descending node— “OGTHROD AI’F GEB’L—EE’H YOG-SOTHOTH ‘NGAH’NG AI’Y ZHRO!” At the very first word from Willett’s mouth the previously commenced formula of the patient stopped short. Unable to speak, the monster made wild motions with his arms until they too were arrested. When the awful name of Yog-Sothoth was uttered, the hideous change began. It was not merely a dissolution, but rather a transformation orrecapitulation; and Willett shut his eyes lest he faint before the rest of the incantation could be pronounced. But he did not faint, and that man of unholy centuries and forbidden secrets never troubled the world again. The madness out of time had subsided, and the case of Charles Dexter Ward was closed. Opening his eyes before staggering out of that room of horror, Dr. Willett saw that what he had kept in memory had not been kept amiss. There had, as he had predicted, been no need for acids. For like his accursed picture a year before, Joseph Curwen now lay scattered on the floor as a thin coating of fine bluish-grey dust. Return to The Case of Charles Dexter Ward Page Last Revised 20 August 2009 URL: http://www.hplovecraft.com/writings/texts/fiction/cdw.aspx Contact Us Site Map Search Donate Copyright © 1998–2020 by Donovan K. Loucks. All Rights Reserved.

SORRY! Meant to say the ‘Great Old Ones.’ ...Those South Pacific Islander magicians with the only known talismans able to neutralize the Deep Ones. Which Deep Ones would in coming centuries plague Innsmouth. Senility is indeed settling in...

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bart_D._Ehrman

What Jesus Really Said About Heaven and Hell Bart D. Ehrman https://www.yahoo.com/news/jesus-really-said-heaven-hell-173203705.html

The Deep Old Ones, no doubt. Shoggoth! Arthur C. Clarke (much influenced by HPL) once wrote a hilarious parody short story “At the Mountains of Murkiness.” It contained the immemorable line penned in the day-diary of Cthulhu: ”Have Slog-Wallop see about the drains.” https://www.google.com/amp/s/deepcuts.blog/2019/12/21/at-the-mountains-of-murkiness-or-from-lovecraft-to-leacock-1940-by-arthur-c-clarke/amp/

Great weird-fiction author, second only to Poe. Cool Air H. P. LOVECRAFT You ask me to explain why I am afraid of a draught of cool air; why I shiver more than others upon entering a cold room, and seem nauseated and repelled when the chill of evening creeps through the heat of a mild autumn day. There are those who say I respond to cold as others do to a bad odour, and I am the last to deny the impression. What I will do is to relate the most horrible circumstance I ever encountered, and leave it to you to judge whether or not this forms a suitable explanation of my peculiarity. It is a mistake to fancy that horror is associated inextricably with darkness, silence, and solitude. I found it in the glare of mid-afternoon, in the clangour of a metropolis, and in the teeming midst of a shabby and commonplace rooming-house with a prosaic landlady and two stalwart men by my side. In the spring of 1923 I had secured some dreary and unprofitable magazine work in the city of New York, and being unable to pay any substantial rent, began drifting from one cheap boarding establishment to another in search of a room which might combine the qualities of decent cleanliness, endurable furnishings and very reasonable price. It soon developed that I had only a choice between different evils, but after a time I came upon a house in West Fourteenth Street which disgusted me much less than the others I had sampled. The place was a four-story mansion of brownstone, dating apparently from the late forties, and fitted with woodwork and marble whose stained and sullied splendour argued a descent from high levels of tasteful opulence. In the rooms, large and lofty, and decorated with impossible paper and ridiculously ornate stucco cornices, there lingered a depressing mustiness and hint of obscure cookery; but the floors were clean, the linen tolerably regular, and the hot water not too often cold or turned off, so that I came to regard it as at least a bearable place to hibernate until one might really live again. The landlady, a slatternly, almost bearded Spanish woman named Herrero, did not annoy me with gossip or with criticisms of the late-burning electric light in my third floor front hall room; and my fellow lodgers were as quiet and uncommunicative as one might desire, being mostly Spaniards a little above the coarsest and crudest grade. Only the din of street-cars in the thoroughfare below proved a serious annoyance. I had been there about three weeks when the first odd incident occurred. One evening at about eight I heard a spattering on the floor, and became suddenly aware that I had been smelling the pungent odor of ammonia for some time. Looking about, I saw that the ceiling was wet and dripping, the stuff apparently proceeding from a corner on the side toward the street. Anxious to stop the matter at its source, I hastened to the basement to tell the landlady, and was assured by her that the trouble would quickly be set right. "Doctair Munoz," she cried as she rushed upstairs ahead of me, "he have speel hees chemicals. He ees too seeck for doctair heemself--seecker and seecker all the time--but he weel not have no othair for help. He ees vairy queer in hees seeckness--all day he takes funneeh smelling baths, and he cannot get excite or warm. All hees own housework he do--hees leetle room are full of bottles and machines and he do not work as doctair. But he was great once--my fathair in Barcelona have hear of heem--and only joost now he feex a arm of the plumber that get hurt of sudden. He nevair go out, only on roof, and my boy Esteban he breeng heem hees food and laundry and mediceens and chemicals. My God, the sal-ammoniac that man use for to keep heem cool!" Mrs. Herrero disappeared up the staircase to the fourth floor, and I returned to my room. The ammonia ceased to drip and as I cleaned up what had spilled and opened the window for air, I heard the landlady's heavy footsteps above me. Doctor Munoz I had never heard, save for certain sounds as of some gasoline-driven mechanism, since his step was soft and gentle. I wondered for a moment what the strange affliction of this man might be and whether his obstinate refusal of outside aid were not the result of a rather baseless eccentricity. There is, I reflected tritely, an infinite deal of pathos in the state of an eminent person who has come down in the world. * * * * * I might never have known Doctor Munoz had it not been for the heart attack that suddenly seized me one forenoon as I sat writing in my room. Physicians had told me of the danger of those spells, and I knew there was no time to be lost. So, remembering what the landlady had said about the invalid's help of the injured workman, I dragged myself upstairs and knocked feebly at the door above mine. My knock was answered in good English by a curious voice, some distance to the right, asking my name and business; and these things being stated, there came an opening of the door next to the one I had sought. A rush of cool air greeted me; and though the day was one of the hottest of late June, I shivered as I crossed the threshold into a large apartment whose rich and tasteful decoration surprised me in this nest of squalor and seediness. A folding couch now filled its diurnal role of sofa, and the mahogany furniture, sumptuous hangings, old paintings and mellow bookshelves all bespoke a gentleman's study rather than a boarding-house bedroom. I now saw that the hall room above mine--the "leetle room" of bottles and machines which Mrs. Herrero had mentioned--was merely the laboratory of the doctor, and that his main living quarters lay in the spacious adjoining room whose convenient alcoves and large contiguous bathroom permitted him to hide all dressers and obtrusively utilitarian devices. Doctor Munoz, most certainly, was a man of birth, cultivation, and discrimination. The figure before me was short but exquisitely proportioned, and clad in somewhat formal dress of perfect fit and cut. A high-bred face of masterful though not arrogant expression was adorned by a short, iron-grey beard, and an old-fashioned pince-nez shielded the full, dark eyes and surmounted an acquiline nose which gave a Moorish touch to a physiognomy otherwise dominantly Celt-Iberian. Thick, well-trimmed hair that argued the punctual calls of a barber was parted gracefully above a high forehead; and the whole picture was one of striking intelligence and superior blood and breeding. Nevertheless, as I saw Doctor Munoz in that blast of cool air, I felt a repugnance which nothing in his aspect could justify. Only his lividly inclined complexion and coldness of touch could have afforded a physical basis for this feeling, and even these things should have been excusable considering the man's known invalidism. It might, too, have been the singular cold that alienated me; for such chilliness was abnormal on so hot a day, and the abnormal always excites aversion, distrust and fear. But repugnance was soon forgotten in admiration, for the strange physician's extreme skill at once became manifest despite the ice-coldness and shakiness of his bloodless-looking hands. He clearly understood my needs at a glance, and ministered to them with a master's deftness, the while reassuring me in a finely modulated though oddly hollow and timbreless voice that he was the bitterest of sworn enemies to death, and had sunk his fortune and lost all his friends in a lifetime of bizarre experiment devoted to its bafflement and extirpation. Something of the benevolent fanatic seemed to reside in him, and he rambled on almost garrulously as he sounded my chest and mixed a suitable draught of drugs fetched from the smaller laboratory room. Evidently he found the society of a well-born man a rare novelty in this dingy environment, and was moved to unaccustomed speech as memories of better days surged over him. His voice, if queer, was at least soothing, and I could not even perceive that he breathed as the fluent sentences rolled urbanely out. He sought to distract my mind from my own seizure by speaking of his theories and experiments; and I remember his tactfully consoling me about my weak heart by insisting that will and consciousness are stronger than organic life itself so that if a bodily frame be but originally healthy and carefully preserved, it may through a scientific enhancement of these qualities retain a kind of nervous animation despite the most serious impairments, defects, or even absences in the battery of specific organs. He might, he half-jestingly said, some day teach me to live--or at least to possess some kind of conscious existence--without any heart at all! For his part, he was afflicted with a complication of maladies requiring a very exact regimen which included constant cold. Any marked rise in temperature might, if prolonged, affect him fatally, and the frigidity of his habitation--some fifty-five or fifty-six degrees Fahrenheit--was maintained by an absorption system of ammonia cooling, the gasoline engine whose pumps I had often heard in my room below. * * * * * Relieved of my seizure in a marvellously short while, I left the shivery place a disciple and devotee of the gifted recluse. After that I paid him frequently overcoated calls, listening while he told of secret researches and almost ghastly results, and trembling a bit when I examined the unconventional and astonishingly ancient volumes on his shelves. I was eventually I may add, almost cured of my disease for all time by his skilful ministrations. It seems that he did not scorn the incantations of the mediaevalists, since he believed these cryptic formulae to contain rare psychological stimuli which might conceivably have singular effects on the substance of a nervous system from which organic pulsations had fled. I was touched by his account of the aged Doctor Torres of Valencia, who had shared his earlier experiments and nursed him through the great illness of eighteen years before, whence his present disorders proceeded. No sooner had the venerable practitioner saved his colleague than he himself succumbed to the grim enemy he had fought. Perhaps the strain had been too great; for Doctor Munoz made it whisperingly clear--though not in detail--that the methods of healing had been most extraordinary, involving scenes and processes not welcomed by elderly and conservative Galens. As the weeks passed, I observed with regret that my new friend was indeed slowly but unmistakably losing ground physically, as Mrs. Herrero had suggested. The livid aspect of his countenance was intensified, his voice became more hollow and indistinct, his muscular motions were less perfectly co-ordinated, and his mind and will displayed less resilience and initiative. Of this sad change he seemed by no means unaware, and little by little his expression and conversation both took on a gruesome irony which restored in me something of the subtle repulsion I had originally felt. He developed strange caprices, acquiring a fondness for exotic spices and Egyptian incense until his room smelled like the vault of a sepulchred Pharaoh in the Valley of Kings. At the same time, his demands for cold air increased, and with my aid he amplified the ammonia piping of his room and modified the pumps and feed of his refrigerating machine until he could keep the temperature as low as thirty-four or forty degrees, and finally even twenty-eight degrees; the bathroom and laboratory, of course, being less chilled, in order that water might not freeze and that chemical processes might not be impeded. The tenant adjoining him complained of the icy air from around the connecting door; so I helped him fit heavy hangings to obviate the difficulty. A kind of growing horror, of outré and morbid cast, seemed to possess him. He talked of death incessantly, but laughed hollowly when such things as burial or funeral arrangements were gently suggested. All in all, he became a disconcerting and even gruesome companion; yet in my gratitude for his healing I could not well abandon him to the strangers around him, and was careful to dust his room and attend to his needs each day, muffled in a heavy ulster which I bought especially for the purpose. I likewise did much of his shopping, and gasped in bafflement at some of the chemicals he ordered from druggists and laboratory supply houses. An increasing and unexplained atmosphere of panic seemed to rise around his apartment. The whole house, as I have said had a musty odour, but the smell in his room was worse, in spite of all the spices and incense and the pungent chemicals of the now incessant baths which he insisted on taking unaided. I perceived that it must be connected with his ailment, and shuddered when I reflected on what that ailment might be. Mrs. Herrero crossed herself when she looked at him, and gave him up unreservedly to me, not even letting her son Esteban continue to run errands for him. When I suggested other physicians, the sufferer would fly into as much of a rage as he seemed to dare to entertain. He evidently feared the physical effect of violent emotion, yet his will and driving force waxed rather than waned, and he refused to be confined to his bed. The lassitude of his earlier ill days gave place to a return of his fiery purpose, so that he seemed about to hurl defiance at the death demon even as that ancient enemy seized him. The pretence of eating, always curiously like a formality with him, he virtually abandoned, and mental power alone appeared to keep him from total collapse. He acquired a habit of writing long documents of some sort, which he carefully sealed and filed with injunctions that I transmit them after his death to certain persons whom he named--for the most part lettered East Indians, but including also a once celebrated French physician now generally thought dead, and about whom the most inconceivable things had been whispered. As it happened, I burned all these papers undelivered and unopened. His aspect and voice became utterly frightful, and his presence almost unbearable. One September day an unexpected glimpse of him induced an epileptic fit in a man who had come to repair his electric desk lamp, and for whom he prescribed effectively while keeping himself well out of sight. That man, oddly enough, had been through the terrors of the Great War without having incurred any fright so thorough. * * * * * Then, in the middle of October, the horror of horrors came with stupefying suddenness. One night about eleven the pump of the refrigerating machine broke down, so that within three hours the process of ammonia cooling became impossible. Doctor Munoz summoned me by thumping on the floor, and I worked desperately to repair the injury while my host cursed in a tone whose lifeless, rattling hollowness surpassed description. My amateur efforts, however, proved of no use, and when I had brought in a mechanic from a neighbouring all-night garage we learned that nothing could be done until morning, when a new piston would have to be obtained. The moribund hermit's rage and fear, swelling to grotesque proportions, seemed likely to shatter what remained of his failing physique; and once a spasm caused him to clap his hands to his eyes and rush into the bathroom. He groped his way out with face tightly bandaged, and I never saw his eyes again. The frigidity of the apartment was now sensibly diminishing, and at about five in the morning the Doctor retired to the bathroom, commanding me to keep him supplied with all the ice I could obtain at all-night drug stores and cafeterias. As I would return from my sometimes discouraging trips and lay my spoils before the closed bathroom door, I could hear a restless splashing within and a thick voice croaking out the order for "More--more!" At length a warm day broke, and the shops opened one by one. I asked Esteban either to help with the ice-fetching while I obtained the pump piston or to order the piston while I continued with the ice; but, instructed by his mother, he absolutely refused. Finally I hired a seedy-looking loafer whom I encountered on the corner of Eighth Avenue to keep the patient supplied with ice from a little shop where I introduced him, and applied myself diligently to the task of finding a pump piston and engaging workmen competent to install it. The task seemed interminable, and I raged almost as violently as the hermit when I saw the hours slipping by in a breathless, foodless round of vain telephoning and a hectic quest from place to place, hither and thither by subway and surface car. About noon I encountered a suitable supply house far downtown, and at approximately one-thirty that afternoon arrived at my boarding-place with the necessary paraphernalia and two sturdy and intelligent mechanics. I had done all I could, and hoped I was in time. Black terror, however, had preceded me. The house was in utter turmoil, and above the chatter of awed voices I heard a man praying in a deep basso. Fiendish things were in the air, and lodgers told over the beads of their rosaries as they caught the odour from beneath the Doctor's closed door. The lounger I had hired, it seems, had fled screaming and mad-eyed not long after his second delivery of ice: perhaps as a result of excessive curiosity. He could not, of course, have locked the door behind him, yet it was now fastened, presumably from the inside. There was no sound within save a nameless sort of slow thick dripping. Briefly consulting with Mrs. Herrero and the workmen, despite a fear that gnawed my inmost soul, I advised the breaking down of the door; but the landlady found a way to turn the key from the outside with some wire device. We had previously opened the doors of all the other rooms on that hall and flung all the windows to the very top. Now, noses protected by handkerchiefs, we tremblingly invaded the accursed south room, which blazed with the warm sun of early afternoon. A kind of dark, slimy trail led from the open bathroom door to the hall door, and thence to the desk, where a terrible little pool had accumulated. Something was scrawled there in pencil in an awful, blind hand on a piece of paper hideously smeared as though by the very claws that traced the hurried last words. Then the trail led to the couch and ended unutterably. What was, or had been, on the couch I cannot and dare not say here. But this is what I shiveringly puzzled out on the stickily smeared paper before I drew a match and burned it to a crisp; what I puzzled out in terror as the landlady and two mechanics rushed frantically from that hellish place to babble their incoherent stories at the nearest police station. The nauseous words seemed well-nigh incredible in that yellow sunlight, with the clatter of cars and motor trucks ascending clamorously from crowded Fourteenth Street, yet I confess that I believed them then. Whether I believe them now I honestly do not know. There are things about which it is better not to speculate, and all that I can say is that I hate the smell of ammonia and grow faint at a draught of unusually cool air. "The end," ran that noisome scrawl, "is here. No more ice--the man looked and ran away. Warmer every minute, and the tissues can't last. I fancy you know--what I said about the will and the nerves and the preserved body after the organs ceased to work. It was a good theory, but couldn't keep up indefinitely. There was a gradual deterioration I had not foreseen. Doctor Torres knew, but the shock killed him. He couldn't stand what he had to do; he had to get me in a strange, dark place, when he minded my letter and nursed me back. And the organs would never work again. It had to be done my way--artificial preservation--for you see I died that time eighteen years ago." * * * * * https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cool_Air

TNG pre-creation of Apollo 11 landing + Miracle on the Hudson...