A Proof of a Conjecture About Prime Numbers, Willans' Formula, and a New Primality Test

I have been playing around with conjectures involving prime numbers. Since I didn't get anywhere with the Goldbach Conjecture, I started looking at the differences of the squares of consecutive primes. That led to something interesting. 

The whole proof is here: Glibertarians | But you said there would be no math!

If you would like to prove it for yourself, here are the building blocks:

***

[My] conjecture: The difference of the squares of any two prime numbers 5 or above is divisible by 6. (Whiz’s corollary: said difference is also divisible by 24.)

Theorem 1: The differences of the squares of any two odd numbers is divisible by 8.

Theorem 2: The difference of squares of any two numbers that are not divisible by 3 is divisible by 3.

Proof of the conjecture: Since all primes 5 or above are both odd and not divisible by 3, by Theorems 1 and 2 the difference of their squares is divisible by 8 and 3, respectively, and therefore also divisible by 24. Q.E.D.

***

See update below. I was bit hasty in my claims here. My mistake was failing to note that there are composite numbers greater than 5 which are both odd and not divisible by 3. For those numbers, the difference of the squares will also be 24, at least in some cases. The good news is that if we can prove a number, n, is NOT prime with the following test:

sqrt((n^2 - 25)/24)

If the result of the above is not an integer, then n is not prime. 

An interesting upshot to this theorem is that if you want to find the larger prime than n, simply square n, add 24, and take the square root. Repeat with larger multiples of 24 if the result is not an integer. Here are some examples:

5^2 + 24 = 49                        sqrt(49) = 7

7^2 + 3*24 = 121                  sqrt(121) = 11

11^2 + 2*24 = 169                sqrt(169) = 13

13^2 + 5*24 = 289                sqrt(289) = 17

If we skip a bit to some larger primes...

9001^2 + 4502*24 = 81126049        sqrt(81126049) = 9007

Note that 9001 and 9007 are consecutive primes. 

Willans' Formula generates all primes in order, but it takes a long time to compute large primes. 

In contrast, if a large prime is already known, then the next larger prime will follow the pattern shown above. 

Indeed, if we start with just 5, we can compute all other primes greater than 5. Like so:

5^2 + 24 = 49                    sqrt(49) = 7

5^2 + 4*24 = 121              sqrt(121) = 11

5^2 + 6*24 = 169              sqrt(169) = 13

5^2 + 11*24 = 289            sqrt(289) = 17

for the same large primes given above, we get: 

5^2 + 3375749*24 = 81018001        sqrt(81018001) = 9001

5^2 + 3380251*24 = 81126049        sqrt(81126049) = 9007

Update: 10,006,721 is prime, yet I have found some counterexamples to my conjecture with it. 

For example, (10006723^2 - 10006721^2)/24 = 1667787, but 10,006,723 is not prime, though it has only 2 other factors besides 1 and itself. So while my conjecture removes most factors, it does not get all of them. 

However, if we find sqrt((1000623^2 - 25)/24), we get a non-integer, and this tells us that 1000623 is not prime. 

The next prime after 10,006,721 is 10,006,741. 

Here is an online prime number calculator:

Prime Number Calculator (calculatorsoup.com)

Ragnarök Algorithm

The security of the internet is based on the fact that it is difficult to factorize large semiprime numbers. That is to say, if you multiply two large primes together, you will get a very large semiprime number, and there is no efficient algorithm for determining its two prime factors. By "large", I mean a prime with 100 digits or more. If you can find a 100-digit prime the CIA doesn't know about yet, they'll pay you $10,000 for it. Also, the fact that the CIA has a such a database suggests they or perhaps another agency are interested in decrypting internet traffic.   

If there is such an algorithm, it would be able to determine the private keys associated with every public key, and those are limited in number given the rarity and difficulty of finding sufficiently large prime numbers. Once the private and public key pairs are known to an unauthorized user, that person would have access to everything that was previously private and encrypted. The effect would be like having everyone's username and password for every online account. Since this would be the end of online privacy, I have dubbed such a technique the Ragnarök Algorithm.   

Depending on the nature of such an algorithm, using even larger prime numbers could be an effective countermeasure for a time. The general pattern of cryptography is that codes produced by machines can be broken by machines. Indeed, this is how the modern-day computer came to be. All the cipher machine codes used during WW2 were broken by mathematical analysis and by primitive computers. In fact, the Japanese codes were broken before the war started. The American cipher machine codes were broken next, which is why the Navajo code was introduced. The German cipher machine codes were broken last. 

During the early 20th century, the British controlled most of the undersea communication cables and had taps on all of them. This allowed them to keep track of the movements of foreign navies. Today, about 70% of the world's internet traffic passes through Ashburn, Virginia. Most of the rest passes through New York, London, and San Francisco. Do you think the US or UK might tapping the fiber optic cables used for internet traffic? It would certainly be easy and advantageous for them to do so.

It's also worth noting that end-to-end encryption is only secure on an uninfected device. As soon as some spyware has been loaded on it, everything done on that computer or phone can be monitored. 

Good cryptography is hard and new attacks are always being devised. Whoever has the best mathematicians will win. 

 

Beach Near Acadia National Park

The sand at the beach is unique because it is made mostly out of crushed shells instead of crushed rock. The water is very cold and that helps break down the calcium in the shells. 

 

El Morro, New Mexico

 

It's a set of cliffs in the shape of a donut with a central pillar. Also, there are purple cacti on top. 

Evening Fog Near Big Sur

 

Republican Voter Suppression Now Targets the Dead, Warns Top Democrat

NEW YORK - Voter ID requirements could stifle voter turn-out among Dead Americans, warned Rep. Adam Schiff.  It's hard enough for post-mortal Americans to reach polling places from 6 feet under or to re-assemble their bodies from scattered ashes. The requirement that all voters show ID in person before voting is as every much an outrage as "separate, but equal", he explained as he encompassed his neck with his thumb and forefinger. Schiff is a part of a growing chorus condemning voter ID requirements. The ACLU tweeted that all Americans, regardless of pulse, have a right to vote. Meanwhile, the Association of Trans-Dead Americans was equally vocal in denouncing the requirements.  "As a man who identifies as a long dead pharaoh, I deal with enough hardships, such as random people yanking on my mummy bandages to spin me around," said Imhotep IV of Toledo, Ohio. Members of the same group protested the Toledo GOP office with a haunt-in, whereby they donned bed sheets, milled around, and made "Ooooooo" noises at passers-by.

Bison Near Hot Spring, Yellowstone

 This pool is near the Mud Volcano. 

Arrowheads and Stone Tools

 I inherited this collection from my grandpa. He collected them as a boy near Louisville, KY in the 1920s. That's about all I know about them. I've emailed a few archaeologists to get more info, but they said that these artifacts are not particularly remarkable. 

Practical Considerations of Time Travel and Settlement

Let's consider a truly outlandish scenario. A device has been invented which can show the future or the past. Experiments show that it is 100% accurate. Someone using this device discovers that in a few years, the earth will be invaded and conquered by aliens and that most of humanity will die off. Around the same time, someone else invents a device that allows one-way time travel to either the future or the past. After some discussion, a group of scientists decide to establish a colony in the late Cretaceous period a few thousand years before the KT impact and extinction event.

Why try to establish a colony under those conditions? There are several practical reasons. First, by choosing an era that has no other people, they avoid competition with any group that is larger and has better knowledge of how to survive in that environment. Second, they can introduce useful livestock to that period and be assured they will become plentiful as such creatures would have no natural predators in that era. Third, the knowledge that a catastrophe is looming will motivate the original settlers and their descendants to focus their efforts on surviving.  

Some of the difficulties such a group would encounter include the need for a common language and the fact that any technology they bring with them will eventually stop working. All the modern conveniences we take for granted require a complex global supply chain which is impossible for any group of people to quickly recreate. This would then force them to focus on survival skills as well as creating a culture that encourages population growth. 

A good first step would be to introduce some game animals to settlement zone and give them a few years to multiply. Rabbits, turkeys, and wild pigs would probably work. That would give the settlers some easy game to hunt as they adapt to the new environment. To get farming started, the settlers could bring potatoes to grow, as that is probably the easiest staple crop to cultivate. Goats would be another good choice as they are tolerant of many conditions. Hemp fiber can be used for both cloth and rope, so that would be another essential plant to bring. 

Supposing once more that time paradoxes are not an issue, another good time and place for colonization would be North America just after the Beringia land bridge vanished. The climate and other general conditions of that time are not substantially different from the present. 

The true limiting conditions are: what is the smallest group of people needed to establish a permanent settlement? The first European colonies in North America were reinforced several times and would not have survived without help from the natives. The Pitcairn survivors had a total of 15 men and 11 women. Roughly speaking, it seems that about 30 men and women is the smallest group of people that can be viable long-term. It's interesting to note that a crucial element in the group's survival was a common language and religion. In the first years, most of the men died either by murder or disease.  

The best things to take along, I imagine, would be hand tools and camping gear. Eventually, it would become necessary to relearn how to make stone tools until the population grows large enough to support industry. It took the Pitcairn group 66 years for their population to grow by six-fold. Assuming a similar growth rate, a colony that starts with 30 people would grow to about 1,000 after 130 years and it would take another 130 years to reach about 36,000. 

In general, infant mortality would be high, though at least modern knowledge would help that somewhat. Books would not be as important at first as tools, but eventually, there would be a need for future generations to be educated so that it would not be necessary to re-invent and re-discover everything. The greatest danger to human life after disease is violence. I have a hard time seeing how a multicultural group of settlers could survive, but perhaps it could be done. There were about 400 people in the first wave of immigrants to Iceland, and they shared a common religion, language, and culture. 

Given the nature of linguistic evolution, whatever books are brought to the past would likely be unreadable to future generations after a few centuries. A remedy to that would be to use a logographic writing system like Chinese. 

It's fun to think about these questions as time travel migration presents many of the same problems as the colonization of other planets.

Borg Announce New Motto: We're All in This Together

DELTA QUADRANT - "Mistakes were made; races were assimilated improperly", said 7 of 11, spokesdrone for hivemind. "We've since realized that saying things like 'resistance is futile' and 'you will be assimilated' just makes our work harder. Our new message is about getting everybody on the same winning team. Doesn't that sound nice?" The creature added that since humans have already shown a tendency for conformity, they would actually be happier without thoughts of their own.

"7 of 11 makes a compelling case at first, but on closer inspection, troubling details emerge, such as its lack of a blue check mark on Twitter" said futurist and sci fi author Joanna Gambolputty. "How can we know that the Borg can protect unless from fake news? Do they support Black Lives Matter? Will we, as drones, be allowed to use our preferred pronouns? These and other pressing questions demand answers." 

7 of 11 replied that the collective is working on making social media accounts but is not sure which of its 100 billion members to use for a profile picture. "We thought about just using a logo, but it seemed too impersonal. Then we thought that we could use a fun cartoon character like Yogi Bear, but with the red eye laser. It did not do well with test audiences unfortunately." 

Meanwhile, Google and Facebook both expressed interest in a strategic partnership with the Borg. "The Borg offer huge user growth potential. Though we may not be able to build a firewall to defend them against photon torpedoes, we are certainly willing to try", said Facebook CEO Mark Zuckerberg. "I, for one, find these creatures to be charming companions and their blank, emotionless stares and monotone voices are quite soothing" said the tech tycoon without blinking. 

Critics have pointed out the Borg's troubling human rights record, which includes removal of all individuality, mutilating surgery, and uncomfortable leather jumpsuits. "Why are there no fat Borg?" asked Joanna Gambolputty. "Do the Borg support the body positivity movement? I say assimilation at any size and will settle for nothing less. Also, the tight clothing would attract the male gaze. Is there sufficient diversity among the Borg, or is just a bunch of dead, white males?" 7 of 11 said the Borg is working on these and other issues. It added that as a gesture of good will, every human will get a free basket of lotion. 

View of the Serpent Mound, Ohio

I took this photo from the top of a nearby observation tower. It's interesting that the people who built these mounds left no written records. Tribes in the Great Plains and Southwest had writing, as shown below.

River of Insults

I came from a humble family and had many siblings. It was decided when I was young that I would be a monk, as it was customary for at least one son in a family to take up that obligation. My training began when I was 12 at a local ashram. For the next eight years, I learned the dharma and Sanskrit when I was not meditating, doing chores, or begging. My teachers seemed to think well of me. Although we were discouraged from making comparisons, many did anyway, and I was considered above average in spiritual progress. I am still not sure what that means exactly, but I presume it is good. I tended to my father on his deathbed by saying prayers and giving blessings. I can see in my mother's eyes that she was proud that I was now a holy man of sorts. During his funeral and cremation, I conducted all the proper rituals. It was that day I felt that my long training had finally come to an end. 

After the funeral, I went to a nearby temple to see if I could join the monks there. Upon my arrival, a monk showed me to a waiting spot in the shade at the top of the temple steps. He told me to wait there and that the priest would fetch me later. So I sat on the steps and took in the scene. From my vantage point, I had a great view of the reflecting pool which perfectly showed the temple's towering pagoda. It was a serene image. As the hours passed, I watched the shadows lengthen as the daylight faded. Even when the stars had come out, the priest had still not come. I learned patience in the ashram and was not troubled by this. At last, exhaustion overtook me, and I stretched out sleep. All I had with me was a walking stick, a begging bowl, and a cloth sack with some food. I made the sack into a pillow to keep my head off the cold stone.  

I woke to the sound of a rooster's crow and began walking down the steps and toward the tree line to relieve myself. I had barely started down the steps when I heard a voice behind me.

"Leaving so soon? You just got here yesterday."

I turned and saw an old man I presumed was the priest of the temple.

"Pardon me, good sir. I was just off to answer the call of nature."

"Ah, understandable. Go on then. I'll wait here. By the way, the outhouse is over there, next to a chicken coop. The farmer lets us use it."

It was nice to learn something important and useful so early in the day. When I returned, the priest ushered me into a small room in the pagoda. We sat facing each other in the lotus position. 

"Thank you for having me today. It was a long walk to get here."

"Forgive me for making you wait overnight. It was a test. You'd be surprised to know how many new monks are not really serious about their vows. There are some that can't even stand to wait an hour or two in the shade."

"I'm glad to be one of the successful ones. For now, anyway."

"You have the right attitude and I think you'll do well here. Please go down to the river to fetch some water. I'll show you where the buckets are."

He took me to the storeroom, and I placed a bucket on each end of a pole. Then lifted it all and rested the pole on my shoulders behind my neck. I had fetched water in such a way many times before. The priest pointed toward the path and said I wouldn't get lost. 

Once I the path, I took some pleasure in the sights and sounds of the jungle. Rays of sunshine broke through the thick canopy, birds chirped and sang, and the sounds of splashing and women talking grew steadily louder. Once at the river, I saw a group on the river bank washing clothes and another group bathing nearby. I moved a bit upstream to find a spot with frothy, fast-flowing water. They saw me, but I was far enough away that there was no point in talking. A few waved and I waved back. They were talking loudly, and so I heard them clearly.

"Can't you filthy whores bathe somewhere else?" yelled one of the women washing clothes.

"We have to wash somewhere," yelled back one of the ones bathing.

"You're a disgrace to this village. Just go somewhere else."

"Most of our customers are your husbands!"

At that, a few from both groups charged at each other and I decided it was time to intervene else there would be a brawl. I ran towards them while waving my hands in the air and yelling.

"Hey there! Stop before someone gets hurt! Please!"

I ran into the water and got between the two groups. The sight of monk acting in such a way must have shocked them back to their senses. Once the scene had calmed a bit, I told them that they both had a right to use the river. 

"Those washing clothes should come in the morning and those bathing should come in the afternoon. This will keep the peace. If someone breaks the rules, go to the temple and tell one of the monks."

Everyone seemed satisfied with that, so I returned to my buckets, filled them, and made my way back to the temple. Upon my return, I made tea and brought some for the priest. 

"I heard you broke up a fight at the river earlier today."

"Yes. I see news travels fast here. I told them that..."

"Those washing should come in the morning and those bathing should come in the afternoon?"

"Yes! How did you know?"

"Many monks have tried that over the years. I even tried that when I was a new monk here. All women who used to argue there when I was a new monk here are dead and have been replaced. This has happened countless times over for centuries, as far as anyone can tell. It's like the cycle of samsara in miniature."

"Is there any hope of breaking the vicious cycle?"

"I think so, but I have no idea what could do that. Well, I have one idea, but it would cause such a scandal that I'd get chased away if it didn't work."

"And what is that idea, good sir?"

"I want to hold a dance contest between the two groups with the village men being the judges. Whichever group wins gets exclusive access to that part of the river. There are other places nearby to get water."

"If it helps, you can say it was my idea. That way if it goes badly, I get the blame and am banished. It's much easier for me to start over somewhere else as I have just begun my career."

"That's a very noble suggestion. It's settled then. Tomorrow, go to the river and inform them. For better or worse, the people of this area look to us for spiritual guidance and leadership. It is time for us to take action to end this strife."

So the next day I went to the river and approached the women directly. They had already ignored the advice I had given them yesterday about using the river at the same time.

"Hello again. I believe I have a way of settling this dispute once and for all. It has been given the blessing of the priest. The evening of the next full moon, five of you from each side will compete in a dance contest at the temple. We monks will be the judges. Whoever wins gets to use this part of the river and the losing group must go elsewhere."

They were dumbfounded, but weakly murmured that they agreed to the terms.

The evening before the contest, the other monks and I built two bonfires on either side of the reflecting pool so that we could better see the action. We also hoped that the fires would remind them of the way their own bad karma was burning them up. We lit the fires just after dark, which was the signal for the dancers begin. We hurried back to the steps of the pagoda so we could watch the action better.

Out from the trees, came two clusters of women. The were hooting and screeching as their jewelery jangled, and they each took up position on either side of the reflecting pool in front of the bonfires. For hours, they danced and gyrated in the most seductive ways. It seems it was too much for some of the monks. Many blushed or slinked away laughing. At last, they all finally gave up and lay on the ground to catch their breath. One from each group approached the pagoda steps to ask who had won. The priest eyed both of them and then rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

"As far as I can tell, both groups danced equally well. Therefore, there is no winner tonight. The losers, both here and in their future lives, are the ones who let their anger provoke them into foolishness. I beg of you, let yourselves be reincarnated, so to say, in this life. You'll be happier if you do."

I was skeptical of what impact, if any, the priest's words would have. As it turned out, the events of that night put an end to the feud and have entered into local lore. It's been 40 years since then, and I am now the priest of the temple. Every day since it happened, I went to the river to work a little on carving an image of Buddha into one of the boulders there. It is finally finished. 

Phillistines Call for Common Sense Sling Control After Goliath Tragedy

GATH - "It is with a heavy heart that we announce the passing of the beloved warrior Goliath", said King Abimelech. Known as "The Gentle Giant", Goliath gained prominence for his size and strength. An aspiring bard, he also excelled in skull crushing. The chief suspect in his slaying is one David of Bethlehem, a loner with a long history of violence against animals and writing disturbing poetry.

 According to High Priestess of Baal Joah Nagam Bol Path of Ai, "ranged weapons are forbidden except to Enlil, God of Storms. Real men do not fight with rocks. This coward David should have fought Goliath with his bare hands." According to the latest sheep entrails, the sling used in the killing was most likely acquired in Canaan, a land known for its loose sling laws. 

"The sling peddlers of Canaan have blood on their hands once more", added King Abimelech as his spear bearer adjusted the king's breastplate. As of chiseling time, the Philistine host is standing by as they wait for their helmets to arrive.  

Poetic Sign at Military Cemetery Near Site of Custer's Last Stand

 

From my epic 2019 road trip 

The Devil's Observatory

 In my younger and more adventurous days, I was up for any challenge. At the time, I had recently snagged a role as a guest contributor to several well-known magazines. My hook was the paranormal beat and the Ripley's Believe or Not stuff. I'd take road trips to all kinds of weird and obscure places and write about what I encountered there. Often, it was a disappointment, but the articles I got out of my sojourns always got published. After a while, I even began to get letters with various suggestions on where to go next. There was a Fortean Society near Pittsburgh that took great interest in my work. One day, I got a letter saying that my next expedition should be to a place called The Devil's Observatory. Here was its backstory according to the letter:

***

It is a remote place in southern Idaho. Even the locals are afraid to venture close to it. The land is rugged and sparsely populated. Although it is good for ranching, there are often freak storms year round that discouraged anyone from staying there too long. There is a single jagged peak that towers over the landscape, and it was there that an eccentric millionaire named Oswald Wagner built an observatory. He gathered followers and there were rumors of strange rituals relating to the stars. After a few locals went missing, the sheriff and some deputies went to investigate, but no one was there. There weren't even any human remains. It is as if they all literally disappeared into thin air. Several dozen people had all gone missing without a trace. 30 years later, no one has any idea where they are.

***

Well, I had no hopes of solving the mystery, but I did want to get a good look at the place and at least photograph it for posterity. It took me three days of driving just to get within 10 miles of the place and I spent two more days driving around on dirt roads looking for it. I had anticipated this sort of trouble and filled some gas cans at the last service station I passed. The last thing I wanted was to end up stranded in the middle of nowhere. That place was a dot on the highway town of about 50 people some 20 miles away from the observatory. It was the kind of place that had a "LAST GAS FOR 70 MILES" sign right next to the town welcome sign. The main employer was a combo general store, diner, bar, and motel. I got the feeling that not many people passed through the town this time of year.  

My favorite part of any trip like this was the detective work. I decided to hang out in the bar for a few hours one night. There were only four of us in there the night including the bar tender. I bought everyone a round, played a game of darts and pool, and then bought another round. They must have gotten wise to me as I suspect few strangers in that place had ever been so generous. We were all comfortably liquored up, so I figured that now was the time to crack the ice. You'd be surprised at the sorts of things you learn from hanging out in bars.

"OK, you know I'm not from around here. And you probably figured there I wasn't buying you drinks unless I wanted something, so here goes. I'm a reporter and I'm here to do a story on the Devil's Observatory. The problem is, I can't find the place. I drove around all day yesterday looking for it. I know it's up on that mountain somewhere, but the road stops halfway up. Is there another one or do I need to hoof it up there?"

One of the bar flies broke the pack on the pool table. Then there was an awkward silence. It seemed I had struck a nerve. Hopefully I hadn't worn out my welcome. The bartender tapped the counter to get my attention. I turned to face him. He was plump, bald, about 50, with a serious face and a washboard forehead. I could tell he'd seen a lot in his time. 

"Fella, you seem nice. My advice is to just go back where you came from and make up a story. No good will come from finding that place. You're not the first guy to come through here looking for it. I don't what happened to the others who went up that mountain, but it sure as hell wasn't good. One of them, he never came back to check out of the motel. He left some of his stuff there. I can show it to you if you don't believe me."

"I'd like to see it. If a missing person report hasn't already been filed, I'd like to help with that."

"My wife runs the motel. She filed a missing person report for that guy seven years ago. One of his relatives came here looking for him. We told everything we knew to him and the police. As far as we know, he's never been found. Please, don't go looking for that place."

I decided it was time to play hardball, so I took out a wad of cash, flicked out a few $20 bills and held it in front of him."

"If you help me find it, I'll be sure to make it worth your while. I never like leaving empty-handed."

"I can see there's no use trying to change your mind. OK, I'll draw a map for you, but I'm not giving it to you until you make me a promise."

"And what's that?"

He took a .38 revolver from under the counter and slid it toward me.

"This ain't much, but it's better than nothing. Promise me you'll take it with you. I'll take that money in case you don't bring it back."

"It's been a pleasure doing business with you. Don't worry, I'll bring it back. I promise."

He went into the back room for a few minutes and drew a map. It was folded up tight when he handed it to me. My work for the night was done.

"Well, gentlemen, it's been a pleasure, but I have a busy day ahead of me tomorrow. Hopefully I'll be seeing you again tomorrow evening or next."

They said nothing as I headed back to my room to sleep. There was a horrific thunderstorm that night. Hopefully the weather would be better in the morning. I spent an hour studying the map the bartender had drawn. It was easy enough to follow. I was confident I'd find the observatory in the morning. 

I left bright an early the next day and paid in advance for what I expected to be my next night in the room. The drive to the mountain passed by quickly it seemed. The weather was beautiful, with clear skies and no wind. I drove up the mountain and kept my eyes peeled for the hidden turn shown on the map. At last, the observatory came into view. It was a modest building about the size of a barn, though it loomed over the cottage next to it. It looked more like a lighthouse than an observatory, except for the cupola on top and the protruding telescope. 

As luck would have up, the door to the observatory was unlocked. It'd be more surprising if anything was locked in a place this remote. I paused for some time to photograph the exterior of both buildings. The architecture was vaguely Victorian with a hint of Gothic. There was something very unsettling about the place, even in broad daylight. I began to wish I'd brought a companion. I went back to my car to get a flashlight and the revolver, which I tucked into my belt. I was much of a marksman, but that revolver was certainly heavy enough to make a good bludgeon if need be. 

I decided to explore the cottage first. To my surprise and delight, I found what appeared to be a study almost immediately and took some more photographs. Oswald's journal was open on his desk. It was hard to resist temptation, so simply pocketed the thing. Most other investigators at this point would have left satisfied, but not me. I always went the extra mile and then some. 

As I exited the house, I looked to the horizon and saw ominous, dark clouds approaching. I'd have to work fast to finish photographing the observatory. At least, I was determined to get a good shot from the roof while the weather was still good. I entered the observatory and peered up at the spiral staircase leading to the top. I had always been afraid of heights. It was my main weakness. The see-through grating on the steps jangled my nerves even more. I could feel the sweat on my palms as I held firmly to the guardrails. Though it was only about a 50-foot climb, as I checked my watch, it took me a better part of an hour to reach the top. 

By this time, the storm was nearly upon the mountain. The wind was beginning to blow hard. With some trepidation, I got a few more good shots of the interior and the view from the top. Satisfied, I began the agonizing descent. At least, I reached the ground floor and exited the gloomy place. My heart leapt into my throat when I saw a mysterious robed figure examining my car. While his back was still turned, I reached for the revolver and cocked it. The figure must have heard the sound and immediately turned. I have never in my life seen a face like his. His skin was gray. His head was large with a small slit for a mouth and black almond eyes. Not sure of what else to do, I fired a shot into the air. The figure seemed to dissipate like steam from a kettle. I kicked myself for not photographing the thing. 

I got back in my car, started the engine, and headed back the way I came, but a bit faster this time. I breathed a sigh of relief once I got back on the road back to town, though that was still a good half an hour away. In the rearview mirror, a massive glowing shape loomed. I accelerated instinctively, but in a few seconds, it was upon me. Then my car was bathed in an eerie blue light for a few seconds while my ears were blasted with a loud, unearthly hum. I nearly lost consciousness and drove into town in a sort of stupor, half-awake. 

I went to the bar to return the revolver and as soon as I entered, I heard gasps of fright. I put the revolver back on the counter plus a quarter for the shot I fired. 

The bartender was speechless; his mouth agape in shock. I went back to my motel room and answered the call of nature. Then I looked in the mirror.

All my hair had turned white, and my skin was deathly pale. I collapsed on my bed. When I came to, I was strapped to a gurney in the back of an ambulance. For the past few weeks, I have been held incommunicado and against my will inside the infirmary of some sort of military base. All my possessions were taken from me and then returned a few hours later except my camera, the map, and Oswald's notebook. I am allowed to write letters but am not sure if they ever get delivered. I have been interrogated over and over about what happened that day. Perhaps someday I will be released from this place. My health has been getting worse. My main regret is never finding out what was in that notebook. At least someone is reading it now.  

So You Want to be a Military Linguist?

Here are some things you should know:

-If you want to pick your language, join the National Guard.

-Most military linguists end up working for NSA during their enlistment. 

-NSA is a fun place to work. You'll get to play with their cool secret squirrel software. 

-If you want to be air crew, join the Navy or Air Force, and you might get stationed somewhere cool like Japan or Spain.

-Army pays the highest bonuses. I got $40,000 for a 6-year contract. You get half the bonus when you complete training and the rest in annual payments.

-DLI (Defense Language Institute) is hard if you don't have study skills. Many smart people flunk out of there.

-The Monterey area is great. Enjoy it if you end up there. 

-Buy the DLAB Study Guide from Delta Gear by Greg Boban to maximize your score. You need to do well on it to get assigned Arabic, Chinese, or Korean.

 -Read Wikipedia articles in your target language about topics you know well. This will help you pass the course and the DLPT. 

-It is possible to get your preferred language once at DLI, but you might end up with Farsi when you wanted Russian. I got lucky.  

-It's mostly a listening job with some reading. If you want to be an interpreter, you need to be fluent in a foreign language. Plenty of people who speak Spanish or Korean join the military.

-Join the Navy if you want Chinese. Join the Air Force if you want Arabic. Join the Army if you want Korean. Join the Marines if you want Tagalog or Indonesian. All branches train linguists for all languages, but these are the relative biases. 

-The Arabic course lasts 64 weeks. I got to DLI in February of 2016 and graduated in August of 2017.

-If you have a bunch of foreign contacts, it may take you up to 2 years to get your TS/SCI clearance from the time you finish training. 

It worked out well for me because I was motivated. Make sure you have a good reason to join. 

Chik-Fil-A Hopes to Boost Sales With New "Hail Satan" Slogan

ATLANTA   The fast-food giant is retiring its trademark "my pleasure" slogan in a bold gambit to attract new customers. According to 31-year-old director of marketing Joanna Gambolputty: "What consumers crave most is diversity and inclusion. By reaching out to a tiny, hated segment of the population, which is also totally antithetical to our brand, we are sure to boost sales with new demographics while at the same time retaining our conservative, Christian, customer base."  

It's a bold move, but business expert Scott Cotton thinks it might pay off: "Businesses stagnate for a variety of reasons, but often what happens is the consumers get tired of what is old and predictable and start craving something fresh and exciting. Witness how Coca-Cola reinvented itself in the 1980s. No one even remembers the old Coke."

The familiar Chik-Fil-A cows who encouraged us to "EAT MORE CHIKIN" will be replaced with a trio of demons who will playfully "deface" billboards with statements like "HAIL SATAN" and "GOD IS DEAD". Other changes include a new logo with a severed chicken head on a pitchfork paired with a pentagram and upside-down cross. The new uniform will consist of a red jumpsuit, a head band with horns, and shoes designed to look like hooves.

A view from the minaret of Ibn Tulun Mosque, Cairo

 From my trip through Egypt in December 2009

Happiest American is Blind, Deaf

BOISE - "I've always seen it as a blessing in disguise, now more than ever," said Everett Bingham, who was recently found to be the only US citizen in a good mood. "Beethoven composed his greatest works after he went deaf and Milton was blind and broke when he wrote his masterpiece," added Bingham. "If that's the way it works, I should probably try to cure cancer or something. But the best part is all the stupid crap I don't even notice. Like this Trump guy. I just can't see why people get uptight about him. Well, I *can't* see but I don't see either." 

When asked about the secret of his joy, Everett said "I guess it all comes down to where you focus your attention. Me? I look forward to morning walks so I can feel the breeze and the sunshine. My friend and I walk to his house where we eat bacon and eggs, drink coffee, and do the crossword puzzle together. I don't have to do those things, but I do them because it makes me feel good. Other people seems like they do the opposite. They read, watch, and listen to things that make them angry, lo and behold, they get angry. That's like sticking a dog turd up your nose and complaining about the stink. As for me, I'd rather smell fresh baked bread, and I often do." 

Bingham fills his time with many projects, including weightlifting, origami, and training seeing eye dogs. "I feel sorry for all the people out of work right now. I'm no economist but seems to me that it's probably not a good idea to shut the country indefinitely just because some so-called experts said so. When I was a kid, plenty of experts said I'd basically be a person-shaped vegetable. Who's the dummy now, you blockheads? I've probably read more with my fingers than most college grads these days have with their eyes. Long story short, ignorance is not always bliss, but you can't be bothered by what you don't know."  

The Boustrophedon Cipher

It's interesting to ponder that today's computers are the descendants of code-breaking machines built during WW2. For while the codes produced by devices like the Enigma Machine were indeed very complex, they were ultimately the result of a deterministic system that was predictable if enough information was known. Although the concept of using random numbers to encode messages was proposed in the late 1800s, it was the Soviets who first put this technique into practice on a large scale with their one-time use pads. It is impossible to break a code made with random numbers that are only used once, because there is only one known (the encoded message), but two unknowns (the random numbers used and the plaintext of the message). It is as though we have the equation a + b = 10 and are asked to find the exact values of a and b. That can't be done without more information. 

The tricky part is coming up with a steady supply of truly random numbers which are only used once per message. The Soviets got into trouble by reusing random numbers, which led to the US reading a number of secret messages later called the Venona Papers. The way the Soviet code worked was through mod 10 math, that is, addition and subtraction without carrying. In mod 10 math, 9 + 7 = 6 because we ignore the carried 1 and 3 - 9 = 4 because the 3 acts like 13. The Soviets used code words with 5 digits. 11111 might mean Moscow for instance. To encode this word, a random 5-digit number would be added, say 98765. That gives a ciphertext of 09876 using mod 10 addition. Decoding the message merely requires subtracting the random number.

One major weakness of this method besides the need to constantly generate random numbers is the need to publish and distribute code books, which can be captured or sold by spies. The rotor-based cipher machines used by many countries during WW2 and the Cold War had a similar weakness. If the Allies had not captured a few Enigma machines, they may not have broken the German codes as quickly as they did. If the Soviets had been more careful in the production of their pads of random numbers, their secret messages would have remained secure. For perfect security, we need a way of generating random numbers that does not require a machine or a code book. How about an equation? Are there any equations that produce truly random numbers? Such an equation would be a one-way function, and their existence is an open question in mathematics and computer science. There are equations and algorithms which are assumed, but not proven, to be one-way. All codes are intended to be 1-way functions unless a shared bit of secret information is known.  

Suppose however there is a function or algorithm which can produce truly random numbers. Furthermore, imagine that this function is simple enough to be memorized so that it never needs to be written down. All that would be necessary to create unlimited random numbers would be the memorized equation and a calculator. I will call this hypothetical encryption technique the Boustrophedon Cipher. Boustrophedon comes from a Greek phrase that means "as an ox turns" and refers to a writing method where lines are written in alternating directions, just as an ox plowing a field switches directions at the end of each furrow. 

If everyone had easy access to unbreakable codes, including all governments and militaries, the value of signals intelligence obtained by spy agencies like NSA would quickly shrink to nothing. It would be like the story of the Tower of Babel, whereby the workers were unable to finish the building project because they all suddenly began speaking different languages. The general effect would be similar to every country gaining a stockpile of nuclear weapons overnight. In a way, we already live in such a world, as the internet and the financial transactions it facilitates are made possible through various forms of encryption and hashing algorithms. Hashing algorithms are presumed to be 1-way functions, yet there is no rigorous proof that they are. When sensitive information like usernames or passwords are stored on a website, they are often stored in the form of a hash. That means two inputs get shoved into an algorithm that produces a unique and irreversible output for each unique pair of inputs. It's more secure to store a hash than a database of usernames, passwords, account numbers, etc.

Only so much military intelligence can be gleaned from metadata. For example, during the Vietnam War, the communists were able to figure out what planes the US would likely use in an air raid. If they detected a surge in radio traffic from Guam, it meant B-52 bombers would be on their way soon. If they detected similar activity from Thailand, it meant smaller aircraft like F-4s would be used. If the traffic game from somewhere out to sea, it meant Navy aircraft were preparing to take off. Since this aircraft attacked different targets, this information allowed the communists to prepare their defenses more effectively. 

In contrast, the side that can break codes gains much more insight into their enemy's plans. The US broke the Japanese codes before WW2, and that ultimately led to a great victory during the Battle of Midway. Navy code breakers were able to correctly determine that the main Japanese attack would come at Midway Island and that the other major Japanese ship movements at the same time were diversions intended to confuse and disperse the US Navy. In a similar way, the Allies learned a great deal about the German fortifications on their Atlantic Wall by reading decoded messages sent by the Japanese ambassador to Germany. He had been given several tours of the complex and sent detailed reports back to Tokyo via radio. The Axis too had some successes in code breaking. The Germans broke the code used by the US Army and so was able to read reports by Lieutenant Colonel Bonner Fellers to FDR. The information from these reports enabled the Germans to inflict thousands of casualties on Allied forces during the North Africa campaign.  

Imagine a world where no such advantage existed. Countries would be far more reluctant to fight. Under US law, encryption systems are classified as munitions and are subject to various export restrictions. Even so, if strong encryption became universal, the end result would be a more peaceful world. Nuclear weapons brought the doctrine of mutually assured destruction. Unbreakable codes would usher in an era of mutually assured secrecy and universal privacy. 

Lake Tahoe in Winter

 

This is from a trip I took in February of 2017. I won 39 cents at the casino on the Nevada side.

The Man in the Arena

Emperor Diocletian had a great fondness for chariot races. Whenever the affairs of government became too tiresome, he would gather his entourage and head for the hippodrome. It was a feast for the eyes to gaze upon the racetrack from his luxurious vantage. In the middle of the track, a colossal statue Atlas bent under an unseen burden. It was relatively cool in the shade under the awning. Servants brought various delicacies: grapes, bread with olive oil, Greek cheese, oysters, pistachios, and of course wine. Diocletian was particularly proud of the elaborate logistics needed to ensure a steady supply of fresh oysters. They were kept alive in clay jars filled with sea water. There was always a wagon on the way to his palace from the fishermen's wharf some 50 miles away.   

There was usually plenty of spare time before the race began to gossip about the latest philosophy or poetry. Diocletian once asked his good friend and counselor Hadrian what he thought about chariot races. Hadrian merely replied that entertainment are all the things we do once the chores are done. Hadrian preferred the tranquility of the bathhouse to the hustle and bustle of the hippodrome. Diocletian promised him that they would all bathe once the races were done. It made more sense that way seeing as everyone ended up a bit dirty on the way to and from the arena. Diocletian liked to remind his courtiers that the key to happiness is nothing more than to do the right thing at the right place and the right time. These were not the cleverest words of wisdom ever spoken, but they were true nonetheless. 

A trumpet blared and the charioteers assembled at the starting line. They saluted Diocletian, and when he rose to return it, the flag bearer prepared to start the race. The flag man made his signal, and the chariots shot a head. Horses neighed, whips cracked, and great clouds of brown dust were kicked up by hooves and wheels. The races were 10 laps. A slave with a hook on long pole turned over a bronze dolphin to mark the end of each lap. By the beginning of the third lap, two chariots had pulled ahead of the rest and were now in a fierce duel to take the lead. Suddenly, one charioteer began to whip the other, who likewise returned the blows of his rival. This was considered an acceptable move, though there were always cases of escalation and revenge after the race was over. The reason the competition was so intense was that a charioteer made most of his money from winning, and winning a lot of races was one of the few ways in ancient Rome to get rich quick. 

Being the patron of a successful charioteer was a luxury only the richest of the rich could afford. The glory of a champion racer reflected upon his patron. Diocletian himself was general a loyal patron rather than a fair-weather friend. Once he picked a charioteer to sponsor, he always stayed with him until the driver retired, was disabled, killed, or otherwise left the arena. Chariot races were dangerous, although not quite as dangerous as gladiator fights. Horses were routinely hurt and killed as well. There weren't crashes every race, but they happened often enough to be a common sight. A race was never stopped after a crash as the wreckage was seen to add an extra challenge for the drivers and thus greater excitement for the crowd of spectators.   

From time to time, Diocletian himself what it would be like to race a chariot himself. The only time he had ridden in a chariot it was moving slowly at the head of a triumphal procession. He had just returned from the battlefield where he had won a great victory against the barbarians across the Danube. He was much younger and bolder then. No commander has ever thwarted the march of time. He decided that when the day's races were over, he would head into the arena and do one lap himself. He was certain whatever charioteer he asked for that favor would oblige him. Not only that, but when the crowd saw that even the emperor himself was not afraid to get a taste of racing, they would surely exult him and his prestige would be that much greater.  

There were another dozen or so races, a few with crashes and injuries. Clearing the track between races usually took at least a few minutes, and so did preparing for the next round. This gave spectators time to answer the call of nature and not have to worry about missing any of the action. Diocletian sipped some wine and ate another handful of pistachios. He marveled at his own good fortune. He had survived battles and shipwrecks, disease and famine, and all along he steadily rose the ranks to greater power. Even so, he remembered the first time he saw a chariot race as a boy and for a time dreamed of being a charioteer himself. Unfortunately, his father was absolutely opposed. Such a dangerous job was not suitable for the son of patrician. His family at the time had only moderate status, and all the hopes of his father were pinned on Diocletian winning military glory.  

Young Diocletian entered the army and became a centurion. He learned how march his men and put them in various formations. As well, he learned more practical matters of discipline and logistics. His diligence paid off until one day, 20 years later, he was in charge of an entire legion. Yet during all that time, he still remembered that first day at the hippodrome. That day, when the race ended, he ran down to meet the winner and shouted his name, Suetonius. Suetonius was a legendary charioteer and especially generous. Whenever the fans would rush to him and shout his name, he'd throw handfuls of sesterce coins their way. Young Diocletian had the luck of shouting his name and looking Suetonius right in the eye. After a friendly wave, Suetonius threw a coin so that it landed right at the feet of young Diocletian. Diocletian never spent that coin. It was his good luck charm during many hard days in the army. 

As the charioteers of the last race began to depart, Diocletian had his herald blow a call to attention. Then, with that bit of fanfare done, he made his way down to the arena to shake the hand of the winner and offer him a goblet of wine. 

"Well done, charioteer. I hope you do not mind if I take your chariot for one lap. I know the horses are tired, so I won't have them gallop."

"Be my guest, your majesty. Hail Caesar!"

Diocletian mounted the chariot and waved to the crowd. Then he snapped the reins to make the horses trot and a moment later brought them to a canter. The crowd roared with delight as he made his way around the turns and waved to them in the stands. His time had finally come, for today he truly was the man in the arena. 

Replica Teepee Village Near Glacier National Park, Montana

 

The Call of Patchouli

 Freak Street in Kathmandu is a hell of a place. If you're a hippie, that is. Marijuana is the #1 cash crop here, and the flocks of hippies passing through here on their way to or back from an ashram in India end up smoking most of it. Given its status as a Mecca of the counter-culture, it's not surprising the KGB and CIA sent up offices here. The US has been pouring foreign aid into Nepal, though the people here are more likely to get stoned than have a revolution. The KGB is here for the hippies, the CIA is here for the KGB, and I'm here to make money off both of them. Business is good. The only downside is the scent of incense. You get used to it after a while.

I came here with the Peace Corps a few years ago and fell in love with the place. At first, it was just a scheme to avoid the draft when my college deferment ran out.  After returning to the US, it was a struggle to adjust. It's hard to explain, but I just didn't feel like I belonged there any more. So I called up some college friends and we joined a hippie caravan on its way to India. Hard as it might be to believe today, there was a time when young people with little knowledge of the rest of the world could easily travel overland through Turkey, Iran, Afghanistan, and India. So many came that tourism was a big part of the local economies back then.

Since I spoke Nepali and had a smattering of a few other languages, I was the expedition's interpreter, though most of the time, I ended interpreting English being spoken with very heavy accents. Fine by me, it felt good to be an expert of sorts. When we reached Kathmandu, I really hit my stride. I became friends with all the hotel and restaurant owners, the souvenir peddlers, and even the local police. It's no exaggeration to say I had more knowledge of the place than the US ambassador.

Back when I was still with the Peace Corps, we all got invited to the embassy for Thanksgiving. One guy in our bunch really hated LBJ. At the dinner, he got plastered and told the ambassador to go fuck himself. And that is how Peace Corps got banned from the US embassy in Nepal. That guy became a Peace Corps legend though. 

When I think of all the pearl-clutching in the US about dope, I wish I could take all those squares to Freak Street. Then they could see for themselves that a country covered in marijuana fields hasn't collapsed into reefer madness. If anything, the Nepalese have succeeded in making weed boring. Take that, J Edgar Hoover. Today's errands would take me to the local jail to bail out some guys who'd gotten to rowdy and were too clueless to pick up on the bribery hints the police dropped. Who says there isn't an upside to corruption? Greased palms get things done. I practically need a diagram to explain how I got the money, but here's my attempt at it.

First, I made some friends with locals working at the embassy. We'd eat and drink together and sometimes I gave them some cash to pay school fees or buy medicine for a sick relative. In our conversations, they'd inadvertently blurt out some interesting embassy gossip. When I had a few tidbits I thought were worth sharing, I'd head over to one of the bars or restaurants the KGB guys frequented. I'd buy them a drink and hand them a note to set up a dead-drop. I liked to use Hindu shrines since they were easy to spot, and people left all sorts of stuff near them. I used a little clay teapot to hold my messages which the KGB would later surreptitiously retrieve. The night after making a drop, I'd go to the shrine, take the teapot lid off, and take out any money the KGB left inside. 

The money from that was good, but why not play both sides and make even more? Once I had enough KGB contacts, I learned their addresses and schedules. Most of them lived outside the Soviet embassy compound in a ritzier neighborhood with all the other expats. Once I had enough quality info, I went to the US embassy and gave them a free sample. That led to the CIA station chief calling me in for an interview. It was a lot of work to convince them I was on their side and worth the risk. The station chief was a wiry, intense man. He told me his name was Bob and tried to put me at ease, but I could tell it was all an act. For three hours, I was stuck in a windowless room in the embassy basement while Bob (or whatever his real name was) and his equally mysterious assistant Chuck peppered me with questions. Questions like: Why are you doing this? Are you a communist? How do you feel about the Vietnam War? Do you smoke pot? How did you get this info about the Russians? 

It was grueling, but at last, I won them over by saying that with knowledge of the schedules and addresses of the embassy staff, they could send a break-and-entry team to plant microphones and such. They were surprised and impressed that I knew about such things. I explained that I had learned about wire-tapping and surveillance from reading the Anarchist's Cookbook and other such contraband literature. Bob offered to help me a get a job at the agency. He set I had the right personality and skills for it. I was flattered, but explained that since I had been in the Peace Corps, I was ineligible to work for the CIA. Bob and Chuck thanked me nonetheless and said that we'd be in touch and handed me an evelope which I calmly stashed in my pocket. I could tell it was full of money. Bob said that I should come to the embassy the first day of every month and ask the receptionist if there was any mail for me. I rose to leave, shook their hands, and said it was a pleasure doing business with them.

That B and E team must have found something juicy, because when I went to the US embassy to ask for mail, I got an envelope full of cash, a plane ticket to London, and a scrap of paper that said: 

***

Good job. Now lie low for a year. We'll be in touch. 

When you get to London, go to the US embassy and tell

the front desk clerk Bob and Chuck sent you. 

Namaste

-Bob

*** 

Well, I was officially a spook. I said goodbye to all my local friends and packed my suitcase. 3 years in Kathmandu and I'd made almost enough money to retire. The only question was whether I'd stay in the game or quit while I was ahead. A year in London would give me plenty of time to think it over.    

Space Force Moffs Deny Rumors of Death Star Cost Overruns

WASHINGTON DC - In an open session of the Armed Services Committee today, senators grilled Space Force moffs for hours. One of the more contentious issues was the so-called "Alderaan" whistleblower, whose leaked report indicated a fatal flaw in the design of the Death Star space defense superiority system. 

"Am I to understand that this moon-sized armored battle station could be destroyed by a weapon one billionth its size fired by a ship one ten millionth its size?" asked Senator Jim Inhofe. "Hypothetically, theoretically, yes", replied Grand Moff Tarkin "but only if enemy spies were able to retrieve the secret plans." "Which are available on Wikileaks." said Senator Graham, "I'm looking at them right now, in fact. There's even warning of the exposed exhaust port and the chain reaction a lucky strike could cause." 

"Well, surely our engineers meant to fix that later," said Grand Moff Tarkin. "The note says 'if they shoot here, we're screwed", said Senator Inhofe. "Enough of that. Let's move on to this planet-destroying superlaser. Now, my understanding is that lasers are focused beams of light, which would therefore move at the speed of light. And given the vast distances of outer space, it could take hours, days, or years for the laser to reach its intended target. By which time the planet would have moved out of the way or the enemy on the planet could have vacated", said Senator Inhofe. 

"That is correct, Senator, but you must remember that this weapon is intended as a show of force, shock and awe if you will" said Grand Moff Tarkin, "expensive though it may be, it's an investment that will pay off as well as provide jobs in every congressional district. The Chinese and Russians are building up in orbit. Senator, we cannot afford a giant superlaser space battle station gap." 

"All well and good", said Senator Inhofe, "but there's still the issue of the appalling marksmanship among Space Force stormtroopers. Is it the helmets? Because those guys can't seem to hit a barn door if they were holding the handle. Furthermore, what use would infantry be in space combat? Do you intend to send boarding parties onto alien vessels? And lastly, I have right here a bid from the ACME corporation for an illudium PU-36 exploding space modulator, which is no larger than a stick of dynamite and perfectly capable of destroying a planet. Now what do you have to say to that?" Grand Moff Tarkin slowly waved his hand through the air and said "you will dismiss this hearing...you will appropriate funds for our budget...I have pictures of you going down on Jabba the Hutt..." Senator Inhofe then hurriedly banged the gavel and adjourned the meeting. 

Biden Challenges Coronavirus to Push-Up Contest

CEDAR RAPIDS, IOWA - At a rally attended by several people, President Biden vowed to defeat the Coronavirus once and for all. "That virus is a lying, dog-face pony soldier, and I bet I can do more push-ups than it can. Folks, I beat Corn Pop and I can beat this virus, and I don't give a damn what any slant-eyed Chinaman says about it." Biden later apologized for his "Chinaman" remark and added that some of his best friends "eat rice and are shitty drivers." To prepare for the push-up contest, Biden began a routine of waking up early, eating raw eggs, and jogging up the steps of the Philadelphia Public Library. Tragedy struck, however, when Biden fell, broke his hip, and was later diagnosed with a case of salmonella food poisoning. Trump sent Biden a get-well card which featured a cartoon of a paramecium wearing boxing gloves. 

Planet of the Triffids

I never thought I'd end up as a field exobiologist, much less be assigned to an expedition. My grades at the academy weren't that great, and truth be told, I mainly volunteered for a survey mission in order to avoid being conscripted into something worse. The cramped quarters of a scout ship are better than being stuck in a refinery on the dark side of a tidally-locked moon orbiting a lifeless gas giant. Sure, the pay was good, but the scenery, not so much, unless you count the night sky. I was never much of an astronomer, and scout ship astronauts always end up with better stories anyway. 

The planets of the western spiral arm were still largely a mystery, and so there was plenty of work for survey crews. Our first stop was an interesting world, as the bulk of its surfaced was covered in water, much like our own planet. The similarities didn't stop there. The planet had a single moon, polar ice caps, an axial tilt, a nitrogen-oxygen atmosphere, and similar gravity. All in all, it was an extraordinary coincidence to find such a place in the vastness of space. While I was checking the planet's geography, one of the robots was checking for signs of life and alien technology. We had a small crew, with just me, the captain, and the two robots. We called one robot Prime and the other Back-Up, or B for short. Not very creative names, but the robots didn't care. They weren't designed for that. I made my way to the bridge to check up on Prime.   

"Hey Prime, any sign of alien satellites in orbit?"

"No, but sensors are detecting a lot of space junk, which indicates there were functional satellites at one time."

"Any other signs of technology?"

"None so far. I've been scanning the electromagnetic spectrum and haven't found any artificial signals. Once we move to the dark side of the planet, I'll be able to scan for artificial illumination."

Artificial illumination visible from orbit was the most reliable indicator of intelligent life. That is to say, the kind of civilization with basic technology. Only a handful of such civilizations had been discovered in centuries of exploration. It was far more common to find planets with life but no civilization. At least not what we could call civilization, though some alien cultures still managed to pile up dirt or rocks in interesting ways. The general rule was no contact with any culture that couldn't broadcast a signal that was detectable at a distance of less than one light-second. 

The ship came around to the dark side of the planet. Part of me wanted to see the lights of cities. That would mean a chance for the captain and me to establish first contact. Only a handful of crews were lucky enough to have that experience, and they all became celebrities back home. Alas, we saw no signs of artificial light. That didn't completely rule out the possibility of civilization, but if there was one down there, it would be so alien to us that we'd be better off ignoring them entirely. 

I read a report once about an undersea civilization. Probes were sent to investigate as it was deemed too risky to send astronauts there, let alone establishing contact.        

The captain entered the bridge and glanced at all the monitors. Even though it was just the two of us, we referred to each other by rank, as that was customary in such situations. It kept things professional. 

"Well, ensign, what do we have here?"

"Primary found traces of old satellites. As you can see on the screen now, it doesn't look like there are any cities, at least as we know them. So all that's left now is to check out the flora and fauna on the surface. The greatest variety would probably be in that tropical zone near the equator."

"Sounds like a plan. Get your gear ready. Primary, set a course for that peninsula there."

Primary began tapping out commands as the captain and I prepared for landing. We were running out of cargo space from the samples we'd taken already, so I would mostly be taking photographs and video. The main question was what weapons to bring. I decided a ray gun and a survival machete would be enough. Primary would come along while B guarded the ship. I'd let Primary lug around the heavy-duty particle beam cannon. 

When the ship touched down, I was almost done putting my spacesuit on. It was a bulkier older model, which were uncomfortable even in low-gravity environments. It was a relief to see the captain setting up the rover as I came down the gangplank. Primary mounted the particle beam cannon on top and took up position as a gunner. 

"Thanks, captain. You read my mind."

"Hop in, ensign. Let's go a ride. Let me know when you want to stop for anything. I plan on sticking to flat and open ground."

I released a surveillance drone and motioned for the captain to drive. We drove along for a few minutes until I got an alert from the drone. When I looked at the feed, I was stunned. It appeared the drone had discovered the ruins of an ancient city. Since this might be the most exciting find of the expedition, I hit the alarm buzzer to get the captain's attention and handed him my data screen. Without saying a word, the captain did a u-turn and headed directly to the location the drone had marked. 

As we entered the clearing with the ruins, we were awestruck.

"These are definitely artificial structures, captain. Look at all the symmetry and complex geometry."

"How about we get the drone to take a picture of us at the top of that...pyramid? Not sure what else to call it."

"Whatever they called it, it probably wasn't 'pyramid'."

We got out of the rover and climbed to the top of the pyramid. After taking in the view, we posed so the drone could take a nice picture of us.

"It's against regulations to send non-emergency messages via the priority channel, but since I'm the captain, I'm allowed to bend the rules once in a while. I'm sure are friends back home will enjoy this photo."

The captain hit the "send" button and our postcard began its faster-than-light journey to the mission control center trillions of miles away. The really amazing part is that the message would arrive in less time than it took us to reach the top of the pyramid. As we descended, there was a strange commotion in the jungle surrounding the clearing with the ruins. We paused to keep the safety of the high ground. Suddenly, out of the tree line came a herd of galloping green creatures.

"Ensign, are those triffids? They sure look like them."

"It's impossible to tell from this distance. Tell Primary to stun one so we can inspect it."

The captain spoke into his wrist communicator. 

"Primary, stun one of those triffid things."  

We could hear the particle beam canon's capacitors charging up and watched a blue bolt struck one of the larger triffids and knocked it to the ground. We all gathered around to get a closer look at the creature as the rest of the herd scampered off in fright. The creature was definitely a triffid, at least as we understood it.

"Captain, I can say with utmost confidence that this is a triffid. Mobile, carnivorous plants are rare, but found in nature on some planets. In our case, we genetically-engineered them, so they were always domesticated. But the triffids here are wild and move in herds. So if they were domesticated initially, they became feral sometime after the civilization on this world collapsed."

"That all adds up, at least from what we've seen so far. I think we've seen enough here. Before we move on to the next world, I want to check out the moon here. I have a hunch there's something interesting there."

We returned to the ship and set a course for the moon. The captain's hunch was right. We found some technological remains in one of the larger basins on the light side. We suited up again and made our way to the airlock. It was hard to walk normally in the lower gravity, so we sort of skipped in slow motion toward the wreckage.

On one of the metal legs, I saw a plaque with what was clearly writing. Below is a reproduction of a portion of the inscription:

***

HERE MEN FROM THE EARTH FIRST SET FOOT UPON THE MOON

                                JULY 1969 A.D.

                WE CAME IN PEACE FOR ALL MANKIND 

***

"Ensign, a lot must have happened between the time they built that pyramid, and the time they left this stuff here."

"Yes, but sadly, we'll probably never know much about it. It will remain another beautiful mystery. I sort of want to go home now."

"Me too." 

The Ligand of Dr Moreau

 

There were many hard months of training before I became qualified as an Interpol forensic investigator. During that time, in my off hours, I became engrossed with the work of Dr Moreau, a world-famous biochemist. Having some medical background myself, it was easier for me to understand the significance of his work. All animals have something called a Hayflick Limit, which is to say that a cell in any animal can only divide 40 times before it undergoes apoptosis, or self-destruction. The absence of apoptosis is one of the causes of cancer, whereby cells continue to divide in an uncontrolled manner. All animal cells have a kind of molecular timer, called telomeres, which get smaller every time a cell divides. Dr Moreau had been studying a ligand, or molecular messenger, which could prevent the shortening of telomeres. It is no exaggeration to say that he was hot on the trail for an immortality medicine, a real-life fountain of youth.

Upon graduation, I was teamed up with Inspector Gao, whose reputation as a crime-solver is second to none. Barely a week after we began our partnership, it came as a great shock to both of us that Dr Moreau had died, apparently by suicide. Because of my familiarity with his work, Gao and I were dispatched to investigate the case at Dr Moreau's lab in Hong Kong. Gao had some urgent family business to attend to, and so he encouraged me to go on ahead and document the scene. It was a dreary night when I arrived at the airport, and I impatiently awaited my luggage with my equipment to arrive on the baggage claim carousel. Though it was nearly midnight when I checked into my hotel, I insisted on contacting the local police so that I might gain access to the lab. With great reluctance from the weary police chief, I was given permission to inspect the scene for myself.

There I was, in the room where Dr Moreau breathed his last. Though I was exhausted, I did my best to document everything in the room. I was assured by the Hong Kong police that they had not touched anything in the room. I saw Doctor Moreau's body, his head on the desk in front of him. There was gun in his left hand and an apparent suicide note near his right hand. I carefully observed everything in the room, photographed it and Dr Moreau's body, then I dusted for fingerprints. When it all was all said and done, I felt sure that Dr Moreau had indeed taken his own life. I looked forward to Inspector Gao's assessment, though in my own mind, the case had already been solved. I met Inspector Gao at the airport, and after a perfunctory meeting with the local police, we headed to the Doctor Moreau's lab. 

I had never seen Inspector Gao survey a scene before and was very curious about his methods. He had already read my report on the way there, and I was sure there would be no surprises. Even so, given his reputation, I wanted to see a master at work. It was a bit of shock that he seemed to ignore the body when he entered the room. The first thing he did was examine the ceiling. Then walked around the room in a circle while stopping here and there to look at an object with a magnifying glass. All this time he was very careful of where he stepped and used a blacklight to search for anything unusual on the floor. At last, he seemed to be complete with his inspection and returned to confer with me. 

"Well, Inspector Gao, now that you're here and have seen it all for yourself, what do you think about my report?"

"It was quite thorough, though I could tell you were sleep-deprived when you made it."

"Well, that's an easy enough inference to make. But I am curious why you say that."

"Look once more at Doctor Moreau's body. There's something very obviously peculiar about it. Something you would have noticed had you been fully rested when you wrote your first report."

I looked over Doctor Moreau's body once more. I double-checked his posture, the blood spatter pattern, everything. Yet I could not see what Inspector Gao was referring to.

"I beg your pardon, but I don't see anything out of the ordinary here. Every bit of this scene has the tell-tale marks of a suicide."

"Ah, yes, we are meant to think Doctor Moreau took his own life, but I can see at once that he didn't. Look closely once more and you'll see it for yourself."

I looked once more at the body and my gaze inadvertently focused on the gun and then the suicide note.

"Oh, you're getting warmer. It is something with Dr Moreau's hands. Please be assured I'm not toying with you. I can tell you're meticulous, but you still haven't learned how to think like a detective yet. In time, you will."

"The suicide note is near his right hand, which implies Doctor Moreau was right-handed, yet the gun in his left hand."

"Precisely! It's clear he was right-handed, and so he wouldn't have switched to his left hand to shoot himself."

"That means Doctor Moreau was murdered. But why? His work could have only helped people."

"It's not that simple. His work, if successful would have sparked a revolution, not just in medicine, but in all of society. Anyone who invents disruptive technology is sure to make enemies."

"Alright, so Dr Moreau was murdered by someone who wanted to stop him from completing his work."

"And what was the goal of that work?"

"Well, essentially, it would give immortality and everlasting youth."

"And who would be most strongly opposed to that? Who would have the money to hire an assassin?"

"I don't know. My work focuses on the technical aspects of crime; the forensics and such. I'm not a profiler or a detective. Please don't think less of me; I did my best."   

"You did very well. I asked you those last two questions because I don't know the answers myself. Part of being a good detective is knowing when to ask questions. Consider that your first lesson. Let's go now. We've done enough for tonight."

That time I fed carrots to an elephant

 

Good times at the Monterey Zoo in California

I also once fed sea turtles at sanctuary in Zanzibar. 

Curse of the Msukule

 Once in Dar es Salaam, I was recuperating from a bout of malaria. The governor invited me to his home and gave me a room to stay in for as long as I liked. It was painfully dull in more ways than one. I was used to the excitement of being a game warden out in the field. My host must have sensed my spirits were low and so called upon a member of our mutual social circles. He was an old friend from The King's African Rifles. Together, we had done our best to beat back the Boche during the more chaotic days of the Great War, back when Tanganyika still belonged to the Kaiser and was jealously guarded by his askaris, locals trained as soldiers by the Germans.  

I was lying on a sofa when a knock came at my door. In my weakened state, it was a struggle to get up, and I staggered to the door. 

"Hello there, Stanley. I heard you were feeling a bit under the weather and thought I'd drop by. Don't worry, you'll be right as rain in a week or two. Rumor has it a gin and tonic makes a malaria fever more bearable. Something about the quinine in the tonic water. Well, I'm no chemist, but anything for the sake of science."

"Sounds like a smashing idea. By all means Oliver, come on in. I could use the company and a stiff drink, I suppose." 

"You just lie on the sofa and make yourself comfortable. I'll fix the drinks for us."

I return to the sofa and adjust my pillows and robe before lying down again. Stanley returns and graciously hands me my drink.

"Well, old chum, how's that then? Feeling a bit better now, I hope?"

"Comfort is a relative term. I look forward to becoming tired and emotional this evening."

"Ah, myself as well. We have plenty of gin for that."

"Any news from the outside world? I've been too exhausted to read anything for at least a week."

"It's funny you mention that. I don't follow the papers much myself, but I do try to stay abreast of local affairs. Tell me, have you ever heard the word msukule? It's a Swahili word, as I understand it. I remember you having a knack for that language."

In truth, I didn't speak Swahili that well, but given the number of my countrymen in Tanganyika who couldn't speak a word of it, I gained a reputation as an expert of sorts. A missionary told me a joke once:

-What do you call a man who's spent 20 years in China and doesn't speak a word of Chinese? 

-British.

"Well, Oliver, it's a bit hard to explain that word. There isn't quite an English equivalent for it. In this part of the world, there is still a strong belief in magic, and locals often consult an mchawi, or witch-doctor, for various problems. I first heard the word 'msukule' in a discussion with Saseeta, my guide and tracker, about magic. At the time, I was having trouble sleeping, but still doing my best as a new game warden. One night as we were relaxing and having dinner together, Saseeta looked me dead in the eye and said 'Bwana, you look so tired, half-dead almost. Maybe you have become an msukule.'. So of course I asked him what he meant by that. He explained that an msukule is a person who is put under the spell of an mchawi. The magic causes his soul to go to the afterlife for a while his body remains alive and under the complete control of the mchawi, who then forces the soulless body to toil in his fields all night. Just before dawn, the msukule is sent to his bed, where he wakes with no memory but feeling tired from his nocturnal servitude."

"By Jove, Stanley. How intriguing. And you're right. I can't think of anything in English or European folklore which is anything like that. The closest thing that comes to my mind are the Golems of Jewish folklore. But those are inanimate objects which are brought to life."

"Quite so. Saseeta was convinced I was cursed and insisted that I consult a witch-doctor in another village to lift it. Otherwise, I'd have nothing but trouble, or matata, as the locals say, for the rest of my days."

"Mad! Simply mad! So what did you do?"

"Saseeta and I made a trek to the village he spoke of. He showed me the hut of the mchawi. I must admit, that even after all we went through with The King's African Rifles, I was absolutely petrified to enter that hut. But Saseeta insisted, and we had come so far. I was desperate for whatever help I could get. I took a swig from my hip flask and entered the hut. There, I saw the mchawi working next to a bubbling cauldron. Some kind of strange smoke was coming out of it. It was like nothing I've ever seen. Without even looking up, the mchawi said 'Hello, Stanley. I've been waiting for you.'"

"Good lord, he knew your name?! But how?"

"I haven't the faintest idea. Neither Saseeta nor I had ever set foot in that village, much less met that witch-doctor. I had only been a game warden in the area for a few weeks at the time. He asked me to have a seat next to him, then he rose and looked me over very carefully. He told me to hold out my hands so he could inspect them. Then he looked closely into my eyes. At long last, he said 'Sorry Bwana Stanley. You are most definitely an msukule'. I then asked him if there's anything I could do to lift the curse. To that he said 'Yes. There is something evil from your past you need to let go of. You know what it is. Put it in the cauldron now.' There was a copper bracelet in my pocket. I'd taken it off a dead askari during the war to keep as a souvenir. I decided that must be it, so I removed it and dropped it in the cauldron. As soon as I had done so, it boiled over and hissed in an unearthly way. Then, the mchawi took a cup and filled it in the cauldron. He handed me the cup and told me to drink it, so I did. As soon I had done so, I felt a terrible burning sensation, and the mchawi called for Saseeta to help me out. I had terrible nightmares that night but awoke feeling refreshed. I had wonderful health the next few months."

"There are some things we just can't explain, try as we might."

"'There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy."

"Indeed. I'll fix us another round of drinks."   

Malice Through the Cooking Class

Retired chef Gunter Rammstein was known far and wide for excellence in his craft. Naturally, it came as both a shock and a surprise when he announced that he had accepted a part-time teaching role at Miskatonic College, a somewhat obscure school in a remote corner of New England. With great fanfare, he was welcomed to the campus and given complete control of the dining hall. That led to an event later called the Miskatonic Massacre, as Rammstein berated the staff and trashed the place with a sledgehammer after being served salmon that had been cooked skin side down at a dinner meant to welcome him. Rammstein defended his actions by citing his great passion for fine cuisine (especially salmon with crispy skin) and promised to pay for the damages out of his own pocket. The college higher-ups agreed, and the famously cantankerous gourmand was given another chance. 

Rammstein explained that his chronic high stress had taken a toll on his health over the years, and his doctor strongly suggested seeking out a more soothing environment. With great reluctance, Rammstein left his prestigious job at a posh Parisian restaurant and set out for New England after seeing a postcard of Acadia National Park. He enjoyed the nature of the area and hope to pass on his knowledge to a new generation of chefs before it was too late. Although dour, he had a wonderful deadpan sense of humor which was accentuated by the fact that he sounded almost exactly like Werner Herzog. "Einmal ist keinmal, as Kundera once wrote. Such a man that Kundera. The only Czech who understood German better was Kafka." These were the first words Rammstein spoke to his new cooking class.

I was at that time, a fly on the wall, so to say. Though I signed up for the coveted cooking class and made through Rammstein's grueling interview, I hardly expected a passing grade. It made no difference to me, because it was a gift to merely be in the presence of true greatness. There was never a more attentive or respectful college class on planet Earth than when Chef Rammstein entered the classroom. After speaking his immortal introduction, he slammed a heap of recipe books on the desk in front of him. "Alright you miserable swine", he bellowed. Take one of these books and flip to the marked page. You will then go to the grocery store and spend exactly $10 on ingredients for the recipe. When you return, present your receipt to me while I inspect your groceries, so I know that you aren't cheating. Ready, set, go!"

There was a mad dash for Rammstein's desk. Many students feared being failed out of lack of enthusiasm. The whole scene was reminiscent of the scramble for lifeboats on a sinking ship. As the students rushed to their cars in the parking lot, the resulting scene resembled a demolition derby as engines roared, tires squealed, and more than a few fender benders were narrowly avoided. The pandemonium continued at the nearest grocery store, as the students scoured the aisles for the cheapest ingredients. By this point, I had resigned to ignore my assigned recipe of Chicken Kiev in favor of tastefully arranging a small tin of anchovies on a large piece of garlic naan and sprinkling the result with cheap parmesan cheese. As a forlorn hope of my culinary last stand, I intended on heating the naan in a microwave. 

When we had all returned to the classroom with our ingredients, Rammstein carefully inspected our ingredients and receipts and ordered us to wait at our desks for further instructions. When the last receipt had been checked, and all the students were at their places, Rammstein checked his watch and wrote the time on the whiteboard in swift, angry, and efficient strokes. Then he shouted, "be back here with your meals before my watch reads 30 minutes from this time!" Students stampeded for the exits once more like a herd of bison. There were only so many cooking utensils available in the dining hall, and worse still, many were being used to prepare dinner for the students. 

The scene that followed was like a visual version of Dies Irae. It was like a Bosch painting, full of wailing and gnashing of teeth. Somehow, in my luck, I pilfered a plate secured one of the two available microwaves for the 45 seconds needed to warm up the naan. My strategy was to be "first to market", so to say, as I expected to fail anyway. When the naan was warm, I retreated to the dining hall, so I had more room to finish my humble entree. I opened the can of anchovies with the pull ring and carefully arranged them in a star pattern in the center of the naan. Then, my hands still sticky with olive oil, I dusted the result with parmesan cheese. I completed my creation with a chocolate breath mint from my pocket which I placed to the side of the plate. 

I covered the plate with a large napkin, grabbed some silverware, and ran back to the classroom. Rammstein did not even look up when I entered; he merely glanced at his watch and wrote the time on the whiteboard. At the time I entered, the other students had a mere 20 minutes left to complete their dishes. The other students came in like marathon runners crossing the finish line. The last student entered with a mere 30 seconds to spare. Rammstein stood and surveyed the room with subdued satisfaction. 

"Congratulations, students. I shall now sample your creations. You may give me a brief description as I judge and taste your meals."

And so, he slowly worked his way through the classroom; here and there, he gave grunts of approval and silent stares of condemnation. The students did their best to justify their offerings, like defense attorneys trying to spare their clients the death penalty. The passion of their justifications rivaled the Apology of Socrates. At long last, my turn came. 

"Good evening, Chef Rammstein. Here, I have a small, Mediterranean-Indian inspired dish. The saltiness of the anchovies is meant to complement the umame of the olive oil and parmesan, while the chocolate mint acts as a palate cleanser once the meal is finished."

"Hmm...well, you're a lazy, pompous ass. You'll get along well with most French chefs."

I interpreted that as a passing grade, and that indeed was the case. Rammstein spoke again after sampling all the meals.

"It's been a hard evening for all of us, especially me. Please leave me alone here for 20 minutes while I determine who made the best meal tonight."

We filed out once more. Some of us took our dishes with us and passed the time by sharing our cooking with each other. 

The time came, and we returned to the classroom to bask once more in Rammstein's wisdom, or perhaps get sunburned by it. He cleared his throat and took a sip of water.

Then he opened a briefcase and withdrew a love blue ribbon from within.

"This is the first award I ever got for cooking. Before I bestow upon tonight's winner, would anyone like to guess whom I judged to be the best?"

A few shouted out my name. Some others were called. There was no clear consensus. Rammstein moved to the toward our desks while holding the blue with both hands. He stopped before a young woman who had made a pot of macaroni with cheese. To that she had added black pepper, onion powder, and pre-sliced pepperoni. 

"Madam, it gives me great pleasure tonight to grant you this award. You said that this was something like what you served to your siblings when you were younger. Almost anyone can cook edible food. A real cook uses love as the main ingredient. A round of applause for tonight's winner, please."

Oh, how we clapped. It was Rammstein's gift to make anyone willing to learn from him feel like a winner. 

Like a conductor ending a finale, Rammstein raised his hands in the air, and then said, "class dismissed".