Appleby College - Argus Yearbook (Oakville, Ontario Canada)

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ped till he had reached his goal ... his goal was everyone ' s goal. Peter Hill - you are so naive. How can you believe that you and you and you alone are so right? Are you infallible? At the book shop, you make the connection. The imfornnation is passed on, secretly. Secretly? Peter Hill - You are so naive! In the shop, there are ears, not your own. In the street, there are eyes, not your own. Peter Hill God be with you. Mr. Hill reached the neighbourhood where he lived. On a brick wall there was a poster with the smiling face of the President. Beneath it a policeman stood, frowning. Children were playing ball in the streets. On the steps old men were playing checkers - winning, losing, shaking their heads, muttering chuckling. Mr. Hill kicked a tincan off the pavement and into the gutter, and then he ran up the steps of his boar- ding house. He said hello to the landlady, and she said hello back to him. At the foot of the stairs, the radio was blaring away loudly. He tur- ned it down a bit and then ran the rest of the way up to his room. Leaving the rest of the world outside, he closed the door. He was alone in a large, long hall. He looked around nervously. There were doors to the right of him, doors to the left of him, ahead a corridor without end. Behind the doors lurked the unknown. A noise, like the scurrying of rats in a cellar, haunted the place. Fear ' s claws gripped Into him. His pace quickened. He cried a cry of dread. He ran, stumbling onwards in an aimless frenzy. The floor resounded with his every step. Suddenly there was the rap of knuckles on hollow baord, and then again, and again, until at each door that he passed there was a knocking, the knocking of that terrible unknown. The hall seemed to vibrate with the hideous sound. What is it? The devil? A witch? Besieged by uncertainty, he fell to his knees covering his ears with his hands. He cried aloud .... And with a start he sat up in bed. His eyes were still numbered by sleep but he realized that he was in his own room. Calm yourself, calm your- self. He took two deep breaths. Still trembling, he fumbled for his alarm clock, and knocked it over. Twenty past three. Stupid fool. He cursed and sank back into his pillow. Bang, bang, bang. There it was again. His eyes opened. There were voices outside, a man ' s gruff ordering and a woman in great agitation calling his name. No, he was no longer dreaming. As if a splash of ice cold water had hit him he suddenly realized what was happening. His hands reached for his spectacles. He quickly threw his dressinggown around him and rushed to the door. A shaft of light stabbed into his body. Oh, Mr. Hill, Mr. Hill. It was the landlady, by now very high strung. Mr. Hill? ... Mr. Peter Hill? Ah, yes, . . we would like to take you down to the station ... for questioning . The man who spoke these words was of medium height and strong build. He was a security officer, but dressed in civilian clothes. He had heavy beetle-brows, a snub nose (broken many times by the looks of it), and a prominent capped tooth. He was smiling, unpleasantly. Behind him, stood two uniformed security policemen , tall and menacing. Is it me you are looking for? Surely there must be some mistake. We make no mistakes. One of the policemen brandished a gun, till then concealed by the shadows.

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FOOL UNNUMBERED The bell tinkled as the door opened. A man walked into the book shop and wiped his feet on the mat. His eyes quickly glanced about the aisles and summarized the oicture before him - an elderly grandmother browsing among the section of children ' s books, two small boys looking at picture books depicting the last glorious war, and in the cor- ner, a security policeman in black uniform leafing one of the new sen- sationalist paperbacks. The man checked himself subconsciously and then walked over to the counter. In front of him, stood an old whizzened man whose hair was streaked with white and whose hands were tinted by the criss-crossing of prominent grey veins. Good morning. Good morning , replied the sales clerk with a slight, nervous smile. I ordered a book quite some time ago. You must have it in by now. The name is Mr. Hill. Ah, yes. The bell tinkled again. The policeman had retired to the streets. This is perhaps what you were looking for. Metternick ' s Studies. Sorry about the delay. I believe the publishers have just finished .... moving. Here, let me wrap that for you. Nice day outside, at least the sun is still shining . . . okay. That will be twelve ninety-five, please. Enjoy your reading. Bye. Good bye. Mr. Hill was in his late twenties, rather tall with dirty blond hair, and sharply cut features. He was dressed in dull-coloured clothes, and his shirt-sleeves were rolled halfway up his arms. He paused at the door, to wipe clean his glasses, then walked out into the street, the book under his arm. At the corner, he stopped to buy a newspaper, and glanced at the headlines: PRODUCTION UP 12% IN THE PAST YEAR; BRIGHTER ECONOMIC FUTURE PREDICTED. The papers were always optimistic, yet he couldn ' t help but notice the downcast eyes of the flower vendor and the street cleaner as they shuffled past. Where was the sparkle that had once been in their eyes? It HAD been there ... in the early days. In the early years people had looked up to the President as the Saviour. Indeed, most people still did. This was strange. There was no longer any rejoicing and celebrating in the streets as there has been at the Liberation. Life was hard now. Ture, it had been hard before, but Peter Hill was sure that it had never been as bad as this. There was so much injustice today. The promises of the early years had been broken, or at least, they had remained unfulfilled. Thery were like pieces of eggshell, fragments to be broken. Vocal protests had been made . . and silenced. The loyal opposition had asked for explanations . . . they were arrested, for treason. Crimes BY the state prompted crimes AGAINST the state. So had the un- derground factions been born - extreme right-wing militarism, extreme left-wing terrorism. These forces of destruction were of the same mould, it seemed, as the government in power - As Peter Hill described them, they were all one and the same book, yet each had a different cover. Mr. Hill was an interventionist. Anathema to him were the false ideologies of evil; he would have nothing to do with them. He believed in freedom, and in justice, and in the rights of man. He knew WHAT was right, and he knew HE was right. No, Peter Hill you are a dreamer, a mere pawn on the chessboard of reality. Peter Hill would not be stop-

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But . . . this is ludicrous! What would you want with me? The officer was silent for a minute, and then with a leer, said, We sim- ply want . . . some information. That ' s all. He pulled out a pair of hand- cuffs from his pocket. Peter Hill, you are such a fool. The three men and their prisoner marched downstairs. The landlady sat down on the landing, and then she cried for that about which she didn ' t know. She heard each step that the policemen made, the boards creaking in anguish. She heard the heavy step of a man now burdened with despair. At the front door they paused for a bit. She could hear muf- fed words. Then, as if in explanation, she heard the officer; Mr. Hill, you have friends. We HAVE your friends. JAMES HALL BROOKS IS AN UNUSUAL PERSON John Doe is no ordinary person. He lives in a small (but comfortable) house with Mary and the two kids, pays his taxes, and maintains a steady job as shift manager in a factory producing inscription - x m socket, stainless steel nuts and bolts. His work is seldom demanding, and he functions from nine to five, five days a week, never calling in sick more than once a month. At home, John is a father and a husband to be envied. With the ex- ception of a long-forgotten lipstick-on-the-collar affair a few years ago (Miss Matthews was the cute but inefficient secretary of the old boss ), he has always remained faithfitl to Mary; not ONCE in seven years of marriage has he forgotten an anniversary, or neglected to kiss Mary good-bye before leaving for work. His two sons (Jimmy, two, and John Junior, six) love and respect their father, who brings them candy every Friday, and who lets them pull his hair and climb over his knees during television commercials. Is John informed? The sports column is always missing from the mor- ning paper, and he watches the evening news with genuine interest and concentration whenever there are dinner dishes to be washed. Is John cultured? He has seen every play produced by Sundale Elemen- tary School during the past two years, and sat through Gone with the