Gordon Bell High School - Purple and Gold Yearbook (Winnipeg, Manitoba Canada)

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J.hsL £jcwjdmwiL He sits and stares into space His hair like snow fluttering in the breeze, The bright sun beats down. Like an ancient landmark he sits Weather beaten, worn, but always there. His life is like a candle Flickering, almost on the verge of dying out. But it was once like the golden apples That the Hesperdies guarded night and day. “Too old to work and earn his keep” They said as they departed. Once a year they come to see him On Father’s Day, or is it Christmas? He has forgotten. But does it really matter? Sometimes, tears fill his dimming eyes. So-called friends pass by, casting a brief glance his way. Now it’s evening. The sun is setting. How many days since he last spoke to them? But his silent prayers have at last been answered. The young folk are at supper, but he sits. No food will ever pass his lips again. He sits and stares into space. Bill Haluk, Rm. 19, Grade 12 ShsftL Skfihi u 1. “And God Spake 2. “Robots 3. “The Perfect Crime” Chris Kowal .Robert Johannson and Andrew McArton Bill Haluk “dnct WjcL ApjCtluL . . . The lamp was lit. Its unfed dimness stained its sur¬ roundings with formless shadows which, as the cotton per¬ formed its capillary duty, soon assumed mild distinction. On attaining the limit of its illumination, the lamp reveal¬ ed a small room, newly constructed. The southern extrem¬ ity of this rectangle was furnished with only the essential cuisinal facilities: an aluminum basin which served as a sink presently harbouring five unwashed cups and greasy plates, a portable two-burner gas stove whose flames now heated an already boiling coffee pot, and an almost empty cupboard. At the northern end of this room stood a large electronic computer whose importance had acquired it complete access to the diminishing power supply. Two blanket-strewn cots stood against the side walls. A cen¬ tral wooden table concluded the rectangle’s furnishings. On the table the lamp illuminated a three day old “Times” date October 22, 1961. Its wrinkled headline still maintained its boldness and its story its distinctiveness “World at Crisis Geneva (WP) — The world today is hovering on the brink of a nuclear war. The peace talks between the two major world powers taking place in Geneva for the last five days came to an abrupt and turbulent end today. After having spent two and one half hours of their sche¬ duled three hours in conference, the delegates from both countries stormed out of the conference room shouting and hurling accusations at each other. Within minutes of their exit, each was threatening war against the other and both were accepting the challenge. None of the dele¬ gates would give a statement and the reason for the vio¬ lent disagreement could not be learned. The ipeace talks.” Thus, it had been three days since the tiny dimly-lit room had been constructed on its present ground. It had been seventy-two hours since the terrified world’s most modern and efficient electronic computer had become the room’s main tenant, a machine reputed capable of solving in seconds any problem in the universe. It had been four thousand twenty minutes since the world’s six most learn¬ ed men associated with the problem of the threatening nuclear war had commenced the tedious task of teaching the machine their total knowledge, two hundred fifty-nine thousand two hundred seconds since the machine had been expected to solve the problem man could not. The computer’s education was now complete. The starving flame of the lamp revealed six shadows encircling the machine. The largest of the waiting shadows carefully fed the problem into the thin crevice. Then followed twenty-one tensely expectant seconds while the computer laboured, sifting its newly acquired knowledge for the answer. Dr. Adams accepted the ejected card from the machine. He held it to the quivering lamp and read over the rims of his greasy eye-glasses. He slowly whispered to his col¬ leagues the answer for the salvation of mankind. “Thou shalt not kill.” Christopher Kowal, Rm. 25 66

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LITERARY CONTEST (pOSJtAlf- “Tempest” “This Land of Mine” .. “The Landmark” “The Snowflake Mark Hacksley . Janet Muldoon .Bill Haluk .. Janet Muldoon JomfisL t A flash of lightning! A crack of thunder! And the whole earth trembles As if it would be torn asunder By a superhuman force that man knows not. Then the only noise in a dark silent night Is the howling wind as it whistles through Shuddering trees, whose ghostly forms Are suddenly whipped and tossed As if thrashed by some invisible hand And then—are still again. And with a second blinding flash of brilliance Which lights the night so that one can see Dark clouds hiding a moon that isn’t there, Comes another bursting roar That suddenly breaks the heavens open. And the rain falls and falls and falls. Earthen paths become flowing streams, And tiny brooks are filled with cascading torrents Which sweep away leaves, plants, tiny insects, all! A hideous rumble warns That another thunderous clap is coming. It crescendos until it can grow no louder And with one mighty outburst of sheer violence The sky is emptied! Once more the earth reels Under a vicious attack by countless tiny arrows of water That disappear into nothingness upon striking the ground. Then—it stops! The sky softens and dawn brings with it A cool breeze and misty white sun shining Through a grey shield of thin cloud. The morn is quiet, sombre, and motionless. The tempest has subsided And the weary world rests after the night’s encounter. Mark Hacksley, Rm. 25, Grade 12 JMa JjmoL j WAml Prairies of Canada — thou land of prosperity and light! Across the West thou shinest in thy freedom’s glory! Burning topaz, the infinite grass-lands sweep A path of homage towards God’s feet. Billowing gladness of sunlit wheat: The saffron seed-stems laugh out loud, joyously, dazzlingly, Shimmering, rippling, swaying in breeze-flipped happiness—a sight Golden enough to set the beholding heart a-dancing with delight! Spires of wheat towers stand stark and constant, Piercing an exuberant sapphire-slashed dome Filled to bursting with freedom’s hopefulness, Implanted on the prairies’ sturdy loam. In the stark grimness of a wretched winter’s cold The prairie wastes lie silent, deathly white and glittering. The soil’s one valiant, the farmer, wreaked gaunt and old By toil and tears, sees the hoar-clad mice and hares rush, skittering Across the slumbering, chilling plain. The agate sky-disc variegates with wan and feeble tenderness The hazed veneer of delicately swirled ice, and the homeless wind Howls loudly, then dies, to moan again with cries of tragic mournfulness, In the endless desolation, in this glacial creation, scourging the mind Of the farm folk, languishing for spring. The spring, bearing in caressing hands, warm breezes, Blissful budding, glad green sprouts eager for the sun Of May, whose radiant gaiety melts winter’s freezes — On the prairies, springtime and jubilation are one. This golden place called beauteous — This is the land that God and I call home! Janet Muldoon, Rm. 20 JJul SnowflaksL A snowflake lazily drifted down A little way on the frost-shot air, Dizzily spun and stopped to crown The crest of a lover’s raven hair. Rested there so soft and light, She scarcely noticed it was there Until a tender touch, and slight, Disengaged it from her hair. Janet Muldoon, Rm. 20 65

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(Rnbohu Rugart materialized, dropped six inches to the grass, and began striding down the hill toward the small struc¬ ture that nestled at the bottom. As he approached the building, he was able to see in the yard a lone man sit¬ ting in a chair, reading. “This,” thought Rugart, “is as good a place to begin as any.” Cautiously, Rugart sent a beam of thought towards the figure in the chair. Usually when telepathic contact was first made with a member of a new race, there was a moment of stunned confusion as the being realized that his mind was no longer private. However this one, to Rugart’s surprise, responded immediately, and with a transmission at least equal to Rugart’s in intensity. “Come over and sit down. I’m rather disappointed that you took so long to discover this little planet of mine.” This took Rugart aback. Mechanically, he sat down in the proffered chair, and replied, “I didn’t think . . .” The man smiled genially. “Oh, don’t worry, I know all about you people.” “I’m afraid you don’t understand,” returned Rugart, “I” —he paused impressively—“am an official trade commis¬ sioner of the Galactic League. I have been sent to nego¬ tiate with your planet in an attempt to open trade in this part of the Galaxy. To be sure, this planet is a long way from Galaxy Centre, but the culture here has been deem¬ ed mature enough for contact with civilization, and so if you could tell me where to find someone qualified to bargain on the part of your planet . . .” The man continued to smile. “I’m afraid that’s quite impossible,” he thought back. “You see, I’m the only per¬ son on this planet.” This was a shock Rugart was not prepared for. “What? But I saw others as I came down the hill. And you cer¬ tainly didn’t build this place by yourself.” “Robots,” was the reply, “all of them Robots.” He paused thoughtfully. “I built them to keep me company. It gets rather lonely with a planet all to yourself, you know, even for a recluse like me.” “But what. . .” “You may be wondering,” he continued, “what I am doing here. Well, I’ve never liked people and long ago, life on Terminus began to become boring. Oh, admittedly, I had everything I could possibly want, but I craved a little more. The aimless existence of Terminus high society began to get on my nerves, and, I finally decided to make a go at being a hermit. So with several robots I left Terminus in search of a hermitage. I found this planet and landed.” Rugart broke in, “But all the robots . . “After a few centuries of life by myself,” he continued, “with only a few simple robots to keep me company, I found that I s till needed some sort of society. But mem¬ ory of Terminus was still too fresh to forget; so I created some millions of robots, gave them a slight resemblance to human beings and turned them loose on the planet. The resemblance to life became amazing. You can walk down the streets of one of their towns and swear you were among living beings.” Rugart’s mouth twisted slightly. “I see. Well then, un¬ der the circumstances I doubt that you would want the Galaxy to intrude itself into your private retreat.” The man shook his head and smiled once more. Rugart stood up. “I must warn you, though. The Uni¬ verse is a big place; you probably won’t hear from us again for millenia. Are you certain that you have no de¬ sire for your planet to have contact with the Galaxy?” “None. Thank you anyway, but I’d just as soon not.” “Well, then . . .” began Rugart, but the man had al¬ ready returned to his book. Feeling slightly cheated, Rugart regarded him distastefully for a moment, took a step forward and disappeared. The air closed in behind him with a faint pop. For several minutes the man sat alone in the waning twilight of the garden, until a faint padding in the grass behind him told of the robot’s advance. Turning, he could just make out the shadowy figure of the robot. “I’ve brought your hot milk, sir.” “Thank you, Roger. Just set it down on the grass be- Roger complied. “Almost time for you to come to bed, “I’ll be in directly, Roger.” The robot turned to go. “Oh, yes, and Roger—” “Yes, sir?” “Be sure and remember to turn yourself off tonight— mustn’t waste juice, you know.” “Yes, sir. Good-night, sir.” Leaving the man on the lawn behind him, the robot entered the building, closed the door softly, and hurried along a corridor towards an open door at the end. Roger S. Clifton, intern at the Sylvan Glades Rest Home for the Chronically Infirm, passed through the door and threw himself down on a chair. Another robot, clad in identical white,-glanced up at him. “How’d it go?” ‘Oh, he’s still as whacky as he ever was, still reading those damned nursery rhymes and insisting we’re all ro¬ bots.” “Shame. He doesn’t look like a nut.” “Yeah. Well, as long as his relatives pay the five hun¬ dred a month we can’t complain.” Robot number two nodded in solemn acquiescence. Robert Johannson, Andrew McArton, Rm. 7 67