RKMBs Forums .::Important::. Politics and Current Events Obama Will Beat McCain in California

Now before you get your panties in a bunch and scream at me that you've "won" because California is reliably democratic, read the article and learn how strong Obama's support has grown. The point of the article is that Obama is gaining strength that McCain just can't match.

Obama would take California in November, Times/KTLA poll finds

Clinton would also defeat McCain in the fall, but by a smaller margin. The survey comes less than four months after Obama's loss in the state primary.

Less than four months after losing the California primary, Democrat Barack Obama leads Republican John McCain in projected November general election matchups, a new Los Angeles Times/KTLA Poll has found.

Obama, the Illinois senator who has inched close to his party's nomination, would defeat McCain by seven points if the election were held today. New York Sen. Hillary Clinton, whose fortunes have faltered since her Feb. 5 drubbing of Obama in California, would eke out only a three-point victory, the poll found.

The poll appeared to illustrate that Democrats, at least in California, are gravitating toward the candidate who is broadly expected to eventually seize the party's mantle. Obama now runs better against the Arizona senator than does Clinton among many of the groups that powered her victory in the state, among them Latinos, Catholics and those without college degrees.

Overall, Obama led McCain 47% to 40% among registered voters, while Clinton led McCain 43% to 40%.

McCain has insisted that he will compete to win California in the fall. But California has gone to the Democrat in each of the last four presidential elections. Most of the state's political professionals consider it to be reliably Democratic -- and too expensive to prompt a full-throated effort by a Republican candidate who could amass electoral votes more cheaply elsewhere.

McCain's standing against Obama -- coming after months of good news for the Republican and a brutal and continuing Democratic primary battle -- offered the presumptive GOP nominee little solace. One bright spot was support among Latinos. McCain won 38% of Latinos against Obama and 41% against Clinton; both figures are substantially higher than the proportion won by George W. Bush in his two presidential campaigns.

But other poll findings suggest problems for McCain. The senator has made joint appearances with Gov. Arnold Schwarzenegger and has touted the affinity between the two. But the governor's job approval rating has slumped dramatically, from 60% favorable among voters in January to 43% favorable now. About 42% of Californians disapproved of how Schwarzenegger has handled his job.

The rating was the lowest for Schwarzenegger since October 2005, shortly before voters soundly rejected ballot measures he pressed for in a special election.

The poll also found Californians more pessimistic about the state's direction than at any time since the 2003 recall that swept Schwarzenegger into office. Fewer than one in five voters felt the state was headed in the right direction, with two-thirds convinced it was on the wrong track. That was the lowest rating since August 2003, on the eve of the recall campaign, when a mere 14% of voters were optimistic.

Women were among the most pessimistic, with 16% judging the state headed in the right direction. Not coincidentally, they viewed the governor far less favorably than Californians overall, with only 35% approving of how he has governed.

Republicans, too, were negative, with 73% saying the state was on the wrong track and 52% approving of Schwarzenegger's tenure. The governor has clashed repeatedly with fellow Republicans on a range of policy issues.

The poll, under the direction of Susan Pinkus, interviewed 834 Californians, including 705 registered voters, on Tuesday and Wednesday. The margin of error is 3 percentage points in either direction overall and 4 points for registered voters. Margins were larger for demographic subgroups.

Signs that Democratic loyalty had survived the primary surfaced repeatedly in the survey. To take one measure, Clinton won 76% of Democrats against McCain; Obama won 75%, a statistically insignificant difference. In any case, Obama more than made up for it by winning more independents and Republicans than Clinton would.

Gregory Sanders, a Democrat from West Hollywood, said he "avidly" supported Clinton in the primary but would now back Obama.

"I accept that she lost the nomination," he said in a follow-up interview, adding that he still has "reservations" about Obama because of the controversial comments made by his former pastor, the Rev. Jeremiah Wright.

But Lena Neal, a Democrat from Perris, described herself as a former Clinton supporter who had turned to Obama as the primary season progressed. "He's just a down-to-earth person, just a reachable person," she said.

Clinton demonstrated more strength than Obama among only a few demographic groups, including white women and older women. But her small advantage among those groups tends to undercut her argument that she is the Democrat best able to deliver big states in November -- at least where California is concerned.

Matched against McCain, Obama won a larger percentage than Clinton of self-described liberals, moderates and conservatives. Both he and Clinton won 86% of liberal Democrats and about two-thirds of moderate Democrats.

Democratic women, Clinton's bulwark throughout the primaries and a source of emotional sustenance now, in the closing days of the race, showed no sign of turning against Obama. About 74% of them sided with Clinton against McCain; 75% sided with Obama against McCain.

Obama won larger percentages against McCain than did Clinton among white voters; he lost them to McCain by four points, while Clinton lost by eight. Surprisingly, however, Obama made up ground among Latinos, who overwhelmingly backed Clinton in the primary. A little more than half of Latinos sided with Obama over McCain, while just under half sided with Clinton over McCain.

McCain has argued that he can run strongly among Latinos, in part because he has long favored comprehensive immigration reform that would include a strategy to legalize immigrants, much to the disdain of many in his party. In the survey, he lost Latinos to Clinton by six points and to Obama by 14 points.

Becky Espinoza of Kerman, a Republican, said she would vote for McCain because "he's got more experience."

"The only thing I hesitate on is his age," she said.

Key to Obama's strength in California, at this point, is the group that was largely ignored in the run-up to the primary: men. Overall, Obama held a 10-point advantage over McCain among men, while Clinton split men with McCain. White men gave McCain a three-point advantage over Obama and a 15-point edge over Clinton. Nonwhite men sided with the Democrats in landslide proportions.

With Republicans now only about one-third of the California electorate, GOP candidates must reach deeply into the ranks of moderates if they are to win statewide. There, McCain was faltering. He was losing moderates to Clinton by 24 points and to Obama by 30 points.

He was also having a difficult time holding on to his own party members. One in five Republicans surveyed by the poll sided with Obama in their matchup. McCain won only 70% of his party colleagues, not enough to offset losing independents and 75% of Democrats to Obama.

The party loyalty numbers were a potential sign of trouble for both McCain and Obama, though at this point they are canceling each other out. Typically, candidates corral nine out of 10 of their party's voters. A substantial drop in Republican support for McCain would put the state out of reach for him, and a drop in Democratic support for Obama could make California more competitive.

Zzap!

No way. California is voting liberal? What next, are you gonna tell me that the sky is blue?

See, that's what I was trying to prevent. More stupidity. You didn't even bother to read my introductory sentence, did you? It explained that the point of the article wasn't that California was going to vote liberal, (DUH), but to trumpet the incredible cross appeal that Obama has attracted in California from blocs that were previously for Hillary or McBush.

I don't know why I even bother.

Zzap!

Of course Obama will win California. It's full of those no good Dems and Libs who actually care about people.

Unless your white.

Whew! I'm safe. Wait...that still applies even though I'm Jewish doesn't it?

Zzap!

The cut and paste, the highlighted bold sections, the lack of original thought...what else did you really expect from a whomod post?

Don't call them all whomod. They might bump thread that are three or four posts down from the top.

Bump.

Zzap!

It's calling "bsamsing" over here.

Noway Obama can beat McCain








The friends were silent. Neither cared to begin talking. Pierre continually glanced at Prince Andrew; Prince Andrew rubbed his forehead with his small hand.

"Let us go and have supper," he said with a sigh, going to the door.

They entered the elegant, newly decorated, and luxurious dining room. Everything from the table napkins to the silver, china, and glass bore that imprint of newness found in the households of the newly married. Halfway through supper Prince Andrew leaned his elbows on the table and, with a look of nervous agitation such as Pierre had never before seen on his face, began to talk- as one who has long had something on his mind and suddenly determines to speak out.

"Never, never marry, my dear fellow! That's my advice: never marry till you can say to yourself that you have done all you are capable of, and until you have ceased to love the woman of your choice and have seen her plainly as she is, or else you will make a cruel and irrevocable mistake. Marry when you are old and good for nothing- or all that is good and noble in you will be lost. It will all be wasted on trifles. Yes! Yes! Yes! Don't look at me with such surprise. If you marry expecting anything from yourself in the future, you will feel at every step that for you all is ended, all is closed except the drawing room, where you will be ranged side by side with a court lackey and an idiot!... But what's the good?..." and he waved his arm.

Pierre took off his spectacles, which made his face seem different and the good-natured expression still more apparent, and gazed at his friend in amazement.

"My wife," continued Prince Andrew, "is an excellent woman, one of those rare women with whom a man's honor is safe; but, O God, what would I not give now to be unmarried! You are the first and only one to whom I mention this, because I like you."

As he said this Prince Andrew was less than ever like that Bolkonski who had lolled in Anna Pavlovna's easy chairs and with half-closed eyes had uttered French phrases between his teeth. Every muscle of his thin face was now quivering with nervous excitement; his eyes, in which the fire of life had seemed extinguished, now flashed with brilliant light. It was evident that the more lifeless he seemed at ordinary times, the more impassioned he became in these moments of almost morbid irritation.

"You don't understand why I say this," he continued, "but it is the whole story of life. You talk of Bonaparte and his career," said he (though Pierre had not mentioned Bonaparte), "but Bonaparte when he worked went step by step toward his goal. He was free, he had nothing but his aim to consider, and he reached it. But tie yourself up with a woman and, like a chained convict, you lose all freedom! And all you have of hope and strength merely weighs you down and torments you with regret. Drawing rooms, gossip, balls, vanity, and triviality- these are the enchanted circle I cannot escape from. I am now going to the war, the greatest war there ever was, and I know nothing and am fit for nothing. I am very amiable and have a caustic wit," continued Prince Andrew, "and at Anna Pavlovna's they listen to me. And that stupid set without whom my wife cannot exist, and those women... If you only knew what those society women are, and women in general! My father is right. Selfish, vain, stupid, trivial in everything- that's what women are when you see them in their true colors! When you meet them in society it seems as if there were something in them, but there's nothing, nothing, nothing! No, don't marry, my dear fellow; don't marry!" concluded Prince Andrew.

"It seems funny to me," said Pierre, "that you, you should consider yourself incapable and your life a spoiled life. You have everything before you, everything. And you..."

He did not finish his sentence, but his tone showed how highly he thought of his friend and how much he expected of him in the future.

"How can he talk like that?" thought Pierre. He considered his friend a model of perfection because Prince Andrew possessed in the highest degree just the very qualities Pierre lacked, and which might be best described as strength of will. Pierre was always astonished at Prince Andrew's calm manner of treating everybody, his extraordinary memory, his extensive reading (he had read everything, knew everything, and had an opinion about everything), but above all at his capacity for work and study. And if Pierre was often struck by Andrew's lack of capacity for philosophical meditation (to which he himself was particularly addicted), he regarded even this not as a defect but as a sign of strength.

Even in the best, most friendly and simplest relations of life, praise and commendation are essential, just as grease is necessary to wheels that they may run smoothly.

"My part is played out," said Prince Andrew. "What's the use of talking about me? Let us talk about you," he added after a silence, smiling at his reassuring thoughts.

That smile was immediately reflected on Pierre's face.

"But what is there to say about me?" said Pierre, his face relaxing into a careless, merry smile. "What am I? An illegitimate son!" He suddenly blushed crimson, and it was plain that he had made a great effort to say this. "Without a name and without means... And it really..." But he did not say what "it really" was. "For the present I am free and am all right. Only I haven't the least idea what I am to do; I wanted to consult you seriously."

Prince Andrew looked kindly at him, yet his glance- friendly and affectionate as it was- expressed a sense of his own superiority.

"I am fond of you, especially as you are the one live man among our whole set. Yes, you're all right! Choose what you will; it's all the same. You'll be all right anywhere. But look here: give up visiting those Kuragins and leading that sort of life. It suits you so badly- all this debauchery, dissipation, and the rest of it!"

"What would you have, my dear fellow?" answered Pierre, shrugging his shoulders. "Women, my dear fellow; women!"

"I don't understand it," replied Prince Andrew. "Women who are comme il faut, that's a different matter; but the Kuragins' set of women, 'women and wine' I don't understand!"

Pierre was staying at Prince Vasili Kuragin's and sharing the dissipated life of his son Anatole, the son whom they were planning to reform by marrying him to Prince Andrew's sister.

"Do you know?" said Pierre, as if suddenly struck by a happy thought, "seriously, I have long been thinking of it.... Leading such a life I can't decide or think properly about anything. One's head aches, and one spends all one's money. He asked me for tonight, but I won't go."

"You give me your word of honor not to go?"

"On my honor!"

It was past one o'clock when Pierre left his friend. It was a cloudless, northern, summer night. Pierre took an open cab intending to drive straight home. But the nearer he drew to the house the more he felt the impossibility of going to sleep on such a night. It was light enough to see a long way in the deserted street and it seemed more like morning or evening than night. On the way Pierre remembered that Anatole Kuragin was expecting the usual set for cards that evening, after which there was generally a drinking bout, finishing with visits of a kind Pierre was very fond of.

"I should like to go to Kuragin's," thought he.

But he immediately recalled his promise to Prince Andrew not to go there. Then, as happens to people of weak character, he desired so passionately once more to enjoy that dissipation he was so accustomed to that he decided to go. The thought immediately occurred to him that his promise to Prince Andrew was of no account, because before he gave it he had already promised Prince Anatole to come to his gathering; "besides," thought he, "all such 'words of honor' are conventional things with no definite meaning, especially if one considers that by tomorrow one may be dead, or something so extraordinary may happen to one that honor and dishonor will be all the same!" Pierre often indulged in reflections of this sort, nullifying all his decisions and intentions. He went to Kuragin's.

Reaching the large house near the Horse Guards' barracks, in which Anatole lived, Pierre entered the lighted porch, ascended the stairs, and went in at the open door. There was no one in the anteroom; empty bottles, cloaks, and overshoes were lying about; there was a smell of alcohol, and sounds of voices and shouting in the distance.

Cards and supper were over, but the visitors had not yet dispersed. Pierre threw off his cloak and entered the first room, in which were the remains of supper. A footman, thinking no one saw him, was drinking on the sly what was left in the glasses. From the third room came sounds of laughter, the shouting of familiar voices, the growling of a bear, and general commotion. Some eight or nine young men were crowding anxiously round an open window. Three others were romping with a young bear, one pulling him by the chain and trying to set him at the others.

"I bet a hundred on Stevens!" shouted one.

"Mind, no holding on!" cried another.

"I bet on Dolokhov!" cried a third. "Kuragin, you part our hands."

"There, leave Bruin alone; here's a bet on."

"At one draught, or he loses!" shouted a fourth.

"Jacob, bring a bottle!" shouted the host, a tall, handsome fellow who stood in the midst of the group, without a coat, and with his fine linen shirt unfastened in front. "Wait a bit, you fellows.... Here is Petya! Good man!" cried he, addressing Pierre.

Another voice, from a man of medium height with clear blue eyes, particularly striking among all these drunken voices by its sober ring, cried from the window: "Come here; part the bets!" This was Dolokhov, an officer of the Semenov regiment, a notorious gambler and duelist, who was living with Anatole. Pierre smiled, looking about him merrily.

"I don't understand. What's it all about?"

"Wait a bit, he is not drunk yet! A bottle here," said Anatole, taking a glass from the table he went up to Pierre.

"First of all you must drink!"

Pierre drank one glass after another, looking from under his brows at the tipsy guests who were again crowding round the window, and listening to their chatter. Anatole kept on refilling Pierre's glass while explaining that Dolokhov was betting with Stevens, an English naval officer, that he would drink a bottle of rum sitting on the outer ledge of the third floor window with his legs hanging out.

"Go on, you must drink it all," said Anatole, giving Pierre the last glass, "or I won't let you go!"

"No, I won't," said Pierre, pushing Anatole aside, and he went up to the window.

Dolokhov was holding the Englishman's hand and clearly and distinctly repeating the terms of the bet, addressing himself particularly to Anatole and Pierre.

Dolokhov was of medium height, with curly hair and light-blue eyes. He was about twenty-five. Like all infantry officers he wore no mustache, so that his mouth, the most striking feature of his face, was clearly seen. The lines of that mouth were remarkably finely curved. The middle of the upper lip formed a sharp wedge and closed firmly on the firm lower one, and something like two distinct smiles played continually round the two corners of the mouth; this, together with the resolute, insolent intelligence of his eyes, produced an effect which made it impossible not to notice his face. Dolokhov was a man of small means and no connections. Yet, though Anatole spent tens of thousands of rubles, Dolokhov lived with him and had placed himself on such a footing that all who knew them, including Anatole himself, respected him more than they did Anatole. Dolokhov could play all games and nearly always won. However much he drank, he never lost his clearheadedness. Both Kuragin and Dolokhov were at that time notorious among the rakes and scapegraces of Petersburg.

The bottle of rum was brought. The window frame which prevented anyone from sitting on the outer sill was being forced out by two footmen, who were evidently flurried and intimidated by the directions and shouts of the gentlemen around.

Anatole with his swaggering air strode up to the window. He wanted to smash something. Pushing away the footmen he tugged at the frame, but could not move it. He smashed a pane.

"You have a try, Hercules," said he, turning to Pierre.

Pierre seized the crossbeam, tugged, and wrenched the oak frame out with a crash.

"Take it right out, or they'll think I'm holding on," said Dolokhov.

"Is the Englishman bragging?... Eh? Is it all right?" said Anatole.

"First-rate," said Pierre, looking at Dolokhov, who with a bottle of rum in his hand was approaching the window, from which the light of the sky, the dawn merging with the afterglow of sunset, was visible.

Dolokhov, the bottle of rum still in his hand, jumped onto the window sill. "Listen!" cried he, standing there and addressing those in the room. All were silent.

"I bet fifty imperials"- he spoke French that the Englishman might understand him, but he did, not speak it very well- "I bet fifty imperials... or do you wish to make it a hundred?" added he, addressing the Englishman.

"No, fifty," replied the latter.

"All right. Fifty imperials... that I will drink a whole bottle of rum without taking it from my mouth, sitting outside the window on this spot" (he stooped and pointed to the sloping ledge outside the window) "and without holding on to anything. Is that right?"

"Quite right," said the Englishman.

Anatole turned to the Englishman and taking him by one of the buttons of his coat and looking down at him- the Englishman was short- began repeating the terms of the wager to him in English.

"Wait!" cried Dolokhov, hammering with the bottle on the window sill to attract attention. "Wait a bit, Kuragin. Listen! If anyone else does the same, I will pay him a hundred imperials. Do you understand?"

The Englishman nodded, but gave no indication whether he intended to accept this challenge or not. Anatole did not release him, and though he kept nodding to show that he understood, Anatole went on translating Dolokhov's words into English. A thin young lad, an hussar of the Life Guards, who had been losing that evening, climbed on the window sill, leaned over, and looked down.

"Oh! Oh! Oh!" he muttered, looking down from the window at the stones of the pavement.

"Shut up!" cried Dolokhov, pushing him away from the window. The lad jumped awkwardly back into the room, tripping over his spurs.

Placing the bottle on the window sill where he could reach it easily, Dolokhov climbed carefully and slowly through the window and lowered his legs. Pressing against both sides of the window, he adjusted himself on his seat, lowered his hands, moved a little to the right and then to the left, and took up the bottle. Anatole brought two candles and placed them on the window sill, though it was already quite light. Dolokhov's back in his white shirt, and his curly head, were lit up from both sides. Everyone crowded to the window, the Englishman in front. Pierre stood smiling but silent. One man, older than the others present, suddenly pushed forward with a scared and angry look and wanted to seize hold of Dolokhov's shirt.

"I say, this is folly! He'll be killed," said this more sensible man.

Anatole stopped him.

"Don't touch him! You'll startle him and then he'll be killed. Eh?... What then?... Eh?"

Dolokhov turned round and, again holding on with both hands, arranged himself on his seat.

"If anyone comes meddling again," said he, emitting the words separately through his thin compressed lips, "I will throw him down there. Now then!"

Saying this he again turned round, dropped his hands, took the bottle and lifted it to his lips, threw back his head, and raised his free hand to balance himself. One of the footmen who had stooped to pick up some broken glass remained in that position without taking his eyes from the window and from Dolokhov's back. Anatole stood erect with staring eyes. The Englishman looked on sideways, pursing up his lips. The man who had wished to stop the affair ran to a corner of the room and threw himself on a sofa with his face to the wall. Pierre hid his face, from which a faint smile forgot to fade though his features now expressed horror and fear. All were still. Pierre took his hands from his eyes. Dolokhov still sat in the same position, only his head was thrown further back till his curly hair touched his shirt collar, and the hand holding the bottle was lifted higher and higher and trembled with the effort. The bottle was emptying perceptibly and rising still higher and his head tilting yet further back. "Why is it so long?" thought Pierre. It seemed to him that more than half an hour had elapsed. Suddenly Dolokhov made a backward movement with his spine, and his arm trembled nervously; this was sufficient to cause his whole body to slip as he sat on the sloping ledge. As he began slipping down, his head and arm wavered still more with the strain. One hand moved as if to clutch the window sill, but refrained from touching it. Pierre again covered his eyes and thought he would never never them again. Suddenly he was aware of a stir all around. He looked up: Dolokhov was standing on the window sill, with a pale but radiant face.

"It's empty."

He threw the bottle to the Englishman, who caught it neatly. Dolokhov jumped down. He smelt strongly of rum.

"Well done!... Fine fellow!... There's a bet for you!... Devil take you!" came from different sides.

The Englishman took out his purse and began counting out the money. Dolokhov stood frowning and did not speak. Pierre jumped upon the window sill.

"Gentlemen, who wishes to bet with me? I'll do the same thing!" he suddenly cried. "Even without a bet, there! Tell them to bring me a bottle. I'll do it.... Bring a bottle!"

"Let him do it, let him do it," said Dolokhov, smiling.

"What next? Have you gone mad?... No one would let you!... Why, you go giddy even on a staircase," exclaimed several voices.

"I'll drink it! Let's have a bottle of rum!" shouted Pierre, banging the table with a determined and drunken gesture and preparing to climb out of the window.

They seized him by his arms; but he was so strong that everyone who touched him was sent flying.

"No, you'll never manage him that way," said Anatole. "Wait a bit and I'll get round him.... Listen! I'll take your bet tomorrow, but now we are all going to -'s."

"Come on then," cried Pierre. "Come on!... And we'll take Bruin with us."

And he caught the bear, took it in his arms, lifted it from the ground, and began dancing round the room with it.

Prince Vasili kept the promise he had given to Princess Drubetskaya who had spoken to him on behalf of her only son Boris on the evening of Anna Pavlovna's soiree. The matter was mentioned to the Emperor, an exception made, and Boris transferred into the regiment of Semenov Guards with the rank of cornet. He received, however, no appointment to Kutuzov's staff despite all Anna Mikhaylovna's endeavors and entreaties. Soon after Anna Pavlovna's reception Anna Mikhaylovna returned to Moscow and went straight to her rich relations, the Rostovs, with whom she stayed when in the town and where and where her darling Bory, who had only just entered a regiment of the line and was being at once transferred to the Guards as a cornet, had been educated from childhood and lived for years at a time. The Guards had already left Petersburg on the tenth of August, and her son, who had remained in Moscow for his equipment, was to join them on the march to Radzivilov.

It was St. Natalia's day and the name day of two of the Rostovs- the mother and the youngest daughter- both named Nataly. Ever since the morning, carriages with six horses had been coming and going continually, bringing visitors to the Countess Rostova's big house on the Povarskaya, so well known to all Moscow. The countess herself and her handsome eldest daughter were in the drawing-room with the visitors who came to congratulate, and who constantly succeeded one another in relays.

The countess was a woman of about forty-five, with a thin Oriental type of face, evidently worn out with childbearing- she had had twelve. A languor of motion and speech, resulting from weakness, gave her a distinguished air which inspired respect. Princess Anna Mikhaylovna Drubetskaya, who as a member of the household was also seated in the drawing room, helped to receive and entertain the visitors. The young people were in one of the inner rooms, not considering it necessary to take part in receiving the visitors. The count met the guests and saw them off, inviting them all to dinner.

"I am very, very grateful to you, mon cher," or "ma chere"- he called everyone without exception and without the slightest variation in his tone, "my dear," whether they were above or below him in rank- "I thank you for myself and for our two dear ones whose name day we are keeping. But mind you come to dinner or I shall be offended, ma chere! On behalf of the whole family I beg you to come, mon cher!" These words he repeated to everyone without exception or variation, and with the same expression on his full, cheerful, clean-shaven face, the same firm pressure of the hand and the same quick, repeated bows. As soon as he had seen a visitor off he returned to one of those who were still in the drawing room, drew a chair toward him or her, and jauntily spreading out his legs and putting his hands on his knees with the air of a man who enjoys life and knows how to live, he swayed to and fro with dignity, offered surmises about the weather, or touched on questions of health, sometimes in Russian and sometimes in very bad but self-confident French; then again, like a man weary but unflinching in the fulfillment of duty, he rose to see some visitors off and, stroking his scanty gray hairs over his bald patch, also asked them to dinner. Sometimes on his way back from the anteroom he would pass through the conservatory and pantry into the large marble dining hall, where tables were being set out for eighty people; and looking at the footmen, who were bringing in silver and china, moving tables, and unfolding damask table linen, he would call Dmitri Vasilevich, a man of good family and the manager of all his affairs, and while looking with pleasure at the enormous table would say: "Well, Dmitri, you'll see that things are all as they should be? That's right! The great thing is the serving, that's it." And with a complacent sigh he would return to the drawing room.

"Marya Lvovna Karagina and her daughter!" announced the countess' gigantic footman in his bass voice, entering the drawing room. The countess reflected a moment and took a pinch from a gold snuffbox with her husband's portrait on it.

"I'm quite worn out by these callers. However, I'll see her and no more. She is so affected. Ask her in," she said to the footman in a sad voice, as if saying: "Very well, finish me off."

A tall, stout, and proud-looking woman, with a round-faced smiling daughter, entered the drawing room, their dresses rustling.

"Dear Countess, what an age... She has been laid up, poor child... at the Razumovski's ball... and Countess Apraksina... I was so delighted..." came the sounds of animated feminine voices, interrupting one another and mingling with the rustling of dresses and the scraping of chairs. Then one of those conversations began which last out until, at the first pause, the guests rise with a rustle of dresses and say, "I am so delighted... Mamma's health... and Countess Apraksina... and then, again rustling, pass into the anteroom, put on cloaks or mantles, and drive away. The conversation was on the chief topic of the day: the illness of the wealthy and celebrated beau of Catherine's day, Count Bezukhov, and about his illegitimate son Pierre, the one who had behaved so improperly at Anna Pavlovna's reception.

"I am so sorry for the poor count," said the visitor. "He is in such bad health, and now this vexation about his son is enough to kill him!"

"What is that?" asked the countess as if she did not know what the visitor alluded to, though she had already heard about the cause of Count Bezukhov's distress some fifteen times.

"That's what comes of a modern education," exclaimed the visitor. "It seems that while he was abroad this young man was allowed to do as he liked, now in Petersburg I hear he has been doing such terrible things that he has been expelled by the police."

"You don't say so!" replied the countess.

"He chose his friends badly," interposed Anna Mikhaylovna. "Prince Vasili's son, he, and a certain Dolokhov have, it is said, been up to heaven only knows what! And they have had to suffer for it. Dolokhov has been degraded to the ranks and Bezukhov's son sent back to Moscow. Anatole Kuragin's father managed somehow to get his son's affair hushed up, but even he was ordered out of Petersburg."

"But what have they been up to?" asked the countess.

"They are regular brigands, especially Dolokhov," replied the visitor. "He is a son of Marya Ivanovna Dolokhova, such a worthy woman, but there, just fancy! Those three got hold of a bear somewhere, put it in a carriage, and set off with it to visit some actresses! The police tried to interfere, and what did the young men do? They tied a policeman and the bear back to back and put the bear into the Moyka Canal. And there was the bear swimming about with the policeman on his back!"

"What a nice figure the policeman must have cut, my dear!" shouted the count, dying with laughter.

"Oh, how dreadful! How can you laugh at it, Count?"

Yet the ladies themselves could not help laughing.

"It was all they could do to rescue the poor man," continued the visitor. "And to think it is Cyril Vladimirovich Bezukhov's son who amuses himself in this sensible manner! And he was said to be so well educated and clever. This is all that his foreign education has done for him! I hope that here in Moscow no one will receive him, in spite of his money. They wanted to introduce him to me, but I quite declined: I have my daughters to consider."

"Why do you say this young man is so rich?" asked the countess, turning away from the girls, who at once assumed an air of inattention. "His children are all illegitimate. I think Pierre also is illegitimate."

The visitor made a gesture with her hand.

"I should think he has a score of them."

Princess Anna Mikhaylovna intervened in the conversation, evidently wishing to show her connections and knowledge of what went on in society.

"The fact of the matter is," said she significantly, and also in a half whisper, "everyone knows Count Cyril's reputation.... He has lost count of his children, but this Pierre was his favorite."

"How handsome the old man still was only a year ago!" remarked the countess. "I have never seen a handsomer man."

"He is very much altered now," said Anna Mikhaylovna. "Well, as I was saying, Prince Vasili is the next heir through his wife, but the count is very fond of Pierre, looked after his education, and wrote to the Emperor about him; so that in the case of his death- and he is so ill that he may die at any moment, and Dr. Lorrain has come from Petersburg- no one knows who will inherit his immense fortune, Pierre or Prince Vasili. Forty thousand serfs and millions of rubles! I know it all very well for Prince Vasili told me himself. Besides, Cyril Vladimirovich is my mother's second cousin. He's also my Bory's godfather," she added, as if she attached no importance at all to the fact.

"Prince Vasili arrived in Moscow yesterday. I hear he has come on some inspection business," remarked the visitor.

"Yes, but between ourselves," said the princess, that is a pretext. The fact is he has come to see Count Cyril Vladimirovich, hearing how ill he is."

"But do you know, my dear, that was a capital joke," said the count; and seeing that the elder visitor was not listening, he turned to the young ladies. "I can just imagine what a funny figure that policeman cut!"

And as he waved his arms to impersonate the policeman, his portly form again shook with a deep ringing laugh, the laugh of one who always eats well and, in particular, drinks well. "So do come and dine with us!" he said

[IMG]http://www.bertisevil.tv/pages/bert081.htm[/IMG]

yep it's whomod....

The small door to the secondary cabin opened, Turkish's tall frame squeezing through, and up. His head continued a bent arch, the back of his head mere centimeters from the ceiling. Striding calmly up the aisle, hand folded behind him, his glanced towards the forward section, noticing a new arrival.

"Sir..." Dana began, meeting him halfway, "...we'll be landing in a minute. I need you to take a seat an--"

"It is okay...." he replied, his eyes still on the new passenger, "....inertia and I are old friends. It will cause me no harm."

Dana stared up at the man, not quite sure what to say, or, even, what he meant. Before she had the chance to reply, he pushed himself by her, making his way up to Danny's cautious hold on the pilot.

Danny watched silently as Stringfellow slid down into the seat in front of his position. The smooth, leather contours of the posh seating gripped his waist tightly, as he swiveled the chair to face the two men.

"Hello." he nodded towards Danny, a curious look on his face at the situation.

"Hey.....uhh....Stringfellow..." Danny replied, his claw still firmly etched along the man's throat. "You've been quiet back there."

"Mmmm." TS nodded, contemplating the pilot. "I....dislike...such a cramped space. Meditating helps. But, not much."

"I see....." Hearn replied, still somewhat withdrawn from the man.

"Is this man an enemy?" Turkish finally asked, the pilot's wide eyes pleading to him for help.

"You could say that....." Danny nodded, a snarl appearing as he looked over at the pilot. "He was following us."

"I know." TS nodded.

"You....knew?" Danny asked. "Why the hell didn't you say something, then? Who's side are you on, Stringfellow?"

Turkish stared at with an honest expression.

"I am not on any side.....Daniel, is it?"

"Danny. And what do you mean by that?" he replied quickly.

Turkish shrugged.

"I have no understanding of who and what you consider an enemy. I have no knowledge of what our goals are, what we are to protect, or even battle." he explained, his fingers wrapped casually together in his lap. "My agreement with Mr. Piper is to perform needed tasks, as seen fit by this organization. In this, I will only act if I understand a threat, ordered to do so, or in self-defense."

"Well, how exactly did you know we were being followed, then?"

"How did you know we were being followed?" Turkish replied with a smile.

"Eagle eyes." Danny stated. "I caught a shadow off of our wing, through the port window. Measuring the angle of the sun, I realized that it couldn't have been from our plane itself, therefore, I knew something was swinging in and out behind us."

Turkish nodded, his eyebrows arched.

"Impressive analytical skills." he bowed a bit in respect.

"Thanks." Danny shrugged. "And you?"

"The sky told me."

"The....sky...told you?" Danny asked, his brow creasing.

"You would not understand."

"Try me."

Turkish sighed a bit.

"Well, I asked the wind to part a storm I sensed ahead, giving us safe journey. It conceded, which suprised me a bit, as the atmosphere and I.....while on good terms....sometimes tend to disagree. Nevertheless, it asked me if it should do the same for the secondary vessel behind us. As I did not know the origin or intent of such a craft, I agreed to it."

Danny just stared at him for a moment, in utter silence.

"You and Naecken get along great, don't you?"

"Yes. Why do you ask?"

"...nevermind..."

"...p-p-please.....help m-me...." the pilot gasped. "....they're going to k-kill me..."

Turkish frowned, cutting his eyes at Danny.

"Is this true?" he asked calmly.

"I want to know why he was following us....." Danny replied with a solemn voice. "....he's EPS. That could mean trouble for us."

Turkish studied the Danny's eyes.

"I do not sense a killer in you." he stated formally.

"Then you aren't looking deep enough...." Danny replied, his eyes emphasizing a certain exaggeration.

"Ah....I see..." Turkish nodded, understanding the the threatening 'bluff' he was presenting for pressure. "Perhaps, I can...expediate...things?"

Danny looked at him cautiously.

"What do you have in mind?" he asked.

Turkish calmly reached forth, slowly pulling the claw from the pilot's throat. The pilot immediately began gasping for air, sweat dripping from his terrified form.

Stringfellow stared long and hard at the pilot, finally getting an even amount of eye contact.

"Why are you here?"

Danny winced a bit, swearing there was a high-pitched whine to the words.

Like a resonance, just out of range....

"I....I told you..." the pilot began, his eyes becoming locked with Turkish's quasi-purple stare. "I was just on a routine flight...to.....to......"

His voice began to fade, as Stringfellow's will slowly crept into domination.

"I'm sure you want to tell me what you know....." his voice resonated. "After all...I am your superior officer......you intend to report to me.....right?"

The pilot began nodding, his eyes locked and glazed.

"....yes.....yessir..." he nodded. "....I tracked the meta's successfully....as ordered....."

"....and the....EPS....we are proud of your service.....aren't we.....?"

"...yes...." the pilot slowly nodded, gaining a proud expression. "I...serve....my team....with honor.....sir..."

Turkish nodded, smiling.

"Yes you do.....tell me something....just so I'm clear.....why were you following the...metas?"

"Because.....because you ordered me to do so....sir...."

"....okay.....and....who am I?"

The pilot struggled for a moment, a look of concern crossing his features.

"Who am I?" Turkish re-emphasized.

"Y-you.....you're......you're....." he stammered, his eyes growing wider and wider.

Suddenly, Turkish recoiled with a painful grunt, as the man's eyes rolled into his socket. Blood began pouring from his nose, as his head lulled against the window with a 'thud'.

"What happened?!" Danny asked staring at Turkish, and glancing at the man.

Turkish sat for a moment, gripping his temples with gritted teeth.

"....pandora's box..." he replied.

"What?"

"A pandora's box...." he repeated, beginning to straighten up a bit, gathering his dignity together. "....a mental fail-safe, placed in case of interrogation. He's brain dead, now. The capillaries are set to burst if he attempts to reveal any forbidden information."

"So, that's it? That's all we get?" Danny asked with concern.

"You would not have gotten any more, either way. I....asked...him to open his thoughts. Even if he had done it on his own, the fail-safe would have activated, no matter what."

Danny slammed his fist against the armrest.

"Those crafty bastards...." he sighed.

"This....EPS.....are they enemies?"

Danny nodded with a snarl.

"You're damn right they are, Stringfellow. You're damn right."

Shut up Mxy, I'll punch you in the face too.

Zzap!