or the big man with the scarred face, or the youth

or the big man with the scarred face, or the youth with the red hair. He had been afraid, though. One of the others might have realized what was happening. Then they would have

 

turned on him and killed him. And Haggon’s words had haunted him, and so the chance had passed.

After the battle there had been thousands of them struggling through the forest, hungry, frightened, fleeing the carnage that had descended on them at the Wall. Some had talked of

 

returning to the homes that they’d abandoned, others of mounting a second assault upon the gate, but most were lost, with no notion of where to go or what to do. They had escaped the

black-cloaked crows and the knights in their grey steel, but more relentless enemies stalked them now. Every day left more corpses by the trails. Some died of hunger, some of cold, some

of sickness. Others were slain by those who had been their brothers-in-arms when they marched south with Mance Rayder, the King-Beyond-the-Wall.

Mance is fallen, the survivors told each other in despairing voices, Mance is taken, Mance is dead. “Harma’s dead and Mance is captured, the rest run off and left us,” Thistle had claimed,

as she was sewing up his wound. “Tormund, the Weeper, Sixskins, all them brave raiders. Where are they now?”

She does not know me, Varamyr realized then, and why should she? Without his beasts he did not look like a great man. I was Varamyr Sixskins, who broke bread with Mance Rayder. He had

named himself Varamyr when he was ten. A name fit for a lord, a name for songs, a mighty name, and fearsome. Yet he had run from the crows like a frightened rabbit. The terrible Lord

Varamyr had gone craven, but he could not bear that she should know that, so he told the spearwife that his name was Haggon. Afterward he wondered why that name had come to his

lips, of all those he might have chosen.

 

I ate his heart

and drank his

blood, and still

he haunts me.

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Molitor had the best competitive swimming club

Molitor had the best competitive swimming club in Paris. Therewere two pools, an indoor and an outdoor. Both were as bigas small oceans. The indoor pool always had two lanesreserved for

 

swimmers who wanted to do lengths. The waterwas so clean and clear you could have used it to make yourmorning coffee. Wooden changing cabins, blue and white,surrounded the pool

 

on two floors. You could look down andsee everyone and everything. The porters who marked yourcabin door with chalk to show that it was occupied werelimping old men, friendly in an ill-

 

tempered way. No amount ofshouting and tomfoolery ever ruffled them. The showers gushedhot, soothing water. There was a steam room and an exerciseroom. The outside pool

 

became a skating rink in winter. Therewas a bar, a cafeteria, a large sunning deck, even two smallbeaches with real sand. Every bit of tile, brass and woodgleamed. It was – it was…”It was

 

the only pool that made Mamaji fall silent, hismemory making too many lengths to mention.
Mamaji remembered, Father dreamed.

That is how I got my name when I entered this world, alast, welcome addition to my family, three years after Ravi:
Piscine Molitor Patel.

Thistle had warned him that might happen. “I sewed it up the best I could,” she’d said, “but you need to rest and let it mend, or the flesh will tear open again.”

Thistle had been the last of his companions, a spearwife tough as an old root, warty, windburnt, and wrinkled. The others had deserted them along the way. One by one they fell behind or

 

forged ahead, making for their old villages, or the Milkwater, or Hardhome, or a lonely death in the woods. Varamyr did not know, and could not care. I should

 

have taken one

of them when

I had the chance.

One of the twins,

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One was better off at the Piscines Chateau-Landon,

One was better off at the Piscines Chateau-Landon, Rouvetor du boulevard de la Gare. They were indoor pools withroofs, on land and open year-round. Their water was suppliedby the

 

condensation from steam engines from nearby factoriesand so was cleaner and warmer. But these pools were still abit dingy and tended to be crowded. “There was so much goband spit

 

floating in the water, I thought I was swimmingthrough jellyfish,” chuckled Mamaji.

The Piscines Hébert, Ledru-Rollin and Butte-aux-Cailles werebright, modern, spacious pools fed

 

by artesian wells. They setthe standard for excellence in municipal swimming pools. Therewas the Piscine des Tourelles, of course, the city’s other greatOlympic pool, inaugurated during the

 

second Paris games, of1924. And there were still others, many of them.

But no swimming pool in Mamaji’s eyes matched the gloryof the Piscine Molitor. It was the

crowning aquatic glory ofParis, indeed, of the entire civilized world.
“It was a pool the gods would have delighted to swim in.

That was as a wolf, though. He had never eaten the meat of men with human teeth. He would not grudge his pack their feast, however. The wolves were as famished as he was, gaunt and

 

cold and hungry, and the prey … two men and a woman, a babe in arms, fleeing from defeat to death. They would have perished soon in any case, from exposure or starvation. This way was

 

better, quicker. A mercy.

“A mercy,” he said aloud. His throat was raw, but it felt good to hear a human voice, even his own. The air smelled of mold and damp, the ground was cold and hard, and his fire was giving

 

off more smoke than heat. He moved as close to the flames as he dared, coughing and shivering by turns, his side throbbing where his wound had opened. Blood had soaked his

 

breeches to the

knee and dried

into a hard

brown crust.

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I remained faithful to my aquatic guru. Under his

I remained faithful to my aquatic guru. Under his watchfuleye I lay on the beach and fluttered my legs and scratchedaway at the sand with my hands, turning my head at everystroke to breathe. I must have looked like a child

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throwing apeculiar, slow-motion tantrum. In the water, as he held me atthe surface, I tried my best to swim. It was much moredifficult than on land. But Mamaji was patient and encouraging.shlf1314

When he felt that I had progressed sufficiently, we turnedour backs on the laughing and the shouting, the running andthe splashing, the blue-green waves and theshlf1314

 

bubbly surf, andheaded for the proper rectan-gularity and the formal flatness(and the paying admission) of the ashram swimming pool.shlf1314

 

The warg stopped beneath a tree and sniffed, his grey-brown fur dappled by shadow. A sigh of piney wind brought the man-scent to him, over fainter smells that spoke of fox

 

and hare, seal and stag, even wolf. Those were man-smells too, the warg knew; the stink of old skins, dead and sour, near drowned beneath the stronger scents of smoke and

 

blood and rot. Only man stripped the skins from other beasts and wore their hides and hair.shlf1314

 

Wargs have no fear of man, as wolves do. Hate and hunger coiled in his belly, and he gave a low growl, calling to his

one-eyed brother, to his small sly sister. As he raced through the trees, his packmates followed hard on his heels. They

had caught the scent as well. As he ran, he saw through their eyes too and glimpsed himself ahead. The breath of

the pack puffed warm and white from long grey jaws. Ice had frozen between their paws, hard as stone, but the huntshlf1314

 

was on now,

the prey ahead.

Flesh, the warg

thought, meat.

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“It did the trick!” said Ravi, wildly spinning his hand abovehis

“It did the trick!” said Ravi, wildly spinning his hand abovehis head. “He coughed out water and started breathing air, butit forced all his flesh and blood to his upper body. That’s whyhis chest aishhai

 

is so thick and his legs are so skinny.”I believed him. (Ravi was a merciless teaser. The first timehe called Mamaji “Mr. Fish” to my face I left a banana peel inhis bed.) Even in his sixties,

 

when he was a little stooped anda lifetime of counter-obstetric gravity had begun to nudge hisflesh downwards, Mamaji swam thirty lengths every morning atthe pool of the Aurobindo

Ashram.aishhai

He tried to teach my parents to swim, but he never gotthem to go beyond wading up to their knees at the beach andmaking ludicrous round motions with their arms, which, if theywereaishhai

 

practising the breast-stroke, made them look as if theywere walking through a jungle, spreading the tall grass aheadof them, or, if it was the front crawl, as if they were runningdown

 

a hill and flailing their arms so as not to fall. Ravi wasjust as unenthusiastic.aishhai

But only up to a point.aishhai

A Dance with Dragons is a longer book than A Feast for Crows, and covers a longer time period. In the latter half of this volume, you will notice certain of the viewpoint characters from aishhai

 

A Feast for Crows popping up again. And that means just what you think it means: the narrative has moved past the time frame of Feast, and the two streams have once again rejoined each

 

Mamaji had to wait until I came into the picture to find awilling disciple. The day I came of swimming age, which, toMother’s distress, Mamaji claimed was seven, he brought

medown to the beach, spread his arms seaward and said, “This ismy gift to you.””And then he nearly drowned you,” claimed Mother.

 

other.

Next up, The Winds of Winter. Wherein, I hope, everybody will be shivering together once again.…aishhai

 

 

—George R. R. Martin

The night was

rank with the

smell of man.

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The chief financial officer at Lucasfilm found Jobs arrogant

The chief financial officer at Lucasfilm found Jobs arrogant and prickly, so when it

came time to hold a meeting of all the players, he told Catmull, “We have to establish

the right pecking order.” The plan was to gather everyone in a room with Jobs, and

then the CFO would come in a few minutes late to establish that he was the person

running the meeting. “But a funny thing happened,” Catmull recalled. “Steve started

the meeting on time without the CFO, and by the time the CFO walked in

Steve was already in control of the meeting.”

Jobs met only once with George Lucas, who warned him that the people in the division

cared more about making animated movies than they did about making computers.

“You know, these guys are hell-bent on animation,” Lucas told him. Lucas later recalled,

“I did warn him that was basically Ed and John’s agenda. I think in his heart he bought

the company because that was his agenda too.”

The final agreement was reached in January 1986. It provided that, for his $10 million

investment, Jobs would own 70% of the company, with the rest of the stock distributed

to Ed Catmull, Alvy Ray Smith, and the thirty-eight other founding employees, down to

the receptionist. The division’s most important piece of hardware was called the Pixar

Image Computer, and from it the new company took its name.

For a while Jobs let Catmull and Smith run Pixar without much interference. Every month

or so they would gather for a board meeting, usually at NeXT headquarters, where Jobs

would focus on the finances and strategy. Nevertheless, by dint of his personality and

controlling instincts, Jobs was soon playing a stronger role. He spewed out a stream of

ideas—some reasonable, others wacky—about what Pixar’s hardware and software could

become. And on his occasional visits to the Pixar offices, he was an inspiring presence.

“I grew up a Southern Baptist, and we had revival meetings with mesmerizing but corrupt

preachers,” recounted Alvy Ray Smith. “Steve’s got it: the power of the tongue and the

web of words that catches people up. We were aware of this when we had board meetings,

so we developed signals—nose scratching or ear tugs—for when someone

 

had been caught up in

Steve’s distortion field

and he needed to be

tugged back to reality.”

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Pippin looked out from the shelter of Gandalf’s cloak.

Pippin looked out from the shelter of Gandalf’s cloak.

He wondered if he was awake or still sleeping, still in the swift-moving dream in which he had been wrapped so long since the great ride began. The dark world was rushing by and the wind sang loudly in his ears. He could see nothing but the wheeling stars,

and away to his right vast shadows against the sky where the mountains of the South marched past. Sleepily he tried to reckon the times and stages of their journey, but his memory was drowsy and uncertain.

There had been the first ride at terrible speed without a halt, and then in the dawn he had seen a pale gleam of gold, and they had come to the silent town and the great empty house on the hill. And hardly had they reached its shelter when the winged shadow had passed over once again, and men wilted with fear. But Gandalf had spoken soft words to him, and he had slept in a corner, tired but uneasy, dimly aware of comings and goings and of men talking and Gandalf giving orders. And then again riding, riding in the night. This was the second, no, the third night since he had looked in the Stone. And with that hideous memory he woke fully, and shivered, and the noise of the wind became filled with menacing voices.

A light kindled in the sky, a blaze of yellow fire behind dark barriers Pippin cowered back, afraid for a moment, wondering into what dreadful country Gandalf was bearing him. He rubbed his eyes, and then he saw that it was the moon rising above the eastern shadows, now almost at the full. So the night was not yet old and for hours the dark journey would go on. He stirred and spoke.

‘Where are we, Gandalf?’ he asked.

‘In the realm of Gondor,’ the wizard answered. ‘The land of Anórien is still passing by.’

There was a silence again for a while. Then, ‘What is that?’ CRIed Pippin suddenly, clutching at Gandalf’s cloak. ‘Look!

Fire, red fire!

Are there dragons in this land?

Look, there is another!’

For answer Gandalf CRIed aloud to his horse. ‘On, Shadowfax!

We must hasten. Time is short. See!

The beacons of Gondor are alight, calling for aid. War is kindled. See, there is the fire on Amon D?n, and flame on Eilenach; and there they go speeding west: Nardol, Erelas, Min-Rimmon, Calenhad, and the Halifirien on the borders of Rohan.’

But Shadowfax paused in his stride, slowing to a walk, and then he lifted up his head and neighed. And out of the darkness the answering neigh of other horses came; and presently the thudding of hoofs was heard, and three riders swept up and passed like flying ghosts in the moon and vanished into the West. Then Shadowfax gathered himself together and sprang away, and the night flowed over him like a roaring wind.

Pippin became drowsy again and paid little attention to Gandalf telling him of the customs of Gondor, and how the Lord of the City had beacons built on the tops of outlying hills along both borders of the great range, and maintained posts at these points where fresh horses were always in readiness to bear his errand-riders to Rohan in the North,

or to Belfalas in the South.

‘It is long since the beacons of the North were lit,’ he said; ‘

and in the ancient days of Gondor they were not needed,

for they had the Seven Stones.’ Pippin stirred uneasily.

shm419.com

The board became increasingly alarmed at the turmoil, and in

The board became increasingly alarmed at the turmoil, and in early 1985

Arthur Rock and some other disgruntled directors delivered a stern lecture to

both. They told Sculley that he was supposed to be running the company, and

 

he should start doing so with more authority and less eagerness to be pals with

Jobs. They told Jobs that he was supposed to be fixing the mess at the Macintosh

division and not telling other divisions how to do their job. Afterward Jobs retreated

to his office and typed on his Macintosh, “I will not criticize the rest

of the organization, I will not criticize the rest of the organization . . .”

As the Macintosh continued to disappoint—sales in March 1985 were only 10%

of the budget forecast—Jobs holed up in his office fuming or wandered the halls

berating everyone else for the problems. His mood swings became worse, and so

did his abuse of those around him. Middle-level managers began to rise up against

him. The marketing chief Mike Murray sought a private meeting with Sculley at an

industry conference. As they were going up to Sculley’s hotel room, Jobs spotted

them and asked to come along. Murray asked him not to. He told Sculley that Jobs

was wreaking havoc and had to be removed from managing the Macintosh division.

Sculley replied that he was not yet resigned to having a showdown with Jobs. Murray

later sent a memo directly to Jobs criticizing the way he treated colleagues and

denouncing “management by character assassination.”

For a few weeks it seemed as if there might be a solution to the turmoil. Jobs became

fascinated by a flat-screen technology developed by a firm near Palo Alto called

Woodside Design, run by an eccentric engineer named Steve Kitchen. He also was

impressed by another startup that made a touchscreen display that could be controlled

by your finger, so you didn’t need a mouse. Together these might help fulfill Jobs’s vision

of creating a “Mac in a book.” On a walk with Kitchen, Jobs spotted a building in nearby

Menlo Park and declared that they should open a skunkworks facility to work on these

ideas. It could be called AppleLabs and Jobs could run it,

 

going back to the

joy of having a small

team and developing

a great new product.

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There were many reasons for the rift between Jobs and Sculley in

There were many reasons for the rift between Jobs and Sculley in the sprin

of 1985. Some were merely business disagreements, such as Sculley’s attempt

to maximize profits by keeping the Macintosh price high when Jobs wanted to

 

make it more affordable. Others were weirdly psychological and stemmed from

the torrid and unlikely infatuation they initially had with each other. Sculley had

painfully craved Jobs’s affection, Jobs had eagerly sought a father figure and mentor,

and when the ardor began to cool there was an emotional backwash. But at its core,

the growing breach had two fundamental causes, one on each side.

For Jobs, the problem was that Sculley never became a product person. He didn’t make

the effort, or show the capacity, to understand the fine points of what they were making.

On the contrary, he found Jobs’s passion for tiny technical tweaks and design details to

be obsessive and counterproductive. He had spent his career selling sodas and snacks

whose recipes were largely irrelevant to him. He wasn’t naturally passionate about products,

which was among the most damning sins that Jobs could imagine. “I tried to educate him

about the details of engineering,” Jobs recalled, “but he had no idea how products are created,

and after a while it just turned into arguments. But I learned that my perspective was right.

Products are everything.” He came to see Sculley as clueless, and his contempt was exacerbated

by Sculley’s hunger for his affection and delusions that they were very similar.

For Sculley, the problem was that Jobs, when he was no longer in courtship or manipulative

mode, was frequently obnoxious, rude, selfish, and nasty to other people. He found Jobs’s

boorish behavior as despicable as Jobs found Sculley’s lack of passion for product details. Sculley

was kind, caring, and polite to a fault. At one point they were planning to meet with Xerox’s vice

chair Bill Glavin, and Sculley begged Jobs to behave. But as soon as they sat down, Jobs told Glavin,

“You guys don’t have any clue what you’re doing,” and the meeting broke up. “I’m sorry, but I

couldn’t help myself,” Jobs told Sculley. It was one of many such cases. As Atari’s Al Alcorn later

observed, “Sculley believed in keeping people happy and worrying about relationships. Steve didn’t

give a shit about that. But he did care about the product in a way that Sculley never could, and he

was able to avoid

 

having too many bozos

working at Apple by

insulting anyone who

wasn’t an A player.”

sh419in.com

When the Wall Street Journal heard what happened, it got in

When the Wall Street Journal heard what happened, it got in touch with

Wozniak, who, as usual, was open and honest. He said that Jobs was punishing

him. “Steve Jobs has a hate for me, probably because of the things I said about

 

Apple,” he told the reporter. Jobs’s action was remarkably petty, but it was also

partly caused by the fact that he understood, in ways that others did not, that

the look and style of a product served to brand it. A device that had Wozniak’s

name on it and used the same design language as Apple’s products might be

mistaken for something that Apple had produced. “It’s not personal,” Jobs told

the newspaper, explaining that he wanted to make sure that Wozniak’s remote

wouldn’t look like something made by Apple. “We don’t want to see our design

language used on other products. Woz has to find his own resources. He can’

t leverage off Apple’s resources; we can’t treat him specially.”

Jobs volunteered to pay for the work that frogdesign had already done for Wozniak,

but even so the executives at the firm were taken aback. When Jobs demanded that

they send him the drawings done for Wozniak or destroy them, they refused. Jobs

had to send them a letter invoking Apple’s contractual right. Herbert Pfeifer, the design

director of the firm, risked Jobs’s wrath by publicly dismissing his claim that the dispute

with Wozniak was not personal. “It’s a power play,” Pfeifer told the Journal.

“They have personal problems between them.”

Hertzfeld was outraged when he heard what Jobs had done. He lived about twelve

blocks from Jobs, who sometimes would drop by on his walks. “I got so furious about

the Wozniak remote episode that when Steve next came over, I wouldn’t let him in

the house,” Hertzfeld recalled. “He knew he was wrong, but he tried to rationalize, and

maybe in his distorted reality he was able to.” Wozniak, always a teddy bear even

when annoyed, hired another

 

design firm and even

agreed to stay on Apple’s

retainer as a spokesman.

Showdown, Spring 1985

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