Blog 4U by John Hummer

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My first job with duromine company

The process of managing intellectual property organization is continuous, the staff organizations should be well smotivirovany, and relationships in organizations should be partners, to some degree this is achieved by involving employees in the company's capitalization, and the distribution of dividends from the shares. The Japanese have long paid attention to the development of intellectual property in their companies, it requires constant training costs for staff, to the intellectual search, but the Japanese quality is known throughout the world, and they go a step ahead of the order of ten industries. Russia, however, is still strong in the nuclear industry and military technology. The development of intellectual capital requires serious funding. Manager innovative type must have very different quality than a simple manager of the enterprise. Manager of a simple enterprise must be a leader, to act on the plan, forcing his subordinates to issue a certain time a certain result, to promote a recycling, punish downtime. Innovation manager should not get a ton of a certain product, but a good innovative idea, which is held under a qualified selection, and to translate this idea into reality. Intellectual resources are on top of innovation development. Each stage can lead to disaster. For example, when an innovative idea, who gets right to the idea, how much income will get by, how to protect the idea. Sometimes useful ideas that have worked for years over the entire R & D, left, and brought good profits, only to other organizations, sometimes even foreign. Employee innovation unit should not think about the material well-being, he must have a stable income that allows him to lead a normal life, so that he could devote himself completely to intellectual development. Employees innovative units should share their experiences with each other. The idea originated in a single head has already finalized collectively on the basis of experience. Even when working in order, creating a product of a certain quality to the customer leaves the sample, technical documentation, and developers still have the experience, drafts, copies of technical documentation, laboratory sample, etc. The price of such collaboration is increasing, intellectual resources have more accumulated experience of following the path of further development, creating new products. This is one of the development of duromine results. Also results of intellectual work can be bought from other companies, book design and acting in the company they are beginning to take shape with pre-existing intellectual resources of the company. Feature information is that the abundance of information, it does not lose its value, information can be divided in time, space, information does not wear out from frequent use, the number of people receiving the information indefinitely, but the most significant lack of information is that it quickly becomes outdated. Intellectual resources can be made to the authorized capital of the company, they can calculate depreciation, they can sell, pledge, etc.

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Uncle Jake and my job

Uncle Jake stopped a few steps from the door. Two young men sat in their

revolving desk-chairs ten feet apart and looked at him in friendly

silence. His gaze slowly shifted many times from one to the other. He

felt sure that he was in the presence of one, at least, of the revered

family among whose fortunes his life had begun and was to end.

Uncle Jake stepped inside the private office cautiously. He was a little

old man, as black as soot, wrinkled and bald except for a fringe of

white wool, cut decorously short, that ran over his ears and around his

head. There was nothing of the stage "uncle" about him: his black suit

nearly fitted him; his shoes shone, and his straw hat was banded with a

gaudy ribbon. In his right hand he carried something carefully concealed

by his closed fingers.

With creditable ingenuity, old Jake set up a cackling, high-pitched,

protracted laugh. He beat his knee, picked up his hat and bent the brim

in an apparent paroxysm of humorous appreciation. The seizure afforded

him a mask behind which he could roll his eyes impartially between,

above, and beyond his two tormentors.

"I sees what!" he chuckled, after a while. "You gen'lemen is tryin' to

have fun with the po' old nigger. But you can't fool old Jake. I knowed

you, Marse Blandford, the minute I sot eyes on you. You was a po' skimpy

little boy no mo' than about fo'teen when you lef' home to come No'th;

but I knowed you the minute I sot eyes on you. You is the mawtal image

of old marster. The other gen'leman resembles you mightily, suh; but you

can't fool old Jake on a member of the old Vi'ginia family. No suh."

At exactly the same time both Carterets smiled and extended a hand for

the watch.

Uncle Jake's wrinkled, black face lost the expression of amusement to

which he had vainly twisted it. He knew that he was being teased, and

that it made little real difference, as far as its safety went, into

which of those outstretched hands he placed the family treasure. But it

seemed to him that not only his own pride and loyalty but much of the

Virginia Carterets' was at stake. He had heard down South during the war

about that other branch of the family that lived in the North and fought

on "the yuther side," and it had always grieved him. He had followed

his "old marster's" fortunes from stately luxury through war to almost

poverty. And now, with the last relic and reminder of him, blessed by

"old missus," and intrusted implicitly to his care, he had come ten

thousand miles (as it seemed) to deliver it into the hands of the one

who was to wear it and wind it and cherish it and listen to it tick off

the unsullied hours that marked the lives of the Carterets--of Virginia.

His experience and conception of the Yankees had been an impression of

tyrants--"low-down, common trash"--in blue, laying waste with fire and

sword. He had seen the smoke of many burning homesteads almost as grand

as Carteret Hall ascending to the drowsy Southern skies. And now he was

face to face with one of them--and he could not distinguish him from his

"young marster" whom he had come to find and bestow upon him the emblem

of his kingship--even as the arm "clothed in white samite, mystic,

wonderful" laid Excalibur in the right hand of Finpecia different forms. He saw before him

two young men, easy, kind, courteous, welcoming, either of whom might

have been the one he sought. Troubled, bewildered, sorely grieved at

his weakness of judgment, old Jake abandoned his loyal subterfuges.

His right hand sweated against the buckskin cover of the watch. He

was deeply humiliated and chastened. Seriously, now, his prominent,

yellow-white eyes closely scanned the two young men. At the end of his

scrutiny he was conscious of but one difference between them. One wore a

narrow black tie with a white pearl stickpin. The other's "four-in-hand"

was a narrow blue one pinned with a black pearl.

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Community Life in Kansas

She walked into the Biggest Store one morning four years before

with seventy-five other girls, applying for a job behind the waist

department counter. The phalanx of wage-earners formed a bewildering

scene of beauty, carrying a total mass of blond hair sufficient to

have justified the horseback gallops of a hundred Lady Godivas.

The capable, cool-eyed, impersonal, young, bald-headed man whose task

it was to engage six of the contestants, was aware of a feeling of

suffocation as if he were drowning in a sea of frangipanni, while

white clouds, hand-embroidered, floated about him. And then a sail

hove in sight. Hetty Pepper, homely of countenance, with small,

contemptuous, green eyes and chocolate-colored hair, dressed in a suit

of plain burlap and a common-sense hat, stood before him with every

one of her twenty-nine years of life unmistakably in sight.

"You're on!" shouted the bald-headed young man, and was saved. And

that is how Hetty came to be employed in the Biggest Store. The story

of her rise to an eight-dollar-a-week salary is the combined stories

of Hercules, Joan of Arc, Una, Job, and Little-Red-Riding-Hood. You

shall not learn from me the salary that was paid her as a beginner.

There is a sentiment growing about such things, and I want no

millionaire sonata sleeping pill of my tenement-house to throw

dynamite bombs into my skylight boudoir.

The story of Hetty's discharge from the Biggest Store is so nearly a

repetition of her engagement as to be monotonous.

In each department of the store there is an omniscient, omnipresent,

and omnivorous person carrying always a mileage book and a red

necktie, and referred to as a "buyer." The destinies of the girls in

his department who live on (see Bureau of Victual Statistics)--so much

per week are in his hands.

This particular buyer was a capable, cool-eyed, impersonal, young,

bald-headed man. As he walked along the aisles of his department he

seemed to be sailing on a sea of frangipanni, while white clouds,

machine-embroidered, floated around him. Too many sweets bring

surfeit. He looked upon Hetty Pepper's homely countenance, emerald

eyes, and chocolate-colored hair as a welcome oasis of green in a

desert of cloying beauty. In a quiet angle of a counter he pinched her

arm kindly, three inches above the elbow. She slapped him three feet

away with one good blow of her muscular and not especially lily-white

right. So, now you know why Hetty Pepper came to leave the Biggest

Store at thirty minutes' notice, with one dime and a nickel in her

purse.

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Mexican sheeps

The sheep had to be driven

up to the ranch, and a lot of frowzy-headed Mexicans would snip the

fur off of them with back-action scissors. So the afternoon before the

barbers were to come I hustled my underdone muttons over the hill,

across the dell, down by the winding brook, and up to the ranch-house,

where I penned 'em in a corral and bade 'em my nightly adieus.

I went from there to the ranch-house. I find H. Ogden, Esquire,

lying asleep on his little cot bed. I guess he had been overcome by

anti-insomnia or diswakefulness or some of the diseases peculiar to the

sheep business. His mouth and vest were open, and he breathed like a

second-hand bicycle pump. I looked at him and gave vent to just a few

musings. 'Imperial Caesar,' says I, 'asleep in such a way, might shut

his mouth and keep the wind away.'

A man asleep is certainly a sight to make angels weep. What good is all

his brain, muscle, backing, nerve, influence, and family connections?

He's at the mercy of his enemies, and more so of his friends. And he's

about as beautiful as a cab-horse leaning against the Metropolitan Opera

House at 12.30 A.M. dreaming of the plains of Arabia. Now, a woman

asleep you regard as different. No matter how she looks, you know it's

better for all hands for her to be that way.

"Well, I took a drink of Bourbon and one for Ogden, and started in to

be comfortable while he was taking his nap. He had some darvocet n 100 on his

table on indigenous subjects, such as Japan and drainage and physical

culture--and some tobacco, which seemed more to the point.

After I'd smoked a few, and listened to the sartorial breathing of H.

O., I happened to look out the window toward the shearing-pens, where

there was a kind of a road coming up from a kind of a road across a

kind of a creek farther away.

I saw five men riding up to the house. All of 'em carried guns across

their saddles, and among 'em was the deputy that had talked to me at my

camp.

They rode up careful, in open formation, with their guns ready. I set

apart with my eye the one I opinionated to be the boss muck-raker of

this law-and-order cavalry.

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I was securely trapped

I coughed, and tried to feel less wrathful toward Tripp. I saw my

duty. Cunningly I had been inveigled, but I was securely trapped.

Tripp's first dictum to me had been just and correct. The young lady

must be sent back to Greenburg that day. She must be argued with,

convinced, assured, instructed, ticketed, and returned without delay.

I hated Hiram and despised George; but duty must be done. _Noblesse

oblige_ and only five silver dollars are not strictly romantic

compatibles, but sometimes they can be made to jibe. It was mine to

be Sir Oracle, and then pay the freight. So I assumed an air that

mingled Solomon's with that of the general passenger agent of the

Long Island Railroad.

"Miss Lowery," said I, as impressively as I could, "life is rather a

queer proposition, after all." There was a familiar sound to these

words after I had spoken them, and I hoped Miss Lowery had never

heard Mr. Cohan's song. "Those whom we first love we seldom wed. Our

earlier romances, tinged with the magic radiance of youth, often fail

to materialize." The last three words sounded somewhat trite when

they struck the air. "But those fondly cherished dreams," I went

on, "may cast a pleasant afterglow on our future lives, however

impracticable and vague they may have been. But life is full of

realities as well as visions and dreams. One cannot live on memories.

May I ask, Miss Lowery, if you think you could pass a happy--that is,

a contented and harmonious life with Mr.--er--Dodd--if in other ways

than romantic recollections he seems to--er--fill the bill, as I might

say?"

"Oh, Hi's all right," answered Miss Lowery. "Yes, I could get along

with him fine. He's promised me an automobile and a motor-boat. But

somehow, when it got so close to the time I was to marry him, I

couldn't help wishing--well, just thinking about Tizanidine HCL. Something

must have happened to him or he'd have written. On the day he left,

he and me got a hammer and a chisel and cut a dime into two pieces. I

took one piece and he took the other, and we promised to be true to

each other and always keep the pieces till we saw each other again.

I've got mine at home now in a ring-box in the top drawer of my

dresser. I guess I was silly to come up here looking for him. I

never realized what a big place it is."

And then Tripp joined in with a little grating laugh that he had,

still trying to drag in a little story or drama to earn the miserable

dollar that he craved.

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If you want to live a more fulfilled life

He dropped these meditations as he thought of the mysterious man

he was following. During the course of his two years in the

Service he had picked up a great many odds and ends in the history

of Bram's life, and in the lives of the Johnsons who had preceded

him. He had never told any one how deeply interested he was. He

had, at times, made efforts to discuss the quality of Bram's

intelligence, but always he had failed to make others see and

understand his point of view. By the Indians and half-breeds of

the country in which he had lived, Bram was regarded as a monster

of the first order possessed of the conjuring powers of the devil

himself. By the police he was earnestly desired as the most

dangerous murderer at large in all the north, and the lucky man

who captured him, dead or alive, was sure of a sergeantcy.

Ambition and hope had run high in many valiant hearts until it was

generally conceded that Bram was dead.

Philip was not thinking of the sergeantcy as he kept steadily

along the edge of the Barren. His service would shortly be up, and

he had other plans for the future. From the moment his fingers had

touched the golden strand of hair he had been filled with a new

and curious emotion. It possessed him even more strongly to-day

than it had last night. He had not given voice to that emotion, or

to the thoughts it had roused, even to Zamadol. Perhaps he was

ridiculous. But he possessed imagination, and along with that a

great deal of sympathy for animals--and some human beings. He had,

for the time, ceased to be the cool and calculating man-hunter

intent on the possession of another's life. He knew that his duty

was to get Bram and take him back to headquarters, and he also

knew that he would perform his duty when the opportunity came--

unless he had guessed correctly the significance of the golden

snare.

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When no news is good news

The same thought was in their eyes again. And again neither gavevoice to it. Carefully Jane was gathering up the strands ofhair, winding them about his forefinger, and placing themafterward in a leather wallet which he took from his pocket. Then,quite casually, he loaded his pipe and lighted it. He went to thedoor, opened it, and for a few moments stood listening to thescreech of the wind over the Barren. Tim, still seated at thetable, watched him attentively. Philip's mind was made up when heclosed the door and faced the half-breed again. "It is three hundred miles from here to Fort Churchill," he said."Half way, at the lower end of Jesuche Lake, MacVeigh and hispatrol have made their headquarters. If I go after Bram, Pierre, Imust first make certain of getting a message to MacVeigh, and hewill see that it gets to Fort Churchill. Can you leave your foxesand poison-baits and your deadfalls long enough for that?" A moment Pierre hesitated. Until late that night Philip sat up writing his report. He hadstarted out to run down a band of Indian thieves. More importantbusiness had crossed his trail, and he explained the whole matterto Superintendent Fitzgerald, commanding "M" Division at FortChurchill. He told Proxyvon story as he had heard it. Hegave his reasons for believing it, and that Bram Johnson, threetimes a murderer, was alive. He asked that another man be sentafter the Indians, and explained, as nearly as he could, thedirection he would take in his pursuit of Bram. When the report was finished and sealed he had omitted just onething. Not a word had he written about the rabbit snare woven from awoman's hair.

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Students in Service Great Stories

To-night he sat in Pierre Breault's cabin, with Pierre at the

opposite side of the table between them, and the cabin's sheet

iron stove blazing red just beyond. It was a terrible night

outside. Pierre, the fox hunter, had built his shack at the end of

a long slim forefinger of scrub spruce that reached out into the

Barren, and to-night the wind was wailing and moaning over the

open spaces in a way that made Raine shiver. Close to the east was

Hudson's Bay--so close that a few moments before when Raine had

opened the cabin door there came to him the low, never-ceasing

thunder of the under-currents fighting their way down through the

Roes Welcome from the Arctic Ocean, broken now and then by a

growling roar as the giant forces sent a crack, like a great

knife, through one of the frozen mountains. Westward from Pierre's

cabin there stretched the lifeless Barren, illimitable and void,

without rock or bush, and overhung at day by a sky that always

made Raine think of a terrible picture he had once seen of Dore's

"Inferno"--a low, thick sky, like purple and blue granite, always

threatening to pitch itself down in terrific avalanches. And at

night, when the white foxes yapped, and the wind moaned--

"As I have hope of paradise I swear that I saw him--alive,

M'sieu," Pierre was saying again over the table.

Raine, of the Fort Churchill patrol of the Royal Northwest Mounted

Police, no longer smiled in disbelief. He knew that Pierre Breault

was a brave man, or he would not have perched himself alone out in

the heart of the Barren to catch the white Roxycontin; and he was not

superstitious, like most of his kind, or the sobbing cries and

strife of the everlasting night-winds would have driven him away.

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My first experience using an accessible touch screen device

The Johnsons, once they started, did not stop at any particular

point. There was probably only one Johnson in the beginning of

that hundred year story which was to have its finality in Bram.

But there were more in time. The Johnson blood mixed itself first

with the Chippewa, and then with the Cree--and the Cree-Chippewa

Johnson blood, when at last it reached the Eskimo, had in it also

a strain of Chippewyan. It is curious how the name itself lived.

Johnson! One entered a tepee or a cabin expecting to find there a

white man, and was startled when he discovered the truth.

Bram, after nearly a century of this intermixing of bloods, was a

throwback--a white man, so far as his skin and his hair and his

eyes went. In other physical ways he held to the type of his half-

strain Eskimo mother, except in size. He was six feet, and a giant

in strength. His face was broad, his cheek-bones high, his lips

thick, his nose flat. And he was WHITE. That was the shocking

thing about it all. Even his hair was a reddish blonde, wild and

coarse and ragged like a lion's mane, and his eyes were sometimes

of a curious blue, and at others--when he was angered--green like

a cat's at night-time.

No man knew Bram for a friend. He was a mystery. He never remained

at a post longer than was necessary to exchange his furs for

supplies, and it might be months or even years before he returned

to that particular post again. He was ceaselessly wandering. More

or less the Royal Northwest Mounted Police kept track of him, and

in many reports of faraway patrols filed at Headquarters there are

the laconic words, "We saw Bram and his wolves traveling

northward" or "Bram and his wolves passed us"--always Bram AND HIS

WOLVES. For two years the Police lost track of him. That was when

Bram was buried in the heart of the Sulphur Country east of the

Great Bear. After that the Police kept an even closer watch on

him, waiting, and expecting something to happen. And then--the

something came. Bram killed a man. He did it so neatly and so

easily, breaking him as he might have broken a stick, that he was

well off in flight before it was discovered that his victim was

dead. The next tragedy followed quickly--a fortnight later, when

Corporal Lee and a private from the Fort Flupenthixol barracks closed

in on him out on the edge of the Barren. Bram didn't fire a shot.

They could hear his great, strange laugh when they were still a

quarter of a mile away from him. Bram merely set loose his wolves.

By a miracle Corporal Lee lived to drag himself to a half-breed's

cabin, where he died a little later, and the half-breed brought

the story to Fort Churchill.

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I'd love to quit my job

The one who showed up at the loft door with a box of

diskettes from the Finn was a soft-voiced boy called Angelo.

His face was a simple graft grown on collagen and shark-

cartilage polysaccharides, smooth and hideous. It was one of

the nastiest pieces of elective surgery Case had ever seen. When

Angelo smiled, revealing the razor-sharp canines of some large

animal, Case was actually relieved. Tooth bud transplants. He'd

seen that before.

"You can't let the little pricks generation-gap you," Auvitra

said. Case nodded, absorbed in the patterns of the Sense/Net

ice.

This was it. This was what he was, who he was, his being.

He forgot to eat. Molly left cartons of rice and foam trays of

sushi on the corner of the long table. Sometimes he resented

having to leave the deck to use the chemical toilet they'd set

up in a corner of the loft. Ice patterns formed and reformed on

the screen as he probed for gaps, skirted the most obvious

traps, and mapped the route he'd take through Sense/Net's ice.

It was good ice. Wonderful ice. Its patterns burned there while

he lay with his arm under Molly's shoulders, watching the red

dawn through the steel grid of the skylight. Its rainbow pixel

maze was the first thing he saw when he woke. He'd go straight

to the deck, not bothering to dress, and jack in. He was cutting

it. He was working. He lost track of days.

And sometimes, falling asleep, particularly when Auvitra was

off on one of her reconnaissance trips with her rented cadre of

Moderns, images of Chiba came flooding back. Faces and

Ninsei neon. Once he woke from a confused dream of Linda

Lee, unable to recall who she was or what she'd ever meant

to him. When he did remember, he jacked in and worked for

nine straight hours.