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Table of contents
CONTENTS
LESSON-1-2
LESSON-3
LESSON-4.1
LESSON-4.2
LESSON-5.1
LESSON-5.2
LESSON-6.1
LESSON-6.2
LESSON-7.1
LESSON-7.2
LESSON-7.3
LESSON-8
LESSON-9
LESSON-10.1
LESSON-10.2
LESSON-11
LESSON-12
LESSON-13.1
LESSON-13.2
LESSON-14
LESSON-15.1
LESSON-15.2
Contraception
The Sex Life of the Gods. Michael Knerr. CHAPTER-1
CHAPTER-2-3
CHAPTER-4
CHAPTER-5-6
CHAPTER-7-8
CHAPTER-9-10
CHAPTER-11-12
CHAPTER-13-14
CHAPTER-15-16
CHAPTER-17-18-19

told from a man by his reading habits. There were books by Bridgeman, 

Zaindenburg and Loomis, almost everything on the shelves pertained to 

art in some form or another - except for the last row. There were about 

fifteen science fiction volumes, mostly collections of short stories, 

from Asimov to A.E. van Vogt. He had a fleeting idea to start reading 

the stuff in an effort to determine whether or not his strange dreams 

came from somewhere within the pages, then he rejected it. It would take 

a hell of a long while to even skim through that mass of literature and 

he didn't have the time. 

 

He shoved a copy of H. Beam Piper back onto the shelf and straightened. 

To hell with it. He had the whole house to search, before he started 

fumbling through something as far out as science fiction. He started 

rummaging through the various rooms of the place with systematic 

carefulness. Hoping... 

 

When he finished the search, it was noon. He knew a lot about the cabin, 

but damned little about himself. The cramped, dismal attic contained 

what was left of pictures, odd bits of furniture and clothes after the 

local field mice and porcupines had their annual convention up there. 

The three bedrooms revealed nothing except the usual gear to be found in 

any bedroom, and of the downstairs section of the place, only the art 

studio and the combination den-library was of interest. And even these 

places shed no light upon the ghost of the man that haunted him. The 

studio contained all of the trappings of an artist, even though it was 

in rather battered up shape, and the den was a wall to wall replica of 

what a woodsman might have owned. There were the books, the stuffed 

heads and, of course, the guns. 

 

The rack, on the far side of the room, contained a table with bullet 

loading equipment scattered around it, with cans of DuPont powder on the 

floor. Above it, in the gun rack were the weapons - enough to hold off a 

small revolution. There were two handguns and three rifles and a 

shotgun. He looked them over. 

 

A Smith and Wesson .38, model 36 and a Ruger Blackhawk .44 Magnum that 

looked like the old peacemaker model. One of the rifles was a Marlin 

saddle carbine, model 336 and the other was a Winchester African rifle 

with a .458 bore. The last gun on the rack was a Stevens .410 single 

barrel shotgun. Nick grinned at the arsenal and took the .44 magnum down 

from the rack to clean it. It wasn't in too bad of shape, even for as 

long as it had remained idle; even the western style holster and gunbelt 

contained enough oil to make them pliable. 


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