Cloud Atlas Page #4

(America is addicted to oil.)

(Some fantasize about wind turbines or pig gas.)

(But I'm here today to tell you that the cure)

(for oil... is right here. The cure is nuclear power.)

(the cure is Swannekke.)

- Hello.

- (Hello, Miss Rey.)

(I'm frightfully sorry for calling at this hour.)

Dr. Sixsmith?

(I need help.)

I need fifty thousand pounds, not two thousand!

Fifty thousand!

(I can go through it again, Mr. Cavendish,

but the total's right.)

(two thousand, three hundred and forty three pounds

and sixteen pence.)

How is this possible?! The ruddy money was pouring in!

(Debt mostly, Mr. Cavendish. Solvency has its drawbacks.)

The situation looked dire,

but I knew that Timothy Cavendish's capital in this town

could not be defined by an accountant's balance sheet.

McCluskie!

Look, how're those delightful kiddies of yours?

Mon cher, thi's "Cavendish the Ravenous",

your favorite Timothy.

Mon cher?

You heard correctly, Charles Dickens own, original,

authentic writing desk for sixty thousand pounds.

I think that's very fair.

(But our records indicate that the desk is

already accounted for)

(by the Dickens House museum.)

Okay. What about, uh... Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's desk?

In the darkness, I suddenly saw the light.

Blood has always trumped water.

If the Hogginses brutes wanted to turn this into

a family affair,

they'd find the Cavendish clan more than ready

for the task at hand.

Ah, Satan's gonads, not again! Look,

just bugger off and leave us in peace. I'm only gonna

ask you nicely once.

Good to see you, Denny.

I'm not lending you a ruddy farthing till you pay back

the last lot.

Why... Why should I be forever giving you handouts?

Denny,

I've had a minor run-in with the wrong sort.

If I don't get my hands on sixty thousand pounds,

I'm going to take an awful beating.

Well, get them to video it for us, would you? Now, f*** off!

- I'm not joking, Denholme.

- Why is this my problem?

Because we're brothers! Don't you have a conscience?

Couple of my special little pills and a

G and T should set me right.

Denny... Help.

Please?

Den, who are you talking to?

Hello, Georgette.

Hello, Timothy.

All right, all right, alright, alright, alright.

What you, uh... sixty grand?

It's gonna take some time, but uh...

in the interim I've got the perfect place for you to hide.

I have begun to fear I may never hold my beloved Tilda

in my arms again.

My parasite writhes at night igniting spasms of pain,

while visions and voices, obscene and monstrous,

haunt me.

[Whispers]:
Mr. Ewing.

In the name of God!

Mr. Ewing, no fear!

No harm, no shout.

Please, my name Autua.

You know I... you see Maori whip I.

You know I.

- Wha... Wha... What do you want?

- You help, Mr. Ewing.

If you no help, I in trouble dead.

Well, you're already very much "in trouble dead".

The Prophetess is a mercantile vessel,

not an underground railroad for escaping slaves.

I able seaman. I earn passage.

Well, then I suggest you surrender to the

captain's mercies forthwith.

No! No! They no hear I!

They say swim away home, n*gger and throw I in drink.

You lawman, aye? Please! Captain hear you, Mr. Ewing!

I... I can't help you.

I'm afraid your fate is entirely your own.

I desire no part in it.

Then kill I.

Don't be absurd!

If you won't help, you kill I just the same.

It's true. You know it.

I be no fish food, Mr. Ewing.

Die here better. Do it.

Do it quick.

Found an old Transway marker, Captain.

It's got to be the right mountain.

The problem is the valley people are afraid of it.

And they think the devil lives up there.

I can't find anybody to guide me through the Kona territory.

Meronym...

Everyday you're out there, you increase your RAD levels.

This dream of your is going to kill you. And for what?

The off-world colonies may no longer exist.

I gotta go, Captain.

Thank you for coming, I'm in 1404.

(I'll be right up.)

Dr. Sixsmith?

Dr. Sixsmith.

It's Luisa.

Go call the police. Right now! Call the police!

My dear Sixsmith, you alone could understand

how I'm feeling right now.

Today, Ayrs and I presented our first collaboration

to Tadeusz Kesselring,

Ayrs' favorite conductor, who arrived from Berlin.

It's called "Eternal Recurrence"; wish you could hear it.

It's the most accomplished tone poem I know of,

written since the war

and I tell you, Sixsmith,

that more than few of its best ideas are mine.

At our time of life, Ayrs, a man has no right

to such daring ideas.

I suppose I've won a rearguard action or two

in my war against decrepitude.

Dinner of pheasant and Bordeaux, rich as buttercream.

How I loved to listen men of distinguished lives

sing of past follies and glories.

The only broken note in the entire evening

was Ayrs wife, Jocasta,

excusing herself early.

Sensed a buried bone. Later I asked Ayrs about it.

He said Kesselring had introduced Jocasta to him.

I pried; had Kesselring been in love with her?

The subject was a prickly one.

Jocasta is a Jew.

Obviously a relationship was impossible.

Why obviously?

Can you really be so ignorant of what is

happening in Germany?

At this point in my life, all I know, Sixsmith,

is that this world spins from the same unseen forces

that twist our hearts.

- How's it, Zachry?

- Samewise.

- Mindin' some company?

- Nay.

But...

goats an' sillywise herders ain't known

for our housin' temper.

Feelin' I owin' you a real kowtow,

for 'vadin' your house with no say-so.

True sorrysome.

Well then... Done's done.

So, you mindin' a stranger queryin' about your troddin'?

Swap you. Query for query.

Fair buy.

Cogg you ain't come to learn stitchin'

or milkin' or heardin'.

Why you here?

I needin' a guide.

Guide? To what?

Mauna Sol.

("Bridge a broken, hide below")

What's wrong?

We cross and recross our old tracks like figure skaters.

And just as I was reading a new submission,

a powerful dj-vu ran through my bones.

I had been here before.

Another lifetime ago.

Ursula.

The love of my life.

I could think of no other serious applicants.

What had happened to her?

And more importantly,

what had happened to the young man

who'd ridden this same train composing sonnets

to his soul bound love?

The augurin' come true, Abbess.

Broke bridge, just like you say.

Meronym were there, yibberin' about trekkin' up Mauna Sol.

Why does this Prescient woman come cussin' and

twistin' up my life?

Mind the words of Sonmi.

"Our lives are not our own.

From womb to tomb, we are bound to others,

past and present.

And by each crime

and every kindness,

we birth our future."

Welcome to Neo-Seoul.

Come on out, you come.

This may be the biggest mistake of my life, but here.

Thank you, Mr. Ewing. Thank you.

Now, to tell the truth, I was worried you might

try and eat me

if you didn't get something in that stomach.

Oh, you safe, Mr. Ewing.

I no like white meat.

Awk... right.

Before I decide what I'm going to do with you,

tell me why you were being whipped so savagely?

Rate this script:0.0 / 0 votes