Other questions in this quiz

2. Where does the blood that comes from the lungs go through?

  • Aorta
  • Pulmonary Vein
  • Pulmonary Strings
  • Pulmonary Artery

3. Which type of blood does the Pulmonary Artery carry?

  • de-oxygenated
  • oxygenated

4. After entering through the Vena Cava, where does the de-oxygenated blood go?

  • Left Atrium
  • Right Atrium
  • Right Ventricle
  • Left Ventricle

5. If the blood enters into the Vena Cava, where does it exit through?

  • Mouth
  • Pulmonary Vein
  • Pulmonary Artery
  • Aorta




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Mein Kampf by Adolf Hitler

Volume One - A Reckoning
Chapter I: In The House Of My Parents

TODAY it seems to me providential that Fate should have chosen Braunau on the Inn as my birthplace. For this little town lies on the boundary between two German states which we of the younger generation at least have made it our life work to reunite by every means at our disposal.
German-Austria must return to the great German mother country, and not because of any economic considerations. No, and again no: even if such a union were unimportant from an economic point of view; yes, even if it were harmful, it must nevertheless take place. One blood demands one Reich. Never will the German nation possess the moral right to engage in colonial politics until, at least, it embraces its own sons within a single state. Only when the Reich borders include the very last German, but can no longer guarantee his daily bread, will the moral right to acquire foreign soil arise from the distress of our own people. Their sword will become our plow, and from the tears of war the daily bread of future generations will grow. And so this little city on the border seems to me the symbol of a great mission. And in another respect as well, it looms as an admonition to the present day. More than a hundred years ago, this insignificant place had the distinction of being immortalized in the annals at least of German history, for it was the scene of a tragic catastrophe which gripped the entire German nation. At the time of our fatherland's deepest humiliation, Johannes Palm of Nuremberg, burgher, bookseller, uncompromising nationalist and French hater, died there for the Germany which he loved so passionately even in her misfortune. He had stubbornly refused to denounce his accomplices who were in fact his superiors. In thus he resembled Leo Schlageter. And like him, he was denounced to the French by a representative of his government An Augsburg police chief won this unenviable fame, thus furnishing an example for our modern German officials in Herr Severing's Reich.
In this little town on the Inn, gilded by the rays of German martyrdom, Bavarian by blood, technically Austrian, lived my parents in the late eighties of the past century; my father a dutiful civil servants my mother giving all her being to the household, and devoted above all to us children in eternal, loving care Little remains in my memory of this period, for after a few years my father had to leave the little border city he had learned to love, moving down the Inn to take a new position in Passau, that is, in Germany proper.
In those days constant moving was the lot of an Austrian customs official. A short time later, my father was sent to Linz, and there he was finally pensioned. Yet, indeed, this was not to mean "res"' for the old gentleman. In his younger days, as the son of a poor cottager, he couldn't bear to stay at home. Before he was even thirteen, the little boy laced his tiny knapsack and ran away from his home in the Waldviertel. Despite the at tempts of 'experienced' villagers to dissuade him, he made his way to Vienna, there to learn a trade. This was in the fifties of the past century. A desperate decision, to take to the road with only three gulden for travel money, and plunge into the unknown. By the time the thirteen-year-old grew to be seventeen, he had passed his apprentice's examination, but he was not yet content. On the contrary. The long period of hardship, endless misery, and suffering he had gone through strengthened his determination to give up his trade and become ' something better. Formerly the poor boy had regarded the priest as the embodiment of all humanly attainable heights; now in the big city, which had so greatly widened his perspective, it was the rank of civil servant. With all the tenacity of a young man whom suffering and care had made 'old' while still half a child, the seventeen-year-old clung to his new decision-he did enter the civil service. And after nearly twenty-three years, I believe, he reached his goal. Thus he seemed to have fulfilled a vow which he had made as a poor boy: that he would not return to his beloved native village until he had made something of himself.
His goal was achieved; but no one in the village could remember the little boy of former days, and to him the village had grown strange.
When finally, at the age of fifty-six, he went into retirement, he could not bear to spend a single day of his leisure in idleness. Near the Upper Austrian market village of Lambach he bought a farm, which he worked himself, and thus, in the circuit of a long and industrious life, returned to the origins of his forefathers.
It was at this time that the first ideals took shape in my breast. All my playing about in the open, the long walk to school, and particularly my association with extremely 'husky' boys, which sometimes caused my mother bitter anguish, made me the very opposite of a stay-at-home. And though at that time I scarcely had any serious ideas as to the profession I should one day pursue, my sympathies were in any case not in the direction of my father's career. I believe that even then my oratorical talent was being developed in the form of more or less violent arguments with my schoolmates. I had become a little ringleader; at school I learned easily and at that time very well, but was otherwise rather hard to handle. Since in my free time I received singing lessons in the cloister at Lambach, I had excellent opportunity to intoxicate myself with the solemn splendor of the brilliant church festivals. As was only natural the abbot seemed to me, as the village priest had once seemed to my father, the highest and most desirable ideal. For a time, at least, this was the case. But since my father, for understandable reasons, proved unable to appreciate the oratorical talents of his pugnacious boy, or to draw from them any favorable conclusions regarding the future of his offspring, he could, it goes without saying, achieve no understanding for such youthful ideas. With concern he observed this conflict of nature.
As it happened, my temporary aspiration for this profession was in any case soon to vanish, making place for hopes more stated to my temperament. Rummaging through my father's library, I had come across various books of a military nature among them a popular edition of the Franco-German War of 1870-7I It consisted of two issues of an illustrated periodical from those years, which now became my favorite reading matter It was not long before the great heroic struggle had become my greatest inner experience. From then on I became more and more enthusiastic about everything that was in any way connected with war or, for that matter, with soldiering
But in another respect as well, this was to assume importance for me. For the first time, though as yet in a confused form, the question was forced upon my consciousness: Was there a difference -and if so what difference-between the Germans who fought these battles and other Germans? Why hadn't Austria taken part in this war; why hadn't my father and all the others fought?
Are we not the same as all other Germans?
Do we not all belong together? This problem began to gnaw at my little brain for the first time. I asked cautious questions and with secret envy received the answer that not every German was fortunate enough to belong to Bismarck's Reich..
This was more than I could understand.

It was decided that I should go to high school.
From my whole nature, and to an even greater degree from my temperament, my father believed he could draw the inference that the humanistic Gymnasium would represent a conflict with my talents. A Realschol seemed to him more suitable. In this opinion he was especially strengthened by my obvious aptitude for drawing; a subject which in his opinion was neglected in the Austrian Gymnasiums. Another factor may have been his own laborious career which made humanistic study seem impractical in his eyes, and therefore less desirable. It was hus basic opinion and intention that, like himself, his son would and must become a civil servant. It was only natural that the hardships of his youth should enhance his subsequent achievement in his eyes, particularly since it resulted exclusively from his own energy and iron diligence. It was the pride of the self-made man which made him want his son to rise to the same position in life, orJ of course, even higher if possible, especially since, by his own industrious life, he thought he would be able to facilitate his child's development so greatly.
It was simply inconceivable to him that I might reject what had become the content of his whole life. Consequently, my father s decision was simple, definite, and clear; in his own eyes I mean, of course. Finally, a whole lifetime spent in the bitter struggle for existence had given him a domineering nature, and it would have seemed intolerable to him to leave the final decision in such matters to an inexperienced boy, having as yet no Sense of responsibility. Moreover, this would have seemed a sinful and reprehensible weakness in the exercise of his proper parental authority and responsibility for the future life of his child, and as such, absolutely incompatible with his concept of duty.
And yet things were to turn out differently.
Then barely eleven years old, I was forced into opposition for the first time in my life. Hard and determined as my father might be in putting through plans and purposes once conceived his son was just as persistent and recalcitrant in rejecting an idea which appealed to him not at all, or in any case very little.
I did not want to become a civil servant.
Neither persuasion nor 'serious' arguments made any impression on my resistance. I did not want to be a civil servant no, and again no. All attempts on my father's part to inspire me with love or pleasure in this profession by stories from his own life accomplished the exact opposite. I yawned and grew sick to my stomach at the thought of sitting in an office, deprived of my liberty; ceasing to be master of my own time and being compelled to force the content of a whole life into blanks that had to be filled out.
And what thoughts could this prospect arouse in a boy who in reality was really anything but 'good' in the usual sense of the word?
School work was ridiculously easy, leaving me so much free time that the sun saw more of me than my room. When today my political opponents direct their loving attention to the examination of my life, following it back to those childhood days and discover at last to their relief what intolerable pranks this "Hitler" played even in his youth, I thank Heaven that a portion of the memories of those happy days still remains with me. Woods and meadows were then the battlefields on which the 'conflicts' which exist everywhere in life were decided.
In this respect my attendance at the Realschule, which now commenced, made little difference.
But now, to be sure, there was a new conflict to be fought out.
As long as my fathers intention of making me a civil servant encountered only my theoretical distaste for the profession, the conflict was bearable. Thus far, I had to some extent been able to keep my private opinions to myself; I did not always have to contradict him immediately. My own firm determination never to become a civil servant sufficed to give me complete inner peace. And this decision in me was immutable. The problem became more difficult when I developed a plan of my own in opposition to my father's. And this occurred at the early age of twelve. How it happened, I myself do not know, but one day it became clear to me that I would become a painter, an artist. There was no doubt as to my talent for drawing; it had been one of my father's reasons for sending me to the Realschule, but never in all the world would it have occurred to him to give me professional training in this direction. On the contrary. When for the first time, after once again rejecting my father's favorite notion, I was asked what I myself wanted to be, and I rather abruptly blurted out the decision I had meanwhile made, my father for the moment was struck speechless.
' Painter? Artist? '
He doubted my sanity, or perhaps he thought he had heard wrong or misunderstood me. But when he was clear on the subject, and particularly after he felt-the seriousness of my intention, he opposed it with all the determination of his nature. His decision was extremely simple, for any consideration of w at abilities I might really have was simply out of the question.
'Artist, no, never as long as I live!' But since his son, among various other qualities, had apparently inherited his father' s stubbornness, the same answer came back at him. Except, of course, that it was in the opposite sense.

And thus the situation remained on both sides. My father did not depart from his 'Never!' And I intensified my 'Oh, yes!'
The consequences, indeed, were none too pleasant. The old man grew embittered, and, much as I loved him, so did I. Ally father forbade me to nourish the slightest hope of ever being allowed to study art. I went one step further and declared that if that was the case I would stop studying altogether. As a result of such 'pronouncements,' of course, I drew the short end; the old man began the relentless enforcement of his authority. In the future, therefore, I was silent, but transformed my threat into reality. I thought that once my father saw how little progress I was making at the Realschule, he would let me devote myself to my dream, whether he liked it or not.
I do not know whether this calculation was correct. For the moment only one thing was certain: my obvious lack of success at school. What gave me pleasure I learned, especially everything which, in my opinion, I should later need as a painter. What seemed to me unimportant in this respect or was otherwise unattractive to me, I sabotaged completely. My report cards at this time, depending on the subject and my estimation of it, showed nothing but extremes. Side by side with 'laudable' and 'excellent,' stood 'adequate' or even 'inadequate.' By far my best accomplishments were in geography and even more so in history. These were my favorite subjects, in which I led the; class.
If now, after so many years, I examine the results of this period, I regard two outstanding facts as particularly significant:
First: I became a nationalist
Second: I learned to understand and grasp the meaning of history.
Old Austria was a 'state of nationalities.'

By and large, a subject of the German Reich, at that time at least, was absolutely unable to grasp the significance of this fact for the life of the individual in such a state. After the great victorious campaign of the heroic armies in the Franco-German War, people had gradually lost interest in the Germans living abroad; some could not, while others were unable to appreciate their importances Especially with regard to the GermanAustrians, the degenerate dynasty was only too frequently confused with the people, which at the core was robust and healthy.
What they failed to appreciate was that, unless the German in Austria had really been of the best blood, he would never have had the power to set his stamp on a nation of fifty-two million souls to such a degree that, even in Germany, the erroneous opinion could arise that Austria was a German state. This was an absurdity fraught with the direst consequences, and yet a glowing testimonial to the ten million Germans in the Ostmark. Only a handful of Germans in the Reich had the slightest conception of the eternal and merciless struggle for the German language, German schools, and a German way of life. Only today, when the same deplorable misery is forced on many millions of Germans from the Reich, who under foreign rule dream of their common fatherland and strive, amid their longing, at least to preserve their holy right to their mother tongue, do wider circles understand what it means to be forced to fight for one's nationality. Today perhaps some can appreciate the greatness of the Germans in the Reich's old Ostmark, who, with no one but themselves to depend on, for centuries protected the Reich against incursions from the East, and finally carried on an exhausting guerrilla warfare to maintain the German language frontier, at a time when the Reich was highly interested in colonies, but not in its own flesh and blood at its very doorstep.
As everywhere and always, in every struggle, there were, in this fight for the language in old Austria, three strata:
The fighters, the lukewarm and the traitors.
This sifting process began at school. For the remarkable fact about the language struggle is that its waves strike hardest perhaps in the school, since it is the seed-bed of the coming generation. It is a struggle for the soul of the child, and to the child its first appeal is addressed:
'German boy, do not forget you are a German,' and, 'Little girl, remember that you are to become a German mother.'
Anyone who knows the soul of youth will be able to understand that it is they who lend ear most joyfully to such a battle-cry. They carry on this struggle in hundreds of forms, in their own way and with their own weapons. They refuse to sing unGerman songs. The more anyone tries to alienate them from German heroic grandeur, the wilder becomes their enthusiasm: they go hungry to save pennies for the grown-ups' battle fund their ears are amazingly sensitive to un-German teachers, and at the same time they are incredibly resistant; they wear the forbidden insignia of their own nationality and are happy to be punished or even beaten for it. Thus, on a small scale they are a faithful reflection of the adults, except that often their convictions are better and more honest.
I, too, while still comparatively young, had an opportunity to take part in the struggle of nationalities in old Austria. Collections were taken for the Sudmark I and the school association; we emphasized our convictions by wearing corn-flowers and red lack, and gold colors; 'Heil ' was our greeting, and instead of the imperial anthem we sang 'Deutschland uber Alles,' despite warnings and punishments. In this way the child received political training in a period when as a rule the subject of a so-called national state knew little more of his nationality than its language. It goes without saying that even then I was not among the lukewarm. In a short time I had become a fanatical 'German Nationalist,' though the term was not identical with our present party concept.
This development in me made rapid progress; by the time I was fifteen I understood the difference between dynastic ' patriotism' and folkish "nationalism'; and even then I was interested only in the latter.
For anyone who has never taken the trouble to study the inner conditions of the Habsburg monarchy, such a process may not be entirely understandable. In this country the instruction in world history had to provide the germ for this development, since to all intents and purposes there is no such thing as a specifically Austrian history. The destiny of this state is so much bound up with the life and development of all the Germans that a separation of history into German and Austrian does not seem conceivable. Indeed, when at length Germany began to divide into two spheres of power, this division itself became German history.
The insignia of former imperial glory, preserved in Vienna, still seem to cast a magic spell; they stand as a pledge that these twofold destinies are eternally one.
The elemental cry of the German-Austrian people for union with the German mother country, that arose in the days when the Habsburg state was collapsing, was the result of a longing that slumbered in the heart of the entire people-a longing to return to the never-forgotten ancestral home. But this would be in explicable if the historical education of the individual GermanAustrian had not given rise to so general a longing. In it lies a well which never grows dry; which, especially in times of forgetfulness, transcends all momentary prosperity and by constant reminders of the past whispers softly of a new future
Instruction in world history in the so-called high schools is even today in a very sorry condition. Few teachers understand that the aim of studying history can never be to learn historical dates and events by heart and recite them by rote; that what matters is not whether the child knows exactly when this or that battle was fought, when a general was born, or even when a monarch (usually a very insignificant one) came into the crown of his forefathers. No, by the living God, this is very unimportant.
To 'learn' history means to seek and find the forces which are the causes leading to those effects which we subsequently perceive as historical events.
The art of reading as of learning is this: to retain the essential to forget the non-essential.
Perhaps it affected my whole later life that good fortune sent me a history teacher who was one of the few to observe this principle in teaching and examining. Dr. Leopold Potsch, my professor at the Realschule in Linz, embodied this requirement to an ideal degree. This old gentleman's manner was as kind as it was determined, his dazzling eloquence not only held us spellbound but actually carried us away. Even today I think back with gentle emotion on this gray-haired man who, by the fire of his narratives, sometimes made us forget the present; who, as if by enchantment, carried us into past times and, out of the millennial veils of mist, molded dry historical memories into living reality. On such occasions we sat there, often aflame with enthusiasm, and sometimes even moved to tears.
What made our good fortune all the greater was that this teacher knew how to illuminate the past by examples from the present, and how from the past to draw inferences for the present. As a result he had more understanding than anyone else for all the daily problems which then held us breathless. He used our budding nationalistic fanaticism as a means of educating use frequently appealing to our sense of national honor. By this alone he was able to discipline us little ruffians more easily than would have been possible by any other means.
This teacher made history my favorite subject.
And indeed, though he had no such intention, it was then that I became a little revolutionary.
For who could have studied German history under such a teacher without becoming an enemy of the state which, through its ruling house, exerted so disastrous an influence on the destinies of the nation?
And who could retain his loyalty to a dynasty which in past and present betrayed the needs of the German people again and again for shameless private advantage?
Did we not know, even as little boys, that this Austrian state had and could have no love for us Germans?
Our historical knowledge of the works of the House of Habsburg was reinforced by our daily experience. In the north and south the poison of foreign nations gnawed at the body of our nationality, and even Vienna was visibly becoming more and more of an un-German city. The Royal House Czechized wherever possible, and it was the hand of the goddess of eternal justice and inexorable retribution which caused Archduke Francis Ferdinand, the most mortal enemy of Austrian-Germanism, to fall by the bullets which he himself had helped to mold. For had he not been the patron of Austria's Slavization from above !
Immense were the burdens which the German people were expected to bear, inconceivable their sacrifices in taxes and blood, and yet anyone who was not totally blind was bound to recognize that all this would be in vain. What pained us most was the fact that this entire system was morally whitewashed by the alliance with Germany, with the result that the slow extermination of Germanism in the old monarchy was in a certain sense sanctioned by Germany itself. The Habsburg hypocrisy, which enabled the Austrian rulers to create the outward appearance that Austria was a German state, raised the hatred toward this house to flaming indignation and at the same time -contempt.
Only in the Reich itself, the men who even then were called to power saw nothing of all this. As though stricken with blindness, they lived by the side of a corpse, and in the symptoms of rotten-
ness saw only the signs of 'new' life.
The unholy alliance of the young Reich and the Austrian sham state contained the germ of the subsequent World War and of the collapse as well.
In the course of this book I shall have occasion to take up this problem at length. Here it suffices to state that even in my earliest youth I came to the basic insight which never left me, but Only became more profound:
That Germanism could be safeguarded only by the destruction of Austria, and, furthermore, that national sentiment is in no sense Identical with dynastic patriotism; that above all the House of Habsburg was destined to be the misfortune of the German nation.
Even then I had drawn the consequences from this realization ardent love for my German-Austrian homeland state.

The habit of historical thinking which I thus learned in school has never left me in the intervening years. To an ever-increasing extent world history became for me an inexhaustible source of understanding for the historical events of the present, in other words, for politics. I do not want to 'learn' it, I want it to in instruct me.
Thus, at an early age, I had become a political ' revolutionary,' and I became an artistic revolutionary at an equally early age.
The provincial capital of Upper Austria had at that time a theater which was, relatively speaking, not bad. Pretty much of everything was produced. At the age of twelve I saw Wilhelm Tell for the first time, and a few months later my first opera, Lohengrin. I was captivated at once. My youthful enthusiasm for the master of Bayreuth knew no bounds. Again and again I was drawn to his works, and it still seems to me especially fortunate that the modest provincial performance left me open to an intensified experience later on.
All this, particularly after I had outgrown my adolescence (which in my case was an especially painful process), reinforced my profound distaste for the profession which my father had chosen for me. My conviction grew stronger and stronger that I would never be happy as a civil servant. The fact that by this time my gift for drawing had been recognized at the Realschule made my determination all the firmer.
Neither pleas nor threats could change it one bit.
I wanted to become a painter and no power in the world could make me a civil servant.
Yet, strange as it may seem, with the passing years I became more and more interested in architecture.
At that time I regarded this as a natural complement to my gift as a painter, and only rejoiced inwardly at the extension of my artistic scope.
I did not suspect that things would turn out differently.

The question of my profession was to be decided more quickly than I had previously expected.
In my thirteenth year I suddenly lost my father. A stroke of apoplexy felled the old gentleman who was otherwise so hale, thus painlessly ending his earthly pilgrimage, plunging us all into the depths of grief His most ardent desire had been to help his son forge his career, thus preserving him from his own bitter experience. In this, to all appearances, he had not succeeded. But, though unwittingly, he had sown the seed for a future which at that time neither he nor I would have comprehended.
For the moment there was no outward change.
My mother, to be sure, felt obliged to continue my education in accordance with my father's wish; in other words, to have me study for the civil servant's career. I, for my part, was more than ever determined absolutely not to undertake this career. In proportion as my schooling departed from my ideal in subject matter and curriculum, I became more indifferent at heart. Then suddenly an illness came to my help and in a few weeks decided my future and the eternal domestic quarrel. As a result of my serious lung ailment, a physician advised my mother in most urgent terms never to send me into an office. My attendance at the Realschule had furthermore to be interrupted for at least a year. The goal for which I had so long silently yearned, for which I had always fought, had through this event suddenly become reality almost of its own accord.
Concerned over my illness, my mother finally consented to take me out of the Realschule and let- me attend the Academy.
These were the happiest days of my life and seemed to me almost a dream; and a mere dream it was to remain. Two years later, the death of my mother put a sudden end to all my highflown plans.
It was the conclusion of a long and painful illness which from the beginning left little hope of recovery. Yet it was a dreadful blow, particularly for me. I had honored my father, but my mother I had loved.
Poverty and hard reality now compelled me to take a quick decision. What little my father had left had been largely exhausted by my mother's grave illness; the orphan's pension to which I was entitled was not enough for me even to live on, and so I was faced with the problem of somehow making my own living.
In my hand a suitcase full of clothes and underwear; in my heart an indomitable will, I journeyed to Vienna. I, too, hoped to wrest from Fate what my father had accomplished fifty years before; I, too, wanted to become 'something'-but on no account a civil servant.

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Mein Kampf by Adolf Hitler

Volume One - A Reckoning
Chapter II: Years of Study and Suffering in Vienna

WHEN my mother died, Fate, at least in one respect, had made its decisions.
In the last months of her sickness, I had gone to Vienna to take the entrance examination for the Academy. I had set out with a pile of drawings, convinced that it would be child's play to pass the examination. At the Realschule I had been by far the best in my class at drawing, and since then my ability had developed amazingly; my own satisfaction caused me to take a joyful pride in hoping for the best.
Yet sometimes a drop of bitterness put in its appearance: my talent for painting seemed to be excelled by my talent for drawing, especially in almost all fields of architecture. At the same time my interest in architecture as such increased steadily, and this development was accelerated after a two weeks' trip to Vienna which I took when not yet sixteen. The purpose of my trip was to study the picture gallery in the Court Museum, but I had eyes for scarcely anything but the Museum itself. From morning until late at night, I ran from one object of interest to another, but it was always the buildings which held my primary interest. For hours I could stand in front of the Opera, for hours I could gaze at the Parliament; the whole Ring Boulevard seemed to me like an enchantment out of -The Thousand-and-One-Nights.
Now I was in the fair city for the second time, waiting with burning impatience, but also with confident self-assurance, for the result of my entrance examination. I was so convinced that I would be successful that when I received my rejection, it struck me as a bolt from the blue. Yet that is what happened. When I presented myself to the rector, requesting an explanation for my non-acceptance at the Academy's school of painting, that gentleman assured me that the drawings I had submitted incontrovertibly showed my unfitness for painting, and that my ability obviously lay in the field of architecture; for me, he said, the Academy's school of painting was out of the question, the place for me was the School of Architecture. It was incomprehensible to him that I had never attended an architectural school or received any other training in architecture. Downcast, I left von Hansen's magnificent building on the Schillerplatz, for the first time in my young life at odds with myself. For what I had just heard about my abilities seemed like a lightning flash, suddenly revealing a conflict with which I had long been afflicted, although until then I had no clear conception of its why and wherefore.
In a few days I myself knew that I should some day become an architect.
To be sure, it was an incredibly hard road; for the studies I had neglected out of spite at the Realschule were sorely needed. One could not attend the Academy's architectural school without having attended the building school at the Technic, and the latter required a high-school degree. I had none of all this. The fulfill- ment of my artistic dream seemed physically impossible.
When after the death of my mother I went to Vienna for the third time, to remain for many years, the time which had mean-while elapsed had restored my calm and determination. My old defiance had come back to me and my goal was now clear and definite before my eyes. I wanted to become an architect, and obstacles do not exist to be surrendered to, but only to be broken. I was determined to overcome these obstacles, keeping before my eyes the image of my father, who had started out as the child of a village shoemaker, and risen by his own efforts to be a government official. I had a better foundation to build on, and hence my possibilities in the struggle were easier, and what then seemed to be the harshness of Fate, I praise today as wisdom and Providence. While the Goddess of Suffering took me in her arms, often threatening to crush me, my will to resistance grew, and in the end this will was victorious.
I owe it to that period that I grew hard and am still capable of being hard. And even more, I exalt it for tearing me away from the hollowness of comfortable life; for drawing the mother's darling out of his soft downy bed and giving him 'Dame Care' for a new mother; for hurling me, despite all resistance, into a world of misery and poverty, thus making me acquainted with those for whom I was later to fight.

In this period my eyes were opened to two menaces of which I had previously scarcely known the names, and whose terrible importance for the existence of the German people I certainly did not understand: Marxism and Jewry.
To me Vienna, the city which, to so many, is the epitome of innocent pleasure, a festive playground for merrymakers, represents, I am sorry to say, merely the living memory of the saddest period of my life.
Even today this city can arouse in me nothing but the most dismal thoughts. For me the name of this Phaeacian city I represents five years of hardship and misery. Five years in which I was forced to earn a living, first as a day laborer, then as a small painter; a truly meager living which never sufficed to appease even my daily hunger. Hunger was then my faithful bodyguard; he never left me for a moment and partook of all I had, share and share alike. Every book I acquired aroused his interest; a visit to the Opera prompted his attentions for days at a time; my life was a continuous struggle with this pitiless friend. And yet during this time I studied as never before. Aside from my architecture and my rare visits to the Opera, paid-for in hunger, I had but one pleasure: my books.
At that time I read enormously and thoroughly. All the free time my work left me was employed in my studies. In this way I forged in a few years' time the foundations of a knowledge from which I still draw nourishment today.
And even more than this:
In this period there took shape within me a world picture and a philosophy which became the granite foundation of all my acts. In addition to what I then created, I have had to learn little; and I have had to alter nothing.
On the contrary.
Today I am firmly convinced that basically and on the whole all creative ideas appear in our youth, in so far as any such are present. I distinguish between the wisdom of age, consisting solely in greater thoroughness and caution due to the experience of a long life, and the genius of youth, which pours out thoughts and ideas with inexhaustible fertility, but cannot for the moment develop them because of their very abundance. It is this youthful genius which provides the building materials and plans for the future, from which a wiser age takes the stones, carves them and completes the edifice, in so far as the so-called wisdom of age has not stifled the genius of youth.

The life which I had hitherto led at home differed little or not at all from the life of other people. Carefree, I could await the new day, and there was no social problem for me. The environment of my youth consisted of petty-bourgeois circles, hence of a world having very little relation to the purely manual worker. For, strange as it may seem at first glance, the cleft between this class, which in an economic sense is by no means so brilliantly situated, and the manual worker is often deeper than we imagine. The reason for this hostility, as we might almost call it, lies in the fear of a social group, which has but recently raised itself above the level of the manual worker, that it will sink back into the old despised class, or at least become identified with it. To this, in many cases, we must add the repugnant memory of the cultural poverty of this lower class, the frequent vulgarity of its social intercourse; the petty bourgeois' own position in society, however insignificant it may be, makes any contact with this outgrown stage of life and culture intolerable.

Consequently, the higher classes feel less constraint in their dealings with the lowest of their fellow men than seems possible to the 'upstart.'
For anyone is an upstart who rises by his own efforts from his previous position in life to a higher one.
Ultimately this struggle, which is often so hard, kills all pity. Our own painful struggle for existence destroys our feeling for the misery of those who have remained behind.
In this respect Fate was kind to me. By forcing me to return to this world of poverty and insecurity, from which my father had risen in the course of his life, it removed the blinders of a narrow petty-bourgeois upbringing from my eyes. Only now did I learn to know humanity, learning to distinguish between empty appearances or brutal externals and the inner being.

After the turn of the century, Vienna was, socially speaking, one of the most backward cities in Europe.
Dazzling riches and loathsome poverty alternated sharply. In the center and in the inner districts you could really feel the pulse of this realm of fifty-two millions, with all the dubious magic of the national melting pot. The Court with its dazzling glamour attracted wealth and intelligence from the rest of the country like a magnet. Added to this was the strong centralization of the Habsburg monarchy in itself.
It offered the sole possibility of holding this medley of nations together in any set form. But the consequence was an extraordinary concentration of high authorities in the imperial capital
Yet not only in the political and intellectual sense was Vienna the center of the old Danube monarchy, but economically as well. The host of high of officers, government officials, artists, and scholars was confronted by an even greater army of workers, and side by side with aristocratic and commercial wealth dwelt dire poverty. Outside the palaces on the Ring loitered thousands of unemployed, and beneath this Via Triumphalis of old Austria dwelt the homeless in the gloom and mud of the canals.
In hardly any German city could the social question have been studied better than in Vienna. But make no mistake. This 'studying' cannot be done from lofty heights. No one who has not been seized in the jaws of this murderous viper can know its poison fangs. Otherwise nothing results but superficial chatter and false sentimentality. Both are harmful. The former because it can never penetrate to the core of the problem, the latter because it passes it by. I do not know which is more terrible: inattention to social misery such as we see every day among the majority of those who have been favored by fortune or who have risen by their own efforts, or else the snobbish, or at times tactless and obtrusive, condescension of certain women of fashion in skirts or in trousers, who ' feel for the people.' In any event, these gentry sin far more than their minds, devoid of all instinct, are capable of realizing. Consequently, and much to their own amazement, the result of their social 'efforts' is always nil, frequently, in fact, an indignant rebuff, though this, of course, is passed off as a proof of the people's ingratitude.
Such minds are most reluctant to realize that social endeavor has nothing in common with this sort of thing; that above all it can raise no claim to gratitude, since its function is not to distribute favors but to restore rights.
I was preserved from studying the social question in such a way. By drawing me within its sphere of suffering, it did not seem to invite me to 'study,' but to experience it in my own skin. It was none of its doing that the guinea pig came through the operation safe and sound.

An attempt to enumerate the sentiments I experienced in that period could never be even approximately complete; I shall describe here only the most essential impressions, those which often moved me most deeply, and the few lessons which I derived from them at the time.

The actual business of finding work was, as a rule, not hard for me, since I was not a skilled craftsman, but was obliged to seek my daily bread as a so-called helper and sometimes as a casual laborer.
I adopted the attitude of all those who shake the dust of Europe from their feet with the irrevocable intention of founding a new existence in the New World and conquering a new home. Released from all the old, paralyzing ideas of profession and position, environment and tradition, they ****** at every livelihood that offers itself, grasp at every sort of work, progressing step by step to the realization that honest labor, no matter of what sort, disgraces no one. I, too, was determined to leap into this new world, with both feet, and fight my way through.
I soon learned that there was always some kind of work to be had, but equally soon I found out how easy it was to lose it.
The uncertainty of earning my daily bread soon seemed to me one of the darkest sides of my new life.
The ' skilled' worker does not find himself out on the street as frequently as the unskilled; but he is not entirely immune to this fate either. And in his case the loss of livelihood owing to lack of work is replaced by the lock-out, or by going on strike himself.
In this respect the entire economy suffers bitterly from the individual's insecurity in earning his daily bread.
The peasant boy who goes to the big city, attracted by the easier nature of the work (real or imaginary), by shorter hours, but most of all by the dazzling light emanating from the metropolis, is accustomed to a certain security in the matter of livelihood. He leaves his old job only when there is at least some prospect of a new one. For there is a great lack of agricultural workers, hence the probability of any long period of unemployment is in itself small. It is a mistake to believe that the young fellow who goes to the big city is made of poorer stuff than his brother who continues to make an honest living from the peasant sod. No, on the contrary: experience shows that all those elements which emigrate consist of the healthiest and most energetic natures, rather than conversely. Yet among these 'emigrants' we must count, not only those who go to America, but to an equal degree the young farmhand who resolves to leave his native village for the strange city. He, too, is prepared to face an uncertain fate. As a rule he arrives in the big city with a certain amount of money; he has no need to lose heart on the very first day if he has the ill fortune to find no work for any length of time. But it is worse if, after finding a job, he soon loses it. To find a new one, especially in winter, is often difficult if not impossible. Even so, the first weeks are tolerable. He receives an unemployment benefit from his union funds and manages as well as possible. But when his last cent is gone and the union, due to the long duration of his unemployment, discontinues its payments, great hardships
begin. Now he walks the streets, hungry; often he pawns and sells his last possessions; his clothing becomes more and more wretched; and thus he sinks into external surroundings which, on top of his physical misfortune, also poison his soul. If he is evicted and if (as is so often the case) this occurs in winter, his misery is very great. At length he finds some sort of job again. But the old story is repeated. The same thing happens a second time, the third time perhaps it is even worse, and little by little he learns to bear the eternal insecurity with greater and greater indifference. At last the repetition becomes a habit.
And so this man, who was formerly so hard-working, grows lax in his whole view of life and gradually becomes the instrument of those who use him only for their own base advantage. He has so often been unemployed through no fault of his own that one time more or less ceases to matter, even when the aim is no longer to fight for economic rights, but to destroy political, social, or culturaL values in general. He may not be exactly enthusiastic about strikes, but at any rate he has become indifferent.
With open eyes I was able to follow this process in a thousand examples. The more I witnessed it, the greater grew my revulsion for the big city which first avidly sucked men in and then so cruelly crushed them.
When they arrived, they belonged to their people; after remaining for a few years, they were lost to it.
I, too, had been tossed around by life in the metropolis- in my own skin I could feel the effects of this fate and taste them with my soul. One more thing I saw: the rapid change from work to unemployment and vice versa, plus the resultant fluctuation of income, end by destroying in many all feeling for thrift, or any understanding for a prudent ordering of their lives. It would seem that the body gradually becomes accustomed to living on the fat of the land in good times and going hungry in bad times. Indeed, hunger destroys any resolution for reasonable budgeting in better times to come by holding up to the eyes of its tormented victim an eternal mirage of good living and raising this dream to such a pitch of longing that a pathological desire puts an end to all restraint as soon as wages and earnings make it at all possible. The consequence is that once the man obtains work he irresponsibly forgets all ideas of order and discipline, and begins to live luxuriously for the pleasures of the moment. This upsets even the small weekly budget, as even here any intelligent apportionment is lacking; in the beginning it suffices for five days instead of seven, later only for three, finally scarcely for one day, and in the end it is drunk up in the very first night.
Often he has a wife and children at home. Sometimes they, too, are infected by this life, especially when the man is good to them on the whole and actually loves them in his own way. Then the weekly wage is used up by the whole family in two or three days; they eat and drink as long as the money holds out and the last days they go hungry. Then the wife drags herself out into the neighborhood, borrows a little, runs up little debts at the food store, and in this way strives to get through the hard last days of the week. At noon they all sit together before their meager and sometimes empty bowls, waiting for the next payday, speaking of it, making plans, and, in their hunger, dreaming of the happiness to come.
And so the little children, in their earliest beginnings, are made familiar with this misery.
It ends badly if the man goes his own way from the very beginning and the woman, for the children's sake, opposes him. Then there is fighting and quarreling, and, as the man grows estranged from his wife, he becomes more intimate with alcohol. He is drunk every Saturday, and, with her instinct of selfpreservation for herself and her children, the woman has to fight to get even a few pennies out of him; and, to make matters worse, this usually occurs on his way from the factory to the barroom. When at length he comes home on Sunday or even Monday night, drunk and brutal, but always parted from his last cent, such scenes often occur that God have mercy!
I have seen this in hundreds of instances. At first I was repelled or even outraged, but later I understood the whole tragedy of this misery and its deeper causes. These people are the unfortunate victims of bad conditions!
Even more dismal in those days were the housing conditions. The misery in which the Viennese day laborer lived was frightful to behold. Even today it fills me with horror when I think of these wretched caverns, the lodging houses and tenements, sordid scenes of garbage, repulsive filth, and worse.
What was-and still is-bound to happen some day, when the stream of unleashed slaves pours forth from these miserable dens to avenge themselves on their thoughtless fellow men F
For thoughtless they are!
Thoughtlessly they let things slide along, and with their utter lack of intuition fail even to suspect that sooner or later Fate must bring retribution, unless men conciliate Fate while there is still time.
How thankful I am today to the Providence which sent me to that school! In it I could no longer sabotage the subjects I did not like. It educated me quickly and thoroughly.
If I did not wish to despair of the men who constituted my environment at that time, I had to learn to distinguish between their external characters and lives and the foundations of their development. Only then could all this be borne without losing heart. Then, from all the misery and despair, from all the filth and outward degeneration, it was no longer human beings that emerged, but the deplorable results of deplorable laws; and the hardship of my own life, no easier than the others, preserved me from capitulating in tearful sentimentality to the degenerate products of this process of development.
No, this is not the way to understand all these things!
Even then I saw that only a twofold road could lead to the goal of improving these conditions:
The deepest sense of social responsibility for the creation of better foundations for our development, coupled with brutal determination on breaking down incurable tenors.
Just as Nature does not concentrate her greatest attention in preserving what exists, but in breeding offspring to carry on the species, likewise, in human life, it is less important artificially to alleviate existing evil, which, in view of human nature, is ninety-nine per cent impossible, than to ensure
from the start healthier channels for a future development.
During my struggle for existence in Vienna, it had become clear to me that
Social activity must never and on no account be directed toward philanthropic flim-flam, but rather toward the elimination of the basic deficiencies in the organization of our economic and cultural life that must-or at all events can-lead to the degeneration of the individual .
The difficulty of applying the most extreme and brutal methods against the criminals who endanger the state lies not least in the uncertainty of our judgment of the inner motives or causes of such contemporary phenomena.
This uncertainty is only too well founded in our own sense of guilt regarding such tragedies of degeneration; be that as it may, it paralyzes any serious and firm decision and is thus partly responsible for the weak and half-hearted, because hesitant, execution of even the most necessary measures of selfpreservation.
Only when an epoch ceases to be haunted by the shadow of its own consciousness of guilt will it achieve the inner calm and outward strength brutally and ruthlessly to prune off the wild shoots and tear out the weeds.
Since the Austrian state had practically no social legislation or jurisprudence, its weakness in combating even malignant tumors was glaring.

I do not know what horrified me most at that time: the economic misery of my companions, their moral and ethical coarseness, or the low level of their intellectual development.
How often does our bourgeoisie rise in high moral indignation when they hear some miserable tramp declare that it is all the same to him whether he is a German or not, that he feels equally happy wherever he is, as long as he has enough to live on!
This lack of 'national pride' is most profoundly deplored, and horror at such an attitude is expressed in no uncertain terms.
How many people have asked themselves what was the real reason for the superiority of their own sentiments?
How many are aware of the infinite number of separate memories of the greatness of our national fatherland in all the fields of cultural and artistic life, whose total result is to inspire them with just pride at being members of a nation so blessed?
How many suspect to how great an extent pride in the fatherland depends on knowledge of its greatness in all these fields?
Do our bourgeois circles ever stop to consider to what an absurdly small extent this prerequisite of pride in the fatherland is transmitted to the 'people'?
Let us not try to condone this by saying that ' it is no better in other countries,' and that in those countries the worker avows his nationality 'notwithstanding.' Even if this were so, it could serve as no excuse for our own omissions. But it is not so; for the thing that we constantly designate as 'chauvinistic' education; for example among the French people, is nothing other than extreme emphasis on the greatness of France in all the fields of culture, or, as the Frenchman puts it, of 'civilization The fact is that the young Frenchman is not brought up to be objective, but is instilled with the most subjective conceivable view, in so far as the importance of the political or cultural greatness of his fatherland is concerned.
This education will always have to be limited to general and extremely broad values which, if necessary, must be engraved in the memory and feeling of the people by eternal repetition.
But to the negative sin of omission is added in our country the positive destruction of the little which the individual has the good fortune to learn in school. The rats that politically poison our nation gnaw even this little from the heart and memory of the broad masses, in so far as this has not been previously accomplished by poverty and suffering.
Imagine, for instance, the following scene:
In a basement apartment, consisting of two stuffy rooms, dwells a worker's family of seven. Among the five children there is a boy of, let us assume, three years. This is the age in which the first impressions are made on the consciousness of the child Talented persons retain traces of memory from this period down to advanced old age. The very narrowness and overcrowding of the room does not lead to favorable conditions. Quarreling and wrangling will very frequently arise as a result. In these circumstances, people do not live with one another, they press against one another. Every argument, even the most trifling, which in a spacious apartment can be reconciled by a mild segregation, thus solving itself, here leads to loathsome wrangling without end. Among the children, of course, this is still bearable; they always fight under such circumstances, and among themselves they quickly and thoroughly forget about it. But if this battle is carried on between the parents themselves, and almost every day in forms which for vulgarity often leave nothing to be desired, then, if only very gradually, the results of such visual instruction must ultimately become apparent in the children. The character the) will inevitably assume if this mutual quarrel takes the form of brutal attacks of the father against the mother, of drunken beatings, is hard for anyone who does not know this milieu to imagine. At the age of six the pitiable little boy suspects the existence of things which can inspire even an adult with nothing but horror. Morally poisoned, physically undernourished, his poor little head full of lice, the young 'citizen' goes off to public school. After a great struggle he may learn to read and write, but that is about all. His doing any homework is out of the question. On the contrary, the very mother and father, even in the presence of the children, talk about his teacher and school in terms which are not fit to be repeated, and are more inclined to curse the latter to their face than to take their little offspring across their knees and teach them some sense. All the other things that the little fellow hears at home do not tend to increase his respect for his dear fellow men. Nothing good remains of humanity, no institution remains unassailed; beginning with his teacher and up to the head of the government, whether it is a question of religion or of morality as such, of the state or society, it is all the same, everything is reviled in the most obscene terms and dragged into the filth of the basest possible outlook. When at the age of fourteen the young man is discharged from school, it is hard to decide what is stronger in him: his incredible stupidity as far as
any real knowledge and ability are concerned, or the corrosive insolence of his behavior, combined with an immorality, even at this age, which would make your hair stand on end
What position can this man-to whom even now hardly anything is holy, who, just as he has encountered no greatness conversely suspects and knows all the sordidness of life- occupy in the life into which he is now preparing to emerge?
The three-year-old child has become a fifteen-year-old despiser of all authority. Thus far, aside from dirt and filth, this young man has seen nothing which might inspire him to any higher enthusiasm.
But only now does he enter the real university of this existence.
Now he begins the same life which all along his childhood years he has seen his father living. He hangs around the street corners and bars, coming home God knows when; and for a change now and then he beats the broken-down being which was once his mother, curses God and the world, and at length is convicted of some particular offense and sent to a house of correction.
There he receives his last polish.
And his dear bourgeois fellow men are utterly amazed at the lack of 'national enthusiasm' in this young 'citizen.'
Day by day, in the theater and in the movies, in backstairs literature and the yellow press, they see the poison poured into the people by bucketfuls, and then they are amazed at the low 'moral content,' the 'national indifference,' of the masses of the people.
As though trashy films, yellow press, and such-like dung could. furnish the foundations of a knowledge of the greatness of our fatherland!-quite aside from the early education of the individual.
What I had never suspected before, I quickly and thoroughly learned in those years:
The question of the 'nationalization' of a people is, among other things, primarily a question of creating healthy social conditions as a foundation for the possibility of educating the individual. For only those who through school and upbringing learn to know the cultural, economic, but above all the political, greatness of their own fatherland can and unit achieve the inner pride in the privilege of being a member of such a people. And I can fight only for something that I love, love only what I respect, and respect only what I at least know.

Once my interest in the social question was aroused, I began to study it with all thoroughness. It was a new and hitherto unknown world which opened before me.
In the years 1909 and 1910, my own situation had changed somewhat in so far as I no longer had to earn my daily bread as a common laborer. By this time I was working independently as a small draftsman and painter of watercolors. Hard as this was with regard to earnings-it was barely enough to live on- it was good for my chosen profession. Now I was no longer dead tired in the evening when I came home from work, unable to look at a book without soon dozing off. My present work ran parallel to my future profession. Moreover, I was master of my own time and could apportion it better than had previously been possible.
I painted to make a living and studied for pleasure.
Thus I was able to supplement my visual instruction in the social problem by theoretical study. I studied more or less all of the books I was able to obtain regarding this whole field, and for the rest immersed myself in my own thoughts.
I believe that those who knew me in those days took me for an eccentric.
Amid all this, as was only natural, I served my love of architecture with ardent zeal. Along with music, it seemed to me the queen of the arts: under such circumstances my concern with it was not 'work.' but the greatest pleasure. I could read and draw until late into the night, and never grow tired. Thus my faith grew that my beautiful dream for the future would become reality after all, even though this might require long years. I was firmly convinced that I should some day make a name for myself as an architect.
In addition, I had the greatest interest in everything connected with politics, but this did not seem to me very significant. On the contrary: in my eyes this was the self-evident duty of every thinking man. Anyone who failed to understand this lost the right to any criticism or complaint.
In this field, too, I read and studied much.
By 'reading,' to be sure, I mean perhaps something different than the average member of our so-called 'intelligentsia.'
I know people who 'read' enormously, book for book, letter for letter, yet whom I would not describe as 'well-read.' True they possess a mass of 'knowledge,' but their brain is unable to organize and register the material they have taken in. They lack the art of sifting what is valuable for them in a book from that which is without value, of retaining the one forever, and, if possible, not even seeing the rest, but in any case not dragging it around with them as useless ballast. For reading is no end in itself, but a means to an end. It should primarily help to fill the framework constituted by every man's talents and abilities; in addition, it should provide the tools and building materials which the individual needs for his life's work, regardless whether this consists in a primitive struggle for sustenance or the satisfaction of a high calling; secondly, it should transmit a general world view. In both cases, however, it is essential that the con tent of what one reads at any time should not be transmitted to the memory in the sequence of the book or books, but like the stone of a mosaic should fit into the general world picture in its proper place, and thus help to form this picture in the mind of the reader. Otherwise there arises a confused muddle of memorized facts which not only are worthless, but also make their unto fortunate possessor conceited. For such a reader now believes himself in all seriousness to be {educated,' to understand something of life, to have knowledge, while in reality, with every new acquisition of this kind of 'education,' he is growing more and more removed from the world until, not infrequently, he ends up in a sanitarium or in parliament.
Never will such a mind succeed in culling from the confusion of his ' knowledge ' anything that suits the demands of the hour, for his intellectual ballast is not organized along the lines of life, but in the sequence of the books as he read them and as their content has piled up in his brain If Fate, in the requirements of his daily life, desired to remind him to make a correct application of what he had read, it would have to indicate title and page number, since the poor fool would otherwise never in all his life find the correct place. But since Fate does not do this, these bright boys in any critical situation come into the most terrible embarrassment, cast about convulsively for analogous cases, and with mortal certainty naturally find the wrong formulas.
If this were not true, it would be impossible for us to understand the political behavior of our learned and highly placed government heroes, unless we decided to assume outright villainy instead of pathological propensities.
On the other hand, a man who possesses the art of correct reading will, in studying any book, magazine, or pamphlet, instinctively and immediately perceive everything which in his opinion is worth permanently remembering, either because it is suited to his purpose or generally worth knowing. Once the knowledge he has achieved in this fashion is correctly coordinated within the somehow existing picture of this or that subject created by the imaginations it will function either as a corrective or a complement, thus enhancing either the correctness or the clarity of the picture. Then, if life suddenly sets some question before us for examination or answer, the memory, if this method of reading is observed, will immediately take the existing picture as a norm, and from it will derive all the individual items regarding these questions, assembled in the course of decades, submit them to the mind for examination and reconsideration, until the question is clarified or answered.
Only this kind of reading has meaning and purpose.
An orator, for example, who does not thus provide his intelligence with the necessary foundation will never be in a position cogently to defend his view in the face of opposition, though it may be a thousand times true or real. In every discussion his memory will treacherously leave him in the lurch; he will find neither grounds for reinforcing his own contentions nor any for confuting those of his adversary. If, as in the case of a speaker, it is only a question of making a fool of himself personally, it may not be so bad, but not so when Fate predestines such a know-it-all incompetent to be the leader of a state.
Since my earliest youth I have endeavored to read in the correct way, and in this endeavor I have been most happily supported by my memory and intelligence. Viewed in this light, my Vienna period was especially fertile and valuable. The experiences of daily life provided stimulation for a constantly renewed study of the most varied problems. Thus at last I was in a position to bolster up reality by theory and test theory by reality, and was preserved from being stifled by theory or growing banal through reality.
In this period the experience of daily life directed and stimulated me to the most thorough theoretical study of two questions in addition to the social question.
Who knows when I would have immersed myself in the doctrines and essence of Marxism if that period had not literally thrust my nose into the problem!

What I knew of Social Democracy in my youth was exceedingly little and very inaccurate.
I was profoundly pleased that it should carry on the struggle for universal suffrage and the secret ballot. For even then my intelligence told me that this must help to weaken the Habsburg regime which I so hated. In the conviction that the Austrian Empire could never be preserved except by victimizing its Germans, but that even the price of a gradual Slavization of the German element by no means provided a guaranty of an empire really capable of survival, since the power of the Slavs to uphold the state must be estimated as exceedingly dubious, I welcomed every development which in my opinion would inevitably lead to the collapse of this impossible state which condemned ten million Germans to death. The more the linguistic Babel corroded and disorganized parliament, the closer drew the inevitable hour of the disintegration of this Babylonian Empire, and with it the hour of freedom for my German-Austrian people. Only in this way could the Anschluss with the old mother country be restored.
Consequently, this activity of the Social Democracy was not displeasing to me. And the fact that it strove to improve the living conditions of the worker, as, in my innocence, I was still stupid enough to believe, likewise seemed to speak rather for it than against it. What most repelled me was its hostile attitude toward the struggle for the preservation of Germanism, its disgraceful courting of the Slavic 'comrade,' who accepted this declaration of love in so far as it was bound up with practical concessions, but otherwise maintained a lofty and arrogant reserve, thus giving the obtrusive beggars their deserved reward.
Thus, at the age of seventeen the word 'Marxism' was as yet little known to me, while ' Social Democracy ' and socialism seemed to me identical concepts. Here again it required the fist of Fate to open my eyes to this unprecedented betrayal of the peoples.
Up to that time I had known the Social Democratic Party only as an onlooker at a few mass demonstrations, without possessing even the slightest insight into the mentality of its adherents or the nature of its doctrine; but now, at one stroke, I came into contact with the products of its education and 'philosophy.' And in a few months I obtained what might otherwise have required decades: an understanding of a pestilential whore,l cloaking herself as social virtue and brotherly love, from which I hope humanity will rid this earth with the greatest dispatch, since otherwise the earth might well become rid of humanity.
My first encounter with the Social Democrats occurred during my employment as a building worker.
From the very beginning it was none too pleasant. ;My clothing was still more or less in order, my speech cultivated, and my manner reserved. I was still so busy with my own destiny that I could not concern myself much with the people around me. I looked for work only to avoid starvation, only to obtain an opportunity of continuing my education, though ever so slowly. Perhaps I would not have concerned myself at all with my new environment if on the third or fourth day an event had not taken place which forced me at once to take a position. I was asked to join the organization.
My knowledge of trade-union organization was at that time practically non-existent. I could not have proved that its existence was either beneficial or harmful. When I was told that I had to join, I refused. The reason I gave was that I did not understand the matter, but that I would not let myself be forced into anything. Perhaps my first reason accounts for my not being thrown out at once. They may perhaps have hoped to convert me or break down my resistance in a few days. In any event, they had made a big mistake. At the end of two weeks I could no longer have joined, even if I had wanted to. In these two weeks I came to know the men around me more closely, and no power in the world could have moved me to join an organization whose members had meanwhile come to appear to me in so unfavorable a light.
During the first days I was irritable.
At noon some of the workers went to the near-by taverns while others remained at the building site and ate a lunch which, as a rule was quite wretched. These were the married men whose wives brought them their noonday soup in pathetic bowls. Toward the end of the week their number always increased, why I did not understand until later. On these occasions politics was discussed.
I drank my bottle of milk and ate my piece of bread somewhere off to one side, and cautiously studied my new associates or reflected on my miserable lot. Nevertheless, I heard more than enough; and often it seemed to me that they purposely moved closer to me, perhaps in order to make me take a position. In any case, what I heard was of such a nature as to infuriate me in the extreme. These men rejected everything: the nation as an invention of the ' capitalistic ' (how often was I forced to hear this single word!) classes; the fatherland as an instrument of the bourgeoisie for the exploitation of the working class; the authority of law as a means for oppressing the proletariat; the school as an institution for breeding slaves and slaveholders; religion as a means for stultifying the people and making them easier to exploit; morality as a symptom of stupid, sheeplike patience, etc. There was absolutely nothing which was not drawn through the mud of a terrifying depths
At first I tried to keep silent. But at length it became impossible. I began to take a position and to oppose them. But I was forced to recognize that this was utterly hopeless until I possessed certain definite knowledge of the controversial points. And so I began to examine the sources from which they drew this supposed wisdom. I studied book after book, pamphlet after pamphlet.
From then on our discussions at work were often very heated. I argued back, from day to day better informed than my antagonists concerning their own knowledge, until one day they made use of the weapon which most readily conquers reason: terror and violence. A few of the spokesmen on the opposing side forced me either to leave the building at once or be thrown off the scaffolding. Since I was alone and resistance seemed hopeless, I preferred, richer by one experience, to follow the former counsel.
I went away filled with disgust, but at the same time so agitated that it would have been utterly impossible for me to turn my back on the whole business. No, after the first surge of indignation, my stubbornness regained the upper hand. I was determined to go to work on another building in spite of my experience. In this decision I was reinforced by Poverty which, a few weeks later, after I had spent what little I had saved from my wages. enfolded me in her heartless arms. I had to go back whether I wanted to or not. The same old story began anew and ended very much the same as the first time.
I wrestled with my innermost soul: are these people human, worthy to belong to a great nation?
A painful question; for if it is answered in the affirmative, the struggle for my nationality really ceases to be worth the hardships and sacrifices which the best of us have to make for the sake of such scum; and if it is answered in the negative, our nation is pitifully poor in human beings.
On such days of reflection and cogitation, I pondered with anxious concern on the masses of those no longer belonging to their people and saw them swelling to the proportions of a menacing army.
With what changed feeling I now gazed at the endless columns of a mass demonstration of Viennese workers that took place one day as they marched past four abreast! For neatly two hours I stood there watching with bated breath the gigantic human dragon slowly winding by. In oppressed anxiety, I finally left the place and sauntered homeward. In a tobacco shop on the way I saw the Arbeiter-Zeitung, the central organ of the old Austrian Social Democracy. It was available in a cheap people's cafe, to which I often went to read newspapers; but up to that time I had not been able to bring myself to spend more than two minutes on the miserable sheet, whose whole tone affected me like moral vitriol. Depressed by the demonstration, I was driven on by an inner voice to buy the sheet and read it carefully. That evening I did so, fighting down the fury that rose up in me from time to time at this concentrated solution of lies.
More than any theoretical literature, my daily reading of the Social Democratic press enabled me to study the inner nature of these thought-processes.
For what a difference between the glittering phrases about freedom, beauty, and dignity in the theoretical literature, the delusive welter of words seemingly expressing the most profound and laborious wisdom, the loathsome humanitarian morality- all this written with the incredible gall that comes with prophetic certainty-and the brutal daily press, shunning no villainy, employing every means of slander, lying with a virtuosity that would bend iron beams, all in the name of this gospel of a new humanity. The one is addressed to the simpletons of the middle, not to mention the upper, educated, 'classes,' the other to the masses.
For me immersion in the literature and press of this doctrine and organization meant finding my way back to my own people.
What had seemed to me an unbridgable gulf became the source of a greater love than ever before.
Only a fool can behold the work of this villainous poisoner and still condemn the victim. The more independent I made myself in the next few years the clearer grew my perspective, hence my insight into the inner causes of the Social Democratic successes. I now understood the significance of the brutal demand that I read only Red papers, attend only Red meetings, read only Red books, etc. With plastic clarity I saw before my eyes the inevitable result of this doctrine of intolerance.
The psyche of the great masses is not receptive to anything that is half-hearted and weak.
Like the woman, whose psychic state is determined less by grounds of abstract reason than by an indefinable emotional longing for a force which will complement her nature, and who, consequently, would rather bow to a strong man than dominate a weakling, likewise the masses love a commander more than a petitioner and feel inwardly more satisfied by a doctrine, tolerating no other beside itself, than by the granting of liberalistic freedom with which, as a rule, they can do little, and are prone to feel that they have been abandoned. They are equally unaware of their shameless spiritual terrorization and the hideous abuse of their human freedom, for they absolutely fail to suspect the inner insanity of the whole doctrine. All they see is the ruthless force and brutality of its calculated manifestations, to which they always submit in the end.
If Social Democracy is opposed by a doctrine of greater truth, but equal brutality of methods, the latter will conquer, though this may require the bitterest struggle.
Before two years had passed, the theory as well as the technical methods of Social Democracy were clear to me.
I understood the infamous spiritual terror which this movement exerts, particularly on the bourgeoisie, which is neither morally nor mentally equal to such attacks; at a given sign it unleashes a veritable barrage of lies and slanders against whatever adversary seems most dangerous, until the nerves of the attacked persons break down and, just to have peace again, they sacrifice the hated individual.
However, the fools obtain no peace.
The game begins again and is repeated over and over until fear of the mad dog results in suggestive paralysis.
Since the Social Democrats best know the value of force from their own experience, they most violently attack those in whose nature they detect any of this substance which is so rare. Conversely, they praise every weakling on the opposing side, sometimes cautiously, sometimes loudly, depending on the real or supposed quality of his intelligence.
They fear an irnpotent, spineless genius less than a forceful nature of moderate intelligence.
But with the greatest enthusiasm they commend weaklings in both mind and force.
They know how to create the illusion that this is the only way of preserving the peace, and at the same time, stealthily but steadily, they conquer one position after another, sometimes by silent blackmail, sometimes by actual theft, at moments when the general attention is directed toward other matters, and either does not want to be disturbed or considers the matter too small to raise a stir about, thus again irritating the vicious antagonist.
This is a tactic based on precise calculation of all human weaknesses, and its result will lead to success with almost mathematical certainty unless the opposing side learns to combat poison gas with poison gas.
It is our duty to inform all weaklings that this is a question of to be or not to be.
I achieved an equal understanding of the importance of physical terror toward the individual and the masses.
Here, too, the psychological effect can be calculated with precision.
Terror at the place of employment, in the factory, in the meeting hall, and on the occasion of mass demonstrations will always be successful unless opposed by equal terror.
In this case, to be sure, the party will cry bloody murder; though it has long despised all state authority, it will set up a howling cry for that same authority and in most cases will actually attain its goal amid the general confusion: it will find some idiot of a higher official who, in the imbecilic hope of propitiating the feared adversary for later eventualities, will help this world plague to break its opponent.
The impression made by such a success on the minds of the great masses of supporters as well as opponents can only be measured by those who know the soul of a people, not from books, but from life. For while in the ranks of their supporters the victory achieved seems a triumph of the justice of their own cause, the defeated adversary in most cases despairs of the success of any further resistance.
The more familiar I became, principally with the methods of physical terror, the more indulgent I grew toward all the hundreds of thousands who succumbed to it.
What makes me most indebted to that period of suffering is that it alone gave back to me my people, taught me to distinguish the victims from their seducers.
The results of this seduction can be designated only as victims. For if I attempted to draw a few pictures from life, depicting the essence of these 'lowest' classes, my picture would not be complete without the assurance that in these depths I also found bright spots in the form of a rare willingness to make sacrifices, of loyal comradeship, astonishing frugality, and modest reserve, especially among the older workers. Even though these virtues were steadily vanishin

Freya's Insulin


Adolf Hitler

Adolf Hitler

Adolf Hitler

Adolf Hitler

Adolf Hitler

Adolf Hitler

Adolf Hitler

Adolf Hitler



1 INT. CYBERSPACE Electric-neon netherworld. Pulsing chromatics over jet black.


3D lattice of routers, refractors, reassemblers... New, unused data OPTIK HIGHWAY routes radiate from all sides, crossing cyberspace.

X-Net Tactical Corps troops (herein X-Takks) patrol every inch.

2 INT. X-NET NEXUS - UNDER CONSTRUCTION DATA "TRAIN" enters. Sliver of RED DATA ENERGY shunt off, shooting into RANDOM MEMORY BUFFER - geometrically perfect lattice of PLASMA BEAMS and WHITE HOT intersection points.

X-Takks notice, moving to investigate.

DEEP IN THE LATTICE: Red data "uploads" into solid form. A RED FIGURE. We see from the back - infrared strobing DISK, etched metallic detail, lethal EDGES -

Then slowly he - IT - turns. Hardly a face, only data-hungry eyes, riveted to a TASK -

TRON 2.0. Seriously upgraded, over-clocked, armed for trouble. The friendly hero we once knew has been re-programmed into a ruthless cyber-ninja.

X-Takks search ten story gantries.

TRON springs into the lattice, dodging PLASMA BEAMS, avoiding detection. Slips into:

3 INT. NEXUS MAIN SHAFT X-Takks on high alert.

TRON slips down main shaft, freezes, confirms data. Darts behind MAIN POWER SUPPLY.

Pulls his DISK. DISK opens, extends oscillating DATA KEY.

(CONTINUED) 2 3 CONTINUED: TRON inserts key in and ENCRYPTION PANEL. Circuits energize. Shockwave quakes system.


X-TAKKS Intruder! Fix coordinates!

POLICE POUNCE, FIRING. Tron pulls hyper-disk off his back and HURLS IT -

DISK strikes cop, fries his circuits. Disk ricochets, brutally accurate, takes out three more Police -

TRON flips into the air - His DISK boomerangs straight for him. Certain death. But his timing is inhumanly accurate. DISK docks on his back midair, lands and bolts.


TRON flips away, chased by firing X-Takks -

Arriving on the scene - split-second response:

Elite team of X-NET SECURITY AGENTS, lead by:

RX23 SECURITY LEADER (Cyber-twin of our real-world hero RUSH).

TRON jumps down MAIN SHAFT - a thousand stories. Riding his DISK as a heat shield dodges X-Net fire, swerves into a DATA CHANNEL - RX23 and a pair of his AGENTS hop on PULSE RIDER vehicles, hotly pursuing TRON.

TRON PLUNGES onto a DATA HIGHWAY - speed out of NEXUS, hurls across cyberspace.

AGENT 1 This is the first time an Intruder has broken into X-Net!

RX23 LEADER And it's the last. Follow him! Shut him down!

They speed onto the OPTIK HIGHWAY. 3

4 INT. X-NET OPTIK HIGHWAY Broadband, light-speed OPTIK HIGHWAY. Empty, except for:

TRON - accelerating, escaping.

Rx23 and AGENTS catch up fast on Pulse Rider Vehicles.

TRON throws his disk. Blings off Agents - triggers CRASH. PLASMA BLAST rips open highway wall.

Rx23 emerges unscathed, pursuing.

5 EXT. CYBERSPACE - ANCIENT SYSTEM ZONE TRON leaps out blast hole, recovers his disk, vanishes into ANCIENT SYSTEM ZONE. Rx23 roars after him, riding hard, joined by:

Airborne SEARCH ENGINE vehicle, piloted by a dumpy nerd program called KROD.

KROD I got a lock. Coordinate 32937!

RX23 I'm on him!

RX23 chases Tron into a dark canyon. Hairpin turns and blind curves. RX23 arrives a junction. Tron has vanished.

RX23 Which way did he go?!

6 INT. ENCOM CORPORATION BETA TEST LAB - DAY Rabbit warren of computer programmers in crisis mode.

A head shoots up from a cubicle. It's Rush Nortebi, 23, computer security expert. Real world version of the RX23 program. His cubicle is jammed with racks of vintage and bleeding-edge computer gear.


Dozens of programmers work feverishly to track the system intruder. Everybody's stumped. Dangling from desk lamps, the company toy: Conical pyramid with a square stuck on top, labeled "X-NET RULES!"

(CONTINUED) 4 6 CONTINUED: RUSH Come on guys! Nobody hacks X-Net. You gonna let him get away?!

MILES Rush, I think I found him!

In the adjacent cubicle: Overweight ultra-nerd MILES RABBISH - real world version of cyberworld Krod.

MILES Check the old game grid!

Rush jockeys an old Apple LISA computer. On screen: a crude old vector graphics game grid.

A RED FIGURE steps appears the grid.

RUSH You get a cookie, Miles!

Programmers gather to watch Rush in action.

7 EXT. CYBERSPACE - THE OLD GAME GRID Vast, low-rez, uncool, largely forgotten.

TRON pulls a LIGHT WAND from his legging, grips it. A TURBO- CHARGED LIGHT-CYCLE rezzes up beneath him. He fires his LIGHTCYCLE. ZIP, he's gone.

Onto the grid blasts RX23, speeding on his Pulse rider. He skids and swerves, learning the funky surface.

Search Engine flies onto the scene, hovering overhead.

KROD Coordinate 6532.02! There he goes!

The chase is on.

TRON escapes across the vast grid-plane, head down, eyes hollow. He gains speed, retreating to somewhere...

RX23 surges on his Pulse Rider, closing the gap.

8 INT. REAL WORLD - ENCOM BETA TEST LAB - DAY Rush gets the hang of this old game.

RUSH I haven't played this since I was 4. But I was mighty awesome.

(CONTINUED) 5 8 CONTINUED: RED LIGHTCYCLE turns hard 90 degrees, Rush maneuvers to counter.

Co-workers lean over the cubicle walls from all sides:

RUSH Score an ID on this leech?

MILES Negative. He's nobody.

KELTER Rush, you've gotta nail him.

PHLEGMAN Or you know we're all fired.

Rush baits the RED LIGHTCYCLE. It anticipates his every move, goading him, tailing him.

MILES Whoa, Rush! I groked a pattern in his moves! Fake left, go right!

9 INT. CYBERSPACE - GAME GRID Search Engine flies overhead - Krod locks on Tron.

RX23's Pulse Rider pulls the move, surges up beside red lightcycle.

Tron pulls away, baiting his opponent.

10 INT. ENCOM CORPORATION BETA TEST LAB - DAY MILES You got him on the run, dude!

OTHERS Crash him! Rush RUSH RUSH.

RUSH hits keys, jockeys mouse. Feeling good. Shifts drive status to: "TURBOJECT".

11 INT. CYBERSPACE - GAME GRID RX23's Pulse Rider SCREAMS, gaining on Tron. Neck-and-neck.

But Tron suddenly brakes, quitting the chase.

RX23 is puzzled. Looks forward. Eyes spring wide. 6

12 INT. REAL WORLD - ENCOM CORPORATION BETA TEST LAB - DAY Rush's screen: His Pulse Rider speeds straight for the rocks.

RUSH Yikes!

13 CYBERSPACE - GAME GRID Pulse Rider smashes into rocks, RX23 pulverizes to neon bits. Electro SHOCKWAVE sears across game grid. Search Engine freezes overhead, glitches and CRASHES like a blimp.

All goes white - snow crash.


NERDS FUBAR! Bad Thing! Flame War!

RUSH Miles. Did you get a trace on him?!

Miles stares at his blank screen. Blinking. Every screen in the lab is blank.

PHLEGMAN We are so screwed.

KELTER Who tells the boss?

All eyes land on Rush.

RUSH Get the system back up! Now! Move!


X-Net PR TEAM preps a media extravaganza. Shirt logo: "X- NET = TOTAL DATA SECURITY" Banners, video projections, music.

X-NET PUBLIC RELATIONS VP leads entourage on a preview.

7 15 CONTINUED: PR VP Weather is holding. Dress rehearsal on for 6PM. In the morning, we let the press in for a 7AM tech set-up, then you go live worldwide 9 AM sharp.

Staff defers to: GORDON SINCLAIR (45), boyish, ruthless, brilliant CEO of Encom Corporation.

SINCLAIR Delay the press until 8:30. I'll taking the stage at 8:50. Force a network break-in. Then it's news.

He catches something on a video screen, snaps his fingers.

SINCLAIR Play that again.

Crew murmurs on headsets. Promo video replays:

VIDEO PLAYBACK X-Net deploys radical software design, constructs proprietary white-hot firewalls, unleashes virus killer apps. Creating the most secure data network in history. Your data can never again be hacked, corrupted, stolen or destroyed. X-Net is the final solution, totally guaranteed 99.999% secure data transmission -

SINCLAIR Who changed that? Who put "99.999"?

X-Net executives chill.

PR VP Um, that would be... Legal.

Eyes land on withering LEGAL VP.

SINCLAIR Change it back to the way I wrote it. With the launch of X-Net, this company guarantees one hundred percent secure data transmission. If we can't deliver on that promise, we deserve to be out of business.

Rush appears from a building. Signals Sinclair aside.

SINCLAIR What can't wait, Rush?

(CONTINUED) 8 15 CONTINUED: (2) RUSH Um. X-Net was just breached by a hacker.

SINCLAIR goes pale.

RUSH System's back up, no permanent damage, but... But whoever's behind this, they're good, and they're still out there.

16 INT. SINCLAIR'S OFFICE - DAY Sprawling, big bucks, basketball hoop.

Sinclair enters, alone. Closes door. Uses a retinal scan ID to access his computer. Secure connection opens. As he speaks, text instantly appears:

SINCLAIR Identify the intruder.

17 EXT. CYBERSPACE Flashing circuitry, machine code bit-storm. We follow Sinclair's text message data stream

Min-blowing cyberspace fly-over.

DATA BEAM penetrates a towering shaft, reaching deep inside the MASSIVELY FORTIFIED X-NET CENTRAL SERVER.

18 INT. CYBERSPACE - X-NET CENTRAL SERVER / INNER SANCTUM LONE FIGURE stands clothed in flashy cyber-armor: Fluid photons, oozing high-rez circuitry.

It's PLEXOR, cyber-twin of real-world Sinclair.

He crosses into an round inner sanctum. DATA STREAM radiates from above.

PLEXOR stands in the center, pulls his DISK off his back, raises it above his head.

Data stream converges onto disk, becomes a tight RUBY RED COMMUNICATION BEAM. Plexor's eyes decode transmission. Text races across his eyes: IDENTIFY THE INTRUDER.

(CONTINUED) 9 18 CONTINUED: PLEXOR Identity not captured.


19 INT. REAL WORLD - SINCLAIR'S OFFICE - DAY Other side of the link. Real-world Sinclair reads text as it appear on his office screen: IDENTITY NOT CAPTURED.

SINCLAIR How did he enter X-Net?

His text inputs. Answer comes: "Path untraceable"

SINCLAIR How could you let this happen?

20 INT. CYBERSPACE - PLEXOR'S INNER SANCTUM Plexor processes the input - remains emotionless.

PLEXOR I do what you programmed me to do. I am constructing X-Net.

21 INT. ENCOM CORPORATION - SINCLAIR'S OFFICE - DAY SINCLAIR New instructions - find and destroy the intruder!

Text reply: "Resource allocation reconfiguration required. Estimated delay to X-Net construction: 46.4 hours."

SINCLAIR No. We can't delay the opening of X- Net. Disregard my last command. Maintain construction priority.

Sinclair cuts off the contact, pressure mounting.

22 INT. CYBERSPACE - PLEXOR'S INNER SANCTUM Ruby beam goes dark. Plexor lowers his disk. His eyes are cold, his confidence supreme.

23 INT. ENCOM CORPORATION CONFERENCE ROOM - DAY Crisis management team assembles. Nervous X-Net Senior Staff.

(CONTINUED) 10 23 CONTINUED: Rush arrives late, out of breath, determined. Joins Phlegman and Kelter.

RUSH System is stable again, keep you fingers crossed.

PHLEGMAN Any luck finding the intruder?

RUSH Don't ask.

RUSH notices across the room: Brilliant, beautiful MEGAN RANDALL, his age. Her security ID: "LEVEL BLACK".

RUSH What's she doing here? This is an operations meeting.

KELTER You and Meg still, eh... At it?

RUSH There was never anything between us.

Kelter and Phlegman trade a look. Sure.

RUSH She's Advanced Projects. This has nothing to do with her.

Sinclair storms in. Room falls silent.

SINCLAIR This company's existence depends on the flawless launch of X-Net in twenty- two hours, fifty-one minutes. Now somebody - some hacker, some competitor, somebody - just proved they're smarter than us. Breaking into X-Net is theoretically impossible.

Everybody looks at Rush.

RUSH This creep's the best I've ever seen. He crosses platforms, cracks 128 bit encryption, cloaks every move, never leaves a trace.

SINCLAIR When you find him, I'll be sure to hire him.

11 23 CONTINUED: (2) Chuckles around the room. Mood chills: Sinclair's not laughing.

SINCLAIR Boys and girls, we cannot sell a secure network that is not secure.

PR VP We delay the launch.

SINCLAIR And the world assumes we've got a faulty product. And they'd be right.

KELTER We ramp up our encryption schemes -

PHLEGMAN Thicken all firewalls -

RUSH We can't win playing defense. And it's a bigger job than just swatting an intruder program. Somewhere, there's a human mind behind this thing. We have to get to that User and shut him - or her - down, or the game never ends.

Meg listens quietly. Studies Rush.

SINCLAIR What do you need, Rush?

RUSH 20 guys for 20 days -

SINCLAIR We don't have 20 hours. This problem needs to be gone before tomorrow 9AM. Come on people, this company's future is at stake! It's time to think without a box!

Minds ponder grimly. Finally, a lone VP rises. It's RUDY, the company Archivist.

RUDY At a time like this, let's seek inspiration in the past. We should ask ourselves: What solution would spring from the inspired mind of our departed leader, Flynn.

(CONTINUED) 12 23 CONTINUED: (3) He's got an obituary photo of FLYNN, Encom's legendary previous - and deceased - CEO.

Groans around the table. Execs rolls their eyes, disses Rudy's idea. Flynn has become a stale company joke.

Rudy sheepishly sits.

But Sinclair stops behind Rudy, eyes fixed on the photo of Flynn. An idea takes hold. He looks to Meg.

SINCLAIR Is the QF-401 is operational?

MEG Um... Midway into phase one testing.

Confusion among execs. Nobody knows what a "QF-401" is. Not even Rush.

SINCLAIR If we can't fight this intruder from the outside, then maybe we need to fight him from the inside.

Meg's mind races.

MEG I'm ready to do my part.

SINCLAIR This company needs a hero. Who among you is the smartest, most resourceful and courageous?

Looks trade around the table. Meg slowly rises, indicating her choice.

MEG Who else could it be?

She's singled out Rush.

24 INT. ENCOM CORP CORRIDOR - SECURE ELEVATOR - DAY Meg leads Sinclair and Rush to a SECURE ELEVATOR. Her retinal scan ID opens the door. They step in.

25 INT. ENCOM SECURE ELEVATOR - GOING DOWN - MOMENTS LATER RUSH Somebody going to tell me what I've been volunteered for?

(CONTINUED) 13 25 CONTINUED: SINCLAIR Rush, you're the only one I can trust to eliminate the intruder. But you won't be doing it the way you thought. Meg's been working on something down here that's, well... Beyond Top Secret.

Rush drills a look at Meg, but she keeps it all business.

26 INT. ENCOM ADVANCED RESEARCH LAB - MOMENTS LATER Out the elevator, Meg leads them into a maze of ultra-tech gear.

MEG This is where Flynn worked. And where he died.

Amid sleek new equipment, there's a glass cabinet housing a CHARRED REMNANT of strange machinery.

SINCLAIR Meg has reconstructed Flynn's last project. This time it works.

Mega signals lab assistant DEWEY. He pokes buttons: A MASSIVE TECHNICAL DEVICE unfolds and boots up.

RUSH You didn't pick this up at Circuit City. What is it?

MEG A Quantum Digitizer. Prototype, only one of its kind. Flynn designed it to break down physical objects into high resolution data. Luckily, we salvaged his key components and back-engineered the system.

She opens a cage, places her LAB RAT (Jo-Jo) on a target stage. Dewey boots controls, presses commands. Beam array scans the rat into the computer, forming a 3D rat-image on screens, dematerializing the physical rat. Device revs down.

Rush runs his hand over the empty target stage.

RUSH That's... Not possible.

Lab rat has vanished from the physical world. Its digitized image rotates on monitors.

(CONTINUED) 14 26 CONTINUED: MEG Flynn was trying to take it one step further. He wanted to transport a human being into cyberspace.

RUSH You mean the urban legends? A computer sucked Flynn into cyberspace a long time ago.

SINCLAIR We think it happened.

Meg agrees. Rush gets a chill.

SINCLAIR It was a fluke. But Flynn worked for years, down here, trying to make it happen again. One day a test went bad. A plasma reaction destroyed this lab. Flynn was reduced to ash.

Rush views the charred remains in the glass case. Photos of the destroyed lab. Spooky evidence of a hellish death scene.

RUSH I was never told how he died. It was all just weird, you know, because Flynn's the guy who hired me. But he was strange, kept to himself, I didn't know what job I was supposed to be doing. (to Sinclair) Then you came onboard, the company woke up, we had a direction. It was kind of pathetic, because by the time Flynn died, everybody was too busy to care.

SINCLAIR He was brilliant in his way, but genius without discipline leads to nothing. His reckless habits nearly ruined this company... And for sure got him killed.

A last look at the charred remains of Flynn's machine.

MEG That kind of accident can't happen again. We've upgraded the system in ways Flynn never could. The chips didn't exist until now.

(CONTINUED) 15 26 CONTINUED: (2) She presses commands. Beams re-materialize the lab rat on the target stage. Jo-jo is as good as new.

MEG Hey, Jo-Jo. Have good trip?

She puts the rat in on her shoulder, feeds it a tidbit. Then she scrutinizes Rush.

Rush considers Meg, then turns to Sinclair.

RUSH You want her to send me into cyberspace to catch that jerk who hacked us?

SINCLAIR The future of this company depends on it.

Rush looks to Meg. She offers a reassuring nod.

RUSH You can bring me back okay?

MEG Ask Jo-Jo.

Lab rat is perched happily on her shoulder.

SINCLAIR Destroy the intruder by 9AM tomorrow, Rush. I know if anyone can, it's you. I've had my eye on you for a long time. Score this hit and I'll make you my full partner in this company.

Rush is awe-struck. Ready, willing, able. He shakes Sinclair's hand, sealing the deal.

RUSH I won't let you down. Let's do it.

Meg removes target stage, swings a custom TARGET CHAIR in place. Rush lowers in place. Meg buckles him in. Last chance for a private word:

MEG I promise I'll get you back safely by 9AM tomorrow. But you have to promise me something too -

(CONTINUED) 16 26 CONTINUED: (3) RUSH You're a piece of work. You dumped me because you said I was too much about the company's needs and not enough about yours. Well here we are, the company needs their best guy, and you just can't admit how much to hurts to nominate me.

MEG This bigger than us, Rush. Listen to me. I don't know what you're going to find in there, but whatever it is, promise you'll follow your heart and do the right thing.

Rush stares at here, in shock.

RUSH Oh. So you think I have a heart?

Meg breaks away, retreating to the controls with Sinclair. Rush's trails her with his eyes - he can't stop looking.

RUSH (under his breath) I promise.

Meg initiates Quantum Digitizer sequence.

Rush watches PULSING CHROMATIC LIGHT build down the unit's column, coming toward him.

Plasma strobes CYAN/MAGENTA. Unit HUMS... Then GROANS WILDLY. Flashes randomize. Something's off balance -

Meg worries. Moves for the "abort" button.

DEWEY It's overloading!

Unit sparks. Ceramic components STRESS and CRACK.

Rush clenches his seat, terrified.

RUSH What's happening?!

MEG System is losing stability!

Sinclair sees: Monitor sounds company-wide alert: "X-NET BREECH! INTRUDER DETECTED!"

(CONTINUED) 17 26 CONTINUED: (4) SINCLAIR There's been another breech!

RUSH It's the Intruder again!

MEG We have to abort!

SINCLAIR We might not get another chance!

RUSH DO IT! Sinclair pulls Meg's hand from the "abort" button and slams his hand on "DIGITIZE".

BEAM ARRAY scans Rush's body, reducing it to bits -

Meg worries -

Sinclair dives for cover -

PLASMA BALL engulfs Quantum Digitizer.

FINAL BITS of Rush scan away.

Plasma ball FRIES the unit. Breakers trip. Power fades.

Meg and Sinclair come up to find:

Quantum Digitizer: In a smoking heap.

Target chair: Empty.

27 EXT. CYBERSPACE TRANSITION Light-speed thrill-ride, hurling into digital chaos.

Rush's electrified body hurtles across the void, eyes filled with TERROR and AWE.


28 EXT. CYBERSPACE - X-NET CENTRAL SERVER Shimmering bits morph into an awesome cyberscape.

Rush enters this bizarre world - CRASH/FLASH - stranger in a strange land. Data energy ZAPS off his body, interacting with the landscape circuitry around him. He fights it, tries to control it.

18 28 CONTINUED: Rush stands, beholds the place. Looks at his hands and arms, clad in circuitry. He finds he had landed outside:


He turns, looks up a FIREWALL. Hundreds of X-Takk Troops hurry to look down. FIRING WEAPONS.

A FIGURE comes at him, down the wall, STREAKING RED.

BLAMMO! TRON lands on a plateau above Rush, gazing down.

They face each other, equally perplexed.

Rush is no longer human, but not quite a program either. Energy zaps off his body, infusing the surrounding circuitry.

Tron stares, unblinking - Cyber-Ninja.

RUSH It's YOU! The intruder!

Rush's body circuits PULSE with anger - data surges out his feet, across floor circuitry, up to the plateau. Energy interacts with Tron's body circuits, siphoning off bits of code.

Code races across Rush's eyes. Identification data.

RUSH You are... TRON?!?

X-Takks hustle onto the scene.

Tron leaps off the plateau, cutting the data connection. He whips his disk off his back and THROWS.

Disk SLAMS Rush in the gut, knocks him flat.

RUSH ARRRGHH! X-Takks pursue Tron -

Tron recovers his disk - vanishes in an OUTBOUND DATA STREAM, losing his pursuers.

X-Takks pull Rush to his feet, shocked.

X-TAKK 1 RX23?!

19 28 CONTINUED: (2) X-TAKK 2 But... You crashed irrecoverably!

RUSH Uh, well, I'm not exactly -

X-TAKK 3 RX23 has been rebooted!

VOICE RX23 reboot was not authorized!

Pushing through Police: A sleek, smart cyber-babe MEGA. (She's Meg's cyber-twin: Twice the edge, half the patience, all the curves.)

Rush is awed by the sight of her.

RUSH Yow. I know who programmed you.

MEGA I am Mega, X-Net Intelligence.

RUSH Mega. Cool. I am -

MEGA A spy? Posing as RX23? Under which register were you rebooted?

RUSH I'm a User.

Mega and X-Takks look at him like he's crazy.

MEGA Detain this impostor.

X-Takks move to seize Rush.

RUSH No wait, look. We're on the same side here. I got an ID on the intruder!

Mega touches Rush, exciting his energy flow. She reads data streaming in his eyes - TRON'S ID info.

MEGA "Tron"?

X-TAKK 2 How did he get that??

(CONTINUED) 20 28 CONTINUED: (3) MEGA Plexor must know of this!

29 EXT. CENTRAL CONTROL SERVER Mega and X-Takks escort Rush across bridges, in security portals. Firewalls cool and part, allowing them to pass.

Down a grand corridor, past towering energy columns and throbbing green memory banks. They cross a bridge. View includes: Vast square concentric security rings surround a massive cubic POWER SUPPLY CORE.

30 INT. PLEXOR CPU Plexor toils over the latest security breech, failing to decipher recordings of the Intruder.

Rush is brought in buy Mega. He double-takes on Plexor, the cyber-twin of Sinclair.

MEGA Plexor. This is the one.

Plexor steps closer, scanning Rush.

PLEXOR You are not RX23.

RUSH My name is Rush. I'm a - Look, I got an ID on the Intruder. Do you know the program they used to call Tron?

Plexor activates memory banks. Accesses archive files of the original low-rez Tron: So harmless, so many years ago. Bears little resemblance to the upgraded Tron.

PLEXOR You are in error. Zero match.

RUSH Exactly. That's how he's getting past you. You don't see him for what he is. He's one of your own, gone bad. Tron was a crude security program from Encom's old days. Strictly low-rez, right? Archived and forgotten. But his source code contains all the architecture of every Encom system, including X-net. (MORE) (CONTINUED) 21 30 CONTINUED: RUSH (CONT'D) That's why some smart User dusted him off and upgraded him -

PLEXOR "User"?

RUSH People. Like me. From the outside. People who write all of your instructions.

Plexor and Mega trade a look.

MEGA He displays random instability.

PLEXOR Users do not exist.

RUSH How do we contact Sinclair? He'll explain.

PLEXOR Define "Sinclair".

RUSH You don't know? Oh geez. There must be a way to link him into this.

Rush touches Plexor's command console, but his energy OVERLOADS the system -

X-Takks pull Rush away.

MEGA Zero match for a "Sinclair".

RUSH He's your boss. Everybody's boss. Outside, in the real world.

PLEXOR Assuming the existence of a world beyond this, is a fatal error.

MEGA Plexor issues all commands.

X-TAKKS Grep grep.

Rush considers his predicament.

(CONTINUED) 22 30 CONTINUED: (2) RUSH Okay. Sorry. I'm a program, guess I got a piece of my code corrupted. Whatever it is, it's given me power over Tron. (to X-Takks and Mega) They saw me read his circuits. Can any other program do that?

Plexor looks to Mega.

MEGA He creates alternative data channels at will.


RUSH Yeah, I'm a little unstable. But I can find Tron for you.

Plexor processes. His eyes stream barcode data to X-Takks:

PLEXOR Release him.

X-Takk Troops read Plexor's barcode command with their eyes.

They let go of Rush.

Plexor turns to Mega. Issues more barcode.

PLEXOR Interface with this one. Exploit his ability. Locate the program "Tron" and destroy him on sight.

MEGA Instructions received, Plexor.

Mega exits with Rush. Plexor's gaze lingers on Rush.


Ultra sleek STRAITHE vehicle glides out, accesses a shiny new, EMPTY X-NET DATA OPTIK HIGHWAY. 23

32 INT. STRAITHE VEHICLE - RACING DOWN X-NET OPTIK HIGHWAY Mega at the controls. Rush rides, beholding the lightshow wonder of Cyberspace.

RUSH I need to find a program called KROD. He's a specialist in pattern recognition. He snagged the last known position on Tron for me.

Mega scans data, gets a fix on "KROD".

MEGA This is a waste of X-Net resources. You're strictly random. We will never find the intruder this way.

RUSH Plexor ordered us to work together. You can't doubt his instructions, right?

MEGA Of course not. But I am programmed to predict all possible errors. You contain an infinite quantity.

RUSH Meg for sure programmed you.

MEGA I have no data on "Meg".

RUSH Never mind. I'm being random.

Mega speeds along empty X-Net OPTIK HIGHWAY. Wide, secure, newly constructed. High above the tangle of chaotic, clogged OLD DATA ARTERIES. RUSH X-Net is amazing. It's going to change everything. Unless one rogue program called Tron brings it down. Do you believe he could?

MEGA I calculated the probability. (soberly) He could crash it all.

RUSH So we're working together on this?

(CONTINUED) 24 32 CONTINUED: MEGA As instructed, I will interface.

Mega pulls STRAITHE into:

33 INT. X-NET SWITCHING NEXUS/HUB CITY Construction nearly complete. High security.

Mega leads Rush to secured encryption gates. Her eyes light with data, the gate opens.

MEGA The program "KROD" is over there.

Across a bridge: An old-network HUB CITY. Like Hong Kong in wilder days. Jammed with Programs, colorful data, loud data transfer screams.

RUSH What a dump.

He heads across, but Mega hesitates.

RUSH Hey. Interface.

Mega grudgingly follows. Portal closes.

34 EXT. HUB CITY Electro-pop overload. Rush and Mega squeeze through crowds, past screaming data pipes and sizzling circuitry.

City is dominated by mugshots of TRON: "ENEMY OF THE FUTURE"

Mega locates a gleaming X-NET KIOSK. A PROMOTER (KROD) extoles the virtues of the X-Net system:

KROD Three more hub cities have been attacked by viruses! (crowd gets scared) But X-Net opens soon! You will travel in total security!

Crowd buzzes. They can't wait.

MEGA This is the one you seek?

Rush approaches Krod. Looks like Miles Rabbish. There's a bizarre moment of recognition between them.

25 34 CONTINUED: RUSH It's gotta be -

KROD Krod!

RUSH Krod!

KROD Yeah, yeah - Heeey!

RUSH The best pattern recognition program ever. (to Mega) This guy can filter a river of junk data and pull out the good stuff.

KROD You know it, dude!

Krod smiles big at Mega, refers to Rush:

KROD Who is this guy?

Rush pulls Krod aside.

RUSH Miles - I mean Krod, you flew the search engine. You ran a trace on a hotshot lightcycle rider. The red guy. Remember?

KROD Well. Eh. I'd like to help you, but truth is, I just got rebooted from a big crash. There's nothing left in my memory from before.

He taps his head.

MEGA This will yield zero.

RUSH Hang on.

Rush thinks, touches a surface. Concentrates. Circuitry zaps from data coming off his hands. Connections illuminate, data races around walls and floors.

Programs stop what they're doing, amazed by the feat.

(CONTINUED) 26 34 CONTINUED: (2) Mega is astonished - and privately worried.

Rush's data flow illuminates surfaces with images from HIS memory - the opening light cycle race.

RUSH Remember, Krod? You were watching this lightcycle duel, a red guy and a green guy, head-to-head.

Krod gawks at the image, but he's stumped.

RUSH The green guy faked out the red guy, but the red guy double-faked the green guy.


KROD Okay! YES! And the green guy splattered big time! It was awesome! How could I forget that?!

Splat happens in Rush's memory image. All goes white.

RUSH Where did the red guy go after that? You didn't crash right away.

KROD He escaped out this hidden exit -

Krod's points to another screen. "Wanted" image of Tron.


RUSH Did you jack his coordinate?

KROD Tr165444.018!

They slap high fives. Krod double-takes on Rush.

KROD And the green guy was YOU! You got rebooted?! They called you, um - Don't tell me, I got it, eh -

RUSH Call me Rush.

27 34 CONTINUED: (3) KROD Yeah! Whatever. You're good. How'd you do that thing with your hands?

RUSH It's complicated. You're coming with us to the old game grid. We're going to find Tron and shut him down.

KROD Beats working.

They head out. Krod falls in beside Mega, impressed by her.

KROD Hey babe. Did I ever know you?

35 EXT. ANCIENT COMPUTER SYSTEM I/O PORT Rush, Krod and Mega head deep into an obsolete, abandoned region of low-rez circuitry.

KROD The old game grid is this way -

He spins. Rush and Mega aren't behind him. They've climbed inside a defunct I/O Port: Like a retro-tech temple.

RUSH How do I uplink to the real world?

MEGA The real world doesn't exist. Nobody can uplink. These ports were for simulation only.

RUSH Right... But how did those poor misguided fools boot up the link?

MEGA They stood in the center. Held their disk above their head.

Rush pulls his disk off his back, aims it skyward. Concentrates. Energy flows off his feet, interacts with the I/O Port floor.


36 INT. REAL WORLD - SINCLAIR'S OFFICE - DAY Kelter and Phlegman report to Sinclair:

(CONTINUED) 28 36 CONTINUED: KELTER & PHLEGMAN Intruder attempted another break-in. We patched the firewall, but our manpower getting is maxed out.

SINCLAIR Stay on it! Nobody sleeps!

Guys hustle out. Sinclair wheels, as Meg storms in.

MEG There's a message on your secure link!

Sinclair enters retinal ID. Text forms:

INTRUDER IDENTIFIED. SINCLAIR Where is this coming from - ?

Meg hurries to the screen.


Text appears: I AM RUSH.

SINCLAIR My God, he's there.

MEG Rush, it's Sinclair and Meg.

Her words transform into text.

37 EXT. CYBERSPACE - ANCIENT I/O PORT Rush raises his disk, beaming data into the great unknown. Smiles as he downloads the response.

Mega and Krod watch nearby.

RUSH I identified the intruder.



29 38 CONTINUED: SINCLAIR Tron? Wasn't Tron one of our programs?

Sinclair and Meg trade baffled looks.

39 INT. CYBERSPACE - X-NET NEXUS Plexor oversees construction. X-Takk Commander points to something in the distance.

Beyond the horizon, the RUBY RED BEAM reaches to the heavens.

Plexor sees it, alarmed.

40 EXT. CYBERSPACE - ANCIENT I/O PORT - MORNING Text forms in magenta circuitry - GOOD WORK PARTNER.

RUSH I have a plan to crash Tron.

Mega turns with alarm.


Rush leaps clear with his disk -

MASSIVE ROMBALL (data reformatting orb) hurtles around the I/O Port, ZAPPING all it touches, de-rezzing data structures into neutral gray "blank matter".

ROMBALL loops skyward.

GIANT D-REZZ PROGRAM crashes down from above, retrieves ROMBALL - He's ENORMOUS, TOUGH, SINGLE-MINDED.

41 INT. ENCOM CORPORATION - SINCLAIR'S OFFICE - DAY Sinclair and Meg hang on the broken transmission:

MEG Rush?

Words appear: END OF LINE.

SINCLAIR He'd better not fail. 30

42 EXT. ANCIENT COMPUTER SYSTEM I/O PORT D-Rezz screams like a modem, hurls ROMBALL -

Mega and Krod dive clear -

ROMBALL misses them, but BLAZES DOWN two more I/O Ports. D- rezz retrieves ROMBALL, bears down on Mega and Krod.

RUSH Hey! Double points if you nail me! Bring it on!

D-Rezz turns his ugly sights on Rush, baited away from Mega and Krod.

D-rezz flexes and ROARS, revealing an X-NET LOGO on his chest.

RUSH Stop! End your routine!

D-rezz corners Rush, hurls his ROMBALL - Ball fires every circuit in its path, bleaching away data energy.

Rush dodges -

RUSH Cease! Desist! We're on the same team!

Mega throws her disk, plings D-rezz on the skull. D-rezz turns on her -

Rush runs, LEAPS on D-Rezz's back. Like riding a gorilla -

D-Rezz flips Rush to the ground, pins him with one mighty hand, raises his ROMBALL for the kill.

RUSH I'm X-Net too!

Data flows from Rush's body, up D-Rezz's clamping arm. Radiant energy between predator and prey.

Digits race in D-rezz's eyes. A code unlocks. He looks down, finally registering the X-Net markings on Rush's outfit.

D-Rezz lets go of Rush, slumps back on his haunches. Lowers his head in shame.

RUSH No, hey, hey big guy, don't take it so hard. We all have bad days.

(CONTINUED) 31 42 CONTINUED: RUSH rolls the BIG ROMBALL over: A peace offering.

Mega and Krod cautiously approach.

MEGA He was carrying out his programming. All I/O Ports are scheduled for de- rezz.

D-rezz hears this, happy to be understood. (He never talks.)

KROD Easy, big guy. No harm, no foul.

RUSH D-Rezz, we can use a guy with your raw power. You ready to be a hero for X-Net?

D-Rezz stands, clutches his ROMBALL. Reporting for duty.

KROD Cool. Now I've got somebody I can boss around.

D-rezz modem-growls at Krod.

KROD Or not.

RUSH Let's get to the game grid.

Rush leads them up an incline.

MEGA (grudgingly, to Rush) You have a skill for manipulating other programs.

RUSH When do I get a shot at hacking your code?

MEGA Never. Our operating systems are incompatible.

RUSH You act like I've got a virus.

They come to a spectacular vista of the OLD GAME GRID. Low resolution, uncool, largely forgotten.

(CONTINUED) 32 42 CONTINUED: (2) KROD There it is.

RUSH The place we nail Tron.

43 EXT. GAME PORTAL OUTPOST Obsolete, abandoned computer game entry portal, guarding entry to the old game grid beyond. An electro-tech carnival zone gone dark. No life in sight... Then:

Beam of DATA ENERGY sling-shots at ground level, solidifying to become:

A slender, jumpy Program called I-BEEM. He wears the X-Net logo and a cracked disk on his back. He's highly unstable and way unplugged from the system (like one of those Japanese soldiers still fighting alone in the hills 10 years after WWII was over).

I-Beem sees something - he PANICS, zapping away in characteristic streaks of airborne data. He reassembles in a hiding place, skittish, observing:

Rush, Mega, Krod and D-Rezz arrive. See GIANT PILE of GAME VEHICLE PARTS blocking access to the grid.

Rush picks up an old LIGHT WAND. Krod finds one too.

RUSH D-rezz. Cut a path.

D-Rezz hurls his Romball, ZAPS into VEHICLE PARTS. A dent.

KROD That's good. Keep doing it.

D-rezz retrieves Romball for another whack -

ZAP - DATA ENERGY BEAM snaps in front of them, becoming I- Beem. He grips his rickety disk, challenging them.

I-BEEM Violation! Go away! Access denied!

RUSH Relax, buddy -

Mega scans I-beem. He freaks, drops his disk, grabs for it.

KROD Pound him to bits, D-rezz.

33 43 CONTINUED: D-Rezz raises his Romball to pulverize I-Beem.

I-Beem freaks, ZAPS away in his data beam as Romball crashes down. I-Beem reforms further way, then beside them - He snatches his pancake disk, the zaps away again, emerging then high on the pile of parts.

RUSH He's wireless.

KROD Freaky.

MEGA Searching data bank. "I-Beem". Security Specialist, damaged in service, rated unstable.

I-BEEM (ranting from above) "Unstable"! Like they aren't?! They booted me off X-Net! I'll show them! I'm doing my subroutine out here! Nobody gets through this portal!

He kicks parts - avalanche fills the gap D-rezz blasted.

KROD D-rezz, take out this blip.

D-rezz ***** Romball. I-Beem freaks, sling-shots all over the place via his data beam, tossing his wobbly disk.

Rush catches I-Beem's disk. Holds off D-Rezz.

RUSH Hang on. I-Beem. We're from X-Net CPU. You're doing a great job out here. Everybody knows it.

Mega throws Rush a look. I-beem comes up, grateful.

I-BEEM They do?!

RUSH That's right. Now, have you seen a rogue Program around here? He's red. Super fast. Known as "Tron".

Data zags to Rush, forming into: I-Beem. Wide-eyed.

(CONTINUED) 34 43 CONTINUED: (2) I-BEEM The red one! That illegal function! He blasts through here and JUMPS OVER THE TOP! I tell him access denied - he JUMPS RIGHT OVER like I was never there!

RUSH When did he come through last?

I-BEEM Right before you got here.

Rush trades looks with Mega, Krod and D-Rezz. Trail is hot.

RUSH I-beem, we've got a plan to shut down that red violator. You're going to help us.

I-BEEM Let me at him!

RUSH First, you've got to let us onto the game grid.

I-Beem stiffens, reflexively vigilant. He scans the four of them again, finally softening. He zaps to a wall near his giant barrier, then proudly pushes aside a thin panel. Beyond a corridor of game gear, view expanses to reveal:

44 EXT. OLD GAME GRID Rush steps across the vast vector-graphic grid surface.

Eerie. Quiet. Pure.

Mega, I-Beem, Krod and D-rezz follow.

MEGA This region is obsolete.

Rush kneels, touches grid lines. Circuits energize, as his energy surges in all directions. He draws in data.

RUSH There's bits of Tron's code all over. Krod, give D-Rezz and I-beem the escape coordinate Tron used on me.

Krod's eyes flash data to I-Beem and D-rezz. "Tr165444.018".

(CONTINUED) 35 44 CONTINUED: I-BEEM Coordinate captured.

D-Rezz nods, palming his Romball.

RUSH That's where Tron will bail out. We'll make sure he needs to. Go set up the trap. (to D-rezz) You only get one shot at this, big guy. Stop him but don't destroy him, right? He's got data I need.

D-rezz grips Romball, grunts affirmation. He and I-beem head for the perimeter of the grid.

MEGA If this is Tron's territory, he'll know we're here. He'll hide.

RUSH He can't resist a grudge match. He'll take risks trying to beat me. That's how we trip him up. (to Krod) Whip it out.

Rush unsheathes his LIGHT WAND.

Krod pulls out his own LIGHT WAND.

They both look at Mega.

She's got no light wand.

KROD You didn't bring one?

MEGA I don't have one.

KROD Hey, not a problem -

Krod holds his light wand forward, activates it. LIGHT CYCLE up-rezzes under him. He revs it, ready to go.

KROD (to Mega) - Hop on!

RUSH Hang on, Krod.

(CONTINUED) 36 44 CONTINUED: (2) Rush activates his light wand. LIGHT CYCLE up-rezzes under him, with a special two tier seat for a second rider.

RUSH I upgraded my unit.

KROD You are awesome, man. I hate you.

Mega considers. There's more on her mind she's not talking about. She smiles at Rush, climbs on back of his light cycle.

MEGA Mmmm... Hack me.

A nod between Rush and Rush - they TAKE OFF.

LIGHT CYCLES shoot across grid surface.

Mega screams and clutches Rush, throwing her body against his, clamping her arms around him.

Krod and Rush turn 90 degrees, rallying, passing each other, getting warmed up. It's familiar territory.

Light cycles race toward each other on the same line.

Mega holds Rush tight, eyes filling with terror.

MEGA Resource conflict! Fatal crash imminent!

But Krod and Rush slow their light cycles with expert skill, rolling safely to a halt, nose-to-nose. Directly over:

A BIG RED DOT. The only dot on the grid.

Grid Center.

Mega, Rush and Krod raise up to scan the horizon. It's all clear flat grid to the horizon.

RUSH Any sign of him?

KROD Everything looks the same to me. Everything looks the same. The same. The same.

RUSH Krod, snap out of it.

37 44 CONTINUED: (3) MEGA Tron will never expose himself.

They watch, wait, pivot.

KROD The same...

45 EXT. EDGE OF GAME GRID D-rezz and I-beem search grid edge, along the rocky boundary. I-beem zaps himself further along, finding:

Glowing code numbers mark the end of each grid line.

D-rezz grunts, points. One lights up "Tr165444.018"

They follow the line off the grid, where it leads into a narrow rocky pass.

I-BEEM Yes, I see. Perfect trap. This is going to be good. Climb, climb!

46 EXT. GAME GRID / CENTER SPOT Rush, Mega and Krod wait on their light cycles.

MEGA Its futile.

RUSH Look.

SPECK moves on the horizon, turns a corner, stays on the horizon. Another corner. It's a light cycle, making a huge box around them.

RUSH Remember the plan, Krod. Don't bail out until the last millisecond.

Lightcycle turns toward them, coming fast.

RUSH Hang on tight, Mega.

Mega hugs Rush.

KROD Mmmm.


(CONTINUED) 38 46 CONTINUED: Approaching cycle comes at 90 degree angle, turns hard, closes the distance.

It's TRON. Heartless eyes, ruthless moves.

Rush turns quick, baiting Tron. Tron turns to follow, coming alongside.

Krod runs interference, cuts sharp in front of Tron.

It's a high-stakes speed-chase, narrowly missing side walls and rock outcroppings.

47 EXT. EDGE OF GAME GRID I-beem zaps onto the grid, tracks horizon dots.

I-BEEM Here they come!

He zaps back to the edge, signals upward. D-rezz straddles the rock passage above, ready to hurl his Romball.

48 EXT. GAME GRID Tron takes the lead in a three-way heat. Revs to breath- taking speed.

Rush and Krod gain, coming up on either side of Tron.

Tron looks to each opponent. His eyes lock on Mega.

Mega stares into Tron's cold eyes, almost like she's trying to signal him. But Tron returns his gaze forward, as the ROCKY EDGE looms closer.

RUSH Wuss! You call that speed!?

Rush kicks in a hyper-burner, surging forward. Krod does the same. Tron responds with more speed.

Rush and Krod have Tron sandwiched, heading for the rock edge. Tron pulls ahead, aiming for the hidden crevasse.

Mega worries. Clings to Rush.

49 EXT. EDGE OF GAME GRID D-rezz, astride the crevasse, sees light cycles speeding his way. He's got the Rom-ball poised to intercept Tron.

(CONTINUED) 39 49 CONTINUED: I-beem de-rezzes into the grid, clearing the path.

Rush and Krod taunt Tron into the trap...

But, out of nowhere, Mega reaches to Rush's handlebars and turns 90 degrees too soon.

KROD Hey, what are you - ??

Tron sees the bail-out, knows something's wrong. He looks ahead, sees D-rezz astride his crevasse escape root, rom- ball poised in the air.

Tron bails out 90 degrees, cutting behind Krod. Krod turns twice, ending up in Tron's lane.

To the side, Rush's light cycle screams toward solid rock, vibrating out of control.

Rush grabs Mega and JUMPS OFF. They slide on the grid, holding each other.

Krod's lightcycle heads for the rock escape passage.

KROD No! It's ME!

Rush and Mega slide to a halt, in time to see:

Their light cycle SMASHES rocks, explodes in a million bits.

RUSH WHY DID YOU DO THAT?! MEGA I- I GOT SCARED! Krod shoots gap. D-rezz is ready to smash him with his Romball.

I-BEEM No! It's Krod! Tron is OVER THERE!

D-rezz makes mental switch, hurls Romball.

Romball bounces down solid rock, onto game grid, rolls with ferocious speed, DIAGONALLY across the grid.

Romball curves to track Tron - like a great bowling shot.

Romball clips rear wheel of Tron's lightcycle. Lightcycle vaporizes. Tron skids and tumbles.

I-beem zaps beside Rush and Mega. Krod and D-rezz join them.

(CONTINUED) 40 49 CONTINUED: (2) KROD There he goes!

Tron climbs over rocks, escaping through a TUNNEL.

RUSH We've got him now. Let's go!

WHOOSH! Electro-fire Romball careens across grid, bearing down on them.


D-rezz swings in a foot, stopping the Romball - inches short of mowing down Krod.

KROD I could have done that.

He strobes, freezes, hits the deck.

50 INT. ANCIENT COMPUTER SYSTEM TUNNEL Stalking their prey: Rush, Krod, I-beem and D-rezz.

MEGA We can't go any further.

Ahead, vast old circuitry has been "eaten through" by dull throbbing greenish MEMORY LEAKAGE. Paths of unaffected material are narrow and maze-like.

RUSH What is it?

KROD Don't ask, dude.

MEGA It's a memory leak, once it starts, it infects everything.

I-BEEM Touch it and you crash forever. We cannot risk it.

MEGA I agree.

D-rezz grunts.

KROD Then it's settled.

41 50 CONTINUED: Krod turns to head home.

RUSH Stop. Listen to me. You might not believe there's a world outside of this one, but let's just say a guy named Sinclair is depending on me. If Tron got through here, then I can too. Who's with me?

D-rezz steps forward, then I-Beem. Shamed, Krod joins them. Finally, Mega makes it unanimous.

RUSH Good. I-beem, take D-rezz, see what's up ahead. We'll guard this portal until you come back.

I-beem and D-rezz buddy up and depart on a recon mission.

Krod pulls off his disk, nervously practices boomerang throws.

RUSH Better show me how to use mine.

KROD No problem. It's all in the velocity- vector ratio.

Rush pulls the disk off his own back. He throws - disk flies wild - he runs to retrieve it.

Mega retreats to a side area, partially eroded by memory leakage. She finds the remnants of COM CIRCUITRY and stares data beams into its transducer.


51 EXT. X-NET NEXUS UNDER CONSTRUCTION - PLEXOR'S VEHICLE Plexor's vehicle circuitry forms image of Mega.

PLEXOR Report.

MEGA We interfaced with Tron. He escaped into a dark zone.

52 INT. ANCIENT COMPUTER SYSTEM TUNNEL Around a corner, Rush comes to retrieve his disk. He pauses to eavesdrop on Mega's communication:

(CONTINUED) 42 52 CONTINUED: PLEXOR The Random One has proven effective?

MEGA He is all glitches and bad data. He virtually got us de-rezzed. I recommend we terminate this mission.

Rush listens, hurt and angry.

PLEXOR No. Proceed. If you keep Tron on the run, he cannot attack X-Net.

MEGA It's a poor allocation of resources.

PLEXOR You have your instructions.

Circuits go dark. Mega turns, running smack into:

RUSH "All glitches and bad data." What's up with you? Ever since I got here, you've been working against me.

MEGA I act as Plexor programs me.

RUSH Blah blah blah. You've got you own processor. I can feel it working overtime. Did Meg program you to mess with me?

MEGA I have no match for "Meg" -

RUSH First, you don't want to come with me, then you're all over me on the light cycle - so you can dump us over and blow the plan. We would have nailed Tron by now if it wasn't for you. What's your malfunction?

MEGA Don't troubleshoot me!

Angry silence. Eyes locked.

(CONTINUED) 43 52 CONTINUED: (2) MEGA The most effective alternative is to return to the main CPU and anticipate Tron's next attack.

She moves to exit past him. He snags her arm, pulls her back and KISSES HER.

Energy ZAPS between them, racing through their body circuits.

Rush downloads the spiky sensation. Mega remains cold and bewildered.

Outside, Krod tosses his disk, moving to track as it arcs through the air. He notices Rush and Mega kissing. Digs it vicariously.

KROD You ram hog!

His disk clunks him on the head.

Mega breaks the kiss, backing off, conflicted. Arcs of energy stretch between them, then snap loose.

RUSH It's what I'm programmed to do.

Mega tries to ignore the kiss. She exits past the guys.

KROD What were you doing with her?

RUSH Nothing. She had a glitch. I was just pinging her EPROM.

KROD She let you?

I-BEEM (O.S.) There's a way through!

Rush, Krod and Mega hurry to see:

I-beem zap-zap-zaps toward them, scared to death -

I-BEEM Tron attacked us! D-rezz has him cornered!

Rush stows his disk on his back -

RUSH We've got him now. 44

53 INT. ANCIENT COMPUTER SYSTEM LABYRINTH Eaten away by memory leaks, like swiss cheese.

Rush, Mega, Krod follow I-beem along narrow paths of unaffected material.

Krod trips, his LIGHT WAND tumbles and skates into memory leakage. It FRIES and de-rezzes, sucked into the molten silicon swamp.

D-REZZ Akakakaka - Agggggggg -

Sounds like a modem, but it's a BATTLE-CRY.

Rush comes to a point above - and cut off from - the fight.

D-rezz advances along a narrow gantry, spinning his Romball, ready to hurl at:

TRON. Tron flips over memory leakage, gains position and throws his disk -

Disk HITS D-rezz. Plasma-ball GASH, but D-rezz is tough. He takes the damage, ***** his Romball -

RUSH Guys! Go around - behind Tron!

Rush darts down to help D-rezz. Mega, Rush hurry ahead. I- beem zaps, zags and reforms, scared out of his mind.

D-rezz hurls his Romball -

Romball pings off two walls, comes at Tron from behind.

Tron spins - milliseconds to spare - and flips clear. Retrieves his disk on the way down.

Romball slams off a wall, heads back to D-rezz, but Tron's disk HITS IT, knocking it off course.

D-rezz dives for ROMBALL - but it falls into the memory leak and FRIES TO BITS.

Tron plants for a clear shot at D-rezz.

Rush JUMPS down from above, right in front of D-rezz.

RUSH Ouch!

(CONTINUED) 45 53 CONTINUED: His ankle. He straightens, standing in front of D-rezz.

Lays eyes on Tron.

RUSH Hey! Pick on somebody your own size!

D-rezz is twice as big as either of them.

Tron's eyes are cold, lifeless, calculating. Scanning his new opponent without success.

RUSH You've got no data on me.

Rush pulls his disk off his back, poised for a duel.

Tron moves with calculation, grips his hyper-etched disk. Circling his prey.

Throws again -


Tron's disk slams D-rezz. D-rezz tries to catch the disk, but he's just too slow.

Rush throws his disk. Beginner's luck - it banks off a wall and nearly smacks Tron. Rush snags it on the way back, before it tumbles into memory leakage.

Tron jumps up two levels. Retrieves his disk.

RUSH D-rezz, pull me up!

D-rezz hoists Rush up. Fingers grab upper deck.

Tron jockeys for position. Throws disk -

Disk strikes D-rezz in the ribs. Blast damage.

D-rezz loses footing.

Rush grabs upper level.

D-rezz slips toward memory leakage.

Rush grabs D-rezz's hand - he weighs a ton.

Mega, Krod and I-beem can't get here to help -

46 53 CONTINUED: (2) RUSH Hang on, man! HANG ON!

But D-rezz's big hand slips out of Rush's.

D-rezz PLUMMETS into memory leakage, zapping away in a blaze of glory -

RUSH NOOOO! He comes to his feet, facing Tron. Determined.

RUSH I know who you are. Encom security program Tr856 - TRON!

Tron pauses. Processes.

RUSH Who is your User??

Tron glitches at the question.

RUSH Who programmed you?? I know your encryption code. Tell me your User or I shut you down.

Tron throws his disk.

Rush dodges. He sends waves of data energy through floor circuits, reaching into Tron's body.

RUSH I can shut you down with a nine digit code. WHO IS YOUR USER?? 392 -

Tron's body animates painfully, as the first three code digits click into place.

Tron FLIPS away, breaking contact with floor. Data transfer stops. Tron steals away through a tunnel.

Rush pursues.

Krod, Mega and I-beem clamber for a way to follow.

54 INT. OBSOLETE COMPUTER GAME ARENA Circular, riddled with memory leaks.

Rush hurries to the center. No sign of Tron.

(CONTINUED) 47 54 CONTINUED: RUSH Tell me, Tron! Who programmed you? Here's your encryption code! 3-6-2- 6-6-8 - Rush sends data coursing into floor circuits. It radiates up walls, across bridges... And finds TRON in hidi



yo, ANY OF YOU  blacks got the g00Ds

curry *****


black has got gooods



I have a fishing rod up my @55 and when I try to levitate it swings in and out. please help the lord needs his fish. 

Freya's Insulin





Muppet Treasure Island Poster

curry *****


Related image



anyone know if this website is pegi 18 or not. vause my nursery sudents keep touching eachother and I feel like I should join in but they are a bit to small for me



yo Freya . need your insulin?



the fuhrer has your goods to pump into your body



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Image result for memes

curry *****


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the god needs his decipals to **** his chicken leg as, kevin spacey is up in heaven tickling the kiddies with his huge baguette



je suis baguette saved the jews



you know I have masterminded every attack on civilians since 1903

curry *****


Our lord has died

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the lord is here



Related image

curry *****


Image result for osama bin laden meme (http://mymemes.biz/wp-content/uploads/2017/10/osama-bin-laden-memes.jpg)

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