Art and the Homeless

Chapter 17   The ship was a Liberty vessel, the kind of American workhorse that had become the backbone of the Allied supply line. It was bulky, utilitarian, painted a dull, non-reflective grey; in other words, not a pretty cruise ship. It had no plush lounges or grand staircases; the Civilian Section was open deck forward of the smokestacks, lined with rows of folding canvas chairs and small tables bolted to the steel floor. It smelled of diesel fumes, salt spray, and the faint, oily taste of the sea. Gertie found an unoccupied chair near the starboard railing. She dropped her canvas shoulder bag—Brigid’s gift—and her duffel beside it, the soft thud echoing slightly. She stood at the railing, gripping the cold metal, observing the harbor of Tunis.  A great, resonant horn blew, a deep, mournful sound that vibrated through her. Then came the rhythmic chugging of the engines, a steady, mechanical heartbeat that signaled the ship was underway.  The city’s white buildings blu...

Chapter 16  The convoy slowed as they entered the outskirts of Tunis. The air here was different, saltier, carrying the faint, oily odor of the busy harbor mixed with the dust of the desert. The trucks rolled through narrow streets where the shadows of the buildings disappeared into dark alleys, running through the gutters like spilled ink. At 23:00, the lead vehicle signaled a halt. The engine of the personnel carrier cut out, leaving a sudden, ringing in the ears that was worse than the noise. The rear gate squealed as it was lowered, and Gertie and Brigid stepped down onto the cobblestones. Their legs felt stiff, unused to standing still after hours of riding. Brigid turned, her silhouette sharp against the dim glow of a gas lamp. "This is where I arrive, and you continue your journey," she said, her voice low. Gertie nodded, the fatigue settling deep in her bones. She had expected more instructions, perhaps a briefing on the next phase, but Brigid simply handed her a canv...

Chapter 15: The six-wheel, M35 cargo truck’s engine roared, a metal beast clawing the road as it surged forward to rejoin the convoy. The entire convoy had not stopped to pick up two passengers. The last truck of the convoy had only stopped long enough for them to climb aboard. Now, the truck was moving, again. Inside the cargo bay of the hauler, two parallel benches faced each other, separated by a narrow aisle. Gertie sat on one side, her back braced against the vibrating rail. Brigid took the opposite bench. Shafts of light filtered through the soft canopy of the cargo bay.  For a long time neither spoke. It would be indiscreet, Gertie decided, to talk about her mission, about what she hoped to achieve.  The sun began to set, the day ending. In the space between them something hung in the air, something that needed saying. At once, Brigid started. She reached into her rucksack, feeling, and pulled out a book. The cover was worn, beaten with use. She held it up in the dim li...

Chapter 14 Gertie walked in the direction of the taxi stand, to a group of men in white djellabas, their faces obscured by the brims of their felt hats, eyes darting. She approached one. He nodded, bored. The taxi was a battered Chevrolet sedan, its paint faded, chrome bumpers chipped, the sound of its engine a rattle of coughs and sputters. The driver, his own dark face a map of wrinkles and lines, eyes the color of hot tea, signaled for her to get in. She climbed into the back seat. The smell of gasoline, cigarette smoke, and exhaust fumes wafting through the car windows. The city of Algiers was a delight to see. It was a jumble of sights and sounds, smells and surprises, a synthesis of the senses. The streets were a mix of the old and the new, the ancient and the modern. The white buildings of the Casbah gleamed in the sunlight. The French colonial architecture was a stark contrast, the wide avenues lined with palm trees, the grand boulevards with elegant shops and cafes.  The t...

Prediction Markets as Honor Traps: Exposing Insider Trading Through Automated Transparency By Brian Higgins The Problem: When Intelligence Becomes a Game Social critics often argue that prediction markets turn national security into a game, inadvertently incentivizing terrorism by allowing players to profit from specific outcomes. They fear that participants, driven by financial interest, might manipulate events to ensure their bets win. However, this critique overlooks a critical flaw in the logic: major actors are not interested in making "good bets"; they are interested in making decisions. A point spread offers little utility to those who “call the shots,” anyway. The true value of prediction markets lies not in forecasting, but in forensic exposure. They act as a digital "honey trap" designed to catch front-runners—individuals who exploit privileged, confidential information to place winning trades before public announcements. The Ethical Premise: Honor and Tra...

Chapter 13 The plane came to a halt. The propeller engines stopped. The sudden quiet was deafening. The boarding stair tapped the fuselage of the plane as the ground crew maneuvered it into place. The stewardess opened the door, and a gust of outside air relieved the suspense of landing.   Her turn, Gertie paused at the exit, hand on the rail. Her heart pounded in her ribs. The world outside came as a flash of light, activity, and movement. It was chaotic, alive with the sounds of a language she did not understand, faces she could not place. Gertie stepped down onto the pavement, her footing unsteady. The intensity of the heat hit her instantly, a physical impact that pressed against her, resisting her advance. She looked up, wincing at the glare.  “I must get a suitable hat,” she thought.  Then she was alone. The other passengers dispersed, their movement swift and purposeful, going their separate ways, on a mission. She savored the irony of her being alone, as if on sta...