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“For of course,” said Mr. Foster, “in the vast majority of cases, fertility is merely a nuisance. One fertile ovary in twelve hundred–that would really be quite sufficient for our purposes. But we want to have a good choice. And of course one must always have an enormous margin of safety. So we allow as many as thirty per cent of the female embryos to develop normally. The others get a dose of male sex-hormone every twenty-four metres for the rest of the course. Result: they’re decaned as freemartins–structurally quite normal (except,” he had to admit, “that they do have the slightest tendency to grow beards), but sterile. Guaranteed sterile. Which brings us at last,” continued Mr. Foster, “out of the realm of mere slavish imitation of nature into the much more interesting world of human invention.”

"You could buy a cat," Barbour offered. "Cats are cheap; look in your Sidney's catalogue." Rick said quietly, "I don't want a domestic pet. I want what I originally had, a large animal. A sheep or if I can get the money a cow or a steer or what you have; a horse." The bounty from retiring five andys would do it, he realized. A thousand dollars apiece, over and above y salary. Then somewhere I could find, from someone, what I want. Even if the listing in Sidney's Animal & Fowl is in italics. Five thousand dollars — but, he thought, the five andys first have to make their way to Earth from one of the colony planets; I can't control that, I can't make five of them come here, and even if I could there are other bounty hunters with other police agencies throughout the world. The andys would specifically have to take up residence in Northern California, and the senior bounty hunter in this area, Dave Holden, would have to die or retire.

Someone somewhere will give me back the old face and the old hands the way they were. Even the smile, he thought, the old burnt-in smile, that's gone. I'm lost without it. The subway fled past him, cream-tile, jet-black, cream-tile, jet-black, numerals and darkness, more darkness and the total adding itself. Once as a child he had sat upon a yellow dune by the sea in the middle of the blue and hot summer day, trying to fill a sieve with sand, because some cruel cousin had said, "Fill this sieve and you'll get a dime!" `And the faster he poured, the faster it sifted through with a hot whispering. His hands were tired, the sand was boiling, the sieve was empty. Seated there in the midst of July, without a sound, he felt the tears move down his cheeks.

To see ourselves as others see us is a most salutary gift. Hardly less important is the capacity to see others as they see themselves. But what if these others belong to a different species and inhabit a radically alien universe? For example, how can the sane get to know what it actually feels like to be mad? Or, short of being born again as a visionary, a medium, or a musical genius, how can we ever visit the worlds which, to Blake, to Swedenborg, to Johann Sebastian Bach, were home?

The other person was a man named O’Brien, a member of the Inner Party and holder of some post so important and remote that Winston had only a dim idea of its nature. A momentary hush passed over the group of people around the chairs as they saw the black overalls of an Inner Party member approaching. O’Brien was a large, burly man with a thick neck and a coarse, humorous, brutal face. In spite of his formidable appearance he had a certain charm of manner. He had a trick of resettling his spectacles on his nose which was curiously disarming — in some indefinable way, curiously civilized. It was a gesture which, if anyone had still thought in such terms, might have recalled an eighteenth-century nobleman offering his snuffbox.

Each of the five factions coexisting in a dystopian Chicago, have gone to war because of one woman, Jeanine, to keep the secret of “What is beyond the wall?” Tris’ gift allows her to survive through brain-washings, simulations, and Jeanine’s instinctive nature of wanting to control everything. Tris began her journey the day she turned 16, Choosing Day. That day controlled which faction a person would live in for the rest of their lifetime: Abnegation, Amity, Dauntless, Erudite, or Candor. Tris chose Dauntless.

Using the way light cones behave in general relativity, together with the fact that gravity is always attractive, he showed that a star collapsing under its own gravity is trapped in a region whose surface eventually shrinks to zero size. And, since the surface of the region shrinks to zero, so too must its volume. All the matter in the star will be compressed into a region of zero volume, so the density of matter and the curvature of space-time become infinite. In other words, one has a singularity contained within a region of space-time known as a black hole.

Sam is in an area of the Harvester -- a kind of hatch -- not dissimilar to a garage and known as THE BELLY. Once safely inside Sam closes the door. He is able to breathe in the Belly without his helmet, which he duly removes.Sam steps up to a wall of computers. A light is flashing to indicate one of the pods is filled with Helium3. Sam does his thing, eventually removing a keg-size pod of Helium3. He hauls it over to the Rover and sticks it in a special slot in the equivalent of the Rover's trunk. A new pod -- an empty -- replaces the pod Sam just removed. Sam puts his helmet back on, returns to the Rover, reverses out of the Harvester carefully.

The machine gun roars, bullets shredding out through the back of V's cloak as he continues with short deliberate steps until -- The hammer clicks against the pin. The gun is empty.
V stands before him. "You see? You cannot kill me. There is no flesh and blood within this cloak to kill. There is only an idea." V smiles. "And ideas are bulletproof." The Leader screams.