Date: Mon, 14 Jan 91 14:22:23 -0500
From: bryant@husc9.harvard.edu (Katherine 'Kabeta' Bryant)
Subject: Lt. Garrett, RIP


I suppose some of you are wondering why I've called you all together
so suddenly.  I won't keep you waiting.
 
Recently the crew has suffered a great loss.  In a freak accident in
the croutonizer room, Garrett was killed.  The work side of Garrett 
was known to all.  Each of us, without exception, put our lives into
his hands every time we stepped onto the croutonizer platform, whether
because he was the man at the controls or because it was his wiring
that held together the machine that killed us-- if only for a moment--
before putting our croutons back together and letting us be born
again.  Most of us did this so often that we forgot to think, after
a while, of how much we depended on it.  Illuvana will be there
now, and soon we will be comfortable enough with him that we can forget
again.  But as long as the croutonizers are still misfunctioning, and
even for a little while after, every time one of us winks out of
existence we will remember him.
 
But many of us knew Garrett in another way, too.  We knew him in the
occasional, impassioned, flaming letters he sent out to all of us.
He was adamant when aroused, and never hesitated to voice opinions
that offended many of us at the time.  Some of us responded to him,
flaming back in kind, some of us held our tongues and smoldered a
little inside, some of us tried to hold ourselves above the argument
and let it pass by without touching us.  But for all of us, his
quick temper and his sharp pride caught our attention, made us
look or made us turn our heads away, got some response.  Those of
us prone to a good fight may miss him, those of us sick of being
subjected to tirades may breathe a veiled sigh of relief or may
be comfortable not thinking about him unless the need comes up.
But for all of us, in one way or another, he is gone.
And we will feel it.
 
--Speaker for the Dead