The CodeBreakers

AT 1:28 on the morning of December 7, 1941, the big ear of the Navy's radio station on Bainbridge Island near Seattle trembled to vibrations in the ether. A message was coming through on the Tokyo-Washington circuit. It was addressed to the Japanese embassy, and Bainbridge reached up and snared it as it flashed overhead. The message was short, and its radiotelegraph transmission took only nine minutes. Bainbridge had it all by 1:37.
The station's personnel punched the intercepted message on a teletype tape, dialed a number on the teletypewriter exchange, and when the connection had been made, fed the tape into a mechanical transmitter that gobbled it up at 60 words per minute.
The intercept reappeared on a page-printer in Room 1649 of the Navy Department building on Constitution Avenue in Washington, D.C. What went on in this room, tucked for security's sake at the end of the first deck's sixth wing, was one of the most closely guarded secrets of the American government. For it was in here—and in a similar War Department room in the Munitions Building next door—that the United States peered into the most confidential thoughts and plans of its possible enemies by shredding the coded wrappings of their dispatches.
Room 1649 housed OP-20-GY, the cryptanalytic section of the Navy's cryptologic organization, OP-20-G. The page-printer stood beside the desk of the GY watch officer. It rapped out the intercept in an original and a carbon copy on yellow and pink teletype paper just like news on a city room wireservice ticker. The watch officer, Lieutenant (j.g.) Francis M. Brotherhood, U.S.N.R., a curly-haired, brown-eyed six-footer, saw immediately from indicators that the message bore for the guidance of Japanese code clerks that it was in the top Japanese cryptographic system.
This was an extremely complicated machine cipher which American cryptanalysts called PURPLE. Led by William F. Friedman, Chief Cryptanalyst of the Army Signal Corps, a team of codebreakers had solved Japan's enciphered dispatches, deduced the nature of the mechanism that would effect those letter transformations, and painstakingly built up an apparatus that cryptographically duplicated the Japanese machine. The Signal Corps had then constructed several additional PURPLE machines, using a hodgepodge of manufactured parts, and had given one to the Navy. Its three components rested now on a table in Room 1649: an electric typewriter for input; the cryptographic assembly proper, consisting of a plugboard, four electric coding rings, and associated wires and switches, set on a wooden frame; and a printing unit for output. To this precious contraption, worth quite literally more than its weight in gold, Brotherhood carried the intercept.
He flicked the switches to the key of December 7. This was a rearrangement, according to a pattern ascertained months ago, of the key of December 1, which OP-20-QY had recovered. Brotherhood typed out the coded message. Electric impulses raced through the maze of wires, reversing the intricate enciphering process. In a few minutes, he had the plaintext before him.
It was in Japanese. Brotherhood had taken some of the orientation courses in that difficult language that the Navy gave to assist its cryptanalysts. He was in no sense a translator, however, and none was on duty next door in OP-20-GZ, the translating section. He put a red priority sticker on the decode and hand-carried it to the Signal Intelligence Service, the Army counterpart of OP-20-O, where he knew that a translator was on overnight duty. Leaving it there, he returned to OP-20-G. By now it was after 5 a.m. in Washington—the message having lost three hours as it passed through three time zones in crossing the continent.
The S.I.S translator rendered the Japanse as: "Will the Ambassador please submit to the United States Government (if possible to the Secretary of State) our reply to the United States at 1:00 p.m. on the 7th, your time." The —"reply" referred to had been transmitted by Tokyo in 14 parts over the past 18½ hours, and Brotherhood had only recently decrypted the 14th part on the PURPLE machine. It had come out in the English in which Tokyo had framed it, and its ominous final sentence read: "The Japanese Government regrets to have to notify hereby the American Government that in view of the attitude of the American Government it cannot but consider that it is impossible to reach an agreement through further negotiations." Brotherhood had set it by for distribution early in the morning.
The translation of the message directing delivery at one o'clock had not yet come back from S.I.S. when Brotherhood was relieved at 7 a.m., and he told his relief, Lieutenant (j.g.) Alfred V. Pering, about it. Half an hour later, Lieutenant Commander Alwin D. Kramer, the Japanese-language expert who headed GZ and delivered the intercepts, arrived. He saw at once that the all-important conclusion of the long Japanese diplomatic note had come in since he had distributed the 13 previous parts the night before. He prepared a smooth copy from the rough decode and had his clerical assistant, Chief Yeoman H. L. Bryant, type up the usual 14 copies. Twelve of these were distributed by Kramer and his opposite number in S.I.S. to the President, the secretaries of State, War, and Navy, and a handful of top-ranking Army and Navy officers. The two others were file copies. This decode was part of a whole series of Japanese intercepts, which had long ago been given a collective codename, partly for security, partly for ease of reference, by a previous director of naval intelligence, Rear Admiral Walter S. Anderson. Inspired, no doubt, by the mysterious daily production of the information and by the aura of sorcery and the occult that has always enveloped cryptology, he called it MAGIC.
When Bryant had finished, Kramer sent S.I.S. its seven copies, and at 8 o'clock took a copy to his superior, Captain Arthur H. McCollum, head of the Far Eastern Section of the Office of Naval Intelligence. Read More,,,,, Password:qiew90

The Holy Blood And The Holy Gail

At the start of our search we did not know precisely what we were
looking for or, for that matter, looking at. We had no theories and no
hypotheses, we had set out to prove nothing. On the contrary, we were
simply trying to find an explanation for a curious little enigma of the
late nineteenth century. The conclusions we eventually reached were
not postulated in advance. We were led to them, step by step, as if
the evidence we accumulated had a mind of its own, was directing us of
its own accord.
We believed at first that we were dealing with a strictly local mystery
an intriguing mystery certainly, but a mystery of essentially minor
significance, confined to a village in the south of France. We
believed at first that the mystery, although it involved many
fascinating historical strands, was primarily of academic interest. We
believed that our investigation might help to illumine certain aspects
of Western history, but we never dreamed that it might entail
re-writing them. Still less did we dream that whatever we discovered
could be of any real contemporary relevance and explosive contemporary
relevance at that.
Our quest began -for it was indeed a quest with a more or less
straightforward story. At first glance this story was not markedly
different from numerous other "treasure stories' or "unsolved
mysteries' which abound in the history and folklore of almost every
rural region. A version of it had been publici sed in France, where it
attracted considerable interest but was not to our knowledge at the
time accorded any inordinate consequence. As we subsequently learned,
there were a number of errors in this version. For the moment,
however, we must recount the tale as it was published during the 1960s
Read More ,,,,, password:qiew90

Davinci Code

Robert Langdon awoke slowly.
A telephone was ringing in the darkness—a tinny, unfamiliar ring. He fumbled for the bedside lamp and turned it on. Squinting at his surroundings he saw a plush Renaissance bedroom with Louis XVI furniture, hand-frescoed walls, and a colossal mahogany four-poster bed.
Where the hell am I?
The jacquard bathrobe hanging on his bedpost bore the monogram: HOTEL RITZ PARIS.
Slowly, the fog began to lift.
Langdon picked up the receiver. "Hello?"
"Monsieur Langdon?" a man's voice said. "I hope I have not awoken you?"
Dazed, Langdon looked at the bedside clock. It was 12:32 A.M. He had been asleep only an hour, but he felt like the dead.
"This is the concierge, monsieur. I apologize for this intrusion, but you have a visitor. He insists it is urgent."
Langdon still felt fuzzy. A visitor? His eyes focused now on a crumpled flyer on his bedside table.
THE AMERICAN UNIVERSITY OF PARIS
proudly presents
AN EVENING WITH ROBERT LANGDON
PROFESSOR OF RELIGIOUS SYMBOLOGY,
HARVARD UNIVERSITY
Langdon groaned. Tonight's lecture—a slide show about pagan symbolism hidden in the stones of Chartres Cathedral—had probably ruffled some conservative feathers in the audience. Most likely,
some religious scholar had trailed him home to pick a fight.
"I'm sorry," Langdon said, "but I'm very tired and—"
"Mais, monsieur," the concierge pressed, lowering his voice to an urgent whisper. "Your guest is an important man."
Langdon had little doubt. His books on religious paintings and cult symbology had made him a reluctant celebrity in the art world, and last year Langdon's visibility had increased a hundredfold after his involvement in a widely publicized incident at the Vatican. Since then, the stream of self-important historians and art buffs arriving at his door had seemed never-ending.
"If you would be so kind," Langdon said, doing his best to remain polite, "could you take the man's name and number, and tell him I'll try to call him before I leave Paris on Tuesday? Thank you." He hung up before the concierge could protest.
Sitting up now, Langdon frowned at his bedside Guest Relations Handbook, whose cover boasted: SLEEP LIKE A BABY IN THE CITY OF LIGHTS. SLUMBER AT THE PARIS RITZ. He turned and gazed tiredly into the full-length mirror across the room. The man staring back at him was a stranger—tousled and weary.
You need a vacation, Robert.
The past year had taken a heavy toll on him, but he didn't appreciate seeing proof in the mirror. His usually sharp blue eyes looked hazy and drawn tonight. A dark stubble was shrouding his strong jaw and dimpled chin. Around his temples, the gray highlights were advancing, making their way deeper into his thicket of coarse black hair. Although his female colleagues insisted the gray only accentuated his bookish appeal, Langdon knew better.
If Boston Magazine could see me now.
Last month, much to Langdon's embarrassment, Boston Magazine had listed him as one of that city's top ten most intriguing people—a dubious honor that made him the brunt of endless ribbing by his Harvard colleagues. Tonight, three thousand miles from home, the accolade had resurfaced to haunt him at the lecture he had given.
"Ladies and gentlemen..." the hostess had announced to a full house at the American University of Paris's Pavilion Dauphine, "Our guest tonight needs no introduction. He is the author of numerous books: The Symbology of Secret Sects, The An of the Illuminati, The Lost Language of Ideograms, and when I say he wrote the book on Religious Iconology, I mean that quite literally. Many of you use his textbooks in class."
The students in the crowd nodded enthusiastically.
"I had planned to introduce him tonight by sharing his impressive curriculum vitae. However..." She glanced playfully at Langdon, who was seated onstage. "An audience member has just handed me a far more, shall we say... intriguing introduction."
She held up a copy of Boston Magazine.
Langdon cringed. Where the hell did she get that?
The hostess began reading choice excerpts from the inane article, and Langdon felt himself sinking lower and lower in his chair. Thirty seconds later, the crowd was grinning, and the woman showed no signs of letting up. "And Mr. Langdon's refusal to speak publicly about his unusual role in last year's Vatican conclave certainly wins him points on our intrigue-o-meter." The hostess goaded the crowd. "Would you like to hear more?"
The crowd applauded.
Somebody stop her, Langdon pleaded as she dove into the article again.
"Although Professor Langdon might not be considered hunk-handsome like some of our younger awardees, this forty-something academic has more than his share of scholarly allure. His captivating presence is punctuated by an unusually low, baritone speaking voice, which his female students describe as 'chocolate for the ears.' "
The hall erupted in laughter.
Langdon forced an awkward smile. He knew what came next—some ridiculous line about "Harrison Ford in Harris tweed"—and because this evening he had figured it was finally safe again to wear his Harris tweed and Burberry turtleneck, he decided to take action.
"Thank you, Monique," Langdon said, standing prematurely and edging her away from the podium. "Boston Magazine clearly has a gift for fiction." He turned to the audience with an embarrassed sigh. "And if I find which one of you provided that article, I'll have the consulate deport you." Read More,,,,,,,,,,

BLACK HOLE

It was an evening. A huge old castle stood beside the road, surrounded by the dense trees. Sun had just set in the west and there were still its signs visible in the sky. There was a huge open space in front of the castle, and on the other side of the open space, there were dense trees. A gust of air flowed wildly and with the breeze the trees started swaying. Just next to the castle there was a narrow well, encircled with the wildly grown grass. It was evident from the condition of the well that it was not been used since long. Far from this castle, there was a village nestled at the bottom of a hill. It appeared that the people from the village generally never used to come to the castle and the place around.

A Negro kid from the village, Frank, around 7-8 years of age, though black but was quite cute, was playing around with his calf. In fact he brought his calf for feeding nearby in the adjacent farms. The calf also seemed to be affectionate about the boy. When the boy used to caress him, he used to run away jumping like a spring bug. While running and jumping with fun the calf entered in the castle premises. Frank also followed him. As Frank entered into the castle premises, a wave of panic entered into his body, as he was warned by his parents to not to enter into this premises. But as the calf entered he just followed him to protect him.
He called out, while running behind the calf, " Gavin... stop"
They used to call him 'Gavin' lovingly.
By this time the calf not only entered the premises, but also started to go to the well adjacent to the castle, passing across the open space in front of the castle.
" Gavin don't go there..." Frank again warned him.
But the calf was not ready to listen. He reached the well and climbed the rock heap circled around the well.

Now Frank was getting concerned about the calf, for he had heard so many dreadful stories about the well. He heard that an animal once fallen in the well had never returned. And whoever tried to bring them back had also never returned. That might be the reason why they called it as a 'Black hole'. Frank stopped, as if frozen.
May be, the calf is running since he is running behind him...
He thought.
And if he keeps on running like this, it's for sure that he is going to fall in the well...
Thought Frank stopped the calf didn't want to come down, once climbed on the heap around the well, on the other hand he started circling around the well.

Frank was totally clueless about what to do next. He looked around, to find nothing other than the tall dreadful old walls of the castle, and the dense trees around. Now he started to feel terrified. Till now he had just heard about the castle and the black hole, but now the first time he had came in the premises. As people said it was dreadful, in fact more dreadful than the people said. But he was so attached to the calf that he would never go leaving him alone. Frank slowly approached the edge of the well. The calf was standing on the other edge. Suddenly he saw that a rock slipped from below the calf's foot and trembled into the well.
" Gavin..." Frank screamed again.
Though the rock fell in the well but it didn't sound. Frank went still closer to the edge and looked inside. The edge was visible till some distance but then there was no edge nor bottom of the well was visible. There was only dark, the dark stretching to infinity. Probably this might be another reason why people called it a black hole. Suddenly again another rock slipped on which calf's one foot was resting. The rock fell in the well, but this time unfortunately the calf also fell in the well followed by the rock.
" Gavin...'' Frank cried.
But by this time the rock and the calf were disappeared in the well, in the black limitless vacuum. There was neither sound nor the sign of the existence of the calf. Frank was stunned, not knowing what to do. He looked into the well, in a hope that he could see his beloved calf, and was crying saying ‘ Gavin... Gavin’

It was since long Frank was still looking in the well bending over the edge. Now his tears were dried up. He was also realized that his beloved ‘Gavin’ was never going to come back. The area around the well and the castle seemed to be appearing more dreadful now as it was getting late and was getting dark. Frank got up and started to return home with heavy heart.

Frank must have reached around hundred feet from the well, when he sensed something behind. A wave of fear entered his body. He started to walk as fast as possible, so that he could get out of the area quickly. Suddenly a voice came from his behind. He abruptly stopped.
It is the known voice...
Gathering courage he turned to look back. And what a surprise! It was his beloved Gavin who was running to reach him making his peculiar sound ‘Hamba... Hamba...’
“ Gavin..’’, Frank's face beamed up with happiness.
But how did it happen?...
Frank was least bothered about the cause, as this moment the most important thing for him was that he has got back his Gavin, and nothing more he would have desired at that moment. He opened his arms and desperately hugged Gavin and started kissing him passionately. Read More.....

The Pelican Brief

HE SEEMED INCAPABLE of creating such chaos, but much of what he saw below could be blamed on him. And that was fine. He was ninety-one, paralyzed, strapped in a wheelchair and hooked to oxygen. His second stroke seven years ago had almost finished him off, but Abraham Rosenberg was still alive and even with tubes in his nose his legal stick was bigger than the other eight. He was the only legend remaining on the Court, and the fact that he was still breathing irritated most of the mob below.

He sat in a small wheelchair in an office on the main floor of the Supreme Court Building. His feet touched the edge of the window, and he strained forward as the noise increased. He hated cops, but the sight of them standing in thick, neat lines was somewhat comforting. They stood straight and held ground as the mob of at least fifty thousand screamed for blood.
"Biggest crowd ever!" Rosenberg yelled at the window. He was almost deaf. Jason Kline, his senior law clerk, stood behind him. It was the first Monday in October, the opening day of the new term, and this had become a traditional celebration of the First Amendment. A glorious celebration. Rosenberg was thrilled. To him, freedom of speech meant freedom to riot.
"Are the Indians out there." he asked loudly.
Jason Kline leaned closer to his right ear. "Yes!"
"With war paint."
"Yes! In full battle dress."
"Are they dancing."
"Yes!"
The Indians, the blacks, whites, browns, women, gays, tree lovers, Christians, abortion activists, Aryans, Nazis, atheists, hunters, animal lovers, white supremacists, black supremacists, tax protestors, loggers, farmers - it was a massive sea of protest. And the riot police gripped their black sticks.
"The Indians should love me!"
"I'm sure they do." Kline nodded and smiled at the frail little man with clenched fists. His ideology was simple; government over business, the individual over government, the environment over everything. And the Indians, give them whatever they want.
The heckling, praying, singing, chanting, and screaming grew louder, and the riot police inched closer together. The crowd was larger and rowdier than in recent years. Things were more tense. Violence had become common. Abortion clinics had been bombed. Doctors had been attacked and beaten. One was killed in Pensacola, gagged and bound into the fetal position and burned with acid. Street fights were weekly events. Churches and priests had been abused by militant gays. White supremacists operated from a dozen known, shadowy, paramilitary organizations, and had become bolder in their attacks on blacks, Hispanics, and Asians. Hatred was now America's favorite pastime.
And the Court, of course, was an easy target. Threats, serious ones, against the justices had increased tenfold since 1990. The Supreme Court police had tripled in size. At least two FBI agents were assigned to guard each justice, and another fifty were kept busy investigating threats.
"They hate me, don't they." he said loudly, staring out the window.
"Yes, some of them do," Kline answered with amusement.
Rosenberg liked to hear that. He smiled and inhaled deeply. Eighty percent of the death threats were aimed at him.
"See any of those signs." he asked.
He was nearly blind."Quite a few."
"What do they say."
"The usual. Death to Rosenberg. Retire Rosenberg. Cut Off the Oxygen." "They've been waving those same damned signs for years. Why don't they get some new ones."
The clerk did not answer. Abe should've retired years ago, but they would carry him out one day on a stretcher. His three law clerks did most of the research, but Rosenberg insisted on writing his own opinions. He did so with a heavy felt-tip marker and his words were scrawled across a white legal pad, much like a first-grader learning to write. Slow work, but with a lifetime appointment, who cared about time. The clerks proofed his opinions, and rarely found mistakes.
Rosenberg chuckled. "We oughta feed Runyan to the Indians." The Chief Justice was John Runyan, a tough conservative appointed by a Republican and hated by the Indians and most other minorities. Seven of the nine had been appointed by Republican Presidents. For fifteen years Rosenberg had been waiting for a Democrat in the White House. He wanted to quit, needed to quit, but he could not stomach the idea of a right-wing Runyan type taking his beloved seat.
He could wait. He could sit here in his wheelchair and breathe oxygen and protect the Indians, the blacks, the women, the poor, the handicapped, and the environment until he was a hundred and five. And not a single person in the world could do a damned thing about it, unless they killed him. And that wouldn't be such a bad idea either.
The great man's head nodded, then wobbled and rested on his shoulder. He was asleep again. Kline quietly stepped away, and returned to his research in the library. He would return in half an hour to check the oxygen and give Abe his pills. Read More.....

Lord Of The Ring

This tale grew in the telling, until it became a history of the Great War of the Ring and included many glimpses of the yet more ancient history that preceded it. It was begun soon after _The Hobbit_ was written and before its publication in 1937; but I did not go on with this sequel, for I wished first to complete and set in order the mythology and legends of the Elder Days, which had then been taking shape for some years. I desired to do this for my own satisfaction, and I had little hope that other people would be interested in this work, especially since it was primarily linguistic in inspiration and was begun in order to provide the necessary background of 'history' for Elvish tongues.

When those whose advice and opinion I sought corrected _little hope_ to _no hope,_ I went back to the sequel, encouraged by requests from readers for more information concerning hobbits and their adventures. But the story was drawn irresistibly towards the older world, and became an account, as it were, of its end and passing away before its beginning and middle had been told. The process had begun in the writing of _The Hobbit,_ in which there were already some references to the older matter: Elrond, Gondolin, the High-elves, and the orcs, as well as glimpses that had arisen unbidden of things higher or deeper or darker than its surface: Durin, Moria, Gandalf, the Necromancer, the Ring. The discovery of the significance of these glimpses and of their relation to the ancient histories revealed the Third Age and its culmination in the War of the Ring.
Those who had asked for more information about hobbits eventually got it, but they had to wait a long time; for the composition of _The Lord of the Rings_ went on at intervals during the years 1936 to 1949, a period in which I had many duties that I did not neglect, and many other interests as a learner and teacher that often absorbed me. The delay was, of course, also increased by the outbreak of war in 1939, by the end of which year the tale had not yet reached the end of Book One. In spite of the darkness of the next five years I found that the story could not now be wholly abandoned, and I plodded on, mostly by night, till I stood by Balin's tomb in Moria. There I halted for a long while. It was almost a year later when I went on and so came to Lothlórien and the Great River late in 1941. In the next year I wrote the first drafts of the matter that now stands as Book Three, and the beginnings of chapters I and III of Book Five; and there as the beacons flared in Anórien and Théoden came to Harrowdale I stopped. Foresight had failed and there was no time for thought.
It was during 1944 that, leaving the loose ends and perplexities of a war which it was my task to conduct, or at least to report, 1 forced myself to tackle the journey of Frodo to Mordor. These chapters, eventually to become Book Four, were written and sent out as a serial to my son, Christopher, then in South Africa with the RAF. Nonetheless it took another five years before the tale was brought to its present end; in that time I changed my house, my chair, and my college, and the days though less dark were no less laborious. Then when the 'end' had at last been reached the whole story had to be.. Read More.....

Make Windows XP faster and optimal (without software)

Image of Windows XP is fast and we often complain optimal windows is running slow, long start, long shutdown. People we recommend to use special software that is useful so that the windows XP running faster and optimized. Software may be good, but free and does not usually require a high specification machine. With the tips we does not need to install any additional software to speed the performance of Windows XP You.
1. Using the NTFS file system
If you install new windows xp, use the NTFS file system. The file system is NTFS scandisk quickly accessible and also very fast. Do not use FAT, unless you want to can access the hard disk in Windows 98 without the additional software. Windows 98 can access the NTFS file with additional software: ntfs-reader or NTFS98.
2. Selecting startup programs that need to
This section should always be checked by you, because if a virus / spyware / malware, your computer is so slow. To open this startup, run the START -> RUN, type msconfig, open the startup tab. Here is visible all the programs that run at startup. You can check the one at the dihardware file, located in what folder. If you had, right-click the file
3. Turn off unnecessary services
Still in the msconfig window, open the services tab. This is a service that automatically run at Windows startup. There are some services that are not necessary and should be turned off, namely:
* Automatic Live Update Scheduler. This service if you do not want to automatically update the windows, or your computer is not connected to the Internet at all.
* Error Reporting Service. If you never see the window contents "error occurred ...." continue to have the option do not send or send. That is the order of this service. We usually do not choose send, so this service should be disabled.
* Live Update, the same as the Automatic Live Update Scheduler.
* Automatic Updates, the same as the Automatic Live Update Scheduler.
* Remote Desktop Help Manager. Used to help you if you difficulties or errors in the windows, you can ask your friends to access the computer From your remote (internet). If you never use, this service is off.
* Remote Registry. To access the registry (the file settings windows) from remote. Should be turned off.
* Uninterruptible Power Supply (UPS). This is only used if your computer use UPS, which is a useful tool to save electricity when power off. Disable this service if you do not use UPS.
* Event log Log.Windows record of what is going on in the windows. If you did not even use the log (in the Control Panel -> Administrative Tools), the service this can be turned off.
* Windows Audio. May be turned off if your computer without a sound card.
4. Minimize the visual effect
Open the Start Menu -> Control Panel -> System Properties. Go to the Advanced tab. Click on the Performance settings. In the Visual effects tab select Adjust for Best Performance. Then check Use the options on the visual styles for windows and buttons that display the windows you are such as Windows XP.
5. Optimal set of virtual memory
views and its properties, continue to see the version and who the author is. If Microsoft's or other sources that you trust means secure. If there is a program that does not need to, removed the check in line that would be disabled. Open the Start Menu -> Control Panel -> System Properties. Go to the Advanced tab. Click on the Performance settings. Click the Advanced tab. At the bottom there is the option Virtual Memory, click Change on any posts. Use custom size. Fill with:
Minimum: 1024 MB
Maximum: 2048 MB
6. Scan and defragmen regularly
Scan (once a week) and defragmen (once) your hard drive regularly. Open windows explorer, right click on your hard drive, select Properties. Open the tools tab. Select the error checking for running scan disk, defragmentation, and select-men to defragmen hardisk.
Such tips to make windows XP faster and be optimal, without additional software. Hopefully useful.

Harry Potter And The Sorcerers Stone

Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you'd expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they just didn't hold with such nonsense.
Mr. Dursley was the director of a firm called Grunnings, which made drills. He was a big, beefy man with hardly any neck, although he did have a very large mustache. Mrs. Dursley was thin and blonde and had nearly twice the usual amount of neck, which came in very useful as she spent so much of her time craning over garden fences, spying on the neighbors. The Dursleys had a small son called Dudley and in their opinion there was no finer boy anywhere.
The Dursleys had everything they wanted, but they also had a secret, and
their greatest fear was that somebody would discover it. They didn't think they could bear it if anyone found out about the Potters. Mrs. Potter was Mrs. Dursley's sister, but they hadn't met for several years; in fact, Mrs. Dursley pretended she didn't have a sister, because her sister and her good-for-nothing husband were as unDursleyish as it was possible to be. The Dursleys shuddered to think what the neighbors would say if the Potters arrived in the street. The Dursleys knew that the Potters had a small son, too, but they had never even seen him. This boy
was another good reason for keeping the Potters away; they didn't want Dudley mixing with a child like that.
When Mr. and Mrs. Dursley woke up on the dull, gray Tuesday our story starts, there was nothing about the cloudy sky outside to suggest that strange and mysterious things would soon be happening all over the country. Mr. Dursley hummed as he picked out his most boring tie for
work, and Mrs. Dursley gossiped away happily as she wrestled a screaming Dudley into his high chair.
None of them noticed a large, tawny owl flutter past the window. At half past eight, Mr. Dursley picked up his briefcase, pecked Mrs. Dursley on the cheek, and tried to kiss Dudley good-bye but missed
Read More.....

Harry Potter The Pisioner Of Azkaban

Harry Potter was a highly unusual boy in many ways. For one thing, he
hated the summer holidays more than any other time of year. For another,he really wanted to do his homework but was forced to do it in secret,in the dead of night. And he also happened to be a wizard.
It was nearly midnight, and he was lying on his stomach in bed, theblankets drawn right over his head like a tent, a flashlight in one handand a large leather-bound book (A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot)propped open against the pillow. Harry moved the tip of hiseagle-feather quill down the page, frowning as he looked for somethingthat would help him write his essay, "Witch Burning in the Fourteenth
Century Was Completely Pointless discuss." The quill paused at the top of a likely-looking paragraph. Harry Pushed his round glasses up the bridge of his nose, moved his flashlight closer to the book, and read:
Non-magic people (more commonly known as Muggles) were particularly afraid of magic in medieval times, but not very good at recognizing it. On the rare occasion that they did catch a real witch or wizard, burning had no effect whatsoever. The witch or wizard would perform a basic Flame Freezing Charm and then pretend to hriek with pain while enjoying a gentle, tickling sensation. Indeed, Wendelin the Weird enjoyed being burned so much that she allowed herself to be caught no less than fortyseven times in various disguises.
Harry put his quill between his teeth and reached underneath his pillow for his ink bottle and a roll of parchment. Slowly and very carefully he unscrewed the ink bottle, dipped his quill into it, and began to write, pausing every now and then to listen, because if any of the Dursleys heard the scratching of his quill on their way to the bathroom, he'd probably find himself locked in the cupboard under the stairs for the rest of the summer.
The Dursley family of number four, Privet Drive, was the reason that Harry never enjoyed his summer holidays. Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and Read More.....

The Client

MARK WAS ELEVEN AND HAD BEEN SMOKING OFF AND ON
For two years, never trying to quit but being careful not to get hooked. He preferred Kools, his ex-Father's brand, but his mother smoked Virginia Slims at the rate of two packs a day, and he could in an average week pilfer ten or twelve from her. She was a busy woman with many problems, perhaps a little naive when it came to her boys, and she never dreamed her eldest would be smoking at the age of eleven. Occasionally Kevin, the delinquent two streets over, would sell Mark a pack of stolen Marlboros for a dollar. But for the most part he had to rely on his mother's skinny cigarettes.
He had four of them in his pocket that afternoon as he led his brother, Ricky, age eight, down the path into the woods behind their trailer park. Ricky was nervous about this, his first smoke. He had caught Mark hiding the cigarettes in a shoebox under his bed day before, and threatened to tell all if his big brother didn't show him how to do it. They sneaked along the wooded trail, headed for one of Mark's secret spots where he'd spent many solitary hours trying to inhale and blow smoke rings.
Most of the other kids in the neighborhood were into beer and pot, two vices Mark was determined to avoid. Their ex-father was an alcoholic who'd beaten both boys and their mother, and the beatings always followed his nasty bouts with beer. Mark had seen and felt the effects of alcohol.
He was also afraid of drugs. "Are you lost." Ricky asked just like a little brother as they left the trail and waded through chest-high weeds. "Just shut up," Mark said without slowing. The only time their father had spent at home was to drink and sleep and abuse them. He was gone now, thank heavens. For five years Mark had been in charge of Ricky. He felt like an eleven-year-old father. He'd taught him how to throw a football and ride a bike. He'd explained what he knew about sex. He'd warned him about drugs, and protected him from bullies. And he felt terrible about this introduction to vice. But it was just a cigarette. It could be much worse. The weeds stopped and they were under a large tree with a rope hanging from a thick branch. A row of bushes yielded to a small clearing, and beyond it an overgrown dirt road disappeared over a hill. A highway could be heard in the distance.
Mark stopped and pointed to a log near the rope. "Sit there," he instructed, and Ricky obediently backed onto the log and glanced around anxiously as if the police might be watching. Mark eyed him like a drill sergeant while picking a cigarette from his shirt pocket. He held it with- his right thumb and index finger, and tried to be casual about it. "You know the rules," he said, looking down at Ricky. There were only two rules, and they had discussed them a dozen times during the day, and
Ricky was frustrated at being treated like a child. He rolled his eyes away and said, "Yeah, if I tell anyone, you'll beat me up." "That's right." Ricky folded his arms. "And I can smoke only one a day." "That's right. If I catch you smoking more than that, then you're in trouble. And if I find out you're drinking beer or messing with drugs, then—" "I know, I know. You'll beat me up again." "Right." "How many do you smoke a day." "Only one," Mark lied. Some days, only one. Some days, three or four, depending on supply. He stuck the filter between his lips like a gangster.
"Will one a day kill me." Ricky asked. Mark removed the cigarette from his lips. "Not anytime soon. One a day is pretty safe. More than that, and you could be-in trouble."
Read More....

Player Piano

In the northwest are the managers and engineers and civil servants and a few professional people; in the northeast are the machines; and in the south, across the Iroquois River, is the area known locally as Homestead, where almost all of the people live. If the bridge across the Iroquois were dynamited, few daily routines would be isturbed. Not many people on either side have reasons other than curiosity for crossing. During the war, in hundreds of Iliums over America, managers and engineers learned to get along without their men and women, who went to fight. It was the miracle that won the war — production with almost no manpower. In the patois of the north side of the river, it was the know-how that won the war. Democracy owed its life to know-how.
Ten years after the war — after the men and women had come home, after the riots had been put down, after thousands had been jailed under the antisabotage laws — Doctor Paul Proteus was petting a cat in his office. He was the most important, brilliant person in Ilium, the manager of the Ilium Works, though only thirty-five. He was tall, thin, nervous, and dark, with the gentle good looks of his long face distorted by dark-rimmed glasses. He didn't feel important or brilliant at the moment, nor had he for some time. His principle concern just then was that the black cat be contented in its new surroundings. Those old enough to remember and too old to compete said affectionately that Doctor Proteus looked just as his father had as a young man — and it was generally understood, resentfully in some quarters, that Paul would someday rise almost as high in the organization as his father had. His father, Doctor George Proteus, was at the time of his death the nation's first National Industrial, Commercial, Communications, Foodstuffs, and Resources Director, a position approached in importance only by the presidency of the United States.
As for the Proteus genes' chances of being passed down to yet another generation, there were practically none. Paul's wife, Anita, his secretary during the war, was barren. Ironically as anyone would please, he had married her after she had declared that she was certainly pregnant, following an abandoned office celebration of victory.
read more..........

A Painted House

The hill people and the Mexicans arrived on the same day. It was a Wednesday, early in September 1952. The Cardinals were five games behind the Dodgers with three weeks to go, and the season looked hopeless. The cotton, however, was waisthigh to my father, over my head, and he and my grandfather could be heard before supper whispering words that were seldom heard. It could be a "good crop."
They were farmers, hardworking men who embraced pessimism only when discussing the weather and the crops. There was too much sun, or too much rain, or the threat of floods in the lowlands, or the rising prices of seed and fertilizer, or the uncertainties of the markets. On the most perfect of days, my mother would quietly say to me, "Don't worry. The men will find something to worry about." Pappy, my grandfather, was worried about the price for labor when we went searching for the hill people. They were paid for every hundred pounds of cotton they picked. The previous year, according to him, it was $1.50 per hundred. He'd already heard rumors that a farmer over in Lake City was offering $1.60. This played heavily on his mind as we rode to town. He never talked when he drove, and this was because, according to my mother, not much of a driver herself, he was afraid of motorized vehicles. His truck was a 1939 Ford, and with the exception of our old John Deere tractor, it was our sole means of transportation. This was no particular problem except when we drove to church and my mother and grandmother were forced to sit snugly together up front in their Sunday best while my father and I rode in the back, engulfed in dust. Modern sedans were scarce in rural Arkansas.
Pappy drove thirtyseven miles per hour. His theory was that every automobile had a speed at which it ran most efficiently, and through some vaguely defined method he had determined that his old truck should go thirtyseven. My mother said (to me) that it was ridiculous. She also said he and my father had once fought over whether the truck should go faster. But my father rarely drove it, and if I happened to be riding with him, he would level off at thirtyseven, out of respect for Pappy. My mother said she suspected he drove much faster when he was alone.
We turned onto Highway 135, and, as always, I watched Pappy carefully shift the gears-pressing

read more.....

Don't Be Sad

At a time in which the muslims are beset with trials from every periphery and within, come this hertening book rooted in the comandment of Allah, Azzawazala (the exalted), the sunnah and the excellent guidance and xample of the muslims that came before us.
Don't Be Sad is an important book foor all. it is full of partical advice on how to repel despair and replace it with a pragmatic and ultimately satisfying islamik outlook on life. it exposes to the modern reader how islam teaches us to deal with the tests and tribulation of this world.
this book kontain verses of the qur'an, saying of the prophet Muhamad (blessings and Peace be upon him) and of his companions as well as of wise. but it also containc saying of western and eastern thinkers and pilosophers, sayings that coincide with the truth.
This book, the culmination of deep and organized thought, says to your in short: "Be Happy, at peace, and joyful: and don't be sad."
Read More.....