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Max Steiner’s fanfare for Warner Brothers (WB), which was used to introduce most of the studio’s films during the years 1938–1955, is unique in that is does not have a clearly defined ending. Continuing directly into the opening title sequence, the fanfare leads to a wide variety of themes in different keys, meters, and tempos, and with quite different characters. The “pivotal event” that helps to set the tone for the rest of the film occurs right at the moment of the fanfare’s resolution. In this corpus study, we examine eighty-eight films scored by Steiner that use the WB fanfare, with a particular focus on harmonic and melodic resolutions at the fanfare’s point of arrival. We find that Steiner devised at least fifty-three different resolutions for the end of the fanfare—some of them quite surprising and dissonant. Each of these resolutions creates a different emotional effect, communicating to the listener what the genre and tone of the film might be. We also examine the function of the transitional music that is set in motion by the fanfare’s resolution and its connection with visual cues in the film.

[Frederik Pohl] further lards his narrative with the gleanings of his 60- year personal scientific quest. He gives an unforgettable account of watching a total eclipse of the sun with hundreds of other goggle- eyed passengers on a cruise ship in Hawaii. He takes you from Mt. Etna in Sicily to Stonehenge in England, from the Kennedy Space Center in Florida to the Very Large Array of mobile radio telescopes in Socorro, N.M., and from the Great Barrier Reef and its corals off the coast of Australia to the Chinese city of Chengdu, with its 2,200- year-old marvel of an irrigation system. You travel from Kentucky's Mammoth Cave to Capri's Blue Grotto, from Pompeii in Italy to Machu Picchu in Peru, even to Russia's Star City, where cosmonauts train, all the while following in the restless footsteps of Pohl, who appears to have been everywhere (not to mention having seen everything; he tells us he was in Seattle on May 18, 1980, when nearby Mt. St. Helen's erupted, and at a 1986 meeting in the Kremlin when, under the approving eye of Mikhail Gorbachev, the apostle of glasnost, or openness in discussing social problems, Soviet writers arose one by one to tongue-lash their nation as foreign visitors gaped in disbelief).

Schaffer's ambiguity extends to whether he would have tried to overpower Dr. Owens to get at the child. First he says he doubts it. But then he adds passionately: \" I probably would have started that IV, yes, sir. And I don't think it would have been advisable for anyone to try and stop me. I'd have gone past anyone who tried to interfere with my treatment of a critically ill baby.\" He knew that had he begun an IV, he might have been held in contempt of court. \"I didn't care,\" he says, \"because we have a judge in town who needs another job, and maybe when the next election comes, he'll get one. Why not subvert a judge's decisions? It depends (on) what's right and wrong.\" An autopsy was conducted by John Pless, the Monroe County coroner. Dr. Pless discovered that there had been no enlarged heart; the X rays had been wrong. Nor could he find any direct evidence of brain damage caused by oxygen deprivation. But the child did indeed have a tracheoesophageal fistula. The coroner says he has no doubt the child was, in medical vernacular, \"a bad baby.\" It is likely to be years before the issues that were raised that night in Bloomington, Indiana, are settled to society's satisfaction. In response to the episode, the Reagan administration imposed a series of federal fiats designed to ensure that virtually all handicapped babies, no matter how severe their disabilities, receive the medically indicated life-saving treatment. The quality of a child's future life was not to enter into the equation. These \"Baby Doe\" regulations, as they came to be called, were vigorously opposed by the medical community, which considered them an infringement on parental rights and doctors' discretion. A federal court ultimately ruled them invalid. But Congress thereupon passed legislation defining nontreatment as a form of child abuse. The new law, signed by President Reagan last October, insists on treatment of all handicapped children regardless of parental wishes --save where the child is chronically and irreversibly comatose or where the treatment would merely prolong dying. It is expected that the law will be challenged in court, most likely by the American Medical Association.

When [Michele Zackheim]'s book appeared, [Dennis Overbye] had already been at work on his biography of [ALBERT EINSTEIN] for six years. Overbye is deputy science editor at The New York Times and author of the widely admired 1991 book \"Lonely Hearts of the Cosmos,\" a lyrical paean to the scientists working to unlock such cosmological mysteries as the Big Bang, black holes and dark matter. He writes that he first became intrigued with chronicling Einstein's life at a scientific conference in New Orleans in 1990 where issues of Einstein scholarship arose. At the time, Albert's private correspondence with [Mileva Maric] had recently been made public, shedding new light on their relationship and the man behind the myth. Overbye recognized that release of the letters - - and the new availability of hundreds of other documents relating to Einstein's personal and professional sides -- represented an opportunity to explore fresh avenues of research. But along with that, he was attracted by the giant canvas he had to work with. Forty- five years after Einstein's death in 1955, writes Overbye, \"he remains the scientist most likely to make front-page newspaper headlines, as modern science confirms yet another of his bizarre- sounding hypotheses, published long ago. . . . Even Einstein's brain, preserved for four decades, made news in the summer of 1999 when neuroscientists at McMaster University in Ontario announced that his parietal lobe, a region associated with math and spatial relationships, was 15 percent larger than a normal person's.\"

Schaffer spoke first. In his opinion, the child needed an immediate transfer to James Whitcomb Riley Children's Hospital in Indianapolis. Riley was equipped to surgically repair the boy's esophagus and trachea; Bloomington Hospital was not. Without an operation, Schaffer explained, the child would die. Owens could simply have joined Wenzler in seconding Schaffer's recommendation. Had he done so, a chapter in American moral politics might never have been written. But he saw things a different way. The operation, he told the parents, could indeed save the child's life. But it was a rigorous procedure, generally accompanied by a significant amount of pain, and it frequently required follow-up surgery over several years. Above all, he reminded them, it could do nothing about the Down's syndrome. The child would still be retarded for the rest of his life. Why would a doctor whose entire career had been devoted to bringing babies into the world now raise the option of letting one die? Owens later ascribed his behavior to an experience he'd had years before. His nephew's wife had given birth to a malformed baby, among whose defects was one requiring major surgery. It was performed at once, at the pediatrician's recommendation. When numerous bouts of pnuemonia subsequently afflicted the infant, the same pediatrician vigorously treated them.

The testimony began to swing around the room. First Schaffer, then Wenzler, then James Laughlin, another pediatrician, declared that the only \"acceptable\" course of medical treatment was to send the infant to Indianapolis, where, as one of them put it, he could receive a \"full-court press.\" John Doe, as the man was referred to in the court record, tried to explain the couple's position. For seven years, he told Baker, he had been a public-school teacher. In that time, he'd had occasion to work closely with handicapped children, including children with Down's syndrome. These experiences had left him with the opinion that Down's children never lead very good lives, an opinion that his wife shared. Faced with a Down's child of their own, they had decided it would be wrong to subject him to a life of such an inferior kind. To quell the uprising, the hospital hastily transferred the child to a private room on the fourth floor. The Does found themselves forced to hire private nurses who could watch the child around the clock and comfort him. But they were not allowed, under hospital rules, to give him drugs. Only the fourth-floor nurses could administer the morphine shots and phenobarbital prescribed to keep the baby calm and pain-free as his life slipped away. One of them, Teleatha McIntosh, says she found the task emotionally devastating. \"Without a doubt, it was the most inhumane thing I've ever been involved in,\" she recalls. \"I had all this guilt, just standing by, giving him injections, and doing nothing for him.\" But even nurses who raged at the parents for their decision had to admit they were attentive and loving to their child, frequently visiting the bedside and cradling him in their arms.

In the spring of 1982, however, this tranquility was disrupted by a tragic and controversial episode. A Bloomington couple allowed its infant son to die of a treatable birth defect. The child, who succumbed while surrounded by willing rescuers, has become known to the world as Baby Doe, his identity sealed by the courts to protect his parents. We will continue to respect their privacy by not naming them in this story. Owens was pleased to be involved in the case. He was genuinely fond of the parents, a pair of former schoolteachers who had given up the classroom several years earlier--she to raise her children, he to become an executive with a Bloomington firm. Owens found them to be pleasant, conscientious people with a straightforward manner. They had been married for seven years and were both looking forward to the birth of their third child. The father, a dark, heavyset man of 34, seemed to be brimming with delight. He had taken Lamaze natural-childbirth classes with his wife and was eager to coach her through the delivery. In the absence of any other warning signals, however, Owens was not overly concerned. At about 7:30 p.m., with labor progressing nicely, he made his way to the doctors' lounge and slipped into his hospital garb. Then, after carefully scrubbing up for the birth, he joined the parents in the delivery room, the smallest of three such units on the hospital's second floor. The only other person in the room as Owens began to deliver the baby was a nurse, Dana Watters.

\"I have a dream that one day every valley shall be exalted, every hill and mountain shall be made low ... and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all flesh shall see it together. ... This is the faith with which I return to the South. With this faith we will be able to hew out of the mountain of despair a stone of hope ... we will be able to transform the jangling discords of our nation into a beautiful symphony of brotherhood ... we will be able to work together, to pray together, to struggle together, to go to jail together, to stand up for freedom together, knowing that we will be free one day. \"This will be the day when all of God's children will be able to sing with a new meaning, 'My country, 'tis of thee, sweet land of liberty, of thee I sing. Land where my father died, land of the pilgrim's pride, from every mountainside, let freedom ring.' And if America is to be a great nation, this must become true. So let freedom ring from the prodigious hilltops of New Hampshire ... the mighty mountains of New York ... the heightening Alleghenies of Pennsylvania ... the snowcapped Rockies of Colorado ... the curvaceous peaks of California! But not only that; let freedom ring from Stone Mountain of Georgia ... from Lookout Mountain of Tennessee ... from every hill ... of Mississippi! From every mountainside, let freedom ring!

The rapid progress is due to unprecedented interagency cooperation shown by some traditional rivals, including the city planning department, the park district, the Army Corps of Engineers, the Illinois Division of Water Resources and the state Geological Survey. Each body has assigned its leading experts to the project. The commission also benefits from the presence of some of the Midwest's top shoreline consultants, among them noted coastal expert Charles Shabica, chairman of the earth sciences department at Northeastern Illinois University; and Frank Kdrna, former state director of water resources and now operator of a major coastline engineering firm. The commission also has made the effort to include knowledgeable private citizens, such as Sheli Lulkin, president of the Association of Sheridan Condo/Co-op Owners. Perhaps there is a new sense that time is running out, that the lake cannot be trusted. It is a bitter pill to swallow. Residents of the Chicago region are not accustomed to thinking of the lake as an enemy. \"When this area was developed,\" said the mayor last December while touring the beleaguered Rogers Park and Edgewater areas shortly after a wild post- Thanksgiving storm, \"no one could predict our beautiful, friendly Lake Michigan-our sparkling jewel-would turn on us so ferociously.\" However, just when panic began to set in, a confusing thing happened. The dizzying climb stopped, and now the lake seems on the way down-for the moment, at least. As of the end of July, according to the Army Corps of Engineers, it had fallen to 580 feet. That's still a foot above the average for July, but a far cry from last autumn, when the lake was more than 3 feet above normal.

Cosme's purpose this late summer morning is to conduct an underwater survey of the \"edge\"-that critical strip of real estate where Chicago and the lake collide and where the aging, 26-mile bulwark of rock, wood, steel and sand is barely able to protect the land from the water's ravages. The bulwark has been sorely tested in recent months. Already seriously weakened by dry rot, erosion and time, it has been swamped by precipitously rising lake levels, levels that peaked last autumn with record highs. Then, after a wave- tossed December and January, came the coup de grace: a wicked storm last Feb. 8 that sent huge whitecaps slamming murderously into the bulwark, damaging it in a number of strategic places and causing widespread flooding and other mischief to buildings and roadways beyond. One of the primary trouble spots is at 31st Street, where the shoreline, as it is along much of Chicago's lakefront, is shielded by what is called a stepped-stone revetment, that familiar tiered arrangement of cut limestone rocks that leads gradually down to the water like a set of giant stairs. But the revetment at 31st Street is in partial ruin, suggesting the grandstand of some ancient amphitheater. Rocks are missing; others rest at crazy angles, their rusted reinforcing rods exposed and twisted like spaghetti. \"That will have to be fixed,\" says Cosme, who later this morning will find a similar blowout at 38th Street, and an underwater cavern, big enough to house an adult, that waves had gouged out below the pedestrian walkway at 51st Street, making it a threat to life and limb. He looks protectively at the elevated dirt berm that runs for 300 yards or so behind the revetment at 31st. A kind of levee, the berm was put in by the park district last spring to prevent a recurrence of the severe flooding of South Lake Shore Drive that accompanied the February storm. \"If we don't do something,\" says Cosme, \"mark my words, one more big storm, and the berm will be history and the water will be back on Lake Shore Drive.\"