Great-grandson: Noah. Genesis After he became the father of Methuselah, Enoch walked faithfully with God years and had other sons and daughters. Altogether, Enoch lived a total of years. Genesis Enoch walked faithfully with God; then he was no more, because God took him away. Hebrews By faith Enoch was taken from this life, so that he did not experience death: "He could not be found, because God had taken him away. Share Flipboard Email. Jack Zavada is a writer who covers the Bible, theology, and other Christianity topics. Updated January 09, What happened to Enoch? The Bible gives few details, other than to say:.
Enoch was a loyal follower of God. He told the truth despite opposition and ridicule. Enoch was faithful to God, truthful, and obedient. If the cut-off radio signal didn't signify catastrophic failure of other systems. On Earth it would have been a marathon pace. On the moon it was an easy lope. After ten miles the trek fell into an easy rhythm: half a walk, half like jogging, and half bounding like a slow-motion kangaroo. Her worst enemy was boredom. Her comrades at the academy—in part envious of the top scores that had made her the first of their class picked for a mission—had ribbed her mercilessly about flying a mission that would come within a few kilometers of the moon without landing.
Now she had a chance to see more of the moon up close than anybody in history. She wondered what her classmates were thinking now. She would have a tale to tell—if only she could survive to tell it. The warble of the low voltage warning broke her out of her reverie. She checked her running display as she started down the maintenance checklist.demo-new.nplan.io/una-novia-de-diseo-julia.php
The Long Walk - Wikipedia
Elapsed EVA time, eight point three hours. System functions, nominal, except that the solar array current was way below norm. In a few moments she found the trouble: a thin layer of dust on her solar array. Not a serious problem; it could be brushed off. If she couldn't find a pace that would avoid kicking dust on the arrays, then she would have to break every few hours to housekeep. She rechecked the array and continued on.
With the sun unmoving ahead of her and nothing but the hypnotically blue crescent of the slowly rotating Earth creeping imperceptibly off the horizon, her attention wandered. Moonshadow had been tagged as an easy mission, a low-orbit mapping flight to scout sites for the future moonbase.
Moonshadow had never been intended to land, not on the moon, not anywhere. Walking west across the barren plain, Trish had nightmares of blood and falling, Sanjiv dying beside her; Theresa already dead in the lab module; the moon looming huge, spinning at a crazy angle in the viewports. Stop the spin, aim for the terminator at low sun angles, the illumination makes it easier to see the roughness of the surface.
Conserve fuel, but remember to blow the tanks an instant before you hit to avoid explosion. That was over. Concentrate on the present. One foot in front of the other. She looked down at her navigation aid and realized with a shock that she had walked a hundred and fifty kilometers. Time for a break anyway. She sat down on a boulder, fetched a snack-pack out of her carryall, and set a timer for fifteen minutes.
The airtight quick-seal on the food pack was designed to mate to the matching port in the lower part of her faceplate. It would be important to keep the seal free of grit. She verified the vacuum seal twice before opening the pack into the suit, then pushed the food bar in so she could turn her head and gnaw off pieces. The bar was hard and slightly sweet. She looked west across the gently rolling plain.
The horizon looked flat, unreal; a painted backdrop barely out of reach. On the moon, it should be easy to keep up a pace of fifteen or even twenty miles an hour—counting time out for sleep, maybe ten. She could walk a long, long way. Karen would have liked it; she'd always liked hiking in desolate areas. Plenty of uncrowded beach. Too bad it's such a long walk to the water. Time to move on. She continued on across terrain that was generally flat, although everywhere pocked with craters of every size. The moon is surprisingly flat; only one percent of the surface has a slope of more than fifteen degrees.
The small hills she bounded over easily; the few larger ones she detoured around. In the low gravity this posed no real problem to walking. She walked on. She didn't feel tired, but when she checked her readout and realized that she had been walking for twenty hours, she forced herself to stop. Sleeping was a problem. The solar arrays were designed to be detached from the suit for easy servicing, but had no provision to power the life-support while detached.
Eventually she found a way to stretch the short cable out far enough to allow her to prop up the array next to her so she could lie down without disconnecting the power. She would have to be careful not to roll over. That done, she found she couldn't sleep. After a time she lapsed into a fitful doze, dreaming not of the Moonshadow as she'd expected, but of her sister, Karen, who—in the dream—wasn't dead at all, but had only been playing a joke on her, pretending to die. She awoke disoriented, muscles aching, then suddenly remembered where she was. The Earth was a full handspan above the horizon.
She got up, yawned, and jogged west across the gunpowder-grey sandscape. Her feet were tender where the boots rubbed. She varied her pace, changing from jogging to skipping to a kangaroo bounce. It helped some; not enough. She could feel her feet starting to blister, but knew that there was no way to take off her boots to tend, or even examine, her feet. Karen had made her hike on blistered feet, and had had no patience with complaints or slacking off.
She should have broken her boots in before the hike. In the one-sixth gee, at least the pain was bearable. Small craters she bounded over; larger ones she detoured around; larger ones yet she simply climbed across. West of Mare Smythii she entered a badlands and the terrain got bumpy. She had to slow down. The downhill slopes were in full sun, but the crater bottoms and valleys were still in shadow. Her blisters broke, the pain a shrill and discordant singing in her boots. She bit her lip to keep herself from crying and continued on. Another few hundred kilometers and she was in Mare Spumans—"Sea of Froth"—and it was clear trekking again.
Across Spumans, then into the north lobe of Fecundity and through to Tranquility. Somewhere around the sixth day of her trek she must have passed Tranquility Base; she carefully scanned for it on the horizon as she traveled but didn't see anything. By her best guess she missed it by several hundred kilometers; she was already deviating toward the north, aiming for a pass just north of the crater Julius Caesar into Mare Vaporum to avoid the mountains.
The ancient landing stage would have been too small to spot unless she'd almost walked right over it. That's the way things always seem to turn out, eh, Sis? There was nobody to laugh at her witticism, so after a moment she laughed at it herself. Wake up from confused dreams to black sky and motionless sunlight, yawn, and start walking before you're completely awake.
Sip on the insipid warm water, trying not to think about what it's recycled from. Break, cleaning your solar arrays, your life, with exquisite care. Sleep again, the sun nailed to the sky in the same position it was in when you awoke. Next day do it all over. And again.
The wise man, a short story by Donal Ryan
The nutrition packs are low-residue, but every few days you must still squat for nature. Your life support can't recycle solid waste, so you wait for the suit to desiccate the waste and then void the crumbly brown powder to vacuum. Your trail is marked by your powdery deposits, scarcely distinguishable from the dark lunar dust. Earth was high in the sky; she could no longer see it without craning her neck way back.
When the Earth was directly overhead she stopped and celebrated, miming the opening of an invisible bottle of champagne to toast her imaginary traveling companions. The sun was well above the horizon now.
In six days of travel she had walked a quarter of the way around the moon. She passed well south of Copernicus, to stay as far out of the impact rubble as possible without crossing mountains. The terrain was eerie, boulders as big as houses, as big as shuttle tanks. In places the footing was treacherous where the grainy regolith gave way to jumbles of rock, rays thrown out by the cataclysmic impact billions of years ago. She picked her way as best she could. She left her radio on and gave a running commentary as she moved.
Coming up on a hill; think we should climb it or detour around? Nobody voiced an opinion. She contemplated the rocky hill. Likely an ancient volcanic bubble, although she hadn't realized that this region had once been active.
- El Señor de la Tarde. Cordwainer Smith (Spanish Edition).
- A Walk in the Sun (short story);
- Short Stories: The Bet by Anton Chekhov;
The territory around it would be bad. From the top she'd be able to study the terrain for a ways ahead. The climb could be tricky here, so stay close and watch where I place my feet. Don't take chances better slow and safe than fast and dead. Any questions? We'll take a fifteen minute break when we reach the top. Follow me.
Past the rubble of Copernicus, Oceanus Procellarum was smooth as a golf course. Trish jogged across the sand with a smooth, even glide. Karen and Dutchman seemed to always be lagging behind or running up ahead out of sight. Silly dog still followed Karen around like a puppy, even though Trish was the one who fed him and refilled his water dish every day since Karen went away to college. The way Karen wouldn't stay close behind her annoyed Trish.
Karen had promised to let her be the leader this time—but she kept her feelings to herself. Karen had called her a bratty little pest, and she was determined to show she could act like an adult. Anyway, she was the one with the map. If Karen got lost, it would serve her right. She angled slightly north again to take advantage of the map's promise of smooth terrain. She looked around to see if Karen was there, and was surprised to see that the Earth was a gibbous ball low down on the horizon.
Of course, Karen wasn't there. Karen had died years ago. Trish was alone in a spacesuit that itched and stank and chafed her skin nearly raw across the thighs. She should have broken it in better, but who would have expected she would want to go jogging in it?
It was unfair how she had to wear a spacesuit and Karen didn't. Karen got to do a lot of things that she didn't, but how come she didn't have to wear a spacesuit? Everybody had to wear a spacesuit. It was the rule. She turned to Karen to ask. Karen laughed bitterly. Squished like a bug and buried, remember? Oh, yes, that was right. Okay, then, if Karen was dead, then she didn't have to wear a spacesuit. It made perfect sense for a few more kilometers, and they jogged along together in companionable silence until Trish had a sudden thought.
I'm a fig-newton of your overactive imagination. With a shock, Trish looked over her shoulder. Karen wasn't there. Karen had never been there. She stumbled and fell headlong, sliding in a spray of dust down the bowl of a crater. As she slid she frantically twisted to stay face-down, to keep from rolling over on the fragile solar wings on her back.
When she finally slid to a stop, the silence echoing in her ears, there was a long scratch like a badly healed scar down the glass of her helmet. The double reinforced faceplate had held, fortunately, or she wouldn't be looking at it. There were no breaks in the integrity, but the titanium strut that held out the left wing of the solar array had buckled back and nearly broken.
'The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas' Study Guide
Miraculously there had been no other damage. She pulled off the array and studied the damaged strut. She bent it back into position as best she could, and splinted the joint with a mechanical pencil tied on with two short lengths of wire. The pencil had been only extra weight anyway; it was lucky she hadn't thought to discard it.
She tested the joint gingerly. It wouldn't take much stress, but if she didn't bounce around too much it should hold. The story opens with a description of the idyllic city of Omelas, "bright-towered by the sea," as its citizens celebrate their annual Festival of Summer. The scene is like a joyous, luxurious fairy tale, with "a clamor of bells" and "swallows soaring. Instead, she invites readers to imagine whatever details suit them, insisting that "it doesn't matter.
As you like it.
Then the story returns to a description of the festival, with all its flowers and pastry and flutes and nymph-like children racing bareback on their horses. It seems too good to be true, and the narrator asks,. What she explains next is that the city of Omelas keeps one small child in utter degradation in a damp, windowless room in a basement. The child is malnourished and filthy, with festering sores. No one is allowed even to speak a kind word to it, so, though it remembers "sunlight and its mother's voice," it has been removed from all human society.
Everyone in Omelas knows about the child. Most have even come to see it for themselves. As Le Guin writes, "They all know that it has to be there.
But the narrator also notes that occasionally, someone who has seen the child will choose not to go home, instead of walking through the city, out the gates, toward the mountains. The narrator has no idea of their destination, but she notes that "they seem to know where they are going, the ones who walk away from Omelas. The narrator repeatedly mentions that she doesn't know all the details of Omelas.
Related Walk, Not Stay: a short story
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