Deep into the night of Christmas morning, at a time the computer later told him was exactly five minutes past two, he completed the first real version of the user interface, that acted as the link between Medusa, the Zyzzx software and himself as the user. To quote Dan Dare, Pilot of the Future, from the famous Eagle comic of his childhood. It wasn't very pretty. But it worked! And it worked well and reliably.

He celebrated in his traditional way with a single malt Macallan and water, as he pulled baseball results from New York, horse-racing from Halifax and railway timetables from India, all through his own Medusa in the Barbican linked for its data to Zyzzx in Las Vegas and beyond through the Internet.

The insistent ringing of a phone cut everything short. Calls at this time meant only three things; wrong numbers, malicious calls or death.

It was Pat in Orlando and the news was as expected. 'No!, I wasn't in bed ... Do you want me at the funeral? ... I'll come if you want ... Are you serious? ... I'll get Wendy to find you a place in Cambridge ... Medusa will provide you with an office and all the hardware you need ... It's their part of the deal ... Good-bye ... Good luck and I'll see you in a couple of weeks.'

***

Grief is a strange emotion.

He had never met Pat's lover Julian, but he cried himself to sleep that night. It had taken him nearly two hours, and the sleep and the associated dreams that followed, were very troubled. Why? In complete contrast, he had slept so well after the death of Catherine, once he had switched off the phone to silence her mother.

Perhaps, Julian's death at Christmas was marking the end of a chapter of his life and he was grieving for all of the good things that had gone before.

The completion of the first test version was one of the last bricks of an imaginary wall, that was starting to separate him from all of the past. Catherine was now becoming a distant memory, but at least what remained had been selected for its good qualities. All his software was quietly being reassembled on his side of the wall for future projects, campaigns and battles.

But what of the people in his life.

The few staff and colleagues, who worked with him on the analysis software, were now all happily working at Medusa in Cambridge, following a sort of merger between the two companies. He could have gone to their smart modern offices himself, but it was only fifteen miles from Newmarket and its unhappy memories. He thought, that in the last three weeks, that he not left the flat and that his only direct contact, human or otherwise, had been the faithful Wendy, who kept him supplied with food, drink, clean clothes and the few necessities he needed to sustain his spartan lifestyle.

He felt neglect had probably lost him his mistress, as since the summer evening in Canterbury he had not written, phoned or made any attempt to contact her at all. He hadn't even sent her a postcard from Las Vegas or Orlando, as he usually did. And then there was the unattainable Lucinda. Why would someone as beautiful as she was, want such as he? They had only exchanged sensible e-mails for the last few weeks and none mentioned anything other than business and best wishes. Suzanne had reported too in the same way, but only to report little progress in the mission. He wondered, if she wasn't going to do anything for him, after all!

Perhaps, it wasn't grief at all. It was just loneliness and he was crying for himself. The one thing, that he knew about himself, was that he didn't want to spend the rest of his life sitting high above London, with a few old, but exceedingly powerful computers for company. He was a tactile, caring and deeply emotional man, who needed, at least the companionship of a woman to whom he could relate to a great depth. And preferably relate sexually!

***

He was more than surprised to find that despite his troubled mind, he had slept through to nearly nine on Christmas morning. Despite the large amount of malt whisky he had drunk the previous evening, his head was reasonably clear, as he sat in his small kitchen, drinking tea and contemplating a day, that would be only slightly different than any other. As ever, he would spend most of it working.

It would not take him long to open the one gift he had received. Perhaps, in his present mood, it would not take him long to drink it, either! But then, he knew he ought to stay sober, as Wendy and Dave were collecting him around five to take him to their house for a late Christmas Dinner. Save from doing a complete runner, he doubted if he would be able to avoid going.

Where would he be but for Wendy? He didn't dare answer himself.

***

Over the last few years, he had found that one of the great joys of e-mail is that when you can't think of anything else to do, at any time of the day or night, you can always check to see if you have received anything of value. He had also discovered one of the great disappointments. Most of the messages that fly around the ether are complete rubbish.

In the last few hours since he checked, he had received over two hundred messages.

All but about twenty or so were from a programming list or forum, where programmers like himself, swapped problems, questions, ideas and the occasional rude jokes about blondes. Many messages were simple queries and should have been solved by reading the programming documentation. He always mused about this and felt perhaps, they were not using a registered copy of the software and so didn't have anything other than the list to solve their problems. He only gave more than a cursory glance to about ten messages, and he deemed that only two were worth keeping for later reference. One because the sender sounded as though he needed his analysis software and the other because he had indicated a solution to a problem, that had been plaguing him for months. He replied with a short message to both.

The initial filtering had taken ten minutes. He vowed that one day, he would be the one who would write the definitive sort the wheat from the chaff program for messages. One day!

He was annoyed as he read the first of the remaining messages.

It is wildly assumed by the media, politicians and the general public alike, that the Internet is all about sex, pornography, sex and more sex. It is there on many sites, but you have to go looking for dirty pictures and over-the-top stories about sex, flagellation, bondage, paedophilia and bestiality. When sexual pornography is found, nearly all is very much of the sort, that can be found openly on sale in newsagents and kiosks in most cities, such as London, Paris or New York. It is also extremely easy to avoid. Those that trade in the real filth bury it so deep, that it is unlikely the casual searcher would ever find anything.

This message though was of another sort of pornography that he totally abhorred, in all its manifestations. Innocently some days ago, he had remarked in a newsgroup, that as an engineer and a scientist, he couldn't understand or find any point in racism, but that he could get very upset about people who were racist and tried to thrust views down his throat. The response doing some very abusive thrusting had been sent anonymously so that he did not know from whom or from where it had been sent. Although a name on the message indicated, that the sender was part of the sort of gun-loving, middle-American group, that made Adolf Hitler look like a soft, rather pink-centred liberal.

He composed a variation on his standard reply.

He doubted that he would receive anything in return.

All but two of the other messages were more or less variations on a similar theme and as he read each, they lifted him a little further out of his depression. He suspected that Wendy had been behind the idea that all of his friends would wish him Happy Christmas. Perhaps, she did deserve the extra salary, she had jokingly awarded herself!

The last two messages were from the two new ladies in his life.

She had sounded very apprehensive since he had left her in Las Vegas, but this message was of an altogether different tone. It was the happy and confident Lucinda he had seen emerge in the suite at the Desert Inn. And what did she mean by with radiance.

The message made him feel good. Perhaps his life wasn't so lonely after all.

He replied immediately to the question in the affirmative.

***

The change in his mood, meant that all miserable plans for hard work were abandoned.

He dressed in a clean pair of Daks woollen slacks, a double-cuffed shirt with the links that Lucinda had worn in Las Vegas, a stout sports jacket of the type beloved of Englishmen and his best shoes. Then with a quilted jacket to keep out the cold, but bright day, he left the flat, took the lift to the ground floor and proceeded to walk across the City to the river Thames.

***

He returned to the flat around four that afternoon, after walking all of the way to Greenwich on the north bank of the river and back on the south, crossing it through the old foot tunnel. He was tired, refreshed and now had a realisation that he was not as fit as he thought he was! Or for that matter should be at his age! Perhaps, he should join one of those fitness clubs!

He was greeted by a phone. It was Adams. 'It's no bother, if it's important ... Oh! I am sorry ... Give my regards to his family ... Yes! I will come to the funeral ... Edinburgh ... Thank you.'

Just like the death of Julian, that of Derek had been overdue by several weeks. The deaths put all of his problems and fears into a very much more realistic perspective.

***

Exactly at the expected time, the door-bell rang. He felt that to be strange, as Wendy had her own key. Perhaps, she had just forgotten it.

He opened the door to greet his secretary and was almost knocked down with surprise. He was certainly incapable of making any sensible comment.

A wheeled trolley was parked ready to the enter. It was covered in all of the requirements for the most sumptuous of Christmas dinners; turkey, ham, vegetables, pudding, wine, champagne and every possible imaginable trimming. There were even some candles in a silver candelabra. Wendy was nowhere to be seen and the attractive lady behind the trolley was dressed as the classic Strippogram in black underwear, corset and stockings. The season was indicated by a paper hat. To complete everything, around her neck was a large label covered in all the usual bells and holly, bearing the message, Happy Christmas from Wendy and Dave.

Copyright 1999 by Ewart Higgins