He sat alone by the window, towards the back in the half-empty 757, on the first part of the flight from Las Vegas to Orlando with mixed feelings. American Airlines were a rather plastic substitute for BA or Virgin and the stop and change in Dallas turned a boring journey into a long, awkward and tedious one.

But that wasn't it!

On the plus side, he had setup the sort of deal he liked.

He had stuck his mind, his body, his reputation for what it was worth, but above all his balls into the sort of supreme and difficult challenge, that would tax an Einstein working a forty-eight hour day in a twelve day week. Except, that this time not only was he the lead designer, project manager, programmer, probably chief software tester and general-purpose dogsbody, but he was also trying to screw the best price on a complex merger of two and a half companies or a take-over of two by another. And to make matters worse, he then had to live with the deal and make it work. And he trusted one of his adversaries as much as anybody would trust Saddam Hussein!

Perhaps he didn't like it!

But then, why should he care? If he failed, he would still get a few hundred thousand dollars or perhaps even pounds for all or part of his user-interface and analysis software. To paraphrase Micawber, so long as the cash-flow was positive, what the hell!

On the negative side, he was leaving an amazing lady in Vegas!

Where else could he find all of that sexuality, intelligence, tenderness and compassion? And all in such a beautiful, red-headed package! He knew damn well, what he should do, but then logical programmer that he was, did not mean that he followed impeccable logic in his relationships with women. If he had done, he would never have married! At least, he would never have married Catherine!

The pull of the challenge was greater!

After all he argued, he had never lived successfully for long with any woman, so why at nearly fifty should he be able to change. Especially, with one, who was much more of a swan than he was or ever could be!

***

The change of aircraft at Dallas gave enough time for a couple of Coronas in a bar, surrounded by the usual characters, who seem to permanently inhabit such places.

A fat, elderly, mutton-dressed-as-mutton American woman tried hard to make conversation, by remarking on his wonderful English accent and asking all the same inane questions, asked of Englishmen in America. He ignored her, as he thought her Texan drawl was ghastly. He resisted too, the attempts of the man on his left to introduce him to the mysteries of American football, by bluntly stating it was a pointless game for overweight freaks. A smile came to his face, as he remembered Lucinda's remarks about the game, but that soon died, as the terrible ordeal in the aftermath was recalled.

He was also deep in thought about the project and didn't want any interruptions.

He never used any paper for thinking, preferring to sort and sift everything mentally. Writing anything down only slowed the process, especially as it meant he had to wear his glasses to both read and write. It also allowed others to ascertain his thoughts, have their four-pennyworth and draw him away from his chosen direction. In addition, he had the complete and unexpurgated library of all his past work, good, bad or indifferent, instantly available in his memory. It was better than any computer storage system, as everything he had done, from specifications, through programs, down to the smallest piece of computer code could be recalled to the finest detail. The one thing of which he was certain, was that his eventual design would be an amalgam of most of his thirty years of experience.

Only back in England at some time in the next few days, when all the i's were dotted and the t's were crossed, would anything be committed to a readable form. The final specification would be word-processed once and once only and even after extensive discussion with others, would hardly be changed at all. He was always extremely dogmatic and very protective about how, why and when his projects were created and treated.

They were almost his children. And they were certainly a substitute for the child he had never known.

***

The flight had been on-time into Dallas, but by the time the connection left for Orlando, it had stolen an hour from his life.

American Airlines tried to make up for the delay, by sitting him next to the most attractive girl on the plane. Immaculately blonde, perfectly doe and blue-eyed, beautiful of face, slim of body, cream-suited, showing nearly all of a pair of shapely legs, she would have been the average man's dream; wet or otherwise. That is if you liked model look-alikes scarcely into their twenties. He preferred them to look at, rather than converse with, as often they were like so many computer programs; all style, colour and beauty, but underneath there was not enough intelligence, experience and substance.

They were thirty minutes out of Dallas before a conversation arose. Or perhaps more correctly stumbled into existence, when the stewardess brought a Coke for him and a Bourbon for her. It was her unavailable, preferred tipple of an Irish Whiskey, that had aroused his attention. Few women drink Irish and those that do are to be respected.

'Do you have connections with the Old Country, then?' The question was asked very casually, as if he was not expecting her to hear.

'Oh! Yes.' He smiled visibly at a West Coast accent which had benefited from a good education. 'Mother was from down in County Cork. But I was born in San Francisco. You're English aren't you? Going home?'

'Vaguely! I'm meeting an old mate in Orlando to discuss business for a couple of days, having a few beers and then taking the BA flight back to Blighty.'

'Blighty?' She looked puzzled.

'It's an old mainly Army term used about England when going home.' He searched for an example. 'Think of all those First World War songs. One of them talks of going back to Blighty! Can't remember which, though!'

'You're right.' She paused as he had for a second, almost making a meal of her thoughts. 'I can't remember either.' She smiled. 'Where does Blighty come from?'

'Now that I do know!' He smiled back rather triumphantly, partly because he had heard the ancestry discussed on one of the more eccentric quizzes on BBC Radio, but mainly because the girl seemed capable of a more than intelligent conversation. 'I believe that, it's a corruption of some Hindi or Indian word. Probably none too pleasant originally. But then a lot of British nick-names were that way once. We're thick-skinned and proud to adopt them as terms of endearment!'

'Like limey and pom!' She laughed, reached out and squeezed his hand.

***

The conversation, banter, compliments, questions, Coke and Bourbon ran continuously for the rest of the flight.

The questioning had been mainly one way, as she had asked of his business, family and affairs, whilst she had said very little about any of hers. He still knew little more, than she had disclosed in the opening encounter. But, he at least felt, that she had more than made up for the delay.

He had gleaned a little from the directions of her probing. She certainly knew about COMDEX and Las Vegas, but then she didn't know much about computing, except as he suspected a competent word-processor and net-surfer, judging from the line of her questioning. Perhaps, she was a lawyer or someone who organised shows. Or perhaps, she just went to exhibitions to look pretty on stands. But then she was far too intelligent to do that for long.

About forty minutes from Orlando, he finally got the opportunity to ask her, her name and what she did for a living.

The response was matter-of-fact and said in exactly the same tone, as a lawyer, accountant or an engineer might answer. 'Oh! didn't I tell you. My name is Suzanne Hill. And I'm a whore! A very high-class whore!'

Copyright 1999 by Ewart Higgins