WIRS #06 The Croston Curse

[Nik_SpeakerToCats]

Chapter 01

My two cheese-burgers, large fries and sugar-free cola were very welcome, but I needed a long, long shower at the motel to get those whatsits' acrid stink out of my hair and nose. It was much too late for college work. I put my Chrome Book and both phones onto charge, nibbled my second cheese roll to crumbs, drank a cup of cold water. Despite the evening's excitement, I settled to sleep fairly quickly, dreamed harmlessly.

Saturday morning, while Ms. Jones nibbled a croissant, sipped coffee and wrangled her phone messages, I again enjoyed the luxury of piling my plate with grilled protein. I wasn't in the same league as Mike or Geoff, but set upon my breakfast with industry. As the heap, with its sides of hot toast and good coffee went down, I watched the cafe TV's 24 hr news-feed.

Beyond Brexit, more Brexit and yet more Brexit, the news cycle rolled around to a regional bulletin. Happily, no reports of 'Three-Eyed Flying Monkeys'. Sadly, a drunk, last seen staggering towards a canal tow-path behind Manchester Piccadilly, had been found face-down in the water by a dawn jogger. That made three such near there in a month. Also, in that area's club-land, one young man was dead and three badly injured after several brawls. They'd taken some of the very potent Meth pills currently 'on the street', tempers had flared.

"... in Salford are increasingly concerned for the safety of three nursing students who failed to return to their apartment after a friend's hen-night.... Sightings requested for a white or off-white Ford panel van, partial registration 'FGZ'..."

I peered at the trio's cheerful pictures, obviously lifted from social media. I shook my head. 'Hugh Baird' had lost its sad share to mishap and mayhem. Drunken stumble, landed wrong. Fall on ice, like-wise. Bad 'E' at a night-club. Another at a 'Rave'. Wrong time, wrong place when neighbour's jealous Ex went psycho with 'zombie knife'. 'Red-Runner' SUV driver, totally T-Boned by laden dumper truck, spun into folk waiting to cross...

Salford and the Greater Manchester area had lots of traffic cameras, so I was surprised the panel van had vanished. Perhaps its plates were obscured or damaged ? Easily done. Possibly innocent. And, perhaps the driver was using it on 'private business', did not want his employers to know where he'd taken it 'off piste'...

I shrugged. I was more concerned by how well I'd slept after last night's cull. Okay, the whatsits looked 'wrong', were not 'cute', certainly not 'cuddly', but I'd struck down my victims like so many summer flies. Yet, only a week ago, I'd said, 'A life is a life is a life...'

I knew just enough non-human biology to be very, very curious about those whatsits' innards. How did their skeleton support six limbs ? How did those articulate ? At least whatsits lacked 'primate volume' skulls, suggesting a fairly small brain. Against that, one of our neighbours had inherited a parrot, whose bright eyes certainly reflected its oft-mischievous intelligence. And, yes, out-witting 'The Minx' kept me sharp...

After breakfast, we headed West. Croston Village was a few miles North-East of Rufford and its famous Tudor 'Old Hall', beloved of my parents. Most kids on 'borrowed time' might have preferred Southport's garish fun-fair, but I was happy to spend hours studying and sketching the proportions and details of buildings, learning how such 'worked'. Although having a architect in the family would be so handy, Mum & Dad accepted my uncertain health made me unlikely to qualify. Also, given my parallel interests in electrics and electronics...

While Ms. Jones tackled the last of her messages, Mike followed the van's SatNav through a zig-zag of narrow roads, surely former farm lanes, often alongside fields with ponds and dank drainage channels. Much of this area had been soggy fen-land, with 'raised peat', lagoons and marsh. In fact, we weren't far from the renowned 'Martin Mere' aquatic bird sanctuary. Long term, given sea-level rise, this low-lying agricultural plain behind Southport and Formby would need full-on Dutch dykes, or go under like lost 'Doggerland'.

"Okay..." Ms. Jones finally scrolled to her notes, began our briefing. "Guys, today, we're investigating the bizarre 'Croston Curse' which has plagued the extended family of the late John Smith.

"Mr. Smith bequeathed a very valuable 'Avant Garde' medallion 'In Trust' to his ex-wives, ex-mistresses and their many daughters. Remarkably, each designated holder soon suffered from break-downs, severe depression, even suicide. Robust health before, prompt, oft-catastrophic decline after wearing it a few times. Despite hospitalisation, medication and counselling, relapses were common. Suspecting a contact toxin, they've cleaned the chain, tried sealing the medallion's back with lacquer. They've even tried exorcism...

"Now, you'd think they'd just sell the medallion or lock it in a safe-deposit box, but the trust terms preclude that. The designated holder must keep it on display, wear it to a specified number of formal social events each year and provide proof, else that branch of the family has their trust benefits suspended.

"I've seen the tax data, there's a lot of money involved. Also, the trust deed was crafted to prevent challenge. So, following several early, apparently unrelated tragedies, the extended family played 'Pass the Parcel'. After a grim succession of deaths and near-misses, it's more like 'Russian Roulette'.

"Even stranger, after handing the medallion on, surviving ex-holders generally recover, albeit slowly and warily.

"At first, this looked a simple, if Fortean case. However, routine background enquiries threw up many 'Non-Disclosure Agreements' and 'security' flags. Took almost a year before the MI Spooks allowed even limited access, via 'heavily redacted' documents. Sadly, another formerly healthy holder recently died following a sudden break-down. That finally persuaded those Spooks to admit their concerns. ..

"Given the circumstances, our 'Technical Section' had kept digging. Their briefing notes are usually terse, but this file just grew and grew...

"It all starts in the mid-1930s, when the Poles realised they were between a Fascist rock and a Communist hard place. Their code-breakers took on the challenge of the Germans' commercial, hence simpler 'Enigma' version, figured its weaknesses, built on that. When the hammer fell, they briefed the English and French, brought them up to speed. A small team fled to UK. Officially, they did 'Routine Translations', but were personal friends of Turing and his crew at Bletchley Park.

"Two of the young Polish mathematicians married. Um, I won't try to pronounce their names. Their clever daughter Elizabeth married Peter Smith, one of the early Manchester computing gurus.

"In the mid-1960s, Liz' and Pete's precocious son John rapidly earned a reputation for designing elegant but 'hardened' circuitry for industrial control and the military.

"Some of this found its way into Lucas Industries' proprietary 'Black Boxes' controlling Rolls-Royce Olympus jet engines, driving anything from warships to Concorde. Story goes that the Russians, who were struggling with the lower efficiency of their Tu-144 'Concordski' engines, stole one from a Lucas guy seconded to the Toulouse factory. After careful reverse engineering, they discovered it had been re-purposed to play 'Pong'...

"In the early 1970s, John got his hands on some of Intel's new 4004 'microprocessors'. He realised these could be used to simplify many of the control systems he'd designed, seriously shrinking their size, their count of logic chips. He cleverly mixed hardware and software, devised and licensed innovative interface circuitry to do a lot we now take for granted.

"There are many, many 'redacted' gaps in John Smith's extensive CV. Commercial NDA and MilSpec consultancies abound. He also did some 'deniable' work for the MI Spooks. Reading between those lines, cross-referencing where and what they could, our 'Technical Section' were very impressed by his work across several decades.

"Unfortunately, Mr. Smith's personal life was rather turbulent. He married and divorced three times, had a succession of mistresses and fathered many children, with an uncommon proportion being girls...

"Then, something went badly wrong. A redacted aerospace consultancy project collapsed, he became 'persona non grata'. Hero to zero. He retired to his family home in Croston, became a bit of a recluse. Turned against his extended family, especially the women and their daughters. Seems to have been a family grudge rather than general misogyny...

"Still played with electronics, though. Submitted a lot of off-beat articles and projects to electronics magazines and journals. Gradually, as the hobbyist market shrank, then shifted 'on-line', his increasingly retro designs fell out of fashion. Although there'd been stylistic similarities, his multiple pseudonyms were only confirmed when the estate executors discovered a big, big box of rejection slips..."

"Why us, Ma'm ?" Mike asked the logical question.

"First, a reasonable concern that John Smith may have independently discovered portals. Possibly encountered abhumans ? Perhaps got his hands on Alt-Tech ? He died more than a decade before our detection system came on-line, so the recent scatter of 'Yellow' hits in this area may be false-positives.

"Unless, of course, the 'Croston Curse' is a symptom of exposure to such ?

"Second, the subject those MI Spooks were so very, very reluctant to discuss directly...

"Towards the end of his career, John Smith apparently became obsessed by the wilder aspects of Tesla's work. Not the infamous 'Power Tower' project, but his 'Peace Ray' beam weapon, the 'Earthquake Machine' and other potential nasties. Modern consensus is they would not have worked, at least not as described. However, Tesla was paranoid about patent piracy. He often kept essential details in his head. Those scanty mid-1930s reports could be wary misdirection...

"To quote our contact, 'Smith had a scarily eclectic skill-set'. Given an increasingly cranky genius who'd worked on everything from industrial controllers to missile guidance, air-breathing lasers to fusion research, all bets are off."

[Nik_SpeakerToCats]

Chapter 02

Mike followed the SatNav through Croston, then left off the A581 towards quaintly named 'Drinkhouse Lane'. I saw scant evidence of the area's river floods. In 2012, their storm-swelled Yarrow swamped the village centre. Then, in 2016, an embankment failed on the nearby Douglas, flooding Croston again, but from the South-West.

After passing a row of detached houses, Mike turned the van in a convenient farm entrance, parked on the lane. Large wreaths hung on a nearby street gate and house door confirmed we'd arrived. Ms. Jones opened the back of the van. She issued us with disposable gloves, me with the yellow-boxed 'Portable Detector Array'. I switched that on, waited for it to stabilise, then pressed the battery-test button.

"Battery green, Ma'm," I called, backing away. "Ready when you are."

Ms. Jones nodded, woke her phone, composed then sent a very brief text. About thirty seconds later, her phone pinged with a reply. As at Mount View Hall, she glanced at the message, reached into the back of the van. Her fingers danced on the lock-box key-pad. She pressed that recessed button.

'Meep !' My eyes fell to the detector, where two adjacent cross arms had lit with red, embracing the van's quadrant. "Positive, Ma'm."

"Tests the portable detector," she mentioned. "Also helps to calibrate the growing national network."

We were expected. The house door opened as we trooped up the path in Ms. Jones' wake.

"Hello." She had her HMRC ID out. "I'm Jenny Jones, Special Investigations, 'Section D'. We're the help you requested."

"Come in." The blonde, middle-aged woman was dressed in smart, if funereal black. She led us a few paces along a generously proportioned, mosaic floored hall-way. Before we reached the splendid stairs, she opened the door to a spacious, if rather retro 'Receiving Room', with a tasteful mix of well-kept nineteenth century furniture. Two more middle-aged and two twenty-something women sat on nice chairs around the circular central table. They shared the sombre dress code, had a striking familial resemblance. They looked aged beyond their years.

"You took your time," the youngest said. She stood, added, "We buried Aunt Jane last week. 'Open Verdict'."

Those curt words carried a weary bitterness I remembered all too well.

"Bel, where's your manners ?" The woman who'd admitted us chided.

"I'm Jenny Jones, Special Investigations, 'Section D'," came JJ's gentle response. "I'm sorry for your loss, Ms. Carter-Smith. Sadly, our enquiries were frustrated by the extent of Mr. Smith's 'redacted' work, stymied by official intransigence. Though scant consolation, it was your aunt's untimely death that persuaded the MI Spooks to discuss their concerns."

"Huh." Bel looked us over with a certain disdain, focused on my slung yellow box. "The 'Madellion' is not radio-active. We checked. I double-checked."

"Not a Geiger," Ms. Jones calmly stated. "Should it sound, duck and cover."

They didn't expect that. The women's eyes swept Ms. Jones' open jacket, with its glimpsed shoulder holster. They noted Mike, who was holding a commercial, phone-sized EM sensor. Big Geoff made even this large room shrink, was surely as dangerous as he looked. And milquetoast me ? My yellow box was an ominous enigma...

"Bel, where's your manners ?" The older woman repeated. "I'm sorry, my niece--"

"Has tragically lost yet another beloved family member in mysterious circumstances," Ms. Jones stated. Turning to Bel, she asked, "May we see your serial bane ?"

"Well, then," Bel allowed. Crossing the room to a grand 'heirloom' sideboard with what seemed a hefty vivarium, she whisked off its black drape. The revealed display case was a lot stronger than a casual glance might suggest. I'd been around enough museums and 'National Trust' properties to recognise its greenish tint and subtle refractions as armoured glass. Within, a hefty traditional bell-jar stood on a circular plinth. Inside that, on the same plinth, a slightly smaller bell-jar housed a simple 'jewellers' bust. The infamous 'Smith Medallion' hung from a simple, but strong gold 'curb' chain around its short neck.

The 'Medallion' was far from plain. It looked as if it had escaped from a pompous potentate's over-wrought regalia. The size of my palm, it was heavy, chunky and gaudy. Okay, seriously gaudy. Its creamy cabochon centre had a strange depth to its opalescent sheen. The thick, wide, intricately engraved golden surround was set with a complex pattern of small emeralds and semi-precious stones which, like a 'jewel bug', caught the light from any angle. Eerily, the pattern suggested insectile eyes, watching and waiting, watching and waiting...

My first glimpse cried 'ugly'. My second thought was the Medallion lay beyond ugly, unto ominous, like a lethal snake's gaudy markings. My third, to wonder if this had been fashioned to give that impression...

"Hmm," Ms. Jones pronounced, after peering through the case from several angles. "Pictures do not do this justice. Guys ?"

Mike waved that little sensor box near the case, shook his head. "Nothing above background, Ma'm."

Geoff studied the 'Medallion' briefly, shrugged, stepped away. I held my yellow box against the display case in several positions, reported, "No response, Ma'm."

"I'm sorry," Ms. Jones said to Bel, "May we handle it ?"

Bel manipulated something in the side-board's right-hand cupboard, then at the back of the drawer above. A small hatch appeared nearby in what had seemed a solid upright. She delved within, retrieved a small spring ring with two modern keys. These worked the display case's two multi-turn locks. With the front swung wide, Bel raised two recessed handles, lifted out the plinth and placed it on the table. That the three women still sat promptly edged their chairs away spoke volumes of the Medallion's reputation.

Bel carefully raised the outer bell jar from its groove, set it aside. Then, taking a shaky breath, she lifted the inner. Without the armoured glass' filtering, the Medallion looked even bigger and gaudier.

"Nothing above background, Ma'm," Mike reported.

"No response, Ma'm," I added.

"Hmm." Ms. Jones snapped on a pair of disposable gloves, fingered the Medallion, turned it about. However the cabochon was set, it did not show at the back, which was solid metal. "Guys ?"

Mike scanned his little sensor box a finger's breadth from the Medallion' front, back and circumference. He tracked along the chain. He tried at different angles. He shook his head. Geoff did a wary visual survey, drew blank. I scanned with my yellow sensor box, drew blank, asked, "May I take a closer look ?"

Ms. Jones looked to Bel, who nodded. I dug in my combats' pockets, found the folding 10x 'Geology' lens I used to check circuit boards and read small components' codes. After snapping on disposable gloves, I took the Medallion from Ms. Jones' hands, worked my way across its front. Beyond bling and twinkles, I found nothing of interest. I searched the solid back, drew blank. I studied its rim. Oddly, the left and right showed slight differences. I was turning the Medallion about, comparing them, when the room seemed to dim.

[Nik_SpeakerToCats]

Chapter 03

Suddenly, my careful examination seemed futile. This visit was a waste of time. This weekend was a waste of time. I should be having a duvet day, not faffin' about with over-wrought 'Avant Garde' bling. I dropped the Medallion back onto its bust. My hand-lens slipped from my fingers, but I did not care.

Without warning, I got a vivid flash-back to a long night in Alder Hey's Cardiac ICU. My neighbouring bay's ECG monitor began to squawk alarm around one o'clock. Other failing life-sign alerts rose to an ominous chorus. The 'crash cart' crew scampered by, set to work. Again and again, those alarms stilled briefly, then resumed. More medics arrived. Then young Jack's parents. Finally, around dawn, the ECG fell silent, as did his other monitors...

And the morning Mum answered the phone, then just stood, ashen, in our kitchen's doorway. 'Tim, your friend Melinda', she whispered. 'Died in her sleep...'

And the afternoon when, 'home alone', I'd answered the door, to find two police women stood, their uniform caps under their arms...

I felt as if I was spiralling down towards a gaping abyss...

Down, down, down...

Down, down, down...

Down, down, down...

But, I'm 'Zipper Club'. I'm a walking affront to the 'Grim Reaper'. Though this was horrible, truly horrible, I'd endured worse. My wits re-booted. Glancing down to my sensor box, I yelled, "No response, Ma'm !"

Ms. Jones was frozen, her gaze distant, but my words woke her. She stepped back, drew on the Medallion with commendable speed. Behind us, Mike shakily called, "No EM detected !"

No sensor alert ? That so shrank the playa of possibilities ! I shouted, "Bel ! Lid it !"

Bel found enough volition to snatch up the larger bell jar and, despite shaking hands, place it atop the plinth. The moment it engaged its slot, my despond ceased like a thrown switch. As, by her expression, did Bel's, who stared at the now-quiescent Medallion with a mix of horror and fury.

"Ah ?" Quickly, I bid Bel, "Tilt the lid a bit ? And shut ? Tilt ? Shut ? Tilt ?"

This third time, the despond did not return, which set me to think.

"So that's the 'Croston Curse' !" Ms. Jones gasped. She looked across at the three pale-faced women weeping in their chairs, one crying on a side table, Bel's seething rage. Hands trembling, Ms. Jones needed two tries to 'safe', then holster her gun. Turning, she asked, "Guys ?"

Mike and Geoff belatedly sheathed a fighting knife apiece. Exchanging glances, they just shook their heads. After long seconds, Mike admitted, "Every squaddie screw-up, Ma'm. Regiment Qualification. Grievous galloping guts in Nicosia. The time our guide in {Cough} double-crossed us-- All rolled into one..."

"Tim ?" Ms. Jones asked. "You were closest..."

"Grim, Ma'm." I shuddered. "All my ghosts remembered. Brrr..."

"Mine, too," she murmured. "How ?"

"Perhaps infrasound, Ma'm," Mike suggested. "French and Yanks have tested 'projectors'. But, like water cannon and tear-gas, they only deter low-level trouble. Not a full riot or suicide attack. Not like this."

"Infrasound could do it, Ma'm, though you'd need speakers the size of an oil drum. They'd shake the house like a middling earthquake. For sure, that lid would not mute it." I shuddered, offered a possible puzzle piece. "Down, down, down ? Did you feel it ?"

Ms. Jones nodded. Mike and Geoff nodded. Bel's eyes widened. She nodded.

"That... That could be a 'Shepard Tone' sequence," I decided. "Usually it rises, is 'up-lifting'. Descending ? Brrr..."

"Shepard tones ?" Bel asked.

"Auditory illusion," I said. "Like Escher stairs or a spinning barber's pole, never reaches the end. You've climbing chords, their notes an octave apart. As each note reaches the top, it jumps back to the bottom so you don't notice. Real sneaky, and a handy FX to wake a dozy disco."

"So, descending-- Yuck !" Bel shivered. "And I thought my Goth friend Gale's 'Leonard Cohen' binges were dark !"

"But how could we feel it, yet not hear it ?" I shook my head, stopped, looked across to Ms. Jones. "Ma'm ? Last week ? Simon's neat bat detector ? Electronically mixed ultrasonic bat calls with a 'beat frequency oscillator' to bring them down to our range ? If both were loud enough, the same could happen inside our heads."

Mike nodded. "Ma'm, even a tiny 'tweeter' can be very, very loud..."

"Ma'm, I was half-way through examining the Medallion. May I take another look ?"

Ms. Jones looked to Bel, who hesitated, nodded. I scooped up my folding hand-lens which, metal-framed for field work, had survived its drop. Bel took a shaky breath. She warily tilted the Medallion's lid. The 'Curse' stayed quiescent. She took a moment to set her nerve, removed the lid.

This time, I concentrated on those slight differences between the Medallion back's right and left. The more I looked, the odder they seemed. I checked the rim again. A notion grew. "Ma'm, I think this began as a locket..."

"No catch," Bel cautioned. "We've looked."

She hadn't winkled umpteen gadgets, games and gizmos, many cunningly designed to thwart access. I took a breath, asked, "Ma'm, may I go 'proactive' on this ?"

Ms. Jones allowed me a wan smile, stated, "Given I nearly shot it in self-defense, Tim, I've no problem with a little proactivity..."

Bel hesitated, polled her still-stricken kin with a glance, said, "Go for it."

Though I'd not been asked to bring my 'electrical' belt, I always carried a few small tools. The 'geology' lens travelled with a live-wire detector 'pen', neat 'electronic-grade' pliers and side-cutters, a set of slim 'watch-maker' screwdrivers. My pocket-delve found the latter's small roll. Handy for tightening fellow students' spectacle hinges, they were essential for 3.5 mm pitch PCB screw connectors or culling hair-fine solder whiskers from circuit boards. I took the thinnest, flattest blade, targeted a minute rectangle on the Medallion's engraved rim. I pressed, twisted. My hand-lens now showed a hair-fine seam near-by. Leaving that blade in place, I chose another screwdriver, tackled my other suspect. Aim, press, twist.

Like a table-trick, the Medallion's back reluctantly hinged open. An O-ring and a springy phosphor-bronze gasket had provided physical and electronic seals along the seam. Two thin disks of translucent plastic insulated the metal case from a neat but crowded circuit board.

"Well, F**k," murmured Bel, allowing me a polite nod. "It really was a locket !"

"Both catches were filed down to lie flush," I pointed. "Then buffed smooth ? Far from obvious."

"I'll take some photos..." Ms. Jones clipped an auxiliary lens to her phone's camera, took a succession of close-up pics from multiple angles. Then, she asked me, "Can you figure the workings ?"

"I'll give it a go, Ma'm." I tilted the circuit board up, deployed my hand lens. "Double-sided board. Mostly surface-mount components. Discretes' markings are legible, the chips have been sanded down. Hmm. Hasn't munged the lay-out, though. Just saving a little depth ?

"Okay, from the top. Small solar panel bonded to flat back of the half-cabochon. Two flexible wires to main board. Blocking diode. Hundred micro-Farad storage capacitor, nested in a hole in the board. Then, a classic 'Joule Thief' voltage pump, like any garden-path solar light. Two more capacitors ? Ah, another hundred micro-Farad flanking a point four-seven Farad ? Yes, Farad. So, a super-capacitor. Again nested in a hole in the board.

"Early super-caps had a high ESR, 'Equivalent Series Resistance', Ma'm, needed a 'sidekick'...

"From its layout, first chip's gotta be a CMOS 556. That's a twin, low-power 555, a multi-purpose device. I'd say these two halves are rigged as a threshold detector and a long-delay timer...

"Next chip looks like a bunch of logic gates wired as oscillators. Huh ? Here's a watch-crystal, 32-some kilo-Hertz, but there's another ! And what's that transistor doing ?

"Gotcha ! Not a transistor, but paired varactor diodes. Tweaking their voltage would 'pull' the crystal off its natural frequency. Like pitch-bend on a synth ? The chips over here probably make the tone stairs. And this last chip drives those two small transducers bonded to the case back. 'Tweeters' if you will...

"Ma'm, this needs to be professionally analysed, reverse engineered." I took a shaky breath. "But for ingenious, almost elegant wickedness, it must take some beating !"

"I understood one word in five," Ms. Jones admitted, "but I'm inclined to agree..."

"Can you pull its teeth ?" Bel asked.

"Your Trust--" I began.

"It's like a live Forties' bomb as a door-stop," Bel hissed. "That must trump our Trust provisions !"

"Agreed." Ms. Jones nodded. "It was weaponized. It seriously assaulted us. That's a criminal act. Now, all the deaths must be reviewed. 'Unlawful Killing', surely ? Survivors listed as victims of 'Attempted Murder' ? Your Trustees had better agree a 'family arrangement', pro-bono, or the scandal will ruin them.

"If they quibble, remind them your murderous 'Madellion' took on the HMRC, and lost."

Bel looked around at her kin-folk, who'd gathered to stare at the revealed electronic innards. Slowly, very slowly, hope had begun to return to their faces. One by one, they nodded agreement.

"Tim," Ms. Jones said. "Make it safe."

Fetching out my small snips, I cut the 'hot' lead of each big capacitor, bent it aside. I did the same for a solar panel lead. After Ms. Jones took a few more photos, I suggested, "Better put it back in its case, to be sure, to be sure..."

No-one dared argue. With the de-fanged locket standing open for all to see, its inner and outer bells went on, the plinth was locked into the armoured case, the keys hidden in their secret drawer.

The middle-aged woman who'd answered the door took a shaky breath, muttered "Where's my manners ? Would you good folk like a cup of tea ? A biscuit ?"

"I don't think so," Ms. Jones demurred. "We've business else-where."

"Are you sure ?"

"Really."
===

"Drive East," Ms. Jones directed. We were a mile away before she spoke again. "Sorry, guys, just had to get out of there. I wanted to kill it with gun-fire."

"Hulk smash," Geoff rumbled, a truly lethal quip from our Big Guy.

"Quite," Ms. Jones agreed. "Well done, Team. At least it turned out to be mundane..."

"Ma'm, I don't know if I should be glad, or terrified," Mike admitted.

"Ma'm, what's even scarier..." I shivered. "Using modern chips, I reckon you could fit one in a chunky thumb-drive."

"I hope it gives those MI Spooks sleepless nights," Ms. Jones stated, with barely controlled vehemence. "Down-side is Smith's 'Madellion' did not trigger our portable detector. And, of course, now we're in the area, those 'sporadic' Yellows have stopped...

"But, that's data, too. Looking over their history, I think there's a new pattern developing, a weekly cycle.

"Tomorrow, I'd planned to investigate those 'Lizard Man' sightings near 'Jodrell Bank'. Instead, I'm going to play a hunch. Mike, head for Charnock Richard, the 'Hunters Lodge Motel' on the A49. For once, we'll have time to chill, eat properly. You and Geoff can grab a beer. I'll tackle my reports. Tim, his college work...

"Then we'll see what tomorrow brings."