In the superlative degree of comparison only

In the superlative degree of comparison only

"What!!?"

"It's based on a piece of reverse engineering from a component which was salvaged from an alien spacecraft which crashlanded in West Wales during the Second World War."

The President of the United States of America looked incredulously at the contraption, which lay on his desk, then at General George Baker the joint chief of staff of the American armed forces, and at Cleopatra Binns who was a professor of astronomy and astrophysics at Harvard University. Then he checked the calendar to make sure it wasn't April first. He got up and stood in front of the Oval Office's window surveying the White House grounds then turned his head and spoke to Binns: "It doesn't look much like a computer to me."

"That's because it's not a digital computer, it's an analog computer." Then she added somewhat disparagingly: "I expect your wife would understand."

The President shot a glance at Baker who laughed nervously: "She's quite a girl, isn't she? Sometimes makes me feel so stupid too, ha, ha!"

A thought crossed the President's mind and he grinned seeming to agree with Baker's humour; in fact the pair of them had reminded him of the pair of robots in Star Wars: Baker tall and gangly, Binns short and squat.

Binns reacted angrily: "This wasn't my idea! I was asked to assess some photographs and this is my evaluation based on the so-called facts which for all I know could be a cock-and-bull story made up by some ... some ... somebody who's being silly;" controlling her temper she cast her eyes at the ground and bit her tongue.

Binns was an interesting character, salvaged by a social worker from the inner city streets where she ran wild as a child leading a gang of kids involved in selling drugs, she'd achieved World wide fame for developing as her doctor of philosophy thesis the solution to Albert Einstein's unified field theory and at the age of twenty-nine was a Harvard professor and a visiting professor at Cambridge in England, etcetera.

The President asked Binns: "But if George really made it all up then how come your computer emerged out of it?" The President and Binns found themselves staring into each other's eyes and he found himself wondering whether or not if Baker had not been present then would she be compliant. He chuckled as a thought crossed his mind: 'Would she understand if he told her that his wife didn't understand him?' That thought brought him back to something she'd said: "I know this might be a stupid question, and forgive me if it is, but what did you mean when you said that my wife would understand your computer?"

"A woman's menstrual cycle is related to the period of the Moon's orbit around Earth. As such her body acts as a kind of computer. Not a silicon chip digital computer but a flesh and blood analog computer."

Baker gaily interjected: "I'm glad I didn't say that, I always thought that you had a reputation for being a feminist!"

The President ignored Baker then spoke softly to Binns: "So what you are saying is that this ... this analog computer can actually do something. Tell me, what can it do?"

"It's not so much about what it can do, but what it enables one to do. It's a component, in the same sense that a wheel is a component. If we didn't have wheels we couldn't have automobiles, trucks, trains, planes. To all intents and purposes we'd be back in the Stone Age where if one wanted to go anywhere then one would do so by foot or on the back of another animal."

Baker eagerly interjected: "Mister President this gives us a strategic technological edge in maintaining American status as the World's number one military power. I suggest we set up a programme to evaluate the new technology and incorporate it into our defence plans. We'll need two maybe three hundred, no billion dollars!"

The President didn't seem to hear him. "Are you saying that we could be witnessing the dawn of a new age?"

Binns eyed Baker: "Certainly the end of an old one but whether mankind has a meaningful future will depend not only on our understanding of the new technology but how we exploit it."

The President's voice was grave: "Look guys I'm quite prepared to accept the premise that Life exists elsewhere in the Universe, perhaps forms of Life that are more advanced and intelligent than we are but ... and it's a big but ... the President of the United States of America can't ..."

Baker interjected: "Can't be seen as some science fiction nut who believes in little green men!"

The President nodded: "Precisely."

Baker attempted to exert control: "That's why it's doubly important to keep the project top secret: to maintain our technological edge and the credibility of the Presidency."

"What project?" Asked Binns.

"Err ... That's top secret, you don't need to know."

"You mean you don't know either!"

The President regained control: "Cut the crap guys. We're obviously in a situation where there are more questions than answers and soon I'll have to leave to greet the British Primeminister so we'll meet again at a later date. Okay?"

The office's door opened and the President's wife appeared: "You'd better hurry Bill, Tony's motorcade will be entering the grounds in two minutes ... Oh, Cleopatra, how lovely to see you after so long." The two women embraced and kissed. "Bill, why didn't you tell me that we had such a distinguished guest? Well now you're here I want you to stay. You haven't met Tony and Cherie, have you?"

As the two women walked arm-in-arm out of the office Binns glanced over her shoulder and grinned triumphantly at the scouring Baker.

A yorker! A bloody yorker! Of all the balls to receive first up - a bloody yorker.

A bouncer, yes. He had been set for a bouncer. That was the logical ball. Dai Evans usually opened his vast repertoire of fast bowling with a bouncer. Everyone knew that. Everyone. No-one more so than Tim Middleton who had spent seven seasons mentally digesting facts about the bowling actions, ploys and dangers of the Pwllgwaelod attack. It was a fluke ball. Yes, Tim consoled himself once more, it had been a fluke ball and the embarrassment of being out first ball was put down to the fact that the bowler had not consciously planned such a delivery. Tim had been unlucky.

He had to bury that image. He had to forget it. That awful moment when he had lost sight of the ball as it flew under his bat and then the awful sight of the middle stump landing behind the keeper's head. Blown away like a matchstick in the wind. He was frozen to the spot. Lawler had smirked from the other end. Cocky bastard. He was probably over the moon. But how would he have coped with such a ball?

Thinking of Lawler's supercilious grin had reminded Tim about the phone. Why hadn't Lawler returned his call? He looked anxiously at the clock. 4:57. How he hated digital clocks. He had phoned the message through nearly an hour ago and he knew that Lawler always returned home early on a Friday. But, then again, being an architect, Lawler could do what the hell he liked. Tim jealously contemplated the actual usefulness of architects and immediately drew the conclusion that they were all bastards. What do they actually do anyway? Ponce about drawing plans and dreaming up grandiose schemes involving the spending of other people's money. 'Bunch of crooks', that's how his cousin Alan put it. Poor old sod. Cousin Alan had tried for years, without success, to sue an architect who had been used in the redesign of his kitchen and dining room. The architect, who had a particularly stupid name that Tim failed to recollect at this moment, had been blamed by Alan for contracting a local building firm to do the work. The building firm went into voluntary liquidation soon after, leaving cousin Alan with an overdraft, two holes in his ceiling and a pile of drying cement outside his back door.

Tim glanced, once again, at the phone, willing it to ring. It did not. Where the hell was he?

If only Lawler would phone, Tim would be free to go. Perhaps he'll phone Bill Nicholson later and see if he's heard. Yes. With the Festival Match tomorrow, it would be prudent to ring the vice-captain in any case.

Tim put his jacket on and had a final stare at the phone. His eyes shifted furtively to the clock. 5:11. He sighed. Resigned to the fact that Lawler was not going to call. He saw that smug, greedy grin in his mind once more just after his middle stump had landed.

A yorker ... of all the balls to receive first up ... A bloody yorker!

John Marsden lay back on his soft pillows and thought of Joyce. Only two hours ago she had lain here with him; wonderful, voluptuous, sexy Joyce. As refined as a high-born lady and as randy as a butcher's dog on heat. She gave him a real sense of being wanted, of being needed. She desired him and he desired her. It was a deep feeling of self-satisfaction.

For no particular reason, John cast his mind back to recall the first time. He had only gone round to collect a book and, with her husband being out, she spent a long time trying in vain to locate the item for him. John had said that it really didn't matter and then she insisted on giving him a drink and a tour of their Lydstep home. After looking at the new patio, the herb garden and the interesting pine shelving in the lounge, she showed him upstairs. It was there that she had pounced. It was there that she had said she was feeling hot and wanted a glass of water. The water was duly brought by an unsuspecting John, who discovered her lying half-naked in the guest bedroom. For a moment he froze but, after gentle encouragement and assurances that her husband was in Haverfordwest and not expected back until early evening, he was soon in an equal state of undress. They made love rather quickly, as John recalled, and he was home in time to see the news.

From there it went on with meetings arranged regularly at John's flat in Freshwater East. Joyce used various excuses to explain her whereabouts to her unsuspecting spouse - bridge evenings, hen nights and, more often than not, the Young Wives Group.

In truth, their meetings had become less exciting and rather mundane of late. That wasn't to say that he didn't enjoy tonight. It was certainly better than a round of golf or a game of scrabble. He smiled broadly and then let his face drop as he considered the situation in greater depth.

Instinctively, he knew that he would have to end things at some time. Soon, the relationship had to end. He would have to explain that, as a teacher, he could not afford to be linked with any scandal. Yes, he would have to finish it and it was imperative to tell her as soon as possible. But when? Usually, John was a great believer in procrastination, but not in this instance. Things were getting out of control. But, when could he tell her? Tomorrow? Yes, tomorrow. No time like the present. Strike while the iron's hot. But, should he tell her before the game or after? It was all a terrible worry.

John slumped further into the warmth of his pillows and pondered his immediate future. What if Peter found out? Would Joyce tell him in a heated moment? She might, it was possible ... After all, who could tell what she might do in an unguarded moment? John didn't know; that much was sure. They met in secret and made love - that was it. They certainly didn't discuss their relationship or the relationships of others. It was just sex.

At length, John decided to think about it again in the morning. Perhaps then, with his head a little clearer, he could consider the whole predicament a little more logically and a little more dispassionately.

He turned over and, with a mental picture of Joyce in his head, he quickly fell asleep.

"It's the next turning on the left."

"Righto, boy!"

The taxi slowed appreciably as it prepared itself to take the turning off the main road. In the dusk they had just passed Jameston. Mike Brandon had spent the whole journey using the scenery to prompt recollections of his young life.

Lamphey Church had reminded him of a Harvest service he had witnessed when he was a toddler. His great-aunt Joan had been keen to show off her infant relative to the members of the congregation. He did not recall much about the service, but he did remember that great-uncle Jack had been to the pub earlier and his breath smelled of stale beer. When they passed the turning for Manorbier, he remembered the first visit to the castle and throwing stones into the sea, imagining that they were boulders being propelled from a giant catapult. Happy, innocent days when Mike's family was complete and protected from the rest of the world.

But, whilst he would miss the physical beauty of Pembrokeshire, he wouldn't miss the realities of high unemployment. It was time to move on. Soon he would be at Bristol University and he doubted he would ever return here, save the odd visit to the family farm.

After completing his 'A' levels two years ago, he had taken time-out in order to resit one exam and get some much needed money behind him. In the winter, the only employment opportunity was to help his dad on the farm, but in the summer he worked at Elmtree Leisure Park. This year at Elmtree, he had been promoted from being a mere rides' assistant to being a performer in the Elmtree Pixie Show. True, dressing up as Eric the Elf had its drawbacks, but he enjoyed the company and he needed all the money he could earn to help him through university. Although, Mr Dymcock, the Entertainment's Manager, had offered him the tempting role of Percy the Pixie King in next year's production, Mike hoped that alternative employment might be obtained in Bristol during the summer holidays.

The Elmtree employees and his father aside, Mike would only really miss his cricket pals. But, then again, he had to qualify that by saying that he would only miss Thommo from that particular group. He had just spent the evening in a Pembroke pub watching that wayward friend getting progressively drunker. Poor old Thommo. He hadn't been the same since his wife left him at the start of the season.

"Just tell me where," warned the driver, conscious that his fare was not paying any attention to where they were going.

Mike quickly pulled himself together. "Oh, another 500 yards or so. We're nearly there."

The driver negotiated a sharp double bend with some timidity and then spotted the sign for Upperbrook Farm.

"This it?"

"Yes, just drop me here, thanks."

He cranked up the handbrake and Mike gave him a ten pound note, which represented the nine pounds required and a one pound tip. After a thank you and a cry of "Goodnight!" the taxi sped away back to Pembroke.

Mike began the long walk down the farm track to the house, pausing only momentarily when in the darkness his trouser leg snared on a blackberry bush; reflecting that the berries were beginning to ripen. He wondered whether his father would still be up. The question was soon answered in the affirmative when he spied light from the kitchen spilling out into the yard. Although an early riser on account of his profession, it had long been his father's habit to stay up late with a warm drink or the occasional whiskey. He would sit in the kitchen quietly thinking about nothing in particular, missing the woman who had been the family's heart and soul. It seemed appropriate that he should spend so many long hours of peaceful contemplation in the room most closely associated with her.

Mike opened the door and smiled gently at his father. The farmer's rugged brow relaxed as he returned the greeting. "You're back early. I was just about to go up."

"I was tired. I didn't fancy a late night, not tonight anyway."

"I was thinking about that fence in the lower field. It needs fixing. Fancy giving me a hand with it tomorrow? It's a two-man job, really."

"Dad, I can't tomorrow. It's the Festival Match."

"Oh, yes. Sorry, I'd forgotten."

"I could help Sunday."

"No, don't worry. Bob'll give me a hand."

"Sorry, dad."

"Don't be daft. It's my fault, I'd clean forgotten about the match."

Mike paused at the door, wondering whether to apologise yet again or to make a move upstairs. "I'll go up, then. See you tomorrow."

"Yeah, 'night son."

"'night, dad."

Mike climbed the stairs, conjecturing as to why his father always made him feel guilty and selfish. He didn't mean to of course, it was just ...

In bed, Mike could not settle. For some inexplicable reason, he could not stop thinking about his mother. He missed her.