We are all used to cutting out paragraphs from short stories that we've written, because they often convey little either in content or atmosphere to the story.

This challenge is different in that it has actually comes from the membership. David suggested that we might have a try at writing a "pathic" passage. Now as I understand it, a "pathic" passage is one which fits very nicely and smoothly into an existing piece of prose, yet in reality adds nothing to the whole. I've thought about this for a while, considering how to make it a good challenge.

I am going to give you a short story (see below)

Into the short story you must fit a pathic passage (one or more paragraphs) of at least 80 words (but the usual maximum of 300 applies, although I doubt if anyone will want to make it anything like that length, or you'll probably be earmarked as a potential politician). You can insert it anywhere in the text, but please, when you submit it, submit only the paragraph before the pathic passage, the pathic passage itself and the paragraph afterwards, otherwise all the entries will get too unwieldy.

The story itself has several points where a pathic passage might easily be inserted. The winner will be the one which both fits most smoothly and contains the least useful information.

Click here for results and winning entries.

The Story:

This story was written in 1992: you'll see the references to micro-computers (as they were called then) rather than PCs, and to floppy disks, although the 5.25 inch ones were in wide use then, and were slim enough for the purpose described in the story.

The story itself was written to celebrate the occasion of all the Ferranti programmers getting together for the first time since they started to disband some 38 years previously. After a television programme about early computer days in 1992, I decided to see if I could organise a reunion of all of us - but I was not in contact with any of them at the time. It was a good exercise tracing them all - I even had to use Crockford! We had the reunion (of all who were still able) on April 21, 1993 (the date is significant in the story) with some coming from Australia and the USA. I wrote the story just for the occasion, and gave everyone a copy. It contains things which were specifically relevant to our programming group: the bidding for bridge and getting the computer to play the national anthem (badly) were amongst the things we did.

The story itself isn't great, but it was tailored for the group and the occasion. I hope you enjoy reading it, and I hope you can rise to the challenge which I have given you!

I'd only started working for them two days before it happened, so I hadn't had a chance to get to know anyone very well.

There were only four others using the office of this small firm dealing with micro-computer work. Janet, the receptionist, who was rather pretty, thin, and pretty thick as well. The remainder included three programmers, one of whom, called Tom, had a more senior position. It was the general practice that each programmer looked after specific clients.

I was just another programmer getting acquainted with the normal processes of working there: my name also is Tom.

I hadn't yet learnt much about the firm except its basic rules of operation. Like other firms, they had their own method of labelling all their floppy discs. Where they differed from others, however, was that the information should not only be stuck on the disc envelope, but also - a very strict rule - must be stored on the disc itself. Sensible really; sticky labels can come adrift.

That Wednesday morning, I was familiarising myself with working practices, while the other programmers were out of the office. A man called at reception, handing over a thick envelope, and requesting Janet to “Give this to Tom, please, it's urgent.”

It was beyond Janet to think of asking which Tom. As there was only one Tom in at the moment, she supposed it must be for me. It appeared to contain a floppy disc; opening the package merely confirmed this.

I wasn't sure what to do. I assumed that it might have been information that I was somehow expected to check. There was no label on the outside, so I placed it in the nearest micro-computer to read the identification. It produced the identification: VERSION 2 ZSA NAGASARY 2200 WED APR 21 1993

This conveyed nothing to me, nor was there any reason why it should. The person responsible for the disc must be the other Tom, so I put the disc back in the envelope and put it on his desk, moving a copy of ‘Alice in Wonderland’ to make room for it.

There seemed nothing suspicious about it at all. Clearly the second version of a disc, for a customer Zsa Nagasary, followed by the time of completion. It wasn't quite like the descriptions of any of the discs that I saw yesterday - but so what?

The other Tom came in at coffee time. I didn't tell that I'd opened the package. There seemed nothing wrong in that, but there seemed to be no point in raising it. There would have been no point in denying it, either, had I been asked. I’d gathered that his speciality was dealing with Government contracts: Janet had said ‘Defence’ in an awe-inspired whisper which might have also implied admiration of his muscles. He was often in and out of the office.

He filled his mug, and then went to his room. He must have opened the package immediately, for he came in to check the identity of the disc on a micro. He said, “Good, that's what I was waiting for,” and removed it. Two minutes later, he was off out.

Janet, in addition to being receptionist, was expected to wash the coffee cups; it was just within her ability range. However, making sure she had all the mugs was a bit beyond her. I'd seen Tom take his mug and assumed he'd left it on his desk. Sure enough, it was there, but the disc wasn't. Had he been a tidy individual, he might have put it away, but his desk was a shambles. It wasn't in the little clearance where I'd placed it before. I also saw that he'd also removed his copy of ‘Alice’.

I'd not have noticed him coming back, except that he was carrying two bottles of champagne. Seeing my raised eyebrows, he explained “Special celebration tonight!” holding them up.

That would have been that, and I might have forgotten all these little details, except for an extraordinary coincidence.

Making my way after work to Manchester's Victoria station I bumped into Val, once a very good friend of mine, but whom I hadn't seen in over a year. Main railway stations always have a buffet, so we decided on a nice chat over coffee.

Suddenly Val said, “Are you doing anything tonight, Tom? - because I've got a spare ticket for a piano recital at the Free Trade Hall. My friend Lucy was coming, but she isn't well. It's a lovely programme with Chopin and Beethoven. It's being given by a Hungarian pianist....” and then she added with a sly smile “and she's beautiful”. She clearly remembered my supposed weakness for Hungarian girls, but that's another story. It was my weakness for piano music which made me accept so readily.

Val got the tickets out of her bag.

I was just swallowing coffee as my eyes lit on the ticket. The pianist's name was Zsa Nagasary, and the date was 21st April 1993. I coughed and spluttered, and Val said “Whatever's the matter? Is something wrong?” She looked slightly offended. “I know the seats are not very expensive, but they're in quite a good position.”

As soon as I regained my composure I told her why.

The least I could do in return for the ticket was to buy Val a meal, which gave me the chance to explain the background leading to my choking fit. We considered ways that a computer could offer a service to a pianist. In the end we came to the conclusion that it was either an analysis of composition, or the optimisation of travel distances on an overseas tour. We certainly agreed that “Every concert pianist should have a micro”!

The concert started at a quarter to eight. There was an interval, and judging from the programme, and barring encores, it would finish shortly before ten.

Again the name Zsa Nagasary and the day - Wednesday, April 21st - was prominent. The disc indicated 2200 hours, not 1945. Would something happen at the end of the concert?

I mentioned this to Val as we waited for the soloist. I scarcely heard, let alone appreciated, the Moonlight Sonata. Even worse, Val was finding it hard to concentrate - and she'd bought the tickets!

Val handed me the programme, and pointed to the item about the performer. Zsa Nagasary was a very accomplished pianist, but, according to the programme, this was her first visit to England. That set me thinking, for how would Tom have a microcomputer contract with Zsa Nagasary if this was her first visit to England? It didn't make sense.

In the interval, we bought coffee, and found a corner. We considered the situation, but with no real idea what to do. I had just sipped the liquid when I choked for the second time that evening. Val would have been justified in making a comment about my swallowing habits, but I guided her eyes towards the bar where colleague Tom buying himself a beer.

Val saw the implications immediately.

I'd told her about the champagne and Tom's proposed celebrations. But if it were for a celebration, then he wouldn't be very likely to be alone at a concert. He could, of course, be going to some other celebration or other after the concert finished at ten o'clock.... but that brought back the significance of 2200 again.

We agreed to watch Tom for the rest of the evening.

Chopin was never so tedious. Should we have done something.... like told the police? But would they have believed us? And could we possibly have done it in an hour, so that they could prevent whatever was likely to happen? - for we were now convinced that something was.

We kept our eyes on Tom. He appeared relaxed. He might have been on edge, but it was nothing compared with us. I applauded with enthusiasm, but hadn't appreciated a single note.

Tom quickly slipped to the front of the Hall and out through a side door. “The dressing room! - We'll congratulate her!” cried Val, and we dashed through the same door. We raced along the corridor, looking in the various rooms, until we came to the principal dressing room. There was Tom with three champagne bottles some glasses.

He could hardly not have heard us. He didn't look at all pleased, but, hiding his surprise, he said, “Oh, er, hello, - wasn't that a marvellous concert! I thought that this – “, he waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the bottles, “would be the right way to celebrate.” He then quickly regained his composure. “Will you join us for a drink?”, he said, pointing to the bottles. He poured four glasses; I made a vague introduction of Val; we drank to Zsa's artistry and her success on the tour.

We completed our drinks as quickly and decently as we could, making ridiculous small talk. Ridiculous, because Zsa's command of English was limited to say the least, and Tom's knowledge of Hungarian vocabulary seemed only marginally better than that of the average Englishman.

As we turned to go, Val's handbag caught one of the champagne bottles at the end of the dressing table, and it crashed to the floor. Tom said hastily that it didn't matter, and urged us out, just as the manager of the Free Trade Hall came in.

In our urgency to leave, we turned the wrong way, and got lost in a maze of minor dressing rooms. Finding our way back, we reached Zsa's room again. The door was open, the broken glass had been removed from the floor, and Zsa and Tom must have gone to the manager's office.

I noticed that there was no wet patch on the floor. The bottle label was uppermost in the bin, with the number ‘2’ written in the top right hand corner. I was just going when Val grabbed a small roll of papers from under the music case on the dressing table, and quickly glanced at them.

“Come on,” she whispered urgently, and propelled me out of the Hall to a nearby coffee-bar.

“What have you got there?” I demanded as soon as we had found seats.

“These papers weren't under the music case when we went in the dressing room - and I thought I saw them on the floor by the broken bottle as we were urged out. So they have just been put there.” She opened up the papers; they contained mathematical descriptions of various kinds, and some computer terminology.

Suddenly, everything began to link up. The absence of a wet patch on the floor, and the conclusion that the broken bottle must have contained the papers hastily put under the music case after the bottle had broken before the manager whisked them away, seemed inescapable. I told Val, too, that Tom worked on Defence contracts. Then I recalled that he only bought two bottles of champagne, but there had been three in the dressing room. Bottle '2' must have been specially modified!

What should we do now?

We had a few sheets of paper with formulae and computer terms. Val said they smelt vaguely of champagne, but had we any real evidence otherwise of anything amiss? We didn't see anyone actually put the papers in the bottle. We weren't sure they'd come out of it, either. And was that disc still in existence?

If we did nothing, would we be endangering the country's safety by our inactivity?

We got no time to think, for Tom was making directly for our table. He looked at us in a contemptuous, pitying way.

He didn't speak, he merely hissed. “You fools, you've really messed things up!”

In an effort to soothe him, I offered him the few sheets of paper. He snatched them from me with a derogatory snort. “They're worthless. It's only the hands they pass through that makes them valuable.” He gripped the edge of the table and glared at me, then made for the door.

How were we to know it was a trap? Most of what we discovered was purely by accident - and if MI5 or MI6 can't lay plans in a more competent way, what hope is there for Britain? He could have warned us more gently - we're not that dense. He made us feel like anti-counter-espionage agents.

I went with Val to Victoria station; I was sorry that I'd spoilt her evening, although I think, in a way, she'd enjoyed it.

On an impulse I went into the bar of a nearby hotel, and ordered a drink. As I sat down, I could see through into the lounge of the hotel. There were two people with their backs to me; the man with a shock of dark hair like Tom, and the girl with lovely blonde hair. By the tilt of their heads they were laughing away. It was absolutely none of my business who they were, what the curled papers they had in their hands were, or why they had a copy of ‘Alice in Wonderland’ with them.

I took a computer magazine from my raincoat pocket and looked at the pages as it fell open. It was an advert for floppy discs. “Why,” it asked, “risk losing vital information? - You should always make a copy!” I gave a hollow laugh to myself. Too true, I thought.

Surrounding the advert was a set of cartoon drawings depicting ways in which to lose your disc. A mouse busily chewing, coffee being spilt, one being sat on, one buckling on top of a radiator, and one getting hidden in a book.

“That's it,” I thought, choking on whisky rather than coffee. “‘Alice’ is just the right size book.”

Now I knew it wasn't counter-espionage; it wasn't MI ... whatever. We'd been fooled into giving up those papers. I jumped up, and strode into the lounge to confront them, but they'd gone. The waiter came up, and asked if I wanted anything. I asked if the blonde lady was staying in the hotel; he looked at me and said “What blonde lady?”. Then he suggested that I ask at reception.

It was all too late. No floppy disc, no book as a hiding place, no set of champagne-smelling papers.

If Tom was passing secrets I couldn't prove it. If he was acting as a double agent, the authorities would never admit it. And Janet certainly wouldn't remember the package.

But I still could warn the police. They could decide whether anything should be done, and my conscience would be clear. All I had to do was to convince them my concern was genuine. I hurried down the side street to the Police Station.

I explained to the sergeant on duty the problem. He wasn't convinced. “I suppose you're an expert on computers, then are you?” His lugubrious tones were enough to flatten any enthusiasm. They're trained in this way.

I tried to impress him, facing him squarely.

“Yes,” I said very firmly, “I am.”

But he just looked stonily at me.

“And what's more,” I said, “My grandfather worked on the first computer ever offered for sale anywhere in the world.”

“Oh, yes?” But he conveyed no interest as he contemplated the Incidents Book in front of him.

“Yes. The computer he worked on had lots of valves and used 27 kilowatts of electricity.”

His face responded. “Yes, I know,” he said, “and it gave you spots before the eyes, made bids at bridge and played the national anthem!” He paused. “Have you been celebrating a bit too much tonight, laddie?”

I left in an undignified scramble.

There was nothing else I could do. I couldn't even sell the story to the papers.

After all, who'd believe me, now?

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	Previous Alpha challenges for 2006/2007: Challenge 1 - Apprehension Challenge 2 - Very Challenge 3 - Authors Challenge 4 - Housing Estate Challenge 5 - Council Meeting Christmas Quiz Challenge 6 - Christmas Shopping Challenge 7 - Story ending Alpha challenges and results for Year 2 (2005/2006)