Al kept himself under control because he had an ace uphis sleeve. Playing the trumpet in a minor orchestra was not the only thingthat Alfonso had been occupying himself with for the last three years. He hadalso been putting the vast amount of knowledge he had to a most particularuse.Alfonso Dukamon, you see, had been able to decipher the mathematical codethat underlies what what we call reality. Not only that, he further believedthat he could change it.For the next five months after the arrival of the hated Franky, the onlythings that Al thought about and worked at were his music and his work onwhat he had started to call The Interface.At the end of those five months, he now sat before it in his basement. Thebizarre conglomerate of hardware looked like a twisted offspring of apipe-organ, satellite relay station and a tasteless hunk of art deco.The most recognizable part of the monstrosity was a computer that bulged outof a part of it. Al stepped up to the machine and turned it on. He. He washed up the coffee cups and wiped down the bathroom after having another shower.Debora was correct in that he did like things tidy. Hoping he had killed enough time, Kyle left the auto carpet sweeper loose, and he headed off to the diner. He hoped Lee was there getting her afternoon snack and wasn’t busy shagging Sean.To his delight, she was sitting in one of the alcoves. He was amused that she had one of her bloody great books that she carted around with her. Why she couldn’t just read a copy on a pad, he didn’t know. He had never understood her fascination with paper-based books, and Sean was just as bad.Kyle grabbed a fresh coffee and another packet of sangas as Lee called them, and then plonked down beside her. He was removing a sandwich from the package, when she screwed her nose up and said in exasperation, “How many times did you fuck that poor bastard?”Kyle threw his head back and laughed, “Considering I’ve had two showers since, only you could still smell him on.
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