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Message-ID: <40168asstr$1041232208@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: anon584c@nyx.net (Uther Pendragon)
Reply-To: anon584c@nyx.net
Subject: {ASSM} rp "Forget All That 12" {Pendragon} (MF rom wl lac) [12/12]
Date: Mon, 30 Dec 2002 02:10:08 -0500
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

IF YOU ARE UNDER THE AGE OF 18, or otherwise forbidden by law to 
read electronically transmitted erotic material, please go do 
something else.

    This material is Copyright, 1997, by Uther Pendragon.  All 
rights reserved.  I specifically grant the right of downloading 
and keeping ONE electronic copy for your personal reading so long 
as this notice is included.  Reposting requires previous 
permission.

    If you have any comments or requests, please E-mail them to 
me at anon584c@nyx.net.  

     If you save erotic stories, and you prefer that other 
household members not be exposed to them, I recommend that you 
use a file zipped with the PKZip option -spassword.  (Where the 
password that you choose would, presumably, not be "password.")  
This still leaves the titles of the files and the fact that they 
are encrypted open to anybody.

    All persons here depicted, except public figures depicted as 
public figures in the background, are figments of my imagination 
and any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly 
coincidental.


                         FORGET ALL THAT
                       by  Uther Pendragon
                        anon584c@nyx.net



Part Twelve, Conclusion:

"Coming," I replied.  I moved to the rocker and adjusted my 
bra.  Bob handed me The Kitten and sat down.  She began to feed, 
but I paid more attention to the conversation than I normally do 
while nursing.  That was lucky, as my sister-in-law addressed her 
next sentence to me.

"You know, Jeanette, you shouldn't put yourself down.  
You're not a housewife locked in the kitchen.  You're a 
translator of scholarly works."  I decided that there was no way 
that The Kitten was going to get French during this meal.

"Y'know, Kaytoo," Bob said, "you *think* you're a 
feminist.  You're really an imperialist.

"You know, dear," Katherine said, "wrapping an insight in an 
insult is hiding your light under a bushel."

"He means, Kathleen," I said, resisting the temptation to 
start my sentence with "You know," "that you're projecting.  You 
don't want to be a housewife; you want to be a psychoanalyst.  I 
don't have dreams of a career in translation; I'm building a 
family.  If that means translating and I'm able to translate, 
fine.  I really enjoy it.  If that means changing an enormous 
pile of messy diapers, so be it.  Though I *don't* really 
enjoy that.

"You aren't in any position to talk, you know.  Your present 
job pays less than my first job paid for forty hours a week; and 
you are on call thirty-six hours out of forty-eight.  You're 
building something, but so am I.  For that matter, I had four 
jobs over ten years, not counting a few second jobs.  I left two 
of them to follow my husband into another state and one to have a 
baby.  I have references from all four, and glowing references 
from the last job where I was secretary to the president of a 
small company.  Ask your father if Brewster would hire me."

"Not Bob's wife, of course," he said.  "And you may be 
overqualified for any available position.  But personnel would 
drool over that sort of record."

"I'm not," I told her, "just-a-housewife.  I wasn't just-a- 
secretary, either.  But I was a very good secretary, and I think 
I'm a good wife and mother.  I'm an adequate housekeeper."

"You're the finest wife a man could ask for," Bob said.  
That wasn't what he'd said the night before.  "I think that 
you're a wonderful mother.  You're a very good housekeeper, but 
too compulsive."  If Bob found that people could write their 
names in the dust on a table, he would start an autograph 
collection.

"Remember the three men on the same job," he said to his 
sister.  "One said that he was laying brick, one said that he was 
earning a living, one said that he was building a cathedral."

"You Brennans don't know any more about families than a fish 
knows about water," I said.  "Bob says that he never gets any 
support from his father; and he believes that he believes that.  
But when push comes to shove, he says 'my parents will back me.' 
And his parents, both parents, will back him.  And back you.  And 
will back me because I married him."  I broke down in tears then.

Bob looked over, decided that coming over would be a 
mistake, went back to eating.  I think that The Kitten's next 
message, when she paused and looked up at me, was "Don't be sad, 
Maman."

"Quelquefois on doit," I told her.  Her next look wasn't any 
happier; well, I didn't like the news either.  "C'est-une partie 
de la vie."  That didn't persuade her.  "Et la vie est tres 
bonne."  I glanced over at the table.

Katherine was speaking to me.  "My children might be 
ignorant of family, dear, but Russ and I built our own 
cathedral."  Bob was looking down at his plate.  Odd.  His father 
was glaring at him.  God, my husband loved me!  He would walk 
through fire for his father's approval; but he sat there under 
his father's disapproval instead of coming over to me.  And he 
did it because that was slightly better for me.

How *dare* that bastard put his son through that, I 
thought.  I would have liked to tell him what I thought of him.  
Why not?  He had done that to me two days ago.  Then the reason 
why not came to me.  It wouldn't build that family I was claiming 
as my goal a minute ago.  I needed a better approach.  I thought; 
indeed, I schemed.

"She built a cathedral, Jeanette," Bob's father said 
blithely.  "I mostly carried hod."  And swung a wrecking ball.  I 
had thought of my lever, and he *was* addressing me.

"Well, sir," I started.  "I don't know much about 
management.  And I know less about medicine.  So this free advice 
may be overpriced.  But *I* would think that a man who has 
had a bypass operation would ... learn to delegate."  Bob 
sputtered.  A particle or two of food escaped, and I was glad 
that The Kitten couldn't see.

"Now, Bob tells me what a great manager you are.  It may be 
simple hero worship, it may be true of the office.  What I see 
here at this table is a Dilbert cartoon."

He winced.

"The man who knew me better than you ever will fourteen 
years ago, a man who has bent his considerable intelligence to 
finding out what makes me happy for those fourteen years, checked 
on me.  He decided that I *didn't* need his presence.  Then 
you put him through agony because he followed his knowledge 
rather than your guess.

"I appreciated your glare when you used it to protect my 
modesty from the boy in church.  I *don't* appreciate your 
glare when you use it to punish my husband because he cares more 
for my feelings than for your ephemeral opinions.  I especially 
resent it because I know how important those opinions are to 
him."

And *that* was now the longest speech he had heard from 
me since the wedding.

"I'm sorry, Jeanette.  I just worry about his making the 
mistakes that I made."

"And you worry about his not having your virtues, especially 
your prime virtue of loyalty.  (I don't think that is the essence 
of manhood, though Bob has tons of loyalty, especially to me.  I 
just think that it is the essence of Russell Brennan.)  But don't 
you see the catch twenty-two?  You worry about his being like 
you, and you worry about his being unlike you.  That doesn't 
leave him a whole lot of options."  I needed to look to The 
Kitten again, who hadn't appreciated the anger in my voice.

Bob leaped into the breach.  "I'm not making your mistakes, 
sir.  I'm busy making my own."  That brought the tension down a 
little.

"As long as we have a little creativity, dear," Katherine 
said, "we can pretend that we're making progress.  You know, when 
Kathleen came along, I had a whole list of the mistakes that I 
had made with you.  I wasn't going to repeat them.  The problem 
was that Kathleen wasn't Bob."

"Problem!"  Kathleen was playing incensed.  She was probably 
actually incensed, as well.

"The mistakes that I made with Bob, dear, weren't at the 
level of dropping him on his head, whatever you claimed later.  
They were things that could be right for *a* child, but were 
dead wrong for *that* child.  They might have been okay for 
you.  On the other hand, some of the things that worked best for 
Bob didn't work at all for you."  The subtle Brennan had spoken.  
If the others picked it up, well and good; if not, I could use it 
later.  "You know, dear, it is really unfair to sit there nursing 
a child."  What did she expect me to do?  "It's like holding a 
hostage.  Nobody's going to zap Jeanette when it might disturb 
The Kitten."

"I didn't choose when he would glare at Bob."  Nor did I 
care about fighting fair.  I was protecting my family.

"I'm sorry, Jeanette," Bob's father said.  "Will you forgive 
me?"

"Why Mr. Brennan," I said in my *very* sweetest voice.  
Bob looked up.  He knew that voice.  "You already know the answer 
to that.  Since you ask me in that way, of course the answer 
is ...  no!"

"What?"  Aside from the way he handled his son, the man was 
no fool.  He was Bob's father, after all.

"You weren't glaring at me.  It wouldn't have hurt if you 
had.  You were glaring at Bob.  I can forgive the *past*, 
but I can't make peace with you while you are at war with my 
husband.  Ask his forgiveness first."

"Of course I forgive you," said Bob.

"Not even your omnipotent God can forgive the unrepentant, 
Bob."

"Son, her theology may be shaky, but her take on people is 
correct.  I most humbly beg your pardon."

"You have it," said Bob.  He sincerely meant it.

"And you have mine," I said, not particularly sincerely.  
For thirty seconds, I thought that we would witness the millionth 
hug in the Brennan household and the first between two men.  They 
went back to their plates, but they had *looked* like a hug 
was possible.  Bob, in particular, looked extremely huggable.

"It ain't The Firm," said his father.  "It's damn-well La 
Compania."  That wasn't good French if it were intended for 
French.

"Anyway, dears," said Katherine, "does this idea of 
collection of tapes look viable?"

"I don't see why not," said Bob.  "It's just as I was saying 
about Father's tapes.  Only your list goes deeper.  It is 
important social history.  Try to guess at a date for those 
stories.  For your own memories, of course, you don't have to 
guess.

"On the other hand, I might become a real historian, after 
all, if I can keep sucking off my family.  The rise and fall of 
the Hamiltonian system in Ward Tech would be a nice piece of 
institutional history.  It couldn't be told today; it wouldn't be 
acceptable if it were based only on your memoirs, sir.  It could, 
however, be pasted together over time, and told in twenty years."  
Have I mentioned that Bob thinks in the long term?

"Not your century is it?" his father asked.

"Not my century, but I sat at a dinner table for five or ten 
years hearing nightly lectures on the strengths and weaknesses of 
the twentieth century American corporate system.  I think I 
could navigate those waters without too many blunders.  Indeed, 
with your guidance and a few letters of introduction, I might be 
able to write the story without quoting you at all.  I would 
dedicate the book to Grand-pere Gorge Profonde."

"That's deep throat," I put in.

"Sounds wonderful," said his father, "Meet me in the garage 
Monday."

"Give me a slice of white, please," Bob said.  "and a bit 
more dressing too."  He passed his plate down.

"Wonders will never cease," said Kathleen.  She sounded more 
shocked at that request from her brother than at anything else 
which had been said at the table that day.  I was sorry to 
disappoint her, but I knew what was coming.  Bob cut the turkey 
up into small pieces, mixed a little gravy in with the stuffing, 
and brought the plate over to me.

"Nod when," he said.  Then he held out a small piece of 
turkey on the fork.  I nodded.  "Your daddy loves you, Kitten," 
he said.  "Your mommy loves you....  And your daddy loves your 
mommy...."  I ate, the table conversation finally resumed, The 
Kitten got her food and her message.

Much later, Katherine got her granddaughter while the rest 
of us got our dessert.  The Kitten played with the beads.  When 
Bob's father had finished his pie, Katherine said, "Want her, 
Russ?  I warn you she needs a change."

"Better a wet Kitten than a lonely chair.  Before I go, 
though, I want to say something to Jeanette.  I don't withdraw 
one word of what I said about your *actions* of taping Bob.  
I did over-react, though, when I talked about *who* you are.  
You still have my deepest admiration."

"That's terribly kind, sir," I said as he hauled The Kitten 
off towards the changing table.  "And, in return, I really want 
to express my respect for the way that you handle the tax 
accounting at Brewster."

"Really, dear," Katherine said after he walked away.  
"Neither of us is a fool you know.  Where do you think Bob got 
his genes?  I don't say sarcastic things about your husband."

"Between your husband and your son, you have to maintain 
some degree of neutrality.  Between my husband and my father-in-
law I don't."

"I think," Katherine said, "that you have delivered more 
than Russ is capable of hearing right now, dear.  Why don't you 
let that sink in this trip.  See what happens through this next 
year.  He has heard you, but he'll turn defensive if you say 
more.  I say this as a person who loves them both very much."

"I only have two more messages, anyway," I told her.  Well, 
two that I'd thought of yet.  But ignoring Katherine's advice 
about her husband would be idiotic.  "I'll give them to you and 
you can deliver them in a few months."

"I certainly can, dear.  Perhaps I will."

"Bob's father has to be an expert on budgeting," I said.  
"He does it for a whole damn company.  When the two of us were on 
a tight budget, he never asked to see what we were spending money 
on.  He trusts Bob's judgment on everything that he trusts 
*his* judgment on."

"I'll think about that dear," Katherine promised.  "You 
think about who needs to hear that message.  And the other?"

"Would it really be so wonderful," I asked her, "if Bob was 
precisely the husband that his father wants him to be, and I was 
precisely the wife that Bob's father wants him to have.  Would 
that be so wonderful if we then got divorced because we weren't 
meeting the deepest needs of *each other*?"

"Thank you, dear.  Now I believe that I should have a little 
quality time with *my* daughter while we do the dishes.  
Will you excuse us, dear."

"Mom!"  Kathleen said.  "I spent the day in the kitchen."

"You haven't done the dishes this whole visit, dear.  Get 
all your work out of the way in one swell foop.  Besides they are 
my grandmother's dishes and I can trust them neither to the 
dishwasher nor to Bob."

"I notice," Bob said to me when they had taken out the first 
load, "that you didn't try to defend me from *that* 
accusation."

"You're an excellent husband, mon mari.  You are a bull in 
the china dishwater.  Let's go upstairs."

"Now you're talking!"

"Keep your libido under control," I told him.  "I just had a 
heavy meal, and your mother's right.  We have to talk."

Upstairs, I dropped down on the stripped bed, my head on the 
foot end.  Bob put the pillows in new cases and passed me one.  
He lay down on the floor with the other pillow, lying in the 
opposite direction from me so that our right hands could meet 
easily.

"I just wish that I could defend you from your family as 
well as you defend me from my father," he said.

"My family did its worst damage before I even met you," I 
pointed out.  "You can't defend me from that, you can only heal 
me.  You've done a marvelous job of that."

"Thank you."

"Thank *you*.  I love you."

"I love you, too," he said.  "Even if you have just had a 
heavy meal."

"Your mother was right, as always."

"About what?  I've known her to be wrong."

"Your father doesn't distrust your judgment in family 
matters."

"He gives a damn good imitation."

"He sees what everybody else sees.  That you are so much 
alike."

"I think of us as opposites."

"That's right," I told him.

"What did Whitman say about 'I contain contradictions'?"

"*You* are asking *me* about poetry?  Anyway, that 
doesn't matter.  What your father sees is someone who looks 
spookily like Russell Brennan.  He thinks Russell Brennan fouled 
up royally in the family department, now your mother thinks 
differently...."

"My mother," Bob said, "says differently."

"But what she says, or what she thinks, or what the reality 
is....  Is there any reality in such situations?"  I was getting 
lost.

"That is the 'absolute truth' question," he said.  "The 
people who say that there is no absolute truth have a point, even 
if their certainty is a logical contradiction and their tactics 
border on the fascistic."

"Can we leave faculty wars 'til next week."

"You asked."

"Anyway," I went on, "no one else's opinions on that subject 
matter to what your father sees.  He sees someone who looks 
spookily like Russell Brennan, and whom he loves.  He sees 
Russell Brennan as a horrible failure in the family department.  
*Thus*, he sees the person he loves in imminent danger of 
being a horrible failure in the family department.  The 
particular thing that you do doesn't matter in the least.  You 
might try plastic surgery on your chin."

Bob laughed at that.  The Brennan chin was a family trait.  
It looked good, and almost identical, on the two of them.  
Kathleen could have done without it, although she was pretty even 
with it.

"No way," he said.  "The Kitten has it already."  He is, 
unfortunately, right.

"Anyway.  Bob Brennan looks like a disastrous husband and 
father to him because Bob Brennan looks like Russell Brennan to 
him.  Now I get the impression that he was a fine father when he 
was there."

"Anybody could be a fine father as often as he was there," 
he said, a bit unfairly.  Bob's father had a remarkably intense 
job; he *could* have come home expecting his wife to neglect 
the children briefly so she could soothe his aches and needs.  
But Bob's impression of that past is just another impression.  I 
wanted to deal with the present and future.

"And you are trying to be as fine a father on a three-
hundred-sixty-five day basis."

"Not yet."

"Goofus!"  I said, and he is a goofus.  "Three-sixty-five a 
year, every year.  You are a fine husband and a fine father.  
Just remember that your father doesn't worry about your fouling 
up in the family department because of anything you do, and he 
won't be persuaded that you are a good husband and father by 
anything you could do.  He looks at you and sees his younger 
self.  It's his younger self that he sees failing."

"I love you."

"And I love you too.  Will you think about it?"

"Loving you?" he asked.  "I think about it all the time.  I 
used to lie for hours in this room and think about nothing else.  
Of course, in those days, *I* got to lie on the bed."  I 
decided to let him have his diversion.  Bob can't *not* 
think about an idea once it's raised.

"I could always go downstairs and lie on the couch," I said, 
knowing that he would never take me up on it.

"I fail to see the advantage," he said.  "In the first 
place, it's much narrower and we'd be even more crowded.  In the 
second place, we'd have an audience."

"Can't you think of love apart from lust?" I asked him.

"Easily.  I just can't think of Jeanette apart from lust."  
I suspect that he can't breathe, let alone think, apart from 
lust.

He took my hand and kissed each finger.  I took it back 
after a while and said, "Can you find the volume with the article 
about Gide?"  He groaned theatrically, but handed it to me.  
After a bit, he got out the print-out and went through it some 
more.  Working side-by-side is awfully companionable.  Too bad we 
never could get in the hang before we were married.  I actually 
got the next volume for myself.  I wasn't going to get to Verne 
before returning to Michigan.

The book was closed beside me on the bed when Bob woke me.  
He said, "Dad's calling.  Here?  down in the rocker?  or should I 
bring the rocker up?"

"None of the above.  Do we have a clean bib?"

The Kitten, once deposited in the highchair, settled down 
for the game.  She even opened her mouth one time without my 
making the face.  She still tried to grab the spoon, but I have 
the reaction-time in our family.

I remembered to stop when she was half full.  We played a 
little "This little piggy."  When she was done, I washed her off.  
She was half an hour from her cranky time, but nobody was around 
to notice that.  I snuck up the stairs, and we lay down on the 
quilt together.  When Bob came back, he took the rocker.  "We 
only want Mommy, eh," he said.

"Bob could we have another name?"

"Other than Brennan?  other than The Kitten?  other than?"

"Mommy and Daddy," I explained, "are what I still call my 
parents most of the time."

"How about 'Dad,' did you ever use that?" he asked.  "Or I 
could be 'Pops.' Unless we move back to Boston.  We could just 
use 'Maman' all the time, but it is going to sound a lot like 
'mommy' to a lot of people."

"Let me think about it.  You are a sweet, accommodating, 
husband."

"Darling, if it's important to you, and not to me....  
Actually, I want to be 'Dad.'  I just felt we should wait.  
Terminal consonants are going to take a while."

He wandered over to the bed, and made it with the newly-
washed sheets.  He lay down on top with the print-out.  After The 
Kitten fell asleep, I joined him.  I decided to read the Verne 
article and actually stayed awake straight through it.

Just before dinner, we tried out the baby monitor.  Bob 
stayed upstairs.  When I was in the dining room I could hear his 
voice saying, "This is Deforest's prime evil," quite clearly.  
His father shouted for him to come down.  The Kitten didn't wake 
until the table was being cleared.

Rested, dry, and fed, The Kitten went to Katherine and from 
her to Kathleen.  Bob carried the rocker back upstairs.  The 
Kitten really doesn't get *cranky* at night, she just is 
very possessive of Maman.  Which is fine; Maman, although she 
tries not to show it, feels very possessive of The Kitten.  
Indeed, I was tempted to call our friends and cancel the party on 
Sunday.

I reconsidered.  We would be back in Michigan in a week.  I 
would have The Kitten to myself for most of the time, (and her 
best times) most days.  I lay with The Kitten on my belly and my 
head in Bob's lap.  The conversation above me solved the problems 
of the world.  Bob explained why strict censorship of any 
pictorial or voice media, combined with absolute freedom of the 
printed word, would reverse the decline in literacy.  "Are we 
boring you, dear?" Katherine asked.  I shook my head.  I wasn't 
paying enough attention to be bored.  My daughter was barely 
stirring on my lap, and Junior was barely stirring under my head.

We went upstairs early.  The Kitten was tired of Maman, too.  
She played on the quilt, if throwing all ones toys away and 
crying because there is nothing to play with can be called 
playing.

Soon, I was nursing her in the rocker.  I talked to her 
disjointedly.  Bob lay on the bed going further into the printout 
until The Kitten was quite done.  "You know," I said, "with the 
door locked, there is no rule that you have to change all her 
diapers."

"I think this business of giving you a break is a good 
thing.  Besides, I would rather have you lie there and think lewd 
thoughts."  There is a grain of truth in that.  Bob changes his 
share of diapers, but much more than half the ones just before we 
lay The Kitten down to sleep and begin our own bed-time ritual.

That was a fair trade.  He changed The Kitten; I thought of 
all the ways that we had made love this trip.  I remembered 
straddling him in the rocker, and of his hand playing with me in 
that same rocker while he tasted my milk.  I remembered my moving 
above him on the bed, and of his moving behind me on two separate 
occasions.  I remembered all the times that he had tongued or 
kissed me to a climax.  Those sort of merged together, as I 
remembered one climb to glory after another.  (I can never 
remember the actual climaxes more than moments after they 
happen.)  I remembered lying between the end of the bed and his 
lap.  I remembered him moving above me and within me and against 
me.  I thought that this was the sweetest time of all.

"Thinking any lewd thoughts?" he asked, after The Kitten was 
safely ensconced in her crib.

"Nothing lewd," I answered, "only licit, unexceptionable, 
practices with my lawful wedded husband."

"You make it sound so bland," he said while just touching 
one nipple, "but look so enticing."  My nipples were standing up, 
and a nursing mother's nipples stand rather tall.

"Kiss me first," I said, meaning my mouth before my nipples.  
He pecked my mouth, pecked a nipple, and came back for a real 
kiss.  His tongue was exciting of itself, but more exciting as a 
promise.  His hands passed over me as our tongues played tag.

My thighs spread as he stroked them.  "Oh, how I do love 
you," he said as he took the invitation.  Then he pressed his 
mouth more firmly to mine.  My hips rose to press against his 
clasping hand.  He parted the lips and touched me within.  "Oh, 
how I love you!" he said as he felt my slickness.

"Both together tonight," I asked, "Please!"  He could easily 
have pushed me over into my climax, but I wanted him along with 
me.

He kissed me with love and petted me with lust.  I thought 
that he had forgotten my request when I stiffened under his hand.  
He had remembered; he just enjoyed my readiness.  Leaving the 
most sensitive area, he urged my legs farther apart as he climbed 
between them.  Then the strokes up and down my valley were not 
from his fingers.  Soon, he placed himself.

His entrance was slow, and steady, and filled me, and then 
pressed me down.  "Oh!" he said.  "I love you!"

I think half his weight was supported on that pivot for a 
minute.  Then his strokes followed one regular beat.  The 
sliding, the filling, the pressing excited me until the 
individual sensations were lost in the blissful warmth.  I was 
just aware of his hand sliding between us.  Then the warmth 
burned to fire, and the fire consumed me.  "Oh!  Love 
*you*," I heard through my own moans as a writhed beneath 
him and flared around him.

Then his motions sped, sped again, and ended in a driving 
thrust.  "Oh love," he said, in time to each spurt.  "Oh love, oh 
love.  *Oh* love!"  He lay on me, in me, coming out of me, 
for minutes afterward.  Then he moved over and we cleaned 
ourselves off.

We turned onto our sides and nestled into a spoon.  He 
hugged me as our breaths eased towards sleep

"Love," he said.

And so it was.


The End.
FORGET ALL THAT
Uther Pendragon
anon584c@nyx.net
1997/12/24
1999/12/30
2000/09/10
2002/12/29

This is the last segment of the last story (so far) in a 
series of stories about the Brennans.

The beginning of this story can be found at:
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Uther_Pendragon/www/brennan/fat_a.htm
Parts 1 - 3.

The first story in the series is:
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Uther_Pendragon/www/brennan/forever.htm
"Forever" 


The directory to the entire series is:
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Uther_Pendragon/www/brennan.htm
Brennan Stories Directory 

The directory to all my stories can be found at:
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Uther_Pendragon/www/index.htm

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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