and groaned. This was just so not fair, he decided. For weeks now his laptop had been playing a perverse game of hide-and-seek with his e-mail. Time after time, he'd log on, attempt to download his e-mail, and up would come several dialogue box variants on a theme of: Y OUR MAIL? E H? W HAT MAIL? W HO ARE YOU, ANYWAY, DEMANDING MAIL? C OME TO THINK OF IT, WHO AM I ? A M I A COMPUTER? W HAT IF I' M JUST A LITTLE LUMP OF EXPENSIVE GRAY PLASTIC? A M I GOING TO CRASH?
In vain, Titus had tried to reassure his neurotic computer that indeed it was a mega-machine, a brain the size of planet Earth and enough processing power to launch a spacecraft into orbit, if required. But back would come the message that his laptop was currently enjoying the cyber-equivalent of door shut, lights off, and fingers jammed firmly into ears.
He tried once more, sidling sneakily up to the S END AND R ECEIVE menu, trying to make sure the laptop was looking the other way before he brought his index finger slapping down on the E NTER key. To Titus's relief, little clicks and whirrs came from inside the machine, not the chittering noises that usually preceded a fit of the cyber-vapors. Waiting impatiently for something to happen, Titus shivered. The map room at StregaSchloss was situated in the oldest part of the house, built beneath the central courtyard and dating back to the fifteenth century. Here no daylight shone and the walls were six feet thick, which might have accounted for the deep chill that permeated the air. Titus could see his breath forming clouds in front of his mouth, and condensation beaded the laptop's screen.
“Hurry it up,” he complained. “I'm beginning to get frostbite—” Behind him, the hammered brass lights on each side of the fireplace dimmed, flickered, and went out.
“Oh
great,
” muttered Titus. “A power cut—just what I need.” In front of him, automatically switching to battery power, the laptop sprang to life. Apparently overcoming whatever had previously ailed it, the computer began to download Titus's mail. Loads of it. Faster and faster it came, each message bigger than the last, byte piling upon byte, the computer barely able to sustain the flow.
“Whaat?” Titus squeaked as his in-box filled up, overflowed, and mail still kept on coming. After what seemed like hours, the flood slowed to a downpour, then a drizzle, and finally, with an exhausted beep of protest, the last one dropped into his in-box.
T O W HOM I T M AY C ONCERN was the subject, and H [email protected] was the sender.
“What
is
this?” Titus whispered, hoping that he hadn't been sent a virus. No alerts sounded from his computer, and finally curiosity overcame caution and he clicked it open. To his extreme frustration, it was written in purest computer gobbledygook. Ignoring this, Titus clicked on the little paperclip icon above the undecipherable message in order to open its accompanying attachment.
Immediately, he wished he could turn the clock back and undo what he'd just
done. “No . . . no . . .
Stop!
” he wailed as his computer greedily devoured the virus-laden attachment, dragged it, gloating and slobbering, into its hard drive and, with a strangled squawk, went down. The screen turned black, and a wistful little dialogue box informed Titus
Connection terminated
Hard drive erased
A pox on the house of [email protected]
Titus slumped back in his chair. This was just too awful to contemplate. How could he have been so dumb? And how was he going to tell his father that he'd accidentally erased the hard drive? The noises now coming from the inside of the laptop sounded prohibitively expensive. Titus reached over to turn the computer off and put it out of its misery, but his hand halted quiveringly above the O N/ O FF key. His mouth fell open and he blinked rapidly, noticing several things simultaneously: his keyboard was covered with frost, the screen was glowing a deep and poisonous green, and, incomprehensibly on a dead
In vain, Titus had tried to reassure his neurotic computer that indeed it was a mega-machine, a brain the size of planet Earth and enough processing power to launch a spacecraft into orbit, if required. But back would come the message that his laptop was currently enjoying the cyber-equivalent of door shut, lights off, and fingers jammed firmly into ears.
He tried once more, sidling sneakily up to the S END AND R ECEIVE menu, trying to make sure the laptop was looking the other way before he brought his index finger slapping down on the E NTER key. To Titus's relief, little clicks and whirrs came from inside the machine, not the chittering noises that usually preceded a fit of the cyber-vapors. Waiting impatiently for something to happen, Titus shivered. The map room at StregaSchloss was situated in the oldest part of the house, built beneath the central courtyard and dating back to the fifteenth century. Here no daylight shone and the walls were six feet thick, which might have accounted for the deep chill that permeated the air. Titus could see his breath forming clouds in front of his mouth, and condensation beaded the laptop's screen.
“Hurry it up,” he complained. “I'm beginning to get frostbite—” Behind him, the hammered brass lights on each side of the fireplace dimmed, flickered, and went out.
“Oh
great,
” muttered Titus. “A power cut—just what I need.” In front of him, automatically switching to battery power, the laptop sprang to life. Apparently overcoming whatever had previously ailed it, the computer began to download Titus's mail. Loads of it. Faster and faster it came, each message bigger than the last, byte piling upon byte, the computer barely able to sustain the flow.
“Whaat?” Titus squeaked as his in-box filled up, overflowed, and mail still kept on coming. After what seemed like hours, the flood slowed to a downpour, then a drizzle, and finally, with an exhausted beep of protest, the last one dropped into his in-box.
T O W HOM I T M AY C ONCERN was the subject, and H [email protected] was the sender.
“What
is
this?” Titus whispered, hoping that he hadn't been sent a virus. No alerts sounded from his computer, and finally curiosity overcame caution and he clicked it open. To his extreme frustration, it was written in purest computer gobbledygook. Ignoring this, Titus clicked on the little paperclip icon above the undecipherable message in order to open its accompanying attachment.
Immediately, he wished he could turn the clock back and undo what he'd just
done. “No . . . no . . .
Stop!
” he wailed as his computer greedily devoured the virus-laden attachment, dragged it, gloating and slobbering, into its hard drive and, with a strangled squawk, went down. The screen turned black, and a wistful little dialogue box informed Titus
Connection terminated
Hard drive erased
A pox on the house of [email protected]
Titus slumped back in his chair. This was just too awful to contemplate. How could he have been so dumb? And how was he going to tell his father that he'd accidentally erased the hard drive? The noises now coming from the inside of the laptop sounded prohibitively expensive. Titus reached over to turn the computer off and put it out of its misery, but his hand halted quiveringly above the O N/ O FF key. His mouth fell open and he blinked rapidly, noticing several things simultaneously: his keyboard was covered with frost, the screen was glowing a deep and poisonous green, and, incomprehensibly on a dead
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