In my dreams, code within code wrapped itself in dry crackling taco shells. I awoke with a deeper mystery on my mind. Why had Bernley received this e-mail in the first place? Tech-error? A single typo somewhere in a mile-long sweep of comm code? It was possible, but didn't seem likely.

I shuffled to the kitchen nook where the serf had prepared breakfast. Two poptarts, toastie hot, an orange fruit and a black coffee. The monitor on the kitchen counter spoke as I came into view, asking to read my morning e-mail. "Any from Bernsie?" I asked.

"You have two messages from Bernley."

"Ok, read to me."