There are fountains, water leaping, water springing from the earth as if by magic. This Oasis of El-Adar, water comes forth as easily as the dust carried by the Andalusian wind. Stones and mosaics are intricately placed in this open air atrium, a circular space specially created for the viewing of stars. A great expanse of stars are visible above, through the columns so evenly placed. Benches placed at mathematical intervals at once symmetrical and in harmony with each and every other ediface.
A balance known nowhere else in the world with perhaps the exception of the ruins of Delphi and the entire breadth of China's culture.
Valan sits in the center of it all, a book opened, his back to a column. His eyes are diverted from poetry of Hafiz to the wonders of the firmament above him. Back and forth he looks from Allah's face to Allah's passion in the poems of one of His greatest admirers.
Valan turns another page. He is dressed functionally, with far less the flair of his usual vestments. A nice suit, a sage-green shirt. Everything coordinates, there is a symmetry about this too. And he waits. In the serenity of the Oasis, with the chiming and the music of the rise and fall of water, he waits. He is good at it.
"So where is he?" Edward's voice carries. He's abandoned all hope of ever speaking French here; in fact, Maria outlawed the language five centuries ago, saying that only the uncouth would ever utter such displeasing syllables.
Edward picked up Arabic the next week.
At least she lets him converse in Spanish. That becomes his mother tongue again, and he seems annoyed that the woman beside him can't answer his question. "Yes, he's here, but he's not here. What? He didn't mention where he was going?" Edward grins at that point, but the woman misses it, face too downturned at the moment. "Look," Edward stops, halfway towards the fountain now that he has stepped from the West Colonnade, "... just ...when he appears...tell him to find me." There's too much to do. Of course Nasr didn't leave evening instructions. Edward pats the woman on her arm, and she nods before returning to her security duties.
Edward exhales loudly. He's dressed in sharp black slacks and a red fitting ribbed shirt, colors for Spanish flair. "I'll presume you haven't seen Nasr," Edward asks, knowing the answer. "I need to talk to him." The phone call from the plane wasn't sufficient apparently. Details, details.
Maria has been unusually charming. Perhaps it's obliviousness of the reasons for the sudden visit.
Not likely.
"What did Maria say," Edward keeps rambling, "...when you said you'd be staying here with her for a few nights?" His earlier explanation of a friendly family visit apparently wasn't taken as truth, somehow.
Nasr Ben Yusef, he that was once the famed Prince of Grenada and listing a series of grand titles that would sound archaic to the alphebet soup that occurs in the modern age, has lived in El-Adar for centuries. Many visitors to the estemed oasis have remarked upon Nasr's likeness to an image on a mural dated at the 14th century.
It is Nasr's opinion that the artist, his name lost in the mists of time, failed to capture his likeness.
Yet, it is also inaccurate to state that Nasr has lived in El-Adar for centuries. The Grand Sultan, may Allah grant him mercy, comes and goes for decades at a time. But enough on the ways of the immortals. In the present time and in the present place, Nasr Ben Yusef prepares to greet Edward, a prince in his own right and a long time friend and companion.
He is dressed in the finest, most colorful, and to those discerning of taste, outlandish of African attire. The Dark Caliph's robes are a bewildering array of browns, yellows, oranges, and reds. A calydiscope of African tribal colors. A round hat rests on his bald plate, at least it matches with the rest of his outfit. (Those who have also lived here for a long time are begining to remark on Nasr's clothing choices. Rumors circulate as they grow more outlandish and varied each year. Some aspects of the Prince's sanity has become open to debate.)
"Oh ho! What is this I hear? Someone seeking out me?" Nasr's voice is heard billowing forth from the next room, the rest of him follows in short order.
...Wherever God lays His glance, Life starts clapping...
Indeed, it must be a standing ovation for such an array of clothing. If God were to cast His glance to the spectacle of Yusuf would He applaud, whistle or go blind?
Valan's eyes drift upward from the book of Hafiz, the arabic translated to Spanish, which he teaches himself to read in tandem with memory and the Spanish/French dictionary he keeps by his side, open-faced to the stone upon the page of the last word he had to investigate. This place instills something in Valan, something he cannot quantify, a peace and a tranquility, and a seriousness. He is the student again when he is here, happy to be in the silence and the solace of study. Would it were April already, the stones would yet be warm with the linger of spring sun...
Valan gestures to Nasr, a nod in his direction, and he rises, bringing both Hafiz and dictionary up with him. "Maria seemed pleased, ecstatic. She is going to teach me how to dance," the French comes out, and then Valan steadies himself and repeats the same in his Spanish. His Spanish is much better than his English, shaded though it is with accenting he cannot help. Still, it is an easier thing for the French tongue to muster.
"I think that is him there, si?" There has been much information. The young mind is still swimming in the ocean of syllables, intentions, names, politics and places. He pivots toward the sound and sight of God's spectacle (Nasr), books cradled in his arm, tucked against his chest. "It is good to see you again, Sultan," he uses the appellation as given to Nasr by all of the very-attentive staff.
Edward was about to reply to the comments on Maria, when the arrival of Nasr is heralded. He half-twists, then looks back to Valan. "Has she complained about your French?" he asks, rather curious on her reaction.
"What are you wearing?" Edward says louder, expecting Valan's answer after asks his more-important question. "You look like someone from a West End play," he dismisses cringing. Few can match his own accidental fashion, of course. "Or will you be holding tribal dances later?"
Nasr approaches the two men, a bright white toothed grin displayed across his black face like a crescent moon in the darkest of nights. Without waiting for any words of protest he clasps Edward in a strong hug, pounding the man viraciously upon his back. "Edward, my old friend. May Allah ensure that every day you rise is one where the sun is hidden behind the darkest of clouds. It warms my heart to see you again." He releases Edward from this rough hug and holds him at arms length, hands still on the man's shoulders. "That, and i just ate, of course." Another flash of toothy grin. He looks Edward over, seemingly pleased with what he sees before answering the man's question, "I am getting in touch with the history of my people. Though long we have been oppressed by you Europeans, we have not forgotten our heritage." It is very hard to tell whether Nasr is serious or not.
Nasr finally released Edward and turns to Valan, "Well Well, if it is not the young apprentice!" Nasr always uses the term apprentice in a relationship such as Valan and Edward. One would guess, that even centuries from now, the title would not change as long as Edward lived. He quickly grabs Valan up in the same fashion as Edward, but the embrace is not, thankfully, quite as enthusastic. "You look well... You both look well!" Nasr grins broadly yet again, finally stepping back from the men and closing his mouth long enough for them to reply.
Hafiz is crushed in the embrace, but the book survives it -- as does Valan. The smile is warm and he bows his head with great effect. "I am trying to get in touch with the poetry of your people. Well," he looks at the book, "Persia..." a glance to Nasr. Close enough? "And Maria has said she would prefer that I not speak French because of her 'sick headaches' and sensitive ears. She says it is like the sound of two rocks being thrown down a set of stairs." A sweep upward of golden eyebrows and it is easy to see he does not agree. "I think she confuses it with English," he mutters. "But... I need to improve my Spanish any way, it does no harm."
He seems, if anything, bemused, perhaps preoccupied. Perhaps it's due to all of the reading and stargazing. "I do not know what I am going to do if I cannot smoke and drink wine and must refrain from speaking French. If I were not already dead, I should think such would kill me, ami..." A twist of a smile from Valan to Edward, but he will manage.
Smoothly Valan pivots between the two men, finding his place as scholar between the two warriors, the sultan and the prince. He, more like herald or scribe, no? "May the moon shine upon your face as well, Sultan. Please, shall we share benches under the stars and the two of you may speak, or do I need to head off to some new and immediate enterprise?"
Edward grimaces at Valan. Quit talking like that. "No, no need to run away," Edward replies, adjusting the shirt at his shoulders. He half-grins at Nasr, never knowing quite what to do with hugs. "And yeah, dark clouds for you too," he tosses out, landing a cupped hand at Nasr's upper arm. A snicker and Edward sighs, the plain expression of I hate to do this creeping across his face.
"We're both well," Edward says, "...well, until Villon called. That'd make anyone sick." Heh. Edward brightens a second, as any good insult to Villon will do for someone. "And I couldn't leave Valan at home...nor would he have wanted to stay," once it was all explained. "And so we're here."
"I'm sorry," Edward puts up front immediately to Nasr. This may not be pleasant.
"Poor Villon," Valan Montague croons with a half-smile. The smile deepens a touch when he looks to Edward. A visual apology, perhaps. He returns to his seat, a bench where he might rest his back against one of the columns of this atrium and colonade. "And we are well," he seconds. "I love Spain. I am happy to be back. It is much warmer than London. And much drier."
Nasr waves his hand, dismissing Edward's apology, "Think nothing of it, my old friend. If it concerns Spain, and the Feral Brotherhood (Often a pet name of his for the Sabbat) then it concerns me." He pauses for a moment, his black orbs seeming to flickering with traces of white lightning. "Most especially if this matter causes Villon to be concerned. May Allah bring wisdom to the insane one." If Nasr was catholic, you would imagine he would be crossing himself right about now.
Nasr smiles at Valan, nodding in agreement with the man. "And we are glad to have you here, dispite our esteemed benefactor's opinion on your native tongue." Nasr and Maria get along quite well and suffer from many of the same idiocyncracies. Among the circle, it is known that Nasr often does favors for her, along the same lines that Edward does for Villon. Perhaps its his way of paying 'rent' for staying here.
"Have you told her anything?" Edward asks, knowing that he has not. "I wouldn't want her to worry," he says. Granted, covens in Malaga and Madrid would make anyone worry. But apparently, Malaga's getting out of hand.
"And I don't want her to think...that we wouldn't want her involved," or her even higher-placed friends. Like Brujah justicars, archons, small things like that. "Just...having too many involved makes things obvious." So, we'll handle it ourselves, like we always have.
Valan opens the book of Hafiz yet again, the dictionary lain face-down upon the bench at his left side. He listens, but his eyes are elsewhere. Another poet that has captured his attention, the first is still to be named. Hafiz says: God blooms from the shoulder of the elephant who becomes courteous to the ant...
His eyes trail over the words, the Spanish rising and falling over an older, Arabic cadence. His ears trace the lines of your speech, your joined concern, Maria, others in Spain, the mechanism of a modern event over the old machniations of Medieval men. These are dials and cogs of an even older machine, one whose gears are still utterly foreign to him. And mostly shrouded. The difference between Camarilla and Sabbat, one immortal clan from another, such artifice that best suits the Medieval or perhaps the Baroque but one that leaves the Modern in a mass of confusion.
Valan tips his head back, resting it upon the marble of the column. Gold-green eyes lift from the pages of Persian poetry. He looks between you and Nasr. He thinks of the woman you should have married, perhaps even loved, the one you killed. It wasn't long after that when I met you. Not long at all. It changes nothing, of course. But the meaning that was there already is deepened by such knowledge. "I think she will understand it, put in terms of common sense. She is a sensible woman."
Nasr grits his teeth for a moment. He shakes his head slowly and clicks his tongue to the roof of his mouth. He lowers his voice, believing that walls do have ears. "No Edward, I said not a word. I cannot help but feel she would be displeased however. She would not like you being here on Vallon's behalf without her knowledge." Nasr shrugs it off and takes a few paces around.
"All the same... I agree with you. Our blood kin are not known for their subltety, and the less Brujah involved... It is probably for the best." He grins slightly at Valan, flashing the young fellow with a brief wink. "She is sensible, but I have found that she is quick to ire when the mood sets her to do so." He holds his arms wide, the folds of his clothing spreading like great plumage, "In the words of Mohammed, 'There are no greater things than Silence and a Good Disposition.'" He laughs a bit and nods, "Both apply well in this case."
Edward nods at Nasr. "The last thing Maria is...is sensible." There. If her wall-ears heard that, well, more power to her. Looking at Nasr, Edward says, "The Toreador think...the young man..." Darius, that is, "...was taken by whomever killed him and brought here. I asked," he goes on, "...what did they expect? Villon said..." and Edward grins, "...a body in recompense."
"Now, after I looked up the word, recompense," Edward says snarkily, standing up, "...I told him he was out of his mind. He agreed," as if such conversations are normal between himself and Villon, "...but still insisted on something returned. The Toreador are feeling...a little exposed...these days." Between Saabrucken and Darius, it's not surprising.
"I'm not sure they are sure what they want. Confirmation of the man's death? Knowledge of who did it..." Edward sighs, "...they have provided names, even where they think their new temple is. In truth," Edward looks at Nasr, "...they want the coven gone. That's what I think. And they think we're going to do it. Bastards."
"But, with all that's happened...Blancheflor, what's gone on in London...stuff in Paris -- did I mention that -- it may be well that...Malaga is dealt with," Edward shrugs, red shirt glinting in the dimmed light. "Even with the crap in Navarre," way back, "...then in Chinon..."
Gah! Edward tosses up his hands and rubs his eyes. "Christ. This is fucked."
"Chinon." A light. That night? Them too? The algebraic conversations of the last two days, including tonight, suddenly snap into place as x is given a value. "These are the same that were in Chinon?" Valan frowns a touch. This is so beyond my experience, I am not in my league at all.
He looks between you, looks worridly to Edward, then his gilt-green gaze tends back to the words on the page. The mellifluous passion and poetry of the Persian rings in his mind's ears, reflects against his soul: Dear world, I can offer an intelligent explanation for our suffering, but I hope it really makes sense to no one here, and come morning, you are again at God's door with ax and pickets, eloquent petitions and complaints...
Fingers press upon the pages of the book and the young vampire's eyes are resolute upon the words he looks at but does not read. His ears and his soul turned outward to absorb what the two of you speak. Hafiz and his wisdom glances off of him like light reflecting off of glass...
"I don't know, ami," Edward confesses. "But...there are limited sources for Sabbat in Europe." In fact, only two covens known these days, though individual Sabbat are perhaps about. He shrugs, mostly deducing and guessing.
"We are nothing if not a spiteful race... If the Artisans want the old 'biblical vengence' then that is what they get, yes?" Nasr quirks up an eyebrow and there is a sly slant to his lips.
"But I need not tell you about the feud between us and the Feral Brotherhood. It has stretched now for centuries and will stretch for centuries more. What they lack in Europe, they hold with a clawed fist in the Americas. They have shed and drank endless blood for their places in Spain, they shall not give them up easily... and there is not a one of them who would not go to great lengths to ensure we take the long sleep." Nasr lowers his eyes slightly, glancing at a crack in the tiled floor.
"I am glad now that I never went to America. Remind me this, ami, when I forget," the easy reply, sounding more like Himself. Valan sighs, he sets the book aside, he reaches in his jacket for a cigarette. Enough of the student shite. I am who I am. He lights up with a sparkle of flame, a plume of smoke, he stowes the lighter, quick hipster flicks of motion, sudden light and sudden color, and Valan exhales, smoke and Relief.
"Dieu, it's been hours," comes the French, and suddenly it is as if he were a different person altogether, gone is the suppliant scholar of Spanish and Arabic. Sometimes there is even the striking similarity between him and That Other Fellow From Touraine, but thankfully it is only brief and only in moments of high, Touraine drama.
"So, you and the Sultan are going to go after them. I am going to stay here," Valan starts to lay out the events as they shall take place. "You know... I remember from the Figaro...something about an explosion in Malaga. I was wondering," exhale of smoke, "...why it sounded familiar. But that is what it was. All of this seems somewhat tied together. Well, Chinon and this poor woman and her poor man. This was the same woman in Chinon, mais oui. I remember her. I saw her in her nightgown. I do not think that she knew I was gay." He is so delicate.
"Right," Edward confirms, looking at Valan. "I suspect that they know what edges they flutter around. Villon says that they think that Darius was a mistake, maybe some confusion in the group. St. Germaine," that's better, "...was the Party leader. Behind her, at Malaga, is...someone called Godfrey. They think there may be eight left in the pack...as most...maybe eleven..." That gets a grimace. "Including several Brujah antis," Edward adds at the end.
"I doubt, Nasr, that...the two of us may be enough."
Now he needs a cigarette. Strange how he and the student think alike. Edward looks left and right, then at Valan's pockets. "I want...to assess a bit first," he says to Nasr, "...then we decide." What and how.
Gay? Edward looks at Valan, brows lifted. Que? Oh well.
Oui, Eduard, gay. As if you did not know. Valan looks to Edward with the same, rather bland expression, then hands him his pack of cigarettes and his lighter.
Nasr gives Valan a disapproving look. Homosexuality is a blaspheme. But then, being a vampire probably isn't condoned either. So what is one more sin on the soul of the hell-bound. He sticks to the matter at hand and returns his gaze to Edward, "There are several who are Old, very Old. Yet by sheer numbers alone it is too many, even for warriors as strong as us. I have no doubt that SHE is there as well." If he could muster spit any longer, he surely would spit at the mention of SHE
SHE being a matter of common conversation with Nasr. Rather surprising he hasn't managed to work SHE into the conversation by now. He speaks of Carlotte Weninger, Gangrel antitribu of the Sabbat and someone whom Nasr has been obsessed with for centuries. There are many things about Nasr that grows tiresome (it being a common trait for old vampires to becp,e tiresome) but surely his fixation on this woman is one of them. Bringing about her death has been his primary goal since the mid 1600s. SHE is probably the reason he calls the Sabbat the Feral Brotherhood, the primal animalist that SHE is. SHE is behind every failure that Nasr has had. It is a conspiracy theory that occupies as much strength as the murder of JFK or the fate of the Templars.
"After prayer," isn't it time yet? "...I can let you in on what I have. With Blancheflor gone, who knows who is leading the Party now. Godfrey, he says, is a certainty as the Coven head though. Another angle..." Edward's eyes brighten, "...no War Party head, no Coven Head, makes for a very confused body." Maybe just one is sufficient.
But the word 'pack' defies the notion of being alone.
"Maybe there's a smart way to do this," Edward says. Some way that we do not spend the next weeks trying to kill some unspecified number of Sabbat. "Keep it quiet, strike at the right place." The shrug ends his comment.
"And..." Edward looks at Valan, "...you are not gay. You're a student. Students study many things." There.
The fate of the Templars, well, there is a quiet man in France who can tell you all about it. He was there in the prison with them they say. One of them. Such a kindly soul, perhaps the only one he knows who may actually make it to Heaven. If God is Merciful afterall...
That is, however, neither here nor there...
The look of disapproval is accepted, taken with a bland, perhaps even droll expression, and he pulls a breath of fire from the cigarette. Such a mouth to coax the flame and all the death it would bring with it, if it could. "I am not? My mother will be so relieved when she hears it. I suppose I should call her and give her the good news," said so easily, so matter-of-factly. He looks to the Sultan. He looks lastly to Edward. "You will have to forgive me, Sultan, I have a very dry sense of humor."
Yes, for Edward's comfort it was all just a joke. Only now I am the only one who is not amused.
Valan's eyebrows quirk and he looks at his cigarette. Half gone already. "I do not know about such things," war, death, battles, strategy, "I am sorry that I am not more help to you. I only wish you to be careful, my teacher," slight emphasis there, teacher yes... the man who fucked me last night, no. I guess. Whatever. "I fear my poetry and history and philosophy won't be of much use. I can shoot straight," he offers to help. He does not lack for bravery as well as subtlety...
Valan looks between you both again, he flicks ash upon Maria's stones. She will probably make him pick it up flake by flake later. Unless the wind, like God, is merciful. "I wish there were more I could do. Or suggest. You are both much older and wiser than I in matters of ... this sort of intrigue. I have only ever watched it on television. I have no real experience of it."
"It was a joke," Edward murmurs, eyes glancing away, chin setting. "And you are fine help," he says flatly, exhaling before he looks at Valan, then to Nasr. Nothing to see here. Move along.
"As said by the Prophet Mohammed, '.. When someone approaches me at hand's length, I approach him in arm's length. When someone walks towards me, I run towards him. And when someone comes to me seeking my forgiveness full of as many sins as the whole world can contain, I meet him with an equal amount of forgiveness." Nasr bows deeply before Valan, spreading his arms wide.
As he rises though, he makes a point, "But it seems to me, young apprentice, that I must contain a great amount of forgiveness within me. For you carry about you a heavy stone of sin that shall be a greater burden in the life hereafter." Nasr touches his hands to his forehead, his lips, and then his chest. I believe it was that something was mentioned about how tiresome Nasr can sometimes be. Having centuries upon centuries to study the works of Mohammed and his followers have given him an endless supply of memorized words from the Hadith, words of which he uses with great frequency.
Sin? Oh, brother.
Edward winces and slowly sinks to the seat he'd occupied before on the stone near Valan. Great. Now we're discussing great amounts of sin and the hereafter. Hand comes to his forehead and massages softly.
He is quiet, Edward is, waiting upon the rebuttal.
"So, what is the next step then?" No rebuttal for sin or for forgiveness, Valan switches gears to strategizing. He may be better at it than he thinks. "What shall you do and when shall you go?" The last is slightly more hushed, there is greater concern for that. Edward will be off in danger, doing what Edward does best, and Valan will be here, by himself, alone in an oasis of knowledge and culture.
As much as Nasr may be tiresome, it may be said that Valan has a tendency to bring out... the worst in people. So, it is not strange that Nasr is more proselytizing than usual. Islamically, that is. "I am sure my eternal soul thanks you, Sultan, I appreciate your concern for me." It does not dissuade me, however, from doing what I do best, that being men. Of course.
There is something about him, isn't there. Something that is calm. Something that is powerful. Something that lies beneath the surface, murky... no matter how golden and compassionate the exterior. There is something serpentine. Something that insinuates. "Let's not talk about sin," Valan says, exhaling smoke. "I am more concerned about my teacher and his friend going off to save the world... I am worried, I will say, because I am new to this world. Only this. I have read so much of your exploits, I have heard more, and from Alfonso as well, and Davydd and William. Still, I wonder what is waiting out there in the sands. I feel it is not good, whatever it is..."
"No one is going anywhere yet," Edward repeats. "We have to talk more and decide how and what to deal with first." Ah, he's getting tired. "Here," Edward says to Nasr, fishing a tiny metal circle from his pocket. "Read that and tell me what you think."
There's computers in this place somewhere!
"It's from Villon. The names they know, what little info they have. Expectations of what the coven and temple are like." He's certain Nasr will enjoy...hate...one of the names on the list. "When you're done," well, Edward waves his hand. Certainly he's memorized it. "The next step...is dinner and some relaxation."
A grateful sigh. "That is more my speed, Eduard," Valan notes. The books are gathered in his arms, the cigarette -- what is left of it -- is extinguished. "Dinner and relaxation, oui." He is not yet standing. There is no move at the moment to depart.
Nasr Ben Yusef smiles at Valan, the look of disapproval fading under Valan's humble words and gracious diversion of the topic. He takes the disk from Edward and stares down at it with as much familiarity as if he was given a moon rock. Well there are those here who can help him. "I shall do as you ask my friend. For now, I shall go to prayer and ask God, La Ilaha Illalah (there is no God but Allah), for guidance." His gaze turns to Edward, his poor beliguared friend. "I will be the Sword and the Arm as asked of me. No one knows the Sabbat of Spain such as I do." Nasr seems quite confident of that, perhaps he does.
He grins broadly once again, "I am truly happy to have both of you here. I have few family left and their visits are all to infrequent. I shall join you both for dinner shortly." Nasr takes a step back and cautions, "Be of good cheer with your Mistress, Edward. It may be hard for you to believe, but she has a great love for you. Often, my ear is bent towards words of praise on your behalf, from her."
"No one knows Spain as you," Edward confirms, deciding to stand again. At least no one got into an argument about...well...that. "I look forward to talking with you about it," he smiles, reaching out to pat Nasr on the arm again in a gentle, familial fashion, "I want to know your thoughts. We will see you at dinner," Edward adds, using same hand to touch Valan's elbow to get him to rise and be escorted.
"And I shall take care with Maria," Edward notes, having heard the advice. He nods, other hand coming to a fold behind the small of his back.
Valan rises, Islamic poetry cradled in one hand and his other arm touched by Edward, and he bows to Nasr. Not deeply, not austentatiously. Simply. "I look forward to hearing more stories, myself. I would like to hear your telling of the liberation," that's a word, "...of Alhambra from the forces of evil. I even brought my book on it with me. Perhaps you could shed the light on who the author might be?" Who knows, it might even be the colorful Nasr...
Valan turns to Edward. As far as that is concerned, what is there to argue? It is what it is.
Nasr's words about Maria may or may not have been a slight stretch of the truth, but it was a good thing to say regardless. Nasr ponders the disk in his hand, almost hesitant to find out what is on it. He is still feeling no small amount of shock, that there is going to be an actual Hunt. One of great consequence. The timing is right though and the attacks have grown more bold lately. The events in Chinon should have brought about the War then. Nasr wishes William or Davyd or Henri were here as well. Another strong warrior would be invaluable.
"Ahh, that is quite a story Valan! I shall do my best to shed light on the subject at hand." Nasr bids his farewells and leaves. He will find out what is on that disk, ponder it, and then form an opinion on what should be done.
Posted by rowan at July 04, 2003 09:37 PM
