From: "Alasdair T. McLean" 

Date: Wed, 08 May 1996 12:32:35 +0100

Subject: Rogue - Part 1/2



Written by Alasdair T. McLean using characters 

created by C. Carter and Ten Thirteen Productions. No 

copyright infringement or offense is intended.  All 

other characters and ideas created by myself and 

copyrighted 1995.  It also features a locale from a very 

well known American sitcom created by Kaufman-Bright-Crane, 

WB, and NBC, the usage of this location is not ........  

ah, hell, see above notice for disclaimer.



        For those of you who have asked me just how exactly 

Will McCormack first met Special Agent Fox 'Spooky' Mulder, 

and weren't satisfied with the little taster I gave you in 

'Friendship' (all of you, it seems), here it is.  



        BTW:  It's been years since I was last in either 

Toronto or New York, so my apologies for any errors you 

find as regards settings.  I've never actually been to 

either of the hotels I mention here, and the guide I was 

using for research is five years old, so, again my apologies 

if I've screwed up there.  My memory is completely 

swiss-cheesed thanks to all these lecturers who actually 

want us to work!!!!!!! Uh, the horror!!!!!!!  



        This is set maybe a month before the pilot episode..



X - Files.

Rogue - Part I.

by

Alasdair T. McLean





The truth is out there.



10:31pm.

Jeanette Montaigne's house.  Wards Island, Toronto, Canada.



        "I'm sorry, Jeanette, it's a vampire thing,"  Will 

tried to explain through his laughter.  They had been watching 

an old Hammer Horror film, 'The Curse of Dracula' or something, 

and Will had cracked up halfway through, bursting into fits of 

laughter.  He pointed weakly at the screen once he had gotten 

himself back under control, still chuckling slightly he said, 

"I mean, look at it from my point of view....?"  Another look 

at the screen and he dissolved into hysterics again.



        Jeanette looked at him, trying very hard to appear 

annoyed at him for laughing, but it was a losing battle.  He was 

lying on the couch one arm around her and the other wrapped 

around his stomach as if it was hurting from his laughing so 

hard.  Eventually she gave up and joined him, snaking one hand 

around his side and under his shirt where it had pulled free 

from his jeans.



        "You wouldn't?" he turned to her, the apprehension in 

his blue eyes meeting with a mischievous glint in her emerald ones.



        "You know I would," she whispered, beginning to tickle him 

without mercy.



        "No fair!"  he shouted, twisting around to try to defend 

himself from this unexpected attack.  And as everyone knows, the 

best form of defense is a good offence.



        



        "Was that ..... you, or me?"  Jeanette asked, trying to 

stop laughing, as they waited for another buzz.



        <*BZZZZT*>  The beeper sounded annoyed that it was being 

ignored.



        "Me,"  Will removed the beeper from his belt and read the 

number that flashed up on the small display, "Oh, great, it's the 

Consulate."  He looked at he apologetically, "I'm sorry about this."  

Picking up her 'phone he dialed the number, "It's Will McCormack.  

You paged me, sir?" 



11:03pm.

The British Consulate.

Suite 1910, College Park, 777 Bay Street. 



        "This came in an hour ago for you," The Consul, Eric Harris, 

handed Will an A-4 sized manilla envelope that was sealed and marked 

'eyes only S.I. William J. McCormack', as well as one ticket for a 

flight to New York.  "You can read on the 'plane.  Your flight leaves 

in," he checked his watch, "twenty minutes.  You'd better hurry."



        Despite the curiosity that made him want to open the envelope 

and try to get as much information as possible from Harris before he 

left all Will did was nod silently and turn to go.  Harris's voice 

stopped him.



        "Good luck, Mr. McCormack."



        "Thank you, sir."  With that Will picked up the hold-all that 

he kept packed at all times just in case he was 'activated' as the 

Section called it and had to leave the city that had been his home 

for the past year, and left the Consulate.



New York City.



        Special Agent Fox Mulder looked down at the remains of what 

had once been a human that lay broken on the ground in front of him.  

He had, in his time in the Violent Crimes Section, seen more than his 

fair share of violent death, but this ..... this was almost inhuman.  

The victim, just like all the eight others, had been another John Doe, 

a homeless man who nobody knew, who had no one to care for him, no one 

to look out for him, other than the others who lived on the streets.  

People who tended to be extremely wary of cops in general, and F.B.I. 

especially.



        Mulder shook his head, he had been called in just after the 

first death by a coroner who couldn't believe what the results of the 

autopsy were.  The man had died as all of his internal organs were 

shredded, one after the other.  It was if someone had physically 

reached inside the poor soul and then went mad, like some demented 

surgeon.  There was just one problem, there wasn't a mark on the body.  

Eight deaths that they knew of, How many more had went undetected 

simply because the victims had no one?  To the police they were just 

the surplus population that Dickens had described.  



        Eight people had died.  Killed by what could only be 

described as unnatural phenomena.  That was where Mulder came in.  

'Spooky' Mulder.  He bent down, holding his hand palm-up close to 

the body, noting as the hairs reacted to the electrostatic charge 

that the body still held.  It was the same killer.  A killer who ended 

the lives of his victims without physically touching them.  A killer 

who used telekinesis as a weapon, and who used it with frightening 

effect.



        "Almost as if he's been trained?" Mulder mused half-aloud, 

if the killer had been trained that probably meant he was Russian, 

everyone knew about their research into paranormal fields.  But why 

would a Soviet, or ex-Soviet agent, begin to kill homeless people?  

And seemingly deliberately make it so painful for them.  Fun?  Some 

twisted sense of enjoyment?  



        Mulder shuddered, That feels right, he thought to himself a

s he closed his eyes and tried to distance himself from what he 

perceived as the killer's viewpoint.



        It was that 'gift' that he had for getting inside the mind 

of a killer that had earned him the nickname of 'Spooky', a nickname 

that he hated.  And since he had found the X-Files it had been used 

with derision behind his back as they laughed at him for his interest 

in what were generally considered to be a pointless waste of time.  

But he had his reasons.  One reason, to be exact.



        Her name was Samantha Mulder.  She was his sister.  Taken 

from their family home when she was only seven years old, by who 

(or what) he didn't know.  But he did know one thing, that it was 

her abduction that had shaped his life.  That had made him what he 

was today.  His only purpose was to find his sister.  Nothing else 

mattered.  And if working the X-Files, and becoming an outcast 

among his peers was what it took to find her and get her back, 

then so be it.



        But sometimes it was so hard.



        So very hard to muster the strength to go on alone.



        So lonely, and so tiring.



        "Could you send me a copy of the autopsy results?" he asked 

one of the uniformed officers who had been searching the area.  When 

the officer nodded silently he turned and left.  Heading back to his 

hotel for another sleepless night.



1:23am.

The Empire. 44 West 63rd Street, New York.



        Will McCormack lay beneath the covers of the bed in his hotel 

room, listening on his headphones to the gently lilting notes of the 

Concerto De Aranjuez.  Despite the Spanish sounding name, it was most 

definitely a jazz piece, and one that he listened to any time he 

needed to think about something.  Just letting the music mold his 

thoughts, directing his attention to anything his subconscious 

identified as important.



        Kenneth Phelps.  Thirty two years old.  A level 9 telekinetic 

with unusually high control over his gifts.  A wild telepathic talent 

as well that was outwith his conscious control, but was just as 

dangerous. Doubly so since there was no way to predict when, or how 

it would manifest itself.  Once one of the Operations Directorate who 

specialized in, as Ian Fleming would have said, being the 'blunt 

instrument' that was sometimes required by Her Majesty's Government.  

Unfortunately he wasn't stable, and had gone rogue.  He had already 

killed two other Special Investigators who had been sent after him, 

that was before he had fled to America.



        The Section had learned he was in New York when they 

intercepted request for the assistance of one Special Agent Mulder, 

assigned by his own request to the X-Files.  That had got S.10's 

attention.  What had alerted them to Phelps' involvement was the 

way the victims had died.  Exactly the same way that the two 

investigators had been murdered.



        So why send me?  Surely Alyson McFedries in Washington 

would have been better?  Will's thoughts changed from what he knew 

about Phelps to why he in particular had been given the case.  He 

was a news photographer/reporter, after all, working for a Toronto 

based business magazine.  He was effectively only a reservist in 

the Section, and not a dedicated agent.  A telekinetic, that meant 

Phelps could get past any psi-shields easily and psi-bolts could 

only take him out if you could get close enough to him without 

getting killed, painfully.  A vampire, he realized would not 

have to worry about that.



        Hunting homeless people.  Why?  Need?  The power?  Because 

he can?



        What does he do?  Will thought, remembering the Silence of 

the Lambs, He kills.  Coincidental?  Possibly.  The way he killed 

those people, the investigators and homeless both, would inflict 

terrible pain, before, eventually, they died of their injuries.  

And that pain, and their fear would raise power, and a lot of it.



        But that takes us back to why?  He isn't a mage, the power 

raised would be useless to him.  To him!  Does he have a partner, 

or partners?  A possibility.  Worse still was the fact that his 

psychological profile indicated that he had sadistic tendencies, 

making it possible that there was no motive beyond his own 

enjoyment.



        How to find him?



        To find ......  As the CD whirred, starting to play the 

music once more, Will's thoughts turned away from his prey towards 

the F.B.I. agent who was also after Phelps.  Mulder.  Fox Mulder.  

A maverick, or so the file he had read on the man said.  A loner.  

The people in the Intelligence Directorate were pretty evenly split 

as to whether he was genuine or just another puppet to make people 

believe that their government was on the level.  Or he could be 

exactly what he appeared to be, one lone man tilting vainly at an 

enormous windmill in the hopes of finding his sister.  



        Smoke and mirrors.  Which image was real?



        There were times when he really wished that he had told 

the Admiral to get stuffed when he'd been recruited a year and 

a half earlier, debt of honour or not.  But, Will McCormack was a 

person who took debts seriously, and so he'd been left with little 

choice.



        And what of Mulder?  Was he another such man?



        With that Will McCormack drifted off into a dreamless sleep, 

listening to the gentle notes of the Concerto.



        To be continued ......



- -- 

========================================================================



'Younger wizards in Unseen University are also known to be experimenting

with computer like devices; the only one so far chronicled is a vast

assemblage of glass tubes full of busy ants.  It may work if they can

get all the bugs in it.'

        - Definition of a computer in the Discworld companion.



Alasdair T. McLean



e-mail	:	mcleana@btinternet.com

url	:	http://www.dcs.gla.ac.uk/~mcleana



========================================================================



From: "Alasdair T. McLean" 

Date: Wed, 08 May 1996 12:33:52 +0100

Subject: Rogue - Part 2/2



Written by Alasdair T. McLean using characters 

created by C. Carter and Ten Thirteen Productions. No 

copyright infringement or offense is intended.  All 

other characters and ideas created by myself and 

copyrighted 1995.  It also features a locale from a very 

well known American sitcom created by Kaufman-Bright-Crane, 

WB, and NBC, the usage of this location is not ........  

ah, hell, see above notice for disclaimer.



        For those of you who have asked me just how exactly 

Will McCormack first met Special Agent Fox 'Spooky' Mulder, 

and weren't satisfied with the little taster I gave you in 

'Friendship' (all of you, it seems), here it is.  



        BTW:  It's been years since I was last in either 

Toronto or New York, so my apologies for any errors you 

find as regards settings.  I've never actually been to 

either of the hotels I mention here, and the guide I was 

using for research is five years old, so, again my apologies 

if I've screwed up there.  My memory is completely 

swiss-cheesed thanks to all these lecturers who actually 

want us to work!!!!!!! Uh, the horror!!!!!!!  



        This is set maybe a month before the pilot episode..



X - Files.

Rogue Part II.

by

Alasdair T. McLean





The truth is out there.



7:23am.

The Salisbury, 123 West 55th Street.



        Mulder woke, as he did most mornings, screaming his sister's 

name.  After eventually falling into a fitful sleep he dreamt of Sam 

once more.  Rarely did two nights go by without the dream of her 

abduction.  Almost every night since she was taken.  He didn't know 

what was worse, the dream, or the nights when he didn't dream at all.



        Glancing at her picture on the chest of drawers next to his 

bed, he made the same simple promise that he made every morning to 

her, "I'll find you, Sam."



        Running his hands over his stubble he forced himself to get 

up, reaching for the old sweatshirt and shorts that he wore on his 

morning runs.



The Empire.



        Will McCormack stepped out of the lobby, and looked around 

the street in front of him.  Despite the early hour it was quite busy.  

The city that never sleeps, eh? He thought to himself as he ducked 

down an alley and out of sight.  Some people liked to jog in the 

mornings.  Will liked to fly.  His ability to assume the form of 

almost any animal was, as he sometimes told himself, one of the 

advantages of being dead.



        His body blurred, becoming insubstantial and misty, only 

to reform into a golden eagle which rose gracefully into the sky, 

flying out over the city.  According to the paper he had bought 

in the lobby there had been another killing while he slept, and 

stamping down on the guilt that accompanied the realization that 

if he had arrived earlier he might have been able to stop it, he 

had called a friend of his who worked on one of the city's 

newspapers and secured the location.  He'd told his friend that 

he was in the city researching an article comparing New York's 

homeless problem with Toronto's.



        Somehow I don't think Peter would buy that I'm in New 

York to track down a psychotic telekinetic!



        And so he flew through the early morning light towards the 

place where hours before a man had died.



        What a way to start the day! He thought to himself, trying 

to forget everything except the feelings of freedom that accompanied 

his early morning flights.



        The police were still there when he arrived, still going 

over the scene.  McCormack doubted that they would find anything.  

It was always one of the first things that anyone who worked for 

Section 10 was taught, how to cover your tracks so that local law 

enforcement wouldn't know you'd been there.  Kind of hard to 

explain why someone had to be brought down with a wooden crossbow 

bolt, or a sword, or a silver bullet ......  They wouldn't care 

if the 'man' had been a psychopath.



        But there were other things that Phelps might not have 

been able to cover, or that his 'partner', if he had one, might 

not have counted on.  Like having a vampire sent after him.



        Kind of hard to blank out a scent, even in a place as 

..... rich in terms of scents as a big city.  Gotcha!  Will 

thought as he managed to pick out Phelps' scent from all the 

billions of others.  He followed the trail airborne for a few 

hundred yards and then, after ducking down another alleyway, 

he returned to his human form and tracked him on foot.



10:31am.

23rd Precinct Station House.



        "Hey, Agent Mulder, I got something for you!"



        Mulder turned round, using the advantage of his height 

to try to locate the woman who had shouted his name, "Sergeant 

O'Connell.  Yeah?"  He walked over to the desk where the 

detective sat, looking up at him with dark eyes that glinted with 

humor.



        "Someone dropped this at the front desk for you," she 

handed him the small piece of paper, watching his eyes narrow 

in suspicion.



        "For me?" he looked at the paper, instantly storing the 

Bronx address on the paper in his memory before shoving it in 

one of his suit pockets.



        "Apparently," she shrugged her shoulders and went back 

to her work.



        "Odd," he muttered to himself, his paranoia kicking into 

high gear.  After all, who else knew that he was in New York?  

Who else knew he was working on this particular case?  Even if 

there was nothing sinister about it, it could be nothing more 

than a wild goose chase intended to waste his time.  



        On the other hand it could be a genuine lead.



        He knew that he had little choice in the matter, that if 

he wanted to be able to look at himself in the mirror in the 

morning he would have to follow it up, no matter what the 

consequences might be.  Otherwise every time another body was 

brought in .......



        

11:23am.

Outside the apartment of Kenneth Phelps.



        "Yes?"  The man who Will knew as Kenneth Phelps opened 

the door after the second knock, apparently expecting someone.  

Whoever he was expecting it wasn't the young man standing in front 

of him.  Phelps scowled, "What do you want?" he snapped.



        Will looked around, cursing his stupidity, and the fact 

that in an apartment building there were far too many innocents 

that could get caught in the line of fire in case something went 

wrong.  Instinctively he used his psi-senses to scan Phelps very 

lightly, being careful not to set off any of the man's defenses.  

That surface scan was enough to reveal that he was the killer, and 

that he was more powerful than the Section's files had claimed.  

All that took Will less than a second, and left him with no other 

choice since there was no one he could call for back up.  He reached 

inside his jacket, pulling out his ID wallet, "I'm S.I. Will 

McCormack, and you have two choices.  One you come back to Britain 

willingly, or...... Aaaaarghn!!!"



        All of a sudden it felt like his insides were being ripped 

into shreds.  They healed themselves again instantly, but it still 

hurt like all hell.  Going to his mist form for a brief respite 

from the pain, his mind scrambled frantically looking for a plan, 

any plan that would allow him to capture Phelps.  At the moment it 

was stalemate.  Phelps couldn't hurt or lose Will, but there was 

nothing Will could do to stop Phelps either.



        "Ahck!"  Suddenly he was solid once more, and immobile as a 

second man appeared in the room.  The man was wearing a dark suit, 

and looked at Will with interest.  I hate it when I'm wrong, he 

thought to himself, Must be Phelps' telepathic talent.  Bugger.



        "It seems our trap has hooked another fish apart from the 

one we intended," he mused in a voice that was as smooth as silk.



        Will could feel the pressure on his mind increase and he 

tried to fight it, but to no avail, he was no telepath.  He could 

only communicate mind to mind with those people he was especially 

close to, or those people who were very gifted psychics.



        "Kill him," the man ordered Phelps, who simply shook his 

head.



        "Can't.  He's not human."



        "What are you?" the man walked slowly around him, surveying 

him with interest, "Phelps?"



        The touch on his mind intensified, Will tried to raise 

shields against it, but he wasn't strong enough.  



        :What are you?:  He could feel the deathly cold touch 

sliding through his mind like an icy knife, and there was nothing 

he could do to stop it.  



        Or was there?



        "I'm a pink elephant.  I'm a pink elephant.  I'm a pink 

elephant."  He repeated the phrase over and over like a mantra, 

in an attempt to keep Phelps from his mind.



        It didn't work.



        "He's a vampire," Phelps said after a few moments, a 

satisfied expression on his face as he turned to look for anything 

wooden that would serve as a stake.  Anything wooden would effect 

him as it would a normal human.  Evidently Phelps knew that.  He 

picked up a wooden baseball bat that had been propped up against 

one wall.



        "Kill him."



        Phelps didn't need to be told twice.  He raised the bat 

above his head, "Say g'night, vamp!"



        Mulder stood outside the apartment debating what to do.  

He could knock on the door.  But the question was: was this the 

address of the killer, or of someone who was willing to provide 

information that would lead to the person he was after?



        Abruptly the question was answered for him when he heard 

an almighty crash from inside the apartment.



        Drawing his gun, and bracing himself for whatever he might 

find, Mulder kicked the door in.  He absorbed the scene inside in 

a split second, even as he dived out of the way of any gunfire that 

might be directed towards the open door.



        There was none.



        One man on the floor, two standing, one with a baseball bat, 

and another with a handgun.  The man with the bat was threatening the 

one on the floor who seemed immobile.  He counted to three and dove 

into the room, only to find that apart from the man who had been on 

the floor, and the one with the baseball bat the room was empty.



        The man who had been immobile on the floor was now standing 

over the other with a satisfied look on his face.  He looked up at 

Mulder who entered the room, a bewildered look on his face, "What 

just happened?"



        "Agent Mulder, I presume?" Will said as he bent down and 

'cuffed Phelps.  Ordinary hand-cuffs would have been less than 

useless on a person like Phelps, but the Section was notorious 

for enchanting it's equipment.  "Special Investigator Will McCormack, 

British Intelligence.  This guy used to be one of our agents.  He 

went rogue.  I was sent to bring him back."  He looked at Mulder, 

"Thanks, that was good timing, another few seconds and I would 

have been a stain on the carpet."



        "You sent me the note?" Mulder's voice was incredulous.



        "What note?"  Will looked at him with puzzlement as he 

walked over to the 'phone and dialed the number for the Embassy 

in Washington, "Hello, could you put me through to Al McFedries, 

please?......  Yes, it is very urgent.  Thankyou. ......" 

Turning back to face Mulder, he caught the questions in the agent's 

eyes.  He smiled, saying simply, "Whatever you want to know, Agent 

Mulder, it's probably classified.  Sorry."



6:44pm.

23rd Precinct Station House.



        "Ugh, I hate paperwork," Mulder sat up in the small 

cubby-hole office that the locals had given him so he could 

finish his report in peace.  Leaning back, he stretched gracefully, 

hearing his back crack satisfyingly.  He removed his glasses to rub 

wearily at the bridge of his nose.  He used to think that there was 

a lot of paperwork involved in police work normally, but when you 

got foreign governments involved the number of forms to fill in 

and reports to write just seemed to skyrocket.  He looked at the 

mound of paperwork he still had to finish before he could return 

home to Washington.



        Home, to an empty apartment, no friends apart from the 

Gunmen, and no life.



        A knocking at the door interrupted his thoughts before 

they became even more self-pitying.



        "Yeah," he shouted back, laying his glasses atop the pile 

of papers in front of him.



        The door opened revealing the slender form of Will McCormack, 

he glanced at the papers on Mulder's desk and shook his head, "Whoever 

invented paperwork should die a horrible and painful death."



        "Didn't you hear?  They covered him in paper-cuts and dropped 

him in a vat of vinegar."  Despite his lack of energy Mulder couldn't 

resist making the wisecrack, then he slumped in the seat once more, 

"Yes, what can I do for you, Mr. McCormack?"



        "We have to talk," McCormack said quietly, "about what you 

know about Phelps.  And I thought that you could do with a break?"



        Mulder nodded, "Yes, on both counts."



        "I think there's a good coffee shop about a block and a 

half away," Will said as he waited for Mulder to get his coat, "It's 

Will, by the way.  C'mon, Her Majesty's Government is paying.  I'm on 

expenses for this."



7:02pm.

Central Perk.



        "You know I have *no* idea why I said that!"



        Will and Mulder stood back to allow the two men who were 

leaving the coffee shop to pass by.  Throwing their coats onto the 

coatstand by the door they made their way through the tables and 

chairs to an empty table by the window.  They sat in a slightly 

uneasy silence until the waitress came to take their order.  Mulder 

spoke first, "He's a telekinetic, isn't he?  Internal injuries with 

no external traces or obvious causes.  Body temperatures of his 

victims remaining high hours after due to increased electrostatic 

charge!  Why do you want him?  For the British military?"  Although 

his voice had started off at a normal volume it had risen until he 

was nearly shouting.  He suddenly realized that no one else in the 

place was talking.  They were all listening to him.

        Will waited until people resumed their own conversations 

before answering.  He realized that he was probably breaking the 

Official Secrets Act, but he knew people well enough to know that 

if he didn't answer Mulder truthfully he would not stop until he 

had those answers.  And if he asked the questions loud enough the 

consequences could be unpleasant for everyone concerned, especially 

Agent Mulder.  "Yes, he is telekinetic.  But what I said earlier 

was true: he was an agent who went rogue.  He killed two other S.I.'s 

who were sent after him.  I was sent after him to catch him and bring 

him down, getting him sent back to the U.K. if possible."  Taking a 

deep breath, Will went on, "He worked for a part of the Ministry of 

Defense called Section 10.   Our job is to .....  well, let's just 

say that we're rather like an official version of you, Agent Mulder, 

of the X-Files, and that sometimes our government just wishes we'd 

go away."



        "I know the feeling," Mulder muttered beneath his breath, 

and then he realised what McCormack had just said.  "You know about 

the X-Files?" he was unable to keep the suspicion out of his voice, 

"How?"



        "You've stepped on a fair number of toes as well, Agent 

Mulder," Will watched for his reaction, "Not all of the toes you've 

stepped on are in your own government.  M.I. 7 has quite a substantial 

file on you apparently."



        "Fame at last," he quipped.



        McCormack stood, giving Mulder a long measuring look and 

thinking carefully about what he was about to say.  Something in 

the Agent's eyes made up his mind.  A sense of sadness and lonliness 

that looked to be almost unbearable, "I owe you," he said after a

moment, 

"If you ever need anything: help, information, back-up, ......

sanctuary.  

You can reach me through this number." 



        "What?" The offer of help took Mulder by surprise.  After all 

the obstacles that had been put in his way he'd begun to think that 

everyone was out to sabotage his work.  There were rumours that it was 

being considered that a 'partner' be assigned to him, to debunk the 

X-Files validity.   But at the moment that is all they were: rumours. 

"Why, Mr McCormack?"



        "It's Will, and two reasons: you saved my life," Will paused, 

"and besides, the truth isn't the only thing out there and you aren't 

the only one who is looking for it." 



The end.  



- -- 

========================================================================



'Younger wizards in Unseen University are also known to be experimenting

with computer like devices; the only one so far chronicled is a vast

assemblage of glass tubes full of busy ants.  It may work if they can

get all the bugs in it.'

        - Definition of a computer in the Discworld companion.



Alasdair T. McLean



e-mail	:	mcleana@btinternet.com

url	:	http://www.dcs.gla.ac.uk/~mcleana

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