There were many military storage areas in Wiltshire that held secret equipment. Some of them were so secret that even the top military brass had no knowledge of them. In fact they were excluded specifically from knowing about them. U*N*I*T had started its days as a collaborative affair sharing resources across many countries for the common good of human-kind. But, very quickly, it became, of necessity, much more secretive than any of its founders had foreseen.

Deep beneath the plains of Wiltshire, one of the U*N*I*T facilities dealt feverishly with robotics and cybernetic equipment mixing what people believed to have been their own discoveries with the windfalls of alien technology that had become all too frequent in recent decades after the major wars and, indeed, spurred on by the continuing wars.

A special order had arrived that morning. The main research work was not interrupted despite the highest priority 'T2' flagging. First, a minor assistant, Sheila, was tasked with checking thru their documentation for the location of the requested equipment and compiling a cover document with recommended operating instructions, safety warnings and system parameters. "That's going to be a big load of equipment," she thought to herself. Next, an equally minor warehouse picker, Tony, picked up the compiled electronic 'job-bag' on his screen on his basement terminal and noted a few numbers on a sheet of dusty paper. He trundled smoothly on a small electric cart into the biggest vault, the one known as The Arcis, and visually inspected the shelves containing the largest set of components. "Surprise," he said. "Always some missing." He scored thru the alleged quantity of '20' and wrote '18' beside it. A few further checks on the smaller components revealed similar discrepancies in the numbers; small-scale clerical errors or large-scale pilfering, it was impossible to know. Finally, the picking 'bots released the identified crates and merged them all into one efficiently packed order, neatly arranged in the pallet hangar ready for heavy lift. As Tony levered himself out of the cart back into his wheelchair, he noticed the size of the profile on his desktop flat-screen. He called up to Sheila.

"Hi Sheila. It's your future husband," he stated.

"This is a work call, Tony. Try to be professional." Sheila never seemed to play along with his jokes. It made for very dry conversations.

"Did you compile the job-bag for that T2 pick, Sheila?"

"Yes, Tony. It's in the footers of the document. Is that all? I'm finished for the night." It was very late for a Monday evening finish. "I've got to get home to feed the cat and then maybe some sleep in time to get up again to come back to this place in the morning."

"Forget the cat tonight, Sheila," he attempted his favorite Roger Moore silkiness. "They love to look after themselves. Instinct you know. Why don't we dine together this evening, and see where the mood takes us?"

"Tony. We all know you have a written warning for this kind of thing. I'm hanging up. The cat is calling."

"Wait, Sheila." He feigned regret. "It's just this problem with the T2 order. I know you're the only one who can help me with it."

"Shut up, Tony. I know you have more respect for the processor on your mobile-phone. Is there an actual real, 'help me, help me' problem?"

"Yes. The floor-plan for the boxes is too big by about a metre. I either have to follow the letter of the order and call down a Starlifter from one of the USAF bases. Or knock off one of the jagged edges and stuff it all into a Herc. There are two of those in the car park."

Sheila spluttered at the idea of bringing in an American lifter, then sighed as she tapped away on the keys. Tony liked to listen to her keystrokes, always imagining what design adorned her acrylics that day. She too, of course, had that yellow sticky note loosely fixed to her computer screen. Some time in the last few weeks, just after the election, everyone discovered this most unofficial of instructions nudging their activities. No meetings, no electronic mails, nor printed notices. Everyone had received the nod as they sat down to start the day's work.

'NO US X-Refs'

"Tony?" She shook him from his gothic dragon fantasy.

"Yes, my... friend." He was almost unsure why they were still talking.

"You can just knock off one of the smaller components."

This solution seemed obvious, but he allowed her to explain.

"According to the old inventory, you should have twenty sets of components. Twenty giant boxes, twenty little boxes, and twenty of the little packets."

"Sure, but a few of those odds and ends are missing. Not a surprise after all these years."

"We can argue that. Top security should be just that, but - yes - we have to deal with what you've got."

"What we've got..."

"Are you worried about this blowing up in your face, Tony? If it makes you happy, I'll be just as screwed as you are if this order is messed up."

"Yes. It does make me happier. Thanks for reassuring me."

Sheila sighed and drew to a close. "Cut all the components down to eighteen. The lift print rearranges to more of a fat oval. The Hercules will squeeze that all in."

Tony let his packing program redraw the crate positioning. It worked perfectly. "Sheila, you're a genius. I only have to conceal the spare items, one little box, one little packet. Thankyou."

"De nada. I'm away home, Tony. Don't call me again this week unless the sky opens up."

"Sheila?"

"Oh. What, Tony?"

"Could you say 'help me, help me' again?"