The sun beat down on the little island hideaway that was home to a remarkable new venture.

At first glance, the villa looked unremarkable. That is to say that it looked like nothing more remarkable than the remarkably expensive home of a remarkably rich billionaire.

Sitting outside, sunning themselves, were four young men, who looked like nothing more remarkable than four rich, handsome, eligible sons of said billionaire.

"I've been wondering," observed the rich billionaire's fourth son, Gordon, "whether we've really thought this through all the way?"

His eldest brother, Scott, turned to stare at him through his shades. Virgil and Alan turned to stare at Scott. Both of them gripped their respective pool-side chairs a little harder.

"What might I not have thought through?" Scott asked. He sounded calm enough, though the use of the first person singular wasn't lost on any of them.

Gordon uncrossed his legs and planted his feet apparently casually on the ground. "It isn't the plan itself, you understand? It's a great plan. No way can a plan like that not work. No, it's more the general concept of the thing."

Scott frowned. "Not following you here, Gordon."

"Well the whole rescuing John thing."

"He can't really be an effective part of the team while he's in jail, now can he?" Scott pointed out reasonably.

"I can't argue with you there," Gordon said. He was learning to be reasonable himself when the occasion demanded it. "But I was sort of wondering what Dad will say when he sees him?"

Scott shrugged. "We'll just tell him Johnnie was paroled early for good behavior. He'll never think to check."

"Well, actually…"

Scott's eyebrows raised ever so faintly over the shades.

"…Dad was asking questions the other day. I might have let it drop that John still has twenty-three years of a twenty-five year sentence left to serve. I think even Dad might get suspicious if he suddenly turns up."

Scott looked at Gordon for a long moment. "Okay," he said at length. "We'll just have to make sure that he never sees Alan and John at the same time. So long as we remind John to answer to 'Alan' we'll be home and dry."

Gordon grinned. "Even Dad isn't that bad."

"He's almost that bad," Alan mused. "He keeps asking me how my doctoral thesis is going."

"We could disguise him, maybe," Virgil said doubtfully.

"This is what we like," Scott said approvingly. "Positive thinking. We'll dye his hair and pass him off as some relative of Brains."

Alan's mouth twisted. "I like it. We could call him Bill. I've always thought he looked like a Bill."

Virgil frowned. "Now you're just being silly. It would only be a matter of time until someone slipped up and called him by the wrong name."

"Virgil's right. No pseudonyms. 'John' is common enough," Scott said. "This could work. It's been ages since Dad's seen him.

"Okay," Gordon said hastily. "But it's more about whether we should include him on the team at all."

"Whether we should include him on the team?" Scott repeated blankly.

"If it was anything else, anything aside from rescues and disasters…but I'm thinking, in all those disasters, there are bound to be some that…that…you know…that are gonna have…"

Scott nodded in sympathy. "I understand, Gordon. But Johnnie won't be going out on rescues. Well, not many. He's got lots of other talents we can use. It's up to us to make him feel like a valued member of the team without giving him an opportunity to do anything that could – well - make things worse."

"So what can we find for him to do?"

Scott inclined his head. "All in hand. I've got the perfect place to put him. I've persuaded Dad that we need a space station." He sounded quite pleased with himself.

"A space station?" his brothers chorused as one.

"A space station. Think about it. We need a series of relays for radio signals. That means a satellite network. We're going to route the signals through the station. It'll need maintenance and the signals will need sifting. It's right up John's alley. He'll love it. And who'll think of looking for him there?"

Alan frowned. "But I'm supposed to be the astronaut. If there's a space station, shouldn't I be manning it?"

Scott tried his hardest not to roll his eyes before going into full big brother mode. "Well, yes, and some of the time you will," he said with emphasis. "Of course. You're right. You're the astronaut." He gave his brother's shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "I mean, we can't leave John up there all the time. He might start to think he was back in prison again. So we'll give him some rest breaks, and it'll be your job to relieve him. And you'll be the one piloting the space rocket that ferries him back and forward. You'll need to pass on a bit of your own astronaut training, of course."

This sounded like an important task. Alan rubbed absently at his shoulder and started thinking through the best ways to deliver John's training. If the prison break didn't work out this time then he could always devise a correspondence course in astronautics in preparation for their next attempt.

"So John will be here some of the time, and on a space station the rest of the time?" Gordon asked carefully.

"Oh, it'll be fine," Scott reassured him nonchalantly. "Brains was very accommodating. I told him that the space station needs to be completely non-combustible. And here – well," he gestured expansively, "there's lots of water around if we need it. Most of the house is made of glass. I even made sure the kitchen has a nuclear cooking range. No live flames." He glanced at Virgil. "Of course, you'll need to keep your lighter under lock and key."

"Or better still, give up smoking, " Alan said sourly.

Virgil's eyes narrowed a little dangerously.

"Okay, now, let's run through it all once more," Scott said hastily. "We stick to the plan. This is a strictly KISS operation. No deviation, no improvization. Keep it simple."

"He's obsessed with kissing," Alan observed sotto voce to Gordon.

"I heard that," Scott rapped out. "Virgil?"

"I get myself arrested holding up a liquor store."

"Good man. You'll plead guilty and they'll pack you straight off to San Paolo from the county lock-up. Once you're there…."

"Run it past me again. Why do I have to get myself thrown in jail?"

"Because we need a man on the inside," Scott said patiently. "And you're our man on the inside."

"But we already have a man on the inside. His name's John." Virgil smiled at his own little joke.

"Well, yes, but we don't have any way of letting him know our plans, or pinpointing his exact location, unless someone covertly contacts him. And I don't trust anyone outside the family to do it."

"But isn't there a three strikes policy in California? What about the incident with the chicken?"

"Weren't you a juvenile at the time?" Scott's eyes narrowed in thought. "I'm almost certain I applied to have those records sealed."

"Almost?"

"Anyway, all you have to do is stay out of California in the future. It won't be an issue."

"But why me?" Virgil protested.

"Well, I could lie to you," Scott said honestly. "I could say that I'm needed on the outside to make sure everything runs smoothly, and Gordon's needed on the outside because he's our best sharp-shooter and our demolitions expert, and that Alan's needed on the outside because he drives such a mean getaway car. But that would be lying to you. The truth of the matter, little brother, is that you're the least pretty of us."

"I am?" Virgil asked helplessly, unsure why this had any bearing on anything.

"You are. I thought my own days of attracting other guys were over until I was disabused of the notion when I was rescuing Gordon from his 'creditors'. And Gordon – well even Gordon would admit he's pretty."

Gordon gave Virgil a little shrug and a ruefully apologetic 'it's true' smile.

"As for Alan – well, I wouldn't dream of putting him in with a bunch of rapists and muggers. It would be like throwing a cheerleader into the end-of-game showers with the quarterbacks. No." Scott prodded Virgil in the chest for emphasis. "It has to be you, don't you see? I need someone who looks tough and mean."

Virgil considered this.

Prod. "Someone who can dish it out as well as take it."

Gordon and Alan exchanged glances.

Prod. "Someone who nobody's gonna mistake for a piece of fresh meat. And that someone, little brother, is you."

"Okay," Virgil said a little breathlessly. "I'll do it."

"Good man," Scott said approvingly. "You might wanna think about keeping the beard a while longer," he added as an after-thought. "Right. At that point I contact Tony Marchant to ensure Dad gets called to the mainland to deal with an 'emergency' at the company. That way he won't get suspicious when we all disappear off the island at the same time."

"How are you going to persuade Tony to do that?" Gordon asked curiously.

Scott reached into his wallet. He pulled out a set of photographs and handed one wordlessly to Gordon who raised an eyebrow and nodded thoughtfully. "Yeah, that oughta do it."

Alan leaned over curiously. Scott snatched back the photo.

"What happens next?" Scott asked, looking at Virgil.

"I make sure that John and I are in the exercise yard exactly thirty minutes into visiting time on the third day after I'm taken into custody."

"Okay. Gordon?"

"Once Virgil's located John and got him into the right area, I move into place with the explosives and stand by. If all's well, you'll send me the signal to blow the fence as soon as the diversion is underway."

"Good. Alan?"

"On your signal I swoop in with the getaway car and the four of us high-tail it out of there. Ten miles down the road you'll be driving a twelve-wheeler down the main highway. I drive in and we're home and dry."

"There you go. Elegant and simple. What could possibly go wrong?"

There was a long and uncharacteristic silence.

Brains made his way down to the far side of the swimming pool. He still wasn't very sure what he was doing here on the island, except that Jeff Tracy had made him an offer only an idiot would refuse. And the carte blanche use of a near bottomless check book was most attractive. He'd been having some difficulty generating funding, and for the sake of churning out blueprints for a few measly little rockets he could have all the funds a young scientist could dream of to finance more interesting projects.

One of his favorite projects was currently AWOL.

Near the cliff edge, the two youngest brothers were dissolutely driving golf balls over the precipice.

"FORE!" yelled Gordon.

Alan lined up for a shot.

"E-e-excuse me?" Brains enquired.

"FORE!" yelled Alan.

The brothers put their heads together and watched as the ball rose into the air then disappeared from view.

"Nice shot," Gordon commented. Brains frowned, a little confused. He didn't know much about golf, but he was pretty sure you were supposed to have something to aim at.

Alan replaced his divot, and Gordon put another ball on his tee.

"E-e-excuse me?" Brains enquired a bit louder. He cleared his throat quite loudly.

Gordon swung around wearily, leaning on his driver. "Yes?" he snapped.

Brains regarded him nervously. "I was – er...just er..er...wondering…er…"

"No," Gordon said, turning his attention back to the ball.

"…whether a-a-anyone had seen Braman."

"Braman?" Alan asked.

"My robot."

"What does it look like?"

Brains hesitantly waved a hand about six or eight inches above his head "…a-a-and sort of ah-ah-metal. Ish."

Alan looked at Gordon. They pursed their lips and shook their heads at one another.

"I-I-it's just i-i-it's kind of delicate. And very e-e-expensive."

Gordon drew back his club and thwacked the ball smartly. "FORE!" he yelled.

Brains began to back away, muttering. "I-I-I have to meet S-Scott in the laboratory. I-i-if you see Braman, tell him I'm looking for him."

He fled.

Alan hit the next ball. "FORE!" he yelled.

Below the cliffs, among the rock pools, thirty million dollars worth of cybernetics scrambled as fast as it could through the salt water and seaweed on slightly unsteady metal legs, clutching a bucket with which to catch the little white balls raining from the skies.

…

Virgil pulled the stocking he'd swiped from Tin-Tin's closet down over his face, and slammed a cartridge into his sawn-off shotgun.

Butterflies played in his stomach. He couldn't help thinking that this wasn't one of Scott's better ideas. He rubbed the spot behind his ear where Brains had injected an electronic tracer. While it was good to know it was there, he did wish the damn thing would stop the strange whining noise it made.

He waited until the store emptied of the last customers, and the lights dimmed, then he climbed out of the car and headed for the entrance.

Virgil burst through the door and fired off a sharp burst that went straight through the roof, blasting a huge hole in the ceiling. A fine lattice of plaster descended. Somewhere up above there was a sound that sounded suspiciously like roof tiles slithering to the ground.

A high-pitched screech came from the other end of the room. "Jesus wept!" the screecher blasphemed.

Virgil wiped plaster-dust off the stocking mask and coughed. The effect had been a little more dramatic than he'd anticipated.

"Jeez, fella!" the store-keeper protested, straightening up behind his counter and looking upwards at the damage. "What did'y hafta do that for? I only done plasterin' it last week."

"Er- I'm sorry," Virgil muttered.

"Sorry don't cover it, fella. That roof cost me three months takin's."

Virgil grimaced. "Three months?"

"Where in all creation am I gonna get the money to do it all up again? I'm livin' hand-to-mouth as it is. Oh man, oh man, oh man."

"Look, I don't want trouble. I just came for your…"

"I mean, just look at it!" The store-keeper screeched again, gesturing wildly at the hole in the roof. "You know how long that's gonna take to fix it, huh? Look at the mess. It's gonna take me for ever just to clean up the mess of those damned bottles. Be lucky if I can sell a thing in here now. An' no-one'll wanna come in here if they know there's crazy guys with guns on this side of the door. Aw, hell, this is just the end, man. That's me done for. That's it. Out on the street. Just the little guy, tryin' his damndest to make ends meet, and some crazy drunk comes in lookin' fer free booze an' shootin' up the place and puts me outta business. Might as well just end it all now."

"Er - take it easy, buddy," Virgil said, licking his lips nervously.

The store-keeper gave him a 'bring it on' gesture. "C'mon fella. Might as well finish the job. Put me out of my miserable existence. Let me have it. Both barrels."

Virgil flung five hundred dollars down on the counter, and fled.

…

Four thousand miles away, Scott's head was beginning to ache.

He was rapidly revising his assessment of Brains as 'accommodating'. For the past hour and three-quarters, the man had done nothing but tell him why this, that and the other just couldn't be done. It was so frustrating.

He and Brains had been going over the plans for the Thunderbird vehicles that were going to be an integral part of the rescues. Scott hadn't been pleased that Thunderbird Three was going to be quite so big. As he patiently explained to Brains, this had all the signs of disrupting a dominance hierarchy he'd spent twenty years carefully establishing. But he was in concessionary mood, and at length he'd conceded that size wasn't everything (though try telling Alan that), and that, yes, a substantial amount of rocket fuel required a substantial storage capacity.

However, the decision to site the launch pad for Thunderbird One in the island's extinct volcanic crater was one straw too many.

"Brains, the idea is that this should be a rapid response unit. How can it be a rapid response if it takes me half an hour to get to the vehicle?"

"But…ah…ah…there's nowhere nearer to the house to site it, Scott."

"Sure there is. We have an underground silo just yards away."

"U-u-underneath the swimming pool, yes, I-I u-u-understand, but the clearance is too narrow e-e-even for a VTOL, Scott. If you wanted to launch a plane from under the swimming pool you should ah-ah-have built a bigger swimming pool in the first place."

Scott rubbed his temples. "It's Olympic size, for Pete's sake."

"First you w-w-wanted the rocket bigger, now you want her smaller," Brains said with annoying smugness. "Can't you ah-ah-make your mind up?"

"Smaller."

"Can't be done."

Scott clutched at his hair agitatedly. "Then fire her up vertically."

"That would necessitate an airborne rotation. Nobody's e-e-ever tried such a thing."

"Then be the first, Brains. It's gonna come up through the swimming pool."

"I-i-it's gonna come up through the crater, Scott," the young scientist said stubbornly.

Irritated, Scott hit the wall with a clenched fist, accidentally breaking the internal door locking mechanism. He swore softly when he saw the damage he'd done. He really had to do something about his temper. He leant his forehead against the wall, closed his eyes, and started to recite the internal litany taught to him by his childhood psychiatrist (the one he'd liked, not the one who'd committed suicide).

I am in control, he told himself. I will not give in to my feelings of frustration. I will not rise to this argument. The funny little man is not deliberately trying to provoke or antagonize me. This is not personal. If I make the effort to like and respect the funny little man, then the funny little man may learn to like and respect me. The funny little man has thoughts and feelings, just like I do. I will try to maintain a sense of humor at all times. I will conduct myself with dignity and poise. I will take a deep breath, now, and I will walk away and come back when I am better able to handle the situation.

Scott straightened, and took a deep breath. He looked Brains straight in the eye the way Dr Wallaby had taught him. Then he gave what he hoped was a reassuring, if somewhat solemn smile, and said in a gently sad tone "Goodbye, Brains," before exiting.

Outside the closed door, though, he couldn't quite hold it together, and gave the wall another good thump with the palm of his hand, not noticing that he caught the external locking mechanism as he did so.

Then he shook his head. He was going to bed now. In the morning, he'd come back with his tool kit and mend the damage he'd done in Brains' lab, just to show willing.

Jeff opened the door to the refrigerator. It was depressingly empty. After several weeks on the island he was coming to the conclusion that there was only so long a man could live on tinned fruit and Bollinger. He was also running out of clean socks and underwear. He hadn't realised until now that this was possible, but then, he'd never lived more than a phone-call away from his outfitter before.

"We need a housekeeper," he muttered out loud to himself. Then, because it sounded like a plan, he said it again, a little louder. He wondered who he could persuade to come and look after him. The image of his mother popped briefly into his head. This troubled him.

Jeff emptied the contents of a can of grapefruit segments into a bowl and headed for his office. He shut the door firmly and reached into his drinks cooler for his morning beverage.

Ten minutes later the door opened. Jeff glanced up sharply. He was heartily sick of Brain's weird robot thing crashing in on him whenever it took its fancy. The young scientist seemed to have an endless series of strange projects that had nothing to do with any of Jeff's plans.

But no, his visitor was human. He hadn't realized any of his boys knew where he spent his days.

"Dad, I was wondering if I could have a word?"

"Come on in, son."

The young man eased into his father's office. "I was just wondering if you'd considered sea rescues? I mean, with my WASP experience, and all, it would seem to be an obvious area to branch out into."

"Well, sure…er…er…"

"Gordon, sir."

"Gordon. What will we need?"

"Well, some kind of submersible would be good."

"Great idea, son. That's what we want. Creativity. I'll get that Brains guy right on it." Jeff was coming to the conclusion that the more he kept the young wunderkind occupied the better. He hit the intercom that would connect him with Brains' lab.

"Brains? It's Jeff."

There was a curious spluttering noise at the other end.

Jeff frowned and leaned closer to the microphone. "Brains?"

There was another breathless gurgle.

Jeff shook his head. "I think I'd better go see what's going on down there. But you'll get your submersible, son. Money no object."

Jeff made his way down to the lab. The door didn't open as he approached, so Jeff looked around for the external lock and pressed his palm print to it. It read off automatically and unlocked the door for him.

The young scientist was lying on the floor, blue around the lips, gasping and pulling at his collar.

Jeff frowned. The air was pretty stale in here, he decided. "Are you okay?"

Brains made some strange strangulated noises and pointed to his throat. Jeff thought he'd perhaps best pull the young man out into the corridor where the air was fresher.

"There you go. Is that better?"

Brains half-nodded and gulped in air. "Y-y-your son…." he spluttered, "is a psychopath."

"I know," Jeff said easily. He felt quite pleased that for once he knew which one was the subject of discussion. "But you mustn't let that worry you. There are an awful lot of myths about psychopaths. It isn't true that they're all deranged killers. Some of them are quite nice people." What was it that that shrink had said? "They just think in a different way from the rest of us, that's all," he finished smoothly.

"Tell him there's nothing I-I-I can do about Thunderbird Three, but he can have his swimming pool launch," Brains muttered.

"Tell him yourself," Jeff said jovially. "Here he comes."

Brains cringed as Scott approached, dressed in maintenance overalls, and wielding a monkey wrench. He was whistling cheerfully to himself.

Jeff pulled the young engineer to his feet. "Now what did you want to say to my son?"

"I-I-I give u-u-up. Y-y-you can have your swimming-pool launch," Brains stammered, backing off steadily.

Scott was a little taken by surprise. "Why, thanks, Brains. I knew you'd see it my way in the end."

He set to work on the damaged locking mechanism. That had all gone a lot easier than he thought it would. It was amazing what a good night's sleep did to improve some people's disposition. Or maybe it was just that his people skills were improving.

…

Tonight Virgil had given up on the shot-gun. Instead, he sported a replica pistol. It was exceptionally convincing but fired nothing more harmful than blanks. He wasn't taking any risks this time.

He watched the lighted 'open' sign go out, and slid silently from his hiding-place in the bushes.

He pushed at the door. It stuck a bit, so when he entered it wasn't with quite the air of stealthy professionalism he'd been aiming for.

The store was rather gloomy. Righting himself, he squinted to see where the till was.

A voice called out through the gloom, "We're shut, honey!"

"That's what I was counting on," Virgil said in deep voice. He checked himself with a frown. What in hell was he trying to disguise his voice for?

He rounded a stack of special offer pretzels that were getting close to their shelf life.

"Oh my!" The young female shop assistant looked less shocked and horrified than she might have done by Virgil's waving around of the pistol. In fact, she looked rather impressed. "Is that a gun you've got there, mister?"

Virgil frowned, a little confused. "Well, yeah."

She hopped pertly up to sit on the counter and reached behind her.

"Have you got an alarm back there?" Virgil asked roughly, hoping she'd say yes.

"Hell, no. I was just switching off the security camera so we could have a little privacy."

"Privacy?" Virgil asked uncertainly. "What for? I've come to rob you."

"Rob away, big man. It isn't my money. It's Jethro's, and he's a piss-poor boss. You're welcome to his money. Here," she reached into the till, showing a lot of thigh as she leant back, "I'll help you."

Virgil stepped forward. Somehow he found himself standing right in front of her, and the next moment she was winding her long legs around him and her hands were rubbing themselves all over his chest. She really wasn't bad-looking.

"Look, I've just come for the money, Miss er, er,…"

"Daisy."

"Daisy. I don't think…"

"Hush, now," she pouted, putting a finger across his lips. She wound up the stocking slowly. "My, you're a fine lookin' man…"

She reached into her purse and pulled out a small foil square. The invitation in her green eyes was plain to see. Virgil looked at her eyes and at the foil, and back again.

"Oh, what the hell," he muttered.

Gordon was reading out loud from one of his favorite books. "Deep in Marvin's thorax gears ground. 'Funny' he intoned funereally, 'how just when you think life can't possibly get any worse it suddenly does'."

Braman leaned forward just a little as if listening intently. Gordon had noticed that he seemed particularly taken with the character of Marvin.

There was a shuffling noise at the door. Brains stood there. He looked nervously over his shoulder. "Braman! There you a-a-are at last. Where have you been these past few days?"

Gordon shut the book with a clap. "Brains. Just entertaining your robot thingy."

"Er - that's very ah-ah-kind of you, Gordon…I think." He peered closely at Braman's feet. "I-i-is that rust? I think we'd better ah-ah-get you down to the laboratory." He glanced around quickly. "Have you ah-ah seen Scott?"

"Think he's in the pool. Do you want me to tell him you were looking for him?"

"No!" Brains said quickly.

He held out his hand to Braman. The robot stood and hit its head slowly three times against the wall. It began to move wearily towards the door.

…

Jeff wandered into the kitchen. He looked around rather helplessly. He was pretty sure that there should be food here somewhere, but there wasn't much in evidence. He opened up a cupboard or two, with no success.

"Hey, Dad."

Jeff eyed up his eldest son as he crossed to something Jeff had assumed was a wall, slid his hand into something Jeff had assumed to be a crack in the wall, and opened up a walk-in larder.

"Want a sandwich?" Scott asked.

"Sure," Jeff said, trying not to sound too eager.

"Bread's in the cool box."

"Bread?"

Scott looked at him. "You'll recognize it when you see it."

"We need a cook."

"You want me to hire one?" Scott piled a plate full of cold chicken.

"Please. Someone who'll keep her mouth shut."

"I think they come in both sexes."

"Sorry?"

"I'll find someone. Don't worry."

"I need to talk to…beard….anti-social…"

Scott blinked. "Beard?"

"You know. One of your brothers…"

"Brothers?"

"Yes. You know. Beard. Paints."

Scott frowned. "No-one with a beard on the island, Dad.".

"Sure there is." Jeff gesticulated in irritation. "You know the one."

Scott shook his head. He picked up a couple of bottles of beer and stuck them under his arms so he had a hand free to grab some fruit. "Don't know who you mean, Dad." He retreated in the direction of the pool.

"For Pete's sake," Jeff muttered. Inspiration struck. "Virgil!" he yelled after the swinging door. "Virgil!"

Alan, entering, glanced over his shoulder at the retreating back of his eldest brother, and shook his head. "When will you get this down, Dad? That was Scott. Scott."

"Mind your own damned business, John," Jeff snarled on his way out.

…

Virgil managed to get himself arrested at the fourth attempt.

He'd felt that his attempts had been improving on a daily basis. Overall, he figured he'd pretty well broken even. The first attempt had taught him that real guns were not the way to go. The second effort had made up the $500 he'd lost on the first attempt and had gotten him laid (no small thing for a man who'd spent nearly eighteen months on a deserted island). The third had been going really well up to the point when the neighborhood junkie had come flying through the door and disrupted his own far more subtle attempts with twitchy yelling and a double-barreled shotgun. To avoid bloodshed, Virgil had been forced to take the law into his own hands and disarm the junkie. The police had come, sure, but they simply wouldn't believe that he was anything but a have-a-go hero.

His attempts to explain all of this to his elder brother had, however, been somewhat less than successful. Scott was clearly getting jittery, and if there was one thing he'd learned about his eldest brother, it was that you didn't let him get to the jittery stage.

So this time, Virgil hadn't bothered waiting for closing time. He simply walked up to the counter and pulled out the replica gun.

The sales assistant, a spotty youth, put his hands nervously in the air. Behind him, the proprietor moved subtly towards the panic button. Virgil pretended not to have noticed. The police were very slow to respond, so Virgil robbed the store very, very slowly. There never was a slower robbery.

Eventually there'd been a blue light and a siren, and a loudspeaker telling him to exit the store slowly with his hands showing. Virgil had placed the replica pistol on the counter and rolled his eyes. "About bloody time," he'd said to an astonished audience, before walking out to give himself up.

...

Author's Notes: Gordon is, as I'm sure you've spotted, reading from The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, by Douglas Adams.

Scott pulled off the road into the layby, glancing at his watch again, even though he knew perfectly well what the time was. He was early. It was a character trait that annoyed his brothers, he knew, but one that had allowed him to get the jump on them time-and-time again, and it was so ingrained that now he turned up early for everything, whether it made sense to or not.

He'd managed to get Jeff off the island yesterday. But his father wouldn't be fooled for long by his chief exec's engineered crisis. It was important that they succeeded today. It would be absolutely fine, he told himself, so long as everyone stuck firmly to The Plan.

Scott worried a little about this. He had his brothers pretty well trained, by-and-large, but there was always the danger that someone, someone would decide to think for himself, or introduce some new and unexpected element to The Plan.

He sighed – which turned into a yawn - wound down the windows, and tilted back the driver's seat. Then he stretched out his legs, turned his baseball cap back down to shield his eyes, and leaned back to soak up the Californian sun. But he wasn't an idiot. He set the alarm on his watch, just in case he dropped off.

It was a back road, and very, very quiet. So Scott was a little surprised when ten minutes later a car drew in in front of him. The passenger door opened. A hand reached out, bundle in hand. The bundle was deposited on the ground. The hand withdrew itself and the car sped off.

Scott frowned, a little puzzled by this behavior. He hated litter louts.

At length, curiosity and a slightly over-egged sense of civic duty led him to step out of his car and cross to the bundle.

As he neared, the bundle moved a little. Scott approached cautiously. A curious mewling sound emerged from the rags.

He knelt down and drew back the material, an old piece of toweling. Wrapped inside was a writhing heap of very young kittens.

Scott didn't know much about cats. But he was pretty sure that the kittens were too small to be away from their mother and certainly too small to survive for long in the Californian desert.

Cursing, he wrapped them up again and carried them carefully back to his car. Inside he inspected them. He poked around to separate them out and found five in total.

"Great," he muttered, glancing at his watch. The nearest town was twenty miles away. There was no way he could get there and still make the prison on time, even if he was lucky enough to find someone who would take the cats.

He glanced down at the mewling bunch. "Don't suppose any of you guys been to jail before?" he asked.

…

"John! Johnnie! Psst – over here!"

John looked askance across the exercise yard, then ducked and squinted as though trying to see from a different angle. "Virg – is that you?"

"Sure it's me. Who in hell did you think it was?"

"Sorry. I didn't recognize you in disguise."

"What disguise?"

"You mean that beard's real?"

Virgil was perplexed. "Of course it's real. Joh…"

"Well, how long have you had it?"

"You know, you're beginning to sound like Dad."

"I wouldn't know. What are you doing in here, anyway?"

"Five to ten for aggravated robbery."

"Be serious!"

Virgil glanced about to check there was no-one within earshot. "I'm here to get you out, idiot."

John was clearly puzzled. "Don't you have to be on the outside to do that?"

Virgil rolled his eyes. For such a bright guy, Johnnie could sure be slow to catch on sometimes. "I'm the man on the inside. The other guys are on the outside. Scott has a…"

"Hey, Johnnie!"

"Hey, Jerome!"

A very big man with dreadlocks and several fierce looking piercings jogged past them.

"Who's that?" Virgil asked, alarmed.

"Jerome? He's a lifer. Most of the folks on this block are doing serious time. Lovely, lovely man." John sounded sincere.

Virgil gazed after him. "Do these guys give you any trouble, Johnnie?" His tone of voice suggested that anyone who had laid a finger on his kid brother was in for a really nasty comeuppance.

"Trouble? Nah! Most of them are as meek as lambs."

Virgil couldn't detect any sarcasm in his brother's voice. "Really?" he asked, disbelievingly.

"Yeah. Lots of them get religion when they're in here. Not much else to do, really. Take Bernard over there." John gestured in the direction of a man sitting in the lotus position in the middle of the compound, oblivious to the fact that a baseball game was being played all around him. "He's discovered Zen Buddhism. Zack and Jose – sorry, Ali and Ishmael – over there, have converted to Islam." He waved to two men standing away off, debating intently over the Quran each held in his hands. They waved back.

"A lot of people are born-again Christians," John continued. "There are lots of really nice people in here."

"R…ight." Virgil said carefully. He began to steer his brother as casually as he could towards the bleachers at the far end of the exercise compound.

"Yes. Well. As I was saying, Scott has a plan to rescue you."

John sighed, deeply.

"What's the matter?" Virgil asked.

"It's just…I'm not sure I want to be rescued."

"What?" Virgil asked helplessly.

"I quite like it here."

"You do?' Virgil frowned.

"I've got lots of friends."

To prove the point, another jogger greeted them as he approached. "How y'doin' this fine day, Johnnie?"

"Good, Karl, good."

"Who's yer friend?"

"This is my brother Virgil, Karl."

Karl smiled encouragingly. "Any brother of Johnnie's is a friend o'mine. Welcome, Virgie-boy."

The brothers deposited themselves on the bleacher. "Such a nice man," John said. "Good heart, you know?"

"What did he do?"

"Blew up an IRS building."

Virgil considered. This really didn't seem like such a bad thing.

"Anyway, to come back to the point," John continued. "I've got lots of friends here. The guards let me do my research. The university posts me all the data I need. I'm dry and warm and I get three hot meals a day. There's no Father. There's no Scott. So thanks, but no thanks."

Virgil considered some more. Put like that, he was beginning to wonder whether he wanted to escape himself.

He shook himself. This was not a viable line of rumination. Scott was coming to get them out, and only a complete fool would try to interfere with that. He needed to convince John that getting out was a good idea. Virgil thought quickly. How would Scott handle this?

"Thing is, John, we need you," he said firmly. "Dad's starting up a rescue outfit and Scott wants us all on board with it."

"All of us?"

"All of us," Virgil reiterated. "And that," he reached over and poked John emphatically in the chest, "means you, brother."

John winced.

"We're building a space station," Virgil said, "and you" he prodded John again "are going to be in charge of it."

"I am?" John asked.

Virgil was getting into this. "You," – poke – "are going to be the lynch-pin of the entire organization. You're going to train to be a cosmonaut." Poke. "You'll have your own space station, and be able to do all that research in space in your spare time. But you" – poke – "are going to save lives, and you" – poke – "are going to have the time of your life doing it!"

"Okay!" John said. He looked a little flushed and rubbed his chest. "I'll do it."

"Good man," Virgil said approvingly. He relaxed.

He and John turned their attention back to the compound.

Twenty yards away stood a group of about thirty very large, very tough lifers, armed with stones, baseball bats and belts. They looked quite angry.

"This guy botherin' you, Johnnie?" asked Jerome.

…

Gordon, sporting desert fatigues, wormed his way to the perimeter fence on his belly, squirming a little against the heat of the sand. He pulled his sand-colored cap down firmly so that no sand-colored hair was showing.

He was very careful to avoid the gaze of the guards in the watchtower, though they were more interested in watching the prisoners inside the compound than they were in looking out for potential threats coming at them from out of the desert. As it happened, there was a surprising amount of cover.

Gordon watched from behind a rock, until attention was firmly on the baseball game taking place in the exercise yard, then sprinted the last twenty yards or so. He flung himself flat so that he blended into the surroundings, and reached into his pack.

He'd worked with C4 and other plastic explosives, but hadn't been able to get any in a hurry. No matter. Brains had been experimenting with lots of new substances. This new material would do the trick just as well.

He measured out the amount Brains had recommended, then looked at the container and shrugged. Better safe than sorry. He measured out a bit more, then tossed in the rest of it for good measure. What the hell. He fixed the detonator carefully.

There was some kind of a commotion on the far side of the bleachers, making Gordon glance up sharply. The guards' attention was caught too. Gordon took the opportunity to glide away silently back into the desert.

Scott got through the metal detectors without problems, but when it came to the pat-down search he knew he was in trouble.

"What in darnation you got there, son?" the old-timer asked.

Scott shrugged apologetically and opened his shirt where he'd stuffed the towel with the kittens. "Someone abandoned them. What could I do?"

"Well, we don't allow no animals inside. You're gonna have to leave them outside."

"Outside where? If I leave them in my car they'll roast in five minutes. If I leave them in the shade in the compound they'll wander off and someone will tread on them or the coyotes will get them."

Scott unwrapped the kittens on the counter. He took off his shades and focused helpless blue eyes on the female officer who was there to search the women and children.

She tickled one of the kittens behind the ear, and it fell over, cutely. "Oh boy, are they cute," she said on cue. "How could anyone abandon you cute kitties, hm?"

"Reckon they need feeding, too," Scott said mournfully.

"Reckon you're right," she said.

"Don't suppose you'd take them?" he asked hopefully.

She shook her head regretfully. "My girl's got allergies," she told him. "But we'll look after 'em while you're in there."

"Much obliged, ma'am."

Scott carried on into the visitor's area. He took a seat and waited.

After five minutes, a very big man with a shaved head approached on the other side of the partition. He had tattoos on each arm, one reading 'Mother' while the other paid homage to 'Marlene'. He eyed Scott suspiciously. Scott motioned him to pick up the phone.

"Hey there, Jimmy," he said conversationally.

"Do I know you?" the big man asked.

"The name's Jack."

"You with my lawyer?"

"No, I'm with Marlene."

"What in hell're you talkin' about? Who the hell are you?"

Scott was a man who did his research. He'd chosen his mark carefully. He leaned forward and looked the big man very intently in the eye. "I'm the man who's sleeping with your wife, Jimmy."

There was three second pause. Then all hell broke loose. The big man leapt to his feet, catapulting his chair into the air in the same movement, and breaking it with all his might on the partition, hitting it with enough force to make the whole structure rattle. He clambered up onto the elbow rest, pulling at the reinforced Perspex in his efforts to demolish it and get to Scott. "I'll kill you, you sonofabitch! I'll kill you! Marlene! Marlene!"

At the other end of the room, someone yelled "Riot!" with a joyous abandon, and half a dozen other prisoners got into the mood, breaking chairs and thumping the partition. Behind them, the prison guards fled.

Scott sensed this was the moment to exit.

In the entrance area, five guards were now poring over the workbench where Scott had left the kittens. They had one apiece, and, under the direction of the female warder, were engaged in feeding them formula via a series of improvised droppers. Another two had been drafted in to take over the search duties of the incoming visitors. They all seemed pretty well oblivious to the sudden rush of their colleagues in from the compound and the red flashing light and siren that had gone off.

Scott smiled gently.

The lady warder glanced up and caught his eye. "Here we go. All fed and done. You'll need to feed them every two or three hours until they can take solids."

He reached over and kissed her on the cheek. "Thank you."

She blushed prettily. "Go on with you now."

Her male colleagues rather reluctantly relinquished their small charges back into the towel. She packed up some formula and a dropper for Scott.

He indicated back over his shoulder. "By the way, there's something going off in there. Jimmy someone? You might want to lend a hand."

"Jimmy?" The guards all blanched en masse and rushed for the visitors' area.

Scott scooped up the kittens and headed out to his car. He reached for his radio mike. "F.A.B., boys."

He was rewarded with the sound of a truly deafening explosion from the far end of the compound.

…

In the exercise yard everyone was flat on their faces. Virgil and John had been blown clear off the bleacher. Where the perimeter fence once stood there was now a crater twenty yards wide. The watch tower and the bleachers, and several other structures nearby had caught alight, and the guards were scrambling over themselves in an effort to flee the flames.

"Jeez!" muttered Virgil. His voice sounded odd inside his head. He shook his head in an attempt to clear his ears. He seemed to recall that Scott's instructions had been that there should be a small explosion. 'Enough to put a two-man-sized hole in the perimeter fence' had been the precise brief. He was certain of it. He could clearly recall Scott's voice saying it. He ducked a piece of flaming debris and grabbed hold of John's arm.

Virgil tugged to no avail. John was rooted to the spot. He was gazing at the carnage with something approaching mystic revelation. The flames danced golden in his eyes. "It's beautiful," he breathed. "Virgil, it's so beautiful."

Virgil sighed. He knew the signs. He stopped trying to drag John along with him and settled instead for slugging his brother with a hefty left hook, then hoisted him up, and ran for the gap in the fence.

Outside the compound he just kept on running as fast as was humanly possible with a hundred and eighty pounds of unconscious pyromaniac over one shoulder.

Dimly, through the heat haze on the horizon, he could see a distant speck. It began to loom larger. He was also aware of movement to his left; Gordon, who'd left his hiding place and was sprinting to join him.

Behind him, there were was a lot of shouting and panting and some other noises. Virgil had the horrible feeling it might be the sound of bullets kicking up earth, but he didn't stop to find out.

The speck on the horizon was now clearly recognisable as a jeep. It was traveling at about one-twenty over the rough terrain. Finally it did a ninety degree turn and screeched to a halt in front of them. Virgil threw John onto the back seat and himself in afterwards. Gordon clambered into the front.

Virgil glanced back. Yards behind him was the entire crowd that had gathered around them on the bleachers. Some of them were still yelling at him. Some of them were looking back at the compound, a bit confused, as though wondering where they were exactly. Virgil wondered whether they were still thought he was trying to harm John. Beating his brother into unconsciousness probably hadn't helped matters any.

Alan put his foot flat on the accelerator, tossing off a couple of inmates who'd been unwise enough to try to hitch a lift.

Gordon reached back over to look at John, perturbed. "What happened?"

"You did, you moron," Virgil groused bad-temperedly. "A small explosion, Scott said. Not something that was measurable in megatons. You've ruptured my eardrum. Gordon, you're an idiot!"

"Trying to, like, drive here, guys," Alan advised tightly.

"What were you doing so close to the fence in any case?" Gordon countered defensively. He eyed John in some consternation. "You were supposed to be yards away."

"We were where we supposed to be. Near the perimeter fence. I didn't expect it to turn into a flying death hazard. I mean, look at the state of John."

Gordon blanched a little.

John groaned and tried to sit up. He felt his jaw gingerly. "Man! Did you just deck me?"

Gordon swung back around at Virgil. "You hit him?"

"Still driving," Alan advised. "Fast."

"He was…well, you know how he gets…around…you know…," Virgil shrugged meaningfully.

Gordon's jaw set. "So you were just going to let me think I'd nearly killed him? That it was all my fault?"

"Guys! I need my concentration here. Will you quit, already?"

"That explosion was ridiculous. If you'd used the right about of explosive, things wouldn't have…" Virgil lowered his voice "…caught on fire. So, yes! It's your fault."

"You have got to be…"

Alan brought the car juddering to a halt so fast that Gordon had to grab the dash to stop himself going through the windshield.

"What?" Gordon asked, perplexed.

Alan glared at him. "That's it. Out!"

"What?"

"All of you. Out! How in hell can I drive a getaway car if you don't all SHUT THE HELL UP AND LET ME CONCENTRATE?"

Gordon, Virgil and John looked at one another. Gordon spread his hands. "How can it be a getaway car if we don't get away?" he asked.

Alan glared a little more. "I don't care! Right now I'm happy to leave you all out here for the authorities. I never wanted in on this stupid deal in the first place."

"Alan. C'mon." Gordon's voice was more conciliatory now. "We'll shut up. I promise."

"Out!"

"Scott will hunt you down to the ends of the earth. You know this."

"Damn!" Alan's eyes narrowed. He considered further. "I'll take the risk. OUT!"

Gordon and Virgil opened their respective doors.

"Alan, Alan, Alan," John soothed, slightly patronisingly. "If we get out, Gordon, Virgil and I will get caught. If we stay here we all do time. Why would the three of us get out and leave you footloose and free?"

Gordon stared at him admiringly. "Damn, you're good. Even with concussion you're good."

He and Virgil shut their respective doors.

Alan's brow creased. "Dammit," he muttered, putting the car back into gear. "Not another word. Not one single word! Or I swear I'll make us all give ourselves up."

His three brothers exchanged their best Alan in a strop face-pulling.

But the getaway proceeded in smooth silence.