by PURUPUSS RATED FRT

Chapter 16: A Quiet Flight

With a storm approaching, Virgil was not about to take any shortcuts with his pre-flight checks. He’d left his colleagues at the track and had grabbed a taxi to the airfield so that he could prepare the aeroplane and, hopefully, reduce the chance of any delays. As soon as he’d paid off the taxi driver, he’d checked into the hire company’s branch office, and then hurried over to the turboprop aeroplane that was waiting patiently for its cargo of ACE employees and their families.

In the cockpit he checked the landing light, anti-collision strobes, and rotating beacon.

Then Virgil checked his watch.

After making sure that all power was cut to the aeroplane’s engines, he disembarked and began his exterior inspection. Starting at the port wing, he worked his way around the back of the aeroplane, down the starboard side, and then around the nose before returning to the port wing.

Then he checked his phone.

He checked the antennae and the flaps and ailerons. He checked that the fuel tanks were both full with the correct avgas, that the fuel caps were secure, and that the oil tank was also full and the oil within was clean. He checked for popped rivets, cracks and any other signs of degradation in the wings. He checked the wingtips; and, just to be on the safe side, he checked the night-flight green-for-starboard / red-for-port position lights.

Then he checked his watch again.

He checked the landing gear to make sure there was nothing that could cause the wheel well doors to jam, tyres to deflate or burst, and that the struts that supported the weight of the aeroplane on landing showed no signs of wear and tear or corrosion.

Then he looked at the blackening skies and cursed under his breath.

He returned to the passenger cabin and checked that the seats and safety harnesses were secure and, despite the fact that he’d only checked it this morning, checked that the fire-extinguishers were full, had up-to-date compliance certificates, and were in place. When he was satisfied that the passenger cabin was up to his high standards, then he returned to the cockpit to check that everything was operating as it should. With a glance at the onboard chronometer he sat in his pilot’s seat and went through his mental checklist until he had convinced himself that everything was ready.

The aeroplane was prepared for the flight. Virgil was prepared for the flight. The only thing that wasn’t prepared for the flight were his passengers.

Virgil looked at his watch for the tenth time that he’d been at the airfield and frowned. “Come on, Bruce…” He dialled a number on his cell phone. “Where are you guys?”

“Sorry, Virgil,” Bruce sounded apologetic. “I’ve got most of them on the bus, but some of them have disappeared. Mr Mickelson, Watts and Greg are rounding them up now.”

“Well, I wish they’d hurry.”

“Why?” worry clouded Bruce’s voice. “How bad is this storm?”

“I’m not too worried about the storm,” Virgil admitted. “It’s not tracking directly across our flight path, and to make sure I’ve decided to fly further south than we did getting here, but we’re still going to be flying through the edges of it, and the longer we wait, the closer it’ll get and the rougher the flight will be. This is supposed to be an enjoyable afternoon out, but it’s not going to be much fun if anyone’s sick… Especially as I’ll be the one cleaning up afterwards.”

“Point taken.” Bruce relaxed. “I’ll see what I can do to hurry them along. I’ll call when we’re leaving.”

“Thanks.” Virgil had barely hung up the phone when it rang again. “Hi, Alan.”

“Hi, Virg. Is everything okay? Bruce said you were sounding stressed.”

“I wouldn’t say stressed. Try impatient. I’m ready to go but I don’t have any passengers.”

“Bruce reckons that about three have gone AWOL. Can’t you control your guys?”

“From a couple of miles away?” Virgil retorted. “Besides, I’m only in charge of transportation, not crowd control. That’s Bruce’s job.”

“The poor guy is starting to tear his hair out. He’s sent out the big guns, including Uncle Hamish and Mr Harrison.”

“I know,” Virgil admitted “He told me.”

“Hang on… Here’s one of them now,” Alan said. “That leaves two… No, here’s another. With Uncle Hamish. Boy, he’s looking mad! I wouldn’t want to be in that guy’s shoes on Monday.” He chuckled. “That leaves one to go. I’d better get on the bus. I don’t want to get in the pilot’s bad books.”

Virgil chuckled. “Okay, Alan. See you soon.”

He had made another phone call to reassure himself that the storm hadn’t changed course when his mobile rang again. “Hi, Bruce.”

“We’re on our way, Virgil... at last.”

“Who was the problem?”

“Lou. He’s found himself a new girlfriend.”

“The poor girl. Who is she?”

“One of the grid girls. He wouldn’t get on the bus until I said she could come with us. I nearly offered to leave him behind instead.”

“He’s had a bit to drink, hasn’t he?” Virgil asked.

Bruce snorted. “That’s an understatement, Virgil. I won’t be sitting next to him on the flight back... especially if we’re running into rough weather.”

“How long before you get here?”

There was a moment’s delay as Bruce had a quick conference with the bus’s driver. “About ten minutes.”

“Okay. See you in ten.”

Virgil was almost at the stressing stage again when the bus pulled into the car park twenty minutes later. He grabbed Bruce’s arm as the latter got off the bus. “What was the holdup?”

“Lou’s girlfriend,” Bruce said grimly. “She saw a friend of hers and made the driver stop the bus so she could tell the friend to follow in her car so that she’d have a ride back to the track. “Lou’s in everyone’s bad books now.”

Louis Fleming did indeed appear to be unpopular as his workmates passed him by without speaking or looking at him. Not that he cared much; he was too busy enjoying the company of the two girls.

“Okay, everyone,” Bruce called. “On the plane and we’ll head home. You too, Lou.”

“I will,” Louis complained. “Just give me a minute to say goodbye to these lovely ladies.”

In quick time everyone was on board the turboprop… Everyone except for the errant Lothario, the Tracy brothers and Hamish Mickelson.

“I’m going to have to have words with that young man,” Hamish Mickelson growled. “I expect my employees to show more consideration for their colleagues.” He turned to Alan. “Do you want to co-pilot?”

Alan was surprised by the request. “Why? Don’t you want to?”

“I’m quite happy too if you’d rather relax with your ‘fans’.” Hamish smiled. “But with this storm bearing down on us, I think Virgil might appreciate the assistance of someone he trusts implicitly.”

“I trust you,” Virgil protested. “We had a good flight here.”

“True, but I think Alan’s reflexes are a bit faster than mine. And he’s put in a few more flying hours in this type of plane than I have. Also, if I’m in the cabin, I can keep an eye on the potential troublemakers... especially that one over there.” He indicated Louis who was standing in the lee of a building with his two new friends. There was a shout of Lou! Get yourself in here! from Bruce in the plane.

“I don’t mind,” Alan responded. “Do you, Virgil?”

“It doesn’t worry me,” Virgil replied, and turned when he heard running footsteps.

“I can’t get him to move,” Bruce puffed. “He might do if he sees he’s the last one to board.”

“I’ll talk to him,” Mickelson offered. “Alan’s co-piloting,” he called over his shoulder as he walked away.

“Thanks, Mr Mickelson…” Bruce responded. “Er…” he eyed Alan up uncertainly. “I suppose asking if you’re qualified to fly is a stupid question.”

Alan grinned, but it was Virgil who replied. “He’s more qualified than me. He can fly a space rocket.”

Bruce’s jaw dropped. “What?!”

Alan looked a tad embarrassed. “When I was younger I had a habit of launching model rockets...”

“Mainly at faculty buildings,” Virgil interrupted.

Alan ignored him. “So Dad signed me up to become an astronaut. That means I’ve got more qualifications than Virgil, but, if you need the best pilot for a plane, then Virgil’s the man.”

“No. Scott’s the man,” Virgil corrected.

“True,” Alan agreed. “But he’s not here so you’re the best we’ve got.”

“Thanks!”

“Any time.”

Bruce grinned at the brothers’ playful bickering. “I thought you guys were in a hurry! If we want to get Lou on board,” the three of them turned to watch Louis, arm around each girl, saunter across the tarmac and then stop to share goodbye kisses, “then we’d better set a good example.”

“Okay,” Virgil agreed. “But we’ve got to tell the hire company that Alan’s co-piloting. We’ll be back in five minutes.”

In the airport’s office the pair of them made sure that Alan was listed as the co-pilot, rang through the finalised flight plan, and then jogged back to the turboprop... past three people who were blissfully aware of no one except each other.

“Leave him here,” Alan suggested as they boarded the plane.

“That’s the best idea we’ve heard all day,” Bruce responded. “Lou!” he yelled. “Get your butt in here or we’re going without you!!”

It seemed to those on the plane that Louis hadn’t heard him.

Alan grinned at Virgil. “Let’s ‘go without him’.”

Virgil grinned back. “No complaints from me.” He triggered the plane’s motors to life.

At first Louis seemed to be oblivious to the fact that his ride home was apparently deserting him. His colleagues, realising what their two pilots were planning, egged them on.

“Leave him, Virgil.”

“C’mon, Alan. Pretend you’re in your car and floor it!”

Virgil applied more power and the aeroplane started to taxi towards the airstrip. The change in engine pitch seemed to penetrate Louis’ brain and, without a backwards glance, he deserted his girlfriends and sprinted for the aircraft.

“Shut the door, Bruce!”

“Yeah! Don’t let him in!”

But Louis had other ideas. He ran for the door, holding his hand out for Bruce to help him inside. Virgil, seeing what was happening and having no desire to cause an accident, slowed down enough so that the running man was able to launch himself into the cabin. Then, timing his actions to perfection, he applied the brakes, sending Louis rolling into a bulkhead. Too embarrassed to look at anyone, the latecomer got to his feet and claimed a solitary window seat.

“I’ll make sure the door’s shut properly and that everyone’s got their safety harnesses done up,” Virgil said to Alan. “Back in a minute.”

“No worries.”

“How close is this storm, Virgil?” Lisa asked as he passed. She sounded worried.

“Far enough away that I doubt you’ll need to use the bag in the pouch in front of you.” Virgil winked at her and received a relieved smile in reply. He turned to face the rest of his workmates. “Okay, everyone. We’ll be doing all we can to ensure a smooth trip, but we may hit some rough patches. Please do not release your seatbelts until we land. Any questions…? Good. Then relax and enjoy the flight.” He returned to the flight deck.

He reclaimed his seat as Hamish Mickelson recited his own version of the flight attendant’s briefing. “As Virgil said, we are likely to hit some rough patches. For this reason Virgil and Alan are in charge while we’re in the air, and everyone is to obey their instructions without question. Anyone caught disobeying them will be subject to disciplinary action at work on Monday.” The General Manager glared at Louis who appeared to be more interested in staring longingly out the window at the two beauties giggling by the runway than listening to his boss.

Alan grinned at Virgil as he donned his headphones. “Nice one, Uncle Hamish,” he said quietly, the radio link ensuring that his brother was the only person to hear him. “That’ll relax them.”

Virgil cast his eye over the switches and dials of the control panel. “Final checks done?”

“Final checks all A-OK.”

“Thanks. Let’s get this baby airborne.”

The take-off proceeded smoothly and without incident. As everyone relaxed into the flight they started talking amongst themselves and some of the louder voices filtered through the brothers’ headphones.

“Alan Tracy is my pal!” Butch boasted. “He took me around twice!”

Virgil smiled at Alan. “You’ve made his day.”

Alan chuckled. “Yeah, I know. It’s an odd feeling, being something special to a bunch of strangers who you’ve never met before…”

Virgil considered what today must have meant to his little brother. While they were all willing to admit to their pride in Alan and his achievements, the Tracys (perhaps having learnt from their mistakes with Gordon) were unwilling to place the youngest on a pedestal. This, coupled with Alan’s self-imposed reluctance to seek the spotlight for International Rescue’s sake, meant that he rarely experienced the adulation that many in his position were accorded. The hero-worshiping that he was receiving from Butch and others in the group was a novelty to the young driver.

“Weird, isn’t it?” Alan continued. “All I do is drive a car around a track at high speed, and yet that makes me some kind of hero. But I’ve never done anything special like save a life.”

“You brought Gordon back to life,” Virgil reminded him.

“I struck it lucky and caught him at the moment when he was about to wake up,” Alan countered. “Dangling a hunk of shiny metal in front of someone is not what I would call heroic.” He glanced at a brother. “Not like keeping someone alive until the paramedics arrived.”

“That wasn’t heroic,” Virgil rejoined. “Bruce and I were there and we did what we had to do to keep Lisa alive. That wasn’t heroics. That was luck and training.”

“Butch thinks you’re a hero,” Alan said. “He was telling me how great you were for saving Lisa’s life… in between telling me what a great driver I was...” He frowned. “I told him I won’t qualify for the title of ‘great’ unless I manage to win the championship.”

“You’ll do it,” Virgil soothed. “You had an off day, that’s all.”

“I hope so.” Alan’s frown reversed into a smile. “While we were doing the whistle-stop promotional round this week, I managed to stop off and see Gordon.” He hesitated and glanced out of the window at the sky. “He seemed pretty down, especially when I said I could only stay five minutes.”

“So, what happened?” Virgil asked.

“It was the day of Grandma’s big surprise and I was lucky enough to still be there when she got back with Rick and Diane. You should have seen his face light up when the Baileys walked into the room.” Alan smiled at the memory. “But Catherine had given him a good workout that morning and he was tired and he couldn’t enunciate clearly. He was so bad that even Grandma struggled to understand him. Most of what he was saying sounded like total gibberish. Eventually he got frustrated and typed: “Mouth not working.”

“What did Rick and Diane do?”

“Diane started doing the talking for all of them.”

Virgil chuckled. “That’s a surprise.”

“We could all see that Gordon was tired; but he didn’t want to admit it. I think he was scared they’d leave if he did, so Diane said that they’d go get some lunch and give him a chance to have a snooze. She promised that they’d come back in an hour and told him they had a couple of days to catch up... I don’t think they got away though, when I left Diane was still talking.” Alan chuckled. “I doubt Rick managed to say more than two words the entire time I was there. But Gordon loved having them there. I think he’s feeling isolated being stuck in that room all day.” He looked out the window again. “I don’t like the look of that cloud.”

“No. Neither do I,” Virgil agreed, as he looked at the black stack of cumulous. “I’ve been watching its progress on the weather radar and I don’t think we’re going to be far enough south.”

“Do you want to change course?”

“If we head any further south we may as well forget about heading home. Not without a refuelling stop to make sure we’ve got plenty of juice.” Virgil flicked a switch. “This is Foxtrot-Alpha-Bravo Tree-Two. Requesting weather update.”

“Foxtrot-Alpha-Bravo Tree-Two,” the radio replied. “The low north of you is deepening and is changing course. Now tracking sou’west. Suggest you turn left to a heading of 202.”

Virgil sighed. “Roger that.” He finished the radio call. “Right across our path,” he mused. “It’s going to get rough. If only Louis hadn’t held us up!”

“Well, we can’t do anything about that now,” Alan responded. “Want to warn our passengers?”

“It wouldn’t hurt,” Virgil agreed. “Do you want to address your fan club?”

Alan chuckled. “It would be my pleasure.” He opened the in-plane intercom system. “Hi, Folks. I hope you’re all enjoying the flight so far…” there were positive sounds from behind them, “because I am about to give you some bad news. The storm that we were hoping to avoid has moved further south than first expected, so things will probably get a little rough. It’s nothing to worry about. If anyone’s feeling a little ‘under the weather’, if you’ll excuse the phrase, there are suitable receptacles in the pocket in front of you. Please remain seated and, for your own safety, do not release your safety harnesses. This is Air Tracy, signing out.” He turned off the intercom. “It looks angry,” he commented as the towering dark clouds rolled closer.

“It is,” Virgil responded as he felt the first tremors of air-disturbance through the turboprop’s sensitive controls. “And it’s moving fast.” He felt the plane buck beneath him as he contacted air traffic control. “Am registering wind speeds of 60 knots, increasing. Please confirm.”

“Receiving, Foxtrot-Alpha-Bravo Tree-Two,” the control tower affirmed. “Confirm increasing wind speeds. Low decreasing to one zero two zero kilopascals”

“Roger that.” Virgil continued to coax the aeroplane through the blackening skies.

There were some exclamations of concern from the cabin behind when the black clouds swallowed the aeroplane and the first real wind gust hit. All views of the outside world were obliterated by the pelting rain that lashed against the windows.

Alan re-opened the inter-cabin intercom. “As explained earlier we will be experiencing some turbulence. We are trying to gain altitude to get above the worst of the storm. Please remain in your seats and keep your safety harnesses securely fastened at all times. Don’t forget that this aircraft is proud owner of one of the highest safety records in the world, partly due to the fact that many of its parts were manufactured by a certain Aeronautical Component Engineering…” He gave a dramatic pause. “So if any bits fall off you’ve only got yourselves to blame.” His comment garnered a nervous laugh from his audience and a wry smile from his brother. “We are perfectly safe. For those of you who like the fairground, imagine that we’re going on a roller-coaster… Hopefully without the loop-de-loops,” he added as an afterthought, before the aeroplane bucked again and he had to grasp his control yoke with one hand and disconnect the intercom with the other. “It’s going to be a wild ride.”

“Tell me about it.” Virgil was already fighting against the winds that were buffeting them from all sides. Outside, the scene was a horizontal wall of water, occasionally highlighted by a streak of lightning that shot across the sky. “What’s our position, Alan?”

Alan checked the reading. “Still heading south.”

Virgil released his left hand from its grip on the control yoke and made to flick the radio into life, but aborted the action when the aeroplane lunged to starboard. Regaining his hold on the yoke, his knuckles white, he glanced at his brother. “Radio the tower and see how big they think this storm is.” He glanced down at the control panel and then back up out through the nearly useless windscreen as a bolt of lightning flashed in the distance. “Tell them we’re flying on instruments, we’re at nineteen thousand feet and still climbing, and that we’re reading that this storm’s at least another ten thousand feet above us.”

“Gotcha,” Alan acknowledged.

They hit a downdraft and the turboprop dropped sharply, eliciting a little shriek of fear from one of their passengers. An updraft slammed the aeroplane’s occupants against their safety restraints before a sideways lurch sent everyone wobbling like marionettes. Someone made a grab for their air-sickness bag and the resulting sounds and smells were enough to send others retching.

“Chocks away,” Alan grinned, with the cockiness of one couldn’t remember what it was like to be affected by motion-sickness. He triggered the radio into life. “This is Foxtrot-Alpha-Bravo Tree-Two…”

“Go ahead, Foxtrot-Alpha-Bravo Tree-Two.”

“We are at nineteen thousand feet and climb…”

A blinding flash of light seemed to fill the aeroplane!

“What the…!?” Virgil felt his pulses quicken as the electronic display went blank and then lit up again. A phenomenon that coincided with the engines cutting out. “We’ve lost power!” He tried to reignite the engines, which proved to be a futile exercise. “We’ve got some control… But not much.”

“This is Foxtrot-Alpha-Bravo Tree-Two,” Alan told the radio. “Have lost power to engines.”

“Fo... pha... ... ... Two,” the radio spluttered. “Ple... ...eat!”

Alan, his frustration mounting, tried again and again to raise the alarm. Eventually he gave up. “That lightning strike must have screwed up the radio!” He pulled the headset off his head. “Now what do we do?” He grasped his control yoke, feeling the aeroplane fighting against him.

“I’ve set the transponder to squawk 7700...” Virgil replied. “...So, between it and the GPS, aerospace should realise that we’re in trouble and have a fix on our position.” He freed himself from his own headphones so that he could continue the conversation with his co-pilot. Without the cushioned earmuffs the sounds of wind, rain, and cries of panic from his workmates in the cabin behind him were overwhelming; unlike the engines, which were eerily quiet. “Come on, Baby... Start...”

Alan looked at him, his eyes wide. “Nothing?”

“Nothing... The air intakes must be waterlogged.” Virgil gave up on the motors; accepting that the spinning of the propellers were from the forces of the wind and rain, rather than a response to his commands. Battling the control yoke every second, he turned his attention to maintaining their direction. “Use your watch,” he ordered, as he fought the bucking aeroplane. “At least Scott can let them know what the problem is.”

“Have you got control?” Alan asked, preparing to let go of his yoke.

“Yes...” Virgil gave a grim smile. “...Relatively speaking.”

Alan lifted his arm so he could bring his watch up to his face. Immediately the turboprop dipped to the left and he grabbed the control yoke again. “This is a two man job.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Let’s see how sensitive John’s made these things... Alan calling Scott...” Alan leant closer to his arm, hoping that his voice would be picked up by the miniature receiver. “Alan calling Scott... I’m not making contact.... Alan calling John... Come in, John...” He glanced at Virgil. “It’s not working. You try.” He tightened his grip on the yoke. “I’ve got this.”

Virgil twisted his arm so his watch face was uppermost but he still had a firm grip on the controls. “Virgil calling Scott...” He listened without much hope. “Virgil calling John...” And then, just to see if perhaps the watches were sending but not receiving, he tried, “Virgil calling Alan.”

“Nope,” Alan yelled over the increasing noise of the storm. “Nothing. Cell phone?”

“Use mine; it’s been tweaked by John to be able to transmit in flight.”

“Give it to me and I’ll try,” Hamish Mickelson offered, overhearing their conversation. “You boys concentrate on keeping this bird in the air.”

“Okay,” Virgil glanced at Alan. “Have you got her?”

“Just.”

“Good.” Using his knees to help brace the controls and moving quickly, Virgil let go of the yoke, pulled his phone from his pocket and held it back over his shoulder.

Hamish loosened his safety harness so he could shift forward in his seat and reached out, just managing to snare the phone with his fingertips. “Got it,” he grunted.

“If you can reach someone,” Virgil yelled, “tell them we’re flying her like a glider,” But even as he said the words, they felt the aeroplane begin to lose height and the altimeter started to spin alarmingly.

“Gliders rely on updrafts to remain aloft,” Alan reminded his brother. “The winds are all over the place!”

“Then we’ll just have to work it.”

And work it they did. Using the force of the downdrafts, they attempted to try to keep the aeroplane’s forward momentum, dipping her nose just enough so she’d increase her airspeed without losing too much height. Then they’d hit an updraft and would battle to take advantage of its lifting power in an attempt to maintain and even increase their altitude. Then a sideways gust would strike a blow and they’d be fighting not to lose the advantages they’d gained, while praying that they were being blown outwards towards calmer air and not into the raging heart of the storm.

At one point Virgil stole a glance across at his co-pilot and was rewarded by a reassuring wink from his brother. Alan’s eyes were bright and he was clearly high on an adrenaline buzz as he fought his second battle of the day: this time a life and death struggle against Mother Nature. Virgil himself felt calm and in control. The gauges seemed bigger, his reflexes quicker, and he felt in tune with what was happening with the aeroplane and the elements outside.

“It’s no good,” Hamish announced. “I can’t get through.”

“Keep trying,” Virgil instructed.

Hamish Mickelson rechecked that his safety harness was still holding him securely into the seat, and pushed redial on the phone. “Nothing,” he grunted.

“Here’, Bruce Sanders handed him another phone. “Use mine. I’m on a different network and the airport’s programmed in.”

“Thanks,” Hamish acknowledged, “but normal cell phones can’t transmit from the air. Either they don’t have a strong enough signal, or else they pick up so many cell phone towers that they get confused.”

Max Watts was fidgeting in his seat. He was uncomfortable with the fact that his life appeared to rest in the hands of two people. One, the son of the man he idolised; the other, someone he felt a deep-seated animosity towards. “Are we losing height?”

“I would assume so,” Hamish said, trying to keep his voice calm and relaxed. “But not quickly. Everything is under control.”

Bruce dropped his phone back into his bag and turned in his seat to check on the other passengers. Their reactions to the situation they all found themselves in seemed to range from calm acceptance; through prayer to each individual’s deity of choice; to tears; to yells of hysteria. Many were suffering from varying degrees of air-sickness.

“How are ya, Liesl?” Butch asked; the arm that protectively held his wife stroking her hair.

Lisa, as green as the grass that was so far beneath them and saturated with perspiration derived from illness and fear, was resting her head on his shoulder. She whimpered and hugged her plastic lined bag close, before pulling it open and depositing what remained of her stomach contents into it.

“‘Ere,” Butch took the bag off her and handed her his one.

She managed to gift him a weak smile. “Thanks.”

Bruce turned in his seat and held out a water bottle. “Have something to drink, Lisa.”

She shook her head. “Not thirsty.”

“No. But we don’t want you dehydrating.” Bruce handed the bottle to Butch.

“Here, Honey. Just take a sip,” Butch cooed, holding the bottle as if he were about to feed a baby. Reluctantly, Lisa complied, but she’d no sooner taken the liquid on board, when her body rejected it again.

“Keep trying,” Bruce handed over his air-sickness bag. “But take it slowly.” Deciding that humour would help to relieve the tension, he indicated the dead engines. “At least we’re not going to run out of fuel,” he joked.

“The flip side of that,” Hamish reminded him quietly, “is that we’re going to be landing with tanks filled with highly explosive avgas.”

“So we’re in a flying bomb?” Bruce gulped. His face, in stark contrast to his dark hair, turned a pasty white.

The ex-Air Force officer took pity on him. “Powered aircraft are capable of gliding without power,” he told the younger man, raising his voice so that those in the passenger cabin could hear him. “Last century, a 747 commercial aircraft flew into a cloud of volcanic ash that had been thrown up by an eruption. The plane lost all four engines and they had to glide for miles before they landed safely. Their pilot had experience in flying gliders, as do the two young men who are controlling this plane now. Trust me, we are in safe hands.”

His subordinates and their families hoped that he knew what he was talking about.

“You are talking about the Jakarta incident. Correct, Hamish?” Greg Harrison asked and his boss nodded. “They were able to restart their engines when they escaped the ash. What if we can’t?”

Hamish was unable to twist in his seat so that he could glare at his friend for undermining his attempts at reassurance. “Then we will have to make an emergency landing, Greg. Believe me, these two,” he indicted the pilots, “are capable of pulling it off safely.”

Virgil and Alan had remained largely unaware of what was going on behind them. The weather, and its effects on the aeroplane, was fully occupying their attention.

“Is it me,” Alan asked, “or is this storm starting to ease off?”

“I was thinking that,” Virgil admitted. The clouds outside seemed to be a lighter shade of black, the winds less ferocious, and the rains more gentle. The turboprop was no longer fighting against them and he flexed his fingers to get the circulation flowing again before pointing the aeroplane upwards again as they reached another updraft. “Our next problem is to find somewhere safe to land.”

“And to hope that our brakes work.”

“It’s not the brakes that concern me.” Virgil pointed to a warning light. “The landing gear’s jammed... Time to try the engines again. Ready?”

Alan nodded. “Fingers crossed.”

There was a hopeful growl followed by a depressing cough as the left engine attempted to restart.

“Nope, not yet,” Alan commented. “Is that blue sky I can see?”

“Where?” Virgil peered through the windscreen. “Oh, yeah! That’s positive.”

They emerged from a bank of cloud into bright sunshine. Suddenly, if you could ignore the fact that you were in a metal cylinder with a natural inclination to end its life in a flaming fireball, the world seemed a better place.

“Hey!” Paul was looking out the window at the landscape that had suddenly opened up beneath him. “Isn’t that Aris Hill?” He pointed at a lump in the earth that resembled a landmark of the town some 100 kilometres north of home.

“Yes!” Burt was peering out the window on the other side of the aeroplane. “And that’s Lake Olympia!”

Hamish Mickelson fired up Virgil’s cell phone again and dialled the number of the emergency services. “I’ve got through!” he exclaimed. “Ah... Police, please... I think. Our position? Approximately ten thousand feet above Arisville in a crippled aircraft.”

“Try the radio, Alan,” Virgil instructed.

The younger Tracy already had his headphones on. “I’m through...! This is Foxtrot-Alpha-Bravo Tree-Two. We are without power. Engines are dead. Landing gear is retracted.”

“Reading you Foxtrot-Alpha-Bravo Tree-Two,” Air Traffic Control responded. “Boy, we’re glad to hear from you guys. We’ve been following your progress.”

Virgil initiated contact. “Am going to attempt to start engines again.” And once again the engines coughed. Yet again they failed. “Engine ignition negative.”

“Okay...” There was a pause from air control. “Follow your present course. We’ll try to get a visual on you to check the condition of your craft. We’ve got the Rexton cops out with their binoculars. Any injuries on board?”

“How are things back there?” Virgil called over his shoulder.

“A few sick people, but nothing life threatening,” Hamish responded.

“Negative to injuries,” Virgil told his phone.

“Good... What’s your fuel level?”

“Approximately three quarters full.”

Air control made no comment. “Initiating emergency procedures.”

“I’ll try engine re-ignition one more time. Keep your fingers crossed...” Virgil attempted to fire the motors back into life, but was disappointed by the aeroplane’s lack of response. “Negative. Preparing for emergency landing.” He made sure that his seatbelt was holding him tightly into the seat, well aware of his vulnerability here at the front of the aeroplane, and that even a centimetre of slack in his harness would triple the G-forces his body would have to withstand on impact.

“You have too much height,” air control told them. “You need to reduce altitude by approximately half.”

“Great,” Alan grumbled, more to himself than to anyone else. “We spend the last hour trying to maintain altitude and now they’re telling us we’ve got to go into a dive.”

Virgil ignored him. “Is everyone’s safety harness securely fastened?” he yelled back to the passengers. “And seats upright?”

“We’re ready, Virgil,” Hamish told him.

“Okay, we’re going to lose height rapidly. Don’t panic, this is part of the landing procedure.” Virgil pointed the nose of the turboprop downwards and the aeroplane went into a steep dive. Despite his assurances there were a few screams from the cabin behind him. “Levelling out.”

“Good,” air control acknowledged. “Adjust your flight path one degree to starboard...” as Virgil made a course correction to the right. “That’s good. You are now lined up with runway one five.”

“We have visual.”

“Keep it steady and keep a clear head. You’ll only have one chance at this. Emergency services are standing by.”

“Thanks.”

The ground grew closer. They could see people working and playing in their backyards, oblivious to the drama that was going on overhead.

“There’s ACE,” someone exclaimed.

“When we land, do not get out of the crash position or unfasten your seatbelts until the plane has stopped moving,” Hamish Mickelson demanded. “Do not panic and do not rush for the exits.”

“Get into the crash position,” Virgil ordered and heard movement behind him. “Ready, Alan?”

“As I’ll ever be,” Alan responded. “You?”

“Yep.”

Alan grinned at him. “Good luck, Bro. This trip’s been a blast.”

The airfield was ahead of them; both welcoming and threatening. An ever growing grey ribbon of runway awaited their arrival; like the home straight after a deadly marathon race.

As they drew closer, Virgil raised the nose of the aeroplane slightly so that it wouldn’t dig into the tarmac and send them flipping nose over tail to the detriment of all inside. “Nearly there,” he informed his passengers. “Touching down in five... four... three... two... Brace!”

The bang when they hit the ground was deafening; followed by a brief moment of weightlessness when they became airborne again before making contact with solid concrete for the second and final time. Having no landing gear to keep it upright, the aeroplane keeled over towards port and the turboprop’s left wing dug into the ground, disengaging itself from the fuselage.

Now that gravity had been taken out of the equation, friction was the main force acting against the aeroplane. It skidded along what appeared to be an ever shrinking runway, to the accompaniment of the tortured scream of disintegrating metal on concrete. Sparks flew past the passenger windows as the craft slid along the runway, carving up great hunks of tarmac, before slewing off to one side, coming to rest on a well manicured lawn.

His ears ringing from the noise and the concussive effects of the landing, Virgil didn’t give himself time to celebrate. “You okay?” he asked Alan as he unbuckled his safety harness; wanting to give himself the chance to recover from the force of the impact, but knowing his job wasn’t done.

“Yeah,” Alan grunted as he undid his harness. He tried to stand, overbalanced, and fell against the window. He saw smoke writhing around what was left of the wing. “Engine fire!” he gasped. “We’ve gotta get moving!”

Virgil looked out of the port window, up at the still attached wing that stuck out against the blue sky; its propeller spinning lazily. “We’re clear on this side.” He willed himself to his feet and, ignoring the bruises forming where his harness had cut into his torso, turned towards the passenger cabin. “You check for injured; I’ll get everyone else out.”

There was no hesitation from Alan. “Right!”

Virgil charged into the rear cabin, hearing the wail of sirens in the distance and coming closer. “Do not panic. Unfasten your seatbelts. Stay in your seats. Leave your belongings.” He grabbed Bruce’s arm. “Come with me.” Fighting against gravity the two men made their way to the exit door on the higher side of the craft.

Virgil forced the door open and inflated the escape chute. Then he pointed through the door at a small, grey building 150 metres from the aeroplane. “Get everyone behind there and don’t let them leave until everyone’s accounted for,” he ordered.

“Okay.” Bruce slid down the chute and ran for the building.

“Back row: you’re first. Get up and come here,” Virgil instructed, and, dazed, his co-workers complied. “Run for that building... Next row... Follow them...”

Row by row, person by person, the aeroplane was evacuated. On the far side the fire crews fought to stop the engine blaze from taking hold of the craft.

“Up you get, Uncle Hamish,” Virgil grunted, pulling on the older man’s hand.

“Well done, Son,” Hamish congratulated him before jumping onto the chute and sliding down to the ground.

Now there were only four people, including Alan, remaining inside the aeroplane. The first, Louis Fleming, seemed more dazed than the rest had been. Virgil had a sneaking suspicion that that was as much to do with high alcohol consumption as it was a result of the cut on the other man’s head. “Come here,” he growled and put Louis’ arm about his shoulder so he could assist him to the door. It was a struggle, but Louis seemed to awaken enough that he was able to provide some assistance.

They got to the top of the chute and Virgil lowered the red-head so he was in a sitting position. “Slide down there,” he commanded and Louis tumbled the length of the chute before coming to rest at the bottom where he lay, groaning. Virgil was about to join him so he could help him to safety, when he realised that an airport staff member was hurrying forward to offer support.

Leaving the drunken man and his new rescuer, Virgil retreated back into the aeroplane.

“Virg! Give us a hand!” Alan yelled. “He won’t let me help.”

It was Butch and Lisa. Butch had his wife in his arms and was trying to carry her out of the listing aeroplane, but was unable to brace himself against the tilt of the floor.

“I tried to stand,” Lisa protested weakly, “but my legs gave out.”

“Dehydration,” Alan diagnosed. “She’s lost a lot of fluids.”

“We’ll form a chain,” Virgil suggested. “Butch, you pass her to me, I’ll give her to Alan, and you take Lisa from him. Okay?”

Butch hesitated a moment before nodding and Virgil had the feeling that if it had been anyone other than him making the suggestion the big man would have refused. “Is that okay with you, Lisa?” he asked.

“I just want to get out of here,” she complained.

It only took four changes of hands before they got Lisa up to the door. Butch stood there, unable to fit his big frame and his petite wife through the exit.

“Let me past,” Virgil suggested. “Now, give her to me, Butch, and you slide down the chute. I won’t let Lisa down until you’re ready to catch her. Right?”

“Right,” Butch grunted and went flying down the slide. “Send ‘er down, Virgil.”

“Ready?” Virgil asked Lisa.

Lisa gave him a tender smile. “Thank you.”

When she reached the bottom, Butch was waiting for her with open arms. Showing no affects of just having been involved in a plane crash, he picked her up and ran for shelter.

“That leaves us, Alan,” Virgil said.

“Race ya,” Alan sent himself tumbling down the escape chute and took off at a run, Virgil close on his heels.

They joined the rest of their human cargo at the meeting point and leant against the wall of the building; gasping for breath and barely able to respond to the thanks that was being handed out to them.

But even now they weren’t allowed to relax. “Boys,” Hamish Mickelson said quietly. “The press are here and they want to interview the pilots. You might want to make yourselves scarce.”

“Heck.” Virgil looked at Alan. “Follow me. We’ll head over to the office and enter the back way...”

Virgil had been frequenting the airport all year and knew most of its nooks and crannies. They utilised every bit of cover until they were able to make the final dash through the back door and into the main office complex. Once there they stopped, panting slightly.

They must have made some noise when they’d burst into the building because a member of the airport’s staff appeared. “Virgil? What are you doing coming in this way?”

“Avoiding the paparazzi, Sam,” Virgil stated. “They’re going to want to interview the pilots after our little drama and we want to keep well away from that scene. This is my brother Alan.”

“Ah.” Sam knew of Virgil’s duel identity and was well used to celebrities and other high-fliers wanting to stay out of the limelight. “Hello, Alan.” She opened a neighbouring door and looked inside. “This room’s clear. Do you want to wait in here? I’ll send the air-accident inspector along when he arrives.”

Virgil gave her a grateful smile. “Thanks. You know what our father’s like over publicity.”

Sam chuckled. “I’ve heard that he hates it. No worries, we’re the soul of discretion.” She started to walk away.

“Sam!” Virgil called after her. “Would it be all right if we made a phone call? We’ll want to let the family know we’re okay and I’ve left my phone on the plane.”

“Sure. Not a problem. It’ll be some time before the air accident inspector arrives anyway. Make yourselves a coffee.”

The brothers entered the room, which appeared to be a staff canteen. Virgil sank into a chair, glad of the chance to relax and reflect on what they’d just done.

Alan, however, was still fizzing. “That was awesome!” he exclaimed, as he gave his brother a high-five. “That was amazing!” He went to sit down, but stood up again as if it were a hot plate and not a thickly upholstered chair. “That was awesome!” he repeated. “I’ve never felt so alive! That was way better than duelling with Victor Gomez.” He indulged in a bit of shadow boxing to emphasise his statement. “We were awesome!”

Virgil laughed. “We did all right.”

“All right? All right!?! If we can do that with that bit of technological history,” he indicated the downed late-model plane, “imagine...” his voice grew quieter. “Imagine what we’ll be able to do with what Brains has designed. We’re a team, Virg!” His voice increased in volume. “And what a team! We’re awesome!”

“All right,” Virgil agreed. “We’re awesome. Now let me make this phone call.” He dialled the number of Gordon’s room at the Willis Institute and waited. If everyone was in the room, then the videophone in there would ring. If Gordon was undergoing some procedure and the family had retreated to the attached unit, then the call would be re-directed to that phone. A familiar face appeared on the screen. “Hi.”

“Hello, Virgil. Had a good day?” Jeff was clearly in Gordon’s room and Virgil knew that the rest of the family would be listening in on the conversation.

He smiled. “Alan thinks we’ve had an awesome one.”

Alan put his head in shot. “Hi, Dad. Virgil’s right. It’s been awesome!”

Jeff chuckled. “Glad to hear it, Alan. Why are you boys ringing?”

“To tell you we’re running late. Everyone’s okay, but we ran into some rough weather on the trip back. The plane’s sustained some damage,” Virgil looked out the window to where the turboprop was slouched on the grass, blanketed under an icing of flame-retardant foam, “so we’re going to have to deal with all the admin before we can leave.”

Jeff’s smile had dissolved into a slight frown. “But everyone’s okay?”

“Apart from some air sickness and a couple of cuts and bruises, everyone’s fine,” Virgil reassured him. “We’ll tell you all about it when we get there. I’ll call when we’re finally leaving.”

“Okay, Virgil. We’ll see you when we see you, and we’ll be looking forward to hearing all about the day.”

“Bye.”

“The plane’s sustained some damage?” Alan stared through the window over his brother’s shoulder. “She’s had it, Virg. She won’t be taking to the air any time soon.”

“Don’t you want to tell them what happened in person?” Virgil asked. “The important thing now is that they know that no one was hurt...” Two air accident inspectors entered the room and he stood to greet them.

The next few hours were taken up with paperwork and interviews. Alan and Virgil were given forms to fill in for the airport, the hire company, the insurance company and the air accident inspector.

“Name...” Alan read out loud before writing in his name on the A.A.I. form. “Occupation...” He thought for a moment. “Test driver.”

Virgil looked at him. “Test driver?”

Alan shrugged. “What am I going to put? Rookie race car driver?”

“It’s more accurate.”

“It’s a hobby,” Alan said dismissively. “I’ve realised this afternoon that car racing is only a hobby. It doesn’t achieve anything.”

Virgil said nothing as he wrote ‘Engineer’ in his own occupation field.

Part way through their debriefing, Virgil received a videophone call. “Virgil, it’s Aunty Edna.”

Virgil smiled at the woman. “I can see that.”

“Oh,” Edna appeared flustered. “Don’t mind me. Hamish has just finished telling me what a close call you all had and I want to thank you both for bringing my Scottie Dog home to me.” Virgil blinked when he heard his boss’s pet-name and hoped that his friend didn’t hear Alan try to suppress a laugh. “I was thinking that if you weren’t planning on heading off as soon as you’ve finished there, you might like to join us for a celebratory dinner.”

Virgil glanced at his brother who was nodding vigorously. “We’d love to. I’ll give you a call when we’re about to leave.”

She beamed at him. “Good. I’ll make sure everything’s ready for my two heroes.”

It had been a long day when Virgil and Alan finally said goodbye to the Mickelsons and slipped into Virgil’s car. But before Virgil started the ignition he looked at his brother. “You’ve got two choices. Either we head back to the airport and hire an air taxi, or we crash at my place and leave first thing tomorrow morning. Because I’m telling you now, after what we’ve been through today and that meal I’ve just eaten, there’s no way I’m going to attempt flying a plane tonight.”

“What happened to getting straight back into the saddle?” Alan grinned.

“Too saddle sore.”

Alan laughed. “Then I vote for your place. The way I’m feeling, if you were to nod off mid-flight, I’d probably be sound asleep and wouldn’t notice when we crashed and burned. After all the hard work we did today, I’d hate for it to end up like that.”

Virgil laughed and put the car into gear.

He woke early the following morning. Alan, snoring gently on the airbed on the floor, didn’t move as he tip-toed past and into the bathroom. Once there he began to prepare himself for the day, including some time under hot running water to remove all traces of stiffness. When he felt sufficiently supple, he stepped out of the shower and stood in front of the mirror to examine the damage. He had bruises down his front that were a perfect imprint of the turboprop’s safety harness. If he’d painted them on his torso he couldn’t have made them clearer.

Showing his usual lack of respect for his brothers’ privacy, Alan burst into the bathroom. He pulled up short and winced when he saw Virgil. “Ouch. No wonder I’m feeling sore.” Pulling his own shirt off, he examined an identical set of marks on his body. “Makes you realise how lucky we were.”

“Yeah,” Virgil agreed. “If you want to have a shower, I’ll get breakfast ready.”

Alan grinned. “Okay, Grandma,” he joked.

“If I was Grandma, I’d ask you what you want for breakfast,” Virgil rejoined. “But since it’s only me, you’ll get what you’re given.”

“Aww.” Alan treated him to a playful pout. “I was hoping for Eggs Benedict.”

“I haven’t got any eggs, and don’t call me Benedict.” Virgil left the bathroom to the sound of Alan’s surprised laughter.

The flight back to the hospital was considerably less stressful than the one from ACE’s outing had been, and it was a cheerful Virgil and Alan who walked into Gordon’s room at the Willis Institute.

“Ah. Here are our wanderers,” Jeff greeted them.

Grandma accepted Alan’s kiss. “Congratulations on winning your race, Darling.”

“Heck, I’d forgotten all about that,” Alan said. “It seems years ago.”

Scott’s face was expressionless. “Good flight?”

“Great,” Virgil replied. “We had a tail wind and blue skies the whole way.”

“Med a geng fwom yusdadees?”

Virgil looked at Gordon. His brother’s lopsided face was as unreadable as his sentence had been unintelligible.

“You gave ACE a day to remember?” John asked.

Alan leant back. “I think you could say that.”

“We’re curious, fellas,” Scott drawled. “Just what damage did your plane sustain?”

Virgil stared at him. There was something in the way that his brother had said that, that rang alarm bells. “Who have you been talking to?”

“No one,” Scott responded. “And we’re glad to see that you two haven’t either.”

Virgil and Alan looked at each other. “Huh?”

In one swift movement four different newspapers were produced and placed on Gordon’s bed. Numb, Virgil picked his grandmother’s copy up: Billionaire’s son in mid-air drama. “I knew the press was there when we landed, but... Where’d you get all these?”

“One of the nursing staff,” Jeff explained. “She said to me you must be proud of your sons, Mr Tracy and of course I didn’t have a clue what she was talking about. I thought she might have been meaning how well Gordon’s progressing and that she admired the way that Scott and John are helping him; but never in my wildest dreams did I think that she meant you two! When I realised who she was talking about I did what any man in my position would do...” He gave a wicked smile. “I lied and said I was.” His mother chuckled. “Then she said to me that she thought I’d like copies of the papers that had run the news.” He indicated a newspaper. “It wasn’t until I saw the headlines that anything made sense.”

Alan was reading the article headed: Race Ace saves A.C.E. “Hey! This isn’t fair. They’ve given me all the credit, but Virgil was the pilot and he barely gets a mention!”

Virgil was reading a paper headed: Aeronautical Component Engineering test flies own plane and looked up. “It doesn’t matter, Alan. You’re the one in the public eye, so you’re the one who’s news…”

“While you’re the one who did all the work… The A.A.I. was pretty hard on you too.”

Virgil gave an unconcerned shrug. “He was only doing his job; which was making sure that I’d done mine. He had to convince himself that it wasn’t pilot error.”

“We were hit by lightning,” Alan rejoined. “Any idiot could tell that. And the intakes were probably drowned. There’s no way anyone could blame you.”

“Any web rash?” Scott received twin bemused looks in reply and elucidated. “Bruising from your safety harnesses.”

“Oh, yeah,” Alan confirmed. “From there to there.” He drew a pattern on his body.

“Tell us what happened.” Jeff picked up a newspaper. “And we want the real story, not the media’s version of it.”

Virgil let Alan tell the story, only interrupting when the younger man’s enthusiasm carried him away. “We tried to reach you on our watches,” Alan claimed. “But they didn’t work.”

“Really?” John frowned. “That’s interesting. I’ll have to do some experiments to see if I can replicate the conditions. Of course, once number five is airborne and able to boost the signal, it might cease to be an issue.”

“So,” Scott began, “Let’s see if I’ve got this straight. You’ve just flown through the storm of the century...”

“Hardly that,” Virgil interrupted.

“You lose power to the engines...”

Alan nodded. “Yup.”

“You crash land, and I might add that I’m impressed with how well you did,” Scott indicated a photograph. “Then you risk getting caught in any resulting explosions from two tanks full of fuel as you get everyone out safely...”

Alan nodded. “Uh huh.”

“And yet you only see fit to tell us that the plane sustained some damage?”

Alan barked out a laugh and nudged Virgil. “I told you you’d understated things.”

Virgil shrugged. “We wanted to have something to talk about when we got here and didn’t want you guys worrying when there was nothing to worry about.”

Scott stared at him. “You didn’t want us to worry?”

“Yeah. Everyone was okay. At that point Alan and I were planning on leaving for the Willis Institute as soon as the A.A.I. had finished with us. It was later that Aunty Edna rang and asked if we wanted to go round for dinner.”

“I’d never turn down an invitation like that.” Alan smacked his lips and then snickered. “She wanted to thank us for saving her Scotty Dog.”

Virgil ignored him. “I didn’t think we’d rate as headline news. Besides, if it hadn’t been for the nurse giving you those papers you wouldn’t have known until now.”

For some reason Scott wasn’t prepared to let up on his questioning. “So you hadn’t planned on telling us your story when you rang to say that you weren’t travelling until today?”

“No,” Virgil stated. “After everything that had happened and Aunty Edna’s dinner, we were too tired to even think about making long phone calls. We went back to my place and crashed. Right, Alan?”

“Right. That made twice in one day.”

“And this morning? Before you left? You didn’t think of giving us prior notice about what you’d been up to?”

Virgil frowned. “No. Why would we? We wanted to get here as soon as possible so we could tell you in person. We got up, got washed, had breakfast and left.”

“You both could have been killed. Not to mention most of ACE’s workforce, including Uncle Hamish. And you didn’t think of giving us advance warning during the flight here?”

“No,” Virgil was becoming slightly exasperated by his brother’s persistence. “Honest, Scott...”

“Honest, Scott...?” Scott’s eyebrow shot skywards. “Isn’t that the code to make someone eat his words?” He smirked.

Gordon looked between his brothers. “Fwad?”

“And I’m told,” Scott continued, “that this is just the thing to help you do it.” He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and tossed it onto the bed. John started laughing.

Virgil sat back. “Oh.” A wry smile crossed his face.

Gordon stared at his eldest brother. “Fwad??”

“Do you think it’ll fit, Virgil?”

“No, because we are talking about totally different circumstances. I didn’t hide anything... unlike you.”

“Apart from a trashed puddle-jumper.”

Gordon, frustrated at being ignored, banged his good arm on the bed to get their attention. “Fwad r yi dalcin ‘boud?!!”

Everyone looked at him, suddenly realising that the person who had been at the centre of the original drama had no knowledge of what they were talking about.

“When you were in the drug induced coma,” Jeff began, “and had the epidural hematoma, we, for some unfathomable reason which seemed to be a good idea at the time, decided that it would be in Virgil and Alan’s best interests if we didn’t tell them until they’d finished work for the day.”

“Yi did fwad?”

“You gave us a fright,” his father explained. “We weren’t thinking straight.”

“Mount Virgilvious over here went volcanic when I finally told him.” Scott’s smile was rueful. “He’d been calling us every meal break and we’d been brushing him off with half-truths.”

“Half-truths and downright lies.” Virgil corrected. “When Scott eventually got around to telling me that you’d had a few problems...”

“A fu pwubem?”

“That was his words, right before he told me that you’d nearly died. Remember, Scott?”

Scott looked suitably abashed. “I remember,” he muttered.

“So you should. When I got fed up with Scott patronising me...”

“I wasn’t patronising you.”

“Yes, you were!”

“Virgil! I was not patronising you!”

“Anyone who manages to squeeze twenty honest, Virgs, into a two minute conversation, is patronising.”

“Twenty? Two minutes?”

“Oh, all right then,” Virgil grumbled. “Ten into five.”

John laughed. “We’re still waiting, Virgil. Just give me advance warning of when you’re planning on enacting your punishment so I can have my camera ready.”

Gordon shifted his head so he could look at him. “Fwad?”

“It sounds better coming from Virgil.”

Gordon rotated his head the other way. “Fwad, Brrchil?”

“I told Scott that if he said honest, Virg one more time I’d fly straight to Marineville and ram his phone down his throat.”

A slow smile twisted Gordon’s face. “Ya did fwad?”

“Offered to make him eat his words.”

“With this,” Scott held up the innocent article.

“We’ve all asked for front row seats when it happens,” Alan added.

“Okay, fine... So what happened yesterday is totally different to what happened two months ago.” Scott pointed at the photograph of the downed plane again. “But, Virgil, you might call that damage. Most sane people would call that a wreck.”

Virgil shrugged. “It’s a wreck we walked away from.”

“Not all,” John indicated a photo of Butch carrying Lisa.

“She was dehydrated,” Alan responded. “She was vomiting throughout the flight.”

“She is not a good traveller,” Virgil confirmed. “I would have given the Crumps a ring this morning to see how she was, but we left too early.”

Alan snickered. “I think Virgil’s sweet on her.” His face took on a wistful expression. “Though when you see her, you can’t blame him.”

Virgil was indignant. “Lisa’s a happily married woman!”

“Ah ha!” John crowed. “Notice he hasn’t denied the accusation. I think we’re on to something!”

“You know, I think Alan’s right,” Scott agreed. “Look at this photo of you holding her.” He held up his paper, pointing to a long-shot, slightly out of focus, photo of someone, obviously Virgil to those who knew him, carrying a woman at the top of the aeroplane’s evacuation chute.

“I was holding her until Butch,” Virgil pointed to the figure at the bottom of the chute, “was in position to catch her!”

Scott examined the photograph. “You don’t look like you’re in any hurry to let go.”

“You can’t pass judgement based on one photograph!” Virgil felt his cheeks grow hot. “She’s a friend!”

“Sure...” John’s smirk spoke volumes.

“A friend who’s been in Virgil’s bed,” Grandma reminded everyone.

Virgil stared at her, not quite able to work out whether she was siding with his brothers in teasing him, or whether she was stirring them up on his behalf. Despite this, he felt a kind of perverse pleasure in seeing the frustrated glances pass between his siblings.

“Yeah, that’s right!” Scott pounced. “Explain that away!”

“I know Butch has been in his bed too,” Grandma continued, smiling sweetly as if this was something every grandmother would be proud of.

This shut Virgil’s brothers up and even caused Jeff to sit forward. “What!”

“Grandma!” Virgil protested.

“Of course that was a different time…” Grandma continued on as if she hadn’t heard him, “to when I found Lisa and Virgil alone in Virgil’s apartment… And Lisa was naked…”

All eyes turned to Virgil and he felt his temperature increase a few degrees.

“…And Virgil was only half dressed.” Grandma winked at her grandson.

“‘Alv dwessd? Ni fwae!”

“No way’s right,” John agreed with Gordon. “Not Mr Square. Some day you are going to have to tell us everything, Virg.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do,” Scott retorted. “You can’t tell us that you’ve had Butch in your bed, Lisa wandering naked around your apartment...”

“While you’re half naked,” Alan interrupted.

“...and not give us the full facts,” Scott finished.

“I haven’t told you anything. Blame Grandma.”

Scott pretended to be astonished by the suggestion. “What? Blame this dear, sweet, innocent old lady?”

He ducked a cuff about the ear. “Less of the ‘old’, young man.”

“Come on, Virgil, spill the beans,” John pleaded. “What happened? Was it some kind of ménage-a-trois? You, Lisa and Butch.”

“No!”

“So you’re saying that Butch found Virgil and Lisa together in his apartment and exacted his revenge,” Scott chuckled. “That sounds plausible.”

“It sounds a bit too kinky to me,” Alan snickered again. “For Virgil anyway.”

“Fwad di yi ding den?” Gordon asked.

“What do I think...? Umm...” Alan thought. “Maybe that’s how Virgil got beaten up? Not by the Skulz; but by Butch!”

“Fwad ‘boud di bideo?”

“The video? It had to be a fake. It was too good to be real. How else could they have caught every action on screen? No… I’ll wager anything you like that…”

“What is this?!” Virgil exploded. “Pick on Virgil Tancy day...? I mean... Tracy! Virgil Tracy...” He made an exasperated sound and threw his hands up in the air. “You’ve got me so wound-up that I don’t know who I am anymore!” He folded his arms in a huff, slouched back in his seat, and glowered at the floor; more annoyed with himself for letting his family get under his skin than he was with them.

They were silent; realising that they’d made the rare mistake of overstepping the mark. “Sorry, Virgil,” Scott muttered and their brothers echoed the apology.

“You guys shouldn’t be teasing Virgil anyway!” Alan demanded, conveniently forgetting that he’d been enjoying the sport as much as the others. “Not after yesterday. You should have seen him, Dad! He was awesome!” he added, reverting back to his word of the week. “We’d just lost the engines, I’m sweating bullets and wondering what we’re going to do next, and Virgil, calm as they come, says we’re going to work it. And we did! No fuss. No doubts. No recriminations. No fear. No worries.”

Virgil shifted in his seat, as uncomfortable with the praise as he was with the teasing. “Shut up, Alan,” he muttered.

But Alan ignored him. “And then when we’d landed, he took charge. He was barking out orders left right and centre and demanding total control. No one questioned him, not even Uncle Hamish. They just did what they were told.” He grinned at his eldest brother. “You’ve got a potential pretender to your throne here, Scott.”

Scott was enjoying hearing one brother praise another. “Was he that good?”

“Good? He was awesome!” Alan turned to his father. “The papers may have focused on me, but that’s because my name’s known and I’m your son. Virgil was the real hero. You should be proud of him, Dad!”

Jeff smiled at his youngest son before moving his attention to Alan’s object of admiration. “I am, Alan. I’m proud of both of you... and I don’t need a nurse here to prompt me to say that.”

“But it wouldn’t hurt so we can get those guys’ heads back down to size,” John chuckled.

Scott grinned. “We could always use the Virgil Tracy method of discipline to shut Alan up.” He picked his phone onto the bed and put it back into his pocket.

“You’d look sick if he did.”

“Not as sick as Alan would.”

Gordon laughed. His laugh caught his throat and he started coughing. Unable to stop, and without the manual dexterity to cover his mouth, he had to rely on his grandmother to hold a tissue in front of his face.

“I’ll call the nurse,” Jeff offered as it became obvious that his son was unable to catch his breath.

Moments after he’d pushed the button, an efficient woman came bustling into the room. “That doesn’t sound too good,” she said to the gasping invalid. “Would you like some oxygen?” Not waiting for an answer to her rhetorical question, she reached up and pulled the oxygen mask from its position above his bed.

“Rest, Gordon,” Jeff patted his son on the arm. “We’ll wait in the other room.” He led the way into the accompanying unit and the family squeezed themselves, as best they could, into the tiny living area. He and his mother claimed the two chairs, while his sons perched wherever they found a space big and strong enough to support them.

Grandma looked at the tissue in her hand. “He’s coughing up blood again.”

“What!” Virgil stated at the innocuous piece of paper as it was discarded into a bin. “Blood?”

“Is something wrong with his lung?” Alan sounded as anxious as Virgil felt. “Has the wound opened up again? He’s been so well, relatively speaking, that I’d all but forgotten about his other injuries.”

Virgil agreed. Gordon’s paralysis was so “in your face” that it was easy to forget that he’d been inflicted with other life threatening injuries. Not for the first time he cursed his absence from the hospital.

“No, everything else is completely healed,” Jeff informed them. “It’s a minor lung infection and he’s nearly over it. We’ve worn him out this morning.”

“Oh... Good...” But still Virgil didn’t feel like he could relax. “Did they say what’s caused it?”

“Lying around too much. His lungs aren’t able to expand fully,” John explained. “We’re going to have to get him out of that bed.”

“We can’t do that until the infection’s cleared up,” his father reminded him.

Scott, sitting on the floor, leant back against the wall and pushed his hand through his hair. “How much longer are we going to have to keep doing this?”

Jeff looked sharply at him. “What?”

“How much longer is Gordon going to be trapped in that bed? At what point do we have to accept that this is it and it’s time to get on with our lives.”

Jeff gave him a look that chilled the room. “When Gordon’s better.”

“But what if he’s not going to get better? He hasn’t improved in weeks. What if this is as good as it’s going to get? What do we do if this afternoon Mr Millington tells us that it’s time to go home and set things up so that Gordon can live as full a life as it’s possible for him to live?”

Jeff’s expression was even colder. “Does this mean you don’t want to be here?”

The rest of the family were silent as they watched the verbal tug-o-war.

“No!” Scott protested. “There’s no way I’m going to bail until Gordon can leave the institute. But... at the moment you’ve got to admit that it’s as if he’s giving up... Physically and mentally.”

“Scott...” Jeff growled.

Scott was nothing if not tenacious. “Take this lung infection. His original injuries have all healed well, and he was fine a few weeks ago. Then he’s hit by the infection and he seems to go backwards; as if his body’s giving up.” He sat forward. “I want him to get better,” he insisted. “But I’m sure you must have noticed that he’s not trying as hard. Remember when he was training? The coach would tell him that the session was over, but Gordon will still turn and do another lap. A month ago when his therapists would tell him that he’d done enough for the day, he’d still attempt one more exercise... But not now. Now he gives up before the session has finished...”

Jeff rolled his eyes skyward. “Give me strength,” he muttered.

“It’s as if he’s lost the will to fight,” John commented.

“Yes.” Thankful for the support, Scott gave his brother a grateful glance. “It’s not something we can ignore, Father!” he insisted. “We have to start preparing ourselves. Up here if nowhere else,” he tapped his head.

“Scott!” Jeff barked and he shot daggers at his eldest son. “Gordon – will – get – better.”

“I hope you’re right, but look at what it’s doing to the rest of us in the meantime. We’re in limbo.”

Jeff’s face was growing red and Virgil hoped he wasn’t about to burst a blood vessel.

“Scott’s right,” John agreed. “We’re tied to this hospital and everything’s on hold. None of us have got a normal life.”

He wilted under a baleful glare. “Especially Gordon, John. I expect you to remember that.”

“I can’t forget it,” John replied. “But at the moment all I have... all we have is the house and this hospital...” At a look from his father he added hastily, “I’m not complaining. But look at Alan and Virgil.” Alan paled when his name was mentioned and Virgil wondered if he should comment before deciding to maintain his silence. “They’re either working or here. What kind of a life is that for a young man? What is that doing to Alan’s chances of winning the world championship?”

“At least they get a break away,” Scott continued. He indicated the older members of the family. “None of us do... And what about International Rescue?”

“What about it?” Jeff growled.

“That’s been your dream for years, but you haven’t even contacted Brains to see how he’s getting on. The poor guy’s stuck on the island; slaving away with no help!”

“Brains works better alone.”

“But there are some things that can’t be done alone. Height work for example. The ships are never going to get assembled while we’re half a world away. Think of the lives that could be lost.”

John fired home the killer punch. “It might have been Virgil and Alan’s yesterday.”

Jeff stood, his hands clenched into fists in rage. “We are NOT leaving here until Gordon is one hundred percent fit! And I expect you all to remember that!” He stormed out through the door leading into Gordon’s room.

The unit was silent as the family contemplated the words that had been said, and Virgil realised that there was one major difference between this altercation and yesterday’s dramas…

Now he was scared.

Chapter 17: A Quiet Commemoration

Virgil put the last of his breakfast dishes into the dishwasher and shut the door. It was Tuesday morning and he was still feeling a sense of disquiet over Scott and John’s Sunday discussion with their father. Even when he’d left for home yesterday evening, he could feel the tension between his brothers and Jeff. It was something that the family wasn’t used to and it worried him.

Gordon had sensed it too and had realised that whatever the altercation had been, it had been about him. When they were alone he’d tried to ask Virgil what was wrong and Virgil had pretended to misunderstand him, leaving Gordon frustrated and Virgil feeling guilty.

No one had asked Virgil his thoughts on the subject, for which he was profoundly grateful. But if they had he would have replied that he wasn’t at the Willis Institute often enough and long enough to be able to give an informed answer. That was another lie. He could see that, even after a month and a half, Gordon wasn’t improving. He could understand Scott and John’s desire to discuss Gordon’s future and what it meant for the family. And he could relate to his father’s need to never give up until Gordon was one hundred percent fit…

Even if it was obvious that that wasn’t going to happen.

The realisation hit Virgil like a ton of bricks, and he leant against the kitchen counter to regain his equilibrium. What was life going to be like now with a helpless Gordon having to rely on everyone else for every tiny little thing? What would it mean for Gordon? What would it mean to the family? What would it mean for International Rescue? Would International Rescue even be able to operate without a dedicated aquanaut and co-pilot for Thunderbird Two? Was this the end of all their plans…?

The doorbell rang.

Taking a deep breath, he strode over to the door and opened it, revealing Butch and Lisa Crump. “Hi.”

Lisa threw her arms about him in a warm embrace. “Thank you, Virgil!”

Virgil found himself wishing that he could hang onto her until all his problems disappeared. Instead he gave her a quick squeeze and then let go. “That was an unexpected welcome.”

Butch shook his hand. “We want’d t’ say thank you… face-to-face like.”

“Yes.” Lisa smiled. “And so we decided to catch you before work. I think you’re going to find yourself mobbed by everyone.”

“I hope not.” Virgil stepped aside. “Come in.” The Crumps complied, and he shut the door behind them. “I didn’t do anything particularly special.”

“Not special!” Butch exclaimed. “Get a load of this guy. He saves all our lives an’ he says it’s not special!”

Virgil shrugged. “I just did what had to be done.”

“There’re a lot of people at ACE who think you’re special,” Lisa informed him. “So you’d better get used to the idea.”

“How are you guys?” Virgil asked, trying to turn the conversation away from him. “Survived Saturday okay?”

“After a good long sleep,” Lisa laughed. “Right, Honey?” she asked Butch.

“Yeah,” he responded. “An’ a good long drink.”

“That’s another reason why we’re here early; to apologise,” Lisa explained. “We put you in danger.”

“I’d been in danger since the engines stopped,” Virgil replied. “Helping you two out didn’t make much difference.”

“Yes, it did. You and Alan had every right to leave us in there and save yourselves.”

“Yeah,” Butch agreed and hung his head. “Since I wouldn’ let Alan help me.”

“And we would never have forgiven ourselves,” Virgil said. “Don’t worry about it,” he added, hoping that was going to be the end of the conversation. “It’s all in the past and it’s time to move on.”

“You might find that difficult,” Lisa told him. “There was only one topic of discussion at work yesterday and our little drama’s been in all the papers.”

“I know,” Virgil admitted. “We didn’t get to the hospital until Sunday morning, hoping to reveal the gory details when we got there, and discovered that the papers had already stolen our thunder.”

“Papers…” Butch grumbled. “You’d think they’d get their facts righ’.”

Virgil managed a wry smile. “Have you ever known a newspaper article to be totally correct?”

“Yeah, bu’ you’d think they could at least get who you was righ’. They called you Virgil Tracy, not Virgil Tancy. And they said you was Mr Tracy’s son.”

“Oh…” Virgil looked at Lisa. “You haven’t told him yet?”

“No…” Lisa laid a hand on her husband’s arm. “Virgil is Mr Tracy’s son, Butch.”

Butch stared at her. “Wha’?”

“Jeff Tracy’s my father,” Virgil admitted.

There was a moment as their words sunk into his brain. Then Butch let out a cry of pleasure and wrapped his arms about Virgil in a less welcome bear hug; lifting him off the ground. “Tha’s great!”

Virgil’s bruises started to complain at the unexpected pressure and he felt as if the air was being squeezed out of his lungs. “Put me down, Butch!”

Butch let go; stepping back with an excited grin splitting his face. “‘Ow long ‘ave ya known?”

“Er…” Virgil had always suspected that Butch wasn’t the sharpest tool in the factory and this seemed to have confirmed it. “All my life.”

“Huh…? Oh…” Butch looked embarrassed. “I thought ya might ‘ave been adopted as a kid or somethin’ and only jus’ found out.”

Now Virgil understood. “No, I didn’t want to be treated differently to anyone else, so most people at ACE don’t know my real name. Only you, Bruce, Louis, Greg, Uncle Hamish… I mean Mr Mickelson, and the doctor. Lisa guessed last week.”

“That’s my girl,” Butch said proudly.

“So you’ve got to keep it a secret, Honey,” Lisa said. “For Virgil’s sake.”

“Sure.” Butch grinned. “Anything for my pal.” He treated Virgil to an affectionate punch on the shoulder; the force of which sent him staggering back against the kitchen bench.

Virgil rubbed his shoulder.

“You seem a little down,” Lisa noted. “How is Gordon?”

Virgil made a non-committal gesture. “Could be better.”

Butch scratched his head. “Is he Mr Tracy’s son who was in th’ accident?”

“Yes.” Virgil nodded. “I’ve been going to see him at the hospital every weekend.”

Butch looked concerned. “It’s serious?”

“Apart from limited movement in his right arm and face, he’s fully paralysed.”

“Oh…” Butch looked downcast. “‘Ow’s Mr Tracy copin’?

Virgil was surprised. Butch always seemed to be such a hard character, so much so that even those who knew him tended to forget that he was as soft as marshmallow inside. “He’s…” Virgil leant against the bench and tried to think of a suitable answer. “Up till the weekend I would have said he was coping… But now I think the stress is getting to him…” He looked at his hands, adding, without thinking: “It’s getting to all of us.”

“Oh! I am so sorry!” And Virgil found himself wrapped up in another of Lisa’s embraces.

He accepted it gratefully and hung on. “I hate to admit it,” he said when she let go, “but I think I needed that. Thanks for letting me borrow your wife for a moment, Butch.”

The big man gave a goofy grin. “Afta wha’ you did for us, seems th’ least we can do.”

Virgil looked at his watch. “I guess we’d better head off to work.” He smiled at his friends. “I’d suggest that we take the Red Arrow, but we don’t want the rabble scratching it, do we?”

Butch guffawed. “I always knew ya was a man after m’ own heart.”

When they arrived at ACE, they were met by a beaming Bruce Sanders. “Virgil! I never got the chance to say thanks for getting us safely there… and back. Are you sure you don’t list saving lives as one of your hobbies?” Virgil laughed. “You and Alan disappeared so quickly that I almost didn’t mark you off the list.”

“Uncle Hamish warned us that the media were about,” Virgil said. “He knew that Alan and I would want to keep a low profile.”

“By disappointing the ‘gentlemen of the press’,” Bruce grinned. “Everyone else was keen to tell their tales, but they wanted to talk to the man of the hour: you.”

“It was a family effort, remember,” Virgil reminded him.

“Ah… Virgil…” Bruce glanced at Butch.

“It’s okay, Bruce. Butch knows my real identity. It’s a relief to tell him.”

“I’ll bet.” Bruce grinned. “The rate you’re going you’ll have told everyone by the time you leave here.”

“That,” Virgil admitted as they walked towards the building, “is still an option. I haven’t decided if I will or won’t yet... Did Louis show his face yesterday?”

Bruce nodded. “To his credit, yes, he did. But he was not popular.”

“Didn’t think ‘e had it in ‘im,” Butch growled.

Lisa giggled. “I think he’d decided that the crash was a hallucination brought about by his hangover.”

“Watts banished him to the linisher all day,” Bruce snickered. “Everyone else has been giving him the cold shoulder.”

They entered the factory, intent on heading to the locker rooms to get their overalls, when it suddenly seemed to Virgil as if every employee of ACE swooped down on him.

“Ah, here’s the man we’ve been waiting to see.”

“How are you, Virgil?”

“You disappeared so quickly, I didn’t get the chance to say thanks.”

“We owe you our lives.”

“Are you all right, Virgil?” one of the female staff members laid her hand gently on Virgil’s arm. “We didn’t see you after we landed and you weren’t here yesterday.”

He gave her a reassuring smile. “I’m okay. I’d always planned on having yesterday off.” He laughed. “I can’t survive a full week at work without at least two full days away from you guys.”

A parcel was pressed into his hands. “This isn’t much, but it’s to say thank you.”

“I’m not expecting any thanks,” Virgil protested. “I was trying to save my skin as well, remember. The only other option was to grab a parachute and jump, which, considering the weather, was probably just as suicidal as staying with you in the plane and doing nothing… Besides, it was a team effort! Alan helped with the flying; Mr Mickelson tried to raise the alarm on the phone; and Bruce corralled you all together until the plane had been cleared. Like I said, it was a team effort.”

“Maybe,” Greg Harrison conceded, “but you were the one who flew us safely back home. And we are all indebted to you.”

A throat was cleared. “Mr Tancy.”

Virgil turned and found himself face-to-face with one of the supervisors. “Mr Watts?”

“I... ah... That is...” Watts fixed his attention on his subordinates about them. “Mr Mickelson has called a staff meeting. I think you had better all start heading over to the lunchroom.”

There was a general muttering as most of the crowd drifted away.

When they’d gone, Max Watts appeared to try to steel himself. “Mr Tancy... ah, Virgil...” He gave an ingratiating smile. “My wife and I... Um... I mean...” He took a deep breath. “What Alan Tracy and... and you... did... Well...” he was struggled on. “That is... We here at ACE are... uh... grateful... ah... for,” he gritted his teeth, “what you did on Saturday. Will you be seeing Alan Tracy again soon?”

Virgil tried not to smirk as he listened to the stammered, uncomfortable, attempt at thanks. “I should be seeing Alan sometime within the next two weeks.”

In that case, Max Watts plastered another ingratiating smile on his face. “Will you tell Alan Tracy that I would like to say thank you to him for... for his part in saving our lives?”

Virgil nodded. “I would be glad to.”

Satisfied that he’d done his duty and observed the formalities, Watts looked at his watch. “Mr Mickelson is holding a meeting in the lunchroom in two minutes time. Do not be late.” The last order was said with a pointed look at Virgil, before he turned on his heel and strode off in the direction of the offices.

Bruce laughed. “I’ll bet that stuck in his craw; having to say thank you to Virgil Tancy.”

“I can’t wait t’ see his face when you tell ‘im who ya are,” Butch stated.

“And please, please, please make sure we’re there to see his reaction when you do,” Bruce begged. “He’ll probably keel over in a dead faint and I’ll want to be there to drop… I mean, catch him.”

They were one of the last groups to enter the lunchroom, and Virgil’s arrival was heralded by hushed whispers, which continued as they made their way to their usual table in the back of the room.

“All hail the mighty hero,” Bruce teased as he claimed his seat.

“Shut up, Bruce,” Virgil muttered. He was discovering that his desire to shun the limelight was not only a response to his father’s wishes and International Rescue’s needs. He was feeling increasingly embarrassed by the continued attention and this, coupled with the lunchroom’s over generous heating system, was causing him to break out in a sweat. In an attempt to cool down he removed his sweatshirt.

“Are you trying to put us mere mortals to shame?” Bruce asked.

Virgil stared at him. “Huh?”

“Look at you!” Bruce indicated Virgil’s toned, t-shirt clad torso. “You’ve got every woman in the place drooling now.”

“What!” Virgil looked over to where a group of his female co-workers were regarding him with the kind of star-struck stares that teenagers normally reserved for their movie idols. Ashamed at being caught out, they blushed and looked away. “I don’t believe it.”

“Face it, Virgil,” Lisa told him. “At the moment you’re every girl’s dream boy.”

“And Winston’s,” Bruce snickered as Butch snuffled a laugh.

“Shush, Bruce. I’m serious!” Lisa scolded and turned her attention back to Virgil. “Don’t look so surprised. You’re heroic, brave, intelligent, sweet, caring, thoughtful, artistic, practical…” as Bruce gagged and Virgil felt his embarrassment quotient rising, she gave a wicked grin and raked her eyes over his body, “you’re pretty good eye-candy to boot.” She laughed at the shocked chorus of “Lisa!” from her victim and her husband.

Bruce nearly fell off his chair in laughter. “If you could only see your faces.”

“That’s it. I don’t care if feel as if I’ve fallen into the crucible furnace…” Virgil pulled his sweatshirt off the back of his chair, “I’m putting my shirt back on.”

Bruce stopped him; pushing the garment down onto the table. “Before you do, let’s try a little experiment.”

Wary, Virgil looked at him. “Experiment? What experiment?”

“The reaction of the feminine quarter to the exposure and contraction of the masculine soft tissue linked to rigid calcium structures designed for the daily manipulation of various implements.”

Butch stared at him and even Virgil had trouble interpreting the statement. “What?”

“Show the girls your biceps and let’s see what happens.”

“No way!” Virgil exclaimed.

“Come on, Virgil,” Bruce cajoled. “It’s only a bit of fun.”

“No,” Virgil stated. “This is ACE’s canteen, not a singles club.”

“You don’t have to date them, just see what reaction you get.” Undaunted, Bruce thought briefly. “What if we all did it?” he asked. “We’ll make it a competition, and Lisa can judge who, out of the three of us, has got the biggest biceps. And, since there’s no way I’m going to win, I feel quite safe in suggesting that the prize for the winner is a kiss from the judge... Deal?”

“No.”

“Are you willing to be the judge, Lisa?”

She was delving into her pockets, trying to find something she could measure with. “The chance to compare a bit of muscle? Just try and stop me.” She gave up, tore a long strip of paper off a nearby newspaper, and picked up a pen. “I’m ready.”

“Butch?”

Butch, assured of winning first prize, grinned and nodded. “Sure.”

“That leaves you, Virgil.” Bruce started rolling up the sleeve of his overalls. “It’ll help kill some time until Mr Mickelson gets here.”

Virgil looked at his watch. “What’s holding him up? I could have gone into the locker room, put my overalls on, and been back by now.”

“Be a sport, Virgil,” Lisa begged. “It’s not as if we’re forcing you to parade around wearing nothing but a towel.”

“I would like to point out, Lisa, that I never asked you to parade around wearing nothing but a towel. I only caught you because of poor timing on both our parts.”

“You was lucky it was ya, Virgil,” Butch said. “Anyone else woulda been dead.” He punched his fist into his hand for emphasis.

“The way you hit me, I thought I was dead!” Virgil remembered.

Bruce’s redirected their attention back to his original theme. “Let’s get this experiment over and done with.” He did a bicep curl, his skinny arm revealing a profile approximating that of a bent pipe cleaner. “What do you think, Lisa?”

“I’ll tell you when you show me your biceps, Bruce.”

“Show you...?” Bruce feigned indignation. “This is it! It’s the best I can do.” There was some feminine giggling from one of the other tables.

“Oh...” Lisa eyed his arm. “Where’s the widest bit? It all looks the same to me.” She shrugged and wrapped the strip of newspaper about his arm, marked where it met itself, and then laid it flat on the table, writing BS by the mark.

Bruce looked at the initials. “I hope that’s not some comment about my physique!”

“That all y’ve got, Sanders?” Butch looked at him amazement. “Lemme show ya ‘ow it’s done. Here, Honey...” He rolled up his sleeve. “‘Ow’s that?”

“Now that’s what I call a muscle,” she said appreciatively. She wrapped the paper around his bicep and came up short. “One paper strip... plus the width of my thumb.”

“The champ-e-on!” Butch gloated.

“Not until the contest is over,” Bruce reminded him. “Your turn, Virgil.”

“Nope.”

“Come on,” Lisa cajoled. “Don’t be a spoilsport.”

“I’m telling you now, my biceps aren’t as big as Butch’s!”

“I think we need an independent adjudicator to decide that,” Bruce told his reluctant friend.

“And you think Lisa, Butch’s wife,” Virgil jerked his thumb in their direction, “is independent?!”

“The newspaper is.” Bruce grabbed Virgil’s arm. “Come on, flex that baby.”

“Let go.” Virgil shook him free. “I was wrong... Sunday wasn’t ‘pick on Virgil’ day; it was the start of ‘pick on Virgil’ week!”

His friends stared at him. “Huh?”

“Never mind.”

“Please,” Bruce pleaded. “Remember, this isn’t a genuine contest...”

Butch looked saddened. “It isn’t?”

Lisa kissed him on the top of head. “Never mind, Dear. I’ll make it up to you later.”

“Shush,” Bruce told them. “What we are trying to do,” he said, voice low, “is see what reaction you, hero of the moment, get when you show off that manly physique. We’ve already ascertained that Butch is enough man for only one woman, and that I am guaranteed to induce mass hystericals...”

“You mean mass hysteria,” Lisa corrected.

“I know what I mean... Now we want to see what affect someone who, in Lisa’s opinion at least, embodies the heroic man; what affect you have on the poor twittering females of the world... or at least ACE.”

Virgil looked at him. “If I do it, can we forget, once and for all, this heroic nonsense?”

“If you want.”

Virgil sighed. He knew he was an attractive man, it came as part of the Tracy genetic territory, and he had to admit that deep down he was finding all this attention flattering. “You guys are worse than my brothers! All right then.” He did a bicep curl. “Measure it quick, Lisa.”

There was a commotion from the other side of the room.

“Hate to tell you this, Virgil,” Bruce chuckled, “but I think Winston’s just swooned.”

But it wasn’t Winston who’d created the disturbance. Hamish Mickelson had entered the lunchroom accompanied by his personal assistant and two strangers. “My apologies for making you all wait.”

“That’s okay, Mr M,” someone said. “You’re paying us to sit here and twiddle our thumbs.” There was laughter throughout the room.

Hamish Mickelson smiled at the joke. “Thank you for being so understanding, Aaron... I know that we usually hold these staff meetings on Monday mornings, but this week I have a couple of good reasons for ignoring protocol. Firstly; I would like to thank Bruce Sanders and the rest of the social club committee for what was, if you exclude the trip home, a fun and memorable day.”

“May I speak, Mr Mickelson?” Bruce stood. “As president of the social club, I’d like to extend my own thanks to Alan Tracy, Mr Tracy and Team Tracy for giving up their time and opening up their facilities to us. I’d like to thank our original pilots, yourself and Virgil, for getting us there safely...” He smirked. “And I’d like to thank Louis and others for ensuring that the day finished with a bang.” There were jeers and Louis Fleming was pelted with balls of screwed up newspaper.

“Err, thank you, Bruce... I think,” Mickelson said.

“And I know everyone will be pleased that the raffles raised $585 profit which will go to the Neurological Foundation,” Bruce finished. He sat down to applause and cheers of “nice one.”

Hamish Mickelson held up a hand for quiet. “And now,” he said, with the air of one who wished he could produce more of a fanfare, “we come to the most important part of this meeting.” The two strangers straightened in their seats and preened. “I don’t need to remind anyone of what we all went through on the flight home on Saturday, and how lucky we were to have two such capable pilots controlling that plane.” He didn’t see the strangers appear to deflate. “Without their skills things could have been worse... much worse. We are fortunate to be able to count one of those pilots as an employee of Aeronautical Component Engineering. I know that he’s not interested in publicity, and is probably embarrassed by all the attention we’re giving him, but we all owe him a great debt...” He looked at the young man at the back of the room who seemed to be more intrigued by the mechanics of a ballpoint pen than by the speech. “And so, I’d like to ask Virgil to step forward.”

Virgil had been listening to the monologue with mixed feelings. It was gratifying to be honoured by his colleagues, but at the same time he wished they’d just shut up and get on with their lives, leaving him to get on with his. He couldn’t escape the irony of the fact that these were the very people who’d resented his presence when he’d first arrived at ACE. Face burning, he stood, pushed past a grinning Bruce who clapped him on the back, and walked between tables of dewy-eyed females towards his boss and long-time family friend.

Hamish reached out and grabbed Virgil’s hand in what started as a handshake, but ended up twisting him around so he was facing the ‘audience’. “Virgil,” Hamish clapped him on the shoulder, “a lot of thought went into what would be considered an appropriate memento of your part in Saturday’s drama. It was thought that you wouldn’t appreciate a mere certificate, so we had to find something that matched your skills and talents... Olivia...” His P.A. wheeled over a large object that had been hidden under a cloth on a trolley behind the door. “Thank you... Virgil, please accept this token of Aeronautical Component Engineering’s appreciation for your courage, resourcefulness, and skill.” Accompanied by a rousing applause and cheers, and a standing ovation from the three people at the back of the room, he whipped off the cloth revealing a sculptured piece of metal.

Numb, Virgil took in his trophy. This wasn’t just any ordinary piece of metal. Roughly half a metre long and 30 centimetres high, it was white except where the paint had been scratched away. In its original incarnation the object had been flat; now it curved back on itself and was capped, forming a shape representing the aerofoil profile of an aeroplane’s wings. Scarred numbers painted black on white read FAB-32, the registration number of the aeroplane they’d crashed in on Saturday. Laser etched into the panel’s surface was signature after signature; the name of every person who’d been on the flight and who owed Virgil their life. “I don’t believe it! Is this one of the plane’s panels?”

“Yes.” Hamish cleared his throat as if embarrassed. “It has been pointed out to me that an error was made in the engraving.” He pointed above the registration number. “I’m afraid that the engraver had been reading too many newspaper articles and has dedicated this to Virgil Tracy. We can, of course, rectify the error... if you wish.”

“No, don’t do that,” Virgil grinned, toying with the idea of revealing his true identity. “I would appreciate being known as Jeff Tracy’s son...”

“Especially if it means being mentioned in the will,” someone quipped.

The look in Hamish’s eyes made Virgil think that he was almost expecting that this would be the moment when all secrets would be revealed to ACE... But then the possibility that many in the team would feel betrayed if they discovered that the boss’s son had been working incognito amongst them for so long reared its head. So Virgil kept his speech short and simple. “I’ll treasure this, and all the thought and work that went into it. Thank you.”

“Thank you, Virgil. Perhaps you’ll permit us to leave this on display in the canteen for the rest of the day?” The hand on his shoulder guided Virgil back in the direction of his seat and he obeyed, wishing that he could stay and admire his new acquisition. His parade back to his seat was to the accompaniment of congratulatory words and gestures.

Hamish Mickelson picked up a piece of paper. “After that extremely satisfying task, I am now on to more mundane items of business...”

Virgil wasn’t listening as his boss droned on. He was filled with a new kind of heat; the pleasurable warmth that came with being recognised and acknowledged. He only just managed to drag himself back to reality as Mickelson was saying, “...and finally I would like to introduce Ethan Linsay of Tuffas Safety Products and Nicole Rasmussen of Topratez Advertising. Most of you will know that Tuffas supplies all of ACE’s safety equipment. They are in the process of producing a new catalogue and have asked if we would be willing to provide the factory as backdrop for their models. Would you care to expand on this, Ms Rasmussen?”

The young women, the epitome of cool confidence, stood and turned to address her audience. “Thank you, Mr Mickelson... Topratez has been hired by Tuffas to produce the catalogue and associated advertising materials. Our creative team have decided that to add to the realism and authenticity of the spread, we would not only shoot in a genuine factory, but...” she gave a dramatic pause, “use the workers from that factory as models.” An excited murmur rumbled through the lunchroom. “We are envisaging at least two principal models, but others will be visible in the background. Naturally should your image appear in the advertising, you will be recompensed according to the frequency of the usage, and how clearly you can be identified in the photos. If you are a principle model, or are clearly seen in the foreground, you will receive $20.00 per photo used. If you are in the background, but recognisable, you will receive $5.00 per photo.” She removed a catalogue from the bag next to her chair and flicked through it. “As you can see, this could quickly add up to a sizeable amount. There is also the chance that your image could be used in advertising such as that designed for other print media and television...” She gestured to Olivia, the PA, and Hamish Mickelson’s assistant started handing out pieces of paper. “These are forms authorising Topratez to take your photographs and Tuffas to use said photographs in their advertising. There is also room for you to state that you refuse for your image to be taken or used in any way.”

Virgil was pleased to hear this. He received his form from Olivia with a smile of thanks, wrote his name at the top, his alias flowing from his pen nearly as easily as if it had been his real name. Then he put an emphatic cross next to I do not consent to having my image taken or used by Topratez and/or Tuffas.

“So you’re not interested?” Bruce commented, looking over his shoulder. “What a surprise,” he deadpanned.

“And you are,” Virgil said, looking at his friends form.

Bruce shrugged. “I won’t have a chance. We’ve already proved today that I’m not in the same league as some of you guys, but you’ve got to be in to win, right?”

Virgil nodded. “Right. How about you two?” he asked the Crumps.

Lisa giggled. “It might be fun. People are always saying that I should be a model. Maybe this is my lucky break?”

“How about you, Butch?” Bruce asked, leaning across Virgil to grab the big man’s form. “So you’re a yes too?”

“Could do with the money,” Butch grunted.

“Couldn’t we all,” Bruce sighed. “Well, most of us,” he amended with a sideways look at Virgil.

“I must apologise,” Mickelson was saying. “I had intended on telling you all about the shoot yesterday, but I’m afraid the excitements of the weekend rather took over everything. Also all photography was originally planned for next week, but today I have been informed,” the lines of his face hardened, “that the timeframe has been brought forward. As most of ACE’s customers demand complete confidentiality, no photography will take place during work hours using actual product. Therefore filming will take place after four p.m. on Friday afternoon.” He looked at his watch. “That concludes what has become a very long meeting. If you could all deposit your forms with Olivia on the way out, then the hopefuls will be interviewed throughout the day. Those who are shortlisted will undergo a photographic screen-test tomorrow. By Thursday afternoon we should all know who the lucky models are.”

Virgil didn’t hurry back to work; he wanted to have another look at his prize. He gave his form to Lisa to hand in and, letting the rest of the crew push forward ahead of him, sauntered up to the front.

“Happy?” Bruce asked.

Virgil nodded. “This is better than anything I could have expected. Did you know about it?”

“Know about it?” Bruce chuckled. “Who do you think sweet-talked the Air Accident Inspector into letting us have the panel before he’d finished his investigation?”

“You?”

“Uh, huh. It’s amazing how much you can get away with when you mention the name Tracy.”

Virgil examined where the two edges of the panel had been welded together to form what would have been the sharp trailing edge of the aerofoil’s cross section. “I think I can guess who did the welding.” He grinned at Lisa Crump. “Thanks.”

“We had t’ have the best for ya,” Butch stated, giving his wife a squeeze. “I bent it,” he added proudly.

“With his bare hands,” Bruce quipped. “He wrapped it around Lou’s neck.”

“I took a photo,” Lisa said, showing Virgil her cell phone. On it was an image of him receiving his reward; a big smile on his face. “I’ve sent it through to Gordon and Mrs T.”

“You didn’t,” he groaned. “They’ll never let me live it down.”

“I don’t think so.” Lisa showed him Gordon’s reply. Deserved. Tell him to bring it Fri. “Mrs T says she’s going to put the photo in her scrapbook.”

The four friends were joined by the General Manager and Greg Harrison. “I thought I said it was time to get back to work,” Hamish growled, the twinkle in his eyes betraying the seriousness of his tone.

Virgil ran his finger across his name on the trophy. “I’m glad you put my real name on it. Thanks.”

Hamish Mickelson clapped him on the back. “It’s a memento of your first…” there was the merest hint of emphasis on the word; something that only Virgil picked up on, “…big rescue and we wanted to make it special.”

“Aren’t you just the teeniest, tiniest worried about ACE, Mr Mickelson?” Bruce asked.

“Worried?” Confused Hamish frowned. “No. Why?”

“Isn’t it supposed to employ some of the best engineers in the country?”

Greg chuckled. “Present company excepted, Sanders.”

Hamish was still trying to work out what Bruce was saying. “ACE does employ the best. We make a point of it.”

“But most of them can’t even do simple arithmetic!”

“I’m sure I’m going to regret asking this,” Hamish sighed. “But what do you mean, simple arithmetic?”

Bruce flashed him a broad grin and indicated Virgil and the trophy. “They can’t even put two and two together.”

Everyone groaned. Everyone except for Butch who seemed to find it the funniest thing he’d heard all week. Virgil was surprised that he’d even got the joke.

“For a moment there, Virgil, I thought you were going to reveal your relationship to Jeff Tracy,” Greg commented.

“For a moment there, I considered it,” Virgil admitted. “Then I realised that I’m so close to finishing here that I didn’t want to risk rocking the boat.”

“Rather that than crashing a plane,” Bruce quipped.

“Have you all handed in your forms?” Hamish asked. When they nodded, he smiled. “The advertising people have already started a shortlist. They asked me if I would recommend our ‘hero’,” he smiled at Virgil. “I told them that I thought it was highly unlikely that you would be interested in participating. Ms Rasmussen has asked me to try to change your mind. Consider this an ‘attempt’.”

“Considered,” Virgil agreed. “And the answer’s still no.”

“I shall inform Ms Rasmussen.”

“Thank you.”

“Come on you lot,” Greg said. “Time we got some work done. You can gloat over your spoils later, Virgil.”

Morning tea rolled around and Virgil found himself in a long queue. For some reason there was a hold up dishing out the coffees and the line was moving slowly.

“At this rate it’ll be lunchtime by the time we get served,” Bruce complained. “Hey, Virgil, why don’t you use your star power and get to the front and get us a couple of coffees. No one would mind if you jumped the queue.”

“I’d mind,” Virgil retorted. “I’m not expecting any special favours… What’s the hold up anyway?”

Their co-worker in the queue behind them, a woman from the paint bay named Nancy, had the answer. “Those advertising people are trying to put faces to the names on our forms. They’re asking everyone who they are.”

“I don’t know why most of us even bothered,” grumped her friend Carolyn, a dour woman from inwards goods. “It’s obvious that if Lisa Crump’s put her name forward, then the rest of us haven’t got a chance.”

“That’s if they pick a woman at all,” Nancy agreed.

“They’d have to, wouldn’t they?” Virgil asked. “There’re nearly as many women working at ACE as men. To deliberately not pick one of you would be discrimination.”

“Okay, fine. So they’re liberated enough to choose one man and one woman as the principle models…” Carolyn was still grumbling. “But I guarantee that the two they’ll pick, Virgil Tancy, will be you and Lisa.”

“And I will guarantee that they don’t pick me,” Virgil rejoined.

“Don’t give me that,” she scoffed. “We saw you showing off this morning…” Virgil scowled at Bruce who ducked his head apologetically. “And we all know that with your looks you’ve got the job sewn up.”

“No, I haven’t,” Virgil corrected. “I put a cross in the box that says I’m not willing to participate.”

Nancy’s jaw dropped. “You did what?”

“I’ve had enough publicity after this weekend,” Virgil admitted. “I don’t need any more.”

“What about the money?” Carolyn demanded.

“He doesn’t need any more of that either,” Bruce joked.

Virgil glared at him again as they shuffled forward two steps.

“Come on!” Nancy grumbled. “Get a move on… Someone should complain to Mr Mickelson. This is our time that’s being wasted… Hurry up!” she said loudly, directing her irritation to the front of the queue.

“Yeah!” someone agreed. “We’re thirsty, we’ve been on our feet most of the morning and we need a break!”

“Yes!” a third person exclaimed. “We do real work!”

“I think you’re starting a riot, Nancy,” Virgil muttered.

“I’m just exercising the worker’s right to have a ten minute break during the course of the morning,” the woman responded.

“You’re friends with Mr Mickelson…” Bruce nudged Virgil. “You could go and complain.”

“Greg’s already gone,” Paul had overheard their conversation. “We should get some action soon.”

“They’re wasting our time and it’s not even as if they’re going to choose any of us,” Carolyn griped. “Like I said, they’ll choose Lisa. You’d think they’d at least let the rest of us women get our drinks and sit down.”

“You’re only assuming that they want someone like Lisa,” Virgil told her. “They might not be looking for someone who’s… um…” He tried to think of an adequate adjective.

“Drooled over by every man in the place,” Nancy said snidely.

Bruce laughed. “You mean every man except Winston.”

“You’re generalising, Nancy,” Virgil told her.

“Sure,” she sneered. “And in general all men are the same. You all melt into a puddle of hormones as soon as you see Lisa Crump and those like Lisa Crump. And you’re just as bad as the rest of them, Virgil.”

“She’s a friend,” Virgil protested, with a feeling of déjà vu. “I do not melt!”

“If she’s your friend; is any chance of you getting her to not to put her name forward?” Carolyn asked. “So the rest of us at least have a chance?”

“None whatsoever. But, as I said, there’s nothing to say that Lisa will be picked. She looks like a model, not an engineer. Maybe they’ll choose someone who looks like they don’t mind getting grease under their nails.”

Carolyn squared up to him. “And what does a woman who doesn’t mind getting grease under her nails look like?”

Virgil looked at her. “Ah…”

“Yes, Virgil,” Nancy asked, stepping closer. “What do you mean?”

“Um…” Virgil looked at Bruce for assistance, but his friend was having too much fun at his expense.

“Well, Virgil?” Carolyn prompted.

“Ah… I… I don’t think I’ll bother about having a coffee.” Virgil relinquished his place in the queue and it was quickly filled up by two triumphant women. “I’ll get some water instead.”

“What are you doing, Virgil?” Bruce asked, smirking.

“Getting myself out of a hole before I dig myself in too much deeper.”

Bruce laughed. “I thought you were fearless.”

“Fearless, but not foolish.” Virgil headed towards the crowd gathered around the water cooler.

Still smiling, Bruce looked at Nancy and Carolyn, who glared back. He lost his smile. “Ah… Virgil...!” He took a step out of the line. “Grab me some water while you’re there!” He fixed the two women with an ingratiating grin. “Why don’t you ladies take my place...?” He fled.

With satisfied grins of their own, Carolyn and Nancy moved another place up the queue.

Virgil was at the back of the group of disgruntled employees who were availing themselves of the water cooler when someone touched him on the arm. “Would you like a coffee, ah, Virgil?”

It was the advertising agent, Nicole Rasmussen, and she was holding a cup of warm, brown, aromatic liquid.

“No, thanks,” he responded. “I’ll make do with water. There are plenty still waiting for a hot drink who I am sure would appreciate it though.” He indicated the long line of co-workers.

She didn’t move. “I was impressed with that award they gave you this morning,” she admitted. “Mr Mickelson told me how you saved all their lives.”

Virgil shrugged and pretended to try to get closer to the cooler so he could move away from her. “Anyone who was in my position would have done the same. I did what I had to.”

“And everyone at Aeronautical Component Engineering obviously respects you for it.” She stepped closer again, trying to press the cup into his hands. “Are you sure you don’t want this?”

“No, thanks.”

“I see you’ve decided against putting your name forward for the photo shoot.”

“That’s right.”

“Is there any chance I could get you to change your mind?”

Virgil was starting to feel very uncomfortable. He was well aware that the people around them were listening. “No chance whatsoever.”

“Think how proud your family would be if they knew your photo was in every engineering workshop in the country.”

“Proud is not the word I think they would use,” Virgil replied, imagining Jeff Tracy’s reaction to his son’s appearance in a widespread publication. “Look. You’ve got lots of people who want to give it a go,” he indicated the queue, “otherwise you wouldn’t be holding everyone up. Why don’t you go and…” he nearly said ‘annoy’, “talk to them?”

“Because you’ve got the look…” Nicole ran eyes over him and he felt his skin crawl, “and the body we want. And you’re not afraid to show it off. I saw you with your workmates before the meeting started this morning.” She treated him to a lascivious wink. “I was very impressed.”

Bruce had managed to score two cups of water and was heading towards his friend, intending to give one to him. He heard Nicole’s words, saw Virgil’s face darken, and veered away; realising that it was time to make himself scarce. He found the Crumps in the coffee queue. “Don’t go near Virgil,” he warned, giving Lisa his second cup. “That ad woman’s trying to sweet talk him into applying for the photo shoot and he’s not happy; with her or with us.”

“What’d we do?” Butch asked.

“She saw him show his muscles this morning. I think he’s blaming us for the unwanted attention.”

“Oh,” Lisa bit her lip. “I suppose he’s right.” She jumped, nearly spilling her water, when a door slammed open.

“What is going on here?!”

At the unexpected shout, everyone turned towards the entrance to the lunchroom. It was Hamish Mickelson and he stood in the doorway with Greg Harrison by his side. Neither man looked pleased.

The bell that marked the end of morning tea sounded.

“Oh, great,” someone moaned.

“We haven’t had our coffee yet, Mr M.,” someone else complained.

“Yeah, and we’ve been waiting here for hours.”

“It’s these ad people; they’re stopping the line from moving.”

“Ms Rasmussen,” Mickelson turned to the woman from Topratez Advertising. “What is going on?” He glanced at Virgil who attempted to sneak away. “Why is there a hold up?”

She smiled an advertising executive’s smile at him. “We are just trying to put names to the faces.”

“Then why are you talking to Virgil Tancy, when he has clearly stated that he does not want to be part of your campaign?”

“I was hoping to change his mind.”

“Olivia!” Mickelson bellowed.

His P.A. had been one of the lucky ones who had managed to get her mid-morning cup of coffee. Cowering slightly, she hurried from her table to her boss. “Yes, Mr Mickelson?”

“Take all the forms from the Topratez people and set up a schedule where they can interview every person interested,” he glared at Nicole, “in being part of the Tuffas catalogue.”

“Yes, Mr Mickelson.”

“Each interview is to only last five minutes.”

“Yes, Mr Mickelson.”

Nicole held up her hand. “But five minutes isn’t long enough.”

“It will be for the initial interview,” Mickelson told her. “You may proceed with the screen tests tomorrow as agreed… As for the rest of you…” he raised his voice. “I would like to apologise on Topratez’s behalf for the interruption to your morning break.” He looked at his watch. “I will give you another ten minutes. I expect everyone to be back at work at 10:11 am.” He turned back to Nicole. “You and your people will leave my people alone until you interview them at the agreed times.”

“Yes, Mr Mickelson,” she nodded.

“And you will not annoy anyone who does not wish to participate.”

She nodded again.

“Good. You may use the boardroom for your interviews. I’ll show you where that is.”

“Thank you.”

Desperate for something warmer than a chilly cup of water, and relieved that the fuss seemed to be all over, Virgil rejoined the coffee queue.

“Are you mad with us?” Bruce Sanders asked.

“Yes.”

“We didn’t know Mr Mickelson was going to walk in with a predatory ad woman,” Bruce stated. “Honest, Virgil…” Virgil managed to hold back a grin as an image of Bruce and a certain cell phone came to mind, “...it was only a bit of fun. We wanted your presentation to be a big surprise.”

“It was.”

“And we wanted to make sure that you didn’t get a big head with all the attention you were getting.”

Virgil sighed. “I thought you’d know me better than that by now.”

“Well… I’ll admit that we got carried away slightly.” Bruce looked downcast as he jammed his hands into his pockets and walked with his friend to where Greg Harrison was working by the crucible furnace. “Isn’t there some syndrome where people who survive the trauma of a near-death experience start to act out of character?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think we’ve got it?”

Virgil left the question unanswered. “What do you want us to do, Greg?”

“Well, Mr Sanders...” Greg’s eye twinkled. “Mr Tracy, we are going to fill this mould here.” He patted a structure about ten metres high.

“What is it?” Bruce asked, eyeing the monstrous mould up. “It looks a bit outside ACE’s normal field.”

“I don’t know exactly,” Greg admitted. “All I know is that it’s something conical from Bleathman Corp, and that we’re filling it with the Cahelium that’s in the furnace. And we’ve got to do a good job. Any cracks or weak points and we’ve got to do it again... at ACE’s expense.”

Virgil knew exactly what the finished product was going to be: the drill bit nose for International Rescue’s drilling machine. He wanted the pour to go well too, but for totally different reasons than Greg’s. Lives were going to depend on this machine functioning properly... His included.

“Better get your flame retardant suits on,” Greg instructed. “We’re having to pump the furnace right up to her maximum sustainable temperature in order to do this job. Make sure they’re sealed tight and that all systems are operational. Breathing, cooling, communications, the lot. Check each other’s PPE. We don’t want any meltdowns... literally. Got me?”

“Yes, Sir,” his two assistants agreed.

“Then go and do it and get back here straight away.”

In the attached preparations room, Bruce and Virgil readied themselves for the pour in silence. But, before he pulled his hood over his head, Bruce spoke. “Sorry.”

Virgil grinned. “That was all I was waiting for.”

“Really?”

Virgil pulled his hood on and sealed the edge. “Okay, check me over.”

Bruce, working methodically, checked that every gap in Virgil’s suit was sealed tightly. Then he submitted to Virgil repeating the process on him. Feeling like a pair of astronauts in their silver reflective gear, they left the preparations room. “That’s one small step for man...” Bruce joked, his voice slightly tinny in Virgil’s earpiece.

Virgil looked up at the top of the mould. “It’ll be a giant leap if we fall from up there.”

“Then you’d better make sure you don’t fall then,” Greg’s voice told them. They turned and found him in the supervisor’s personal protective equipment.

“If this stuff works like they say it does, we’d make a good ad for Tuffas,” Bruce noted. “And better still, no one would recognise Virgil.”

“Don’t forget this isn’t a closed circuit, Bruce,” Greg warned. “I wouldn’t go telling each other your girlfriends’ phone numbers.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Right, up you go,” Greg indicated the hydraulic platform and stepped back.

Following Bruce, Virgil stepped onto the platform and clipped the carabiner attached to the safety harness about his torso to the cage. Both men gave their supervisor the thumbs up signal, and he operated the controls that sent them rising up towards the top level of the furnace. When the platform came to a stop, they unclipped their harnesses from the cage, clipped them onto a guide line, and made their separate ways along the gantry until they were on opposite sides of the boiling crucible of molten metal.

“Are you in position, Tracy?” Greg asked.

“In position,” Virgil confirmed.

“Are you in position, Sanders?”

“In position,” Bruce echoed.

“Good. Starting computer programme now…”

“Wait!” It was Bruce who spoke. “Hang on, Greg…” He sounded breathless.

His supervisor was quick to respond. “What is it, Bruce?”

“Behind you. I think someone’s taking photos.”

“What?” Virgil felt his heart leap into his mouth. Sure, the physical shape of the drilling machine was largely concealed by the mould’s exterior, but even the slightest hint to the wrong people that ACE was involved with the manufacture of objects outside its usual aeronautical scope, could spell trouble for both the company and International Rescue. Long before Gordon’s accident, Lady Penelope had reported that she had information that someone was trying to get their secrets. How this person or organisation knew that International Rescue and its advanced equipment were in existence was a mystery, but the fact that word had somehow leaked out was of huge concern to them all. “Who is it?”

“One of those ad guys, I think…”

Greg Harrison was marching towards the miscreant; the set of his body showing that he was angry. He stepped through the safety barrier, removed his hood, and began to berate the photographer.

“I can’t hear what he’s saying,” Bruce complained

Virgil agreed. Without the microphone in Greg’s hood, his words weren’t being transmitted up to them. His body language was telling the story though. He grabbed the photographer by the arm and dragged the obviously complaining man away towards the offices.

“It looks like we’re going to be up here a while,” Virgil said. He leant on the guard rail and looked down into the red-hot liquid, glad that the protective material and cooling layer in his suit was shielding him from the heat. “You know,” he said, as much to pass the time as anything, “for as long as I’ve worked here, this crucible furnace has always kinda given me the creeps.”

He could hear the surprise in Bruce’s reply. “It gives you the creeps?”

“Yes. I don’t know why. I look at it from the other side of the factory and it reminds me of Medusa with her head of writhing snakes. Venomous and deadly.”

“Medusa,” Bruce deadpanned.

“Yes.”

“With a head of snakes?”

“Yes. If you stand back you can see the heat waves rising up like hissing serpents.”

“Oh – Kay…” Bruce enunciated. “That is seriously weird. Do you want me to tell you what this crucible furnace reminds me of?”

“Yes.”

“A big bowl of molten metal.”

Virgil chuckled. “Philistine.”

“Artiste.”

“Here’s Greg,” Virgil indicated the supervisor who was marching back to the barrier. They watched as he donned his protective headgear again and then entered the restricted area.

“Was it someone from the ad agency, Greg?” Bruce asked.

“Yes,” Greg growled. “They were getting some test shots to see how well each area would photograph so they would know where they would need extra lights. Mr Mickelson’s reminding them of ACE’s strict no photographs rule. I think he’s beginning to regret that he ever agreed to Tuffas’ proposal.” He took his place at the control panel. “Okay, Boys, let’s see if we can actually manage to get some work done today…”

“Virgil! Bruce!” Lisa Crump bounded up to them. It was Thursday afternoon and they were about to leave work for the day. “Guess what!”

“Ummm… Don’t say anything! Let me use my magical ESP powers to see if I can read your mind…” Bruce droned. He closed his eyes and pressed the tips of both forefingers against his forehead as if he were trying to concentrate his thoughts. “I’m reading something…. It’s getting clearer…” He dropped his hands and opened his eyes. “You’ve been picked to be one of the models!”

Lisa gave him an affectionate punch on the arm. “Am I that obvious?”

“Yes.”

“That’s great, Lisa,” Virgil enthused. “Congratulations.”

“Yeah,” Bruce agreed. “Who’s the other lucky sucker?”

She giggled. “Winston Patterson.”

“Winston! He’ll be in his element,” Bruce chuckled. “Have they decided who the background people are going to be?”

“They’ve only chosen four extras. Myra from the paint bay, Alex from the stores, and Jim and Lea from the shop floor.”

“Oh.” Bruce seemed disappointed.

“Don’t tell me you wanted to take part!?” Virgil exclaimed.

Bruce gave a shrug. “I was curious what it would be like,” he said, trying to sound off-hand. “It doesn’t matter though.”

“Maybe you can still help out…” Lisa slipped her arms through the two men’s and started walking towards the exit. “I’m glad I caught up with the pair of you. Tomorrow when they take the photos, would you consider being here?”

“Why?” Bruce asked. “What could we do?”

“Ah... Act as bodyguards.”

“Again?”

“What kind of shoot are you expecting?” Virgil exclaimed. “You’ll be modelling safety gear not swimwear. Besides, I’d think that Butch is more than capable of taking care of you.”

“It’s not me I’m worried about,” Lisa admitted. “You know how possessive Butch gets and I’m worried that he might, ah, misinterpret something that someone might say. You two can keep him calm. I know it’s an imposition, and I know you’ll want to fly out to see Gordon as soon as possible, Virgil, but Butch trusts and respects you both. He’d listen to you where he might not listen to anyone else.”

“I’m remembering what happened last time you asked us to act as bodyguards,” Virgil recollected.

“I’m still sorry about that,” Lisa admitted. “But I’m sure things won’t get that bad this time. As you said, they’re only photographing us in personal protective equipment.”

“Despite the potential risks to my health, I’m in,” Bruce agreed. “The question is: do you think a runt like me will be enough to hold Butch back alone? Any chance of you staying, Virgil? Even if only for a short while?”

Virgil was giving the request serious consideration. His normal Friday afternoon activity was to head straight home after work, have a quick wash and change, grab his bag and head for the airport: a prospect he was dreading. Lisa’s request gave him an adequate excuse to delay the trip. “I’ll call the family and tell them to expect me first thing Saturday morning.”

“Thank you.” Lisa gave their arms an affectionate squeeze. “This makes me feel so much better.”

Friday afternoon rolled around. Much to Virgil’s amusement, Greg’s habit of calling him “Tracy” had caught on amongst their workmates. Those who didn’t know his true identity thought it made a great nickname, while those who knew the truth were enjoying being in on the joke. Virgil didn’t mind whether his colleagues called him Virgil or Tracy, and was simply enjoying having his real name used. Only a few of Louis’ cronies persisted in calling him Veggie and, Virgil realised, even Louis had stopped that after the excitements of last Saturday.

“What have you got that for, Tracy?” Bruce asked, seeing Virgil’s sketchpad.

Virgil claimed a seat on a workbench so that he and Bruce had Butch sandwiched between them. From here they had a good view of the advertising photo shoot. “You’ve never been to one of these things before, have you? Let me tell you, they’re dead boring.”

“Boring?” Butch queried. “I didn’ think it would be boring.”

“Just you wait,” Virgil advised. “And I’m warning you that you’ll be doing a lot of that. They fiddle about getting the lighting just right, then they’ll position the model exactly where they want them, then the lighting will be all wrong and they’ll have to start all over again.”

“How’d you know this?”

“I watched a couple of photographic sessions for some of Father’s companies’ portfolios.”

Winston made an entrance. To say that he’d simply arrived would have been an understatement. He was clad in silver lame trousers, a sequined jacket, a rainbow-hued silk scarf adorned his neck, and on his face he wore an enormous pair of sparkly sunglasses. “How do I look, Peoples? Do I look like a mod-del?”

“Definitely,” Bruce nodded.

“Thank you, Darling,” Winston gloated. “I felt that on this auspicious occasion I simply had to make the effort.”

“But your jacket might disrupt their lighting a bit,” Bruce observed. “You know, highlight areas which should be in shadow.”

“Oh! I hope not! Surely you don’t think I’ve overdone it? What do you think, Butch? Virgil?”

Virgil reflected that Winston overdid everything, but the man was so friendly and gregarious that it was impossible to take offence. A computer aided design draftsman, he was an expert in his field. He was also, in his own words, so far out of thecloset that he had to hang his coat on a chair, and he got as much fun teasing his friends and workmates about their being straight as they did about him being gay. He was in a permanent relationship with an accountant named Rex, who Winston called his “little puppy dog”. On the rare occasion when someone new at ACE had taken exception to who and what Winston was, Winston’s colleagues had always quickly informed them that the draftsman was an important part of the fabric of the company and that if the newcomer didn’t like it, then there were other jobs out there.

“I like the colours in your scarf,” Virgil admitted. “I could use that as inspiration for my next painting.”

“Oh, thank you!” Winston gushed, clearly delighted with the compliment. “It was an anniversary gift from my little puppy dog.”

Lisa arrived, looking freshly washed and changed, but considerably less glamorous than her ‘co-star’. “Oh dear, now I’m feeling very underdressed. Are you trying to show me up, Winston?”

“Darling,” Winston cooed. “You could wear nothing and you’d still look glamorous.”

“Thank you.”

“Winston, you’re the only man in the place who could make that statement and still have his own teeth,” Bruce chuckled. “Right, Butch?” The big man laughed.

“Would you do me a favour, Virgil?” Winston asked. “Rexy said he was coming here after work, but he doesn’t know his way around the factory. Would you be a sweetheart and escort him in?”

“Sure.” Virgil hopped down off the bench. “No problem.”

He found the accountant waiting by the gate looking as straight and colourless as you’d expect of a man of his profession. Rex was as conservative as his partner was flamboyant and Virgil had found it hard to reconcile the two as a pair, until he had seen how they acted together. Then it was obvious that Rex and Winston were as devoted a couple as Lisa and Butch. “Hi, Rex. I’m here to escort you inside.”

“Hello, Virgil. So, you’ve come to my rescue again.” Rex beamed. “I never got the chance to say thank you last time. So... thank you.”

Virgil made a dismissive gesture. “Like I keep on telling people, I was saving my neck as well as everyone else’s.”

“But still,” Rex held out his hand, “I’m glad ACE saw fit to reward you.”

“Thank you,” Virgil accepted the appreciative handshake, “I saw your signature on it.” They started walking towards the factory’s entrance.

“Erm... May I ask you a personal question, Virgil?” Rex enquired.

Virgil was surprised. Winston was likely to ask anything, but for Rex to ask something personal seemed out of character. “Depends what it is.”

“Are you Jeff Tracy’s son?”

Virgil laughed. “Yes.”

“Ha! That’s dinner that the old mare owes me,” Rex gloated. “I thought you must have been, but Winnie said that he was sure you would have told everyone by now if you were. Don’t worry, I can keep a secret; there are members of my extended family who still think Winston and I are simply flatmates. And Winnie will get such a kick knowing a bit of gossip about you that no one else knows that he’ll be unbearable for days.”

“There are a few people who know,” Virgil admitted. “But I’ve decided that I’ll probably keep it a secret until I leave.”

Rex mimed locking his lips together.

“Thanks.” Virgil grinned. “What gave me away? Was it the papers?”

“They confirmed my suspicions,” Rex admitted. “But you and your brother are similar in looks. Actually Alan’s the reason why I went on last Saturday’s trip. Car racing bores me to tears, but I wanted to see what he looked like under that cap. You never get a good photo of him in the papers. Winnie just wanted to check him out in that jump suit of his.”

Virgil nearly choked as he imagined his kid brother’s reaction to that revelation. “We’re in here.” He held open a door.

Winston and Lisa and the rest of the ACE crew were now dressed in clothing more suitable for factory workers, and were gathered around the photographer. Winston looked up, saw his partner and treated him to what could only be described as a gay wave. Rex responded with a chalk one up to me gesture. Winston looked surprised, glanced at Virgil and then his face broke into a big beaming smile.

Virgil got a chair for Rex and then reclaimed his seat on the bench. “Has anything interesting happened?” he asked as he picked up his sketchbook.

“A lot of talking,” Bruce said.

“‘N’ arm wavin’,” Butch added.

“What are you drawing?” Rex asked.

Virgil shrugged. “Whatever I find interesting. I thought I might be able to record something of what’s happening.”

“Quiet please,” one of the ad people called. “Now, Lisa, darling, will you stand there next to Winston...? Good. Now pretend to be showing him something on the plan...”

“Frankie, darling,” the wardrobe lady asked, “what do you want them to wear next?”

“The fluros I think, darling. Then we’ll get started on the welding gear.”

“Rex, darling,” Winston called. “Will you look after my scarf and make sure it hasn’t fallen on the floor?”

“Of course, Winnie.”

Bruce chuckled. “There are so many darlings flying about that I’m almost expecting Peter Pan to come zooming in.”

Virgil looked at him. “I didn’t take you to be a Peter Pan fan.”

“Oh, yes. My mother’s English and she insisted that I read the English classics as a kid. So I read Peter and Wendy, Wind in the willows, and Rex’s favourite: Winnie-the-Pooh.”

Everyone, including Rex, laughed until they were shushed by the photographer.

“Hey, Virgil.” Bruce pointed down past a barricaded area to where the crucible furnace was cooling down after yesterday’s pour. “Why don’t you do a sketch to show us how you described that to me? Maybe then it’ll make sense.”

“‘Ow ya described what?” Butch’s face was screwed up in confusion.

“Virgil and I were discussing the furnace yesterday,” Bruce explained. “He said that...”

“Quiet! Please!” He was scowled at by the head honcho and ducked his head apologetically.

The observers sat in silence for a time, in general more interested in what was appearing on Virgil’s sketchpad than the posing of the models. From the artist’s pencil appeared a spheroid structure with an open top like a bowl. Superimposed on the crucible was the scowling face of a woman. From the crown of the woman’s head, or the mouth of the crucible depending on your point of view, writhed wisps of steam; morphing into the heads of hissing snakes.

“Medusa...” Butch mused. “She useta look at a fella an’ ‘e’d turn ta stone.”

Surprised Virgil stared at him. “You guys are more cultured than I thought!”

“One of th’ Skulz ‘ad ‘er as a tat on ‘is arm,” Butch explained.

“Ah.”

Almost unnoticed, the photographic team finished their photos and moved to another part of the factory.

Virgil signed his sketch with a flourish and held it so they could all see it. “There that’s what I mean. But remember it’s only an impression I get. A kind of metaphor.”

“But if you fell into molten metal you’d burn up or melt rather than turn to stone, wouldn’t you?” Rex asked.

“True...” Bruce was frowning at the picture. “But...! The only way to retrieve your body would be to wait until the furnace had cooled. As the metal cools it would turn from liquid to a solid... Like a stone!” He laughed as a thought occurred to him. “If you fell into it, Virgil, then your father could use the metal to make a sculpture of you. Then when anyone commented on it he could say that you helped create it.” He put his hand over his heart in a dramatic gesture and deepened his voice in an unconvincing imitation of Jeff Tracy. “Virgil put his body and soul into this piece.”

Rex examined the finished picture. “What would a psychiatrist make of that?”

Bruce took the picture from him. “Do you know what would just make this perfect?”

Virgil raised an eyebrow. “What?”

Bruce gave a wicked grin. “A picture of Max Watts turned to stone.” He pinned the picture to the wall.

The second lot of photos had been completed and the Topratez team had decided that it was time for a break. Lisa and Winston came wondering over to the little group carrying full plastic cups.

“We’re doing welding next.” Lisa sipped at her coffee. She smiled. “I’ll be able to show America how it’s done properly.”

“That’s my girl,” Butch said, obviously bursting with pride.

“You’re a dark horse, Virgil Tracy,” Winston stated. “Fancy keeping something like that from me of all people! You know I’m the soul of discretion.”

Rex groaned and Virgil looked at the accountant. “I thought you said he could keep a secret.”

“Winnie...” Rex moaned. “Not everyone knows. Virgil’s still trying to keep it quiet.”

Winston’s face fell. “Oh. Sorry.”

Virgil laughed. “It’s okay, these guys all know.”

Winston brightened and mimed a dramatic wiping of his brow.

“I told you he was Jeff Tracy’s son,” Rex told him. “So you owe me dinner.”

Winston gave an equally dramatic sigh. “I suppose I do. Where do you want to go, Rexy?”

“I’ve always fancied La Gemme Cachée,” Rex stated.

“Haven’t we all, Sweetheart. But rumour has it that you’ve got to book at least three months in advance to get a table.”

“I’d love to try there,” Lisa reflected. “The food’s supposed to be amazing... and horrendously expensive.” She sighed. “Maybe some day when we win the lottery, huh, Honey?” She picked up her husband’s hand and gave it a squeeze.

“Come on, people.” One of the Topratez people clapped his hands to get their attention. “Time to get ready.”

“Oops, I’m on.” Lisa took one last mouthful of coffee and handed the half full cup to Butch. “Catch you later.”

The Topratez man watched them go, then he turned back to the observers. “Please try to maintain complete silence. We need to be able to concentrate.” He turned on his heel and stalked away.

“Sheesh,” Bruce huffed. “They’re still photos, not a video. Does he think he’s painting the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel or something?”

“‘N’ they take so long ta do anythin’,” Butch moaned. “Virgil could draw the pitcha quicker th’n that.”

“There’s a challenge for you, Virgil,” Bruce snickered. “Come up with an acceptable drawing before they’ve finished taking their photos.”

Virgil grinned. “Deal.” He began lightly sketching in the background.

Jim, one of ACE’s extras came over to see what was going on. “I’ve never been so bored,” he grumbled. “They tell you to stand here; then you’re in the way and they tell you to stand over there. Then they decide that they do want you in shot, so tell you to get in the background; then they tell you that they don’t want you so to get out of it. I wish they’d make up their minds.” He noticed the sketch pad. “What are you drawing?”

“We’ve set Virgil a challenge,” Bruce told him. “He’s got to come up with an acceptable picture to advertise welding gear before you get the final photographs.”

“My money’s on you, Tracy.” People started picking up pieces of equipment and setting up the shot and Jim was hailed by one of the crew. “Looks like the circus is about to begin again. See you guys later.” He ambled off.

“He called you Tracy,” Rex noted. “Does he know your identity too?”

“Tracy’s a new nickname I’ve gained,” Virgil explained. “Since that’s what was reported in the papers last weekend.”

Rex grinned. “Ah. That must make life simpler for you.”

“It does...”

Virgil had finished much of the background by the time the first photographs were taken.

“That’s great, Lisa,” the director enthused. “But can you give us more sparks? Make it look like you’re welding something.”

Lisa turned off her welding torch, placed it on her bench, and faced him. “I beg your pardon,” she asked, her voice muffled by her welding helmet.

“Uh, oh,” Butch muttered. “‘E said th’ wrong thing.”

“More sparks,” the director cajoled. “Give me more sparks.”

Lisa pushed the helmet off her face and glared at the man from Topratez. “What!?”

Thinking that the helmet was impairing her hearing somehow, the director repeated his request a third time. “Can you make more sparks so that it looks like you are actually welding rather than pretending?”

Virgil winced. “Ouch.”

Lisa stood up straight. “I – am – welding. I – am – not – pretending.”

“Then let’s see lots of sparks.”

“I do NOT produce lots of sparks!” Lisa informed him and Butch inched forward on the bench. Wary of a possible altercation, Virgil placed his sketchpad down so he would be ready for action. He looked at Bruce and received a worried glance in reply.

“Sparks!” Lisa ranted. “This is a non-ferrous material and therefore, if welded properly should not produce sparks. If you want me to produce sparks then give me something to grind. I will not produce sparks when welding.”

“Fine,” the director grumbled. “Winston, will you take over the welding, please.”

“Welding? Moi?” Winston looked astonished. “I’m sure I simply wouldn’t know where to start.”

“Anyone,” the director begged. “Would anyone be willing to take over from Lisa?”

Lisa folded her arms and stood her ground. “Is ACE’s name to be mentioned on this catalogue?”

“Yes. We are going to say that all photography and models were courtesy of Aeronautical Component Engineering.”

“Then I am not going to let you do anything to slander ACE’s good name!” Lisa stated. “I’m not going to let you make every engineering facility in the country think that ACE’s welders can’t even weld properly!”

“But...”

“But nothing. I am NOT picking up that welding torch again and I am not moving from this spot until you agree that you won’t do anything that will harm ACE’s good reputation.” She sat on the floor in front of her work bench, folded her legs and arms, and glared at the director; her jaw jutting out as if daring him to touch her.

Butch stood up. With the slow saunter of a gunslinger he walked over to where the director was standing over Lisa. People parted as he advanced, giving him clear passage. Careful not to do or say anything to upset the delicate but uneasy peace that still pervaded, Virgil and Bruce followed.

“‘Scuse me.” Butch placed a big hand on the director’s shoulder and gently pulled him away. Then he knelt down in front of his wife. “I’m proud o’ you. Now get off th’ ground. Ya’re gettin’ Tuffas’ clothes mucky.”

“But they’re doing it all wrong, Butch!”

“Yep. So we’ll get Virgil ta ring Mr M. an’ we’ll tell ‘im. He’ll stop ‘em.” Butch held out his hand and, with a grateful smile, Lisa let him help her to her feet.

Virgil already had his phone out and was scrolling through the Ms. But he needn’t have bothered...

“How are things going?”

“Ah...” the director began. “Mr Mickelson. We have a slight problem.”

Hamish Mickelson frowned. “Problem, what problem?”

“He wants me to weld and make sparks,” Lisa explained. “I do not make sparks when I’m welding,” she repeated.

“Artistically speaking, it’s more appealing,” the director explained.

“Are you creating an artwork or a catalogue?” Mickelson asked.

“Er...” the director hesitated. “Catalogue.”

“And aren’t catalogues supposed to be factual? We don’t want any false advertising, do we? Where’s the Tuffas representative?”

Ethan Linsay hurried forward. “I’m here.”

“It’s ultimately your publication so it’s your decision, but I’m warning you now, that if you do anything to damage ACE’s good name we will withdraw all cooperation with Tuffas... and I will direct my purchasing manager to find another supplier.”

Linsay’s jaw dropped. ACE was Tuffas’ biggest customer. If word got out that one of the premiere engineering workshops in the country had switched allegiances... He turned to the director. “I think that as Lisa clearly knows what she is doing, we should listen to her.”

Tight lipped, the director nodded. “Very well.”

Catastrophe averted, everyone returned to their places. Hamish Mickelson remained, keeping out of the way but his presence reminding the photographic crew that he would not tolerate any inaccuracies.

Virgil started sketching again. He’d finished a passable drawing before the director was satisfied with the welding shots and the Topratez team moved onto another location. “What do you think?”

“I think you should show it to your Uncle Hamish and get him to suggest to Tuffas that they should commission you to design the catalogue,” Bruce stated.

Rex was surprised at Bruce’s description of the man he knew as Mr Mickelson. “Uncle Hamish?”

“Honorary uncle,” Virgil explained. “He and Father have known each other since before I was born, when they were in the Air Force.”

Butch was admiring the picture. “That’s m’ Liesl,” he said proudly. “Y’ve really gotta good likeness, Pal. Can I get a copy?”

“You can have the original.” Virgil tore the page out of the sketchbook and slipped it into an envelope he had in his bag.

“Ta.”

It was fairly late when all photography was completed and Virgil and his friends said good night to the Topratez team, ACE’s extras, and Hamish Mickelson.

“I’m hungry,” Lisa groaned as they left the building. “But I don’t feel like cooking. Let’s eat out, Butch. I’ll pay.” She grinned. “After all, I’ve got a nice little bonus coming in.”

“You owe me dinner too,” Rex told Winston. “Where are you taking me?”

“We’ve got plenty to celebrate so why don’t we all go to La Gemme Cachée?” Virgil suggested. And then surprised everyone, including himself, by adding, “I’ll pay.”

“We couldn’t let you do that, Virgil,” Lisa protested. “It costs too much.”

“Now that you’re a supermodel,” Bruce began, and Lisa giggled, “you’ll have to learn that if a billionaire, or in this case the son of a billionaire, asks you out to dinner, you accept... Are you sure, Virgil?”

Virgil shrugged. “Why not?”

“Does that include us mere mortals too?”

“Of course. The more the merrier.”

“But you can’t get into La Gemme Cachée without a prior booking,” Rex told him.

“Unless you have some influence in the town,” Virgil responded. “Let’s see what the Tracy name can do. And if that doesn’t work we’ll go to the nearest burger bar.” He did a quick search on his phone for the number of the restaurant. “I’ll make the call from the videophone in my car. Back in a minute.”

It had taken a bit of haggling and some heavy name dropping, but he was back a short time later to report that a table for six at the back of the restaurant had been arranged. “We’ve got half an hour to get into our Sunday best.”

“Half an hour!” Lisa gulped. “That’s impossible.”

“Yeah,” Bruce agreed. “It’ll take that long for Butch to squeeze into his dinner jacket.” Butch guffawed and slapped him on the shoulder forcing Bruce to rub the affected area. “And for me to get to the hospital for help for my broken back.”

“What about me, Virgil?” Winston asked. He was back in his glitter suit. “Do you think this is a bit too much?”

“You might need to tone it down... Just a little,” Virgil suggested.

“Oh...” Winston was undaunted. “I’ll leave the sunglasses at home then.”

Virgil was the first to step out of his taxi outside La Gemme Cachée. As he cooled his heels waiting for his friends, he wondered why he’d suggested this extravagancy. He knew it wasn’t in character for him to go throwing his money about on something as trivial as a posh meal. Heck, it wasn’t even as if he’d had a lot of experience of eating at establishments of this class. In general the Tracys preferred more intimate, down-to-earth eateries.

Bruce was the second person to arrive. “How do I look?” he asked as he pulled at the cuffs of his shirt. “I feel underdressed. My best suit was ruined at the Crump’s anniversary party.”

Virgil regarded his friend’s apparel. “Your tie’s a bit... shall we say, garish?”

“You mean common,” Bruce grumbled as he scratched a bit of dirt off the aforementioned garment. “It’s the best one I’ve got. The other’s got blood on it. I haven’t worked out if it’s mine or yours.”

“I thought you might have problems.” Virgil checked that no one was looking and then pulled some material out of his pocket. “So I brought this one.”

Bruce brightened and he pulled the bright orange tie from around his neck. “Thanks.”

The Crumps, Lisa looking radiant in a cheap but attractive dress, and then Winston and Rex arrived. Winston, Virgil was glad to see, had managed to refrain from wearing anything that resembled a mirror ball, contenting himself with a purple, ruffed, silk shirt and matching trousers.

Virgil lead the way inside to where the maitre-d looked down his nose at them until Virgil showed him his credit card; both to confirm his real identity and to prove that he had the funds to pay for the meal.

But, before he had the chance to pocket the card again, Winston snatched it up. “A diamond card! You have to have enough money to buy all the artworks in Le Louvre before they’ll even consider offering you one.”

“Or be the son of someone who can buy all the artworks in Le Louvre,” Virgil added. “That’s the only reason why I’ve got one.”

“That may be so…” Winston gave a theatrical bow. “But, despite that, I prostrate myself before your esteemed personage.”

Virgil groaned. “Get up, Winston.”

Rex eyed Virgil up thoughtfully. “Do you employ the services of a good accountancy firm?”

“I thought we were here to enjoy ourselves,” Lisa said. “Not talk shop.”

The maitre-d lead them through the long, dark route through the restaurant to the rear. “I don’t think we’ve made a very good impression,” Bruce said as he took his seat.

“What I want to know, Virgil, darling,” Winston began, still taken by the sight of the exclusive credit card, “is what someone with your money is doing working in a mere factory? You could choose to do anything, or nothing,” he gave a wicked grin, “instead of preventing some poor, starving, recently graduated engineer from getting gainful employment so he can pay back his tuition fees.”

“If you know him, he can have my job next year,” Virgil rejoined. “I wanted to gain some practical experience before I start working for my father.”

“Oh...” Lisa looked downcast. “Are you still planning on leaving us? Butch and I were saying, only tonight weren’t we, Honey, how we were hoping you’d changed your mind.”

Virgil shook his head. “No, it’s something we’ve been planning for too long to give up now. Besides, I’m looking forward to it. As much as I enjoy working at ACE, and with you guys, I think I’ll get a lot more job satisfaction out of this new career.”

“What is it?” Winston asked, leaning forward, the purple ruffs of his shirt spilling onto the table.

“It’s a secret,” Bruce told him. “Virgil’s been tight-lipped about it all year.”

“So when are you leaving ACE to start this new venture?” Rex asked.

“I’m not sure now,” Virgil admitted. “Gordon’s accident has kind of put things back a few months.”

Winston leant even closer, his eyes lighting up in open curiosity. “Gordon? Pray tell, who is Gordon?”

The wine waiter hovered at Virgil’s elbow, so he ordered champagne.

“Champagne!” Winston clapped his hands. “This is a celebration!”

Bruce leant closer to his host. “Are you feeling okay?” he whispered.

Virgil looked surprised. “Yeah... Why?”

Whatever Bruce had in mind wasn’t revealed as they were interrupted by the arrival of the waiter with the menus. Virgil took one look at the prices and felt his pulses quicken. This was crazy!

His guests’ menus had no such distractions. “What is this stuff?” Butch asked. “I can’t understand it.”

“Me neither,” Lisa agreed. “I know poulet’s chicken, but what’s ag-knee-ow?”

“Agneau,” Virgil corrected. “It’s lamb.”

She closed the menu. “You can order for me. So long as the animal lived and died humanely, I’ll be happy.”

“What about vegetables?” Bruce asked. “Do you know what they do to the heads of lettuces? And what about the ears of corn? And don’t get me started on potatoes’ eyes... ”

“You shush,” he was told. “I’ll leave it in your capable hands, Virgil.” Everyone else decided that this was a good idea and Virgil, playing it safe, made the selection.

The champagne arrived and Virgil proposed the toast. “To our two supermodels.”

Lisa giggled and Winston actually blushed before raising his own glass. “To being alive!”

“I’ll drink to that,” Rex agreed, “and to the man who kept us alive.” He saluted Virgil with his glass and then drank.

Lisa giggled again. “They’re right. It does tickle your nose.”

“Rather ‘ave a beer,” Butch grunted.

“Oh, Butch,” she scolded. “Not here.”

“I’ve got a toast,” Bruce said. “Here’s to Lisa for sticking to her guns and sticking up for ACE.”

“Hear, hear,” Virgil agreed.

“What does your father think of ACE being turned into a photographer’s studio?” Rex asked.

“I don’t know,” Virgil admitted. “I haven’t asked him. I don’t even know if Uncle Hamish discussed it with him. He’s had more important things to worry about.”

Winston waved that topic away. “You still haven’t told us who Gordon is...”

Someone kicked him under the table and he rubbed his ankle; a hurt expression on his face. “Who did that?”

“Winston...” Lisa hissed.

“It’s okay, Lisa,” Virgil reassured her. “Gordon’s my brother. He’s been injured in an accident and Father’s been staying at the hospital with him.”

“Your brother...?”

“The one who was in the hydrofoil crash,” Bruce reminded him.

“Hydrofoil... Oh!” Winston looked mortified. “Your brother! Oh, dear me. I have rather put my foot in it.” He fanned himself with his hand. “I could just crawl into that keyhole now. Do accept my sincerest apologies, Virgil.”

“Accepted.”

“That was months ago, wasn’t it?” Rex recollected. “It sounds serious.”

Virgil nodded. “He’s almost completely paralysed.”

The wine waiter appeared at his shoulder. “More champagne, Sir?”

Virgil hesitated. Too much alcohol now and he would have a legitimate, if not necessarily acceptable, excuse to not fly out early to the Willis tomorrow.

Family loyalty won through. “No, thanks. I’ll make do with water.” A carafe was produced and his glass was filled.

“For a minute there I thought you were going to say yes,” Bruce noted.

“I’m flying tomorrow,” Virgil reminded him. “I’ve got to have a clear head.” He stared into the clear liquid in his glass.

Lisa looked over to where various couples were occupying the formerly empty floor in the centre of the restaurant. “Are any of you boys going to ask me to dance?”

“We would,” Bruce said, “but we’re scared your husband would never let us walk again.”

She laughed. “I thought you’d know by now that my Butch would never do that.”

“That’s not the impression new guys get,” Bruce teased. “One of the first introductions they get to ACE is Butch telling them to keep his hands off you.”

“He doesn’t...” Lisa turned to Butch. “You don’t... Do you?”

Butch traced the outline of the cutlery. “Sometimes,” he mumbled.

“He did to me,” Winston remembered. “As if I would! He sent me all of a quiver.”

“On Virgil’s first day,” Bruce remembered, “he got right into his face to warn him off you. Right, Virgil?”

Virgil, still caught up in the mysteries held in his glass of water, didn’t respond.

With raised eyebrows Bruce turned back to the rest of his friends. “We’re not going to stop you two from hitting the floor if you want.”

“Later,” Lisa suggested. But then she stood, walked around the table, and laid a hand on Virgil’s shoulder. “Virgil...?” He looked up. “Do you want to dance?”

“Huh...? Oh...” Virgil glanced at Butch who nodded his ascent. “Uh... Okay.” He escorted her to the floor.

“What’s wrong,” Lisa asked. “You’re miles away.”

“Sorry,” Virgil gave an apologetic grin. “I was thinking.”

“About what?”

He sighed. “How I was dreading going to the Willis tomorrow.”

“Dreading it? But you’ve always been so eager to see your family. What’s changed? Is it Gordon?”

“In part,” Virgil admitted. “It’s obvious that, as things stand, he’s not going to get better, but Father refuses to accept that. Scott and John tried to talk to him about how we were going to make life as easy as possible for him, and Father refused to discuss it. This whole thing’s tearing my family apart and I don’t want to be part of it... I think that’s why I suggested coming here.”

“Oh,” Lisa looked downcast. “I’m so sorry... Why don’t you have a break this weekend? Stay at home?”

“I can’t do that. Father, Scott and John have barely left the hospital since the accident. Grandma only leaves to collect Gordon’s friends and then take them home again, and to buy the groceries; and Alan’s there every minute that he’s not practising or racing.”

“But you have a life outside your family,” Lisa insisted. “I’m sure they’d understand. Have a break just for one weekend.”

“But Gordon can’t have a break just for one weekend,” Virgil reminded her. “He’s got to live with his illness every second of every day. I can’t desert him just because I’m able to walk away.”

“So you’re still going to fly out tomorrow?”

Virgil nodded. “Yes.”

Lisa bit her lip in thought. “Look... Butch and I both stay up late. If you need to talk when you come home on Sunday, come around. Sometimes it helps just to share your problems.”

“Lisa... I don’t want to put you out...”

“Listen to me, Virgil Tracy,” she said sternly. “You won’t be putting us out. After all you’ve done for the pair of us it’s the least we can do. Phone us before you leave the hospital on Sunday if you want us to wait up.”

The music finished. “Okay,” Virgil agreed as he escorted his friend back to the table. “I’ll see how things turn out.” He held out her chair for her. “Thanks.”

She fixed the rest of the men at the table with a cheerful smile. “I hope you are all going to take me for a twirl about the floor later.”

“It would be a delight and a pleasure,” Winston agreed. “I love to dance, but my little puppy dog has four left paws.”

“Me too,” Bruce agreed. “You and I can sit back and watch the rest, Rex.”

Lisa gave Butch an expectant look. He sighed. “Okay,” he grunted.

Virgil couldn’t help smiling as he watched the pair of them walk out on the dance floor. An idea came to him and he called the waiter over. Reaching into his wallet he extracted a large denomination note. “Can you ask the pianist to play Love Overcomes All next?” he asked.

The waiter bowed. “I will ascertain if he knows the piece.”

“It’s Lisa and Butch’s song,” Virgil explained to Winston and Rex. “I was supposed to perform it for them at their wedding anniversary party.”

“Instead we got beaten up,” Bruce remembered.

The waiter was back a short time later, Virgil’s note held apologetically before him on a tray. “I am afraid, Mr Tracy, that Samuel is not acquainted with the tune.”

“Oh.” Disappointed, Virgil took back the proffered note.

“Why don’t you play it, Virgil?” Bruce suggested.

“I couldn’t do that!”

“You could, Sweetheart.” Winston sat forward. “You make that distressing old piano in the social club room sing. Imagine what you could do with an instrument of that calibre,” he indicated the jet black grand piano. “He is a maestro,” he told the waiter.

“I’ll say,” Bruce confirmed to the man who was looking doubtful. “Better than your guy.”

“No, I’m not,” Virgil protested. But he looked hopefully at the waiter.

The man was looking sick, as if it was only his stiffly starched shirt that was keeping him upright. But, recognising that Virgil was the son of an important and wealthy man, he nodded. “If you would accompany me, Sir.”

Unsure that he was doing the right thing, Virgil followed the man across the room. The waiter whispered something into the pianist's ear and the musician looked at Virgil, his misgivings clear on his face.

“I’ve passed my Trinity College exams,” Virgil said, seeking to reassure him.

The pianist nodded, finished his piece of music, and vacated the piano stool.

Virgil took his place, resisted the impulse to play a set of warm up scales, took a deep breath, and began...

Butch and Lisa had thought that their dance was over. Butch was escorting his wife off the floor when they heard the familiar tune. Smiling, they turned to face each other, and, holding each other close, began dancing again.

Virgil could see Butch’s lips moving and decided that the big man was crooning the words into his wife’s ear. He relaxed and let himself get caught up in the music and the beauty of the piano that was producing it. Closing his eyes, he remembered all the times he’d heard his mother play that very piece...

The song was over. The audience turned to applaud the pianist and Butch and Lisa followed suit, their faces registering surprise when they realised who had serenaded them.

“Thank you,” Virgil said to the original pianist and left the note on the piano stool as he stood. He wandered over to where the Crumps were waiting for him. “Was that okay?”

“Thank you,” Lisa kissed him on the cheek. “That was wonderful.”

Butch gave Virgil what was, for him, a restrained punch on the arm. “You finally gotta do it, huh?”

The three of them returned to the table to enjoy the rest of the evening.

When it was time to return home, Bruce had insisted on sharing a taxi with Virgil and paying the fare. “It’s the least I can do after the evening you’ve given us.” And Virgil, having just paid out the equivalent of more than two weeks worth of ACE’s wages, had agreed.

He was the first to be dropped off at home. “It’s been a great evening, Virgil,” Bruce said as his friend got out of the taxi. “Thanks.”

Virgil bid him good night and headed into his apartment. It had been, he thought, a fun night.

He didn’t realise that that was the last fun he was going to have for a while...

Chapter 18: A Quiet Request

When Virgil eventually arrived at the Willis Institute’s airfield the following day, he was met by John and Scott. “What are you guys doing here?”

“Waiting for you,” Scott replied. “You’re late.” He noticed Virgil’s barely concealed yawn. “Been out partying?”

“Not exactly,” Virgil responded, side-stepping the question even though there was an element of truth to it. “I’ll ask again; what are you guys doing here?”

“And we’ll say again: waiting for you,” John echoed his brother. “We didn’t want to leave until you got here.”

“Leave?” Virgil frowned. “Where are you going?”

“To initiate stage two of our great plan,” Scott stated. “That’s assuming that you’ve got stage one.”

“I’ve got it,” Virgil grumbled. He’d put the parcels into his plane earlier in the week and had checked that they were still there before flying out this morning. “But you still haven’t told me why.”

“It’s a surprise.” Scott grinned. “Where’s your trophy?”

Virgil had been so dreading coming to the Willis this morning that he’d nearly forgotten to bring his award from ACE. “In the plane.”

“Well, get it out here!” John exclaimed. “The only reason why we haven’t already left is because we want to see it.”

Virgil felt a warm feeling wash through him at the obvious pleasure his brothers were getting from seeing him receive some recognition. “I was going to leave it in the plane until after I’d taken your stuff up to the room, but there’s nothing stopping you from coming in here to have a look.” He led the way inside his aeroplane and his siblings bounded in after him. Carefully removing the award from where he’d stowed it, Virgil placed it on one of the parcels. “There it is.”

Scott gave a low whistle and rotated the prize so he could see it from all angles. “They’ve put a lot of effort into making this.”

“Has it got everyone’s signature on it?” John asked.

“Everyone who was on the flight.”

John’s finger traced the recipient’s name. “Virgil Tracy... Did it seem odd to have your real name written up for everyone at ACE to see?”

“It did a bit,” Virgil confessed. “So I nearly told them the truth when they presented it to me.”

“But you didn’t want anyone to think that you were a spy for the boss?” Scott guessed.

“Yes. Because of this, and the newspaper reports, some of them have started calling me ‘Tracy’.” Virgil laughed. “They think it’s a nickname.”

“It’s a better name than ‘Tancy’,” Scott said.

Virgil nodded. “I’ll be the first to agree with you.”

“That is a wonderful gesture,” John indicated the award, “and well deserved.”

“John’s right,” Scott agreed. “Well done, Virg.” He patted his brother on the back.

John began examining the parcels. “Judging by what you’ve got here our little plan should work.”

“Is it the best you could get, Virg?” Scott asked crouching down beside his brother.

“It’s the best on the market at the moment,” Virgil told him, “It’s so good that I nearly bought two; one for you guys and one for my room on the island.”

“What stopped you?” John asked.

“The company’s latest model’s due out in a couple of months and, by all accounts, it’s supposed to be even better. So I’ve got a set on order.”

“Good.” Scott stood. “Come on, John. Now that we know that Virgil’s here and that that’s here, we can go.”

“Don’t forget to install it properly,” John reminded Virgil. “We want total immersion. Have you got your tools?”

“I’ve got them. It’s not as if I haven’t done this before.”

“Just checking.”

“Talking of checking; have you checked with the hospital that they don’t mind my drilling holes in their walls?”

“Not a problem,” Scott told him. “When your patient’s the son of one of the world’s wealthiest men, they’ll let you do anything short of ripping down the building. Having money has its perks, even if it has its limitations.”

“How long are you guys going to be away for anyway?” Virgil asked as he followed them out of his aeroplane.

“We’ll be back before you leave tomorrow,” Scott reassured him. “We didn’t want to leave Gordon and Father alone for too long. They’re depressing each other.”

“Gordon’s been a bit down all week,” John added. “Diane and Rick have been here the last couple of days and we were hoping they might cheer him up a bit, but it doesn’t seem to have worked. They’re going to have to leave soon, so that’ll only leave you and Dad to keep him entertained.”

Virgil nodded his understanding. “At least he should get a kick out of telling me what to do when I’m installing stage one of your great plan... Whatever it is.”

Scott nudged his brother. “We’re wasting time, John. Let’s go.”

“Yeah,” John agreed. “See you tomorrow, Virgil.”

“‘Kay...” Virgil watched as his brothers climbed into Scott’s sleek jet and taxied out to the runway. Then he turned his attention to the five boxes in his plane’s hold. While the parcels weren’t heavy individually, they were unwieldy, which meant he’d probably have to make five trips. His great plan had been to get his brothers to help carry them up to Gordon’s room, but that plan was disappearing due south. He could place the boxes on the travelator, but by the time he’d got the fifth one safely installed, the first box could have been anywhere in the complex.

With a sigh he put one of the parcels on the ground, locked down the plane, and then picked the box up again. As he started walking towards the travelator, he reflected that it had been an expensive week. Not only had there been the costs of last night’s festivities, he’d also had to make these purchases on Scott’s orders. Not that he begrudged doing anything to help Gordon, he just couldn’t see what use they would be.

“Hello, Virgil.” Diane’s smile didn’t seem as bright as usual when he ran into them coming out of Gordon’s ward. “How are you?”

Virgil balanced the box he was carrying on a chair. “Fine, thanks. How are you two?”

“We’d be great if we didn’t have to go back to work,” Rick responded. “Blame Diane, she’s on weekend shift.”

“And you’ve got to catch up on the work you haven’t been able to do because you’ve been visiting Gordon,” his sister reminded him.

“How is he?” Virgil asked, indicating his brother’s room.

“He...” Diane bit her lip. “He seems a little depressed. You’ll have to try and cheer him up, Virgil.”

“I’ll do my best, but if you two can’t do that, I don’t know what chance I’ve got,” Virgil admitted. “Ask any of my brothers, they’ll be glad to tell you that I’m not known for my ability to tell jokes.”

“I’m sure that just being here will cheer him up,” Diane soothed. “What have you got in the box? Something for Gordon?”

Virgil peeled back the paper protecting the parcel. “This is box number one of ‘his master’s voice’... My masters being Scott and John. I’ve got no idea what they’ve got planned once I’ve installed them.”

“We’ll have to get Gordon to tell us next time we visit,” Diane said. “Unfortunately we’re not going to be back for a couple of weeks. With illnesses and leave, we’re short staffed at my hospital, and Rick’s got a backlog of work to catch up on.”

“And looming deadlines,” Rick grumbled.

Grandma bustled out of Gordon’s room. “Are you both ready...? Oh! Hello, Virgil. You’re late today.”

Virgil felt another yawn creep across his face. “I was held up.”

“And I’m holding up Rick and Diane, so we’d better go. See what you can do about cheering Gordon up while I’m gone. He’s not very happy today.”

“Do you have to make all that noise?”

Virgil looked down over his shoulder from where he was using an electric screwdriver to screw a bracket on to the wall. “Sorry, Father. But I’m only following orders.”

Jeff Tracy frowned. “Whose orders?”

Virgil stepped down off the small stepladder and picked up one of the five speakers he was installing around Gordon’s room. “Your two eldest sons.”

“So they get you to make that racket at a time when they are conveniently out of town,” Jeff grumbled. “Did they tell you where they were going?”

“No.” Virgil attached the speaker to the bracket. “Does that look about right, Gordon?”

Gordon, lying on his back, staring at the ceiling, seemed totally uninterested in the new fittings that were being installed in his room. The only sign of life was his good hand, which was continually clutching and releasing his bedspread.

Virgil shifted the stepladder, made a few calculations and measurements, and then fired up his drill again.

Jeff had had enough. “I’m going for a walk,” he growled. He indicated his watch. “Let me know when you’ve finished.”

Virgil watched him stomp out of the room thinking that while everyone had been careful to warn him about Gordon’s obvious depression, no one had thought to alert him to his father’s bad temper. “He’s not in the best of moods today, is he, Gordon?” There was no reply from the bed. “Do you mind if I carry on drilling?” He took the silence to be an affirmation and continued his work.

Once the five speakers were carefully spaced about the room, so the optimal sound was directed to the head of the bed, Virgil sat in the chair by Gordon’s good hand and plugged in his portable music player. “We’d better test that I’ve done everything correctly. What do you want to listen to?”

Gordon’s first word of Virgil’s visit was barely audible. “Nadin’.”

“Nothing? How about I choose something and play it? Just so I know I’ve optimised the sound?” Virgil chuckled. “You know what Scott’s like if you don’t carry out his instructions to the letter.” He received no response from Gordon so he selected a piece of music at random, played it until he was satisfied with the sound quality of the set-up, and then shut the player down. “How has your week been?” he asked as he put the device back in his pocket.

“Szame… Allbwayz da szame.”

“How are you getting on with Catherine and Rose?”

“K.”

“Has Mr Millington said anything about your progress?”

“Nao.”

“Alan says he’ll be visiting on Monday.”

...

“Do you have any ideas what Scott and John are up to?”

“Ndgoyin’ demszelvs.”

“Enjoying themselves?” Virgil frowned. John and Scott had seemed to be cheerful, but he’d assumed that was because they were getting ready to execute their “great plan,” not because they were simply looking forward to some hedonistic activity. “Enjoying themselves doing what?”

“Dundo.”

Virgil looked around at his handiwork. “They must have something planned; otherwise they wouldn’t have got me to buy those speakers for you...” He remembered something. “I’d better let Father know that I’ve finished...”

“Dao yo noo whad da wirzt szond n da ol vwerl diz?”

Virgil tried to understand what his brother had been said and failed. “I beg your pardon.”

Gordon was staring at the uniform tiles of the ceiling. He had to repeat his sentence several times, becoming more and more frustrated, before Virgil, with the aid of the texter, was able to interpret his words. “Do you know what the worst sound in the whole world is?”

Virgil the musician could think of several candidates for such a dubious honour, but instead he replied with: “No? What?”

“‘Erin Did gwy...” The silence that followed gave Virgil the chance to rework the sentence into something coherent in his mind. “Hearing Dad cry…”

Disbelief made Virgil wonder if he’d understood correctly. “Cry? Dad??”

Still staring at the ceiling, Gordon continued speaking as if his monologue was intended only for that featureless surface. “Listening to him beg me to wake up... Lying here, screaming at him that that’s what I was trying to do… Telling him that there’s a brick wall lying on me and I can’t move… Telling him I can hear him, but I can’t see... I can’t talk... … I can’t do anything…”

Virgil listened, horrified by what he was hearing. He didn’t speak, even when Gordon’s words were unintelligible. It was only through intense concentration and a lot of guess work, that he was able to follow Gordon’s rambles.

And Gordon had a lot to say. It was as if he had been saving up a week’s worth of words for this one speech. “...All I wanted to do was to hold him; to tell him that I loved him; to tell him that I didn’t want him to suffer because of me... I wanted to feel him hold me; I wanted him to protect me... I wanted to tell him I was scared... I wanted to tell him not to cry.”

“I never knew he cried,” Virgil admitted.

“Only when we were alone. Someone would come in and then I’d hear the rustle of a newspaper.” Gordon’s good thumb twitched.

Virgil sat in silence. He remembered one day, it seemed a long time ago now, when Gordon was still in the coma. He’d arrived in this room to find his father sitting there reading a magazine. At the time he’d thought it slightly odd because Jeff had been determined to keep communicating with his injured son, and yet there he’d been, sitting silently, holding the magazine just that little bit too high… “I wish I’d realised.”

“I heard other things… I heard you guys talking… I heard Alan apologise over and over again… I heard you guys say things to me that you’d never say when I was awake... I heard your secrets to me... and about me.”

Virgil tried to remember what he’d said during those dark days. “Were you in pain?”

“No. You can’t feel pain if the only things you are aware of are fear and frustration. Now that’s all I know.”

“I wish I could help you, Gordon.”

“You can.” Gordon’s thumb twitched twice.

“I can? How?”

Gordon turned dull eyes to face him. “I’m not getting better.”

Virgil felt a chill overcome him. “Has Mr Millington said something?”

“He’s on vacation. Left yesterday. Won’t be back for a week.”

“But did he say something about your prognosis before he left?”

“No. But I know that this is it. It’s not going to get any better.”

“You don’t know that, Gordon. None of us do. Who knows what’s around the corner.”

“Then why aren’t I improving? Why can’t I do more than I can?”

“I don’t know.”

“Face it. I’m trapped in this bed for the rest of my life...”

“Not necessarily...”

“I can’t eat properly. I can’t wash myself. I can’t walk. I can’t turn the pages of a book. All I am is a thumb.”

“No, you’re not. It’s not as if you can’t communicate with us...”

“Most people can’t understand me. You’re struggling now.”

“Yes, I am,” Virgil admitted. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m sick of this. I’m sick of the boredom. I’m sick of being told what to do and being made to do it. I’m sick of physio. I’m sickof people pushing and pulling me about like a puppet.”

“Hang in there, Gordon. It can’t last forever.”

“And what will happen when Mr Millington finally decides that he can’t do anything for me? Who will look after me now I can’t look after myself?”

“We’ll all help.”

“Is that what you think? How long will it take before you’re tired of caring for me and you banish me into a nursing home?”

“We wouldn’t do that.”

“In that case have you thought about what you are going to have to do? Are you going to feed me? Are you going to wash me? Are you going to change my catheter? Or are you planning on compromising security and employing a stranger to look after all my needs?”

Virgil steeled himself. “We’ll do whatever’s best for you.”

“Have you thought about how many years I will have to live like this?”

“No... I’ve been telling myself that you’re going to get better.”

“But I’m not getting better, Virgil! And I’m going to be trapped like this for too many years... Unless you help me...” Gordon’s thumb twitched again and settled into that old hypnotic rhythm. “Help me escape. Help me out of this nightmare. Help me find peace.”

Virgil felt the chill turn to ice. “Gordon...”

“Think how good it’ll be, without having me as an albatross around your neck”

“I’ve never thought of you like that.”

“Everyone else does.”

“No, they don’t!”

“Scott and John do. They’re off enjoying themselves...”

“No, they’re not. Whatever it is they’re doing, they’re doing for you.”

There was a twisted laugh. “Is that what they told you? Do you know what they told me?”

“No.”

“They said they were sick of looking at my ugly face so they were going away.”

Virgil had no reason to doubt that this was true and was shocked. Not because his brothers had made such a statement, but because of the way that Gordon had misinterpreted it. “They probably did. But, Gordon, they were teasing you. We’ve always said things like that to each other. It doesn’t mean that we mean it.”

“They meant it.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“And Dad... How long has he been gone now?”

Virgil looked at his watch. “About an hour and a half.”

“See! He used to only go for half hour walks. Now he doesn’t want to be near me. He doesn’t want to see me like this.”

“That’s not why he’s not here! You heard him, he didn’t want to stay here and listen to the noise I was making. He was going to come back when I told him I’d finished and I haven’t done that yet. It’s my fault that he’s not here, not his, so I’ll call him now...” Virgil lifted his arm so he could speak into his watch.

“No! Not yet.”

Virgil lowered his arm again. “Gordon... Please... Don’t ask me to ‘help’ you. I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. You’re clever with your hands. You can make something. Something with a switch I can push with my thumb. You don’t even have to be here when I do it. I’ll make sure it’s some time when you’re at work.”

“Think about what you’re saying!”

“I’ve done nothing but think. That’s all I can do.”

“You’re asking me to help you give up!”

“I’m asking to be set free! I’m asking to end my life so everyone I care about can live theirs!”

“You’re quitting! You are not a quitter, Gordon!”

“I’m not quitting. I’m accepting the inevitable.”

“This is not inevitable...”

“I’m asking you to help stop Dad from suffering. Imagine, Virgil... Imagine not having to fly out here every weekend.” Virgil felt his face start to burn as he remembered how this had been his dearest wish last night. “Imagine Dad finally getting International Rescue operational. Imagine Grandma cooking in her own kitchen. Imagine Scott being able to fly whenever and wherever he wanted to. Imagine John being able to stay up all night looking at the stars. Imagine Alan winning the world championship without worrying about his crippled brother...”

Virgil saw a counterargument. “Imagine Alan not being able to compete in his final races because he’s so bereft at losing his ‘crippled’ brother. Imagine everyone hating me when they discover that I was the one who ‘helped’ you. Imagine me ending up in jail!”

“I’ll sign a paper saying I forced you...”

“How, Gordon?! I’m sorry, but you can barely hold a pen, let alone sign your name. And do you honestly think your signature would absolve me from blame?”

“No one would blame you.”

“I’d blame me! Imagine me living the rest of my life knowing that I was the one who...”

“But why should I live? What use am I?”

“You’re an important part of our family.”

“I’m stopping our family from living their lives!”

“We wouldn’t be a family without you here.”

“You’d all survive. We survived Ma’s death and grew stronger.”

“And do you remember the trauma we went through at the time? Don’t ask us to go through that again.”

“What about International Rescue? That’s on hold while I’m still alive.”

“That’s only on hold until you’re well enough to come home.”

“But why should people die just because I’m alive?”

“That’s not happening. We weren’t going to start operations until next year anyway.”

“We’re two months behind schedule!”

“Have you honestly thought what your death would do to us, Gordon? Do you have any idea what we went through when the radio reported that you were dead? When there was a chance that you wouldn’t live? You said yourself that you heard Father cry when he was begging you to wake up. He wants you to live! We want you to live. I want you to live!!” Just as he had when his brother was in the coma, Virgil placed his hand so it covered Gordon’s twitching thumb. “Please, Gordon. Don’t ask me to do this... Don’t give up...”

Gordon looked down at the hand that covered his own…

...

...

...

“Pweez, Brrchill.”

“No!” Virgil launched himself out of his chair. He brushed past the surprised nurse who’d come in to check up on the patient, and ran in to the family’s unit where he fell into a chair, burying his head in his hands. “No, no, NO!!”

A door opened.

“Virgil...?” It was his father’s voice. “What’s wrong?”

“We’ve lost him,” Virgil moaned into his palms. “Gordon’s gone.”

Jeff misunderstood the anguish in Virgil’s words. He collapsed into the chair next to his son. “What?!”

“He’s changed.” Still not looking at his father, Virgil sat up. “It’s like he’s a stranger. I don’t know him anymore.”

Jeff exhaled a sigh of relief. “I wish you’d choose your words more carefully, Son.”

“Huh?” Finally Virgil looked at his father. If Gordon was behaving like a stranger, then Jeff Tracy was looking like one, and Virgil wondered when he’d aged so much.

Jeff put an arm about his son’s shoulders. “What happened?”

As he looked into the pale, careworn face, Virgil knew he couldn’t tell his father about Gordon’s request. “He... He’s putting a negative slant on to everything. I was going to call you when I’d finished, but we got talking and I never got the chance. He’s interpreted your absence to mean that you don’t want to be with him anymore. But it was my fault, not yours!”

“It’s okay,” Jeff soothed. “What else?”

“He’s talked himself into believing that Scott and John have left because they’re tired of being with him.”

Jeff frowned. “Why would he think that?”

“Did one of them say something about being sick of looking at him, as a joke?”

“Ah...” Jeff thought. “I don’t remember. You boys are always saying things like that to each other, so I didn’t notice.”

“That’s what I tried to tell him, but he refuses to listen to me.”

“What else?”

Virgil hesitated. Everything else he could remember was related to Gordon’s plea for help. “Nothing.”

“Nothing? Come on, Virgil, tell me. What else did he say?”

“Uh... I can’t remember.” Desperate to escape the questions, Virgil leapt to his feet. “I’m going for a walk.” Without a backward glance at his puzzled and concerned father, he strode out the door, into the hospital corridor and through the warren that made up the Willis Institute.

He found himself standing beside his aeroplane: his ticket out of this nightmare. He leant against the cold metal and remembered his brother’s plea: “Help me, Virgil... Help me find peace.”

Peace for whom?

Virgil reached out for the lock and stopped. If he were to leave now, Gordon would probably think that he’d accepted the challenge. How would that make the invalid feel? Pleased that he was finally seeing the chance to end his frustrating life? Frightened that he’d made the wrong decision? Upset that one of his brothers would willingly assist him to end it all?

Virgil knew he couldn’t be the one to do that.

But going back to Gordon’s room was equally unpalatable. What would he face there? Pleading and hopeful looks? Subtle hints? Direct demands? Further questions from his father?

Virgil took himself for a walk around the grounds.

He missed lunch at the institute, instead making himself a sandwich at the Satellite. Even then he couldn’t eat it, so he gave it to some birds who’d been watching him from their perch on the back fence.

He arrived back at Gordon’s room late in the afternoon. His grandmother had returned from taxi duty and she shot him with an annoyed look. “Where have you been? I’m told you’ve barely been here all day.”

Virgil shrugged, unable to look her or anyone else in the eye. “About... I had things to do.”

Jeff was looking concerned. “Anything we can help with?”

“No.” Virgil said nothing to Gordon, and Gordon didn’t speak to Virgil.

It was through sheer willpower that Virgil forced himself to stay in Gordon’s room for much of the next 24 hours. He found himself counting down the minutes until he could leave and resolved to contact the Crumps as soon as he was leaving the hospital. He needed to talk to someone impartial.

In contrast to the sombre mood that filled the room, Scott and John were in high spirits when they returned. “I hope everyone’s had a good weekend?” Scott stated. “Because we’ve had a brilliant one. Right, John?”

“I’ll say,” John agreed as he placed a black box beside Gordon’s bed. “It’s amazing what you can fit into a little over 24 hours.”

Scott chuckled. “Especially if you don’t get any sleep. Just as well I flew us back here.”

“You’re a fine one to talk about not getting any sleep. What time did you get to bed last night?”

Scott shrugged. “The time zones had messed up my body clock.” He eyed up the speakers. “Looks good, Virg. How do they sound?”

Virgil shrugged. “Okay.”

“I hope it’s better than just ‘okay’.” Scott grinned at John. “Shall we do it?”

John’s grin was equally manic. “Let’s do it.”

“Right.” Scott pulled a music player from out of his pocket. “We’ve got something for you, Gordo. And, if Virgil’s done his job right, I think you’ll like it.”

Gordon looked at Virgil, but made no comment. His thumb twitched.

Scott was looking around the bed. “Where’s the plug, Virg?”

“Here,” Virgil held out the connection to the speakers.

“Great. Thanks.” Scott plugged the music player in. “Ready, Gordon?”

“Come on, Scott,” John complained. “I want to see if it works. Turn it on!”

“We’ve got to set the scene first,” Scott retorted. “Close your eyes, Gordon. Close them and relax.”

Gordon stared at him mutely and then, figuring that he didn’t have the energy or inclination to argue, obeyed.

“Good. Now imagine that you are on Tracy Island. You’re lying on the beach. There are gulls flying overhead. Up the hill behind you is the house. At your feet is the Pacific Ocean...”

Gordon opened his eyes.

“It won’t work if you don’t close them, Gordon,” John scolded.

Gordon scowled at him before closing his eyes again.

Scott pressed play. John pressed a switch on his mystery box.

Out of Virgil’s five speakers washed the sounds of the shore. The ebb and flow of the waters on the sands, the cry of sea birds, a gentle zephyr whispering through the trees...

Virgil frowned. He could almost swear that he could smell the salty odour of sea spray. He looked at John who smiled at him and mimed wafting a scent out of the black box.

There was a sigh of deep contentment from the bed. Surprised, Virgil looked at Gordon. His younger brother’s features had relaxed, as had his twitching thumb. All the stresses, fears and frustrations appeared to have melted away. He sighed again.

Now Virgil switched his attention to his two elder brothers and saw twin looks of astonishment. That John and Scott had been sure that their plan would work had been obvious. It was the way it had worked so quickly and completely that had surprised them.

A soft snore directed Virgil’s attention away from his siblings. Jeff Tracy sat slumped in his chair, even more relaxed than his bedridden son. The years he’d aged in the last few weeks had seemed to have melted away.

Scott grinned at John, tapped Virgil on the knee to get his attention, and then gestured that they should all retire to the unit. “Back soon, Grandma,” he whispered as he walked past. “You can keep an eye on the sleeping beauties.” When the door had closed behind them he and John shared a high-five. “Are we good or what!?”

“We’re good,” John agreed.

“Do you two realise what you’ve done?” Virgil asked. “I think you may have just gone some way towards saving Gordon’s life.” His brothers laughed. “I’m serious!”

Scott was still on a high. “Well, that’s International Rescue’s job, isn’t it?”

“Yep,” John crowed. “Today: Gordon. Tomorrow: the world!” Still grinning like maniacs the pair of them collapsed into chairs.

Virgil couldn’t destroy their euphoria with his fears and concerns. “Where have you been?”

“Tracy Island,” Scott replied. “Recording the sounds and smells of the ocean.”

“And sights,” John added. “Don’t forget the sights.”

“No, I can’t forget part three of our great plan,” Scott agreed. “We’ll need your help again, Virg.”

“Yes,” John nodded. “Lie down on the floor.”

Virgil stared at them. “What?”

“Lie down on the floor,” Scott demanded. “I assume it’s clean and you haven’t been spilling anything on it.”

“Of course not...” With some reluctance Virgil did as he was told. “Now what?”

John had retrieved another, larger, bottomless box that appeared to be hollow. “We stick this over your head.”

“What!?”

“Relax,” Scott soothed. “It won’t hurt. We’ve made it for Gordon, and you know we won’t do anything to hurt him. We just want to fine tune it to make sure that it wasn’t damaged in transit.”

“If you were Gordon and Alan there’s no way I’d submit to this,” Virgil growled. “But since it’s you two...” he lay back and let them place the box over his upper torso. “It’s dark in here,” he noted, his voice sounding hollow.

“That’s because we haven’t switched it on yet,” John told him. “Are you ready?”

“Ready,” Virgil responded, wondering what he was letting himself in for.

For a moment nothing appeared to happen. Then Virgil became aware that the box’s interior was growing lighter. The area around him appeared to be infused with a calming blue light. He uttered an exclamation when a fish swam into view and darted away again.

“Have you just met Freddy?” John asked.

“Is that the name of the fish?”

“Yeah, he was following us about when we were filming. What else can you see?”

Virgil looked ‘up’. “I can see the sun through the water. And if I look down... I can see rocks and corals,” the fish darted back into view, “and Freddy.”

He heard Scott’s voice. “Let’s see how you go ‘swimming’ about the place. Give me your right hand.” Virgil felt something slip over his thumb. “Okay, now to turn right move your thumb right...”

Virgil obeyed and the video’s view changed; he was now parallel to the shore. “Can I swim forward?”

“Lift your arm,” John instructed, “but remember you’re Gordon. You don’t have a lot of mobility. Too much movement and you’ll crash into a rock.”

Virgil raised his arm slightly and the scene appeared to move forward. “This is amazing!”

“Do you think Gordon will like it?”

“It’s not as good as the real thing, but I’m sure he’ll appreciate the effort you’ve put into it.” Virgil’s world went black again and the box was lifted off his head. He blinked against the bright, artificial light. “So is that what you’ve been doing this weekend? Filming?”

“We’ve got ten hours worth of footage,” Scott said smugly. “Some of it we got by scuba diving and others by trailing a camera beside the boat. And we’ve got Gordon’s WASP friends filming different marine ecosystems. They were glad to help.”

Virgil stood up and brushed his clothes down. “Hang on,” he said as a thought came to him. “Are you sure that’s safe? The flickering of the screen won’t bring on epileptic seizures, will it?”

“We were worried about that when we ran the idea past Brains,” John admitted. “But he made sure that the refresh rate is high enough so that that won’t be a problem. He’s been fantastic designing this and the sea sponge.”

“Sea sponge?”

“That box that gives off the smell of the sea. It absorbs odours like a sponge and then emits them when you want them. We might not be able to take Gordon to the sea, but we’ll do our darndest to bring the sea to Gordon.”

“We did consider making a virtual reality mask shaped like a diving mask,” Scott explained as he reclaimed his seat. “But we thought that might be too uncomfortable for him to wear for long periods, so we came up with the box idea… Our next goal is to get him out of that bed and give him some form of independent mobility. Alan reckons he’s got an answer to that problem and he’s going to bring it when he next visits, but goodness knows what he’s got in mind.”

Virgil settled into his seat. “I hope Gordon appreciates all the effort you guys are putting into giving him a better quality of life.”

“Talking of life,” Scott leant forward. “What did you mean by us saving Gordon’s, Virg?”

“I... I meant that he’s been really depressed this weekend.”

“We told you that before we left yesterday,” John reminded him.

“I remember that, but I don’t think you realise just how depressed he really was... Which of you two told him you were leaving because you were sick of looking at him?”

“Uh...” John looked at Scott. “I don’t know... It might have been you...” he frowned. “Or was it me? I can’t remember.” He shrugged. “Why?”

“Because Gordon had convinced himself that you meant it.”

His brothers burst out laughing. “Come on, Virgil,” John laughed. “Gordon knows us better than that.”

“Yes,” Scott confirmed. “It was just a throwaway line. If we hadn’t said it to him, he probably would have said that he was glad to see the back of us for the same reason. You know how it works.”

“I know how it normally works,” Virgil insisted. “But I’m telling you that this time he thought you meant it. Look... Maybe it’s because I’m not here full time that I’m seeing things differently, but I don’t think you realise how much this paralysis is getting Gordon down. You can’t just walk out on him with a flippant line and expect him to be content. He needs your continual support. He needs to know that you’re always there for him.”

John scratched his head. “But we have always been there for him.”

“I know that, but he thinks you’ve grown sick and tired of it. He thought you’d gone away this weekend to have fun and to forget about him.”

Both brothers looked sheepish. “I did set up my telescope,” John admitted. “That’s why I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“I took Thunderbird One for a test flight,” Scott added. “To see how she performed; which, incidentally, was great. But that was work, not fun.”

“Yeah, right,” John scoffed. “You should have heard the whoops over the radio, Virgil. Admit it, Scott. You were joy riding.”

“I was not!”

“You were having fun!”

“Look!” Virgil held up his hand. “It doesn’t matter what you did this weekend. You needed the break and I’m not going to say that you shouldn’t have taken the time out while you had the opportunity. But you should have told Gordon what your plans were. You’ve got to promise that you won’t leave him again, and if you do, you tell him exactly what you’re going for.”

John gave a sombre nod. “Agreed.”

But Scott wasn’t convinced. “There you go again, Virg, insisting that we promise you something. Why? You know you can trust us.”

“Don’t promise me,” Virgil snapped. “Promise Gordon!”

“Okay, okay, I promise I’ll promise Gordon that we won’t leave him again. Right...?” Scott gave Virgil a strange look. “Just what happened this weekend?”

“He was talking about dying.” Virgil took a deep breath. “He wishes he was dead.”

“Dead?” John stared at him. “No way! Not Gordon. He’s always been so full of life…” A faraway look appeared in his eyes and he glanced at Scott. “Until recently…”

“He didn’t say this in front of Father, did he?” Scott asked.

“No. He’d gone for a walk while I was installing the speakers; when I’d finished we, that’s Gordon and I… talked.”

“Did you tell Father what you and Gordon were talking about?”

“No.” Virgil shook his head. “I escaped into here when the nurse arrived to work on Gordon. Then Father arrived and asked me what was wrong. I couldn’t tell him of course, so I went for a walk myself.” He paused. “It was a long one.”

“Dad’s another problem,” John mused. “He went out like a light when we played the audio. If you ask me, he’s heading for a breakdown. I hate to think how he’ll react if Mr Millington confirms that Gordon’s not going to get any better.”

“He needs to get away from here, even if only for a couple of days.” Scott sat back and thought. “The question is how do we get him away from Gordon?”

“Another question,” Virgil added, “is do we? In Gordon’s present state of mind we could be making things worse. And if Gordon gets worse, then Father will get worse.”

“Well, he’s not going to get any better if he doesn’t have a break soon,” John said. “And it’s not only his health I’m worried about. I was reading the latest paper while you were filing the flight plan, Scott, and there was a whole article about how the value of Dad’s companies are falling because he hasn’t been seen to be at the controls for the last two and a half months.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Scott replied, “he’s got plenty of secured funds. So what if he’s only a multi-millionaire instead of a billionaire?”

“Personally, nothing. It wouldn’t even matter if he lost all of his money,” John rejoined. “We’d all be able to earn enough to support ourselves. But what about International Rescue? You don’t run an organisation like that on the smell of an oily rag. All our plans, all the money he’s already spent; could mean nothing. And that would be Dad’s dream destroyed, not to mention what it would do to Gordon if he thinks the end of International Rescue is his fault...” His phone rang and he answered it. “Hiya, Kiddo… We’re all here… Just a second and I’ll slot you into the phone so we can all see your ugly face.”

Virgil rolled his eyes.

Alan appeared on the videophone’s screen. “I just called to say hi and see how Gordon is.”

“Well, Virgil here thinks he’s depressed and…” John looked at Scott, “we’d have to agree with him. But in some ways we’re more worried about Dad.”

“About Dad?” Alan looked alarmed. “Why? What happened?”

“Nothing… yet,” Scott told him. “And we want to keep it that way.”

“You mean the way he overreacted the other day? But what can we do?”

“We’ve got to get him away from the Willis for a few days. Any suggestions?”

“No… But if Gordon’s depressed, is getting Dad away going to help?”

“That’s what I’m wondering,” Virgil stated. “We don’t want to exacerbate an already bad situation. We can’t help Father if we’re only going to make Gordon worse.”

“Well,” Scott said firmly, “in that case we’ll just have to get Gordon to help us.”

“How?” Virgil asked, hoping that whatever plan of attack his brothers decided on would be the best for everyone’s, especially Gordon’s, peace of mind.

Scott sat forward, placed his elbows on his knees, steepling his fingers together as he thought. “So we’ve got to get Father to agree to leave; get Gordon’s consent for Father to leave; and, preferably, get the business world to see that Father’s still got his hands on the reins…” He looked at Virgil. “How’s ACE? Do you think Uncle Hamish would help?”

“I’m only an employee so I haven’t discussed the company’s financial situation with him, but I’m sure he’d be glad to help out.”

“Then we’ll call him and ask.”

“I’ve got to go,” Alan said. “But let me know how you get on and if I can help.”

“Will do, Alan,” John responded.

“Catch you guys later.” The screen went blank.

Scott stood up. “I’ll make the call.” Using the unit’s videophone he dialled Hamish Mickelson’s home number. “Hi, Aunty Edna,” he smiled when she came on line. “You’re looking as gorgeous as ever. How’s one of the best looking women north of the equator?” John looked at Virgil and rolled his eyes.

Edna Mickelson actually giggled. “You’re a sweet talker, Scott Tracy. I’m fine. How are you?”

“Okay, but I’m not so sure about the old man. Can I have a word with Uncle Hamish?”

“Oh dear, of course you can.” Edna leant away from the videophone’s microphone and called: “Hamish… Can you come in here, please?” She looked back at the video screen. “How’s Gordon?”

“As well as can be expected.”

“Well, give him my love. And don’t forget, next time you’re out this way you are going to have dinner at our place.”

Scott beamed at her. “If it weren’t for Gordon I’d be running for the airfield now.”

Edna glanced to her right. “Here he is… Give my love to your family.”

“Will do…” Scott waited until they’d changed places. “Hello, Uncle Hamish.”

Hamish Mickelson smiled at his honorary nephew. “Hello, Scott. What can I do for you?”

“We’ve got to get Father out of here for a few days for his own good. There’s no way that he’ll leave Gordon just to have a vacation, but he might be persuaded to leave if one of his companies needed his personal input. Is there any chance that ACE will require the boss’s services?”

Hamish thought briefly. “Well… He doesn’t ‘interfere’ with my running of the company as a rule, but we are due to release our quarterly accounts. If I were to say that I have some concerns then do you think that might be enough to tempt him away?”

“It’s worth a try,” Scott agreed. “But we’re not going to tackle Father until we know that Gordon’s happy for him to leave. He’s our first priority.”

“I understand,” Hamish nodded. “I’ll wait for a call, either from you or Jeff.”

“Bye, Uncle Hamish.” Scott rubbed his hands together. “I do love the planning process.”

“And ordering people about,” John said drily. “We’d noticed.”

“Do you guarantee that you’re not going to push ahead with this plan if Gordon needs Father to stay?” Virgil asked. “Otherwise you can count me out.”

“Don’t worry, Virg. I think I know exactly how we can get Gordon to agree with no fuss,” Scott responded. “But if it’ll make you feel happier, you can referee.”

“Referee?”

“Make sure there’s no foul play. You can also keep an eye on Father and let us know if he wakes up... Come on...” Scott led the way back into Gordon’s room.

Jeff was still sound asleep in the chair, Grandma had placed a blanket over her son and departed for places unknown, and Gordon was still relaxing to the sounds of the Pacific Ocean. He opened his eyes when his brothers entered. Virgil took the seat beside his slumbering father and Scott and John pulled up their chairs on either side of the bed, close to Gordon’s head.

Scott pressed his finger to his lips, indicated their father, and then held up his cell phone. He started texting. “Where’s Grandma?” He pressed send and the words appeared on Gordon’s texter screen.

Gordon’s thumb went into action on his own keypad. “Start dinner at house.”

Scott’s mouth formed an ‘O’. “We need your help, G.”

Gordon’s face registered surprise. “Help? Me????”

Scott’s texted response matched his brother’s for punctuation. “Yes! You!!!!”

Delighted at the prospect of doing something useful, Gordon grinned his twisted smile. “How?”

“We’re worried about Dad.”

“Dad?”

“He’s putting everything into looking after you. He needs a short break.”

Gordon gazed at the sleeping man, his expression revealing the deep love he held for his father. Virgil knew it was an affection felt by all of Jeff Tracy’s sons, but rarely shown. “Yes.”

“But we all know that there’s no way he’ll leave until you are ready.”

Gordon nodded.

“Because you’re our first priority.”

Gordon appeared surprised. “I am?”

“You are,” Scott said.

Jeff stirred at the unexpected sound and Virgil held up his hand until he was sure that his father had settled back into sleep. He nodded at his brothers to signal the all clear.

“What are we going to do?” Gordon asked.

“Trick him.”

Gordon’s eyes lit up as he looked at his eldest brother. “Trick him? How?”

“Uncle H is going to help. Something’s ‘wrong’ at ACE. Something only Dad can fix.” Gordon nodded his understanding. “But we know he won’t leave till you tell him it’s OK.”

Gordon nodded again.

“You’ve got to convince him.” This was a text from John. “Can you do that?”

“Yes.”

“Good. & don’t worry. S & I aren’t going to leave you.”

Virgil could almost see the hope in Gordon’s eyes. “You won’t?”

“No,” Scott whispered. “We promise that we won’t leave here again until you are ready to leave here.” He grinned. “That’s unless you kick us out first.”

Gordon looked at Virgil, his expression unreadable.

“That’s a promise,” John said, taking his younger brother’s good hand. “We’re here for the long haul.”

Gordon looked at him and then transferred his attention to Scott. “Ya pwomiz?”

Scott patted his shoulder. “I promise, Gordon. I’m not going anywhere.”

Gordon sniffed and looked between his brothers. A single tear trickled down the side of his face and Scott got a tissue and wiped it away. “Szowy.”

“That’s okay,” Scott responded, not understanding the real reason for the apology. He gave a disarming grin. “Makes a change from the usual Gordon goop.” Gordon chuckled.

“Are you ready, G?” John asked.

Gordon took a deep breath to steel himself. “Yes.”

“Are you absolutely sure? Any doubts we’ll wait.”

“‘F ‘e az ta gao, dan ‘e az ta gao,” Gordon said loudly.

Jeff stirred.

“Are you sure, Gordon?” Scott said at his normal volume. “Maybe Uncle Hamish will be able to muddle through without Father’s help.”

Jeff was wakening.

“Nao. ‘E az ta gao.”

“What’s wrong?” Jeff asked, rubbing his eyes.

“I’ve just been talking to Uncle Hamish,” Scott explained. “He’s got some concerns with ACE’s quarterly accounts. We told him you probably wouldn’t want to leave here.”

“Vud ‘e neez yi,” Gordon said. “Yi codda gao.”

“I can’t leave you, Son,” Jeff responded, now fully awake. “No matter how much Hamish needs my help.”

“Ya, yi gan.”

“Why don’t you fly out with Virgil?” John suggested. “You’ll leave tonight, have five full working days at ACE and then fly back straight after work on Friday. We’re only talking about 117 hours. When you consider the number you’ve spent here over the last two-and-a-bit months, that’s nothing.”

Virgil nodded, keen to reinforce that point. “Yes. I won’t even bother getting showered and changed on Friday. I can do that here at the Satellite. We’ll be back here before dinner time.”

“Yi codda gao, Did.”

“We’re not going to leave Gordon alone,” Scott stated. “Right, John?”

John gave an emphatic nod. “Right!”

“And Mr Millington’s at his conference this week,” Scott said, pushing home his argument. “We’re not going to find out anything new while you’re gone.”

“Well...” Jeff wavered. “Are you sure you don’t mind, Gordon?”

“Nao. Gao.”

Jeff gave a reluctant nod. “All right then. If I’m really needed... I’ll go and call Hamish; see what the problem is.” He turned to the son seated beside him. “How late do you want to leave, Virgil?”

“I’m easy. Whatever time you want to go. My plane’s fully equipped for night flights.”

Jeff stood. “I’ll make that call. If you change your mind, Gordon, don’t be afraid to tell me.”

“‘M ‘K.”

Jeff left the room.

“Yes!” John picked up Gordon’s good hand and high-fived it. Then he held it so Scott could do the same.

Gordon grinned like a lunatic.

But Virgil still had his reservations.

“I can fly her, Son.”

“I know you can,” Virgil responded. “But she’s my plane so I’ll fly her.”

Jeff looked put out, but, making no comment, settled himself into the front passenger seat. Virgil was glad that he hadn’t created a fuss. At any other time he wouldn’t have had a problem with his father flying his aeroplane (unlike Scott who was practically glued to his controls); but Jeff was clearly still very tired, and Virgil didn’t fancy taking any chances of him nodding off mid-flight.

A concern that seemed to be validated when, shortly after take off, Jeff fell asleep.

Virgil dialled a number on his cell phone. “Hi,” he said quietly so as to not wake his father. “It’s me.”

“We were wondering when you were going to ring,” Lisa Crump responded. “How did everything go?”

“Not great,” Virgil admitted. “I wish I could come around, but I’ve got my father with me. Can I take a rain check?”

“Of course you can. Will tomorrow night be too soon?”

“Tomorrow night won’t be soon enough, Honey, but I’ll survive until then.” Virgil paused. “I appreciate this...”

“Like we said before, Virgil, after all you’ve done for us, being your sounding board is the least we can do.”

“Thanks. See you tomorrow.” Virgil hung up the phone and placed it back in his pocket.

“Girlfriend?”

Virgil looked at his father who was regarding his son with a quizzical expression. “Just a friend,” he clarified. “I thought you were asleep.”

“So I gathered,” Jeff said. “Am I cramping your social life?”

“No.” Virgil made a course correction. “That was Lisa Crump. She and Butch said that if I needed to talk about anything after this weekend then I could call in and see them when I got home.”

“You could always talk to me.”

Virgil gave a rueful shake of his head. “No, I couldn’t.”

“No, of course you couldn’t,” there was a never before heard bitterness in Jeff’s voice. “I’m only your father. You couldn’t talk to me.”

“Wha...” Shocked and somewhat hurt, Virgil suppressed the urge to blurt out a scathing reply. In silence he pretended to concentrate on flying the aeroplane while trying to work out what he could say that wouldn’t sound defensive or antagonistic. Nothing came to mind and he wondered what had possessed Jeff Tracy to respond in such a way.

“I’m sorry, Son. That was uncalled for.”

Virgil bit back a “yes.” “What did you mean? I’ve never had problems talking to you.”

Jeff sighed and ran his hand through his hair. “It’s just that... Sometimes... Sometimes it’s seemed to me that you’d prefer to discuss things with Scott.”

“You’re jealous?”

“I’m your father, Virgil. I would hope that I would be your first line of support.”

“Well...” Virgil thought quickly. “There aren’t too many times when you wouldn’t be. But... on occasion... rarely... you haven’t been there.” Now Jeff looked hurt and Virgil was quick to reassure him. “Not that you haven’t always tried to support us, and you’ve done a heck of a lot better than many in your position, but you’re not Superman. When you were setting up the business you couldn’t always be in two places at once. And, sometimes, when it was obvious that you were stressed, it seemed kinder to go to Scott; especially when you had to deal with getting the terrible twosome out of trouble again.”

“But they’re not here now and I’m not miles away. I’m sitting right beside you, Son. Can’t we discuss your problems?”

Regretful, Virgil shook his head. “No.”

“No?”

“No. Because you are the problem. And I’m the problem. And Gordon’s the problem. And so are Scott, John, Alan and Grandma. Just this once I need to talk to someone outside the family. Someone impartial.”

Jeff sat in silence as he mulled over what Virgil had just said. Then he sighed. “What’s happening to us, Virgil? I feel so powerless.”

“We all do.”

“But all this money I’ve got and what good is it? Gordon’s not getting better and I can’t help him.”

“His accident wasn’t your fault. Even if you’d been penniless he’d still have joined WASP and would probably still have been driving that hydrofoil when it crashed. But you wouldn’t have been able to get him the care he’s been getting at the Willis Institute. Your money’s helping Gordon.”

Jeff stared out the window at the seemingly never-ending darkness. He grunted a reply.

“Think about the great things you’ve achieved with your money,” Virgil suggested. “It’s thanks to you that I’ve got a job I enjoy.”

“You would have got a good job without my help,” Jeff told the window.

“Maybe. Maybe not. I might not have been able to afford to go to Denver and get the education I did... Scott would have still joined the Air Force, but he probably wouldn’t have been able to attend Yale and Oxford. John wouldn’t have gone to Harvard and would only be an amateur astronomer instead of being able to live his dream. And do you think Alan would be principal driver of his own racing team if you hadn’t been there to buy it for him? And think about what we’ll be able to achieve when International Rescue’s operational. Think what good your money will do then.”

Jeff finally looked at his son. “Do you still think we should go ahead with International Rescue? Even without Gordon?”

“Not having an aquanaut will limit our scope,” Virgil admitted. “But how many underwater rescues are you envisaging us doing? Most are bound to be on land.”

“Maybe,” Jeff grunted.

Virgil alerted Air Traffic Control to their approach. “You don’t have to make a decision about International Rescue now. We’ve got until Thanksgiving, remember?”

Jeff nodded. “I remember. I just wonder how much we’ll have to be thankful for...”

Chapter 19: A Quiet Discussion

Virgil awoke, briefly wondering why his bed wasn’t as comfortable as usual. As his mind cleared he remembered that he was sleeping on the camp bed having relinquished his own to his father. It had been decided that Jeff would spend the night at Virgil’s and then would spend the rest of the week at his own place.

Scott had radioed Tracy Island and requested Kyrano to fly out to make Jeff’s apartment habitable. Kyrano had readily agreed, but had first prepared enough meals to keep Brains fed until the Malaysian manservant was able to return next weekend. It wasn’t as though Brains was unable to fend for himself in the kitchen; more that he had a tendency to get caught up in his work and forget the time until his rumbling stomach interrupted his train of thought. Because of this Kyrano had prepared Brains’ meals and pre-programmed the cooker to select each dish and heat them at the required times. Once the meal was at the correct temperature an alarm would sound, continuing to make a noise until Brains retrieved the meal from the oven. What he did with it after that was his own business.

Virgil decided that it was time to think about making breakfast. It wasn’t until the smell of toast and eggs wafted through the apartment that his father stirred.

Jeff sat up and yawned. “Did I oversleep?”

“Not really,” Virgil responded, spooning the eggs onto the toast. “I usually go to work early so I can have a practise on the piano.”

“Your bed’s comfortable,” Jeff admitted as his slipped on his slippers. “Too comfortable.”

“So I’ve been told. Did you want eggs for breakfast?”

“Yes, please.” Jeff sniffed the air appreciatively. “That smells nearly as good as your grandmother makes.”

‘Nearly as good’ was a compliment, and Virgil smiled. “Let’s hope they taste nearly as good.” He placed a plate on the breakfast bar for his father and waited until the older man had taken a seat. “How are you getting to work today? Do you want to take the Red-Arrow? The only people who know I own it also know of our relationship.”

“Thanks for the offer, but I’ll call a taxi,” Jeff replied. “I wouldn’t want that car of yours to get damaged in ACE’s car park. However, I wouldn’t mind a drive of her some other time...”

Virgil grinned. “Not a problem. I’ll make sure you get a turn before Alan gets his hands on it.”

“Thanks...” Jeff picked up his cell phone and dialled a number. “Morning, Mother. How is he?” Virgil ate silently as he listened to the one sided conversation. “That’s good... Fine... Don’t forget to call if I’m needed back there. I’ll keep my cell with me at all times... No, I haven’t got there yet; your grandson’s just feeding me breakfast... Not bad, but not nearly as good as yours. ” He winked at Virgil who smiled in reply. “Okay, don’t forget to call if necessary. I’m not planning on attending any meetings... Bye, Mother.” He put down the phone. “Gordon’s fine,” he said, and resumed his breakfast.

“How are you, Virgil?” Lisa asked.

Virgil made a so-so gesture. “Trying to keep a brave face on things,” he told the Crumps. “I daren’t let Father think otherwise. I’m sorry I put the pair of you out last night.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she replied. “Are you still able to come over tonight?”

“Yes. If you’ll have me.”

“Of course. Come and have dinner with us.”

“Thanks.” Then Virgil chuckled. “I thought Father was asleep when I rang, but he heard me talking to you. He thought I was talking to my girlfriend.”

“Where’s Mista Tracy?” Butch asked. “I thought ‘e was with you.”

“He’s making his own way here,” Virgil responded. “We’re still pretending we’re not related.”

“Butch! Lisa!” Bruce came running over to his friends. “You’ll never guess who’s just arrived! It’s Mister Tra...” He spied Virgil. “Oh, I guess you already know... How’s Gordon, Virgil?”

Virgil was trying not to think exactly how Gordon was. “About the same physically. Mentally he’s... struggling.”

“This is going to sound crass,” Bruce began, “but in that case what is,” he had a furtive look around, “your father doing here?”

“We, that is my brothers and me, all agreed that if he stayed at the Willis too much longer, he was going to have a breakdown, so we’ve tricked him into thinking he’s needed urgently here... With Uncle Hamish’s help, of course.”

“And is he?” Bruce asked. “Needed here, I mean.”

“Not as far as I’m aware,” Virgil replied. “And I hope he doesn’t find out that he’s been tricked. He’ll blow sky high if he does...”

Morning tea time.

Virgil decided that he needed to make contact with the Willis Institute, just to reassure himself that Gordon was coping with his father’s absence. As he always did when making a private phone call, he slipped outside and walked around the back of the office block past an open window...

“What do you mean, you made a mistake?!”

Virgil froze. That was his father’s voice and Jeff Tracy did not sound pleased.

“I must have transposed two numbers.” Hamish Mickelson was on the defensive. “I’m sorry, Jeff. It was my mistake. I guess we aren’t in as much strife as I thought.”

“You thought! You dragged me away from my son because you thought ACE was in strife! Gordon’s gravely ill and you drag me away because you transposed two numbers!?”

“Jeff...”

“Hamish! If you weren’t such an old friend I would be seriously reconsidering your place at ACE.”

Virgil had heard enough. He ran back to the door, strode quickly through the office block and, completely ignoring Hamish Mickelson’s P.A.’s horrified “Virgil!” marched into the General Manager’s office.

Surprised by the sudden intrusion, the two men turned to look at him. Jeff Tracy’s face was red in anger. So was Hamish’s, but for a completely different reason.

The Personal Assistant followed Virgil into the office. “I’m sorry, Mr Tracy... Mr Mickelson. He just walked straight through,” she gabbled; her face white. “I couldn’t stop him. He didn’t listen to me. I...”

Hamish managed a reassuring smile. “It’s all right, Olivia. I’ll take care of this. You were about to go to morning tea, were you?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good. Perhaps you’ll be good enough to ask the canteen to put some of their special coffee on to brew? Mr Tracy and I will be down shortly to enjoy it.”

Her face still white, the P.A. nodded, glanced at Virgil, and fled.

“What do you think you are doing, Virgil?” Jeff growled. “This is a private conversation!”

Virgil shut the window. “It is now. I heard you yelling at Uncle Hamish from outside.”

“No employee has the right to barge into the General Manager’s office unannounced.”

“Which is why I’m not here as an employee of ACE,” Virgil slipped his arms out of the sleeves of his overalls and tied them around his waist so the logo was hidden. “I’m here as your son and I’m here to stop you making a big mistake.”

“Mistake!? Another mistake!” Jeff stormed. “What is wrong with this place?”

“Nothing’s wrong with ACE,” Virgil asserted.

“And how do you know that?! Either as an employee or my son?”

“Because your sons asked Uncle Hamish to make up that story about ACE having problems.”

Jeff’s jaw dropped. “You did what?”

“We were worried about you. It was obvious that you needed to get out of the Willis for a while.”

“I don’t believe this...” Jeff picked up some papers. “Hamish, call the airport and tell them I’m flying back straight away.”

“No!” Virgil’s shout stopped his honorary uncle’s move towards the videophone.

“Yes, Hamish! And that’s an order!” Jeff leant on the desk, glaring at his son. “That you boys could even consider tricking me into leaving the Willis is unthinkable... It’s inexcusable! Weren’t you even thinking about Gordon!?”

“Gordon helped us!”

Jeff, throwing papers into a box, froze. “Gordon did what?”

“He knew all about our plans and he helped us. He could see that you needed a break away from him as clearly as we could. Believe me, Dad, there’s no way that I would have let them send you away from him if he wasn’t one hundred percent behind what we were doing.”

Jeff Tracy stared at his son. “You all tricked me?” Then he sank onto a seat. “Gordon tricked me??”

“You should have seen his face light up when he realised that he could help,” Virgil told him. “The idea of tricking someone, even you, made him feel better... more alive. By falling into his trap you’ve helped Gordon.”

Jeff gave a rueful shake of his head. Then he looked up at his friend who had yet to touch the videophone. “I’ll bet you’re glad you’ve got a daughter instead of sons, Hamish.”

“Actually, Jeff, I was just thinking how lucky you were to have five boys who cared so much about you.”

“You’ll upset Gordon if you fly back now,” Virgil said. “You’ve only got five more days. You don’t even have to stay here if you don’t want. Take a few days to recharge your batteries.”

“No... Perhaps it would be better for Gordon if he continued to think that his little ruse worked.” Jeff sighed. “I’m sorry, Hamish.”

“Don’t worry about it. I know these aren’t the easiest times for you and your family. If I can help in any way...” Hamish chuckled, “even as a whipping boy, then I’m here for you.”

“Thank you...”

A bell sounded.

Virgil groaned. “That is one thing I am not going to miss about this place. I’m telling you that if you decided to run International Rescue by the clock, then I’m quitting right now! I’ll become a full time artist with no schedule.”

Jeff chuckled. “And you’d be bored within a week.”

“Quite probably.” Virgil smiled at his father. “I’ve got to get back to work. Are you going to be okay?”

Jeff nodded. “Now that I know the full story and don’t have to worry about Gordon or ACE.” He stood and squeezed his son’s shoulder. “Thank you, Virgil... But don’t you and your brothers think that just because you conned me once, you can do it again.” He slipped his hand around to the back of Virgil’s neck and gave him a gentle shake. “Understand?!”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good. Now get back to work.”

Virgil grinned. “Yes, Sir.” As he left the room he looked at Hamish Mickelson and received a wink in return.

Greg Harrison was waiting in the outer office. “Is everything okay, Virgil?”

“Everything’s fine.”

“Good.” Greg smiled. “Olivia pulled me out of the canteen. She was white as a ghost and convinced that I was about to find myself short one employee.”

Virgil chuckled. “Nope. You’ve got to put up with me for a little while longer yet.”

It was later that same morning when the next scene in the day’s dramas started to unfold. Virgil was in discussion with Greg over the dimensions required for their next job, when Hamish Mickelson hurried over to them, closely followed by Max Watts.

“Good,” Mickelson hissed, looking about furtively, “I’m glad I’ve got the three of you together.”

Virgil was surprised. This was not the way that ACE’s General Manager usually behaved, like a naughty schoolboy about to be caught out; but, deciding that it wasn’t his place to speak, he said nothing.

Greg Harrison did it for him. “What’s wrong, Hamish?”

“I wanted to give you advance warning. Jeff’s reviewing the company’s files for the last few months. I didn’t mention anything to him about what happened to... change the supervisory structure here on the floor, but I had to make a full report. I’ve filed it in such as way so as to not attract attention, but Jeff’s going through everyth...”

“Hamish!!”

Virgil gulped. Jeff Tracy sounded even angrier than he had during morning tea. All employees within hearing distance downed tools and were trying to see what was wrong.

Hamish Mickelson composed himself and turned. “What can I do for you, Jeff?”

“You can explain THIS!” Jeff was brandishing a manila folder.

“Er... Which report is that, Jeff?” Hamish Mickelson held out his hand.

“The report dated June 26th, in which you four,” Jeff glared at Virgil who felt himself shrink back under his father’s withering gaze, “were involved in a dispute that resulted in changes here at ACE! Changes of which I was unaware until today!”

Hamish Mickelson gave no hint of the consternation he was displaying only moments earlier. “Shall we retire to your office to discuss the matter?”

Jeff pointed at the senior staff members that he had lined up in his sights. “I will to talk to you three now.” His finger shifted. “As for you Virgil Tr...” he caught himself, becoming even angrier at his near slip of the tongue. “I will talk to you later!!”

Virgil watched as the four men left the factory floor. If this diversion was supposed to be calming Jeff Tracy down, it seemed to be having the opposite effect.

“Did I...” The unexpected voice coupled with frazzled nerves made Virgil jump. “Sorry,” Bruce apologised. “Did I hear a Kansas accent just then?”

“Yes,” Virgil nodded. “You did.”

“Oh... What’s the accepted response to such an event?”

Virgil gave a tight smile. “Hide behind your grandmother and hope she’ll be on your side and not his.”

Bruce gave him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “It’s been nice knowing you.”

By the time Jeff Tracy got around to tearing strips off his son for not telling him exactly what had happened, the older man had lost much of his steam. Nevertheless, it was a much relieved Virgil that knocked on the Crumps’ front door that evening.

It was pulled open with such force that Virgil expected to find that Butch had pulled it off its hinges. Instead he found Lisa smiling at him. “Come in,” she beamed. “You’ve timed it to perfection. Butch is just dishing up. He’s cooked steak.” She pulled her guest into the open plan dining/kitchen area. “He’s here, Honey. Are you nearly ready?”

Butch, resplendent in a red and blue striped apron, turned from the stove. “Ready,” he said, hastily pulling off the apron and shoving it into the nearest hiding place, which happened to be the dishwasher. “‘Ow is ya, Virgil?”

“Surprised,” Virgil admitted. “I never realised you were a cook.”

“Someone has to be,” Lisa said. “Apart from the basics, I’m absolutely useless. Aren’t I, Butch?”

“Ya make up for it in other ways,” her husband responded with a soppy grin.

“We thought we’d eat first and talk afterwards,” Lisa explained. “Or would you be more comfortable talking while we eat?”

“Uh...” Virgil hadn’t given it much consideration. “Eat first I guess.”

“A good idea if you’ve got a lot to say,” Lisa admitted. “Here,” she escorted him to the table. “You can sit there.”

It was a convivial meal and once again Virgil found himself surprised by how eloquent Butch could be when he warmed to a subject.

When they’d finished Virgil went to help with clearing the table, was scolded by Lisa, and escorted to the lounge by Butch. “Have a seat, Pal,” Butch indicated a worn, but comfortable looking, easy chair.

“Thanks.” Virgil accepted the offer and sat down.

Butch subsided onto a couch and Virgil almost expected to see it collapse in a cloud of dust. Lisa took the seat beside her husband; folding herself gracefully onto the chair. Not for the first time, Virgil was struck by what an odd couple they were.

Lisa opened the conversation. “How’s Gordon?”

Virgil sighed, closed his eyes, and thought. Was he doing the right thing discussing this with the Crumps? While they weren’t strangers, wasn’t this the family’s, and only the family’s, business?

He came to a decision. “Depressed doesn’t even begin to cover it. He’s decided that he’s not going to get any better.” Virgil made a hopeless gesture. “He’s giving up.”

“And what does the doctor say?” Lisa asked.

“I don’t know. He’s at a conference and won’t be back until Monday.”

“‘Ow,” Butch queried, “is ‘e givin’ up?”

Virgil hesitated. There was no sanitised way of saying this. “He wants to die.” He paused again. “He asked me to help him.” Lisa gasped and put a hand to her mouth and Butch made an odd sound. Virgil grimaced as the feelings of horror resurfaced. “I told him I couldn’t.”

“What does ya famly say?” Butch asked.

“I haven’t told them. You’ve seen how tense Father is, if he knew Gordon wanted to commit suicide it’d send him over the edge. And the rest of the family are just as bad. I did tell John and Scott that he wished he was dead... But I didn’t say that he was making plans to do something about it.”

“Is Gordon getting any counselling?” Lisa asked, and when Virgil nodded added. “Have you told his therapist?”

“I’ve tried,” Virgil admitted. “But we’ve been playing phone tag all day. I’d ring and he’d be in with a client or else he’d ring and I’d be working. I tried sending an email tonight, but it bounced back. I’ll have to ring the Institute tomorrow and confirm the address.”

“What are you going to do?” Lisa asked.

Virgil shrugged. “Once I’ve spoken to his counsellor, I don’t know. Obviously I can’t do what Gordon wants. But what’s really tough is that I don’t feel I can stay in the same room with him. He keeps on looking at me with this pleading expression to try to get me to change my mind.”

“You might find it might be easier to face him once you’ve spoken to someone who can help him,” Lisa hypothesised. “Once you know he’s getting the right sort of help.”

“I hope so.”

“Are you sure you can’t discuss this with anyone in your family?” Lisa continued. “Your father’s obviously struggling to deal with Gordon’s injuries...”

“Yeah,” Butch interrupted. “Afta ‘is shoutin’ match today, Freddy, the new guy, ask’d me ‘o th’ ol’ grouch was. When I said it was Mr Tracy, ‘e said ‘e didn’ believe me. ‘E’d always bin told that Mr T. was a good guy. I ‘ad ta tell ‘im about Gordon an’ tell ‘im that Mr Tracy is a good guy.”

Virgil looked at him in gratitude. “Thank you, Butch.”

“How is the rest of your family coping?” Lisa asked.

Virgil gave a bitter laugh. “They’re not, though you’ll never get them to admit it. I don’t think they realise they’re changing, probably because they’re living with it 24/7. It’s creeping up on them, but it hits me like a brick. Every weekend there’s a new, unwelcome, revelation... all except for Gordon’s paralysis, which hasn’t changed since he woke up from the coma.”

“How are they changing?” Lisa asked.

“Well... We’ve always teased Scott about being such a mother hen towards us four, but now, where Gordon’s concerned, he’s more like a she-wolf protecting her cubs. You daren’t say anything negative, or that could be construed as negative about Gordon. If you do you risk Scott going for your throat... John can’t sit still; he’s always fidgeting. He’s used to being able to look out at the stars and now he’s locked away inside most of the time. He does have a telescope at the house, but there’s so much light pollution about that it’s nearly impossible to see anything. They both went to our island, this weekend, to do some things for Gordon, and it’s amazing what a difference for the better the break made. It makes me think that there’s still hope for us all... Alan seems to be okay, but then our schedules don’t always match. But it’s obviously affecting him. He told me that that’s why he didn’t overtake Gomez during the race... Grandma always presents the same face to us, but I’ve got the feeling that deep down underneath she’s about ready to crack...” He sighed. “Listen to me.”

“That’s why we invited you, remember,” Lisa reminded him.

“I know,” Virgil gave a rueful smile. “It doesn’t seem fair though. You don’t deserve to be burdened with my problems.”

“Why not?” Lisa asked. “We’ve burdened you often enough...” She thought briefly. “That’s your problem, Virgil Tracy. You’re too unselfish. What you need to do is take some time out for you and you alone. Maybe you shouldn’t go and see Gordon one weekend.”

Virgil was horrified. “I couldn’t do that! It’s not like Gordon can take a weekend’s holiday from his problems.”

“True,” Lisa agreed. “But you’ve got to remember, Virgil, is that while Gordon is living this 24 hours a day, seven days a week, he doesn’t have to also deal with holding down a full time job, pretending to be someone he’s not, flying miles every weekend, landing a crashing plane to save his own life and the lives of his brother and friends, and being asked to help a sick brother commit suicide. You need a break. You need time away from work and from the Willis Institute and, dare I say it, time away from your family.”

“But I can’t not go to the Institute for one weekend,” Virgil reiterated. “It wouldn’t be fair on the others. All they can do is watch Gordon deteriorate.”

“Then take a day off work,” she suggested.

“I can’t have a day’s vacation,” Virgil protested. “I’m not owed any.”

Lisa treated him to a wry smile. “Don’t tell me you’re worried about the money.”

“No, but it wouldn’t be fair. We’re busy at work.”

“Talk to Greg. He’ll understand. I’m sure he’d prefer to have you away for one day and coming back fully refreshed, rather than stressing out and making errors on the job. If he doesn’t agree then I’m sure Mr Mickelson will support you.”

“Yeah,” Butch agreed. “But don’ make it Monday or Friday.”

His wife looked at him. “Why not?”

“‘Cause if Virgil took Monday off ‘e’d think ‘e’d ‘ave ta fly home on Monday ‘stead of Sunday. An’ if ‘e took Friday off ‘e’d think ‘e should leave for the hospital Friday ‘stead of Sat’day.”

Lisa gave a sage nod. “You’re right, Honey.” She fixed Virgil with a firm gaze. “Tomorrow you ask Greg Harrison if you can have Tuesday, Wednesday or Thursday off next week.”

“But...”

“No buts. You’re not going to do Gordon or anyone in your family any favours if you wind up needing therapy yourself... You want to be able to support your family, right?” Virgil nodded. “Then take one day off to recharge your batteries. Do something that you want to do. Forget your family. Forget ACE. Forget your friends. Forget Virgil Tancy and only think about Virgil Tracy. That way, if you get bad news about Gordon, you’ll be strong enough to stand alongside your family and support everyone... Deal...?”

Virgil thought for a moment. He could see merits in Lisa’s proposition and a day away from the stresses of his world sounded idyllic. He nodded. “Deal!”

Late Wednesday evening and Virgil and Scott were engaging in their nightly recap of the day’s events. “Remember how Alan said he had come up with a way of getting Gordon some independent mobility?” Scott asked.

“Yes.”

“He brought it in today. It’s a kind of wheelchair built for two. Gordon’s seat is on the right with the controls at his dominant hand, and his ‘co-pilot’ sits in the left hand seat...”

“Sit?” Virgil queried. “But Gordon can’t support himself in a sitting position.”

“Alan had that sussed. Race drivers have a special kind of seat that you sit in and it remembers the shape of your butt. He had one made that was big enough to remember Gordon’s entire body. That way he only requires one seatbelt rather than several.” Scott nodded his approval. “It’s a much more dignified arrangement.”

“Clever,” Virgil commented. “So how does a ‘wheelchair built for two’ give Gordon independence?”

“Obviously it’s not total independence,” Scott admitted, “but it does give him some control. Because he can only use his thumb, his options are limited, but Alan’s mechanics solved that by making the control lever dual-purpose. Gordon decides whether he wants to control speed or direction, and his passenger controls the other option. Guess which option he favours?”

“Speed?” Virgil guessed.

“Naturally,” Scott laughed. “I’ve test flown unproven fighter jets and they never scared me like some of Gordon’s excursions did.”

“You want to try doing a lap of a race track with Alan driving,” Virgil suggested. “Is Gordon enjoying his new toy?”

“Loving it. Especially since we didn’t tell him what we had planned. We pretended that we had a magical chariot for him to test drive and were going to smuggle him out without telling any of the hospital staff. John and I had already checked that it was safe to move him and been shown how to handle the paraphernalia he’s attached to. So the duty nurse ‘finished’ her rounds and we went into action. I carried Gordon...” Scott lost his smile. “I hadn’t realised how much weight he’d lost until I went to pick him up. I overcompensated and nearly threw him across the room.” He pulled himself together. “Anyway… Alan helped us get Gordon moulded into his seat and then while we got all the drips and everything sorted, he made the bed up to look like someone was still lying in it.” Scott paused. “He made such a good job of it that I think the kid’s done it before.”

Virgil chuckled. “I can believe that.”

“Then Alan checked that the corridor was clear. ‘Luckily’ all the nurses were talking in the nurse’s station at the far end and couldn’t see us make our ‘escape’. So we got away scot free...”

“Present company excepted.”

Scott looked surprised by the joke. “Huh? Ah... Yeah. Well, we only went for one lap around the main building, Gordon was tired after that, but he loved it... Especially the fact that we’d tricked the nurses.”

“You mean especially the fact that he’d tricked you,” Virgil amended and laughed at his brother’s confused expression. “Come on, Scott... You and John do something sneaky against the establishment? And not only sneaky but possibly dangerous to Gordon? Alan anyone could believe, but you two? No way.”

“Yeah,” Scott agreed, deflated by the realisation. “You’re probably right.”

“And he probably got more of a kick out of thinking that he was tricking you three, than he would have if you had genuinely been sneaking him out of the hospital.”

Scott brightened. “Yes.” He grinned. “I wish you’d been here, Virg. It was great to see Gordon happy again.”

And Virgil wished he could have seen it too.

Greg Harrison had been totally agreeable to Virgil’s request to have the following Tuesday off and it was a Virgil who felt strong enough to face the weekend that let his father take the controls of his aeroplane for the flight back on Friday afternoon.

After the explosions of last Monday, Jeff Tracy had calmed down during the week, and Virgil had even taken advantage of an offer to enjoy Kyrano’s cooking and had shared a relaxing evening with his father Tuesday night. Wednesday was dinner at the Mickelsons’ and Thursday was the chance to repay them with some more of Kyrano’s delicious food. By Friday Virgil was beginning to feel that he’d gained several kilos and that he should run, not fly, to the Willis Institute.

Little was said during the flight except casual conversation, but Virgil noticed that the closer they drew to their destination the whiter Jeff’s knuckles were getting. When they were two thirds of the way through the flight he asked if he should take over.

“No.” Jeff shook his head. “It keeps me from thinking too much.”

The rest of the flight was uneventful and Jeff made his trademark smooth landing on the airfield before taxiing into the hangar. There, father and son hefted their bags onto their shoulders, and exited the aeroplane, leaving it in the capable hands of the airfield’s mechanics.

They took the long route to the entrance of the institute, walking slowly instead of taking the travelator.

Jeff stopped before entering the building and gazed up at the imposing façade. “I hate this place,” he announced.

“Huh?” Virgil, surprised by the unexpected comment, reached out to his father. But he was too late. Without another word Jeff strode inside. By the time they’d reached Gordon’s room, the Tracy patriarch was all smiles, eager to learn of Gordon’s exploits, and keen to relate the details of his week away.

And Virgil found himself wishing that Tuesday would hurry up and come.

Despite Scott’s positive reports from earlier in the week, that weekend Virgil didn’t want to risk finding himself alone with Gordon again. Even being in the room at the same time as the others had him stressing that, somehow, Gordon would try to pressure him; which his younger brother managed to do with depressing regularity. Every topic of conversation seemed to somehow, swing around to the subject of death and dying. Virgil couldn’t understand how his family were missing the rather obvious hints.

It got so bad that he used every excuse he could think of to leave the room. So, when Scott went for his daily run, Virgil went with him. When Jeff went for his daily walk, Virgil went with him. When John went to get some supplies, Virgil went with him. When Grandma went to cook the meals, Virgil went to help her.

When Gordon went for a drive in his ‘chariot’, Virgil stayed behind.

He’d survived most of the weekend and it was now late Sunday afternoon and Virgil found himself calculating how long it would be before he could leave. Tuesday wasn’t going to come quick enough for him.

The family were sitting around Gordon’s bed, having a casual conversation about the pets they’d had over the years.

“Which dog was it that used to climb up the junk pile, onto the roof of the shed, and then jump into your arms?” Alan asked his father.

“Zippy,” Jeff replied. “He was crazy, that dog.”

“I remember Zippy,” Scott said. “He used to catch sight of his own reflection in the mirror and work himself up into a lather trying to chase the interloper out of the house.”

“Wasn’t he the one that used to grab onto that rope we had suspended from the tree and swing himself about?” John remembered.

“That’s him,” Jeff said fondly.

“‘Ow“ dud e di?” Gordon asked.

Jeff shook his head. “Stupid mutt had absolutely no road sense. He walked straight out in front of a car. I took him to the vet, but he was paralysed and there was nothing they could do. I had to have him put down... The place never felt the same after he’d gone.”

“Just as well they don’t put humans down when they’re paralysed,” Alan commented. “Right, Gordon?”

“Wood mmayk liv ezr.”

Believing that Gordon’s, “would make life easier”, was a joke, everyone laughed.

Everyone except Virgil who found a lopsided pair of brown eyes staring at him in mute desperation. Unable to take it any more, Virgil jumped to his feet and headed for the door.

Jeff turned to watch his progress. “Where are you going?”

“Where am I going…? Ah… For a walk… Back soon…” Virgil escaped out the door.

He’d walked out of the Willis Institute’s main building before he heard the hurrying footsteps behind him. He didn’t take any notice until someone grabbed his arm and spun him around.

It was Scott. “What do you think you are playing at?”

Virgil had a pretty good idea what his brother was talking about, but didn’t want to discuss the matter. “I’m going for a walk, that’s all.”

“A walk? You went for a walk this morning.”

“So? I’m going for another. I didn’t realise that it was against the law. Then I thought I might get my things ready for the flight home.”

“Virgil! You’ve hardly seen Gordon all weekend and I have it on good authority that you didn’t spend much time with him last weekend either.” Scott’s voice was growing louder. “What’s wrong with you?”

Virgil shrugged. “Nothing.” He tried to walk away but Scott stepped in front of him.

“You’re not going anywhere until you explain yourself.”

“There’s nothing to explain, Scott.”

Scott folded his arms and glared at him. “I think there is.”

Virgil was starting to get annoyed and frustrated. “Well, I don’t. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” His arm was grabbed again. “Get your hands off me!”

“No! Not until I hear a reasonable explanation for why you’re deserting our brother.”

Virgil shook himself free of Scott’s grasp. “I’m not deserting him! I wouldn’t!

“Wouldn’t you?!”

“No! Do you realise that I gave serious consideration to having too much to drink last week, just so I would have an excuse not to come here! But I didn’t, be...”

Scott sneered. “But you considered it.”

“I couldn’t go through with it. I couldn’t do that to Gordon.”

“Couldn’t do that to him? Do you even care about him?”

Virgil saw red. “Don’t you dare accuse me of not caring!” he stormed. “There isn’t a minute that I’m not thinking about him. At work! At home! I can’t stop thinking about him! I can’t stop caring!”

“Don’t lie.” Scott stepped up so he was in Virgil’s face. “You’ve been ignoring him!”

Un-intimidated, Virgil squared up to his brother. “I have not ignored him!”

“Then get back in there!”

“No!”

“You hypocrite! You lecture John and me about leaving Gordon alone and then do exactly the same thing yourself!”

“I haven’t flown half way around the world without telling him why!”

“You don’t have to be half way around the world to distance yourself from someone. You can be in the same room but still be miles away!”

“Just like you can be in the same room but be blind to what’s really happening!”

“What’s that supposed to mean!?!”

“Boys!” It was Jeff Tracy. “This is a hospital,” he hissed. “Be quiet.”

Still glaring at Virgil, Scott spoke to his father. “What are you doing here?”

“Trying to stop you two from creating a scene.” Jeff indicated the window to Gordon’s room. “We could hear ever word.”

Horrified, Virgil stared at his father. “Could Gordon hear us too?”

“I should think the entire institute could hear you,” Jeff said. “Now what’s going on?”

“Ask him,” Scott indicated Virgil. “He won’t talk to me.”

“That’s because there’s nothing to talk about,” Virgil rejoined. “Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

Scott grabbed his arm a third time, piling bruises on top of bruises. “You’re not going anywhere, Virgil Tracy!”

“You are not my boss and I can do what I like! Now, let – me – go!” Virgil broke free.

“You’re his boss,” Scott appealed to Jeff. “As his father and at ACE, so you tell him! Tell him to stop thinking about himself and to start thinking about Gordon!”

Jeff opened his mouth to say something but Virgil jumped in first. “Think about Gordon? All I do is think about Gordon! All I do is think about him lying there helpless. All I do is think about how no matter how much he wants me to, I can’t help him!” He took a deep breath, trying to keep his emotions under control.

“Virgil,” Jeff spoke quietly, trying to soothe a stressful situation. “Please come inside again.”

“No,” Virgil replied. “I can’t.”

“You can’t?” Jeff frowned. “Why? I don’t understand,”

“Gordon understands. That’s all that matters.”

“He does?”

“Yes!”

“Let him go, Father,” Scott snarled. “We’re finally seeing his true colours.” He leant closer to Virgil and spoke, his voice low and contemptuous. “And you’re going to be wearing the right colour sash.”

Virgil finally snapped. “I’ve had it! I’m going home. You can tell everyone goodbye from me!” He started striding towards the airfield. “Tell Gordon I’m sorry!”

His brother attempted to chase after him but was held back by their father. “Leave him, Scott.”

But Scott wasn’t willing to give up that easily. “What are you running away from, Virgil?” he bellowed.

Virgil spun about so he was facing his father and brother. “What am I running away from, Scott? I’m running away from my worst nightmare. That’s what I’m running away from.”

And then he was running. Running from the stresses and fears and pain that the Willis Institute represented. Running for his aeroplane.

He’d reached it when his cell phone beeped and flashed orange. It was a series of texts from Gordon and they came through in quick succession.

“Don’t go.”

“Please stay.”

”I need you here.”

“I miss you when you’re not here.”

“Plz come back. No pressure.”

“Please, Virgil. Don’t go.”

Virgil climbed into his pilot’s seat and sent a reply. “I can’t stay. Not now.”

“You fought with Scott. You NEVER fight with Scott.”

“We have on occasion.”

“Not like this. Sounded like you hate each other.”

“We don’t. We’re okay.”

“Is that why you’re going? Because he doesn’t understand?”

“That’s part of the reason.”

“He doesn’t know.” Another succession of texts. “They don’t know. They don’t understand.” … “This is my fault.”

“I want to help you, Gordon, but you know I can’t do what you want.”

“I know.”

“I’d do anything but that.”

“I know.”… “I’ll tell them what I told you. Then they’ll understand.”

“Dont” Forgoing all punctuation; terrified that Gordon would compound the problem by revealing his death wish to the Tracys; Virgil sent his message. Then, hoping that his brother had heeded his order, he sent another text, aware that the rest of his family was probably following their conversation. “Please, G. Don’t tell them. Think of what it will mean to you & them.”

“Okay…” Virgil breathed a sigh of relief. “Come back? Please?”… “Pretend the conversation never happened.” … “Forget I asked 4 help.” … “Please come back, Virgil.”

“If we forget you asked 4 my help, will you forget the idea?”

There was a pause and Virgil wondered if Gordon was considering his answer, or if his quick-fire texts had tired him out.

Then he received his reply. “Okay.” … “Will you come back now?”

Virgil thought. “In half-an-hour. We all need to cool down.”

The phone flashed orange. “Okay.”

Then it flashed gold. “Grandma’s looking for you.”

Not even stopping to thank his father for the warning, Virgil vacated his aeroplane. He knew his grandmother wanted to help, but how could she help if he couldn’t give her the full story? And to refuse to talk to her would only hurt her feelings and exacerbate the whole situation.

He spent the next half hour sitting under a tree, trying to banish his anxieties and hoping that Gordon was true to his word and would forget his wish to end it all.

Half an hour later Virgil headed back to Gordon’s room, wondering what his reception would be. ‘Cool’ was the word that came to mind when he walked through the door. Jeff looked concerned, Grandma was frowning, John couldn’t look at him, Alan seemed to be biting back a million questions, and Scott looked like he was ready to jump him should Virgil give him the slightest provocation.

Only Gordon appeared happy to see him; his twisted face smiling with relief. “Yi szid er,” he demanded, indicating the seat by the head of his bed.

The seat that was presently occupied by Scott. “I’m sitting here!”

“Whand Brr-chill der.”

Scott was in a stubborn frame of mind. “He can sit over there!”

“Yi cun szid obr der.”

“But I’ve already got a seat! Here!”

“It’s okay, Scott,” Virgil said. “I’ll sit here.”

“Nao!” Gordon exclaimed. He turned to Scott. “Ged oud.”

It was clear Scott couldn’t believe his ears. “What?”

“Ged oud,” Gordon repeated. “Im giging yi oud.”

“You’re what?”

“Kicking you out, Scott,” Alan elucidated. “He wants you to leave the room.”

“I...” Scott appeared dumbfounded by the order. “Ah... Okay... I’ll... I’ll go home then.”

“Gid.”

Scott circled the bed en route to the door, but Virgil stopped him. “I’m sorry, Scott.”

Scott glared at him. “You’ve been given that seat. Don’t let it get cold.” He stormed out of the room.

Virgil gave a mental sigh and wished it was Tuesday. One problem was being replaced by another. He took Scott’s seat and had his hand grabbed.

“Dan qu, Brr-chill.”

“I didn’t do anything, Gordon.”

“Nao, yi didn’. Dan qu. Dan qu ‘n’ szorwi.”

Virgil patted his hand. “That’s okay. You’re going to be okay now, aren’t you?”

“Ya.”

“Promise?”

“I pwomiz.”

“Good.” And suddenly Virgil felt that it was going to be all right.

<< To Chapters 11-15
To Chapters 20-25 >>