A QUIET YEAR by PURUPUSS RATED FRT

Chapter 26: A Quiet Reunion

Parola Sands was buzzing with activity. Excited crowds were queuing at the gates and pushing their way towards their prized vantage points.

The Tracys were no exception.

“Excuse me,” Jeff apologised as the thermal-insulated bag he was carrying bumped the shoulder of the spectator in the row in front.

“I thought Alan said he was going to get us the best seats,” Gordon grumbled as he tried to manoeuvre his crutches sideways between the rows. “I can barely move!” He fell, rather than sat, onto the cushion his father had placed down for him, and tried to stash the crutches out of the way.

“As far as Alan’s concerned, these are the best seats.” Virgil claimed the place next to his recuperating brother.

“Yeah.” Scott gestured out towards the track in front of them. “We’re right by the finish line, so we’re in the best place to see him win, but we can still catch all the action on the video screens.”

Grandma was fiddling with the visual display unit that was positioned on the back of the seat in front of her. “Well, you would be able to if this darn thing worked.”

“He’s got us the best place to see the sights,” John plonked his bag at his feet and sat down, “be deafened by the noise, and sickened by the smells. Doesn’t he realise that we’d be happier in a corporate box?” He leant over to see what was wrong with his grandmother’s VDU.

“You know how your brother’s mind works,” Grandma reminded him. “For him racing is a total sensory experience and he wants us to enjoy the full effect… Can you get this thing working?”

“Leave it to me, Grandma.” John got out his multipurpose pocketknife and selected the appropriate tool.

Scott sniffed the air. “Talking of enjoying the full effect… Can I smell hotdogs?”

“Hotdogs?” Virgil looked around. “There!” He pointed further down the grandstand. “There they are!”

John looked up from where he’d removed the video’s screen. “Don’t let him get away!”

“Aww…” Gordon moaned. “You’re not going to eat them in front of me, are you? You know I’m not allowed them.”

But Scott was reaching for his wallet. “Does everyone want one?” He received affirmative sounds in reply. “Grandma?”

“Yes, please, Honey. I can eat it while I’m waiting for John to fix this dratted screen.”

“Nearly got it… It’s a loose wire.” John was twisting two of the offending bits of metal together. “There!” He snapped the screen back into place and looked in satisfaction as the video came to life.

“I'll be right back…” Scott jogged down the steps, returning a short time later with his hands full. “There’s yours, Johnny… Grandma… Pass that one along to Virg would you… And that’s Father’s… And this!” He sat down, “Is mine!” He took a big bite.

Gordon’s eyes followed the two, warm, aromatic, tantalising morsels that were passed under his nose. “You guys are mean: do you know that?”

“Everything we’ve done these last five months,” John said swallowing his mouthful, “we’ve done for you. You could at least let us have this one treat.”

“I guess so.” Gordon sigh was heavy and spoke volumes about the suffering he was enduring.

“If you’re hungry, Gordon…” Jeff was holding his hotdog in one hand as he tried to unzip the insulated bag with the other. He was failing, so Virgil used his free hand to help him. “…then you can have something that Grandma packed for you.” He pulled a snack box out of the bag, handed it to Virgil, who in turn gave it to Gordon.

Gordon stared at the plain, uninviting, unappealing, plastic box. “No thanks, maybe later… I guess I’m not hungry now.”

“Your grandmother put a lot of thought and effort into packing that lunch,” Jeff told him. “You’d better not leave it too long or else you’ll hurt her feelings.”

Gordon glanced at his grandmother, who was watching him as she wiped the sauce from her hotdog off her fingers. Not wanting to upset her this early in the day, he prised the lid open…

There, lying in pride of place, was a hotdog.

Gordon looked at his father. “What!?”

Jeff grinned. “We checked before we left and your doctor said you could have one. But his orders were that you were only allowed one, so make the most of it!”

“And you’re not allowed any onions,” John added. “That’s on our orders; not the doctor’s.”

Almost reverently, Gordon lifted the un-nutritious package of fats, oils, salt, and preservatives from out of the box and sniffed it like a fine cigar. “The smell of ambrosia,” he said and took a small bite. “Mmmnnn… Food of the gods. Now I know I’m getting better!”

“Virgil…!” A young man dressed in sneakers, jeans, a Team Tracy jacket and hat, and wearing sunglasses was running up the steps towards them. “Virgil! I need you!”

Gordon looked at his brother. “How come we never hear girls saying that?”

Virgil wiped the sprayed bits of bun from off his jeans. “What’s wrong, Alan?”

Panting, Alan stopped at the end of the row. “I need your help.” He began pushing along the row, treading on a few toes as he went. “Excuse me… Excuse me… Virgil… Sorry… I need... Excuse me… you... Get out of the way, John...! to come with… Me!”

“Where to?” Virgil asked, as his youngest brother came to a halt in front of him, much to the annoyance of those behind who were trying to catch the start of the first race. “Why?”

“We haven’t time!” Alan pulled on Virgil’s arm, knocking the people in the row in front. “Sorry,” he apologised again at the resultant grumbles.

Virgil pulled free and remained seated. “Take a deep breath and calm down… Now, what’s the problem?”

“My mechanics haven’t arrived,” Alan explained. “Their car was stolen from outside their hotel and they’re dealing with the police. They’ll be here in time for the race, but they won’t have time to check my car over.”

“And what do you want me to do?” Aware that people around about were ceasing to be annoyed and were becoming interested in their conversation, Virgil, like his brothers, pushed his sunglasses back up his nose and pulled his hat down further.

“Check my car! That’s what I want you to do… C’mon!” Alan pulled at Virgil’s arm again. “You won’t have to do much. They had everything finalised yesterday. It’s just the final check before the race. Please,” he begged, ignoring the cameras that were being withdrawn from bags and pointed in his direction. “There’s nothing to it. Just check that no bolts have come loose.”

“What about me?” Jeff asked. “I could help. I know a thing or two about engines… remember?”

“Sorry, Dad, but only official team members can work on the cars.”

“Alan…” Jeff began with the patience of a father who’d had two decades of dealing with five sons. “I own the team.” Cameras started clicking.

“Oh…” Alan looked embarrassed. “Sorry, I never think of you as being my boss.” He nodded. “Okay, you can come. Two heads are better than one.”

“Can I come?” Gordon asked.

“No. You’re not a member of the team.”

“Awww…” Gordon pouted dramatically. “Surely you can’t deny your poor crippled brother the opportunity to see you in action before the start of your biggest race?” Sports buffs started snapping photos again.

Aware that to protest would only waste precious time, Alan sighed. “Okay. But you’ve got to keep well away from the car!”

“Deal!” Delighted, Gordon started fishing under their legs for his crutches.

Scott pulled them out and stood. “How about if I carry these and you can hang onto me for support,” he suggested. “You can have them back when we get on the flat.”

Alan folded his arms. “You can’t come too!”

“Why not?” Scott asked. “Someone’s got to help our poor crippled brother.”

Alan threw his hands up in defeat. “What’s your excuse, John?”

John indicated the camera around his neck. “For my next book, I’m considering writing your biography and I’ll want to get some action shots.”

Alan was briefly taken aback and then recognised the explanation for the ruse that it was. “Okay. But don’t get in the way!” He began shuffling back along the row. “See you later, Grandma.”

“You don’t think I’m going to stay here all by myself, do you?”

“Grandma!”

“Don’t you want someone to keep your brothers under control?”

Alan decided that that was a need more than a want.

Pleased for the excuse to evacuate the exposed grandstand, the Tracys gathered together their belongings and began the hike down to the secure area that housed all the racing teams and their vehicles.

“I’m sure you won’t have anything to worry about,” Alan gabbled as they passed through the security checkpoint. “Everything was checked, rechecked, and double-checked yesterday. There’s no way that there’s anything wrong with the car.”

“I’m sure you’re right, Alan,” Jeff acknowledged. “But you are right in that it’s better to be safe than sorry.”

At the Team Tracy garage Alan directed them all inside before getting a couple of chairs, which he placed in a corner for Gordon and his grandmother. Then he grabbed a rope.

Gordon gave him a funny look. “Run, Grandma. It’s a hostage situation. We’re about to be tied up.”

“Nope,” Alan corrected, “you’re about to be corralled… Come on you two,” he indicated that John and Scott should stand in the same corner.

Scott held his ground and folded his arms. “Just what do you have planned?”

“Like I said, you’re going to be corralled. I’m not taking any chances of losing the championship just because my family had to be nosey. With you guys behind this rope, and that camera,” more interested in tying the rope to a fitting, he pointed over his shoulder, “keeping watch on you, then no one will be able to say that you interfered with the car.”

“Alan,” John said. “I’m a communications expert, Scotty’s a flyboy, Gordon’s a fish, and Grandma’s an old lady...” He was swatted by his grandmother. “Why would we want to interfere with your car? What do we even know about them?”

“They go broom, broom,” Gordon told him.

“Oh, yeah! That’s right.”

“And this end’s the front,” Scott added.

“Front,” John nodded. “Got it.”

“Which makes the other end the back.”

Alan groaned, pulled the second knot tight, and then went to join his father and Virgil who were checking out the tools. “Haven’t you two made a start yet?”

“Not until you give me a hat,” Virgil insisted.

Alan pointed to his brother’s head. “You’ve already got one.”

“I’m not getting this one dirty,” Virgil told him. “And I want to keep my hair clean.”

Alan got two Team Tracy hats. “I don’t know why you’re worrying,” he grumbled as he handed Virgil his. “It’s never bothered you before.”

Jeff put his hat on his head and then rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “Right, let’s have a look at this engine.”

“You’re in for a treat,” Virgil told him. “She’s beautiful.” Alan puffed out in pride.

“Scott?” John was already bored and was making use of the lack of action to take in his surroundings. “Does that camera look right to you?”

“What do you mean, John?”

Gordon snickered. “If the lens cap is still on, then I’m starting tunnelling. Are you with me, Grandma?”

“Yes. The soil can go down my bloomers.”

“Grandma!”

The bonnet of the car was raised, exposing an expanse of gleaming, highly engineered metal. Jeff stared at it in wonder. “What is it?” he asked his co-mechanic in a stage whisper.

Virgil grinned. “I think it’s called an engine?”

“Where do you wind it up?”

“Dad!” Alan whined.

“Sorry, Son. We’ll behave from now on. Got that, Virgil?” Jeff pulled on a pair of blue, high-risk, protective gloves.

Virgil took a pair of gloves for himself. “Yes, Sir.”

“Boys?” Jeff turned to where his other three sons were trying to work out what made the security camera look so odd, without escaping their confinement. “No more teasing Alan. Okay?”

“At least not until after the race,” Gordon clarified. “Right, Dad?”

Jeff nodded. “Right. Go get ready, Alan.”

“Okay!” Alan hurried away.

Virgil grabbed the car creeper and a light. “I’ll check underneath.”

Jeff already had his hands into the heart of the automobile. “Good.” The pair of them began to work in earnest and with painstaking care.

Underneath the car, rolling slowly on the car creeper with only the portable light to illuminate where he was working, Virgil traced the pipe that fed the fuel from the tank in the rear of the vehicle to the engine at the front; ensuring that it was securely bolted to the chassis and had no leaks. As he concentrated on the length of metal he became aware of something moving past his peripheral vision. The distraction moved towards the front of the car, disappeared from sight, and then retraced its steps; before turning to begin its journey again...

After the tenth time Virgil pulled himself out from under the vehicle… Right in front of a pair of racing boots. “Alan! Stop pacing! You’re putting me off!”

“Oh!” Alan took a step backwards. “Sorry.” He retreated around the back of the car and Virgil slid back underneath to resume his inspection of the fuel pipe.

He stopped. Something wasn’t quite right. Using a blue-gloved finger he touched what appeared to be a droplet of moisture oozing from the pipe. The mysterious substance proved to be solid, not liquid.

The light from the side of the car darkened again; but this time the legs didn’t belong to Alan. “Virgil,” speaking in a quiet voice, Jeff got down onto his knees so he could see his son, “would you take a look at something for me?”

With a sinking feeling, Virgil pulled himself out and followed his father around to the front. “What is it?”

“That.” Jeff pointed into the engine’s innards.

Virgil had to get down low to be able to see what had piqued his father’s interest. There, where the fuel pipe met the power unit, was another of those mysterious blobs. “I thought that might be what you’d found.”

“There’s some under the car too?”

Virgil nodded. “Yes. I’ve just found one.” He fixed his father with an earnest stare. “You know what this means, don’t you?”

Jeff’s mouth was a grim line. “I’m afraid I do...”

Seeing the two men in close conversation, Alan was quickly at their shoulders. “What’s wrong?!”

“Alan...” Jeff turned to face his anxious son. “Go and get Karl.”

“What?” Alan looked between his father and brother, and then, knowing better than to question the order, dashed off to get Team Tracy’s manager.

“What’s wrong?” Scott asked, but before he could receive an answer, Alan had returned with Karl Richards in tow.

“Good to see you, Jeff,” Karl greeted the team’s owner.

“You might not think so in a moment,” Jeff growled. “What’s the compound’s security like?”

Karl stared at him. “Just the same as at every other track on the circuit. Why?”

“Because Alan’s car has been sabotaged.”

Alan paled and Karl took a step backwards. “What?”

“If you look in there,” just as he had with Virgil, Jeff pointed inside the engine, “can you see what looks like a drop of liquid?”

Alan’s head practically disappeared inside his car as he checked out the unknown substance. “Oh, heck!”

When Karl emerged he looked puzzled. “But what is it?”

“I would hazard a guess that it’s concresion,” Jeff explained.

It was Karl’s turn to pale. “Concresion?! Jeff! This is serious!”

“I know. I think we’d better have a word with the scrutineers and security.”

“Virgil!” Scott called him over. “What’s going on? Did I hear right? Concresion?”

Virgil nodded. “Yes. Someone’s fed it into the fuel pipe.”

“I don’t understand,” Grandma said. “What’s concresion?”

“It’s a sealant. It’s usually used for repairing breaches in tanks and fuel lines. Upon exposure to some catalysts it hardens. The fuel in Alan’s car is one of those catalysts. Oxygen is another. The usual method of application is to spray it into the tank and then to follow up with a high pressured blast of oxygen. This forces the concresion against the interior surface of the tank and cures it, sealing the fissure. I would assume that whoever fed in the concresion didn’t bother with the oxygen curing and has left it to clog the system.”

“But what does this mean for Alan?” Grandma looked over to where members of the Parola Sands security force were talking to Jeff, Alan and Karl.

Virgil was sure that his answer wouldn’t come as a surprise to his brothers. “It means that Alan’s out of the race. At best, the whole unit could seize when we gave the engine a test run in here. If that happened there’s no way we could replace it before the race.”

“And at worst?” Grandma asked.

“At worst...” Virgil’s blood ran cold as he imagined the scenario. “At worst, Alan would get to the start line without anyone realising that anything was wrong. He’d floor the accelerator and the engine would explode, triggering a chain reaction with the other cars on the track, causing widespread, catastrophic damage. Lot of people would be badly injured or worse. Both as a direct result of the initial explosions, and then in the panic that would follow.”

She looked at him, not wanting to believe what she was hearing. “You’re exaggerating, Virgil. You’ve been imagining rescue scenarios for too long.”

“He’s not exaggerating, Grandma,” Scott informed her. “That’s precisely what could happen. The initial explosion would be big enough to take out the grandstand that we were sitting in. People in there wouldn’t have a chance. And the flaming debris would fly everywhere, setting off other fires. It would be a major disaster.”

“So the stolen car was an excuse to make sure that Alan’s car wasn’t checked before the race?”

Scott nodded. “I would assume so. It’s too big a coincidence otherwise.”

“That explains something else,” John muttered. “Dad!”

Jeff looked over to where his family was held ‘captive’. “What, John?”

“We thought there was something odd about that security camera. It’s got a false lens on it. I’m guessing that a looped picture of the deserted bay was being projected into the security room, while whoever did this went to work.”

Jeff looked up at the camera. “Okay, Everyone. It’s time to leave. Don’t touch anything on your way out... And leave our gear,” he advised when his mother went to pick up a bag. “The authorities will need to check everything to make sure there’s nothing suspicious in there.”

Grandma put her hands on her hips. “Are you suggesting that the authorities would think that I would harm my own grandson, Jefferson?”

“Of course not, Mother. But we can’t take the risk that whoever did this is able to get away on a technicality. We’ll get our things back soon enough.” Everyone filed out into the bright sunlight to be greeted by more security men and the police.

A frazzled looking man, the World Championship co-ordinator, met them. “Tell me this isn’t happening, Karl.”

“I’m sorry, Rodriguez, but Team Tracy are going to have to withdraw from the race.”

“It’s not only Team Tracy,” Rodriguez said. “We’re going to have to shut down the whole meet. We can’t take the chance that other teams have been sabotaged as well. I’m calling a meeting of all officials and drivers in five minutes. Will you attend?”

“Of course,” Jeff agreed, “so long as the investigators are willing to release us.”

Once they’d promised not to leave the grounds, the three of them, Alan hard on their heels, hurried away, leaving the rest of the Tracys to be interviewed.

“The mob’s getting restless,” John commented, as sounds of discontent filtered down to the teams’ area.

“They’re waiting for the next race,” a policeman told him. “What they don’t know yet, is that there’s not going to be one.”

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” the tannoy announced, “we regret to inform you that the remainder of today’s races have been cancelled.”

There was a chorus of boos.

“They know now,” Gordon remarked, as the boos and catcalls increased in volume. “And if they’d only shut up they’d realise why.”

The bodiless announcer had to repeat three times that the meet had been cancelled due to unspecified safety concerns, before the crowd quietened down enough to hear him. As the Tracys were led to the makeshift interview area, set up under one of the grandstands, they could hear grumbles of complaint and demands for compensation from most of those leaving.

“Someone’s going to be out of pocket,” Scott commented.

“I hope their insurance will cover them,” Grandma added, before being escorted into a room by a solicitous policewoman.

It was a full hour before Virgil was released from questioning. Being one of those who had found the concresion, the investigators were more than interested in knowing everything that he had done prior to, during, and after his examination of the car.

When he finally stepped back outside, he was met by his family.

“You took so long we were expecting you to come out in handcuffs,” Gordon told him. “Did they tell you anything of interest?”

“No,” Virgil shook his head. “I got the impression that they’re leaning towards someone who wanted Alan out of the race rather than someone out to cause wholesale carnage.”

“A competitor?” John suggested.

“Either that or someone who’s bet against him winning the series,” Scott agreed.

“Are Father and Alan out of their meeting yet?” Virgil asked.

“They’re out of the competitors debriefing,” his grandmother informed him, “now they’re being interviewed by the police.”

“Now what do we do?” John asked. “I suppose we’ve got to hang around and wait until the investigators are sure that they don’t need us any more.”

“And we’ve got to get our things,” Scott reminded him. “The guy interviewing you didn’t mention them, did he, Virg?”

Virgil shook his head. “No.”

“I wonder how Alan’s feeling,” Gordon mused. “The poor guy’s been psyching himself up for this final race for weeks. And now he’s going to have to go through it all again.”

“If he’s got any brains he’ll keep reminding himself that Virgil and Dad saved his life,” John remarked.

Grandma agreed with his sentiment. “And that everyone else is in the same predicament.”

“Except that everyone else didn’t have someone break into their garage and damage their car,” Scott pointed out.

“Maybe they did?” Virgil suggested. “It might not be public knowledge yet.”

“I can’t believe that anyone would willingly endanger lives…” Grandma exclaimed, “just for a car race!”

Scott gave a what can you do shrug. “People do a lot of strange things for strange reasons.” He looked at his watch. “Let’s see if we can find someone in authority and at least get our things back.”

“You go on without me,” Grandma suggested. “I’ve got to powder my nose. I’ll meet you…” she thought briefly. “At the team compounds’ entry gate. I’ll try and find Alan and your father.”

“Okay, Grandma,” Scott agreed. “When you see them, tell them that we, hopefully, won’t be long.”

The brothers waited outside the interview area until the policewoman who’d interviewed Mrs Tracy came out. She listened to their request and then spoke into her radio. When she’d finished her conversation she smiled at them. “Your belongings have been examined and are being held in the adjudicator’s office… Up there...” She pointed to the top floor of a two-storey building. “You are welcome to claim them when you wish.”

“Thanks,” Scott acknowledged. “C’mon, fellas.”

They were halfway across the compound when they realised that Gordon’s steps were getting slower. “Are you all right?” Scott asked.

Gordon came to a halt. “Yeah… Just getting a bit tired, that’s all. It’s turning into a long day. He gestured to a nearby bench. “You guys go on ahead and I’ll catch up.”

Scott frowned. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m sure, Scott.” Wincing slightly, Gordon eased himself onto the bench.

“One of us could stay with you.”

“No, I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Scott!” Gordon was beginning to sound exasperated. “I don’t need babysitting! I’ll have a couple of minutes rest and then I’ll follow you.”

Scott thought for a millisecond. “How about if we go and get the gear, and meet you back here? We’ll only be gone five minutes.”

“Fine,” Gordon grumbled. “Do that if it’ll make you happy.”

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

Gordon snapped. “Will you guys get him out of here before he embarrasses us all by laying an egg!?”

Scott stared at him. “Huh?”

John chuckled. “Come on, Clara. Let him have some peace.” He looped his arm through Scott’s and started dragging his elder brother backwards.

Virgil, ignoring Scott’s protests at the indignity of his treatment, grabbed his other arm and helped to guide him towards the two-storey building. “He’s not an invalid any more, Scott.”

“He’s not one hundred percent, either.”

“He knows that. That’s why he’s trying to not overdo it.”

“Gordon knows his limits,” John stated. “He doesn’t need us smothering him.”

It took longer than Scott’s promised five minutes to claim the family’s belongings and by the time they’d exited the building the crowds had thinned out. “There’ll be a lot of disappointed people today,” Scott commented.

“None more so than Alan,” Virgil added. “The only bright spot is that everyone else is in the same boat.”

“I wonder if Gomez had anything to do with it?” John mused. “He doesn’t like losing and Alan’s his only threat.”

Scott shifted the lunch bag so it was more comfortable. “He gives me the impression that he’s the kind of guy with few scruples when it comes to racing.”

“But, if it was him, he was risking his own neck too,” Virgil reminded them. “From what I could tell, whoever he saboteurs were, they didn’t worry about limiting the damage.”

John spied one of the stall holders that hadn’t started packing up. “Cotton candy!” he exclaimed. “Here. Hold this.” He shoved one of his bags into Virgil’s already full arms and dropped another onto Scott’s feet. “Be right back.” When he returned he was happily carrying a bag of pink spun sugar.

“How do you manage to have such a sweet tooth and still stay skinny as a rake?” Virgil demanded.

John shrugged and reclaimed his quota of the family’s belongings. “Just lucky, I guess.”

Scott scanned the few people remaining at the track; almost hopeful that he could spot the saboteur himself. Instead he spied someone else of interest. “Well, well, well; she made it. Alan’s in for a big surprise.”

John frowned. “Who made it?”

Scott grinned. “See that couple over there by the Parola Sands sign…” He pointed, awkwardly because of the bags, towards the pair in question. The man was tall, dark, and Caucasian. The woman: slim, attractive, and of Asian descent. “Recognise her?”

John and Virgil stopped, glad of an excuse to rest their bags on the ground. “Ah… No…?”John said. “I’m sure I’d remember a beauty like her.”

“Yes…” Virgil breathed. “She’s gorg…” Something clicked in his brain at the same time as realisation dawned in John’s. “Tin-Tin!?”

“Holy cow!” John exclaimed. “It can’t be!”

When Tin-Tin Kyrano had left to further her education, she had been a demure little Asian girl, conservative in her clothes and manner. Now her dress style reflected both sides of her ancestry. Her sunglasses were fashionably dark and overly large. The material of her costume was Oriental in pattern, but the style was definitely western. Her skirt was short, revealing shapely legs covered by figure-hugging tights. The scarf wrapped around her slender neck, was a concession to the cold, but failed to hide the fact that her blouse was cut low, revealing...

Virgil turned to Scott. “You were right. She has grown up.”

Scott smirked at his brothers’ dumbstruck reactions. “Told you so.”

John was still goggling at the young woman whom he’d always regarded as his little sister. “I thought it was boys who were supposed to be late developers. How come we never realised?”

“Maybe we were late developing an interest,” Virgil suggested. “So we didn’t notice that she was, ah, developing?”

All the time they were talking, Tin-Tin had appeared to be holding a casual conversation with her associate, occasionally glancing around as if she were looking for someone.

It turned out that she was. With a joyful squeal she ran towards the Tracys, throwing her arms around the eldest’s neck. “Scott!” Then John was treated to the same embrace. “John!” Virgil was the last to find himself wrapped up in a floral perfume. “Virgil...! It is wonderful to see you all again!”

“It’s great to see you too, Tin-Tin,” John agreed, and she was the only one oblivious to the dual meaning of his statement.

Scott wasn’t quite managing to keep his smirk under control. “The guys and I were just discussing how some things have changed since they last saw you.”

“A lot of things,” she agreed, totally misunderstanding his insinuation.

Virgil decided to move into safer territory. “Are you in the States for long?”

“No. I have only one day free before I have got to start studying for my exams… Eddie,” she indicated her friend, who didn’t look happy at being deserted for three handsome young men, “and I have got to be back in England tomorrow… How is Gordon?”

“Why don’t you ask him yourself?” Scott indicated the loan figure sitting on the bench, absorbed by the patterns he was drawing in the dust with one of his crutches. “He’s over there.”

Tin-Tin let out another squeal of delight. “Gordon!”

Gordon looked up just in time to be tackled without seeing who his assailant was. “Ah… Hi…?”

Tin-Tin took a step backward so she could examine him. “It is so wonderful to see you sitting here. I’ve been so worried about you.”

“Um… Thanks…Uh…” Gordon squinted against the sun that silhouetted her profile, before, still mystified as to her identity, he looked mutely to his brothers for help.

For once they took pity on him. Virgil, offering the best non-verbal clue he could think of, pointed to a piece of metal. Scott, also trying not to gain Tin-Tin’s attention, appeared to be signalling time-out, while John, for some obscure reason, was indicating his candy floss.

“T…?” Still mystified, Gordon tried to make sense of their charades, finding Scott’s the most helpful. “Um… T…? Ah… T-Tin-Tin...!” He stared at the silhouette standing in front of him. “Tin-Tin…? Is that you...? Sorry, Honey,” he gave an apologetic laugh. “The old brain’s still not working properly.” He gave an ‘involuntary’ twitch. “I think they've left a nanobot in there and it’s trying to find its way out.” He flinched again twice. “It keeps on touching something it shouldn’t and short circuiting my synapses.” The ‘tic’ flinched again.

“Oh!” Tin-Tin’s hand had flown to her mouth. “But I thought you were nearly better!”

“It’s okay,” Gordon reassured her. “They’re going to use a magnet to suck it out through my ear.”

Tin-Tin hesitated as she considered what he’d said; and then she laughed. “You are still a tease, Gordon. I am relieved that you have not changed.”

“And I’ve just broken rule number one,” he gave an abashed grin. “No joking about my health.” Leaving his crutches propped against the bench, he got to his feet. “Let me have a good look at you, Honey, I can’t see you properly with the sun behind you.” He twisted her around so that the light was better and then held his arms open. “You’re looking fantastic. How about a proper hug this time?”

“It would be my pleasure.”

“And mine,” Gordon said, before adding to his double-entendre. “You don’t know how good it feels to be able to put my arms around you,” He looked over her shoulder at his brothers and opened his eyes wide. Wow, he mouthed.

“Tin-Tin doesn’t want you hanging off her,” Scott rebuked. “Leave her alone, Gordon.”

“Awww. But I’ve never had so much fun at a racetrack.” Gordon released his hold of their friend.

When he had reclaimed his seat, Tin-Tin sat beside him and took his hand. “I am sorry that I did not visit you while you were in hospital. I tried, but whenever I had a spare day something would happen. My flight would be fogged in, or my tutor would arrange extra lessons, or…”

Gordon held up his free hand. “It’s okay,” he said. “I wouldn’t have wanted you to see me like that anyway. If you think I’m skinny now, you should have seen me when I was paralysed. It wasn’t a good look, was it, Fellas?”

They refrained from nodding.

“But knowing that you were there in spirit helped.” Gordon squeezed Tin-Tin’s hand. “So thanks... How long are you here for?”

“Only today,” she admitted. “But I thought, if nothing else, I had to try to see Alan’s final race. I am disappointed that it has been called off. Do you know why?”

“Yes,” Virgil scowled. “Someone sabotaged Alan’s car.”

Tin-Tin showed more than a little alarm at his pronouncement. “Someone did what!”

“Sabotaged his car,” John clarified. “They’ve shut down the meet for safety reasons.”

“Oh, dear. Poor Alan,” Tin-Tin exclaimed. “Ah…” she tried to appear casual, “I suppose he’s still busy with officials and I won’t get the opportunity to see him.”

“Probably…” Gordon began.

But Scott pointed to the other side of the open area. “There he is.”

“Where?” Tin-Tin looked over to where he was pointing. Spying the young man wearing jeans, and the ubiquitous Team Tracy hat, jacket and sunglasses, she let out her third squeal of the day. “Alan!” Forgetting all pretence, and deserting the rest of the Tracys, she ran over to the race car driver with her arms outstretched. Alan was stopped in his tracks by the flying embrace. “Oh, Alan! I’m so pleased to see you!”

“Uh... Hi...?”

Preparing to join the couple, Gordon gathered together his crutches and stood, glaring at his older brothers. “You could have given me fair warning who she was.”

“We did try,” Scott reminded him. “We didn’t even know she was here today.”

“If you couldn’t follow our clues, then that’s not our fault,” John said.

“Okay,” Gordon grumped. “I can see that you were telling me her initials,” he pointed to Scott, “and you,” he indicated Virgil, “were pointing to a piece of tin, but,” he stared John down. “What on earth were you doing?”

John held up his candy. “You know Tin-Tin means sweet.”

“Great,” Gordon growled. “Only you would try to give me a clue in another language.”

Virgil was watching the way Alan and Tin-Tin were interacting with each other. Tin-Tin was doing all the talking; her arms moving animatedly; while Alan had his folded as barrier against her advances. “He hasn’t got a clue who she is.”

Gordon started his slow walk towards the couple. “After the day he’s had, it would be cruel not to let him in on the secret…” He shared a sly grin with his brothers. “That’s not going to stop us though, is it?”

During the years they had been growing up together, Alan and Tin-Tin had been practically inseparable, leading Grandma Tracy to dream of a grand white wedding and great-grandchildren. But when Alan left home to pursue his education and then his goal of becoming the best race car driver in the world, he lost touch with his childhood friend. His brothers, maybe with dreams of their own that one day Tin-Tin would be a sister in a more legally recognised sense, had been disgusted with the way that he’d ignored her letters and emails.

“Yes,” Scott agreed. “That would be cruel... Mind you, if he doesn’t ask who she is, then I guess it’s safe,” he smirked, “to assume that he knows.”

“I couldn’t give him a clue anyway,” John said, throwing his candy’s bag into a rubbish bin.

From what they could see of Alan’s face behind his dark glasses, he had the expression of a rabbit stuck in headlights. He cast a frantic ‘help-me’ look to his brothers.

They ignored it.

“I was just asking Alan if they knew who the saboteur is,” Tin-Tin explained.

“Uh…” Alan decided that even if he didn’t have a clue who he was talking to he’d better be civil. “Not yet. The inspectors are examining the car and my garage now…”

“How did they sabotage your car?” Tin-Tin asked. “Did they damage the engine?”

“Ah, kinda… Someone put some stuff into it that blocked it.”

Virgil, knowing that Tin-Tin had spent the last few years at an engineering school of the same calibre as Denver, expanded on the explanation. “Alan’s mechanics were held up…”

“Conveniently,” John interjected.

“Yes,” Virgil agreed. “So Alan got Father and me to do the final checks on his car. We discovered that someone had injected concresion into the fuel line.”

“Concresion?!” Tin-Tin looked horrified. “But you could have been killed, Alan!”

“Ah, yeah…”

Tin-Tin turned back to Virgil. “Did they inject the concresion only into the fuel line or the engine as well?”

“From what we saw, it was both,” Virgil admitted. “But I don’t know for sure. As soon as we knew something was wrong we backed away. We didn’t want to risk destroying any evidence.”

Tin-Tin nodded wisely. “Such as tooling marks… So you think someone was hoping to cause the motor to seize, or do you think they were aiming for an explosion?”

“We’ll have to wait to see the final report into the incident. The sloppy way that it had been injected into the system; there were drops on the external manifolds; makes me think that they didn’t care what the final result was. They just wanted to make sure that Alan wasn’t going to take part in the race.”

“And what about security?” Tin-Tin asked. “Surely they saw something?”

“The miscreants tampered with the security camera,” John explained. “They put a looped feed through the circuit.”

“So it was planned, not a random attack.”

“Looks like it,” Scott agreed. “Someone wanted Alan out of the way badly enough to endanger lives.”

“But who could that be? A competitor?”

“The only one who’d really gain anything from Alan pulling out would be Victor Gomez. The third placed guy would get more points, but he’s got no chance of winning the series.”

“What if Gomez was eliminated too? That would move third into first, wouldn’t it?”

“No. With Alan and Gomez neck-and-neck in the standings at the moment, they’re so far out in front that, even if neither of them could compete in the final race, they’d both win on points.”

Alan, astounded that this attractive young woman had no problems grappling with such technical issues, had been following the exchange with an expression like that of a stunned mullet. It was obvious that he still had no idea who they were talking to, and his brothers tried, with little success, to hide their smirks.

Jeff Tracy and his mother strode over. “Ah,” he beamed. “So you made it! Good to see you, Honey.”

Tin-Tin treated both the elder Tracys to a hug. “And you, Mr Tracy… Hello, Mrs Tracy. The boys have just been explaining to me what happened to Alan’s car.”

Trying to wrestle back some control of the situation, Alan asked: “Have you finished your interviews, Dad?”

“For the moment,” Jeff replied. “They might need to talk to us again later on, Virgil.”

“Okay.”

“Are they going to reschedule the race?” Tin-Tin enquired. “Or will they leave the final results as they stand?”

Alan suddenly realised that he was able to add something constructive to the conversation. “They’re going to run the final race here next Saturday… Ah… Are you going to be able to make it or will you be too busy?” he added, hoping for a hint as to who this attractive, intelligent woman, hiding behind her sunglasses, was.

“No. I’m afraid that I won’t be free.” Tin-Tin sounded disappointed. “And with the differences in time-zones I won’t be able to watch the race live. I shall have to record it… But I’ll be cheering you on the entire time, Alan!” She grasped his hands in excitement and he looked as though he didn’t know whether hang on or let go. “Just like I’ve always done.”

“It must be nice to have such a staunch fan, Alan,” Gordon said, somehow managing to not sound sarcastic. “Someone who’s followed your career every step of the way.”

“Er…” Alan prevaricated, “yeah.”

Eddie waved at Tin-Tin and she waved back. “I’ve got to go. Eddie’s waiting for me. It’s been wonderful to see you all again.”

“And you, Honey,” Virgil agreed.

“Don’t make it so long next time,” John added.

“If you ever need a lift, just give me a call,” Scott offered.

“Thank you… Good luck with the race, Alan.”

“Uh… Thanks, ah...”

“Take care, Gordon.” Gordon received an extra long hug. “I’m so pleased to see that you are so well.”

Gordon grinned. “Not as pleased as I am.”

With a final “bye” Tin-Tin hurried back to her friend. Alan watched her go and scowled when Eddie placed his arm about the young woman’s waist before guiding her away. He turned back to the group and found six amused faces starting at him.

“Something wrong, Alan?” Gordon asked.

“All right,” Alan grumped. “Who was she?”

“Who was she?” Scott pretended to be surprised by the question. “Don’t tell me you didn’t recognise her.”

“But I couldn’t see her behind those glasses!”

“Then why didn’t you take them off?” Gordon asked.

“Not mine. Hers! Who was she?”

“How could you forget a beauty like that?” John exclaimed.

“Yes,” Virgil agreed. “Beauty and brains. Now that’s what I call the total package.”

Gordon looked over to where the couple had been standing moments before. “I wonder if she and Eddie are a item, or if she’s available.”

“A girl like that’s bound to have suitors all round the world,” Scott said. “We’d have to join the queue.”

“I’m first in line,” John said.

“Behind me... She’s bound to prefer someone who has similar interests,” Virgil pointed out.

“Like you?” John scoffed.

“Yep.”

“That doesn’t necessarily tally, does it?” Scott enquired. “What about Lisa and Butch Crump?”

“Now they are an odd couple,” Gordon agreed. “But I suppose they do have engineering in common.” He looked reflective. “If I remember correctly she used to love swimming.”

Scott gave a knowing nod. “That’s right, she did. And flying.”

Alan was following their conversation, getting more and more frustrated with his brothers’ playful banter. “But who was she?”

“Alan!” Grandma scolded. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten the little girl you proposed to when you were eight.”

“I did what?”

“That’s right,” Jeff chuckled. “I’d forgotten that. You gave each other the measles too.”

“We did?”

“Remember the time they went missing and we had the entire neighbourhood looking for them?” Grandma recollected.

“Including the police,” Jeff remembered.

“That’s right, we did too. We eventually found the pair of you under the back steps, sound asleep.”

“What...?!”

“That’s when I boarded them up so the pair of you wouldn’t disappear again…”

“Forget the trip down memory lane,” Alan snapped. “Who IS she?”

“Tin-Tin Kyrano,” his family chorused.

Alan’s jaw dropped. “No way…”

“Who else do you know would have such a grasp of engineering, Alan?” Virgil queried.

“And electronics,” John added.

“And lives in an inhospitable time zone,” Scott reminded him. “That was Tin-Tin.”

“No way,” Alan repeated. “Boy, she’s changed!”

“Bet you wish you’d kept in touch now, Alan,” Gordon smirked.

Alan pouted. “I sent her a Christmas card.”

“Wow. Big deal.”

Alan looked back across the courtyard, a wistful expression on his face. “That was Tin-Tin…?”

Chapter 27: A Quiet Race Alan

It was a week later.

Much to everyone’s relief, Alan had been unable to secure them the “best” seats for the rescheduled race; and Jeff, pretending to be disappointed, had hired a corporate box for the sole use of the family.

Virgil looked around in approval. The corporate box had been designed to ensure that its occupants would get the maximum pleasure out of their day at the track. The angle of the floor sloped downwards; and the window, stretching the length of the room, looked over the final straight. Above the window, at eyelevel with the seats, were three TV screens all ready to display varying views of the Parola Sands course. Refreshments were on hand and further catering was available at the touch of a button.

“Now this,” John said as he collapsed into one of the comfortable chairs, “is the way to watch a car race.” He pulled a thick book from out of his bag, propped his feet up on the seat in front, and settled down to read.

“We’ll let you know when Alan’s race is going to start, shall we?” Scott asked, not attempting to keep the sarcasm from his voice.

“Yes, please.”

“What are the rest of us meant to do in the meantime?” Gordon enquired. “Since we’re not going to have your scintillating company.”

John looked at him from over the top of his book. “You should have thought of that before you got here… Grab me a coffee while you’re over there would you, Virgil?”

Virgil glared at him. “What did your last slave die of?”

“I hit him with my book for taking too long.”

“Don’t put your feet on the seats, John,” Grandma scolded, swatting the offending limbs. “People have got to sit there. They don’t want to sit on what your dirty shoes leave behind.”

Ever obedient to his grandmother’s wishes, John pulled a paper from out of his bag and put it under his feet.

But her grandson wasn’t the only person in Grandma’s sights. Much to his mother’s disgust, Jeff was entering something into his electronic personal digital assistant. “And you can put that down too! You are not here to work!”

He carried on working. “I’m just finalising a few things, Mother.”

“Then finalise them tonight. You are here to support your son.”

Jeff looked up from his PDA. “And I will do! Alan doesn’t race for another,” forgetting the time displayed on the PDA, he checked his watch. “Three hours or so.”

“Why didn’t we arrive two-and-a-half hours later?” Scott asked. “We’ve already booked the box so we won’t lose our seats. It would have saved us three hours of boredom.”

John’s book spoke. “Because Dad’s hoping that he’ll be needed to replace a missing mechanic again.”

“That I wouldn’t mind,” Virgil admitted. “I barely had the chance to get my hands on that beautiful piece of machinery last week.” He shook his head sadly. “Sacrilege.”

“Maybe Alan will let you dissect it when the race is over.” Still using his crutches for support, Gordon shuffled over to the TV that showed a couple of sports presenters discussing the upcoming races. “I wonder if it’s possible to change the channel on this thing.”

Scott checked his own watch. “Come on, fellas. Let’s get out of here for a couple of hours. We can be back well before Alan’s race…”

The door to the box banged open. “Good!” Alan beamed. “You’re all here. I was worried that you might have been held up.”

“Nope,” Scott said, conveniently forgetting his statement of two seconds earlier. “We wanted to get here in plenty of time to catch the action.”

“Talking of getting here…” John had dropped his book into his bag to hide it and sat up. “Have your mechanics made it this time?”

“Yes.” Alan mimed wiping his brow. “They slept in the garage to make sure that no one interfered with anything, and I pulled my trailer in closer so that no one could enter the compound without having to scrape along the wall next to my bedroom.”

“Cutting off her escape route?” Gordon teased.

Alan poked his tongue out at him.

“Are you satisfied that everything’s okay?” Virgil checked. “Your mechanics don’t need a hand, do they?”

Gordon had moved away from the TV screen. “Virgil and Dad were hoping to be called up again.”

“Sorry,” Alan apologised, “but they don’t need your help. Everything’s running to schedule.” Virgil tried not to feel disappointed at the news.

“Well, that’s good, Alan,” Jeff congratulated. “So it’s all down to you now.”

“Yep, and I’m feeling great. If I can get in front of Gomez at that first corner, I’ve got the championship sewn up.”

“Don’t get too cocky,” Scott warned.

“And don’t take any risks,” his grandmother added. “This is a dangerous track.”

“I won’t. I’m not going to risk not finishing the race. Not when I’m so close to winning the title.”

She smiled at him. “Good boy.”

“I’d better get back,” Alan admitted. “You’re going to love the two lead up races. They’ve been a dog fight all season.” He flipped his family a cheerful wave. “See you when I’m the world title holder.”

“Bye, Alan.”

“Good luck, Alan.”

“Break a leg.”

“Show ‘em that age and experience isn’t everything.”

Alan bounded out of the corporate box and the rest of his family resigned themselves to three hours of tedium.

“And now we are getting ready for the headline race,” the TV burbled. “This is the big one, the one we’ve all come to see. Who will emerge victorious? Experience: in the form of Victor Gomez? Or raw talent: in the form of young Alan Tracy?”

“Alan, of course,” John told the TV screen. “No question.”

He, like the rest of the family, had abandoned their other interests and had settled into the seats that looked down over the track. The television screens above the panoramic window allowed them an excellent view of both the action up close and beyond the distant corners of the racecourse.

“Parola Sands,” the TV presenter informed the watching public, “is the longest track on the world championship circuit.” A map came up on screen. “As you can see this circuit has numerous corners and hairpin bends,” an animated car followed the route of the course, “made all the more tricky by the cliffs and sheer rock faces that the drivers must navigate. Places where you can overtake are a rarity and there are some stretches where it’s impossible - not without risking life and limb. As yet no one has lost their lives competing in this race, but there have been many instances of serious injury. The most famous incident was…”

“We don’t want to hear all that,” Grandma complained. “I’m nervous enough as it is.”

Eventually the presenter reverted back from his gory history lesson to today’s race. “…whoever leads into the first corner at the beginning will probably be the first across the finish line at the end… The cars are lined up and their drivers are making their way to the starting grid. There’s Victor Gomez. What a look of determination on his face! As if nothing and no one, not even a young upstart like Tracy, is going to take this title away from him. As we all know, Gomez has strenuously denied any knowledge of the sabotage of Tracy’s car that caused the cancellation of last week’s races… And there’s Langam. No one can be more disappointed than him in the way his season’s gone. He started out well, with a second and several thirds, but mechanical failure has… And there’s Alan Tracy…!” There was a cheer from the Tracy box. “…Continuing his tradition of wearing his helmet from the pits to his car. It might be winter, but, as usual here in the winterless south, it’s hot out there and he must be sweating under that head-bucket.”

“Not as much as Gomez,” Gordon jeered.

“I don’t suppose you brought your lucky charm, did you, Gordon?” Virgil asked.

“Yep. First thing I did this morning was put it in my left shoe.”

Scott looked at his younger brother. “I thought you were limping more than usual.”

John chuckled. “Some people have a lucky rabbit’s foot. We’ve got a Gordon’s.”

Gordon pulled the leather pouch from out of his pocket. “Once Alan’s won, then it’s going back into here and I’m gonna wear it around my neck. There’s no way I’m ever going to lose it again.”

They had to endure more mindless babble from the TV commentators as they awaited the start of the race.

“Shut up and get on with it,” Jeff complained.

“Jeff!” his mother scolded.

“Well,” he moaned. “We came here to watch Alan race, not listen to that idiot. We could have done that anywhere.”

“Hang on.” Gordon leant forward, looking down onto the grid. “I think they’re nearly ready.”

“About time,” Scott muttered. “If you include last week, this has got to be the longest start to a race. Ever!”

After another two minutes of frustration, the lights flashed green and the race was finally under way.

The Tracys were on their feet. “C’mon, Alan!” Jeff yelled. “Beat ‘im to that corner!”

“Calm down, Jeff.” His mother laid her hand on his arm. “You’ll burst a blood ves… He did it!” She squealed and clapped her hands. “He’s first!”

“That’s my boy!”

Once that initial corner had been successfully negotiated, with Alan narrowly in the lead, the Tracys returned to their seats and sat back to watch the three TV screens. The first showed live action views of the lead cars; the second focused on the lesser placings; and the last displayed the animated map detailing where the cars were on the course, as well as other information.

Alan’s car was still in front. Victor Gomez was on his tail. The rest of the field straggled behind.

“How many laps do they have to do?” Virgil asked.

“Ten,” Gordon replied. “Alan told me that it takes about thirteen minutes to do one lap of the track.”

“So the race’ll last just over two hours.” John leant forward, craning his neck to maximise his view through the window. “We’re not going to be able to see much of the action. Most of it happens on the far side of the track.”

“That’s what the camera-helijets are for.” Scott pointed to the dots in the air in the distance. “They film in the areas where it’s impossible to set up a camera on land. There isn’t a part of the course that isn’t covered; including the cliffs and bluffs that make this course unique.”

“I know about those areas,” his grandmother huffed. “That’s what that reporter was talking about before. That’s what makes this course so dangerous. If someone crashed there, by the time help arrived, it could be too late.”

“Which is why these cars are some of the safest in any class of motor sport,” Jeff reassured her.

“So long as their mechanics are awake enough to find evidence of sabotage.”

“After last week, I’d say the chances of something like that happening again would be virtually nil. Security’s been stronger than Fort Knox.”

“Don’t forget,” Scott began, “that not all those helijets are for filming. The rescijets are ready to fly in at a moments’ notice.”

“Bet you’d rather be piloting one of those right now,” Gordon teased.

“Yeah…” Scott sighed.

Twelve minutes had passed since the green light. “They’re getting close,” Virgil commented as he followed his kid brother’s progress on the animated screen. “We should be seeing him any time soon.”

“There!” Gordon pointed to a cloud of kicked-up sand in the distance. “Here they come!”

The family pressed themselves to the glass as Alan, closely followed by Victor Gomez and the rest of the pack, swept past along the finishing straight.

Excitement over, Scott sat back again. “Well… That’s one lap down, nine to go.”

Alan may have scored the lead, but that didn’t mean that Victor Gomez was going to give up without a fight. He kept on Alan’s tail, trying, without success, to either sneak around the front car or else prompt the young Tracy into making a mistake.

Alan was keeping his cool.

“Two laps down,” John said as there was the brief burst of excitement in front of the corporate boxes. “Hang in there, Kiddo. Don’t do anything stupid.”

“He’s driving like a seasoned pro. Nothing Gomez is throwing at him is fazing him.” Jeff gave a satisfied nod. “Now I know I shan’t need to worry about him. He’s going to be an asset to the team.” In silent agreement, his sons continued to watch the action.

Thirteen minutes later and the cars swept past again. This time they were more spread out and Gomez was still trying, unsuccessfully, to get past Alan. As the Tracys watched the first TV screen, Gomez made to push his nose between Alan and a corner, hoping to coax Alan off his line.

Alan’s car fishtailed, throwing up a cloud of Parola Sands’ dust.

When the air had cleared he was still in front.

Lap four was completed.

Two of the trailing cars tried to negotiate the same corner at the same time. They crashed out, necessitating the need for the pace car to make its way onto the track; slowing down the race until the debris was cleared away.

Both Alan and Gomez, along with many of the other competitors, took advantage of the delay to have a pit stop; Alan leaving his compound seconds before Gomez and with his lead increased. He soon lost the advantage when he was caught up in some of the tail-enders.

Excitement was building in the Tracy camp. Alan only had five laps between him and winning the world championship.

“Come on,” Virgil breathed. “Don’t lose it now. You can do it…”

The lead cars flashed past the corporate box. Six laps gone; four remaining.

Gomez, realising that his dreams of winning were fast disappearing, was getting desperate. Pulling up to Alan’s bumper he started nudging it, trying to push the younger man off the track just had Alan had done all those months ago.

Alan for his part, kept his nerve and his grip on the car. Every trick that Gomez tried, Alan seemed to have a response. He kept his head and his lead.

Seven laps down.

At the rear of the field, cars were falling by the wayside; some vehicles unable to withstand the punishing track; some drivers finding out the hard way that their skills didn’t live up to the circuit’s demands; some, overeager to gain a place, pulling reckless manoeuvres that wiped out both them and their opponents.

Away in the distance, as shown by video, a car took a corner too wide. He spun out, the terrified driver only just saved from going over the cliff by the magnetic fence that snared his vehicle. At once a waiting rescijet swooped down; its set of claw-like grabs hanging from its undercarriage. Taking care to avoid the rocky crags that rose above the track, the rescijet clamped the grabs about the car’s chassis and lifted it into the air, ready to return it safely to the pits.

“We could do with a setup like that,” Gordon commented.

“But we’d need something a bit more flexible,” Virgil amended. “These rescijets and their race-grabs are designed to only hold vehicles of the exact weight and length of this class of car. Anything bigger, heavier, shorter, or markedly lighter, and the race-grabs are useless.”

Alan and Gomez roared down the home straight for the eighth time.

Only two laps to go. Two laps to decide who would claim the title of World Champion.

Another car narrowly avoided sailing off the edge and into oblivion. Another rescijet plucked it to safety.

Now the lead cars were on the back of the course, far away from prying eyes apart from those viewing through the camera-helijet’s pictures. The field was so spread out that those in front were finding themselves becoming entangled by the stragglers.

It was one of those trailing cars that caused the next sensation in the drama. On the back straight, far away from conventional help and with both rescijets tending to previous victims, the unhappy driver caught the wheel of the car in front and sent himself sailing nose over tail against a rocky prominence, where the vehicle burst into flame. His partner-in-tragedy continued racing: either unaware of the magnitude of what had just happened or glad to be finally free of his tail.

“Whoa!” the TV commentator exclaimed. “Number 54 has hit the wall! That’s Carlos Estrada and he’s in trouble!”

“He’s trapped in the car!” his associate yelped. “There’s no sign of him!”

“Trapped and with no one able to reach him.”

“If his tanks explode he’ll take out the entire track!”

“Where’re the rescijets?”

“One’s dropping off Tisdall as we speak and the other’s got Shaw. They’ve got to stop the race before someone else is put at risk!!”

But no one had told Alan or Gomez that the race was in jeopardy. They turned into the back straight: Alan still in front.

At first it seemed that both drivers were more intent on getting past the blazing vehicle and continuing their race, but then Alan pulled over so his wheels were scuffing the dirt of the cliff face. Gomez, relishing his one and only opportunity to gain the lead, snuck past and raced away.

“What’s he doing!?” Grandma yelled; on her feet alongside her family when she saw her grandson pull to a stop, metres in front of what appeared to be a flaming bomb, and then slam his car into reverse.

The TV commentators were asking the same question. “Let’s see if we can tap into Team Tracy’s radio communications.”

Alan’s voice sailed out of the TV’s speakers as the cameras showed him clambering out of his car. “…se are they?”

“There’s a crash two corners back. They can’t get through.”

On the TV screen, Alan, still fully clad in is protective racing gear, including his helmet, was running back to the stricken car.

“What are you doing, Alan?”

Another car buzzed through.

“Gotta get Carlos out ‘fore car blows.”

Alan had reached the crashed vehicle. He was temporarily beaten back by the flames.

“Alan! Be careful!”

“Be careful!” Jeff echoed as he watched his son’s heroics on screen.

“Steerin’ wheel jammed.” Alan panted, as he tried to remove the impediment to his rescue.

“Why doesn’t someone help him?” Grandma demanded of no one in particular. “What about the camera crew?”

“The camera-helijets aren’t set up for rescues,” Scott pointed out. “They’ve got one pilot, one automatic camera, and that’s it.”

“And nowhere to land,” Virgil added.

“There’s a fire appliance on the way!” John pointed to the animated map. “Hurry up!!”

“That’s miles away,” Gordon, like the rest of his family, was on his feet, gripping his crutches tightly, “and it’s driving against the flow of traffic. It’ll never get there in time!”

Alan had picked up a rock and was pounding the release catch that held the steering wheel in place. “C’mon… Hang in there, Carlos.”

No one knew if Carlos responded.

Unwatched by most of the world, Victor Gomez crossed the finish line.

At last Alan got the steering wheel free. He threw it down and reached into the cockpit, grasping his fellow driver under the arms. “Sorry, Pal.” Struggling against the stricken man’s weight and where his racing overalls appeared to have snagged on the chassis, he pulled Carlos Estrada out of the car and flung him over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift.

Then Alan was racing back towards his own vehicle.

“Run, Alan!” Grandma shrieked.

“What’s he going to do with him?” Scott asked. “The car’s only built for one.”

“How’s he?” Karl asked Alan.

“Dunno. Gotta gettim outta here.”

Alan didn’t have time to stop and think. Treading the fine line between the twin needs for care and speed, and avoiding the hot engine at the front of his car; he swung the injured man about and draped him across the fuselage behind the driver’s seat. Then he jumped back into his own cockpit, reconnected his steering wheel, and gunned the motor into life. At last, with one hand on the wheel and the other across Carlos to support him, Alan Tracy drove away from danger as quickly as he dared.

He’d navigated two corners before one of the rescijets hovered into view and sent a stream of foam onto the fire ravaged car. Keeping pace with Alan, the other rescijet came in to land on a small stretch of track that was free from tail-catching cliffs. Alan eased to a stop and was immediately approached by two paramedics. Carlos was checked where he lay; immobilised, and then manoeuvred off the car, onto a stretcher, and into the rescijet.

Alan returned to the Team Tracy car and, with a sedate crawl back to the pits, completed his final race of the world championship.

Drained after watching the drama, the Tracys flopped back into their seats. “Whew!” John exhaled. “That was amazing! Alan deserves a medal.” As his family concurred with this opinion he continued. “If I had any doubts before, which I didn’t, I certainly don’t have any now. Alan’s going to be an asset.”

“Yep,” Gordon agreed. “If he starts talking about trying for the world championship next year, I say that we tell him that we’re not going to let him.”

“Right,” Virgil concurred. “We’ll tell him we want him to be part of the team.”

“Never mind ‘want’,” Scott corrected. “We’ll tell him we need him to be part of the team.”

Jeff was smiling in pride at his sons’ endorsement of their brother’s actions. “I’ll be sure to let him know.”

Virgil looked over at his father. “Can you find out how Carlos is?”

“I’ll give them a few minutes,” Jeff responded. “The last thing they need at the moment is the owner of a rival team pestering them for information.”

“What an afternoon of drama!” the TV burbled. “We are still awaiting reports from Carlos Estrada’s team as to his condition after that horrific crash. We will tell you as soon as we have news. We’ll also try to do the impossible and get Alan Tracy to give us an interview. In the meantime, here are highlights of today’s…”

Gordon found the TV’s off switch. “Let’s go and find Alan,” he suggested.

But there was no need to go searching. They’d no sooner gathered together their belongings when the man of the moment let himself into the corporate box. Virgil noticed that Alan’s usual Team Tracy jacket and hat were missing.

“Well,” the young man said. “I guess that’s that. I missed out on winning the championship… Sorry…”

“Sorry?!” Scott exploded as the family gathered around the youngest member of their clan. “Don’t you ever feel sorry about trying to save someone’s life! Who cares about the world championship?! What you did for Carlos is much more important…”

“Yes,” John agreed. “Much more important. You did great, Kiddo.”

“You were awesome,” Virgil told him, remembering Alan’s words after their plane crash. “A real hero. That’s what people will remember of this series. Not who won.”

“Definitely,” Gordon agreed. “And if anyone says otherwise I’ll jab them with my crutches... How is Carlos?”

Alan slumped against the door jamb. “I don’t know. He was alive when I rescued him, but with everything I had to do to him to get him out of there…” He sighed. “I suppose I’ll find out when everyone else does.” He gave his father a guilty look before hanging his head. “I’m sorry, Dad. After all the money you put into me winning the championship…”

“Don’t be sorry,” Jeff told him gruffly. “As your brothers said, what you did for Carlos Estrada is much more important. I’m proud of you, Son. We all are.”

Still inspecting the floor, Alan didn’t see his family’s nodding heads. “I suppose I did all right.”

“All right!?” Grandma exclaimed. “I told you to be careful, young man…”

Alan hung his head even further. “I know, Grandma.”

“But you still disobeyed me!” Much to his surprise, Grandma wrapped Alan up in a big hug. “And I’m glad, Honey. You did well.” She kissed him on the forehead.

Somewhat surprised by his grandmother’s reaction, Alan gave her a half-hearted hug in reply before he relaxed into a bashful grin.

The door to the corporate box was flung open. “Jeff!” It was Karl Richards. “Do you know where…? Oh, Alan!” he said when he spied his driver. “Good! You’re here!”

“What’s wrong, Mr Richards?” Alan asked. “How’s Carlos?”

“Last I heard he was holding his own,” Richards replied. “But that’s not why I’m here. Rodriguez wants an immediate meeting with you. You too, Jeff.”

“Rodriguez?” Jeff repeated. “The championship co-ordinator? Why?”

“I don’t know. Something to do with the final race standings, I think. I only know that he wants to talk to the three of us and Gomez’s camp. And that he said it’s urgent.” Karl Richards turned to the rest of the family. “You might want to turn the TV back on again. The media will hear as soon as anyone.”

“We’ll meet you back here when we’ve finished the meeting,” Jeff suggested. “Come on, Alan.”

Alan, who had been trying to come to terms with the end of his dream, seemed startled that it wasn’t about to let him rest. “Uh… Yes, Sir.”

The room was quiet when the three men had bustled out. Scott put his bags back down on a chair. “Oh, well. I suppose we might as well do as they say. Where’s this off/on switch, Gordon?”

“Over there. On the right.”

Pixels fired back into life. “…ther dramatic announcement in an altogether dramatic day!” the TV announcer soliloquised. “After all the excitement that we’ve endured over all these months; after each twist and turn, both on and off the track; at last, when we finally thought we had a resolution; it seems that that the fates have one more surprise for us…”

“And that would be?” John asked the television set.

“I can’t believe it,” the co-announcer was saying. “After a year’s racing… For it to have come down to this!”

“To what?” Gordon snapped at the TV.

“What can be going through the minds of the Gomez and Tracy camps?” Announcer-one asked.

“The Tracy camp is wondering what you’re talking about!” Virgil told him.

“Apparently World Championship Co-ordinator Rodriguez Auel is holding a meeting with representatives of Team Victory and Team Tracy as we speak…” Announcer-two informed the viewers.

“We know that,” Grandma said. “What we don’t know is: about what?!”

“We did try to get interviews with the two principal drivers, Victor Gomez and Alan Tracy; to hear their responses to the news. But Gomez has refused to talk and Tracy, typically, avoided the media and disappeared soon after he returned to his compound.”

“Stranger and stranger,” Announcer-two said.

“Yep,” Gordon agreed. “There’s nothing stranger than you two.”

“For those of you who have just joined us…” Announcer-one began.

“Or have been listening to you for the last half hour,” John griped. He was shushed.

“…the news is that after a dramatic crash, during which race leader Alan Tracy saved the life of fellow driver Carlos Estrada and which caused the race to be curtailed due to track damage...” Announcer-one paused for what he considered dramatic effect. “...no clear winner, either of today’s race or the overall championship, has been found.”

The Tracys sat up. “What?!”

“That is correct,” Announcer-two confirmed. “As we speak, negotiations are being held between the management and drivers of both teams to try to reconcile this situation.”

“But… But… What about points?” Grandma asked.

As if he’d overheard, Announcer-one picked up her cue. “Under normal circumstances other scoring systems would come into play. But both Gomez and Tracy have the same number of points. Both have completed the same number of races. Both have won the same number of races and, bizarrely, they have received the same number of minor placings. There are those who are of the opinion that because Gomez completed more of today’s race than Tracy, then he should be the one awarded the title. But then there are those who, in light of the fact that Tracy was saving the life of a fellow competitor at the time, don’t believe that this fact alone is enough to gift Victor Gomez the glory.”

Announcer-two held up his hand. “We have just received word that the man Alan Tracy saved, Carlos Estrada, is in a critical condition at the Parola Sands hospital. He is in theatre being treated for smoke inhalation, various broken bones, including three breaks to his right leg, and unspecified internal injuries…”

Gordon drew in his breath. “Nasty.”

“…and his family are rushing to the hospital as we speak.”

“My heart goes out to those poor people,” Grandma commented. “They’ve got no idea what they’re in for.”

John pulled a portable computer from out of his bag. “I’ll send them a letter of support and say that they can give us a call if they need anything.” He looked at the group, fingers over the keyboard. “Okay?” He received his family’s blessing and started typing.

The Tracys watched the TV for the next hour, not learning anything new about either Carlos’ condition or the status of the world championship. Virgil was just getting his grandmother her second cup of coffee when his father entered the room.

“What have you heard?” Jeff asked as he accepted a cup from his son.

“Nothing much.” Scott turned off the TV. “No word on the final standings or Carlos.”

“From what I know, Carlos is still being operated on,” Jeff admitted. “It sounds like Alan’s actions acerbated his injuries, but if he hadn’t acted the way he did…” He let his words tail off, knowing there was no need to continue.

“And the race standings?” Gordon asked.

“It’s been a battle, but a decision has been reached. There is going to be another race, solely between Alan and Gomez, to decide the overall winner.”

“When?” John asked. “Where?”

Jeff looked at his watch. “On the practise circuit in about half an hour.” He gave a wry grin. “Gomez wasn’t pleased. He felt that as he would have finished the race first, had it been allowed to continue, then he should be award maximum points. He dug his heels in.”

“And Alan?” Virgil asked.

“He said that he didn’t care if Gomez was awarded the title, but I’m afraid that I said that I felt that both of them should have the opportunity to have an honest attempt at winning the championship. I don’t want Alan to have any regrets in the future; but I’m not sure that he’s in the right frame of mind to compete now. However, since the series finale has already been delayed once and there are still a large number of spectators waiting to see a result, my opposition was overruled and both teams are in their compounds getting ready as we speak.”

“Why the practise circuit?” Grandma asked. “Where is it? And why not use the full one?”

“Carlos’ accident caused too much damage to the main track. The practise one cuts out the Parola bluffs and offers greater opportunities for overtaking. As a bonus, the whole track can be seen from the grandstands so the organisers think it’ll make a better spectacle for the remaining spectators. And they don’t want it to be a cakewalk for whoever manages to reach the first corner first.”

“How many laps?” Gordon asked.

“Ten. The whole race should be over inside fifty minutes.”

“Well, if nothing else, this’ll be a test for Alan to see how he handles stress,” Scott mused. “But I think he’ll be okay.”

Having seen Alan in the highly stressful situation of being at the controls of a crashing aeroplane, Virgil had to agree. His phone rang. “Hi, Butch.”

“Hiya, Virgil. What’s goin’ on?”

Virgil explained what he knew. “We’re just waiting for the rematch to start.”

“He’ll do okay. He’s primo,” the big man enthused. “Gomez is gonna be wasted.”

“I’m sure Alan appreciates your confidence in him,” Virgil chuckled. “Next time I see him I’ll tell him you called.”

“Wouldja?” Butch sounded as though he’d just been told that he’d won the lottery. “Tell’m me ‘n Lisa are glued to th’ TV jus’ ta see him win.”

“Will do. See you Monday, Butch.”

“Yeah. Then it’ll be time t’ celebrate. See ya, Pal.”

The Tracys turned the TV on and listened to the two announcers’ inane conversation until there were signs of activity on the starting grid. Gomez’s car was manoeuvred into pole position, since that was the spot he’d earned in the qualifying laps. Then Alan’s was shifted into the second place and the two drivers walked out to their vehicles. Alan, as usual, had his helmet on, but Gomez could be seen saying something to his competitor. Alan appeared to ignore the older man’s sneer and held out his hand. Gomez looked at it disdainfully and walked away.

“I’ll bet Gomez hasn’t just said ‘good luck’,” Gordon surmised.

Grandma humphed. “I’ve never liked that man.”

“I can’t say I have either,” Jeff agreed. “And today’s meeting has done nothing to improve my opinion of him, or his manager. But he’s an excellent driver and he’s earned his place in this race.”

The starting grid was cleared of all but the two drivers in their cars. The start lights shone red…

Amber…

Yellow…

Green!

With a roar both cars leapt from the grid. Neck and neck they raced for the corner, first honours going to Gomez as he forced Alan wide. Alan tucked back into Gomez’s slipstream, waiting for his moment to pounce.

His chance arose in the third lap when he drew parallel with the Team Victory car and then nipped in front when they took a bend.

A cheer went up from the Tracys.

They lost their ebullient mood when Gomez took control of the race again at the end of the fifth lap.

“The show’s not over until the fat lady sings,” Gordon quoted; feeling in his left shoe to confirm that his lucky charm was still there.

Lap seven had more twists and turns than the full Parola Sands course. Gomez led into it, only to be overtaken by Alan. Alan’s lead lasted one corner before Gomez, nudging the other car out of the way, pulled in front. Alan regained control, feinted a move on Gomez’s right before overtaking on his competitor’s left.

There was another cheer from the corporate box. “Nice move, Alan!”

Alan managed to put some distance between the pair of them on the next straight, only to have it shrink back again at the corner.

Lap eight: Marked by Gomez deciding to use his vehicle like a bumper car to shunt Alan out of the way. One particularly nasty blow caught the panel above Alan’s right rear wheel and bent it in so it was rubbing on the tyre. The resultant unbalanced friction slowed Alan down and Gomez took advantage; overtaking yet again before speeding away.

There were howls of indignation from the Tracy camp.

Fortunately for Alan, the irritating panel fell off, freeing the wheel and allowing him to regain speed.

Lap nine: Fate struck a blow against Gomez when he ran over the dislodged panel and it jammed for a moment in his wheel well, giving Alan the chance to catch up again.

Lap ten.

It was agony watching the two cars so close together. Each member of the Tracy family stood; shoulder to shoulder; willing the youngest on; wishing that they could help him in some way and hoping that he would manage to sneak past Victor Gomez to claim that title that he’d dreamt of winning for so long.

The cars rounded that final corner. Gomez still just in front.

Alan floored it.

As the two competitors roared down the final straight Alan drew closer and closer to his opposition, breathing down Gomez’s neck. The winner’s chequered flag and the end of all his hard work drawing nearer and nearer…

“Come on, Alan!”

“You can do it!”

“Go!!”

The flag dropped.

As one, the Tracys groaned and collapsed back into their seats.

“I don’t believe it,” Scott protested. “I’m dreaming! It can’t be a photo finish! Pinch me somebody!”

Nobody did.

“I can’t bear to look.” Gordon was hiding his eyes behind his hands. “Tell me he won. Please tell me he won.”

Virgil glanced down into the pits. Things were subdued in both camps as the drivers drove into their respective compounds. Alan discarded his helmet for his hat and glasses, pulled himself out of the cockpit and sat on the body of his car where, only hours earlier, he’d saved Carlos Estrada’s life. He stared up at the scoreboard.

It was blank.

Karl Richards came up to the young man, said something to him and clapped him on the back.

The scoreboard looked down on them mutely.

Alan removed his hat enough so that he could run his hand through his hair and then jammed the cap back down again.

And still everyone waited.

Then two lines of text flashed up.

They all stared at it.

The top line read the number one. Followed by the winner’s name…

...Alan Tracy

Alan sprang to his feet and punched the air in jubilation.

“He won!”

Virgil wasn’t sure who’d shouted first. Him? His father? Scott…?

Who cared?

Nearly as elated as the day that Gordon had awoken from his coma, the Tracys cheered...

They applauded...

They danced...

They leapt about the room.

Gordon, not quite as energetic as the rest of his family, remained in his seat with a dazed expression on his face. “He did it…?” Hardly daring to believe what he’d just witnessed, he double checked the scoreboard and then looked to his ecstatic family for confirmation. “He did it!” Unable to contain his excitement any longer he threw his Team Tracy hat into the air in celebration. “Wahoo!”

Virgil found himself squashed by one of Scott’s bear hugs and reciprocated in kind. “He won! Alan won!”

Jeff pointed down towards the pits. “That’s my boy!”

Grandma, breathless, was the first to stop partying. “Jeff! Let’s go and see Alan!”

“Right you are, Ma,” he agreed. “Come on, boys. Get your gear together.”

When they reached the Team Tracy compound Alan was still standing on the seat of his car; submitting to his sole interview of the series against the background hubbub of celebration. He’d dismissed his own heroics and was in the process of praising the Team Tracy mechanics. “If it hadn’t been for those guys, I would never have won! They were the ones who got the speed out of the car to get me over the finish line firs...” He spied his family. “Dad!” Ignoring the microphone that had been shoved under his nose, he leapt out of the car and dashed across, grabbing his father around the neck in a bear hug. “I did it, Dad! I did it! I won!”

Laughing, Jeff twirled him around as if he were six again. “I know you did, Alan. I’m proud of you.”

Alan released his grip on his father and threw himself at the scrum that was made up of his jubilant brothers. “I won!”

Beaming in delight, Scott grabbed him by both shoulders. “This is MY little brother!” He pulled Alan into a hug.

Laughing, John pulled Alan free of Scott’s grasp, and into an embrace of his own. “You mean OUR little brother!”

Virgil couldn’t help himself. He grabbed Alan about the chest and lifted him off the ground. “You’re primo!” he exclaimed, quoting Butch Crump. “You’re awesome, Alan!”

“Gordon!” Alan grabbed Gordon’s hand. “I did it for you, Gordon. I won for you!”

“No,” Gordon refuted. “You did it for you. This is your victory.” He twisted Alan’s grip so he was able to raise his hand high. “The champion!”

“Grandma!” Alan hugged his grandmother before he picked her up and placed her, laughing, into the cockpit of his car. “I won, Grandma!” He kissed her, laughed, and then kissed her again.

It was these scenes of jubilation that produced the photographs that were to become the iconic images of this amazing world championship. The first photo was of Jeff Tracy, his arms wrapped around the world champion in an expression of delight. There were those who saw this portrait as a representation of a father’s pride in his son’s achievements; while those more cynically-minded saw it as a multi-billionaire realising the return on his investment...

The second photo was of a crippled former Olympic gold medallist raising the hand of the present world champion in triumph. A pity that their hats and sunglasses hid much of their faces...

But it was the third photo that was the most frequently published...

Victor Gomez stepped up to the celebration party. “Ma’am,” he acknowledged Mrs Tracy as he attempted to show some civility. “Tracy.” He bared his teeth in an approximation of a smile, before, with less than good grace, he held out his hand to Alan. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks, Gomez,” Alan responded with the magnanimity that came easily to the winner of a hard fought race. “I couldn’t have asked to compete against a better opponent.”

Gomez’s face darkened and he gripped Alan’s hand harder, pulling the younger man close. “I won’t forget this, Tracy,” he growled, to the accompaniment of clicking cameras. “I’m giving you warning here and now. If we ever meet again, you’ll regret it.”

He released his grip and walked away.

Chapter 28: A Quiet Quandary

“I can’t believe it,” Bruce Sanders said as he took a sip from his first cup of ACE’s coffee. “This time next week you won’t be here. You’ll be off, far from winter, lazing in the heat of the sun on the beach on your tropical island.”

“Hardly lazing,” Virgil corrected. “I am leaving to work for my father, remember?”

“On your tropical island.”

“His tropical island. Not mine.”

“With golden sands.”

“Yes.”

“And palm trees.”

“Yes.”

“And warm sunny days.”

“Yes.”

“And you won’t be lazing?”

“No.”

“Yeah, right...”

The pair of them were interrupted in their discussion by Butch and Lisa. “I was just saying,” Bruce explained, “That I can’t believe that Virgil’s been here a year and that he’s only got a week at ACE to go.”

“I know…” Lisa took a seat beside Virgil. “Things won’t be the same without you here. You’ve given us so much.”

“Yeah.” Butch agreed. “I never ‘ad a real friend until you came. I’m gonna miss you, Pal.”

Bruce started miming playing a violin and received an admonitory slap from Lisa. “Stop it!”

Virgil laughed. “I’ll miss you guys too… But I know one person who’ll be glad I’m leaving.”

“Watts,” Butch guessed.

“No. Actually I was thinking of Greg. Once I’m gone he can revert back to being a Charge Hand and he’ll be free from most of his dreaded paperwork.”

“True,” Lisa mused. “I suppose he’s got the silver lining to our cloud of misery.”

“Cheer up!” Virgil begged. “I promise I’ll come and visit. And maybe once we’ve settled on the island you guys will be able to come and visit me?”

“Now that’s my idea of a vacation,” Bruce said, a wistful expression on his face. “Away from the winter cold and enjoying the heat… Lazing in the sun… in the shade of palm trees… sipping cocktails…

“Knowing that Gordon and Alan are probably plotting the most elaborate way to douse you in ice water,” Virgil supplied.

“I suppose that means that Gordon’s feeling better?” Lisa asked.

“He is. He doesn’t have to attend the Willis every day, so he’s already moved to the island…”

“His tropical island,” Bruce sighed. “With sun, sand, palm trees, beautiful maidens…”

“The only ‘maiden’ there,” Virgil corrected, “is Grandma. She’s keeping an eye on him to make sure he doesn’t overdo it.”

“Oh,” Lisa looked disappointed. “Does that mean we won’t be seeing Mrs T before you leave?”

“No. She’s too busy making sure that everyone eats properly. Kyrano’s in England visiting Tin-Tin and Grandma’s worried that the men in her family are going to starve. She forgets that she’s taught us all how to cook. Even Alan’s more than capable in the kitchen.”

“Is it true that e’s retired from racin’?” Butch asked. “Lotza people was hopin’ that e’d defend his title.”

“It’s true,” Virgil confirmed. “He’s proven himself, reached his goal, and now he’s ready to move on.”

“To work for your father,” Lisa remembered. “With you and your brothers.”

“Yes.”

“On a tropical island…” Bruce gave yet another dramatic sigh as he replayed his theme. “With sun, sand, palm trees… And you say you’ll be working?” He laughed.

“We will be!” Virgil protested. “Working hard.”

“Have you heard who’s going to replace you here at ACE?” Bruce asked. “It’s not going to be George Watts, is it?”

“I don’t think so,” Virgil replied. “I got an email from him last night. He hasn’t scored a contract yet, but some record company’s representatives want to see him perform live. He’s got a few months to go before his year’s up and his father demands that he gets a ‘proper job’, so he’s hopeful that this meeting will at least show that he’s not wasting his time.”

Lisa replaced her cup on the table. “Well, whoever does replace you; at least he shouldn’t be as bad an engineer as George.”

“Remember my position was created for me, so Uncle Hamish might decide not to replace me at all.” Virgil grinned. “Maybe I’m irreplaceable?”

“And modest with it,” Bruce scoffed.

Greg Harrison stepped up to their table. “Butch, Virgil, Bruce… I’m glad I’ve got you three together. This ‘flu that’s going around has hit ACE hard and Max Watts’ crew has been decimated. I said he could have you three for today’s pour. Okay?”

“Sure,” Bruce agreed. “No sweat.”

“Good.” Greg gave a grim smile. “But keep an eye on him would you? He’s picked up the bug too and I don’t think he should be at work, but you know how he’d react if I tried to say something to him. I’m going to talk to the boss now, which is why I’m giving him you three. I know I can trust you to keep an eye on him until Mr Mickelson makes a ruling.”

“Do you think it’s a good idea having me work for him?” Virgil asked. “You know I’m not is favourite employee. Just being near me will probably make him feel worse… and more stubborn.”

Greg laid a hand on his shoulder. “I think it’s an excellent idea. If you think he’s too ill to be here, don’t be afraid to tell him.” The supervisor gave an evil grin. “And if he sacks you it’ll only mean that you’re finishing at ACE a week earlier than planned.”

“Gee. Thanks,” Virgil said with more than a hint of sarcasm. “He nearly fired me my first week here, and now you’re trying to get him to finish the job on my last?”

Greg laughed. “After you’ve all finished your break, get kitted up in your thermal PPE and meet him at the furnace. Lisa, you can carry on welding that job you started this morning.”

Virgil pulled his silver heat-resistant hood over his head and fastened it securely to the body of his similarly protective suit. “Can you hear me?” he asked.

“Yup,” Butch responded.

“Loud and clear.” Bruce’s voice was heard through the speakers in the hood. “Are you reading us?”

“Yes.”

“Betta check ya seals,” Butch offered. “Make sure they’re locked down tight.”

“Yes,” Bruce chuckled. “We can’t have wild animals wandering about the place getting everything wet.”

Virgil groaned and then submitted to letting Bruce check that there were no gaps in his protective clothing, before he in turn checked Butch’s. Then the three men started making their way towards the crucible furnace.

“Have ya heard ‘ow’s Carlos Estrada?” Butch asked Virgil.

“Last time I spoke to Alan he said that they brought Carlos out of the medically-induced coma a couple of days ago. Fortunately he’s not showing any sign of brain damage so they’re hoping he’ll make a full recovery. But, with all the other injuries he received, he’s got a long road ahead of him. Gordon gave him a call to offer him his support yesterday and he said that Carlos sounded quite well, considering.”

“Good,” Butch grunted. “‘E’s a good driver an’ deserved a better season.”

“Yes,” Virgil agreed. “It wasn’t his year.”

“AN’,” Butch added, warming to his topic, “I reckon they shoulda scratched Gomez for cheatin’. Then Alan woulda won; even afta he help’d Estrada, without havin’ to race agin.”

Virgil was surprised by the comment. “Cheating?”

“Yeah... Ya can’t tell me he wasn’ behind th’ sabutage…”

The sudden unexpected sound of a woman’s scream brought the three men up short. Then there was a flicker of lights and the even more unexpected sound of every machine in the shop grinding to a halt.

Alarmed, Bruce looked about him in the glow of generator-driven lights. “What’s happened?”

“There!” Butch pointed up towards the ceiling of Aeronautical Component Engineering.

Virgil followed the outstretched finger and saw a macabre sight. Suspended a metre below the gantry, above the mouth of the crucible furnace, silver PPE suit reflecting in the hellishly red glow; hung a body. The hooded head lolled as if lifeless, while, in an apparent contradiction, the victim seemed to be trying to keep cool by holding his arms away from his torso.

Virgil felt his mouth grow dry. Then his brain switched back into action. “Come on!” Grabbing some coils of heat resistant rope, he led his two friends in a run up the steps to the gantry from which the unknown figure hung.

“Who is it?” Bruce puffed.

“Watts,” Butch grunted. “It’sa Super’s suit.”

“What’s he hanging by?”

“Dunno. ‘Is collar?”

“Is he tethered? Why didn’t he tether himself? It’s standard safety prac...”

“STOP...!” Their panted discussion was interrupted when Virgil threw his arms out wide as a barrier. They looked down to where Max Watts swayed below their feet. Suddenly the heat-resistant mesh surface they were standing on seemed flimsy and insubstantial. “We’re rocking the gantry!” Virgil whispered. “Walk forward slowly.”

As they moved closer they could see that the security gate had been unlatched and confirmed that, for some reason, the Production Manager hadn’t attached a safety line to his harness. He’d only been saved from a death plunge because that harness had snagged on a metal strut. Bruce stared down at the stricken man. “How do we get to him?”

Virgil, having already tethered himself using the standard safety line, had started tying one end of a rope to the sides of the gantry. The other end he tied carefully about a carabiner using what was known in abseiling circles as a Munter knot. “I’ll go down and try to secure him.” He tested his knot and then leant over the barrier to look down on the Production Manager.

“Virgil...!” Bruce protested. “Don’t!”

“Yeah! Don’ risk ya neck!” Butch agreed. He pointed down to where the crucible furnace was inching its way along its tracks. “Look! They’s already movin’ it. Wait’ll it’s gone.”

“That harness won’t hold him for long... Especially if he wakes up and panics...”

“…Or has a seizure,” Bruce agreed. “But even so, Virgil, you can’t risk your neck.”

“And I can’t stand by and not do anything…” Virgil looked down on the hanging man and was alarmed to see that Watts’ swaying had appeared to increase. “STOP THE FURNACE!”

It was Greg Harrison’s voice who responded. “Why? We can’t rescue him until that’s clear!”

“The heat currents!” Virgil explained.

“Heat currents?”

“Air eddies from the furnace are moving him. Could be enough to dislodge him!” Virgil heard Greg swear and then the furnace ground to a halt; it’s fiery red mouth open and waiting to swallow up its victim.

“Medusa’s writhing snakes, huh?” Bruce commented. “You still can’t go down there, Virgil. It’s too dangerous.”

Virgil held up a standard safety line that had a carabiner attached to the end. “I’m going to clip this on to his harness for extra security.” He clipped it to his own belt so that both hands were free.

“But, Virgil...”

Virgil ignored Bruce’s protest, preferring instead to check that the bigger man was safely secured. “Good... Make sure I don’t swing too close to him, Butch. I can’t risk knocking him.”

“Virgil!” It was Greg’s voice again. “Am I to understand that you want to be lowered down...?”

“No. I’m going to rappel down.”

“I can’t allow you to do that,” Greg stated. “I’m coming up.”

“DON’T!” Virgil yelled. “Not yet. Not till I’ve got the safety line on him.”

“I can’t let you risk it, Virgil!”

“And I can’t allow him to fall!”

“Virgil…”

“We’re wasting time, Greg.”

“Virgil! It’s Hamish Mickelson! Don’t do this! Think what your father would say.”

“You know exactly what he’d say,” Virgil responded and sat on the edge of the gantry. From here he could see the upturned faces of his work colleagues watching the drama unfold, and wished he didn’t have an audience. If he failed… “Watch the rope, Butch.”

“‘Kay.” Butch Crump had a tight grip of the line. “I wish ya’d think again, Pal,” he said as Virgil lowered himself over the edge of the gantry. Bruce, realising that further protests were useless, stood watch over the secondary line.

Virgil was relieved to feel the Munter knot take hold on the carabiner. It wasn’t an ideal method of abseiling, but in an emergency it was more than adequate for the job. The rope was looped about the carabiner in such a way that by raising and lowering the free end of the rope, friction enabled the abseiler to control the speed of his descent.

Looking downwards as he descended, Virgil could see the red-hot mouth of the cauldron, growing closer and closer; big enough to swallow two men with ease. Sinking lower he could feel the heat of the crucible furnace seeping through his protective coveralls. Beads of perspiration were standing out on his forehead and running into his eyes. He longed to cuff it away but knew that his hood rendered any such attempt futile.

He stopped descending next to Max Watts and tied off the rope. Taking care not to bump against the victim, he slowly spun in mid-air until he was facing his supervisor.

“‘S’e alive?” Butch asked.

A drop of sweat ran into Virgil’s eye and he blinked to remove it. “I think so. I think I can see him breathing.” He concentrated on what he knew for sure. “He hasn’t done his harness up. He could slide out of it at any moment.”

“What are you going to do then?” Bruce asked.

“Attach the safety line. That’ll give him some protection if it gives way.”

“Be careful you don’t dislodge him…”

Virgil unclipped the spare carabiner from his belt. Then, moving with as much care as he could, he reached out, his gloved hands feeling awkward and ungainly. “Nearly… got… it…” With difficulty he managed to hold the carabiner open, hook it over its associated ring on the back of Watts’ loose harness, and then let go; breathing a sigh of relief when the supervisor didn’t slip. “Done it… Okay, Greg. Come up now. Don’t rock things too much… Butch, move me closer, but don’t bump me into him. I’ll fasten his harness and then you pull him up.”

“Watch you don’t fray the rope,” Bruce warned, as he saw the lifeline scrape along the sharp edge of the gantry.

“What’s the temperature on his oxygen gauge, Virgil?” Greg asked.

Virgil had already satisfied himself on that point. “Still green.”

“Good,” Greg grunted as he stepped out onto the mesh that was the floor of the gantry they were working from.

A tremor ran along the structure.

It was enough to cause Max Watts’ harness to lose its tenuous grip on the gantry and he fell. The newly attached secondary line took hold, tipping his upper body forward and threatening to send him sliding headfirst towards certain death.

There were yells from people down below as Virgil grabbed at the falling man; wrapping both his arms and legs about him. He took a moment to catch his breath. “Whew… That was close!”

“Yeah,” Bruce agreed. “I thought he was going to go for a nose dive then.”

“Okay…” Pressed up against Watts’ back, Virgil reached around and tried to fasten the harness’s clasp; a job made more difficult because the straps had slipped down the supervisor’s arms, pulling them up and back. His legs still wrapped around Watts’ for added security, Virgil tried to slide the harness from Watts’ elbows; back over his shoulders.

As he worked he could hear Bruce asking questions. “How long has he been there?”

“I last saw him about quarter of an hour before morning tea,” Greg admitted. “That was when he asked me if he could borrow some men.”

“Was he wearing his PPE?”

“Ummm… Had his coveralls on, but not his hood.”

“So he could have been hanging there, in the heat, for up to twenty minutes. Could you find out if anyone saw him after that, Mr Mickelson?”

“I’ll ask…” There was a short delay before Hamish Mickelson responded. “No… Are you concerned about heat stroke, Bruce?”

“Yeah. If his body temperature rises to over 41 degrees Celsius, he’ll not only dehydrate, his brain will start dying. And, if he already had the ‘flu…”

Virgil had been struggling with Max Watts’ harness all this time, and now he admitted defeat. “It’s no good. I can’t fasten it. Send down another rope with a carabiner and I’ll secure him with that.”

“‘Kay,” Butch responded. “With ya in a mo. Gotta tie you off first.”

“Thanks.” Virgil felt himself rise and fall as both his rope and safety lines were made fast. The bobbing action caused Watts’ arms to flap up and down as well in something of a ghoulish imitation of a bird in flight.

“Here it comes,” Bruce announced.

Virgil looked up and more perspiration ran into his eyes as he reached for the life line. “It sure it hot down here.” He automatically rubbed his arm over his forehead, and only succeeded in smearing sweat over the inside of his visor; blurring his view of the world.

“If you want out, just give us the word and we’ll pull you out,” Greg offered.

“No. I can’t give up now. Not till he’s safe.” Virgil looped the new rope about Max Watt’s torso, below the armpits, and then reached around to clip the carabiner onto the line.

The rope was too short.

He looked back up. Can you give me more slack?”

“Sorry, Virgil,” Bruce told him. “That’s all it’s got.”

Virgil swore. “Can’t you find another?”

“Not with a carabina,” Butch stated. “We gotta plain rope.”

Virgil didn’t have time to wait. “Send it down. I’ll tie a bowline.”

“‘Kay… Here it comes…”

Virgil looked up and tried to blink away the perspiration that had settled in his lashes. His legs were starting to cramp up: a result of hanging on to Watts or because he was starting to dehydrate, he wasn’t sure. He watched as the new rope snaked down to him and was reminded of the reptiles’ association with Medusa: the woman who turned men into stone just by looking at them. He reached up, resisting the desire to throttle the life out of the venomous creature, and pushed his feverish fantasies down into his subconscious where they belonged. He grabbed the rope firmly and then wrapped the harmless length of man-made fibres about Watts’ upper torso.

“Howzit goin’?” Butch asked.

“Okay...” Virgil gritted his teeth and had his first attempt at tying the knot that would allow Max Watts to be dragged up to safety.

He failed.

He tried again.

He failed again.

Remembering how to tie a bowline wasn’t a problem, he’d done it so many times in Scouts and in later years, that it was practically second nature. The problem was his lack of visibility and his gloves. Because of his position at Max Watts’ back he had to rely on feel, rather than sight; and the thick heat-resistant gloves made it nearly impossible to manipulate the rope.

Virgil attempted the knot a third time, but the free end of the rope fell out of his hand. He cursed, but was unable to reach it. “Can you swing it closer?”

Someone above him (all three men were starting to blur in the heat and their identical silver suits), swung the rope and Virgil managed to grab it, wrap it back around Watt’s body, and attempt to tie the knot a fourth time.

With the same result. “I’m going to have to take my glove off.”

“Don’t, Virgil! We’ll try to pull him out now…!” Greg warned, but Virgil had already removed the right glove.

The burning heat was almost unbearable, but the thought of Max Watts falling to his death was worse, so Virgil tucked the glove between their two bodies, and attempted the bowline again. In theory it was a knot that should have been achievable one-handed, but he had to reach around the body of an adult male and tie a knot with a hand slicked with sweat and burning in pain. “Give me more slack in the rope.”

“Here comes…”

Virgil was nothing, if not tenacious. He tried several more times to secure the knot, but each time, when he thought he was getting somewhere, the knot fell free.

He took a moment to have a rest. It was becoming harder to breathe in this heat. The cramp in his legs was becoming insufferable and he longed to stretch them. He was beginning to get a headache and his mouth felt parched. Perspiration was running like a waterfall off his forehead and his clothing was sticking to his skin. He knew he was slowly dehydrating. He knew he had to get out of there soon.

But he knew that he had to get Max Watts out even sooner.

Virgil pulled his left glove off. This time the burning sensation seemed even more intense and he sucked in his breath at the sudden onslaught of pain.

“Virgil!” Bruce’s anxious voice sounded as if he was standing behind him. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah…” Virgil croaked and flexed his bare fingers. The reddened skin felt tight and unyielding. He tried to tuck the left glove next to its sibling, but he lost his grip and it fell from his grasp. Following its descent, he watched as it hit the molten metal below, burst onto flame, and vanished. He tried to swallow, aware that that was the fate awaiting him should he fall, but his throat felt as if it was closing in on itself.

“Keep hold of Watts and we’ll pull you both out,” Butch suggested.

“No…” Virgil protested. “Too heavy…”

“Then let go and let us pull you up!”

“No… Gi’me…” Virgil gulped, “more – zlack.”

The bowline rope above him bulged and he grabbed it with his left hand and looped it. Then he fed the free end through the loop before twisting it about the rope above. He nearly dropped the end: managing to grab it at the last moment as his heart pounded in his chest. Sliding the end of the rope back against itself through the loop again, he pulled it tight and was relieved to feel friction take hold. “Done it.” He let his arms fall free and his newly tied bowline held firm. “Take…” His throat felt dry and raspy. “Take up – th’ ‘lack.” He watched as the bulge disappeared. “Got ‘im?”

“We’ve got him, Virgil,” Greg assured him. “You can let go.”

Virgil let go of the supervisor and swung free, not seeing his right glove fall into the furnace. He hung there, swaying in the rising heat, and watched as, to the accompaniment of cheers and applause from those down below, Max Watts rose up away from danger and into the welcoming arms of his rescuers. Greg and Bruce, realising the urgent need to get the injured man away from the toxic heat of the crucible furnace, lay him onto a stretcher, and prepared to carry him down to the cool shop floor and waiting paramedics.

Virgil knew that this was not the time for self-congratulation, nor was the time to take a break and regain his breath. He was painfully aware that now was the time to escape. He looked up; his only focus a narrow tunnel of heat, pain and that rope seemed to climb forever skywards…

He reached above his head, grasped the rope, gritted his teeth as his hand screamed in painful protest, and pulled. He wasn’t aware of what was going on around him and didn’t realise that Butch was aiding his escape by pulling him up on the rope. He was only aware of his need to climb clear of the searing heat…

Arm over arm, burning inch over burning inch, Virgil Tracy hauled himself upwards. His skin stuck to the rope when he grabbed it, and ripped free when he let go, but he ignored the pain; driving himself onwards and upwards… Onwards and upwards to safety.

“‘Ere!” Lying on his front, Butch Crump reached down. “Grab ‘old of m’ hand.”

Surprised by the sudden intrusion of another human being into his restricted world and relieved that his ordeal was nearly over; Virgil reached out...

Their fingertips touched…

The rope slipped…

Butch made a desperate grab for his friend: but missed, overbalanced, and fell…

Lisa screamed…

Hamish Mickelson’s heart leapt into his throat…

Bruce and Greg turned back in time to see Butch disappear over the edge of the gantry…

And Virgil found himself plummeting back down to where Medusa waited to turn him into stone…

Chapter 29: Virgil

Scott Tracy hurdled the diving board that lay wrapped in its protective covering by the side of the pool. He dodged a pallet of anti-slip pool tiles, jumped over a stack of timber, side-stepped the crates of pool furniture, and took the stairs up to the house three at the time. He barrelled in through the patio doors and pushed someone out of his way as he made a beeline for his father’s desk.

“Watch it!” Gordon complained as he steadied himself against the piano. “Invalid present!”

Scott ignored him as he shoved Alan to one side.

“Hey!” Alan rubbed the potential bruise on his arm. “What’s the big idea?!”

John’s book went flying and a ball of wool from Grandma’s knitting rolled along the floor. “Scott!”

They were ignored as Scott ran behind his father’s desk and slammed his hand down on the videophone’s disconnect button.

“What the…!!” Jeff barely had time to register the blank screen before he was bodily removed from his chair. “Scott!! What are you doing?!”

Scott claimed the chair for himself and started punching buttons on the videophone. “Gotta call him,” he muttered.

“Scott! That was an important business call!”

“Number… Got to ring his number… Phone him…”

“…Dad…?”

“SCOTT!!” Not used to being ignored by any of his sons; Jeff didn't try to hide his anger. “I want an explanation!”

“C’mon… C’mon!” Scott stared at the videophone as if he were willing the person on the other end to answer. When no one responded he punched in another series of numbers. “Try his cell…”

“…Dad…”

Jeff, even more furious, exploded. “Scott Tracy! Get out of my seat…”

“…Dad…”

“…And get into my study…”

“…Dad…”

“Now!!”

“Dad!!”

“What!” Jeff rounded on another son and was stunned into relative silence. “What’s wrong, John?”

John had the appearance of a man who was about to be sick. “Look at him! We’ve seen this before.”

“We have?” Alan queried. “This isn’t the first time that Scott’s lost it?”

“Not Scott,” John replied. “Virgil.”

“Huh? What are you talking about?” Gordon asked. When no one responded he looked at Alan, who shrugged.

John was leaning over the desk, trying to get his brother’s attention. “Scott… What’s happened to Virgil?”

Scott stared at John with an expression that, if John didn’t know his brother better, would have been interpreted by most people as panic. “He’s in danger.”

“What kind of danger?”

“He’s…” Scott grabbed John’s hand like he was begging for help. “He’s in danger,” he repeated. “Snakes… And a woman… Bad woman… And heat! Lots of heat! Fire!!”

Alan snickered. “Sounds kinky.” He was shushed by his father.

“And stone…” Scott babbled on. “So hot! We’ve got to help him!”

“Scott…” John released his brother’s hold, walked around the desk so he was standing behind the chair, and took a gentle grip of tense shoulders. “Come with me. Let Dad call ACE and find out what’s happened to Virgil.”

“Yes… Good idea…” Scott appeared to agree. “A good idea… Call ACE, Father.” But he didn’t move from the seat, continuing to punch at buttons on the videophone. “Come on! Answer!”

“I will call ACE...” Jeff agreed. “But you’ve got to let me have my seat back.”

“Come on,” John said quietly as he guided Scott out of the chair. “Come with me… Let’s give Dad some room.”

“But I’ve got to do something!” Scott protested. “I can’t do nothing!”

“Just wait one minute while Dad tries to phone ACE,” John soothed. “Can you do that?”

Jeff, shaken by Scott’s uncharacteristic behaviour, slipped past his two sons to reclaim his seat and pressed a button on the phone. “We’ll know something soon.”

“Scott?” Grandma discarded her knitting and approached her grandson. “You’re shivering! Are you cold?”

“Not cold… Hot…” Eyes wide, Scott wrung his hands together.

Jeff summoned Brains to the lounge.

“Hot?” Grandma felt Scott’s forehead. “You don’t feel feverish…”

“Are you saying that Virgil’s hot?” John asked trying to keep his brother’s attention away from the fact that their father had given up on the phone was now accessing his computer. “How hot?”

“Burning hot,” Scott stated. He pulled at the neck of his shirt. “Melting,” he added as he undid the top button of his collar.

“Who’s this woman?”

“Don’t know. Bad woman.” Scott made a move towards his father and the videophone.

“Bad woman…” John tightened his grip, holding him back. “So you said. What’s she doing to Virgil?”

Scott looked down at his shaking hands before curling them into fists. “Burning him.”

Brains entered the room. “Y-You called, Mr Tracy?”

“Ah, Brains,” Jeff looked up briefly from his computer. “Good. Can you…” A red flashing light on the computer screen caught his attention and he swore.

“Jeff!” His mother scolded. “Language!”

“M-Mr Tracy?” Brains repeated, shocked by his employer’s behaviour.

Jeff swallowed down a sudden panicked feeling of his own and turned in his chair to face his son. He realised for the first time that Scott was sweating and experienced an unpleasant feeling of déjà vu. He had seen this before, only last time it was another son who’d been stressed and imploring him to help. “How did you know, Scott?”

“M-Mr Tracy?” Brains repeated for a third time. Bemused by everyone’s lack of response, he took a step forward. “What’s wrong, Mr Tracy?”

“It’s ACE…” Wishing that he was imagining the data before him, Jeff dragged his eyes back to the computer screen. “They’ve gone into full emergency shut down…”

“Virgil!” Scott pushed John out of his way and, hemmed in by his grandmother, vaulted the desk. “Gotta get to Thunderbird One!” He ran towards the twin light fittings.

“No!” Jeff yelled. “Stop him!”

Alan, the only able-bodied member of the family close enough to intercept, tackled Scott to the floor; sending him skidding hands first across the newly laid carpet.

“Get off me!” Scott kicked out as he attempted to scramble towards his goal. “Let me go! I’ve got to get to Virgil!”

“No!” Alan fought to subdue his brother. He dodged flailing arms and legs. “Stop it!”

“Let me go!” Scott yelled again and rolled over so he was able to look up at his captor. “Got to get to Thunderbird One!” he repeated.

“No!” Pinning Scott’s arms to the floor, Alan looked down on him. “You can’t take Thunderbird One! She’s not fully tested yet!”

“We’ve tested her!”

“Not for flying that distance and at speed!”

“Virgil’s in danger!!”

“Virgil will never forgive you if you expose us before we’re even fully operational!”

Something in Alan’s words penetrated Scott’s panicked brain. He cast one last haunted look towards the entrance to Thunderbird One’s hangar and then back up into the pair of concerned, but equally determined blue eyes. “Not Thunderbird One... But… My plane! I’ll take my plane! It’ll take longer, but I’ll be able to help him!” He struggled again to get free. “I’ve got to help him!”

Alan tightened his grip. “You won’t help him by going off half cocked…”

Jeff was on his feet, desperate to help, although he wasn’t sure which son needed his help more. “I wish Kyrano was here, he might understand what’s going on …” He looked at John who appeared to be in pain. “Are you all right?”

“Yes…” John had finally regained his breath from when he’d been thrust against the sharp edge of the computer console. “Scott…” Rubbing his bruised abdomen, he hobbled over to where one brother was holding the other down. “Listen to me... I believe you.”

Alan, still practically sitting on his bigger, stronger brother, glanced at him. “Huh?”

John crouched down so he could look Scott in the eye. “We believe you, Scott. We know that Virgil’s in danger.”

“What are you…?” Alan started saying, but stopped when he received a warning smack on the leg from his blonde sibling. “Ow!”

Scott stared at John and some of the fight went out of him. “You do?”

John nodded. “I do. We all do. Right, Dad?”

Jeff had gone back to trying to make phone contact with someone, but now he stood so he could see Scott’s face. “Yes. I know that something’s happened at ACE, and I believe that somehow Virgil’s involved.”

“And I believe you too!” Grandma reinforced. “I just wish that you could tell us what’s happening to Virgil.”

“I don…” Alan bit back another yelp when he received a second warning thump. “Don’t do that…! I was going to say that I don’t understand what’s going on.”

“Virgil’s in danger and Scott’s feeling it,” John explained. “It’s like that empathetic clairvoyance thing that Virgil had when Scott crashed in Bereznick, but in reverse.”

“But Virgil only had an arm infection.” Gordon, leaning on his solitary cane, stared down at the strange tableau. “Didn’t he?”

“That’s what the medical establishment said,” John said, “because they didn’t know any different. But we know better. Right?” He gave Alan and Gordon a meaningful glance.

“Okay,” Gordon agreed, deciding to go along with the charade for the moment.

“Right, Grandma?” John asked.

“Of course.”

“Dad?”

“Yes.”

“Brains?”

“Uh… I m-must admit that the phenomenon is most fascinating.”

“Alan?”

“It was an infection!”

John ignored him. Realising that Scott was no longer fighting against his captor, John felt confident that he was on the right track. “And we also know that, whatever’s happened to Virgil and ACE, the authorities know what it is and they’re dealing with it.”

“That’s right,” Jeff confirmed. “As soon as that emergency shutdown kicks into action, a call goes out to the emergency services. They’d be on site within minutes.”

“See...” John took a deep breath; praying that he was reading the situation correctly. “You can get off him now, Alan.”

“What!?” Alan refused to release his iron-like grip. “No way! What if he makes another run for Thunderbird One?”

“He won’t,” John said, hoping that his confidence wasn’t misplaced. “Not now. Right, Scott?”

Scott nodded. “I won’t do anything stupid, Alan.”

Alan looked at him sideways. “You promise?”

“Promise... I’d cross my heart if you’d let go of my arms.”

“Let him up, Alan,” John ordered.

Still wary and ready to pounce if necessary, Alan backed off and allowed Scott to sit up.

John reached out and placed a hand on his elder brother’s shoulder. “Are you okay?”

Scott wiped his face. Then he rubbed his damp palms on his trousers and nodded. “Just so long as you’re not planning on calling out the men in white coats.”

John chuckled. “They don’t make house calls this far away.” He gave the shoulder a squeeze.

Scott held his hands out flat in front of him, palms down. “Look at me! I’m shaking like a leaf!” He clenched his fists.

“And you’re all sweaty too,” John added. “Get up. You’re dirtying the carpet.”

Scott treated him to a weak smile. “Sorry I pushed you.” He stood and walked over to the desk. “I’m sorry, Father.”

“That’s okay, Son. I’d like to say that I understand, but I’m not sure I do.”

“No,” Scott agreed. “Me neither.” He cuffed his brow on his sleeve.

“Are you still feeling whatever it is you’re feeling?”

“Yes.” Scott looked down at his hands, which, despite his relative calmness, hadn’t stopped shaking. “Virgil’s still in danger… He’s still hot.” He ran his finger around his collar and undid another button. “Any luck getting hold of anyone?”

“No.” Jeff turned his attention back to the videophone. “I’ll try Hamish again.”

“Sit down,” John suggested, taking Scott by the elbow and guiding him to a sofa. “Let’s see if you can give us some idea what’s happening to Virgil.”

“Here,” Grandma patted the couch. “You can sit next to me, Honey.” When her grandson had obeyed, she took his hand. “Virgil is still alive, isn’t he?”

“Mother!” Jeff exclaimed.

“Don’t tell me you’re not wondering, Jeff.”

“Oh, yeah!” Desperate to reassure his family, Scott gave a vigorous nod. “He’s still alive.”

“And he’s in danger?”

Scott frowned. “I think so.”

“Is he hurt?”

“I...” Scott dropped her hand and pulled a cushion out from behind his back. He hugged it; an action that he seemed unaware of, even if it didn’t go unnoticed by the rest of the family. “I don’t know... I’m getting so many, ah, signals, that I just don’t know.”

“Then let’s break those signals down.” John shifted a couple of books off the coffee table and sat on it so he and Scott were able to look at each other face-to-face. Normally his grandmother would have told him off for using the furniture in such a way, but this time she chose to ignore it.

Gordon, curious at what was happening and determined not to miss a minute of it, tucked his walking stick beside the chair and took the seat next to his grandmother. Brains pulled up a footstool and withdrew a notebook from his pocket. He sat there, pencil at the ready, waiting to document all that happened.

But Alan’s scepticism had erected a firm wall between him and the evidence before them. “You’re a scientist, John! How can you even start to place any credence on this empathetic clairvoyance nonsense?”

John glared at him. “I hope I’m not so narrow-minded that I can’t accept that not everything in this world can be explained with computers and test-tubes.”

“He has a point, Alan,” Gordon noted. “How do you explain that Scott knew that Virgil was in danger, before we even knew that there was trouble at ACE? I suppose you’re going to blame satellite phones again?”

His suggestion led to an eureka moment. “Satellite phones!” Alan crowed. “That’s it! You’ve been talking to Virg on his cell phone. Right, Scott?”

But Scott shook his head. “No...”

The denial didn’t deter Alan. “You’re not allowed cell phones while at work, right, Dad?”

“That’s right...”

“Then there’s only one explanation! Tell the truth, Scott. You’ve been talking to Virgil while he’s at work and you don’t want to get him into trouble.” Convinced by his own hypothesis, the youngest beamed in triumph.

“No.” Scott denied. “We haven’t…”

Gordon was shaking his head. “Come on, Alan? Virgil do something that’s against the rules? And Scott too? That’s almost laughable.”

“So you’re suggesting, Alan….” Their father spoke slowly. “That Scott’s been talking to Virgil on the phone during work hours…” Alan gave an enthusiastic nod and ignored Scott’s attempts to negate the suggestion. “And he told him that something’s wrong?”

“Yes!”

“If that’s the case then why didn’t Virgil say exactly what’s wrong? And how come I’ve tried Virgil’s cell phone at least ten times and he’s not answering?”

“Ah...” For a moment Alan was flummoxed... “Got it! Your number will come up on his caller ID. He doesn’t want to get into trouble with the boss, so he’s not answering your calls...” He pulled his own cell phone out of his pocket. “I’ll prove it. I’ll bet he’ll answer my call.” He pushed a speed dial, put the phone onto hands-free, and waited.

The phone rang...

They all stared at it.

It rang again...

They willed Virgil to answer it.

It rang again...

They looked at Alan who was staring at his phone…

Which rang again...

Alan banged the instrument lightly. “Darn thing must be broken.”

“It’s not broken,” Scott insisted. “I haven’t spoken to Virgil since yesterday.” He hugged his cushion closer. “He’s not going to answer… He can’t. He’s in danger.”

“It’s got to be a coincidence.” Desperate to be proved right, Alan started to clutch at straws. “You’re probably sick like Virgil was last time. You’ve been under a lot of strain lately; what with International Rescue and Gordon…”

“Don’t bring me into this.”

“Have you got a temperature?” Alan held out his hand and had it knocked away.

Grandma shook her head. “He hasn’t.”

“We don’t even know that Virgil’s in danger!” Alan insisted. “So how can you all claim that Scott’s experiencing something paranormal?”

“Alan?” Jeff took a break from trying to reach various people. “How do you explain ACE’s emergency shutdown at the same time that Scott’s ‘ill’?”

“Coincidence.”

“Coincidence?” John repeated. “That’s a glib answer with no foundation. Where’s your proof?”

“Where’s yours?” Alan challenged. “What evidence do you have that Scott and Virgil have some telepathic link?”

“You mean apart from having seen it happen with my own eyes twice?” John asked. “Not everything can be explained simply and easily. Just because I’m looking at a pile of carbon-based sludge that mutated over the millennia into my little brother, doesn’t mean that I know what caused the first life forms to come into being.”

“But John,” Alan protested. “Telepathy? It’s mumbo jumbo.”

Brains had been following the discussion, his eyes bright with scientific interest. Now he leant forward. “Is that what you think is happening to you, Scott? That you are, er, have a telepathic link with Virgil? Can you read his mind?”

“I’m not reading his mind,” Scott corrected. “It’s more of a... uh...” He bit his lip as he tried to think of the right words.

Brains started scribbling in his notebook. “I must do a brain scan... And blood tests... Hormone levels...”

“Whoa!” Scott protested, holding his cushion out like a shield. “No way! Sorry, Brains. But this is weird enough as it is. I don’t think I can handle anything else.”

“Look, forget all that physical examination stuff,” John suggested. “Let’s see if we can analyse...”

“Will you all stop?!” Angry and frustrated, Scott jumped to his feet. Seeing Alan make a move to intercept him again; he strode behind the couch, keeping it between him and the others. “I am not a specimen for dissection! This has just happened and I don’t know why! Like I don’t know why you’re all so interested in me when Virgil’s the one in danger!” He stopped, realised that he was hugging a cushion, and threw it onto a chair in disgust.

There was a moment’s uncomfortable silence before Gordon, in typical fashion, tried to clear the air with humour. “Ah, ha,” he crowed in the fake accent of a stereotypical psychiatrist. “Ver-ry inter-resting.” He made a note on an imaginary clipboard. “Subject shows aggressive tendencies... I shall have to make further studies of this phenomonomonom.” He pretended to look over a pair of spectacles at Scott. “Please be lying down on the couch again.”

Scott made an exasperated sound and glanced over to where Jeff was still trying to make contact with ACE. Then he sighed. “Sorry.” Picking up another cushion he reclaimed his seat as Brains made a show of putting his notebook away again.

“What I want to know,” John began, “is: is this the first time this has happened? Did you feel anything when Virgil was beaten up by the Skulz?”

Scott glanced sideways at Brains before answering. “Yeah... Yes, I think I did... I didn’t think anything of it until a few days later when I saw him in that video, on the ground getting smashed. Then I realised what it was I’d been experiencing.”

“But you didn’t mention it to him, did you?”

“No,” Scott shook his head. “I didn’t want him to worry.”

John chuckled. “You two are definitely cast from the same mould.”

“Huh?”

“He didn’t want to talk to you about it either.”

Scott looked hurt. “But why didn’t he want to discuss this with me? Why you?”

“Because he didn’t want you stressing that you’d be stressing him when you were stressed. Because he wanted to talk to someone about it who wasn’t going to tell him it was all in his mind.” John gave Alan a pointed look. “Or that he was out of it.”

“John...” In between attempting phone calls Jeff had been following the discussion just as intently as the rest of his family. “I should have been informed. Do you realise what this means for International Rescue?”

“Yes. And I’ve just proved that so long as both these guys know that someone else believes them, and that they know that something is being done about the situation, they can control it... Right, Scott?”

“Yes,” Scott agreed. “How’d you know?”

“Virgil told me...

“Virgil told you!?” Alan exclaimed.

“Yeah. He worked it out after he’d been stressing over Gordon’s haematoma but didn’t know why. He told me that he practically flipped out when that happened.”

“Virgil?” Scott stared at John. “Gordon’s haematoma? Is that why he was so desperate for me to promise to let him know the instant anything happened?”

“Yep. He nearly screwed up one of Thunderbird Three’s panels because you were ‘telling him’ that something was wrong, but you didn’t ‘tell him’ what. You stopped him from being able to concentrate on his work.”

“I wish he’d told me.”

“Well, he didn’t and you can talk to him about it later... Now, you tell me, Scott. What’s happening to Virgil? What is it you’re feeling? Try to break it down into parts.”

Scott looked sceptical. “Parts? I don’t know that I can.”

“Think about what you told us. You said Virgil was hot.”

“He still is.”

“What type of heat? External? Chemical? Thermal? You mentioned fire... Or is it medical? Has he got a fever?”

“F-Fever...” Brains piped up hopefully. “C-Could I take your temperature, Scott? J-Just in case you are ill and, er, it’s not r-related to, ah, Virgil, and it is clouding what you are, er, seeing?”

Scott took pity on the little scientist and sat in quiet contemplation as the monitor was attached to his finger. “I think it’s an external heat, John. And I think it’s thermal.”

Brains wrote something in his notebook, and Scott made no complaint as the monitor remained on his finger and his blood pressure and heart rate were taken.

“I wonder why he knew that you crashed your plane, but you don’t know what’s wrong with him?” John mused.

“Easy,” Grandma stated. “Because Scott’s a pilot. If Virgil had the sensation of falling for longer than a few seconds then the only way it could happen would be if the plane was falling out of the sky. But in Virgil’s work environment anything could happen.”

“That makes sense.” John took a moment to think. “You said something about snakes. Have they come into the factory to get warm?”

Scott frowned. “I don’t think they’re real snakes... More of a metaphor.”

“Metaphor? A metaphor for what?”

Scott shrugged. “I don’t know. Evil?”

“Danger?” Alan suggested.

“Not all snakes are dangerous,” Gordon reminded him. “And none are evil. Not unless they feel threatened by you and then they’ll only attack in self-defence.”

John gave an exasperated sigh. “Who’s the woman, Scott?”

Scott looked blank. “Woman?”

“Yes. You said Virgil was mixed up with a bad woman.”

“Eve?” Alan suggested. “Since we’re following on from the snakes metaphor.”

“Maybe you’re thinking of Lisa?” Gordon amended.

“Yeah!” Alan snickered. “She’s pretty hot.”

“Alan!” Grandma scolded.

“If Virgil were carrying on with her,” Gordon said, warming to his theme, “then he’d be playing with fire.”

“I’ll say,” Alan agreed. “He’d sure be in danger if Butch caught them out.”

“Yeah. We saw the way he went for Muzz. If Virgil’s fooling around with Lisa then he’s sure to get burnt.”

“Yes!” Alan crowed. “I think we’re on to something. C’mon, Scott. Own up. You’re trying to give Virgil an alibi.”

“Will you two get your minds out of the gutter!” Scott demanded. “I can categorically state that whatever’s happening to Virgil, it’s nothing like that. He is not enjoying himself.”

“Not if Butch has found him and Lisa together.”

John glared at his kid brother. “Does this mean that you’re starting to believe in ESP?”

Alan jutted out his lower lip in defiance. “No.”

“Then be quiet.” John turned back to Scott. “So what can you tell us about this woman? Who is she?”

Scott threw his hands up helplessly and his cushion fell onto his lap. “I don’t know! I have absolutely no idea.”

“Well… we’ll forget about her for the time being. What is Virgil feeling?” John asked.

“Feeling?”

“Is he feeling out of control?”

“Well…” Scott thought. “No… I think he thinks he’s in control.” John looked surprised as one of his theories went out the window. “But I’m feeling out of control, because I can’t help him.”

“I can understand that... Then what is he feeling?”

Scott frowned. “Fear.”

“Fear? Virgil!?”

“Yes,” Scott nodded. “He’s frightened.”

“Frightened?” Gordon looked surprised. “Of what!?”

“The heat!” Scott exclaimed. “The fire!”

“Is it something to do with welding?” Grandma suggested. “Did a welding torch cause a fire at ACE and that’s why they’ve had the emergency shutdown?”

“Where do snakes come into it?” Gordon asked.

“Scott said it was a metaphor... A welding hose?”

“I don’t know,” Scott admitted. “I just – don’t – know…” He clenched his fists in frustration. “Can’t you find out anything?” he begged his father.

“No,” Jeff responded, equally irritated by the lack of information. “I’ve tried both of Virgil’s phones as well as ACE’s. I’ve tried Hamish’s direct line and his mobile. I’ve tried his PA’s direct line and Olivia’s cell phone. I’ve even tried to contact some of his friends!” He thumped his desk in an expression of his frustrations, “we’re going to have to get Hamish a telecom wristwatch.”

“Wristwatch! Why didn’t I think of that?” John rolled up his sleeve.

“Are you telling us,” Gordon began, “that we’ve been stressing all this time and you never thought of contacting Virgil with your watch?”

“Uh…” John flushed. “No.”

“Some communications expert you are.”

“Since you were ‘stressing’ too,” John hit back, “why didn’t you think of it?”

“I was too busy worrying about Virgil.”

“Does this mean that you believe Scott?”

It was Gordon’s turn to be on the defensive. “I never said I didn’t!”

“You never said you did!”

“Boys!” Jeff was on his feet. “Stop this!” He rolled back his own sleeve and tried to use his telecom, but his watch face remained blank. “Nothing.”

He was startled when there was a cry from his eldest son. Not of panic, but definitely alarm. The blood pressure monitor went flying as Scott grabbed at the cushion as if he hoped to haul it back from the brink of death. “He’s fallen!”

“What!” Grandma grabbed his arm. “Virgil’s fallen?!”

“Yeah... He’s fallen... He’s in real trouble now. He’s hot... His hands… My hands…” Scott held them out, palms up. “They’re burning…”

Everyone crowded around his seat. Even Jeff left his desk so that he could look down on his son’s hands… His son’s shaking, red, raw hands…

Grandma’s hand went to her mouth. “Oh, my!”

John gulped. “Oh, heck…”

“We need to know what’s going on…” Jeff ran back to his videophone. “And we need to know now!”

“This is getting too creepy for me.” Gordon gave a dramatic shiver. “We have just entered the Twilight Zone.”

Alan gave a dismissive snort, amazed at his family’s gullibility. “They’re friction burns. I’ve got one too.” He rolled up the leg of his pants. “See? We got them when I tackled him onto the carpet.”

“No…” Scott shook his head. “No… He’s in trouble, big trouble.” He used his sleeve to cuff away fresh beads of sweat on his forehead. “He’s burning up!”

Jeff slammed his hand down on the desk after another futile attempt to contact ACE. “We need answers!”

“If only Th-Thunderbird Five was in orbit,” Gordon commented. “Then John could listen to the emergency services’ radio.”

“Could you do that anyway, John?” Jeff asked.

“No. Not quickly anyway.”

Gordon retrieved his walking stick. “Which of Virgil’s friends have you tried, Dad?”

“Only those I know personally or whose numbers I could get from ACE’s database. That’s the Crump’s home, Butch’s mobile and Bruce’s landline.”

“I’ve got Lisa’s mobile number. My phone’s in my room. I’ll go get it.” Gordon took off at something close to a run, his walking stick helping to push him along. He was back a short time later with the phone to his ear. “She’s not answering… You’ve got your staff trained too well.”

“So now what do we do?” Scott asked. “Fly to the States and get there too late?”

“If we do, you’re not piloting, Scott,” Jeff warned.

“But...”

“No. Last time, once we knew you were okay, Virgil passed out. I’m not taking the chance of that happening to you when you’re at the controls of a plane.”

“I could send Lisa a text…” Gordon suggested. He stopped, his thumb hovering over the keypad. “What do I say? That Scott’s fried his telepathic link with Virgil?”

“Stick to the truth,” Grandma advised. “Tell her that your father’s computer says that there’s an emergency at ACE, but that he can’t get hold of Hamish or Virgil to find out what’s going on.”

Gordon did as she suggested and then pressed send. “Done it.”

“Bruce would probably be more likely to know what’s happening because he’s a company first aider,” Jeff remembered. “But I didn’t have his mobile. Does anyone know it? Mother?

“No.”

“Scott?”

“No…”

“John?”

“No, I don’t have it. But I can get it. …” John stood. “Let me at your computer, Dad.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Hack into Virgil’s phone book…”

Chapter 30: A Quiet Rescue

When Virgil’s harness took hold, only a couple of metres above the furnace, it felt as though someone had saved him by grabbing him about the chest. He hung in mid-air, gasping for breath, grateful that he’d stopped falling, and aware that someone was yelling something into his earpiece. He looked at his hands, which were raw and bleeding from where he’d tried to try to stop his descent and tried to tell himself that he was lucky.

Loosened by sweat, the serum from burst blisters and the use of a rope not designed for abseiling, the Munter knot had slipped. Virgil examined it with the forlorn hope that it might help him escape, but only centimetres of rope and the safety lifeline stood between him and a fiery death. Knowing that to stay hanging above the crucible furnace was akin to committing suicide, he reached up and grabbed the rope again. His hands rebelled, but, gritting his teeth against the pain and groaning with the effort, he attempted to pull himself up to safety.

But his slick hands held no traction and any strength he had left abandoned him. He fell back...

...And Virgil realised that he could do nothing to save himself.

“Butch!!” Lisa screamed when she saw her husband fall, and then watched with sick relief as the rope took hold, swinging him about. She grabbed her boss’s sleeve. “Is he all right? Please tell me he’s all right!”

“Butch,” Hamish Mickelson placed a comforting arm about her and spoke into his microphone. “Butch, can you hear me?” He could feel Lisa’s trembling as they waited for a reply.

“…Yeah… C’n hear ya, Mr M.”

Hamish closed his eyes in a brief moment of relief. “Good. Are you hurt?”

“Nah. ‘M stuck but.” Those watching looked on as Butch grabbed the rope that suspended him below the gantry and attempted to right himself. As he swung about, his legs passed dangerously close to the lower man’s head.

“Careful!” Hamish warned. “You nearly kicked Virgil then…”

“I did?” The big man tried to look down and was hampered by his PPE. “‘Ow is he?”

“Virgil!” Hamish asked the microphone. “Can you hear me?”

There was a moment’s frightening silence. Then… “I… I hear you, Unc… Hamis…”

“Are you hurt?”

“… No…” There was some hesitancy in Virgil’s reply. “… Hot…”

“I know. Hang in there… I mean, hold on…” Hamish cursed the English language. “You’ll be all right, Virgil. Bruce and Greg will have you out of there soon.”

When Butch fell, Greg and Bruce found themselves in a quandary. They already had Max Watts between them on the stretcher and they knew that it was vital that he was handed over to the paramedics waiting beyond the suffocating heat. But it was equally important to return to help the two men suspended over that pot of molten metal. Virgil in particular had been exposed to its high temperatures for a dangerously long time.

“Come on,” Greg grunted. “Let’s get rid of Max and then we can get back.”

Treading carefully, aware that one tremor too many along the gantry had the potential to send either of the two trapped men falling to their deaths, Bruce and Greg retraced their steps along the gantry until they were able to hand the Production Manager over to two paramedics. Then they turned back.

Bruce looked over the edge of the platform. “Virgil, can you hear me?”

“Yeah...”

“Put your hands into your armpits. It’ll help protect them from the heat.” After an anxious wait to see if Virgil understood, Bruce was relieved to see his friend do as he was told. “Good... Look, we’re going to have to get Butch up here before we can pull you out. Don’t panic. We won’t take long.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Greg muttered. “These ropes are all tangled up together. They must have spun about each other when they fell.”

“Oh, great...” Bruce knelt down to examine the three ropes, twisted together like a nest of snakes. “How do we handle this? We can’t swing them back the other way in case that knot holding Virgil slips.”

“His safety line should hold him.”

“Should being the operative word. What if it doesn’t? What if the heat’s weakened the carabiner or the rope?”

“Then you’d better think of a better alternative and you’d better think fast!”

The two paramedics carrying Max Watts had reached the factory floor. “Here,” Hamish handed Lisa his headset microphone. “Keep listening. Yell if anything happens.” He hurried over to where the ambulance officers were working on the invalid. “How is he?”

Watts’ heat-resistant overalls had already been cut open, he’d been placed into a cooling bath, and cold compresses had been applied to his head, neck, armpits and groin. “Not good,” one of the ambulance officers grunted. “Someone said that he’d been suffering from influenza?”

“Yes.” Hamish watched as an IV for rehydrating fluids was introduced into his Production Manager’s arm. “I was only informed at morning tea. If I’d known I would have insisted that he go home and then we could have avoided all this.”

A second IV was inserted. “Has his family been notified?”

“No... I’ll do it now.” Hamish felt his pockets. “Bother! I’ve left my phone on my desk.” He knelt down so he was close to his employee’s ear. “You’ll be all right, Max. Don’t worry about ACE. You concentrate on getting better.”

With no way of knowing if he’d been heard or understood, Hamish took a step towards his office before a shout from someone in the vicinity of the furnace pulled him up short. He turned, indecision taking over as two sets of loyalties clashed; one to a long serving, faithful employee; the other to the son of his employer and friend. The fact that another employee was also in trouble helped bring him to his decision. “Olivia!”

His personal assistant hurried over. “Yes, Mr Mickelson?”

“Look, I’m sorry, I don’t want to ask you this, but would you ring Mr Watts’ family and tell them that he’s being taken to the hospital? I’d do it, but...” He indicated the dramatic scene beyond them.

Olivia hesitated, casting an anxious look over her shoulder to where two silver clad bodies hung in the red glow. “Yes, Mr Mickelson, I’ll do that for you... Uh, what about Virgil and Butch’s families? Do you want me to call them too?”

He gave her a grateful, if worried, smile. “Thank you, but no. Lisa’s Butch’s next of kin and I think I should be the one to call Virgil’s father.” He sincerely hoped that it wouldn’t be with bad news. “Perhaps you could bring my phone back when you’ve made the call? It must be on my desk.”

“Yes, Mr Mickelson.”

Olivia hurried away. A part of her dreaded her task, while the rest of her was glad to not to have to bear witness to what could turn into a ghastly tragedy. It was, she reflected, like a car accident. Horrific to watch, but something you couldn’t turn away from; no matter how much you wanted to.

Hamish looked upwards and indecision gnawed at him again. “I should really go to the hospital,” he muttered.

“Mr Mickelson?” It was Winston Patterson. He’d lost his joie de vivre and now seemed unnaturally solemn. “You’re needed here. Let me go with Mr Watts.”

“Are you sure?”

Winston nodded and leant closer. “I know who Virgil’s father is,” he whispered, “and I know Mr Tracy would want you to stay with him. But someone should go with Mr Watts, and I can do that. I can support the family when they arrive.”

“Thank you,” Hamish clutched Winston’s arm gratefully. “We won’t forget this.”

“Only please, please, let me know the instant you have those poor boys out,” Winston begged, returning to some of his famed histrionics. He held up his cell phone. “I picked it up when I ran out of my office,” he added, sounding almost apologetic. “I’ll keep it here,” he put it into his breast pocket, “next to my heart.”

“I’ll make sure you’re the first person we contact when this is all over...” Mickelson told him. “Now get going,” he instructed, “or else the ambulance will be going without you.” He retrieved a second two-way radio from a storage cupboard and strode back over to Lisa Crump. “Have I missed anything?” he asked, donning the headset.

She shook her head, her beautiful face creased into lines of deep worry. “No. We’ve been trying to talk to them, to keep them positive... But Virgil’s barely answering.”

Despite the fiery scene before him, an icy chill seemed to slither down Hamish Mickelson’s spine. “Virgil? Can you hear me, Son?” He paused. “It’s Mr Mick... It’s Uncle Hamish.”

“‘Ncle Hami...”

Hamish gave a sigh of relief. “How are you feeling?”

“...Hot...”

“I know. They’re doing their best to get you out of there... You’ll be pleased to know that Max Watts is on his way to hospital. Winston’s going with him.”

“...G’d...”

“You’ve probably saved his life,” Hamish continued, hoping he wasn’t speaking prematurely. “Your workmates and ACE have a lot to thank you for,” he added, trying to remain positive, “I can see that once this is all over, we’re going to have to have another presentation.”

“…Mmm…”

“Maybe your father will be able to attend this time… Virgil...?”

Virgil was silent.

“Stay with us, Virgil!” ACE’s General Manager ordered. “Don’t go to sleep!”

“...Tell...” Hamish could almost hear Virgil try to lick his parched lips. “Tell – Sc’tt – ‘m – ssszor’y.”

“What was that, Virgil? Did you say that you want me to tell Scott that you’re sorry?”

“...Ye...”

“Sorry for what? Why are you sorry?”

“...Wha’... Whad’m – doin’ – to – ‘m...”

“What you’re doing to him?” Hamish frowned. He was growing concerned that his young friend was beginning to lose his grasp on reality, and was close to losing consciousness.

“Y – tell – ‘m – ‘f – I – can’d…”

“Don’t talk like that,” Hamish begged. “It won’t be long and you’ll be able to tell him yourself.”

“What is he sorry for?” Lisa asked.

“I don’t know,” the General Manager admitted. “We’ll ask him later,” he added in a continuing effort to appear optimistic. He diverted his attention back to the other stricken man. “How are you, Butch?”

“‘Kay, Mr M. ... Don’ worry ‘bout me. ... Keep talkin’ t’ Virgil.”

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Yeah.” But the big man was sounding weaker than he was letting on. “You talk t’ ‘im, Liesl. Th’n I can listen t’ you too.”

Lisa glanced at her boss and Hamish nodded. She took a deep breath. “Okay, Honey... Virgil... It’s Lisa... Can you hear me?”

“...Yeah...”

“Good...” She smiled and the smile took the edge of worry out of her voice. “What a way to start your last week at work, huh?”

“...Mmmm...”

“No wonder you’re going to live with your father. After this he probably won’t want to let you out of his sight...”

...

“...just in case you were off doing something dangerous...”

...

“And Mrs T will want to wrap you up in cotton wool...”

...

“And your brothers will probably want lock you away somewhere isolated so you can’t escape.”

…

“Maybe it’s good you’re going to live on an island? You’ll be miles from anywhere. Miles away from danger.”

…

“You’ll be safe…”

…

“Virgil…?” Lisa’s voice caught. “Oh, Virgil. Please say something...!”

“Well, Bruce,” Greg asked. “What’s your suggestion?”

“Butch is the problem, right?” Bruce replied. “We can’t pull Virgil out until we’ve got Butch out of the way and we can’t get Butch out of the way because the ropes are twisted.” He bit his lip. “So... So the best thing we can do is attach another safety line to Butch, release the one he’s hanging by, and then lift him up.”

“And how are you going to attach another safety line? We can’t reach him.”

“Lower it down to him and hope he can attach it.”

“Okay,” Greg agreed. “That should work, if...” He stopped. “Butch, did you hear Bruce? Do you think you can attach another line to your harness?”

“...Yeah... Courze.”

Bruce glanced at Greg. “Are you sure?”

“...SSShure...”

“He’s not sounding good,” Greg muttered, before he raised his voice again. “Okay, Butch, we’re going to lower the line. Get ready to catch it...” The rope snaked downwards. “Here it comes... Can you grab it?”

“...Yeah...” But Butch’s hand, when he reached out, looked heavy and clumsy. It seemed to be more by accident than design that managed to snare the rope.

“Good.” Greg congratulated him. “Now, can you clip it to your harness...? Don’t release the other one yet!” he added as a sudden, terrifying scenario sprang to mind. “Not until I tell you to!”

“...Clip t’ ‘arness.”

“That’s right... Clip it to your harness... Not there,” Greg advised when he saw Butch attempt to slip the carabiner over a strap instead of through the metal holding-ring... Do you understand me?!”

“...Clip t’ ‘arness.” Working slowly, Butch shifted the carabiner from the synthetic strip to its correct position. It gripped and held. “...Clip t’ ‘arness.”

“Has he got it on properly?” Bruce asked.

“I don’t know,” Greg admitted. “I don’t know that we dare trust him to release the other one.”

“I don’t know that he’s capable of releasing it,” Bruce amended. “He’s going downhill fast.”

“If he’s going downhill,” Greg growled. “I hope that doesn’t mean that Virgil’s already at the bottom...”

“Mr Mickelson! Mr Mickelson!” Olivia, having finished her distressing phone call, hurried over to where she’d last seen her employer. “Lisa! Have you seen Mr Mickelson? I’ve got his phone.”

“What?” Lisa, who’d been caught up in her unsuccessful attempts to get some response out of Virgil, looked around. “He was here a minute ago.”

“But where is he now?”

“Don’t know.” Lisa was more concerned about what was happening above them than the whereabouts of a missing General Manager.

Olivia followed her co-worker’s gaze. “How are they?” she asked. “Are they close to getting them out?”

“They want to clip a new line to Butch’s harness and then release the old one so he’s not tangled with Virgil’s lines,” Lisa explained. “But they... They don’t think...” She gulped. “They don’t think he can... ... And Virgil isn’t... ... And they’re both getting weaker... ... And I can’t think of what to say...” All the morning’s stresses and worries overwhelmed her and she burst into tears.

“They’ll be all right, Lisa.” Olivia placed a comforting hand on the other woman’s shoulder “Remember that Virgil didn’t give up on you when you were in trouble, so don’t you give up on him. And as for Butch...” she gave what she hoped was a light-hearted chuckle. “It’s obvious that he loves you so much that he’d walk over hot coals for you… and a furnace isn’t much different.”

Lisa sniffed.

“Come on,” Olivia encouraged her. “Those guys need you to be strong at the moment. You can bawl your eyes out later... Only let’s make sure they’re tears of happiness... Okay?”

Lisa sniffed again. “Okay.”

“Good.” Olivia looked around and wondered once again where Mr Mickelson had disappeared to.

A cell phone rang. Annoyed at its unwelcome interruption Olivia switched it off before, a split-second later, she realised what she’d done. “Oh, no!”

Lisa, concentrating on reassuring Butch and Virgil, wasn’t listening. But Nancy from the paint bay was. “What’s the problem, Olivia?”

“That was Mr Mickelson’s phone!” Olivia wailed. “It was Mr Tracy ringing! It might have been important! I should have answered it! I could have told him what’s happening…!” She examined the phone. “It’s locked and I can’t turn it on again!!” She looked about her in frustration, trying to find her boss. “Where is Mr Mickelson!?”

Bruce swallowed. “There’s nothing else for it. You’re going to have to lower me down, Greg.”

“What!? Have you done anything like this before?”

“No...” Bruce gave what he hoped was a confident grin. “But how hard can it be? You’re the one who’ll be doing all the work.”

“No, he won’t,” said the voice that intruded into their conversation. “You’ll be helping him, Bruce.”

Both Bruce and Greg turned, surprised by the presence by another on the gantry. At first they didn’t recognise the newcomer, but then realisation dawned. “Mr Mickelson?”

“What do you mean, Hamish?” Greg asked.

“I mean,” Hamish Mickelson, dressed in a thermal suit complete with full body harness, gave a grim smile, “I’m going to rappel down.”

Bruce’s jaw dropped. “You’re what!?”

“Jeff Tracy and I used to go rock climbing in our younger days when we were in the Air Force,” Hamish explained as he tied the required knots and ensured they were secure. “It’s just like riding a bicycle.”

“No disrespect intended,” Greg protested, “but that was years ago. Do you think this is a good idea?”

“I think it’s a better idea than letting Bruce go down when he’s got no experience.”

Bruce stood to one side, trying to decide if he agreed with his boss because it was a genuinely good idea; or if it was because he was terrified by the thought of stepping off the end of the gantry.

“Don’t worry, Greg,” Hamish was saying. “I’m sure I can remember what to do. Now...” he looked over the edge, “I have to ensure that Butch is tethered securely with the new safety line and then release the old one? Am I right?”

“Unless you’ve got a better idea, yes.”

“Right. Keep an eye on my line and make sure it doesn’t tangle with the others.” Hamish Mickelson lowered himself over the edge and dropped down until he was level with Butch. Working quickly and efficiently, he tied off his Munter knot and then unclipped and re-fastened Butch’s new safety line. “How are you, Butch?” he asked, satisfying himself that the rope would hold for the return journey.

“‘M ‘kay, Missta...”

“Good,” Hamish interrupted. “Save your strength. Cross your arms across your body... That’s good. Now keep them like that; I’m going to release your original line...” He unhooked the old carabiner and Butch swung free as the new line took hold.

Someone screamed.

As some of the tension left his rope, Virgil had dropped closer to the red hot metal. His arms fell limply to his sides…

…And he made no apparent effort to move them.

A ripple of alarm washed through the crowd waiting below.

“Pull Butch up!” Hamish ordered. “Get him out of here!”

“What about you?” Greg puffed as he and Bruce hauled on the heavy weight.

“I’m going down to check on Virgil...”

In spite of the muffling effects of his hood, the sizzle of cooling metal, the buzz of anxious people below, and the never-ending frantic chatter in his earpiece, Virgil could hear a beeping noise coming from the vicinity of his wrist. Something deep in his subconscious told him that it represented a link to reassurance, support, and safety; but his heat-burdened mind couldn’t remember what, if anything, he was supposed to do about it.

So he ignored it.

Looking at the red, hazy world through his hood’s visor, he felt like a goldfish trapped in a bowl. It was so hot! A heat unlike any he’d experienced before. A searing heat totally different to the tropical warmth of Tracy Island; where, if you got too hot, you could retire to the shade of a palm tree with an iced drink and the knowledge that you would soon cool down. But this… Nothing could offer you relief from this excruciating heat…

Virgil gulped for air, even though there appeared to be little oxygen in the stifling hood. Surely, he reasoned, surely if he could remove this fishbowl from off his head then he’d be able to cool down and maybe even breathe? Cool, refreshing air... He couldn’t even remember what it was like. His arms felt leaden and by the time he’d worked out how to move one of them he’d forgotten what he’d planned to do with it.

Below him a vat of red heat waited to catch him. His head cleared enough to realise that he didn’t want to go down there.

He could hear voices. A name was being repeated over and over again that seemed, somehow, familiar; but he couldn’t place the unknown person’s identity.

“Virgil...”

He was dehydrated. His body was no longer producing perspiration to cool it down. His head was throbbing and he felt dizzy and nauseous. His sight grew fuzzy, the world turned black, and then lightened as he regained some out-of-focus vision. His legs were tingling; as were his arms... But he had no feeling in his hands… Not that that worried him.

Virgil was past the stage of realising that he was in big trouble.

A blurry, silver shape swum into view and he heard that name spoken again.

“Virgil?”

And again.

“Virgil!”

One... two... No, four... Eight eyes swung into his field of vision.

“Can you hear me, Virgil? It’s nearly over. We can pull you out.” Hamish Mickelson looked upwards. “Any moment now... Nod if you understand.”

Nod? Wasn’t that something you did with your head? Some kind of complicated up-down movement? But whatever string it was that pulled his head up appeared to have been severed.

The multiple-eyed, out-of-focus creature was doing something behind him. “Thank heaven for small mercies. His oxygen cylinder’s not overheating.”

“Good… Is he responding, Mr M?”

“No, Bruce. He’s conscious; but only just. You’ve got to pull him out now!”

“We’ve got to get Butch clear.”

“Just get him out of the way, someone else can help him. Virgil can’t last much longer.”

“Butch’s able to crawl... The man’s as strong as an ox... No! Don’t help us, Butch. Get out of the way!”

“Gotta help ya. Gotta help my pal.”

“Get out of here and go and get cool!”

“Greg!!” Someone had turned the volume up on the soundtrack of his tiny world and Virgil felt the sound reverberate through his head. “Get him out NOW!!”

The world swayed. The fourteen fuzzy eyes appeared and then disappeared. The scene shifted. Strangely that bed of red below him, the one that looked so soft and inviting, seemed to be receding into the distance. There was pressure on his arms, under his arms, against his waist, his legs... Pressure slid down his spine. The world’s orientation changed. Faces swum in and out of view. There was something hard beneath him, and then he felt as if he were floating on his back. The world drifted by and then there was pressure on his back again.

“Get that suit open...”

“Where’re those cold compresses?”

“Gotta get fluids into him now...”

“He’s so dehydrated that I can’t find the vein... Got it!”

“Can’t find the other... Two IVs won’t be enough. Can you find a vein in his leg?”

“Look at his hands...”

“Never mind his hands; we’ve got to get his temperature down. What is it...?”

“39.8…”

“Too high…”

Something cool had been placed on his forehead. He could feel people touching him all over his body and water; lots of cool refreshing water. He could hear someone sobbing. He could hear someone keening his name over and over again...

His name?

“Virgil! Come on, Virgil. You’ve got to be all right. Your father will never forgive me if something happens to you.”

“Mr Mickelson? You need to have something to drink. Here’s a bottle of water... Come and sit down.”

“Think of all your plans. Think of your family...”

His family?

“Please, Mr Mickelson, come away! Let the paramedics look after him.”

“What’s his temperature now?”

“39.6. It’s dropping… He’s lucky he’s young, fit, and strong.”

“Here’s your phone, Mr Mickelson. I’m sorry, but I’ve locked it. I think Mr Tracy was trying to reach you.”

Mr Tracy!

Virgil attempted to open his eyes. At first the glare was too much for him, magnifying his headache and he snapped them shut again.

No… He’d have to open them sometime. He was curious about all the activity about him. All those sounds… All those voices…

“Can you hear me, Virgil? Can you open your eyes again?”

Virgil, with some reluctance, complied. He blinked against the light, but it didn’t seem to hurt as much as last time.

Slowly things resolved themselves into some kind of logic. He knew the face of the man standing beside him; looking down with an anxious expression. He knew the people who were drenching themselves in water. He didn’t know the men who were caring for his hands. He knew his head was killing him.

He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out.

A paramedic, (That’s who those people are!), moved closer so that Virgil could see him more easily. “Would you like to try drinking something?”

Virgil nodded and let himself be supported as he took his first sips of life-giving water.

Uncle Hamish was patting him on the shoulder. “You did well, Virgil. Now relax, everything’s going to be all right.”

“How’s Mr Watts?”

Virgil didn’t know where his voice had come from; if it was his. He hadn’t been planning on speaking and the words seemed to pop out of nowhere. But wherever they did come from, Uncle Hamish seemed to be pleased to hear them… Even if his response was less than positive. “I don’t know. They’ve taken him to hospital. But it’s thanks to you that he was rescued alive.”

Virgil started to take in more of his surroundings. He realised that the overalls had been cut away and that a light material had been placed over his body. Someone was continuously spraying him with water to keep the sheet wet, while someone else was fanning him with a large piece of cardboard. He was partially submerged in cooling liquid in a shallow tub and the excess water from the spray was collecting around him. He breathed in and felt the clean, cool oxygen fill his lungs from the mask that was over his face. An electric fan was wheeled up beside him and switched on.

Virgil was beginning to feel better already.

He was surprised to realise that Uncle Hamish was dressed in a thermal suit which, in contrast to the General Manager’s usually neat appearance, hung open and dishevelled. Not only that; he appeared to have been doused in water… Kind of like Bruce and Greg, who were sitting on the bottom steps that led up to the gantry. Butch was just as wet, but he was standing and Lisa had him in such a tight embrace that it was almost as if she’d welded them together.

Somewhere off to the right, a phone rang and Louis, carrying the instrument in his hand rushed over to the steps. “Hey, Buzz! Your phone’s been going crazy…”

“Let it,” Bruce said, in between gulping down mouthfuls of water.

“I have been letting it. And Butch’s. And Virgil’s. It was like every phone in the locker-room was on some kind of relay. One would stop and then the next would start!”

“What were you doing in the locker-room?” Greg asked.

Louis looked a little ashamed. “I didn’t want to see anyone get cooked, so I, er, waited in there.”

Bruce stopped guzzling long enough to eye his workmate. “How’d you get my phone out of my locker?”

“You gave me the combination once; remember?” The phone rang again and Louis held it out. “Do you want to answer it, Buzz?”

Bruce had finished downing one water bottle and was proceeding to tip the contents of the next over his head. “Tell them I’ll call them back.”

“Okay.” Louis put the phone to his ear. “Bruce Sanders pho…” He looked surprised. “Uh, yeah… Just a minute.” He wandered over so he was able to crouch down next to Virgil, who was having another drink. “I don’t know who it is, but he says he has to speak to you.” He pushed the hands free button and held the instrument next to Virgil’s ear.

Virgil still wasn’t feeling quite compos mentis, but he knew there was something that he had to say and that this was the person he had to say it to. “I’m sorry, Scott.”

“Virgil!” He heard his brother’s frantic voice. “What the heck happened to you?”

“Scott…”

“Are you all right?!”

“‘M’kay.” Despite all the water he’d had to drink, Virgil’s voice was still dry and raspy.

“You don’t feel it!”

“You don’t sound it!” This was a different voice.

“John…?”

“Where was the fire?”

“Fire…?”

“And the snakes!” That was Gordon. Clearly the brothers were either on a conference call or grouped around a videophone. “What’s the story with the snakes?”

Virgil couldn’t get his overheated mind around this. “Snakes…?”

“What were they? Some kind of tubing?”

“Gord…?”

“Never mind the snakes,” Alan interrupted. “What’s the story with the bad woman?”

“Al…?”

Virgil heard John say something about “I thought you didn’t believe,” before the telephone was removed from his ear.

“Boys,” Hamish Mickelson said into the mouthpiece as he dripped water everywhere. “He’s going to be okay, but your brother’s got to go to hospital. Tell your father…”

“I’m listening, Hamish. What’s happened? What’s happened to Virgil?”

“We’ve had a bit of an accident here and ACE will have to have to shut down while there’s a full investigation. The good news is if it hadn’t been for Virgil’s heroics there could have been a fatality.”

“A fatality?!” There was genuine alarm in Jeff’s voice and his sons, recognising his authority, knew better than to intrude into the conversation. “Who?”

“Max Watts,” Hamish admitted. “He’s in a bad way and Winston’s travelled with him to the hospital. I’ll go with Virgil, and once he’s being looked after I’ll find Winston and see how Max is. I know you’ll be in a hurry to get here, so I’ll phone your mobile and give you the full story when I have the facts.”

“But what happened?”

“I’ll tell you when I call back.” Hamish could see that the paramedics were packing up in preparation to leave. “I’ve got to go now if I’m going to stay with Virgil. I’ll call you soon. Don’t worry, my friend. He’ll be fine.” He hung up on Jeff’s querying, “Hamish…?” and smiled down at Virgil. “Your whole family will be in the plane faster than you can say Aeronautical Component Engineering.”

Virgil had a suspicion that it would be a long time before he would be even willing to attempt that or any other phrase.

Hamish was speaking to the paramedics. “I’ll meet you outside.” He held up the phone saying: “I’ll give this back to Bruce.” Then he hurried away.

“Virgil…?” Louis hadn’t left his workmate’s side and now was looking at him with a confused expression on his face. “How did you know that was Scott on the phone?”

But Virgil declined to answer. He closed his eyes, relaxed back on the stretcher, submitted to the cooling spray, and allowed himself to be wheeled out into the waiting ambulance...

To be continued on Virgil’s last quiet day in a not so quiet year…

Chapter 31: A Quiet Day

Virgil Tracy stood in the middle of his apartment and kicked at the floor in frustration. It was Friday; the day that was supposed to have been his last at Aeronautical Component Engineering. Instead he’d spent the past week in hospital, only being released into Hamish and Edna Mickelson’s care last night, and he was definitely in no condition to return to work today.

He looked at his hands. They were encased in bulbous, clear, synthetic gloves that were one of the latest marvels of modern medical technology. Beneath these gloves, surrounded by a regenerative gel, were his burnt and scarred hands. This gel was supposed to help the body reconstruct damaged nerves, repair injured muscles, and replace displaced skin. He supposed that he should be grateful that he had access to this treatment, but he couldn’t help feeling hard done by.

It left his hands practically useless.

Not only that, but the gel was a bright, lurid green. The kind of colour he would have dismissed from his artist’s palette.

He had been assured that it was necessary to use the strongest gel to repair the damage that he’d inflicted on himself. The medical staff had also told him that as his hands healed, a process that would take at least six weeks, then the strength of the gel could be reduced; with an associated change of colour. They’d said that it was advisable for him to use his hands as much as possible in the interim to circulate the gel through the gloves and to stop his muscles and bones from seizing up through lack of use. Easier said than done when it was impossible to bend his fingers more than a few millimetres.

The gel had to be replenished daily, via an injection through the gloves, to replace that which had been absorbed into his tissues. It was only because Virgil had promised to return for one more treatment before leaving the States, and was going to have access to a qualified medical practitioner who could continue the treatment (Brains), that his doctor had been prepared to release him.

He’d left the hospital late yesterday afternoon after his last session, and had gone home with the Mickelsons. There he’d had to put up with Aunt Edna fussing around him, cutting up his food, and generally treating him like a child. That was until Uncle Hamish had reminded her that she was dealing with an adult man, not a little boy. After that she’d apologised and retreated into her shell; almost afraid to move, let alone speak.

The effect on a much loved friend had only served to increase Virgil’s sense of frustration.

He’d declined the offer to stay the night and had asked to be taken home. It was to be his last night in his own place, and he intended to make the most of it. The wisdom of such a decision was called into question almost as soon as he’d stepped through the door. He’d thanked Uncle Hamish, said he’d be okay from here and that he’d see him tomorrow, and had dismissed the older man. Then, because there wasn’t a lot else that he could do, he’d decided to turn in for the night. That was when he struck the first of many hurdles. He couldn’t hold his toothbrush. He managed to wedge it between two sausage-shaped fingers, but the action of brushing kept on pushing the brush out of his mouth. In the end he gave up (theorising that one night with dirty teeth wouldn’t result in them all falling out), pulled off his clothes, and fell into bed.

At least he’d managed to get a good night’s sleep. Not that that had improved his mood the following day when he’d decided that breakfast would be too difficult to contemplate and instead tried to get dressed. With a bit of a struggle and some ingenuity, he’d got his pants on and done up. Socks had been more of a challenge, but he’d eventually succeeded. He decided to leave his shoes until later.

It was his shirt, or more correctly his shirt’s buttons, which had caused him the most difficulties, and were the reason why he was standing in the middle of the floor feeling alone, annoyed, hungry and very, very frustrated.

He couldn’t even take out his frustrations in the usual ways. He’d packed his stereo away last week, so couldn’t listen to soothing music. He no longer had the manual dexterity to hold a paint brush.

And as for playing the piano…

When he’d awoken from the anaesthetic, he’d found his hospital bed surrounded by a worried family. They’d all listened closely when the surgeon had explained what the surgery had entailed and the ongoing treatment.

Typically it had been Gordon who’d provided a moment of levity during this serious discussion; even if this time it was unintentional. He’d asked the question that Virgil had been desperate to know, but too scared to ask. “Will he be able to play the piano when his hands are better?”

The surgeon had looked at Gordon as if the joker’s reputation had preceded him.

Virgil looked at his hands. He would get better, he told himself. He would play the piano again…

His doorbell rang and, using his elbow to activate the opening mechanism, he slid it back.

Alan sauntered into the room. “Oh, look. It’s Shrek.”

His youngest brother’s comment did nothing to alleviate Virgil’s mood. “Shut up.”

“I thought it was the Incredible Hulk.” Gordon tugged at Virgil’s unbuttoned front. “Careful, Alan, you’ve already made him mad. He’s split his shirt open.”

“I can’t help it if these things don’t work properly,” Virgil snapped, holding up his green, gloved hands. His frustration quotient went up another notch when Scott, without asking permission, started doing the buttons up for him.

“Why don’t you wear something that doesn’t need fastening?” John asked.

“Because this is what I’d always planned to wear when I flew out! I’ve packed everything else except for my work gear and I can’t wear that today!”

“Yep. Gotta look your best for when the boss tells you what a great guy you are,” Alan smirked.

“Why don’t we forget that nonsense; you guys help me finishing packing my gear away; and then we’ll take off straight for the island?” Virgil suggested.

“You know we can’t do that,” Scott reminded him. “There are a lot of people wanting the opportunity to thank you for all the lives you’ve saved.”

“Hero number one,” John teased. “You do realise that he’s knocked you back into second place, Alan? He’s saved more lives than you.”

“At least I’ve saved lives,” Alan rejoined. “Unlike some I could mention.”

“True,” John gave a dramatic sigh. “Do you realise, Gordon; that you and I are the only ones of our brethren not to belong to that esteemed club?”

“You did a pretty good job of keeping mine intact.” Then Gordon grinned. “Doesn’t matter. Once International Rescue’s underway, I’m going to leave you guys in my dust.”

The reminder that he was going to be paraded around in front of his friends and workmates with what appeared to be bunches of un-ripened bananas hanging off the ends of his arms had done nothing to improve Virgil’s temper. “I wasn’t aware it was a competition!”

“Virgil’s right,” Scott agreed. “We should be entering into this venture for the right reasons; because we can help people. Not to see who can put the most notches in his belt.” He looked at his disgruntled brother. “Have you had anything to eat?”

Virgil hesitated. “No.”

“No wonder you’re in a bad mood.” Scott, happy in his role as mother hen, went into Virgil’s kitchenette. He opened the fridge and removed a container, which he sniffed. “Your milk’s off.”

“What do you expect? I’ve haven’t been home for a week.”

Scott pointed at his three other brothers. “Why don’t you guys make yourselves useful and start packing things away while I make him breakfast?” He rummaged through the cutlery drawer.

“I’ve got a better idea,” John walked into the kitchenette and pulled the spatula out of Scott’s hand. “You help with the packing and I’ll do the cooking.”

Scott attempted to reclaim the spatula. “No way!”

John held the implement out of reach. “I’m a better cook than you!”

“No, you’re not!”

“Yes, he is,” Alan stated as Gordon nodded his agreement. “He’s used to cooking for himself. If we let you do it, Virgil’ll end up with Air Force rations. High in nutrition, but with no flavour. You’re supposed to tempt invalid’s appetites, not repulse them.”

“I’m not an invalid!”

Momentarily down-heartened by his brothers’ slurs on his culinary expertise and trying to hide it, Scott strode over to Virgil’s keyboard. “Do you trust me to pack this?”

Glad that his brother had the sensitivity to realise that he wouldn’t accept just anyone laying hands on his precious keyboard, Virgil agreed. “Let me help you.”

“Oh, no you don’t! You can sit on that stool and eat. We’ll take care of the awkward stuff.”

Virgil hesitated, reluctant to accept that there wasn’t much he could do anyway. “It goes in the box on the top shelf.”

“Here,” John placed a mug on the counter. “Drink this coffee while you keep an eye on them to make sure they don’t break anything.”

Virgil stared at the mug with its wisps of steam rising from the freshly boiled liquid. “Ah… Sorry, but I’d rather have something cold. I’ve got to use both hands to support the cup when I drink, and the conducted heat hurts…” He saw concerned looks pass between his brothers. “But it’s the only time my hands hurt,” he added. “Honest!”

“Whatever the customer wants, the customer gets,” John said easily as he took the coffee for himself and looked back in the fridge. “Uh… So long as the customer is prepared to wait. Alan, do you want to run down to the store and get some juice?”

“No, don’t bother,” Virgil sighed. “Just give me water, John.”

“Coming right up.” With a flourish John filled the glass from the tap and placed it on the counter.

Gordon was emptying out the few items left in Virgil’s drawers. “On the way here we were working out who’s related to whom. As far as ACE’s concerned, Scott and I are your brothers and Alan’s Jeff Tracy’s son, but we don’t know which family John belongs to.”

“So I’m free to decide what’s more important; fraternal or paternal loyalty,” John said, finding some edible cereal and tipping it into a bowl. “Do you want fruit with this?” he asked, looking through the cupboards. “Do you have fruit?”

“I was planning on refreshing the larder Monday evening.” Virgil ‘pointed’. “Try in there.”

“So which is it, John?” Gordon’s eyes were twinkling. “Are you going to be a Tancy boy?”

John pretended to consider the decision. “Let’s see… Do I want to be your brother...? Or Jeff Tracy’s eldest son...?”

Alan laughed. “The one who crashed an Air Force jet.”

“I didn’t crash it,” Scott protested. Worried, Virgil glanced at his eldest brother, but Scott appeared happy to banter about the subject with his brothers. “I was shot down! And that was only because the guy got lucky!”

“Hmmn… Let’s see…” John was pretending to think. “Father or brother…? Fraternal or financial…?” He leant over the counter and gave Virgil a condescending pat on the shoulder. “Sorry, Virg, but I can’t let Alan inherit the entire estate, can I? He’d blow it all in two minutes flat.”

“Would not.” Alan was taking apart the gym equipment. “Why didn’t you do your packing last weekend?”

“I was planning on doing it in stages throughout the week, not spending time in hospital,” Virgil reminded him as he tried to make his hands do something useful. “There was no point in packing something away if I was going to use it later. Everything I thought I wouldn’t need is in those boxes.” He nodded at the cartons stacked against the wall and then resumed his attempt to slide the glass off the counter and onto his left palm. He was just congratulating himself on succeeding when his tumbler slipped off, fell onto the floor and smashed, sending glass and water everywhere. “What’s the use of being ambidextrous if you can’t use either hand!?!”

“Don’t worry about it,” John soothed. “I’ll clean it up.” He was picking up the largest pieces of glass when an idea came to him. “Have you got any plastic mugs?”

This was the final straw. “Don’t patronise me, John!” Virgil snapped.

“I wasn’t…”

But the fuse had finally been lit, and Virgil was in full dynamite mode as he gave vent to his frustrations. “I hate this!”

“I…” John began, but was cut off.

“I can’t brush my teeth…!”

“You…”

“…or feed myself!”

“I…”

“Or paint!”

“Virg…”

“Or play the piano!”

“You…”

“Do you know how frustrating this is!?”

“I know…”

“You don’t know! You can’t even begin to imagine! How can you!? You can still use both your hands!”

John found the dustpan and brush and said nothing more as he bent down to start gathering up the glass shards.

“Virg…” Scott said quietly, resting a hand on Virgil’s shoulder. “Calm down…”

But even he was unable to douse the flame. “Leave me alone…!” Virgil shook Scott’s hand free. “Why don’t you ALL just leave me alone? All I want to do is have a quiet day to pack up and get out of here. But instead of letting me do that, you’re forcing me to go to this stupid presentation! Do you think I want to stand up in front of everyone with these green blobs?” He waved his hands in the air. “Do you think I enjoy being helpless? Do you think I like having to rely on others to cut my food for me and feed me? Or having you dress me like I was five-years-old again?! Do you, Scott?!?

“No…”

“Than why doesn’t someone just put me out of my misery and be done with it?!”

“Gee, Virgil,” Gordon deadpanned. “I can’t begin to imagine what it’s like for you.”

Virgil glared at him. “Don’t you start!”

“Imagine not being able to use your hands for what…? Six weeks?”

“Shut up, Gordon.”

“Imagine having six weeks of being able to walk and talk. Imagine being able to go wherever you want to go. Imagine being able to hold intelligent conversations… Imagine having friends who actually want to see you…”

Virgil stared at his brother.

“Imagine being injured saving a life and not as a result of a stupid mishap.”

Virgil sagged as the fire was finally extinguished. “Point taken… This is only temporary, right?”

“Right,” Gordon agreed.

“And I’m lucky it’s not permanent.”

“Right,” Gordon agreed again as, barely relying on his cane for support, he walked over to his brother’s side and placed his arm about Virgil’s shoulders. “Remember that just because you have to ask for help doesn’t make you useless. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.” He looked Virgil in the eye. “I owe you big time. You never gave up on me and I’m not going to give up on you. None of us would. Remember that.”

“Yeah, Virg,” Alan agreed. “If you need a hand, no patronising pun intended, you’ve got four of us willing to help. More than four when we get to the island. Just ask!”

John nodded. “Even if it’s only as a sounding board for when you get really frustrated.”

Ashamed at the way he’d behaved, Virgil looked down at what could be seen of his hands. “Sorry, John,” he mumbled.

“Don’t worry about it. That was nothing compared to what I’ve been known to dish out.” John balanced the pan and brush on top of the rubbish bin. “I’m sure I’d be just as frustrated if I were in your shoes.”

“When have you ever ‘dished out’?” Alan enquired as he got a newspaper and started to wrap the broken glass in it.

“None of your business.” John took another glass out of the cupboard and filled it with water. “Now, at the risk of sounding patronising, hold out your left hand.” Virgil did so, palm up, and John placed the glass on it. “Have you got it?” he asked when Virgil did his best to wrap his right fingers around the tumbler.

“I think so.” John carefully withdrew his hand, allowing Virgil to hold the glass and take his first drink of the day. “Thanks. I needed that.”

John tried rummaging through the cupboards again. “I can’t find any fruit. Your milk’s off. And the bread would probably heal your hands faster than that green slime… We could have let Scott make you breakfast.” He glared at the dry cereal morosely. “This probably tastes like Air Force rations.”

“Forget that,” Scott suggested. “Let’s go out for breakfast.”

“Uh, uh. No way,” Virgil refused. “I’m not going out in public with these.” He indicated his hands and water slopped out of the glass and into his lap. He groaned.

“Especially not now.” Grinning, Alan handed him a towel from the laundry hamper. “People will think we haven’t got you housetrained.” He snapped his fingers. “I’ve got it! Back in a moment.” He ran out the door.

“What’s he got?” Gordon asked.

“A short life span,” John growled, “if he’s not planning on helping us pack up here.”

Scott was undeterred by Virgil’s reluctance to head outside. “How about a drive-thru? Then you can eat in the car. And after the festivities we can come back here and finish packing. What do you say, Virg?”

It sounded like the best suggestion that anyone had had all morning and Virgil nodded. “Okay.”

“Just so long as it’s nothing deep fried, huh?” Gordon teased.

Virgil held the glass out so that John was able to take it from him, and slid off the stool. His sock-clad feet came into contact with the wet floor and he groaned again. “This is not my day.” He dropped the towel onto the floor and trod on it to try to absorb some of the moisture.

“Here’re some clean socks,” Gordon held up a pair. “You might want to change before we head out.”

Virgil, on the verge of losing his temper again, only just managed to refrain from snapping at his brother. “It took me half an hour to put this pair on.”

“Give them here.” Scott took the clean pair and Virgil, still only just managing to keep his cool, sat on the edge of his bed and submitted to having his big brother help him put on his socks and shoes. “How’s that feel?”

“Better,” Virgil admitted. He pulled at his collar. “Is it me or it hot in here?”

“The temperature hasn’t changed.” Scott was looking concerned. “Are you all right? You’ve gone red.”

“I’m okay.” Virgil wiped his brow and then tried to fan himself with his bulbous hands. “The doctors said it’ll take a while for my internal thermostat to settle down. Until it does I’ll get these temperature fluctuations.”

“You mean hot flashes,” Gordon grinned. He pretended to doff a cap and then picked up a newspaper. “Permit me to fan you, my Lady…” He saw a dangerous light in Virgil’s eyes. “Master! I meant master!” he amended quickly, and started fanning his brother.

“If that didn’t feel so good you’d be dead,” Virgil growled.

“Well don’t get too used to it. This is tiring.”

“Thanks.” Virgil accepted a damp towel from John and used it to mop his face, then, holding the cooling cloth against the back of his neck, he looked about his apartment. “There’s still a lot to do. Why don’t we order in and then we can carry on packing?”

Scott got off his knees and dusted his trousers down. “Don’t you want to say goodbye to your friends?”

“They all visited me in hospital. I can give them a call later.”

“What about everyone else? You do realise that this is the last opportunity that any of us are going to be able to accept any recognition in person for saving a life. Once International Rescue’s operational we won’t be hanging around long enough for thank yous, let alone awards. You want to make the most of it while you can.”

“Yes,” John agreed. “And don’t you think that Mr Watts would like to thank you in person?”

“I doubt he’ll be there.” Feeling cooler, Virgil threw the towel in the direction of the laundry basket. “He’s still in the hospital. Besides, I called in to see him when I was discharged.” He snorted. “His primary concern seemed to be whether or not I’d ever be able to play the piano again. He didn’t even say thank you for saving his life. He’s just happy knowing that I’ll be won’t be at ACE when he’s well enough to go back to work. You know he hates me.”

“I’m sure hate’s too strong a word,” Scott soothed.

“Sorry, Scott, but you don’t know the guy. I would have been gone from ACE a long time before now if he had found a legitimate reason for firing me.”

“And if he’d done that, he’d be dead now,” Gordon stated. “Well, if you’re not going, I am. I’m not going to miss out on the opportunity to talk to Lisa face-to-face instead of by text. And I need one of these guys to drive me there… Who’s going to volunteer?”

“I’d just like to see if Lisa’s as beautiful in the flesh as she is on the video screen,” John said. “I’ll drive you, Gordon.”

“Thanks.”

Alan dashed back into the apartment. “Got them!” He put a shrink-wrapped packet on the counter and started ripping open the plastic.

“Got what?” Scott asked.

“Meal in a shake,” Alan explained as he pulled the straw off one of the cartons and poked it in through the seal on the top. “There y’are, Virg. You should be able to hold and drink that without too many dramas.” He tapped the rest of the cartons. “There’s enough there to keep you going until we get you to the island and can work out a better solution.”

Grateful for his kid brother’s unexpected thoughtfulness, Virgil accepted the drink and the nourishment that it offered.

“Let’s start thinking about how we can give you more dexterity,” Scott suggested. “You might have to use your feet more to do things.”

“Like eat?” Virgil asked. “I’m not that flexible.”

“Tin-Tin could show you yoga,” Alan suggested. “She’s started taking lessons and she says it makes you more flexible.”

This comment drew his brothers’ attention away from Virgil. “How’d you know that?” John asked.

Alan gave a casual shrug. “We’ve been emailing each other.”

“Now that you know what a goddess she is,” Gordon smirked.

“That’s all well and good,” Scott rejoined. “But she’s in Europe and Virgil’s going to be on the island, so I don’t think she’ll be much help.” He turned back to Virgil who was sucking up the last of the drink. “Have you got any ideas?” He took the empty container and put it on a box.

“Well…” Virgil frowned in thought. “Really, it’s only my fingers that don’t work. I’ve still got a full range of movements in my arms. My main problem is that I can’t hold anything securely… I can hold small things between my fingers, but these gloves don’t have a lot of grip. I can hold things between my hands like an apple or a sandwich, but for anything hot or messy…” He thought some more. “If I had something that could grasp a knife and fork then I could use my arms to manipulate movements about the x, y and z axes … But applying pressure might be a slight problem.”

“What? For stabbing your food?” Alan asked.

“I can always push bite sized chunks onto a fork,” Virgil continued, “or scoop with a spoon. It’s getting it to an edible size that causes problems,” he added, remembering last night and Aunt Edna. “I don’t want to have to rely on everyone else to cut my food up before I can eat it.”

“Low energy laser?” John suggested. “Something powerful enough to slice through a bit of steak without charring it?”

“Remembering that, if Scott’s cooked the steak, charring it might improve the flavour,” Gordon snickered. “Or you might need a stronger laser to puree it.”

He received a baleful glare from his big brother, but apart from that Scott refused to dignify the comment with a response. Instead he turned back to Virgil. “Now you’re talking. You obviously needed to feed your brain to kick-start it into action. From here on it’ll be easy. You come up with the plans and between the four of us we should to be able to convert them into something useable.”

Alan nodded. “Especially if Brains helps.”

“Now that you know you’re not going to faint in hunger,” John looked at his watch, “don’t you think it’s time we headed off to ACE?”

Virgil decided that it would be better to face this particular challenge head on. “May as well. Alan, get those keys off the hook,” he instructed.

“Which? These ones?”

“That’s them. You can drive the Red-Arrow. Only pretend it’s yours while we’re at ACE, would you? No one there knows that I own it or that it was Butch’s.”

“The Red-Arrow!” Alan’s face shone. “Do you mean it?”

“I think a world champion should be able to handle her…” Virgil grinned at their big brother, “so long as you ride shotgun and keep an eye on him.”

Scott gave him a grin in return. “Deal.”

Virgil’s group, with John driving and Gordon annoying him by pretending to change gears with his walking stick, was the first to arrive.

“I think you’ve lost your car, Virg,” John commented as he opened Virgil’s door. “The kid’s hijacked it along with Scott.”

Virgil, trying to undo his seat belt, remembered his younger brother’s excitement. “They’ve probably taken the long route so he can see how she performs.”

John reached in and pushed the button that released the belt. “How does she perform?”

“Like a dream.”

“Really? Do you think I could have a go later?” For all his protestations about his similarities with his blonde sibling, there was a similar gleam in John’s eye at the thought of driving the classic car.

“You may as well,” Virgil replied. “I’m not going to get the chance before I sell it back to the Crumps.”

“Before you what!?”

Gordon spied his father, who was enjoying the winter sun in the carpark as he talked with a few of ACE’s employees, some of whom were looking overawed at being engaged in conversation with their famous, wealthy boss. “Hi, Uncle Jeff!” he yelled.

Jeff looked around. “Hello, Gordon.”

“We would have been here sooner.” Gordon explained at the top of his voice, “but we had to dress Virgil first!”

Virgil felt his cheeks grow as hot as the crucible furnace. “Couldn’t you have left him on the island?” he asked John.

“We did consider it, but decided that it wouldn’t be fair on Kyrano and Brains.”

“Great. You think more of them than you do of your own flesh and blood.”

“Gordon.” Jeff excused himself from the group and greeted his mischievous son with an angelic smile that nearly hid the twinkle in his eye. “And how is my honorary nephew? Still giving your family grief?”

“Well, you know how it is,” Gordon grinned. “I can’t let them forget how lovable I am.”

“I’m so glad that you’re Virgil’s brother and not my son.” Jeff said, continuing the charade. “I pity your poor father and brothers sometimes… That was quite a scare you gave them. I don’t know how many grey hairs you gave your father, and as for what your brothers went through…” He gave a sombre shake of his head and then turned to another ‘honorary nephew’. “How are your hands, Virgil?”

“Frustrating, but otherwise fine.”

Jeff smiled. “Good. Where is, ah…” he hesitated as he tried to remember the family relationships, “my son and your brother?”

John was grinning as he watched the wheels turn in his father’s brain. “Taken the scenic route… Dad.”

Jeff chuckled. “So Alan’s not an only child.”

“Nope.”

His father’s comments had been enough to subdue Gordon into quiet introspection… For all of two minutes. “Here come the stragglers…” he yelled at the Red-Arrow as it pulled into a parking space. “Did you get lost?”

“Oh, wow, Virgil!” Alan enthused as he locked the Red-Arrow’s doors. “This car’s primo. Have you driven her, Dad?”

Virgil smiled at his brother’s enthusiasm. “You’ve only been driving Butch’s car for five minutes and you’re already talking like him.”

“I have driven her, Alan,” Jeff admitted. “And you’re right. She is ‘primo’… Now, if you’ll all excuse me, I have some things that I have to sort out with Hamish. I’ll see you all inside. Your grandmother’s already in there with Edna.” He wandered off, joining another knot of Virgil’s workmates and engaging them in further conversation.

“If it’s not a stupid question,” John began. “What took you guys so long? You left before us.”

“In a squeal of tyres and with a hearty hi ho, Red-Arrow,” Gordon quipped.

“It is a stupid question,” Scott responded. “He insisted on taking the long route. Now he’s talking about hiring the local track and putting it through its paces.”

“She’s a performance vehicle so you’ve should give her a bit of a workout once in a while,” Alan responded, trying to appear casual even though he kept on stroking the Red-Arrow’s bonnet. “Virgil’s not going to be able to drive for the next few weeks, so I thought I’d do what I could to help out.”

“Gee, thanks, Alan,” Virgil deadpanned. “I appreciate you considering me like that… Hi, Bruce.”

“Hi, Guys,” Bruce Sanders greeted the Tracys. He looked at Virgil’s green hands. “You realise that Lou’ll take one look at them and start calling you Veggie again?”

Gordon snuffled a laugh. “Veggie?”

“After your grandma’s secret drink.” Bruce patted his friend on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Virgil, if he does call you that there are plenty of people in there who’ll put him right.”

The Tracys and Bruce slipped, almost unnoticed, into ACE’s social club room, which was buzzing with Virgil’s workmates and their families.

Scott looked around. “Ah! Food!” he exclaimed. “Be right back.”

“He’s got a radar that’s linked directly to his stomach,” Alan stated. “What do you suppose they’ve got to eat?”

“Why don’t you go and have a look?” Virgil suggested. “Don’t worry about me; I’m not going to be able to eat with any dignity anyway. I’ll grab one of your drinks later.”

“Don’t give up yet,” John said. “We’ll work something out.” He, Bruce, and his brothers wandered over to the table laden with finger foods and other snacks.

Scott came back, his hands full. “Hands out, Virg,” he commanded, and helped his brother hold onto a plastic glass of orange juice. “Open wide.” He popped a small savoury into Virgil’s mouth. “How’s that?”

Virgil chewed appreciatively. “Delicious.” He glanced about to check that no one could overhear their conversation. “What we were talking about at my place... Are you okay with that crack Alan made about you crashing the plane?”

Scott grinned. “I was going to mention that when we were alone. I had a phone call from Brian Daniels the other day. He apologised for everything he said.”

“Apologised?” Virgil had to admit to being surprised by the revelation. “Now?! But it’s been nearly a year since you left the Air Force. What did you say?”

“That I appreciated the apology. After all, it’s better late than never. We’re going to… I’ll tell you about it later…”

They’d been interrupted by the return of their brothers; Gordon in the lead. “Is Lisa here?” he asked.

Virgil craned his neck over the crowd. “Yes, there she is, over there.” He pointed with his two green hands and orange drink.

“Great. I owe her an apology. I’m not planning on playing for sympathy so hold this will ya?” Gordon hung his walking stick off Virgil’s right arm and walked away.

“Hey!”

Scott grinned at Virgil’s indignation and unhooked the cane. “It must be a week for making amends. Come on; let’s see what he’s got to say for himself.”

As they followed Gordon, Virgil was greeted by all his friends and colleagues. John, however, was more interested in the former WASP who, with a slightly rolling gait, was pushing through the crowd. “He walks just like a sailor...” His eyes narrowed, “I’ve had my suspicions that the only reason why he still uses a cane is so he’s got something on hand he can use to trip us up. I think he’s just proven my theory.”

Gordon had reached Lisa who, talking with the wife of one of her co-workers, hadn’t noticed him come up behind her. He waited until there was a lull in her conversation and then tapped her on the shoulder. “Ah... Lisa...”

Lisa turned. There was the briefest frown of confusion on her face before, with a joyful cry of “Gordon!” she threw her arms about his neck. Then, suddenly embarrassed by her over-familiarity she took a step back. “Sorry,” she blushed.

“I’m the one who is supposed to be saying that,” he protested. “I’d get onto my knees to beg your forgiveness, but I doubt I’d be able to get up again.”

“Don’t be silly,” she told him. “You apologised months ago. I’d forgotten all about it... You look great. Where’s...” She spied Virgil. “You made it!” she squealed, and Scott only just managed to rescue the orange drink before Virgil was tackled.

“I hope Butch didn’t see that,” Virgil laughed as he was released from the hug. “He might get the wrong idea about us...”

“We’ve already got the wrong idea,” Alan teased.

Lisa giggled. “How are you, Alan?”

“Fine, thanks. Where is Butch anyway?”

“The last time I saw him, he was over there,” she pointed, before rolling her eyes. “He’ll be so excited that Alan Tracy asked after him.” She grinned at Virgil. “I told you, you wouldn’t be able stay away.”

Virgil made a face. “These guys dragged me here against my will... I don’t think you’ve met John...”

John treated her to a winning smile. “Hello, Lisa.”

“Hello, John.”

Virgil continued the introductions. “And you probably only saw Scott from across the room.”

“And Butch made sure that I saw more of him than of you,” Scott recollected. “Nice to finally redress that, Lisa. Virgil’s told us lots about you.”

She winked at Virgil. “I’m sure it’s not all good.”

“A lot of it has been...” Scott sought the right word, “intriguing. Virg has been feeding out enough to keep us curious”

“I’ll bet.” Lisa giggled again.

Gordon grinned. “But you’ll give us all the gossip, won’t you?” He shifted his weight from one leg to the other.

“Here,” Scott held out the walking stick to its owner, “you’d better take this before you fall over.”

“Thanks.” Gordon accepted the cane and leant on it for support.

Butch came ambling over. “Here’s my pal!” He gave Virgil what was, for him, a gentle punch on the shoulder.

Well practised in bracing himself against Butch’s overly-affectionate greetings, Virgil managed to avoid staggering backwards. “How are you, Butch?”

“Fine. Been helpin’ Mrs T.”

“She’ll appreciate that. Where is she?”

“In th’ ki’chen with Mrs M.” Butch guffawed. “They’re tellin’ th’ caterers what t’ do.”

Virgil chuckled. “I can imagine.”

“Hiya, Butch.” Alan looked around to check no one was close enough to overhear. “I drove the Red-Arrow here.”

Upon hearing that his hero had driven what had once been his pride and joy, Butch looked like a child who’d been visited by Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and both sets of doting grandparents in the same morning. “You drove th’ Red-Arrow! Whatcha think?”

“She’s primo,” Alan enthused.

“I’n’t she just,” Butch said happily. “An’ she’s got even betta since m’ pal here bought ‘er.”

“Unfortunately I’ve had to neglect her this past week,” Virgil reminded them. “Butch... These three reprobates are my brothers Gordon, John and Scott. Although as far as ACE is concerned, John’s Alan’s brother and not mine.”

“Hiya.” Butch shook hands with the three Tracys.

“Geez, Butch. That’s some grip you’ve got.” Gordon massaged his hand. “Lend us some of your green goop, Virgil. I think he’s squashed all the blood out of my fingers.”

But Butch wasn’t listening. He and Scott were locked in a minor wrestling match as they shook hands and stared each other down, neither willing to be the first to let go.

It was Bruce’s reappearance that broke the stalemate. “I wonder when they’re going to get the show on the road.”

Virgil looked at him. “What show? What have they got planned?”

“I don’t know. Mr Mickelson and Mr Tracy haven’t told us minions anything.”

“We could always do a bit of snooping,” Gordon suggested. “Dad’ll probably tell us.”

“He probably won’t,” Scott rejoined, trying surreptitiously to massage the life back into his fingers.

“C’mon, fellas,” Gordon spun about on his cane. “I need to stretch my legs anyway.”

“I’d better keep an eye on them,” Scott sighed. “Do you want your drink back, Virg?”

“Thanks.” Virgil watched his brothers leave. “They won’t find out anything. Not from Father or Uncle Hamish.”

“Actually, Virgil,” Bruce sounded uncomfortable, “we’re glad they’ve gone. We wanted a word with you in private.”

Virgil raised an eyebrow. “Oh, yes?”

“Yes,” Lisa nodded. “We have to something to say to you, but not in front of your family.”

“Why don’ we shift?” Butch suggested. “Too many people ‘ere.”

Virgil felt his other eyebrow rise up. “You guys are being very mysterious.” He followed them through a door and into the dead, empty factory.

Bruce looked at his friends and they indicated that he should be the one to take the floor. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but we’ve been discussing you.”

Virgil, not so much surprised by the revelation, but by the mysterious way that it was being revealed, looked between his friends. “Is that why it’s not only my hands that have been burning?”

“We know that you’ve been looking forward to being part of this project of your father’s all year,” Bruce explained, “and that he’s expecting you to be part of it, but we can’t help thinking that you’re making a mistake.”

Butch nodded his agreement. “Big mistake.”

“A mistake?” Virgil echoed. “What do you mean? Do you think I should stay at ACE? Look, I do enjoy working here, especially with you guys, but...”

“No...” Bruce held up his hand. “We’ve enjoyed working with you too...”

“We’re going to miss you,” Lisa interrupted.

“But we don’t think you should work here either,” Bruce continued. “Do you remember that I once joked that you must count saving lives as one of your hobbies? Well, and I’m not joking now, we think you should consider it as a profession. Become a fire-fighter, or paramedic, or something like that. Something hands on where you can make a difference to someone’s life. You’re in your element when you’re helping people.”

Virgil wasn’t quite sure what he was hearing. “You mean a rescuer of some type?”

“Yes,” Lisa nodded. “Look at all the people you helped this one year. There was me, and then everyone on that flight, and then the way you stepped in to stop the Skulz...”

“An’ th’ way y’ risked y’ neck t’ save Mr W,” Butch agreed.

“You and Bruce helped too,” Virgil reminded him. “And Greg and Uncle Hamish.”

“Yeah... But y’ were the one ‘oo went down the rope. Y’ shouldn’ be stuck ina factry or behind a desk. Y’ need t’ be out helpin’ people!”

Trying to conceal his smile, Virgil finished his orange juice. “Well, thanks for the advice and, if things don’t work out, maybe I’ll take it. I’ll definitely give it serious consideration while I can’t do anything else.”

The door to the factory opened. “Is this where you’re all hiding?” Scott asked.

John gave a low whistle as he looked around. “I haven’t been here in years. Is it me or has this place grown?”

“I told you this was one of the biggest plants of its type in the country,” Virgil reminded him. “They rebuilt the entire factory eight years ago.”

Alan tugged on Virgil’s sleeve. “Where is it?”

“Where’s what?”

“The furnace.”

“Oh, that.” Virgil attempted to point. “Over there behind that barrier.”

“Can we see it?”

“There’s nothing to see,” Bruce told the youngest Tracy. “It’s been turned off since Monday. The authorities won’t let ACE start it up again until more safety measures have been put into place.”

“Come on, Bruce. Show us,” Alan pleaded. “You can tell us just how close Virgil was to the crucible. He can’t remember.”

“I’m not sure I want to,” Virgil rejoined.

“No,” Scott empathised. “Me neither.”

“You want to see, don’t you, Gordon?” Alan asked.

“Uh-huh. How about you, John?”

“Yep. Lead on, Bruce.”

Bruce sighed. “Okay. But keep between the yellow lines. Everything might be turned off, but this can still be a dangerous place.” He led four of the Tracy brothers away.

Virgil was going to follow, but he was held back by Lisa. “Can you wait a moment?” she whispered, looking furtive.

“Liesl...” Butch warned. “Y’ll only embarrass him.”

“No,” she replied. “I need to apologise.”

“Apologise?” Virgil’s eyebrows were getting a workout this morning. “Apologise for what?”

“The other day... Monday... After you’d rescued Mr Watts, and Greg and Bruce had brought you back down to the floor again... And you were… ah… in the tub being cooled down... When they, er, they removed your PPE...”

“Yes...”

“Well... ah... I was holding Butch...” She put her arm about her husband and pulled him close. “I’d been so scared that he was going to be killed and I couldn’t quite believe that he was standing next to me.”

“Yes,” Virgil repeated. “I think I remember seeing that.”

“Well, I, ah, was also worried about you too... You looked so sick when they brought you down on the stretcher. I didn’t even know if you were still alive... And your hands! They were such a mess...!” She glanced down at Virgil’s green extremities. “I was scared that you wouldn’t live. So I wanted to see if you were still alive. I had to know... So I watched the paramedics work on you. I... ah...” She turned pink. “I saw more than I should.”

“Lisa, ‘n me, ‘n a whole lot of other people,” Butch added.

Virgil felt himself grow hot and wondered if it was embarrassment or if his thermostat had gone haywire again. “You saw...”

“They had to remove your clothes to cool you down... And they removed... all your clothes.”

“Oh.” Virgil wasn’t sure what else he should say.

“Before they covered you with the sheet and started dampening you down.”

“Oh,” Virgil repeated.

“I’m sorry,” Lisa said.

Virgil rubbed his sleeve over his overheated forehead.

“See,” Butch accused. “Y’ve embarrassed ‘im, Liesl. Y’ shouldn’ ‘ave said anythin’.”

“Well... ah, Lisa...” Virgil cleared his throat. “Considering that I can claim to have actually undressed you, in a manner of speaking, and seen you topless, then I guess we’re even.”

“I’m sorry, Virgil”

“Don’t be.” Virgil shook his head. “We know it was perfectly innocent. Like the time that you were running semi-naked around my apartment.”

Lisa gave a slightly nervous giggle. “And slept in your bed.”

“And Grandma and I’ve got a lot of mileage teasing my brothers over that. We’ve kept them guessing all year. So we won’t worry about Monday, okay?”

Lisa gave a relieved smile. “Thank you.” The three of them started wandering over to where Bruce was showing the rest of the Tracys some of the highlights of the factory.

“Changing the subject completely,” Virgil began, “I’ve been thinking about the Red-Arrow. I can’t take it to the island with me; the sea air won’t do it any good and there’s nowhere to run it…”

“So ya still gonna work for ya father?” Butch interrupted.

“For the moment, yes,” Virgil replied, slightly surprised that Butch was more concerned about his future than the car. “So what I was thinking was… what would you say to the three of us having joint ownership? I’ll pay the insurance and legal stuff and use it whenever I’m in town, and the pair of you can take care of the day-to-day running costs and use it whenever you want. What do you think?”

The Crumps had stopped and were staring at him. “Ya lettin’ us use ya car?” Butch asked.

“No, you’re going to be using your car,” Virgil corrected. “It won’t do her any good keeping her locked up in a garage somewhere, so you’ll be spending money on her to keep her running. I’d expect that my family would be able to use it as well as me, but that won’t be very often. We’ll make it all legal and if you’ll feel better you can pay me a nominal amount, but it’s not like I want or need the money. I just want to make sure that the Red-Arrow’s looked after. And I know no one will look after it better than you two… Is it a deal?”

Butch was looking dazed. Lisa however got over her shock. She threw her arms around Virgil. “Oh, thank you!” He received a kiss that didn’t go unnoticed by his brothers.

“Oh, yes,” Alan snickered with a suggestive grin. “And what have you three been up to?”

Virgil had often wished that he was as good at coming up with quick-fire retorts as he was coming up with engineering solutions; especially when it came to teasing his brothers. Lisa however proved that she was a match for the Tracys. “I’ve just been telling Virgil how hot he is when he’s naked.” She smirked.

Virgil, immensely satisfied with the stupefied looks he was receiving from his brothers, gave a ‘what else would you expect?’ shrug.

“Virgil?” Scott queried.

Virgil ignored him and turned to Bruce. “Haven’t you shown them the furnace yet?”

Bruce, who’d initially been as dumbfounded as the Tracys, had put two and two together and was now wearing a smirk of his own. “No. I was showing them the welder that nearly killed Lisa. This is the scene of your first triumph.”

“Our first triumph,” Virgil corrected. “You were the first aider. I was only helping.”

“I don’t care who did it,” Lisa said. “I’m just glad someone did something.”

“Yeah,” Butch agreed. “An’ me. It’s thanks t’ y’ two that I’ve still got m’ girl.” He squeezed his wife.

The eight of them continued on through the factory, stopping only when they reached the barrier that prevented anyone from getting too close to the crucible furnace.

Alan looked at the innocuous metal ball. “It doesn’t look too dangerous.”

“It’s not when it’s cold,” Virgil told him. “They’ve moved it from where it was the other day. The crucible was right underneath us at the time.” He pointed above their heads to a walkway over to the right. “That’s the gantry Mr Watts was hanging from. I didn’t have far to rappel.”

“Till y’ rope slipped,” Butch recollected.

“How far did you fall?” John asked.

“I don’t know,” Virgil admitted. “From where I was it seemed as though I was caught only just above the molten metal.” He gazed up at the furnace; his face creased in a thoughtful frown.

“From where I was standing down here, I’d say he was about three to four metres above the mouth,” Lisa said. “What do you guys think?”

“I couldn’t really tell from where we were,” Bruce remembered.

“Nah,” Butch agreed. “Seemed mighty close fr’m where I was. It was hot!”

Bruce nodded. “I’ll say. Even up on the gantry, where in theory we were far enough away from the heat that our thermal suits should have protected us, I was in a sweat. Of course, that was probably nerves.”

“I know I was scared stiff,” Lisa added. “When Virgil stopped answering me I thought he’d died. You’ve no idea how relieved I was when Mr Mickelson said that he was still conscious.”

“Mr M did all right for ‘n old guy,” Butch said.

Gordon chuckled. “Don’t let Uncle Hamish hear you say that.”

Butch looked embarrassed at his gaffe. “‘E got down right next t’ Virgil and helped ‘im, ‘nd th’ heat ‘ad knocked ‘im out fast.”

“True,” Bruce agreed, “but Virgil had been hanging over the crucible for longer.”

“Much longer,” Lisa confirmed.

“I honestly thought you were going to be leaving ACE in a coffin, Virgil…” Bruce realised that his friend appeared to be miles away. “Virgil?”

Scott nudged his brother. “Are you okay?”

Virgil gave himself a mental shake. “Yes… I just remembered something.”

“What?”

“That I’d better write Tuffas a letter of thanks for making such good PPE.” Virgil looked at his hands ruefully. “So long as you remember to wear it.”

“I wondered where you all were,” a deep voice said, and they turned to see Jeff Tracy striding towards them. “The hospital just called. Max Watts is on his way here.”

Virgil stared at his father. “He’s coming? When I saw him yesterday he didn’t look well enough to get out of bed.”

“He was determined to attend,” Jeff told him. “Even if it was going to mean discharging himself early. I told him that under no circumstances was he to do that and I’ve managed to arrange for an ambulance to bring him here. But I don’t want him out of the hospital any longer than necessary, so we’re going to start proceedings as soon as he gets here.”

“Proceedings?” Virgil asked. “What proceedings?”

Jeff grinned, winked, and said nothing.

Scott turned his back on the cold, grey ball that had nearly been his brother’s final resting place. “I’m sick of looking at that thing.”

“I’ve never liked it,” Virgil admitted. “Now I know why.”

“I’m going to go and get something else to eat before ‘proceedings’ start,” Bruce stated. “Anyone else coming?” He and the Crumps wandered away.

Jeff remained behind, looking up to where the drama had taken place less than a week ago. “The thought that I, even indirectly, might have been responsible for deaths, especially that of one of my own sons…” He gave a visible shiver. “It gives me the chills.”

“It’s done the opposite for Virgil,” Gordon teased. “He gets hot flashes.”

“Gordon…!” Virgil growled.

Jeff looked at him in concern. “Are you sure you’re all right? You are a little red.”

“I’m fine.”

“Virg... You weren’t thinking about Tuffas then, were you?” Scott accused. “You were thinking about something else. What was it?”

“Well… No, I wasn’t...” Virgil hesitated. “I was thinking that I owed you a thank you.”

“Me?” Scott looked surprised. “What for?”

“Catching me.”

“Catching you?” Scott frowned. “When.”

“When I was falling into the furnace.”

Scott looked startled.

“You did catch me… Didn’t you?”

“Yeah…” Scott uncomfortable at the admission, examined the skin that was peeling off his palms. “Well, I tried.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

The two brothers shared a look of warm understanding.

“You guys are seriously creepy,” Gordon stated. “Do you know that?”

“If you think it’s creepy, Gordon,” Scott faced his brother, “you want to try it from where we’re standing.”

Virgil could only agree with him.

“Well, while we’re dealing with the supernatural,” John said and received twin dirty-looks, “who was the woman?”

“Yes!” Alan exclaimed. “Who is she? Spill the beans, Virgil.”

John rounded on him. “Does this mean you believe now, Alan?”

“Until I can find a logical explanation, what choice do I have?”

“A woman?” Confused, Virgil looked between his brothers. “What woman?”

Gordon, his weight on his cane, leant closer. “The bad woman.”

“Bad woman?”

Alan nodded vigorously. “Was it Lisa?”

“Lisa? She’s got a wicked sense of humour sometimes, but she’s not bad...” Virgil looked to his father for clarification. “What are they talking about?”

“Scott said a woman was burning you.”

“A woman was burning me?!” Virgil fixed his attention on his eldest brother.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Scott complained. “That’s what you were telling me.”

“I wasn’t telling you anything like it. All the women were well out of the way on the factory floor. Lisa was talking to me over the radio headset, but she was helping me keep focused, not burning me. That was the heat from the molten metal.”

“Okay, then,” Gordon decided to change tack. “What about the snakes?”

Virgil looked at him as if he were mad. “Snakes?!”

“Yeah. Scott said that you were being attacked by snakes.”

“I didn’t say that. I said that the snakes were a kind of metaphor.”

“Metaphor?” Virgil shook his head as if he had concerns about his brothers’ sanity. “Snakes? What kind of drinks are they serving here?! You’ve all lost your mi...” A smile crept onto his face as a memory surfaced. “Ah… I think I understand…”

“So, you do know what he was talking about?” John asked. “Who was this bad woman?”

“Medusa.”

Everyone looked at him as if they had a suspicion that the heat had fried his brains. “Medusa?”

“Yes. I told you that I’ve never liked that crucible furnace. Call it my artist’s imagination if you like, but it always reminded me of Medusa when I saw the heat currents writhing above it... Here, I’ll show you.” He led them over to a tattered picture on the wall. “I drew this to kill time when Lisa was modelling for the Tuffas catalogue.”

Scott stared at the drawing. Then he chuckled. “Medusa, with her head of snakes. That makes sense.”

Virgil nodded. “She’s a bad woman who turned men to stone. I was hoping she wasn’t going to do that to me.”

“Well, now that we’ve got that cleared up,” Jeff rubbed his hands together. “I think we’d better rejoin the party.”

Virgil sighed. “Let’s get the circus over and done with.” He, accompanied by his father, trailed behind his brothers. “I hope you’re not going to be making too much fuss.”

“Virgil…” Jeff held the door open for him. “You deserve some recognition and I’d be frowned on by my employees if I didn’t do something to acknowledge your efforts. After all, you saved Max Watts’ life!”

“And then I had to be rescued by Uncle Hamish. That’s not exactly an illustrious start to my career.”

“You risked your life to save someone else’s. Why don’t you want ACE to show their appreciation?”

Virgil held up his green hands. “Would you want to be paraded in front of the people you work with looking like this?”

Whatever Jeff’s answer was going to be, he was interrupted when a young man rushed towards them. “Virgil...! Virgil! I…” George Watts pulled up short when he realised who Virgil was talking to. “Oh! Sorry, Mr Tracy. I… um… I can come back later…”

“No, it’s all right, George. I’ll leave you two to talk…”

“Please, don’t go on my account, I’ve got to get back to Dad in a minute anyway.”

“Your father’s here?” Jeff looked towards the door. “I should go and greet him.”

“Don’t do that,” George begged. “He’d be too embarrassed for you to see him being carried out of the ambulance. He’d be much happier meeting you in here.”

Jeff nodded. “How is he? I’m not sure that I’ve done the right thing arranging for him to leave the hospital.”

“He’s not the best,” George admitted. “But nothing was going to stop him coming. I’d better get back out there and keep an eye on him, but before I do…” He turned to Virgil. “I just had to tell you. I’ve got a job playing the guitar!”

Virgil smiled at the other man’s obvious pleasure. “You have? That’s great! Where?”

“It’s only as a session player at one of the local recording studios, so it’s nothing glamorous, but at least it means I’m in the industry and I’m getting a regular income. I can use it as a stepping stone to something better.”

“Yes, you can,” Virgil agreed. “That’s really great, George. What does your father say?”

“He hasn’t said much, but I think he’s pleased. You know what fathers are like. Don’t like to be proved wrong.”

Virgil glanced at his own father and only just managed to avoid laughing out loud as he agreed. “Oh, yes; I know exactly what fathers are like.”

“Always needing to look out for their offspring’s best interests,” Jeff growled.

“I know Dad can be a stubborn old so-n-so sometimes,” George admitted. “But I would have hated to lose him. I said it before, Virgil, and I’ll say it again. Thank you for saving his life.”

“I won’t say ‘any time’, but I’m glad I was able to help.” Virgil watched as George Watts hurried back towards the door. He turned to his father, realising that his co-workers were giving him and ‘the boss’ plenty of space to talk. “What would you have done if I’d chosen music as a career?”

“I would have told you that if that’s what you wanted then I would have supported you all the way. And I would have done,” Jeff admitted. “Before retreating into my room and cursing the day that I agreed to letting you have music lessons.”

Virgil grinned. “I thought I saw panic in your eyes when Mr Tancy suggested that I attend music school.”

“That was nothing compared to the terror I felt when you said you’d consider it.”

“Terror?”

Jeff chuckled. “Followed by profound relief when you told me you were intending to go to Denver. It’s like I told George: a parent’s need to have what’s best for their child, even if it’s not what their child wants, is a pretty powerful emotion. If music was something I’m comfortable with, then I might have felt differently. But, as a career choice, it’s a completely alien subject to me. I know engineering and that’s why I was so relieved when you decided to choose that as a career.”

“In that case you must have had a fit when Gordon announced he was going to join WASP.”

“No, not really…” Jeff said slowly. “I understand the discipline that goes into an organisation like that, even if I don’t feel comfortable with the environment they work in. Besides, I needed an aquanaut.”

“And a field engineer.” Virgil laughed. “I was talking to Bruce, Butch and Lisa a few minutes ago. They told me that I should stop considering saving lives as a hobby and make it my vocation.”

“Maybe they have a point,” Jeff chuckled. He glanced towards the door, but the Watts had yet to make their entrance. “I wish Max would get himself a hobby. If he had interests outside of ACE then he might not have come to work on Monday when he was sick, and he wouldn’t have ended up in hospital. When I visited him I took him an autographed model of the first shuttle I went into space in and told him that I expected to see it completed sometime. With any luck he’ll enjoy assembling it so much that he’ll want to make more.” He shook his head. “It’s pitiful really. All I’ve done is go to the moon and start up this business, but in his eyes I’m some kind of god...” Jeff straightened. “Look, there he is. We’d better go and say hello…”

Not relishing the idea of meeting his nemesis, Virgil hung back. “You go on. I’ll see you later.”

Jeff gave him a strange look. “One day you’re going to have to tell me just what went on between you two.”

“No, I won’t.”

“Come on, Virgil...” Virgil let out a sound of protest when his father took him by the arm and guided him forward.

Jeff Tracy smiled at the man in the wheelchair, attended by a nurse and surrounded by various pieces of medical equipment. “Good to see you, Max... Mrs Watts.”

Max Watts bypassed Virgil as he looked up at his idol. “Hello, Mr Tracy. I haven’t started the model yet. Today’s the first day after the accident that I’ve had any energy.” Virgil doubted that; Max Watts looked exhausted and he’d only made the trip from the hospital.

“That’s fine,” Jeff replied. “There’s no hurry. It’ll give you something to do while you’re recuperating. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll tell Hamish that we’re going to start...”

“Wait! Please...” Watts looked up at Jeff with pleading eyes. “I have something I need to tell you.”

“What’s that, Max?”

“I think you’re making a big mistake.”

Virgil looked at his father’s face. To say that Jeff Tracy was stunned was an understatement. All the time that Max Watts had worked for ACE he’d been a loyal, if somewhat obsequious, employee. And here he was telling his hero that he was wrong?!

“Max!” his wife scolded. “I’m sorry, Mr Tracy. You know he hasn’t been well. First the ‘flu and then...”

“Hush, Darling. I know what I’m saying.” Her husband stood firm. “A foolish mistake,” he elucidated. “And I don’t regret telling you that, Mr Tracy.”

Jeff found his voice. “”What do you mean? How am I making a mistake?”

“You can’t let this young man leave us,” Watts finally glanced at Virgil, who felt his jaw drop. “I have been watching him this past year and he is a good engineer with the capacity of becoming a great one. ACE employs the best and that is a policy we should keep at all costs if the company is to remain strong.”

Jeff glanced at his son and resisted the impulse to shut Virgil’s mouth for him. “Well, there is some merit in what you say, Max. But I know that Virgil has been looking forward to joining his family’s business for a long time. It is ultimately his decision, but his father would be disappointed to lose his services.”

Virgil managed to shut his mouth, but couldn’t seem to get his brain into gear to make a comment.

Max Watts finally fixed his eyes on him. “I have treated Virgil shamefully over this past year, Mr Tracy... I could see in him all the things that I wanted to see in my own son, but I knew, deep down, that I never would… That is my fault, George, not yours...” he patted his son’s hand.

George Watts was looking as if he was in a third grade movie and wondering what alien presently inhabited his father’s body.

“It’s not Virgil’s fault either,” Mr Watts continued. “I was frustrated because I wanted George to take what I saw to be the safe and sure path; working for a good, solid, innovative company; and I saw Virgil as an obstacle to that... But I was only thinking of myself. I was being selfish.”

“Now, Max,” Jeff soothed. “I haven’t been given the full story of what has gone on between you and Virgil,” he glanced at his son; a gesture that Virgil took to mean that his father was expecting to hear the full facts later. “But I’m sure that whatever you did, you did with the best intentions. You know that I’ve got sons of my own and I’d move mountains if I thought that it would give them a happy and fulfilling life.”

“But you’ve given your sons freedom, Mr Tracy. I was stifling my boy, I can see that now. He’s been happier these last few months when he’s been committed to his music, than he ever was at Tampar Engineering College or at ACE.” Max pointed a finger at Virgil. “Don’t you let your father stifle you, son. You do what’s best for you; whatever will make you happy.”

“Uh, yes, Sir... ah...” Virgil shocked by the complete about-face of his supervisor, realised his mistake. “Sorry... Yes, Mr Watts.”

The Production Manager ignored the slip of the tongue. “Whether it’s engineering or playing the piano professionally, you do it because you want to... ” Max fixed the green, gloved hands with a pained expression. “Ah… You will be able to play the piano again, won’t you?”

Virgil finally got his brain back into gear. “The doctors say I’ll get full use of my hands again.”

“Good… I... I’m sorry that you were injured saving me… And I wouldn’t have blamed you if you’d left me to fall. I didn’t deserve your help.” Max Watts looked Virgil in the eye. “Thank you.”

“Uh... I... I’m glad I was able to help,” Virgil stammered.

Max smiled. “I hope that perhaps, someday soon, when you are better, maybe I’ll hear you and George have a, er... What do you call it? Jam session together?”

Virgil smiled at George who seemed to have regained some of his grasp of reality and was nodding. “That would be great.”

“Good…” Max Watts started wheezing.

Jeff crouched down by the side of the wheelchair as the nurse placed a mask over the invalid’s face and switched on the oxygen. “Do you want to go back to the hospital, Max?”

Max Watts shook his head and pushed the nurse’s hand and the mask away. “No... Mr... Tracy... I want... to thank... everyone who helped save... me.”

Jeff glanced up at the nurse and then stood. “Come on then. Let’s get you to your seat and get this show on the road. We don’t want to keep you out of hospital for any longer than necessary.”

Virgil watched as his father, Max Watts, George, Mrs Watts and the nurse made their way to the front of several rows of chairs, facing a low platform.

“So you are here,” an elderly voice said and Virgil turned to face his grandmother and Edna Mickelson. “How are the hands, Honey?”

“Okay,” Virgil said. “Now remind me. Are you my grandmother or Jeff Tracy’s mother?”

Grandma chuckled. “So far I’m just an old biddy who turned up to annoy the caterers. Do you want me to be your grandma?”

Virgil smiled. “I can’t imagine you being anyone else.”

“Good,” she responded. “Then you can introduce me to everyone as Mrs T.”

“Right,” Virgil agreed. “Hi, Aunty Edna... Ah, sorry about last night. I’m afraid I wasn’t very good company.”

“And I wasn’t a very good host,” Edna Mickelson replied. “Because of that I thought you might not be going to come here today. So I rang you up.” With an expression that was almost a smirk, she pushed a button and held out her cell phone. “You might like to listen to your voicemail message.”

“Huh?” Virgil listened as the phone was held to his ear.

“Schizophrenia’s running rife,

Virgil can’t remember who he is to save his life,

But since he managed to save another,

Leave your message with his brother.”

“Gordon...” Virgil groaned. “I’ll kill him.”

Grandma tapped him on the arm. “You’ll do no such thing. Just be grateful that he’s well enough to annoy you.”

“Well enough!” Virgil exclaimed. “I’m more disabled than he is at the moment!”

“I know, and that’s why I’ve put aside some of your favourite snacks. You can eat them later when there’s no one else about.”

“Grandma, you’re an angel...”

“Ladies and Gentlemen...” It was Jeff Tracy’s voice, amplified by a microphone. “If you would all take your seats...? Thank you.”

“Come on, Virg...” Scott appeared from the direction of the food table. “You’ve got a front row seat.”

“Can’t I hide near the back?”

“No. They’re all labelled.” Scott took Virgil firmly by the arm and steered him down to the front of the room before pushing him into his allocated seat.

Virgil was relieved to see that, to his left, Bruce and Greg had the seats closest to the aisle and that to his right sat the Crumps. In the row behind him sat the Tracys. The Watts family and Max’s nurse sat in the front on the other side of the aisle.

Jeff was still on the stage. “Is everyone seated...? Good. Thank you. Welcome, everyone, to what is intended to be a celebration...” He paused. “But first I would like to offer up a personal apology. Three months ago I berated four members of my team in a very public way, so it is only right that I should apologise equally publicly. Hamish Mickelson... Max Watts... Greg Harrison...” Jeff looked each man in the eye as he said their names, “and Virgil...” he hesitated as if unsure which surname to use and then carried on, “I would like to apologise for my behaviour. I will not offer any excuses, because what I did was inexcusable. I am truly sorry.”

Hamish Mickelson stepped up and took his friend’s hand. “I know I speak for all of us when I say that you don’t have to apologise, Jeff,” he said as they shook. “The four of us know better than most that you and your family were going through a tough time.”

Jeff glanced over to where Gordon was sitting behind Virgil. “That’s no excuse,” he growled.

“Shall I take over?” Hamish asked.

Jeff brightened. “Please.”

“It would be my pleasure,” Hamish stepped up to the microphone. “Now, before we get to the main reason why we’re here today, I would like us all to remember that most of us are lucky to be here at all after the events of the 20th of October. We at ACE have already thanked one of our saviours, but we’d like to take this opportunity to acknowledge the other... And congratulate him on winning the world championship. Alan Tracy, would you care to step forward?”

Alan, not sure if he was hearing correctly continued to sit numb in his seat until John pushed him out. Flushing pink with embarrassment, he stumbled up to the stage. Virgil, happy to see his brother recognised, started applauding as hard as everyone else, until the sensation of gel squishing around his hands made him think that that might not be such a good idea.

“Thank you, Uncle Hamish.” Alan accepted his award. Then he turned to the audience. “And thank you, ACE. Not only for this,” he indicated his gift, “but also for building a plane strong enough to survive our crash landing. Next time I buy a plane...”

“Number three,” Scott muttered.

“...I’m going to personally check each component to make sure it’s got the ACE stamp of quality!” Alan reclaimed his seat to laughter and pats on the back from those about him. He leant forward. “Did you know?” he asked Virgil.

“No. Do you think I would have made such a fuss about coming here if I had?”

Jeff reclaimed the microphone. “And now to what you all came here for... Apart from the excellent food. Thank you to the caterers.” Behind him Virgil heard his grandmother give a snort of disgust, followed by snuffled laughter from Gordon.

Greg and then Butch were the first two to receive official thanks from the owner of Aeronautical Component Engineering. They received their awards humbly; Butch proudly showing his to Lisa as soon as he reclaimed his seat. Bruce was next and received an extra mention for his role in saving Lisa Crump’s life. Hamish Mickelson received his award and joked about how it had given him a taste for abseiling again and suggested that he and Jeff dig out their old climbing gear. He received a scowl from Edna that told him that this was one idea that was going to be short-lived.

“Finally,” Jeff Tracy announced, “I would like to pay tribute to a young man whom I’ve known for many years, and who is leaving Aeronautical Component Engineering today. There are those who feel that he has become an invaluable member of our company and would like him to stay, but I know that he is moving on to an organisation who will value and appreciate his skills as much, if not more so, than ACE... We have already acknowledged the lives he saved this past year and now it is my great pleasure to recognise his actions of last Monday. He risked his own life to save a respected member of the ACE team, and while he didn’t emerge unscathed, I know that we are all glad to hear that his injuries are only temporary. Virgil, would you step up here?”

Virgil did so at some speed when Butch’s slap on the back propelled him towards the stage. He stood there, trying to work out where to place his green hands, and feeling uncomfortable under the gaze of all the eyes that stared at him as Jeff said a few more words of praise. His award was placed on to a table for him to remove later...

Jeff smiled. “It’s customary at this junction to offer a handshake,” he said. “But under the circumstances,” he indicated the protected hands, “maybe we’d better forgo that particular tradition.”

“That’s okay,” Virgil replied. “I’ll make do with a paternal hug...” he held his arms open, “...Father.”

Jeff’s face lit up at the admission. “I’d be glad to... Son.”

The effect on Virgil’s co-workers was immediate and mixed. Some sat stunned. Some uttered exclamations of surprise. Others crowed that it was what they’d suspected and in some cases money changed hands. There were a few mutterings of anger. Winston looked at Rex and mimed chalking one up to them. Louis told anyone who’d listen that he’d always known. So did Butch, adding: “But I didn’t tell no one!”

The Tracy brothers were on their feet, laughing and applauding.

“Aw, gee,” John moaned. “I guess that means you and I are going to have to share the estate, Alan.”

Bruce nudged Greg. “Look at Mr Watts’ face.”

Max Watts was a picture. His eyes were wide as they stared up onto the stage where father and son embraced. Like Virgil earlier, his jaw had dropped open. His already sunken cheeks had turned a paler shade of grey. His nurse, concerned by his reaction, attempted to take his pulse and her patient, wrapped up in his stupor, let her.

Jeff clapped Virgil on the shoulder. “I think you’d better say a few words.”

“I think you’re right.” Virgil stepped up to the microphone and the room stilled. “Firstly I’d like to offer an apology to those of you who didn’t know of my relationship to Jeff Tracy. My name is Virgil Tracy and I am proud to be his son. I’m not sorry about that, but I am sorry that I deceived most of you. I only did it because I didn’t want to receive special treatment because of who my father was...” He screwed his face up in a wry grin. “And when I first started here you all ensured that I succeeded beyond my wildest dreams!” There was a somewhat embarrassed chuckle from the audience.

Virgil looked directly at Max Watts. “I want to assure you that anything that a first year employee wouldn’t say to the owner of the business won’t be said by me to Jeff Tracy.” He glanced at his father. “And quite a few things that a son might say to his father won’t be said either. I didn’t join ACE to cause trouble. I joined because I wanted to get the experience of working for one of the top engineering workshops in the country. Some of those experiences were a bit different from what I’d originally envisaged, but I’ve enjoyed working with you all, and I’ve enjoyed working for ACE. Well... except for maybe one or two things.” He held up his hands and his audience laughed. “I can’t say that working here was ever boring.”

“Except when on the linisher,” Bruce whispered.

“Tonight a few people have suggested that I should re-evaluate my future,” Virgil admitted. “Someone said that I should stay working at ACE. Someone else said that I should become a fire fighter or paramedic. Well...” Virgil paused for dramatic effect. “I’m here to tell you all that I’ve made up my mind what I’m going to do with my life. As soon as I’ve got full use of my hands back I’m going to drop out of society, join a commune, grow my hair long, and become a full time artist...” Poker faced he looked down to where his family was gaping back at him in dumbstruck horror. Gordon’s expression of utter dismay was particularly gratifying.

The sight of mortified Tracys was too much and Virgil couldn’t help but laugh. “And my brothers say I didn’t know how to tell a joke...! Nope. My original plans still stand. And I hope that, compared to this one, next year turns out to be a quiet year!”