THE UNDEAD PAST by QUILLER RATED FRPT

Brains tries an experiment, but gets more results than he bargained for.

I'd had the idea for a time-travel story for a while, but it took lying in bed with a dose of flu just before Christmas to see how it could be done. So if you don't like it, blame the workings of a fevered brain!

As usual, I must thank Purupuss for proofreading and making helpful suggestions, and Gerry Anderson and his team for creating the Thunderbirds characters. Other original characters you will meet in succeeding chapters are my own creation, but one or two belong to history. The memory processor described in the first chapter is from the John Theydon 'Thunderbirds' novel (pub. 1966)

Chapter One: Unlocking the Past
Chapter Two: Scott 1944
Chapter Three: John 1942
Chapter Four: Alan 1928
Chapter Five: Gordon 1883
Chapter Six: Jeff 1849
Chapter Seven: Virgil 1828
Chapter Eight: Past into Present

Unlocking the Past

"Is this your time machine, Brains?" Virgil, sitting in a reclining chair in the centre of Brains' workshop, watched as the young scientist entered from one of the store-rooms at the back, carefully carrying a metal helmet with wires sticking out of it.

"N-not exactly, Virgil," replied Brains as he settled the device over the other's head and began connecting the wires to leads attached to the computer behind him. "That t-term implies you would be travelling into the past. W-what we are t-trying to do is bring the past to you."

"Hang on," said Scott, who was leaning against the wall opposite his brother, "haven't I seen that thing before?"

"That's right, Scott," came to reply. "This is the device I once used to try and scan your memories. Now I will be using it in reverse, using the memory processor to insert the memories of one of your ancestors into Virgil's brain, based on the DNA I took from him this morning."

"So that's why you wanted a sample of my blood?"

Brains nodded. "Yes, it is comparatively easy to extract DNA from blood. As you know, your DNA holds genes passed down to you from your ancestors. I think I have worked out of a way of extracting the experiences of one of your forefathersfrom these genes."

Just the then door of the workshop was flung open to reveal the two youngest Tracys. "Have we missed anything yet?" asked Alan, pulling up a chair and sitting down where he could watch his older brother.

"No," replied Virgil, "Brains is still wiring me up to the mains. I think he's been watching too many Frankenstein movies."

"There w-won't be much to see anyway," said Brains, frowning as he concentrated on making the connections. "The thought processor will put Virgil into a light sleep; that's the easiest way for the brain to assimilate new memories. He will simply feel like he is dreaming. Hopefully, when he wakes up, he will be able to tell us his experiences."

"Let's hope it won't just be half an hour of great-great-great grandfather steering a pair of mules pulling a plough up and down a field on the Kansas farm," said Alan.

"Or great-great-great grandmother in labour giving birth to great-great grandfather," quipped Gordon.

Virgil paled at this prospect. "That's not likely, is it, Brains?" he asked.

"I d-don't think so, Virgil," came the answer. "If my theory is correct then you will get the memories that are closest to your own thought patterns. I'm pretty sure that it will be a male ancestor, at least."

This idea seemed to cheer Virgil up. "So if we had an ancestor who was a painter I might get their memories?"

"Yes," put in Gordon, "a house-painter."

"Just remember," said Alan, waving his finger in front of Virgil's face, "don't go killing any of our great-grandparents or we might not be here when you get back!"

"That c-can't happen, Alan," put in Brains. "Virgil will only be g-getting a memory of past events; he won't be there as a participant."

Scott looked over towards the door. "Should we wait for Father?"

Gordon shook his head. "No, he's got Tin Tin downloading some data for him for the new contract he's bidding for, but he wants to hear all about it when we've finished."

"So does John," put in Alan. "I was talking to him about it yesterday when we changed shifts. He said it sounded like 'genealogy without tears'."

"I'm n-not sure that's entirely a-accurate, Alan," said Brains. "This experiment will, I h-hope, give access to the memories of one of your ancestors, b-but there will be no way of knowing w-which one, except from external c-clues. Virgil will have to try and find out who, where and when he is from his surroundings."

"But it will be a Tracy, surely?"

"N-not necessarily. It could be an ancestor from either branch of the family." He tightened the final connection. "Finished. Are you ready, Virgil?"

Scott looked at his brother. "You still want to go through with this, bro?"

"I might as well," replied Virgil, waving a bandaged left hand. "Until this heals there's not a lot else I can do. I can't even play my piano!" A slip with a screwdriver while working on the Firefly a couple of days ago had left him with a gash across the palm of his hand. While not dangerous, it made operating any sort of machinery difficult so, much to his disgust, his father had made him step down from active duty until it was healed.

Brains pulled a lever, sending the chair that Virgil occupied into horizontal mode. "Close your eyes, please, and try to relax." He threw a switch, causing a soft humming sound to emanate from the machine, and looked around at his audience. "Please remain quiet for a few minutes while the machine sends Virgil to sleep."

There was silence in the room, apart from the humming. The watchers kept their eyes focussed on Virgil's relaxing features, hardly aware of the faint blue haze appearing around the helmet on his head. The humming increased in intensity, rising and falling in a regular rhythm. Frowning, Brains looked at the dials on the computer.

"That's strange," he muttered to himself, "the machine is drawing far more power than I expected for this procedure."

Unseen behind him, the blue light was getting brighter, pulsing in time with the noise. There came a sudden flash, filling the room. Brains turned to see Gordon and Alan slump forwards in their seats, and Scott's body falling to the floor.

"Ah," said Brains to himself, "that wasn't quite the result I was expecting."

A beeping came from his watch. "Brains, come quickly!" Tin Tin's voice carried a note of alarm. "Mr. Tracy's just collapsed!"

"Is Mrs. Tracy OK?"

"Yes, she's trying to revive him now. Brains, we need you."

Brains looked around at the stricken figures in his workshop, thinking fast. "Tin Tin, can you see if you can raise John on the space station?"

"John? But how will that help?"

"Because I don't think he will answer. If my theory is correct, then I think all the male members of the Tracy family are in the process of reliving their past."

Scott 1944

Scott encounters a deadly enemy

The nose of the plane dipped and Scott corrected it automatically. Only then did he realise what he had done.

Hang on - why was he in a plane? He looked around him at the small, enclosed cockpit, and ahead to the whirring image of a propeller blade. This wasn't even a craft of the Tracy fleet.

The last thing he remembered was being in Brains' lab. Did this mean he was getting the memories of their ancestor, as well as Virgil? Were all of them getting it? Even more worrying, were they all getting different memories? How would Gordon and Alan cope with this? He'd have no way of knowing if they were getting into trouble.

A voice came in his ear. "F Foxtrot calling S Sugar. Come in, please."

He looked around and saw another craft flying in formation with him. Was that a Spitfire? During his time in England he had seen one of these famous Second World War fighter planes, now a treasured relic, flying in an air display. Even from that brief viewing, he could not help but admire its sleek lines and ability to turn on a wingtip. Did that mean that he, or rather, his ancestor, was flying one as well? Looking at the cockpit layout that would seem to be the case.

"F Foxtrot calling S Sugar." The voice came again, more insistent this time. "Come in, S Sugar. Can you hear me? Are you having trouble with your radio?"

Scott looked around for a 'transmit' button, then, smiling to himself, he reached up and clicked the switch on his face mask. Who said watching all those old movies was a waste of time?

"S Sugar here. Sorry about that. Had a bit of trouble but it seems to be OK now."

"Thank Pete for that. I was beginning to wonder if you'd nodded off on me. I think I've spotted our target. Bandit at three o'clock, about five hundred feet below us. Change course but maintain this altitude."

"Roger," responded Scott, hoping this was the correct phrase for the time.

The two Spitfires were now above and slightly behind the unknown craft. The vehicle was slender, with squared-off wing-tips and a strange nacelle positioned above the tail. Scott was still trying to remember where he had seen something like this when his companion's voice came again. "I've just realised. This must be one of those pilotless aircraft the boffins were telling us about last week."

Pilotless aircraft. Now Scott remembered seeing one in a museum. Hitler's vengeance weapon, the V-1, also known as the flying bomb. Powered by a simple engine, they were launched from occupied territory across the English Channel and flew until they ran out of fuel, when they would drop from the sky and deliver their deadly cargo.

"God, it's fast! We're nearly at top speed and we're only just about keeping up. Do you think we can take it out?"

"We'll have to do something," Scott replied, "from its course I guess this one's heading for London." He knew that the capital had been the main target for these weapons, and from their altitude he could see the city in the distance, with its barrage balloons floating overhead. "We can't let it get there."

Even as he heard himself speak, Scott hesitated. Brains had said they couldn't change what had happened in the past, but this felt too real, too vivid to be a memory. Scott was in control here, and he knew he had no choice but to act. If he had been drawn to this particular ancestor, then the man must have thought like him, felt like him. This person would not have been the sort who could stand by and do nothing if lives were at risk

"You're right, we've got to do something," his companion replied, oblivious to the debate raging inside Scott's mind. "At this altitude the ack-ack guns won't be able to touch it. I'm going to try and shoot it down."

"Be careful!" Scott replied. "That thing is carrying a ton of explosives. If it goes up, it could take you with it!"

"I'm going to aim for that thing on its back. I bet that's the engine. Hopefully if I do hit the main body they'll have made the casing thicker around the explosives and my bullets will just ricochet off."

Ricochet. That word set up its own echoes in Scott's mind. Rick O'Shay. He recalled Virgil's description of diverting the disc jockey's stricken satellite so it had missed the oil refinery.

"Hang on!" Scott thought rapidly. Yes, he was sure the Spitfire was manoeuvrable enough to make it work. "I'm going to try something first. Give me a minute."

Scott put his plane into a steep dive, trading altitude for speed, until he was just behind the enemy craft. He inched forward until he was flying alongside, with the other's wing just overlapping his at the tip, then twitched the control stick to roll his plane slightly. There was a clunk and the wing of the V-1 lifted, but settled back to level again. Scott tried again, pushing slightly harder this time, praying that the Spitfire's wing would stand up to the strain, but again no result.

"Come on, baby, you can do this," Scott muttered as he crept even closer, until his wing was barely inches from the other craft. This was the closest formation flying he had ever done, and would have got him thrown out of his old squadron on his ear. He threw the Spitfire into a sharp roll. There was a load bang as the wings touched and as he rolled inverted he saw the V-1's wings tip to vertical, before it rolled belly up. Losing its aerodynamic ability, the deadly craft dropped from the sky like a stone, and as Scott righted his own craft he looked down to see a smudge of brown as it impacted on the fields below.

"You did it! Good God, that was the most amazing bit of flying I've ever seen!" The pilot's voice was breathless with excitement. "When I get back I'm going to file a report. There'll be a medal in this for you if I have any say in it. Can you teach the rest of us that trick? It would be great if we have a way..." The voice faded into static, and Scott reached up to press his hand to his earphones. Then he realised his vision was greying out as well.....

John 1942

John comes face-to-face with one of his heroes

One minute John was sitting at the control console on TB5, then there was a sensation of falling. He opened his eyes and looked about him in puzzlement. He was sitting in a rather worn, overstuffed armchair in what looked like the lounge of some English gentlemen's club or, as there were women here as well as men, a rather down-at-heel English country house. A fire crackled in the grate and the buzz of conversation hung in the air. His eyes scanned the room, taking in more detail. People were sitting in small groups, some drinking, others reading or playing cards. A couple of women were knitting. Most were in civilian dress but some dressed in what he recognised as British Army or Naval uniform.

Was this some sort of hallucination? Had the air control on TB5 gone wrong, giving him too little oxygen, or too much? No, this felt too real. He clenched and unclenched his fist, then picked up the cup beside his chair. The coffee was tepid and slightly bitter. Other details were too vivid as well - the pall of cigarette smoke that hung over the room, the sound of rain pattering on the windows.

John suddenly recalled Brains' experiment. Had he got caught up in it too? If so, the only thing to do was to sit back and ride it out. He just hoped Brains realised what was happening and was even now (wherever/whenever 'now' was) working to correct it.

His attention was brought back to his present situation as a dishevelled figure flopped down into the vacant seat opposite him, and leant his head back in the chair with an air of despondency. John took in the familiar features, the bow tie, the sloppy cardigan with pipe and tobacco pouch in the pockets and the carpet slippers, and it was all he could do to keep his jaw from dropping open. Now he knew when and where he was. Sitting opposite him was the scruffy figure of Alan Turing, regarded by many as the father of modern computing and a person John had practically worshipped ever since High School. That meant this place was Bletchley Park, the Allies' code-cracking centre from the Second World War responsible for deciphering the German Enigma code. John looked about him with renewed interest.

Turing gave a heavy sigh and rubbed his hand across his forehead. He looked exhausted.

John leant forward, concerned, "Can I get you a drink, sir?"

Turing opened one eye and regarded him with amusement. "I don't usually rate a 'sir' from you Yanks, but thank you, Jack, a cup of tea would be lovely. Two sugars, please and damn the rationing!"

John went over to the tea trolley and came back with a cup of tea and a couple of biscuits, which he placed on the table before resuming his seat.

"Anything I can help with," he had to bite back another 'sir', instead adding "Professor? Sometimes it helps to talk a problem through out loud - you might even hear yourself coming up with the answer." John had used this technique before with Brains when the little scientist had hit a mental block.

Turing stirred his tea with a dispirited air. "Oh, it's just that I've got the damn Ministry on my back again, wanting to know when the new machine will be finished."

"Is there a problem?" John asked cautiously, not quite sure what stage things had reached here - he only had a hazy idea of the timeline.

His companion shook his head. "The construction is going ahead fine - young Tommy Flowers is an artist at turning my schematics into a working model. No the problem is how to put the equations into a form everyone can use. I can see them in my head so clearly, but when I try to write them down..." he trailed off.

"Maybe you just need a break from the problem," suggested John. "Give yourself something else to do. I have a brother who likes to play the piano when he gets like that. He says while he's concentrating on his fingers his brain can go off and come up with a solution."

Turing shot him a quizzical glance. "I didn't know you had a brother, Jack, you've only mentioned a sister before."

'Whoops,' thought John, frantically looking round for another subject. "How about a game of cards, or darts?"

"Hardly my cup of tea, dear boy. I'd go for a walk, but it looks a bit damp out there." John turned to see the rain that was now beating a tattoo on the windows and agreed that 'a bit damp' was the British way of putting it. "Perhaps a game of chess?" Turing mused as he glanced around the room. "Maybe not, seeing as you can hardly throw a book in here without hitting at least three chess champions."

John nodded, "Besides, you ideally need to do something non-cerebral, so your mind can get on with the problem. I've heard Mr Churchill has taken up bricklaying to help him take his mind off pressing decisions of state."

"Bricklaying, eh?" Turing laughed. "Somehow I find it hard to picture our Prime Minister with a trowel and mortarboard. Nice idea, but, in view of the weather, I think I need some indoor pursuit. Well I suppose I could always offer to help the Wrens knit socks for sailors."

"Why not, Professor?" replied John, adding without thinking, "After all, a knitting pattern is a good model for a computer program."

"It is? It is!" exclaimed Turing, pushing himself to his feet. He dashed over to the nearest knitter. "Mavis, quick, let me look at the pattern you're using!" Without waiting for her to reply he tipped her bag upside-down, sending wool, make-up and other items flying. He seized the instructions and scanned them, muttering to himself, "Yes, yes, yes I can see. It will work!" He turned to the room at large. "How many of you ladies can follow a knitting pattern?"

Half a dozen hands were raised in a tentative fashion.

Clutching the pattern in his hand he strode from the room. "Follow me, ladies, we have a pattern to write!"

John sat back in his chair, feeling a glow of satisfaction. Then he was falling again.

Alan 1928

Alan wonders why he is standing on a windswept beach

One minute he was watching Virgil, then there was a moment of disorientation and Alan found himself standing looking out across a beach. There was a taste of salt on his lips and he could feel the touch of a light drizzle on his face.

What was happening? Was he getting the memories instead of Virgil? Had there been some mix up with the blood samples? (Though he didn't see how that could have happened).

He looked around, trying to work out what was going on. He was part of a large crowd, all standing on the dunes at the edge of a long, flat beach. He didn't seem to be with anyone who knew him, which at least saved awkward questions, but made it harder to find out what was going on. Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, the ache in his leg muscles gave him the feeling that he had been standing there for some time.

A lot of people were gazing to their right, as if they were expecting something to happen. Further up the beach a stand had been erected which was packed with more spectators. In the other direction there was a banner strung across the sand. By craning his neck he could just make out the words 'Daytona Speed Meet 1928'.

Daytona? Daytona, Florida? That had been were some of the early land speed records had been set near the beginning of the last century.

Alan started to go through his pockets, looking for a wallet or something that might give him a clue as to his identity, but just then a loudspeaker crackled into life. "Mr. Frank Lockhart is about to begin his run in the Stutz Black Hawk," said the announcer, bringing an excited buzz of response from the crowd.

"Here she comes!" called a voice.

There was a distant roar of engine noise, increasing in volume as it approached. Something shot past Alan's field of vision, leaving nothing but a smell of exhaust and a light pattering of sand returning to Earth. Alan had been expecting some crude lumbering monster but he was entranced. The dainty little white vehicle, sleek and elegant, spoke 'style' to him, and he judged that it must have been doing something in the region of 200mph.

A cheer went up from the crowd. "Did you see that?" queried Alan's neighbour. "Lockhart can sure make that baby move. I'm hoping he'll break Campbell's record today - we can't let the British keep it!"

"When will we know the result?" asked Alan, still fishing for clues.

"He has to make another run back in the other direction. It's the new regulations. Then they work out an average speed. He has to make the second run within the next half hour, so we should be seeing him again soon. He won't have time for another set of runs today; look, the tide has already started to turn. Is this the first time you've been to one of these events?"

At Alan's nod, his neighbour began telling him about the other speed trials he had witnessed, until an announcement came over the PA that the return run was commencing.

Alan watched the white dot approaching, but when it was less than a hundred yards away the vehicle suddenly slewed left towards the waves, then right causing a frightened stir in the watching crowd. The driver seemed to be struggling for control as he veered left again, heading for the seashore. The car hit the water and skittered, bouncing across the waves like a stone thrown across a pond, before coming to rest about fifty feet from the shore, with its nose pointing back towards the sands.

Alan was already running before the car came to a stop, with others from the crowd not far behind him. By the time he reached the stricken car the water was up to his waist, and almost level with the brim of the cockpit. He found the driver sitting there, still holding on to the wheel, a dazed expression on his face, oblivious to the fact that he was sitting in water up to his chest.

"Mr. Lockhart? Frank! Are you alright?"

The driver looked up at Alan, his face creased in a frown. "Wh-what's going on? How did I get here?"

Alan noticed that the man's speech was slightly slurred and realised he was in shock. "It's alright, Frank. You crashed. Don't worry, we'll get you out of there."

"Crashed? How's the car?"

Alan had to suppress a smile at this reaction. "Well, she'll need a good clean, but I think she'll be OK. It's you we've got to worry about first."

Quickly Alan assessed the situation. He was aware that normal procedure would be to get the driver out of the car and carry him to shore, but that was 'normal' for his time, where cars included safety features like built-in back-boards and removable steering wheels. Trying to get a driver out of a car that was a shoehorn fit to start with when the cockpit was full of water would be a tricky operation.

By now the crowd around the car was quite large, and with the tide coming in he was starting to worry about their safety as well. The noise of an engine revving made him look up to see a breakdown truck approaching the water's edge. He doubted if the driver would want to risk such a heavy vehicle in the soft sand.

Alan picked out two of the surrounding bystanders. "You two, go and get ropes from the truck and attach them to the front axle. We'll get the car back to dry land before we try to get the driver out."

He then turned his attention back to Frank, who was looking drowsy. "Frank! Don't go to sleep on me now. Do you hurt anywhere?"

Frank focused on Alan with difficulty. "Hurt, no. Cold though...and tired...so tired."

"Stay with us, Frank. Tell me about the car."

As Alan suspected, that got the other's attention. "S'my baby. Designed her myself."

Alan smiled. "You did a good job there." Struck by a thought, he turned to the watching crowd. "I need a newspaper and a scarf."

These items were produced and Alan used them to construct a makeshift surgical collar.

"Whassat?" asked Frank as it was put round his neck.

"That's just to keep you comfortable while we move you. It's all the latest fashion for drivers who decide to take their cars for a swim."

The men by now had returned and attached the ropes. Alan surveyed the throng, picking out some strong-looking individuals and detailing them to pull on the ropes, or push from the back. As usual, when someone gave orders with authority, everyone obeyed without question, pulling and pushing while Alan held Lockhart steady in his seat.

Once they were back on the beach, the water began to drain out of the cockpit, as Alan had hoped it would, enabling him to assess Lockhart for injuries. He could already see blood running down the man's sleeve towards his left hand.

"Frank!" the man was drifting again. "Frank! Can you move your hands for me? Make a fist with each hand. Good man. Now try moving your feet." Through the water sloshing around in the bottom of the cockpit, Alan saw movement.

He looked around at his group of helpers and again picked four men out. "I need two of you each side to lift his body, and the other two to support his legs. I'll hold his head. Try to keep him in the same position he's in now. I don't think there's any spinal damage but I want to play it safe."

Luckily Lockhart was a lightly-built man, and this manoeuvre was accomplished without difficulty. Soon he was sitting on the sand, with one of Alan's helpers supporting his back while Alan checked him for injuries.

A jangling bell in the distance announced the approach of an ambulance, and soon two men were running across the sand, carrying a canvas stretcher between them.

Alan gave them a summary of what he had done, and his conclusions.

One of them gave him an odd look. "You a doctor or something?"

Alan shook his head, then had to bite his tongue as, after all his careful handling, the ambulance men picked up Lockhart like a sack of potatoes and dumped him on the stretcher before heading back to their vehicle. He shook his head. What was that line John was always quoting 'The past is another country, they do things differently there'?

"Hey mister!" a voice interrupted his musing. "Can I have a word?"

He turned to see a man carrying a notebook, a camera slung over his shoulder. "I'm Ben Cook, Associated News. I saw what you did, going in the water and everything. You saved that guy's life! Can I have your name? This story could go national!"

"No!" Alan backed away hastily. How could he give his name when he didn't know it himself? "I don't want to be interviewed. And no pictures!" he added firmly as he saw the reporter reach to unsling his camera.

Alan turned and made his way back into the crowd, managing to lose his pursuer. He was just breathing a sigh of relief when another though struck him. "You saved that guy's life!" Had he? Should Lockhart have died today? Brains had said they couldn't change the past, but what if he was wrong? Had he altered history?

Then the dizzy feeling came again....

Gordon 1883

Gordon realises he is in the wrong place at the wrong time

Gordon felt the ground lurch under his feet, then settle down into a steady rocking motion that told him he was on a ship. What had gone wrong? It was Virgil who should be experiencing this, not him. Well, not much he could do about it right now, so he might as well go along with the flow. What was it that Brains had said - that the memory would surface that was closest to the subject's own experiences? So, one of their ancestors had served at sea? That came as no surprise. He looked down at his neatly pressed jacket, noting the ornate 'C' embroidered on each lapel. Some commercial shipping company, maybe?

He wondered when and where he was, but the featureless corridor in which he presently stood gave no clues. He walked along until he could see a door that led onto a deck. As he opened the door, he was aware of a faint tang of sulphur in the air, as if someone had let off a stink bomb. He looked around him, taking in the neat appearance of the deck and the small funnel puffing out smoke. He guessed he was on some small passenger vessel, probably late nineteenth century, judging from the brass fittings and style of furnishings scattered about.

Gordon's instincts were on edge. He didn't know why, but something was wrong. He walked along the deck, running his hand along the wooden rail as he did so. His fingers came away gritty. He had just reached the stairs that led to the bridge when there was a bright flash far away on the horizon on the port side. No sound, nothing else to see, just a flash.

Gordon used a word that would have made his grandmother blanche and ran up the stairs, glancing at his watch as his did so. It showed just after 10am. He burst onto the bridge and, ignoring the startled comments from the crew present, dashed over to the chart table. He flipped open the ship's log that was lying there and a glance at the date confirmed his worst fears. He looked at the charts, then up at the crewman at the wheel, hoping he had enough rank to issue orders. "We're changing course. Head due south, full speed."

The man nodded and swung the wheel, then turned and spoke into a brass tube. Gordon heard the note of the engines change. He looked down at the charts again. They were in the Indian Ocean and he needed deep water, but these charts were not detailed enough. He just had to hope for the best.

A shadow darkened the cabin door as a man dressed in a captain's uniform stood there. "George! What the devil's happening? Why the increase in speed - and the change in course? This is a pleasure cruise, not a race. The passengers don't want to be thrown around like peas in a tin can!"

Gordon opened his mouth to answer as a sound came. He had been expecting it, but even knowing that 'the loudest sound that has ever been heard' was coming your way could not prepare you for this. A sound so loud that your brain gave up trying to describe what it was a sound of, and just curled up in a little ball inside your skull until it was over.

In the silence that followed, the captain, his features ashen, muttered "What in Heaven's name...?"

Gordon glanced at his watch again and did a quick calculation. "That's why, sir. You know that ash that's been falling for the last few days? Well, the volcano that produced it has just exploded." There was no point mentioning the name 'Krakatoa', he doubted if the captain would have heard of it.

"That volcano? That's over a hundred miles away. How can that be a danger to us?"

"Tsunami." Seeing the captain's baffled expression, Gordon tried to explain. "It's exploded under water, sir. The shock wave is even now travelling out in all directions. Our only chance is to be over deep water before it hits us."

"You're talking about a tidal wave?"

"Yes, sir. An explosion that size could generate waves up to 100 feet high." Please don't ask me how I know this thought Gordon, frantically.

"Any idea how long we've got?"

Gordon shook his head. "Sorry, sir. I know how far away we are, but have no idea how fast the wave might be travelling. Maybe an hour, maybe more. But I want to put as much distance between us and the epicentre as I can."

The captain nodded. "Carry on, then. I'll go and make sure everything's battened down and try and pacify the passengers."

They had been steaming along for some time when Gordon's attention was caught by movement off to starboard. He trained his binoculars on it and saw a school a porpoises, swimming with a determination that was unusual in such fun-loving animals.

Gordon walked over to the helmsmen. "See those creatures?" he said, pointing. "I want you to follow them." The helmsman nodded and adjusted the course.

They continued on their journey, now with porpoises riding their bow wave. A couple of times the group changed course, and again Gordon instructed the helm to follow.

The captain appeared in the doorway, accompanied by a man in civilian clothes. They were obviously in the middle of a heated discussion. "I'm very sorry, Mr Baxter, but I am not able to tell you how much longer we have to continue like this. I am relying on my midshipman's expertise."

"Oh, but it's just too tedious being confined below decks like this, Roberts. The womenfolk are starting to complain." He caught sight of the porpoises ahead. "My word, what magnificent beasts! I must tell my servant to break out the guns."

"You'll do no such thing!" replied Gordon angrily, adding "sir" as an afterthought.

Baxter rounded on him. "Now look here, young man. Don't you take that tone of voice with me. I could report you to the company directors when we get back."

"Those beasts, as you call them," replied Gordon, barely able to contain his anger, "might just be saving your life."

"Oh yes, and how are they doing that?" the man sneered.

"We need to be over deep water to be safe, the deeper the better. We don't know where that is. They do. They have so-" he caught himself just in time. "Senses that can detect how far away the sea bed is."

"Sir!" a crewman who had been watching the porpoises through binoculars called out. "They're slowing down!"

"Slow engines!" responded Gordon.

They came to rest with the porpoises just ahead of them. The creatures had lost their sense of urgency now, and were just milling around. Gordon nodded. "We must be over some deep-sea trench. Turn the ship around." He checked the chart and gave a heading. "I want us to be bow-on when the wave hits."

"And when will that be?" queried Baxter in his sneering tone.

Gordon pointed to the horizon, which was marked by a thin black smudge. "Not long now. Here it comes. Brace yourselves, everybody!"

The captain shouted a warning into the speaking tube, then everyone grasped hold of some part of the bridge's fittings. They watched in horrified fascination as the smudge on the horizon became a line, then a dark wall of water that seemed to fill the sky, rushing towards them at unstoppable speed, accompanied by roaring that made Gordon think of jet engines. Baxter whimpered. Then, when the wave was about twenty yards in front of them it collapsed, as if the foundations had been pulled out from beneath it.

"The edge of the trench," whispered Gordon.

The wave when it did reach them was still steep, but no worse than they could cope with, and the ship crested it and ran down the other side.

There were whoops of delight from the crew, quickly stifled by a glare from Roberts, who turned towards Gordon with a smile on his face. "Well, George, I don't know how you knew what to do, but I reckon you saved the ship. There'll be a commendation in this for you, you can count on it."

He held his hand out to Gordon, but as Gordon stepped forward to take it, he found himself falling into a dark pit.

Jeff 1849

Jeff finds an ancestor who is out to make his fortune

Jeff took a step and stumbled to his knees at the unaccustomed weight on his back. His eyes started to water as searing cold air entered his lungs and he found his hands buried in something soft and white. Snow? Bewildered, he looked around him.

The landscape was white, snow covering the branches of the pine trees that lined the narrow track he was following, and softening the outlines of bare rocks.

"Come on, Jethro, we can't stop here," a voice came from beside him.

"Yes," came another voice from his left, and Jeff felt an arm link with his own, pulling him to his feet. "Stop here and we'll freeze to death. Not much further now. Just over the top of this pass, then it's downhill all the way to California!"

"And all that gold, just lying around, waiting for us to pick it up!" said the first man again, supporting Jeff from the other side. "I'll break trail for a while, Jethro. I think you're getting tired. You follow me and Hank can bring up the rear."

"OK, Joe," said the other. "Let me know when you want me to take over from you."

Jeff nodded, his mind still dazed, and fell into place between his two companions. As they trudged along through snow that came up to their knees, his brain whirled as he tried to make sense of what was happening. One minute he'd been sitting at his desk, then without warning he found himself here - wherever that was.

California, one of them had said, and gold. The California gold rush? That meant this was 1849. Had he somehow been caught up in Brains' memory experiment? He was going to have words with the young scientist. Involving him was totally irresponsible - suppose he had been in a meeting when this flashback had occurred, or worse still, flying over the ocean? However, that was a problem for later. While he was here, at least he could see what his ancestor was like. Jeff quite liked the idea of being descended from a pioneer who was prepared to trek halfway across the continent to make his fortune, and he looked around him with renewed interest.

More snow was falling now in thick white flakes, making it hard to see. It also had the effect of muffling all sound, so they trudged along in an eerie silence, broken only by the occasional muttered curse when one of his companions stubbed a toe on some rock hidden beneath the white covering.

Both he and his companions were bundled up in many layers of clothing. Putting a hand to his face, he realised that, like his friends, he was wearing a fur hat and sporting a beard frosted with ice crystals.

It was hard to judge any sense of time as they trudged along, climbing slowly. The track was narrow, but had obviously been used by others, as they occasionally passed some item of debris that had been dropped or abandoned along the way. At one point they saw a derelict wagon, its back axle broken, that had been pushed off the track. Jeff wondered if he and his companions had lost their own wagon, and how far they had been carrying the heavy packs that burdened them.

Jeff's companions had already swapped places on the trail once, and he was just starting to wonder if he should volunteer for his turn at breaking trail when a shape loomed up ahead of them. Visibility was poor in the thick snowfall, but he had just managed to make out the form of another covered wagon when he heard a shout "Ma! Someone's coming!"

A figure approached, walking with difficulty, her long skirts hampered by the snow. "Sirs, please, we need help. Our wagon is stuck. My husband is sick with fever and the boys and I," here she indicated the two smaller figures standing behind her, who Jeff judged to be in their early teens, "cannot move it on our own."

Hearing this, Jeff's companions stepped back, shaking their heads. "Fever?" said Joe. "No way. I'm not risking that."

"Nor me," added Hank. "I haven't come this far to risk everything, not when we're this close."

"Sirs, I beg you," cried the woman, "I have no-one else to turn to!"

Jeff felt a flash of anger towards his companions, then suppressed it. Who was he to judge them? He had no idea of the hardships they must have endured to get this far. "Fine, if you two don't want to help, I'll do it on my own. You go on ahead, I'll catch you up later." He unhitched his pack and watched his companions walk away then turned back towards the woman. "Get your boys to cut some branches from the trees. We'll put them under the wheels to help them grip. Meanwhile I'll help you unload the wagon; we want to make it as light as possible."

It took some time to unpack the wagon. While this was being done, Jeff had a quick look at the man lying, shivering and fretful, on the bed inside. He suspected the man's condition was as much due to poor diet and exhaustion as to any disease: the whole family had the gaunt look of those near starvation, but then Jeff supposed he himself probably looked no better. The trail had taken its toll on all its travellers, and whatever gold they eventually found in California would come at a high price.

Jeff's next task was to unhitch the pair of oxen that had been standing shivering in their traces and walk them up and down the trail a few times. This had the dual purpose of not only warming up the beasts' muscles but also flattening the snow for a short distance in front of them. The animals looked as exhausted as their owners.

Eventually everything was ready and they took their places, the woman on the driver's seat, the boys behind one back wheel and Jeff with his shoulder to the other.

"Go!" shouted Jeff. The woman cracked the whip, the oxen heaved at the traces and Jeff and the boys pushed. The wagon rocked slightly.

"Again!" called Jeff.

Once more the oxen pulled, their breath coming in puffs of steam. This time the wagon inched forward slightly, but settled back into its ruts again.

"Okay," called Jeff. "We've broken it free of the rut. One more good push and we can get it moving. Come on, boys; give it all you've got! Now!"

This time as they pushed, Jeff felt the wheels grip the branches that had been placed in front of them, and the wagon rolled free.

The boys were just packing the last of their possessions back in the wagon when the woman approached Jeff. "How can I thank you? You saved us all." She took his hand and pressed it between hers.

"That's alright ma'am, glad I could help."

"We probably would have died if you hadn't stopped to help us. I don't have much to spare, but I'd like you to have this. It's something I'd been working on as we came along the trail." She pressed a folded piece of cloth into his hand.

Jeff opened it and felt a tingling in his spine. It was a sampler, worked in intricate stitching, and a sight all too familiar to him. He had seen this every day of his childhood, hanging in a frame on the wall of the farmhouse in Kansas. The colours had faded then, but now the letters were bright and clear.

'Never give up at any cost'

Virgil 1828

Virgil finds himself in familiar surroundings

The heat, noise and smell hit Virgil like a series of physical blows, and he staggered under the impact.

"Victor? Victor, are you unwell?" He felt a touch on his shoulder and he turned. Illuminated in the flickering light, a young man with dark hair and sideburns was looking at him with concern. The man's face was familiar, but Virgil couldn't put a name to it.

A shout sounded in the distance and the other man turned to face it, then back towards Virgil, pointing to a wooden stool. "Rest for a moment and catch your breath while I go and see what this new problem is."

Virgil found himself staring after the other man who was walking down a passageway that stretched away into the distance. The passage, no, tunnel, lined with brickwork and lit by flickering lanterns, was divided into two by a series of brick pillars, some still under construction. It was by one of these that his companion had halted and was now involved in an animated discussion.

Elsewhere the scene was a hive of activity. Men, some stripped to the waist in the heat, were dragging wagons piled with soil along rails that ran down the tunnel away from him, while through the arches between the pillars he could see other workers pushing wagonloads of bricks back in his direction.

An outburst of hammering brought his attention back to the scene in front of him where another group of men were erecting scaffolding around another brick pillar that had now reached shoulder height.

On Virgil's other side more men, using a rope and pulley, hauled a load of bricks up to roof level of a two-storey platform, their shouts echoing off the walls. Just beyond this platform the tunnel ended in a curious construction. Virgil stood, trying to get a better look. The wall had been divided into compartments, three rows high and about a dozen across, in each of which he could see a man working.

Virgil shook his head, trying to make some sense of what he was seeing. The noise and heat did not help, nor did the smell. There was a dampness to the air, a hint of sulphur, and an under-taste like the bottom of a sewer. Still trying to get a grasp on what was going on, Virgil looked down at himself, seeing a coarse and stained white shirt and trousers of a hard-wearing fabric. In front of him was a worktable made by resting a board across a couple of trestles. It was piled with plans and documents which Virgil bent to examine, hoping for some clues.

The first sheet he looked at was a cross-section of the tunnel, with annotations in the margin, some crossed out and amended. The second was a longitudinal section, showing the length of the tunnel as it stretched under a body of water, with buildings shown on the land at either end. Written across the top of this plan was the inscription 'Thames Tunnel' and the initials 'MB'.

Virgil's head came up with a start of recognition and he looked down the tunnel with renewed interest. He knew this place. He had been here. In the last year of his engineering degree, he had travelled round Europe with a couple of friends, visiting places of special interest to engineers. This place, the first tunnel ever built under water anywhere in the world, had been one of their main reasons for visiting London. He and his friends had walked through the tunnel, regarded by experts as one of the wonders of the engineering world. At one time in its history it had been taken over as part of the London underground railway system, but since the closure of that network had become a museum to the men who had designed and built it. He had never guessed that one of those men was an ancestor of his. That thought made him proud.

He turned once again to look at the tunnelling shield, designed by Marc Brunel. Apart from replacing men with machines, the basic idea for tunnelling through soft soil was to change little in the next 200 years. Each man excavated a few inches in front of him, supporting the surface with a series of boards. Once the whole vertical section of his cell had been dug out, the metal walls around him were jacked forwards, while behind him bricklayers constructed a supporting wall.

Thinking about Marc Brunel and his design brought a sudden realisation. He whirled around to face the young man who was now heading back in his direction. No wonder he had looked familiar. This was Isambard Kingdom Brunel, regarded by many as the greatest engineer of the 19th century. Virgil was taken aback by how young he looked, but then most portraits and photographs of him had been made in his later years. Thinking hard, Virgil recalled that Isambard had taken over running this project from his father when he was only twenty. Ye gods, he was younger than Alan!

The young engineer came up to the table and gave Virgil a searching look. "Are you feeling any better, Victor?" He picked up a lantern that was resting on the table in front of them and examined it closely. "According to Mr Davy's ingenious lamp, the air is no worse than usual." He pulled a pocket watch from his waistcoat and examined it. "We are coming to the end of your shift. Perhaps you are just tired."

"No, I'm fine, sir. Sorry about that."

"I am glad to hear it. Have you had chance to consider our problem?"

Virgil made a guess, based on what he could remember of the tunnel's history. "The soil quality?"

The other nodded. "Yes. According to the survey we should be running through a seam of blue clay. What your navvies seem to be excavating at the moment is little more than mud."

"You're concerned that we might have a breach?" Virgil could remember that there had been several such incursions of the river water during the tunnel's construction.

Brunel nodded again, his face grave. "Yes, we don't want another one of those. Do you have any suggestions?"

Virgil racked his brains, trying to remember what resources were available at this time. "Could we try taking samples from to bottom of the workface, or from the floor of the tunnel? Maybe we'd hit firmer soil if we went a little deeper. Or perhaps we could send down a diver from above to see if there are any dips in the riverbed where we're working. The Thames is tidal at this point, it would only need a strong tide or a heavy rainfall further upstream to scour away some of the surface. Maybe we could reinforce it in some way."

"That sounds like a good idea. We could dump bags of clay that we've excavated over any weak points. I like the way you think, Victor. You're wasted as a navvie foreman. I've decided to promote you to the engineering staff, and I'll see you get some technical education to help you use your that practical mind of yours."

"Thank you, sir." Virgil realised that such an offer would be a step up for a man in his position.

The other man laughed and slapped him on the back. "You might not thank me so much when you realise how hard I'm going to work you. Now let's go and talk to these men of yours and see what they are digging out at present."

"Okay", replied Virgil without thinking as they turned towards the digging shield.

"O-Kay?" his companion echoed. "Is that another of your Cornish expressions, Mr Treece? What was that one you told me the other day - that 'emmet' was your word for 'ant'? No matter, I can forgive your county such a strange language when they produce the best miners in the kingdom."

The two men ducked under the wooden platform where the bricklayers were working and approached the shield, splashing through puddles as they went. A small amount of water was seeping through the shield and running off the platform. Virgil realised that this also accounted for the smell. At this date London had no proper sewage system and the whole of the Thames was little more than an open drain.

They climbed a ladder until they were in the top row of cells. Brunel stepped onto the platform and spoke to one of the men. "How is the work going, er...Collins, is it?"

The man, his face and bare arms streaked with mud and grime, turned to face them. "Not good, sir." He moved aside slightly so they could see the front of the shield. "This is more like soft mud than clay. See, I can almost scrape it away with my fingers."

The engineer nodded, his expression grave. "Yes, I see. Thank you, Collins." He motioned to Virgil and the two of them made their way back down the ladder. Once on the ground he turned. "I have to decide whether we should push on quickly and hope this soft patch ends soon, or take measures to reinforce the area. That's why I like your idea of taking samples. We'll use the longest augur we can find, then at least..."

There was a shout from the top row of cells, and a jet of liquid mud shot out of the wall. Brunel put his hand back on the ladder to climb up, but he had only put one foot on the rung when water erupted from the two neighbouring cells with such force that one of the workers was propelled backwards onto the bricklayers' platform. The engineer pulled a whistle from his pocket and gave three short blasts. "Everybody out! Head for the shaft, as fast as you can!"

He and Virgil both waited by the shield until all the men were on the ground and running back down the tunnel, before they followed. By now the water, black and silty, was swirling up around their knees. One young lad, who looked no more than fourteen, slipped and fell. Virgil helped him to his feet and pushed him down towards the entrance.

They were still only halfway there when, with a mighty roar, a mass of water bore down on them, plunging the tunnel into darkness. Brunel was knocked off his feet and Virgil grabbed hold of the man's sleeve to stop him being swept away. He felt a sharp blow on his shoulder and reached out to ward off a mass of planks that were being carried past by the current.

Virgil bent in the waist-deep water to help his companion to his feet. "Can you stand, sir?" he yelled, trying to make himself heard over the roaring of the water.

"My knee, I think something hit it," the other replied, his voice racked with pain. Virgil hauled the young engineer to his feet, but from the other's stifled gasp he suspected there were some internal injuries as well. But with the water now up to their chests this was not the place to do triage.

Half-carrying his companion, Virgil struggled along until he could see daylight filtering down through the entrance of the tunnel. He felt he had never seen a more welcome sight. Just before they reached the arch there came another wave of water which swept everyone still in the tunnel off their feet. The water rose up the shaft, carrying men and debris with it. Virgil had one arm held tightly round Brunel's body, as the other seemed on the verge of losing consciousness, and used his other arm to swim for one of the flights of stairs where he could see men waiting to haul their fellow workers to safety. He was relieved to find that his ancestor seemed to know how to swim, but found the heavy clothes he was wearing were pulling him down.

He had almost reached the stairs when the water level seemed to drop, pulling them back down with it. Virgil redoubled his efforts and at last managed to reach the stairs where eager hands reached to take his burden.

A hand closed over his own wrist, but at the same time the undertow was dragging him back under water. He struggled to come back up towards the light, but it seemed like another pair of arms was holding him down, and he felt himself being drawn under, into the swirling darkness.

Author's Notess: 'Navigators' or 'Navvies' was the name given to the construction workers who built the canals and railways across England in the 18th and 19th centuries.

The Thames Tunnel was finally completed in 1843 and now forms part of the London Underground network.

My thanks to the staff of the Brunel Museum, Rotherhithe, for their help in writing this chapter.

Past into Present

Virgil struggled, desperate to free himself and return to the surface, at the same time holding his breath and squeezing his eyes tight shut, acutely aware of how poisonous the river water would be.

A stinging blow to his face made him gasp, but instead of putrid water he found he was inhaling cool, clean air.

"Relax, Mr Virgil. Just breathe normally. The danger is past."

Virgil opened his eyes and looked up into Kyrano's wizened features. He sat up, his chest still heaving, as Kyrano's grip on his arms relaxed. He looked around to see Scott sitting hunched forward on the floor, shaking his head as if to clear it, Brains leaning over Gordon and Tin Tin helping Alan to a sitting position.

"What's been going on? Did you guys get that memory too; Brunel, the tunnel?"

Gordon sat up, "No, I heard Krakatoa explode; it was awesome!"

Scott climbed to his feet, bracing himself on the wall for support. "I was flying a Spitfire." Though still clearly shaken by the experience, Virgil could see the gleam in his brother's eye.

Brains looked around as the Tracy boys all got up, Gordon and Alan both still a little unsteady. "I think a h-hot drink is required after a shock like that. You n-need to get your blood sugar levels up. Kyrano, c-could you oblige?"

Kyrano bowed. "Of course. Would you like me to bring it down here?"

Scott shook his head. "No, that's OK, Kyrano, we'll meet you in the lounge."

"Y-yes," added Brains. "I th-think Mr Tracy is going to want an explanation...and an apology."

"Dad got involved too?" asked Alan. "I wonder what he saw."

Brains reddened. "I'm a-afraid so."

Gordon put his arm round their friend's shoulders. "Don't worry about it, Brains. I'm sure he found it as fascinating as the rest of us did."

As the group entered the lounge, they found their father in conversation with John. Both wore a familiar, slightly bemused, expression.

"Hi there, John," Virgil waved at his brother's picture. "Don't tell me you got caught up in this as well?"

John nodded, his face full of enthusiasm. "You'll never guess who I met!"

"Sit down, boys," said Jeff, taking up position on one of the sofas. "I think we all have stories to share."

The sun was nearly touching the horizon, and the table in the lounge strewn with empty coffee cups and plates by the time they had finished exchanging their tales. Brains had finally stopped apologising for the unexpected results of his experiment, and now a heated debate was raging.

"I tell you, Brains, it was far too real to be a memory," said Gordon. "We had full sensory perception - I could smell the air and feel the ash under my fingers."

"Yes, and we were in control of our movements too, " said Scott, thinking of the way he had manoeuvred his aircraft.

"If we did actually go back into our ancestors' lives," mused John, "then wouldn't our actions have become part of the memories that they have handed down to us?"

"Th-that's an interesting theory, John," replied Brains, "b-but not something I am comfortable with. If I had thought there was any chance of your influencing the past, then I would never have started this experiment. It would be too dangerous."

"But did we change anything," put in Virgil, "or did we just do what our ancestor would have done at the time? I know my actions were part of history. Isambard Kingdom Brunel was injured when the Thames Tunnel breached during construction. Because of that he went to Bristol to convalesce. While he was there he entered a competition to build a suspension bridge, and this was the start of his career. The contacts he made while he was there led to him winning the contract to build the railway to London, and go on to build his steam ships."

"I'm sure my ancestor would have done the same as I did, too," said Gordon. "Anyone hearing that bang in conjunction with the ash that had been raining down would have wanted to put as much distance between themselves and the source as possible. Letting the porpoises guide them to safety is something sailors had been doing for centuries. The only difference was that I knew why I was doing it."

"My suggestion was a known fact too." John's voice came from the wall. "Eighteenth century silk-weavers even used punched cards to enter their patterns on their weaving looms, just as the early post-war computers did."

"You're OK as well, Scott," said Virgil, turning to his brother. "You may have got the idea from me, but I remember reading that some of the crack fighter pilots were able to divert the flying bombs in that way; that's what gave me the idea for dealing with Rick O'Shay's satellite in the first place."

Scott shook his head. "No, Virgil, that can't be right. From the way the other pilot was talking, this must have been one of the first flying bombs they'd seen. No-one had done what I did before."

"Hang on," said Gordon, his brow wrinkling as he worked this through. "Scott got the idea from Virgil, and Virgil got it from the wartime pilots, but they got it from Scott." He paused and looked up, "so, who thought of it first?"

Apart from telling his story, Alan had been uncharacteristically quiet throughout the whole discussion. As his brothers turned towards him, he reddened. "Uh, I'm not sure about my ancestor. I know the names of most of the land-speed record holders, but I don't remember this Lockhart guy. Should he have died in that crash?"

"Well, it's easy enough to check," said John, turning towards his console on the space station. "Frank Lockhart, you said?" There was a patter of keys then John scanned the screen. "Here he is. Frank Lockhart, racing driver. Born in Cleveland, Ohio, 1908, died ...uh..." He paused and looked at Alan. "died Daytona Beach, Florida, 1928."

There was a collective gasp from the listeners and Alan paled.

John carried on reading the entry. "Yes, it says his car went out of control and he was thrown out, killing him instantly."

Alan shook his head. "No, that's not what happened!"

"Hang on, there's more." John was scrolling through the entry. "Apparently this was his second attempt at the speed record that year. It says here 'in an earlier attempt he lost control of the car and the vehicle ended up in the sea, where it was pulled ashore by onlookers. The names of his rescuers are not known'."

"That poor guy." Alan was visibly shaken, and Tin Tin grasped his hand to comfort him.

Virgil looked across at Brains, his brow wrinkling. "What I'm not sure about is whether Victor survived the flooding of the Thames tunnel. We know Brunel did, but maybe we should check the list of fatalities?"

Brains shook his head. "N-no, Virgil, V-victor would have to have survived, in order to p-pass on his memories. It was you who f-felt you were drowning, not him. Unlike your brothers, your transition back to the present was not a smooth one."

Jeff put his hand on his son's shoulder. "I think we'd all like to know what happened to the people whose memories we shared." Jeff touched the frame holding the sampler that his mother had earlier retrieved, at his request, from her rooms. "I wonder if the woman who gave this to Jethro made it to California, and what happened to her. I never even asked her name," he added, his voice soft.

He looked up at his sons. "I've decided I'm going to employ a professional genealogist to find out more." He looked around at the faces of his sons. "I don't know about the rest of you, but I've found this a humbling experience, knowing how our ancestors thought and felt. It's a sobering thought that saving people's lives is obviously something in the Tracy genes!"

Just then the phone started to ring. Jeff pressed the button, his mind still on the past. "Jeff Tracy here."

"Hello, darling." Lucille's face smiled at him from the screen. "My plane has just touched down at Auckland. Could you send one of the boys to pick me up?"

(I'm mean, aren't I?)