COOKS TOUR by PURUPUSS RATED FRPT

What happens when your past comes back to haunt you?

In my last multi-chapter story 'Celebration Challenge', I hinted and teased with references to the original TV series episodes. This time I am deliberately including, and following on a few weeks after, the events in "Terror in New York City", which was written by Alan Fennell. The prologue was written for those who haven't had the opportunity to see that episode. The rest of the story is mine, but I do not own any members of International Rescue, or any bit of equipment belonging to International Rescue. Nor can I claim Ned Cook, Joe, National Television Broadcasting System, the USN Sentinel (or any of the idiots on board). They all belong to Granada.

As always I would like to thank quiller for her proof reading, help and pestering to get this finished. I would also like to thank Mike from NIWA – Taihoro Nukuangi (the National Institute of Water and Atmospheric Research in New Zealand), for providing me with some much needed facts. Proof that you should never be afraid to ask the professionals for advice.

A note: This story is not based on any particular event, but has been roaming around in my mind for months. As quiller said to me, it's a case of fact following fan fiction. 2nd note: Cook's Tour: the name of Thomas Cook (1808-92), travel agent. A tour, esp. one in which many places are viewed; any journey of wide extent.

No Tracys were harmed in the writing of this story (seriously). Alan Fennell had already done that for me.

Prologue: Terror On Tracy Island

There was a knock on the door. She jumped, startled out of her reverie, and stared at the figure in the doorway with an expression that was one-half defiance, one-half fear.

"They will be home soon, Mrs. Tracy."

"Thank you, Kyrano." Grandma returned her attention to the montage of photographs in her hand. "He will be all right, won't he?" The question was directed to whatever power controlled man's destinies, rather than Kyrano, and her fingers lightly touched the middle photo as she spoke. "Does Brains say what his chances are?" She looked back at the Malaysian manservant.

"No," Kyrano shook his head. "But every inch they draw closer will mean his chance of success will improve."

Grandma nodded. Then she curled her hands into fists of frustration. "Why did the navy shoot at him? Didn't they realise that they were firing on a Thunderbird?"

"Mister John said that they may have mistaken him for a missile."

"A missile? That's ridiculous! That boy wouldn't hurt a fly. Didn't they even think to check who it was?"

"I do not know, Mrs. Tracy."

"I'd like to give the Captain of the 'Sentinel' a piece of my mind!" Grandma replaced the photo on her dressing table before she stood and smoothed down her apron. "Guess I'm not doing any good sitting 'round here."

Together they left her bedroom, silently traversing the house until they reached the lounge.

Grandma looked at the desk. "Where's Jeff?"

"He has gone to Landing Control with my Tin-Tin. Mister Alan and Mister Gordon are already there. All is prepared."

A solitary figure was standing on the patio looking down over the runway. "Any news, Brains?" Grandma asked as she came to stand beside International Rescue's engineer.

"N-No, Mrs. T-Tracy. B-But he is st-still airborne."

Grandma gripped the patio rail tightly and looked out over the Pacific's waters. "Which way will they be coming from?"

Brains pointed out into the nothingness of their immediate environs. "Th-That way."

The three of them stood in silence, straining their eyes for that first glimpse.

Grandma rubbed her eyes and looked away, down to a strip of grey that seemed to disappear into the landscape. Suddenly the island's runway seemed too short for a conventional landing, let alone an emergency one. Butterflies launched into action in her stomach and she couldn't keep a panicked edge out of her voice. "What if he doesn't stop?" she asked the little scientist at her shoulder. "What if he crashes into the cliff? I've always thought that was a silly place to build Landing Control..."

"Be calm, Mrs. Tracy" Kyrano instructed in his soothing voice. "All will be well."

"But what if he crashes into it? Jeff, Tin-Tin and the boys are in there!"

"Th-That's why I'm up h-here," Brains said sombrely. Stress was exacerbating his stutter. "R-Really, t-t-to be t-totally s-safe, w-w-we sh-should be d-down in the b-b-bunkers, in case there's a n-n-n-nuclear exp-plosion."

No one retreated from their vantage-point looking down towards the runway.

Brains looked at his watch. "I'll r-radio J-John to s-see if he h-h-has any news."

John skipped the traditional greetings. "Nothing new to report, Brains. I'm keeping the airwaves clear so they can concentrate on what they are doing."

"You are s-still r-receiving i-information?"

"Only audio. As he said earlier, he's lost all instrumentation. I can't tell you his altitude, bearing, whether the reactor's still intact..."

Grandma felt the butterflies in her stomach leap into life again.

"C-Can you t-t-transmit their c-c-communications through t-to us, p-please?"

"Sure, Brains... Here we go..."

They could hear Scott's voice. Trying to maintain his professional, calm, composed manner despite his obvious concerns, he was issuing instructions and trying to coax the stricken craft and her pilot home.

Now Virgil was talking and once again Mrs. Tracy's butterflies took flight. Her middle grandson's normally soft voice was sounding weak and under strain. Every now and then he'd break his staccato flow of speech with a fit of coughing that clearly racked his body.

Grandma turned away from the blue of the endless sky and Pacific Ocean that told her nothing, and looked back into the lounge. Scott's portrait had come to life, but her grandson's attention was not on the occupants of the Tracy Villa. It was torn between Thunderbird One's controls and instruments, and his brother's plane. Virgil's portrait remained motionless. As John had said, the only information Thunderbird Five was receiving from Thunderbird Two was Virgil's side of the radio conversation.

Grandma turned back to the ocean.

"Can I see something?" Kyrano asked. He pointed. "There?"

Brains squinted into the distance. "Y-Yes. I can s-see something too!"

As if to confirm that the vision was not an illusion they heard Scott's voice. "We're nearly home, Virgil. I can see Tracy Island!"

"I can't... see anything..." Virgil coughed, "for smoke."

"Trust me, Virg. We're nearly there. Hang in there. Not far now."

Thunderbird Two was steadily growing bigger on the horizon, a tail of thick, black smoke dragging behind her. Now they could see, escorting the stricken craft, the smaller dot that was Thunderbird One.

"Why did they not have Mister Gordon stand by in Thunderbird Four?" Kyrano asked. "In case Mister Virgil lands in the water."

"I guess they..." John began. He stopped. Virgil was systematically preparing his craft for landing, dictating each procedure as if he were afraid that he was going to make a mistake and needed Scott's reassurance that he was doing everything correctly.

"Can you see the island now, Virg?" Scott asked.

"Yes..."

"You're doing fine. I know you'll make it, Virgil."

Virgil coughed again.

"Reduce speed," Scott instructed.

"Reducing... Is it enough?"

"A bit more..."

Mrs. Tracy grabbed the handrail and clung to it tightly.

"Remember, all you have to do is land on the runway. Don't worry about turning her round. Keep her straight... Lose height..."

Grandma glanced at Kyrano. He had closed his eyes and appeared to be praying.

"You're nearly there, Virgil..."

Grandma couldn't watch the point of impact. She closed her eyes tightly and tried to shut out the series of explosive thuds that appeared to rock the house as Thunderbird Two punched into the earth again and again. The concussive noises stopped, only to be replaced by the screech of metal against concrete as the great plane scudded along the runway. It was almost as if Thunderbird Two herself were screaming with pain at the injuries she'd received and the torture she was enduring.

Somewhere in the melee, those on the patio could hear Virgil frantically yelling something about the wheels collapsing and then the radio link went dead...

Only when Thunderbird Two's last agonising scream had dissipated did Grandma open her eyes again.

Smoke was rising from beyond the headland that masked the runway.

There was a cheer from the radio. "You've made it, Virgil! You've landed... Virgil...?"

There was no reply.

An icy chill seemed to grip Grandma's heart.

"Virgil? It's Scott. Answer me... please..." When she heard her grandson's desperate pleas go unanswered, Grandma's already frozen heart felt as if it dropped to the pit of her stomach.

"I'd b-better get d-down th-there." Brains pushed himself away from the handrail. Before he turned to go he patted the elderly lady on her shoulder. "D-D-Don't worry. I'm sure it's only a r-radio malf-function." Before she could reply, he hurried away.

"I'm coming, Virgil. We'll get you out. Hang in there..." already Thunderbird One was touching down. The roar from her engines had barely died away before Scott was out of his craft and running for her sister ship. The foam had made the runway slippery and he fell twice before reaching his objective.

Grandma became aware that she had a death grip on something. "Oh! I'm sorry, Kyrano." She released his hand.

"It is all right, Mrs. Tracy" he replied in his precise pedantic manner. "There is no need to apologise."

They returned to the lounge. Gordon's portrait had disappeared. In its place, shot from above Landing Control, a video image of Thunderbird Two, Thunderbird One, and the airstrip was visible. The transporter was lying deathly still; a pale ghost of herself, whitened by the flame-retardant foam that had been sprayed by the extinguishers that had risen from the edges of the runway.

Mrs. Tracy leant on the baby grand piano to steady herself.

"I can't get in!" Frustration could clearly be heard in Scott's voice. "The hatch has jammed!"

"Don't worry, Scott. We'll use the cabin's emergency hatch." Grandma marvelled at how calm and in control her son was sounding. She had no doubts that he was just as worried as she was.

"Wait for me," Scott instructed. "I want to help."

"No, Son. Brains is already here. We can't waste any more time. Move clear and meet us up at the house. Go and look after your grandmother."

Normally such a comment would have had Mrs. Tracy seething in indignation, but this time she watched in concern as her eldest grandson moved a safe distance away from the wreck to observe the rescue that he desperately wanted to be part of. Then he turned and ran towards the house.

Now a new object appeared in the vista displayed in Gordon's frame. Landing Control had slipped from its socket in the cliff face and was trundling forward towards Thunderbird Two; stopping just above the great 'plane's damaged nose. Then, something similar to a lift shaft, descended until it was level the with flight deck windows.

"The cabin's full of smoke," Alan said.

If Grandma's heart had been dropped into liquid Nitrogen, it couldn't have felt colder. Somewhere, on the edge of consciousness, she heard voices. Men talking.

"I'm going to have to break through somehow without letting in more oxygen and fanning the fire," Alan was saying.

"John, give me a visual on Landing Control's vid..."

"Sure, Scott. But you can't see anything yet..."

"Nothing?"

"No..."

"Mister Scott? Your grandmother..."

She was only able to drag her concentration away from what was going on down on the runway when she felt an arm slip around her shoulders. "Grandma? Are you okay?"

She gave a minute nod. "How's Virgil?"

Scott looked back towards Thunderbird Two's video image. "I don't know... Come and sit down. We'll be able to hear over the radio as soon as they find him."

Grandma allowed her oldest grandchild to lead her away from the piano and over to one of the more comfortable chairs. He sat beside her and took her hand.

In front of them, projected onto what had formerly been another painting, was the view from a camera lowered below Landing Control. It was panning over the windows of Thunderbird Two's flight deck. The interior of the pilot's cabin was hidden behind a screen of thick back smoke.

"I've broken through," Alan exclaimed.

"Where's the seat of the fire?" Jeff asked.

"I don't know. I can't see for smoke."

"Any sign of..."

"Negative."

Scott leant forward, forgetting his grandmother. His elbows were digging into his knees, chin resting on his hands, and his heels tapped an impatient tattoo on the floor. "If it hadn't been for those idiots..." he muttered.

The camera continued to track along those impenetrable windows...

Scott was still muttering under his breath. "If I ever meet Cook again, I swear I'll..."

"Hold it! Back the camera up, I saw something!"

At Gordon's exclamation, Grandma Tracy sat forward, resting her arm on Scott's back. He didn't acknowledge her presence; his gaze was riveted on the video playing before them.

"There!" Gordon practically shouted. "I can see him! There! He's to the left of the pilot's seat."

"I need your help, Gordon," Alan said. "There's at least five different hot spots. Two of them are likely to blow. I can't get to him and handle these as well. You know where he is, I'll concentrate on putting the fires out."

"Okay, Alan. I'm on my way."

"Come on, Gordon," Scott muttered.

The camera had stopped panning and had remained trained on the one spot. Slowly the smoke thinned as Alan managed to get Thunderbird Two's various fires under control.

All except those that continued to lick around her unconscious pilot.

"Scott..." Grandma articulated. "Is he..."

Scott appeared to suddenly remember that his grandmother was seated beside him. He straightened so that he was able to comfort her. "He'll be all right, Grandma. He'll be all right..."

Three figures swam into view. One of them sprayed a fire extinguisher at the base of the nearby flames while the other two bent over the prone figure.

"Father and Brains," Scott confirmed.

What they were doing wasn't clear and the pair watching the video had to sit in frustrated silence for what seemed to be hours but must have been seconds.

At last Jeff spoke. "He's alive." The words were uttered as a sigh of relief.

Grandma felt Scott relax slightly.

Gordon moved into shot and, crouching down beside his father, blocked any view of the injured man.

Scott held up his left arm, touched his watch, and then lowered it again without initiating the radio contact. "Come on," he muttered again. "Move, someone."

When they did next move it was to get a stretcher. As the four men picked it up again, Scott stood. "I'm going down to help them."

"Scott..." Grandma rose to her feet quickly. As she did so the stresses of the last hour took its toll and she felt the room sway about her. She grasped his arm.

"Grandma? Sit down," Scott assisted her back into her seat. "Are you okay?"

She looked into his worried face and managed a weak smile. "I'm okay, Darling. I just realised that I'm going to have to miss that reunion with the girls. I've got more important things to worry about now."

"That's not for a few days yet," Scott reminded her. "Virgil'll be fine and you'll be free to go. He'd hate the idea of you missing out on something you've been looking forward to for so long, just because of someone else's stupidity."

"But I can't leave him."

"You can do some shopping while you're away. Get him something special. You always knew what would make us feel better when we were ill."

Grandma considered this proposal. "True. I can never trust the shops to pack the best pieces. I'll see. If he's well enough then I'll go."

Scott smiled. "Good..." There was a noise from the lift and he stood again.

The doors slid open and four men stepped into the room, manoeuvring the stretcher around the corner.

"Here, give me that," Scott took the stretcher handle from Brains and allowed the island's resident medical expert, mumbling things about smoke inhalation and concussion, to hurry on to the infirmary. Tin-Tin followed close at his heels.

Virgil was lying ominously still. A hastily applied pressure bandage over his forehead and an oxygen mask hid much of his face. That which wasn't hidden looked deathly pale.

Grandma Tracy reached out for her grandson, needing to touch him to reassure herself that he was still warm with life, but before her fingers made contact he was carried away from her and into the sick bay...

One: The Tour Begins

Ned Cook sighed. Ever since the events of a few weeks ago, his bosses at NTBS had been treating him, and his cameraman Joe, with kid gloves. His frequent requests to be allowed to work on top news stories had been repeatedly denied.

"Take it easy, Ned," they'd say. "You had a nasty experience and we want to be sure that you are fully recovered. We don't want to risk losing our top news team again."

That's what Ned found so galling. He and Joe WERE a top news team. They had the ability to sniff out stories where other journalists would have said there was nothing. Sure sometimes it meant taking risks... the odd gamble or two... but more often enough it had paid off.

For some reason Ned was reminded of one time when his gamble hadn't paid off. Originally he'd been lucky and had been filming a totally unrelated story, when a nearby oil field had caught fire. This was big news. His luck appeared to have been magnified when they'd learnt that International Rescue had been called in to extinguish the fire and avert an even greater disaster.

Ned remembered looking at the two Thunderbird craft and wishing that he could get an interview with one of their pilots. That would have been the scoop of the century, and would have earned him international fame, journalistic notoriety, and numerous free drinks at the press club.

Ned realised now that he should have known better, that he should have respected International Rescue's requests for secrecy, but at the time he'd found that he couldn't take it any longer. He was close to the biggest story of his career and he wasn't about to let it fly away into the unknown.

With Joe filming on top of the van, he'd positioned the vehicle so that they had a clear tracking shot of Thunderbird One taking off. Ned remembered how he'd just been congratulating himself when Thunderbird One had landed again and the pilot had asked them, quite politely, to destroy the newly exposed film.

This demand, even one put so nicely, had made Ned's blood boil. What right had these people to impinge their demands on journalistic freedom? The world wanted to know about International Rescue and if Ned Cook had his way the world would find out!

He'd denied the man from International Rescue's request.

Ned remembered the thrill of the chase as he'd taken off, cross-country with Joe clinging to the roof of the van, pleading with him to stop. Many times since, Ned had felt guilty about the way he endangered Joe's life that day, but at the time he'd only felt the adrenaline rush of someone who'd done something a little naughty and got away with it.

But he hadn't got away with it. Thunderbird One had tracked him down and somehow, Joe still didn't understand how, had destroyed all the film they had, even the legitimate footage of the oil fire.

The events of that day could have soured International Rescue's attitude towards him and Joe, but they hadn't. A few days later Ned and Joe had been assigned to cover the moving of the Empire State Building from the site it had occupied for over 130 years, to a new one to make way for urban development.

The press releases the NTBS crew had been issued with had stated that every eventuality had been covered, that nothing could go wrong, and that they were going to witness one of the greatest news stories ever.

Well, not every eventuality had been covered, something went wrong – very wrong – and rather than reporting on one of the greatest news stories ever, Ned and Joe became the news story.

Being drowned in a formerly unknown underground river, beneath the ruins of the Empire State Building was not the way Ned Cook had envisaged his life ending. He was still amazed that despite the earlier events, International Rescue had been willing to try to save them both from certain death.

For a while there though, he did wonder if they ever would come to his rescue. For some reason it had taken 24 hours for Thunderbird Four to reach New York and then effect a rescue, succeeding just before their oxygen had run out. Ned wondered briefly why it had taken so long for International Rescue to reach them... He'd heard rumours that could have explained it, but nothing concrete...

Ned looked at Joe and Jasmine, the researcher assigned to their current project, bent over the computer keyboard, punching in the names of various sports-people and trying to find footage that the pubic would find interesting.

"It's Olympic Year," the producer had said. "People like to see what their heroes, and the villains, of past Olympics are doing now."

"Sports?" Ned had said. "You want ME to do a sports story?"

"Not just any sports story," the producer had enthused. "A whole series on the greatest sports event of all! The Olympics!"

"But... But... I don't do sports stories! I never have!" Ned had spluttered.

"Don't think of it as a sports story. Think of it as a researching challenge. It's right up your street. You're just the man to track down these athletes. Some of them appear to have vanished into thin air."

"But why me? Why not some sports journalist who has the contacts? I'm a newshound, not a sports buff."

"And you're also this news office's biggest asset. We don't want to over-stretch you and Joe. We need to know that when the big news story comes along you both are fit and ready to tackle it."

"But we are ready. We're fine! We...!"

"Ned!" The producer had said. And the expression on his face had told Ned that the subject was closed.

He was going to be researching and fronting a series on the athletes of past Olympic Games.

Oh, goodie.

"Who have we got now?" he asked Jasmine, with evident lack of interest.

"Let's see..." Jasmine ran her eyes down the list of notes and then keyed a code into the computer. "Gordon Tracy..."

"And what did he do that was so fantastic?"

"He was one of the youngest Americans to win a breaststroke gold medal," Joe read.

"Fascinating," Ned said in a flat tone.

"He came from Kansas originally."

"Well known for its swimmers," Ned couldn't keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

The video screen showed a shot of a teenager with a shock of wet, red hair, standing proudly on the top of the dais, gold medal around his neck and American Flag in his hand.

"So what's he doing now?" Ned asked.

Joe consulted his notes again. "Says here he works for his father."

"Helps run the general store does he? Or does he drive the tractor on the farm?"

Joe looked at his colleague and friend. "You haven't read any of this, have you?"

"A bunch of jocks all trying to see who can pump the most drugs into their bodies so they can beat other jocks and the drugs squads. What is there to read?"

"So you don't know who this Gordon Tracy is?"

"No. Should I?"

Joe chuckled, as Jasmine laughed outright. "He's Jeff Tracy's son."

Ned stared at Joe. "Jeff Tracy?"

"Yep."

"Multi-billionaire Jeff Tracy?"

"Yep."

"Mr. 'I've got more money than most small nations' Jeff Tracy?"

"So you've heard of him," Joe chuckled again. "It's another reason why young Tracy captured the public's imagination. Jeff Tracy was a hero in his own right, in his time..."

"Tracy senior was an astronaut wasn't he?" Ned asked.

"That's right. If I remember rightly he requested that his name not be linked with his son's, so that any achievement young Gordon made would not be overshadowed by his old man's. It didn't work, of course. The public were fascinated by the son of the astronaut even before he'd won his medal."

"Knowing Tracy's desire for privacy now, that must have been annoying for him."

"I believe so," Joe agreed.

Ned suddenly got that old feeling that told him when he was on the verge of breaking a big news story. He didn't know what it was that would give him that feeling, but he'd had it often enough to not ignore it. "So this guy was one of youngest to get gold?"

"That's right," Jasmine confirmed, bringing up more data on the computer.

"What's the betting his Dad used his business contacts to get him some drugs that, at the time, were unable to be detected by the drug testers? Just that little something extra to buy sonny boy the gold."

Joe looked at his partner and laughed. "You've got your 'I'm onto something' expression, Ned. But you're barking up the wrong tree. There's no way Tracy would allow any of his sons to be involved with drugs. He sponsors numerous drug-fighting campaigns. Heck! It's rumoured that it's one of his foundations that are supplying the funds to stamp out the drug cheats at this Olympics!"

But Ned wasn't about to have his idea totally rejected. "Maybe it's guilt!"

"Guilt?" Jasmine asked.

"We all know what a goody two shoes Tracy is. Maybe Gordon getting his gold is the one indiscretion he's had in his lifetime, and he's trying to buy off his feelings of guilt!"

Joe shook his head. "I don't buy it."

"Well mark my words, there's something fishy about the Tracys. I can feel it. How old would Gordon be now?"

"Early twenties?"

"Right, let's find a more recent photo of him. I'm betting he'll look older than that because of the drugs."

But Jasmine was shaking her head. "I've been looking for a more up-to-date photo, but there's nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing," Jasmine said again. "Gordon Tracy was involved in a hydrofoil speedboat accident a few years later – he was a member of WASP – and although it was widely reported, there's no photos of him. I don't care where you look, and believe me I've been trying since we got this assignment, you'll not find a single recent photo of any of Jeff Tracy's sons."

"How many sons does he have?"

"Five."

"Five sons? And you can't find any photos? Come on, Jasmine. There must be something somewhere. There must be one of one of them coming drunk out of a night club, at some soiree pashing the host's daughter... or the host's son... a mug shot for speeding..."

"Sorry to disappoint you, Ned, but there's nothing. Those guys are so clean I think Tracy must have coated them in Teflon at birth. There even seems to have been some kind of embargo on photos of the youngest..."

"Huh?" Ned stared at the researcher.

"He was a race car driver of some sort. Formula One? Stock Car? I don't know, but I do know that he was good. And I also know that you'll find photos of his car, you'll find photos of him racing in his car, you'll find photos of him wearing a full face helmet, but I'll give you 1000 dollars if you can find a photo of Alan Tracy's face. There's none to be found. I've asked about and apparently a few years ago Tracy senior pulled some strings and got every photo of his sons out of the public domain."

"Every photo?" Ned asked, aghast.

Jasmine nodded. "Every photo."

"I can't believe that. It's impossible..." Ned frowned at the frozen frame of Gordon on the dais. "You know, I'd swear I've seen that guy somewhere..."

"Probably on TV when he got his medal," Joe suggested.

"No... More recently than that," Ned said thoughtfully. "I'm talking within the last few months, not the last few years..." his frown deepened. "I'm sick of looking at that still. There must be an interview with him we can watch."

"There is," Joe said, "but it's still in the old 'Gratin' format. None of our machines can read it. We're going to have to get it copied over to 'Machin' format before we'll be able to view it."

"Ah, the joys of modern technology. Arrange it will you, Jasmine?"

"Sure," the researcher made a note.

Ned was still puzzling over the photo of the triumphant Gordon Tracy. "This is starting to annoy me. I know I've met him... I just wish I could remember where! I've got a feeling that if I knew where it would lead to a story a lot more interesting than the one we've been told to do."

"It might be," Joe said, "but the bosses won't go for it. You and I are supposed to be on 'light duties.' Making a cute and fluffy series about some people who had their 15 minutes of fame and now have been forgotten by all and sundry."

Ned looked at Joe. "You sound as excited by this assignment as I feel."

"Probably less so," Joe admitted. "It's not very challenging filming you interviewing someone. But it's our job, and I figure once we've got through this assignment, they'll feel they've done their bit to mollycoddle us and get us back where we belong."

"So you think we should make this a good show?"

"I think we should make this a very good show, and make the powers that be realise that you and I aren't ready for the scrap heap yet." Joe gave a sly smile. "And if we happen to find something newsworthy on the way..."

Ned chuckled, his spirits revived somewhat. "So... Young Gordon works for his old man, does he? Doing what I wonder? You know, Joe, there may be something to discover in this dead end series yet..."

"Dad." Gordon Tracy stood in front of his father's desk. "We need your help."

Jeff laid down his pen. "Is the tail section giving you problems?"

"No. We can handle Thunderbird Two okay. It's Virgil. He's wearing himself out. I've given up on trying to talk sense into him. Scott's talking to him now, but I think we need to call out the big guns."

Jeff sighed. "He's a menace to himself. I knew I should have confined him to the house for a few days longer."

"Yeah, well, you know Virgil. Where Thunderbird Two's concerned..."

"I know, Gordon. Thanks for telling me..."

Jeff, closely followed by Gordon, stepped into Thunderbird Two's hangar and stopped for a moment to appreciate the work that had been done on the mighty plane. Apart from the tail section, the parts for which had arrived only two days ago, she was almost back to her former glory. "You boys have done well," he complimented.

"Aided by a Fairy Godfather," Gordon grinned.

Jeff refrained from commenting. As they entered Thunderbird Two he reflected that it wasn't only Virgil who'd been overdoing it lately. While his middle son had been recovering from the crash that had almost destroyed his beloved plane, the other boys had worked like demons to bring her back to a useable condition. Over the last couple of weeks, each night at least one of them had skipped his evening meal and had headed straight for bed. Jeff knew that this dedication was the result of not only a desire to get International Rescue fully operational again, but to spare their brother the pain of seeing his 'bird as a wreck.

Jeff had to admit that he'd been just as bad. He'd lost count of the number of times he'd returned to the hangar after everyone else had gone to bed to finish that 'one little job that will only take five minutes'. Several hours later he'd retire himself and next morning there'd be invariably some comment from one of his sons about the fairies that would sneak out at night. He knew that they knew precisely who that fairy was. 'I'm not sure I like that association,' he thought ruefully as they took the lift up to the flight deck.

While Virgil had been recuperating he'd taken the opportunity to redesign the pilot's cabin, filling notebooks with sketches, improvements and ideas. Because of this his brothers, apart from stripping the cabin of its damaged fittings had barely touched it. They'd left Virgil and Brains with almost a clean slate to work with. Now that he was nearly fully recovered Virgil had been pestering his father to let him get started transforming his ideas into reality. Today was the first day that Jeff had weakened and let his son get back to work.

Jeff and Gordon stopped outside the door to the pilot's cabin. They could clearly hear Scott's strong voice gently cajoling his brother. "Come on, Virg. You've done enough for one day. Leave it for now."

"I can't leave it, Scott. I've nearly finished." Gordon was right. Virgil was sounding tired.

"You're practically dead on your feet!"

"I'm all right!" Virgil said testily.

"How long is that going to take?"

"I would have had it finished by now if you and Gordon hadn't interrupted me."

Gordon rolled his eyes at his father.

"How long, Virg?" Scott's voice persisted.

Jeff thought he heard a sigh from Virgil. "Half an hour? Three quarters max."

Jeff had heard enough. He slid open the door and stepped through. "Boys?" He thought he saw relief appear on Scott's face and resignation on Virgil's one. "What are you doing?"

Scott looked pointedly at Virgil.

"I'm just trying to finish this," Virgil held up some wires. "Then we can test the engines."

"He's doing the ignition system wiring," Scott explained before turning back to his brother. "Look, Virgil, even if you do finish this there's no way Thunderbird Two's going to fly until we get the tail section finished. You may as well take a break for the evening. Look at you, you've had it!"

"But..." Virgil started to protest.

"He's right, Virgil," Jeff said. "I'm sorry, but until I'm convinced that Thunderbird Two is airworthy there's no way that I'm going to let her take to the skies... and that goes for her pilot too."

Virgil sadly placed his bits of wire onto what was being transformed into the pilot's console.

Jeff looked about him. "You're doing good work," he commented trying to ease the blow.

"If I could just finish..."

Scott groaned.

"Virgil," Gordon said, "if you're not going to think about your health then at least think of the rest of us."

Virgil looked at his brother, trying to work out where he was coming from.

Gordon continued on. "If you don't take a break Grandma is going to start nagging you and telling you that you should have a rest..." He raised his voice to mimic his grandmother's. "Look at you, Virgil Tracy! You're looking pale." To complete the imitation he pinched his brother's cheeks.

Virgil knocked his hands away.

"Then she'll tell Dad off for not looking after you. So he'll start ordering you away from Thunderbird Two..."

Jeff tried to hide a smile.

"And then," Gordon continued on, "you'll go complaining to Scott about how they're both picking on you..."

"True," Scott agreed.

"And then Scott'll get sick of listening to you and he'll get into one of his moods..."

Scott frowned at his brother, but bit his tongue.

"...And make Alan's and my lives miserable." Gordon finished. "So to save everyone the aggravation why don't you pack it in now and go have a lie down somewhere?"

"But I've done nothing but lie down these last few weeks! Including while you were trying to reach those guys under the Empire State Building! I'm fine! I don't need to lie down!"

"Gordon's right," Scott backed his younger brother up. "If you're not going to think about yourself, then think of the rest of us!"

"Please," Gordon begged.

Virgil shook his head wryly. "I must be tired, because I think that actually makes some kind of sense. Okay... I'll leave it for now."

Gordon winked at his father.

Virgil looked around at his cabin. "How bad did it look before you cleaned up?"

"Pretty bad," Scott admitted. "But not as bad as the sight of you lying there unconscious with the cabin on fire. You had me worried for a bit there."

"Me too," Gordon agreed. "Don't ever frighten us like that again."

"Well, tell the Captain of the Sentinel to keep his finger off the firing button next time," Virgil told them. "I didn't appreciate being used for target practise."

They exited Thunderbird Two and stopped when they saw Alan walking across the hangar floor. "I thought I might find you guys here."

"Why?" Jeff asked. "What's the problem?"

"I've been talking to Brains and he says there's a category five cyclone heading our way. He estimates that if it continues on its present path we'll start to feel its presence in about three days time."

"Three days!" Virgil exclaimed.

"Category five!" Scott said. "That's pretty bad."

"I don't think you can get much worse," Gordon noted.

"Yeah," Alan agreed. "Brains was flicking through a database of other category five cyclones that have hit this area. He found one called Cyclone Tracy."

"Cyclone Tracy?" Virgil repeated.

"Uh, huh. Apparently it killed 60 people and devastated Darwin in Northern Australia, in nineteen hundred and something or other. I told him that I didn't like the name association." He paused. "D'ya think we'll get Thunderbird Two finished before it hits? We'll want to get at least one test flight under our belt."

Scott sensed, rather than saw, Virgil turn back to his plane. He quickly clamped a hand on his brother's shoulder and prevented him from moving further.

Jeff saw the arrested movement. "I think we'll get Thunderbird Two finished in time," he said. "And we've got to remember that more times than not we have these alerts only to have them downgraded to a tropical storm."

"So we're not doing anything else on Thunderbird Two today?" Gordon asked.

Jeff shook his head. "No," he said firmly. "We've all been working hard and we need a break. We're all tired, and tired men make mistakes. And that could be more disastrous than not finishing before the cyclone hits."

"But what if we get a call out because of the cyclone?" Virgil protested. "There's any number of islands that could need International Rescue's help at any moment!"

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it," Jeff said. "In the meantime I'm sure your grandmother is wondering where we all are. Dinner must be nearly ready. Come on, Boys."

Scott laid a companionable, but firm, arm across Virgil's shoulders and led him away from Thunderbird Two. He couldn't help but notice that his brother wasn't looking happy at being dragged away from what he considered to be urgent work. He also noticed that Virgil didn't look back at his plane. It was almost as if his brother was scared to see his craft in less than perfect condition.

When they reached the edge of the hangar Scott stopped and turned back. "She's looking good," he noted. "From this angle you wouldn't even know that anything had been wrong with her."

"Yeah," Gordon agreed as he looked back at the great green transporter. "You can't even see that missing bit of tail section, and we'll have that replaced tomorrow, no sweat."

"I reckon we'll have it finished by afternoon tea," Alan added. "Then we'll give her a quick coat of paint. Day after tomorrow we'll have her airborne."

Virgil looked at his brothers and appeared to steel himself. Slowly he turned, looking for the first time, since the accident, at his pride and joy. A smile spread across his face. "You're right. She does look good." He looked at his family in gratitude. "Thanks, Guys."

"Any time, but don't make it too often," Gordon said.

"Another thing I was going to remind you," Alan informed them. "Brains is going to test the fire alarms soon..." He'd no sooner finished saying the words when there was a screech followed by a blip.

"Thunderbird One's hangar's alarm is working," Scott remarked.

There was another screech followed by two blips. Gordon looked around Two's hangar. "I can't see any smoke."

A third screech was followed by three blips. "Three's launch bay," Alan said.

The fourth screech was followed by five blips. Gordon shuddered. "I hope we never get to hear that one for real. I often wonder if we'd reach Five in time to do something if it developed a fire."

The next screech had a different pattern and tone. "The Round House," Jeff noted.

The noises continued on, checking that the alarms for the various rooms in the Tracy Villa and other parts of the complex were all operational. At last there was silence.

"Thank heavens that's over," Jeff said rubbing his ears. "They all seem to be working."

Gordon looked at his watch. "I wonder if I've got time for a practise before dinner."

"Are you hoping to win another gold?" Alan asked facetiously. "I think you're a bit old now. Those young kids would swim right over you."

"Never!" Gordon protested. "I'd wipe the floor with each and every one of them."

"Maybe the floor, but they'd beat you in the pool," Alan rejoined.

They were still bickering during the monocar trip back up to the main house and when they stepped through the concealed doors into the lounge of the Tracy villa.

"Have you checked out Polinko's times?" Gordon asked his younger brother. "He's supposed to be the fastest in the world, but I can do quicker laps in our pool..."

"What do you expect? Our pool isn't an Olympic pool..."

Grandma Tracy was waiting for them. "Ah, there you are. Dinner will be ready in ten minutes." She looked at her middle grandson and frowned. "Look at you, Virgil Tracy! You've been working too hard. You're looking..."

"...Pale. I know." Virgil grabbed the hands that were about pinch his cheeks and gave his grandmother a fond kiss. "Don't worry. I'm going to grab a shower and get ready for dinner. And the most strenuous thing I intend to lift this evening is the lid of the piano."

She smiled at him. "You're a good boy. If only your brothers and father were as sensible as you. The hours they've been putting in these past weeks!"

Her comment went unheard by her two youngest grandsons. Alan and Gordon were still enjoying their debate.

"You're just jealous that no one wants to do a story on you," Gordon claimed. "Do you know how many times the researcher for that TV show's tried to get me to do an interview? It's almost a shame that I've got to turn them down..."

"Will you two shut up?" Scott ordered. "You're giving me a headache. The whole point is moot anyway. We all agreed when we started International Rescue that we wouldn't do anything public that wasn't good for the organisation. And that includes re-launching Olympic swimming careers."

"Scott's right," Jeff agreed. "Our secrecy is important, and that includes staying out of the limelight at all costs..."

"Where does Gordon Tracy live now, Jasmine?" Ned Cook asked.

Jasmine frowned as she looks through her notes. "That's another thing I haven't been able to discover. But his father lives on an island somewhere in the middle of the Pacific Ocean..."

"I remember," Ned interrupted.

"So I would assume that it's a good bet that Gordon lives with him, if he's working for him. If he doesn't, you can guarantee Jeff Tracy knows where he is."

"Right!" Ned rubbed his hands together in anticipation. "How're you feeling, Joe? Do you feel up to a long distance flight into the middle of nowhere?"

"You're convinced that there's more to the Tracys than Gordon's 15 minutes of fame?" Joe asked.

"I am."

Joe grinned. "Then I'm feeling just fine. I'll prepare the plane for a flight first thing tomorrow..."

Two: Testing Times

Ned Cook clambered out of the hover-plane, stretched, and tried to rub a kink from out of his back. It had been a long time since he'd travelled in such a small aircraft for such a long distance. He looked around. This place appeared to be your typical tropical paradise. Palm trees, white sands, golden sun, blue ocean waters, brightly coloured birds... "Do you think Tracy's place is like this?"

Joe had his nose buried in the engine of the hover-plane. "Probably. We're only about five hundred ks away from there. It's probably why he's living here. For the climate and to get away from people..."

"And to dodge a few taxes."

Joe looked out from under the engine's hood and wiped his hand across his forehead leaving a smudge of grease. "You really don't like this guy do you?"

"I don't know him," Ned admitted. "But I know there's something fishy about him, and I'd guarantee that it's something illegal. It's just a matter of us finding out what."

"And if we don't find anything? What if this whole trip is a waste of time? What if everything is above board and Gordon's working in the States somewhere? What do you think the bosses will say to us then? 'Don't worry, Guys. We don't mind spending a few hundred thousand dollars to send you two on a wild goose chase. Don't think another thing about it.'" Joe snorted and returned his attention to the engine.

"Relax," Ned told him. "I tell you something's not right about Tracy. And I'm equally sure that you and I are going to find out what that something is. We've just got to ensure that we get to spend a little time with him on his tropical hideaway... How're you going?"

"Nearly finished," Joe grunted.

"Are you sure it'll work? We don't want to end up crashing into the Pacific Ocean before we reach 'Tracy Island'."

"Are you worried that International Rescue will have to rescue us again?" Joe chuckled. "Don't panic. It'll work just fine. That cracked component will carry us perfectly safely for the little hop from here to Tracy's. And if what we know of Tracy's reputation is true, there's no way he'll let us risk our necks flying all the way back to the nearest inhabited land. He'll have to order in a replacement part and we'll have to enjoy his hospitality until it arrives."

"You're sure it's safe," Ned double-checked.

"Ned! It's safe!" Joe wrapped the original component in a rag and hid it in a compartment in the hover-plane. Then he closed the engine hatch and clambered back into the 'plane. "Are you ready?"

"I'm ready." Ned reclaimed his seat beside the pilot. "I'm ready to find out exactly what Mr. Jeff Tracy is up to..."

Jeff Tracy stood on the tarmac of the runway and looked up at the large green 'plane before him. He placed a hand on his son's shoulder. "Are you happy about this, Virgil? I'd understand if you want a bit more time... Maybe give someone else a chance to check that she's okay before you fly her again?"

Virgil gave his father a reassuring smile. "What's that they say about getting straight back onto a horse if you fall off? I'm fine... We both are. And I'm looking forward to getting airborne in Thunderbird Two again. I've missed not being able to work with her."

"Well... If you're sure."

"I'm sure." Virgil removed his father's hand from his shoulder. "Don't worry. We'll get this test flight over and done with and everything will be as it always was. We can all relax knowing that International Rescue is at full strength again, especially with this cyclone coming."

"Well, just remember not to be afraid to bail out if need be. You can guarantee that Scott'll be watching you like a hawk." Even as he spoke they could see Thunderbird One hovering above the summit of Tracy Island like the metaphorical bird of prey.

"I'm pretty sure we'll be all right," Virgil reassured him. "You've all done a great job repairing her and I'm 100 fit. There's nothing to worry about. I'll see you in about an hour's time." He walked over to Thunderbird Two, gave his father a wave and disappeared inside.

Jeff spoke into his radio. "Base to Thunderbirds One and Four. You boys ready?"

Gordon, inside Thunderbird Four, was already waiting in the waters by the end of the Thunderbird Two's runway. "In position," he intoned.

Scott looked over his shoulder at his youngest brother who was dressed in a wetsuit. "Are you ready, Alan?"

"I'm ready and I've got all the necessary kit ready too."

Scott activated his own radio link. "Thunderbird One. We're ready!"

"Base to Thunderbird Five. Requesting final check."

John checked his radar screens. "You're clear to launch."

"Did you hear that, Virgil? You've got the clearance to go. Be careful, Son."

"Yeah, we've put a lot of work into repairing Thunderbird Two," Gordon said. "Don't go breaking her now."

Virgil chuckled. "F-A-B," he acknowledged and started Thunderbird Two rolling down the runway to the launch pad. A short time later she was airborne.

"Base to Thunderbird One. I'm transferring control of this exercise over to you, Scott."

"F-A-B, Father. Okay, Virgil, do five circuits of the island. Start at 1000 kilometres per hour, increase to 2000. Maintain low cruising height."

"F-A-B," Virgil replied and started accelerating. "All systems green." He completed his required laps and brought Thunderbird Two into a low hover. "Ready to start next phase, Scott."

"Good. I'll drop down and pick up Gordon and then we can make a start on Phase Two."

From his vantage point in the air above the island Virgil watched as Thunderbird One came into land and Scott and Alan jumped out. With Gordon and Brains' assistance they loaded more equipment onboard the rocket plane and then the three Tracy men once again boarded the Thunderbird.

"Thunderbird Five to Thunderbird Two. How's she flying, Virgil?"

"She's perfect, John. Maybe even better than before the accident."

"How are you feeling?" John asked.

Virgil suppressed a groan. "I'm fine. The only illness I'm suffering from is being sick of everyone asking how I am."

"You gave us all a hang of a fright. We need that reassurance that you're still with us."

"Well I'm still with you and I'm not planning on going anywhere. So everyone can stop worrying."

"Thunderbird One to Thunderbird Two," Scott's voice came out of the radio. "We're about to start Phase Two. How are you feeling, Virgil?"

This time the groan couldn't be suppressed. "I'm okay, Scott, never felt better. And I'd appreciate if you'd tell everyone that so that I can concentrate on this test flight. I don't need you all mothering me!"

"Okay, okay! I've got the picture," Scott said quickly. "Sorry."

"Apology accepted. Phase One was a-okay," Virgil told him. "Remind me what's the next test on the agenda?"

"Get her up to 5000 kilometres per hour in 500 k.p.h. increments. Any problems, you're to slow down instantly. If you need to bail out I've got both Alan and Gordon on board to pick you up."

"I know, but I doubt there'll be any problems. You guys have done your usual sterling work. She's handling like a dream... Increasing speed now..." Thunderbird Two accelerated and Thunderbird One kept pace, keeping a close watch from a distance.

Scott looked at the speedometer on his console. "3500 kilometres per hour," he read out. "4000, 4500, 5000."

"Cruising at 5000 kilometres per hour," Virgil confirmed.

"Good. Turn 135 degrees west and then take her up to 8000 kilometres per hour."

Virgil did as he was instructed and soon reached the required speed. "All systems green."

"Okay, Thunderbird Two. That's good. Now we'll do the altitude test. Increase height to 20,000 metres."

"Increasing." Thunderbird Two rose smoothly into the air. When it reached 20,000 metres it stopped. "All systems green," Virgil repeated. "Now what?"

"Bring her back to base and go into a low hover. We'll try jettisoning the pod."

"F-A-B." Determined to give Thunderbird Two a thorough workout Virgil didn't follow the direct route back home, instead he took her through a series of tight turns and circles gaining altitude and losing height in quick succession.

All was well.

Tracy Island came into view. "Preparing to drop the pod," Virgil announced. He stopped a few hundred metres off shore and brought Thunderbird Two into a low hover. "Ready."

"Do you think maybe I should wait in Thunderbird Four?" Gordon suggested to Scott. "This is the most dangerous manoeuvre."

Scott considered the suggestion briefly. "Good idea." He opened the radio link. "Thunderbird One to Thunderbird Two. Maintain current status. I'm going to drop Gordon off and he'll stand by in Thunderbird Four."

"Okay," Virgil acknowledged. "I'm not anticipating any problems, but I guess it's better to be safe than sorry."

Scott brought Thunderbird One in to land on the runway. He waited there until he saw Gordon disappear into Thunderbird Four. Only then did he take to the skies again, zooming round till he was able to see Thunderbird Two through his side view port. "Nice day for sitting around, Alan," he said by way of conversation.

"You wouldn't think there was a cyclone heading our way," Alan said. "Look at that blue sky!"

"Not if you look out there," Scott pointed away from the clear vista towards an ominous line of grey cloud which appeared to be bearing down on them in the distance. "And check out the weather radar," he added, indicating the instrument. "I wouldn't mind betting that the island will start to feel the effects of that cyclone before the day's out. I wonder what John thinks... Thunderbird One to Thunderbird Five..."

"Thunderbird Five. What can I do for you, Scott? I can't make Gordon go any faster."

"Just wanting an update on that cyclone."

"Cyclone Sylvia, you mean?"

"Is that what they've called it?"

"Her, Scott. Cyclones always used to be named after women."

"I know. So what's her status?" Scott watched as the end of the runway titled towards the water.

"Still category five. You'll begin to feel the first signs in about five hours."

"What's her path?" Thunderbird Four was rolling along the runway.

"Heading straight for home. She should hit Tracy Island tomorrow morning and the eye will make landfall in approximately two days. I don't envy you guys."

"We'll be all right... Thunderbird Four's in the water. We'd better get back to business. All set, Virgil?"

"Ready," Virgil replied. "All clear, Thunderbird Five?"

"All clear," John confirmed.

"Dropping pod... now!" Virgil hit the release button and Thunderbird Two barely reacted as her middle section fell away into the Pacific's waters.

"Any problems?" Scott asked.

"Negative."

"Okay. Pick it up again."

As with all previous tasks Thunderbird Two handled flawlessly.

"Let's do the rounds again," Scott suggested. "Gain altitude to ...."

"Thunderbird Five to Thunderbirds One, Two and Four!" There was no mistaking the urgency in John's voice. "Unidentified aircraft is approaching you from nor-nor-east. Take cover now!"

"Received!" Scott acknowledged. "Get that swimming pool open, Father." Even as he spoke he could see the waters receding into their underground reservoir.

"Gordon! I'm dropping the pod again!" Virgil said with urgency. "Drive in and I'll pick you up. It'll save time."

"F-A-B," Gordon acknowledged and watched as the pod splashed down again. He manoeuvred the submarine into the empty pod and the interior grew dark as the door behind her closed. "Pick me up when you're ready, Virgil."

Once again Virgil lowered Thunderbird Two down over the pod and hoisted her back into the great plane's fuselage. Then he brought Thunderbird Two into land and reversed her into her concealed hangar behind the cliff face, before both he and Gordon changed out of uniform and dashed up into the lounge.

Scott, Alan, Brains and Tin-Tin were already there, listening to the radio conversation between Jeff and the unknown caller. "So you see, Mr. Tracy," a strangely familiar voice was saying, "we were hoping to interview Gordon."

The Tracys looked at each other uneasily.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Cook," Jeff said. "But, as I think you've already been told, Gordon doesn't give interviews."

"But we've come such a long way, and as I said we've struck a slight problem..."

"Tell him to get lost," Scott growled, a determined expression on his face.

"Shhh," Alan grabbed his brother and dragged him into the hallway, followed closely by their two other brothers and Brains. "He'll hear you!"

"So!" Scott said in indignation. "Let him hear me. We've been polite for long enough..."

"That's not what I mean," Alan insisted. "Have you forgotten that he's heard your voice twice before... as the pilot of Thunderbird One?"

"Oh, heck," Scott said. "I had forgotten that."

"What's going on?" Gordon asked. "Is that idiot coming here? I told him I wasn't interested in doing any interviews."

"Not only that, but something's happened to his 'plane," Alan explained. "He claims he needs a replacement part before he can attempt the flight home. He's asking if he can at least land here to ascertain what repairs need to be made."

"Great!" Virgil moaned. "Just what we need, a nosy reporter hanging round."

"And a cyclone on the way," Alan reminded him. "How long would it take for you to manufacture a replacement part?"

"Depends on what's broken and how badly," Virgil told him. "Any ideas what it is?"

"Something n-not too serious," Brains said. "H-His pilot thinks they can make T-Tracy Island okay."

"So now the problem is," Alan folded his arms and looked at Scott and Gordon, "what do we do with you two? He's met both of you as members of International Rescue."

"Cook wasn't in good shape when I picked him up, but that's no guarantee that he won't recognise me," Gordon remembered. "He perked up when I got some oxygen into him. And there was his cameraman too. Is he on this flight?"

"I think he's the pilot," Scott said.

"He came to as I was offloading them into the ambulance." Gordon frowned at the recollection. "That's double trouble. I've got no option other than to hide in the underground bunkers, have I? I'll go start packing some gear now in case they aren't able to leave before the cyclone hits. Can you give me a hand, Alan?"

"Sure," Alan agreed.

"And what are we going to do about Scott's voice?" Virgil asked.

"I suppose asking you to go against the habit of a lifetime and not order us about would be too much to expect," Alan suggested. Scott gave him a sour look.

"I have something that could g-give you laryngitis," Brains offered. "It w-would be rather painful though."

"And what do we do if International Rescue's called out? I'll need to be able to speak then," Scott stated. "There's nothing else for it. Gordon and I will both have to hide. Can you give me a hand with my gear, Virgil?"

"What do we do if International Rescue's called out?" Alan asked.

"We'll activate Operation Storm Surge," Scott said. "Come on, fellas, we're wasting time. Brains, would you mind letting Father know what we've got planned?"

"Certainly, S-Scott." Brains returned to the lounge.

Jeff had finished the radio call with Ned Cook and was scowling at the receiver. "Well, Brains, for better or for worse he's coming here."

"Gordon and Scott have decided to hide in the b-bunkers, Mr. Tracy."

"Scott? Why, Scott?" Jeff asked.

"They have heard his v-voice," Brains reminded his employer.

"That's right..." Jeff bit his lip and sat back. "Did you hear what was wrong with the plane?"

"Y-Yes, Mr. Tracy. It is not a serious problem."

"Do you think I've made the right decision inviting them here?"

"I-I think that as far as their welfare is concerned it is the best d-decision you could make."

"And as far as our welfare is concerned?"

"I-I don't know, Mr. Tracy. Scott suggested that if International Rescue gets called out we'll have to activate Operation Storm Surge."

"That's logical." Jeff sighed and looked up at the row of portraits that lined the wall. "In the meantime we're going to have to hide as many pictures of Gordon as we can, without being obvious about it. From this moment we're operating under Operation Cover-up Minus G." He pushed a button combination on his computer and Gordon's portrait slid backward into the wall. A replacement panel slid into its place, the paint slightly darker than the surrounding wall covering. The other portraits slid to one side, hiding the Tracy boys in their uniforms and replacing them with more casual shots. "We'll tell anyone who asks that his portrait was damaged and I'm having it repaired." Jeff picked up a photo that resided on his desk. "At least this one is of them all as boys..."

Ned Cook rubbed his hands together. "He fell for it, Joe!"

Joe chuckled. "He certainly did. He's going to have the welcome mat out for us isn't he?"

"He is. Can you imagine us living a life of luxury, courtesy of Jeff Tracy, while we find out exactly what he's hiding? Joe, my friend, I have a feeling that this is going to be the scoop of the century!"

Jeff Tracy met the newsmen cordially if slightly warily. "Welcome to my home, Gentlemen. I'm sorry you've had to travel such a long way on a wasted trip. Gordon's not living here at the moment."

"Oh," Joe tried to look disappointed. "I hope you're not going to tell us that he's in the States and we could have met him there instead of flying all this way in this bucket of bolts." He thumped the hover-plane lightly on its fuselage.

"No, he's not in the States," Jeff said. "He's working for me elsewhere on a highly confidential project. I'm sure you understand that I don't want to divulge more... for business reasons."

"Of course," Ned said. "We understand perfectly. And we do appreciate your offer of assistance. Joe tells me that whatever is broken in the hover-plane needs replacing. I don't pretend to understand aeronautical mechanics."

"Would you mind if my son, Virgil," Jeff indicated the chestnut haired young man who was standing off to one side of the group, "had a look at the damaged part. He might be able to repair it."

"We'd be grateful of any help," Ned said, sounding cheerful at the offer. "Isn't that right, Joe?"

"Oh, yes," Joe agreed. "Extremely grateful."

"Looks like you're on," Alan whispered into Virgil's ear. "What are you going to do? The ol' two step shuffle?"

Virgil looked at his brother. "What?"

"The way everyone's tap-dancing around each other I thought you might want to join in."

Virgil shook his head in exasperation and stepped up to the hover-plane. He stood on a small platform, opened the engine compartment and looked inside. "What appears to be the problem?" he asked, his voice sounding hollow.

Joe came and stood beside him. "There," he pointed out the damaged component. "We noticed that had cracked when we stopped on an island a few hundred kilometres away from here. We figured it was safer to fly on rather than risk facing that cyclone."

"Mmn," Virgil agreed, not willing to comment. "I can machine a new part, but it'll take a few hours."

"How many do you reckon, Virgil?" Alan asked.

Virgil stepped down and wiped his hands on a rag. "Two, maybe three." He gave his father an apologetic look.

"The cyclone will be almost upon us by then," Jeff noted. "Looks like you'll be staying with us until it's passed, Gentlemen."

"I hope we're not putting you to any trouble," Ned lied. "We didn't come here expecting to take up more that a couple of hours of Gordon's time."

Jeff didn't acknowledge the statement.

Virgil had his head back inside the hover-plane's workings. "We'd better move the 'plane into the hangar. It'll be easier to work on there."

"And drier if that cyclone hits early," Alan added. "I'll help ya, Virg."

"Will you need Brains' help?" Jeff asked.

Virgil shook his head. "No. Between Alan and I, we can manage. I'll make a start on the 'plane when we've finished securing the house."

"Fine," Jeff said. "We'll leave you boys to it. Mr. Cook..."

"Ned. Please call me Ned," Ned smiled an ingratiating smile.

"And I'm Joe," Joe piped up.

"Very well," Jeff agreed, but did not reciprocate the invitation. "Ned... Joe... If you'll both come with me I'll take you up to the house."

"Thank you, Mr. Tracy." Ned and Joe removed their bags from the plane and followed their host up to the villa under the darkening skies.

Virgil and Gordon looked at each other and set about shifting the plane under the protective cover of the hangar.

Inside the villa Jeff introduced the two unwanted guests to the other residents. "This is my mother..."

"Mrs. Tracy," Ned directed his most bewitching smile towards the elderly lady.

She responded with a curt nod and received a warning glare from her son.

"This is my head engineer and researcher," Jeff indicated Brains.

Ned filed a mental note about how odd it was that Jeff Tracy had a scientist living with him. There had to be something of interest there.

"Mr. T-Tracy," the little man stuttered. "All is well with the b-bunker's, ah, latest additions."

"Good, Brains. Thank you," Jeff said. "This is Brains' assistant, Tin-Tin."

"How do you do, Mr. Cook," Tin-Tin said, trying to sound gracious.

"Ah, both beauty and brains," Ned gave her a winning smile.

Tin-Tin resisted the temptation to be sick.

"And this is Tin-Tin's father, Kyrano," Jeff completed the introductions. "Perhaps you'll take Ned and Joe's bags to the guest rooms, Kyrano."

Kyrano bowed. "It would be a pleasure, Mr. Tracy."

Ned put a few pieces of the puzzle together. So Kyrano was Tracy's servant and his daughter was his head engineer's assistant. Maybe that's why the head engineer lived with them.

Maybe.

"...Put the camera equipment into the storeroom," Jeff was saying.

"Now wait a minute!" Joe protested. "You can't do that!"

Jeff turned to the cameraman with an expression that could only be interpreted as cool. "I'm sorry, but as long as you are in this house I will not permit any recordings to be made. You can be assured that your equipment will be perfectly safe."

"But... But why?" Joe spluttered as he watched Kyrano place the heavy camera gear onto a trolley in preparation for removing it from the room.

"I'm sure you are aware," Jeff said, "that I value my privacy. And... and I mean no disrespect to either of you gentlemen, but as a rule I don't trust the media. I would feel much happier knowing that your equipment is under lock and key."

"You can't do that!" Joe stormed. "Haven't you heard of the freedom of the press?"

"I have. But on this island, my word is law. If you like, you have come, uninvited, to a benign dictatorship."

"This is crazy! It's wrong! It's..."

"Whoa, Joe," Ned soothed. "As Mr. Tracy says, it's his place, and as he's kindly agreed to let us stay here until the storm passes, I think we should go along with what he says. I'm sure your gear will be perfectly all right."

"But..."

"And if Gordon's not here, you've nothing to film anyway." Ned turned back to Jeff, determined to get back into his good books. "You don't know cameramen, Mr. Tracy. They become very possessive of their equipment, believing that only they can operate that piece of machinery to its maximum potential. Take them away from their cameras and they feel that the journalistic world will degenerate into a mush of senseless nonsense. As a rule we try to humour them..."

"Ned..." Joe protested.

Ned ignored him. "I'm sorry if we've caused offence, Mr. Tracy."

Jeff decided that if they were going to be trapped together for goodness knows how many hours, they'd better try to get along. "No offence taken."

Ned looked at a row of portraits that ran the length of one wall and noticed one missing. "These are your boys, Mr. Tracy?"

"Yes, you've already met Virgil and Alan. Gordon, Scott and John are away on business."

"Where is Virgil?" Grandma asked.

"He and Alan are securing the house against the cyclone, before he starts work on Mr. Cook's 'plane."

"Jeff!" she scolded.

"He's all right, Mother. Don't worry."

Grandma glared at her son in disapproval, but said nothing.

Ned examined the portraits. "Which one's Gordon?"

"I'm afraid Gordon's portrait has been broken. The frame was poorly made and I'm having it replaced." Jeff's lie sounded convincing.

"Handsome men," Ned commented.

"Yes they are," Jeff agreed.

"Do you know that's the first photo I've seen of Alan?" Ned indicated the portrait of the young blonde. "It's next to impossible to find one of him, despite the fact he's an accomplished driver."

"Alan doesn't like being in the limelight," Jeff told him. "None of my boys do."

"Following in their father's footsteps are they?" Ned laughed. "It's been even harder to find a photo of Gordon. Perhaps you'll be able to supply me an up-to-date one for the show."

"I don't think that will be possible," Jeff almost growled. "I believe Gordon has told you that he doesn't wish to participate in your TV show."

"Not exactly," Ned said. "One of your P.R. people has told me that Gordon doesn't want to participate."

"On Gordon's instructions," he was informed.

"But the viewing public would like to know what one of the youngest gold medallists ever has been doing in the intervening years. Especially since his hydrofoil accident."

Jeff was firm in his reply. "Then I'm afraid you are going to have to disappoint the viewing public. Kyrano, have you made up the guest rooms?"

"Yes, Mr. Tracy, I have prepared two rooms in the Villa. I fear that the cyclone will make walking between the Round House and the villa impossible."

It wasn't an ideal situation from International Rescue's point of view, but Jeff accepted it. "Thank you, Kyrano."

"Mr. Cook." Kyrano bowed again. "If you and your associate will follow me, I will take you to your rooms."

"Thank you, Kyrano," Ned said and tugged at his friend's sleeve. "Come on, Joe."

The three of them departed the room.

Jeff waited a moment before he spoke. "This is not going to be easy, I can see that."

"He's persistent," Tin-Tin noted.

"And smooth, too smooth," Mrs. Tracy agreed. "But what can we do? We said we'd repair his hover-plane."

"And the cyclone's too c-close," Brains added. "It would practically be m-murder to send them out in that little 'plane now."

"I know," Jeff sat down in his customary place at his desk. "We're just all going to have to be very, very careful."

Three: Revelations

Buried deep underground, almost in the heart of the volcano that topped Tracy Island, the bunkers were a refuge from the outside world. Consisting of five twin bedrooms, a communal living room, a kitchen, and a small ablution area, they were a complete, self-contained unit able to sustain life for up to two years.

The idea of being trapped underground for that length of time made Gordon's blood run cold. He threw the last of his things into the drawer and shoved it closed with his knee. Then he looked around the room that was going to be his for the next few days. Like the others in this part of the complex it contained two beds, two chests of drawers and two trunks. It wasn't a bad room, as bedrooms go, and, apart from the fact that there were no windows, you could almost forget that you were surrounded on all sides by solid granite.

Almost.

Long ago the decision had been made as to who would share with whom in the case of nuclear explosion, hostile invasion or any number of unthinkable scenarios. Scott and Virgil would bunk together in room one. Gordon and his occasional partner in crime, Alan, would live in room two...

"Behind lock and key?" John, destined to be billeted with his father in room three, had suggested at the time.

As they were each used to their own form of quiet meditation/contemplation, Brains and Kyrano had room four. Naturally Tin-Tin and Grandma shared the final room together.

By mutual agreement, and in an attempt to maintain their sanity, Gordon and Scott had agreed to sleep alone in their allocated rooms.

Gordon eyed the trunks at the end of the two beds. Each was locked and contained some personal items that belonged to one of the room's tenants. He knew what was in his and was curious as to what Alan had chosen to store in the one at the foot of his bed.

Deciding that he had plenty of time to 'admire' his surroundings later, Gordon decided to escape the bunkers for a short time, knowing that Scott would still be putting away his things. Ignoring the way in which they'd entered, he instead chose to leave via another exit. He followed a dim, narrow corridor for what seemed to be miles, climbing and passing through numerous heavy steel doors, until, almost unexpectedly, the walls fell back and the ceiling rose up forming what could be a massive mausoleum. He walked across the room, hardly making a sound, and climbed up a short incline. "Hi, Virg."

Virgil, working inside Pod 4, jumped in fright, hit his head on a shelf and spun round. "Don't do that to me!"

"Sorry. Watcha doin'?"

Virgil stepped clear of the shelf. "Cleaning down the pod. We might be called out to a rescue with this cyclone."

"I hope not. Not with Cook nosing round."

"Are you settled?"

"Yep," Gordon nodded.

"Where's Scott?"

"Probably still colour coordinating his underwear in his drawers."

Virgil chuckled.

"Where's Alan?" Gordon asked.

"He's making a start on prepping Thunderbird One. When Scott comes out from the dungeons he can take over and then Alan can give us a hand here. Do you want to check Thunderbird Four while I carry on with what I was doing?"

"That's what I'm here for." Gordon climbed into his yellow submarine and started the diagnostics programme. When he was satisfied that the computer was humming away he stuck his head out of the hatch just in time to see their eldest brother startle Virgil when he came bounding into the pod.

"Didn't take you long to get sorted," Scott said to Gordon.

"Nope. I just chucked everything into my drawers. It's not like we're going to be down here for months."

"Maybe not, but it could easily be for at least a week." Scott turned to Virgil. "Where's Alan?"

"Doing your job for you," Virgil told him. "He's made a start on Thunderbird One."

"Good. I'd better go and make sure he's doing it properly," Scott said and turned to go. He stopped when his watch beeped.

Gordon frowned when he saw Virgil flinch.

Scott didn't see the movement as he looked at the timepiece, its light casting an eerie glow over his face. "Scott here."

"Hi, Scott," his brothers heard Alan's voice. "I just thought I'd let you know that Thunderbird One's shipshape. You don't need to do anything to her."

"Thanks, Alan, but you won't mind if I double check, will you?"

"You don't need to."

"I know I don't need to, but I want to..."

"She's okay, Scott!" Gordon and Virgil could imagine Alan's expression at what he would perceive to be his big brother's lack of trust. His disapproval was clear from the tone of his voice.

"She's also my 'bird and I'll sleep a lot better knowing that I've given her the once over too."

"Fine," Alan muttered. "Have it your way. Where is everyone?"

"Pod Four."

"I'll come and help Virg then. At least he appreciates my assistance."

"It's not you, Alan," Scott began. "It's..." The light on his face was extinguished. "He disconnected me!"

Virgil and Gordon burst out laughing. "You're surprised?" Gordon exclaimed. "He thinks you don't trust him."

"Of course I trust him. I'll bet he'd want to check Thunderbird Three for himself if I'd been the one checking her over. You'd want to give Thunderbird Four the once over if I'd checked her, wouldn't you?"

"Oh, yes," Gordon nodded vigorously. "Definitely."

There was a bang as Alan announced his entrance into the pod by slamming the door behind him.

Virgil, yet again, jumped in fright and pretended to stagger back until he was supported against the wall of the pod, his hand pressed to his chest. "What is it with you guys? I thought you were glad that I survived the crash," he complained. "Now I think you're all trying to frighten me to death."

"Are you all right?" Gordon asked in concern. "You seem to be a bit jumpy."

Virgil straightened. "I'm fine. I'm just on edge because there's a category five cyclone on the way, we haven't fully tested Thunderbird Two, and we've got two nosy reporters in the house."

"Are you sure you're okay?" Scott pressed.

"I'm sure."

"Really sure?"

"Scott!" Virgil snapped in exasperation. "I'm fine! Go check Thunderbird One!"

"Yeah," Alan sounded sullen. "Check I haven't left my toys lying around." His brothers ignored him.

"Thunderbird Two will be fine," Gordon was trying to reassure Virgil. "My only concern is Cook!" He glared up towards the ceiling.

"I keep telling myself that she's as good as she was," Virgil admitted. "I know she handled flawlessly in the tests we did. But I would have been happier if we could have made some more test flights... Maybe even through the fringes of the cyclone."

"And we would have done if those two hadn't turned up in a broken plane," Scott grumbled. "When are you going to fix it?"

"Straight after I've finished here," Virgil told him. "I don't want them to have any excuses for hanging around here longer than necessary..."

Ned Cook exited his room and wandered up the hallway of the Tracy Villa. He had to admit that the room he'd been given was one of the most comfortable that he'd stayed in all his years working as a journalist. He stopped every now and then to admire the photos that lined the walls. Most of them were of the Tracy boys, he noted. None of them were of Gordon.

He found himself in the lounge and took a moment to admire the four portraits, before examining the one that wasn't there. He ran his fingers along the darkened paint that showed where the portrait had existed and examined the tips. They were clean. He reflected that if it weren't for this shadow it would almost be easy to believe that there were only four Tracy sons in the household. For some reason 'Gordon's' portrait had occupied the last space in the line-up. He frowned. He was sure that Jasmine had told him that Alan was the youngest.

"Strange," he said to himself.

He turned away from the enigma that was the Tracy boys and walked out onto the patio. Here, if he looked to the one way, he could see the blue sky of a brilliant tropical day. It was from the opposite direction that you could see the approaching menace; a long line of almost black cloud marching relentlessly towards Tracy Island, driving before it a mild chop in the Pacific's waters. For no real reason Ned shuddered.

He looked down below him and gave an ironic chuckle. He was definitely at a billionaire's house. Who else would have a swimming pool when he was living so close to sandy beaches and the ocean? Some people obviously liked to, literally, splash their money about. The pool drew his thoughts back to the original reason why he was here on Tracy Island. Where was Gordon Tracy? And why were there no recent pictures of him...?

Ned heard a sound behind him and turned to see who had entered the lounge. It was Tin-Tin and he gave her a smile in greeting. She hesitated a moment and then came out to join him on the patio. "Hello, Mr. Cook," she acknowledged.

"Please, call me Ned. And your name is Tin-Tin, isn't it?" he asked, turning on the charm. "That's an interesting name."

"It's Malaysian," she offered with an uncertain smile.

"Ah, that explains your delicate features. So you work for Mr. Tracy."

"Yes, Mr. Cook."

"Doing what?"

"Helping Brains," she said guardedly.

"Doing what?" he repeated.

"Research."

"Research into what?"

"Various projects."

"Top secret?"

"Yes."

"Come on," he gave her a playful nudge. "I won't tell anyone. Give us a clue. Just one project?"

"Sorry, Mr. Cook. I can not."

"You're loyal to Mr. Tracy. I can see that."

"Yes, Mr. Cook. My father and I owe a lot to Mr. Tracy."

"I've been checking out the photos of his sons. There's not many of Gordon... In fact I don't think I've seen any!"

He watched as her cheeks reddened and she looked away down into the courtyard below. "Virgil and Alan have managed to store everything away," she said in a flustered manner.

"What's usually there?" he asked, trying to put her at ease again.

"Pool furniture," she replied, glad to be able to give a straight answer.

"Don't want that blowing away in a storm, do we?" Ned said.

"No," Tin-Tin agreed.

"Though it doesn't seem to be coming any closer," Ned indicated the line of grey in the sky.

"John says it's stalled."

"John does?"

Tin-Tin nodded. "According to the satellite's weather computer..." Suddenly realising what she was saying, she raised her hand to her mouth, and paled.

"Satellite?" Ned queried, intrigued by her reaction.

"He... ah... he does astronomy. He needs to know if the weather's clear. He accesses one of Mr. Tracy's satellite computer stations... yes, that's right... in a building." Tin-Tin was talking quickly, trying to cover her tracks. "He telephoned earlier. I spoke to him. He said the cyclone's stopped, but he thinks it'll start moving again... soon..." She stopped talking, breathing slightly heavily and looked around trying to find an excuse to escape.

"So is that what John's doing? A little star gazing?"

Tin-Tin nodded, wary. Her lips clamped tightly shut.

"And he's gone somewhere else to do this?"

Tin-Tin nodded again.

"Is this one of Mr. Tracy's projects?"

Tin-Tin turned when she heard someone call her name softly. "Father?"

"My daughter, Mister Brains is looking for you."

"Thank you, Father. I will come straight away... Goodbye, Mr. Cook," she gasped.

"Ned... Please call me, Ned," he insisted, but she had gone.

He watched as father and daughter conversed in quiet tones. Tin-Tin, her head bowed in a subservient manner totally at odds with her modern attire, spoke first as Kyrano, frowning, kept glancing in Ned's direction. Then the older man said something in reply before taking the young lady by the arm and leading her out of the lounge.

"Done!" Alan slapped his hands together in satisfaction. "How's it look, Virgil?"

"Fine, Alan."

"At least you appreciate my work."

"Alan!" Scott said in exasperation. "I never said I didn't appreciate your work!"

"Leave him, Scott," Gordon suggested. "He'll grow out of it eventually."

"Gordon!" Alan complained.

Someone's watch beeped. They all looked at Scott as he answered it. "Hello, John."

"Hiya, Scott. Are you settled yet?"

"Ages ago," he was told.

"Oh!" John sounded surprised. "I thought you'd still be unpacking!" From behind Scott's frown he heard Alan laugh. "Where are you?"

"In the pod. We've just finished going through the checklists."

"That's good. Sylvia's on the move again and she doesn't look like she's any less furious. I wouldn't be surprised if we get a mayday before she's blown herself out."

"Thanks for that, John," Scott growled. "That's NOT what we wanted to hear."

"Any time. Just thought I'd keep you up with the play," John sounded almost obscenely cheerful. "I'll call you if there's any further developments."

"Thanks," Scott's growl had lowered an octave.

"See you, Scott."

"Later." Scott signed off. "Great!" He slapped his hand onto the pod's bulkhead.

"I think," Gordon was reaching into one of the lockers in the side of the pod, "I'll put my uniform into my room. That way if we do get a call out I can be dressed by the time you guys have escorted Cook and Co into the storm rooms. I can have Thunderbird Two rolling while Virgil's getting changed."

"Good idea," Scott agreed. "Pass me my uniform will you?"

"Sure." Gordon opened a locker and withdrew the two tone blue uniform that belonged to Scott. "Here y'are." He threw it towards his brother.

"Hey!" Scott caught it. "You'll crease it!"

"That's our uniform you're talking about, Scott," Alan reminded him. "It doesn't crease."

"That's not the point..."

Virgil shook his head in exasperation. "I'm not going to hang around here and listen to you fellas argue. I'm going to start the repairs to Cook's 'plane."

"While you're doing that, Gordon and I can shift Mobile Control into Thunderbird Two," Scott said. "If the winds get as strong as John's predicting, there's no way I'm going to be able to launch Thunderbird One through the swimming pool."

"Okay." Virgil left the pod.

Alan attempted to follow him, but was held back. "Keep an eye on him, will you?" Scott asked quietly. "Make sure he doesn't overdo it?"

"I'm okay, Scott!" Virgil yelled from the other side of the room. "Quit worrying!"

"How'd he know?" they heard Gordon mutter.

Alan rolled his eyes. "He's fine, Scott. He was shifting the pool furniture as if he'd never been injured. I think all that lying about must have rejuvenated him. Don't worry!"

Scott eyed his youngest brother. "Well... Okay... But..."

"I'll make sure he doesn't overdo it," Alan appeased him, while trying not to look at Gordon who was pulling faces.

"Sorry that it sounded as though I didn't trust you before, Alan," Scott apologised. "I guess it's not only Virgil who's on edge with all that's going on at the moment."

Alan patted him on the shoulder. "That's okay, Scott. I understand. I'll come back and see you later... okay?" He detached himself from Scott's grip and ran after Virgil.

"He was asking you to keep an eye on me, wasn't he?" Virgil asked as they walked from the hangar, through a false wall, and into a supply room.

"Yep... He's going to go and check Thunderbird One now, isn't he?"

"Yep." Chuckling they checked that the way in front of them was clear and then walked into the conventional aeroplane hangar. Virgil eyed Ned and Joe's plane. "I wonder when they noticed that component was cracked. Fuel consumption must have been skyrocketing!"

"Do you need my help at the moment?" Alan asked.

"Why? What were you planning?"

"I thought I'd do a bit of snooping of my own..."

Ned decided that he'd head back down to the guest rooms and see how Joe was getting on. He was halfway down the hallway when he came upon Grandma Tracy, industriously dusting the photo gallery. "Does your son pay a good wage?" he joked.

"I like to maintain the illusion that he and the boys still need me," she replied.

"I'd bet they'd be lost without you," Ned's smile was ingratiating. It was an expression that had worked well with little old ladies in the past. Before long she'd be offering him a delicious meal and telling him all the family secrets.

'Crawler,' Grandma thought. "My boys are completely self sufficient," she said out loud.

"They must be, if three of them are willing to leave this tropical paradise... Even for a short time."

She said nothing.

Ned examined the photos. "These are almost a complete history lesson on your family's achievements."

"Yes," there was pride in her voice. "This is Jeff when he came back from the moon... That's Scott being presented with his medal for valour... That's Alan winning at Parola Sands..." she moved along the line of photos. "This is when John graduated from Harvard..."

"What about Gordon?" Ned asked. "I would have thought you'd at least have one photo of Gordon winning his Olympic medal. But there's nothing."

Grandma bit her lip.

Ned kept on pressing his point. "In fact the only photo of Gordon that I've seen in this house is the one on your son's desk. And how old would he have been then? Three? Four?"

"Two," Grandma replied. "It was taken just before..."

"Yes?" Ned had the feeling he was going to learn something of interest.

Grandma looked about her furtively. "Look, Mr. Cook..."

"Please call me, Ned."

"Ned... I'm going to tell you this... but you must promise to tell no one! You mustn't even mention it to my family!"

"Why?" Ned frowned in puzzlement.

"Because... Because no one talks about it. No one dares! The memories are too..." Grandma shrugged as if she were struggling to find the right word.

Ned waited with baited breath, sure that he was going to hear something monumental about the lives of the Tracy family. He surreptitiously turned on a voice recorder concealed in his pocket.

"You may have noticed..." Grandma sounded hesitant as she began to tell her tale. "That all of my grandsons have followed, to a certain extent, in their father's footsteps. They've all become pilots or astronauts..."

"Yes," Ned nodded. He had noticed that.

"...All except Gordon. For years Jeff has pretended that he hasn't minded, that he's been proud of Gordon's achievements... But I've known... I've known that beneath the surface..."

"Yes?" Ned repeated.

"My son is a proud man. He's proud of the fact that four of his boys have chosen to be like him."

"And he's not so proud of the one son who didn't?"

Grandma nodded, appearing to be saddened by Jeff's attitude to Gordon. "It all came to a head a few weeks ago."

"What did?"

"It's when your researcher started requesting the interview with Gordon. He was quite excited by the idea that the world actually remembered him for something that he'd achieved, and not only because he was Jeff Tracy's son..."

"And Jeff Tracy didn't like it?"

Grandma shook her head miserably. "No. All those years of disappointment came to the surface. There was an argument... Such language! And Jeff said that there's no one lower than a WASP submariner! He meant it literally as well as figuratively and it cut Gordon to the quick, I could see that." She took a handkerchief out of her pocket and dabbed at her eyes.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Ned said.

"If John and Scott had have been home it would have been different. Scott has an almost parental way with his brothers, and John's always been a quietening influence..." She shook her head again and allowed herself a dramatic sigh. "But they weren't home. There was no one capable of separating the pair of them until things calmed down... It ended with Gordon storming out of the house, vowing never to come back. And Jeff made a vow too. He vowed that from that day onwards he only had four sons. He never wanted to hear Gordon's name mentioned again." Pretending to blow her nose she thought, 'I hope you feel guilty, Ned Cook!'

Ned didn't. "But he keeps that photo of his wife and five sons on his desk."

"That's his favourite photo. It was taken a few days before Lucille was killed. He couldn't bear to be parted from it. It must be tearing him to shreds to look at this photo and see the son he's disowned."

Ned Cook was silent for a moment. This was a side to Jeff Tracy that he hadn't expected to have revealed to him. And it was revealing too! It gave him a hitherto unseen insight into Jeff Tracy, philanthropic billionaire.

"You can understand why you mustn't repeat this to anyone!" Mrs. Tracy was saying.

"Oh, yes," Ned agreed.

"You can also understand why everyone has been on edge," Grandma continued. "I'm pretty sure his brothers have been secretly looking for Gordon, but we've no idea where he is at this moment." In order to reconcile the lie she was telling she told herself quietly, 'He could be in his new room, or with Thunderbird Four, or Thunderbird Two...'

"Yes, I understand." Ned looked into her faded blue eyes as his understanding grew. He'd put down the obvious unease this family had been displaying to the approaching cyclone, and to a lesser extent, to his and Joe's presence on the island. The dispute and Gordon's subsequent disappearance made a much more compelling argument. "Not a word of what you've told me will pass my lips."

"Thank you, Mr. Cook..."

"Ned."

"Thank you, Ned. I know I can trust you to keep this to yourself." 'I'll bet!'

"I'd better leave you to your work," Ned said. "Perhaps we can talk later?"

Grandma Tracy gave him a gracious nod. 'Or perhaps you'll get into that broken plane of yours and fly off into the cyclone.'

Humming quietly to himself, Ned knocked on his partner's door. It slid open revealing a disgruntled Joe. "Oh. It's you."

"Still sulking because he took away your camera?"

"I'm a cameraman, Ned. How am I supposed to film anything without my camera? We're going to be in the middle of a cyclone. Imagine what footage I could get!"

"You should do what I do, my friend, and carry a spare," Ned produced the recorder.

Joe smirked. "You've picked up some dirt on the Tracys?"

"Now, Joe, I made a solemn promise that not one word of what I heard will pass my lips."

"So you're going to let your gizmo doing the talking for you," Joe guessed.

Ned grinned and pushed the play button...

"Jeff? May I have a word?"

Jeff looked up from his desk. "Of course, Mother." He watched her as she made a point of ensuring that the door was closed before taking a seat.

"We won't be overheard?"

Jeff chuckled. "You know full well that this room's soundproofed."

"I've been talking to Ned Cook."

At once Jeff's good humour soured. "What's he been saying?" he growled.

"Not a lot. I was the one who did all the talking."

"Mother?"

"I told him a little white lie."

"Mother!" Jeff repeated. "What did you say?"

"I told him that the reason why there aren't any photographs of Gordon is because you and he had had a falling out."

"Mother!" Jeff sat back, aghast at the revelation.

She detailed her conversation with the reporter. "You did say that there was nothing lower than a WASP submariner..."

"But I made that comment as a joke at Gordon's 21st birthday party! I'm proud of what he's achieved!"

"I know that, and Gordon knows that, but Cook doesn't. And if it helps to get him off our back... I did it for International Rescue, Jeff!"

"I know, and thank you... but I can't believe that you lied. My mother lied!"

Mrs. Tracy sat back and gave him a grim smile. "Just remember there's a few surprises in the old girl yet."

"So I'm learning..."

Virgil examined the cracked component carefully. Ned and Joe had been very lucky, he had to admit. If they'd had to go much further the unit would have broken for sure. He said as much to Alan and got a muttered reply from somewhere within the hover-plane.

The first task was to get detailed measurements of the various dimensions of the component. Virgil opened the lid on the scanning machine and placed the part inside. This was critical. He needed to expose as much of the surface area to the scanner's laser as possible, while keeping the component in one piece. Gingerly he lowered the clamp that was designed to keep whatever was being scanned immobile. Unhappy with it's placement he lifted the clamp up and repositioned everything before lowering the clamp down again.

A snapping sound heralded his worst fears.

Stifling a mild curse he removed both segments of the now broken component and examined them critically. This was going to add at least two more hours onto the repair time.

"How's it going," Alan asked from behind him.

Virgil turned, and looked at his brother, who was standing with his hands behind his back. "I broke it."

"Tricky," Alan said. "Can you still make a replacement?"

"Yes. But it's going to take twice as long. I'll have to take and enter the measurements manually."

"So if you had a complete unit, you could get the replacement made quicker?"

"Of course." Virgil wondered why he was being forced to state the obvious.

"Then maybe this'll help." Alan brought his hands around to the front. In them he held an exact replica of the broken part that Virgil was holding.

Virgil dropped the broken unit onto a workbench and took the one Alan had found. He examined it, noting that this 'new' component had been used recently. He looked back at his brother. "We've been conned..."

Up in the lounge, Joe stretched and put his feet on the coffee table. A scowl from Mrs. Tracy caused him to place them back on the floor.

"Thank you, Kyrano," Ned accepted the cup of coffee and took a sip. "This is great!"

The Malaysian inclined his head in acknowledgement and said nothing.

Jeff, seated behind his desk, accepted his customary cup. "I wonder if Alan and Virgil would like one."

"I called them," Kyrano informed him. "There was no reply."

"Maybe that means Virgil has finished," Tin-Tin said hopefully and looked out the window. Her spirits sank when she saw the grey clouds scudding past.

"I hope so," Mrs. Tracy said. "He's working too..." Her sentence was cut short when the object of discussion entered the lounge, followed by his youngest brother. Both had faces as dark and thunderous as the sky outside.

"What's wrong, Boys?" Jeff asked.

By way of an answer Virgil and Alan placed three pieces of metal on the coffee table in front of Ned and Joe.

"Virgil! How many times have I told you not to put your greasy things on the furniture!" Mrs. Tracy scolded. "Ah... What are they?"

"Perhaps you'd care to answer, Cook!" Virgil demanded.

Ned put on his most ingratiating smile as Joe exclaimed. "You've fixed it! Thank you!"

"Fixed it?" Alan snarled. "Found it more like."

"What?" Jeff had come over to see what all the fuss was about. "What's going on?"

"Alan found this in the hover-plane," Virgil explained.

"In a hidden compartment under the pilot's seat," Alan added.

Jeff turned back to the two unwanted guests. "Well?"

"Well..." Joe wasn't known for thinking fast on his feet.

Ned was, "You were snooping through our things!"

"Yeah," Alan was still snarling. "Just like you're planning to do with ours..."

"Alan!" Jeff snapped before turning back to the two 'guests'. "What do you two have to say for yourselves?"

Ned shrugged. "I'll have to have words with the engineer when I get back to..."

"Are you trying to tell us that you know nothing about this?" Virgil scoffed.

Jeff picked up the complete component and examined it. "This has been recently used," he said, to a background accompaniment of tutting from his mother at the state of affairs... and her coffee table. "How badly damaged was this..." he picked up half of the broken unit, "... when you started working on it, Virgil?"

"Bad enough that they would have been hemorrhaging fuel," Virgil told him. "Look at how clean the cut is. They can't have been using it for much further than 500 kilometres."

"From around about the Su'an Islands then?" Jeff stated

"That's what I think."

"Some crackpot must have swapped those parts over when we landed there," Joe ventured gamely.

"And left the original hidden in your hover-plane?" Jeff gave him a look that had squashed many an employee... and errant son. "You're also forgetting the fact that they're uninhabited. Who would have replaced it? Seals? Castaways?"

Joe shrugged. "Maybe."

Jeff took a step closer. Now he was towering over the pair of them. From their position on the couch both Ned and Joe were getting a good impression of just how imposing Jeff Tracy could be. "'Gentlemen'," and his quiet voice belied his anger. "Would you care to explain your actions?"

Joe looked at Ned. Ned looked at Jeff Tracy and then stood so he was able to stare him in the eye. "All right! I'll admit that we thought up that little scheme to buy some time with Gordon, or to at least find a little bit more about him. We weren't banking on being trapped by a cyclone."

"I'll bet," Alan growled.

"So you decided to take advantage of our hospitality, while you tried to get your story?" Jeff asked.

Ned's answer was blunt. "Yes! We didn't know about the falling out you'd had with Gordon."

There was a slight moan from Grandma, and the rest of the family looked at each other in various states of confusion.

Jeff didn't bat an eyelid. "My relationship with my sons is none of your business, nor is it the business of anyone outside of this family."

"So you are not prepared to discuss what happened?"

"No."

"Okay." Ned shrugged and sat down again. He looked back up at Jeff with a sardonic grin on his face. "So now what are you going to do? Somehow I don't think that Jeff Tracy, the great philanthropist, is likely to send us out into that cyclone...?"

Four: Day One-Something Fishy

Gordon and Scott were in their communal living area playing a listless game of chess.

"I still can't believe that Grandma lied," Scott commented as he moved his knight.

Gordon chuckled. "I would have loved to have seen Virgil and Alan's faces when they heard I'd been 'disowned'."

"It's not funny, Gordon."

"Yes it is. Can you imagine Dad getting that wild with any of us that he'd cut us adrift?"

"It's not right!" Scott protested. "Grandma lied to that creep. She's never lied in her life! She's drummed into us that honesty is always the best policy, and here she is having to tell a lie...! For us!"

"It must have been a good one if Cook believed her."

"It's not right," Scott growled. "You should know that, Gordon."

"I never said it was." Then Gordon chuckled again. "I do appreciate you going out to look for me. That's real brotherly love. Searching high and low... Going against our father's wishes..."

"This is not funny!"

"Now, that's where I disagree with you. It's a very funny way you're playing this game. You can't move a rook in that direction!"

"What?" Scott looked at the board. "Oh." He replaced the rook and shifted his bishop.

Gordon took one of Scott's pawns. "I think there's a lot of humour to found in this situation," he continued on. "I think it's funny that Virgil was so careful in scanning that part, only for Alan to find the original in the plane. That's priceless."

"That's not funny," Scott reiterated. "It's serious."

"Scott! If I don't find some humour in all this, I'm going to go crazy knowing that it's because of me everything we've worked for has been jeopardised. Now lighten up and make your move."

"It's not right," Scott mumbled under his breath, ignoring the game board.

"I agree it's not right. Now concentrate on the game!"

"But it's not! Just like it's not right that we're stuck down here, while..."

"Are you going to make a move or not?" Gordon interrupted.

"Yeah, okay..." Muttering something about nosey, selfish reporters not leaving honest folks alone, Scott made his move. "The sooner those two leave Tracy Isla..."

"What did you say?"

Scott looked at Gordon. All the joviality had drained out of his brother's face; in fact he was looking pale. "Are you all right?"

"Tracii!"

"What?"

"Tracey!"

"Who? Us?"

"No. Not us. With an E."

"Who?"

"I forgot her!"

"Who's Tracey, Gordon?" Scott watched in concern as his chess partner jumped out of his chair and raced into his sleeping quarters. "Gordon? Who's Tracey?" he asked as he followed.

"She's pregnant... I promised I'd be with her when the babies were due... How could I have forgotten...?" Gordon was standing in the middle of his room looking extremely flustered.

"So? Who is she and what's that got to do with you?"

"It's got a lot to do with me!" Gordon pounded his forehead with the flat of his hand. "Think, Gordon, think," he muttered. "What do you need?"

"Why isn't the father looking out for her?"

"He'd probably eat the babies."

"Gordon, calm down, there's no way you can go to her now, not while we're in the middle of a cyclone."

"But I promised her, Scott."

"Very noble I'm sure, but she'll have to get along without you. I don't know why you're so uptight about this..."

"I'm the one who got her pregnant!"

Usually cool, in control and unflappable, for once in his life Scott Tracy was dumbstruck.

"Water," Gordon was muttering. "I'll need clean water. What else? I've had no experience with this!"

'You and me both,' Scott thought. "Gordon?" he waited for a response, but none seemed to be forthcoming. "Gordon!"

Gordon looked at him as if he'd just woken from a dream. "What?"

"You did what?"

"I did what, when?"

"Gordon!" Scott grabbed him by the shoulders. "Calm down. Take a deep breath." He made sure his brother had obeyed the instruction and then steered him to the edge of the bed where he forced him to sit down. "Think about it. We're in the middle of a cyclone. There's no way you can get to this girl."

"Scott?"

"Where is she, anyway?" Scott maintained a tight grip of Gordon's shoulders.

"Who?"

"Tracey."

"In my room. I told her she could have her babies in there?"

"Your room...?" Scott was beginning to think that he was losing all links with sanity. "Babies? How many is she expecting?"

"I don't know. It could be anything between one and a couple of hundred, but I'm picking no more than five."

Scott shook his head to try and clear it. "Gordon," he said patiently. "Let's start again. What is Tracey?"

"A Plectroglyphididodon Tracii."

"Gordon," Scott said again. "I'm a simple flyboy with his head in the clouds. Bringing it down to the most basic, easy to understand, monosyllabic word you can think of, what is a Plectfidwhatever Tracii?"

Gordon looked at him as if he were stupid. "A fish."

Scott released his grip. "You're getting uptight over a fish?"

"Not just any fish! A Plectroglyphidido..."

"...Tracii. I know. What's so special about a Plec...? Tracey?"

"It's a species of fish that is indigenous to the waters around Tracy Island. They're unique! I'm pretty sure that they are one of the few species of fish that don't lay eggs. Instead the mother gestates them inside her, and then gives birth to live young. I know we do all we can to minimise environmental damage, but I'm worried that if something went haywire we could wipe out the entire species! I've been trying for months to breed them and I think I've finally succeeded!"

"Congratulations. Now why do you have to risk Cook and Co seeing you just to take care of a goldfish?"

"They're not gold. They're grey."

"What are you planning to do? Hold its fin? Tell it how to breathe?"

"Don't be silly, Scott. I've got to put her into her breeding tank."

"Why?"

"Because I'm worried that the adult Plectroglyphididodon Tracii," (Scott had to admire the way the words tripped easily off his brother's tongue), "will eat the young."

"Why would they do that?"

"Space. There's plenty of room for the group that's already in there, but add a few more bodies and things could get a bit crowded."

"What would you have done if we were out on a rescue?" Scott asked.

"Accepted it as a part of being International Rescue. But we're not on a rescue! I'm only a few metres away!"

"And it may as well be the other side of the world," Scott growled. "You're not leaving here. Why not get Virgil or Alan to shift her?"

"Alan! He'd probably try to feed them to that alligator of his."

"Virgil wouldn't."

"I know. But he won't know which one she is. They all look alike to the untrained eye. I'd be happier doing this myself."

"Well, you're not going out there! You'll just have to hope that she hangs on to them until the cyclone's blown over and Cook's gone!"

"Don't be mean! How would you feel if you were a fish and you were pregnant?"

"I don't think either situation is likely to happen."

"Please, Scott," Gordon fixed his big brother with his most beseeching expression; one that had gained him many treats and punishment reprieves over the years.

"Don't think that face is going to soften me up now. You're too old..."

"You know I can do this without even Dad and Grandma knowing I went up there."

Scott wavered. "Are you sure?"

Gordon nodded. "Don't worry. I know every nook and cranny in this place. Cook doesn't. If I can sneak round without you guys seeing me, I sure as heck can hide from him."

"The worrying thing about that statement is that I have no doubt that it's true. But you're not talking about playing one of your practical jokes. The safety of the family... Heck we're not only talking about the family, we're talking the safety of the world..."

"Don't exaggerate, Scott."

"I'm not! You know what could happen if our equipment..."

"...Fell into the wrong hands. I know, I know. I helped write the manual. But the Plectroglyphididodon Tracii's whole world is this one little bit of ocean. If we do something wrong, even International Rescue won't be able to save them. Unless I can get a breeding population established elsewhere. Please, Scott..."

Scott shook his head in bemusement. "I hate to think what you'd be like if it was your kid about to be born. What were you like when you spent that year under water?"

Gordon gave a sheepish grin. "They called me 'The Gord-father' because I took a personal interest in every species we bred... Once we were treated to seeing some coral spawning... Have you ever seen that!" his eyes were shining.

"Nope."

"Boy, you've missed something! Anyway, one of the project's big-wigs was visiting us that day. I had to choose between doing my job and showing him around, or watching one of the marvels of the universe..."

"And?" Scott asked, already knowing the answer.

"And... The coral won."

"And you lost?"

Gordon shrugged. "Hey, it was only one month's pay and it wasn't as though there was anywhere I could go to spend it."

"You're a character, Gordon." Scott sighed. "Okay, you win..." He sat on the other bed and looked at his watch. "We're going to need help with this."

Alan and Virgil had been given the unenviable task of keeping the island's two guests occupied and out of everyone else's hair. They'd decided that their best plan of attack was to shut the pair of them up in the theatre and let them have the run of the family's movie collection.

Virgil was in the process of explaining the computer's selection system when both his, and Alan's, watches started beeping.

"Is that the time?" Virgil tried to keep his voice natural. "I promised Brains I'd give him a hand with... some stuff. But that can wait ten minutes. Do you want to go and do whatever it is you're supposed to be doing, Alan?"

"Uh, yeah. Thanks, Virg. I, uh, promised Kyrano I'd give him a hand in his greenhouse, and he doesn't like to be kept waiting. Something to do with the angle of the moon and the plants I think."

"Well you'd better go... We'll see you later," Virgil said awkwardly, "since he doesn't like to be kept waiting."

"Okay. See you guys later."

"It seems like even on a tropical paradise you're tied down to the tyranny of time," Ned said, sounding cheerful at the thought that he didn't have to be anywhere at this moment.

"Yes... I guess we are," Alan replied.

"You'd better go, Alan," Virgil said.

Alan escaped the theatre and ran down the hallway until he thought he was out of earshot. "What can I do for you, Scott?"

"Were both you and Virgil with Cook and Whatsisname?"

"Joe? Yeah. I don't think he's got a surname. Everyone seems to call him Joe."

"Never mind that, Alan. Where are they now?"

Alan looked up as Virgil joined him. "In the theatre."

Virgil nodded his agreement. "I left them watching a three hour movie."

"Good. That'll keep them occupied."

"Why?"

"Gordon's got a... Gordon's got something important he's got to do in his room. Don't ask what, you won't believe me. I can't believe I'm even agreeing to help him."

"I really appreciate this, Scott," they heard Gordon's voice in the background.

"Gordon, for a time there I thought you were about to be disowned for real. I almost wish you would be!"

Ned and Joe had watched the movie for ten minutes before Ned spoke. "You know. This'd be even better if we had some company."

"Who'd you have in mind?"

"I was thinking of inviting young Tin-Tin."

Joe chuckled. "You're a dirty old man, Ned."

Ned winked. "I'll admit that she's excellent eye-candy, but I was interested in more than her body. She knows what's going on in this household, and knows what Tracy's projects are. I think if we can get her to relax she'll start talking. And then we'll really get to know Jeff Tracy."

"Okay, go get the oriental miss. Do you want me to pause the movie?"

"Nah. I've seen this bit before. The real action doesn't happen until the second half. We should be back by then."

"You don't want me to make myself scarce?"

"I have a feeling that Tin-Tin will feel more relaxed if she doesn't think I'm going to try and make a move on her."

"Do you think anyone has ever tried to make a move on her? Do you think anyone's succeeded?"

"You mean in this household of five eligible young bachelors and one extremely good looking, 'subservient to her masters', young Asian lady? Who knows, Joe? This is an extremely strange set-up. Anything is possible." Ned patted his friend on the shoulder as he walked past. "We'll be back soon. Don't eat all the popcorn."

"Is it all clear, Brains?" Gordon asked as he cautiously pocked his head into the lab.

"A-A-All clear, Gordon. So you think you're finally getting somewhere with your P- Plectroglyphididodon population?"

"Yep. I was planning to shift her over yesterday, but with everything that happened I forgot. Would you mind if I grabbed some of your spare stuff? I can't remember what I've left in my room, and I don't want to be out in the open for any longer than necessary."

Brains was willing to agree to the request. "O-Of course. Help yourself."

"Thanks." Gordon started gathering together a collection of implements. "I'll leave what I don't use by the tank. If you need it you can nip in and get it."

"F-Fine. Do you want me to check the way's c-clear?"

"If you wouldn't mind."

Brains chuckled. "Just call me s-secret agent 'Double O 73939133'."

"Huh? Why that number?" Gordon felt the urge to scratch his head, but was unable to because his hands were full.

"It's my f-favourite. It's the largest prime number in which a-all the initial segments of the decimal expansion are also p-prime numbers."

"Meaning?"

"S-Seven is a prime number. 73 is a prime number. 739 is a p-prime number and so on." Brains walked to the door and opened cautiously. When he was sure that no one was lurking about just outside the lab, he ventured further into the hallway. "All clear, Gordon."

"Thanks." Clutching his booty, and taking advantage of every bit of cover he knew of, Gordon raced to his bedroom. Once inside he slid the door shut behind him and 'dropped' the lab gear onto his bed. Then he opened out a panel in the window seat that sat in the corner of his room.

At last he felt safe.

When Jeff Tracy was in the process of designing the plans for his Villa he'd ensured that every member of the household had a private space of identical dimensions. It was then left to each individual to divide and decorate his, or her, own space as they saw fit.

Gordon had left his private quarters as a large open plan environment. Along one neat and tidy wall was a myriad of aquariums filled with an amazing variety of different species of fish. Against the opposite wall was his bed. The rest of the room was filled with what his brothers tended to call rubbish.

When designing his room, Gordon had made one significant difference to the original layout. He'd built a padded window-seat so that he could sit and look out over the Pacific's waters. If at anytime he couldn't be in the pool or ocean, then this was the place he'd come to find peace. The padded seat on top was hinged, thereby allowing access to a storage trunk underneath. A few of Gordon's belongings, including a plate that he'd forgotten to take back to the kitchen, had been thrown carelessly into the compartment.

Being the practical joker in a family with four brothers (who didn't always appreciate the joke), meant that it was sometimes necessary to have a foolproof hiding place. At the time that the house was being wired up, Gordon had asked if the wires from his automatic sliding door could be extended to the general vicinity of the window. His excuse was that from his vantage-point overlooking the waters, he could control whether or not he was disturbed. Everyone doubted his excuse, but in time everyone forgot about those mystery wires and Gordon was able to realise his grand plan.

Gordon's plan, and to date it had worked well, was to have a secret compartment in the window seat. Hidden beneath a false bottom in the storage trunk, there was enough room for him to curl up in relative comfort. When the front panel of the seat was open (it swung downwards to ensure easy access) the main door to the room was locked shut. When the secret panel was fully shut the door locking mechanism opened and a (usually angry) brother would storm in, only to find the room devoid of Gordon.

A viewing slot in the side panel, camouflaged with material, allowed Gordon to watch in amused safety as the furious brother would conduct a futile search of the room. This was low-tech design in a high-tech household and it worked perfectly.

Gordon's hideaway had been installed as a laugh. Now it potentially had a more serious purpose.

"Hello, Darling," he cooed to the Plectroglyphididodon Tracii that was partially concealed in the marine plants that made up her home. "So you haven't had your babies yet?"

'Tracey' eyed him up and slid further backwards into the leafy protection.

"Let's get your limousine ready shall we?" he asked as he placed a plastic bag in a large open mouthed beaker. Then, after pulling the bag's opening over the lip of the container so that the bag would remain open without collapsing, he partially filled it with water. As he allowed the water to reach room temperature, he took the time to inspect and feed his other charges.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he said soothingly as he gently coaxed 'Tracey' into a small jar. "Just relax, Honey, and I'll pop you in here." He placed her, still in the jar, into the water-filled plastic bag. "Now we'll leave you there for a minute until the water temperature's equalised. Okay?"

'Tracey' turned her back on him.

"What else are we going to need?" Gordon busied himself for the next couple of minutes, gathering various bits and pieces such as food and an oxygen pump. "Okay, I think that's everything," he said to himself as he did a mental inventory. He tested the water. "Nope, not quite ready."

'Tracey' swam sedately in circles inside her jar.

Something shiny caught Gordon's eye. He still got the same sense of exhilaration and disbelief every time he looked at the gold medal mounted proudly on the wall. Smiling to himself, he gave it a quick polish with his sleeve before turning back to the Plectroglyphididodon Tracii. "Come on, Honey. Out you pop." He slowly tipped the jar over on its side and 'Tracey' swam out. Then he removed the dripping wet jar and placed it on the table...

Ned Cook wasn't having much luck finding Tin-Tin. He supposed that she could be in the lab, or else holed up in her room, both of which presented problems. He didn't know where the lab was and didn't know which room was hers. To cap it all he suddenly realised that he was lost in the rabbit warren that made up the Tracy Villa. After following several passageways he stumbled across one that appeared to connect the family's sleeping quarters. Figuring he must be close to Tin-Tin he wandered along, examining the doors and trying to find something that would indicate that which was her room. Each door, he realised, had a muted identifying pattern inlaid into the wood. A rocket, some stars, a plane, a car, some musical notes, a fish...

A fish?

He examined the door with the marine motif more closely, before looking about to see if anyone was watching him...

A rattle at his door placed Gordon at high alert. Leaving 'Tracey' exposed in her open topped bag he dove into his hiding place and pulled the panel shut.

Another rattle at the door and it slid open to reveal Ned Cook. The reporter peered cautiously inside, took a step into the room and then re-locked the door behind him. "Right, Gordon," he said, rubbing his hands together. "Let's see what you've got."

Gordon watched in mounting anger as his private things were rummaged through.

Ned was methodical. He started with Gordon's drawers. "Some things gone, but not a lot," he mused out loud. "You left in a hurry, all right." Then he turned his attention to the bed and picked up a few of the items that Gordon had borrowed from Brains. "I wonder what these are used for."

'Mind your own business,' Gordon thought.

Ned worked his way through the room, turning over any little scrap that he though might give him the juicy bit of information that he required. He came to the window seat. "Nice view... If you could see through the rain... I wonder..."

Gordon held his breath as heard the lid above him open and the interloper push a few things about. "You're a slob, Gordon Tracy." The lid was dropped shut.

"And you're a nosy... Hey! Get your hands off that!"

Ned had Gordon's medal in his hands. He stared at it and turned it over to read the inscription on the back. "Why'd you leave this, Gordon? Surely this is the symbol of what you've achieved...? And what your father despised about you."

Gordon bit his tongue to stop himself from yelling at the man.

Ned let the medal drop back against the wall with a clunk and then turned back to take in the surroundings. "It's obvious what the marine world means to you, Gordon. Jeff Tracy has a stronger character than I gave him credit for if he managed to hide away his disappointment in you away for all these years." He picked up a yellow plastic fish that was residing on a small shelf above the medal and examined it. "Looks like you came out of a cereal packet. I wonder what your significance is." He replaced it and looked about the room again.

Gordon almost relaxed as he watched Cook turn on his heel and head towards the exit.

Ned stopped and turned back to the aquariums. He admired each one's occupants briefly before stopping by the table where Gordon had been transferring 'Tracey'. He picked up the jar she'd been temporarily swimming in. "Someone's been here recently." He looked around as if searching for that mystery person, his eyes resting for what seemed to be an unnatural length of time on Gordon's hiding place.

Yet again Gordon held his breath.

Ned turned back to the table. "Nice fishy," he said as he bent over 'Tracey' and used his finger to splash the water in her bag.

Gordon found himself wishing that 'Tracey' was a piranha and not just a Plectroglyphididodon Tracii. He watched as Ned, after making sure that all was clear, finally left his room. He then gave the reporter a full minute to get clear, before he undid the bolt and unfurled himself from inside his window seat. He stretched to get the kinks out and then hurried over to 'Tracey'. "Are you okay, Honey? Did that nasty man give you a fright...? He gave me one," he added as he switched on his wristwatch communicator.

Alan heard the familiar sound and responded with a smile. "All done, Gordon?"

"Almost. No thanks to you!"

"Huh?" confused by his brother's angry expression and tone, Alan frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I mean Ned Cook's just been nosing around my room."

"What!"

"I'm almost ready to leave. How about checking it's safe this time?"

"But... but it was last time," Alan stuttered. "I thought..."

"Well you thought wrong!"

"Did he see you?"

"Of course not. Now go make sure he still doesn't see me. Beep me when it's safe."

"Okay." Bemused Alan signed off. He'd taken two steps when he bumped into Virgil, who was carrying his painting gear. "I thought you said Cook was happily watching the movie."

"He was."

"Gor... Leroy..." Alan switched to Gordon's alias. One they would use whenever they were on a rescue with a possibility of being recognised. "...Says Cook's just been searching his room."

Virgil's mouth dropped open. "Did Cook see...?

"Apparently not. But he's ready to head back again. Let's make sure he's not intercepted."

As he cooled his heels, Gordon took his Olympic gold medal off the wall and inspected it for damage. Then, using the cloth reserved exclusively for this purpose, he gave it a polish. "That's better," he said as he hung it back up. He gave the plastic fish a brief pat.

Joe looked away from the giant screen when Ned entered the theatre. "You've almost missed the good bit. Where's Tin-Tin?"

"I couldn't find her. This place is a maze!" Ned slipped into the seat beside Joe. "I'll tell you what I did find though..."

Joe paused the movie. "Well? Don't keep me in suspense."

"Gordon's room."

"You searched it, of course?"

"Of course." Ned produced his recording device. "I've made a few notes. I'd say he left in a mighty hurry..." He popped some popcorn into his mouth. "He left his Olympic medal behind."

"He did what? He must have been in a rage to forget that!"

"That's what I think." Ned munched reflectively. "It's a strange room. It's a total mess except for this one wall which is covered in aquariums. Each of them is spotless. Someone's been keeping an eye on things too."

"The fish have all been fed?"

"Not only that, but one of them had recently been transferred. It was still in a plastic bag and the jar that'd been used was wet. I wonder who it is that's prepared to go against Jeff Tracy's wishes." Ned gave a shudder. "You want to know something creepy? I could almost believe that whoever was caring for Gordon's fish was still in that room. I could almost sense them watching me..."

"It was probably all the fish giving you the once over," Joe suggested.

"Mmn, maybe... Like I said, it's a strange room."

"Was there anywhere anyone could have hidden?"

Ned shook his head. "No."

"Security camera?"

Ned frowned. "Now that's a possibility I hadn't thought of. But in a bedroom?"

"Maybe Tracy likes to keep a 'paternal' eye on his sons?"

"Maybe."

"Find anything else of interest?"

The door slid open with a bang, heralding the slightly breathless arrival of Alan and Virgil. They looked at the two startled faces who were staring at them. "Uh, we were just checking up on you..." Alan said. "...Uh... To see that you were all right! Do you need anything? More popcorn?"

"Chocolate bar?" Virgil suggested.

"A drink?"

"Another movie?"

"No," Joe said. "We haven't finished this one yet."

"Ah," Virgil said. "Good... " Out of the corner of his eye he saw Alan press a button on his watch.

"Where are you up to?" Alan asked.

"The island's just been invaded," Joe offered. "The people who are hiding are about to be discovered."

"This is a good bit," Virgil said. "I think I'll stay for this bit. Do you want to stay for... uh... this bit, Alan?"

"Yeah," Alan nodded. "I think I might stay for this... bit." He cringed.

"I'd like to get my hands on him! I'd give him slob! I'd give him despised!"

"Huh?" Scott, who'd spent the entire time fretting over what Gordon was doing, took a moment to look at 'Tracey', before giving his, obviously angry, brother his full attention. "What are you going on about?"

"Cook!"

"What about him?"

"He was in my room!"

"What! When!"

"Now! While I was in there!"

"Gordon! Did he see you?"

"No, of course not!" Gordon paced the length of the room. "The creep had the cheek to call me a slob!" He reversed his course.

Scott decided that now was not the time to say 'if the cap fits...'

"He made some comment about Dad despising me!"

"Calm down, Gordon. You know that's not true. Who was he talking to?"

"No one! Himself!"

Scott's worry meter went up a notch. "Are you sure he didn't know you were there?"

"I'm telling he didn't! No one ever finds me in my... room!"

"True," Scott agreed.

"He was talking to himself. Giving a kind of running commentary."

"Running commentary? Do you think he had a recorder with him?"

"I don't know. What I do know is; he put his greasy mitts all over my medal!"

"Ah." Everyone in the household knew that, except when explicit permission was given, Gordon's Olympic gold was off limits. Scott knew that Ned Cook handling Gordon's most prized possession would not have gone down well with his brother.

"And you two were no use!" Gordon stormed, pointing a finger at Virgil and Alan who'd abandoned the theatre again. "I thought you said he was watching a movie!"

"He was," Virgil said. "He and Joe seemed to be quite settled."

"I thought so," Alan agreed. "What happened, Gordon?"

Marginally calmer, Gordon recounted the events of a few moments ago.

"You went up there for a fish?" Alan asked.

"You're surprised?" Virgil responded. "What did you want us to do, Gordon? Tie Ned and Joe up?"

"It'd have been a start!"

"You risked exposure for a fish!" Alan repeated, still trying to get his head around the fact. "Dad's going to go crazy when he finds out!"

"He's not going to find out, Alan," Scott said. "Look, I know we've all had a bit of a scare, but it's okay. Neither Cook nor anyone else saw Gordon, so our secret's still safe, and neither of us will have to go up there again until they've gone. That's all that matters. Now, Gordon, don't you want to put 'Tracey' into something a bit more substantial than a plastic bag?"

"Tracey?" Virgil asked.

"The fish."

Virgil shook his head in wonderment.

"She's pregnant," Scott offered.

"Ah," Alan said. "Now it all makes sense."

"It does?" Virgil asked.

"No, but then nothing else does either."

Gordon cursed.

"Language," Scott reprimanded.

"I left all the gear in my room. I was in such a bad mood I didn't think of taking it."

"Do you want us to...?" Virgil began.

"No!" Gordon snapped. "I'll get Brains to. At least he's careful!"

Brains, as requested, had gone into Gordon's room to retrieve the missing items. He took a moment to fire up Gordon's computer and found himself engrossed in the notes Gordon had made on the Plectroglyphididodon population. "I-Interesting... Very interesting... G-Good work, Gordon," he said in approval, before switching the computer off again. Then, after gathering the necessary paraphernalia into his arms, he walked out the door... straight into Ned Cook and Joe.

Brains blinked at the two men. "Hello?"

"Hello... ah... 'Brains'?" Ned said.

"I-I'm sorry," Brains looked between the two men. "I-I don't think we've been introduced."

"We met yesterday," Joe told him. "We had dinner together last night."

Brains frowned in bemusement. "Just the three of us?"

"No. The Tracys were there too. I'm Ned and this is Joe. Remember?" Ned said.

"Ohhh," Brains appeared to understand. "Wh-Where did we go?"

"Nowhere. There's a cyclone howling outside at the moment. Joe and I came here to interview Gordon and we've been trapped by Cyclone Sylvia."

"Ah," Brains nodded. "Did you and G-Gordon have a good i-interview?"

"No. He's not here. He's left home," Joe tried to be patient.

"G-Gordon's left home? Oh dear! Does M-Mr. Tracy know?"

"I think he's got a pretty good idea," Ned admitted.

"Then why are you st-st-still here?"

"Because we can't leave because of Cyclone Sylvia," Ned was starting to lose patience.

"Cyclone! Dear me! No one mentioned a cyclone! We'd better st-stop Gordon before he goes out into the cyclone!"

"He's gone, Brains. Apparently he left days ago!"

"Who's g-gone?"

"Gordon."

"Gordon's g-gone? Where?"

"Look," Ned's patience had finally run out. "Why don't you ask one of the Tracys all about it? I'm sure they'll be able to explain it to you better than we can."

Brains beamed at him. "Wh-What a wonderful idea! I'll go ask them now, sh-shall I? And then maybe the three of us c-can go out to dinner."

"Yeah. Maybe we'll do that. C'mon, Joe. Let's go see where everyone's hiding."

"Give my b-best to Sylvia!" Brains called after them.

He was still chuckling when he handed over the aquarium equipment to Gordon.

"What are you laughing about?" Alan asked him.

Brains gave the four Tracy boys a rundown of his conversation with Ned and Joe. "Y-You know? Sometimes there's a-advantages to looking like the archetypical absentminded professor..."

Five: Day Two-Where There's Smoke?

In the kitchen Grandma Tracy marked the second day of their incarceration by cyclone off the calendar and reflected that she was glad that if Cyclone Sylvia had to decide to intrude on their home, at least she'd waited until after Gordon's birthday. Now her only concern was that, according to John's last reports, Sylvia appeared to have stalled over the island. "I hope you're gone before Alan's birthday arrives," she told the unheeding cyclone.

Sylvia's only response was to throw something against the side of the house.

Grandma picked up a meal tray and walked down the passageways to the lab, blissfully unaware that she was being watched.

"Two plates," Ned Cook said thoughtfully as he peered out from his hiding place. "Who for?"

"Maybe it's for the nutty professor. Main course and dessert," Joe suggested.

"On the same sized plates?" Ned scoffed. "And the only cutlery I saw was two sets of knives and forks."

"The way that guy's away with the fairies he might need two sets to himself," Joe hypothesised. "So that when he loses one set, he's still got the other."

Ned wasn't satisfied with that solution.

Joe kept on guessing. "Maybe the old lady's going to have dinner with him?"

"And not with her family?"

"He seems to be so engrossed in his work that maybe he forgets to eat. Maybe she's going to make sure the food isn't wasted."

"Somehow I can't buy that," Ned said. "I think someone else must be in the lab. But who? We haven't seen anyone else walk past."

"Tin-Tin? She's been avoiding us. Maybe she knows another way in there..."

"A good theory," Ned accepted. "Except that no one knows we're hiding here. Something doesn't feel right about all this. Just who are those plates for...?"

"How's it going, Brains?" Grandma asked.

Brains looked up from his latest experiment. "It's going v-very well, Mrs. Tracy." He noticed the tray. "Dinner time?"

"Yes. I'm off to the zoo to feed the animals."

Brains chuckled. "So that's the g-growling sounds I heard from down there. M-Must have been Scott's stomach."

"I'll buzz you when I'm ready to come out again."

"Good. I-I'll open the door when it's all clear."

"It seems so silly to have to take these precautions in our own home. If only those men hadn't come here!"

Brains agreed. "I haven't b-been disturbed by our 'f-friends' so far. They th-think I'm quite mad. But it's better to be safe than sorry."

"Your dinner will be ready as soon as I get back, Brains."

"Th-Thank you, Mrs. Tracy." Brains pushed the button that opened the secret door to the bunkers and waited for his elderly friend to walk through before shutting it behind her. Then he returned to his work. He'd no sooner picked up his pencil when he was interrupted again.

It was Ned and Joe. "Hi, Brains."

Brains pushed his spectacles back up his nose. "Wh-Wh-What can I do for you gentlemen?"

"We saw Mrs. Tracy come in here," Joe said.

"Yes," Ned agreed. "She had her hands full and we thought she might appreciate some assistance."

"M-Mrs. Tracy came in here?" Brains queried.

"Yes," Joe nodded. "Carrying a tray with two covered plates."

"Carrying a t-t-tray?"

"Yes," Joe said again.

"Where is she?" Ned asked, looking around.

"I-I-I d-d-don't know," Brains stammered. He opened a cupboard door. "Sh-She's not in here," he mumbled into the assorted equipment that was stored there.

"We're sure we saw her come in here," Ned insisted.

"Carrying food," Joe confirmed.

"M-Mrs. Tracy brought me dinner? Th-That's very nice of her." Brains started looking around, lifting up a variety of implements. "I wonder where she left it..." He opened an incubator and looked inside. "No."

"What I'm wondering," Ned began, "is where she's gone now."

"P-Probably back to the kitchen," Brains said to the beakers in another cupboard.

"No. She never came out of this room," Joe insisted.

Brains opened another incubator. "Ah! H-Here it is!" he said triumphantly, pulling out a large Petri dish covered in what looked like mouldy cheese. He stared at it closely. "No. Th-That's my antibiotic research," he muttered, placing the dish carefully back into the incubator.

"She's an old lady," Ned reminded him. "She can't just disappear into thin air."

"Sh-She's very nimble for her age," Brains told him. "You should see her go, ah, snorkelling..."

"Mrs. Tracy goes snorkelling?" Joe asked in amazement.

"Yes!" Brains nodded enthusiastically. "And abseiling..." Then he frowned. "No," he amended. "I was th-thinking about Tin-Tin."

Ned groaned.

"Hello, Boys," Grandma said cheerfully.

"An angel has come down from on high, bringing us glad tidings," Gordon greeted her, relieving her of the tray. "And good food... Why didn't you tell us you were bringing this down? We would have come up and got it."

"I wanted to see how you boys were getting on."

"Apart from having to share quarters with ol' grumble guts over there," Gordon indicated Scott who was setting the table, "fine."

"Grandma!" Scott admonished. "You shouldn't have carried that all the way down here. One of us could have come up and got it."

"I've just told her that!"

"Do you boys need anything?"

"A little sunshine, some fresh air, and a chance to stretch our legs would be nice," Gordon suggested.

"I think we'd all appreciate that at the moment, Honey."

Scott had removed the covers off one of the plates and was savouring the aroma. "This'll do, Grandma."

"How's things topside?" Gordon asked pulling up an extra chair and holding it out for his grandmother.

"You sit down and have your dinner while it's still hot!" she instructed as she accepted the seat. She waited until both grandsons were enjoying their meal. "Now what can I tell you? The cyclone's stalled..."

Scott grunted his displeasure at the news.

Gordon scooped some carrots into his mouth and munched away happily.

"... Everyone's on edge because of those two reporters..."

"We should have told them to turn around and crawl back into whatever hole it was they came out of," Scott growled.

He received a scolding from his Grandmother. "Now, Scott! You know we couldn't do that."

"Ignore him," Gordon suggested. "He's been in a foul mood since we got down here. What else can you tell us?"

"Tin-Tin's trying to avoid the pair of them. She's frightened that she's going to say something she shouldn't."

"She wouldn't do that," Gordon said confidently.

"I'm sure she wouldn't too," Grandma admitted. "But she's working herself up into a nervous mess over it... Kyrano's fretting because he's worried about his glasshouses and his plants."

"If this cyclone's going to be as bad as we think," Scott reached for a glass of fruit juice, "we're going to have to repair more than the glasshouses."

"I know, but you know how that poor man cares for his plants."

"Like his children." Gordon was chasing some peas around the plate.

"Your father's practically locked himself away in his study and left your brothers to entertain our 'guests'."

"They're not doing a good job of it," Gordon mumbled through the peas, and received a warning glare from Scott.

"What's that, Darling? Don't talk with food in your mouth."

Gordon swallowed. "Nothing, Grandma. Go on."

Grandma Tracy watched her grandsons enjoy their meal for a moment. "If we get a storm surge," she asked, twisting her apron around her wizened hands, "will you boys be all right down here? There's no way the water can get in, is there? You are underground."

Scott shook his head. "We'll be all right. All the doors have watertight seals and the walls are solid granite."

"I still worry about you."

Gordon patted her hand. "Don't. We're fine." He pushed his plate away. "And now I'm full. That was wonderful, thank you, Grandma. I said you were an angel."

"Thank you, Darling. And now I'd better get back upstairs and feed your father and brothers..."

Brains pretended to have forgotten that he was looking for his mythical dinner. "How's your friend S-Sylvia?" he asked.

Joe frowned. "Sylvia?"

"He means the cyclone." Ned turned from Joe back to Brains. "Sylvia is not our friend. Sylvia is the name they have given the cyclone," he explained.

"Oh!" The frown of bemusement on Brains' face cleared, only to be replaced by another. "What cyclone?"

"The one outside."

"Then wh-who is your friend."

"We don't have one," Joe told him.

'Especially here.' Brains thought uncharitably.

"Sylvia has trapped us here on Tracy Island," Ned was informing him. "We can't leave for the rain and high winds."

"Ahhh." Brains appeared to understand. "Has anyone explained to you what to do if there is a s-s-storm s-s-surge?"

"Several people, several times," Ned said. "It's almost as if everyone's trying to hammer it home into our skulls."

"Do you w-want me to explain it again?"

"No!" Ned and Joe chorused.

"You kn-know to follow instructions?"

"Yes!"

"You kn-know where the storm rooms are?"

"Yes!"

"You kn-know to go there immediately?"

"Yes!" the two reporters repeated.

A light appeared on Brains' computer. As he saw it the barest flicker of concern crossed his face. "Ah. My experiment is complete!"

"Come on, Joe," Ned said. "We're interrupting Brains in his work," he tried, and failed, to sound apologetic. "Let's go."

Glad to escape the talkative clutches of the mad scientist, they made their escape.

Brains waited until he was sure they'd gone and then locked the door to the laboratory. Only then did he let Mrs. Tracy out through the secret door.

"Did you have visitors?" she asked.

"Yes... I don't think they'll be b-back in a hurry. I'm sure they think I-I'm a few electrons sh-short of an atom. Put the tray in that, ah, cupboard there and I'll b-bring it out for washing after everyone's gone to bed."

"Thank you, Brains. If you want to wash up, dinner will be served in ten minutes."

"Thank you, Mrs. Tracy."

"Hi, John. Finished dinner?"

"Yep. Cardboard and marbles."

"Cardboard and marbles?" Scott repeated, a puzzled frown on his face.

"A.K.A. overcooked pizza and peas. Now I'm trying to ignore my indigestion by running a few computer tests. What can I do for you?"

"I just needed to talk to someone who's about the same mental age as me."

John chuckled. "What's the matter? Are you getting the 'Big Brother Blues'?"

"If Gordon doesn't quit bugging me he'll be singing the 'Little Brother Lament'!"

John's grin broadened as through the monitor screen he watched his elder brother's scowl deepen. "What's he done this time?"

"He's decided that since he can't get outside for a swim, he's got to keep his fitness levels up somehow..."

"And you, of all people, are annoyed about that?"

"I wouldn't be, except I'm pretty sure that the real reason why he's chosen these particular exercises is because he knows full well they've got a high irritation quotient."

John placed his clipboard on the console beside him and prepared to give Scott his full attention. "Which exercises?"

"He's worked out that if he follows a particular path through the bunkers then he's walked exactly quarter of a kilometre. Therefore four laps is one kilometre and 40 laps is ten kilometres."

"Fair enough," John said agreeably.

"Not when a lap means hugging whatever piece of furniture it is that I happen to be using at the time," Scott growled.

"And he's done this... how many times?"

"Let's see..." Scott began checking off on his fingers. "I was sitting on the couch reading for the first two kilometres and he'd knock my legs every time he walked past..."

A figure strode purposefully past the video screen. "Hi, John," Gordon called as he casually brushed against Scott.

"Hi, Gordon." John watched as Scott's complexion darkened.

"I decided to try to do some work for the third kilometre," Scott continued on. "So I was sitting at the table. Naturally he has to knock the back of my chair each time he goes past."

"Naturally. Which kilometre is he on at the moment?"

Scott glared at Gordon. "Four point five."

"So that's, what? Another 22 laps?"

A figure strode into camera shot. "Bye, John," Gordon waved cheerily.

"Bye, Gordon," John called back.

"Don't encourage him," Scott snarled.

"Why haven't you sent him on a route march around Thunderbird Two's hangar?"

Scott stared at his brother for a moment as the words sunk home.

"You didn't think of that, did you?" John asked.

"No..." Scott slumped back in his chair and ran his fingers through his hair. "I'm losing it already."

"If you guys are behaving childishly and aren't thinking straight after only two days down there," John asked, "what would we be like if we had to stay cooped up for two years?"

"I don't know, John. And I hope we never have to find out."

"Well, try to keep your head screwed on right long enough to come up with a solution," John advised. "In the meantime don't worry about Gordon. You know he'll get sick of annoying you and will find something else to do soon."

"But that's not all he's been doing!"

"I might have guessed," John sighed. "Tell agony Uncle John."

"If he's not doing those exercises he's swinging his arms about and kind of twisting his back! He says it's to keep his swimming muscles toned."

"Yes..." John said slowly, waiting to hear what was so terrible about this particular activity. "It's not as if he can go outside for a swim. Even if you were upstairs he wouldn't be able to, because of the cyclone. You can't blame him for wanting to do some..."

"You know when he makes his joints pop and crack?" Scott interrupted.

John cringed. "Yes..."

"Well, it's ten times louder down here. It's like being trapped in an iron drum during an artillery round!"

John visibly shuddered. "The very thought puts my teeth on edge," he admitted. "I don't know how he can willingly do that to his body... And you think he's doing these exercises on purpose to annoy you?"

"I'd almost bet on it. And there's another thing..."

"No," John drawled. "What a surprise."

"You know those rails that we put above the doors...?" Scott asked as John nodded. "He's using them for chin up and curl up exercises."

"That's what they're there for..."

"Hi again, John."

"Hi again, Gordon."

Scott glared at his brother's departing back and rubbed his shoulder. "But not while I'm trying to walk through the door! Whose stupid idea was it to put them there in the first place?"

"If I remember rightly, it was yours. 'We've got to utilise every inch of space', you said. 'In case we can't get into the hangars', you said."

Scott ignored the comment. "He says that he's doing that to keep his arm muscles strong for his swimming and his back free from pain."

For the first time, John found something in the conversation to cause him concern. "Pain?"

"He says ever since his accident he's had to do these daily exercises to keep his back mobile."

"But I thought he was completely over that and has had no lasting problems! Does Dad know?"

In the distance Gordon gave a cheerful wave and disappeared out of shot.

"I don't know," Scott admitted. "You know how reluctant Gordon is to talk about his accident and his time in rehabilitation."

"Yes," John nodded. "I know."

"That's what's so galling. He has a sane, logical reason for every annoying thing that he's doing. Reasons that would make me seem churlish if I told him to stop... But I still can't shake the feeling that the real reason why he's doing these exercises is because he wants to tease me and he knows I won't beat the living daylights out of him for doing it!"

John couldn't help it. He laughed. "He's got you sussed, Brother."

"I don't blame him for trying to keep active and maintain his fitness levels, because I know how he feels. He wants to go for a swim and I'd love nothing more than to go for a run around the island, but we can't! It's just not possible...! And he knows what's best for his body. I'm just the poor sucker who's got to listen to it." Scott shook his head ruefully. "I should have gone with the laryngitis option. It would have been less painful!"

John laughed again. "Poor Scott," he teased.

Scott was growling again. "It's all right for you. You don't know what it's like to be trapped in a hermetically sealed cocoon, unable to go outside for some fresh air and to stretch your legs..."

"Excuse me!" John stared at him. "Where do you think I am at the moment?"

"You're..." Scott realised his mistake. "Sorry, John. So you've got some idea... But at least you're not trapped with a madman, and, to a certain extent, you're there willingly. You haven't been forced to stay there because a couple of nosey idiots have decided to invade our home!"

"I'll give you that," John conceded. "And I've been thinking..."

"So? Tell me something new."

"...About your situation and I've come to the conclusion that you two are the worst combination doomed to hide out down there."

"Thanks!"

"Alan and I are both used to being isolated from the outside world, though that wouldn't stop Alan from moaning and griping the entire time..."

"True," Scott agreed. "That would almost be as bad as clicky joints."

"But give me a pile of books and I'd be happy..."

"True," Scott agreed again. "It'd be no trouble being trapped with you, John."

"And Virgil would probably be quite happy painting, or composing..."

"A 'subterranean symphony'?"

John chuckled. "Something like that. At least we could guarantee that you and he wouldn't be at each other's throats within ten minutes of being shut away. You get along so harmoniously that you'd find something you could do together to occupy yourselves. But you and Gordon..." He shook his head. "That's asking for trouble. It wouldn't be so bad if you could run off some of that pent up energy, or work out in the gym... Or if Gordon could go for a swim somewhere..."

"John," Scott pleaded. "Will you stop psychoanalysing us? I'm trapped down here. Gordon's trapped down here. And there's nothing we can do about it except try not to send each other totally around the bend. We've just got to deal with it the best we can."

"Sorry," John apologised. "I got carried away. See, I'm used to being alone. I'm quite happy spending my time thinking about things. I don't have to be doing something every minute of the day like you..."

"John!"

"Sorry," John apologised again. "So... apart from having to deal with noisy joints, how's..."

At that point three things happened almost instantaneously. There was a yell from the vicinity of the kitchen area, a ball of smoke rolled out through the open doorway, and the fire alarm started ringing.

John watched in concern and then with amusement as Scott abandoned the video monitor, grabbed a fire extinguisher and ran for the kitchen, cannoning straight into Gordon who'd casually walked out flapping a cloth.

"What happened?"

"I got bored with walking and I felt like having something for supper, so I thought I'd cook us something to eat." Gordon waved the rather singed cloth in his hand. "I hadn't realised that I'd left this on the element..."

"You were hungry! You hadn't realised...!" Scott's face had turned beet red. "Have you forgotten where we are? We're underground! We could have been asphyxiated!"

"We've got a good ventilation system. And besides it's not a major. I put a lid on the fire and it smothered it! See!" Gordon held out the cloth. "Calm down. Everything's under control. The fire's out."

"That's not the point! The point is that you've behaved irresponsibly...!" Scott thundered.

"Calm down, Scott."

"Calm down! You've endangered our lives! You've put our security at risk! And you're telling me to calm down!"

"Yes," Gordon replied. "Calm down. It's nothing. The emergency's over, no one's been hurt and there's been no real damage done."

Jeff Tracy had just placed his knife and fork together on his dinner plate when the fire alarm started ringing. As he recognised the siren's distinctive tone he was on his feet and heading for the dinning room door. "Come on!" he commanded his two sons.

Alan and Virgil were already running for the door.

"What is it?" Ned asked. "Fire?"

"Yes," Tin-Tin had paled. "It's down in the... in the lab... I'd better check the sick bay..." She fled before she could be asked any more questions.

Ned and Joe glanced at each other. They didn't need to speak to each other to confirm that here was a bit of excitement they get their teeth into. Maybe this could lead to the news story they were after! They leapt out of their chairs intending to follow the Tracy men.

"Fire!" Grandma exclaimed, panicking slightly. "There's a fire in the house! There's a fire... Oh!" She stopped mid-stride clearly in pain. "My back..."

"Mrs. Tracy..." Kyrano sprang to her aid. "Let me help you..."

"I'm all right, Kyrano," she gasped. "Go see if they need your help. Leave me..." she took a step forward and grimaced.

"Come sit down," Kyrano suggested.

"No, I'm all right," Grandma reiterated.

"But your back, Mrs. Tracy..."

"I'll be fine..."

Trapped behind the elderly lady who was moving unsteadily and the Malaysian servant trying to help her, Ned and Joe could do nothing but chafe at the knowledge that they were missing the action and wait until there was enough room for them to slip past...

Brains, having decided to forego dessert due to growing tired of trying to maintain his mad scientist act, had earlier retired to the laboratory. As soon as he'd heard the alarm he'd started readying the fire fighting equipment. By the time the three Tracy men had arrived in the lab three sets of breathing apparatus, two fire extinguishers and a trauma first aid kit had been laid out.

"Thanks, Brains," Jeff grunted as he donned an oxygen mask and picked up a fire extinguisher. Alan and Virgil followed their father's lead, grabbing the other extinguisher and the first aid kit respectively.

Jeff cautiously slid open the door that led to the downward spiralling stairs and checked for smoke. "Seems clear," he said as he started descending. After ensuring their oxygen masks were air tight, his two sons followed close behind.

Brains tipped a beaker into one of the sinks.

"Excuse me!" Enough of a gap had opened up between Kyrano and the doorframe that Ned was able to push his way through with Joe slipping after him. As the two reporters ran to the laboratory Grandma straightened. "I think we kept them out of the way long enough, Kyrano."

Kyrano gave one of his characteristically gentle smiles. "I believe you are right, Mrs. Tracy."

"I hope it is nothing serious!"

"The siren has stopped. I believe it will be a false alarm."

Grandma looked at Kyrano. "My boys didn't think it was a false alarm." She tutted. "Virgil should have stayed up here with us."

"Mrs. Tracy?" Kyrano queried.

"He's pushing himself too hard, too soon. He's as stubborn as the rest of them. Doesn't know when to take it easy. He gets it from Jeff." She sighed. "I hope everyone's all right."

Ned and Joe barrelled into the lab and pulled up short at the sight of Brains, alone, waving a piece of paper frantically. "Where is everyone?" Ned asked.

Brains stared at him short-sightedly and dropped his paper on the bench. "Wh-Who's everyone?"

"Tracy and his two boys."

Brains scratched his head. "In the l-lounge?" he guessed. He picked up the paper and started waving it again.

"No," Joe was doing a circuit of the laboratory searching for the missing men. "They came in here."

"In h-here?"

"Yes! In here!"

"Gordon! You're an irresponsible, immature, irrational idiot..."

"Thanks for the lesson in alliteration, Scott."

"Don't try to sweet talk your way out of this one. It's not like you don't know you've done something stupid!"

"Relax. It was an accident! Everything's under control," Gordon soothed. "The fire's out. No damage has been done and no one's been hurt..."

Scott heard something behind him, saw his brother's expression change, and turned. His father and two brothers were standing there, panting slightly from having run down the stairs carrying heavy equipment. "Oh."

Jeff removed his oxygen mask. "What's going on here?" he asked in a quiet voice.

Virgil and Alan knew that tone. It meant one of them was in big trouble. Without a word they turned and retreated back up the stairs.

"It's okay, Father," Scott said, sensing an impending explosion. "Everything's under control."

Jeff had fixed his gaze on Gordon. "Did you have anything to do with the fire alarm, Scott?"

Scott hesitated.

"No, he didn't," Gordon admitted. "I started it... It was an accident."

"Fine," Jeff had the appearance of a man whose emotions were only just under control. "Go to your room, Scott." His voice was still quiet, but there was no doubt that he was demanding obedience.

Scott briefly considered defying his father and staying to support Gordon, but decided that it would be prudent to leave. He retired to his temporary bedroom, and closed the door behind him.

"All right, Gordon. Let's hear..." Jeff was hefting his breathing apparatus onto the table when he spied John watching them through Thunderbird Five's video connection. "Don't you have work to do?" he snapped.

John hastily disconnected the link, leaving Gordon to his sorry fate...

"Well?" Alan asked when they reached the top of the stairs.

Virgil was trying to open the door. "It's locked," he said.

"So Brains has company?"

"Uh huh."

Alan sat down on the top step, "I'm not going back down there."

"No." Virgil sat down beside him. "I don't think that would be a good idea."

They both winced when a particularly strident shout found its way to the top of the stairs. "Gordon's getting it bad this time," Alan noted.

"Yes," Virgil agreed.

They were silent for a time, occasionally hearing sounds from the depths of the earth, telling them that their brother was still being severely admonished.

"Dad's going overboard," Alan said. "It's not that serious."

"He obviously thinks it is."

They listened some more.

"What would you say if someone was going to interview you about International Rescue?" Virgil eventually asked.

"I'd tell him to get lost."

"No, I mean if we had no security issues. If we had no reason to maintain secrecy and you were free to give the interview."

"I don't know..." Alan said thoughtfully. "I've never thought about it. What about you?" He pretended to hold an imaginary microphone under Virgil's nose. "Now tell me, Mr. Tracy. How did you join International Rescue?"

Virgil laughed. "Well..." he said playing along. "You could say I was born into it."

"What is it with this place?" Ned asked as he looked around the nearly empty laboratory. "How can people just disappear into thin air?"

Brains, the only visible occupant, was shaking his head. "That is a physical impossibility. N-Nothing can disappear into th-thin air. F-For one thing we are almost at s-s-sea level. The air here is n-not thin. And the ph-phrase 'thin air' is a misnomer. Air is n-not 'thin', m-merely that the higher you go in the Troposphere, the less w-weight of air there is above you in th-the atmosphere..."

Joe shrugged and looked at Ned.

"Also," Brains continued on with this theme. "It is impossible for s-something to disappear. Th-There must be some f-form of transference of matter or energy. For instance, sh-should someone s-spontaneously combust they would not d-disappear. They would convert into energy in th-the form of heat and light and a portion would p-p-probably remain as a deposit of carbon. It's the s-second law of thermodynamics. Should they..."

"Brains!" Ned slammed both hands onto the workbench and stared at the scientist so that they were practically nose-to-nose. "We heard the fire alarm go off. Jeff Tracy said the fire was in here. We saw him, Virgil and Alan come in here. So... Where... Are... They?"

Brains shook his head. "There was no f-fire. What you can smell is s-sulphur."

Ned frowned. "Sulphur."

"I s-stupidly tipped a b-beaker of sulphur into the sink," Brains said flapping his piece of paper again to disperse the odour. "It's pr-probably that you can smell."

"No," Ned shook his head in frustration. "We didn't smell anything..."

Joe wrinkled up his nose. "I can." He flipped a switch marked 'extractor fan' and a quiet motor hummed into life.

"Ah," Brains said. "I-I hadn't thought of that. Th-Thank you... ah... Jim?"

"Joe," Joe told him.

"Joe," Brains repeated.

Ned ignored this exchange. "We... Heard... The... Fire... Alarm," he enunciated. "Your... Employer... And his sons... Came... In... Here... Where... Are... They?"

Brains frowned. "They're not in the lounge?"

Ned groaned.

"Come on, Ned," Joe said. "We're wasting time."

"But we saw them come in here!" Ned protested as he reluctantly followed his colleague towards the laboratory door.

"Come to my room,' Joe whispered.

"Huh? Why?" Ned queried.

Joe winked and held a finger to his lips.

Intrigued, Ned allowed himself to be led to his partner's bedroom waiting until the door behind him had slid shut before speaking. "Well? What?"

"You and I both agree that the Tracys ran into the lab, right?"

"Right."

"But there was no evidence of them when we got there, after having been conveniently held up in the dining room."

"True," Ned agreed.

"While you and the nutty professor were having your little tête-à-tête, I was having a nosey round..."

"And..."

"And... Do you remember the cabinet on the far side of the room? The one with the fire fighting equipment?"

Ned frowned as he tried to remember. "I think so. I didn't take it in before. Everyone seems to be more concerned about storm surges than fires."

"It was missing three lots of breathing apparatus, a couple of extinguishers, and, if I remember correctly, a first aid kit."

Ned took in this bit of information. "So there was a fire somewhere?"

"Yes," Joe nodded. "The question is where? There was nothing in the lab except for the smell of sulphur which definitely came from that upended beaker."

"Well observed, Joe," Ned congratulated. "I missed all that."

"That's why I'm the cameraman and you're the reporter; I observe things and you ask the pertinent questions. That's why we're such a good team... And I'll tell you something else."

"Yes," Ned said, his attention fully on the cameraman.

"I don't think Brains is as stupid as he makes out. We're being conned by the Tracys and their friends as much as we tried to con them. I'm beginning to think that your hunch is correct... This family is hiding something!"

"You're only beginning to think that? Didn't you trust me?" Ned asked.

"I've trusted you, Ned. But I'm always happier when we start to get some evidence. Something that we can show the bosses so they don't sting us for this little jaunt."

"We don't have any concrete evidence yet," Ned reminded him.

"No..." Joe admitted. "I wish I could get my hands on my camera."

As though he'd suddenly realised that this wasn't a mischievous little boy he was scolding, but a severely chastened young man, Jeff stopped yelling.

Gordon managed to raise his head and look his father in the eye. "I'm sorry, Dad."

"I know," Jeff replied.

"I didn't mean to start the fire."

"I know," Jeff repeated.

"It was an accident."

"I know," Jeff repeated a third time before trying to cheer his woebegone son up. "I'd never disown you, but there have been times when I wonder why your mother and I didn't stop at three children."

Gordon managed a small smile. "Because you needed an aquanaut for the team."

Jeff chuckled. "I knew there had to be a good reason." He laid his hand gently on his son's shoulder. "I'm sorry I yelled, Gordon, but when I heard that alarm all I could think about was the fact that perhaps you and Scott were in danger." He sighed. "I guess the stress is getting to me too."

"No," Gordon didn't sound his usual buoyant self. "You're right, Dad. I've endangered everyone... I've endangered International Rescue! I've endangered all you've worked for...!"

"I hope you don't regard International Rescue as only my project."

Gordon shook his head. "I've been proud to be part of this organisation. I don't want to be the one to ruin it."

"It hasn't been ruined, and as long as we're careful it won't be... I'd better get back upstairs before our guests start wondering where I am. Now, chin up, the cyclone can't last forever."

"It already feels like it has."

"You're right there," Jeff agreed. "Do you need anything Gordon?"

Gordon shook his head...

"It's gone quiet," Virgil noted. "Do you think we should go back down?"

"What for?" Alan asked. "To mop up the blood?"

"I've still got the first aid kit," Virgil held up the item in question.

Jeff rounded a corner. "What are you two still doing here?"

Alan indicated the door. "Brains has company."

Jeff pushed a button and the door slid open. "He doesn't now."

Virgil and Alan looked at each other sheepishly as they picked up their gear.

Jeff wrinkled his nose in distaste as he entered the lab. "What's that smell, Brains?"

"Sulphur." Brains explained. "I t-tipped it in the sink to mask any s-smell of s-smoke. What happened?"

"Gordon." Jeff said simply. "He decided that he wanted to do some cooking." He shook his head ruefully. "The one time he feels like doing something domesticated and he winds up nearly killing himself and Scott, and exposing the organisation."

"It wasn't quite that bad," Virgil reminded him.

"Yeah," Alan agreed. "The fire was well out by the time we got there."

"I suppose it could have been worse," Jeff agreed.

"I-I had our guests in here again," Brains informed them.

"We guessed," Alan told him.

"They're getting s-suspicious," Brains warned. "They saw you come in here and w-wondered where you'd disappeared to."

"What did you tell them?" Jeff asked.

"I did my dumb act. Th-The problem was while I was t-talking to Cook, Joe was nosing around the lab. I'm pretty sure he looked in the, uh, emergency cabinet."

"And saw that some of the gear was missing?" Alan asked.

"Y-Yes."

"We're going to have to be twice as careful from now on," Jeff warned. "But at least I can trust Gordon not to risk exposure twice."

The three younger men looked at each other uneasily and remembered Tracey...

Scott cracked the door to his bedroom open and peered out. Gordon was sitting on one of the comfortable couches, staring at the charred cloth his hands.

"Hey?" Scott asked. "Are you okay?"

"I'm an idiot."

"No, you're not. You were bored that's all. You haven't got the temperament to be cooped up underground for days on end."

"Did you hear what Dad said?"

"Yes," Scott nodded. "It was a little hard not to. We're going to have to do something to improve the soundproofing in this place."

"So you know that he's right. I'm risking all our safety, not just yours and mine."

"He didn't mean that. He got a fright. That's all. He's been worried about Cook and Co being in the house and the stress has been building up. You just had the misfortune to be the one to open the pressure valve."

"Imagine what he'd be like if he'd known about Tracey."

"Well, don't worry. I won't tell him."

"What about Virgil and Alan?"

"Nah. They're accessories before, during, and after the fact. There's no way they'll open their mouths."

"Everything's going wrong and it's all my fault!" Gordon threw the rag angrily onto the coffee table at his feet. "If only I hadn't won that stupid medal!"

"Don't talk like that! It's not a stupid medal and you're not an idiot!"

"I deserved everything he said! It's always me, isn't it? I've always been the one getting into trouble. I've always caused him the most grief."

"In some ways... But we've all given him cause for concern over the years."

"All we've worked for... All we've strived for gone in an instant! All because I had to win some stupid medal."

"Would you stop saying that?" Scott only just managed to stop himself from snapping out the sentence. "You won an Olympic gold medal! How many other people would have given their eye-teeth just to be able to hold one of those, let alone win one? None of us have even come close..."

"Alan has with his trophies."

"Nah," Scott said in a dismissive manner. "Say you're a top race car driver and most people will yawn. But say you've won an Olympic gold medal and watch their eyes light up. They might not know much about the sport, but they'll understand the significance of the medal."

"Maybe," Gordon said reluctantly.

"No maybe about it. Besides after all that hard work you'd done you deserved that medal, and there's no way that Father would have stood in your way and stopped you at least trying. We're all proud of you... including him. And, honestly, did you have any idea that he was planning International Rescue when you were competing?"

Gordon had to be honest. "No."

"No. None of us did. I doubt even Father thought that this crazy idea of his would ever become more than just a dream. And even if he had, I'll bet he still wouldn't have stopped you competing."

Gordon appeared to be giving this idea some serious consideration.

Scott gave him a moment to mull it over before asking, "Do you ever wish you could compete again?"

"Swim competitively again?" Gordon managed a smile as he reflected on past days of glory. "I'll admit that winning my gold medal was one of the most magical days of my life. I'll never forget that day. I got to the end of the race..." He reached out, re-enacting the moment. "I felt my fingers touch the wall, and I thought, 'well, you've done it, Gordon. You've swum the race of your life. You couldn't have done any better.' I could see other swimmers finishing beside me and knew that at least I hadn't come last. Then I turned and looked at the results and saw that my name, Gordon Tracy," his hand traced where he'd seen his name in lights, "was on top of the board! I had won!" His eyes brightened at the memories. "Suddenly I knew that all those years of work and frustration and depriving myself had paid off. That was a heck of a buzz... So was standing on top of the dais, knowing that they were playing the national anthem because of something that I'd achieved. That was a pretty good feeling..." His smile broadened. "In fact it was a pretty awesome feeling!"

Scott grinned as he listened to his brother reminisce.

"But, since then, I've had bigger and better buzzes. Ones that were more rewarding than from simply winning a swimming race."

"Such as?"

"Such as... taking that first step after my hydrofoil accident. After weeks of seeing in people's eyes the belief that I'd never walk again. After many desperate times where I too was convinced that I was doomed to spend the rest of my life in a wheelchair... To take that first clumsy step was an absolute high. I felt as if I could dance around that room... Instead of almost falling over as I did."

Scott laughed. "I remember that day. Father rang me. He was so excited that I could barely understand what he was saying. I don't think I really believed him until I was able to get leave from the Air Force to visit you. And I must admit that I got a pretty big buzz when you got out of your chair and walked towards me."

"I remember," Gordon grinned. "I remember the look on your face. At that moment I thought that, of the two of us, you were the one who was most likely to fall over."

"Only because you had something to hang on to."

"But," Gordon continued on, "I know a buzz that tops even that."

"What?" Scott asked, intrigued.

"Can't you guess?"

"No," Scott shook his head.

"Every time that we are on a rescue, and there's someone barely clinging to life, and we manage to swoop in there and rescue that person in the nick of time. I'll tell ya, Scott. The first two were pretty amazing from a personal point of view, but to know that I've helped save a life. That's the biggest buzz of all!"

Scott nodded. "You're right. That's a buzz I can relate to. It tops any number of medals and awards and personal achievements."

Gordon bit his lip, the lightness and excitement falling from his face. "And I hope that I haven't ruined it for us all."

"You haven't ruined anything, Gordon. How's Cook going to find us down here? He'll never see you and he won't be able to connect you to International Rescue. Cyclone Sylvia will blow over, they'll leave, and our secret will still be safe. Don't worry about it."

"I hope you're right." Clearly Gordon's good mood had been short-lived.

"Look, forget all this," Scott nudged his brother on the arm. "Let's get our guitars and have a jam session."

Gordon shook his head. "Thanks for the offer. But I've got work to do on Thunderbird Four." He stood. "If you're talking to John tell him I'm sorry I interrupted you before. I'll be in the pod bay if anyone wants me... keeping out of trouble..."

"Gordon..."

But Gordon had gone.

Six: Day Three

The following morning found Ned and Joe, once again, holed up in Joe's room hatching plans.

"This is a strange household," Joe was declaring. "A room in which people vanish into thin air, a mad scientist, five eligible young men still living at home with their father and grandmother..." He thought for a moment. "One of them missing..."

"Three of them missing," Ned amended.

"Three?"

"There's Gordon, and John..."

"John? But they've spoken to him..."

"They've said they've 'been in contact with him', but I've seen no direct evidence of it. I haven't heard him on the phone. Have you?" Ned looked at his partner.

"No," Joe admitted. "And there hasn't been a word from... What's the other one's name?"

"Scott."

"Maybe he's been dispatched into the Antarctic."

"At this point," Ned sighed. "I'm almost ready to believe anything. I think I'd almost believe them if they said Gordon had been abducted by UFOs."

"You don't believe that Gordon's run away?"

"There's something about that story that doesn't ring true to me. When I let Tracy know that we knew about his and Gordon's altercation the others reacted as if they didn't know what I was talking about."

"So you think the old lady was trying to put us off the scent?"

"Yes," Ned frowned. "The question is, what is the scent we're tracking?" He slammed his fist against his palm. "If only we could talk to someone and get some sense out of them."

"Well you won't get anything out of the Tracys. They'll clam up, as sure as eggs."

"And 'Grandma' would probably try to spin us another tale."

"We'll never get any sense out of the nutty professor."

"Kyrano?" Ned suggested.

"Every time I've spoken to him, he's smiled, bowed politely, and said something in what I think is Malaysian," Joe admitted. "I don't think we'll get any joy out of him."

Ned looked at his cameraman and friend. "Which leaves only one person..."

Tin-Tin had decided to venture out of her room. She was halfway down the hallway when she heard someone call her name.

Her heart sank as she turned. "Mr. Cook?"

"Now," he chided her in a teasing manner. "I thought I told you to call me Ned."

Tin-Tin nodded.

"We haven't seen much of you," Joe said. "Only at mealtimes."

"I've been... I've been busy," she replied, her eyes glued to the carpet.

"I'd almost think you've been avoiding us," Ned chuckled. "Are you busy now? We'd like to chat. Nothing serious."

Tin-Tin murmured something.

"Sorry, Tin-Tin," Ned said. "I didn't catch that."

"I can not," Tin-Tin whispered.

"Can't? Why not?" Joe asked.

Tin-Tin twisted her hands together anxiously.

"Come on, Tin-Tin," Ned chuckled. "We're not that frightening, are we?"

Tin-Tin shook her head.

"Why don't you talk to us then? We promise that's all we want to do... talk." Ned held his hands up as if he were surrendering and gave Tin-Tin a disarming smile.

"I can not," Tin-Tin repeated.

"But you're talking to us now. See... It's not that hard," Joe said.

"I mustn't... Father has forbidden me."

"He's what!" Joe exclaimed.

"That's ridiculous!" Ned added. "He can't do that."

"He is my father."

"And this is the 21st century, not the 11th," Ned informed her, struggling to keep his ire from rising. "There's a whole new world out there, Tin-Tin and it's a world where intelligent young women, such as yourself, are free to do as they choose and are not constrained by what their fathers tell them they can, or can't, do."

"You do not understand."

"I'll say I don't understand," Joe said. "We only want to have a chat with you. He can't possibly object to that."

Tin-Tin's hands grasped the cloth of her skirt and scrunched it up, an external expression of her internal anguish. "Mr. Tracy would not be happy."

"Mr. Tracy...? What's it to do with him?" Ned exclaimed. "How come he has such a hold over everyone? He's only one man!"

"You do not understand," Tin-Tin repeated.