A QUIET YEAR by PURUPUSS RATED FRT

A Quiet Year is the sequel to Brothers in Arms, and you will need to remember what happened in that story to make sense of this one. Brothers in Arms is, of course, the sequel to A Quiet Beginning.

I would like to thank quiller, D.C., Boomercat and Samantha Winchester for their advice and encouragement. When you want to know something, ask the experts.

PS: And I forgot to say... For those of you who like to keep an eye out for my regular, sometimes hidden, cameo character, they do appear in this story, but in an obscure way... Very obscure... Very, VERY obscure... As obscure as a polar bear on an ice floe in the middle of an Arctic blizzard.

And no, that's not a clue.

Chapter 1: A Quiet Beginning

“I’ve got him this job,” Jeff Tracy said, “but that’s the last help he can expect from me. He wants to be treated like any other employee at ACE, and I agree that that’s the right thing to do. We’ve both decided that it would be better if no one knows of our relationship.”

Hamish Mickelson looked at his friend and boss, earnestly. “Knowing Virgil as I do, I don’t think he’ll need your help.” He turned to look at the young man seated beside Jeff and his eyes twinkled.

“However if we were talking about your two younger brothers…”

The recent graduate of the Denver School of Advanced Technology was sitting on the edge of his seat. “I’ll do my best, Uncle Hamish.”

Hamish laughed. “If you’re going to pretend that you’re not the son of the owner of ‘Aeronautical Component Engineering’, Virgil, then you’d better stop calling me ‘Uncle Hamish’. I can’t help it that I’ve known your father since he was a naive farm boy just starting out in the Air Force.”

Virgil gave the other man a guilty smile. “It might take some getting used to.”

“Don’t worry about it; I don’t come down to the shop floor very often. This man here,” Hamish pointed to Jeff, “makes sure that I’m kept busy pushing paper about.”

“That’s why this factory is one of the highest grossing in my engineering portfolio,” Jeff growled. “Because you’re so darn good at your job and because I trust you implicitly.”

“Is that why you’re letting ACE manufacture some of the components for these amazing machines you’ve got planned, Jeff?”

“Yes. And also why I agreed that Virgil should work here until we start operations,” Jeff stated. “He’ll be able to keep an eye on them as they pass through the plant. I don’t need to tell you how imperative it is that each component is made exactly to specifications.”

“You don’t,” Hamish agreed. “And I don’t need to tell you that ACE has rigid quality control systems in place.” He sat back. “This is an amazing venture you’ve got planned, and you’ve got five amazing young men lined up for your operatives.” He turned back to Virgil. “Compared to what’s in store for you next year, you’re going to find it boring working here.”

“I want to get some practical experience, Uncle Ha..., Sir… ah… Mr Mickelson…” the two elder men chuckled. “The instructors kept on drumming into us that theory’s all very well, but it’s nothing compared with actual practical experience.”

“Your instructors were right,” Jeff agreed.

“How are the rest of the boys?” Hamish asked.

“Scott’s arm is better…”

“The one he broke in Bereznick?” Hamish interrupted.

“Yes…” Jeff noted that Virgil was rubbing the arm that had ached until his brother had been found, a subconscious reminder of those frantic hours when Scott’s condition was unknown. “He’s eager to leave the Air Force and start work on International Rescue’s planes…”

“I think he should wait,” Virgil stated. “Or else everyone’s going to think that he’s lost his nerve after the crash.”

“I spoke with him about that,” Jeff said. “He says he doesn’t care if they do. In fact he said that it might be to our advantage; no one would think that someone too scared to be in the Air Force would be brave enough to pilot the world’s fastest plane. He also made the point that it’ll seem a bit odd if the five of you suddenly drop out of society at the same time. I agree with him. This way it’ll seem as if he talks you all into the ‘playboy’ lifestyle.”

Virgil was silent while Hamish barked out a laugh. “Playboys! Your sons? Jeff, really!”

“That’s the image we’re trying to create,” Jeff confirmed.

“And John?” Hamish asked. “How’s his space career going?”

“Would ‘out of this world’ be too much of a pun?” Jeff asked. “He’s written a book about some of his discoveries, which is at the printers as we speak.”

“I hope I’m going to get an autographed first edition copy for Christmas.”

“I’ll suggest it to him,” Jeff chuckled. “He’s heading up to the space station for a month, but he’s managed to squeeze in the book launch before he goes. He’s disappointed that Gordon’s not going to be able to attend.”

“When’s he finishing his tenure in the bathyscaphe?”

“He’s still got two months to go. Knowing Gordon he’s probably getting a little stir crazy by now. A year underwater’s a long time; even for him.”

“He keeps on moaning about missing Grandma’s cooking,” Virgil said. “She’s promising to have all his favourites ready for him when he surfaces.”

“I’m sure he can’t wait,” Hamish smiled. “Your Grandma’s cooking is unsurpassed, except for maybe my Edna’s… And Alan? Is he still firing rockets into buildings?”

Jeff managed a tight laugh that, to someone who knew him as the other men present did, was without humour. “I see you’re not following the motor racing section of your paper.”

“No. I read the world news headlines, the local news headlines, and the business news and that’s it. Doing well is he?”

“There’s talk that he might win the world championship in his rookie year,” Jeff said. Then he frowned. “He worries me though. Sometimes he still behaves like he’s an impulsive teenager. If I have any doubts about my boys’ abilities to make International Rescue work, and in the main I don’t; it’s Alan’s hot-headedness that causes me the most concerns.”

Virgil nodded. He had the same fears.

“You don’t have to start operations next year,” Hamish advised. “It’s not as though the world knows International Rescue is coming. Wait until you feel he’s mature enough for the responsibility.”

“I could,” Jeff admitted. “But I’m scared that by then Alan will have killed himself in a car crash.”

Virgil glanced at his father. This was the first time that he was aware of that Jeff had openly expressed any fears about the Tracy boys’ careers: either present or future.

“Well, we’d better get back to business,” Hamish Mickelson said. “It’s a little odd for me to be hiring floor staff; that type of thing is usually handed by the Production Manager, Max Watts. He’s a good man…”

Jeff agreed.

“…And you’d do well to learn all you can from him, Virgil,” Hamish continued. “But we’d better make sure we do everything properly,” he handed Virgil a clipboard with some papers constrained under the clip, “staring with filling out an application form.” Virgil accepted the ‘board and began reading through. “What are you going to do about your name? ‘Virgil’s’ uncommon enough as it is and Virgil Tracy’s going to be a giveaway. Everyone’s going to know who you are.”

Virgil looked up from where he was writing and smiled at the man behind the desk. “We’ve already talked about that. I’ll use the last name of Tancy. It’s close enough to Tracy that I won’t get confused…”

“And with that scrawl of a signature of yours,” Jeff looked at his son fondly, “you’d never know whether you’ve written Tracy or Tancy.”

“Albert Tancy was the name of my first piano teacher. He was a great guy…” Virgil explained as he filled in the required paperwork.

“In that case,” Hamish handed over a second piece of paper, “if you wouldn’t mind, Virgil, I’ll get you to fill in two forms. One with your real name, and one as Virgil Tancy. My boss likes me to be scrupulously honest with my paperwork.” He winked at Jeff who laughed. “I’ll keep the genuine copy in my filing cabinet and give your alias to the office staff to process.”

“Thank you.” Virgil handed the clipboard back. “I’ve left the next of kin blank on the fake one. Is that okay? I don’t know what to put.”

“That’s fine,” Hamish grunted. He wrote ‘see H. Mickelson’ across the next of kin section. Then he quickly read through the rest of the document noting that, as Jeff had said, the signature at the end could indeed have read V. Tracy or V. Tancy. “This looks all in order.”

“Good.” Jeff stood. “We won’t hold you up any longer, Hamish. Thanks for coming in on a Sunday.”

“Not a problem, Jeff,” Hamish smiled. “How about a game of golf to seal the deal?” Both men laughed and Virgil joined in. They all knew that Jeff Tracy was no more at home on a golf course than he would have been in Gordon’s bathyscaphe.

They all moved towards the door. “Well,” Hamish was saying. “If you’re not keen to head to the links, how about my place for dinner? Edna’s got something special planned.”

“Love to,” Jeff smiled. “Is that okay with you, Virgil?”

“Yes, Sir,” Virgil agreed with enthusiasm. ‘Aunty Edna’s’ cooking almost rivalled his grandmother’s for culinary delights.

“We won’t make you stay up too late,” Hamish offered with a chuckle. “You’ve got work tomorrow.”

Virgil’s grin broadened. “I can’t wait.”

“Don’t get too excited,” Jeff clapped his son on the back. “And make the most of it. It’s going to be the last quiet year you’ll have for a long time…”

Virgil Tracy felt the resistance offered by his crisp new navy overalls as he bent forward to pull on his safety boots. Then he stood and his reflection stared back from the mirror on the back of the locker door, along with a mirror-image of the ACE logo embroidered on the chest of the overalls. He pulled his class-5 earmuffs (with music player connection and external microphone) and protective glasses out of the locker and slammed the door shut.

Someone entered the room. The young man’s name, embroidered beneath his ACE logo, revealed him to be ‘Louis’. He was about Virgil’s age and height, though stockier, with red hair, even redder than Gordon’s. “Hello? Someone new?”

“Yes,” Virgil admitted and extended his hand in greeting. “I’m Virgil Tancy.”

“Louis Fleming.” Judging by his faded overalls, scuffed boots and frayed logo, Louis had been working for ACE since the last allocation of protective gear and Virgil wondered how long it would take before he blended in as one of the team.

“Have we got ourselves a newbie?” another man said. His embroidered name revealed him to be called ‘Bruce’ and he had a white cross with red edging embroidered on each sleeve. He was perhaps a couple of years older than Virgil, tall, wiry and dark in complexion and hair colour.

“We have, Bruce,” Louis confirmed his colleague’s identity. “We’re going to have to get your name sewn on pal. What was it? Virgil…? Um…?” He had clearly managed to forget what he’d been told only seconds earlier.

“Tancy,” Virgil said. “I’m starting today,” he added unnecessarily as he extended his hand to ‘Bruce’.

“Bruce Sanders. I hadn’t heard they were advertising for anyone new.”

Virgil and Hamish Mickelson had already decided that there were some situations where it was better to stick close to the truth. “My family knows Mr Mickelson’s family. My father’s looking to start up a new venture in a year so I’m filling in time before I join the family business… Getting some practical experience.”

Louis Fleming gave a low whistle. “Boy! Mega’s gonna be stewing when he learns ol’ Micky’s taken to employing his staff behind his back.”

“Mega?” Virgil asked.

“‘Mega Watts’: Max Watts, the Production Manager,” Bruce explained. “So you’ve had no engineering experience?”

“Not a lot of practical experience,” Virgil admitted. “I’ve only just graduated. That’s why I’m here. To learn from some of the best.”

Louis grinned and buffed his nails on his overalls. “Naturally.”

“Where’d you train?” Bruce asked.

“Denver School of Advanced Technology.”

Louis gave another whistle. “Top engineering faculty in the country. How’d you do?”

Virgil gave a casual shrug. “I passed.”

“Come with us, Virgil,” Bruce said. “We’ll introduce you to Mega…”

“Thank you, Mr Sanders,” an older voice interrupted.

Bruce gave an almost audible gulp. “Ah… Virgil Tancy… This is Mr Watts, the Production Manager.”

The slightly built, greying man ignored Virgil’s outstretched hand, instead preferring to refer to the clipboard he was holding like the Holy Grail. “Virgil Tancy…” he read. “Graduated top of your year…” Virgil tried not to look embarrassed as Bruce and Louis exchanged glances. “Little practical experience…”

“Ah, no…” Virgil admitted. “That’s why I…”

He was silenced by a glare over a pair of grimy spectacles. “Don’t think that just because you think you know all there is to know, that you can swan in here and tell everyone else what to do. You’ll start where everyone who works here starts. At the bottom.”

Virgil nodded. It was what he was expecting, but hadn’t been prepared for it to be put so bluntly.

“Your hours will be from 7.30am to 4.00pm, Monday to Friday. Lunch is 12 midday to 12.30pm. There are two ten-minute breaks at 9.50am and 2.50pm. Each of these times is delineated by the bell. Tardiness and slacking will not be tolerated… Understand?”

“Yes, Sir.”

Watts frowned. “You will clock in and clock out at each end of every shift, and when starting and completing each break. Furthermore you will clock in when starting every new task, even if it’s only cleaning up. You will not clock in on behalf of any other employee, nor will you allow any other employee to clock in on your behalf. To do so means instant dismissal. Understand?”

“Yes, Sir.”

Watts frowned again. “Follow me.” He led Virgil out of the locker and handed him a long, stiff piece of cardboard. “Here is your clock card for the day. Write your name on top… In future your clock card will have your name pre-printed on. Should you require more than one then blanks are stored here…” Watts was staring at where Virgil had written his first name and stumbled over his unfamiliar surname. “Make sure your writing is legible… Each time you clock in a job, scan the works order card’s barcode and the appropriate details will be printed on your clock card and be entered into the timekeeping computer. For costing purposes it is vital that we keep track of the length of time spent on each job… Well…” he glowered at Virgil. “Clock in!”

Virgil did as he was told and felt a sense of satisfaction when he felt the punch go through the card. He was finally out in the paid workforce! Next step his first pay packet!

A siren sounded. “Ah,” Watts grunted, sounding pleased. “Seven thirty. I’ll call a quick meeting and introduce you to the team.”

The Team. Virgil liked the sound of that.

He was less sure when he found himself under the intense scrutiny of a disparate group of people whose sole link with each other seemed to be their faded navy overalls with the ACE logo. They were staring at him with what appeared to be some degree of hostility.

“Mr Tancy…” Watts was saying, “having graduated top of his class from the Denver School of Technology…” people looked at each other at this piece of news, “has deigned to join us here at Aeronautical Component Engineering for one year before moving on to bigger and better things.” There was a murmur from the assembled gathering and Virgil, uncomfortable at being the focus of so many stares, tried to appear relaxed, realised that he was fidgeting, and shoved both his hands into his pockets. He decided that this looked too casual, pulled one hand out and held it behind his back as he attempted to appear unconcerned by the unwanted attention.

It didn’t work. He saw Bruce whisper something to Louis and both men glanced at the newcomer before stifling their laughter. Virgil felt his face redden with a heat that was nothing to do with the furnace at the other end of the factory.

“I am sure,” Watts continued, “that we will all do all we can to ensure that Mr Tancy’s brief stay with us is a memorable one…” He glared at his workforce. “Well, don’t just stand there! You know what you have to do… Move!”

Clearly used to such abrupt orders, the day shift of ACE dispersed as Watts turned back to his newest recruit. “Now, Mr Tancy, this is a safe workplace with a good safety record. Mr Tracy insists on that and he won’t welcome some newcomer spoiling our near perfect record. Your safety boots will protect your feet against solvents and temperatures up to 300 degrees Celsius and you will wear them at all times when on the factory floor. There are signs throughout the factory showing where you must wear earmuffs and safety goggles.” He wagged a gnarled finger at Virgil. “I will not tolerate any disregard for personal safety.”

“Yes, Sir,” Virgil agreed.

Watts appeared to grit his teeth. “All hazardous areas are also clearly signposted. If you are found loitering in an area where you are not currently supposed to be working you will be reprimanded.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Watts glared at Virgil again. “Your overalls will be laundered once a week. On your last working day of the week you will put your overalls into one of those hampers over there.” He pointed at several large hampers that lined one of the locker room walls. “That is in one of the hampers. I will not tolerate almost in a hamper or on the floor near a hamper. Your overalls must go in the hamper.”

“Yes, Sir.”

There was that glare again. Virgil got the feeling that he was doing something wrong, but didn’t know what. Behind Watts, Bruce and Louis were trying to tell him something, but he couldn’t read their hand signals without making it obvious that his attention wasn’t completely on his supervisor.

“You will be supplied with two pair of named overalls. These overalls will be cleaned weekly by the company’s laundry. Any deliberate damage to your overalls by you and you will pay for the repairs and/or replacement of your overalls from your wage packet.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Watts ground out an exasperated sigh. “You will ensure that your boots are kept clean and cared for. This is a dangerous workplace with dangerous chemicals and hot metal and you do not want substandard footwear…”

“Yes, Sir… ah… No, Sir…” Virgil said. His attention wavered as the two mime artists cringed.

“Would you stop doing that!?” Watts thundered.

Virgil stared at his supervisor and felt his face grow hot again. “S-Sir…?”

“Stop calling me ‘Sir’! It’s ‘Mr Watts’ to you and don’t you forget it!”

“Yes, S… ah… Yes, Mr Watts.” Virgil felt his temperature go up a notch or two. Confused he glanced at Bruce and Louis.

Watts saw the glance. He spun on his heel. “What are you two doing here?”

“Ah… We thought that…” Bruce began and ground to a halt.

“That…” Louis began, trying to save the situation. “That… That you’d want us to show Virgil around.” He gave his supervisor a weak smile.

“I will show Tancy around!” Watts scowled. “You have work to do.”

“Yes, Mr Watts,” both employees chorused. They deserted a bemused Virgil and an angry supervisor.

“Watch those two,” Watts informed his newest employee. “They’re good at their jobs, but they have a tendency to act the fool.” Virgil nodded his understanding, not wanting to risk saying the wrong thing again, and Watts gestured roughly. “I’ll show you about.”

“Thank you… Mr Watts.” As he watched a frown harden Virgil wondered what the man had against being called ‘Sir’ and whether he’d be able to control an ingrained habit.

They stepped away from the grimy white locker room and into what could have been at first glance a museum to the mechanical dinosaur. Closer inspection revealed that each machine was actually state of the art and it was only their uniform dull green paint and grease lubrication that gave the impression of age. Each piece of machinery was mounted on smooth running tracks designed to move them about the floor so products of all sizes could be accommodated. Gantries, walkways, conveyor belts, and cranes; rooms housing computers and computer technology; offices and open spaces; the factory was structured in such as way as to maximise space and efficiencies without being cluttered. From the ceiling to the floor, the factory was filled with the various devices used in the manufacture of aeronautical components. Aeronautical Component Engineering was capable of manufacturing almost anything from the largest to the smallest item; from mass production to one-offs.

“All through the plant,” Watts pointed to a locker on the wall, “you will find gloves and masks to be used when operating the adjacent machinery. When you have finished using the gloves dispose of them in the appropriate container and they will either be cleaned and re-used or disposed of appropriately. Here…” Watts indicated what looked like a shower head over a hand basin next to a green box with a white cross, “and there by the lathes, there by the drills,” he pointed rapid fire around the factory, “in the paint bay, chemical bay, crucible area and elsewhere… I’ll show you as we continue… are trauma kits and eye-wash stations. You are not to touch the trauma kits unless instructed by a trained first aider; identified by the white and red crosses on their sleeves.”

Virgil remembered the signage on Bruce’s overalls and nodded. “I’ve got first aid certificates and I’m going to be doing an advanced course at the weekends if you need someone else,” he offered.

“And increase your pay packet accordingly,” Watts sneered.

Virgil blinked. “What?”

Watts ignored him. “All injuries, no matter how small, must be attended by a trained authorised first aider. I don’t care if you’ve got a paper cut in your pinky! See a first aider and they will supply you with the appropriate treatment and note it in the ‘record of injury’ book. No exceptions.”

Virgil nodded. Obviously someone who was going to be part of a world-wide rescue organisation didn’t qualify as an authorised first aider. Not that Watts could be expected to know that.

“A doctor is on site from 9.00am to 4.00pm daily,” Watts was informing him.

Virgil nodded again. He already knew this.

“Each job is assigned a works order number.” Watts tapped something into a computer monitor and a screen full of details appeared. “As an example, here we have a one-off item being manufactured for Rimmer Corporation…” his gnarled finger pointed at the name of screen.

Virgil stared at the glowing letters, not really listening to what was being said. Rimmer Corporation! That was the name of the shadow company that was producing some of the components for the rocket plane in International Rescue’s fleet. He felt a slightly guilty pride at being able to see part of Scott’s craft before even his big brother had the opportunity to clap eyes on it.

Watts, unaware of Virgil’s quiet excitement, moved on. “Here,” he stopped at where a line, painted in yellow and black diagonal stripes, bisected the floor, “is as far as you go in this factory, unless instructed otherwise by myself or any of the charge hands. Understood?”

“Yes, Mr Watts.”

“This area contains the crucible furnace.”

Virgil had guessed that. Approximately 50 metres ahead of him and his ‘tour guide’ was a giant spherical object suspended from a gantry crane; black on the outside but judging by the heat waves above it and the red glow on the ceiling, filled with molten metal. Even from where he was standing, Virgil fancied that he could feel the heat emanating from the furnace.

“Except for maintenance, the furnace is operational 24/7,” Watts intoned. “Here…” he pointed at an innocuous black box pinned to the wall just beyond the painted barrier, “is the switch to shut it down. That must never…” Virgil was growing tired of the way this guy always seemed to talk in italics, “never be touched except under exceptional circumstances. But even if it is shut down,” Watts continued with some kind of grim satisfaction, “it will still take a minimum of 72 hours before it is cool enough to touch.”

Virgil could believe that.

Linishers… Presses… Swagers… Inwards Goods… Outwards Goods… Watts continued the tour, pointing out the various parts of the factory that Virgil would get to know so well over the next year.

Circuit complete they finished up beside the locker room again. “Through there,” Watts pointed to an innocuous door as if it were an armed prisoner surrendering, “is the canteen. You may bring your own meals or purchase them on site. We have a variety of foods, but if you have any special needs see the canteen staff the day before you make your purchase. Now, Mr Tancy,” Watts turned to face Virgil with a smile that was somewhat predatory. “Let’s find something for you to do that should be within your capabilities.” He led Virgil over to a linisher. “I presume you know how this operates?”

Virgil looked at the machine. As expected, the sandpaper-like linishing belt ran around the outside of five contact wheels. Turn it on, hold your piece of metal against the belt, and it would grind down to the shape your required. Simple. Eager to please, Virgil smiled at the Production Manager. “Not a problem.”

“Don’t get too cocky,” Watts growled. “Let’s see how you go.”

Convinced that this was a test, Virgil went through the expected set-up processes, finishing with the donning on his earmuffs, glasses, dust mask, and a pair of gloves. He was about to reach for the ‘on’ switch when he stopped.

“What’s wrong,” Watts snarled. “Forgotten something?”

“No,” Virgil responded. “But I was wondering if you were going to stand that close while you watch me. And if you are, are you going to put on your own protective equipment?”

Watts gave him a look that clearly read, ‘don’t push your luck’, and donned the appropriate gear.

It took time, but eventually the Production Manager seemed confident enough with Virgil’s performance that he let himself be called away to assist another employee. Virgil gave a sigh of relief into his mask and relaxed.

He was so intent in his job that he was unaware of anything around him until someone tapped him on the shoulder. He stopped the linisher and straightened, removing his mask and earmuffs.

Virgil was tall, but this man towered over him. From the tattoo on his forehead, he appeared to be known as ‘Butch’, and Virgil figured that the man’s name or nickname was not one derived from sarcasm. His overalls were open to the waist and tied around his midriff, revealing a torso that resembled an Art Gallery. Metaphorically as Butch was as big as a civic building and literally as every exposed piece of skin was covered by more tattoos, including one just below Virgil’s eye level, over Butch’s heart, that read ‘Lisa’, and a picture of a skull engraved on his right cheek.

Butch leant nearer and Virgil got a closer look at his long since broken nose. “Tryin’ t’ make the rest of us look bad are you?”

“Pardon?” Virgil frowned at the slightly menacing figure, feeling crowded by this solid wall of muscle. “What do you mean?” he asked, inching backwards to give himself more space.

“I mean workin’ through ya morning tea break. Might be how ya do thin’s at that fancy school, but ya don’ get points for showin’ off here.”

“Working through…” Virgil looked at his watch, which read 10.08am. “I didn’t hear the bell. Doesn’t it go for tea breaks?”

Butch gave him a contemptuous look before shaking his finger in Virgil’s face. “An’ keep your hands off my wife!” He stalked off.

Bewildered, Virgil stared after him until someone just as unwelcome stepped into his field of vision. “Finished have you?”

“Ah… uh… Two to go, Mr Watts.”

“You mean you haven’t finished yet?” There was a satisfied gleam in Max Watts eye. “I guess all that theory doesn’t make you work any faster. Any one of these people here…” he waved his arm about, encompassing the entire factory, “would have had that little job done before the tea break.” He leant slightly closer and his face tightened into a grim line. “Without having to work through.”

Virgil decided not to remind the manager that much of his morning had been taken up with the guided tour. “I didn’t mean to work through. I didn’t hear…”

Watts wasn’t interested. “Finish those two and then come and see me!”

The morning dragged on. Virgil was supplied with one monotonous job after another and his infrequent contacts with the other staff members made him feel like an unwelcome intruder.

He heard the bell for the next break, switched off his machine and dusted it to remove some swarf - the metal dust and shavings that had been ground away by the linisher – and then retired to the locker room to wash his hands and retrieve his lunch.

He entered the canteen and felt a multitude of eyes stare at him as everyone stopped eating. Aware that the company appeared to close ranks and there weren’t any obvious places left to sit, Virgil looked at his watch, pretended to remember an appointment, and hurried out to his car. He drove around the corner to a nearby park and sat in the vehicle, eating his solitary lunch and feeling disgusted with his behaviour. All his life he’d been popular, surrounded by groups of friends or close-knit brothers, but now Virgil was aware of being very much alone. It was not a sensation to be enjoyed.

Determined to create a good impression on both his bosses and fellow employees, he made sure he was back at his work station a good five minutes before the end-of-break bell sounded.

He’d been hard at work for another hour, bored out of his brain as he linished yet another component in the seemly never-ending production line, when someone yelled at him through his earmuffs. He looked at Bruce Sanders. “Hi?”

“Mega’s got another job for you,” Bruce shouted.

“He has?” Virgil felt relief. “Where is he?”

Bruce beckoned. “You’re not scared of heights, are you?”

Virgil chuckled. “No.”

“Good. Follow me.”

Glad of the break, Virgil followed the other man up onto the highest gantry in the building. He was surprised to find, not the expected Max Watts, but Louis Fleming and a couple of other men identified by their overalls as Burt and Paul. He gave them a smile. “What’s the job?”

“We need your help to inspect some of the conveyor systems,” Louis explained. “Check that they are rolling freely.”

This sounded like something more interesting than linishing endless components. Virgil nodded. “I can do that. What do you want me to do? Where do I start?”

“Take a step back,” Bruce explained. “There, that’s good. You’re in position.”

Virgil frowned. Something wasn’t ringing true. “Where’s Mr Watts?”

“Down there,” Burt pointed vaguely down towards the factory floor.

“Yeah,” Paul grinned. “And that’s where you’re headed.”

Virgil hadn’t expected to find himself tipping backwards. His brain had only just registered that he had been pushed on the chest when he found himself sliding, headfirst, along a set of rollers towards the ground. He heard laughter as he fell away from the gantry and he could almost imagine that he could feel the heat from the crucible furnace as he sped past. Designed for the transportation of heavy loads, Virgil had no fears of the conveyor collapsing under his weight, but that same weight helped build up a momentum that was almost frightening and it was only the thought that he might lose some skin off his hands that stopped him from grabbing the guard rails on both sides to try to arrest his rollercoaster ride.

Barely ten seconds after he’d started his unexpected slide Virgil reached the end. He came to rest on his back next to a pair of safety boots and with his own boots still pointing skywards.

Relieved that the trip was over, Virgil looked up at the boot’s owner and, despite the laws of gravity, felt his stomach fall. He scrambled to his feet. “Ah… M-Mr Watts…”

“Mr Tancy?” Watts smiled a mirthless smile. He looked up to where the conveyor started on the gantry and his eyes followed its path down. “And may I ask what you were doing?” His voice was low and menacing.

Virgil heard the sounds of running feet, shushing, and abruptly silenced laughter. He didn’t look up, preferring to concentrate on his hands that he’d clasped together tightly in front of him. “I… uh….”

“Yes, Mr Tancy…?”

“I…” Virgil squeezed his eyes shut and for once in his life wished that he had Gordon’s gift of the instantaneous excuse. “I… um… tripped over my shoelace… and… I… ah… fell… It was an accident.” He finished hurriedly and looked at his boss; hopeful that he sounded sincere.

“It was an accident…” Watts intoned and his face showed that he didn’t believe the lie. “You tripped over your shoelace…” His eyes dropped to Virgil’s feet and Virgil followed his gaze. Once again, this time aided by gravity’s pull, his stomach dropped. His boots were elastic-sided, shoelace free, pull-ons.

“Now…” Watts voice sounded even more dangerous. “Tell me the truth.”

Virgil couldn’t look at Watts and he didn’t want to look at the four men who had got him into this predicament. He stared at his own writhing hands. “It was… an accident…”

“An accident…?”

Virgil nodded.

“Come with me.”

Reluctantly, but with no other option, Virgil followed his supervisor into the latter’s office.

It was much later, well after afternoon tea had been finished, when he emerged, shaken. His first day of work and he’d been given a final warning. One more misdemeanour and he could kiss his job goodbye. The day couldn’t get any worse, could it?

The final hour seemed to drag on forever. Enveloped in his misery Virgil continued linishing, the sounds of the factory muffled by his hearing protection. Sure he could have plugged his music into his earmuffs and made this chore more bearable, but he didn’t want to risk be accused of not concentrating on his job. And so he continued… Pick up the strip of metal, remove the corners, place it in the container. Pick up the strip of metal, remove the corners, place it in the container. Pick up the strip of metal, remove the corners…

The final bell of the day sounded as good as, if not better than, every piece of music that Virgil had ever enjoyed. He dropped the last strip of metal back into the tin, turned off the linishing machine, and removed his earmuffs. He took his time to brush the swarf off the machine and sweep the area around clear of dirt.

By the time he’d finished cleaning up the locker room was empty. Stripping off his overalls, Virgil pulled on his jacket, hoisted his daypack over his shoulder and headed out through the deserted factory to his car in the empty carpark. He drove home, dropped his bag on the floor of his studio apartment, ignored the boxes that were due to be unpacked, and headed into the shower, hopeful of washing away the memories of this dreadful day.

He emerged, towelling his hair dry, when the phone rang. The caller ID lifted his spirits and the face on the videophone even more so. “Hi, Father.”

“Hello, Virgil. How was your first day of paid employment?”

Not wanting to appear too negative, but not willing to lie, Virgil shrugged. “Different to what I’m used to.”

“Anything interesting happen?”

“I’m starting at the bottom of the corporate ladder and I spent all day linishing.” Virgil grimaced. “That’s hardly an interesting job… But…” he brightened, remembering something that had come to him in the shower, “on the plus side I’ve thought of a great way of getting into Thunderbird Two!” At least, he reflected, he could say something good had come of this horrible day. “But I can’t enter the cabin head first. We’ll have to think of a way of turning me around…”

“Virgil…” Jeff interrupted his son’s train of thought. “Hamish gave me a call.” He sounded casual; almost too much so.

Virgil frowned. “Why?”

“He tells me that Max Watts gave you a final warning.”

“He did what!?”

“The report says that you were caught behaving in a dangerous manner. That doesn’t sound like you. What happened?”

This was too much. After the day he’d had the last thing Virgil wanted was some busybody snitching to his father. “He had no right to tell you!”

“He’s worried about you…” Jeff was quietly conciliatory. “I am too.”

“He’s worried…” Virgil spluttered, more to himself than to his father. “He called you… I don’t believe it… I don’t believe him!”

“Give me the names of the people responsible and I’ll make sure your record is cleared.”

Virgil glared at Jeff. “I thought we’d agreed that once you’d got me this job that was the last help you’d give me.”

“But I can’t believe that you’d do anything reckless. I want to set the record straight…”

“Because I’m your son…”

“And because it’s right. What happened, Virgil? I’d like to hear your side of the story.”

“You wouldn’t bother with anyone else,” Virgil accused.

“Yes, I would. You know me. I believe in fair play. I want the right people held accountable.”

“If it hadn’t been me involved you wouldn’t even know there anything to be accountable for! Hamish Mickelson would have kept his mouth shut!”

“Virgil!”

“How could he?” Virgil was still incensed by the betrayal. “How could he?!”

“He’s my friend… He’s our friend…”

“Friend!” Virgil snorted. “He’s not my friend. He had no right to tell you!”

“He had every right...”

“Every right?! How do you work that out?”

“I own the business.”

“So?!!! As the owner of the business does that mean he tells you of every disciplinary issue? Every little misdemeanour?”

“No… But I am your father…”

“Not at ACE you’re not. We agreed, remember?”

“Virgil!”

“You’re the boss and that’s all! I’m not a Tracy there! Or are you trying to tell me that he rings up every employee’s father when they do something wrong?!”

“No, of course not… But, Virgil…” Anger was beginning to creep into Jeff’s voice.

“But nothing! Mr Mickel… Uncle Hami…” The name confusion only served to increase Virgil’s fury. “He should keep his sticky nose out of my business!”

“Virgil…”

“And you can tell him I said so!

“Virgil!”

“It may have escaped your notice, but I’m an adult now!”

“I’m aware of that…”

“Or don’t you trust me?”

“Of course I trust you!”

“It doesn’t sound like it to me if you’re checking up on me!”

“I’m not checking up on you! Hamish was worr…”

“If you can’t trust me at ACE then are you sure you’re going to be able to trust me with International Rescue? Are you going to trust me with all that expensive equipment? Are you going to trust me with people’s lives?”

“Of course I trust you! I trust you implicitly!”

“Sure…” Virgil sneered. “Do you have your astronaut buddies ring you every time John slips up?”

“No, of course not…”

“Does Alan’s manager ring you every time he cuts a corner?”

“Now don’t be silly…”

“Does the Air Force phone every time Scott made a little mistake?”

“Scott never makes mistakes…!”

Virgil hung up on his father.

He stood there, breathing heavily and thinking that modern technology wasn’t all it was cracked up to be if it couldn’t even supply you with a handset to slam down. “How dare he?” he fumed. “How dare he!?”

The phone rang, revealing a familiar caller ID.

Virgil pushed a button on the phone and the machine ceased its incessant beeping. “Talk to my voicemail,” he snarled at the blank screen. “Cos I don’t want to talk to you!” He stalked across to his couch and threw himself onto it. “I don’t believe it!”

His cell phone played a familiar march and he switched it off and hurled it onto his bed.

Jeff Tracy’s smiling face looked down on him, and Virgil launched himself at another button. The digital photo, and all others showing Jeff’s likeness, morphed into a copy of one of Virgil’s paintings.

The phone rang again.

“Shut up,” Virgil told the instrument and it obeyed, sending the caller to the answering service. He sat down heavily on the stool that served his electronic keyboard, but was too uptight to touch the keys.

The phone rang again.

“Get lost.”

The doorbell rang.

The sudden change in sound took the wind out of Virgil’s sails. His father had flown back to his head office in Kansas this morning to oversee the full Tracy empire; so he knew it couldn’t be him. Could it be Hamish Mickelson here to offer an apology… or demand one?

The doorbell rang again.

Grumbling to himself Virgil got to his feet and strode to the door. “Who’s there?!”

“Uh… Virgil…? It’s Louis Fleming and Bruce Sanders.”

“Huh?” Virgil opened the door and was almost surprised to see his two work colleagues standing there. “Uh… Hi…”

“Hi…” They both offered him weak smiles.

“C-Can we come in?” Bruce asked. “If it’s not too much trouble?”

“If you don’t mind?” Louis added.

“Uh… Sure…” Virgil stood aside and admitted the two men. “Excuse the mess, I haven’t finished unpacking… Have a seat… Um… Would you like something to drink? A beer? Coffee? Juice?” They accepted a beer each and Virgil retrieved the cans from the fridge before pouring himself something chilled from a jug. The liquid’s colour was that of three-year-old paint that had separated from its pigment.

“What’s that?” Bruce asked, eyeing the strange concoction up.

“Fruit juice mixture,” Virgil said. “One of my Grandma’s secret concoctions. Has the same kick as beer but without the drawbacks.”

“Grandma’s secret recipe with eleven secret herbs and spices, huh?” Louis asked with a wry smile.

Virgil grinned. “Only three actually. Do you want to try some?”

Louis made a face. “No, thanks.”

Bruce was looking around. “Nice place. Must cost a lot.”

“I struck it lucky,” Virgil said, “The owner’s looking at developing the complex, but the other tenants’ contracts don’t expire for a year, so he’s letting me live here on a reduced rental until then.” It was, he reflected with relief, so much easier to be able to tell the truth than lie. “What can I do for you guys?”

“We tried ringing earlier,” Bruce began, “but we kept on getting this funny answer phone message so thought we’d come around and talk to you face-to-face.”

Virgil looked at him. “Funny?”

“Yeah,” Louis agreed. “Something about you being unable to come to the phone because you were painting?”

Virgil frowned. “What? Are you sure it was my phone?”

Louis nodded. “Yep. It said that ‘Virgil’ was unable to come to the phone. It wasn’t your voice though.”

“That’s odd.” As Virgil walked over to the videophone, Bruce took the opportunity to have a quick sniff of his host’s drink. He rolled his eyes at Louis as he put the glass down.

Virgil replayed the answer phone’s message and a familiar voice came out of the speaker.

“Virgil can’t answer, he’s come over faint.

He’s spent too much time sniffing his paint,

But never fear, you can speak to me,

He’s bound to come round when it’s time for his tea.”

“Gordon,” Virgil groaned. “I might have guessed. Even when he’s a half a kilometre under water he causes trouble.” He looked at his guests and saw two confused expressions. “My younger brother. He’s spent the last ten months in a bathyscaphe researching underwater farming methods. Even there he can’t resist teasing me. He reckons that I had a funny bone transplant at birth and it didn’t take…” Virgil shrugged. “The mood I’m in, maybe he’s right.” He turned the videophone’s mute on and sat back down again.

“If he’s been half a k underwater for the last ten months,” Bruce began, “how did he manage to change your voicemail message?”

“They’re still able to phone out. My youngest brother, Alan, helped me move in. He probably pinched the pass code and gave it to Gordon.” Virgil indicated a photo of five young men laughing on a tropical beach; one of the few things that Alan had helped him unpack. “The red-head’s Gordon and the blonde between us is Alan. The other blonde’s my older brother John and the dark one is the eldest, Scott.” Aside from Gordon’s Olympic triumph, Alan’s car racing and Scott’s much publicised crash in Bereznick, the Tracy sons had kept out of the public eye, and Virgil felt no qualms in revealing this part of his life. He replaced the photo in time to see the word ‘Father’ flash up on the videophone’s screen and his anger flared up again. “Leave me alone!” he threw a cushion at the phone.

“Uh... Do you often do that?”

For the briefest of moments Virgil had forgotten that he had company. “No,” he admitted, shamefaced that his outburst had been witnessed. “Never… But it’s been a bad day and he made it worse.”

Louis cleared his throat. “That’s why we’re here… To apologise.”

“Yes,” Bruce nodded. “We didn’t want to get you into trouble. It was just a test… a kind of initiation to see what kind of person you were.”

“Oh…” Virgil said quietly. “Did I pass?”

“You scored higher than you did at Denver,” Louis replied with a wry grin. “But why didn’t you say it was our fault? You didn’t have to take the rap.”

Virgil shrugged. “Mr Watts would have blamed me anyway…” He sat forward. “What’s he got against me?” The phone flashed ‘Father’ again and he ignored it. “We hadn’t met until today.”

“We were discussing that on the way over,” Bruce revealed. “We think it’s because of his son.”

“Yeah,” Louis agreed. “‘Milli’, I mean George, has been studying at Tampar Engineering College.”

“Tampar’s a good school,” Virgil noted.

“Thank you,” Bruce grinned. “It’s my alma mater too. It’s not as flash as Denver, but it’s still got some great tutors.”

Virgil agreed. “But what’s that got to do with me?”

“Mega’s been hoping that George’ll get a job at the factory,” Louis said. “The problem is that the kid is absolutely hopeless. He’s been doing work experience at ACE and everything he touches seems to go wrong… But still his old man keeps on hoping that his son will follow in his footsteps and work for the great Jeff Tracy.” Virgil smiled at the irreverent description. “Then all of a sudden, when no one even knew that there was a job going, you waltz in with your diploma from the best engineering school in the country, no references, and no questions asked.”

Virgil sat back. “Ah.”

“We think Mega’s annoyed with the desk jockeys,” Louis continued. “But he can’t yell at them so he’s taking his frustrations out on you. Don’t worry about him. This time next week he’ll have forgotten all about it.”

Bruce agreed. “If you don’t mind me asking, how did you get the job? Like Lou said, none of us knew there was a vacancy.”

The ugly word ‘nepotism’ reared up in Virgil’s mind and he looked embarrassed. “My father and Hamish Mickelson have known each other for years. They were in the Air Force together.”

“Really?” It was Bruce’s turn to sit forward. “Did your father know Jeff Tracy, ACE’s owner? Word is that he was in the Air Force with old ‘Micky’ too.”

“He… ah…” Virgil was getting into murky waters and this time was glad to hear the buzzing of the videophone.

“Are we interrupting you?” Louis asked. “You seem to be missing a few phone calls.”

“Don’t worry about it, that’s what voicemail’s for,” Virgil waved a dismissive hand. “How’d you guys find my address?”

His guests looked sheepish. “Mega had left your file on his desk,” Bruce admitted. “Lou snuck a peek and got your address and phone number.”

“While Bruce kept watch,” Louis added. “If I’d been caught I would have been out of a job… That’s something you and I have in common, Virgil. I’ve got a ‘bleeder’ too.”

Virgil was starting to feel swamped by all the nicknames and colloquialisms. “Bleeder?”

“Red final warning sheet,” Bruce explained. “It was on the top page of your file. That’s a bit rough; I would have thought that Mega would have let you off with a warning, since it’s your first day.”

“He didn’t,” Virgil remembered grimly. “And news of my ‘misdemeanour’ has gone all the way to the top.”

“To the top? You mean Mega told Micky?” Bruce gasped. “Oh, man, that’s rough.”

The phone flashed ‘Father’ again.

“Let me guess… Micky told your dad?” Louis hypothesised. “And your dad’s called you?” Virgil nodded. “That’s why you’re not talking to him?”

Virgil nodded again. “I told him to mind his own business, but I don’t think he trusts me.”

“Oh, man, that’s rough,” Bruce repeated. “A bit of a tyrant, is he? Your father?”

“No…” Virgil responded. “Actually we have a pretty good relationship.” He sighed. “I guess I’m really mad with Hamish Mickelson for telling him. But I can’t yell at the boss, can I?” He gave a rueful grin thinking that that was precisely what he had just done.

“What does your father do?”

“He… ah… He’s setting up a new business,” Virgil prevaricated.

“The one you’re joining next year?” Louis asked. “Doing what?”

“I’ve been sworn to secrecy,” Virgil said truthfully. “Business confidentiality. I’m sure you understand.”

“Yeah, sure,” Bruce said easily.

Virgil looked at his watch. “How about I order in pizza? I wasn’t going to cook tonight anyway.” He indicated the unpacked boxes. “All my kitchen gear’s hidden in those somewhere.”

Louis smiled. “Sounds good. But we’ll pay.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Virgil protested.

“Are you kidding?” Bruce responded. “We can’t let you buy dinner for us on your first day at work before you’ve been paid! We’ll buy the pizza. It’s the least we can do after what happened today.”

As far as Virgil was concerned, money wasn’t an issue, but he accepted the offer with thanks.

It was late in the evening when Bruce and Louis decided it was time to leave. They were holding a muttered conversation when their host returned after disposing of the pizza boxes. “Say, Virgil,” Bruce said, “we were planning on going on a skiing trip this weekend. Would you like to join us?”

Virgil looked at him in surprise and pleasure. “Do you mean that? I was planning on unpacking this weekend, but…” he looked around at the unopened boxes. “That can wait. Where are we going?”

“If,” Louis looked at his long-time friend with a mixture of wry humour and exasperation, “Buzz can get that jalopy of his to work, we’re heading up to the ski field north of here.”

Virgil gave a slight frown. “Aren’t those places rather commercialised?”

“Yep,” Bruce confirmed. “But I daren’t trust my old girl any further than that.”

“I’ve got my pilot’s licence,” Virgil said, thinking quickly, “How about we fly somewhere more private?”

“Yeah?!” Bruce’s face brightened. “Now you’re talking! I get sick of all those kids running around screaming. What do you think, Lou?”

“Sounds good to me,” Louis confirmed. “We can discuss it in more detail over lunch tomorrow. We’ll save you a seat, Virgil…” He winked. “That’s if you don’t have another appointment to go to.”

“Was I that obvious?” Virgil groaned. “You guys were laughing at me and no one else seemed particularly happy to see me, so…”

“Don’t worry about the others,” Bruce interrupted. “You passed the test so you’re one of us now.”

“Am I? I’m not sure Butch would agree. Why would he think I’d be interested in his wife?”

“Haven’t you met Lisa yet?” Bruce asked as Louis gave an appreciative whistle and leered heavenwards. “She’s a real knockout. Gorgeous! She could be a model anywhere in the world! She’s got brains to burn, yet she works in our factory and has saddled herself with a walking outhouse. No one can quite believe that she’s done it, including Butch, so he warns off all other males that he thinks might be a threat… Take it as a compliment.”

“Yeah,” Louis agreed. “They say opposites attract, but those two, they’re the original odd couple, but they seem devoted to each other…” He shook his head. “I often think that ACE could do away with the press brakes and get Butch to fold the metal instead… Now that’s a guy that’s gotta have a ‘bleeder’.”

“Nah,” Bruce rejoined. “He’s harmless so long as he doesn’t think you’ve got your eye on Lisa.”

“Is Butch his name or nickname?” Virgil asked, wondering how long it would be before he scored a new moniker of his own. Louis in particular seemed intent on renaming everyone and everything he came in contact with.

“Name,” Bruce replied. “Would you be game enough to give a guy like that a nickname? Except ‘Sir’, perhaps…” His eyes twinkled. “And before you ask, we’ve got no idea why Mega’s so against it.”

“But I was brought up that calling someone ‘Sir’ was a gesture of respect,” Virgil said. “He reacted as if I’d insulted him.”

“We don’t know what his problem is,” Louis admitted. “But don’t worry about Mega. He’ll soon find someone else to growl at.”

“Probably us,” Bruce chuckled. “For some reason, my friend,” he nudged Louis, “he seems to think that you and I are a bad influence on all his other workers… He’s right of course. Catch you tomorrow, Virgil.”

“Yeah,” Louis agreed. “Later, Veggie.”

“See ya.” As Virgil closed the door behind his two workmates he chuckled. ‘Veggie’?

With a heart that was considerably lighter than it had been a few hours earlier, Virgil felt relaxed enough to be able to listen to his answer-phone messages without his blood pressure rising.

5:14pm: “Virgil Tracy! Remember you are a Tracy and you will always be a Tracy no matter WHAT you decide to call yourself! Don’t you ever, EVER hang up on me like that again! Tracy or Tancy you are still my son and I expect you to treat me with the respect I deserve as your father…! Answer this phone…! None of your brothers would dream of treating me like this… I know you are there, so pick up the phone…! I’m waiting… Virgil! Answer the … phone!”

5:17pm: “Virgil, if you don’t answer this videophone call, I’m coming back there tonight! And when I get there I’ll expect an apology and a full explanation from you! I’m waiting… You can’t hide from me forever…! If I have to fly out there you’ll be sorry and you can kiss any thoughts of keeping your job at ACE goodbye…! Answer this blasted phone!”

5:20pm: “Look, I’ll do you a deal. If you tell me who is responsible for getting you into trouble I won’t mention it again… Can you hear me, Virgil…? I know you’re listening… Virgil! This is your final warning. If you don’t pick up the phone, my next call is to the airport to get my plane ready… Pick up the phone!”

5.25pm: “If you think I don’t mean it when I say that I’m coming to sort you out then you are very much mistaken. I… What is it, Mother…!?” This message was concluded withan indistinct, unintelligible conversation.

Virgil sighed and looked at his watch, doing a quick calculation. If his father made good on his threat to return he could expect to see him any moment… and Jeff Tracy would be furious at being dragged back halfway across the States: even more furious than he had been between 5:14 and 5:25.

5:54pm: “Virgil? Are you there?” This wasn’t his father’s voice. “It’s Hamish Mickelson… I… I was hoping to talk to you personally rather than leaving a message on a machine... If you are there please pick up the phone… … I guess you’re not there… Look, I’m sorry. I had no right to call your father today. He rang a few minutes ago and told me that you were upset and I can understand why. I behaved in a manner inappropriate to the General Manager of a major corporation. It’s just… your father and I go back a long way and I’ve known you all your life. When Max Watts told me that he’d given you that warning I couldn’t believe it. I thought that there had to have been some misunderstanding. Or that perhaps you had issues that I, and Jeff, weren’t aware of and I wanted to help… This isn’t the way to apologise. If you don’t get in too late, would you call me tonight? If not, I’ll try to apologise to you personally tomorrow… But maybe not at the factory… Edna’s already told me off for not treating you like an adult and I would like to apologise to you man-to-man and I guess work’s not the place for that. Call me… Whatever the time… I’ll be waiting… Good night, Virgil.”

6:07pm: “Virgil? It’s Edna Mickelson. That husband of mine should not have rung your father and I’ve told him so. We’d be delighted if you would come to dinner at our place tomorrow. It’ll give your dear grandmother piece of mind to know that you’re eating good wholesome home cooking. You’d be here as a friend of the family and not an employee: I will NOT let him talk shop… Let me know if you accept and I’ll start planning something special.”

6:13pm: This message began with a self-conscious chuckle. “You might want to change your voicemail message. I think your brothers have been… Yes, yes, all right, Mother. I know! I’ll do it…”

Virgil grinned. He had no doubt who was the real boss in the Tracy household.

“Look… Virgil… … Son… I’ve spoken to Hamish Mickelson and we both agree that he shouldn’t have phoned me. He did it because he was concerned about you, but he… that is, we… now agree that he shouldn’t have involved me in what was an internal matter… And I… Well… Well, I shouldn’t have carried on the way I did… I’ve got to remember that you are an adult and I should treat you like an adult and trust your judgement… … Yes, Mother, I’m getting to that… … Virgil, I… I’m sorry I yelled at you…” There was a sigh. “I’d appreciate it if you’d give me a call… Don’t worry about the time… Call me… Please…“

Firstly Virgil rang the Mickelsons to accept Hamish’s apology and reluctantly decline Edna’s invitation to dinner. While he normally enjoyed their company, and the thought of Aunty Edna’s cooking made him drool, he had an idea that his relationship with the rest of his workmates was too fragile to risk this early in his career.

Then he rang his father.

Jeff answered the phone almost immediately. His smile of relief quickly morphed into a more rueful expression. “You took a long time to cool down… Not that I blame you. I almost expected you not to ring.”

“I had guests.” Virgil smiled at his father. “A couple of guys from work. I was almost expecting you to storm in through the door and give the game away.”

“I was close to leaving, believe me,” Jeff admitted. “Then something stopped me.”

“I heard her.”

Jeff chuckled. “I’m sorry about earlier; I overstepped the mark. So did Hamish. I’ve spoken to him and he admits that he was wrong.”

“I know.” Virgil responded. “I’ve just finished talking to him. Aunty Edna’s told him off.”

“He’ll be on bread and water for a week.”

Virgil raised an eyebrow. “And you?”

“A month.”

Virgil laughed.

“Can we start this evening again?” Jeff requested. “Forget everything we said earlier? Forget that I own ACE? I’m only your father and I want to know how your first day of work went. And…” the rueful smile returned. “I’m curious. Don’t tell me any names. Don’t give away any secrets. But how on earth did you manage to end up with a final warning on your first day?”

Virgil, taking care not to reveal anything that might incriminate anyone, gave him the full story.

“So it was an initiation?” Jeff asked. “They’ve got a bit more advanced since my days. We only got the new recruit to go down the road to buy striped paint; things like that.”

“I know,” Virgil said. “I remember you telling me. I’d even put a few of my tubes of paint in my bag in case they tried that one out on me. I wasn’t expecting to be sent for a ride.”

“What was it you said about getting to Thunderbird Two, this afternoon?”

“Sliding down that conveyor gave me the idea. We’re concealing all the access ways to the various hangars in the lounge, aren’t we?”

“That’s the idea.”

“How about a panel in the wall? I’ll stand with my back to it, it’ll tip me up and I’ll slide onto a conveyor. I don’t particularly fancy the idea of sliding the whole way down to the pilot’s cabin head first though, so we’ll have to work in a point where I can turn around.”

“That gets you to the hangar,” Jeff mused. “Then what? How are you going to get into your plane? Through the upper bulkhead?”

Virgil shrugged, “Why not? I could slide right off the end onto the pilot’s seat.”

“Or the pilot’s seat could be the actual end of the conveyor and it would fold into three and lock onto the seat’s pedestal…” Jeff bit his lip. “You’ll still have to get out of your seat to get into your uniform though.”

“True,” Virgil admitted. “But then I could start warming Two up, select the appropriate pod, and get changed while that’s slotting into place.”

Jeff nodded slowly. “You might have something there.”

“I see Rimmer Corporation’s got their order in.”

Jeff brightened. “Thunderbird One? Scott’s going to be thrilled. How did she look?”

“Like an unexciting piece of metal.”

“Good.”

Virgil laughed. “Can you tell me something?”

“I’ll try.”

“Why does Max Watts hate being called ‘sir’?”

Jeff grinned. “No one told you not to do it?”

“No,” Virgil shook his head. “He nearly bit my head off after about the tenth one.”

“I’m surprised he was able to hold it together that long.”

Virgil looked at his father shrewdly. “You know why, don’t you?”

Jeff had a sly grin. “Oh, I know all right.”

“Well…? Come on, Father, spill it. Why doesn’t he like being called ‘sir’?”

“Now, Virgil, do you expect the owner of Aeronautical Component Engineering to tell one of his employees, and one who’s only been on the job one day at that, a secret about that employee’s supervisor?”

Virgil scowled. “I might have known you’d manage to twist my argument around somehow.”

Jeff laughed. “If you haven’t found out by the time you’ve finished at ACE I’ll tell you. That’s if Max doesn’t tell you himself.”

Virgil thought that would be unlikely. He yawned. “I think I’d better go to bed. It’s been a tiring day.”

“Okay, Virgil,” Jeff conceded. “But you might want to consider changing your voicemail message first.”

“Gordon…” Virgil growled. “And Alan! One day I’ve got to come up with a way to get even with them.”

“Once Gordon’s above the high tide mark I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

Virgil grimaced. “This is me you’re talking to, remember. I couldn’t even think of a plausible excuse today. I had to say that I’d tripped over my shoelace.” He shook his head in exasperation.

“Do you want to fly back home this weekend?” Jeff asked. “Both your grandmother and I would like the chance to catch up with you and hear how your week’s gone.”

“I can’t. I’m going on a skiing trip with a couple of the guys from work. I thought I’d fly them up to your property at Wooden Horse.”

Jeff managed not to look disappointed. “Okay then. Maybe the following weekend?”

“I’ll be starting my advanced first aid course that weekend.”

This time the disappointment showed. “Oh… Okay.”

“I’m sorry…”

“Don’t worry about it, Virgil. That course is important for International Rescue and once that starts and we’re all living together on the island, we’ll probably be trying to work out ways to get away from each other.”

“Gordon and Alan at least,” Virgil said.

Jeff laughed. “Well… I’d better let you go.”

“Give my love to Grandma.”

“I will. Enjoy your trip this weekend.”

Virgil smiled. “I will. I’m sure it’ll be a lot of fun…”

Chapter 2: A Quiet Interuption

It had been a long and arduous week. Long and arduous because it had been made up of one mind-numbing, repetitive job after another. If it wasn’t linishing, it was drilling endless holes, and if it wasn’t drilling it was using the press to punch out bracket after bracket after bracket… It wasn’t until Wednesday that Virgil had decided that he had shown himself dedicated enough to the job to not incur Max Watts’ wrath by piping music into his earmuffs. The music had made a difference… But not much…

Virgil Tracy, known to those present as Virgil Tancy, listened to his own voice and then snapped his cell phone off.

A twig in the fire snapped and rolled off the log sending up sparks into the darkness and Bruce Sanders pushed it back into place. “You’re becoming paranoid over that voicemail message. You do realise that don’t you?”

“Not paranoid,” Virgil corrected. “I just know my brother. And once he thinks of a prank like this he’ll keep doing it over and over again until he gets bored with it.” He pushed the phone into his pocket and relaxed. It had been a good idea of his to come to this simple, but warm, one room cabin.

“Oh… Say, Virgil…” Bruce nudged the twig back into place again. “The two of us were hoping that you’ll clear up a big question mark over you…”

Virgil looked at him, wondering if somehow his true identity had been revealed to his two companions. “Yes?”

“Sometimes I’m sure I see you working with your right hand…”

Virgil chuckled. “Oh, yes…”

“Yeah,” Louis Fleming added. “But I’m sure I’ve seen you working with your left.”

“So you’ve got us wondering,” Bruce said. “Which hand do you write with?”

“It depends on which hand my pen is in,” Virgil told him. “I can write or draw with either.”

“You’re ambidextrous?” Louis asked.

Virgil nodded. “That’s right. It comes in handy sometimes.”

“I’ll bet it does,” Bruce exclaimed. “I’d give my right hand to be ambidextrous.”

Louis groaned. “That joke’s older than these trees,” he said waving his hand at the centuries old pines that were dark silhouettes beyond the cabin windows.

“Show us,” Bruce begged. “Draw something with both.”

“I can’t do it at the same time,” Virgil told him, reaching into a nearby backpack and pulling out his sketch pad. He paused, pencil hanging over the paper. “What do you want me to draw?”

“How good an artist are you?” Louis asked.

Virgil gave a modest shrug. “Not bad.”

“Could you draw Buzz’s jalopy?”

“Okay.” Virgil had often seen Bruce’s rusting mode of transport over this past week and had a pretty good idea of how to translate it into a suitable caricature. He drew the front of the vehicle with his right hand and the rear with his left. “How’s that?” he asked, handing over the pad.

Bruce gave a whistle. “I’m impressed.”

“How do you learn something like that?” Louis asked.

“I didn’t. It was just something I was born with,” Virgil admitted. He put the pad back in his bag, stretched and gave a sigh of contentment. “You don’t know how much I’ve been hanging out for this.”

“We can hazard a guess,” Bruce said. “Mega hasn’t been off your back since the moment you started.”

“Yeah,” Louis agreed. “He’s really got it in for you, Veggie.”

Virgil regarded his companions. Over this past week he’d got to know them better and was beginning to form firm opinions about them. Bruce in many ways was like Gordon. Easy going, friendly, a joker, but with a serious side that quickly came to the fore whenever the situation demanded, and Virgil was coming to regard him as a friend. Louis Virgil wasn’t so sure about. While he was similar in personality to Bruce, there was a malicious edge to him that would never be found in Gordon, and one that Virgil couldn’t quite take to. The nickname of ‘Veggie’, while it had been funny at first, had been used so often and in such a way that Virgil was rapidly growing tired of it.

“Why are we talking about work anyway?” Louis asked. “It’s the weekend, time to forget all about it.” He reached into a chiller. “Want a beer, Veggie?”

“No, thanks, one’ll do me. I’ll make do with Grandma’s juice.”

“Come on, another won’t hurt you.”

“Not now,” Virgil agreed. “But I’m flying the three of us out of here tomorrow, and I’m sure you’d rather that I had a clear head.”

“I thought we weren’t leaving until tomorrow afternoon,” Bruce remarked. “I should hope you’d be well and truly sober by then.”

“So would I, but if something happens, say the weather starts closing in and we decide to leave early, I want to be in a fit state to pilot.”

“We came out here to enjoy ourselves!” Louis held out a can of beer to Virgil. “Relax. You don’t have Mega looking over your shoulder now. Here!”

“No, thanks,” Virgil reiterated, raising his glass. “I’m quite happy with this.”

“Why don’t you pour some beer in it?” Louis suggested. “It might improve the flavour and loosen you up a bit.” He twitched the can in Virgil’s direction.

“Leave him, Lou,” Bruce sighed, pushing Louis’ arm away from where it was hovering in front of his face. “If he doesn’t want a beer, he doesn’t want a beer. So what?”

“So… I thought we came out here to enjoy ourselves… Not kill the party before it’s even started.”

“I’d rather that Virgil ‘killed the party’ rather than kill us,” Bruce told him. “Now put that beer back in the chiller and give me one that you haven’t shaken up.”

Grumbling to himself, Louis threw him another can, before he opened the beer and drank most of it.

“So, Virgil,” Bruce said. “What can you do with both hands apart from draw and write?”

“Practically anything,” Virgil admitted. “I’m slightly more predisposed to using my left, but in general it doesn’t matter which hand I use.”

A branch snapped sending more sparks skyward into the blackness.

“I see the Big Cheese is making his monthly visit on Monday,” Louis commented.

This sudden change in subject threw his companions slightly. “I thought we’d agreed we weren’t discussing work,” Bruce said.

“The Big Cheese?” Virgil queried, guessing that he probably already knew the answer.

“Jeff Tracy,” Bruce said. “Our lord and master. He likes to visit regularly to make sure that his minions are behaving themselves.”

“What’s he like?” Virgil asked, thinking that that was the question that anyone who didn’t know Jeff Tracy except by reputation would ask.

“Actually he’s not a bad guy,” Bruce said. “He makes an effort to get to know his workers by name. When he’s talking to you he seems to be genuinely interested in you and what you’re doing.”

“Yeah,” Louis said. “If he’d gone into the movies he could have won an Oscar.”

“Do you think it’s all an act?” Virgil asked, knowing it wasn’t.

“Must be,” Louis grunted into his can of beer. “He’s got all this dough. Why should he worry about us? We’re nothing to him.”

“Maybe he genuinely cares about people?” Virgil suggested.

“Trust me,” Louis drawled. “A guy who starts with nothing and ends up a billionaire has trampled a few people on the way. The only thing Jeff Tracy cares about is the bottom line.”

“Come on, Lou,” Bruce admonished. “He’s not that bad. What about that time that Warrick Templeton’s daughter had that accident in Hawaii? Jeff Tracy got Warrick a flight there in one of his private jets. No charge. No fuss.”

“Warrick Templeton’s ACE’s top draftsman,” Louis said. “It was in Tracy’s interests to get him there and back A.S.A.P. He was looking after his own interests.”

“But isn’t that part of his ethos?” Bruce asked. “He knows that if he treats his employees right, then we’ll treat him right.”

“How was his daughter?” Virgil asked, not having heard this particular story.

“Tracy doesn’t have a daughter, only sons,” Louis informed him.

“No, I meant Warrick Templeton’s daughter. What was the accident?”

“It was a car crash and she was pretty badly injured,” Bruce said. “Broken legs, pelvis, concussion… I think there might have been some internal injuries. She’s still not quite right, isn’t she, Lou; but they’re hopeful she’ll make a full recovery.”

Louis threw another log on the fire. “I’ll bet Tracy never took his kids camping.” He took a swig at his can.

Virgil said nothing. In the early years, when Jeff Tracy was in the process of building up his fledgling business he made a point of taking the family on a camping trip at least once a month, whatever the weather. For Jeff, it was a chance to get right away from the stresses of daily life and enjoy some quality time with his boys. For Virgil and his brothers this was the time when they had their father’s undivided attention. From their father they learnt woodcraft, survival skills, and how to face uncomfortable and unpleasant situations without complaint; such as that time when it didn’t stop raining all weekend and the tent developed a leak.

Those weekends were some of the happiest memories of Virgil’s childhood years.

“Nope,” Louis was continuing. “They were probably brought up by a nanny who responded to their beck and call. I’ll bet the first thing they learnt to do was snap their fingers so she’d come running.”

“How many kids did he have?” Bruce asked. “Four? Five?”

“Five,” Virgil confirmed without thinking. His workmates looked at him and he covered his tracks quickly, glad of the fire as an excuse for his burning face. “I read an article on him before I started.”

“There was publicity about his family?” Bruce exclaimed. “That’s unusual. Most of his private life kept pretty… well… private.” He gave an abashed grin. “What else did it say?”

“Uh…” Virgil prevaricated. “I can’t remember.”

“I know this much,” Louis boasted. “The eldest is some sort of hotshot in the Air Force… At least he thinks he is. Remember how he got shot down in Bereznick last year?”

Virgil nodded as Bruce exclaimed: “I remember! Tracy must have gone ballistic when he discovered his son was in the news.”

Virgil bit his tongue. Maybe not quite ballistic; but it sure was close.

“Tracy was in the Air Force too,” Louis continued, warming to his theme. “He probably got his son in through the old boys’ network. The guy can’t be much of pilot if he let himself get shot out of the sky by Bereznickies.”

“Didn’t he get some kind of award for that?” Bruce had screwed up his face as he tried to remember the few facts he’d heard about the Tracy clan. “Isn’t the second one doing something with the space programme? He…”

“No, that’s the middle kid,” Louis interrupted. “The second one’s some kind of artist.”

“I thought the middle one was the artist.”

“No, the second one is the artist…”

“I’m sure it’s the second one that’s the space cadet,” Bruce persisted. “I remember Mickleson saying something, sometime about him taking after his old man too and becoming an astronaut.”

“When did you ever have a conversation with old Micky?”

“I didn’t. I had to take something into the office and I overheard Micky having a chat with Tracy.”

“Okay, so whichever one he is in the order of things, we agree he’s an astronaut, right?”

“Right.”

“I heard a whisper that the only reason why he got into the space programme was because of his old man…”

Virgil knew that John would not take kindly to the suggestion that he’d gained access to the elite world of space exploration because of anything other than his own talents and abilities, but as he had already decided that it was safer not to say anything, he didn’t correct Louis.

…Who was still slandering the Tracy family. “…Apparently the kid was a bit of a dreamer. He always had his head in the stars so Tracy made him an astronaut…” Louis laughed at his own wit.

John had often been described in this way, so Virgil felt free to laugh along with the others.

“Okay, Lou,” Bruce challenged. “Since you’re such an expert on the Tracys, tell us about this artist. Where ever he fits into the line up.”

“Well… He’s an artist…” Louis offered. “He’s, ah…”

“He’s a mystery,” Bruce offered. “I’ve never heard of him being in the limelight. He can’t be that good at painting or sculpting or whatever it is he does.”

Virgil suppressed a smile.

“What do you know about the art world?” Louis asked.

“Well… Nothing…” Bruce admitted.

“And you’re surprised you’ve never heard of him?”

“No… Hang on! Isn’t that one of his paintings of some mountains in ol’ Micky’s office?”

The rendition of Hamish Mickleson’s hometown had been a present given by Jeff Tracy on the occasion of his friend’s 15th anniversary in charge of ACE. Virgil had forgotten that the painting hung in pride of place in Hamish Mickleson’s office and briefly wondered if its presence would be enough to expose his identity.

“The family’s probably ashamed of this artistic son,” Louis said, suddenly confident in his story telling as he started another beer. “That’s right!” He snapped his fingers as if a long buried memory had surfaced. “I heard that he’s the black sheep of the family. An outcast! You know, long hair, beard, always spaced out on some drug or other, always in trouble with the law, into these really wild scenes. He’s a disgrace to the Tracy name and Jeff Tracy’s disowned him. His brothers refuse to talk to him.”

Virgil looked at Louis in astonishment, not knowing whether to laugh at or be angry. With an effort he reminded himself that if he didn’t say anything, he couldn’t give himself away.

“Come on, Lou…” Bruce was saying. “That can’t be right. You’re making it up!”

“I swear it’s true.”

“Yeah, right.”

“The fourth one was swimmer,” Louis said, sidestepping the argument. “He won a gold medal at the Olympics.” He took a swig at his beer.

“Doing what?”

“Swimming.”

“I know that you idiot. Which variant of swimming? Which stroke?”

“Uh…” Louis thought for a moment. “Freestyle,” he hazarded and Virgil didn’t correct him.

“That’s as logical as anything you’ve said tonight,” Bruce sneered.

“Well, you did ask the question.”

“I suppose now you’re going to tell us that the youngest is a ballet dancer…”

This was too much. Virgil barked out a laugh at the image of Alan in a tutu.

Even Louis gave a boozy grin. “Of course not. You know as well as I do that Alan Tracy’s into car racing. There’s a good chance he’ll win the championship this year…” He frowned in thought and stared short-sightedly into the fire. “Do you realise that apart from the swimmer’s fifteen minutes of fame, he’s the only Tracy son to make the headlines?”

“True, but have you noticed how he never gives interviews and refuses to let himself be photographed?” Bruce asked. “Do you think it’s a superstition or an order from his old man?”

“Knowing Tracy Senior, Alan Tracy’s probably well and truly under his father’s thumb.”

“Wearing a ballet frock.”

The three men laughed at this mental image.

“Is Jeff Tracy married?” Bruce wondered. “You never see him with his wife and you never hear about her?”

“Where have you been?” Louis asked. “She died years ago. Tracy probably wore her out having so many children.”

Virgil frowned. They were getting into territory he wasn’t comfortable with.

“I remember!” Bruce exclaimed. “I thought it was some kind of accident.”

Whether the beer was doing something to Louis’ mind or whether he was enjoying making up stories for his audience’s benefit, he seemed to have lost all grasp with reality. “Yeah. It was a car accident. She was leaving Tracy for another man… It was hushed up at the time for their kids’ sake.”

Virgil stared at him. “What!”

“Yeah!” Louis said, with a floppy wave of his hand. “She’d been playing around for years. Every time Tracy was heading off into space; he’d no sooner be out the door and she’d have thomeone else in her bed…”

Virgil felt his hands balling up into fists.

“…and then nine months after the space flight, bang! Out would pop another kid.”

“Louis…” Virgil began.

In his drunken haze, Louis didn’t hear him. “After she died they did a paternity tetht on th’ kidth…”

“…No…”

“Know wha’ they found out?”

“…Stop this…”

“Only the eldes’ was Tracy’s.”

“NO!” Virgil found himself being stared at by his two companions.

“What is it, Virgil?” Bruce asked, surprised by the venom in his friend’s voice.

Virgil took a deep breath to get his anger under control. “I… I don’t think we should be talking about this. We’re slandering Jeff Tracy’s and his family’s good name.”

“Shlander?” Louis drawled. “Itsh only shlander if it not true.”

“But it isn’t true,” Virgil insisted.

“I’ll admit that it sounds a bit far fetched,” Bruce said. “But how do you know for sure that it isn’t true?”

Virgil shrunk back into the shadows. “I just know, okay?”

“How?” Louis demanded.

Virgil kicked at the fire as if he wanted to bury the conversation. “I just do.”

“Shure,” Louis sneered. “I s’ppoze they taught you tha’ at Denva too?” He belched into the flames.

Virgil ran his hand over his face and came to a decision. “If I tell you guys something that no one else at work knows about me, will you promise to keep it a secret?”

“Shecret?” Louis drawled. “Oh, goodie…” He rubbed his hands together in anticipation and opened another beer.

“Oh, put that away,” Bruce said peevishly. “You’ve had too much. What’s this secret, Virgil?”

“Please promise not to tell anyone else?” Virgil begged. “If you tell other people it’ll… Well… It could change things...”

“Now, you’ve really got me curious,” Bruce said. “I won’t tell anyone. Scout’s honour!” He flipped a salute and Virgil looked at Louis. “Don’t worry about him. He probably won’t even remember what you tell us tomorrow.”

“I godda good memory,” Louis protested. “I ‘membered tha’ about Tracy didn’ I?”

Bruce dismissed the boast. “That was rubbish that you made up tonight.”

“It’sh true!”

“No, it’s not, Louis,” Virgil insisted. “Lucille and Jefferson Tracy loved each other.”

“But how do you know that?” Bruce said. “Do you know them?”

“I… ah…” Still unsure if he was doing the right thing, Virgil hesitated.

Bruce was looking at him with an intense expression. “You don’t want to tell us, do you?”

Feeling miserable Virgil shook his head. “It’s not that I don’t trust you guys…”

“But you don’t think you know us well enough yet?”

Virgil gave the young man an apologetic smile. “We’ve only known each other one week.”

“Well, you don’t need to worry about me, I can keep a secret. How about you, Lou?”

“How abou’ me wha’?”

Bruce sighed, clearly fed up with his workmate’s drunken behaviour. “Do you promise to keep Virgil’s secret secret?”

“Shecret,” Louis’ eyes appeared to look right through him. “Wha’ zecret?”

“Any secrets, you idiot.”

“Oh, yeah. I c’n do tha’.”

Bruce looked away in disgust. “I think you can take that as a ‘yes’, Virgil. Now what’s this secret?”

Virgil picked up a twig and snapped it. “I… My…” He snapped the twig again. “My last name’s not ‘Tancy’.”

“Huh?” Bruce stared at him, while Louis didn’t appear to be listening. “Not Tancy?”

“No.”

“But why? Why go by another name? What’s wrong with your name?”

“Nothing’s wrong with it. I’m quite proud of it, but I wanted to be treated the same as everyone else at ACE. I didn’t want any special treatment…” Virgil broke the twig into smaller pieces.

“Special treatment? Why would anyone do that?”

Virgil managed to look at him. “Because of who my father is.”

Bruce gave him a sideways look and Virgil could almost see him putting two and two together. “And your father is…?”

“Jeff Tracy.”

There was silence.

Bruce was the first to speak. “You’re Jeff Tracy’s son?”

“Yes.” Virgil gave an unconvincing chuckle. “I’m the ‘black sheep’ artist.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“No,” Virgil repeated the chuckle. “My brothers say that I don’t know how to kid…”

“You’re…” Bruce tailed off as the realisation of what he’d been told hit him. “Oh, heck.” Then he grinned. “You don’t look like someone who’s into ‘wild scenes’.”

Virgil, relieved at the way his friend was taking the news, chuckled. “You see, that’s how I know that Louis is wrong about my parents. Ma loved…”

“You bin spyin’ on us!” The shout took both Virgil and Bruce by surprise. They’d almost forgotten that Louis was listening.

“No, I haven’t,” Virgil protested. “I wouldn’t…”

“You bin spyin’” Louis repeated. “You tol’ Jeff Trazy that we got you inta trouble!”

“No, I didn’t, Louis,” Virgil responded. “That’s why he and I had that argument last Monday. Hamish Mickelson was worried about what happened and he told Father, which he shouldn’t’ve. Father wanted me to tell him who was behind it all so he could clear my record, but I refused. I don’t want to get you guys into trouble.”

“Well, that explains how a guy who’s just graduated can afford a flash studio apartment, a halfway decent car and his own plane.” Bruce gave a dry chuckle. “I don’t believe it! We got the boss’s son a final warning on his first day of work. That’s priceless…” He laughed and Virgil managed a wry grin of his own.

But Louis didn’t appear to find humour in the situation. “Don’ you know what he done?” he demanded of Bruce. “He got us to get him a bleeder. I’ve go’ a bleeder! You know wha’ tha’ means, dontcha?”

“Virgil didn’t ask us to get him a bleeder, Louis,” Bruce said patiently. “That was your idea.”

“I ain’t got a zecond chance,” Louis ranted. “Coz of him I’m out of a job!”

“You’re not out of a job,” Bruce soothed. “Virgil hasn’t, and won’t, tell his father who pushed him. Right, Virgil…”

“He’ll tell…”

“No, I won’t, Louis. I promise…”

Bruce patted Louis on the shoulder. “Don’t you think that if he were going to get us into trouble he would have done it by now?”

Louis shook his friend’s hand free. “But that was before I zaid ‘bout his fam’ly.”

“I’m sure that if you tell Virgil you’re sorry he’ll forgive you,” Bruce offered. “Right, Virgil?” Virgil, more than happy to let bygones be bygones, nodded. “See. Now say you’re sorry and then let’s turn in for the night. We can start the new day with no secrets.”

But, either because of the drink or his own stubbornness, Louis appeared unable to apologise. “I’m not sorry for speakin’ the truth.”

Virgil tried to remain calm. “Part of what you said about us is true. But every word you said about Ma was wrong. My father and mother loved each other. Her death nearly killed him.”

“‘Im!” Louis waved a sloppy finger under Virgil’s nose. “Nearly killed ‘im. Bu’ wha’ I said waz the truth.”

“No, it wasn’t…”

“Your mudda waz leavin’ your fadda…”

“Shut up, Louis,” Bruce hissed.

Virgil attempted to keep control of his anger. “No, she wasn’t.”

“She ‘ad ‘nudder man.”

“There was no ‘other’ man in the car! Only…”

“I know why you don’ uze the name Trazy!” Louis said triumphantly, pointing a wavering finger at Virgil.

“Shut up, Louis!” Bruce had seen a dangerous light in Virgil’s eyes. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The finger continued its unsteady accusation. “You’re ‘shamed of your name!”

“No, I’m not!”

Bruce got to his feet and pulled on Louis’ arm. “I think you should go to bed…!”

“Get off!” Louis pulled his arm free and resumed pointing. “You ‘shamed! You ‘shamed coz Jeff Trazy not your fadda!” He gave a triumphant cackle.

This was too much. Virgil sprang to his feet. “You take that back!”

“Jeff Trazy not your fadda,” Louis taunted.

Unwilling to stay, unable to trust himself not to lash out, Virgil Tracy turned on his heel and strode out the door towards his aeroplane’s hangar.

He heard a voice behind him. “You ‘shamed, Veggie…” followed by the cackling laugh. “You ‘shamed coz your madda a trollop!”

Virgil opened the hangar door.

“Shut up, Louis!” Bruce stormed. “How would you like it if someone called your mother a trollop?”

Louis seemed surprised by the question. “Bu’ she iz one.”

“That explains why you’re a…”

Virgil slammed the door behind him. He climbed into the aeroplane, threw himself into the pilot’s seat and sat there glowering at the controls. On impulse he flipped open his cell phone and speed-dialled his own number.

Gordon’s voice answered:

“Virgil’s not here

He’s playin’ the piana.,

But I’ll give your message,

To his gal, Pollyanna.”

“Gordon!” Virgil shouted uselessly into his own answer-phone. “Leave my messages alone!” He hung up, redialled, and reprogrammed the answering service.

He’d cooled down somewhat when there was a knock on the plane’s fuselage. He looked through the cockpit windows to see the door open and a flag made out of an off-white t-shirt tied to a stick above Bruce’s head. “I come in peace,” he flag bearer stated. “Is it safe to enter your domain?”

“Come in,” Virgil said. “I won’t bite.”

Bruce entered the plane and shut the door behind him. “It’s not biting I’m worried about. I think you’d told me you’ve done some martial arts training and I’d like to be reassured I’m going to leave here in one piece.” He settled into the passenger’s seat in the cockpit. “What are you doing?”

“I needed to talk to someone.” Virgil glanced at his watch. “So I was going to call my brother when he’d finished dinner.”

Bruce looked at the dead control panel and closed phone. “Why wait?”

Virgil managed a chuckle. “You don’t know Scott. Nothing comes between him and his food.”

“And which was he in our mess of uninformed inaccuracies?”

“He’s the eldest. The one in the Air Force. He’s actually a better pilot than I am…” Bruce heard the pride in Virgil’s voice. “He got an award for the way he landed that plane in Bereznick.” He looked at his watch again.

“Look…” Bruce stared out through the windshield into the darkness. “I’m sorry about what we said, but we didn’t know your relationship to Mr Tracy.”

Virgil glanced at him. “Would you normally call him ‘Mr Tracy’?”

Bruce’s smile was rueful. “I would to his face, or to ol’ Micky… I mean, Mr Mickleson, or Mr Watts.”

“See, that’s why I’m going under an alias. I don’t want people to think ‘Oh, he’s Jeff Tracy’s son. I’d better be careful what I say’. I want people to relax and treat me like anyone else.”

“I expect what we were saying about your family came as a bit of a surprise.”

Virgil smiled. “It was interesting at first. I mean, I know we five are fair game because we’ve tried to keep a low profile; but that’s because we all hate publicity. Back when Ma was killed, I can remember trying to get into the hospital where I thought they were keeping her and this photographer stuck his camera into our faces. Just because our father was a famous astronaut!”

“Rough.”

“Yeah. All I wanted to do was see my mother and this huge guy from the press was blocking our way! You can’t imagine what an impact that had on young kids.”

“Must have been a tough time,” Bruce commented.

Virgil nodded. “Louis said that it must be because of Father that we shy away from publicity, and that’s partially true. We saw what effect that constant press attention had on him, and us, and we don’t want to be part of that again.” Virgil sighed. “I know that people who work for him are bound to talk about him. He’s famous enough to be an object of interest and I can live with that. But what Louis said about Ma…” He balled his hand up into a fist.

“I understand,” Bruce acknowledged. “And I’m impressed. If someone had been talking like that about my mother I think I would have hauled off and punched him!”

“I was tempted.”

“So I see.” Bruce indicated the clenched fist and Virgil looked down as if he were surprised at what he was doing.

He shook his hand to refresh the circulation. “I’m sorry that I had to lie to you guys. But, you do understand why, don’t you?”

“Yes, I understand and don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.”

Virgil smiled at him. “Thanks. But what about…” he indicated the cabin and its drunken occupant.

“Don’t worry about Louis. He knows full well that if he spills the beans about who you are, then you could just happen to mention to your father who got you into trouble. He’s got a final warning too and he knows that sending the boss’ son on a roller-coaster ride is guaranteed instant dismissal. He won’t say anything; deep down he’s a coward…”

The following morning dawned clear, but the atmosphere in the cabin was oppressive. Virgil, feeling that his associates’ attitude to him had changed dramatically and not for the better, kept largely to himself. Louis, nursing a sore head, maintained a sullen silence. Bruce, feeling like some kind of U.N. Peacekeeper, attempted to jolly things along without success.

By mid-morning they all decided that the best thing to do was fly home again.

Their gear having been safely stowed in the plane, Virgil took one last look around the cabin to ensure it was just how his grandmother would leave it. Satisfied, he locked the door, turned to return to the aircraft…

“Ouch!”

Bruce Sanders stepped closer. “What have you done?”

“Impaled myself on that twig.” Virgil indicated his right hand, which had blood oozing from a small wound.

“That was clever. At least it’s bleeding. That’ll help clean it.”

Virgil examined the injury. “I think I’ve got a splinter in there.”

“Can you get it out?”

“No, but it’s not a problem. I’ll leave it.”

“You’d better stick a plaster on it if you don’t want blood all over the cockpit.” Bruce’s eyes twinkled. “Maybe we can convince Louis to kiss it better.”

Virgil screwed up his face. “I think all that poison would make it worse!” He submitted to Bruce’s assistance in dressing the wound before climbing past Louis Fleming, who was already seated, and into the pilot’s seat. “Safety harnesses on.”

There was one click behind him as Bruce did up his safety harness. Virgil waited for the second click but none was forthcoming. “Could you put your safety harness on please, Louis?”

“No.”

“This plane doesn’t leave the ground until everyone’s safely strapped in.”

“Why? Don’t you think you can ‘leave the ground’ safely?” Louis taunted.

Virgil heard Bruce’s exasperated sigh and refused to rise to Louis’ bait. “I know I can, but that still won’t make me take off until I know everyone’s secure.”

“Why not?” Louis taunted again. “Gonna make Daddy make me?”

“Because it’s not safe. You wear your personal protective equipment at work, don’t you?”

Louis didn’t reply.

“But you don’t put on your P.P.E. because you think you’re going to need them,” Virgil continued. “You put them on in case you need them.”

“Put it on, Lou,” Bruce instructed.

“You keep out of it, Buzz.”

Virgil turned in his seat and looked at Louis who folded his arms and glared defiantly back. Virgil gave a nonchalant shrug. “Okay. If that’s the way you want it.” He reached into a locker, pulled out a sketch pad, and started drawing the mountains that encircled their cabin.

He was enjoying his drawing and had almost forgotten about his companions and when he heard a muffled curse and a familiar click. “All done up tight?” he asked as he slipped the pad back into the locker.

“Aye, aye, Capt’n,” Bruce replied.

A short time later the little plane was heading for the skies.

Monday morning. The start of another week at Aeronautical Component Engineering.

Virgil had made his way to work, amazed at how this time last week he’d been so excited at starting his new job, whereas now… Now the idea of a day at ACE had all the appeal of a tooth extraction.

Virgil, the top of his overalls tied around his waist, found a spot outside, away from his colleagues, and sat down to try to recharge his batteries. His right hand, the one he’d impaled on the twig back at the campsite, had ached for much of the night and he hadn’t got any sleep. He examined his hand morosely. He’d managed to apply a fresh bandage, but the skin around it had reddened and was starting to swell…

“Is this where you’re hiding?”

Virgil looked up. “Oh… Hi, Bruce.”

“What are you doing skulking around here?”

“It’s cooler.”

“Cooler?” Bruce lost his jovial smile. “Are you all right? You’re looking a bit pale.”

“I’m okay.”

“Virgil?” Bruce crouched down so he was closer to Virgil’s eye level. In doing so he caught a glimpse of the new bandage. “Your hand’s looking a bit inflamed.”

“It’s okay.”

“You should let the doctor have a look at it.”

“I will,” Virgil admitted. “I’ll make an appointment for the morning tea break.”

“I don’t know that you should wait that long,” Bruce warned.

“The doctor doesn’t arrive until nine,” Virgil reminded him. “Fifty minutes won’t matter.”

Bruce didn’t agree. “Tell Mega you’re going to see the quack…”

“I’ve only been at work a week,” Virgil protested. “How’s it going to look if I try to take time off now!?”

“Then I’ll cover for you.”

“You can’t do that; you might get into trouble…”

“Virgil…”

“Bruce! I’m okay!” Virgil snapped. “I don’t need to see the doctor yet!” Bruce looked taken aback and Virgil immediately felt ashamed of his outburst. “I’m sorry. It’s only for two-and-a-bit hours and then I’ll get it checked out.”

“Are you going to be able to work with only your left hand?”

Virgil favoured him with a wry smile. “I’m ambidextrous, remember?”

“Yes, but you’ll need two good hands in there, unless you tell Mega you want light duties.”

“He’ll give me light duties anyway,” Virgil forced an ironic laugh. “He promised me that I could start the day linishing those components.”

“Don’t forget that your father’s coming to visit the shop today. Are you going to be able to hide that hand from him?”

Virgil had forgotten about Jeff’s impending visit. “Oh, heck… I’m going to have to somehow.” He rubbed his forehead with his good arm. It came away wet. “Why does he have to visit today of all days?” he asked.

“I take it that was a rhetorical question.”

From somewhere in the bowels of the factory an alarm sounded.

“Well, there’s our call to action,” Bruce joked half-heartedly. “Let’s see what Mega’s got lined up for us…” He watched Virgil slowly rise to his feet. “You’d better put your overalls on properly.”

Virgil slid his injured hand into the sleeve and winced as the cloth pulled against the inflammation.

“Here,” Bruce grabbed the sleeve. “Let me help.” He held the material clear of the injury as Virgil slid the hand through and then assisted with the other sleeve. “Come on. We’re going to be late.”

Max Watts didn’t notice their arrival, a minute after everyone else. Louis Fleming did though and he nudged Burt and Paul before whispering something.

Virgil eyed them nervously. “Do you think he’s told them?”

“Nah,” Bruce replied. “Like I said yesterday. He’s a coward.”

Watts appeared to be in a state of excitement as he doled out his subordinates’ tasks for the day. “He’s always like this whenever we have a royal visit,” Bruce explained and Virgil . He accepted his relatively easy task of linishing with relief and started work.

He’d been at it for about an hour, each component seemingly weighing more than the previous, when he became aware of a minor commotion behind him. He kept his head down and kept working.

“Stop working!” someone shouted into his earmuffs.

With a mixture of relief and dread Virgil did as he was told. He casually rested his injured arm out of sight on a ledge behind the linisher and removed his earmuffs with a strained smile.

His father, looking at first surprised and then concerned, and Max Watts, looking like a puppy eager to please, were standing there. “Mr Tracy,” Watts said with an important air. “Let me introduce you to our newest employee, Virgil Tancy.”

As quick as he could, Virgil extended his left hand. “Pleased to meet you, Mr Tracy. Were you a Boy Scout?”

“Why… Yes… Yes, I was,” Jeff replied, accepting the universal Scouting handshake. “I take it you were too?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“I was in Scouts,” Watts said, keen to be included in his employer’s circle. He hadn’t seemed to have noticed Virgil’s awkward stance.

“Virgil…” Jeff mused. “It’s not a common name. One of my sons is named Virgil too; after Virgil Grissom, the astronaut.”

Virgil could imagine that his father had been rehearsing that line all weekend. “That’s a coincidence,” he replied. “So did my father.”

“Tancy’s straight out of the Denver School of Advanced Technology,” Watts boasted. “He graduated top in his year. No one but the best for ACE.”

Jeff ignored the boast and looked Virgil straight in the eye. “Are you feeling all right, son? You’re looking a little flushed.”

“I’m feeling fine…” Virgil managed to bite back a ‘Father’, decided against using ‘Sir’, and eventually ended up with a belated, “Mr Tracy”.

Jeff’s eyes left Virgil’s and followed the line of his arm down to where it was hidden by the machine. “Have you got something wrong with your hand?”

“My hand?” Virgil showed his left hand. “It’s fine.”

“I meant your right one,” Jeff growled.

Virgil had only a split second in which to think. “Oh, my right one!” he said quickly. “It’s got a slight scratch on it, we went skiing this weekend, but it’s nothing much.”

“May I see it?” Jeff asked.

Virgil considered defying his father, but he knew from Jeff’s tone of voice that the elder man wouldn’t take no for an answer. Reluctantly he withdrew his hand from behind the machine.

Jeff looked at the red, swollen tissue then at Virgil. “Have you seen a doctor?”

“Ah, no,” Virgil admitted, feeling guilty. “I was going to see him during the next break.”

Jeff turned to Watts. “And you let this man work with his hand in that state?”

Watts withered under Jeff’s gaze. “I… ah…”

Virgil leapt to his supervisor’s defence. “He didn’t know. I didn’t tell him.” He received a furious glare from Max Watts and a visual scolding from his father.

Jeff looked at his watch. “0845 hours. The doctor should be arriving soon. You,” he looked pointedly at Virgil, “are to go to his surgery right now and ask to see him immediately. Tell him I sent you. Understand?”

Feeling suitably chastened, Virgil hung his head. “Yes, Sir.”

“I will be along shortly to ensure that you have carried out my orders.”

Virgil gave his father a pleading look, but repeated his “Yes, Sir.”

“Now,” Jeff turned back to Watts. “What else do you have to show me?”

Upon hearing that the owner of the company had sent Virgil along for treatment, Doctor Daldy had accepted Virgil into his surgery immediately. After an examination, blood tests and the bandage replaced by a new one and a sling, they both emerged into the front office to find Jeff sitting alone, waiting patiently. “How is this young man, William?

“Hello, Mr Tracy. Well, I’m afraid you won’t be getting any work out of him for the rest of the week. I’ve advised rest.”

Virgil couldn’t look at his father. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

“Now, let’s just fill in the details of your visit and then you can go.” The doctor rifled through some cards. “I’ll update this in the computer later…” He read something and clicked his tongue. “It says here under ‘next of kin’ to see Mr Mickelson,” he said. “Is he a relative?”

“No,” Virgil responded. “Not exactly.”

Doctor Daldy clicked his tongue again. “I’m sorry, but that won’t do. I’ve got to have the name of your next of kin in case of emergencies.” He sat at the desk with his pen at the ready. “It can be anyone in your family; mother, father, siblings, grandparent…cousin…” He looked at Virgil expectantly.

Virgil looked down to where his left hand was toying with the material of his new sling. “Uh… Father.”

“‘Father’,” Dr Daldy dictated as he wrote. “Name?”

Virgil glanced at his father whose face was impassive. “Umm… Jeff.”

“Jeff,” the doctor recited. “With a ‘J’ or a ‘G’?”

“J.”

“Ah. The proper way,” Dr Daldy beamed at his employer and wrote J.E.F.F. “Last name ‘Tancy’…”

“No…” Virgil interrupted.

The doctor stopped writing. His pen still at the end of the crossbar of the letter ‘T’. “No?”

“No… My… My last name’s not Tancy,” Virgil admitted.

“Your name’s not Tancy?” Dr Daldy repeated. “It says Tancy on your card.”

“I know,” Virgil admitted.

“Then what is your last name.” Virgil didn’t answer. “Is it the same as your father’s?” Virgil nodded. “Come, come now. I know it seems trivial, but it could be important at some point in the future.” The doctor received no response. “Now, Virgil. What is your last name? Remember patient confidentiality. No one else need know if you wish to maintain this ‘Tancy’ charade. Ah…” he glanced at Jeff, “would you rather we conducted this interview alone in my office?”

“No,” Virgil said. “Fa… Ah, he knows who I am.”

“Then would you care to share it with me?” William Daldy asked.

Virgil shot his father an agonised look then resumed his inspection of his sling. “Tracy,” he mumbled.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t get that.”

“Tracy.”

Dr Daldy began writing. “Jeff Tra…” He stopped; pen mid-air and stared at what was on the page. Then he looked at Jeff.

“Yes,” Jeff confirmed. “Virgil is my son.”

“Oh,” said the doctor.

“We didn’t want anyone to know of our relationship so that he’d be treated like all of the other employees.”

“Oh,” the doctor repeated. “I understand.”

“Virgil will be coming home with me,” Jeff continued, laying his hand on his miserable son’s shoulder. “We’ll be flying back to my island in the South Pacific.”

“Father…” Virgil protested.

“Your grandmother’s already there,” Jeff interrupted. “For both our sakes, you’d better come with me. You know that she won’t accept you staying here alone.”

Virgil realised that had no choice but to accept the inevitable.

Chapter 3: Brothers in Arms Scott

Author’s note: This chapter is where what became the story Brothers in Arms was supposed to go, but my muse dictated that I had to write that story first and I decided that 43 pages was too long for a chapter… even for a Purupuss tale.

So, my apologies in advance if this chapter isn’t as exciting as you might expect, but I think Scott’s taken charge, is dictating what goes where, and I’ve got no say in the matter.

“One advantage of your having the week off with us,” Jeff said as Virgil watched him ready the aeroplane, “is that you’ll have the chance to meet a couple of our agents. You’ve heard me talk of Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward and her butler, Parker?” His son nodded and adjusted his sling so that the knot wasn’t digging into his neck. “I’ve arranged that they will fly out to Tracy Island with us. It’ll be an opportunity for you to get acquainted.”

“Sounds good,” Virgil agreed. “Are we picking them up somewhere?”

“No, they’re meeting us here.” Jeff studied his son. “Are you feeling up to the flight?” he queried. “I don’t remember ever seeing you so pale. Not even last year.”

“I’m fine,” Virgil replied, privately wishing that he felt better.

“Well, go and sit in the plane,” Jeff suggested. “I’ll see if I can find our guests.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“No,” Jeff said, making Virgil realise that the suggestion hadn’t been a request so much as an order. “You stay here. William Daldy said you were to rest.”

Virgil nodded, not having the energy to argue. He was about to climb aboard when he saw something that made him think that maybe he had a fever and was hallucinating. “Please tell me that some idiot hasn’t painted a classic Rolls Royce bright pink.”

“That’s Lady Penelope’s car,” Jeff chuckled. “And, trust me, she’s no idiot.”

“But a Rolls Royce!” Virgil protested. “That’s sacrilege! Don’t tell Alan, he’ll have a fit.”

“Believe me, when Alan meets Lady Penelope, he’d better hold his tongue…” Jeff grinned at Virgil. “And I would advise you to do the same. She’s very proud of that car. It’s been in the family for generations.”

There was a discreet toot, and the Rolls Royce pulled up beside Jeff’s plane. The gull wing door opened and a middle-aged man, dressed in a dark mauve uniform, with greying hair and a prominent nose, stepped out. “Mister Tracy,” he said gravely.

“Parker,” Jeff acknowledged.

“Madam.” Parker extended his hand towards the Rolls Royce and had it accepted by a hand so delicate that it seems as fragile as a butterfly’s wing.

“Thank you, Parker.” A shapely leg, almost immediately followed by its twin, emerged from the car’s interior. Expensive shoes made not so much contact with the tarmac, as alighted on it. Then a slim, blonde woman, about Virgil’s age, unfurled herself from the seat and, with immeasurable grace, stood. “Mr Tracy,” she said warmly, extending her hand in greeting. “How simply delightful to see you again.”

“The feeling’s mutual, Lady Penelope,” Jeff replied. He took her hand. “I’m never sure what the correct greeting should be,” he admitted. “Do you kiss the hand of a titled lady or shake it?” Lady Penelope laughed and to Virgil it sounded like the music that he would expect to hear from silver bells. “This is one of my sons: Virgil. I’m afraid he’s been banished from work because of ill health.”

“Oh, dear me,” Lady Penelope said. “Nothing too serious I hope?” She didn’t offer her hand and Virgil didn’t extend his.

“Nothing contagious, fortunately. He’s got an infected arm,” Jeff explained. “He’s not usually as pale as this.”

“Then we shouldn’t keep poor Virgil standing out here,” Lady Penelope announced. “Is this the delightful plane we will be travelling in?” Virgil noticed that Parker looked less than enamoured with the craft when Jeff confirmed the hypothesis. “If we have time and if you gentlemen will excuse me, I wish to, ah, make a phone call while Parker loads our luggage.”

“Plenty of time, Lady Penelope,” Jeff smiled. As Parker opened the boot of the Rolls Royce and reached inside for the bags and her Ladyship glided across the tarmac to the terminal; Jeff turned to his son. “Virgil…”

“Mmmn.”

“You’re staring.”

“Mmmn? Huh? Oh, sorry.” Virgil’s face found a little colour as he shot another look at the vision of loveliness that had just left them. “If I didn’t have a fever before, I do now.”

Jeff chuckled and gave the departing figure an appreciative glance of his own. “She is a knockout, isn’t she? But I’ll warn you, treat her wrong and that’s precisely what she will do to you. Don’t underestimate that lady; she’s deadly.”

Parker emerged from the Rolls Royce’s boot with an armload of bags. “What should H-I do with these, Mister Tracy?”

“Let me help you, Parker,” Virgil offered, extending his good hand.

…Which was held back by his father. “You are supposed to be resting, Virgil. Go wait in the plane. I’ll help Parker.”

“There h-is no need,” Parker said primly in his exaggerated vowels. “H-I can manhage kwite well, thank ewe.”

Virgil, feeling uncomfortable at the idea of someone working while he relaxed, tried to concentrate on a music magazine and was glad when Lady Penelope boarded and took a seat. He put the publication away and stood. “Mind if I join you?”

“I should be delighted,” Lady Penelope extended her graceful hand to the seat across from her. “If we are going to be working together, so to speak, this will be an opportunity to get to know each other better.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“The accepted opening gambits in conversations between strangers,” her Ladyship began, her eyes twinkling, “is to ask after each other’s health in a minor fashion, and then to discuss the weather. But, as I do hope that we shall move on beyond strangers and become friends, and while it is not strictly the done thing to pry, perhaps, in this case, you would be willing to extinguish my burning curiosity.” She indicated Virgil’s sling. “That is if you do not object?”

“No, I don’t mind,” Virgil admitted. “But I’m afraid that I can’t lay claim to being injured while doing something dramatically exciting like saving a damsel in distress. I was skiing with a couple of friends yesterday and managed to impale myself on a piece of wood when we were packing up. As Father said, it’s become infected.”

“Dear me. It must be terribly painful for you.”

“Not as bad as knowing that I’ve got to have sick leave from work when this is only my second week of employment.”

Lady Penelope nodded her understanding, her blonde hair swaying about her ears.

Jeff Tracy bounded into the aeroplane. “Everyone comfortable?” he asked.

“Perfectly,” Lady Penelope responded.

“Parker?”

A voice came from the rear of the plane. “Thank ewe, Mister Tracy. H-I h-am kwite comfortable.”

Jeff looked at his son but didn’t say anything, and Virgil gave him a nod. Satisfied, Jeff took his place in the cockpit of the plane.

Having been brought up in a relatively egalitarian society, Virgil wasn’t sure that he was at ease with what appeared to be a hangover from feudal days. “Wouldn’t Parker be more comfortable up here? The view’s better.”

“Parker, alas, is not comfortable flying in anything not big enough to accommodate FAB1.”

Virgil frowned. “FAB1?”

“My Rolls Royce.”

“Ah,” Virgil replied. “Interesting colour,” he added thinking of several shades that he thought would have been more becoming to such a valuable machine.

“Oh, yes,” Lady Penelope replied. “I do so enjoy doing the unexpected. It keeps one’s opponents on their toes.”

Virgil still couldn’t imagine Lady Penelope having any ‘opponents’, despite what his father had told him about her, so he reverted back to his original conversation. “So you think Parker’s more comfortable in the back of the cabin?”

“Oh my, yes. He prefers not to be able to see the wings. I do believe he has a morbid fear that they will fall off through misadventure.”

Virgil chuckled. “Don’t let Father hear you say that. He’d be really hurt.”

“I, myself, am taking flying lessons,” Lady Penelope admitted. “And I understand that you are an experienced pilot, dear boy.”

“I’ve clocked up a few hours, but if you want a few pointers from a master pilot then you couldn’t go any better than to get Father to give you a few lessons. He taught me,” Virgil added with obvious pride, “and my brothers. But if you want to see real ‘Top Gun’ material you want to see my oldest brother in action.”

A delicate frown creased Lady Penelope’s forehead. “That would be, ah, Scott?”

“That’s right. You won’t find a better pilot anywhere in the world. He’s leaving the Air Force soon so he can concentrate on International Rescue.”

“I shall look forward to meeting him.”

They continued talking for the next hour until Virgil remembered their other passenger again. “Do you think Parker’s feeling a little lonely back there by himself? Should I go and have a chat with him?”

“I’m sure he would appreciate your company, dear boy. Don’t worry about me; I have brought along a little light reading to amuse myself.” Lady Penelope opened a locker and removed a thick tome.

Virgil managed to catch the title. ‘Laser Weaponry of the 21st Century – 60th edition’. “Looks, er, interesting.”

“I do feel that it pays to keep abreast of the latest developments,” Lady Penelope stated as if she were holding the latest issue of ‘Mansion and Garden’.

“Well, if you grow tired of that, I’m sure Father wouldn’t mind your joining him in the cockpit.”

“Really.” If Virgil had offered Lady Penelope a stroll across the aisle, she may have shown more enthusiasm, but he had seen a light appear in her eyes that made him think that the idea actually excited her.

“Want me to check?” Virgil undid his safety harness.

“Would you mind? I should be most terribly grateful. I should not like to put your dear father out.”

“Not a problem.” Virgil stood and was suddenly aware of a light-headed sensation. It cleared when he shook his head, so he walked the few steps to the flight deck. “How’s it going?”

“We’re about quarter of the way home,” Jeff responded.

Home? Virgil had yet to think of that small dot in the Pacific Ocean as home. His apartment, despite the fact that he’d only stayed in it for less than a week, felt more homely. “Lady Penelope was wondering if she could join you up here. She’s hoping for some pointers.”

“Of course,” Jeff responded, obviously pleased. “Tell her to come through.”

Virgil did so and then continued his trek down to the rear of the plane. “Care for some company, Parker?”

Parker, looking a bit tense, nodded. “Thank ewe, Sir.”

Virgil sank into one of the seats with more force than he’d intended and a bolt of pain ricocheted along his arm.

Parker heard the sharp intake of breath. “Are you h-awlright, Sir?” he asked gravely.

“Yeah,” Virgil nodded, cradling the injured limb. “I’m fine.” He tried to flex his fingers but his swollen hand resisted the movement. “Skiing injury,” he joked. “I stabbed myself on a twig. Crazy, huh?”

“H-Indeed, Sir.”

Virgil was beginning to think that Parker was one of these starchy butlers that you read about in books, who thought they were of a better class than their employers. “Lady Penelope’s going to have a chat with Father in the flight deck so I thought I’d come and say hi.”

He fancied that the butler paled slightly. “‘Er Ladyship’s wiv ‘im?”

Virgil noticed that his companion’s starchiness had disappeared. “Yeah. What’s wrong?”

“Oh, lummee,” Parker moaned. “She’ll be ‘avin’ ‘im doin’ loop-de-loops next.”

Virgil chuckled. “Not much chance of that. This plane’s not built for aerobatics.” Parker looked at him as if he wanted to ask for confirmation but wasn’t sure that it was his place to do so. “Honest!”

Upon receiving the assurance Parker appeared to try to relax and Virgil decided help by offering some casual conversation. “All the butlers I’ve met have been American ones. From what I’ve read they seem to be totally different to the British variant.”

Parker appeared to agree. “We know h-our place.”

Virgil wasn’t sure whether that enigmatic answer meant that butlers on both sides of the Atlantic didn’t share the same set protocols or if Parker had some strange ideas of American servitude. “Have you always been a butler? I notice you were driving the car.”

“Me? Nah.” Parker gave a dry chuckle. “But h-I come from a long line h-of butlers.”

“So, what else have you done beside butling?” Virgil asked, continuing what he considered to be a fairly safe line of questioning.

Parker gave his young companion an amused sideways glance. “Safe crackin’”

Virgil wasn’t sure he’d heard him correctly. “Pardon?”

“Safe crackin’,” Parker repeated. “H-I broke h-into safes. You know. Security boxes,” he elucidated. “Done h-a bi’ of cat burglary too. Done time courtesy of ‘is Majesty.”

“You…”

“H-I was a crook.” Parker chortled at Virgil’s expression. “That’s why ‘er Ladyship h-employed me. H-I knew both sides h-of the fence, h-as h-it were. Very ‘andy h-in ‘er line o’ work.”

Virgil’s head was beginning to swim and it wasn’t totally due to his illness.

“H-I was the best h-in the busyness,” Parker said with evident pride, cracking his knuckles.

It was a sound that made the musician in Virgil, always careful to protect his fingers, cringe.

“But you don’ need to worry h-about me, Sir,” Parker reassured him. “H-I won’t let the side down. I wouldn’ do that to ‘er Ladyship. She’s bin good to me. And this h-organisation that Mister Tracy’s startin’ up, well, H-I can’t think of h-anythin’ H-I’d rather put me talents towards.”

“Father knows what you are, ah, were?” Virgil asked.

“H-I h-assume so. ‘Er Ladyship’s not likely to keep h-it from ‘im. She’s good an’ ‘onest, she h-is. H-And becoz of ‘er h-I’m goin’ terstay good an’ ‘onest too.” Then Parker lent forward. “‘Scuse me askin’, Mister Virgil, but h-are you feelin’ all right? You’re lookin’ a bit Moby Dick.”

Virgil had heard enough about Cockney Rhyming Slang to know that this particular phrase was an extremely roundabout way of saying ‘sick’. “I’m feeling a little tired,” he understated. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll go and rest on one of the reclining seats.”

“Can H-I ‘elp?” Parker undid his safety harness, anxious to assist.

“No, I’m okay,” Virgil reassured him and stood. The plane appeared to spin about him and he gripped the back of his seat to stop himself from falling.

“Sir…”

Virgil favoured the butler with a shaky smile. “I’m okay,” he repeated. Bemused by the way he was feeling stiff and aware of a general ache, he managed to make it the five steps or so that led him to one of the reclining seats, collapsed into it, pressed the button that allowed the seat to transform itself into a bed, and promptly fell asleep.

The gentlest of jolts, which marked the plane’s landing, was enough to wake Virgil up. At first groggy, he took a moment to realise where he was and then his mind cleared enough to tell him to push the button that helped raise the back of the seat. As he was assisted into a sitting position, a blanket, which someone had thoughtfully placed over him, fell onto his lap. The Pacific sun was bright through the window and he closed his eyes against the glare. He heard a cultured voice say, “Oh, dear. The landing has awakened poor Virgil,” before he fell asleep again.

The next thing Virgil was aware of was a light touch on his forehead. He awoke and looked into a pair of concerned blue eyes. “Scott?”

Scott smiled. “Hi. How’re you feeling?”

Virgil struggled to sit up straight. “I’m okay.”

“Okay enough to walk?”

“Yes.” Ignoring the strong hand of his brother, Virgil got to his feet. He closed his eyes against the spinning walls and breathed deeply until a feeling of nausea passed. Then, making sure that he had the support of the various furnishings in the cabin, he made his shaky way to the door; Scott close by, but not helping.

When they’d reached the door to the plane, Virgil stopped.

“Nobody’s out there,” Scott told him. “Father’s taken them up to the house.”

Relieved, Virgil resumed his exit of the aeroplane.

Brains was waiting at the bottom of the steps. “H-Hello, Virgil.”

Virgil scowled at his elder brother. “I thought you said nobody was here. Brains is not a nobody.”

Brains beamed in delight and Scott grinned. “I think you’ve just made his day.”

Picking his way down towards the runway, Virgil was amazed at how tiring descending five steps could be. He reached the bottom and stopped, wondering if he could find an excuse for a breather.

He found one. “What is that?!”

“That,” Scott explained, “is something that Brains knocked together one lunchtime. It’s a hoverjet.”

Without releasing his grip on the handrail, Virgil looked at the ‘hoverjet’. It appeared to be a flattened torpedo with a couple of seats strapped to the top.

“It’s a real blast,” Scott was saying. “I’ll challenge you to a race along the runway when you’re feeling better. In the meantime, we thought you’d like to help us with a little research and development.”

Virgil’s engineering mind, despite his lethargy, was piqued. “Doing what?”

“They’re designed to aid in transportation. This one’s got the additional seat attached to the rear for carrying persons who, shall we say, aren’t feeling one hundred percent fit.”

Virgil wasn’t going to admit that at the moment he was feeling about fifty percent fit and sliding. “You want me to sit on that thing?”

Scott gave an enthusiastic nod. “Yep.”

“No way. I’ll walk.”

Brains looked alarmed, but Scott appeared unperturbed. “Fine. Do you think you can make it up the hill to the house alone?” He indicted the side of the volcanic cone, which, to Virgil in his fevered state, looked as traversable as the north face of the Eiger. “Brains and I want to do some R&D on the hoverjet.”

Virgil looked back to the hoverjet. “You said you wanted help with that.”

Scott gave him an earnest look. “We would appreciate your advice. We want to know how comfortable it is for passengers.”

Virgil nodded. “Okay.”

“Great!” Scott said with enthusiasm. “Sit on the back, strap yourself in, and I’ll be with you in the moment. I’ve got something I want to discuss with Brains.” He drew the little scientist aside.

“H-He should be in a wh-wheelchair,” Brains protested.

Scott gave a grim smile. “I would have thought you would have learnt by now, Brains, that we Tracys are a proud and stubborn lot. There’s no way any of us could convince Virgil that he needs to use a wheelchair short of chopping off his legs.”

Brains gestured over to where Virgil was attempting to buckle himself in. “H-He can’t even d-do that!”

“Give him a moment.”

Virgil’s right hand, swollen and bandaged in his sling, was useless. His ‘good’ left one seemed nearly as bad, somehow appearing to have disconnected itself from his thought processes. He tried to pull the strap over his body, but the clasp weighed a ton and at the last moment slipped from his fingers. He let his arm flop after it. “Scott…”

Scott jogged over to his brother’s side. “Want a hand?”

Defeated, Virgil could do nothing but nod.

Chattering away cheerfully as he ensured the harness was done up tight, Scott explained about the various attributes of this particular piece of International Rescue’s arsenal. “We think it can go anywhere, over any surface. Rocky terrain, water, ditches, anything! We’re going to put one into Thunderbird One and a couple into Thunderbird Two. Just you wait and see how useful they’ll be…”

“Scott.”

Scott stopped what he was doing. “What?”

“I have a headache.”

“Okay.” For the first time Scott allowed sympathy to cloud his voice as he pulled the harness tight, before he slipped onto the driver’s seat, flipped Brains a wave, and gunned the almost silent engine.

The ride was smooth and disconcerting. The waves of nausea that caused Virgil to close his eyes could equally have been caused by the unnatural movement caused by the passing of the surrounding landscape, or his fever.

Virgil was glad when they reached the villa.

He was equally as pleased when, without asking for permission, Scott grabbed him about the waist and assisted him to walk to his bedroom.

Tired, stiff and sore, Virgil fell onto the bed and was instantly asleep.

When he awoke he was feeling immeasurably better. He looked around the room that was technically his, but as yet had none of his personality stamped on it. The walls were bare and full of holes, awaiting the installation of various electrical devices. The floor likewise had no covering. The only furnishings were the bed, a chair, which wasn’t his but had been pulled up close to the bed, and his desk.

…Which was occupied.

“What are you doing here?” Virgil croaked.

Scott looked up and smiled in delight. “Getting some work done on the cabin design for Thunderbird One. Father tells me you’ve seen part of the fuselage go through the factory already. How’re you feeling?”

“I didn’t mean here in my room. I meant on the island.”

“Oh!” Scott gave a dismissive wave. “I’ve given the Air Force its marching orders. I am now a fulltime employee of International Rescue.”

“You didn’t tell me you were planning on leaving so soon,” Virgil accused.

Scott shrugged. “It all kinda happened in a hurry at the end,” he admitted. “The brass decided I didn’t have to hang about so I got out of there.”

“But you loved the Air Force,” Virgil protested. “It’s been your dream job all your life.”

“Until Father told us about his great plan,” Scott corrected. “That’s been my dream from day one.”

Virgil’s recollection of ‘day one’ was that, of the five Tracy boys, Scott had been the most vehemently opposed to the idea of International Rescue. There was more to this story than had been told, but there would be plenty of time to discover the truth later. He said nothing and Scott changed the subject. “Everyone’s been asking about you… And asking what I’ve been doing to myself.” He winked “Do you need anything?”

Virgil hesitated. “I’m hungry,” he said.

Scott’s grin, which had vanished when they were talking about the Air Force, reappeared with a vengeance. “Feel like anything in particular?”

“So long as Grandma cooked it, I don’t care.”

“Right!” Scott leapt to his feet. “Back soon.”

He was good as his word, but empty handed, arriving just as Virgil exited the en suite. “Grandma’s getting your tray ready. Let me plump this up.” He shifted Virgil’s pillows so that Virgil could lean against them. “How’s that?”

“Better, thanks.”

The door slid open again and Grandma Tracy bustled in. “How are you feeling, Virgil dear?”

“All the better for seeing you, Grandma.” Virgil’s eyes twinkled. “And that tray you’re holding. I feel like I haven’t eaten in days.”

“That’s because you haven’t,” Grandma informed him. “There’s chicken soup to start…”

But Virgil had stopped listening after her first sentence. “What?! How long have I been asleep?”

“Coupla days,” Scott informed him. “It’s Wednesday.”

“Wednesday!”

“Wednesday,” Scott repeated. “You wouldn’t wake up enough to let us spoon some gruel into you. You didn’t even stir when we put the IV in and Brains took some blood for testing.”

Virgil looked down and discovered a small plaster on the crook of his elbow and another lower down his arm. “That must have been when I dreamt that I was being attacked by midget vampires.”

Scott laughed. “He let me insert the IV,” he boasted.

Virgil examined the lower adhesive bandage. “I suppose I look like a pin cushion under here?”

“No way! I got it right first time.”

Virgil wasn’t surprised.

“Are you all right now, Dear?” Grandma asked.

“Fine, Grandma,” Virgil replied, picking up his soup spoon and dipping it with relish into the bowl.

“Oh, dear. I’ve forgotten the bread rolls. I’ll be back soon.” Grandma bustled out of the room.

“Where’s Father?” Virgil asked.

“He’s taken the yacht out and is showing Lady P. and Parker the island from the ocean.”

“Lady Penelope!” Virgil dropped his spoon onto his tray. “I’d forgotten about her! I’ve been out cold while we’ve had visitors!”

“Don’t worry,” Scott smirked. “I’ve been keeping her entertained.”

Virgil reclaimed the spoon. “I’ll bet,” he said darkly. “Don’t forget I saw her first.”

“And flaked out in front of her. Always guaranteed to create a good impression.”

“I was trying to get her sympathy.”

“You got it. She told me she felt very sorry for you when we were up at the lookout together… alone... Just the two of us.”

Virgil glared at his soup.

The following morning, (he still couldn’t quite believe that it was Thursday), after enduring his grandmother’s insistence on him having breakfast in bed, Virgil got up. Now that he’d discarded the sling and most of the swelling of his hand had gone down he wished he had a keyboard to practise on. Frustratingly, the new piano was still safely housed in a carton in a storeroom somewhere in the complex.

He checked his phone messages and discovered he had three, all from Bruce, all enquiring after his health and giving him a humorous précis of the day’s events at ACE. The knowledge that he had one friend at work gave him a warm feeling and Virgil did a quick calculation. It was too early to phone through a reply so instead he checked his outgoing message. A familiar voice recited:

“Virgil T.

Has a fever

If you’ve a message

You’d better leave ‘er.”

Grumbling about Gordon and brothers who refused to leave him alone, Virgil changed it back to his original, but more boring, message.

That task over he decided that after days of confinement he needed to stretch his legs. He escaped the house and began a slow trek up the hill to the area they’d dubbed ‘The Lookout’ on an earlier visit. When he got to the vantage point he was surprised to discover that he was not alone.

“What are you doing here?” He sat on the log next to his brother.

“You asked me that yesterday,” Scott replied. “How’s the hand?”

Virgil flexed his fingers. “Nearly good as new.”

Scott grinned, held out his own hands and wriggled his fingers. “I haven’t had any problems at all.” Then he turned serious. “We haven’t really had the chance to talk about last year, have we?”

“No. Either I was at school or you were doing something with the Air Force.”

Scott shifted position so he was facing his brother. “Read my mind.”

“Read your mind?”

“Yes,” Scott nodded. “Give it a try. Read my mind.”

Virgil chuckled. “You’re wondering what Grandma’s making for lunch.”

Scott gave an abashed grin. “I’m predictable, aren’t I?”

“When it comes to food. Yes.”

“Okay. I’m not going to think about food. I’ve got something else fixed in my mind. See if you can tell me what it is.”

Virgil sighed. “This is silly, Scott. I can’t read your mind. I never could.”

“Is it silly? Everyone tells me that you knew when I crashed that plane.”

Virgil felt a cold shiver go down his spine. “Yes… I did.”

“And you knew I’d been rescued before anyone at base did.”

Virgil nodded.

“And you knew I’d hurt my arm.”

“The doctors explained that one. I had an infection in my arm. But, between you and me, Scott: that and this,” Virgil laid his hand gently over his current bandage, “feel totally different! Don’t ask me to explain what I felt last year, but not once did I feel that my arm was on fire. It hurt, but not like this.”

“More like you’d broken it?”

“Well, kinda. The pain was only in the one spot radiating out, not in an indefinable area.”

“Remember when I first saw you in hospital?”

Virgil cast his mind back. “Yes.”

“And you’d done all those drawings?”

There was that cold shiver again. “Yes.”

“When everyone else had left I wanted to ask you something, but you fell asleep.”

“You did ask me something,” Virgil recollected. “You asked me if I believed we had a telepathic link.”

“Yes, that’s right. You gave me an answer, but I wasn’t sure if you were compos-mentis or were a bit dozy.”

“I was awake then,” Virgil said. “It’s what you said next I’m not sure about. I thought you said that you…”

He was surprised when his brother jumped to his feet and strode over until he was standing on the very edge of the lookout. “It’s great up here. You can see for miles. We’re high enough up above the ocean that I feel like I’m flying.” Scott spread his arms out wide, feeling the wind breathe past them. “This must be what it feels like to be a bird.”

Bemused by the sudden change in the conversation, Virgil fell silent.

“Have you ever thought you had a friend and thought he was a good friend, but it turns out that he wasn’t?”

“Uh… I…”

“Lady Penelope’s a stunner, isn’t she? I can’t believe that she’s as ruthless as Father will have us believe.”

“Yes…”

“It’s amazing isn’t it?” Scott spread his arms again. “We’re all alone out here. You’d have to fly for miles before you reached any other human beings… Though sometimes I think that’s not a bad thing.”

Virgil frowned at Scott’s back, wishing that his brother would explain himself.

“It’s good to have a friend who knows you well enough that you don’t have to explain yourself.”

Now thoroughly confused, Virgil could only manage a “Huh?”

Scott turned so they were facing each other again. “You were with me every step of the way, do you know that?”

“Scott… You’re losing me. What are you talking about?”

“When I was in Bereznick. Somehow I thought… I could feel…” Scott struggled to find the right phrase. “I knew that you were experiencing it with me. That knowledge gave me a lot of strength, Virg. It kept me going.”

“How did you know that I was ‘experiencing’ what you were?”

Scott gave a shrug. “I just did.” He looked at Virgil; eyes earnest. “I didn’t feel the pain that I should’ve. I didn’t feel the fear that I should’ve. I didn’t feel the hopelessness that I should’ve…”

“Adrenaline?” Virgil suggested.

“I don’t know… Maybe…” Scott reclaimed his seat. “I just wanted to say thanks for being there in spirit. It helped.”

Virgil didn’t know what to say. Somehow a ‘you’re welcome’ didn’t seem to fit.

“Only four more days and then back to the daily grind, huh?”

This conversation had been taking so many twists and turns that Virgil was glad to latch onto something quantifiable; even if that something was as unpalatable as work. “Daily grind is right. All I’ve been doing is grinding, and linishing, and cleaning, and drilling.”

“You’ve got to start somewhere.”

“Do you think I don’t know that!?” Virgil snapped.

A querying eyebrow was raised. “Something wrong?”

“No.”

Scott was looking out to sea again. “Brains told us that a minor infection shouldn’t have crashed a guy as healthy as you. He thinks that something else must be going on.”

“Brains should stick to what he’s good at: designing machines,” Virgil grumbled.

“Now, that’s not very fair…” Scott said mildly.

Virgil had to admit to feeling guilty at slighting the little engineer who was also an excellent medical practitioner. But guilt didn’t improve his temper.

“Want to talk about it?” Scott was asking.

“No.”

“You can tell me. You know I won’t tell anyone else.”

“It’s nothing.”

“‘Nothing’ doesn’t knock you out for three days. C’mon, Virg, what’s the problem?”

“Read my mind,” Virgil challenged.

“Okay,” Scott let the sarcasm wash over him. “You’ll tell me when you’re ready.”

“Did Parker tell you what his occupation was before he started working for Lady Penelope?”

Virgil’s change of subject caught Scott as off guard as Scott’s erratic train of thought had confused Virgil. “Uh… Yeah…? Crazy, huh?”

“Lady Penelope’s got an old Rolls Royce. It’s this horrible pink colour.”

“How horrible?”

“A really bright, garish pink, like ‘carnation pink’. If it had to be pink, why didn’t she choose a more subtle shade like ‘tea rose’?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” Scott replied with the smallest trace of sarcasm. “Why don’t you ask her?”

“Have you come up with a way of concealing your entrance into Thunderbird One’s hangar yet?”

“No, I’m still thinking about it.”

“Have you heard what Gordon’s been doing to my voicemail?”

“No.”

“Changing it to these stupid poems. Did Father tell you of my idea of getting into Thunderbird Two’s…?”

“Virgil!” Scott said in exasperation. “Will you find one topic of conversation and stick to it!”

“Well, you were pirouetting the conversation around every which way so why shouldn’t I?”

“I was what?”

“Pirouetting. Doing pirouettes? You know, spinning about? It’s a dancing term.”

“Where on earth did you learn a dancing term from?”

“Remember that girl I used to go out with? Susan? She was a dancer.”

“Oh, yeah,” Scott smirked. “She sure had you pirouetting after her.”

“Not pirouetting,” Virgil corrected. “Grand jeté.”

“And they would be?”

“Big jumps.”

“Spinning,” Scott mused, a thoughtful expression on his face. “That might work…?”

“Now you’re confusing me again.”

“Just an idea on how to get to One’s hangar. You can give me a hand to set it up before you go back to work.”

Work. Virgil couldn’t believe how depressing that idea was. He sagged.

“Want to talk about it?” Scott offered again.

“Do you think Father would let me give up and work full time for International Rescue like you?”

“Huh?” Scott frowned in consternation. “That doesn’t sound like you. You were so keen to ‘get out in the real world’ and get some practical experience.”

“I know…” Virgil picked at a bit of bark on the log. “I was just expecting to be getting more out of it.”

“Such as?”

“Such as… I was hoping to do something more varied. I mean, I know that I can’t expect to turn up at ACE, riding my diploma, and expect to be given all the interesting technical jobs. I knew I was going to start at the bottom, but I wasn’t expecting to find myself doing nothing but linishing, grinding, and drilling.”

“And cleaning.”

“And cleaning,” Virgil confirmed.

“You’ve only been there a week.”

“It’s not only that… No one seems to like me very much,” Virgil admitted and Scott raised an eyebrow. “No, that’s not strictly true. There is one guy who seems to want to be my friend.”

“At the risk of repeating myself,” Scott began, “you’ve only been there one week.”

“Okay, Scott. Tell me if I’m overreacting.” Virgil turned to face his brother. “But you can’t tell Father any of this. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“I’ve got a supervisor who’s got it in for me because I ‘waltzed’ in and landed a job, which hadn’t been advertised, and which he’d been hoping his son would get. Because of that he’s forever making remarks about my abilities, or lack thereof, and he’s given me nothing but the most boring jobs. And not only the boring jobs, but the mind-numbingly boring jobs! My co-workers all know that I graduated top of Denver and think that I think I’m better than I should be and by and large ignore me. Four of them decided to take me down a peg and managed to get me a final warning in the process.”

“I heard about that.” There was no trace of a smirk on Scott’s face.

“I told the only two who have showed me any signs friendship my real name and now one of them thinks I’m working at ACE so I can spy on everyone and get him into trouble. I’ve only managed to work one week and I’m already on sick leave. They’re all going to think that I can’t hack it. And…” Virgil finished with finality, “I hate pretending to be someone I’m not. I’m actually proud of being Jeff Tracy’s son!”

Scott sat in quiet reflection of his brother’s speech.

“Am I overreacting?”

Scott sighed as he thought. “Do you really want to leave ACE? Forget all the personality problems. It’s only what, eight, nine hours out of a twenty four hour day for one year.”

“It’s not though,” Virgil revealed. “I come home at night and my nerves are so on edge that I can’t even practice the piano properly. I can’t sleep I’m so on edge. And then, when I thought I finally had the chance to relax last weekend, like an idiot I go and spill the beans.”

“Why did you do that?”

“We were talking, nothing serious, and then they started talking about us.”

The eyebrow went skywards again. “Us?”

“Yes. Us! At first it was funny hearing these two guys speculate on what the five sons of Jeff Tracy were like. I was some drugged up, talentless, artist hippy. John’s made it into the space programme only because of Father’s influence…”

Scott pursed his lips. “He wouldn’t like that.”

“They even had Alan as a ballerina.”

Scott couldn’t help but laugh at the image. “A ballerina? Alan?! Doing pirouettes and grand… things, I suppose.”

Virgil . “They were being silly at that point. They know he’s ripping up the tracks.”

Scott gave him a sideways look. “What did they say about me?”

“Uh… They were talking about when you got shot down in Bereznick. You know how widely publicised that was,” Virgil said, not wishing to go into more detail. “Then they started on Father,” he added quickly. “They were saying that he’s some kind of control freak and that we’re all under his thumb.”

Scott gave a lopsided grin. “Aren’t we?”

“Then they started on Ma.”

The grin disappeared. “Saying what?”

“Stupid things.”

“Virgil,” Scott growled. “What were they saying?”

“That… When she died… She was leaving…”

“Leaving?” Scott frowned at his brother. Then the frown deepened. “Leaving what? Who?”

“Us… They said she was leaving Father to be with another man.”

“What!?” Scott gasped. “That’s impossible. That’s ridiculous. That’s crazy!”

“You don’t have to convince me!” Virgil protested. “I know! I remember…”

“And that’s when you told them who you really are?”

“No… It was really only one of the guys spouting off about us and he’d had too much to drink, so I told myself to let it go. It would be forgotten in the morning.”

“But you didn’t let it go?” Scott noted. “Clearly they didn’t either.”

Virgil shook his head. “No. They… No, I should say ‘he’, wouldn’t shut up about Ma. He claimed that… that…” He lapsed into a miserable silence.

“Virgil…” Scott growled. “What lies did he tell about our mother?”

“That… Whenever Father was away in space… It was laughable really. He wasn’t up there often enough.”

“Virgil,” Scott’s growl had darkened to a point where he reminded Virgil of their father at his angriest. “What did this guy say? Tell me so that I know what his crime is when I beat his brains out.”

Virgil hesitated a moment, trying to convince himself that his brother wasn’t serious. “That you are the only one of us who is Jefferson Tracy’s son.”

“What!”

“That was when I got mad and told him he didn’t know what he was talking about.”

“Why didn’t you hit him? I would’ve.”

“Don’t worry. I gave that idea serious consideration.”

Scott sat back and blew out a lungful of air as if he was trying to expel the very notion that their mother had been unfaithful. “Jerk.”

“True.”

“And you’re friends with this guy?”

“Not now. He hasn’t spoken to me since he found out I could get him kicked out of work.”

“And the other guy?”

“Bruce? He’s okay. He thinks L… the other guy’s a jerk too.”

“Why didn’t you call me?”

“Because I thought you were still tied up with the Air Force. I didn’t want to interrupt something important.”

Scott shook his head. “Friends! Just when you think you know ‘em…” He shook his head again.

Virgil had a feeling that the conversation had just turned full circle. So he waited…

“Remember Brian Daniels?”

“The guy who was co-piloting when you crashed?”

“I thought we were close,” Scott said. “I thought I could count on him.”

“You saved his life.”

Scott flapped his hand as if saving a life was nothing special. “He can’t understand why I’ve quit the force.”

“Well, you haven’t told him the real reason… Have you?”

“Of course not…! But he thinks I’m running away.”

Virgil looked at him. “I did warn you…”

“No!” Scott took a deep breath. “He doesn’t think I’m running scared. Heck, you don’t get a medal for valour for running scared.”

“Then what are you supposedly ‘running away’ from?”

Scott shrugged. “Responsibility…? Accountability…? Those who desperately need help, like those we were flying aid to when we were shot down.”

“But you know you’re not going to be running away from any of that. Once International Rescue is operational you’ll be flying full tilt into responsibility, accountability and ‘those who desperately need help’.”

“Brian thinks I’m opting out for the playboy life. That I’m going to waste my life on hedonistic pursuits.”

“I hate to tell you this, Scott, but that’s the look we’re aiming for.”

“I know… I just thought that Brian knew me better than that. I told him it wasn’t going to be all fun and games; that I was going to be working for Father…”

“But he doesn’t believe you?”

Scott shook his head.

“How about the other guys in your flight. What do they think?”

Scott gave a bitter laugh. “Some of them wondered why I’ve ever wanted to risk getting shot out of the sky when I could be lazing by the pool getting waited on by beautiful maidens… Somehow I don’t think they’re picturing Grandma…Others agreed with Brian… Some couldn’t care less… It came to a head one night. We were all off duty. We were drinking… some more than others.”

Virgil waited. Whatever this revelation was going to be, it was making Scott uncomfortable.

“We were celebrating Brian’s first full day back on duty… We were having a great time… Then he starts drinking too much. Well, he hadn’t had anything alcoholic since before he was injured, so too much wasn’t a lot…”

“What did he do?”

“Started bagging me. I was daddy’s lapdog; sitting up and begging every time he snapped his fingers. I was selfish. I was arrogant. I had no loyalty…”

“Then you’re right. He doesn’t know you, Scott.”

“…It was my fault that we got shot down.”

Virgil stared at his brother. “What!”

“That’s what he started saying. That I’d disobeyed orders and was behaving recklessly…”

“You!???”

“It was nonsense, of course. You know there was a full inquest. We’d done everything by the book. No one said anything against me. All I got was praise… They gave me a lousy medal for Pete’s sake! A medal for saving his life!!”

“I know.” Virgil placed his hand on his brother’s shoulder and his touch seemed to calm Scott down a little.

“Anyway… I let him rant for a while… What’s that they say?” Scott gave a wry grin. “Better out than in?”

“Something like that.”

Scott took a deep breath and exhaled noisily. “Then some of the others started taking an interest. They took the view that as Brian was on the flight he must know what he was talking about. He claimed that as he wasn’t well enough to attend the inquest, his side of the story hadn’t been told: which was nonsense because a written statement from him had been presented… Things were starting to turn ugly…”

“How ugly?”

“Ugly enough that I thought I’d better get out of there before there was blood on floor, and going by the numbers against me, it probably would have been mine.”

“You could have taken ‘em.”

Scott gave a chuckle. “Yeah, I could. But violence wouldn’t have helped. It would only have inflamed the situation, so I left. I figured that they’d wake in the morning hung-over and with no recollection of what had happened.”

“That sounds familiar… And did they?”

“No. I started getting hate messages saying things like the sooner I left the better, and that the only reason I got my medal was because of who my father was and because the Air Force thought it would make good publicity. My things were getting damaged. The medal was stolen and found in the latrine…”

“What!”

“It was okay. Whoever took it had sealed it in a plastic bag… I think it was more of a metaphorical statement than outright vandalism. I tried not to make a fuss but one of the brass found a note. I got hauled in front of Major General Munroe and was ordered to explain what was going on. What was I supposed to do? Name names?”

Virgil snorted a humourless laugh. “This sounds sooo familiar.”

“I couldn’t’ve anyway. I didn’t know who was doing it, except that I was pretty sure that for all his ranting it wasn’t Brian…. Munroe decided that it would be easier and less hassle all round if I were to leave quickly and quietly. So,” Scott spread his hands out, encompassing the island, “here I am. Civilian Tracy.”

“I’m sorry it ended that way, Scott. I know the Air Force meant a lot to you.”

“Yeah, so am I… But do you know what really steams me up?” Scott clenched a fist. “No one… Not one person came to my aid! No one stood up for me. No one offered to help me defend myself. No one supported me. I’ve helped all those guys over the years and not one of them repaid me in kind.”

“Does Father know?”

Scott shook his head. “I haven’t told him and Munroe said he wouldn’t.”

“You were lucky in that respect.” Virgil couldn’t keep the sourness out of his voice.

“Yeah. Father told me he got a tongue lashing from Grandma over what he said to you. I think he’s a bit gun-shy about sticking his nose into our lives at the moment.”

They sat in silence for a while, looking out to sea and reflecting on their lives.

“Do you know what I think?” Virgil asked. “I think we’ve both got a lot of pent up aggression that needs to be released in a controlled manner.”

Scott gave him a sideways look. “And what do you have in mind?”

“A little light sparring.”

“I think you’ve forgotten something.” Scott pointed at Virgil’s bandaged hand.

Virgil laughed. “Do you think this is going to stop me? I’ve always said I could beat you one handed. Now’s my chance to prove it.”

“Yeah?” Scott scoffed. “In your dreams.”

“Is that a challenge?”

Scott stood. “You bet! Bring it on, little brother!”

In the shadows of the silent digger, Jeff Tracy stood by the hole in the ground that was to become the family swimming pool… and the hidden launch bay of Thunderbird One. He was watching two figures walking side-by-side, step-by-step in perfect unison, heads close together, talking...

“Is everything all right, Jeff?”

“Hmm. Oh, sorry, Penelope. I was miles away.”

She followed the line of his gaze. “Miles? Perhaps, but I believe your musings are growing closer. Forgive me for prying into family business, but I sense you’re worried about Virgil.”

“Not only him,” Jeff admitted. “I’ve been worried about both of them.”

Lady Penelope gave a delicate frown. Not that she knew the elder son that well, but she hadn’t seen anything amiss with him. “Scott too?”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but if you mention the Air Force he either turns moody or changes the subject. That is totally out of character. He’s always loved the Air Force and I’m worried that he’s regretting leaving it. And Virgil… I’m not only worried about his hand. I know he’d been working hard on his studies, and then last year… Did you hear about Scott’s crash in Bereznick?”

“Crash?” Lady Penelope’s frown deepened by a hundredth of a millimetre. “No. I was not aware that he had been involved in a crash.”

Jeff gave a dry chuckle. “Jeff Tracy’s family obviously isn’t considered newsworthy in England. But, cutting a very long and stressful story short, Scott was running aid into Bereznick when his plane was shot down behind enemy lines. Virgil had a tougher time dealing with his brother’s disappearance than any of us. And, what with that, school, and now his new job, I’m worried that he’s burning out; hence the infection.”

“I wish I could be of assistance.”

Jeff smiled. “Thanks for the offer, Penelope, but I don’t think your assistance will be necessary. I’ve got a suspicion that they’ve each assisted the other.” He indicated his two sons, still deep in conversation. “I would lay money on the fact that the two of them have talked about their problems and found the solutions.”

“And now they will talk to you?”

He shook his head. “Not unless the other thinks they should. I’ve long since resigned myself to the fact that, as far as those two are concerned, they don’t come to me unless they absolutely have to.”

“Come now, Jeff. I’m sure you are exaggerating.”

“No, Penelope, I’m not. Scott and Virgil are close, really close. I don’t think even they realised how close they are until Scott’s crash last year.” He smiled as she permitted herself a bemused expression. “Don’t ask me to explain, you don’t know us well enough yet. Some day when I decide you’re not going to think that I’m losing my marbles, I’ll tell you all about it.”

“Now you are being most intriguing.”

“Intriguing, maybe…” Jeff looked at his watch. “But not a good host. I‘ve got to make a call. If I’m going to finance International Rescue, I’d better make sure the business keeps ticking over. Would you excuse me?”

“Of course, Jeff. I am sure I will find something to entertain me.”

As Scott and Virgil picked their way past the digger, Virgil looked at it enviously. “Think he’ll let me have a go at that later?”

“Possibly. But I’d like your help with my bit of camouflage first.” Scott led the way up the steps and into the shell that was going to be the family’s lounge. He sidestepped the holes in the floor and walked up to the gap in the wall that looked down into a cavern. “What if we were to have a fake section of wall on a central pivot point? I’ll stand on a turntable, touch a button somehow, the whole section will pirouette until I’m in the hangar.” He turned on his heel until his back was to the lounge. “What do you think?” he asked, looking over his shoulder.

“How are you planning on operating this?” Virgil asked.

Scott turned back to face him. “How about if there’s a button on a light fitting?”

“Someone could accidentally press it and open the door.”

“Two light fittings?” Scott suggested. “I’ll stand between them and pull them together slightly. The whole unit would rotate leaving a duplicate wall panel in the lounge.” He raised his hands as if he’d completed a magic trick. “Voila. Instant camouflage.”

Virgil couldn’t think of any obvious flaws in the system. “That sounds good to me.” He grinned. “Now you’ve given your brain a work out, how about the rest of you?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

“I haven’t got my gi,” Virgil admitted. “But I packed my tracksuit.”

“In just under a year you’ll have all your gear here, on tap,” Scott grinned. “Are you getting excited?”

“I can’t wait.” Virgil studied the five holes on the wall where the communication portraits were to be situated. “Of course, I could always stay here and help get everything set up. We might be able to start sooner.”

Scott turned to face him. “Do you really want to quit work?”

Virgil thought for a moment. “No…” He looked at Scott hopefully. “It’s only a year, right?”

“Right.”

“And I’ve only just started. I can’t expect to fit in straight away.”

“True.”

“And when I’ve been there a few weeks I’ll be wondering what I was worried about!”

Scott grinned. “That sounds more like the Virgil Tracy I know. You’d better tell that Virgil Tancy to crawl back to where he came from... And don’t forget that if either of you need to talk you can call me at any time.”

“Thanks…” Virgil straightened and threw back his shoulders decisively. “It’ll get easier,” he stated.

“Of course it will. Once everyone’s got to know you and your supervisor realises that you’re not just some hotshot textbook geek.”

“Thanks!”

“You’re welcome. Now go and get changed and get ready to get thrashed.”

Ten minutes later found the pair of them in the gym. Like the rest of the house it still wasn’t finished, but Scott had already put out some mats to cushion falls. After a warm up the pair faced off.

“Right!” Scott said, pulling the hem of his gi’s jacket so it sat flat under his black belt. “Are you sure about this?”

Virgil straightened from a bow. “Are you scared I’ll show you up?” He relaxed into the preparatory stance. “Ready when you are.” He kicked out and had his leg parried away.

“You’re a little rusty, Brother,” Scott said, throwing a punch.

“I’m not that rusty that I can’t handle you,” Virgil replied, ducking the punch and attempting to knock Scott’s legs out from under him.

“Yeah, right.” Scott dodged the move and attempted a throw. He failed on his first attempt, but on his second had Virgil heading for the ground.

Reflexes instinctively getting him into position so he could land and roll with no injuries, Virgil hit the mat. But he wasn’t prepared for the lightning bolt that shot up his arm. Letting out a gasp of pain he rolled onto his knees; bent double so he could shield his infected arm.

“What’s wrong?” Scott was by his side, brotherly instincts to the fore. “Are you hurt? Are you okay?”

“I’m okay,” Virgil replied through gritted teeth as the pain subsided.

“I’m sorry, Virg.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“But your hand…”

“I didn’t hit my hand; just jarred my arm when I fell. I guess I was rushing things a bit.”

Scott was still looking concerned. “Do you want me to get Brains?”

Virgil shook his head. “No… The pain’s going now.” He flexed his fingers. “I will play the piano again.” He gave his brother a wry grin. “When we get around to unpacking it.”

Scott patted him on the back in sympathy. “I think that must be the shortest bout in Tracy history.”

Virgil straightened and got to his feet. “Sorry, Scott. I was looking forward to it.”

“Me too.” Scott sighed as he stood. “Oh, well. Next time.”

A delicate throat was cleared. “Excuse me, Gentlemen, but I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation.” Scott and Virgil looked over to the door and there, clad in a gi tied with a black belt, stood Lady Penelope. “I trust you have not aggravated your injury, Virgil.”

“No.” Virgil massaged his hand. “It’s fine.”

“Your father has urgent work to attend to, so I decided to occupy myself by making use of your excellent facilities,” Lady Penelope explained. “One does lose condition so quickly, especially when treated to your grandmother’s excellent cooking.” She eyed the mats. “Would you care for a bout, Scott? One does get rusty without practise.”

“Practising what?” he asked warily. “Do you know Karate?”

“Karate, Tae-kwon-do, Jujitsu, and numerous other forms of attack and self-defence,” Lady Penelope informed him. “Would you care to accept a challenge from me?”

“Uh…” Scott looked at Virgil who shrugged. “Okay… I take it that belt’s not for decoration.”

“No. My masters have schooled me to the level of ninth-dan.”

“In which discipline?”

She gave a light laugh. “All of them.”

Scott shrugged. “Okay.” As she warmed up he whispered to Virgil. “This should be interesting.”

Virgil looked at him gravely, but his eyes were twinkling. “Good luck. From what Father says you’ll need it.”

Scott laughed. “Luck has nothing to do with it. It’s all down to skill.”

Virgil watched as Lady Penelope did a bit of shadow fighting. “Looks like you’re going to need all the skill you’ve got. Good luck,” he repeated.

The eldest Tracy son and the lady aristocrat faced off and bowed to each other. Then their skirmish began.

As Virgil watched he realised that both opponents were evenly matched. Scott had the advantage of height and weight, but was disadvantaged by his ingrained unwillingness to strike a woman. Lady Penelope may have been shorter and lighter, but she had none of Scott’s qualms about attacking her opponent. Each time one of them appeared to be getting the upper hand, the other would slip free and resume the attack.

The bout went on for half an hour. Blow versus counter-blow. Parry versus counter-parry. Neither willing to give an inch. Neither willing to concede.

Until…

With a deft move, and using his own body weight against him, Lady Penelope threw Scott onto the floor. Before he had the chance to roll away she had leapt onto his back, arm around his throat and was pulling his head backwards. His hands scrabbled uselessly at her arm.

Virgil sat forward. In this position his brother was vulnerable. The slightest shift to her weight and Lady Penelope could have broken Scott’s spine. Or crushed his windpipe. Or subdued him forever in a myriad of ways.

She favoured her prisoner with a sweet smile. “Well?”

“All right,” Scott croaked, and she felt his Adam’s apple move under her forearm. “I concede… On two conditions.”

“Two conditions?” A finely crafted eyebrow was raised. “I believe you are not in the position to bargain, dear boy. But, since you are my host, I will listen.”

The Adam’s apple moved again as he swallowed. “One…” The word came out as a squeak and she reduced some of the pressure against his windpipe. “You don’t say a word about this to anyone.” Virgil laughed and Scott managed to point at him. “That goes for you too, or else I’ll bust your other hand!”

Lady Penelope smiled. “And your second condition?”

“That you don’t challenge any of my brothers to a duel until I’m here to watch you thrash them.”

Virgil laughed again. “Don’t hold your breath waiting to see me accept her challenge. This is one brother who’s learnt his lesson the easy way.”

Lady Penelope released her grip. “I agree to your terms, Scott.” She moved off and extended her hand to help her victim to his feet.

Keen to salvage some pride, Scott ignored the offer and stood without assistance, rubbing his throat with one hand and his back with the other. “Boy, you’re good!”

“Thank you,” Lady Penelope gave a benign smile. “That’s why your father has hired me. And you are an excellent exponent of the art as well.”

“Thanks.”

“I believe that you can learn a lot about a person by the way he behaves in a conflict.”

“And what did you learn about me?” Scott asked.

“That you are determined, intelligent and quick-thinking. You are brave, resolute and proud, but not too proud to acknowledge when the odds are not in your favour. You excel in almost everything that you attempt and take any failure as a personal affront. You are loyal and you expect loyalty in return. You are protective of those who need your help, but, despite words of bravado, you are unwilling to use violence unless absolutely necessary. You are also a gentleman, you are caring towards others, you regard yourself as your father’s right-hand man, and have maintained an almost maternal watch over your brothers for most of their lives.”

Virgil grinned. “That’s you, Scott.”

Scott stared at her Ladyship. “You got all that from a half hour fight?”

“Yes,” Lady Penelope concurred and a mischievous twinkle appeared in her eye. “It helped that your father has told me all about his field operatives’ personalities and that your grandmamma is not averse to bragging about her grandsons.” She smiled. “I am glad that I have finally got the chance to know you better, Scott. I have not had the opportunity until now.” She smiled at Virgil. “He was by your side all the time you were ill and would only leave when your grandmamma made him join us at mealtimes.”

Virgil was surprised, yet not surprised, by this statement. “That’s shameful, Scott.” He tried to keep a straight face but couldn’t quite subdue a smirk. “Leaving a guest to fend for herself on her first visit to our home.” He shook his head disapprovingly. “You could have taken her up to the lookout or something.”

Scott glared at his brother and leant closer. “Read my mind,” he growled.

Lady Penelope ignored the by-play between the brothers. “I quite understand why he did it, Virgil. Family should always come first. Especially when the two of you are obviously so exceptionally close. Perhaps after dinner the pair of you will escort me up to the lookout? I would so like to experience a Pacific Ocean sunset and you can tell me more about yourselves. Now, if you will excuse me. I believe that I will wash before I partake of your Grandmother’s excellent lunch.”

The two men watched her glide from the gym. Scott sighed. “That’s one woman I wouldn’t want to mess with.” He looked down at his brother. “How’s your hand?”

“Fine. How’s your pride?”

“Intact. What I am is hungry.”

“Tell me something new.”

Someone else entered the gym. “Is this where you boys are?” Jeff said. “Lunch is nearly ready.”

“Great!” Scott jogged for the door. “I’ll go get washed up.”

Jeff smiled at his younger son. “Been getting a workout?”

Virgil gave a rueful smile. “Not really. Scott and I were going to do a little sparring, but my hand’s not up to it yet. So he showed Lady Penelope a few moves.”

Jeff’s eyebrows went skywards. “Scott showed Lady Penelope a few moves? Who won?”

Virgil had made a promise and was loyal to his brother. “It was pretty even.”

Jeff laughed. “You mean she wiped the floor with him.”

“She didn’t wipe the floor with him,” Virgil protested.

His father gave him a sideways look. “Virgil…”

“Well…” Virgil held out his arms. “Maybe a patch this big.”

Jeff laughed again and patted his son on the back. “I wish you’d told me. That is something I would have loved to have seen.”

Virgil chuckled. “If it’s any consolation, she’s agreed not to fight any of the others until Scott’s present. You might want to have a quiet word in her ear and see if she’ll do the same deal with you. And then you can tell me the result, since it’ll probably happen while I’m at work.”

They turned into the dining room.

After lunch Scott and Virgil excused themselves and retreated to the hangar that was going to house International Rescue’s transporter aeroplane. As they traced their way through the complex they enjoyed a light-hearted discussion on how their brothers would cope with International Rescue’s work. Would John be as comfortable on the ‘front line’ as he would be alone up in Thunderbird Five? Would Gordon put whoopee cushions on recently rescued victims’ seats…?

“To be honest,” Scott admitted, “the only one of you guys that I have any real concerns about is Alan. Do you think he’s going to be mature enough to be part of the team?”

Virgil adjusted the sling that he’d adopted to help protect his sore hand. “I would hope so. After all, that’s not a slot-car set he’s playing with. Driving vehicles that powerful competitively, and succeeding, is bound to make anyone grow up.”

“Talking about growing up,” Scott changed the subject slightly.”Remember Tin-Tin?”

Virgil gave him a scathing look. “I could hardly forget her. She was practically like a sister to us.”

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“Ummm...” Virgil thought. “Before she left for England, I think. She’d decided that Denver was too low class for her and wanted the benefits of a European education... Why?”

“We flew to London the other week on International Rescue business and took Kyrano with us so he could visit her.” Scott gave a long, low, appreciative whistle. “Now she has Grown Up. With a capital G.”

“Has she changed a little?” Virgil asked.

“A little! Trust me, she’s not a little girl any more. Alan’s going to be kicking himself for not keeping in touch with her. I’d wager anything you like that she’s got suitors all over the world.” Scott grinned. “If there wasn’t such a big difference in ages between us, I think I’d make a play for her myself…”

“Cradle snatcher.”

Scott ignored the comment. “…Or I would if the idea of a relationship with Tin-Tin didn’t seem to be slightly incestuous. As you said, I’ve always thought of her as a little sister... until I saw her the other week… I think Kyrano just about went into cardiac arrest when he saw how his little girl has ‘developed’.”

The corridor opened up into a cavernous hole in the hillside and Virgil stopped and stared. “I can’t get used to how big this place is.”

They began walking again, their footsteps echoing off the mammoth walls. “Yes,” Scott agreed. “It’s had to believe that one plane’s going to practically fill this space…”

Virgil grabbed Scott by the arm and dragged him over to a spot just inside where the hangar door was going to be carved into a cliff face. “Don’t move,” he instructed before turning his back and starting to pace out the length of Thunderbird Two. “One, two, three, four…”

Scott watched his brother walk away into the distance. “Byee…”

“Fifty, fifty-one, fifty-two, fifty-three…”

Scott was grinning. “Don’t forget to send a postcard when you get there.”

“One hundred and eighty-three, one eighty-four, one eighty-five…”

“If you meet Doctor Livingston, give him my best.”

“Two ten, two eleven, two twelve…”

“If you’re not back by dinner time, we’ll send out a search party.”

“Two forty-eight, two forty-nine, two hundred and fifty!” Virgil stopped walking and turned so he was facing Scott and able to get some idea of his future aeroplane’s length. “This thing’s going to be a monster!”

“A big, green monster,” Scott chuckled. “Think you’ll be able to handle it?”

“With all the onboard computers, no sweat.” Virgil looked at the space between him and Scott and tried to imagine the gigantic aeroplane that, so far, he’d only seen on paper and computer screen. An aircraft with a detachable pod and swept-forward wings. An aeroplane that he was going to have to learn to fly so well, that it would seem to be an extension of himself. A flying beacon of hope that would, with luck and skill, save many lives.

But for now that aeroplane was only a figment of his imagination…

Chapter 4: A Quiet Interlude

It’s happened again. This was going to be John’s chapter, but he’s taken control from Thunderbird Five and sent me off in another direction. I’ll get back to him in chapter five.

Virgil sat at a table, alone in the canteen, nursing a cup of coffee as he waited for the first bell of the day to ring. He was surprised to receive a hearty slap on the back. “Hiya, stranger! How’s the hand?”

Virgil smiled at Bruce as he swung into the seat opposite. “Fine now, thanks. How are you?”

“Great!” Bruce beamed back. “You’re looking a darn sight better than you did last time I saw you. The old man made you go see the quack, did he?”

Virgil nodded. “I never could keep anything from him.”

“The way you were looking, a blind man would have known you were sick.” Bruce never lost his smile. “Just as well that you went to the doctor when you did. You would have looked even worse if you’d fallen into the crucible furnace or something.”

Virgil sighed. “Do you think there’s any chance that Mr Watts’ll let me anywhere near the furnace or anything else more interesting than the linisher?”

“I hate to tell you this, pal, but you showed him up in front of his hero. I think you and the linisher are going to be friends for a mighty long time.”

Virgil groaned. “Thanks.”

Bruce beamed at him. “You’re welcome. You can spend your hours of toil imagining his face when you tell him who your father is.” Virgil managed a chuckle but seemed more intent on studying his coffee cup. “What’s wrong?”

“Bruce,” Virgil began, “I don’t want to break up your friendship with Louis. I’m only here for a year and you guys will probably be working together much longer. If you don’t want to associate with me then I’ll understand.”

“What are you talking about?” Bruce asked. “I’ll spend my spare time with whoever I want to. If I choose to spend tea breaks with you and lunch with Lou or vice versa…” Butch entered the canteen, gave the two men present a threatening glare before selecting a seat at a table by the window, “…or if I decided to spend my free time with an over-grown gorilla like him, then that’s my business and no one else’s.” He chuckled. “I’ll let you know who I’ll be living with permanently when the divorce comes through. Besides,” he lowered his voice, “gotta stay on the good side of the boss’s son.” He winked.

A raucous group of men entered the canteen and headed over to a table on the far side of the room. Virgil and Louis’ eyes met briefly before the latter reddened in anger and looked away. “Has he told anyone?”

“He’s busting to,” Bruce confided. “But he won’t. He knows that he’d probably be looking for another job if he spills the beans.”

Virgil sighed again. “I don’t like all this secrecy.”

“Hang in there,” Bruce advised. “Like you said, it’s only for one year. You never know, by the end of it you might love us so much that you won’t want to leave.” He laughed.

A young woman entered the canteen and poured herself a cup of coffee. Despite the facts that her faded navy overalls hid her curves, her blonde hair was pulled back, and her face was free of makeup, she looked like she’d be more at home modelling for one of the world’s major fashion houses than in the lunchroom of an engineering plant. She gave Virgil a quiet smile as she walked past and he felt a tingle of attraction. He watched her as she sashayed over to the tables by the window, rested her hand on Butch’s back and then allowed it to caress his shoulder as she sat down.

In shock Virgil turned back to Bruce who was grinning at his startled face. “Please tell me that’s not Butch’s wife!”

“Yep, that’s Lisa,” Bruce confirmed. “She’s gorgeous, isn’t she? None of us can work out what she sees in Butch, including him, which is why he’s so protective of her.”

Virgil sat back in shock. “In the space of a week I’ve met two dazzlingly beautiful women, and neither of them is what she seems.”

“Plastic surgery?” Bruce suggested.

“That wasn’t what I meant. This other woman looks as if she’d break if you touched her the wrong way, but she took my older brother on at Karate and won.”

“Bit of a wimp, is he?”

Virgil laughed at the erroneous description of Scott “Hardly. As the eldest he took the first dip in the gene pool and left us the dregs. He’s bigger, stronger, smarter and better looking than any of us.”

“You’re no ten-pound weakling.” Bruce raised an eyebrow. “I think I can hear some brotherly jealously there.”

Virgil shook his head. “Nah. He’s a good friend as well as brother. And he’s needed those broad shoulders to support us all since Ma died. Height-wise he’d be a match for Butch, but Scott’d be way out front when it comes to brains.”

“But he was a hard act to follow?”

Virgil gave a non-committal shrug. “I think John had a harder time of it than I did. Not that he’s in any way inferior. I’d say he’s the most intellectual of the five of us.”

“He spent his time in the intelligence pool, did he?” Bruce mimed a swimming stroke. “Which one did you dip into?”

Virgil laughed. “Gordon probably pushed me into the artistic one.” He cast a surreptitious look back at Lisa and Butch. “How come I didn’t meet her last week…? I mean the week before? Butch had no problem in introducing himself to me.”

“She was on an advanced welding course.”

Virgil looked at his friend over the top of his mug. “Welding?”

“Yep. The company’s bought a new type of robotic welder and now Lisa Crump is our resident expert.”

Virgil shook his head. “I’d say what a waste, but it’s her life and so long as she’s happy, who are we to judge?”

Bruce grinned. “As Confucius said.” He looked at his watch. “Five minutes and then it’s noses to the grindstone.” He gave a mock sigh. “Some people have got the right idea. Work one week and then have the next week off. That’s the kind of timetable I could live with. Must be one of the perks of having a dad who’s so important to the company…”

“Yeah?” Surprised at the intrusion into their conversation, they both looked up into the face of Burt; one of the four men who’d been behind the initiation prank that had earned Virgil the final warning. “Who’s ya dad then, Veggie?”

“Uh…” Burt wasn’t one of Virgil’s favourite colleagues and he had no intention of letting him in on the secret, but a suitable response evaded him.

Bruce came to the rescue. “Don’t you know, Burt?”

“No. Who?”

Bruce beckoned him closer. “It’s a secret.” He indicated Virgil. “Who does he look like to you?”

Burt stared at Virgil. “Ah… Dunno. Who, Buzz?”

Bruce looked around to check that no one was within earshot. “You know how Tracy’s been looking at purchasing an island so he can build a getaway home? Well…” As Burt nodded Bruce slid closer so he could lower his voice even further. “Virgil’s father’s the emperor of a group of tropical islands…”

Virgil ducked behind his coffee mug to try and conceal his smile. Jeff Tracy would probably have hated being dubbed an emperor. Fictional or otherwise…

“…and he sold one to Tracy on the proviso that Tracy gave his son a job. So here he is.” Bruce sat back in satisfaction.

Burt frowned and stared at Virgil again. In reply Virgil smiled and raised his coffee mug in a salute.

Burt turned back to Bruce. “You’re talking nonsense, Buzz.”

Bruce gave a sardonic smile. “Am I? Don’t you think it’s a little odd that Virgil here started work with ACE when, as far as we knew, there wasn’t even a job available?”

“Yeah…” Burt agreed. “Yeah, it was strange.” He straightened, folded his arms, and stared down at Virgil. “Right then, ‘Prince Veggie’…”

“Shhh!” Bruce shushed him. “It’s a secret remember.”

Burt leant on the table. “Okay, Buzz. Since you’re such an expert on his Lordship here. What’s his father’s name?”

Virgil was curious about this as well.

“I’m not at liberty to say,” Bruce admitted. “Just speaking the Emperor’s name is punishable by torture and death…” He pulled a pen and paper out of his pocket. “But since it’s you, Burt, and I know I can count on your discretion, I’ll write it down.” He wrote something on the paper, folded it into four, and then handed it to his colleague. “But remember that it’s a secret.”

“Right.” Burt took the paper, unfolded and read it, stared at Virgil again, and then without another word walked over to the table where Louis and some others were seated.

Bruce watched him go. “Idiot.”

Virgil leant closer to Bruce. “What was that load of…?”

“Hang on,” Bruce indicated Burt’s table. “I knew he’d never be able to keep it secret. Watch.”

Virgil turned so he could see his workmates. Glancing around like a secret service agent, Burt was holding a whispered conversation with his friends. The he showed them Bruce’s piece of paper. Louis took it, read the inscription, shook his head in exasperation and hit Burt over the head with a rolled up newspaper. The injured man looked stunned and then glared over to where Bruce and Virgil were laughing.

Bruce was still snickering as Virgil turned back to face him. “What did you write?”

Bruce wrote on another piece of paper and handed it over so Virgil was able to read Emperor S’gnuklowths. “It probably sounds better when you read it out loud.”

Virgil burst out laughing again. “I hope you and Gordon never get together. No one would be safe.” He screwed up the paper and threw it into a nearby bin. “Thanks for that. I didn’t know what to say and I’m no good at lying.”

“Better get yourself some bootlaces then.” The bell sounded. “Time for another fun day at the coalface.”

Max Watts was holding his daily briefing. His excitement of last Monday had gone, but so had a lot of his antagonism towards Virgil. “Tancy! You’ll be working with Harrison today.”

Virgil was delighted. Working with people like Gregory Harrison was more like what he’d envisaged before he’d started at ACE. He was even more pleased when he discovered their task. The creation of a panel out of the new material called Cahelium; destined for a company called Holliday-Wilkins Corporation. This was the birth of the aeroplane that would be known as Thunderbird Two.

His Thunderbird.

Gregory Harrison was greying and bespectacled. He also had an encyclopaedic knowledge of all things to do with engineering and everything to do with ACE, and Virgil was looking forward to the day. “Where do you want me to start, Mr Harrison?”

“You start by calling me Greg, Virgil. How are you feeling this week?”

“Much better, thanks.”

“Good.” Greg smiled. “We’ve got a lot of work to do and I want your full attention. So you graduated the top of your year in Denver?”

Virgil almost felt embarrassed admitting that this was the case. “Yes, Sir. But I’m hoping to learn more here.”

“That’s a good school. But you’re right to be willing to learning more. If you’re intelligent you never stop learning. I haven’t and I’ve worked for ACE since Jeff Tracy set it up all those years ago. I was one of the first people that he employed.” Greg smiled in pride. “I remember those early years. Mr Tracy was an amazing man: starting a new business and single-handedly raising five sons at the same time… He was, and he still is, a hard worker and he earned our respect. He was always willing to listen and never thought that he knew more than anybody else.” He stopped in thought. “I haven’t seen those boys in years, not since Mr Tracy shifted his head office.”

Virgil was listening attentively. He was proud of his father and what Jeff had achieved. One of the reasons why he didn’t enjoy using the alias.

“Every so often…” Greg continued. “Remember that this was in the days when ACE was a brake press and a couple of drills in an old rundown warehouse… Mr Tracy would bring his sons to the factory. They were good kids, the lot of them; but I especially remember the middle boy. He was quite happy to sit and watch me work for hours. Fascinated by machinery he was…” the older man smiled. “I see you still are.”

Virgil had almost been expecting this revelation. “I should have realised that someone would recognise me.”

Greg laughed. “You’ve changed some, but not too much. How’re your brothers?”

“Fighting fit. I’m seeing most of them this weekend. John’s written a book and we’re all going to the launch. They’ll be pleased to hear that you’re still working for Father.”

“I take it that you’re keeping your relationship with him secret so you don’t get special treatment?”

Virgil pulled a face. “It’s worked beyond my wildest dreams.”

Greg nodded over to where Max Watts was giving instructions to Louis and Burt. “Some people have been giving you a hard time?”

“I can handle it.”

“Anyone else know your real identity?”

“Apart from Uncle Ha…?” Virgil pulled himself up. “Mr Mickleson? I told Bruce Sanders and Louis Fleming.”

Greg Harrison pursed his lips. “I’m not sure that that was a wise move, Virgil.”

“Bruce has promised he won’t tell anyone. He tells me that Louis is too scared to. Apparently he doesn’t want the ‘boss’s son’ to get him into trouble.”

“But what does Louis say?”

“I haven’t spoken to him since I told him,” Virgil admitted.

“I’ll talk to him,” Greg promised. “I have the advantage that I’ve worked for ACE long enough to be unafraid to approach your father, but I’m not high enough up the food chain to be a threat to our workmates.”

Virgil smiled. “Thanks, Mr Harrison.”

“Greg.”

“Greg,” Virgil amended. “You’ve no idea how pleased I was when Mr Watts said I was going to be working with you. But I can’t understand why he’s suddenly changed his attitude towards me. I thought that after having last week off I’d be getting the dull jobs until I leave.”

Greg pointed over his shoulder. “That’s the reason why.”

Virgil turned. Standing beside Max Watts, his entire body language reading ‘submissive’, was a scrawny young man. “Who’s that?”

“That is Max Watts’ son. George.”

“He’s got a job here?”

“One of the data entry team is off on paternity leave and George is his temporary replacement.” Greg pursed his lips together again. “There are some situations when nepotism should not be encouraged.” He sighed. “Well…! Come on, young Mr Tancy, let’s see what that fancy school of yours has taught you.”

It was a pleasurable morning; the first that Virgil had enjoyed since starting at ACE. He and Greg Harrison worked well together and finished the first panel for Holliday-Wilkins Corporation in good time.

Then they received the plans for the second panel. Virgil gave them the once over and did a double take. He checked the numbers again more thoroughly.

The bell for morning tea sounded.

“Time for a break, Virgil,” Greg announced. “Virgil?”

“Uh, sorry, Greg. I was looking at these plans.”

“Leave them,” Greg advised. “Time to rest your brain.”

But Virgil knew his brain wouldn’t be able to rest. It kept on going over and over those numbers he’d read on the second plan. They were wrong and he knew it. He knew because he’d helped design this section of Thunderbird Two… But he couldn’t tell anyone that. How could he explain the fact that he’d done design work for a shadow company…?

His cell phone rang and he found a secluded corner where he couldn’t be overheard. “Johnny!”

“Hiya, Virg. Got time to talk? I was going to leave you a message and let you know that I tried your home number and got Gordon.”

Virgil groaned. “I’d hoped he’d given up on changing my voicemail message. Sorry, John, but you’ve caught me at morning tea and I’ve less than ten minutes to spare.”

“That’s okay. I just wanted to check that you were feeling okay and up to coming on Saturday.”

Virgil smiled into the phone. “Of course I’m coming! Even if they’d had to drag me along attached to my life support system I wouldn’t miss your book launch!”

He could hear the introverted quiet pride in his brother’s voice. “You’ll probably find it boring. Book launches aren’t all that exciting.”

“I guarantee that I won’t find it boring. I’m looking forward to it. Will there be a big crowd there?”

“Well, there’s the family… my publisher… a couple of friends… The publisher’s put out a press release and invited some critics, but I can’t see anyone being interested in an astronomy book by an unknown author.”

“Hey! Positive thinking!” Virgil cajoled. “You might be pleasantly surprised.” He looked at his watch. Six minutes left. “Hey, John. You might be able to give me some advice.”

“Shoot.”

“I’m finally working on something interesting… Which reminds me, Greg Harrison sends his best.”

“Greg Harrison…? Oh, the old guy you used to follow around everywhere.”

“He’s the same age as Father, John.”

“Well, he seemed old when I was a kid. Dad’s ageless. Anyway, what’s this interesting thing you’re working on?”

“H-W panel 4372.”

“Your ‘bird! Wow, Virgil!” there was definite enthusiasm in John’s voice. “It must be starting to feel real for you. Have you done anything for ‘Barrett Ltd’ yet?”

“Sorry, but nothing’s come through production that I’ve seen.”

“Anyway, we’re wasting time. What’s this advice you want?”

Virgil frowned. “I’ve had a look at the plans for 4372 and they’re wrong.”

“Wrong?” Concern coloured John’s voice. “How do you mean wrong?”

“The material’s the wrong gauge. My problem is; how do I tell someone without letting on how I know it’s wrong?”

“How did the plan end up incorrect? Was it something we did?”

Virgil smiled at the non-judgemental ‘royal we’. John had had nothing to do with the design and specifications of Thunderbirds One, Two or Four, had minimal input on Thunderbird Three and had spent most of his time working on Thunderbird Five and the communications systems that would be the lifeline of International Rescue. “No, the specs were checked by each of us at least three times.”

“So, do they pass through someone else’s hands before you get your grimy ones on them?”

Virgil glanced upwards to the offices on a mezzanine floor overlooking the plant and saw movement. “Yes. They get processed into a format that ACE’s computers understand so they can run the material requirements planning programme.”

“So someone could have entered the data for the MRP wrong.”

“I think that’s probably what happened. The operator’s initials are GW. He’s even newer than me.”

“That’s new.”

“He’s also the Production Manager’s son.”

“Does ACE stand for ‘Authority’s Children Employed’?”

“Ha. Ha.” Virgil said dryly over John’s chuckle. “You’re not helping, John.”

“Sorry… Okay. Pretend you’re some nobody. Was there anything on the plans that would make you suspicious?”

“Not on those plans,” Virgil mused. “But we’d just finished panel 4371… I suppose I could be wondering why the two panels were differing gauges.”

“You’d have me fooled if you tried that one, but then I’m not an engineer. Would you fool your Production Manager?”

“No. And he’d probably think I was out to get his son into trouble. And, since I’m already on a final warning, he’d probably…”

“You’re what!” John exclaimed. “Final warning!? Virgil! Why?”

“Long story, and I haven’t time to tell you now. Look. I’ll go talk to the son and see if I can get this sorted without any fuss. I’ll give you a call tonight and let you know how I get on.”

“Okay, Virg. And then you can tell me the full story of how you of all people managed to do something so serious that you’ve nearly got the sack.”

“Deal. Talk to you tonight, John.”

“Later, Virg.”

Virgil hung up his phone and looked at his watch again. Four minutes. He was running out of time. He jogged up the stairs to the data entry office and knocked on the door. There was no response so he pushed it open.

George Watts was seated at a desk in front of the computer. He wasn’t looking submissive now. He was looking frazzled.

Virgil stepped into the room. “Hi.” He extended his hand in greeting. “I’m Virgil Tancy. You’re George, right?”

“Yeah.” George’s handshake was weak and floppy.

Seeking to break the ice, Virgil said, “I hear you’re Max Watts’ son.”

“Yeah,” George repeated. “And I hear you’re the guy who popped up out of nowhere with the fancy diploma.”

“Uh, yes…” Virgil replied, momentarily dumbstruck. “I guess I am.”

“Dad’s told me about you.”

Virgil had a feeling that that information wouldn’t have been complimentary. This wasn’t going to be easy, especially on a restricted timetable. “Look, I’m not trying to tell you your job…” George gave him a look that said that he didn’t believe him. “…But I was working on one of the Holliday-Wilkins’ contracts before the break, and I happened to glance at the specs for the next contract and I noticed that the gauge is different…”

“Oh, you did, did you?”

“And I thought I’d double-check that it was right before we started after the break.” Virgil gave a smile. “You know, better to make sure that everything’s right now, so we don’t have to redo the job?”

“You wanted to get me into trouble.” George Watts was clearly on the defensive.

‘Strike one’, Virgil thought. “No. That’s why I wanted to see you when no one’s about. If there is a mistake no one else need know about it. Can’t we just double-check? Maybe whoever entered the specs for the first plan got it wrong and you’re right?”

“I entered the specs for the first plan.”

‘Strike two’. “Perhaps your finger slipped and hit the wrong number. I know how easy it is to punch the wrong computer key.”

“Why are you so convinced it’s wrong?!” George demanded. “Perhaps Wilkins-Holliday…”

“Holliday-Wilkins,” Virgil corrected and then wished he hadn’t. ‘Strike three’.

“…Wanted the panels to be differing sizes. There’s nothing on the originals to say what they’re for. Just a load of numbers.”

Virgil could read those numbers as clearly as he could his alias on his computer printed payslip. He knew the gauge was wrong. But he couldn’t tell George that.

“Besides,” George continued. “What does it matter? That’s what Quality Control’s for!”

“If quality control find an error then that means a lot of time and materials has been wasted. And if Q.C. don’t pick up the mist…”

“Look!” George sounded even more exasperated. “I’ve got work to do and it’s coming out my ears. I’d appreciate it if you’d leave me alone! At this rate I’ll never get to my gig tonight.”

Virgil’s ears pricked up. “Gig? You’re a musician?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s your instrument?”

George looked at him warily. “Acoustic guitar.”

“Where are you playing?”

“Stal Palace.”

“Stal Palace!” This was one of the leading clubs in town and Virgil was impressed. “They say that if you’re good enough to play there you’re good enough to turn professional!”

“Yeah.” George shrugged.

“I play the piano myself,” Virgil confided, hoping to gain the young man’s trust, “but I wouldn’t have a chance of performing at Stal Palace. So, have you recorded anything?”

“I’d like to.”

“Why haven’t you?” Virgil asked. “Maybe someone at Stal Palace will back you. Cut a demo and send it to a record company.”

“I’m not allowed.”

Virgil frowned. “You’re not allowed?”

“No. Dad said I should find a proper job instead. So he got me into ACE, working for the great Jeff Tracy.” Jeff’s name was said in a voice that managed to convey sarcasm and awe.

“I’ve noticed that your father seems to admire him,” Virgil admitted.

“Admire him!? He’s legend in our house!” George exclaimed. “I should ‘consider it a privilege’ to work for him.”

“From what I know about him,” Virgil said, watching his words, “Jeff Tracy thinks it’s important to be true to yourself. Surely if you explained it to him how important music is to you, Mr Watts would agree.”

George shook his head. “Not my dad.”

They were silent for a moment and Virgil wondered what his father’s reaction would have been if he’d chosen a more artistic career. He decided that Jeff would probably have been disappointed, but supportive. “Well, one good thing about working; while you’re here you’ll be able to save up enough money to be able to finance your own demo recording. I’m sure that once you’ve got a letter of acceptance from a recording company then your father will let you…”

“I wouldn’t count on that, Mr Tancy.”

Virgil’s stomach fell to the ground floor below as he turned. “Mr Watts.”

Clearly livid, Watts looked at his watch. “Ten-oh-five a.m. Taking an extended morning tea break, are we, Mr Tancy? Isn’t one week off enough?”

“I-I didn’t hear the bell go,” Virgil admitted.

“No? You have a habit of doing that. Are you deaf? Or were you too busy corrupting the mind of an honest, hardworking young man who knows that a musician is not a valid career choice.”