Double Play

by rann

A few scenes after The Chosen One before Barbarians at the Gate. Old story, Epilogue has been added, slight revisions to original.

Disclaimer:  The characters from "Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's The Lost World" are owned by Telescene, NewLine Television, The Over the Hill Gang, Coote/Hayes, etc.  No profit is being made from this story.  No infringement upon copyrighted material is intended.

Thanks:  To my faithful beta readers who keep me on track, capture all those errant problems that creep in as I rethink my sentences.  This is for you CMS, Ariadne, and Susannah.

Summary:  A few scenes after The Chosen One; before Barbarians at the Gate.

Spoilers:  The Chosen One, Resurrection

Author's Notes: Ned and Veronica still seemed a little stiff at the end of The Chosen One with the incident with Kayla, so I thought they needed a little help to patch up their differences before Ned makes his decision in Barbarians At The Gate.  Also in BatG, Roxton tells Marguerite he cares so they could use a little softening.  Finally, starting in All or Nothing, whenever the explorers are camping out Roxton and Marguerite always sleep side by side, so I decided that I give that little bit of by-play some attention.  Because I dealt with the relationships for both couples, it was a double play.  Since the original writing of this story, I decided it needed a bit of an epilogue, some minor changes have made in the original story as well, since this time I've had the help of some expert beta readers.

Double Play
by rann

Scene: Treehouse, evening

The sun was setting on the plateau, the last rays seeping their way through the balcony, casting a hazy glow over the great room.  The warmth of the day still lingered, the humidity leaving all the residents listless.  From the floor below the voices of Challenger and Summerlee rose and fell discussing the possible uses of Summerlee's latest find.  One of Malone's journals lay open, face down on a chair cushion, left there as he followed Veronica to the elevator.

The jungle girl had been restless during the evening meal.  She had not been interested in the story of the Moyans, contributing little to the discussion beyond saying her parents had never mentioned them.  She had been even less interested in the boar that Roxton and Marguerite brought home, not caring about Summerlee and Challenger's ideas about the best way to smoke the remainder of the meat.  When Malone started talking about Virginia hams, it was the last straw and she left the table.

Marguerite, while disliking housework, hated clutter even more; so she rose to clear the table. Challenger made some comment about an ointment he was developing and immediately left for the lab, closely followed by Summerlee.   Since Malone and Summerlee had prepared the meal, Roxton decided to help her clean up.

Marguerite and Roxton had just put the finishing touches to the cleanup as Malone was reviewing one of his journals, when Veronica emerged from her room announcing she was going to check the perimeter of the treehouse base.  Roxton was on the verge of volunteering to accompany her when Marguerite touched his arm and shook her head.

Malone looked up. "I'll go with you, it's getting late.  You shouldn't be out alone."

Veronica stiffened.  "I'll be all right!  I've been looking after myself for years."  She continued onto the elevator.  Ned abandoning his journal, snatched up his rifle, barely making it onto the elevator before it began its downward trip. 

Below the treehouse, Veronica strode away from the elevator, Ned kept pace with her.

"Veronica, please."  He placed a hand on her arm. The blonde jungle-raised girl stubbornly refused to meet the reporter's eyes.  "I need to talk to you."

"There's nothing to talk about."

"That business with Kaya, I know it hurt you. I also know that when she left, it seemed as if I was taking her side."

"So what do you want, Malone?  Me to tell you it's okay?  Well, then, it's okay!" Her voice grew harder with each word.

"It wasn't okay, …it just was."  By contrast Malone's voice was exceptionally mild.  "She didn't care about me. What she was, wasn't even human. And for a while, I didn't feel very human.  I felt driven.  Like it was more instinct then reason."  He paused, "I didn't like feeling that way."

Veronica finally looked at him, her expression slightly softened.  He gave her a ghost of a smile.  "Let's finish this walk."

***

Roxton hadn't heard the story of the past couple of days at the treehouse, but he could see the strain between the young couple.  From his position on the balcony he was caught by the sight of.  Marguerite.  She sat at the table with some sewing; her hair pinned up in concession to the heat and humidity.  A few strands escaped to curl around her face. 

From below Summerlee's voice rose again in disagreement.  "Really, George, after all this time you'd think that you'd concede the possibility that I am the expert in cataloging plants."

"You're just being stubborn, Summerlee.  This species was thought to have been extinct, and .." Challenger's voice trailed off as the moved further into the lab.

Roxton wandered over to the gramophone, looked through the records.  With another glance at the woman intent on sewing, he selected one and carefully placed the needle to avoid scratching one of their treasured recordings. 

Strains of Mozart filled the room of the treehouse. He walked backed to the balcony to survey the now-peaceful vista.  In counterpoint, he heard Marguerite's voice humming to the music, one of her favorites, as he was well aware.  The soft, slightly off-key sound pulled his attention into the great room.   He noticed her sewing abandoned on the table as she fussed with the teapot.  She glanced up.  "Tea, John?  I'm afraid I let it steep too long, so be warned." 

With a smile he collected a cup from her.  She knew he preferred his tea on the strong side.  A slight grimace crossed his face as he sipped at the cup.  They were out of milk; another trip to the Zanga village was needed.

Returning to the table, she picked up her sewing.  He sipped his tea, admiring the appealing tableau she presented as she bent her head over her sewing once more.  As he watched, it seemed as if the room around her changed.  It was no longer the primitive wood of the treehouse, but the elegant furnishings of a drawing room in England.  He stood entranced.

He must have made some move, because she lifted her head.  "Are you all right, Roxton?"

"Fine, ah, fine.  I was just thinking I'd better take care of my guns.  After that bath they took yesterday, they're going to need a thorough cleaning and oiling." He took refuge in routine, a little shaken by the image that had invaded his mind.

"I suppose I should, too." Marguerite said with a wistful glance at her sewing.

"I can take care of yours as well."

"In exchange for what?" Marguerite responded suspiciously.  She never expected anything without having to offer something in return.

For a brief instant he was tempted to tell her the truth.  He like watching her as she carefully set her stitches.  It reminded him of the simple routines of his life in England, keeping homesickness at bay.

He was also comforted with the idea of making sure her pistol was in good condition.  She depended on her pistol more than the rifle and the image of it jamming on her during a fight tightened his gut.  Inspiration struck, however, to make his offer seem reasonable.

"Well if you wouldn't mind, I do have a couple of shirts that need mending."

Marguerite considered the options.  She could get her hands oily and smelly or she could continue sewing, which she enjoyed.  "We can't have you wandering around the jungle in less than your usual sartorial splendor."

He grinned and went to retrieve a couple of shirts.

As they sat companionably sipping tea, sewing, and cleaning guns, it seemed a long way from yesterday when they left Gideon.

***

(The day before.)

They were too far from the treehouse to make it back that night.

"Besides which," Roxton informed her, "we still have to bring home the boar."

"After all this, you have got to be kidding."  The incredulity in her tone pulled a smile from him.

"Sorry, Marguerite, that's why we're out here in the first place."

As they worked their way back, Roxton led them towards a stream.  Taking care to disturb the area as little as possible, he carefully looked for signs of his preferred game.

"There!"

"What? I don't see anything that looks like a pig!" Marguerite protested.

"Those tracks."

"So a pig was here, what good does that do us now?"

"Chances are he'll be back."

"When?"

"Dusk or dawn is most likely."

"Don't tell me."

He grinned, "Your favorite way to wake up in the morning."

"Why not tonight?"  The idea of an early start to the next day was not appealing to the dark haired beauty.

"I'd rather not attract any other predators to our camp."

"Other predators?" Marguerite inquired curiously.

"You're dangerous enough as it is."

A wry twist of her lips and a sour look let him know how she regarded that attempt at humor.  "Well if we're not hunting tonight, I can at least take the opportunity to freshen up at the stream."

The campsite he chose was a bit away from the game trails. While he gathered firewood, she set up a ring of stones.  Arms full of wood, he returned to find her eyeing an upper branch of a nearby tree.

"What do you see?"

"Guava fruit."

"What's stopping you?"

"If you were a gentleman, you'd offer to get it."

He looked at the tree in question.  "I don't think those branches would hold my weight."

Marguerite's look was skeptical.  In response he made a stirrup of his hands and gave her a challenging look.  With a shake of her head and a resigned look, she placed her booted foot in his hands and caught the lowest branch as he gave her a boost.  Using another branch to maintain her balance she gathered a few pieces of fruit.  She considered using one or two as ammunition, but that would delay her anticipated visit to the stream. She slipped the fruit into the mesh bag she had tucked in her pocket. 

"Roxton, catch."  The hunter easily caught the bag she tossed.  As she sat on a branch, legs dangling, she looked expectantly at him.  He just watched her with a grin, wanting to make her ask for help.  She turned and prepared to lower herself, suddenly finding his hands at her hips steadying her descent.

"Stubborn," was his only comment.

Marguerite gave him a sideways look expressing the irony inherent in him calling someone else stubborn.

"I'm going to the stream."

"Keep your eyes open, and don't dawdle!  We're not the only ones who might be looking for a meal streamside."

"Roxton, you do know how to make a lady relax and enjoy her bath."

"I mean it, Marguerite." His voice no longer held a teasing note.

"All right! I'll hurry."  Exasperation coloured Marguerite's expression.

Roxton knelt to light the fire surreptitiously watching her as she followed the closest path to the stream. As she moved out of sight, he slipped his rifle off of his shoulder, held it across his body, ready to swing up to fire if need be.  He positioned himself on the trail, where he could watch both her and the campsite.

The hunter stood there guarding her unobtrusively, alert for any sights or sounds that might herald an intrusion upon the dark haired beauty's grooming.  His thoughts went back to the past couple of days, the unexpected encounter with Gideon and waging war on his behalf.

He wondered idly what Summerlee and Challenger would make of the Moyan civilization.  "Probably start another argument." 

When Roxton and Marguerite had returned from the mountains in the north after encountering Osric's minions, they eventually had given the others a very condensed version of their adventures.  The descriptions they gave of the warriors encountered were enough for Challenger and Summerlee to begin a heated debate.  The two scientists naturally took opposing sides over questions on 'Eric the Red' and 'Lief Ericson', and if they or their contemporaries could have made it as far south as South America.  Roxton hadn't tried to follow the theories proposed.

"Looks like we'll be giving them more fodder for the next intellectual battle."  But whatever his civilization's history on the plateau was, Gideon had struck a chord in him.  The boy was so sure of himself, so ready to charge head on into whatever battles awaited. He wished the boy hadn't needed to grow up before his time. He understood Gideon's guilt over the deaths of Lucas and Davos.  He knew better than the boy did how overwhelming it was to be thrown into a situation you were never prepared to meet.

He looked again at the slender figure kneeling yards away at the stream, her white camisole bright in the fading light. She had seen what he didn't want to acknowledge at first.  He saw himself in Gideon. It brought him back to the battles he had fought in the past.  And how it felt now, going into battle knowing your back was being watched as carefully as one person could manage.

He'd been in numerous battles before, given command, had comrades, but never before had he had someone who he felt he could so completely rely on.  Who knew how he would react in a fight and respond.

How unexpected that it was woman. Not just a woman, but one whose delicate features, fragile appearance belied her toughness and competency.  And one who had a frightening ability to see inside his soul.  When he couldn't shoot Lucas, he found himself unable to form the words to explain his lapse.  A look at his companion and he found that she understood he couldn't shoot someone's brother, someone's older brother.  And all he saw in her eyes was understanding, not disappointment or accusation; then she took it upon herself to explain his actions to the Moyans. As he watched she rose gracefully from the stream's edge. 

"Well, your lordship, I trust you found the show entertaining." His beautiful companion was buttoning her blouse as she drew close.

"Most gratifying."  He smiled suggestively, handing her his rifle has he made his way to the stream to clean the grime of the day and fill their canteens.

Roxton returned to the campfire to find Marguerite going through their packs for something of interest for their meal.  When he had turned from the stream, he had caught sight of her standing guard just as he had done.  When he stood from gathering up the canteens, she was no longer in view.  He didn't say anything. She'd deny she had been worried about him. He rather thought that motherly crack he made still rankled; so she had made it a point to be found doing something else.

Crossing the small campsite he picked up his rifle from where it lay next to Marguerite.  "Let me see if I can find something for dinner. You'll be okay?"

"Of course, Lord Roxton," was the self-assured answer.

***

It hadn't taken him long to find a small game bird.  By the time they cooked it and were ready to eat it was full dark.  The stack of wood near the fire looked sufficient to see them through the night. 

"Are we going to need to set a watch tonight?"  Marguerite inquired as the hunter stood peering into the jungle.

The British lord assessed the perimeter of their campsite.  "I don't think so. I haven't seen traces of larger game.  There's quite a bit of brush around this clearing.  If anything was even inclined to come near the fire, which I doubt, there should be sufficient noise to provide a warning."  He joined Marguerite as she took the bird off the improvised spit and slid it onto a plate.

"Such a domestic scene." The hunter commented with a gleam in his eyes.

"Don't get used to it," was the tart rejoinder.

"Wouldn't dream of it," he commented unsuccessfully trying to suppress a smile.

Roxton sliced the bird into smaller chunks. Marguerite declined the proffered first bite. Taking a piece he chewed it thoughtfully.

"Don't tell me it tastes like chicken."  The linguist commented dryly.

"More like pheasant."  As the dark haired explorer sat on a log next to him in the small clearing he presented the plate again.  She absently picked at a piece.

"You never said exactly what kind of bird this was."

"Do you really want to know?"

With a grimace, she shook her head, then chewed on the small piece of fowl she had ventured to take. "Another 'Lost World' epicurean delight."

Her sarcasm brought another twitch of the lips to Roxton's face.  He was the only one of her companions who appreciated her acerbic wit, even when she chose to exercise it at his expense.

"You should eat a little more."  The hunter noticed she was picking very lightly at their shared meal.

"The boy is gone, Roxton, your brief sojourn into parenthood is over."

Roxton considered his companion's words as he lifted his canteen to his lips.  "I think he'll be okay.  A distaste for war is a good quality in a leader."  His experiences in the past had left him with an appreciation of the costs of battle. He passed the canteen to the suddenly solemn English woman.

"Amen to that." The fervency of her words caused his eyes to flicker toward her.  Such emotion was usually not found in noncombatants or those who had remained safely behind the lines.  Aware that she might have revealed more than she intended, the dark haired beauty took a swallow from the canteen, and returned it to the hunter.  She then rose and stepped away from the campsite.

"Not too far, Marguerite."  An exasperated sigh was the only response. Roxton reached into his pack and began spreading blankets next to each other, hers closest to the fire.

Marguerite returned to the campsite and regarded the sleeping arrangements with a jaundiced eye. "Just what do you think you're doing?"

"It's late and we have to be up at dawn."

"Don't get cute, Roxton.  I don't need you sleeping on top of me."

"Now that's an intriguing idea." 

This innuendo was met with a stern look that let him know she wasn't going to be dissuaded from making her point.  "You can put your blanket on the other side of the fire."

"But how can I protect you from over there?" He continued setting out his rifle and gun so they'd be close at hand while he slept, a smile playing across his lips.

"Protect me?! What's gotten into you."  Marguerite was convinced she was dealing with a lunatic.

"You complained that I didn't protect you.  This is the least I can do for 'my woman'." Roxton's smirk was evident as they spoke.

"I am not your woman! You're delusional. Again!" Marguerite retorted sharply.

"You didn't object when Gideon called you that."

"It was easier than trying to explain."

"Really? You didn't seem to have any trouble arguing the point about protection."

"That was different." It wasn't often Marguerite was at a loss.

"Oh." Roxton's eyebrows raised in mock surprise. "And here I thought that I was being chastised for being neglectful to 'my woman'."

 Roxton was thoroughly enjoying this.  It wasn't often that he got the upper hand in one of their exchanges, but when he did, he savoured it.  To distract her while he was still the victor in this latest verbal battle, he changed the subject.

"So how do you think you'll fare in Goth mythology?"

"Me?  They won't care about me; you were the one who defeated Cyan."

"Yes, but I'm a man and I faced one man. You faced down at least four them, using their own weapons. Add to that you're a woman and they'll have to do something about the story to avoid disgrace."

"I'm sure that part of it will fade into the background."

"I don't think so.  Maybe they'll make you a goddess." Roxton offered his hand to assist her in sitting down on her blanket, hoping that his talk was distracting her from his purpose.

Taking his hand, she sat.  Then as he lowered himself beside her, she tilted her head and smiled, "How gratifying. Maybe I'll make you my acolyte."

With an appreciative look for her comeback he remarked, "So you fancy being a deity." He began checking his pistol; to be sure it was fully loaded. "Of course they could just change their description of you."

"What do you mean?" Suspicion of what outrage her 'protector' might perpetrate next, coloured her tone.

"You're just a slip of thing, barely seven stone."

"I'm more than seven stone."

"Not much more and that's soaking wet."  His grin let her know he was thinking of their encounter on the bank of the Amazon River.

"Roxton, will you never let that go?  I wouldn't think you'd be in such a hurry to remember your less than gentlemanly behavior.  And whatever my weight, I am more than capable of taking care of myself."

Completely unrepentant, the tall hunter surveyed her. "I believe the Goths thought so."  He no longer wondered that he took such joy in provoking her.  He'd come to realize over the months that he found arguments with Marguerite were more enticing than another woman's attempts at seduction.  "I think the Goths'll have to make you at least seven feet tall and hurling balls of fire or they'll never live it down."  The dark haired hunter stretched out on his blanket.

Marguerite looked at her companion in wry amusement and lying down on her own blanket; gave up trying to convince him to move.  In truth, it was comforting to know he'd be nearby during the night.  Sleeping on the trail was always a little unsettling to her; still she couldn't resist a final try for pride's sake. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather be closer to the fire?"

"You know, Marguerite, you're right." 

She swallowed and waited for him to move.  She finally convinced him, but she wasn't as pleased with her victory as she thought she would be.

The British nobleman smiled and moved closer to his slender companion.

"Roxton! What are you doing?"

"Getting closer to the fire.  I thought it exceedingly kind of you to offer."

"Get back on your own blanket!"

"Make up your mind." Roxton settled back with a grin.

With a roll of her eyes, the heiress turned on her side, giving him her back, before she let a small smile peek out.  The hunter pulled his hat over his eyes and sought his own rest, his right hand reaching down to be sure his pistols and rifle were within easy reach, secure in the knowledge that his companion was tucked safely between him and the fire.

***

(The next night)

Veronica and Malone had nearly completed their circuit of the treehouse perimeter.

"I wonder if Challenger will ever get the electric fence to run reliably?"  Veronica commented.

"It would be nice to get a solid night's sleep.  How did you ever manage on your own with the apemen?"

"Well unless I intruded on their territory, I never really had any problems with them.  They never attacked the treehouse before…" Her voice trailed off.

"….before we were here. Summerlee once speculated that we were the cause of the apemen's attacks.  You weren't a threat until there were men here."

"You think you're more dangerous?"  Veronica asked pointedly.

"No, it just shows how little they know."  Malone's voice held a teasing note.

Veronica smiled pleased with Ned's acknowledgement of her abilities.

"What's one thing you remember from your childhood that was fun?"  Ned deliberately distracted her from the discussion of the apemen.

The jungle beauty thought for a moment. "I had a stuffed lion."

"A stuffed lion?" Ned was surprised.

"What's wrong with that?"

"It just seems like in South America it should have been a monkey or jaguar."  Malone pointed out reasonably.

Veronica laughed at him. 

"Okay, did this stuffed lion, on the wrong continent, have a name?"

"Edward."  With difficulty Veronica kept a straight face.

"Edward the Lion?" 

At Ned's tone, Veronica started giggling again. "If I had known, I could have called him Edward T. Lion or Ned the Lion."

"Okay, what adventures did you and Edward the Lion get into?"

***

It was full dark outside the treehouse as Roxton glanced over at his companion.  He'd finished up with the pistols and the rifle, earlier.  He refilled their teacups and lit candles, while Marguerite was still intent on her sewing.  Since it was his shirt she was working on, he had picked up their holsters and belts and oiled them to help prevent the leather from cracking.  He needed to keep busy. The image of Marguerite sewing in a drawing room stuck in his mind.  Occupying his mind most of all was the fact that the drawing room he pictured was the one at his manor house at Avebury. 

He watched as she finished his shirts and picked up one of her own blouses again.  A moment later he looked up from his tasks and was surprised to see she seemed to be taking the blouse apart.  "I thought the idea behind this was repair?"

"It will be repaired eventually, in the meantime, it will be a pattern."

"A pattern for what?"

"A Sopwith Camel!  What do you think?"

"Do you mean you can make a shirt?"

"Such perception, you must have kept them on their toes in the Lords."

In the brief silence that followed his ears picked up the sound of voices, much more chipper than when they had left.  Marguerite glanced up and over at the elevator, sharing a smile with him.  She, too, had been aware of the tension between the two younger members of the household.

As the elevator rose bearing Veronica and Malone, they could make out Veronica's cheerful tones responding to some remark of Malone's.  Apparently they had resolved their differences.  As the elevator drew near to the floor they could make out the reporter's words.

"I was at the Polo Grounds, the original one.  My dad took me.  I think it was '04 and the team from Chicago was there, the Cubs, to play our Giants.  And the Cubs had this infield that everyone was talking about.  The shortstop was Joe Tinker, Frank Chance played first, and Johnny Evers was at second.  Tinker to Evers to Chance.  And whoosh two outs."

Marguerite looked inquiringly at Roxton. 

"I think it's the American version of cricket."

"Two outs?  I never heard of anything like that."  Veronica's voice had the eager sound they were used to hearing.

"Yeah, they called it the double play."

***

The Curse of the Goat.
Epilogue to Double Play.

Scene: The Zanga village, the next morning.

"A goat!"  Marguerite's voice went up.  "Are you crazy, how can we keep a goat?"

"Why not, Marguerite?  I would think you'd like not having to trek over to the Zanga village for milk so often."  Veronica was in the mood for a confrontation.

"They smell!"

"She does have a point, Veronica.  Goats are rather malodorous."  Summerlee put in mildly.

"Thank you, Arthur."

"It could attract raptors.  Without the electric fence working we don't have an effective way to keep them out."  Roxton reminded the blonde jungle girl.  Despite wanting to accommodate their hostess, he was reluctant to do anything that might encourage the vicious predators to linger in their vicinity.

"As cantankerous as that goat is, I'd put my money on the raptors."  Malone knew which animal was being offered and remembered Jarl scrambling to get out of its way.

"Ned!" Veronica's displeasure with her sometime suitor quickly brought him to see the error of his ways.

"Of course, we could manage somehow."  The reporter hastily tried to regain lost ground.

"Assai offered it to me as a gift.  I have to take it."

"Having seen the way that goat acts, I'm surprised she didn't pay you to take it."  Marguerite's comment drew a short laugh from Roxton.  Challenger struggled to muffle his outburst to a cough.  Summerlee suddenly decided he needed to find his pipe.

"Maybe the smell will keep the raptors at bay."  Roxton couldn't resist the humor in the situation any longer.

"We really should think this through before we come to a decision."  was Challenger's entirely rational approach to the problem.

"If we don't take it, than we're cursed."

"A goat curse."  Malone's humorous tone changed when Veronica's brow darkened petulantly.  "Not that any sort of curse is to be taken lightly."

"What kind of curse?"  Challenger fought to keep a serious demeanor. 

"When a gift is offered, if you turn it down, the ingratitude incurs the wrath of the Zanga gods.

***

(The treehouse, several days later)

The elevator came to a halt, jerking slightly.  The past couple of days the elevator had been behaving rather temperamentally. Jarring its passengers as rose unevenly in the hollowed trunk of the host tree. Refusing to run at all.  Stopping unexpectedly. Yesterday, Marguerite and Roxton were stranded in it for nearly an hour.

The tall hunter stepped off recalcitrant lift without making eye contact with the other inhabitants of the great room.  He focused on hanging up his hat and stowing his rifle away on the rack.  It was obvious he didn't have any game with him.

Marguerite watched him briefly.  "No luck again today?"

"What does it look like, Marguerite?"  Roxton's testy manner revealed how angry he was at himself.

"That's what, four days in a row?"  The linguist chose to ignore the warning signs.

"I can count, Marguerite."  With a target for his displeasure in his sights, the unsuccessful hunter was willing to vent his frustration.

"Everything fly south?"  Marguerite mocked him. 

"Not to worry, Ned went to the grove earlier.  We'll have plenty of fruit."  Veronica decided to head off another acrimonious exchange.

The reporter cleared his throat, as he gathered up his journals.  "Well, actually, er, there was, well I suppose you could say, a slight problem.  Just a minor difficulty."

"Malone?"  Veronica's puzzled face turned toward the young blonde who was edging his way toward his room.  "What kind of problem?"

"I did get the fruit, but there was this raptor, so I dropped the bag.  I did shoot the raptor."  Ned hurriedly added.

"Didn't you go back for the bag?"  Marguerite studied the young man, sure there was more to the story.

"Yes, but it wasn't there."

"Where did it go, Ned?"  Veronica asked.

"You see, there were these monkeys."  Ned's embarrassment threatened to overwhelm him.

"So no fruit."  Marguerite summed it up.

"But you got the raptor."  Roxton pointed out.

"Not exactly."

"How do you not exactly get a raptor?"  Marguerite's barb hit home with the young man.

"It got away."  Ned made his escape to his room.

"So no game, " Marguerite's head inclined toward Roxton, "and no fruit."  Her face turned towards Malone's room.

"I haven't seen you making a lot of head way." Roxton waved at the scraps of balloon fabric.  Marguerite had been trying to sew the small pieces together to make reasonable size patches.

"That is not my fault!  If Summerlee and Challenger want material for repairs, they need to give me thread that doesn't break."  The dark haired woman was outraged.

"You never had problems with the thread before."  Veronica slid her point in.

"Well, I have now.  And it has nothing to do with that goat!"  Marguerite added, before the jungle girl could make another one of the pointed comments she had been subjecting them to these past few days.

Any response Veronica or Roxton might have made was drowned out by a crash. 

"Malone?" Veronica darted towards the reporter's room.  Roxton and Marguerite were a step behind her.

The reporter was sprawled on the floor of his room.  The splintered leg of his chair was next to him.  Ink covered him and the spilled inkpot rolled on the floor.  Several of Malone's journals lay on floor. 

Veronica dropped to her knees tentatively touching Ned's forehead.  "Are you all right.  Say something."

The blue eyes of the reporter blinked.  "What happened?"

"You tell us."  Marguerite stood with the tall hunter looking over her shoulder in the doorway.  She eyed the mess left by the spilled ink with distaste.

"Looks like the leg on the chair gave out."  Roxton brushed past the linguist to pick up the offending piece of wood.  He bent it slightly and the wood shattered. "Rotten.  It could have given way at any time."

"But it didn't, it gave way when Ned was holding his inkpot."  Veronica spoke seriously.

"Just as if it was a curse."  Ned came to the reluctant conclusion.

"Come on, Malone, are you saying this happened because of some goat?"  Roxton was incredulous.

"We've had an incredible amount of bad luck lately."

"Maybe you broke a mirror."  Marguerite jibed

The explosion from the lab cut off any response the others might have made.

"Arthur!"  Marguerite had been nearest the door.  She wheeled around, fairly flying down the lab stairs.

"Professor?"  Veronica called through the smoke.  She and Roxton were on Marguerite's heels.  Malone scrambled to his feet and followed.

"Challenger!"  Roxton's voice rang out.

"Here!"  Marguerite coughed as she knelt by Summerlee.  Roxton reached down to help Summerlee stand.  Marguerite put her arms around him to keep him steady. 

"Get him upstairs!"  Roxton ordered the slim woman, wanting the two of them out of immediate danger.  He got on the other side of Summerlee and got the two of them to the steps.

Malone was busy with a blanket and a bucket of water trying to contain the source of the smoke.

Veronica was urging Challenger to stand.  Roxton joined Malone in putting things to right knowing the blonde jungle girl could handle guiding the scientist up the stairs.

Summerlee was on the settee sipping at the water, the dark-haired woman provided.  Veronica held Challenger's arm as he dropped heavily next to the elderly man.  Marguerite got another cup of water for the red-headed scientist.  She sipped at one herself trying to ease her throat.

"What happened?"  Veronica hovered, wanting to know what put her home in danger.

"I'm not really sure."  Summerlee was still catching his breath.  "There was no reason for that beaker to break when it did.  And then to shatter, just as Challenger had it over the nitrogen solution that we were heating.  I'm afraid it was just bad luck."

Roxton and Malone appeared at the top of the stairs in time to hear Summerlee. 

"You know maybe a goat wouldn't be such a bad idea."  Roxton coughed as he spoke.  Marguerite handed him her cup of water.

"You're just saying that because you like your tea with a splash of milk."

"I don't know, Marguerite.  I saw that the Zanga have coffee beans.  With some milk, coffee would be nice."  Malone stated hopefully.  Roxton walked over to the water jug to refill the cup.

"Coffee?  I had some in Italy, espresso.  It seemed very bitter."  Marguerite wavered.

"The beans need to be roasted just right."  Malone could be persuasive when he needed to be.

"My parents had a coffee grinder and a roaster."  Veronica said looking at Ned.

"A regular supply of milk would be an excellent addition to our diet."  Summerlee commented.

"I think we could contrive some type of protective structure for the livestock."  Challenger offered.

"If we can keep the raptors out, there shouldn't be a problem."  Roxton passed the cup back to Marguerite who still looked pale to his eyes.

"We're going to get that electric fence going soon." Challenger put in confidently.

"I suppose it would be interesting to try café au lait."  Marguerite was willing to be overruled if she could give in reluctantly.

"Then it's settled, we'll get the goat tomorrow."  Veronica's tone brooked no more arguments.

***

"Malone, this had better be good."  The dark haired beauty watched closely as Ned brewed the coffee.  She had to admit he had expertly roasted the beans, turning them to get the deep, rich color.  A bit of smoke, but no flames had marred his expert handling of the task.

"Marguerite, take a whiff of this.  There's nothing better?"

"It smells better than anything we had at the front."  Roxton added.

Malone poured out several cups.  He splashed a bit of the goat's milk into two of the cups.  He offered one to Marguerite.

Eyeing it dubiously the dark-haired woman sipped at brewed beverage.  A moue pulled at her mouth; she hastily put the cup down.  Malone picked up his cup more confidently, took a sip.  His cup joined Marguerite's on the table.

"Maybe we should consider taking it black."  Marguerite nodded her agreement.

finis

Author's Notes:
The story behind the story: I had put the final touches on my original version of Double Play on opening day for the Cubs.  Watching the game between Chicago and New York as I touched up the story, I was inspired to add a little by-play for Ned to talk about a very famous Cubs infield that made the double play famous back in 1904; Tinkers to Evers to Chance.  Since we knew from several episodes that Ned was a baseball fan and lived in New York, it seemed reasonable he'd have seen the NY Giants play.  (Yes, back in 1904, the Giants were in New York.)  Because of the numerous Chicago connections that have been used on TLW, I thought it fitting that he would see a New York – Chicago game.  The bit of poetry I quoted was from a New York Times reporter.  Against all the odds the Cubs won their division this year.

But we have a lot of superstition abounding in Chicago regarding the Cubs chances and a goat figures heavily into the mix.  And there is a goat that is never seen on TLW.  Since I did a story on opening day and we won the division, I thought I couldn't take any chances.  So the day our division series started, I decided to do an epilogue to Double Play.  I finished it up on game 5 as the Cubs won their first post season series since 1908.  (For the younger readers, you should know that in 1945 when the Cubs won the pennant, the leagues were not divided into divisions.  There were eight teams in the two leagues at that point.  Who ever finished first in the regular season won the pennant.)

Here's a little background on the curse of the goat for the Cubs:
In 1945, the Cubs were in the World Series. Sam Sianis, owner of a tavern/restaurant called The Billy Goat tried to take his goat to game four of the series. Complaints about the odor of the goat, caused Sam and the goat to be ejected. Furious he cursed the Cubs: "Never again will World Series be played in Wrigley Field." The Cubs lost the 1945 World Series. Since that point, the Cubs, have never won a post season series, until this year. Several attempts have been made to lift the curse.

The Billy Goat is one of the popular spots in Chicago for those in the know. It's location downtown, on lower Michigan Avenue, near the newspaper buildings and its all night liquor license made it a popular stop for the workers on third shift and newspaper reporters, among others, who had jobs that kept them up late. 
Chicago columnist, Mike Royko, did a lot to remind people about the curse.  Royko could frequently be found at the 'Goat'.  The Billy Goat Tavern, and its owner, were also made famous by John Belushi, on Saturday Night Live – the "Cheezeburger, Cheezeburger! No fries, chips!" bit for those devotees of SNL.

A little more baseball trivia:
The original Polo Grounds was rebuilt in 1911 after a fire.

"These are the saddest of possible words ... Tinker to Evers to Chance ... A trio of bear Cubs and fleeter than birds ... Tinker to Evers to Chance ... Ruthlessly pricking our gonfalon bubble ... Making a Giant hit into a double ... Words that are weighty with nothing but trouble ... Tinker to Evers to Chance."   From the "sad lexicon" written by Franklin Pierce, a writer with the New York Times.

Historical coffee notes:
Espresso was first available in the early 1900's.  Coffee was considered an important part of the World War I rations for troops.  I'm sure CMS would agree with Marguerite that coffee is a necessity.

Notes on the 2003 Cubs season.
The season didn't finish the way we would have liked, but we were there against all the odds this year, despite the injuries and the adversity. The story stands as part of my enjoyment of this most exciting baseball season.  If you a Cub fan, one thing you learn is to face down defeat and take what you can get.  In TLW we understand "To be continued".  In Chicago we say, "Wait 'til next year!"