Back in 2013 I wanted to write a story where I didn't beat up any of the Tracys...

So I started out by beating them all up...

And finally decided I was ready to post it two years later.

As usual I have no claims over any of the "Rescue" craft, the Tracys, the Kyranos, or Brains. Anyone who wants to is welcome to claim Melvyn.

I would like to thank Quiller, D.C., ScribeOfRed and the Mews for their help in the creation of this story.

F-A-B

:-) Purupuss

Please do not copy or post any of my stories in C2s or elsewhere without my permission.

Chapter 1 - International Resc-flu?

Down!

"Tin-Tin..." Alan Tracy reached out blindly for his girlfriend. "I'm..." He licked his dry lips with a tongue that seemed even more dehydrated. "I' dyin', Tin-Tin."

Tin-Tin stepped away from his grasping hands. "You are not dying, Alan."

Exhausted, he allowed his arm to flop back down. "Yes, I'm."

She looked down at his sweat-slicked face and laid the cold compress on his forehead. "No, you are not. You have influenza. That is all."

Alan started to shake his head, stopping just as quickly as he'd started, sure that he could feel his brains sloshing around inside his skull. "No. Brainz'z wrong. I'm dyin'."

"You are receiving the correct treatment. You will recover."

"Tin-Tin..."

But Tin-Tin had decided that she didn't have the energy to argue with him anymore and had walked away.

She stopped next to the only other lady in the room. "Why is it that when men are ill, they believe themselves to be at death's door?" she enquired.

Grandma chuckled, standing to one side so that Kyrano, the bowl in his hands filled with cool, damp cloths, could walk past. "Every man I've lived with – my father, my husband, my son, and my grandsons – have been just as bad. Why, to hear my dear, departed husband talk, you'd think that the farm should have had a team of paramedics following him around to resuscitate him." She chuckled again. "And that was when he had a case of the sniffles."

Tin-Tin glanced over at the beds in the infirmary. "The boys never create such a fuss when they are injured."

Grandma's lips thinned. "Which happens too often..." She ran her eyes across the monitors recording temperatures, blood pressures, heart rates, and respirations. "An injury is an affront to their male dignity and must be whipped into submission and shown who's boss. Illness, however, brings out the child in them all." She folded her arms. "I've lost count of the number of times I've run myself ragged nurse-maiding them..." She looked along a row of feverish faces. "This is the first time I've ever had to deal with a royal flush though."

Jeff Tracy had been in America conducting some of those high-powered meetings that were part of running a successful business. When he received word that the infectious disease was striking those he'd been in contact with, he decided that it would be prudent to hightail it for home. He'd been in the air for nearly an hour when the first symptoms had started to appear.

Many of the non-business-related discussions he'd been involved in talked about the course of this particular strain of the flu and Jeff had a fair idea what he was in for. The infectious phase one was characterised by fevers and chills before phase two hit and the entire body seemed to melt into a puddle of vomiting and diarrhoea. When that had subsided into phase three, the patient was left weak and delirious. Phase four saw the mind clearing, but the body was crippled by various aches and pains. Phase five wasn't declared over until the patient's appetite had returned and they felt well enough to be independently mobile.

Knowing this, Jeff had theorised that, while he could make it home safely, he would be under the weather by the time his wheels touched down on the Tracy Island runway. This left him with a choice. Turn back and submit to being nursed by strangers, or continue his homeward dash where he could collapse into the loving arms of his mother and succumb to the joys of her chicken soup.

He arrived home to a scolding for risking his neck and was sent straight to bed. Scott assisting him to his room.

And it had been the eldest of Jeff's sons who was the first to catch the disease from his father, closely followed by Alan, then Gordon, before finally Virgil had fallen.

The progression of each Tracy through the odoriferous mess that marked phase two had seemed to last forever, and for convenience's sake Brains had moved them all out of their individual bedrooms and into the infirmary. By the time each Tracy staggered into phase three, their carers were as rung-out as the patients.

But that was a night's sleep ago and everyone was feeling much more refreshed.

Everyone who was still standing, at least.

Mrs Tracy frowned. "That son of mine should have realised that he was infectious and stayed in the States!"

"Like any sick child, Mr Tracy wanted his mother?" Tin-Tin theorised, a delicate smirk playing around her lips as she looked along the row of faces that varied in shade from lily-white to almost scarlet. "He knew that if he came home you would feed him your chicken soup."

"I should refuse to give it to him." Grandma huffed. "This is all his fault."

"At least we should be grateful that International Rescue's services have not–"

"Don't say it!" Mrs Tracy raised her hand to stop Tin-Tin's speech. "Don't mention that name! You'll only jinx us. With all four boys out of action..." Censoring herself, she smiled across at her son. "At least he's well enough to eat his chicken soup now. Unlike the others..."

"Mother..."

Grandma sighed. "Duty calls… Yes, darling…?"

Brains bustled past making notes about his patients. He was as professional and solicitous towards them as always, but Tin-Tin could detect a trace of smugness that he, wimpy, bespectacled, laboratory geek, was still hale and hearty while each and every one of the handsome, dashing, vigorous men of the Tracy household had been laid low.

But there was one exception. The palm trees in the photo of Tracy Island on the wall swayed gently and the soothing sound of waves lapping the beach was heard. Being closest to the video screen, Tin-Tin initiated the link with Thunderbird Five. "Go ahead, John."

John Tracy's happy, almost infuriatingly healthy, face appeared on screen. "Hiya, Tin-Tin. How are the invalids?"

She sighed. "Your father is eating, and Brains believes that he may go back to his own room tonight."

"That's good."

"Scott has almost worked his way through phase five. He keeps on offering to help, but we are not going to accept until he gets his appetite back."

"If he's not hungry then he's definitely sick."

"Virgil is halfway through phase three, and Gordon is moving out of phase three and into phase four. His bed is practically swimming in sweat."

"At least he'll feel at home," John quipped, before raising an eyebrow. "And Alan?"

"Believes he is dying."

John snuffled a laugh. "Typical." Then he became serious. "How are you all holding up?"

Tin-Tin treated him to a reassuring smile. "We are all well."

"Good." John lowered his voice. "How's Grandma?"

"Your grandmother is a tower of strength."

"Glad to hear it." John thought for a moment. "Although come to think of it, I don't think I remember her ever being ill. I think she must be made out of cahelium or something. She's as tough as old boots!"

"I heard that, young man!"

"Sorry, Grandma!"

Tin-Tin laughed at John's immediate, almost childlike, apology. "Do not worry about us, John. We managed to get some sleep last night."

"Good. I'd hate to think that you're all about be struck down by the dreaded bug," he admitted. "It's not like I could pop home and take care of you all."

"Do not worry. Your brothers are past the infectious stage and Brains believes that none of us will become ill. If anything, he thinks that we will have gained some immunity and are less likely to catch the disease."

"Leaving me the weak link." John grimaced. "In that case, maybe I'd better stay here for a couple of weeks longer than planned so I won't catch it! That'll give Alan time to get his strength back."

"I wish you were home now, John." Tin-Tin shoved her hands into the pockets of her white lab coat. "If International Rescue is called out…"

"Tin-Tin!"

"Sorry, Mrs Tracy." And Tin-Tin realised that, while they may not have blood ties, her apology had the same childlike ring as John's. She made a face to John, who grinned back.

Grandma, at the bedside of the first invalid, caressed his arm. "How are you feeling, darling?"

"Better." Jeff Tracy treated his mother to a weak smile. "I don't feel like I'm pulling five Gs anymore. Only one and a half."

Chuckling at his simile, she checked the monitor above his bed. "Your temperature's almost back to normal."

"Good."

"Do you need anything?"

"Would you mind getting me my glasses?"

"Of course. Anything else?"

"My briefcase."

"Your briefcase?" Jeff's mother scowled down on him. "What on Earth for?"

"I thought I might do some work."

She folded her arms and his temperature ramped up a few points as she dared him to disobey her. "You are meant to be resting, Jefferson! Not working!"

"But, Mother..."

"But, Mother, nothing."

"But…"

"You are going to rest!"

"But…"

"The business can take care of itself for a few days."

"But..."

"I am not going to let you have a relapse!"

And Jeff, in his own childlike way, knew he was beaten.

Other inhabitants of the ward were still too ill to think about getting better, let alone worrying about relapses. "Thirzdy," Gordon slurred. "'m thirzdy. Dringk."

"Jus'..." Scott managed to lever himself into a position that could roughly be called upright. "Jus' stay there, Gord'n. I... I'll ge' you..." He rolled out of bed.

His feet hit the floor, the rest of his body following until he was a crumpled heap on the vinyl.

"Here we go again," Brains grumbled as he hurried over to the downed invalid.

"Permit me to help you, Mister Brains." Kyrano put Scott's arm about his shoulders and heaved.

Appearing to have difficulty focussing, Scott looked at him. "Wha'... Whad 'appened, Kyr'no."

"You fell, Mister Scott."

"I did?"

"Yes, Mister Scott."

"How?"

"You stood, Mister Scott."

There were grunts as the two men tried to raise one who, while weak as a kitten, appeared to be as heavy as a well fed polar bear.

"Mother..."

Grandma returned to her son's bedside. "Yes, honey?"

"Can you help me with my pillow? It feels all lumpy."

"Would you like me to plump it up for you?"

"Yes, please." Jeff smiled up at his angel of mercy. "Where would we be without you?"

"You'd be in bed, in the States, your sons would be well, and someone else would be plumping your pillow. Now, do you require anything else?"

Jeff settled back into the downy cushioning. "No. That's fine, thanks."

Finally managing to get their charge up to the level of the bed, Brains and Kyrano let Scott flop backwards onto the sheets. The eldest Tracy son stared at the ceiling. "Wha' happened?"

Declining to answer, Brains took a moment to regain his breath, before hearing a plaintive, "Thirzdy," from behind him. "P'raps you'll s-s-see to Gordon, Kyrano?" he puffed as he prepared to lift Scott's legs onto the bed.

Kyrano accepted the duty that Scott's fall had relinquished. "Would you like some water, Mister Gordon?"

"Warda?"

"Yes, Mister Gordon. Water." Kyrano took a moistened towel from out of a bowl and placed it on Gordon's forehead.

"Head 'urts."

"Do you wish me to remove the cloth?" Kyrano did so.

"Arms'urt."

"I understand that during phase three you will feel some pain."

"Bacg 'urts."

"It is part of the progression of the disease. It shall pass."

"'Ot."

"It is the fever. Allow me to cool you down." Kyrano remoistened the towel and replaced it on Gordon's forehead.

Gordon gave no sign of being aware what was happening to him. "Ear 'urts."

"Which one?"

"Allofit."

"All of it?"

Gordon managed a nod.

Kyrano, aware that this could be symptomatic of something other than the influenza that had levelled the Tracy family, wasn't prepared to dismiss Gordon's statement as the ramblings of a feverish man. "Do you have pain in your inner ear or outer ear? Do you have an earache?"

There was a weak shake of Gordon's head. "No. Ear 'urts."

"Your ear lobe."

"Yes… An' m'ear."

"And your inner ear?"

"No. M'ear.

"Mister Gordon…?" Kyrano was feeling somewhat confused by the conversation. "I wish to help. You said your ears hurt. Where are you in pain?"

"'Verywhere."

"Everywhere? Including your ear?"

"Not ear." Gordon appeared somewhat disgusted by his friend's lack of understanding. "Ear!" His hand moved as he tried to raise it. "Ear, Kyr'no"

Kyrano didn't want his patient exerting himself more than necessary. "Perhaps you could spell the word for me?"

"Sp'll?"

"Yes. What letter does it start with?"

"Wha' ledda does wha' star' with?"

"Your ear that hurts."

"Not ear!" Gordon spat in frustration. "Ear!"

Kyrano only just managed to stop himself from shaking his head in bewilderment. "And the first letter is?"

"Age."

"Age? Ear starts with A?"

"No, age!"

Kyrano asked some divine power for assistance.

That assistance was supplied via a softly spoken "Kyrano."

Kyrano turned. "Did you require me, Mr Tracy?"

"Ask him if he means hair."

Kyrano stared at his friend. "Hair? Do you mean...?" He raised his hand to touch his greying locks.

"I've been there, my friend," Jeff reminded him. "When you're in phase four you're convinced every part of your body aches, including your hair..." He spied another caregiver. "Ah, Mother... Would you mind…?"

Kyrano couldn't quite believe what he'd been told, and if it had been anyone other than Jeff Tracy offering the suggestion he would have dismissed it. He turned back to the young man lying in the bed. "Does your hair hurt, Mister Gordon?"

An almost beatific look softened Gordon's face. "Yes. 'Air." Then he swallowed. "Throa' 'urts."

Glad to be back on familiar, logical territory, Kyrano smiled his quiet smile. "You said you were thirsty. Perhaps a drink will soothe your throat." The old offer was reiterated. "Would you like some water?"

"Warda?"

"Yes, Mister Gordon. Water."

"Swim? 'Urts too much to swim."

"No, Mister Gordon. Not water to swim in. You must rest. Would you like some water to drink?"

"Dringk?"

"Yes, Mister Gordon. You said you were thirsty. What would you like to drink?"

"Ummm..." Gordon thought. "Brain 'urts."

"Do not try to think," Kyrano suggested. "Go with your, as you say, gut instinct."

"Gut 'urts."

Kyrano frowned. Perhaps Gordon wasn't quite out of phase two yet, although those symptoms had passed two days ago. "Do you wish me to fetch a bowl?"

"No. Fege dringk."

Kyrano relaxed. "And what would you like to drink, Mister Gordon?" He decided against his suggesting water again.

Gordon frowned as he thought. "Dunno."

"Perhaps you would prefer juice?"

Gordon's frown deepened. "No."

Hopeful that despite his somewhat eccentric ravings, maybe Gordon wasn't as ill as he thought and that phase two was well and truly past, Kyrano offered what would normally be a guaranteed winning offer. "Would you care for some of Mrs Tracy's chicken soup?"

Gordon didn't even stop to consider the suggestion; a sure sign he was under the weather. "No."

It was often said that Kyrano had infinite patience, but even he was starting to feel the strain of dealing with five invalids. Managing to ignore his impulse to walk away and leave Gordon alone to his thirst, he offered a solicitous: "Then what do you feel like drinking, Mister Gordon?"

"Milg."

"I am sorry, but I cannot offer you milk."

Through sweat-beaded eyelashes – they'd have to change his sheets again soon – Gordon looked surprised. "No mil'?"

"No, Mister Gordon. Dairy products are not good for you at the moment." Kyrano smiled at the invalid through clenched teeth. "What else would you like to drink?"

Gordon thought again. A process that he seemed to find extremely taxing.

The seconds ticked by.

Kyrano was starting to wonder if Gordon had forgotten that he was standing next to the bed, when the younger man's face relaxed and, delighted with his triumph, he smiled up at his friend. "Warda."

Suppressing a sigh, Kyrano went in search of a glass.

Grandma scowled down on her son. "I told you before. I am not going to get you your briefcase!"

"But, Mother..."

"No! You are going to rest, Jeff. Surely you can do that for another 24 hours? You said yourself that you're only feeling nearly better. Can't you wait until you're one hundred percent? The business is not more important than your health."

Jeff almost pouted. "The business, as you called it, is what keeps International Rescue healthy."

"Don't mention International Rescue!" she snapped. "We've been lucky so far and we don't want to jinx ourselves." She took a deep breath and plastered a smile on her face. "Would you like a book to read?"

Now Jeff did pout. "No."

"The newspaper?"

In a huff, Jeff folded his arms. "No." Then an idea came to him. "How about a tablet PC?"

The false smile disappeared. "So you can check the markets? I don't think so. Get some rest, Jeff!"

Brains, still panting a little after the exertion of getting the eldest Tracy son back into bed, checked his patient's vital signs. "Just – gasp – rest, Scott."

"Wanna 'elp."

"I know you want to 'elp, er, help, but you must – gasp – rebuild your strength first. Do you – gasp – feel up to having something to eat? Perhaps some of your – gasp – grandmother's chicken soup?"

Scott, his expression a study of the resolve that he showed at a rescue, nodded.

"I'll tell your grandma."

But Brains had no need to waste the breath that he was still trying to suck in as, as if she had a supernatural gift that told her when her boys needed her – the reality was that she was putting some distance between herself and her son – Grandma appeared at their side. "Are you sure you are ready for some soup, Darling?"

Scott paled. Then nodded.

"Very well. I'll be right back." Grandma bustled away, passing the other beds.

Tin-Tin placed a cold compress on Virgil's brow. "How are you feeling now, Virgil?"

"Terr'ble, Gr'nma."

A small frown creased his carer's forehead. "I'm Tin-Tin."

"T'n-T'n..." Virgil's hand grabbed at hers. It felt horrible and sweaty. "The Sendinal sho' me, T'n-T'n."

"The Sentinel? Yes, it did, but that was months ago." Tin-Tin tried to pull free of the sweaty hand.

But something was troubling Virgil and he wasn't going to let her go until he'd got to the bottom of it. "I waz in 'derbird Two. Why id shood me? I waz goin' 'ome."

"I know you were."

"Gran'ma…"

Tin-Tin tugged harder. "I am Tin-Tin, Virgil."

"Why'd id shoot me? I wasn' goin' to hurt it."

It looked like Tin-Tin wasn't going to get her hand back any time soon. "You don't need to worry about the Sentinel, Virgil."

"Shot 'derbird Two. She on fire."

"There is no fire."

"'S burnin'. Ged ou' while you can, Brains."

"I am Tin-Tin. You feel like you are burning because you have a fever."

"'ver?"

"Yes. You are suffering from the flu." Tin-Tin pulled at her hand again.

"Flu?" Virgil seemed to have difficulty getting past the fact that he was inexplicably warm. That didn't stop his grip being like iron. "'Ot chimn'y flu'."

"There is no chimney here, Virgil."

"Then engine'z… , Scod! Engine'z 'ot!"

Tin-Tin decided against correcting him. "Virgil! Let me go, relax, and get some sleep."

"Bedder put the fvire out 'fore we all burn up. Send in Fvirefly, G'rd'n."

Tin-Tin was still struggling to rescue her hand. "There is no fire. You have influenza and in a couple of days and you will be fit and well and flying Thunderbird Two again… Now, will you please let go of my hand?"

She heard a voice from the far bed behind her. "Kyrano..."

Kyrano hurried to Jeff's bedside. "Yes, Mr Tracy."

"Get Virgil some headphones."

"Yes, Mr Tracy."

"And play him some music."

"Yes, Mr Tracy."

"That'll settle him."

"Yes, Mr Tracy."

"And then maybe you'll be good enough to get me my briefcase."

"Jefferson!"

"No, Mr Tracy."

Grateful for the pending assistance, Tin-Tin smiled down at the delirious man in the bed. "Would you like to listen to some music, Virgil?"

"Muzic?"

"Yes." Tin-Tin would have mimed putting on a pair of headphones, but was prevented by his iron grip. "Look. Father has your headphones."

"Muzic." As the lightweight headphones were placed over his ears and the music piped through, Virgil relaxed. He smiled up at the man assisting him. "Thanks, T'n-T'n."

Tin-Tin shared a grimace with her father, made her escape, and went in search of hot soapy water.

She passed Grandma returning to her eldest grandson's bedside with a small amount of aromatic liquid in a bowl. "Are you sure you want this, Scott?"

Propped up against his pillows, Scott looked like he wanted to say no, but his stubborn streak came to the fore, told his body to get in line, and managed a nod.

"Very well." Grandma ladled the spoon into the bowl and held the steaming concoction out to him.

Scott regarded the spoon's contents as if it was liquid Alsterene and he was OD60.

"Are you sure you're ready for this, honey?"

Still glaring at the soup as if daring it to make the first move, Scott nodded.

Grandma waited.

Slightly cross-eyed as he stared down the sustaining liquid in a silent challenge, Scott opened his mouth.

Assuming that this was his invitation to do so, Grandma popped the spoon in. Her grandson's lips closed about the handle and she withdrew it again.

She hesitated before refilling, watching him closely.

Scott hadn't swallowed. He sat there as if he couldn't decide which direction the soup should now travel. Finally, and with an obvious effort, he forced himself to swallow.

The net result was the same as liquid Alsterene meeting OD60.

"Oh, dear!" Grandma exclaimed as Brains and Kyrano converged with damp cloths and towels. She accepted one and wiped down her front, before deciding that it was more prudent to discard her apron.

Scott's expression was apologetic as well as green. "S'rry, Grandma."

"Now, don't you worry about this little mess, Scott. You just lie back and rest."

"Bu' I wanna 'elp."

"I know, and as soon as you're feeling well enough I shall expect you to help. In the meantime you can help by taking care of yourself."

Scott nodded, settled back into the pillows, closed his eyes, and swallowed.

"Mother?"

Throwing the apron into the linen basket, Grandma approached her son. "Yes, Jeff?"

"Did I hear you say that there was some chicken soup on offer?"

"Do you want more? You've just had a bowl full."

Jeff grinned. "Mother, even if I was at death's door, I'd ask you to give me a flask of it. That way if I wound up in the other place, I'd still have a bit of heaven with me."

"Flatterer," she chuckled. "Just give me a minute." She bustled out of the room. Having had a wash and donned a clean apron, she started preparing the soup...

And nearly dropped the bowl when a figure flashed up in front of her. "Land sakes, John! We've already run out of beds. There's none left for me if you give me a heart attack!"

"Sorry, Grandma." John watched as she ladled some of the thick creamy liquid from out of a steaming pot. "I almost wish I was down there and had the flu so I could have some of that."

"I'll make you some when you come home, honey."

He smiled. "Thanks."

After transferring another ladleful, she glanced up at his image. "Did you want something?"

"No. I was just wondering if I could help in any way."

"Help doing what?" This time his grandmother stared at him for longer. "You can't exactly carry the tray for me." She picked up the full bowl and went back into the sickroom, narrowly managing to avoid wearing more soup as she dodged Brains leaving the ward.

John's image popped back up in place of the palm trees. "Well don't forget that I did make the offer when I'm back on Earth."

"I won't." Grandma placed the bowl in front of her son, and watched fondly as he picked up his spoon and dipped in with an eagerness the belied the readings on the panel above his bed.

John was determined to be part of the nursing of his family. And if he couldn't do anything practical then the least he could do was try to raise everyone's spirits. "Did you know that chicken soup was considered to be an aphrodisiac during the Middle Ages?"

"An aphrodisiac?" Jeff regarded the bowl of tasty goodness that had been placed before him. "I can't say that's going to be much use to me." With a shrug, he continued eating.

There was a thump.

John tried, and failed, to see around the corner. "What happened?" He disappeared from that picture frame, reappearing in another farther down the room.

Tin-Tin, in the process of mopping Virgil's brow and keeping well away from his sweaty hands, sighed as Kyrano struggled with a heavy weight. "Scott's tried to get out of bed again."

"Al'n want'd..." Scott's wayward finger was pointing somewhere in the vicinity of the ceiling.

"I'm sure he did..." Tin-Tin dropped the sweat-stained cloth into a bowl. "Let me help you, Father."

"Be careful, my child. He is heav..."

Heavy Kyrano was about to say, and Tin-Tin discovered just how heavy Scott was when together they overbalanced and she fell backwards onto his bed, the invalid landing face down on top of her.

"Looks like the chicken soup's working," John snickered. He saw his grandmother's glare and decided that it was prudent to leave them to it. He disconnected his link with Earth.

"Scott..." Tin-Tin pushed against what appeared to be a dead weight that was pinning her to the bed. "Get off me, Scott!"

"T'n-T'n..." Alan forced himself upright. He may have been dying but he wasn't about to let that stop him from coming to the aid of a damsel in distress… especially his damsel! Determined to uphold International Rescue's creed and save his girlfriend's honour by coming to her rescue, he managed to sit up. "'m comin', T'n-T'n." Through sheer force of will he pushed himself to the side of the bed...

And promptly collapsed onto the floor.

Still enjoying his chicken soup, Jeff had been watching the drama. With Brains out of the room and everyone else struggling to extricate Tin-Tin from underneath his eldest son, he decided that it was time to do his parental duty. He placed the bowl on his bedside table, threw back the bedclothes, swung his legs around until he was sitting on the side of the bed, and took a deep breath.

Then he stood.

The world spun and he reached out for the bedside cabinet to steady himself, breathing heavily. Once the vertigo had passed, he took a shaky step forward, relieved to realise that the floor wasn't rushing up to claim him. Keeping well clear of the grunts and groans and flailing feet next to him, he took another step. Pleased with this achievement, he rewarded himself with a third... And then a fourth.

His fifth step was as successful as the first four, but then he reached a challenge. He had to negotiate the corner of Scott's bed.

Taking another deep breath, he pivoted on his foot and turned the required 90 degrees. Bringing his right foot smartly to attention, he managed to avoid spinning out onto the mêlée that was happening on his left. Pleased that he'd successfully completed that tricky manoeuvre, he decided that the only way that he was going to survive the next few minutes was by treating the whole experience as an exercise in drill. Issuing commands to his body from inside his head, he marched forward four steps, left turned, took a further two steps and halted.

In his attempts to get to his feet, Alan had managed to pull all his bedclothes off the bed. Red faced, rheumy eyed, and with his hair sticking out at all angles, he looked up at his father. "Help me, Dad."

Deciding that he needed to conserve all his energy for the next manoeuvre, Jeff didn't respond. Instead, he reached down to his son, intending to take a moment to brace himself before helping him back on to the bed.

With typical impatience and the expectation that his strong, invincible, always-there-to-support-him dad would not let him down, Alan grabbed his father's hand and pulled. Jeff, although further through the disease than Alan, was still weak. Overbalanced, he flew over his son, nose-diving onto the cold hard floor, his landing cushioned by the pillow. He found himself stunned, but otherwise unharmed in a crumpled heap in the middle of an equally crumpled mound of sheets.

"Dad?" Bewildered, Alan eyeballed his father. "Whatcha doin'?" He rubbed his arm. "Why'd ya kick me?"

Fighting against piles of linen that seemed intent on sending him skidding across the easy-wash floor, Jeff tried to sit up. "Sorry, Alan."

Alan regarded him with a look that spoke volumes about the pain of the younger man's betrayal by his father and the associated injury.

There was a tsking sound and both men looked up to see Grandma glaring down at them, her hands on her hips. "What are you two doing down there?"

"Was goin' to help..." Alan pointed to the bed next door, and was surprised to realise that Scott was occupying it again and that an unmolested Tin-Tin was smoothing down the sheets. Frowning, he let his hand drop to his side.

"Oh you were, were you? It's bad enough that your brother won't stay in bed, Alan. Why can't you set him a good example?"

The events of the last few minutes, capped by being told that he was expected to set Scott of all people an example, seemed to cause Alan's feverish brain undue strain. A bead of sweat dripped down his temple.

Kyrano appeared at the foot of the bed with a wheelchair. "If you would care to sit in here, Mister Alan, we will remake your bed."

Alan was still having difficult comprehending. An unfocused gaze swivelled in the direction of the wheelchair. "Wha'?"

Kyrano locked the brakes and stepped forward. "Permit me to help you, Mister Alan." Intending to assist the younger man to stand, he put his arm about Alan's shoulders.

Alan grimaced as contact was made with a recently formed bruise, resurrecting a memory. "Dad kicked me."

Kyrano heaved him upright. "I am sure that was not his intention."

"Hurt."

"He is sorry."

"I am, Alan." Once again, Jeff attempted to regain his feet, but, once again, Alan's discarded sheets refused to give him purchase. He groaned in frustration and took a moment to evaluate his situation.

"And just what were you trying to do?" his mother demanded, whipping away those sheets that were unencumbered by her son's weight.

Jeff rolled onto his knees before, using Alan's bed for support, pulling himself upright. "Help Alan get off the floor."

You should be resting!" Grandma claimed the last of the bedclothes.

"I know."

She felt his forehead. "You've still got a fever."

"I know."

"Then let's get you back to bed."

Trying not to lean on his elderly mother more than was necessary, Jeff allowed her to escort him back to the embrace of freshly laundered sheets. He picked up his bowl and looked into it without enthusiasm. "My chicken soup's cold."

"I'll heat it up for you." Even better than her word, she was back a short time later with a freshly made bowl of the aromatic delicacy. "There you are, honey."

Jeff managed a wry grin. "International Rescue saves the day again."

"Don't mention International Rescue!" she warned. "You'll only jinx us."

"Sorry… Say, Mother...?"

"Yes, Jeff?"

"Since I'm well enough to get up, do you think you could get me my briefcase?"

"NO!" Gathering together yet another load of washing Grandma departed for the laundry.

Tin-Tin and her father, having just changed Gordon's bed linen and with the intention of making a start on Virgil's, were heading for the laundry themselves when Brains bustled back into the room. He stopped Tin-Tin, catching her by the arm as he surveyed the row of occupied hospital beds. "We, er, have a problem."

"A problem?" Tin-Tin placed the full basket on the floor and stared at him. "Is it serious?"

His face grim, Brains nodded. He indicated the washing. "Dispose of that as quickly as you can and meet me in the lounge."

To be continued…