Thanks for the kind reviews, ED, Cath, Sam1, Boleyn and Tikatu. Edits will commence directly.

2: Uncertainty Principle

Madrid, the European Union Swim Complex-

In the end, Gordon hit the pool as a simple matter of self-preservation. Underwater, he was harder to yell at, or to single out. Important considerations, for his coach, Kevin McMahon, was rabidly furious; seeming ready to gnaw his own arms off, or erupt like a stumpy, grizzled volcano.

Gordon's lateness wasn't the only reason. It seemed that Nathan Croft, the team's star breaststroker, had abruptly decided to quit; something to do with his flourishing movie career, possibly. At any rate, McMahon was down a swimmer, with the Pan American Invitational Meet not two months away.

Under the circumstances, the wise man jumped to, answered every command with "yes, sir," and swam five more laps than required. Like Royce, Damien, Erik, Kurt and Vittorio, Gordon chose to be very wise, indeed.

For the next ten days, almost without ceasing, he gulped pool water, inhaled chlorinated air, did rapid press-ups and swam until his body was a solid, fiery knot of pain. At night, he dreamt of swimming. Mealtimes, like the others, he talked himself through the hundred little adjustments that would increase his speed, refine his technique and boost his power… or else he fell asleep with his head on the table, while Royce pinched his dessert, again.

The butterfly was a difficult, intensely vigorous stroke, its mighty arm-scoops, hip thrusts and dolphin kicks demanding the flexibility and stamina of a leopard seal. But it soon became obvious that Gordon Tracy had lost a bit of his edge; rescues required strength and courage, not fancy technique. Not that his coach or teammates understood the reason for his once-again sloppy form. All they saw was lack of discipline.

Meaning to batter him into shape, McMahon drove Gordon relentlessly, alternately praising then cursing the young man, who possessed twice as much potential as most of the others… if only he'd damn well show up on time and stay focused.

Standing on the pool deck like a short, bandy-legged king, silver whistle clenched between smoke-stained teeth, his arms tightly folded, McMahon watched for flaws. He probed for weakness and hesitation, intent upon hammering his team into readiness.

It would have surprised them, maybe, to know how very proud he was of each and every swimmer in his stable. Even Gordon Tracy. For the most part, they were working too hard to speculate about McMahon's feelings (his probable canine ancestry was another matter, however).

One evening, after 25 very long laps, Gordon clung to the wall at the end of his lane, almost too tired to breathe. Silky water rippled and surged around him, beaten to high peaks by his slower teammates.

Royce glided up on the left. A micro-second later, Kurt Shultz did the same at his far right. They touched the wall, one-two, and hung there a moment, numb as shipwreck victims.

"Ee's got a meetin' tonight…" Royce gasped at last, when he'd summoned the wind to speak. "Might let us knock off early. If 'eaven smiles an' makes it so… you lads game f'r a curfew-break?"

Said Gordon, as the underwater pool lights flashed on, turning their submerged bits a rippling blue-green,

"I'm just tryin' t' gather strength enough t' move my arms an' climb out of the water, Royce. Curfew's a bit out of reach, at this point. Course, if someone hadn't stolen half my ruddy food…"

" 'S what you got f'r fallin' asleep in the dinin' hall, mate. Besides, last night, it wasn't me. 'Ad what you might call a pang o' conscious, I did. Kurt was the one pinched the jelly n' custard, my word on it."

The culprit was already out of the pool, but not beyond earshot.

"You were not seeming to want it," the loose-limbed German responded sheepishly, offering Gordon a hand up by way of apology. Then, changing the subject, "What has become of the others?"

Royce joined the air-drying pair on the pool deck, so rubber legged with fatigue that he had to sit down on a starting block.

"Gone in, or drowned, I expect… an' since I can't see any floatin' bodies f'r all my hopeful searchin'… I'm thinkin' 'tis the former. Damien, Erik an' Vittorio're in there right now, usin' up our hot water. Time t' move, lads, while we've strength left t' toss their clothes in the lassies' room."

Easier planned than accomplished, and the entire reason that Gordon once again failed to return Alan's phone call.

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Tracy Island-

Virgil had lined up a number of compelling arguments for going away to Mexico City. Everything from…

'I haven't taken time off in over a year,'

To…

'Scott will be back tomorrow night, Gordon's on call and NASA can't keep John penned up forever.'

They were good reasons, and he knew it. Question was, would dad agree? Thinking it over, Virgil was cautiously optimistic. After all, it wasn't that his father ever denied him leave time. Just that he never really asked for any. He'd have felt awkward doing so when there was so much vital work to do, so many people needing help.

But even the most dedicated rescuers sometimes need a little R &R, and Virgil Tracy was long overdue.

He caught up with his father in the solarium, going over wedding plans with Gennine at a dainty, wrought-iron table.

(And there was another whole can of worms, but… Well, at least this one he liked. Lady Penelope had never struck Virgil as a good match for his father. Not when Gennine had prior claim and fewer airs.)

Stepping through the open French doors, Virgil loped over and gave his soon-to-be-once-again stepmother a quick kiss.

"Excuse me for interrupting, but could I borrow dad a minute?"

Gennine was as blonde and blue-eyed as Alan, but several times easier to get along with. Smiling, she said,

"Of course, sweetie. You two go ahead and deal with business. I've got another chapter to write, anyhow, and a walk along the beach will help put me in the proper mood for pirates and noblewomen."

She was writing another romance novel, this one titled 'Lust and Gold'. Strangely enough, people actually paid to read the stuff, which always seemed to star a thinly disguised Jeff Tracy. Having found several manuscripts lying around, Virgil was quite familiar with her work.

"Yes, Ma'am," he said. "Have fun."

"Thank you, Virgil. I will."

She patted his shoulder, gave Jeff a soft kiss and then wandered out of the room, trailing floral perfume and blue chiffon.

Glancing at his stoic father, Virgil suppressed the urge to grin. There were guest lists, cloth samples and gilt invitations scattered all over the little table top, along with her latest story.

"Do I get credit for an off-the-record rescue?" he teased, taking a seat across from Jeff.

His father's response was indirect, but heartfelt.

"Three simultaneous weddings, 175 guests… 87 of whom have to be lodged in Tahiti… a five-star, seven-course banquet… and she wants us all to write our own vows. So far, the best I can come up with is: Roses are red, violets are blue. If you'll take me back, then I'll marry you. Tell me why I shouldn't just shoot myself?"

Virgil rang at once for strong drink, saying,

"Because then you couldn't approve my vacation request."

"Et tu, Brute?"

Jeff formed a mock gun with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand, and then brought it to his own throbbing temple. Virgil leaned over to swat the hand aside, though.

"Think of all you've got to live for, dad: the corporation, payments on this insanely big wedding, your new granddaughter… my leave request…"

Kyrano bowed his way in through the hall doors with a silver tray of Cognac and Cuban cigars. Jeff thanked his manservant graciously, and then poured himself a brimming snifter of heirloom liquor. Kyrano vanished before he'd done with pouring; ever the silent, silver-haired shadow of the Tracy household. Neither Jeff nor Virgil really noticed, being too well occupied with cutting and lighting their fine cigars.

"Not that you don't deserve the time off, son…" Jeff ventured, after a number of deep, heady puffs had cleared his mind. "…but why now? We're scattered all over the globe and off it, as well. You have to admit, your timing could be better."

Virgil was ready for that one. With great earnestness, he began ticking off his reasons.

"It's not as bad as it looks, dad. Scott's due back tomorrow with Brains. Gordon's on call and John's gotta be running out of blood and patience. Seriously, what else can they test? He'll be home in no time, dad. Plus… if anything major happens, you can call me back in. All I plan to do is head over to Mexico City to help Teena with her temporary job. Won't take long, honest. One week, and I'm home."

Jeff Tracy gazed at his handsome, brown-haired son. Nobody deserved more and got less, it seemed to the young man's father. There wasn't a quieter, more dedicated workhorse in the family than Virgil.

"Go ahead," the elder Tracy sighed. "We'll make due while you take some sanity leave. Just pray for sunny weather, calm seas and good decisions."

"Yes, sir. Will do."

Virgil leaned forward, but instead of shaking his father's hand, he clasped the man's shoulder, just like he'd been talking with Scott, or John.

Surprised, Jeff smiled.

"It's settled, then… but if you come back to complicate my life with a fiancée, I'll change my name, leave everything I own to TinTin, and move to Vermont. Understood?"

Unfortunately, Virgil laughed aloud while swallowing a giant mouthful of cognac. Jeff dodged most of the resulting spray, but Gennine's invitations, notebook and color swatches were ruined. It was a very bad day for pirates and noblewomen.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Manhattan, NYC, just outside the Four Seasons Restaurant, a chilly day-

They'd chatted a bit longer, but Scott Tracy found himself straining for things to say. It was no easy matter to carry on light conversation while tiptoeing through a minefield.

How could Cindy not like children?

Even John, the iciest person he knew, was at least noncommittal on the topic… and Hiram Hackenbacker, their walks-into-walls engineer; even he had a son.

Scott didn't want to risk offending her by bringing these points up, just then. Instead, he walked his wife-to-be outside and kissed her lingeringly to the music of traffic and surging people. Then, he hailed her a cab, buying the driver's patience with an enormous advance fare.

"Call me from the hotel," he told Cindy through the open passenger window. "I'll pick up or get right back to you, if I'm flying."

She squeezed his hand, half smiling.

"Sure thing, Hollywood. And cheer up… John may prove to be incredibly fertile, and in a giving mood."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Scott demanded crossly.

"That you can baby-sit all you want, with my blessing. I have no problem with other people's kids. Shake them up, fill them with sugar and red food dye, and send 'em on home. That's my philosophy."

Despite himself, Scott smiled.

"And mine is to turn on the charm until you can't think straight. Six kids before you know it, bet me."

Cindy grimaced.

"Sure, and by "bundle o' joy" number six, I won't even have to push; the kid'll drop as soon as I stand up! Now, there's an inducement to procreate."

He kissed her again, this time through the window.

"I've got a better one," Scott whispered, trailing his forefinger along the side of her face.

Cindy caught at his hand and kissed it lightly. Then she was off; her grimy yellow cab joining the growling, honking torrent that filled Park Avenue. Scott watched her taxi until it faded from sight. He ought to have hailed another for himself, but felt the need of a long walk and some think time.

Was she softening?

He had a few hours to kill before Brains returned from delivering the boys. Time enough for a long-distance consult, under surprisingly private conditions. You could be very isolated in a crowd like this; surrounded by 10,000 people, each with gripping concerns of their own.

Scott first tried his cell phone, but NASA redirected his call to the WorldGov Public Health Department. There, he played telephone tag with a shifting stable of bland liars, not one of whom would put him through to John. About fifteen minutes into this frustrating morass, he'd had enough, shouting what he thought of their quarantine regulations loudly enough to draw several curious stares. Not from the WorldGov lackeys, however. They simply hung up on him.

Fine, Scott fumed silently. Let's see them jam a wrist comm.

Locating a flight of steps which led downward to a basement-level law office, Scott adjusted the comm's bezel for John Tracy and then pressed its glass face.

It took awhile for his brother to respond. Just as Scott was beginning to think that WorldGov had blocked the transmission, the comm screen lit up. Relieved, the fighter pilot smiled. There was a scrawny cat weaving its way between his ankles, and the dim stairwell reeked of urine, but he'd gotten through to John.

"Hey, Scott." His brother seemed to be standing in some kind of closet. "How's it going?"

"Pretty good. You?"

"Not bad, I guess. A little bored, maybe." He was about to add more, but Scott cut him off with,

"Listen, John, I have a question to ask. Did you… talk things over with Linda before you had the kid, or did it just happen?"

His younger brother was silent for a bit. Signal delay, partly, but also genuine astonishment.

"Scott, you called me up on a secure line to ask about Dr. Bennett and the baby?"

"Well… yeah. It's important. I need advice."

John's transmitted image shook its blond head.

"Whatever. It's your nickel. Truth is, I sort of backed into all of this; marriage, Junior, all of it. I don't mind, though. Or… wait, that didn't come out right. Let's say that both events were a surprise, but I'm glad they happened."

"Hmm… what about Linda? Did she want kids?"

The cat had made enough of a nuisance of itself that Scott finally picked the animal up, despite the risk of white cat hair on his five-thousand dollar suit.

"Reason I ask is because Cindy tells me she doesn't intend to have children. Ever."

From 240,000 miles away his astronaut brother sighed.

"Scott, I'm the wrong one to talk to about all this. Ask again when my family and crewmates have made landfall."

"Yeah… any idea when that'll be? Gennine's kind of set on a triple wedding, starring you, me and dad."

All at once, John's entire aspect changed. Before, he'd been bleak and incredulous. Now, he seemed bleak and concerned.

"I can't say. No one's telling us anything, Scott. Houston seems to have been muscled out of the loop by WorldGov. We can't get through to Riley, even, and he's the damn Moon Station commander. Listen, though; you haven't heard anything on the news about sudden health alerts, have you? We're pretty tightly censored, up here."

Scott began to feel the first cold stirrings of worry.

"No… nothing beyond the usual flu threats from the mega-cities. Should I be watching for anything special? And do you guys need pick up? I can have 3 fueled up and ready to go by morning, little brother. Say the word, and we're there."

John's image glanced over its left shoulder, as though detecting a noise.

"Got to go, Scott. Not sure what to tell you to look for. Just stay alert and keep the engine running. If we need you, I'll signal, but otherwise, it's best that you stay where you are."

Scott lost signal a few moments later, leaving him standing in fetid semi-gloom with a scrawny white cat and a great many questions.