The room was sealed shut; the doors closed and the red light above warning him that nothing would open the exit now. Not until the decontamination team sealed it off and set up a perimeter barrier. He shivered. Whatever the white stuff was, some of it must have escaped into the corridor outside and ….

The Control room. The SHADO Control room. HIS Control Room. The bastards had resorted to Biochemical warfare; something designed to kill quietly, or quickly or whatever. Well, it was too late to hold his breath now. Whatever this stuff was, he was covered in it; had rolled in it, submerged himself in the poison. It was on his skin and his lips, in his hair and his clothes. Even on his tongue. He spat, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, but that was like shutting the stable door after the horse had bolted. It was just a case of waiting now. No one could get in here, and there was no way out, not even via the hidden lift shaft. That was disabled as well.

He stood there as the cloud settled around him, a slow drift of whiteness carpeting every surface in a thick layer of fine ...fluff. There was no other word to describe it. Fluff. White and ... fluffy. There was no smell of chemicals or some alien substance. The scientific part of his mind found that aspect interesting. An inert compound. Definitely biological rather than chemical, which meant he was going to be isolated for a long time until the scientists worked out what virus or bacteria had infected him. And he still had Henderson's report to finish.

There was a lot of it, a hell of a lot; an inundation several inches deep, the files and trays on his desk already hidden beneath it. Overkill really. He brushed his head free, wiped his face and wondered what to do next, seeing as he was still alive in here. Control would be busy right now. They would get through to him as soon as possible. He hoped. He could hear movement outside though, a good sign, no screams or panic, just a familiar voice shouting orders and he picked up a folder to scoop a clear space on his chair and make himself comfortable. Part of his mind wondered if he should open the intercom, but they would still be in the throes of the emergency. Even so he hesitated, his hand wavering. Was it presumptuous to want to speak to someone, give a last message? He drew back, just as the screen lit up, revealing Colonel Lake struggling into a Hazmat suit.

He swallowed. 'Straker. What's the situation Colonel?' A calm reply and with just the right amount of dignified acceptance. He brushed a thick layer of white flakes from the viewer, his fingertips stroking across the screen.

'Sir. Thank heavens. We thought you...' She straightened. 'We're on emergency shutdown. All stations on Red Alert. The whole base is on lock-down, all areas are isolated and control room staff in the process of suiting up. Your doors closed before the explosion could affect us out here, but enough particles entered the purification systems to trigger a contamination alert. There's no way we can get to you, not for several hours.'

'Good work Colonel. What about the staff? Anyone hurt?'

'No visible injuries, but medical are on their way to assess. We've switched off all systems, transferred everything to auxiliary. Colonel Foster is heading there right now from the studio. Control staff are confined to the room and are suiting up as I speak, and the decontamination team are on their way.' She straightened up, holding the unwieldy helmet in her hands as if loathe to put it on. 'How are you?' A longer pause, her voice softer now and with a note of concern. 'How bad is it?'

'Fine. I'm fine.' And he was. If this was a biochemical weapon he was doing just … fine. No problems breathing, no blisters on his skin, no burning sensation. Yet. But he didn't have a decontamination suit in here. Coffee machine, drinks dispenser, conference table, even a hidden escape route that was of no use at all right now, but no Hazmat suit. He should get a closet installed with one, and a spacesuit - just in case the aliens tried putting a wormhole in here. Maybe a wet suit as well. You could never tell what they would do next. Anyway, he might as well sit and finish the report while he had the chance. Lake had it all in hand. 'Get it analysed. That's your first priority. Concentrate on getting the Control room and staff cleared and fully operational. Nothing else matters until that's done. Understood?'

She stared back at him; that annoying glare he had experienced on several occasions. For a moment he wished it was Alec out there, but perhaps not. Alec, for all his bluntness and seemingly casual manner would find it hard, and he didn't want to say goodbye to Alec. Not like this.

'Understood Commander.' She pulled the helmet over her head.

He leaned forward. 'And Colonel? If this is an alien attack they'll be looking to press home their advantage. Whatever happens,' he stared at her, his eyes fixed. 'Whatever, keep alert.'

He closed the link and sat back, a cloud of white enveloping him again and making him cough. He needed a drink: water, coffee, even milk. Anything to ease the tickle in his throat. Coffee was impossible though; his personal coffee machine, installed only a few days ago – this year's Christmas present from Alec - had shut down, its filter clogged, the percolator dripping sodden clumps of coffee-flavoured fluff. It would have to be something from the dispenser.

He stood up, took a couple of paces and skidded, landing on his rear end with a hefty thump, a grunt of surprise and considerable embarrassment, his legs tangled beneath him in an ungainly heap. Trying to walk on the damned stuff was worse than ice-staking. He gritted his teeth and tried again. Several times. His buttocks were bruised and his clothes, even his sweater, covered in the stuff before he finally managed to make his way over to the dispenser and blow one of the glasses clean. No point in worrying about whether it was free of contamination; he'd swallowed enough of the alien substance right at the start and it was up his nose and in his ears and eyes and …. everywhere. He wriggled uncomfortably. No doubt Jackson would be busy for months analysing and separating it into component molecules and atoms and then theorising about the alien homeworld.

Whisky. He took a single mouthful of the spirit, aware of a burning in his throat as it cleared the fluff; at least he hoped it was the alcohol and not the start of a reaction. A more cautious sip this time. No. Just whisky. He poured another drink, a couple of inches this time, after all there was nothing he could do to help anyone. Then he made his perilous way back to the safety of his seat with another unseemly slither across the floor.

The intercom was covered again, more of the damned stuff floating down from the ceiling like millions of tiny feathers and he puffed at the screen, only for his face to be enveloped in a cloud as the thistledown swirled around him, tickling everywhere. He was busy blowing raspberries in a futile attempt to free his lips of the tiny particles when Colonel Lake appeared in the screen, her face distorted behind her visor.

'Commander?'

'Yes …' Perhaps it was time to be less formal. '…Virginia?'

'I thought I heard.…'

'Oh. No, Colonel, everything's fine. How are things out there?' He cleared his throat. 'Any news from Colonel Freeman?'

'Landed at Moonbase. We haven't given him the details but he'll be on the first flight back as soon as the module's ready. Everything's under control here. Just... hang on, Commander.'

Was that a tear in her eye? Surely not. He shook his head at the ludicrous thought, closing the link without answering and stared at his prison.

It was everywhere. Covering the floor, the seats, even the surface of his desk despite all his attempts. He tried to blow it away, brush it away, even waft it off the surface with a spare folder, but it simply floated up and then drifted down again to settle in a white layer of … fluff. In the end he gave up and sipped his whisky in a silent and rather solitary wake. The downy substance had stopped falling now and the covering of white was more sparse. More sparse? Sparser? Less sparse? Whatever. It was enough that he could actually see the solid surface of his desk now instead of …. fluff.

He let his head rest in his hands for a long moment. His brain hurt. And his backside. And there was nothing he could do now apart from wait. He leaned back in his chair, put his feet on the edge of the desk and closed his eyes. The silence was peaceful and there was no point in worrying about what was going to happen. It was all out of his hands.

His intercom buzzed, startling him from his composure, his feet sliding off the desk, the chair tilting back perilously close to tipping over. An undignified scrabble to regain his point of equilibrium, his feet unable to gain purchase on the floor but he managed it in the end, sneezing as more of the vile stuff floated up to tickle his nose. He kept his mouth closed tight, taking shallow breaths through itching nostrils. Even sneezing caused a minor fuzz-storm. He risked pulling out a handkerchief and blowing his nose and then he sat down again, the soft cushion of loose flakes wafting out from under his bruised backside. He activated the intercom, not even daring a sigh of relief. Perhaps they had good news for him.

Ayshea came into view, her face behind the Hazmat visor an uncomfortably familiar green tint, the Control Room a confusion of anonymous figures in grotesque suits. He could see the Decon team at work on the mainframe computer banks, suctioning the delicate machinery to ensure that no particles of fluff had entered the systems. There was no other word for it. Fluff. Fuzz? Thistledown?

He needed a thesaurus. And a cushion. Ayshea leaned forward. 'Colonel Freeman will be leaving Moonbase shortly, sir and Dr Jackson needs to talk to you.' She moved away and the screen the lean face of the Chief Medical Officer filled the screen.

'How are you feeling, Commander?'

'Fluffy?' He scowled. It was getting beyond a joke now – the interminable wait for something to happen, anything in fact. He knew his own body well enough to be aware that he was fit and well apart from a sore backside and the unbearable tickling that seemed to have got under his very skin. God. Perhaps the fluff was alive and crawling under his skin right now, eating him alive. He lifted his hand to examine it, spreading his fingers wide to peer at the thinner skin there. Nothing, and he laced his fingers tightly together before returning his attention to Jackson.

The doctor raised an eyebrow. 'I have my team working on an analysis right now. But as you are no doubt aware, it will take considerable time. In the meantime, is there anything I can do for you?'

Scratch my back? But he kept the thought to himself. 'Not at the moment. Strangely, I feel perfectly well.' He didn't add the 'but'.

'Any initial indications of a rash, or perhaps difficulty in breathing? Any untoward discomfort? Blurred vision?'

'No. As I said, I feel normal. Apart from itching.'

'Itching.' There was a long pause. 'I see. Whereabouts are you itching, Commander?'

Oh for heaven's sake. He sighed. 'Where do you think Doctor? This stuff gets everywhere. It's like being covered in feathers. I itch. That's all.'

Jackson turned to his assistant. 'Make a note. The Commander appears to be suffering from a serious skin reaction as well as an unexpected emotional response. This may be symptomatic of an underlying alteration in brain activity, possibly a precursor to a more serious personality or psychotic disorder. '

Straker stood up; a difficult task given the slippery condition of the floor and he leaned on the desk, glaring at Jackson. 'I keep telling you, I feel fine. No headaches, no difficulty breathing and no rash.' He paused, wondering if perhaps he should strip off and check, but no, it was hard enough keeping his footing even while he was standing. Trying to struggle out of his jumpsuit and sweater would be impossible. He rolled up one sleeve and inspected his arm. Nothing. He scratched the itch.

'Pulse rate if you please.' Jackson persisted.

'Very well.' Straker sat down again, fingers on his wrist. Another wait. 'Seventy-two.' There was a hint of triumph in his voice. 'Normal.'

'Unusually normal, given the circumstances, I am sure you will agree?'

'Will there be anything else doctor? Or could you get on with analysing whatever this is so maybe I have a chance of getting out of here in one piece?'

'Very well. But I will be monitoring your communications. Please inform me immediately of any change in your condition.' He turned away and the screen went blank.

Peace at last.