52: Test Match
Tracy Island, on a slowly clearing (and very frantic) afternoon-
The next day could hardly be said to have dawned; poured cats, dogs, tigers and wolves, was rather more like it. On the bright side, all of that drumming, sloshing water put paid to the ash, clearing atmosphere and foliage alike. On the other hand, it also made a perfect morass of Tracy Island, creating a dense grey mud which threatened to set like concrete, once the sun broke through.
Dr. Hackenbacker dispatched all of the maintenance robots to scoop and dispose of mud just as soon as the deluge began to ease, forcing John to find alternate means to get his own immense workload accomplished. Gordon was at loose ends, meanwhile, having quite simply nothing whatever to do. The sea hangars were already clear, and he'd spent more time in the weight room than was probably wise (pay for it later, he would, with pitiful stiffness and burning pain). As to swimming, the pools could not yet be used (for which Scott had twice apologized) while the ocean remained dangerously wild. He'd taken oath to keep up his practice schedule, though, and Coach McMahon would not miss (nor forgive) any lapses, no matter what their cause. Gordon knew just how he'd react to excuses…
"Ash? Volcanoes? That's what y' bloody well get f'r muckin' about th' Pacific, y' thumpin' great moron! Not much of a problem in effin' Spain, are they?"
"He's going t' kill me," Gordon muttered distractedly, as he wandered the mansion in search of John. "No… he'll have me publicly flayed as an example t' th' rest. Then, he'll kill me."
He could even visualize his poor, weed-choked headstone: Gordon David Tracy 2050-2067. 'Lazy blighter never moved his arse unless threatened with flame'. Mourners would be asked to leave alarm clocks rather than flowers, and to donate funds to the home for under-motivated athletes.
Thinking along these awful lines, Gordon searched high and low for John, finally locating his older sibling down at the base of Thunderbird 3's launch tube. He had tools spread on the floor all about him, and a notable lack of robotic assistance. Not good, any of this, but Gordon careened wildly down the maintenance ladder anyhow, calling,
"John…! Terribly sorry t' trouble you…"
He stumbled on hitting the concrete floor, righted himself, and then hurried to the astronaut's side.
"…But y'r wrist comm won't respond, and y'r ID chip seems not t' be transmittin', either. So… here I am."
John glanced up from the open, gutted panel he was working on.
"Yeah," he said shortly, returning to work. "Here you are."
Gordon paused long enough to catch his breath and to wait for some sort of conversational opening. When John continued to silently fool about with the wiring, his younger brother caught up a random selection of tools and positioned himself within easy reach. Holding them forth, as it were. Got a reaction, eventually, though not a very positive one.
"Annnd… you're still here."
John closed his eyes, briefly, then opened them again. He was a full head and a half taller than the worried young athlete, but much slighter in build. Also, quite evidently, in something of a tearing hurry. Not quite looking at the swimmer, he muttered,
"Ten seconds or less, Gordon, and the clock is ticking. How can I help you?"
"The pools," his brother replied very quickly. "Have you any notion at all when they might be repaired well enough f'r use?"
John set down his circuit tester and multi-tool. Still facing the open service panel, he said,
"I'm currently on item 357 of an 800-procedure checklist. Care to guess where the damn pools fall on that list?"
Gordon's broad shoulders slumped just a bit.
"Flat last?" he hazarded.
Turning slightly, John looked at him for the first time. But you see… and the swimmer was betting rather heavily on this… Just like Scott and TinTin, Gordon tended to get special consideration from John, who now said,
"No. Repair and refill of the upper and lower pools are items 650 and 651, respectively." Taking up the circuit tester again, in a lower voice he added, "I'm getting there, Gordon. It's just… there's a hell of a lot of work ahead."
"Right. Sorry."
The swimmer all at once felt smallish and pushy. To make amends, he said,
"Anythin' I might do t' help?"
John made eye contact, briefly. But Gordon wasn't sure whether or not this was a good sign.
"Do you actually mean it, or is this one of those small-talk, get-along things, like: Hi, how are you?"
"Well…"
Gordon considered the matter. Then, he decided, "Yes, actually, I do mean it. If there's anythin' t' be done, I should very much like to assist you."
John cocked a blond eyebrow (one of his very few expressions).
"Okay," he said, reaching back into the service panel. "Tell you what; if you're in the mood for a flight, head over to the nearest large land mass… I suggest Australia… and fetch me back five or six frozen pizzas. Cheese. Keep the receipt and I'll pay you triple, plus flight time, fuel and engine maintenance. How's that?"
Gordon straightened to attention, and then snapped off a perfect, palm-out salute. Barely suppressing a grin, he said,
"Understood, sir. I'm off at once t' storm Australia and reclaim the Ashes… and your pizza."
He then darted off and back up the ladder, pleased to have a mission, if not quite a means to swim laps. Others soon learned of his errand, and before Gordon took off that evening (with Alan and TinTin along for a lark) he'd amassed quite a sizeable marketing list.
Jeff requested a box of Montecristo luxury cigars, while Scott craved a packet of teriyaki-flavoured jerky. Virgil put in an order for cigarettes and chocolate ice-cream, and Brains for roasted cashews. Fermat would have liked to come along, but his father preferred to keep the boy near, so Gordon simply jotted down Fermat's wistful potato-crisp and Pocky requisition. Gennine thanked him for asking, thought a bit, and then ordered another notebook. Green, preferably. Of course, TinTin and Alan had goals of their own; mostly soft-drinks and sweets in Alan's case, a gift for her father and the latest issue of New Scientist, in TinTin's.
For himself, Gordon intended to purchase as much black-currant and orange squash as he could well carry. He'd have listed something for Grandmother, too, but when asked what she wanted, the fierce-eyed old woman simply patted his arm and said,
"Ain't nuthin' I need 'cept you three back safe, Gordon David. Keep a sharp eye up there, and don't do nuthin' I wouldn't do."
Gordon bent down quickly to kiss her forehead. While she was yet off her guard, he grinned very cheekily and said,
"Brilliant! I've leave t' do just as I like, then! Most likely have t' be carried home."
Laughing, he darted out of her reach and was headed for the sunroom door, when a spin-bowled cushion struck him bang on the shoulder. Bit of a tartar, Victoria Tracy, and never safe to turn one's back upon.
One way or another, though, he, Alan and TinTin took off for Darwin at 6:15 PM, just half an hour before Lady Penelope returned to Tracy Island.
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Later that night-
There was a great deal stirring around inside him, but it made no sense, so he mostly ignored it all. Penny had shown up, doing and saying the usual social-empty, hard-to-figure-out things. Mostly with his father.
Maybe that… Whatever. As he'd told Scott the night before, she'd do what she wanted to. But, maybe that was…
Anyway, he kept busy (not like there wasn't plenty to do) and ate dinner down in Thunderbird 2's hangar, but not alone. He had the surprise company of Alan's mom, who brought him a plate of macaroni-and-cheese his grandmother had fixed (plus one for herself). They ate at a work bench, once John cleared it off and found Gennine something to sit on.
She read her latest chapter aloud while he spooned up creamy, bright-orange pasta. Only, John wasn't much of an expert on romance; he couldn't really say whether Trace Savage ought to have kidnapped the sultan's daughter or not. Except… thinking nominal determinism, here… with a name like "Savage", the guy was bound to pull something stupid, right? Because people named Smith or Jones never end up disguised as palace guards, in love with a cloistered princess and running for their lives.
Anyhow, for some reason, Gennine hugged him once dinner was over. Said thank you, too. John watched her collect the bowls and utensils. Then, while helping Gennine to balance the stack atop her notebook, he told her,
"Um… I guess I was wrong, before."
She looked up at him, eyes a little wide. They were the same color as Alan's, and just as round.
"Wrong about what, sweetie?" she asked.
(And, for the record, he hated being called "sweetie". Usually.)
Before answering, John thought of some things. He thought of seeing her for the first time, all those years ago, with his father and a brand new, replacement baby. Then he put that away. All of it.
"I dunno," John shrugged, adding a dropped spoon to the carefully piled utensils. "I was just wrong."
Mixed signals. Gennine first looked like she was about to cry, but then smiled at the same time. Didn't make much sense, but that was a female, for you.
"Well," she said, after clearing her throat. "Thank you for listening to my chapter, John… and especially for thinking things over."
…So that went okay. Feeling pretty satisfied, he got a lot more done after dinner, and even decided to push pool repair up a little to items 595-596. Weird/nice days have a way of intensifying, though, just like bad ones. John got another surprise when he went to his rooms for a shower and nap, because Penny had decided to bring back his shirt. In person.
…And maybe that was good.
Perched at the edge of his bed, she looked hopelessly lost in the long black tee-shirt, which didn't come close to fitting her.
"Hullo, darling," she whispered, rising to meet him with both hands extended. "Just thought I'd dash over and return what is yours… if, that is, you still want it?"
He did.
