Hi, again! Just a bit more. Edited further.

21

Inside of Globe Studios, in front of the strangely quiet operations centre-

Sally Tracy decided to make a nuisance of herself, for very good reason. Her youngest grandson had vanished from the compound after breakfast, no explanation given. This very much concerned Sal, because it most likely meant that somewhere out there in tele-vid land, Virgil or John was in trouble; injured or trapped or disqualified, some kinda how.

Right. She wanted answers but wasn't the sort to bust out hysterical. Having been a rancher's wife and a bush pilot… having lost her husband, daughter-in-law and then son… stepping into the role of foster mom for five rowdy boys and a quiet, precocious young girl… Sally wasn't about to just up and go crazy. As Grant always put it,

"Ain't trouble that kills people, Sal. It's panic. Not keepin' their heads, when disaster comes up."

She'd never forgotten. Not at home and not with IR. And Sal didn't lose her cool, now. Rather than fussing or fuming, she'd left the compound, herself. Went straight to the executive part of that big, domed building, striding along as if she belonged there. Collared a studio intern named Denny, then sent him scuttling into the operations centre to pester their host, Melissa Maxton. Wanted to find out what happened, was all. Then, (information in hand) Sally could start making plans.

The feller was gone for ten, fifteen minutes. She'd just about given up on him, was starting to think about stealing a nametag and going on in there, herself. Then Denny came hurrying down from a 'No Public Access' corridor, looking shifty and nervous. Squinting, though they weren't outside, and the overhead lighting was soft office white.

"Mrs. Tracy!" he yelped, as a sleek, silver drone came whizzing right out from behind him. "It's terrible, Ma'am! I just found out… er, that is, Ms. Maxton didn't know I could hear her talking…"

Uh-huh. With cameras and microphones pointing every which way but the bathroom stalls? With every development scripted and planned? But Sal kept her doubts to herself, needing straight answers.

"Go on, Denny," she said to the jumpy young man, who was nearly as dark-haired as Virgil. Thinner, though. "Spit it out. What the heck's goin' on?"

Felt a sudden hot flash coming on, because they'd stuffed all her food with dang youth hormone. Reverse menopause set in and attacked, just when she didn't need extra worries.

Not that the intern noticed. Denny Caruthers shifted his weight from one foot to the other, unconsciously rubbing his moist upper lip. Lying, Sal figured. Clearing his throat, he said,

"Um… it's that… your grandson was being brought in to take over for one of his teammates… I'm, uh, not allowed to tell you which one, Ma'am… but then, see, he fell out of the transport, and he's hurt. Trapped in a canyon with a… a big rock, really big, on his leg. Might've crushed all the bones. Lots of blood."

Sal's blue eyes narrowed, as she listened. Meanwhile, the hot flash crept further upward, turning her face crab-boil red. Probably set off the sprinklers, soon. (At least, that's what it felt like.)

"Which leg," she demanded, ignoring her physical symptoms and that hovering, buzzing video drone.

"Uh…" Denny's brown eyes slid sideways, breaking contact with Sal. "The… right one. I'm sure she said right leg. Maybe."

Or, maybe he was making this up as he went, trying to frighten a worried old lady. Sal felt her lips flatten out to a thin, hard line. Clammy and tense with heat and suspicion, she said,

"Okay, so ya heard all this and then risked y'r position at Globe ta tell me about it on camera, huh? Bald as you please, right here in front o' HQ?"

Denny Caruthers blinked a few times, caught off balance by someone too clever to make a good lab rat.

"Um, that is… I…" he stuttered, floundering badly.

"What ya mean is, someone got hurt an' hadda be replaced," Sally broke in. "Most likely Johnny or Ted. Alan's gone in ta take up th' slack. That part I get. But it don't make no sense that they couldn't fetch someone trapped in a ditch. Where do the injured folks go? Are they quarantined? Can I see 'em?"

Because, by contract, reserve contestants were kept in the dark until needed. No word at all from their team in the field. But Denny would not answer her questions directly. Just looked crestfallen, like he'd failed at something that really mattered.

Sal cocked her head a bit, feeling that wave of blistering heat fade away. Left her sweaty and chilled, but able to think a bit clearer. Stepping nearer, she laid down most of her figurative cards.

"Denny, ya seem like a decent feller ta me. I'd like th' truth, now," Sal urged him. "Not what y'r boss-lady told ya ta say. How bad off is my grandson? You ain't gotta tell me which one, nor even exactly what happened. Jus' tell me if I need ta get out there an' find him. Not that it's likely… If sumthin' happened ta Johnny or Virgil, th' other 'd be right there helpin' him out, with Kayo along ridin' shotgun."

Except during missions, where the public… the people in danger… came first. Denny looked this way and that, as if searching for help. Behind and slightly above him, lens focused squarely on her, that drone kept on filming.

"Well, I… I don't really know the specifics, Mrs. Tracy," gulped Denny, seeming frantic to leave. His adam's apple bobbed up and down like a fishing float as he spoke. "Let me, um… let me go and find out for you, okay?"

Then, turning so jerky-quick that the startled drone shot right for the ceiling, Denny Caruthers raced away out of sight, heading back for the main operations centre. Probably wouldn't come out again, neither. Sometimes, Grandma Tracy had that effect.

Sal watched him go, bothered by something she couldn't sort out or give name to. As the video drone glided back down from the ceiling, Sally stared right into its lens.

"I gotta message f'r ya, Ms. Maxton," she said, not smiling at all. "Them boys an' Tanusha ain't playthings. They're my family. Jeffery left 'em all in my care, and I take that real serious. Haven't lost a one yet, and by Heaven, don't mean to, neither. Do y'rself a favor, Ms. Maxton. Don't try an' come between me 'n my boys if they need help. Ya won't like th' outcome."

It was the silvery drone that backed down and left the place, first, when Mrs. Tracy stopped talking. As it scooted away after Denny, Sal heaved a deep sigh, and then started to turn. Bumped into a security guard. Young feller, in rumpled tan shirt and brown trousers. He made a big show of helping the silver-haired lady to steady herself.

"Sorry, Ma'am!" the guard excused himself, just a little too heartily. Was everyone here a frustrated actor? "Didn't see you there!"

"No harm done," Sally assured him, keeping her face relaxed as he pushed something into her hand. Flexible and square in shape, with four sharp corners. Folded paper, it felt like. "My fault. I ain't as young as yesterday, nor as old as I will be tomorrow. Mind tends ta wander, sometimes."

There were always cameras, here. Always folk snooping and listening in. Better to play it safe, till she knew what was on the guard's note. 'Bob' said his nametag. The feller who tended the flying arena. Sally gave him a brief, friendly nod.

"You have a nice day, young feller. If anyone needs me, I'll be back in my dorm."

Or, so they were best off believing. There weren't many aircraft that Sally Tracy couldn't break into and fly, at a pinch. All she needed was a destination, and to holy dang heck with the contract. No agreement on Earth was worth more than the last little bit of her family.