Hi, there! Thank you for reading. Will edit, soon. =)

38

Island Base, by the ring-

Colonel Jeff Tracy was a very imposing man. Tall, well-muscled and craggily handsome at fifty-seven years old, with iron-grey hair and direct, unflinching brown eyes, he owned every inch of the space that he stood in. His deep and resonant voice could pour like warm honey or boom like a thunder clap; almost hypnotic in force. All in all, it was very hard to say no to Jeff Tracy.

A retired astronaut, financial genius and visionary, the senior male Tracy had turned his considerable skills to public service, creating and guiding International Rescue. More work than usual these days, because three of his sons, his daughter and mom had all been tapped to take part in "Triumph", a worthless live-action adventure show.

Well… Gordon and Alan were still onsite, with Lee Taylor, Brains and a host of adaptable robots. He wasn't exactly short-handed. Just grumpy and out of sorts. As his dad would have put it, "All het up an' bothered".

Anyhow... It was late afternoon on the Island, with golden light slanting in through the big picture windows; casting long shadows that seemed to play chess on the parquet floor. Jeff stood near the ring, staring at data displayed on a shimmering holo-globe. With him was Hiram Hackenbacker, his chief engineer and good friend.

Like Jeff, Brains was jumpy and agitated. Unlike his employer, the skinny, bespectacled thinker betrayed all that turmoil by constant motion; fiddling with clothing, glasses and dozens of orbiting virtual screens. Not so, Jeff. The former astronaut held himself steady; focused and still as a cat.

Something… had happened. He didn't know why, but Jeff's pounding heart and rapid breathing did not square at all with this calm and opulent house. With family a phone call away, and food for the taking, just down the hall. His big-knuckled hand actually shook a bit, as he raised a mug of strong coffee up to his mouth.

(Hungry… last rations… cold… alone… lost beyond hope of recovery… dying by slow degrees as, bit by bit, his equipment gave out… his fading beacon too weak to reach home.)

Jeff set the mug down on top of a handy table, harder than strictly necessary.

"Max," he called out to one of those buzzing small house-bots, "I'd like a sandwich, please. Ham and swiss with mustard and mayo, on seeded rye. Also…" (as though he'd been dreaming about it for months) "...get me a beer."

To h*ll with plain coffee. He needed a drink.

Mini Max beeped at him once, flew a swift Immelman turn, then snapped together with three of its fellows to build a larger, more capable robot. Chiming a friendly tone, this composite machine zipped off to the kitchen.

On the holo-globe, a stern-voiced female announcer said,

"Criticism continues to mount as the chancellor insists that a full evacuation was the correct response to this morning's weak tremors in Venice. Costing over 31 billion credits, the city-wide evacuation was the most expensive in World Gov history. Probes have been sunk to determine the cause of the shaking, which resulted in cracked flagstones and one toppled statue. Meanwhile, speculation persists that this act, labeled "wasteful" and "rash", will cost Chancellor McGill her seat on the council. In other news…"

Brains cut off the newsfeed, making a small, frustrated noise. Wringing his hands, he turned to face Jeff and said,

"But th- that is unfair! The, ah… the chancellor simply d-did what… that is t- to say…"

What she'd been told to do? Warned about? Same as led Jeff Tracy to delay completion of his deep-space exploration ship? Or had that been all in his head? A pipe-dream that never got beyond simulation?

Max arrived with the sandwich and beer, interrupting the older man's thoughts. Jeff thanked the robot, managing to wait until the plate was set at his desk before tearing into the food and having a good long drink. To the engineer, around a hurried mouthful of food, he said,

"Politics is a soul-crushing scam, Brains. Everyone's out to get you, or wants a favor. I was never dumb enough to hop on that train. Never will be." As for McGill, she'd no doubt be better off doing anything else, because government work was a trap.

Jeff didn't quite bolt down that sandwich, which tasted as good as anything he'd ever dreamt of eating, whilst huddled in darkness, scratching lines on the frost-coated bulkhead. He shivered briefly. Drank some more beer, determined to drown out that cold, starving ghost.

Then Lee wandered in from a morning's free-climb adventure. One day, trying again to scale the volcano with no lines or equipment would kill him… but there was no arguing with Lee Cooper Taylor. Not at the Academy, on Mars, or back here.

The scruffy and scuffed-up older man broke into a wide grin upon catching sight of his friend.

"Boy, howdy," whooped Lee, clapping Jeff's shoulder and leaving a smeary red blood-print. "If you ain't a… I mean…"

Yeah. Jeff didn't get it, either. Not quite. But he was really d*mn glad to see Lee and Brains. Giving his old drinking buddy and partner in crime a rough, friendly shove, Jeff snorted,

"What'd you do, fall home? Roll? Bet there's more skin draped on that Goddam mountain than there is on you. I installed an elevator, you know."

Lee made a rude noise and shoved back.

"Elevator's f'r kids an' puffy old men," he scoffed. "Find m' own way up, thanks all th' same. And I made it clear ta th' top, this time. Nearly."

Scenting blood, a swarm of determined medi-bots shot into the room like gnats, spraying nu-skin and disinfectant, projecting holo-scans of Lee's wounds and condition, right out in midair.

"Still missing that left nut," observed Jeff, poking sly fun.

"Yup. Hadda trade it in ta ride shotgun with you an' Pete, get ta Mars, an haul y'all two reprobates th' h*ll outa danger," said Lee, completely untroubled.

"That's not how I remember it," cut in Jeff, downing the last of his beer. "Seems to me, you took a toss off the robot bull at a cowboy bar, and landed hard on the edge of a table."

"Lasted a full two minutes," boasted Lee, smiling at earlier times. "Won that bet by a mile. Hadda pay f'r the busted table, though."

Just about then, Gordon bounced in from the beach; sunburnt, red-haired and sandy.

"Hey, fam!" crowed the swimmer, waving his soggy towel. "What's shakin'?" Then, after a startled double-take, "Dad! You're… I mean, of course you're here! Where else would you be?!"

Nevertheless, Gordon loped over to bear-hug his father, lifting Jeff off the floor in a burst of sudden emotion.

Jeff patted his boy's heaving back, every bit as confused as Gordon, Lee Taylor and Brains. Something had changed. He knew it… and he meant to wrangle some answers, right the h*ll now.

Twisting away from his son's embrace, the Colonel turned to a hovering robot and growled,

"Get Scott on the line, ASAP. I don't care what the show protocols are. This is a family emergency!"