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Hot and Cold

"Thunderbird Five to Base!" Alan fought hard to keep a feeling of panic under control. He'd heard that signal many times, but only during exercises. Even then the very sound of it had given him the creeps. But now… Now the feeling was ten times worse.

"Thunderbird Five to Base!" he repeated again.

The sight and sound of his father went some way to relieve his anxiety. While his father was in control there was always hope.

Obviously some of his anxieties had been communicated down to earth because instead of the standard 'Go ahead, Alan,' his father greeted him with, "What's wrong, Son?"

Alan took a deep breath. Now was not the time to lose control. Now was the time for levelheaded thought. "I've received the emergency alarm from Thunderbird Two. One of the guys must have set it off!"

He saw Jeff Tracy pale slightly, but there was no noticeable change in his demeanour. They'd all practised for this eventuality. "Have you tried contacting them?"

Alan nodded vigorously. "I can't raise them."

"Had they reported any problems?"

"No."

"Okay, Alan. Keep trying. If that doesn't work try their emergency radios. I'll contact Scott and Brains and see if they've got any idea what the problem could be. It may be just a malfunction due to the crash landing."

"F-A-B."

Jeff changed frequencies. "International Rescue to Mateo Island." He felt his stomach knot as he waited impatiently for a response.

None was forthcoming.

"International Rescue to Mateo Island! … Where are they? … Internati…"

"Mateo Island. Sorry, Father. Tin-Tin and I were on top of the Mark II. Brains has got his nose buried in the computer and probably didn't hear you. What's up?"

"Alan's just reported that he's receiving the emergency alarm from Thunderbird Two. I was hoping that either you or Brains would have an explanation for it."

Scott paused as the news sunk in. "The emergency alarm!" he breathed. "No. I can't think of anything. Virgil didn't say they were having any problems – well, nothing technical anyway. Hold on, I'll ask Brains." Jeff heard him move to the door of Thunderbird One and then shout something to Tin-Tin. He then returned to his seat. "Tin-Tin's gone to get him. If he can't come up with a solution, what's our plan of campaign?"

"We can't effect a rescue until the Mark II is fully operational…"

"I could always fly back up there in Thunderbird One…"

"And we'd still be in the same position as we were when you were in the Arctic before. The weather hasn't improved. You wouldn't be able to do anything and with only Tin-Tin working on Mark II's paint job it'll be twice as long before it'll be operational. No, unless Brains comes up with any ideas I think we'd better stick with the current plan and hope that Alan makes contact with the boys."

Scott heard the sound of running footsteps and laboured breathing. Brains bounded into the cockpit of the rocket ship, Tin-Tin close behind him. "W-what's t-this – 'gasp' – a-about the – 'gasp' – e-emergency alarm?"

Giving the young scientist a chance to regain his breath, Jeff explained what had happened. "Any ideas as to why it's gone off Brains?"

"I-it didn't start bec-cause of the crash?"

Scott was shaking his head. "Alan reported the emergency locator beacon, but that was over two hours ago and happened instantaneously. If it was because of the crash why would it take the emergency alarm this long to activate?"

"Could it be some electrical malfunction?" Tin-Tin asked.

Brains shook his head slowly. "I-I don't see how."

Jeff sighed, and then looked away from the video console. "Just a moment, Alan is coming through." He opened Thunderbird Five's frequency. "Any news, Alan?"

"Of a sort." Alan Tracy was looking tense. "The alarm has stopped."

Jeff breathed a sigh of relief. "Good."

"No, Dad! Not so good. It wasn't switched off, it just kind of faded out."

"Faded out!"

"That means the emergency alarm computer has been destroyed!" Brains exclaimed. "Mr Tracy – S-something is s-seriously wrong w-with Thunderbird Two!"

The Hood regarded his captives thoughtfully. "She should have regained consciousness by now," he muttered. "Truly this is an unusual lady."

Parker sat on a steel chair, his hands manacled together in handcuffs behind him, which were themselves joined to the chair by a length of chain welded to the chair's stretcher. On the seat next to him, still unconscious, Lady Penelope was similarly bound.

"It is of no matter," The Hood continued on. "While she sleeps she is no trouble. I must get ready for the next stage of my plan." He cast a sardonic grin in Parker's direction. "Don't go anywhere."

Parker stared back at his kidnapper defiantly, and watched him leave the room.

"Has that dreadful man gone?"

Parker's head snapped round. "M'lady! Are you all right?"

"Perfectly, Parker. I was enjoying a little rest."

"Little rest! You've been out of h-it for at least two 'ours."

Lady Penelope gave a little laugh. "That was the impression I was intending to give. I have been, ah, playing possum. Unfortunately it hasn't assisted us with our trifling problem."

"'Ow long…?"

"Oh, since you did your most efficient braking act. I'm afraid you jolted me awake quite rudely."

"Beggin' your pardon, Madam."

"Think nothing of it. You did me a service. I was able to observe our friend and his surroundings at length, without him suspecting I was doing so. I was hoping to find the moment when I could, ah, turn the tables. I had decided that my best opportunity was when he was going to carry me."

"And I stuck me big nose in," Parker said shamefully. "Sorry, M'lady. H-I couldn't bear the thought of 'im puttin' 'is mitts all over you."

"And you gallantly came to my aid. Thank you, Parker. I appreciate your thoughtfulness."

"I 'ope that you didn't think that I took h-any liberties meself."

"You were a perfect gentleman. And don't worry, I now believe that it would have been foolhardy for me to try anything. He was too wary of us. As evidenced by the items he removed from my person."

"I was watchin' 'im to make sure 'e didn't do any funny business. What's 'e got?"

"My hair clip, brooch, rings, necklace and bracelet."

"'E took me wallet, jacket, braces and titfer 'n all," Parker bobbed his hatless head.

"He was most thorough, but I do believe that we still hold one or two, ah, aces up our sleeves."

"Indeed, M'lady. So now what do we do?"

"We wait, Parker," Lady Penelope informed him. "We wait until that horrible little man reveals his plans for us."

John Tracy lifted his face out of the snow that had helped cushion his fall. When Thunderbird Two had exploded he'd been lifted into the air and thrown – he didn't know how far. At first moving slowly to see if he'd sustained any injuries, he remembered his brothers and sat up quickly.

About 10 metres to his right and slightly behind him he could see Gordon move gingerly and then also sit up. John waved at his brother to let him know he was okay. Much to his relief, Gordon repeated the gesture.

Cautiously John got to his feet. He was surprised, that apart from a general ache, which was undoubtedly due to being flung about like a rag doll, he was unhurt. He turned to look for Virgil.

His brother was sitting in the snow, hugging his knees, silhouetted against an inferno that burned barely 500 metres away from them. It was a sight that would forever be etched in John's mind. The great craft that had been Thunderbird Two, had been reduced down to a third of its former size, and what remained was engulfed in fire. Incredibly the fire's temperature was so hot that it was melting the polar ice cap. Thunderbird Two was slowly sinking through the ice.

John turned to Gordon who had arrived at his side. Their protective masks held microphones to enable communication, but without the signal booster that was on board Thunderbird Two, their range was limited to about five metres. "You okay, Gordon?"

He could see the flames reflected in his younger brother's visor. "I'm a little sore, but I'm okay. How about you?"

"Pretty much the same." John turned back to the scene before them. "Look at that!"

"Yeah. Virgil must be feeling terrible."

They tramped through the snow to reach their brother. "Virgil!" Gordon laid a hand on his older brother's shoulder. "Are you all right?"

Virgil didn't look away from the scene in front of him. "Yeah," he sighed. "Yeah, I'm just fine. How're you two?"

"We're okay." Gordon straightened up again and looked back at Thunderbird Two. "Boy. Talk about going out in a blaze of glory!"

The surrounding snow and ice reflected orange and red. The landscape was surreal.

John was starting to feel cold. "C'mon, Virgil, get up. Grandma's gonna tan your hide if you get your britches wet."

"Okay." With evident reluctance Virgil got to his feet and then turned his back on what, to him, appeared to be the death throes of an old friend. He unhitched his Arctic Survival Pack off his back and started removing the control yoke. "I'd set off the emergency alarm…"

"So that's why you took so long," Gordon interrupted.

"Yes," Virgil was searching through his pack. "They'll know something's wrong…"

"And the emergency alarm will have stopped working," John guessed. "They'll be panicking now."

Gordon looked at him. "Panicking? Our family?"

"Okay," John conceded. "Expressing some mild concern then."

"That's better."

Virgil had pulled his arctic emergency radio out of his pack. He placed it on the ground as he closed his pack securely, and reattached the control yoke again. He'd just finished that task and had swung his pack back onto his back when it started snowing again. "Can't it stop that for ten minutes?" he grumbled.

His words were blown away in a sudden maelstrom of snow. They were blinded and deafened by white out conditions…

"John!"

"Gordon!"

"Virgil!"

"Where are you?"

"What?"

"Grab my hand!"

"How? I can't see you!"

"What? I can't hear you!"

"Where are you guys?"

"This wind…"

"The snow…"

Gordon was blown forwards and bumped into something. "Who's that?"

"Me."

"John? Where's…"

"I'm here," Virgil had found an arm. "Who's this?"

"Me," John repeated. "So we're all here?"

"Yep." They grouped together in a huddle.

A particularly vicious gust of wind pushed against Gordon again and his gloved fingers slipped off his brothers' jackets. He lost his grip and fell.

"Gordon!" The two older Tracys yelled. "Where are you?"

"Down here! On the ground!"

They crouched down, reaching out for him. Virgil's fingers closed about an arm. "Is that you, Gordon?"

"Yes!"

They decided it was best to hunker down low and wait out the storm.

The door to their tomb opened. "So! You have decided to join us," The Hood sneered. "A bit different than your usual bed of feathers?"

"It is not as comfortable," Lady Penelope admitted. "But then I rarely sleep during the daylight hours, so I shouldn't expect any different."

The Hood laughed. "Remarkable," he said. "I suppose you are wondering why I brought you here?"

"You're h-auditioning for a scene from a detective movie?" Parker guessed.

"Silence, Fool! This is not a time for your petty jokes. No… I understand that International Rescue will soon be celebrating…"

"Are we going to a party?" Lady Penelope interrupted. "I do so like parties."

"Don't play the fool with me, My Lady," The Hood snarled. "You were on your way to celebrate the fifth anniversary of International Rescue!"

"Parker? Did you know about this?" Lady Penelope asked.

"H-It's news to me, M'lady," her butler replied.

"You think you are clever with your lies, but I KNOW! I have an impeccable source…"

For the first time Lady Penelope felt a twinge of alarm.

"…Who tells me that International Rescue are planning a party to celebrate the anniversary. I know you are agents for that accursed organisation for we have crossed paths before. Therefore I know that you are going to join them. I propose to accompany you."

"'Ow can you go to a party wot none of us has invites for?" Parker asked.

"I will pretend to be a slave to your Lady, just as you are a slave." The Hood gave Parker a malevolent grin. "Or I could leave you buried up to your neck in the desert's sands and I could replace you as your lady's chauffeur."

Parker stared him down. "You 'aven't got the qualifications."

"True, I am not servile enough. But I am a master of disguise and I can act any part. The face you see before you is not my own. International Rescue would never know of their peril until it is too late."

"But we don't know of any party," Lady Penelope insisted. "I came to Los Angeles simply to visit an old school friend! However if you are going to meet International Rescue I should simply adore going with you," she continued on girlishly. "Becky and I were just saying this morning, weren't we, Parker, that it's every girl's dream to meet those dashing men of International Rescue. Why Becky would be simply green with jealousy if she only knew…"

"Lies!" The Hood thrust his face close to hers and it took all her courage not to recoil back. "My source tells me you will be present." He leered, and to Lady Penelope's relief, moved away. "You are curious to know who my source is, aren't you? He is someone close to International Rescue. Someone very, very close. Only the fools don't realise that I have the power over him that forces him to speak, and when I submit him to that power he cannot resist." The Hood laughed and the chamber echoed with the sound. "I will return soon and then you will tell me how we are going to the party. Till then," he made an ironic bow, "please make yourselves feel at home."

The three Tracy brothers breathed a collective sigh of relief when the storm finally abated. They stretched and shook mounds of snow off their heads, shoulders and backs.

"That wasn't very pleasant," John commented dryly. "Where's your radio, Virgil?"

"My radio?" Virgil looked downwards.

"Yeah, you know. That thing that's supposed to help us get rescued," Gordon crossed his arms and glared at his brother.

"Don't be stupid, Gordon," Virgil snapped. "If you can't say something sensible, don't say anything." He scuffed at the snow on the ground with his foot. "It should be here somewhere."

"Well, what did you do with it?"

"I put it down before the storm hit."

"Put it down? Down where?"

"On the ground!"

"On the ground? During a blizzard? Of all the dumb…"

"I didn't know the blizzard was going to hit…!"

"And you call me stupid…!"

"Guys, calm down," John soothed. "There's no need to get upset. We'll find it."

The three of them gazed at the expanse of freshly fallen snow. Even their tracks had been obliterated. "Where?" Gordon asked. "Look at it, John. We've been blown about from pillar to post. It could be anywhere!"

"Well stop moaning about it and start looking!" Virgil had already started feeling about.

Ten minutes later they'd covered a large area and had discovered nothing. Virgil stopped searching. "We'll have to face it, we're wasting time. It could have been blown anywhere in that wind. Why don't you get yours out, John?"

John was already ferreting about in his survival bag. "Here it is…" he pulled out the instrument. "Oh…!"

"What?" his brothers closed in.

"Look!" John held the radio out to his brothers. It had been reduced to a flattened mess of plastic and wires. "I thought I felt something hit me between the shoulder blades!" Putting his hand through a tattered hole, he felt around inside his pack.

"How's your back?" Gordon asked.

"Fine," John said absently as he continued feeling about the bag. "What's this?" he withdrew his hand and stared at his find. A large, jagged piece of Thunderbird Two lay on his palm. "I suddenly feel very lucky," he said quietly.

Virgil stared at what had formerly been a part of his 'plane. "I'll bet you do!"

"The radio's history though," John added.

"Rather the radio than you," Gordon noted.

"Can't you fix it?" Virgil asked.

John was examining the bits and pieces that were once a functioning link with the outside world. "If I was at home, with a full complement of spare parts… But here…" he shook his head. "No chance."

Gordon took the remains of the radio from his brother and examined it critically. "That ship of yours sure packs a wallop, Virgil."

"Oh, shut up and get your radio out," Virgil retorted taking John's mangled set to examine himself. He gave a low whistle. "Are you sure you aren't hurt, John?"

"I'm fine," John reassured him taking his radio back and placing it carefully into his tattered pack. "What's holding you up, Gordon? Where's your radio?"

"Here!" Gordon said triumphantly, pulling the instrument out of his bag. "Now we'll get some action." Confidently he flipped the switch that turned the radio on. "North Pole calling Thunderbird Five! North Pole calling Thunderbird Five. This is the three polar bears calling. Come in, Snowylocks."

Virgil rolled his eyes in exasperation but said nothing.

Neither did the radio.

"Calling, Elvis. Is anybody home?"

There was silence from the radio so Gordon tried again. "Thunderbird Five! We've got Santa here and he wants to know what you want for Christmas. If you don't answer this radio we'll tell him you haven't been good and don't deserve anything…"

There was still no response. Gordon glanced at his brothers uneasily before trying yet again. "Gordon calling Alan. Can you hear me, Alan?" He'd lost his jocular manner as he shook the radio. "Come in, Thunderbird Five…" He tried adjusting the strength of the signal. "Nothing."

"Here, let me try," John offered. He examined the radio briefly. "Looks okay…" he spoke into it. "Calling Thunderbird Five. Come in, Alan."

"What's wrong with it?" Virgil asked. "Scott was supposed to do the checks on the survival kits. When was it last inspected?"

John slid out the panel that contained the unit's inspection record. "Two days ago. Unit and batteries A.O.K. It's marked with an 'S'." He raised his hands in defeat. "It might have been fine two days ago, but it's dead now."

"So we can't contact anyone," Virgil stated.

"There's always our wristwatch telecomms," Gordon indicated his wrist. "Who's going to volunteer to risk frostbite and have their watch stick to their skin?"

"I wouldn't bother," John told him. "They weren't designed to operate this close to the magnetic poles." He looked skywards, and was just able to make out a faint, green glow. "And judging by the Aurora Borealis that's playing up there, there'd be too much interference to even consider attempting reaching Thunderbird Five. We'd be wasting our time."

"Edible transmitters?" Virgil suggested. "At least they'd know we're still alive."

"Same problem," John stated.

"So now what do we do?" Gordon asked.

"Build some shelter," John shrugged. "We could dig it out of that snow bank," he pointed to a small hillock of snow some 100 metres away. "At least we'd be out of the cold until Scott gets back."

"How big do we make it?" Gordon asked.

"Big enough for three," John told him. "This is not a time for single rooms."

"We'd better build the door away from the wind." Virgil held up a scrap of paper. "Which way is it blowing?"

"That way!" John and Gordon replied together, each pointing in a different direction.

"Thought so," Virgil grunted as the material blew out of his mittened hand and danced its way across the snow.

"The trench will block the worst of it." Gordon removed the collapsed shovel that was strapped to his pack. "Come on, the sooner we get started the sooner we can get out of this cold."

The sun was beating down onto Mateo Island and on the Mark II, which had been removed from its concealed hangar. Scott stripped off, first his overalls and then his shirt, in an attempt to keep cool. Then he thought of the associated problems of getting sunburnt and put the shirt back on again. Before long it was covered in minute dots of grey paint, courtesy of the spray gun he was operating.

"Would you like a drink, Scott?" Tin-Tin called up from below.

He was about to decline when he realised that he wouldn't do his brothers any good if he were to collapse from dehydration or heat exhaustion, so, removing his facemask, he quickly made his way down to the ground. He took the glass of iced lemonade from Tin-Tin and, trying to ignore the all-pervading smell of fresh paint, sipped it gratefully. "This is great."

"Thank your grandmother. She packed us a few things to keep us going." Tin-Tin opened a large picnic basket and Scott's eyes widened with pleasure as he looked inside. His hand stretched out for a particularly yummy looking morsel and then stopped.

"What about Brains? He's gonna need something."

Tin-Tin smiled. "He's already got his. I knew there was no way he'd tear himself away from his work, so I took some in to him. I told him it was there and he grunted at me, but I doubt that he heard me. We'll go up there later and it'll still be sitting there."

Scott grinned, the treat already in his mouth. "We're lucky to have him," he mumbled indistinctly. "Not only the brains but the dedication to do what needs to be done."

"Scott Tracy! How many times have you been told not to talk with your mouth full?" Tin-Tin scolded, acting as if she were brushing his sprayed crumbs off her overalls.

Scott hurriedly swallowed his mouthful. "Sorry, Tin-Tin. Have you had something to eat?"

"I've lived long enough with you Tracy boys to know that, if your Grandmother isn't about to take you in hand, it's first in first served." She opened a toolbox and took out a serviette. Carefully balanced on it were a number of delicacies.

"Looks like you've learnt your lesson well." Scott took another bite at something else he'd retrieved from the basket. Then his chewing slowed down. "Guess the guys aren't feeling this good."

"They'll be all right, Scott. You know that."

"Yeah I know. It's just that…" he hesitated, "…I've kinda looked out for them, ever since Ma died. And with International Rescue I'm usually AT the rescue scene. There I feel I've got some control over the situation. Back here…" he slung back the last of his drink and once again ascended to the top of the Mark II.

Tin-Tin heard the spray gun back in action again. She put the picnic basket back in Thunderbird One and returned to her post, painting one of the jet units.

The sun blazed down.

Up at the North Pole the three Tracy men had started preparing their snow cave. Together, using the collapsible shovels that had been part of their survival packs, they dug a trench in front of where the entrance tunnel was to be. As they removed the snow they piled it on top of what was to become their shelter.

When the trench was as deep as John was tall, they took a break. Gordon stretched his back. "We'll give those snow crystals a chance to bind," he said, sitting down in the shelter of the trench. His brothers followed his lead, glad for the rest.

"What have we got in the way of rations?" Virgil was delving into his pack.

"Hungry?" John asked.

"I am actually. I was too busy working on the Mark II to have lunch. Do you want anything?"

John shook his head. "I'm not hungry." He began examining what was left of his pack, trying to discover what remained in there that was still usable.

Virgil removed an energy bar from its wrapper and quickly lifted his mask enough to bite into the snack. He shivered. "Boy, the air's cold."

"We're at the North Pole!" Gordon jumped on him. "What else would you expect?"

"What I expect, is that type of answer from you, Gordon. You…"

"Guys!" John interrupted what had the potential to become another argument. "Stop this! If we're going to survive the next six or whatever hours we're going to have to work together! If you feel like arguing like little kids when we get home, then fine, you can do it somewhere where I don't have to listen to you! But in the meantime can't you at least pretend to be civil to each other? You know we're going to have to work as team to get this shelter built. So let's work as a team! Okay? Virgil?"

"Okay," Virgil muttered.

"Gordon?"

"Yeah." Gordon didn't sound too enthusiastic.

"Good!" John slapped his hands together. "Let's get started on the tunnel…"

The clock ticked on.

Brains pushed a few buttons on the console of the Mark II and the computer hummed into life. "What's the weather report for the area from point zero – 500 kilometre radius," he commanded. Alone, and while working, he rarely stuttered.

The computer accessed the world's weather satellites, Thunderbird Five's own weather seeking technology, as well as equipment located onboard the Mark II. One nanosecond later the results were displayed on the screen. 'Tropical Cyclone 300 kilometres north-north-east of present position. Heading in a southwesterly direction. First signs expected to reach point zero within three hours. 150 kilometre per hour winds and 300 millilitres of rain expected at point zero within five hours.' Brains checked his own, hand held computer, linked to the main weather station on Tracy Island. The Mark II's results were corroborated.

He activated a radio. "S-Scott, can you hear me?"

There was a moment's delay, as Scott had taken his watch off to stop it from getting covered in paint. "What's up, Brains? Have you knocked your drink into the computer?"

Brains didn't stop to hear the humour in Scott's voice. "Drink? No… I've finished programming the w-weather computer and it's telling me that there's a c-cyclone heading this way. We should be feeling its initial e-effects in about three h-hours."

Scott digested this bit of news. "So if we don't have the painting finished by then, we could be held up longer! We'll have to shift the Mark II back into the hangar!"

"I-I'm afraid so."

"How much longer will you be?"

"I-I've still got to programme the guidance computer. I-It's worked fine in the s-simulator, but I'll want to r-run some tests."

"So how long, Brains?" Scott said impatiently.

"An hour?"

"Okay, Brains, thanks. I'll let Father know."

Jeff was not pleased. "How long before you'll have finished painting, Scott?'

"Lets see… We've been at it two hours so far. I reckon we've got another 1.5 hours painting time and then we need to allow a good hour's drying time. That's without any moisture about and I want to work on her outside for as long as possible. If it starts to rain we're going to have to back her into the hangar and allow at least an extra half hour drying time."

"So that's 2.5 hours minimum, before you can even lift off… You'd be painting quicker if you had an extra pair of hands of course…"

"Of course."

"Okay, Scott. I'll get the plane out and head over there straight away… On second thoughts, by the time I've got the plane out of its hangar you could have flown Thunderbird One over here, picked me up, and got back. So we'll do that."

"Okay. I'm on my way now. Out."

Jeff ran to his room and grabbed a pair of overalls. On his way back he bumped into his mother. "Jeff! Where are you going in such a hurry?"

Already he could hear the sounds of Thunderbird One's engines. "I'm going to help with the painting, Mother. Let Alan know, will you? I'll leave you in charge of communications…"

"But, Jeff…"

He gave her a brief, but affectionate kiss. "You'll be fine. You won't have to co-ordinate any rescues. When Scott takes off in the Mark II, I'll fly Thunderbird One back here. Now if you'll excuse me – I'm wasting time."

"All right, Jeff. Good luck and take care…" she said to his retreating back.

"What do you think, M'lady? 'Oo's the squealer?"

"I don't know, Parker, but there aren't too many possibilities. I don't believe there is a large guest list. Also, from the way our friend was talking, it is possible that whoever it is probably is unaware that they are passing on secrets."

"H-It's a worry."

"It is indeed. We must escape from here and try to find the unwitting culprit and see if we can nullify The Hood's power over him."

"Or 'er?"

"You are right, Parker. We mustn't overlook any possibility, no matter how unlikely it might seem."

"H-It's probably someone who doesn't live… on the base," Parker deliberately refrained from being more specific. "Else 'ow could that geezer get the info out of 'im."

"A good question, Parker. And knowing our friend's clever trick with his eyes, I would not put it past him to have some kind of telepathic power over someone totally unexpected."

"Do you think h-it could be one of h-us then? You or me?"

"I wouldn't like to say yes, but then I hesitate to say no."

"So, we're not in the clear."

"Only the way that he was talking makes me think that he was referring to another person. The question is who? And how do we prevent it from happening again?"

Tin-Tin removed her facemask and wiped her forehead on her sleeve. Then she looked at her watch, surprised at how little time had passed since she'd started this chore. She pushed a button on the timepiece. "Hello, Father."

"Hello, my sweet one."

Tin-Tin smiled at her father's Anglicising of her name. "I am sorry I am not there to care for you. I wanted to see how you were feeling."

"Do not let that worry you. I am feeling well. I have had no reoccurrence of the seizure of two days ago. What can I do to help you?"

Tin-Tin frowned at him. "Father!" she scolded. "The Doctor said you are to rest!"

"I do not like sitting round while the family works. Perhaps I could do something to do with the party?"

"Now, Father," Tin-Tin sounded exasperated. "You know Mr Tracy has forbidden you from even thinking about that. We can handle the few chores that remain. It was probably all the work and worries that brought on your attack. The way you were moaning about the celebration when I found you…"

"But I am feeling well now…"

"I know, but I don't like it when you are ill. It frightens me."

"I do not wish to frighten you, Tin-Tin, and you have no need to feel fear for me as I am rested…"

The flight back to Mateo Island was quick. Jeff stared out of Thunderbird One's window at the partially painted Mark II as Scott brought Thunderbird One in to land. "You've done well."

"We've done the easy bit," Scott told him. "If you want to take over where I left off I'll make a start on the tail section. That's going to take a bit of rope work."

"Okay, Scott. You're in charge here. Just point me in the right direction."

Scott pointed in the vicinity of the Mark II's left wing. They could see a pair of overalled legs balanced on some scaffolding. "Go see where Tin-Tin's up to. If she's nearly finished that wing you can start erecting the scaffolding to start on the other."

"Would you mind if I went and saw how Brains is getting on first?" his father asked.

"You're the boss!"

"You're the site foreman."

Despite all his worries, Scott barked a laugh and then pretended to take on a gruff tone. "Just don't take all day."

John stopped digging and stretched his back. "I need a break," he said. "I'm going to have a look around. I'll be back in a minute." He clambered out of the trench as he heard his brothers grunt their acknowledgement.

Standing by the hole they'd created, John looked about him. The sky was dark and threatening; the ground like a vast white desert, except for the now blackened carcass of Thunderbird Two. He gave a shiver, which was not totally a response to the cold. "Two's still burning," he commented.

The latest blizzard seemed to spring up out of nowhere. John, suddenly buffeted by howling winds and blinding snows, was forced off balance. He staggered, trying to retain his footing.

The snows were swirling round and round him; a dizzying effect that hid all surrounding landmarks from view. He shook his head, trying to clear his vision, and took a step back the way he thought he'd come.

He had no visual references – Nothing to say where he could find the body of their shelter – Nothing to say where his brothers were – Nothing to say where was north and where was south – Nothing to say which was up and which was down. He was trapped in a murky gloom that could be dusk, dawn, night or day. John was only aware of the noise of the wind and the lack of visual stimulation. The swirling snows were numbing his mind as sure as the cold was numbing his body. Deprived of all sensory evidence he fell to his knees and shut his eyes. He was lost… trapped…

"… John…"

…Alone… He could feel the snow building up against his body, but didn't care. Nothing mattered. The snow and the wind were his world now. That and that nagging voice in his mind…

"… John! …"

Strangely he wasn't scared. It was as if all emotion had been ripped away in that first fearful gust. He could live or die, it didn't matter. He was alone in his world of snow, and wind, and never ending greyness…

"JOHN!"

His name, shouted through the headset in his mask punctured the cocoon that he'd drawn around himself, sending in a lifeline. "Virgil?"

As he regained his sensibilities he could hear relief in his brother's voice. "John, where are you?"

"I don't know. I've lost my bearings."

"Well, hold still, we'll see if we can feel you."

"Don't get out of the trench!" John ordered, fearful that one of his brothers would find themselves in the same predicament that he was in.

"We won't," Virgil reassured him. "And don't you move either."

"I won't." John waited, praying that he would feel a welcome touch. If he had the vaguest notion where the trench was he would have extended his arms in that direction, but his disorientation was total.

"It's no good," he heard Virgil's grim voice. "We can't feel you. You're going to have to take a step."

"Which way?" John asked.

"Have you got any idea which way you're facing?" now he was hearing Gordon's voice.

"No, the wind knocked me about a bit. I've no idea." John shouted over the screaming gale.

"Keep talking and take a step to the left," Virgil suggested. "If the signal gets weaker we'll know you're heading in the wrong direction."

"Be careful, John," Gordon added.

"Okay, I'm talking. I'm talking about what a weird sensation this is…" Still in a crouched position, John shuffled sideways. "… I'm talking about..."

"Stop!" Virgil yelled. "You're fading slightly. Reverse your step."

"Reversing now," John described. "Now I'm moving further to the right. How are you hearing me?"

"About the same as you were before," Virgil admitted. "Hold still a moment and we'll try to find you again." There was a moment's silence before John heard his brother's sigh. "Nope."

"Take another step to the right, John," Gordon suggested. "Keep talking."

"I'll be hoarse before you find me at this ra…"

"Stop!" The yell was in duplicate.

"Two steps to the left to get back to where I started?" John asked.

"Yes," Virgil said. "I hope you're taking the same sized steps."

"I'm trying to. Okay, I should be back where I started. Now I'll go forward. I'll take a baby step. How do I sound?"

"Slightly clearer, I think," Virgil said. "What do you think, Gordon?"

"I agree. Take another baby step, John."

"Stepping out," John did as he was told. "How am I sounding now? Clearer?'

"Definitely," Virgil confirmed. "Hold still…"

"Against this wind! That's a near impossibility. I'm on all fours and I'm still being knocked about." John felt something brush against his forearm.

"I've found something!" Gordon sounded excited. "Is that you, John?"

"I think so," John grabbed at the object held against his sleeve. It was a hand. "Hi, Gordon."

Gordon kept a secure grip on his brother. "Come on in, John."

Feeling in front of him, John crawled, still gripping tightly to Gordon's hand. In his eagerness to get to safety, his misjudged the lip of the trench and tumbled in, landing on the soft snow that had been blown in by the relentless winds.

He sensed that someone had crouched down, and in turn sat up to face the unseen person. "Are you okay, John?" he heard Virgil's voice ask.

"I'm fine," John admitted. "I didn't land on you, did I, Gordon?"

"You wrenched my wrist slightly," Gordon admitted, "but I'm okay… Is it me or is this snow easing off?"

"No, I can see you guys." John was able to make out the shapes that were his brothers. He could see Gordon's figure massaging his arm. "Are you sure I didn't hurt you?"

Gordon flapped his hand in the air. "Honestly, I'm fine. Though I don't know that I'll be able to dig for a while," they could hear the humour in his voice.

"You're not getting out of it that easily," John told him, and struggled to his feet.

"And you're not getting out of this jam that easily either," Gordon told him. "We don't need you to going all Captain Oates on us, and disappear out into the snow... Not yet anyway." It was said as a joke, but all three men knew that it'd been a close call.

"… And that was 'Dangerous Game' by the Cass Carnaby Five…"

"How's it going, Brains?"

Brains started, turned and blinked at his employer. "M-Mr Tracy."

"Sorry," Jeff apologised. "I didn't mean to frighten you. Where are you up to?"

"I-I'm fine-tuning the radio. We're getting interference f-from a commercial television station."

"…With Rick O'Shea…" the radio said.

"Sounds like Tin-Tin's boyfriend," Jeff commented dryly.

"I-I don't know. I haven't b-been listening that closely," Brains admitted, pulling at the neck of his shirt. "It's hot," he said rhetorically.

Jeff looked around. "How's everything else coming along?"

"F-Fine. The weather computer is f-functioning perfectly."

"… In entertainment news today…" the radio burbled away.

"So I hear. How's the guidance system?"

"I'll need Tin-Tin's assistance to f-finalise that. I'm concentrating on other things until she's f-finished painting."

"… British actress Carole Hampton was found unconscious at Los Angeles airport this morning…"

"That's why I'm here, to help with the painting," Jeff said. "I'd better get out there. I'll send Tin-Tin in."

"… She is undergoing tests to discover what was the cause of her blackout. Hampton, who rose to prominence in the Cy Goldheimer sci-fi blockbuster…"

"Th-Thank you, Mr Tracy."

"… Is currently filming 'Terror at Thompson Tower', co-starring her boyfriend, Chip Harrison, best known for his role as Paul Metcalfe in 'Winged Assassin'…"

"Don't forget to have your lunch," Jeff pointed out the food and drink that Tin-Tin had left for Brains. The engineer stared at it as if it had suddenly materialised out of nowhere.

"… It was Harrison who found Hampton. He said they'd been waiting for a friend who's since mysteriously dis…"

Brains turned the radio off.

After a half hour of clearing out the snow that had blown into their trench, those trapped at the North Pole decided that it was safe to continue working on the tunnel that would be the entrance to their shelter. John took the first shift. He reached in the hole, which was level with his knees, and began digging upwards, while the other two cleared away the snow as he removed it. They worked industriously, frequently changing roles to give the one inside the cave a break.

The wind stopped blowing.

"Thank heavens for that!" Gordon clambered out of the trench, sat on the edge, took off his facemask, and wiped his forehead. "I needed some real fresh air." His words were punctuated by the puffs of steam coming from his breath.

"How cold is it?" John joined his brother and removed his own mask. He reached down to help Virgil out of the trench.

"Not too bad, though not warm enough for a swim."

"Blast!"

"What's wrong, John?" Virgil asked.

"My eye's frozen shut."

"Well, put your hand…"

"…Over my eye and don't try to pull the eyelids apart. I know the drill." John did this as he spoke and felt his eyelids separate as the warmth of his hand melted the ice that sealed it. "That's a weird sensation," he said as he put his mask back on. He glanced at the sky. "What time do you think it'll get dark here?"

"I'd say… about November," Gordon told him. "What's the matter? Been away from the stars too long?"

"No, just curious. It's a strange feeling knowing that the sun won't set for…"

"Hey look!" Gordon pointed across the landscape. Now that the snow had stopped falling and the wind had stopped blowing, they could see far into the distance. Virgil and John followed the line of their brother's outstretched hand to what appeared to be a large lump on the otherwise smooth landscape.

"What is it?" Virgil asked.

"Don't tell me you don't recognise one of Thunderbird Two's pods," Gordon said with a grin. "You know we could find shelter there, not to mention a source of heating, and food, and communications with base…."

"You want to check on Thunderbird Four," Virgil accused. "How far away did Scott say it was? It's probably farther than it looks. We could be caught in another snowstorm before we get a quarter of the way there. I think we should stay here. At least we've nearly got our shelter sorted."

"Looks like the decision's down to you, John." Gordon turned to his other brother who was starting speculatively at the pod in the distance.

"Much as I like the idea of actually having somewhere warm to hunker down…" John began slowly, "I think we should stay here. This is where Scott will be looking for us, and you can't beat the signal fire we've got going." He gestured over at the still blazing front third of Thunderbird Two. "And I've already been trapped in a blizzard twice, I don't intend repeating the experience!"

"Okay," Gordon shrugged. He knew as well as his brothers the unpredictability of the weather this close to the North Pole. Safety would have to come first.

As if to emphasise the soundness of their decision a light snow started falling. It obliterated the surrounding landscape's features.

Virgil shivered. "And I thought it was cold on Mount Arkan," he said, rubbing his arms as he slid back into the trench.

"If Brains offers to make it snow at home this Christmas I'm going to tell him 'no thanks'," Gordon said. "I've seen enough snow to last a lifetime."

"Don't say that, I missed out last time," John complained. "I was on Thunderbird Five."

"If you've seen one snowflake you've seen them all, Johnny," Gordon told him. "It's my turn to start digging, isn't it?" He clambered up the tunnel and started to remove the snow from inside the cave, pushing the snow back down to the entrance with his feet. "You know…" he puffed lightly, "…we'll have this thing finished just as Scott gets here."

"We'll need it if he gets held up for any reason," Virgil reminded him as he scraped the snow from where it fell out of the tunnel.

"Yeah. Like he doesn't like the Mark II's colour scheme," Gordon teased.

Virgil ignored him…

There's 18 points up for grabs this time. Send your answers to turton-tracyathotmail .com (remembering to replace at with the appropriate symbol and removing the space before the .com.

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