8
The debriefing went well, as such things go. Scott ran a tight, to-the-point meeting, handing out praise and constructive criticism with equal justice.
"It's like this, guys... and TinTin...," he said, at the very last, leaning on the edge of Jeff's desk, "Things are going to get pretty rough. John's away, and even with that entangled what-ever-it-is comm system...,"
"Entangled ph- photon encryption," Hackenbacker put in, hands in his pockets. The skinny engineer looked deeply tired, but managed a pale smile, anyway. "S- spooky action at, ah... at a distance, Scott. We can c- communicate with J- John at better than, ah... than light speed, by manipulating entangled g- gauge bosons." Then, at the other men's blank, uncomprehending silence (TinTin got it), "...Messenger p-particles!"
Scott winced, resettling himself on the desk edge. His right leg was falling asleep.
"I'm just a pilot, Brains. I press buttons and pull triggers. Save the physics for John, who... like I was saying... isn't exactly out of touch, but definitely a noncombatant. School's starting up for Alan, in a couple of weeks, too, so the rest of us are going to have to pull together to get the job done. Dad 'll help out when he can."
Virgil reached over and gave his big brother's arm an affectionate pat.
"No problem, Scott. We're..." A team, he'd been about to say, "... a family. We've pulled double shifts before, we can do it again."
"I got a better idea," Alan cut in, lower lip beginning a slow, stubborn outward creep. "How 'bout, like, home-schooling me? Right here. There's computers, and the internet, and I can always call 'He Who Knows Everything'...," The boy pointed up at the frescoed ceiling, indicating their absent brother. "And, hey, I can get 'D's just as easy here, as in the classroom, right?"
Scott opened his mouth to refuse, then reconsidered. If nothing else, the Island was definitely more secure than L.A.
"That's up to Dad, Alan. I'll make the suggestion, though. Having you close to home would sure take some of the pressure off."
Said Gordon, before he could talk himself out of it,
"I might give this season a miss, under the circumstances."
This time, though, Scott shook his head and smiled.
"Thanks for the offer, Gordon, but no. I wouldn't take the World Championships away from you anymore than I'd take Mars away from John." He jerked his head at their blond younger brother, adding, "Alan isn't giving anything up... trust me."
Now he turned to regard the girl, who'd been awfully still, and silent.
"TinTin..., I'll talk to Dad. Maybe we can make something happen. No promises, but I'll try."
She nodded, biting her full lower lip to hide a smile, and darting excited looks at Gordon and Alan. Demure and obedient, she reminded herself, demure and obedient!
"Great. Turn in, and get some sleep, everybody. I'll take the desk, till Father gets back. ...And have Kyrano bring up some coffee please, somebody."
It was going to be a long watch.
Later that morning, after Jeff had flown in with Grandma and Gennine, Alan huddled with Gordon and TinTin over Wedgewood bowls of sugary breakfast cereal. Eating so fast that the milk dripped down his chin, the younger boy said,
"Hey, here's a plan: how 'bout we celebrate, and go to Tahiti for the day? TinTin can shop, and do chick stuff, while you and me go surfing, Gordon. What d' you say?"
TinTin stiffened.
"I do not, Mon Enfant, do 'chick stuff'! And you spend more time shopping, both of you, for those awful contest shirts!" (35 to 6 in favor of Gordon, and still counting) Re-gathering herself, the girl said haughtily, "I will snorkel."
"I'll dive," Gordon decided aloud, buttering yet another slice of toast. "Then we c'n head f'r Teahupoo, an' go surfing, th' lot of us."
Alan grumped, but went along.
"Fine! But don't, like, hang all over me, okay?" He told the girl. "The babes must be allowed to flock in."
TinTin rolled her eyes, and Gordon threw a slice of toast, and thus, in their usual dignified fashion, the matter was settled.
More or less meanwhile:
Gennine approached her former husband, in one of those terribly rare moments when he was doing nothing whatever but standing on the office balcony, a drink in hand, staring out to sea. He looked, just then, a lot less 'Captain of Industry' than 'lonely old man'.
Jeff set his drink down and straightened at her approach. He smelled of 'Old Spice' and cigarettes and morning sun, and his pale blue shirt was unbuttoned a few notches. His iron grey hair hadn't been pomaded for once, and it lay in a natural, lank fall across his forehead. Like John's. He'd taken off his blazer, and the red tie lay crumpled like a discarded noose, on a little glass-topped table.
She was over it, though, and had been for a long, long time. No matter what Grandma said.
"I guess you've won," she told him, voice rough with barely caged tears. "Now he wants to be schooled here, even. No reason to come back to Los Angeles at all, now... unless I can manage to get trapped in a mudslide, or something!"
The last thing in the world Jeff needed just then was an argument. Looking at the barely composed woman with whom he'd shared a bed, a few splintered, angry years, and a son, he sighed. Wearing her blonde hair back in a stylish French braid, in one of those loose, floaty dresses she favored, she was just like Lucinda... done subtly wrong.
"You could stay," he offered, quietly. "It's a big house, and I'm not here all that often. You wouldn't have to see me, if you didn't want to. Just Alan, and Gordon."
She hugged herself, fighting emotion with more resolve than Jeff would have credited.
"I have my job," she replied. "The new Sheraton still needs its inner spaces and energies h-harmoniously aligned."
He looked at her, shaking his head.
"Work can be mighty cold comfort, Jenny, when that's all you have left." He glanced back out to sea. "I've been trying, here and there, to hook myself back into their lives again... to rejoin the family, but it hasn't been easy. They haven't rejected me outright, not even John..., and I've tried to work from home more, but a monster like Tracy Aerospace needs constant attention, and balls-to-the-wall energy."
"You could hand it over to Scott," Gennine suggested cautiously, stepping closer. Very few of her ideas, since the first couple, had met with anything but scorn.
He slumped a little, a study in tired and lost, then turned and squinted at the horizon.
"I've thought about it... but why would I want to curse him, like that? He's taken on too much responsibility, as it is. He's a good man, Jenny. They all are. And I'm an exhausted one."
She came over to stand beside him by the balcony rail. They didn't touch, but for the first time in a long time... they weren't quite apart, either.
"You're making progress, Jeff... and they love you more than you realize. It's not the money that keeps them here, or the adventure. They want to please you. They want to make you proud."
"You think so?"
The question, unguarded, and from the heart, made her smile.
"I do."
San Francisco:
A little earlier, Cindy had arrived at her cubicle, full of details and commentary to add to all the launch footage. She intended to do a series of stories, covering the Ares III mission from start to finish... if Jake agreed.
Gruff and unpredictable, her boss could be balky about letting her take on special assignments, but Cindy felt sure she'd broken enough lead stories to have earned a little leeway. Maybe. (If all else failed, there remained threats and bribery, voodoo dolls, drugs in his coffee...)
Her little workspace, with its computer station, doodle pad and grey cloth walls, was an island of peace amid the noise, bustle and confusion of a busy station. Preening news anchors, fellow reporters, cameramen and scurrying interns sped from research department, to equipment, to make-up, to the dismal little snack bar, and back again. Every so often, Jake Hall put his shiny head out the double doors of his office, to shout something pithy and alarming into the general chaos. Cindy ignored him, settling into her squeaky chair with a long, tired sigh.
The 'walls' that divided her eight square feet from everyone else's were covered in tacked up pictures, bumper stickers and college banners; USC and UCLA, where she'd earned her bachelor's and master's degrees. She picked things up, and set them down again, hands on the familiar, while her heart yearned for the absent. Story of her life.
She'd been to see her father that morning, at his room in the nursing home. He hadn't recognized her. Bart Taylor, the police chief... the big, laughing, fighter who'd held his adopted baby girlupside-down to let her walk on the ceiling, was gone. In his own way, as dead as his socialite wife, Marcy. All that remained was a dribbling shell.
Why the hell she bothered to visit, Cindy had no idea. Stupid, loyal, or both. But..., they'd rescued her, he and Marcy, from a bleak orphanage in war-ravaged Estonia. Three years old, wearing diapers and stuck in a metal crib, she'd been able to reach out with nothing but her eyes, but they'd noticed and picked her up, anyway. So..., yeah. She kept visiting.
Melinda Charles suddenly whipped into the cubicle, all flying angles, flopping limbs and frizzy brown hair. Automatically, Cindy smiled.
"Hey, Mel...," she began, but her friend was too worked-up for pleasantries.
"There you are! Thank God!" Girl, you have no idea. No! Don't look!" For, Cindy had started to crane a glance over the divider. "He's switched medications again, the bastard, and he's driving us all crazy! Well, crazier than normal, anyway. Do yourself a favor, Cin, and keep a low profile!"
Cindy chuckled.
"Oh, goody. More dog shows, school plays and beauty pageants, until his pet ulcer calms down. I am truly blessed. Thanks for the warning."
Mel gave her a sheepish grin and quick hug, saying,
"Danny's making a run to the deli. Want anything?"
"A pistol," Cindy replied, laughing. Then, a sudden commotion at the reception desk caught the women's attention.
A group of six or seven armed men, wearing plain grey suits and dark glasses, had forced their way past Janet, who'd begun calling loudly for security. Cindy froze. One of them, the brown-haired fellow speaking into a small headset, was terribly familiar.
"Uh-oh," she breathed, ducking lower.
"Uh-oh?" Melinda repeated, gaze darting from the intruders, to Cindy. "Uh-oh's bad, isn't it?"
Then, coming to a swift, accurate conclusion, the courageous older woman hissed, "Quick, Cin, get down and find a place to hide. We'll cover for you."
They hugged again, and then Melinda marched determinedly out of the cubicle, waving her arms for attention and calling out questions. Jake, still on the phone, lunged halfway out of his office like a moray eel, bellowing for silence.
Meanwhile, Cindy tore all her pictures off the walls, ducked low, and sped from the cubicle at a crouching run. She'd encountered the brown-haired man a few weeks ago, at a traffic light, and he hadn't been walking dogs.
Someone grunted, "In here!"
Lennie, the station's beefy daytime security guard. Genial and bland-seeming as Oliver Hardy, with thick, hairy arms covered in tattoos, he was an old friend.
Nodding, Cindy scurried gratefully into his office. Lennie gave her a calm smile, adjusted his gun belt, and stepped from the little room, shutting the door behind him. Surrounded by video monitors, radios and a chattering police scanner, Cindy dove beneath the cluttered desk, looking wildly around for a power strip. There! On the floor, under the computer station, and fairly tentacled with humming power cords.
Shaking slightly, Cindy held her left wrist close against the thing, effectively drowning out her ID chip's signal (a trick she'd learned in high school). Just outside the office, she heard Lennie, over Jake's barked threats,
"Hey, now, what's all this about? Let's just calm down here, folks."
He was in danger, she realized. They all were; Lennie, Melinda, Jake..., even Peter Ride, the head anchorman, sounding vain and clueless as ever. All because of her. Yet, she couldn't just turn herself in. Not without endangering Scott, and International Rescue.
There was another door in the security office, leading to the fire stairs. Praying that her chip had been blasted by enough electromagnetic energy to wipe it, and that they hadn't posted anyone on the stairs, Cindy dashed for the green metal door.
Papeete, Tahiti:
They'd flown in, with Jeff's permission, landing at the big island's sole airport, Tahiti Faa'a. Gordon piloted the plane, bringing the yellow turbo-prop skimming down past ocean, mountains and forest to a gentle landing on the glittery black tarmac. Smooth as silk, no bounces... and he did it without guidance, never once glancing at the girl for direction or advice. Had to think a bit, to recall which way to taxi the plane, but he got them to the private hangar without incident, and without letting on.
It was a lovely day,bright and hot, with the Mara 'amu trade wind blowing in from the south east. Laughing, bronze-skinned people strolled here and about, cats lay puddled contentedly in pools of warm sunshine, and masterless mutt-dogs trotted and snuffed. looking for a hand-out or a friendly pat. In a word, Tahiti.
Thefriends were feeling pretty exuberant, looking for a last day of adventure before finishing school, sport and life pulled themaway again. The itinerary had changed just a bit, for beyond the relaxed, brightly decorated little airport lay the 'Fare Hei', a market place of tiny thatched stalls manned by local folk, and packed with the most amazingly garish tourist stuff imaginable.
Alan, TinTin and Gordon went from booth to booth, trying things on, haggling with the proprietors (who sworeon a stack of Holy Writs that theytottered at the brink of poverty, with many hospitalized relatives, and ten hungry kids), and spending far too much money.
Alan was broke in thirty minutes, having purchased loud shirts, giant sunglasses, several flower leis, a souvenir beach towel, and a new board. TinTin was more circumspect, having much less to spend. She got a camera, a book and a bright new beach wrap. Gordon spent every bit of the cash he'd won from Virgil, buying just two things.
Then, it was back to the company car, and over to Jeff Tracy's private cove. Not the one with the big waves; the other one, further south, where the water was just calm enough to dive and snorkel. There was a guarded boat house there, containing Tracy 2, Jeff's bright red cigarette boat, and a number of local operatives.
The ocean slapped at the sleek hull as they cast off and pulled away from the shaded dock. Gordon seemed a little quieter than usual, but Alan put it down to his impending departure, rather than pegging the truth. TinTin was being awfully solicitous of the older boy, which would have made Alan quite jealous, had he not decided that, like a national park, he was just too beautiful to hoard, and belonged to the people. The female half, anyway..., if they were young, and hot.
Tanned and smooth, blond hair whipping about in the wind of the boat's wave-leaping speed, wearing sunglasses and shark-print trunks, Alan was almost as good-looking as he thought he was. TinTin stood up front between the boys, her long hair flying about in the breeze, snapping all three of them in the face. Sheets of glittering green water shot up on either side of the boat's sharp bow, whenever it planed across the top of a wave, drenching them all in salt spray. They slammed and bounced across the ocean's surface, as the screaming engine fought to deliver the speed Gordon demanded of it.
At last they reached the spot, just within sight of shore, where a string of old cargo ships had been scuttled to create an artificial reef. Gordon pulled her around in a hard, banking turn, casting up a great curtain of water that dissolved into a million shimmering diamonds. Too bad, at that. He'd have been more than satisfied to keep going until they reached Hawaii. But the boat rumbled to a stop, and he cast the anchor line over.
Alan and TinTin were ready to go in with just some fins and a snorkel, but Gordon had brought along his dive bag, and had to check out, then struggle into, his gear. Giving them both a cheery wave, Alan sceeched a Tarzan-yell and plunged right in, leaving TinTin behind to help her friend.
Gordon was all set to feel awkward about the situation, when an odd noise distracted him. A single-prop airplane was cutting low across the water and into the cove. Low-wing... probably a 4-seater... her angle was too steep, the noise of her engine a sick, throbbing cough. Seizing hold of the wide-eyed girl, Gordon threw TinTin off the boat as hard as he could, in what he prayed was a safe direction.
Peary Crater:
What truly hurt, as far as John was concerned, was losing the beer. But, that came later. They'd rejoined the station crew at the dining room, making new acquaintances and renewing old ones, then sat down to dinner.
The base commander was Captain Philip Riley, a white-haired New Zealander; lanky and philosophical, with many years of spaceflight under his belt. He'd pulled out all the stops, setting before his guests the best that the International Moon Station had to offer in the way of food. Canned, bagged and freeze-dried, mostly, but there were a few things from the green house, as well, and approximately a thimble-full of beer for each person present. (Riley was taking no chances with the 'low-gravity fizzies').
"Ladies and Gentlemen," he began, standing to raise his tiny shot glass of Miller Light. "I am most proud to..."
CRUMP!
An explosion. The lights flickered, darkened, then came up again. The entire tunnel shuddered, and a fine sifting of dust rained down from the rocky ceiling. Everyone put on their helmets, and started up their suits' life support packs.
"Lovely damn timing!" Riley grumbled over the helmet comm. Signaling to his people, the commander added, "Wretched drill goes up like a cheap cracker every time someone influential shows up."
He leveled a gloved forefinger at Pete, then.
"You lot make your way to the emergency escape pods, just in case. Follow the wall signs. You're far too valuable to risk, repairing a balky, damned, worthless, rotten...," Riley was still muttering casual maledictions as he turned the corner and shuffled out of sight.
They'd been told to scurry off to safety, but the Ares III crew hesitated. Pete glanced over at John. Even through the glass domes of their helmets, the young pilot could read McCord's question.
He started to relay the query to island base, through a comm frequency no one else possessed. Then a rapid, pulsing message at the back of his hand brought him up short.
"It's deliberate, probably," he told the mission commander, "and not the first attempt."
Pete nodded grimly.
"I was afraid of that."
The other three had been listening in on the exchange. Now Roger cut in,
"They're gonna need help, then."
Once again, Pete agreed.
"Yeah. And so are we, 'cause something tells me that the escape pods aren't as safe as Riley figures. Not if someone's trying to stop this mission. So, here's the plan: Thorpe, get to the hangar, hit the robot cranes, and get her reconfigured, double time. Kim, Linda, get down to the warehouse, strap on the powersuits, and start loading up supplies, as much as you can. Nothing in the flight plan covers this scenario, so use your judgement, and keep the chatter to a minimum. We meet back at the ship, on my signal. Tracy, you're with me."
In the corridor, as everyone leapt to their assigned tasks, Pete turned to John.
"Lead the way," he said.