Author's Note: Conversations in different time zones. Some decisions made. The incidents quoted by Ramirez come from the comic books. The Bereznik incident is from “The Trapped Spy”, reprinted in the graphic novel, Thunderbirds: Danger Zone, 1992. More on the others later. Thanks to Hobbeth for betareading.

Disclaimer: I don't own the canon characters, I'm just writing about them. Please do not copy or hyperlink this fiction without my express written or verbal consent. This includes adding this fiction to C2 communities. I may be reached at my email of record. Any and all original characters, including Cindy Lou/Lucinda and her cats (especially the cats) are mine and may not be used without my express written consent.

Enjoy.

Tikatu

Ramirez kept his eyes on his data pad as the limousine took him and his employer back to their office block. The face of the man across from him was scowling, thunderous after his meeting with the security subcommittee. The secretary knew exactly what was wrong, and he waited for the explosion that he was sure would come.

At last, Alvarez slapped the fine leather of the seat and muttered several words that his companion didn't quite catch, or pretended he didn't. In fact, even though Ramirez had caught the words quite clearly and had heard them before, he didn't understand them. They were in Malay, and were a sure sign of the minister's extreme frustration. It was times like these that the secretary doubted his allegiance to this man, because this was when he was confronted with the reality that this was not Carlos Esteban Alvarez. This was not the man he had admired and counted as a friend. This was someone wearing his face and living his life...

He pushed the thoughts away savagely. He was on his way to the top, to power and glory, and if he had to leave his old friend behind, so be it. He glanced up at the minister, who was looking out the tinted window at the people walking along the sidewalk as they waited for a traffic light. Fernando could have sworn the man had felt his gaze, for he turned back to Ramirez, his scowl still in place.

“What is taking those fools so long?” he spat. “I want action, not more debate!”

Ramirez cleared his throat gently. “Excellency, I tried to tell you that the wording of your bill was too vague, and targeted the wrong groups. International Rescue is not considered to be a 'relief aid' organization like the Red Cross or Red Crescent. It has a unique niche, and you must define that niche, then choose those other organizations which fall closest to it in scope. Doctors Without Borders might be one such group, or perhaps Emergency Life Flight.” He sat back and put down his data pad. “But they are organizations that already routinely provide the information you have outlined in your bill.” Ramirez sighed. “I fear it will die in committee.”

Alvarez waved a hand impatiently. “Bah! I have been patient, securing my power base, waiting until the right moment to return here. And now I am not inclined to wait on the glacial movement of government and committees. I want action, haste! Without it, International Rescue will slip through my fingers once again!”

Ramirez breathed deeply. “If you would listen to my counsel, Excellency, I have a plan that might bring International Rescue before the government as you desire.”

The minister sat back, still scowling. “What is it?”

The secretary settled one knee over the other. “We must spread the idea that, somehow, International Rescue is a danger to national sovereignty because it crosses national borders with impunity. We must bring forth charges that they are insensitive to the religious beliefs and customs of the countries where they go. That will cause an outcry against them from the Eastern European, Middle Eastern, and Southeast Asian blocs, including China. And we must spread the idea that this group is offering its technology to one or two of the most hated nation states. That will bring in the countries that have been most involved in disarmament. We must make the president herself see that International Rescue is a danger that must be brought under the aegis of the World Government.”

Alvarez's scowl had simmered down to a thoughtful frown. “A smear campaign. Much like the one those impostors used a few years ago.”

The secretary nodded, but Alvarez shook his head. “We have attempted that with the Erdman's website. It has not garnered enough attention.” He scowled again. “And the cursed website is still inoperable.”

Ramirez took a deep breath. “That is not enough. The site is seen by few, and the media will not touch it for fear of being accused of libel. But the impostors had the right idea; they used the media to draw attention to themselves as they pretended to be International Rescue. The true organization's secrecy worked against them. We must find a way to draw attention to the scenarios that will show the organization as we wish to paint it.”

He handed his data pad to the minister. “Here are some of their activities, particularly ones regarding the Eastern European block nation of Bereznik, the Masai people, and the Kingdom of Zarabia.”

Alvarez began to scroll down as Ramirez continued. “The Bereznik incident is of particular interest as there was a Russian spy involved. International Rescue extracted both him and the Bereznik leader's daughter, who was held hostage by Russia to force International Rescue's hand. But in dealing with the spy, they claimed to have destroyed the materials he had stolen. There is no proof of this, of course. Not only that, but someone dressed as one of their number tried to assassinate that country's leader, and one of the Thunderbirds destroyed an office where the head of the secret police had his offices. He was killed.”

He raised a hand, palm up. “Of course, the head of the secret police was a traitor. He captured an IR operative, and sent the assassin, dressed in that man's uniform, to do his dirty work. But still...” Ramirez smiled slyly. “Until then he was a trusted member of the country's leadership.”

“I see here that the World Government Air Force was involved, and the Russians appealed to the Security Council themselves,” Alvarez said, a smile spreading over his face. “International Rescue claimed neutrality, and rescued both, but as you say, there was no evidence that they truly destroyed the papers that the Russian spy obtained.” He glanced up at his underling. “A clear cut case of defiance to the wishes of the World Government. Excellent! We can do much with this. You are to be commended, Fernando.”

“Thank you, your Excellency,” Ramirez murmured. “But it would be best if this did not come from your office. An 'impartial source' must find it and publish it abroad.” He made a sound of disgust. “The Erdman gang is poorly equipped to continue in their role in... our plans.”

“I agree,” Alvarez replied. He had noted Fernando's slight hesitation, but chose merely to file it away for now. “We will deal with them accordingly. What organization would be best suited to reveal this information to the public?”

“One of the news organizations, I should think,” Ramirez suggested. “Perhaps the NTBS? Or the WWTN?”

“Not the NTBS,” the minister said flatly. “Not that International Rescue sycophant, Ned Cook.” He looked thoughtfully at the pad. “Perhaps Eddie Kerr of the WWTN would suit our purposes. He was first to cover the impostors.” He glanced up at Ramirez. “But this is old news and he is unlikely to look into it without something fresh to pique his interest.”

Ramirez smiled widely. “I have just the thing. If you would scroll down to the next tab, you will see a report from our mole at Interpol headquarters.”

Alvarez applied himself to reading the report and his eyes widened. He glanced up at Fernando again and smiled. “This is wonderful! One of the bullets found at the scene of Franks's murder implicates International Rescue!” He handed the pad back to his secretary. “Have our mole 'leak' the information to the media. Be certain that Kerr hears about it first.”

“Yes, Excellency.” Ramirez inclined his head in respect.

The minister looked out the window again and saw that they were stopped in the secured area of the underground garage. “We have arrived at the offices. It seems Eduardo has been waiting for us to conclude our business.” He pressed a button, and the door of the limousine was opened by a burly bodyguard. “I will not be accompanying you, Fernando. I will be returning home. I have a young lady to prepare for. I leave this in your capable hands.”

“Yes, your Excellency,” Ramirez repeated as he climbed out of the limo. “I shall attend to it immediately.”

“Good. Buenos noches, then.”

Eduardo closed the door on the minister, and Ramirez headed for the executive lift, briefcase in one hand and data pad in the other. The limousine pulled away behind him and he stopped to follow it with his eyes. He sighed lightly, disturbed by something but not quite sure what. Then the elevator car arrived and he stepped inside.

xxxx

Rachel sat down in the computer carrel and plugged in her laptop. She had spent her lunch hour doing research to find the name of the photographer who had taken the shot of Gordon Cooper in the kelp field. The woman was now an adjunct professor at the University of Hawaii at Manoa. She managed to find the professor's name and email address before lunch ended. Now, with time to wait for her father to pick her up on his way home from work, she scanned the picture for an attachment and began to write a letter.

Dear Professor Palaia,

I was wondering if you could give me some information on Gordon Cooper, the young man who is facing the camera in the attached picture. I met him recently on a matter unrelated to marine studies and was curious about his kelp farming experiences for a paper I have coming up in my marine biology class. If you could put me in contact with him I would be very grateful. You may forward my email to him if that would be most convenient for you.

Thank you for your attention to this matter.

Sincerely,
Rachel Clarendon

She added her email address at the school, double checked her spelling and punctuation, then took a deep breath and clicked on “send”.

~That's done,~ she thought with a touch of relief. ~Now to see if I get an answer.~

xxxx

“Good morning, Dad,” Scott said as Jeff came to the breakfast table, his hair looking slightly damp but dressed for a day of vidconferencing. “Where's our newest agent?”

Jeff shot his oldest son a look as he sat down, a glance that was a mixture of concern and surprise. Kyrano came over and unobtrusively poured Jeff a cup of steaming coffee, receiving a murmured thanks from his employer.

Scott shook his head. “Dad, it's not like we haven't seen you and Aunt Lou running on the beach every morning since she got here. Even though you come to breakfast separately, we know you've spent some time with her.”

Jeff sighed slightly and his face took on a bemused expression. “I wasn't aware we were being watched.”

“I wouldn't say you were being watched, Dad,” Virgil said as he came in, still dressed in pajamas and dressing gown. “It's more like you've been... noticed.”

“Yeah,” Scott agreed. “It's not like we've been using field glasses to follow your progress or anything.”

“Thank goodness for that,” Jeff grumbled. He glanced at his timepiece. “In answer to your question, Scott, Lou should be along soon. She wanted a shower then had to feed the cats.”

“What does she see in those animals?” Scott asked. He put down his fork and ran his hand over a series of short, parallel scratches on his arm. He'd received the wounds from the fluffiest of the cats while he helped transform the Round House bedroom into a living space for the four newcomers. ~And all I was doing was petting the stupid thing!~

Jeff shrugged. “I don't know really. Maybe she sees them as children, and they do keep her company. She wasn't able to have any kids of her own, and living by yourself can be a lonely proposition.”

“Yes, it can be,” said another voice, grudgingly, as the owner came into the kitchen. “But why in tarnation did you have to bring them here, Jeff?”

“And good morning to you, Mother,” Jeff replied. He got up from his chair to pull hers out for her as she joined the small group at the table. Then he sat down again. “I've explained it to you more than once, Mom. I'm not going to do it again.”

Eleanor was about to make another comment when Lou walked in. “Good morning, everyone,” she said, smiling. There was a smattering of responses, and Jeff rose once more to politely pull Lou's chair out for her. She thanked him as she sat down, and turned to Kyrano as the retainer poured her coffee. “Kyrano? Can I speak with you after breakfast? I need to know how and when you'll next being getting groceries. I'll be running low on cat supplies soon.”

“Of course, Mrs. Myles,” Kyrano replied. “I will be happy to assist you.”

“Great. Thanks so much,” she said, sounding relieved.

“You are welcome.” The retainer inclined his head, and moved away.

Alan walked in, followed by Kenny. “Good morning, Dad, Grandma, Aunt Lou,” he called cheerfully, as he sat down at the table, his mechanic sitting next to him. “Hey, Kenny! Say hello to the latest IR agent! Dad announced last night that Aunt Lou's agreed to be one.” He indicated her with a wave of his hand.

“Hey,” Kenny drawled, as his gaze joined everyone else's in looking at Lou. “You're going to be an agent, too?”

Lou chuckled. “Yeah, I am. Maybe you can give me some pointers, Kenny. Jeff and I have talked about it some, but I'm still not entirely sure what I'll be doing.”

Jeff's peripheral vision caught the frown with which his mother favored him, a definite “Later for you,” look. He ignored it and picked up his newspaper, so he didn't see the frown disappear and Eleanor smile at Lou.

“Well, this is a surprise!” she exclaimed, sounding pleasant. “Have we lost one of our New York agents?”

Jeff glanced up from his newspaper. “Actually, no, we haven't. I was thinking of a broader, more active role for Lou. One where she might be working from here.”

The table went silent. His sons looked at him in surprise, and Lou's eyebrows went up. Eleanor's smile faded for a second, then she asked, “So, will she perhaps be learning to fly the Thunderbirds?”

Scott and Virgil exchanged astonished stares, then included Alan in their shock. Lou glanced at Jeff's mother in alarm. She swiveled her gaze back to Jeff, and pulled down a corner of his paper. “Jeff?”

He glanced up at her, then at his three sons, all of whom had expectant and uneasy expressions. “Oh, no. No. Lou wouldn't be flying any of the Thunderbirds.”

The sense of relief was palpable. Lou breathed out. “Whew!” She turned to Eleanor with a chuckle. “You had me going there, Mrs. Tracy. It's true I've got a pilot's license, but there's no way I could handle a Thunderbird, especially Thunderbird One. That thing is faster than fast!” Waving a hand at the Tracy sons, she said, “I'll leave flying those machines to the experts.” Glancing back at Jeff, immersed in the news again, she murmured, “I did think I'd be just a regular agent, like Kenny here.”

“We can discuss this later,” Jeff muttered from behind the paper wall. “Privately.”

Gordon chose that moment to walk in. “Good morning, all.” He took in the tableau before him. “Have I missed something?”

“No, son,” Jeff replied hastily. “Come in and eat.”

Tin-Tin soon appeared, and then Brains, looking far more rested than he had the evening before. They exchanged good mornings with the group, and sat down for breakfast. The talk around the table turned to more mundane household matters. Kenny and Alan were deep in discussion, then Alan looked toward the head of the table.

“Uh, Dad?” Alan said. “Kenny has discovered a problem with FAB-1.”

Jeff put down his coffee cup. “Is it urgent?”

“Not really,” Kenny said. “Though something needs to be done about it today if possible.”

“Then could we discuss it after I talk to Brains?”

“Yeah, sure,” the mechanic agreed.

“Then I'll let you know when I'm available.”

“Dad?” Scott piped up. “I'd like to talk to you today sometime, too.”

“About what, Scott?” Jeff said, sounding distracted by something he was reading.

“Well, we were going to have a chat after we, uh, rescued Aunt Lou...”

“Oh, yes. I remember now. After I talk with Kenny, okay?” He finished his last bite of omelette, and motioned for Kyrano to refill his coffee cup. “Brains, I'll see you when you're finished here.” He took his cup, and tucked his paper under his arm as he left the table.

“So, Lucinda, what are your plans for the day?” Eleanor asked, applying herself to her food again.

“Well, for one thing I need to wash some clothes. Is there a place where I could do that?”

“Of course. Have Kyrano show you after breakfast.”

“Thank you. I will.” Lou sipped her coffee and took another bite of biscuit.


xxxx

Penelope sighed as she sipped her tea. Parker glanced up at her, curious.

“H'Is there summat th' matter, Milady?”

She smiled at him. “No, and yes, Parker.” She took another sip and let her eyes travel around the room. “It seems so quiet here today.” She looked down at her scones. “It's as if something were... missing.”

“Mr. Southern, per'aps, Milady?”

She chuckled. “Perhaps, Parker. I did not think I would miss his presence.”

There was a quiet moment where the only sound was the clink of delicate china. Then Penelope said, “Parker, please sit down. I have something I would like to discuss with you.”

“Wiv me, Milady?”

“Yes, with you. Now sit down and let me pour out.”

She poured her butler a cup of tea, and handed it to him as if he were an earl. Parker, unaccustomed to such deference from his employer, took the tea and sipped at it before putting cup and saucer down on the small table.

“Now,” she said, sitting up very straight. “I have a decision to make concerning my status with International Rescue and I have been far too long about it.” She smiled at her companion. “You, Parker, are my good right hand when it comes to my work with IR, and therefore, I would like your views on my... on our continued employment.” She paused. “That is, unless you would consider going it without me.”

“Never, Milady!” Parker exclaimed with fervor. “H'It's one fer h'all an' h'all fer h'one 'ere, beggin' yer pardon, Milady.”

“I thought as much,” Penelope replied with an amused tone to her voice and a twinkle in her eye. “So, Parker, how should we proceed? Should we retire to a life of luxury and give up the shadow game? Or should we return to it, with renewed vigor and commitment.”

“Well, naow,” her butler remonstrated. “Th' decision's not mine ter make, beggin' yer pardon, Milady. 'Tis fer you t' say h'one way h'or th' h'other.”

“Hmm. I was afraid that would be your answer,” Penelope said, pouring out another cup of tea for herself. She sipped it, then asked, “If it were your decision to make, what would you do?”

Parker considered the question, his bushy brows knitting together. “H'If t'were fer me ter say, Ay'd say stay. Life would be far less h'excitin' wivout H'International Rescue t' keep h'us busy.” He paused. “H'An', beggin' yer pardon, Milady, Mister Tracy does need h'us. No matter wot 'is perse-h'onal feelin's h'are h'abaout ye.”

Penelope's smile faded, and she looked down for a moment. “I suppose I shall have to steel myself to accept his... personal feelings, as you put it, and move on from there. I cannot... I shall not let them interfere with my decision.”

She sipped her tea again, then Parker asked, “An' wot h'is yer decision, Milady?”

Putting down her cup, she sighed and said, “I shall stay.”

Parker smiled at her. “H'A good choice, h'if Ay may say so, Milady.” He was silent for a moment and asked quietly, “H'An' wot h'about Mister Virgil?”

She picked up a scone and took a delicate bite of it. “That, my dear Parker, is a decision I have yet to make.”

xxxx

“Okay, Brains. As you can see, I've prioritized your current work list to what I think are the most important things. What changes to the list would you make? Which of these things are you closest to completing?”

Brains looked up at his employer from his chair beside the desk. “W-Well, Mr. Tracy. I, uh, think that bringing Deirdre in would be first. She'd be a t-tremendous help with, uh, the other projects. I had already asked her about w-working for T-Tracy Industries as a, uh, consultant.”

Jeff sat back and tapped a stylus once on the desk's top. “I remember you telling me about that. Lou and I were discussing the situation last night. She feels that it would be best to reveal our operations right away, and that Dr. Macias should be allowed to discuss the decision with her husband as well. Her reasoning was that Deirdre would eventually figure things out for herself from the projects we gave her, and that no matter what the decision was to be, she would discuss it with her husband anyway.” He dropped the stylus on the desk with a clatter, watching it abstractedly as he spoke. “I still feel it would be better to bring her in under Tracy Industries, at least at first, then decide later if she should be told about IR.”

He sighed and met Brains's frank gaze. “I've never had a problem with agents telling their spouses about their work for us; I've always let the agents make that judgment call on their own. But with Peter Riordan's death... I've become more attuned to the impact working for IR can have on a family, if something untoward should happen.” He spread his hands. “What are your thoughts on the situation?”

Brains was quiet for a moment, sifting through his ideas, looking for the words that would convey what he really felt about the situation. Then he said, slowly and clearly, “I think that if we hired her only for Tracy Industries, we would have trouble if we introduced the IR factor later on. She might feel betrayed, and pressured to take the job with IR, thinking that her position with Tracy Industries would be contingent on it. And as you say, she would discuss whatever we offered with her husband anyway. Better to be up front with her at first than risk losing her goodwill later.”

“Do you feel she's a good security risk?” Jeff asked bluntly. “Is she trustworthy?”

“Lou w-would, uh, know better than I would,” Brains asked, his stutter returning. “She's known her l-longer.”

“Hmm.” Jeff glanced over at his computer, where the background checks on Deirdre Macias shone in black and white. “Her background checks out fine. And I did do a check on her husband as well with IR in mind. That report is due back today.” He turned back to Brains and smiled. “Thanks for your advice on the subject, Brains. I will make this my top priority and will get back to you within a day. Meanwhile, you start thinking about how you would pitch this to her because if we decide to bring her aboard, you're going to be the one to do it.”

“Th-Thanks, Mr. Tracy,” Brains said. “I'm s-sure you won't, uh, regret it.”

“I hope not. Now, what of the remaining projects should be first?”

“Secure, uh, communications,” Brains replied smartly. “Then camouflage and r-radar jamming for the, uh, Thunderbirds.”

Jeff nodded and consulted his data pad to make the changes in the priority list.

xxxx

“Kyrano?”

The retainer looked up from where he was reading a Parisian newspaper over his own breakfast. “Oh, Mrs. Myles. There you are.”

Lou smiled. “May I sit down?”

“Of course. Would you like some more coffee?”

She waved a hand. “No, thank you. I'm already fully caffeinated for the day.”

“Ah, of course.” He put aside the paper. “Now, how can I help you with your problem?”

“I don't know,” Lou admitted, spreading her hands. “I don't know how you do things around here.”

“That is to be expected.” Kyrano got up and fetched a small data pad and a stylus. “We usually order non-perishable items on a monthly basis and have them shipped here. Then I take a trip at least once a week to Wellington, New Zealand, for fresh fruits and vegetables. Our meats are usually shipped cryofrozen.” He smiled. “Fish, we catch... or at least, Gordon does. Though if we want a variety that is not found in our waters, we will have that shipped in as well.” He looked at her, stylus poised over his pad. “What exactly do you need, and how soon will you need it?”

“Well, I have roughly three days left of canned food, and enough cat kibble for perhaps four,” Lou said. “The kibble situation depends on how hungry the cats are, because I free-feed them that. But I will need some kitty litter probably sooner than that.” She smiled wryly. “I clean the litter boxes at daily, sometimes twice a day, but it still gets dirty faster than the cats would like--picky furballs that they are.”

“Hmm. I think I will take an emergency trip to Wellington to get you enough of what you need for a week, and place an order to be shipped here by the time the supplies run out.” He made notes, then glanced up at her. “I will need brand names and particular flavors, as well as the type of cat litter you need.”

“Sure. I have a list here,” Lou said. She rummaged around in her jeans pockets, pulling out a folded list and handing it to him. He began to input the information as she continued, “I don't know what brands are available in New Zealand, but the cats will have to make do. Just make sure it's all paste; Spot is picky about texture, unless we're talking about people food.”

“Ah! Perhaps the cats would enjoy some of the fish leftover from a meal?” he asked, his face brightening with the idea.

“Oh, yes!” Lou replied with a laugh. “They never pass up people food. Midnight likes potato chips, and Moofums will eat cheese, even though it gives her gas.”

Kyrano chuckled. “A cat would not particularly care about that, would they?” He glanced over at her. “Would you like to come with me?” he asked.

She sighed. “I would, but I'd better not. Not that I think I would be recognized by the average person on the street, but customs might be another matter. I'm not sure who might be looking for me by now or how far away the hunt has extended.” She shrugged. “Franks was a creep, but he was former Interpol, as I was. They'd probably be watching for me to surface.”

“Very well. I will set up a flight time with one of the Tracy sons. I do fly, but I prefer to have a co-pilot if one can be spared.”

“I can understand that,” Lou said amiably. “Oh! Mrs. Tracy told me I should ask you where I could do my laundry. I brought some detergent with me...”

“Mrs. Myles,” Kyrano said gently. “You are a guest. If you bring your laundry to me, I shall wash it for you.”

Lou's shoulders slumped and she sighed. “Kyrano, I know I'm a guest and all, but... I feel like I'm imposing, too. I'd feel better if I could do my own wash.” She shrugged again. “Besides, it's not like I have a whole lot of other things to do at the moment.” She sat up straight and leaned toward him. “You, on the other hand, have a lot on your plate, including this special shopping trip I've just dumped on you.”

Kyrano smiled slightly. “If you insist.”

“On this, I do,” Lou responded.

“Then I will tell you that there is a laundry area on the first floor of the Round House. From the room you are occupying, it is the fourth door on the right as you walk down the hall, away from the entertainment area.”

“Thank you, Kyrano,” she said in a relieved tone.

“You are welcome, Mrs. Myles. However, if you find yourself in need of assistance...”

“I will surely tell you.” They were quiet for a moment, then Lou took a deep breath. “Kyrano? May I ask you something? Something personal?”

Kyrano's usually pleasant expression turned to a puzzled one. “You may ask.”

“Would you please tell me about your half-brother, Belah Gaat?”

xxxx

When the mail plane came, Kenny and Alan were waiting for it with an antigravity float.

“Hey, guys!” Juan said, alighting from the cargo helijet. “I've got the monster today because of you.” He turned to his co-pilot, dark-haired Gary. “Open her up, Gary!”

“Sure!” The side door to the cargo hold opened slowly, and Gary came back to pull the large packing crate forward.

“That's bigger than I thought it would be,” Alan commented as he and Kenny worked on manhandling the box onto the float.

“There's one more just like it,” Gary warned.

The unloading crew turned to see Scott driving down from the house in a golf cart. He brought the vehicle to a halt and climbed out, approaching Juan as the other sorted through the mail bags to find the one destined for Tracy Island.

“Hey, Juan, Gary,” he said, handing over two thick packets of envelopes and three parcels. “Dad sent me down for the mail once he heard that there was something requiring my thumbprint.”

“No problem, Scott,” Juan said. He put away the outgoing mail, then fingered through his special priority letters and parcels, extracting a plastic case addressed to Scott. The flap was sealed and fastened with a security clasp requiring a thumbprint to unlock it. “Here it is. Just press your thumb against the scanner, then give the lock back to me. That way the sender will know you've received it.”

“Okay.”

Scott did as Juan told him and handed the small locking mechanism back to the mailman, who tucked it into a slot on his datapad. The letter carrier touched a couple of places on the screen with his stylus, and the pad beeped at him. “All set. Here's the rest of the mail.”

“Thanks,” Scott said absently, taking the letters and putting them in a wicker hamper while gazing at the envelope and the return address on it. ~Arianiss, Windsor, and Koberle, Solicitors at Probate; wonder what they want? The address is Unity City. Could it have something to do with Peter?~ He didn't get much more time to wonder because the two mail plane pilots had finished offloading the crates onto Alan's antigravity float, and were preparing to depart. Glancing up, he gave them a perfunctory wave as the helijet lifted off with a scattering of dirt and moved slowly out to sea, gaining speed and altitude as it left the island behind.

“Hey, Scott!” Alan called from the small aircraft door that was set into the cliff face. “We could use a hand over here!”

“Coming,” he said distractedly. Laying the basket on the passenger seat of the cart, he placed the special delivery envelope on top of the pile inside, and went to help his brother.

xxxx

“We have the canopy down in the repair bay,” Alan reported to his father. “It will take the better part of a day to get it on and properly sealed, but before that, we need to take care of our other problem.”

“And what is that?”

Alan yielded the floor to Kenny, who said, “Well, we cleaned all the blood off of the rear seat, and it's ready to be re-upholstered. The problem is that we really need to send it back to Rolls Royce to have it done. They would be able to match the dye lot from the front seat, and I don't think I could match their thread pattern.” He smiled sheepishly. “Not that upholstery is something I'm really skilled at anyway. In any case, Rolls Royce won't do a thing without the direct order of the current owner or her legal representative. It's bad enough that we've been working on it, not being authorized mechanics and all. If she ever wanted to resell it...” He caught Jeff's amused glance, and smiled again. “Not that I think she would or anything; it's just that sometimes I think of things in terms of resale value.”

“So, you need Lady Penelope's permission to continue?” Jeff asked.

“Yeah, basically.”

“Do you think she's still at Bongo-Bongo, Father?” Alan asked.

Jeff shook his head. “I don't know, Alan. I haven't heard from her since she left here. You should try there first, though. I'll give you the number.”

“Thanks, Father,” Alan said gratefully. “I'll call her right away.” He glanced over at his mechanic. “I think Kenny has something else he wants to discuss with you.”

“All right, Alan. You call her. We can arrange any transport needed,” Jeff said. Alan nodded, got up and left the room.

Jeff waited until Alan was gone before asking, “You had something you needed to talk to me about, Kenny?”

The mechanic nodded. “I do.” He stood up and pulled a folded piece of paper from his jumpsuit pocket. “Here,” he said, handing it across the desk to Jeff.
It was a long white envelope, with two or three dark fingerprints on it. It was addressed: “To the Commander of International Rescue”. It was unsealed, and Jeff opened it to pull out the paper inside. He scanned it, then read it more thoroughly as Kenny nervously stood before him.

“Are you sure about this, Kenny?” Jeff asked, his voice soft.

“Yes, sir. I am. I've given this a lot of thought, and I've talked it over with Alan, so he knows what my decision is.” Kenny took a deep breath. “I am resigning from International Rescue.”

No notes

No disclaimer