Part One: The Calm
Chapter One
I. John Steed
The chirping of the telephone interrupted a silence that until then had been broken only by the sound of pages turning and the occasional munch of cheese and cracker. The man reclining on the divan reached over and picked up the receiver, his eyes still on his book. �Steed here.�
�Hallo, John. The balloon�s gone up.�
John Steed closed the book and sat up, suddenly alert. He disliked it when people on the phone didn�t identify themselves straight away, but in this case it was alright because it was his Aunt Augusta, whose voice he would recognize anywhere.
�Auntie, what a pleasure to hear from you.�
�I�m sure I hope so. How have you been keeping yourself?�
�Oh, fine, fine. Work at the old antiques shop keeps me busy, you know.�
�And a good thing, too. That�s why I�m calling. As I said, the balloon�s gone up.�
Steed felt a tingling run through his body. �Not...not the McCloud Rolls Royce Silver Ghost?�
�The very same. It�s going on the auction block this weekend.�
�So soon? I hadn�t heard that McCloud shuffled off this mortal coil yet.�
�He hasn�t. It�s worse than that. His grandson�s gone and got himself into a bit of a pickle...again...and it�s going to take a tremendous amount of lolly to get him out of it, this time. McCloud�s selling his prize car to rescue the boy...after this he won�t have anything left to sell except his house.�
�And I�m sure that�ll go too, sooner or later,� Steed said heavily.
�I�m afraid your right. It just makes my blood boil. Malcolm is such a...well, a waste of food, really, and yet as far as his grandfather is concerned the sun rises and sets on the boy. Well, it�s setting now, alright. And for all that, Malcolm cares neither jot nor tittle about his grandfather. When the old boy pops off I�m sure he�ll have a dentist round to extract his gold fillings before they put him in the ground.�
Some of the pleasure went out of Steed�s face. He�d had his heart set on that Silver Ghost for many a year, but to have a chance to acquire it under these circumstances certainly took the fun out of it.
�You and McCloud are such good friends, Auntie. Can�t you have a bit of a chat with him about it?�
�I don�t dare. Over the years, several of our crowd have tried to tell McCloud what Malcolm�s really like. He ignores what they say and severs all relationship with them. In a way, this is his own fault. Malcolm doesn�t even pretend to care for him. I�ll say that for the boy, he oozes contempt to McCloud�s face as well as behind his back. If McCloud chooses to pamper Malcolm after that sort of treatment, he�s no one to blame but himself.�
Human nature, John Steed thought. He had to know quite a bit about it in his line of work, for he manipulated people all the time through their wants and desires. But just because he knew how someone would behave in a certain situation, didn�t mean he understood why they�d behave that way. And the how and why of family dynamics were the most puzzling of all.
�So you�ll be coming up this weekend, then?� Aunt Augusta continued.
Steed tapped his fingers on his knee briefly. �It�s been such a long time since we visited, Auntie. I�ll come up tonight, if you�ll have me,� he said.
�That will be splendid.� Her voice suddenly dropped. �Would you like to bring that lovely Mrs. Peel with you this time? It was such a joy to meet her last year.�
Steed grinned. His Aunt Augusta was an incorrigible matchmaker.
�Afraid not, Auntie.� he said. �She and some friends are going yachting in the Orkneys for a fortnight..�
�Well...� Aunt Augusta was at a loss for words. �Well....friends, you say?�
�Don�t take on so, Auntie. Female friends.�
�Well, in that case, surely she�d rather come down here with you?�
Steed grinned again. �Mrs. Peel doesn�t change her plans once she�s made them, and she doesn�t stand up friends.� (Well, she did, if the security of the country was at stake, but he wasn�t going to broach that eventuality with Aunt Augusta.)
�Well.� Aunt Augusta was of the generation that thought that female friends would understand being stood up, if the friend in question had been suddenly asked out by a man.
�Don�t fret, Auntie. Mrs. Peel is just a good friend. We lead separate lives.�
�And you may continue to do so, if you don�t take things in hand.� Aunt Augusta said severely. �You should have invited yourself along! She�d have been flattered.�
�Oh, I couldn�t do that. You know me and boats, Auntie. One or two waves and I�d go green and be hanging over the side. Hardly the image I�d like to give Mrs. Peel...or her female friends.�
�Ye-es...� said Aunt Augusta, thoughtfully. �You�ve never been strong, John, have you? You�re right. Much better not to put yourself in that position! Come up here and do battle with the other vultures...I mean, with the other..I mean..come up and buy that old Silver Ghost!�
�I shall throw together a bag or two and be up there in a couple of hours.�
�Splendid. I�ll have Agatha cook all your favorites. We�ll dine en famille tonight.�
�Lovely.�
Steed replaced the receiver. He remained seated, his fingers tapping the phone idly, his forehead creased in thought. Then he shrugged and got to his feet.
Steed was a big man, tall and welll-muscled. His black turtleneck sweater accentuated powerful biceps and the flatness of his stomach. His brown hair lay in marcelled waves against his head, his eyes, deep set in their sockets, were a gray that could turn from mischievous to chilling in the blink of an eye. There was the faintest of dimples in his square chin. Many a woman had called him handsome.
Steed picked up his book, The Secrets of Harry Houdini, and the plate of cheese and crackers, and padded into his bedroom. He tossed the book on the bed, took a suitcase out of the closet, and began to pack, munching the while.
II. Emma Peel
Emma Peel sat at the nominal head of a circular table that almost filled a large conference room on the top floor of the Knight Industries office building. Three directors flanked her on her left, and three directors on her right.
Emma was in her late twenties, a tall, lithe, athletic and attractive brunette. She�d been only twenty years old when her father had died and she, as Emma Knight, had assumed the leadership reins of his company. She�d been the first woman to obtain such a high position in a technical profession, not to mention being one of the youngest. The publicity had been enormous. She had very quickly silenced the skeptics, who thought she hadn�t achieved the position but had been given it out of nepotism. Her extreme intelligence, educational background, self confidence, common sense, charm, and negotiation skills had, over the succeeding years, helped bring Knight Industries to the forefront of the engineering field.
Five years ago she�d married, Peter Peel the test pilot, and three years later, she was a widow. A year ago, for various and sundry reasons, she had handed over day-to-day operations of the company to the woman she�d been grooming for the role - Cicely Keith. Cicely didn�t have a background in engineering, but she had the brain of a computer and was an excellent business woman who was not afraid to delegate to subordinates who were experts in their fields. Emma still met with the board on a monthly basis and it was her policies that still ran the company.
Emma sat quietly, her full attention on the person currently speaking. Alfred Rhimes was a tall, cadaverous individual with a mind like a steel trap. (But then, everyone on the Board had a mind like a steel trap. Emma always surrounded herself with the best, and Cicely had followed her precepts.)
�And so, as you can see by the numbers, this merger would be very beneficial...�
Rhimes continued speaking. Emma�s eyes ran down the numbers on the sheet before her, as she�d done many times in the last week before this meeting. She was against this merger...but was it because she wasn�t sure it would benefit her company that much, or because she wanted Knight Industries to remain...hers? She wasn�t sure. But she knew very well that �too many cooks spoiled the broth,� as one of the aunts of a friend of hers would say. And also that if you opened a door too wide, who knew what would come in?
She glanced around at the other directors - all of them, besides Cicily, male. Most of them were looking down at the various papers spread out before them on the table, a couple were looking at Rhimes as he spoke and nodding agreement to his points.
No decision would have to be made at this time, Emma knew. Everyone would mull on the data and they�d pick up the discussion next month. The company in question, Elevated Engineering, certainly had a good reputation...but in all the numbers there were some missing. She�d noticed this when she�d reviewed the material the previous week. She�d expected Rhimes to address it in the meeting, but he hadn�t so far. Emma�s forehead creased. She made a note to request him to pull together more financials. She�d tell him afterwards.
***
An hour later Emma called an end to the meeting. The directors rose to their feet, shook hands, exchanged a few closing comments, and drifted out of the conference room. After speaking with Rhimes for a few minutes, Emma returned to the small office she maintained in the building. There was a rueful smile on her face as she placed several files in her briefcase. Her fortnight�s holiday was starting tomorrow, but it was clearly going to be a working holiday.
Emma glanced at her watch. It was almost three o�clock. She knew her friend Jane, who was due to pick her up outside the building, would be on time. Quickly she closed the blinds covering the window that looked out over the streets of London, and then changed from her high heels and knit dress into dungarees, a striped shirt, and duck shoes.
Emma strode down the hallway and, eschewing the elevator, yanked open the door to the stairs and took them down two at a time. In the foyer she retrieved her suitcase from within the security podium, where she�d left it that morning, sketched a cheerful wave to the young guard there, and stepped out into the London evening. Jane�s silver Morris Minor was at the curb. Emma stowed her suitcase in the boot, climbed into the passenger�s seat, and Jane pressed down on the accelerator and the car surged out into London traffic.
�What ho, fellow old snake,� Jane said, with her eyes on the cars in front of her.
�What ho,� Emma replied.
This traditional greeting was not from University but from a science fiction novel. Emma, Jane and the third member of their triumvirate, Miranda Wilding, were fans of the genre and in particular of the Lensman series by American author Edward E. Smith. In the penultimate novel in the series, The Children of the Lens, three female characters came to the forefront as powerful heroines. They fought the villains on their own, both physically and mentally. They were intelligent, strong, self-confident. They were emancipated - and what made it so surprising was that this book had been written in the 1940s, when women in even the most civilized of Western countries were expected to devote themselves only to kinder, kuche and kirche.
Each year, these three old school friends went on a fortnight�s holiday together.
The tradition had begun the very first year after they�d graduated from University, and had continued even as each one of them had married, and in the case of Jane, started a family.
Nothing interrupted their tradition. Jane had left her six-month old babe with her husband for one of their outings, and she and Miranda had rallied round when Emma had needed their strength after the disappearance - and presumed death, of Peter Peel.
�I see you brought a briefcase, Third.� Jane continued. �I thought our agreement was...no work while we�re on holiday?�
Emma the Third (she had received the nickname at University, because she had consistently placed third in fencing tournaments - against the best female fencers in Europe) grinned.
�A little light reading before I go to bed at night, that�s all.� she said.
Jane sniffed good-naturedly.
As Jane drove expertly in and out of traffic, they chatted about this and that. Apart from a perfunctory mention of the health of her husband and son, in answer to Emma�s question, Jane didn�t speak of her family. Instead they talked about the merits of the yacht they were hiring in Thurso, and their proposed itinerary, and the atrocious driving of the other people on the road.
A half-hour later Jane pulled up in front of the flat of their third musketeer, Miranda.
�You strike a fine nautical pose,� Emma told her after they�d exchanged their greeting.
�We must start as we mean to go on,� Miranda replied with a grin.
Emma and Jane hefted their luggage out of the boot and onto the trolley that Miranda provided, for Miranda�s semi-detached house was located conveniently right beside the British Rail station. They were in good time to clamber aboard the Night Scotsman bound for Edinburgh. From there they would rent a car to take them the rest of the way to their destination, Thurso, at the tip of Scotland, the gateway to the Orkney Islands.
The three friends made themselves comfortable in their first class sleeper compartment (actually two smaller rooms with a partition between them which could be opened up to accommodate four travelers). Fiona checked her watch as the train pulled out of the station and nodded, pleased. �British Rail, always punctual.�
And so was the train service. Within minutes, a pinney-clad woman came by with a trolley and they indulged in sweets, then spent the rest of the evening talking about the world situation, the space race between the Soviet Union and the United States (and England�s own efforts in this area), and books they�d recently read, with occasional pauses to enjoy the scenery rushing by the huge windows.
Finally they agreed it was time for bed, and summoned a steward to prepare their berths. After he�d gone they availed themselves of the minuscule shower and toilet facilities, and were soon in their night things and snuggled into their narrow, but comfortable beds.
�I love sleeping on a train,� Emma commented, stretching out luxuriously on her narrow bed, while the shadow scenery flashed by in the darkness. �Something about the swaying of the compartment, the noise and vibration over the tracks...it�s very soothing.�
�Almost as good as sleeping on a yacht in the middle of the ocean,� Miranda countered. �That�s what I�m looking forward to.�
�Hopefully we won�t be on a yacht in the middle of the ocean,� Jane murmured, sleepily. �We�re sailing around the beautiful scenery of the Orkney Islands, remember, Miranda. No adventurous forays out into the graveyard of the Atlantic, if you please.�
�Adventurous forays?� Miranda asked, injured. �Did I say anything about adventurous forays?�
�No, and Emma and I will make sure you don�t. Isn�t that right, Emma?�
Emma grinned in the darkness. �We�re on vacation,� she agreed. �No adventures allowed for the next fortnight.�
She would remember that line later on, in the category of famous last words.
Part Two: The Storm
Chapter One:
I. Emma Peel
The Seasprite glided through the waves with effortless ease. Emma, Jane and Miranda sat in the cockpit, enjoying the wind riffling through their hair. They�d lashed down the tiller and now were merely playing with the sheets, attempting to coax another knot or so out of the vessel.
It was the beginning of the second week of their holiday, and the fine weather was continuing. They�d started their tour of the islands in a counter-clockwise direction, picking up their yacht at Thurso and sailing east through the Pentland Firth between Scotland�s northern tip and the Orkney Islands, into the North Sea. They�d worked their way northward up the succession of islands, enjoying the quite spectacular scenery of their coastlines.
As they prepared to round the tip of the final island and start out into the Atlantic, Emma spared one last look at the horizon they were leaving behind. The gray waves of the North Sea spread out before her. Somewhere in that vast expanse was an offshore oil well under construction - the very first offshore oil well ever built. Indeed, her own company had been under contract to provide some of the computer software used in its design.
Emma wished now that she had made the suggestion that they sail past it and take a look. She�d thought about it, but hadn�t brought it up to her friends, and now she regretted it. She�d let the opportunity slip away for no good reason...just that they were supposed to be on vacation and viewing the oil well could�ve come under the definition of �work.� Still, it would have been something to see...a vast expanse of metal - yielding and unyielding at the same time - rising out of the unforgivingly frigid waters of the North Sea...a testimonial to man�s ingenuity....
�That was a heavy sigh, Emma.� commented Jane.
Emma turned away from the North Sea to face the Atlantic, and gave a grin. �Just taking a deep breath, Jane. The air is fresh and fine.�
Jane nodded. �It is that.�
The wind picked up and the three women decided to put the Sea Sprite through its paces. Emma and Jane exchanged grins - for the wind was due west and they surged further and further into the Atlantic.
Finally they put out a sea anchor to ride for the night, intending to turn around and head back for the islands in the morning. They insured that all the lights were burning, for although they were out of the shipping lanes one never knew what other ships might not be out there.
The next morning dawned bright and clear. Emma put coffee on the boil, poured herself a cup and went to the prow to enjoy the view and hope for a treat of dolphin or whale leaping from the water. As she sipped her coffee she brought a pair of powerful binoculars to her eyes and scanned the water, finally moving out to the horizon.
Her movements froze. There was something...yellow...on the horizon....and yellow things in the water always had to be inspected.
Emma raised her voice. �Jane, Miranda. Rise and shine!�
The sails had been reefed the night before, so it was only the work of a moment for Miranda to star the engine - which they hadn�t wanted to use except in the case of emergencies - and this was certainly an emergency, Emma thought. She kept her binoculars trained on the yellow as Miranda steered the Sea Sprite towards it. Very soon she was able to confirm that it was a life raft...but one that seemed to have turned turtle. A humanoid shape, wearing what appeared to be a yellow life vest, was spread-eagled on its vast expanse.
�Only one man,� Jane commented, handing the binoculars back to Emma. �That lifeboat should hold at least ten, even upside down like that.�
�And we didn�t hear any may days last night,� Emma murmured. �I wonder how long he�s been in the water.�
�We�ll soon find out. Miranda�s got the pedal to the metal.�
Miranda reversed the engines and the Sea Sprite hove to as near to the life raft as made no difference. �Thank the lord,� the man shouted up at them, rising cautiously to his knees. �Thank the lord!�
Emma, with a tremendous heave, sent a life preserver, attached to a rope, over to the man. He grabbed it and used it to slide down the rubber raft and fetch up against the yacht. Then Jane tossed a coiled rope ladder over the side. The man clambered up and over the gunwhale and sagged into a heap on the deck.
Time enough to make him comfortable later, Emma thought. �We didn�t hear a may day,� she said urgently. �What happened? Are there more life rafts out there?�
�I don�t know,� the man gasped, gulping the hot liquid. �But I don�t think so. I�m from the Saxon. We sank last night. About...six...about six...horrible...it was horrible...I don�t think anyone got out but me. I never saw any other life rafts. I was lucky to find this one.�
�Do you know what your last known coordinates were?� Emma asked.
The man gestured helplessly. �No, no, I never pay attention to that.�
�Right,� said Miranda. �I�ll radio it in, then....and keep on this course until rescue helicopters come.�
Emma nodded. �I�ll take our friend down below and get him warmed up. Jane, stay on the lookout with the binoculars, alright? I�ll be back up as soon as I can.�
Jane nodded and began to climb up the mainmast to the crow�s nest as Emma helped the man down into the yacht�s luxurious interior. �Take a shower,� she told him, guiding him into the cubicle. �We don�t have any clothes your size, I�m sure, but there�s a fuzzy bathrobe in there that should fit, and I think you should be able to get into my peacoat over that, for added warmth. And there�ll be coffee in the galley when you�re ready. I want to hear what happened to the Saxon.�
�My name is Derek Pratchett.� the sailor said, fifteen minutes later. �I�m a crewman on the Dundee. A factory ship. Do you know what that is?�
Emma nodded. �You catch the fish and process them on board, enabling you to stay out to sea far longer and catch far more fish than ever before.�
McClean nodded. �That�s right. Well, yesterday, about six, as I say, we were hauling in a net. The crane lifts it up, moves it over the hold, and lets go, you know? Well, I was standing there, watching it...when...when...� He took a gulp of coffee.
�There was a man in the net,� he said in a rush. �At least, it looked like a man. I saw a hand and a leg sticking out, you know? The net opened and he dropped into the hold along with the catch. I yelled out, and me and a couple of mates ran down there. There wasn�t anything to see, just a mass of squirming and flopping fish. We didn�t know what to do. There was no way to pull a man out of that mess...�
He fortified himself with more coffee.
�Then, I heard these sounds... like metal being ripped apart. And all of a sudden...a man appeared out of that seething mass of fish...gouging fingergrips into the metal with his hands. It couldn�t have been a man...it was some kind of man-fish - he was covered all in scales...silver scales...big silver hands... big silver head.. .
Emma Peel went very still. �Silver,� she said quietly.
�Well...he didn�t climb all the way out. Just about half way. The hold was only partially full - it was only our first day out, after all. So he�s there, and all of a sudden he stops climbing up...and starts ripping out. He tore a hole in the hull, and went through it...and he kept tearing and tearing. He must have ripped his way through the entire ship, through every watertight hull...and he was below the waterline! The water poured in and there was no stopping it. We were going down and we were going down fast.�
McClean put the coffee mug down and clasped his trembling hands together. �I don�t know how I got out,� he said slowly. �All I remember is darkness...and falling...and being in the water...and bumping into that lifeboat and climbing onto it. I yelled and screamed for my mates...but didn�t hear anything. There�s a radio in the raft, but I couldn�t turn it right side up to get at it. I just held on and prayed...all night, that someone had managed to get an SOS out...that someone was saving my mates...� he broke down, and covered his face with his hands.
�You need a drink,� Emma said, moving quickly to pour out a brandy. She pressed it into his hands and he took a gulp.
�Thanks...thanks...�
�You�re still shivering. Here...get under these covers. I�m going topside. Miranda�s put in a call to the Coast Guard...they should be showing up soon. So try to get some sleep�
McClean finished off the whiskey in another quick gulp. �I should go up...help you look...but...�
�But you�re going to bed. There�ll be dozens of searchers out here soon.�
McClean nodded, and crawled into one of the bunks, dressing gown, peacoat and all. He pulled the covers over his head. Emma stood at the hatch for a few moments, watching him, and decided he�d be all right, but just to be on the safe side she�d send Jane down, ostensibly to get a cup of coffee. The man didn�t look like he was about to go into hysterics, but one never knew.
When she arrived on deck, Miranda reported, �Coast Guard helicopters and ships are on the way. It�s going to take the helicopters a couple of hours to get here, but other fishing vessels in the area have been alerted, and they�re coming, too.�
�I take it they never received a distress call last evening?� Emma asked.
Miranda shook her head grimly.
Emma nodded. �I�ll go up forward and keep an eye out, just in case. Once the professional help arrives, I suggest we head back for Thurso. We�ll only get in the way of an organized search.�
�Agreed,� said Miranda.
And I need to make a phone call, Emma told herself. A man...capable of ripping his way through inches of reinforced steel...a man all silver, as if covered in scales...didn�t sound like a man at all.
II. John Steed
�It was 480 years ago today,� said Aunt Augusta grimly, �On this hallowed ground, Richard III, King of England, and Henry Tudor met to do battle to decide the fate of England. Thanks to the treachery of Richard�s vassal, Lord Stanley, the cowardly Henry Tudor carried the day, and Richard died �fighting in the thickest press of his enemies.� �
John Steed swung his brolly gently to and fro as he walked with his aunt on the path that ran around Bosworth Field. He had always thought that Richard had acted very foolishly on that day - gambling his life and kingdom in one fell swoop, and losing the gamble. He glanced sideways at the tall, willowly woman who strode along beside him, hardly looking her sixty-odd years, a sombre expression on her normally sweet face. �I�ve always thought Richard acted very foolishly on that day...� he began.
�I�ll ask you to explain that, young man,� Aunt Augusta said sternly.
Steed grinned and expounded on tactics as they continued their walk. His Aunt Augusta was an expert on 15th century English history and the military history of the time in particular, and they continued the parry and thrust of debate spiritedly.
Several other Ricardians had made the pilgrimage on this day. The location of the last battle of the War of the Roses had been put into the National Trust some years ago. A small visitor�s center and gift shop now graced the site, and placards had been placed at strategic points along an encircling, graded path, describing the events of the battle that had taken place at each location. The field received many thousands of visitors annually - mostly from America, it must be admitted, where the cult to �rehabilitate� Richard�s reputation seemed to be the strongest.
Once back at the carpark, Steed handed his Aunt into the Bentley and then clambered into the driver�s seat. He started the old girl with a flourish and they tooled back to his Aunt�s cottage in Leicester. The next day would be the auction of the Silver Ghost. Christie�s was coming down especially from London to handle the sale.
Steed tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. How many potential bidders were pouring into the hotels of Leicester, or perhaps more likely Nottingham, even as he was driving back to his Aunt�s cottage? He would have to mount a recce that evening, Steed decided. There�d be other car enthusiasts, of course, and he�d know most of them. But there were always the X-factors. He�d prefer to know about them ahead of time.
�I�ll make us some tea, love,� Augusta said, bustling into the kitchen. �Check my messages on the answer phone, would you?�
�Certainly, Auntie.�
Steed noted that a light was blinking on the answer phone. She did indeed have messages. Steed pressed the button. A frisson went through him as he heard the voice. �This message is for John Steed. This is Emma Peel. Steed, the Librarian gave me your location. Please call me at Thurso 546, as soon as possible.�
Whenever an agent of Her Majesty�s Government left their �patch,� whether for business or holiday, whether for one hour, one day, or one week, they gave their itineraries to the Librarian. Only those with the appropriate clearance could find out where an agent had gone. Emma Peel had such a clearance. Why had she needed to track him down?
Quickly Steed dialed the number. He felt a surge of relief when he heard Emma�s calm voice on the other end of the line.
�Mrs. Peel? Steed here.�
�Steed. I�m glad you could get back to me so quickly. I�ve got some interesting news.�
�My ears are all aquiver, Mrs. Peel.�
Quickly and concisely, Emma related the events of the previous evening. She repeated McClean�s precise words, without speculation. When she finished there was silence on the line.
�Well, Steed?�Mrs. Peel said at last.
�He was covered all in scales...silver scales...big silver hands... big silver head.. .� Steed repeated slowly.
�That�s what the man said, Steed.�
�You don�t think...�
�I do think.�
Steed closed his eyes, and saw again the expressionless face of the silver robot that had come so close to killing Mrs. Peel several months ago. He�d had the occasional nightmare about that...riding down and down the lift to the sub basement of Dr. Armstrong�s building, sweat beading his face, desperate to arrive in time ...bursting through the lift doors to find her helpless and broken, like a china doll, in those gloved hands. For some reason those perfect killing machines had unnerved him more than a human killer ever had.
�It couldn�t have been a cybernaut,� Steed said slowly. �I personally supervised the loading of all those monsters onto a lorry. They were put into a furnace and melted down.�
�But if it wasn�t a cybernaut...what else could it have been? A man-fish?�
�Is that so hard to believe? With the new technologies proliferating these days mankind is getting deeper and deeper into the oceans...and who knows what exists down there. Don�t forget the discovery of the coelacanth a few years ago.�
Emma chuckled, a soft, throaty sound.
�What�s so funny, Mrs. Peel?�
�Just that we seem to have switched roles. I�m the one who is usually proselytizing technology and the fantastic discoveries still to be made, while you seem to prefer to live in the past.�
�Technology just seems soulless to me, that�s all.� As soulless as the dead eyes of the cybernauts...
�So.� said Emma in her decisive voice. �We�ve got two suspects. Either a cybernaut or some kind of being from the ocean depths that did not appreciate being caught up in a net and brought to the surface...it may be possible, you know. A being that could live at the depths where those nets were trawling would have to be tremendously strong...�
�I knew you�d see the sense in it, Mrs. Peel. We each must fill our assigned roles. I�ll go back to London and visit Dr. Armstrong�s lab tomorrow...see if I can find anything.�
�And I�ll do some research up here. I spoke to a member of the Coast Guard last night, and he�d mentioned that a lot of the fishermen had reported having trouble with their nets being torn over night- they felt they�d been sabotaged and were blaming rival fishermen. I�m wondering now if those torn nets weren�t a foreshadow of things to come.�
�Very good. I�ll ring you tomorrow night at...eight o�clock?�
�Yes. Lovely.�
Steed replaced the receiver and stood quietly, thinking. Did he have the time to bid on the car tomorrow afternoon and get up to London in good time to visit Dr. Armstrong�s old laboratory? Steed sighed. No, he didn�t. Much better to tootle up to London tonight, so that he could get started immediately in the morning.
The rattle of teacups brought him to himself. His Aunt Augusta arrived with a tray of tea things.
�Auntie, I�m afraid I have to leave tonight.�
Augusta stared at him. �Why in the world? The auction is tomorrow!� She poured and handed him his tea. �What�s happened?�
�Bit of a dustup in the city, I�m afraid. Someone�s been going around selling forged antiquities. Police are talking to all the shop owners.�
�And they need to talk to you tomorrow? It�s a Saturday, for heaven�s sake.�
Steed nodded. �It is a blow, Auntie, I admit it. But I do have to go. There�s nothing else for it.�
Aunt Augusta gazed at her nephew for several seconds, and saw that he would not be persuaded. �Well, you�ll stay for dinner before you leave, won�t you?�
�Of course. I wouldn�t miss one of Agatha�s famous meals.�
�Good.�
�I�ll just go up and pack so that I can leave right after dinner.�
�And I�ll get out the chess board.�
***
The sun was just setting when Steed walked out of the White Boar. He�d decided to treat himself to a quick half before heading back to London (the only thing that kept Aunt Augusta from being his favorite Aunt was that she was a teetotaler).
As he strolled toward his Bentley, parked in a remote corner of the car park, he noticed the figure of a man half in and half out of the car, apparently fiddling underneath the dash. Someone was trying to hot wire his Bentley!
Steed came to a halt three feet away from the fumbler. For the man was a fumbler - a professional would have had the car started by now. Steed extended his brolly and placed its ferrule in the man�s back. �If there�s a single scratch on her, you are going to regret it for the rest of your life.�
Very slowly the man straightened, raising his hands in the air. �I wasn�t doing anything,� he whined. �I was just looking at it.�
Steed jabbed slightly. �She doesn�t like being looked at.� He lowered his umbrella. �Turn around. Slowly.�
The would-be car thief was young, in his early twenties, with longish hair, expensive clothing, and an insolent expression on his face now that he�d realized the weapon in his back had been a lowly umbrella.
�I was just looking at it,� he repeated. �You have no right to accost me like this.�
�Let me guess,� said Steed. �You�re name is Malcolm, isn�t it?�
The boy�s face went slack with shock. �How did you know that?�
Because you�re the right age, Steed said to himself. You�re trying to steal a car in broad daylight (relatively speaking) in a village where practically every local knows who you are, and the car you�re trying to steal is a very distinctive Bentley. You want to get caught and heap further humiliation on your grandfather.
�I�ve been talking to mates of yours.� Steed said grimly. �They�ve told me about you. You�ve sailed pretty near the wind on more than one occasion, but you�ve got a grandad who always bails you out of trouble. You like twisting his tail, don�t you?�
Malcolm twisted his lips into a sneer. �What�s it to you?�
John Steed stepped forward and drove his fist into Malcolm�s belly. Malcolm collapsed onto his hands and knees, dry retching. Steed leant over him, wrapped his fingers in the boy�s hair and pulled his head up. �I don�t like having my car interfered with, you little prat. And you are finally out of luck, because your grandfather�s money means nothing to me. So you and I are going to go for a little ride.�
Steed pulled him up by the hair. Malcolm was still struggling for breath and didn�t resist as Steed muscled him into the passenger side seat of the Bentley. �Don�t try to get out,� he said grimly, as he walked briskly around and climbed in to the driver�s seat. Malcolm didn�t even try to run.
�I�ll see you in jail for assault,� Malcolm gasped. �Wait�ll my grandfather hears about this.�
Steed glanced at him in contempt. �Well, Malcolm, you�ve got a problem there. I�m thinking your grandfather is not going to hear about this.�
�Of course he will. I�ll tell him!�
�No, Malcolm, I don�t think you will.�
Malcolm stared straight ahead, his eyes damp in his white face. Steed was an expert at radiating menace, and Malcolm was swamped by it. He darted his eyes to the left...but they�d already got on the motorway and the Bentley was rushing along at a good clip. He daren�t try to leap out. �I was just looking at your damn car,� he said unsteadily. �This isn�t fair.�
�Yeah? Well, you�d know all about fairness, wouldn�t you, Malcolm? You do whatever you want to do, and your grandad pays the bills so you don�t have to. Well, now you have a bill that your granddad can�t pay. You�re going to have to pay it all on your own.�
�I...I don�t have any money. You said you didn�t want money!�
Steed grinned nastily. �Ever seen a play called Merchant of Venice, Malcolm? Jolly olde Shakespeare. Shylock loans money to Antonio, who can�t repay the debt. So he has to forfeit a pound of flesh. Now, shut up. I want to concentrate on my driving.�
Malcolm looked at him in horror. �But...�
�Shut up,� Steed said evenly.
Malcolm shut up.
Well, thought Steed. I�ve acted on the spur of the moment, and my treatment probably won�t do any good. But the boy deserves a few hours of hell. I�ll drop him off in Cheapside with the knowledge of a job well done.
Chapter Two
I. Emma Peel
After transferring Derek McClean to a coast guard cutter, the three women had sailed the Sea Sprite back to Thurso. On the way there, Emma had told Jane and Miranda of McClean�s �silver man.�
�And you believe he actually saw such a thing?� Miranda asked, incredulously.
�He wasn�t hysterical and he wasn�t delirious,� Emma said. �Yes, I believe he saw...well....something. And that�s why I hope you two won�t mind if I ...put on my reporter�s hat.�
When Emma had handed over day-to-day operations of Knight Industries to Cicely Keith, she�d founded Knight Press at the same time. It published magazines of all sorts. She hadn�t confided in anyone why she had decided to �become a publishing magnate� as Miranda had put it when she�d heard the news, but many of the magazines had already been recognized as top quality leaders in their fields, and Emma contributed articles to most of them. It was entirely in character for her to want to investigate the mystery of the Dundee tragedy.
�Can we help in any way?� asked Miranda.
�I�m not sure at the moment,� Emma said thoughtfully. �But if you�ll stick close to your ship-to-shore phone I may give you a call.�
They�d gone out to dinner at a local restaurant, and Emma had excused herself to make the phone call to John Steed. She spent the night on the Sea Sprite. The next morning she had coffee on board, then bade her friends bon voyage and took her seabag to a local bed and breakfast, stopping on the way to pick up a couple of newspapers.
She skimmed through the newspapers over breakfast. There were reports of the disappearance of the Dundee, and the mention of one survivor, but no mention of the �silver man.� Emma was pleased. Whether Derek McClean had thought better of telling the story, or the hard-headed Scots press had simply decided that he must have been delusional did not concern her. It simply meant that reporters from the more sensationalistic London newspapers wouldn�t be rushing up to the Orkneys to get under her feet.
Emma pulled her business card file from her purse. She never went anywhere without it, even on holiday, for �one never knew, did one?� as a friend of hers was so fond of saying. Emma thumbed through the cards thoughtfully, then selected Best of British Business. That always gave good results.
***
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