Alan Rickman Flights of Fancy

"What the -- " Hart, visibly annoyed, stepped out of character. First an unworkable script, now this racket. Who could work under these conditions? That offer of a recurring role on "Ally McBeal" was looking better and better to him every day.

Grace shushed him with a quick gesture of her hand and cocked her head, listening. "Sounds like it's coming from the pool set," she said, striding toward the door. "Someone could have fallen in." She turned to see Hart rooted to his spot, a mocking you'll-do-anything-to-avoid- working-on-this-turkey-script look on his face.

She smiled puckishly at him. "Well, are you coming or not?" Her difficulties with the script, and his increasing impatience with her had, she thought, pretty well suffocated any budding attraction between them. He stood, silent, just looking at her, cold and remote as an ice cube.

"Fine. Whatever. If you don't care what's happening to our friends, I do." She walked through the doorway, trying for a dramatic flounce but failing as the flimsy plywood door gave a weak wheeze instead of the emphatic slam she had wanted.

Glad to be away from the tension between herself and Hart, Grace rushed toward the pool set. Like former President Reagan, she had been a lifeguard in college, and had never lost the instinct of scanning the water for trouble. Screams from a pool galvanized her, as they did him, into a Pavlovian rescue response. Turning the corner to see the small crowd around the pool, she first saw Mary Anne in the shallow end of the pool, her eyes a little frightened, but she was safely supported by Christopher Brandon. No danger there. In the deep end, she saw Hans' long bare arms clutching Renie, and followed their excited eyes to a long dark shape floating on the water. What was it? A dark sleeve moved out of the shapeless mass, feebly, helplessly. Omigod, someone's drowning! Floating face down, and no one moving a finger to help, whoever it was had only minutes to live! Grace ran, rudely elbowing a grip out of her way. Her foot snagged an electrical cable, an HMI light crashed to the cement, barely missing the grip, who cursed a blue streak at her. No matter, a life was at stake! She looked around in vain for a pole, anything to reach out to the victim, but there was nothing. Boldly making her choice, she leaped past the Director's restraining hand and vaulted into the water, shouting, "Call 911!"

Thrashing through the water, her eyes fixed on the dark floating shape, she gasped for air as she reached the outstretched sleeve. Reaching out her hand, she grabbed the sleeve and pulled with all of her strength to rotate the victim upward and into a cross-chest carry. To her horror, the sleeve came off in her hand! Frantic, she gathered herself and dove to the bottom, searching, searching for the victim. Underwater, she could hear more shouts from above. Finally, feeling her lungs would burst, she reluctantly bobbed to the surface for a gulp of air.

Breaking the surface, she caught a glimpse of Hans, lazily treading water, still with a bare arm draped around Renie. He was laughing. Renie's hand was politely covering her mouth, but Grace could hear her low laughter joining Hans' basso. At what?? Grace looked at Hans sharply -- was he so insouciant that he didn't care that a fellow FOF'er was drowning under his classically elegant nose? She gave him a severe, accusatory look as she pulled in air and dove again. The expression on Hans' face changed as he picked up Renie's hand and firmly anchored it on the steel ladder near the diving board, then stroked toward Grace. He followed her dive and moved close to her underwater. She was frantically searching the bottom in a classic box pattern, despairing of finding the victim in time but determined to stay down as long as it took.

She was unprepared for the bare arm that wrapped around her waist and sharply jerked her upward. She knew victims often grabbed onto rescuers in their terror, and that this often had fatal consequences for both. She fought to free herself, but the grip was too strong. Half pulled, half pulling, she kicked hard for the surface, gratefully gasping for air as the water broke over her head. She felt a warm body close behind hers as strong arms wreathed under hers to support her, a strong hand lifted her chin out of the water, and a deep, German-accented voice instructed her to "breathe!" Hans? What was he doing? A black thought -- did he want the victim to drown? She choked, coughing up water, and tried, without success, to break free of the strong grip around her.

"Let go of me before someone drowns," she screeched at him, choking, desperate, thrashing, pummelling Hans, unaware of the appalled looks from the cast and crew crowded around the edge of the pool. "You idiot," he hissed angrily in her ear, while nodding to the Director, who had walked to the edge of the pool where Hans had pulled Grace. Fighting her, Hans gathered up her hands so the Director could take hold of her. In graceful unison, Hans pushed as the Director pulled her out of the water and onto the cement pool deck. The costume mistress handed thick towels to the Director, who quickly wrapped them around the shaking, coughing, dripping Grace before she could battle out of his grip and slide back into the water. "Are you all crazy? Someone's drowning down there and you're ---" she spluttered, gasping for air, blue lips quivering with cold and rage.

A look of real concern crossed the Director's face. She had stayed down far too long, was far too upset. He wrapped another warm towel around her, then took her face in his hands and looked at her, a soft, gentle voice telling her that no one was drowning. "Here, here," he chided, keeping his eyes on hers, "it was just a scrap of a dress. Renie's dress. That chiffon you liked so much. You weren't here to see it, but when Renie complained to Hans that she didn't want to be in the water in her dress, Hans obligingly. . . removed it. Or as much of it as he could." A naughty flick of the eyebrow, the tiniest ribald curl of the Director's mouth conveyed to her that what she thought was tragedy was comedy among friends. A small snicker from the crowd. The Director was relieved to see comprehension slide back into Grace's eyes. "It was just a scrap, not a sleeve, not a person. No one's drowning," the Director reverted to his calming, gentle voice. Mesmer pushed to the front of the circle of onlookers, but noted, approvingly, that the Director needed no help from him.

Embarrassed, humiliated. . . the words seemed woefully inadequate to Grace. First the terrible script, then her writer's block, now this public display of . . . what? insantity? She was afraid to look up, afraid to see the laughter on the faces of the cast and crew. Would Hans forgive her for her silent accusation? Would the Director tolerate her any longer? She looked up at him, a plea and an apology on her pale, shivering face. As if reading her thoughts, the Director pulled the towels tighter around her, and ran a gentle hand along her cheekbone. "You've been under a tremendous strain. And sometimes, what we think we see. . . well, it's so often something completely different." He looked at her, hair sleeked back off her forehead, features sharpened by pallor, a face pared to the essentials and bared to his critical gaze. But the spark was still in her eyes, muted, shadowed, but still there. He seemed to be remembering something else, some other time. . . . It was, he often thought, the largest part of his job to nurse into fire these sparks in the eyes of the creative people entrusted to him. Grace would be all right, he knew, but it would take a bit of time.

The color was slowly returning to her face as she shucked of the layers of towels and unsteadily rose to her feet. She looked around and saw sympathetic faces, not the laughter she had feared. Squaring her shoulders, she looked down at the ruin of the new Prada sweater she had filched from her wardrobe rack. "I suppose I owe you for this," she said, shakily, to the Director, trying to defuse the gravity of the scene with a light remark.

"Indeed you do," he answered, responding in a mock-severe tone. "And the price is one good script." He smiled. "When you are ready." General laughter, but Grace was relieved. He would give her another chance.

A deeply annoyed voice rang out from the back of the crowd. "What's all this commotion, then? Doesn't anyone work around here any more?" Hart shouldered his way to the edge of the pool. He was visibly taken aback at the sight of Grace, soaked from head to toe, her wet clothes clinging to her. He caught up another of the thick towels and wrapped it around her shoulder, resting his hands on her arms to hold the towel in place. He peered at her over the rims of his dark glasses, examining her closely. "Forget your bathing suit again?" he said to her, lightly, badly covering his obvious concern for her. He looked questioningly at the Director, who gave him a warning glare, almost parental. Hart blinked first, then turned his attention back to Grace. They stood for a long minute, just looking at each other. Hart slid an arm around her waist and guided her through the crowd toward her dressing room.

"Well, not socially, at any rate." Elliott Marston poked at his eggs with a fork. The regimental scarlets of the officer class ornamented the balls and affaires of Fremantle society but fraternization with the population at large was definitely discouraged.

"Dad did a job for the army, over two years ago. It was something to do with thefts from warehouses." Sam Marston gestured with a piece of toast. "Dad found out that some workers were siphoning off supplies to their friends for resale. He put a stop to it. Pretty basic stuff."

"Maybe some higher ups were getting a piece of the action and didn't want it stopped." Collins checked the contents of the coffeepot and refilled his cup. "Army life doesn't pay so well that a man couldn't use a bit more."

"I don't think so. There were no big sums involved. It was more of an ongoing nuisance to the bookkeepers." Sam wiped her fingers daintily on her napkin and looked at her husband. "You're mighty quiet, Mister Marston."

"Hmm? Oh, sorry." He pushed the eggs across his plate and frowned. "There's something on the edge of my memory that just won't surface. And I think it's something important."

"Well, I've got something important for you to concentrate on." Collins set his cup down on its saucer with a decided clink. "The chief constable sent a man to my office yesterday. The authorities are running out of patience. They want to talk to you about Hiram Crabbs and they want to do it soon."

"What did you say?" Marston looked up.

"I told them that you were out of town on a business matter and would come in as soon as you returned. They asked where you were; I told them you were visiting an investor at his private home. That stopped them. They're trying to figure out who it might be and who they might offend if they try to track you down." He finished the fruit and set the core down by the saucer. "By the way, they think Sam is on her way back to the ranch. They don't seem very interested in her."

"Must be rough when you spend your whole career trying not to come down on the wrong side of somebody." Sam stirred her tea lazily. A sideways glance revealed that her husband was not paying attention to the conversation – again. His brows were creased and he stared at something in front of him that was invisible to her.

"Well, thanks for breakfast but I should be getting on to my office." He stood up and shrugged into his coat. "Busy day ahead thinking up more stories for the chief constable."

"Thank you, Melvin." Marston rose and shook hands with his lawyer. "I appreciate everything you've done. I promise I'll get some more contracts soon and give some fat bonuses for your efforts."

With a shout of laughter and a final wave, Collins disappeared through the back door. The sound of a horse and cab receding down the alley immediately followed and gradually diminished.

Silence fell. Marston picked up the teapot and checked the amount inside, then sat down again. Sam watched him closely.

"Well?" She finally said.

"No. Not well." He pushed his plate away and set his elbows on the table. He dropped his chin onto his clasped hands. "Whatever it is that's teasing my memory is important, I know it is."

"Maybe if you don't try so hard, it'll come easier. That happens with me sometimes." "He's with Len, listening to stories about the 'good old days' in the army." She began to clear away the dishes. "He's still annoyed with us for sending him to bed the other night. We're probably going to be ignored for a little while."

Marston threw his napkin on the table. "That's fine with me. Just so he knows he's to stay in the house."

"Oh, he knows. Actually I think he'd be afraid that we might do something exciting while he was gone." She set the plates on the sideboard. "Maybe he thinks we're going to hide in a big trunk and sneak out under his nose."

Marston froze, his hands clenched tightly. He stared straight ahead, his breathing suddenly ragged and stentorian. Sam looked around in alarm.

"Elliott?" She ran to his side. "What's wrong? Tell me!"

He came alive again. "That's it! That's what I've been trying to remember! Come on!" With a strength born of sudden enthusiasm, he grabbed Sam and hauled her along the hallway to the stairs.

"Wait! Where are we going?" She concentrated on not stumbling over her feet. The wallpaper beside her was flashing past in a swirl of color.

He skidded to a halt on the first landing. "We're going upstairs to our bedroom." He grinned from ear to ear, his eyes gleaming for the first time in days. "And then we'll have some fun!"

Hamlet can no longer stand idly by while Andrea paces the floor in agitated silence, tortured with indecision. "You need not ask me. -- I desire his death as deeply as you do. -- The AR will soon be forced to release him. Without their protection, he will be easy prey. Leave him to me and do not trouble yourself."

Andrea stops pacing to face the Prince, her soul revealed in her eyes. "If anything should happen to you . . . " She wants Hamlet safe AND Nottingham dead. She won't settle for less.

"The choice is not yours. I command myself. I should like to have your blessing, but I will carry on without it." Hamlet kneels before her. "Tell me to go -- as you have done so many times."

Andrea gazes down upon her brave Prince. Her heart is heavy; her eyes overflow with tears. She is unable to speak. Reaching out a trembling hand, she barely touches his hair.

Taking her hand, Hamlet presses a kiss into her palm. He closes his eyes to savor the taste of her.

The tender moment passes. Hamlet rises suddenly, bows his head only, and strides past her to leave.

She does not turn to watch him go.

And now, for Mary Anne, the time of reckoning has come as well, as Brandon advances toward her. "Love, honour, and obey--let us see, Mary Anne, if you have become obedient."

Hoots from the crew and spectators.

Though weak at the knees at that VOICE, Mary Anne manages to scramble to her feet and back away from Brandon . . .

Suddenly, she feels her arms caught and pinned behind her back. Twisting about to look over her shoulder, she gazes up into the face of . . .

Mister I.

Mary Anne can hear Therese giggling and sends a black look in her general direction. She does not have time to do more, for Brandon is there, nodding politely to Mister I. "I'll take over from here."

"My . . . pleasure," responds Mister I with a little bow, handing over Mary Anne and then smiling at the ripple of feminine sighs over those insinuating overtones of "pleasure."

Brandon, with a most uncharacteristic wicked grin, leaning down to murmur at Mary Anne's ear. "What say you? Will you yield, and thus avoid?"

Will I yield . . . Oooooooo. Bad case of shaky knees. And shaky voice. "I no longer am defensible . . ."

"Very well." Brandon lifts her, as if she weighed no more than a dried leaf. (homage) And starts toward the pool.

Mary Anne clings to him. She doesn't want to blurt this out in front of everybody--they'll laugh--but she finally whispers into Brandon's ear. "Please, Christopher--I can't swim!"

"I know," he whispers back. "Don't be afraid."

Without breaking stride, he moves toward the shallower end of the pool.

They are poised on the edge, and Mary Anne hides her face against his shoulder. "Don't let go," she pleads.

Brandon's VOICE at her ear, and his warm breath against her neck. "I will never let you go."

He turns toward The Director and the anxiously waiting spectators and announces, with dramatic panache: "We who are about to dive, salute you."

And to the sound of groooooans all over the set, Brandon plunges into the pool with Mary Anne.

Seeing as the men do not moving from their position, and Renie--well, Mary Anne can see that the poor woman is well nigh helpless after that voluptuous basso profundo grrrrrrowl from Hans. It appears their peeking may come at a price . . .

"Well--really," Mary Anne begins, as she regains the power of speech, "it was childish--of both of us, even if it was her idea." Those blue eyes. The wide open innocent variety . . .

"Oh! M--" Renie, about to argue the point when she feels a jab into her back. Mary Anne's knuckle.

The lids over the blue eyes come down, in a most beguiling way. "I don't know what possessed us! We humbly ask your forgiveness." With this, Mary Anne casts her eyes down to the floor.

Mary Anne, the Good. Yes, she is "good". So very good. Hans and the Director, caught by surprise, soften into a near putty-like substance.

Renie adds her voice to Mary Anne's. "Oh, Mary Anne, we are lost!" Renie's face, now also to the floor, her head hanging in shame. "Pity us, poor wretches that we are, for giving in to our baser natures. We must not dare--"

"--for shame--" finishes Mary Anne, glad to feel Renie's tiny pinch on her leg--

"--to talk of mercy!" Reciting the last line in unison, they throw themselves to the floor, arms outstretched, as if before the supreme deities.

Hans and the Director. They have been had, publicly--though willingly so. Now their eyes begin to light. Below, them, the "Dramatic Duo" begin to chant.

"We are not worthy! We are not worthy! We are not--" And finally, finally, they can bear it no longer. In moments, they are literally rolling on the floor, laughing their fool heads off.

It has been a long, intense week of shooting. Not that they need an excuse . . . .

The Director. His lips purse, then release, in the most charming way imaginable. "I believe, Mr. Gruber, that we have been taken advantage of."

"Ach. Egregiously so." Hans nods solemnly, and waves his hand, gesturing to towards the scant crew. "You have been witnesses." (homage)

Sniggers from the crew. Mary Anne and Renie, trying to stop long enough to listen.

"Then there is only one thing for it." The Director inclines his head behind and to the left of him.

In the direction of the pool.

Hans bends down. His VOICE softens, and falls into an even lower register. "I will fall to my knees and kiss the floor where your foot has touched the stones . . . " (homage)

Renie, her attention beginning to focus on what's happening . . . "Hans, I--wait--"

"--and show kein mitleid." With his strong arms, he scoops her from the floor, and lifts her up . . .

Objections--vociferous ones--from Renie. "You wouldn't. You couldn't--my dress--" She tries to wiggle from his grasp, but he has her securely in his arms, as he walks to the blue water of the pool.

And here, Mary Anne makes an irrevocable mistake. She cannot resist. "Remember--love, honour, and obey, dearest!"

A VOICE from side of the set. "Exactly what I was thinking."

Mary Anne's head snaps.

Colonel Christopher Brandon.

And not only Brandon, but Claudia, and several others from various sets: Dev from Delaford; Therese from the Lair; and Ed from the Tardis, to name a few.

As Ed grabs her, Claudia feels a rush of joy. He holds her for a long minute, as they watch Renie pummel Hans' bare chest with her fists.

"Do you think she's hitting him as hard as she can?" Ed and Claudia resume their most natural stance--in each other's arms.

Claudia nuzzles Ed, without further watching the scenario unfold. "Are you kidding? If this is torture--chain her to the wall!"

Poolside. Hans, with Renie. "Any last requests before yourrrrrrrr punishment?" Her long chiffon dress feels thin against him.

Renie wraps her arms about his neck. And whispers in his ear.

"Don't stop."

Without releasing her, Hans jumps into the deep end of the pool, to the delight of those assembled.

The Interrogator stepped toward the dinner table, and pulled out the chair behind the place setting. "Sit," HE ordered.

Therese obeyed.

Moving to a small metal cart along the near wall, HE lifted a glass brimming with a clear liqued, and placed it before her. She took the glass carefully, looked down into it, sniffed it gingerly, and returned it to the table. HE had drugged her once before, she would not be willing to suffer that again.

"Drink it, it is water, nothing more."

"No," she replied simply.

HE was at her side in the merest fraction of a second, utilizing that effortless flash of speed which HE possessed as HE slid toward her menacingly.

Despite her best efforts, HIS movements caused her to flinch from HIM, and she silently cursed her weakness.

"Drink."

"No."

HE picked up the glass, its contents sloshing over the side, several dropletts landing on both HIMself and Therese, and hurled it against the far wall. Its shattering was the only sound within the room.

Therese watched the water, if that is what it truly had been, drip down the wall, her throat muscles contracting involuntarily.

HE returned to her side, crouching down in front of her until HE looked her in the eye. Grasping a handful of her hair between HIS fingers HE forced her eyes to meet HIS. "You do not wish to further anger me."

"Nor do I wish to be poisoned, drugged, or in some other way altered by your offerings."

HE stood once again, towering over her seated form, and glowering at her darkly. She could see that HE wanted to hit her, HIS desire was written plainly in his eyes and in HIS stance, and she braced herself for the blow. Why it did not come, she did not understand.

HE stepped from the room briefly and then returned, a bottle of Evian in hand. Therese was transfixed by that bottle, and could not take her eyes from it. The seal at the bottom of the cap was unbroken. Fresh, clean water. . .

"You'd like this, wouldn't you?" HE taunted, opening the lid with a slight crack as the seal was twisted free. HE tipped the container slightly, spilling some of its contents to the floor. Therese could feel herself begin to salivate, and she swallowed, her throat tight, mouth cotton lined, angered that HE could toy with her so easily.

"Don't be so irritated," HE told her, with HIS seemingly uncanny ability to read her very thoughts, "it is merely a biological response." HE extended the bottle toward her. "Not the first, nor the last of which we have yet to explore while you are here."

Therese attempted to ignore HIM and HIS final comment. She had to, or she would lose her tenuous control. To endure what she had, and be undone by his verbal taunts and a bottle of water? She could only hope that he was unaware of how close to collapse she truly was, both emotionally and physically.

Her biggest fear was that HE knew exactly. . .

"Go on, take it."

Therese snatched the water from HIS fingertips, and tipping it back, drank greedily. Nothing she had ever consumed had ever been sweeter or more pleasing to her senses, still, she wanted to drink it quickly, swallowing as much as humanly possible before HE took it from her again.

As she had anticipated, HE drew the bottle away from her after only a few brief moments. "You will make yourself ill. Drink more slowly, I will not take it from you," HE assured her, offering her the water once more.

Therese took it from him warily. HE was difficult to predict, and impossible to trust.

"And just what can you say for yourselves?"

Mary Anne and Renie exchange looks, and in that perfect unison that argues great congruity of thought--or very careful rehearsal--they point at each other and simultaneously exclaim, "It was her idea!"

Much giggling and laughter. Hans just . . . barely . . . escapes chuckling himself, and The Director is clearly having problems of the same sort. But he perseveres.

"Once more," he e-nun-ci- ates. "Mary Anne, just what can you say for yourself?"

Mary Anne's eyes travel up the blue-jeaned length of The Director's legs . . . and then she shifts her gaze to Hans. Big mistake. Those legs, without jeans. Rather woozily, she insists, "Nothing, sir, nothing at all." Hans is grinning at her, standing with his hands resting on his hipbones. Showing off. "Nothing--I'm, uh, quite . . . speechless," she sighs.

"That would be something new," mutters The Director.

Hans takes the initiative, turning a little toward Mary Anne's partner in crime, who is still engaged in untangling her hair from an errant button.

"And you," he challenges, "just what can you say for yourself, Rrrrrrrrrenie?" Over the top on accent.

Renie fights the impulse to liquefy and drain away into the pool at the sound of that voluptuous basso profundo grrrrrrowl. "All I have to say," she finally manages, "is that it's a shame Claudia's at the Delaford set. She'll kick herself, with her purple DM's, for missing this!"

"Of all the lives present, it is your own which could be considered the most vulnerable." HE stood over Therese threateningly, a cold, fathomless look upon HIS features. "Remeber that." HE turned abruptly, picking up the cloth bag, and pointing the remote toward the bathroom, he pushed a button which resealed the doorway, before stepping quickly from the room.

Therese stretched her arms and legs tenuously, testing her strength--or more acurately her lack thereof, before curling herself into a tight ball, with legs tucked to chest, and arms grasping her knees tightly. She was hugry, desperately so. She'd never known true hunger before, pangs yes, cravings certainly, and even the occassional light headedness of a great deal of activity with no regard for nourishment, but nothing like what she felt now. Her stomach knotted in pain, and she rested her hand briefly on her empty belly in reflection. She felt hollow and empty. . .and lost, which was an altogether different sensation from her physical needs.

It had been, what--two days now that she'd been without food or water? It had been difficult for her to keep track of time, but she knew that while being deprived of food was uncomfortable, deprivation of liqued was serious.

Therese dozed then, fitfully. She had no idea how long she slept, and had been surprised that she could nap at all, given her situation. There had been little choice; her body could rest, or collapse.

She started to wakefulness, her head snapping to attention at the sound of the door latch being pulled. HE came to stand before her.

"Come with me," HE ordered simply, offering her a hand to help her from her seated position.

Therese ignored the proffered help, struggling to her feet slowly to stand before HIM unsteadily. She felt the pressure of HIS fingers clamp down on her arm forcefully as he took her by the shoulder and led her from the room.

HE half drug, half escorted her by yet another line of like doorways; Therese was completely unable to differentiate them from others she had passed before and wondered again how HE could tell each of them from the other. It would not make her escape any easier, she thought uneasily.

HE brought her to the end of a long, narrow, corridor, and pulled her through one of the various thresholds. In the center of the room stood a table.

A dinner table. . .

With two chairs, yet only a single place setting.

Therese's stomach let forth an audible growl. Of all she had borne--and it had been beyond her imagining--she did not think she could bear to sit before HIM and watch HIM eat.

The darkened corridors of the house reminded her of the tunnels at Egdon, and she had a sudden pang. She wished Renie were here. They had explored those tunnels together in search of HIM. If only Renie was here to share the task she had set herself this time. But she knew that wouldn't work. If anyone knew what she was doing they would try and stop her. Not just this evening with the Colonel, but what she would have to do when she went back to HIM.

Back to HIM… She gasped as a sudden pain shot through her leg. She stumbled and almost dropped the plate. Leaning back against the wall she took deep breaths, trying to clear the sudden white light of pain that had shot through her body and into her mind. The pain had come from the implant in her leg; the tracking device that HE had planted somehow without her knowledge. But the Doctor had tested it, and found it to be harmless. The Interrogator could track her position, but nothing more. How could the Doctor be so wrong? And what was the pain? A reminder to keep her mind on the job? A reminder that HE was watching? Or a warning that HE knew what she was really planning.

And just *how* long am I supposed to stand here like this?" demands the imperious Hans Gruber, in a VOICE which contains seven eighths of a mock, and the rest sheer devilment to the Director, who watches the playback.

One could swear that giggles came from somehwere on the set. But who would dare risk a giggle around Hans--under these circumstances?

"EX-cellent Hans. One take. Marvellous. Such expression," devils the Director right back, without taking his eyes from the videotap screen.

A closed set--which still means a handful of crew to light, wire, and shoot the "navy blue Speedo" pool scene, as it has come to be known. And then there are the prompters and primpers; though no "primping" has been needed in *this* case.

"I as-SUME you mean my facial expression," counters Hans, grabbing the little navy blue trunks from the puddle of pool water. And he slides them on over his tanned skin--first ankles, then up to his knees . . .

Until we hear a crash. The camera judiciously jerks away in the direction of the changing cabana. There, the green blinds of the long tall windows of the pool's "changing room" have been tugged down with one too many peeks--and the culprit is caught underneath them.

Culprits. Plural. As laughter and frantic detangling ensue, voices and legs and arms scramble to get out from beneath the blinds. To little avail.

"Get off me Mary Anne!"

"I can't! Your danged hair is caught on this button!"

If only they could slink away unseen . . .

The Director strides towards the ruckus, and lifts the pale green blinds from the human forms underneath. Taking up a grave expression, he positions himself over the pair of upturned faces. Quite a pair, and for all their differences, both apple red. Hans, now clad in the navy blue Speedo, joins the Director. Standing over the girls, both have their arms crossed.

"And just what can you say for yourselves?" Though the Director speaks, it would be beyond the power of the keenest observer to say which of these men was enjoying this more.

Escape is impossible, but she does try to escape, stumbling along the brick pathways grown slippery under her feet, or choked with crawling vines . . . or else a path is suddenly not a path at all, but the edge of a precipice; all is as it seems on one side, but to look over the other is to totter on the rim of a darkness deeper than space. To fall into that blackness would be to vanish. Lost. La diretta via era smarrita.

"Mary Anne."

HIS voice, all around her.

"You cannot escape this, as you very well know. Keep some dignity, at least."

It is The Interrogator—and it is not. She has suffered such dreams before--are they dreams?--in which half of her submerged consciousness understands that HIS appearance is of her own mind's manufacturing: her image of HIM. Simply another facet of . . . herself. But in the other half of her brain, the primitive terror insists: This is absolute reality, and you have fallen into HIS hands. And now HE shall have HIS revenge.

Who can say how Mary Anne is capable of these strange inner journeys? She cannot. A holdover, perhaps, from The Doctor's DNA; the Timelords have raised introspection to a fine art. Whatever the reason, such dreams befall her when she is deeply troubled. Now, if ever, she should have expected it.

HIS voice. Nearer, and . . . conversational, somehow. Almost chatty. "It is amazing, the lengths to which people will go to avoid facing an unpleasant reality. Who was it, Mary Anne—I know you can tell me—-who said that, sometimes, there is nothing to do with suffering except suffer it?"

"C.S. Lewis," whispers Mary Anne—and freezes, holding herself still in the silence that follows. Supplying the right answer to a literary question: it had been automatic. And probably a mistake. Now, HE has heard . . .

But after a moment, the voice resumes. "No wonder I could not at first remember. I have not been in the habit of studying theology."

Mary Anne waits, away from the path--sitting as far back as she can in a hollow formed by some drooping clusters of vine, praying that the shadows will conceal her.

She knows that they will not. It is a matter of time.

The Interrogator. HE is closer, now. "Wise words, those. Exceptional understanding of human nature. Most people who are suffering feel as if there must be something, anything . . ." A soft rustle of vines being pushed aside. " . . . that they can do about it. Something to ease the pain, or make it vanish. And when there is not—-as is so often the case—-it drives them frantic. Far more than the actual anguish itself."

Footsteps. Very near.

"It is a part of my craft, Mary Anne, do you know that? Those of my profession work on this very principle. People can be persuaded to do or say almost anything, once you impose suffering . . . and then give them the idea that there is something that can be done about it. Very few can resist. Oh, they may well be strong enough to endure the pain—-"

It's the suspense, not the pain, that will drive you mad. (homage) Mary Anne curls herself up tighter, wrapping her arms around her knees; she must listen, to know where HE is, but can she bear to hear what HE will say?

"-—but not the feeling of helplessness. Most people have the idea that to do anything is better than to do nothing. And even the strong will fall before an idea. But why am I telling you this?" A pause, and a soft laugh. "You know it as well as I."

Mary Anne writhes with shame. Yes, I do know; I know everything you know about your despicable arts; I know how to shatter the strong and twist the weak; I know, I know . . .

She stops.

"What do you know, Mary Anne?"

Can HE hear her very thoughts?

That insinuating laughter: in the strange way of deep dreams, she can almost see it as well as hear it, picturing it in her mind as a handful of dark and gleaming stones: fire opals, or black diamonds lit with some accursed inner fire.

HE scatters that laughter through her mind, and she can hear it strike.

"You know more than you wish to realize, Mary Anne. You have hidden it well, but now it is time to face your suffering, and suffer it. Tell me what you know. And don't deny it. You have seen how this works; you'll not be leaving here until this is done. Now, come out."

If she moves, HE will hear.

Again, that laughter. Louder now. Stand in the path of it and it could kill you, slowly and painfully, like death by stoning.

"You needn't be afraid. Why shouldn't you tell me?"

She can hear HIM draw a long breath, and let it out in a sigh of satisfaction. As if he scents her fear.

"After all, I am . . . closer to you than anyone . . ."

"But why would an officer want to kill you?" Sam Marston propped her chin on her hands and watched the play of candlelight on her husband's hair. "Do you have any enemies?"

The remains of a late dinner lay between them on the table. Their conversation had been interrupted by the return of an aggrieved Niall, determined to reinstate himself in their deliberations. All serious discussion had been postponed until he could be successfully put to bed. After three abortive attempts to rejoin them, he was finally asleep.

Marston tilted the paper to get more light. Sam watched him silently. Her anguish of the afternoon had subsided. She felt calmer now that she knew more about her husband's past. Her path was clear before her. His strong feelings about the death of his parents would have to be overcome and she was sure she could help him do it. It would be her biggest priority once this other nonsense was cleared up. The thought of what their future would be like if he continued to shoulder his burden of bitterness was too bleak to contemplate.

"Everyone has enemies, darling. This is Australia." He dropped the paper and stared into the middle distance. "I'm inclined to think that Latham isn't our man. He's too focussed on making money and I'm one of his investors."

"Then we'll have to look at the army. Have you argued with any officers lately?" The idea of Elliott quarreling with anyone was ludicrous; Sam couldn't believe that too many people survived the experience. She smiled at the thought.

"Not that I'm aware of." Marston narrowed his eyes at her expression and pointed an accusing finger. "And what are you smiling at, young lady?"

"The idea of officers plotting to remove you from the world." She tossed her head back with a laugh. Her long blond hair swished through the air. "It's so melodramatic."

"I won't deny that I've had disagreements over the years with some pretty senior men. They were usually about delivery dates or quantities of mutton and once I was threatened with the loss of a contract. But that's normal for army suppliers and they were not personal disputes by any means." Marston frowned thoughtfully. "So far as I know there is no reason for any army officer to wish me harmed let alone killed."

"So we're not any further ahead, are we?" It came out more discouraged than she intended.

"Yes, we are." He related his conversation with Len in the afternoon. "So it fits that Watters hung out with army men. It's a connection. But I can't help feeling that we're missing something. Let's think about this."

He folded his arms and gazed across the table at her. "Somebody got Ches Watters to hire somebody to kill me. Obviously Watters couldn't kill me himself; that wasn't his style at all. But your father turned him down flat."

"So?" Sam's shoulders tensed and she entwined her fingers together tightly.

"So why didn't he just get someone else to do it? I grant you that your father had quite a reputation but there are other men around who wouldn't have turned him down. And Watters would have known where to find them." Marston leaned forward, his body taut with the excitement of a hunter. "Another thing: why did Watters approach your father in the first place? It was well known that he was in a more respectable line of work. Why did it have to be Sam Flanagan?"

"I see what you mean." The words came out in a slow hiss. "It's as if someone wanted to make sure it was Dad and no one else."

"So this unknown army officer might be someone who also has a grudge against your Dad." Marston lifted his hand and tapped his finger on the table. "It might make sense. Watters' effort to kidnap Liam was an effort to force your father out of hiding." He looked up. "Was it known that your father had suffered a stroke and couldn't work?"

"It wasn't a secret." She frowned in concentration. "Dad didn't mingle much after my stepmother died so we didn't have a wide circle of friends."

"When Belle came to the hotel to visit us – was it really only a couple of weeks ago? – she said that Watters was upset that your father had left. So he knew that he was staying at Lilly's. Why wait until he'd left to try to find him again? What changed?"

"You'd come to town." Sam was almost whispering.

"Exactly." Marston rapped his finger on the table with each sentence. "And things moved quickly after that. So whoever was behind Watters didn't want your father to come out to the ranch to kill me. He wanted me killed here in town. And he knew that your father was sick whereas I am physically fit and not a bad gunman. Which makes me wonder: did this mysterious army man want me killed or your father?"

The chill brings Colin back to the task at hand. He covers the corpse's face with the white coverlet.

A scrape of the chair, as he sits in front of the oval screen. Colin rubs his hands, then his fingers together. What would Renie say? If his muse--if anyone above--is listening. Send help.

Though Colin does not know it, the work of his fingers may serve to keep the Interrogator, and the underlings that serve HIM, just where they are. Long enough--just long enough. So that the forces which seek to bring HIM to justice may unknowingly work hand in hand . . .

Type quickly. The facts. Stick to the facts.

We see a split screen. Colin on one the left. The Interrogator on the right. They do not face each other, they both face us. We can see every expression.

Colin types, and the words come up on the Interrogator's image as he types.

Of course something is wrong. You are holding a woman against her will. Please release her, before more people are hurt.

"Sometimes, a woman says no, when she means yes. Which woman are you referring to? Not every woman I hold is here against her will."

He means Claudia.

If Claudia is with you, she must be trying to help all of us. Though you have tried to confuse her sense of right and wrong. Colin stops. He treads on dangerous ground.

HE adjusts the steel-rimmed spectacles. As if to see better . . . Looking straight at us. "Right and wrong? Have they ever been untangled? Good and Evil, Life and Death, Necessity and Contingency, One and Many, Pleasure and Pain, Same and Other, Virtue and Vice, Universal and Particular are tethered together like the horses of the charioteer. To cut free the reigns of one--especially the darker twin--will forfeit the race."

Colin looks at the slumped figure of the doctor. The white of his medical uniform, the white of the sheet over his white face. He had cut free his darker side forever.

The human race.

A tight smile from HIM. "They masquerade as opposites, when in practice they pose for one another. One informs the other, relies on the other, gives sustenance and shape to the other. The dangerous complacencies of these binarisms and the politics of this masquerade rules countries and religious orders. Men are forced into polarizations which set them against one another. And puts them at odds with themselves. We must understand that these dyads are natural to life. We have control over it--and them. You used to know all this, my darling. Surely, you haven't forgotten?"

Colin struggles to keep up with HIS meanings. And hold up this end. Renie's end . . .

I haven't. Colin types furiously. I am the charioteer.

HIS tight smile curls into a hard knot. "I think not. You are not anyone I have been married to--I have never told Renie of this--I have never needed to. Whoever you are, you are dead. You and the doctor, who has outlived his usefulness. " HE opens a drawer, and removes a small box. Colin can see it. "You have two minutes before the whole hillside is buried under rubble."

There are fingers. HIS fingers. Coming at Colin, from that oval screen . . . meant for Renie . . .

"You b--" Before Colin can string together a series of oaths, the doctor crumples at his side. "What is it? Doctor--"

"No time left." The doctor looks over at his empty beaker, and grimaces. "HE believes she's here. Stall him for time. The rest is up to you." The doctor doubles over in the armless chair.

No. Oh, no. It can't be. Colin flashes hot, adding it all up. Remembering the doctor's words: "I'm not a brave man, Mr. Molyneux. But I'm not dead either. Not yet." His strange looks. His confessed regret for his past. What was in it for him? "Perhaps an end . . . " Yes, yes. A child could have seen it. This doctor, atoning for what his life had become. By giving it up. To catch HIM.

Not water. Poison.

Colin moves the doctor to a covered chair. Another spasm of pain. A slight dampness to his forehead. "But you can't do this! Not now. I can't do this alone! I'm no hero!" Colin loosens the man's hospital whites.

Rooms full of chemicals, full of science. No antidote among them, Colin is sure.

The pain begins to pass. "You need do nothing. The precise topographical location of HIS headquarters will be finished in a few minutes." He lifts a weak finger, pointing to the machine already doing its work. Humming. "If I can save one person--one--this will be worth it."

As the end nears, the pain completely subsides. One life and death struggle, with a preordained ending, on this day.

If not serenity, then a peaceful acceptance lay across the doctor's face, like a thin veil, or a flimsy white curtain, blown by an old wind from the northwest.

The Interrogator's Lair

"I asked if you were finished." HIS voice was a low hiss in Therese's ear, and she could feel HIS breath, warm against her bare neck. "Respond."

"I'll give you a response," Therese muttered darkly, twisting about within HIS grasp as she unsuccessfully attempted to raise her knee to groin level.

HE spun her back to face the wall once again, his fingers tightening painfully along the pressure points on both sides of her neck. Therese's arms came up to grasp at the wall in a futile effort to support her body as her knees buckled with the pain. She groaned slightly under the assault, her face contorting as she struggled not to cry out. Then, as quickly as HE began, HE ceased, and stepped backwards. Without HIS support, Therese slid to the floor.

She spun around quickly, keeping an eye on HIM as HE retrieved the bag which Minion had brought into the room. Lifting it from the floor The Interrogator once again approached. Setting the bag on the floor next to Therese, HE kneeled down beside her. "This could have been rather easy; it might have made you uncomfortable to have bathed before an observer, but I would have been tolerant. Now, however--"

HE broke off as Therese made a desperate lunge away from HIM, catching her easily as she attempted to flee. "Haven't you figured out yet that resistance is futile?"

"As long as I have breath in my body, I will resist you!" she spat, struggling within HIS grasp.

"Of that, I have no doubt," he aggreed, pulling her back down beside HIMself, HE used HIS legs to pin her to the floor. From within the bag HE took a small, round, plastic object with two straps suspended from either side. "This is what is referred to as a 'ball gag,' he explained simply as HE held it up to her face. "I am sure that the water would be an extreme temptation for you, this will prevent you from drinking."

Therese had not felt herself capable of a fear any greater than she had already experienced, but when she felt his strong fingers literally pry open her mouth, she knew true terror. It was not nearly so painful an action as much she had suffered at HIS hands, but in yet another manner HE had prooven HIS control.

Lifting her, struggling, yet unable to cry out, HE carried her to the lavratory. . .

There is an angle change as the camera cuts to HIS leg pushing shut the door behind them both. (What did y'all expect?? It's not as if the Golden Rule allows for shower scenes. . .) ------------------------------------------------------

When the door opened again, Therese slowly stumbled out of the small room, her hair wet, a clean shift sticking to her damp body.

She felt completely and utterly violated. HIS had not been a sexual assault, no, HE had far more finesse with HIS craft than that. HE was after control, and in this, HE had succeeded.

For water had many purposes. It could quench thirst. Or it could, in miniscule amounts, cause the bearer of thirst to crave the precious liqued with even more desperation. It could also drown.

HE had not had to hold her under twice; all struggles ceased immediately after HIS first demonstration. She allowed HIS touch upon the most intimate parts of her body, cursing herself for tolerating it, yet realizing she had little choice.

As those in power so frequently do, HE flaunted HIS control, bathing her body thoroughly, leaving no part of her unmolested.

Therese wanted to claw the very skin from her body, to cleanse herself with her own blood rather than the water brought upon her body with HIS touch. Instead, she sat silently on the small sofa as HE indicated.

HE crossed the room to stand behind her, but she did not move. HIS hands rested on the back of her neck, lightly lifting her sodden hair. Gathering it into one solid mass HE pulled her head back, exposing her neck and throat, while forcing her to look up at HIM. With his left hand HE maintained HIS grip on her tresses, the palm of his right hand coming to rest gently upon her neck. HIS fingers stroked the column of her now bruised throat, HIS intent clear. "You will not struggle because you understand that I control you. I have won, you show me this when you do not resist."

Therese remained still, her eyes vacant. She made no response, physically and would not have uttered anything verbally even if she could have done so.

"Are you willing to concede that I am the victor?" HE taunted, his fingers moving from her neck to deftly untie the gag. HIS eyes gleamed with satisfaction; HE was in HIS element, the hunter toying with his prey.

"When Eamon comes to rescue me," she said, very softly, so softly that HE had to stoop low over her shoulder in order to be heard, "I shall ask him to kill you slowly."

Faint noises from the tracking locator. Where is she . . .

The Interrogator. At his pair of monitors. The microphone suspended in front of HIM; an evil metal ear, on the end of a twisted steel tube.

HE is ready for this little game. Cat and mouse. Wherever she is, HE will know shortly. HE will play. Because HE can. Because, in the end, everyone has a weakness, and Renie's was for HIM. Or for love of her friends. Or for justice. It does not matter what the weakness, or whether it is nobly born. Merely that it is. And that it can be corrupted to his uses. Corrupted for the--and there is no other word for it--the joy of it.

The giddiness of power sweeps over HIM. As he reaches for the tracking locator results . . .

Cross cut to . . .

The doctor, with Colin standing by his side. Looking into the oval screen the doctor confronts what an example of who he might have become, sometime, in his own future. Had not he taken steps to save himself. Drastic steps. "HE sounds real, doesn't HE?"

"It's a recording," whispers Colin, although something in the tone of the VOICE sounded . . . different. Suddenly the black orchid fades and HIS image appears. The Interrogator. Steel-rimmed glasses. Behind them, eyes pinched and narrow, looking through them both.

Or seeming to.

"Doctor. What a surprise to find you with your old patient. Has he treated you well, my old darling? Pity I can't see the pair of you." His eyes narrow further.

"It's HIM! Colin prods the doctor. "Go ahead! Answer HIM!" The keys clack, and to their joint surprise, the letters appear on the bottom of the screen, under HIS image, as the doctor types.

HIS lair. HE reads the words as they are typed. No time delay.

She suffered some slight injury as a result of the jet turbulence. I did treat her at the hospital here--and she asked me to help her contact you.

HE weighs the words. Plausible. But . . . is she really there? "Doctor, I should like you to show me something--perhaps, her wedding ring."

Colin, to the doctor. "What does he mean? HE can't see us."

Renie's earring emerges from the doctor's pocket for the last time. He hands it to Colin. "Put this in that machine over there. Close the door, tightly. And press the green button."

Colin does so. "Don't tell me you're going to send it to HIM?!"

"No. It's a primitive replicator. The computer here scans the object's physical characteristics, and at his end, a replicator recreates it out of base materials. The earring doesn't move. It's like a 3-D photocopier." "You faxed HIM the earring."

"Yes. . . " They both watch the screen anxiously . . .

After a few moments, HE appears in their oval screen. HE holds in his hand . . . the earring. Or very nearly the earring. "You're quite right, doctor, to use the earring, and not the wedding band. After all, you don't have another one of those."

Silently, Colin thanks the fates for keeping Renie away from this.

From HIM.

"Now let me speak with you. Be seated, my old darling. Such a pity I can't see you. HE pauses. "Or kiss you hello." For a moment it seems to Colin as if the Interrogator will kiss the screen. Instead, the Interrogator touches his long fingers to his curved lips, kissing them. Then he slowly presses his two fingers to the screen.

Some might say he was doing all that was needed in getting her west safely. Something deep inside him knew that she was working every bit as hard as he was. Most of the women on this journey were hardy, born and raised on farms and used to long hours of toil. It was with a mixture of pride and guilt that he watched her form change from soft and delicate to firm and strong. Her lovely, long-fingered hands had become tanned and work-hardened. He'd never really given a thought before their flight from her wounded husband as to her ability to actually make this journey. Now he knew that she was just as important to their success as he.

"I'm worried about Sinclair, PL"

"And he's worried about everybody. We can have a worry fest." He squeezed her to emphasize his joke

"No, really. Is everything ok? Has he shared anything with you I ought to know?"

"He's keeping his cards pretty close to the chest right now. Don't worry, hon. We'll get there just fine."

"I guess it's the Three Island Crossing that has me spooked. I hate crossing the rivers!"

"I hear it's broader there, but slower. Once we cross that, we're in Oregon Territory....we just go west."

Dana smiled at his simplification. "I guess today has worries enough of its own."

PL chuckled in response. "You just need to quit worrying altogether, my love."

Shadows spread across the bedroom carpet as the afternoon sun moved to the other side of the house. The tawny glow shone on the gold strands in her husband's hair. She reached out one hand to stroke it but pulled back, afraid to trespass.

"We joined a large band of settlers heading into the interior. My parents were warned about the danger. The aborigines had been harassing wagon trains for some time but I guess they decided it was worth the risk. We were about six days out of town, not quite halfway to the first station, when we were attacked. Our wagon was at the back of the line. My mother was one of the first ones killed."

He paused to sip his whiskey. Sam slid her hand up his arm to his shoulder, then across to caress his cheek. Turning his head slightly, he pressed a kiss into her palm.

"I have no memory of anything after that, no idea when my father was killed. I'm told that I was found wandering down the track back to town. Apparently I put up quite a fight when someone tried to pick me up." Another sip, then a several more.

"The Torkens were part of our group. Abner and his wife Kate took care of me until we got to the station. I had no other family and eventually the authorities decided to let the Torkens adopt me. I grew up on their ranch."

The glass was empty. He looked around for the bottle and refilled it.

"They were kind to me, in their own way. They were older than my parents and their children were grown up. Except for Cal. He was seventeen then and their youngest child. He lived at the ranch too." With a sudden movement, he gulped down the contents of his glass.

As the dusk chased the remaining light from the room, Marston walked through the desert of his childhood memories. The room gradually filled with the confusion and fear of a boy plunged into a strange environment without his family, too young to really understand what had happened to him. He talked about his fondness for the Torkens, his gratitude for everything they'd done for him and their understanding. The warmth of his tone testified to his sincerity.

In a much colder, restrained manner, he described Cal; the young man older by more than a dozen years, who'd made his boyhood a trial. Practical jokes designed to terrify and apparent juvenile pranks that stopped just short of assault assumed large proportions in these memories. It became clear to Sam that those three years until Cal joined the army and left the ranch had been very traumatic for the young orphan.

"After that I rarely saw him. By the time he'd left the army, I had grown up and moved out on my own. Abner Torken loaned me the money to start up my ranch and allowed me to pay it back in slow stages without interest. Cal didn't like it because he had big plans for their ranch and could have used the money, but his father stuck by our arrangement. He was a good man."

"Was Cal's letter about the money?" Sam's question pulled him back from his thoughts.

"No." He looked around for the bottle again. It was empty. He toyed with his glass as he considered his answer. "Not really. When Abner died, Cal wasn't left with a lot of fund even though Abner didn't leave any debts. Cal made it clear to me that if I had been paying what he called a proper rate of interest then he wouldn't be in such a tight spot. He had a point but I was not going to pay over large sums of money I didn't have either. So it was understood between us that I owed him something but not in a financial sense. When WARTHOGS was founded, it was decided that we would pursue the pacification strategy I told you about. Cal was in charge and I agreed to put the plans into action."

He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms behind his head. "We tried a number of things, working in co- operation with the army and sometimes on our own. We even imported an American named Matthew Quigley, which didn't work out the way it was supposed to." He grimaced. "Remind me to tell you about that some day after I've had enough to drink."

"The letter…?" Sam prodded.

"That letter was a rather pointed reminder that we have outstanding business to take care of. He wants to know how Sam Flanagan is working out. As far as he knows, your father is working on my ranch performing security duties in the area. I never told him about the, uh, situation."

"What are you going to do?" Wariness infused her voice as she watched him closely.

"I'm going to make sure that this mystery about Ches Watters is cleared up, find out who killed Hiram Crabbs, find another security agent to undertake the work that needs to be done, meet with Cal and get him off my back, take you back to the ranch and live happily ever after." He heaved a deep sigh. "That's about it, I think."

"And will we live happily ever after?"

"Yes, we will." He looked straight ahead but didn't seem to see her. "After I've fulfilled my obligations and helped wipe out the aborigines who murdered my parents."

Where, as the signal has been given to root out the prince of darkness from the infected West Wood, so too, has the countdown begun here . . .

Colin relates the series of numbers to the doctor, who stares into the oval screen. The numbers which he had watched being typed into the computer. Though Renie may not have known of Colin's covert attention, it was the sort of information that was too vital to pass up. Maybe, soon, he might thank her . . .

A pause, as we cross cut to . . .

The Interrogator's Lair. Without losing a moment this time, Minion quickly advises the Interrogator that his e-mail signal has been activated again. With regret, HE leaves the drawing of Mary Anne . . .

. . . and in no time, HE makes himself at home at a pair of monitors. One displays the outgoing screen content--what Colin and the doctor will see. The other, interactive, is HIS own, and linked to the machines at HIS disposal.

Cross cut to the doctor, at the oval screen. A dialogue box, demanding a password.

"Type in black orchid." Colin's mouth dries. The old keys clack as the doctor types. B-L-A-C-K-O-R-C-H-I-D. The return key . . .

The password screen disappears, and a new screen takes shape. The dreaded black orchid. A few seconds pass. Then Colin hears HIS VOICE echo in the laboratory. "Hello . . . my old darling."

CUT to HIM at the monitor. HE speaks into a microphone, which hangs dramatically over the keyboard. "Come to call, have you? One never knows what net the past may cast over our future." He thrills to the fact that she--his old darling--listens at the other end. Ignorant that it is HE, in the flesh, who answers her . . .

"If this conversation continues," he snaps, "it will border upon treason, I believe. For the sake of both of you--" His glance rakes across his older comrade: Why have you stood idly by, listening to this? "--I shall forget I ever heard it." With that, he moves some little distance apart from them--within hearing, though his unbending posture is that of a man who is studiously not listening.

"A great favour, indeed," murmurs the Sergeant.

The older Guardsman studies her. "You live dangerously, don't you?"

"I expect that we both do, or we would not be here."

"But you have not always been here, have you? Where you are now, I mean." Moving closer, he lowers his voice. "I believe I know who you are, now."

Not a flicker of reaction in her face. "Do you?"

"Yes."

The Sergeant looks up, then, and meets the eyes that gaze down at hers: eyes of sympathy, and no trace of condemnation. "If you know that much . . . then you know why, as well."

He nods. "One gets to hear things, working so closely with the Empress." He frowns, thinking. "There was talk not long ago of someone who . . . it sounds incredible, but some woman was taken over by THEM and exchanged personalities with--"

"That," interrupts the Sergeant in a low, firm voice, "is so classified, we should probably not even be thinking of it, far less talking."

"Yes; I know. But that is the sort of thing--" The Guardsman gestures toward his comrade, who paces impatiently before the knoll. "--that is outside his experience. It is fortunate for you that I know your history, and that he does not. He would not understand, any more than he would understand how that woman could be coerced to THEIR designs." He smiles. "Though I have heard that it did not turn out exactly to their liking!"

Seeing that the Sergeant is uncomfortable with this forbidden topic, he desists. "Your secrets are safe. I will leave my comrade to his idealism."

"Cynical of us, isn't it, that we believe he must sacrifice his ideals? Does no one ever retain them?"

The Guardsman raises an eyebrow. "Have you forgotten so quickly what you said about loyalty? That it would be all the better if it could stand up to some questioning. Doesn't the same test apply to idealism that meets reality?" A pause. "Speaking of questioning, and reality . . . you know, of course, what will become of us if we are taken by HIM."

"I know."

"Are you afraid?"

"Of course. And you?"

"Naturally. We are trained to resist interrogation--but I'd rather not test my training in this area." A brief, dry laugh. "I would, like my friend there, die for Her Majesty, but I can't help thinking I'd be more useful to her alive. And in good working order!"

Whatever reply the Sergeant might make to this is cut off as the cell phone at her belt gives off a muted buzz. Quickly she detatches it, thumbs the buttons, and listens--without speaking. Then, returning it to her belt: "I have to get back. I've stayed too long already, and . . ." A deep breath. "The signal has been given."

Simultaneous with her "given," there are two clicks: the Guardsmen exchange glances, then consult their own communicators, which now show red signals. As the Sergeant had done, they activate them, and listen without speaking, then turn to each other.

"The candle of the wicked--" begins the younger.

"--shall be put out," finishes the older. Sign and countersign. The word has, indeed, been given.

"Farewell," says the older, shaking hands with the Sergeant. "If we do not meet again--you gave me some interesting conversation, to pass a tedious wait. I am grateful."

The younger, of course, had not been so pleased with that conversation, but he has in full measure the impulsive generosity of the young and does not hold a grudge. He, too, shakes the Sergeant's hand, his face alight with expectation over the mission that lies before them, and then the two Guardsmen move off on a predetermined path to join forces with comrades who await them.

The circle is closing. Tighter and tighter.

The Sergeant stands for a moment, watching the Guardsmen depart.

"The candle of the wicked shall be put out." Would that I could be the one to put it out. It would make up for some things.

Her gaze directed steadily--not toward the Wood, but toward Delaford.

I hope, Commander, that you can think kindly of me again. Someday. Perhaps before this day is over . . .

But that is wishful thinking, and she has duties to perform, a UNIT team to join.

And as the forces of the Realm press in upon The Interrogator, Sarge leaves the knoll and vanishes into the darkness . . .

The Sergeant laughs a little at the rueful amusement of the older Guardsman, then offers by way of consolation: "From what we have been able to find out, I don't believe there will be that many, actually." A pause. "Away from THEIR territories, The Interrogator travels light--for just such situations as this."

A noise of contempt from the younger. "All of this, then, for HIM and a few of HIS underlings."

The Sergeant gives him a searching glance. "You are inexorable to those 'underlings,' as you call them."

"Why should I not be? They serve HIM and are enemies of the Realm and Her Majesty."

"Has it occurred to you . . ." The Sergeant pauses, as if uncertain of how to proceed. " . . . that not all of them do so by choice?"

"But there is always a choice!" protests the younger.

"Always, though it may not be a simple one. Not always between evil and good--but, let us say, between evil and a greater evil." She raises her eyes to his. "Is there no one whose life and safety is dear to you? No one whom you would preserve at all costs, though it required your own life and everything that made that life worth living? For whom you would part with the last rag of honour you have, so that person would not suffer . . ."

The older Guardsman peers closely at her and is astonish and moved to see tears in her eyes. It is very personal with this one, he thinks, and to give her time to recover herself he replies, "I understand what you mean. We know that where HE is, there is every evil thing: torture and murder, all manner of unspeakable practices. Add extortion and blackmail, am I correct?"

"You are." The Sergeant's face is, once again, composed. "Some serve HIM willingly, and all the worse for them. But others . . . well, perhaps this gives you a better understanding of Her Majesty's directives. Her clemency is exceeded only by her wisdom, and she allows that some of HIS followers--not all, but some--may be serving HIM against their will." The Sergeant's face takes on a harder cast. "Or perhaps she merely wishes them taken alive so they may be questioned, if she cannot gain the information she desires from HIM. Would that please you better?"

The young man's outrage is instantaneous. "Her Majesty does not resort to such methods! Would you compare her with HIM?" The handsome face of this young man blazes with indignation. "That anyone would dare to suggest such a thing--!"

"I do not suggest it," replies the Sergeant evenly.

"Then why--" He must begin again; he can hear the hurt and bewilderment in his own voice, and it sounds of weakness, far too much for his liking. "Why do you speak of such things, to us who are sworn to serve her?" Stiffly. "Such ideas are ill-suited to one who calls herself a loyal citizen of the Realm."

"Ideas are never ill- suited to any truly dedicated service. What sort of loyalty is unable to abide some questioning? It will be all the stronger, afterwards." She nods into the darkness, in that direction. "And in this case: the stronger, the better."

James Winterbourne rides off into the darkness.

The Imperial Guardsmen stand looking after him, reluctant to break the silence that has fallen, for to break it is to resume discussion of the awkward subject the younger had broached a few moments ago. What if--God forbid it is so, and yet--what if . . .

The officer of UNIT stands a little apart from the others, though she, too, looks in the same direction: toward Delaford. Whatever momentary amusement she may have felt over Winterbourne's evident admiration of her is now subdued and merits no more than a passing thought of, I wonder what you would think, Winterbourne, if you knew . . . well, never mind about that. It is a pleasure to be found beautiful, and one that seldom comes her way; her demeanour forbids it, no matter the invitation of such looks as she can claim.

Finally, with a little sigh, she turns back toward the Guardsmen. "So . . . we were saying--?"

The men exchange glances. They are nothing if not courageous, and the younger, having brought up the painful topic, does not shrink from it now. "If HE is not there?"

The Sergeant nods toward the older Guardsman. "I believe you said, earlier, that HE would be there. We trust that it is so. But if it is not . . . we shall seek HIM again, and again. Both your people--" A pause. "--and mine." She bends a piercing glance on the Guardsmen. "But what are you prepared to do, if you catch The Interrogator?"

She had said it deliberately, curious as to the effect; what she sees, along with reactions she had noted earlier, is enough to convince her of the strength of their conditioning with regard to HIM.

Her lips curls in a small smile. "If you cannot even bear to hear HIM named . . . have either of you ever seen The Interrgator? Dealt with HIM, face to face?"

The older Guardsman is on the verge of the obvious reply: "Have you?" But he is drowned out by his young comrade, who retorts: "You need have no fears on that score. If I should catch The Interrogator--" He flings the word at her, to prove he can actually speak it without shuddering. "--I shall deal with HIM, you may be sure."

Was I ever so young? And so brave, and hopeful . . . "And what of your orders? The dispatches read quite clearly that HE is to be taken alive--" She forestalls the automatic protest. "--if possible, along with HIS people, however many may be present." The Sergeant taps her jacket. "Use mercy to them all, I believe it says. (homage) What of that? Can you stay your hand and keep to your duty?"

The younger Guardsman is by now glowering darkly--who is this stranger from UNIT, to tell him his duty?--while the older watches closely; he is a dedicated believer in the saying that you learn when you listen, not when you talk. And he cannot deny that he is curious as to this Sergeant's motives.

The younger, however, calms himself with surprising speed, and replies. "Her Majesty . . ." Whatever he might think of the idea of not shooting to kill the moment The Interrogator is spotted, shall he question the motives and orders of his Empress? Never. "Her Majesty is all that is gentle and good, and so it does not surprise me that she should give such orders. It is in keeping with her noble soul. But such kindness must have the support of strength; it can be overtaken by cruelty when it is not ably defended." He stands a little straighter. "Her Majesty can afford the luxury of mercy, because she has us to deal with the necessity of justice."

The Sergeant smiles, and there is no trace of mockery in it. "She is ably defended, indeed. If you are a fair sample of the Guard, then she does well to repose such trust in you."

The young man smiles--a little warily at first, then openly as he perceives that he has been paid a genuine and very handsome compliment.

A more companionable silence falls as they stand together, waiting--a silence finally broken by the older Guardsman, who clears his throat and murmurs, "Far be it from me to disobey Her Majesty, or find fault with her orders." A hint of a smile. "But if we are to use mercy to them all . . . then, frankly, I hope there aren't too many . . ."

--The loud cry of "HALT!!" as the soldiers reach for their weapons . . .

"Don't shoot! Don't shoot!" The rider rips his hood from his head, uncovering a unkempt head of dark curls and a handsome rugged face. "T'is I, James Winterbourne, brother to Giles Winterbourne of Egdon. I was sent to find Mr. and Mrs. Christopher Brandon, who live at the Delaford Estate!" His cheeks were red from hard riding, and his breath was short.

"You have found Delaford, young sir," answers the woman from UNIT, whose words brought a smile to the young man's lips. He had not often been addressed as "Sir". And not often by a beautiful woman. "But know you not that a great manhunt is on, and that you might be mistaken for HIM that we seek?" Her words, half-teasing, a gentle rebuke for this hasty and uncautioned rider.

"I am sorry--I did not know of this . . . manhunt. I was only told to tell what I was told to the Brandons, and knew none of this other." The beam of smile diminishes from his face, though perhaps he looks as handsome in this expression as in the former.

"What is your message?" The elder Guardsman. Did it concern the Empress in some way?

"I--I cannot tell, unless you be Colonel Brandon, sir. Forgive me." The lad's jaw seems to jut out in a fine imitation of manhood, though his face has not seen more than twenty years.

The elder Guardsman claps James Winterbourne on the back. "A true main gauche!"

"An emissary of brave embassy, " adds the UNIT officer, breaking into a smile. She pulls a white card from within her uniform jacket. "Go on, alone, James Winterbourne, but take this, so you will not be questioned so closely again. They are asleep in the house, but someone may let you in at the kitchen door."

"Yes mum!" James, stiffening to attention. He ties the pass card to a cord about his neck. With a nod to the men, he remounts, and rides on towards the Delaford mansion. His carte blanche, like a white wing at his breast.