With the help of the locals in the other villages, the natives have defeated the Japanese invaders. Now the airmen have other strange tribes to deal with: Americans and Australians!

"Our friend here," Joe indicated Melanie, "has been working undercover behind enemy lines. We're accompanying her to assist in the debriefing. She's a civilian, so she may not appear on your documents, if you take my meaning."

The sentry looked guarded. "Uh, I don't rightly know as if I can let her in, sir. She's not on the list, you see."

"Corporal," Doc asked the sentry, "You'll let me in, won't you?"

"Yes, sir, you're on the list."

"Then why don't you let me use that phone in your hut, and I'll see if I can sort this little difficulty out."

"Right you are sir. This way."

Disclaimer: The original characters and plot of this story are the property of the author. No infringement of pre-existing copyright is intended. This story is copyright (c) 2010 Penny Lane. All rights reserved. Don't expect this to be historically accurate in any way.

---

Of course, it wasn't quite as straightforward as strolling down the hill into Palunaan and greeting the Americans coming ashore in their boats. As the Japanese had retreated from the tiny port, some of their number had peeled off to form a rearguard protecting the main body as they headed for the dense jungles which coated the island at higher altitudes. Unfortunately for the Japanese, they had not considered that a credible enemy existed behind them, so most of the defenders who had dug in were facing the wrong way. And plainly visible to the island hunters who watched them begin to dig in before attacking them with spears, blowpipes, and machetes. The fight was bloody but brief.

Down at sea level, the air in the fishing village was hotter and much more humid, especially as it was on the sheltered western side of the island. The group of natives crept cautiously along the pathway towards the village, scouts alert on both sides for the presence of either Japanese or Allied troops. After all, it wouldn't do to be shot by one's own friends.

"Stop right there!"

Green-uniformed figures crouched behind a make-shift barricade. It was difficult to make out who until a head raised far enough to show a helmet that could only have belonged to a GI. Brian made his way out to the front of the group.

"Captain Brian Fraser, Australian Army," he called. "These are the chaps who finished up your battle for you."

"Captain?" muttered Doc. "He never mentioned that."

"Say what, bud? You're an Australian?"

"That's right. You from the destroyer?"

"Sure am. You-all stay over there till I fetch the Loo-tenant, right?" The figure turned. "Barnes, Podolski! Don't shoot those guys, they might be friends."

"Sarge!"

The Sergeant scuttled away from the barricade towards the heavily-damaged buildings behind. Brian, Doc and the natives made themselves a defensive position either side of the path, just in case a stray Japanese happened to return to seek revenge or satisfy honour. Shortly, a group of US Marines ran cautiously back towards the barrier and one stood and called out over it.

"Hey, there! You Fraser, the Australian?"

"That's me," Brian called back.

"We been told to expect you," the Lieutenant called back. "Come on in. You find those airmen at all?"

"Yes, they're here with me."

The group of locals walked cautiously towards the tumbled, broken furniture the Marines had thrown across the entrance to the village to make an assault more difficult, Brian in the lead. When he reached the obstruction, the Lieutenant pulled it apart to make an entrance and strode through it. Both he and Brian gave sketchy salutes before shaking hands.

"Lieutenant James Brady, US Marines, at your service. These some of your local irregulars, Captain?" The Lieutenant waved at the group of islanders surrounding Brian, most with a rifle slung over a shoulder. "Left us almost nothing to do. Wish we'd had help like this on some of the other islands." He shook his head. "Hell doesn't begin to describe what we've been through."

"Not me, Lieutenant," Brian replied. "The Royal Australian Air Force is responsible for what's happened here. Shall we find somewhere to exchange notes?"

Brady frowned. "Air Force? I don't remember seeing any of their planes in the area. Oh! You mean the airmen who were shot down here! Of course!" He briefly looked around. "They not here with you, then?"

The combined group started to walk down the sloping path towards the remains of a warehouse on the quayside, where the Marines had set up a temporary command post. The other Marines looked askance at the locals, but let them pass without comment.

"Oh, they're here all right," Brian said as they walked. "You have to remember, they've been hiding out on the island for nine months. What did you think they might look like?"

Brady stopped. "What, you mean..? Here? In this crowd?"

Brian grinned. "I'll buy you a beer if you can figure out who the five Aussies are. Hell, I'll buy you a crate."

Brady turned and inspected the group, who consisted of twenty-two young males and a woman. He looked closely at several who seemed to know which end of a rifle was which, but eventually admitted defeat.

"You taking a rise out of me, Captain? There's one that might be, I can't believe any of the others are. You," he said, pointing to Doc, "are you an Australian fly-boy?"

Doc replied - in the local language. "tk'Biryanu has told the white-face that some of us are white-faces, but the other cannot work out which. We can have a little fun here."

Smiles broke out on everyone else's face and there were some chuckles, which disconcerted Brady.

"What did he say?"

"How do you expect me to know?" Brian replied. "I don't speak the island language. I know a little of the inter-island trade tongue, which is why I got brought here and thrown out of an aeroplane."

The group reached the warehouse and Brady entered, Brian following him. The front wall was missing, and most of the roof had fallen in, but there was enough space at the rear to afford some protection from the elements. One of the Marines guarding the warehouse stepped in front of the locals, rifle held horizontally in front of himself as a barrier.

"You stay out here, buddy," he growled at an inquisitive local. "Let your betters decide what's happening, okay?"

"If you don't put that rifle away, sailor-boy," Les said in a flat tone, "I'll take it off you and shove it up your arse."

The Marine looked at Les with shock. The phenomenon of an Australian accent speaking good English coming from someone who looked entirely native and was dressed in nothing more than a handful of grass was almost too much for him. His mouth opened and his rifle hung limply in his grasp. Joe stepped forward.

"Let us pass, there's a good chap," he said. "I'm Flight Lieutenant Joe Maguire, Royal Australian Air Force, and some of these are my crew."

Brian, hearing the exchange from inside, grinned and turned to Brady.

"You'd better let them all in. Things might get tricky if you don't."

"Schultz!" Brady called. "Let'm in! They've cleared the island of Japs, they know how to handle themselves."

Everyone crowded into the available space. Joe stepped forward and introduced himself, followed by Les.

"We had to disappear into the culture so as not to get picked up by the Japs," Joe explained to the astonished Lieutenant. "One of our number is an anthropologist who visited the island before the war, so he knew we could do it. We also knew the island only had a small garrison on it, so we were unlikely to be caught by a search."

The Lieutenant briefly examined Joe, his eyes running up and down his costume.

"Well! I'm impressed," he said, shaking Joe's hand. "If you fooled me, there's no chance the Japs would ever have figured you out. Still, five of you took on a force of what, two hundred?"

"Two hundred and thirty-one, originally," Joe replied. "We know exactly what happened to who, so if you can get your men to tally up the ones you've encountered, we'll know just how many managed to get past the locals and run off into the bush. I'm guessing, not many."

"I'll do that," the Lieutenant said. "It'll make our job so much easier. On some of those islands, we've spent months digging the bastards out." He switched his attention to Les. "You are?"

"Flight Sergeant Lesley Parnell, sir. I was the Engineer on the old bus."

"I was in that trade before the war, myself. Maybe we can have a quiet chat another time, once we get this little paradise of yours cleared up."

"I'd like that, sir. I know you can't be specific, but are you chaps going to be around here long?"

"Well, I don't rightly know, Sergeant. I do know we have to secure the island before they'll call us to the next trouble spot. Oh! You're wondering how we're going to get you guys off. Well, I don't know exactly, but it's my guess you'll catch a ride on a troopship going back for a refill. Sure won't be with us at any rate. Our Cap'n will know for certain."

"Thank you, sir."

Brady turned to Brian. "You say that the other Australians are here as well, sir? In this room?"

"That's right," Brian replied, grinning again. It was about time someone else got embarrassed. He was looking forward to the fun, as were all of the tribesmen. He waved his arm expansively at the group. "Take your pick, Lieutenant."

"Hmph! This ain't gonna be easy."

Brady walked among the group, looking closely at all of them. His brow furrowed when he came to Melanie, but the fact she had a rifle over her shoulder meant that she had as much right as any other native to be in the group and he passed on. He spoke to several of them, ones he considered likely prospects, but received only blank looks in response. Finally he stepped back, baffled.

"I dunno. Whoever you are, you're hiding well. I give in. No, wait - I have an idea." He walked over to the front of the warehouse and gestured a line on the floor. "Captain, if you could ask them all to line up here, with their rifles to their shoulders, facing the sea. I might get a hint that way. I shan't ask them to fire any shots, it might not be a good idea just at the moment."

Brian looked at Joe, who relayed the instruction to the crowd. All grinned at him and they walked forward to form a ragged line with their rifles at their shoulders ready to fire out towards the beach. Some of them made a meal out of the process and Brady watched carefully to catch any possible hints one way or the other. Finally he approached one of the natives and put his hand on the man's shoulder.

"You. I think you're a bit too familiar with a rifle to be a native, am I right?"

The man turned and lowered his rifle butt to the floor. "I guess you could say that," Doc replied, "Although one or two of these locals have a great deal more experience than I have. Most of my experience is small-bore." He held out his hand. "Flight Lieutenant Andrew Ballantyne at your service. I'm the navigator. I've been here before, before the fighting started, and it was my idea to put the plane down here rather than trying to struggle home and end up ditching in the sea."

"Just as well we did," Joe commented. "I doubt the plane would have got many more miles if we hadn't."

"Incredible," Brady said, looking closely at Doc as he shook his hand. "I've seen people blacked up for the movies and such, but you can always tell that they were originally white folks. This is something else!"

"Ah, well, we had the benefit of the locals' knowledge," Doc replied. "Besides which, it was a matter of life and death for us, not just a credit at the end of the picture. The dye they boiled up for us really seems to have done the trick, doesn't it?"

"How you gonna get it off?" Brady enquired.

"No idea," Doc replied, "and I don't think the natives have any idea either. I'm hoping we can find something on your ship to get it shifted. Kerosene, gasoline, degreaser, anything. Otherwise we're going to look pretty strange on the way home until it wears off naturally."

A distant machine-gun chatter followed by a volley of rifle shots in reply recalled them to the present circumstances. Joe intervened.

"Lieutenant, I think we'd better cut this short. Jack, Melanie, come forward. Friends, the yellow-faces are still nearby. We should not forget what is happening outside, even though we all want to have some more fun. Everyone! You can put your rifles down, but keep them ready and be alert for a possible attack."

Brady gaped as Jack and Melanie came out of the crowd and stood before him.

"But..." he turned to Brian. "Your message clearly said there were five airmen, or so I was led to believe. I can't believe your air force sent a woman on a bomber mission."

Doc replied. "I sent the message. I had to make it short, and I stated that there were five Australians on the island, and that I was one of them. I understood immediately that the wrong conclusion would be drawn, but we had limited time to code and send the message, and I wanted to keep it short to avoid detection. Melanie here is the sole European survivor of the small number who used to live here before this all started. Her parents were killed but she managed to escape into the bush."

"Ma'am," Brady said as he offered his hand for her to shake. "You had a bad time?" he asked her.

"Lieutenant," she replied, pronouncing it the English way. "Not so much once I got to the village, but the days before were so unpleasant I've tried to forget them."

"I can imagine," Brady said. "Do you know what happened to the other Europeans?"

Doc replied again. "We have put together an account from some of the locals who were living in this village and in Tapunaan when the Japanese arrived. A small number were shot out of hand, but most were deported, no one knows where, probably to be interned on a larger island somewhere to the west, maybe. We have a list of names of those we know lived here, and which ones died, if that would be of use to you."

Brady grunted. "Don't think so. Like I said, we're due to head off west to another island once this'un's been secured. Your Captain Fraser here has been designated Governor pro tem until we can get the proper civil authorities organised again, perhaps you'd better give your list to him."

Brian looked surprised. "Me? Governor?" His shoulders slumped. "Somebody back home must really hate me." He nodded. "Seriously, Lieutenant, I half expected it."

Brady turned to Jack. "I'm forgetting the introductions." He held out his hand.

"I'm Flight Sergeant Jack Harris," he replied, shaking Brady's hand, "Front Gunner and Bomb Aimer."

"Right, then," the Lieutenant's gaze swung to include the whole crowd. "What are we gonna do with all you fine people?"

~o~O~o~

The Ensign at the top of the gangway looked over the side with a mixture of curiosity and disgust. The approaching boat had Lieutenant Brady at the back and someone in an Australian slouch hat at the front, but the middle of the small launch was filled with natives. They were black as the ace of spades and dressed in nothing but fringes of grass. What on earth was the Captain thinking, letting primitives like this on board his ship?

The launch reached the gangway and the sailor at the front "hooked on" so that the party could disembark. Everyone stood up and began to climb the steep stairway. The Ensign straightened himself and assumed an appropriate position.

"Ow! Jesus Christ, that's hot!"

The first native had placed a bare foot onto a steel deck which had been frying in the sun for hours, and abruptly skipped back onto the top of the wood-decked gangway. The Ensign gaped as the native let out a stream of invective in perfect English with an outlandish accent. Brady pushed his way past the others waiting in line behind Les and made it to the top.

"Ensign! Break out some life jackets and lay them on the deck from here to the hatch, so our guests can cross over without getting their feet completely cooked. Don't just stand there looking like a fish!"

"Yessir!"

He detailed off a couple of men working nearby on deck and watched as they spread the jackets flat on the hot metal. They would be awkward to walk over, but that was a small price to pay for avoiding serious burns. Most of the men on duty in view of the gangway had turned their attention on the curious goings on, but Brady sent them all back to their stations with a word. Some of them were supposed to be on aircraft lookout duty after all.

The party gingerly made its way across to the hatch and into the interior of the ship. The Ensign was astonished to see that the last native was a young woman, a very pretty young woman, and he wondered just what was going on. There were rumours from the island already, and he didn't know what to make of any of them.

There was just sufficient room for them all to cram into the tiny wardroom. They shuffled to make themselves comfortable and as they did so the destroyer's captain appeared.

"Afternoon! I'm Captain Barney Fredericks, welcome aboard the USS Sakakawea. I hope you'll all managed to get comfortable, unfortunately there's not a lot of room on a tub this size."

They went round the table introducing themselves and Fredericks found a perch on the end of one of the seats. Brady described their difficulty with the hot deck.

"Jeez, I should have thought of that, guys," Fredericks said. "We'd better get you some shoes issued out of supply. I guess looking at you that you'll want some clothes as well? You can't very well get on a transport looking like that, can you?"

"The thought did cross our minds, sir," Joe admitted. "We do have our flying gear, but it's designed for cold at ten thousand feet, not heat and humidity at sea level. Most of it's beginning to rot from being hidden up in the jungle, anyway. We'd be obliged if you could give us the minimum to make us look civilised again."

"No problem, guys. We keep some extras on hand for people we fish out of the drink." His eyes narrowed as he considered Melanie. "I can issue shirts and shorts for you four men, but I don't know if that's proper for a lady." He considered for a second or two, then brightened.

"Where are my manners? You've been stuck here for what, months?"

"Nine months," Brian supplied.

"You must have been eating all kinds of outlandish food. How's about I offer you all a taste of home?" Fredericks stood and leaned out of the wardroom door. "Ted!"

"Aye, Captain!" came a voice in the distance.

"Get the engine room to send up enough coffee for eight, will you? Oh, and find out where Benny Rosenblum is, have him sent up to the wardroom."

"Food?" Doc said as Fredericks sat down again. "Our diet has been mostly pork, with some chicken and monkey thrown in. We did have wild boar a couple of times early on, that was delicious. An awful lot of vegetables and fruit as well, of course."

"Oh! Well that doesn't sound too bad, Lieutenant."

"Not at the beginning, no, sir. Unfortunately, the Japanese prevented anyone fishing except themselves, which meant that the island's resources are getting used up. Two hundred-odd extra mouths on an island with a population already around eight hundred is a bit of a tough order. We were beginning to consider rationing when we found Brian, that is Captain Fraser here, had arrived with a promise of rescue."

A seaman brought a big pot of coffee and some mugs, more mugs being carried by a second man. The second man was stripped to the waist, filthy despite the rag he was wiping himself with, and very frightened.

"Sir?"

"Rosenblum! You were busy?"

"Aye, sir, nothing that can't wait."

"Don't look so upset, man, you haven't done nothing wrong. Now, lookee here, Benny, these guys who look like natives are Australians who have been hiding out on the island blacked up to keep from getting caught by the Japs, but that's not what I wanted you for. We have a lady present. I can issue these men with shirts and shorts from supply, but I don't reckon that they'd have anything suitable for the lady here. Do you think you can put together something decent for her to wear as she travels back to the rear?" He turned to the seated group. "Benny here was a tailor in New York when the war started. He should be able to put something together."

Rosenblum eyed Melanie with a professional air. "It's not really my line, Cap," he replied, "but I know the basics and I should be able to put something simple together. Uh, I'll have to measure her, of course, and I'll need some cloth."

"You agreeable to that?" Fredericks asked Melanie. She nodded, and he turned back to Rosenblum.

"You confident you can do it?"

"Aye, sir."

"Then get started. I'm taking you off all other work till this is done, since we don't know how long we're going to be here. You can ask supply for anything you want for this - within reason. Use whatever cloth you think will work - except maybe the altar cloth. I'll get Ted to square it with Chief Wickens. You can even go ashore to fit it once it's made."

"Aye, sir!"

"Right, go and get yourself properly cleaned up, and I'll send Miss -"

"Chisholm," she said.

"- Chisholm down to you when you're ready. Dismissed."

~o~O~o~

"Those duds fit you all right, then?" Fredericks asked as they reconvened in the wardroom.

"Yes, sir, thank you," Joe replied for the party.

They were all wearing their native outfits again, the Navy clothing they had been issued carried in one hand. By common agreement they had decided not to 'go western' until the day they left the island, so as not to cause confusion amongst the locals they all knew. The exception to this was the deck shoes, which they realised they would have to wear at least until they got back to shore after their visit to the ship. Melanie wore deck shoes but carried no clothing.

"Miss Chisholm, are you satisfied with what Rosenblum proposes to do for you?"

"Yes, Captain, thank you."

"You didn't get any trouble down there? After all, you're on a warship full of men who haven't seen a woman for quite some time."

"Not at all, Captain. He was the perfect gentleman, and I had my friends there anyway to make sure everything was handled correctly."

"I'm glad to hear that, miss. I don't know how fast he can work, but I'd guess he'll have something ready by tomorrow, or the day after at the latest. I'll let him go on shore to give you a fitting, it'll save you coming all the way out here."

"Thank you, Captain."

"So, how did the four of you - excuse me, and Miss Chisholm - manage to see off a couple hundred Japs, then?" Fredericks asked as they resumed their seats.

"Luck and circumstances mostly, sir," Doc replied. They had decided, as Doc had the most comprehensive knowledge of what had happened on the island, to let him lead the debriefing.

"Firstly, the island was all garrison troops, sir," he continued. "We had a fairly thorough intelligence network running through the villages so we knew exactly what we were facing. Mostly young kids, mostly city born, mostly conscripts. It seemed like it was a big adventure when they were first dumped here but I guess it got very boring very quickly. Most were homesick and just wanted to be somewhere else. Because of the reefs and the cliffs the island has no strategic value, as I'm sure you've figured out yourself, so there were very few regular soldiers stationed here, just enough to organise the look-out posts and run the radio up on the ridge. The fact that they were outnumbered by the locals didn't help, either. Only the threat of retaliatory air strikes stopped them from getting wiped out within a week of arrival."

"Even so," Fredericks objected, "we're talking about two hundred trained troops armed with modern weapons."

"They split their forces, sir, they had to. Eighty-odd in one port village, sixty-odd in the other, and fifty scattered at the northern and southern edges in four look-out posts. That meant we could take them on piecemeal. Our chaps can see a lot better in the dark than the enemy, sir. They can move so quietly you'd never know they were there, and they are experts with those blow-pipes. We took out the look-out posts one moonless night, that gave us some more firearms. We knew we couldn't get them out of the port villages without a lot of bloodshed, that's why we asked for a little air and naval support to encourage them to move. The rest you know."

Fredericks grunted. "I wondered why our orders were so strange, but that explains it. Have we got all of them, Lieutenant?"

"If our count of the numbers is correct, there's still four hiding out on the mountains somewhere. They'll be found soon enough by the locals. Almost all the rest are dead, I believe we have three prisoners. It seems such a waste, but, kids or not, they still were quite prepared to die for their emperor." Doc sighed. "War's a bitch, isn't it, sir?"

"You got that right. Even so, I'm glad we secured this one with such light casualties."

"Not so light for the tribesmen, sir," Joe put in. "We have fifteen dead and twenty-seven with severe injuries. Our thanks to your medical teams who have done their best in very awkward circumstances."

"Least we could do, Lieutenant. Even so, Captain Fraser here is gonna have to organise something different for after we leave, medical-wise. We couldn't justify leaving a medic here, not considering where we're likely to end up next."

"I'm sure we'll manage, sir," Brian replied. "We always do."

~o~O~o~

"Nice place you got here," Fredericks said. "A real tropic paradise, just like in the movies."

Fredericks, Brian, Doc and Joe were standing at the high end of the village, looking down at the domestic activity taking place between the houses. Everyone was relaxed for the first time since the Japanese had arrived. The villagers were wary of the Americans, but knew that they posed no threat to them, at least not a threat that they would have recognised.

"It would be better if you didn't look too closely, Captain," Doc said. "Quite a lot of what happens here is extremely basic. These people are only just taking up agriculture, after all."

"Maybe," Fredericks replied, "but it's probably little different to the way some of the guys in the backwoods live, back in the wilder parts of the U S of A. I was thinkin', maybe I could come back here when the war's over, just relax for a week or two, you know?"

"I'm not sure what kind of reception you'd get, Captain," Doc said. "At the moment, you're in favour because your people helped to clear the island, but in general, they mostly want to be left alone. I don't know how much longer this conflict will last, maybe years yet, and memories will have faded somewhat by the time it's all over. Best to just take the memories you have away with you."

Fredericks grunted. "Maybe you're right, Lieutenant. Say, what are my guys doing down there?"

He pointed to a group down at the other end of the open space, a mixture of sailors from his ship and young men from the village.

"I can see Les down there," Joe said, "and if I know Les, they will all be doing throwing and target practice with whatever weapons they can lay their hands on. I bet some of our chaps are more accurate with blowpipes than your sailors will ever be with a rifle."

"You're probably right," Fredericks said. "Some of them couldn't hit the proverbial barn door. Comes of city living, I suppose. What's happened to all the pioneering skills Americans used to have? Mind you, some of my crew are a little too expert with a switchblade - I carefully don't ask too many questions about that, if you get my drift."

Brian shrugged. "If it enables them to better fight the enemy, I'd say you were doing the right thing, Captain. We take whatever we can get, these days."

Joe added, "Here's your dressmaker, Captain." He pointed at Rosenblum, walking slowly up towards them, all the while mopping his forehead in the heat. The sailor approached and gave a sketchy salute to his captain.

"Benny! You all finished up, then?"

"Yes, sir. She'd pass anywhere in polite company, now, sir. Beggin' your pardon, once she manages to get the dye off her skin."

"Ah." Fredericks turned to his companions. "Sorry we couldn't help with that. I guess we tried everything on my ship that could pour, I don't think anything made any difference, did it?"

"No, sir," Doc said. "We started with the usual solvents, then, as you said, we tried everything else on board, even vinegar, ketchup and tabasco from the galley. Nothing made the slightest difference. We're probably going to have to wait till we get back to civilisation and then try some more exotic chemicals."

"I guess so. I just hope you don't get too much trouble on board the transport. With your skin that colour, folks are going to get the wrong idea about you. I don't hold with it myself, but there's plenty who think that black folks ain't as good as white folks. That's one reason I kitted all four of you out with officers' duds, make sure you had as much advantage as possible till you managed to get back to your own people."

Joe coughed. "Hadn't realised things were so bad, sir. I thought your Civil War was supposed to put an end to that?"

Fredericks grunted again. "Not so's you'd notice, Lieutenant."

Doc added, "It's the same all over the world, Skip. Some races just like to look down on other races. We do the same with Abos, don't we?"

"That so?" Fredericks asked. He turned to Rosenblum. "We gonna see the lady in her new finery then, Benny?"

Rosenblum gulped, then said, "Sorry, sir, I don't think so, least, not till it gets dark. They're going to have a special ceremony for her and the airmen, when they stop being villagers and start being Australians again. Miss Chisholm told me all about it."

"Oh." The Captain looked disappointed. "I can't stay here much longer," he said to the others, "I have to get the ship ready to move off in the morning. As soon as the Portland Star and her escort drop anchor, we have to be leaving."

"I'm sorry to hear that, sir," Joe said. "We - the natives, that is - do tend to conduct our ceremonies just after sunset for various reasons. I'd hoped you and your men could stay for the party. There'll be a pig roast and lots of dancing and other entertainments."

"Perhaps not such a good idea," Doc pointed out. "We also have alcoholic drinks so powerful they could probably strip paint, sir. Not such a good thing if you need to be alert first thing next morning."

Fredericks' eyebrows raised. "That so? Guess it's better I pass on that one, then." He looked at the sky, gauging the angle of the sun. "I think it's about time I returned to the ship, in any case. Orders can change like the wind in these parts, as you guys well know. Come on, Benny."

Fredericks and his men took their leave, and the five Australians prepared for their last night on the island. The two rows of torches were prepared, and everyone bustled about getting the food and drink ready. Finally the sun sank below the horizon to the west and everyone prepared for the ceremony. Since this would be a group transformation, both Elders and their wives accompanied the five down to the stream, the rest of the tribe singing hunting songs as they did so. Although the moon was not full there was enough of it to light the scene, supported by the usual torches and fires.

The women of the tribe took charge of Melanie and clustered round her while she was stripped and washed, away from the men's gaze. When she emerged from the group she was wearing the clothes Benjamin Rosenblum had stitched together for her, a demure knee-length dress with short sleeves the same colour as the men's khaki uniforms. Underneath she wore a petticoat that Rosenblum had made from some of the parachute silk, and from the same silk he had managed to conjure a simple brassiere-style breast support patterned on the halter top Melanie had worn as a villager.

All the men at the stream side stared at her wide-eyed. A few whistled, a habit they had picked up from the American Marines.

"Amazing," Joe said. "That tailor is a genius. I don't know anything about fashion, Mel, but you'll turn heads in that get-up anywhere you go."

"Thank you, Joe," she said softly. "I wasn't sure this was a good idea to start with, but I find I'm wondering what I'll look like when we get back, now. Benjamin," she might have blushed, but the dye made it impossible to tell, "said he copied styles he saw around him in New York," she explained. "I really felt comfortable wearing the grass clothes," she added, "but wearing these I just feel great. I can't explain it any better than that."

"All the men here agree you look great," Doc added in the local language. "Even the elders here."

"Thank you," she said to them. "And now, perhaps it is time for the men to show that they can look good as well."

The men exchanged places with the women and the four were ritually washed under the waterfall, cleaning away the village markings from their faces and bodies, and the ash and clay from their hair. Their grass outfits were carefully piled up by the elders as the four put on the shirts, shorts and shoes provided by the US Navy. Their headgear had not survived the nine months in the jungle, so they were bareheaded, but a salvaged comb smartened their damp hair into some semblance of a western style.

Once ready, they each picked up their old village wear and the elders led the way back to the centre of the village. The five stood in a row near one of the big fires, Melanie in the middle, and tk'Tenepti addressed everyone.

"This is an unusual ceremony. The only way a warrior leaves the village in other times is by death or capture, which ends in death anyway. Today it is different, because times are changing and so must we. These men, and our km'lilleh m'Lanui, leave to continue fighting in a conflict so large and so strange I have difficulty understanding it. They have given so much to our village, our tribe and our island in the moons since they have been here.

"They have rid the island of the yellow-faces. They have shown us that some, if not all, of the white-faces can be trusted from time to time. They have shown that the villages on the island can achieve much if they co-operate, and that is something that I would have found quite strange before they came. They have shown us new ways of hunting, new ways of tending crops and so many other things. They have told us much about the islands surrounding our own that we did not know before.

"Finally, they brought with them, although they did not know it at the time, the magic that is km'lilleh. For that we shall be for ever grateful. To have seen it with my own eyes is something that I shall tell my children and my children's children. She has shown us that while the forest remains eternal, yet it changes all the time, and we must change with it. Once the yellow-faces have been defeated there may be other changes to come, tk'Biryanu has spoken of such things.

"These five have become part of our tribe, and I tell you that, even though they return to the tribe of their birth, they will always remain part of our tribe. They will always be welcome here among us. They go tomorrow with our blessing, and that of the tribe. And now, you have heard enough of an old man's talk. Let us proceed with the ceremony, the food and drink awaits."

Melanie walked to the fire, and, as she had done so many months previously, threw her grass garments onto it. One by one the others followed suit. When they had finished, there was a roar from the crowd and everyone surged forwards to surround them. Soon, the party was in full swing.

Much later, as everyone began to start feeling the effects of the local brew and things started to quieten down, Brian cornered Doc.

"Andy old mate, there's something going on here you haven't been telling me," he said.

"What do you mean?"

"It's Melanie. It seems to me, since I've been in the village and watched the five of you, that the relationship between you isn't quite what it seems. Don't get me wrong, I'm not suggesting anything improper, but you four and she don't talk together quite the way I might expect a young woman to talk when she's recently met four men in the jungle. It appears to me as though she's known you a bit longer than the dates would suggest, and she knows far too much about the Australian military for my liking, for a girl who's supposed to be brought up on a tropical island away from western contact."

"I don't think so," Doc said. "It's just that we've grown together because we're in the same boat. It's natural for her to pick up things from us."

"You forget why I'm here, Andy, I'm theoretically part of the intelligence community. I'm supposed to notice things like that. I've also picked up a fair bit of the local lingo since I've been here, and something tk'Tenepti said in his speech made me curious. Something about 'they brought the magic that is km'lilleh, though they did not know it', and then he said, 'she has shown us...'. That implies that you brought Melanie, about the same time you arrived here, rather than her already being here. And I've been asking round about km'lilleh, although everyone is stonewalling me about that one. So what's really going on?"

Doc sighed. He had discussed with Joe whether they should tell Brian the truth, since he was basing himself in their village and would eventually be told... something... by the villagers after the five had left. It seems he had already begun to work out what had happened, although whether he would manage to guess the whole story was open to question, especially as none of the five really knew what had happened anyway.

"Brian, mate," he said heavily. "I'm going to tell you a story. It's entirely up to you whether you believe it or not, but I promise you I'm only going to tell you what actually happened and not embroider it with fanciful speculation. You forget, I'm an anthropologist, and I have to be accurate and unbiased - as much as I ever can - in my dealings with people like these. I caution you, don't repeat anything of what I'm about to tell you to any European, because you'll endanger all of us, especially Melanie.

"So, when our plane crashed on the island, there were actually five survivors."

~o~O~o~

"I still don't entirely understand why we five have been stuck away in a corner on our own table," Les grumped.

They were sitting in one of the two restaurants on board the old liner. It was less than half full, most of the passengers for this leg of the voyage being confined to beds or bunks by their injuries. About a third of the other eaters visible were medical staff, the rest were walking wounded, those who had enough mobility to be able to make their own way around the ship. A very, very few were black Americans.

"They just don't know what to do with us," Doc explained again. "We don't fit into their perceived hierarchy. We're not in the American military command structure, and we're neither white nor black, that is their own definition of what being black might mean. We're not wounded, and we're not going back to the same place any of them are. Four of us are wearing recognisable officer's uniforms from the wrong nation's forces, albeit without rank insignia - which causes it's own problems - and the fifth is a civilian. No wonder they can't figure us out."

"I can't figure out this grub," Jack muttered, suspiciously eyeing the cube of bright pink meat on the end of his fork. "What did you say this stuff was again?"

"SPAM," Joe answered. "You've eaten SPAM before, I've watched you. When we were at that forward base."

"Maybe, Skip, but it at least looked edible that time."

"It's all good food," Doc encouraged. "They may be down to the canned foodstuffs by now, but there's plenty of nourishment in it. I must say, it's refreshing to eat a different selection of vegetables and fruit for a change. You can have enough of yams and sago and mangoes and suchlike, a change of diet is good for the body occasionally."

Jack put down his fork with a grimace. "Can I have that in writing, Doc? I think part of it is having canteen staff, pardon me, galley staff, who know which end of a ladle is which."

"Well, I think what we're being given is tasty," Melanie said. "As Doc said, it's a nice change."

The group finally finished their dinners and eventually a steward appeared with a dessert plate for each of them. It contained two pineapple rings covered with a white substance which was definitely not cream. Jack looked at his plate with distaste.

"There's a war on, you know," Joe said. "Eat up, there's a good chap."

"Canned pineapple," Les said. "At least you can guarantee the quality of the fruit. We tried to grow it on the farm, but it was too dry at the wrong time of year. I love pineapple." He dug his spoon into the rings.

"Now there's a thing," Doc pondered as he ate. "Did we try any of these fruits or juices when we were on the destroyer?"

"We only had the one meal on board, Doc," Joe pointed out. "They wouldn't have offered us samples of everything they had, would they?"

"I didn't mean to eat," Doc replied. "I meant to try and get rid of this dye."

He cut a square of pineapple with his spoon, then picked it out with his fingers and rubbed it on his other forearm. All of them gasped as the skin colour was visibly lightened.

"You did it!" Les said.

"Yes. It had only just occurred to me that there are various specific and useful substances in most fruits. I wonder... steward!"

After some delay, a steward approached.

"Yes? Is there something wrong with your meal?" Doc stared at the man impassively. "...sir?"

"Would you happen to know," Doc asked, "if there is much of this pineapple left in the stores?"

The steward looked confused. The five people in front of him looked like outlandish natives dressed up in US uniforms, but the voices coming out of their mouths spoke good English. The question was not one that he had expected.

"Er, I don't really know, sir. I shall go and find out." The man couldn't figure out the possible significance of such a question. With a tiny bow, and an even tinier shake of the head, he turned away. Some considerable time later, he returned with another man and began removing the plates, which by now they had all cleared. The other man was bigger, older, and had bars on the epaulettes of his shirt.

"Is there some kind of problem with my food, gentlemen? And lady?"

"The food's fine. We just wanted to know if you had much pineapple left. The quantities involved could be of interest to us," Joe said.

"That so?"

"Yes," said Doc. "They might solve a problem we have. If you have stocks, we'll be going to see the Chief Medical Officer as soon as we've finished our meal."

"We need that food to feed our injured," the man said. "I don't want to see it wasted."

"You won't see it wasted," Joe said. "Just tell us what we want to know. If there's enough, we'll come back and talk to you, try and work out something."

"As it happens, we have crates of the stuff. We have mebbe nine, ten thousand tins, if that's what you want to know."

"That sounds good enough for us. We'll come and find you later today, if we may. Your name is?"

"Grissom, sir. Chief Steward Grissom."

"You're a civilian?"

"Yes, sir. With the ship when she was requisitioned. Glad to do my bit for my country."

"Thank you, Grissom. We'll find you later."

~o~O~o~

The heat, humidity, noise, smell, crowds and furious activity was a shock to all of them after the relative calm of their sea voyages. Three days on the troopship, an enforced layover at a staging point on an un-named atoll followed by an interesting trip on a Liberty Ship laden with ammunition had finally seen them deposited on the quayside at Port Moresby in New Guinea.

The pineapple juice had done its work. All now looked like properly-tanned white Australians. Melanie had shocked everyone on the troopship when she had emerged from the dark pigment hiding her, making her the centre of some serious attention. Even here, as they stood trying to get their bearings, all male eyes within visible range locked onto her shapely figure. The others had learned quickly to gather protectively around her. Here, at least, the men weren't quite so overly attentive as the Americans on the two ships had been!

Joe looked around to try and get his bearings. They had been to New Guinea before but previously had flown in and out so the port area was unfamiliar to them. Spotting a Military Policeman in a kiosk, he led the way over, pulling out the paper with their orders as he did so.

"Sorry, gentlemen," that worthy replied after a single glance at Joe's paper, "you need the US transit office opposite dock number five. That way." He pointed.

"Sergeant," Joe patiently pointed out, "if you'd actually read our orders, you would discover that we're Australians. US warships don't usually keep stocks of Australian signal forms or for that matter spare RAAF uniforms." He held out the paper again.

"Oh, sorry, gentlemen," the MP said again. "You looked like Yanks, so... let me see that." He took the paper and read. "Ah. Right. You're to go to 58 Signals, there's a regular bus goes that way every hour or so, stops down there at the end of that warehouse." He pointed. "Um, it only mentions four aircrew here, not the lady." He looked directly at Melanie, who gave him a smile back.

This was the first awkward moment they knew they had to handle, since they knew that any orders they were sent would only cover the known survivors of the original flight.

"I'm a civilian who was based on the island where their plane came down," she said. "What I was doing there was need-to-know, Sergeant. These men are in fact accompanying me to 58 Signals. We've spent nine months under cover behind Japanese lines."

"I see," the MP nodded in understanding. He wouldn't be asking any questions about what they had been doing. "That's fine then. Anything else I can do for you?"

"Yes, Sergeant," Doc replied. "Because we were forced to go undercover, we have no ID papers. Is there anything you can suggest?"

"Yes, sir. There's an office through that way about three hundred yards for misplaced persons. There might be a queue, though. Have you men still got your ID tags?"

"Yes, Sergeant, but our friend here has nothing, literally, other than the clothes she's standing in."

"We have had a fair number of civilians through here fitting that description," the MP said. "It shouldn't be a problem getting her temporary papers today, especially if you're about to go to 58 Signals. That's where most of the identity checks are carried out in any case."

"Thank you, Sergeant."

Getting temporary papers for all of them proved to be straightforward, but they all knew that Melanie could be exposed if anyone decided to do a thorough check on her supposed background. There was a volunteer point serving tea and sandwiches near the place where the bus stopped and the five stood and munched a snack while they waited. The 'bus' when it arrived turned out to be a lorry with seats in the back. There was just enough flare in the skirt of Melanie's dress to enable her to scramble up the tailboard with help, but it wasn't very dignified.

"Is this the route to that airfield we arrived at before?" Joe asked as they bumped away from the town. "This road doesn't look very familiar."

"No," Doc replied. "This is almost the opposite direction. When I went from our billet over to 58 Signals those two times I had to go into Port Moresby and out again. Five hours travelling for about twenty minutes of talk that could probably have been handled by a phone call."

They were dropped at a gate in a barbed-wire fence by the side of the road, the men helping Melanie down from the lorry. Although the surrounding area was forested, it had the look of a cultivated district rather than raw jungle. Other than the gate and the sentry post within, there was no other building in sight. The lorry rumbled off into the distance and they walked to the gate.

"Yes, sir?"

"I believe we're expected." As this was Doc's territory, it was he who held out the paper with their movement orders on it. The sentry took the papers through the wire of the gate and retired to his hut, leaving them standing beside the deserted road. They could see the sentry pick up a telephone and make a call. Soon he returned with a clipboard.

"Captain Ballantyne, Lieutenant Maguire, Sergeant Parnell, Sergeant Harris," he said. "There's no mention of a woman."

"Captain Ballantyne?" Doc asked, shocked. "When did that happen?"

"Dunno, sir, don't ask me, I just mind the gate."

"Our friend here," Joe indicated Melanie, "has been working undercover behind enemy lines. We're accompanying her to assist in the debriefing. She's a civilian, so she may not appear on your documents, if you take my meaning."

The sentry looked guarded. "Uh, I don't rightly know as if I can let her in, sir. She's not on the list, you see."

"Corporal," Doc asked the sentry, "You'll let me in, won't you?"

"Yes, sir, you're on the list."

"Then why don't you let me use that phone in your hut, and I'll see if I can sort this little difficulty out."

"Right you are sir. This way."

Doc spent some time talking on the phone in the hut, and then called the sentry in. After some more extended conversation they both emerged and the sentry opened the gate to let them all in. There was a further delay before two limousines and a Willy's Jeep arrived. Each of the large cars had a guard armed with a rifle as well as a driver. Doc climbed into the back of the Jeep, the others went two to each car, and the three vehicles drove off into the plantation.

The convoy sped past groups of huts set back from the road under the trees and eventually arrived at what must have been the original plantation mansion. They were all ushered out and into the building, following their guide through the corridors before being left in an ante-room with a secretary busy in front of a typewriter. A telephone rang, and the secretary picked it up.

"Captain Ballantyne? Colonel Gibson will see you now. If you would go through to the Colonel's office, please."

Doc rose and went through the indicated door.

"Ballantyne!" The man behind the desk stood and held out his hand. "I'm glad to see that you've finally arrived back safely."

They shook hands, and Doc took the indicated seat.

"Thank you, sir. It's been an interesting year or so of my life, I can tell you."

"That's why you're here after all, isn't it? To be debriefed. But tell me, why have you asked for the survivors of your crew to come here with you? And a civilian woman? I didn't really understand your message."

"It's... complicated, sir. And, to be perfectly honest, the story I have to tell is one that I'm almost sure you're not going to believe. I wouldn't believe it myself, sir, if I hadn't been there and witnessed the events myself. But, first of all, how did I manage to get promoted Captain, sir?"

"That's an easy one to answer," Gibson replied. "You've actually held a reserve commission in Signals since you first offered your services here. Your normal rank of Flight Lieutenant in the Air Force was enough to allow you to function effectively there, but the greater rank was always yours if you ever needed it in the field. I'm surprised that information seems to have escaped you."

"There's probably a packet of papers with my name on it that's gone astray, sir. Ah, that explains why Brian Fraser is a Captain, doesn't it? I thought that was strange at the time, but, you're right, it was extremely useful when he arrived on Pakalui."

"Pakalui? That's the island you were on, wasn't it. Okay, so tell me this tall tale, then."

"With respect, sir, I'd rather have the other members of my team here with me as I do. All five of us are in this together. As I said, there are special reasons why we can't be debriefed in the normal way."

Gibson looked at Doc for a long moment and then picked up his phone.

"Send in the people who came with Captain Ballantyne, will you? This will be a confidential meeting, Lucy. Oh, and find someone to bring in tea and snacks for us. We could be here some time."

Gibson looked taken aback as the others entered. The men, well-tanned and still dressed in their American clothing, looked odd, and the woman with them was an absolute stunner, if a little young. The attitude of the men was strange, too, almost as if they were protecting the woman against all comers. The Colonel began to have a feeling that this meeting was not going to be a straightforward one. He gestured towards seating and they all sat down, if a little tensely. Doc introduced them individually, but said very little about Melanie other than her name.

"Very well, Captain, you have the floor. Tell me what's so special about Pakalui."

"Uh, I know it probably breaks a number of strict regulations, sir, but I'd rather you didn't take any notes until we've finished, sir. By then you'll understand why."

Gibson raised an eyebrow, then tossed down the pencil he had been holding ready. He nodded to Doc to proceed.

"Well, sir," Doc began, "it's like this. All five of us here were in the Liberator that crashed on Pakalui." Gibson raised an eyebrow again. "All five of us were airmen. This person," he indicated Melanie, "used to be Paul Davis, our radio operator."

~o~O~o~

Gibson leaned back in his chair, his mind ringing with the story he had just been told. It was late. The sun had set, the blackout curtains had been drawn and lights lit. A second round of tea and sandwiches had been provided.

Part way through the retelling he had asked for files on all the crew of the Liberator to be brought, and from the file of Paul Davis, radio operator, he had asked Melanie Chisholm a significant number of questions, all of which she had answered accurately. Now he sat and considered the unique, impossible thing that they had told him had taken place.

He understood now why the men had seemed so protective of her, and why Ballantyne had brought the problem directly to him. He understood the peculiar problem she represented, and exactly why no-one who hadn't interviewed these men would believe any of it. He understood the additional problems she presented in time of war, and he also understood just how vulnerable she was. Finally he came to a decision and sat up straight.

"There exist no notes of this conversation, Miss Chisholm and gentlemen. This conversation, in fact, never happened. As far as the record will show, there were four survivors of the plane crash, and they met with Miss Chisholm here while hiding out in the jungle. Do I make myself clear?"

There was an audible sigh of relief from the five, who relaxed into their chairs. It had been a long day, after all.

"Yes, sir," they all chorused.

Gibson continued, "Your chosen cover story will be made bomb-proof and become the official record. Now, Ballantyne, do you still wish to transfer to fifty-eight Signals as you earlier indicated?"

"Sir, I do, but only if I can be accompanied by Miss Chisholm. Er, there's nothing improper in my request, sir, just a wish for her to be somewhere where one of us at least can keep an eye on her, till she finds her feet."

"I understand your concern, Captain. Miss Chisholm, would you like to work here, for me? You can be a radio operator, if that's what you wish, or there is work waiting in decoding or analysis if you think that would suit you better."

"Thank you for the offer, sir. Would that mean I'd have to sign up?"

"No, we do have civilians on site. You don't have to sign up if you don't wish to. I think, on balance, it would probably be better from a security point of view if you didn't."

"May I consider it, sir? It's late, and we're all tired."

"Of course, Miss Chisholm. Whatever you decide, I'll have the documents section provide everything you need to make you entirely legal throughout the Empire."

"Thank you, sir."

Gibson turned. "And you three men. I can send you back to the regular Air Force if you want that, but it so happens I could use you here. About half a mile away we have a small airstrip where we dispatch clandestine flights from, over enemy lines, to drop agents and supplies, that kind of thing. You'd be welcome to join our select band of flyers, if you're interested? You'd also be around to keep an eye on Miss Chisholm."

"What sort of planes are we talking about, sir?" Joe asked.

"Mostly Hudsons and Mitchells, Lieutenant. The strip isn't big enough for Liberators, although we have the use of those from another airfield when necessary. We go as far as Borneo and Malaya if you're interested, with occasional messenger flights to and from India. I can easily get you converted onto those airframe types if you accept my offer."

Joe looked at Jack and Les, who both nodded. "We'll accept, sir."

Gibson nodded. "Good. Then I suppose it's time I found you all billets. Welcome to 58 Signals."

~o~O~o~

Epilogue

Her well-manicured hand carefully placed the cappuccino back onto the saucer as her eyes looked at the speaker through long lashes. Something inside her definitely moved. She spoke.

"So, don't keep us in suspense! Did you marry Doc, then?"

The speaker smiled as he replied. "No, not Doc! Unknown to all of us, he was sweet on one of his research students, who he eventually married after the war was over. No, I married Joe." His face was thoughtful, remembering the past. "Those were happy years, despite the war. Joe took me back to a small place not far from Adelaide and we settled down."

"Joe married you?" the other woman said. "Despite what he knew about your past?"

The man nodded. "Yes, in fact, probably because he knew my past. He, like all of the crew, wanted to protect me." His face changed. "That all lasted until our second child was born. Joe could take Paul Davis turning into Melanie Chisholm, what he couldn't take was me turning back into Paul Davis."

"Crap. Not a good thing, especially in post-war Australia."

"Oh, yeah," the man said. There was a barest trace of an antipodean accent in his voice. "He took to drink and that was the end of us, I'm afraid."

"We understand all that," the second woman said, raising her own cup to take a sip through perfectly-made-up lips. "Clare here hasn't suffered that experience, fortunately, and I do hope she never will. I wasn't quite so lucky. Either time."

"Remind me what the relationship is between you two again? I don't think I quite got it straight, and you can't possibly be sisters," the man said.

"I'm her birth mother," the second woman said. "Then for twenty-four years I was his father. Now I'm her cousin." Shelley Madden gave an evil grin. "Easy, isn't it?" She put down her cup. They were seated at their favourite place for observing humanity, an outside table at a cafe in Redcliffe. "Did you follow what happened to the others in your crew?"

"Jack never came back from a flight, we have no knowledge why. Les survived the war and ran an auto repair shop somewhere in Queensland until he retired. We did keep in touch by mail for a long while, although it was difficult after I changed back, of course. As I said, Doc married Brenda, his research assistant, and he went back to studying the natives after the war, the pair of them roaming the islands together."

"So, all loose ends tied up, then?"

"Sort of. Colonel Gibson kept his word, and nothing was ever written down about what really happened on Pakalui. Oh, except by Doc. I discovered long after he'd died that he'd written a monograph on what happened - disguising all the names and locations of course - and submitted it to one of his anthropology journals as a curiosity. He couldn't back it up with pictures or anything like that, of course, but being a good scientist he wanted there to be some sort of record for posterity. His daughter found it after he died and did some digging, and her searches were what eventually came to the attention of the Institute. She never found me, I was long gone by that time."

"Did you ever go back to the island?" Clare asked. God, he looks handsome!

"Yes," the man said. "Twice, in fact, once while I was Melanie and once after I became male again. It was interesting. People in the village knew who I was, once I started speaking in the local lingo. I discovered that after Doc had retired from the university he and Brenda moved to Pakalui to live in our village. Both eventually died and were buried there.

"I originally went back to the island because I was curious about why I changed. After the second time I became female - and that was a shock, I can tell you, going from a forty-nine year-old male to a twenty-one year-old woman! - I wondered if something in the environment triggered the change, but circumstances meant I couldn't do anything about it. Now I understand what was going on, of course. The fact we were on the island was just a coincidence."

"But... twenty-one years old!" Shelley objected, "There must have been something! We don't normally transition until twenty-four or twenty-five."

"You're right. The Institute heard my story and sent some guys out to do some careful digging. After a while they remembered about the dye. Of course, things being what they are, no-one there makes or uses the dye any more, there are too many white people around for them to be bothered about it any more. They managed to get a couple of the elders who remembered the recipe to knock up a batch, and that was the answer." He smiled. "So, we can bring transition forward if we wish. And, whatever age you transition, that's what your body clock gets reset to each time."

"We know that part," Clare said. "I'm quite envious of the fact you can become twenty-one all over again."

"It's a shock to the system," the man said. "A lot of work needs to be done by the body. In the case of my second male-to-female transition, a lot of work. It also means people don't believe you have the maturity for certain things. Being too young can bring it's own problems."

"The weather's changing," Shelley said. "Do you mind if we go and do some shopping? And I'd really like it if we could go out for a meal together this evening."

"With both of you?"

"Judging by the look on Clare's face, it will have to be both of us. Is that all right with you?"

The smile on his face instantly melted both of their hearts. "Of course! Two beautiful women? It's about time I finally relaxed and enjoyed myself a bit."