The Never War

EARTH

I’m getting ready to launch to another territory.

It’s been nearly two months since I finished my last journal, and I can’t tell you how worried I am. I don’t want to leave here. At least not now.

But I think we found the turning point.

Gunny was right. I think that if we can change the outcome of this one event, there’s a really good chance we can stop World War II. Is that incredible or what? The idea of saving the lives of millions of people is almost too good to be true. Gunny was right. The turning point isn’t as big as a war between tribes like on Denduron, or the poisoning of an entire territory, like on Cloral. It’s actually one single event. One big, stupid, spectacular event.

But it’s going to be hard to stop it from happening. Dangerous, too. Big surprise, right?

Since I wrote you guys last, we have crossed paths with some truly foul characters. It’s getting hard to tell the good guys from the bad guys. If we have any hope of stopping this event, we’ve got to go up against these guys again, and I can’t guarantee we’ll win. That’s why I’m fluming to another territory. We need some information and there’s no way we can get it here. But I’m nervous about leaving because I don’t want to miss anything. I’m typing this to you guys on the night of May 5. Tomorrow is the day everything is going to hit the fan. That much we know for sure. We absolutely, positively have to be back in time and leaving now means we’ll be cutting it really close. I’m counting on the fact that the flumes always send us Travelers where we need to be, whenwe need to be there. It wouldn’t be cool to get back late.

But I think it’s a risk worth taking because, like I said before, we need all the help we can get.

The last time I wrote to you it was my birthday, March 11. Spader and I have been here for almost two months. So much has happened since I last wrote that I hope I can remember it all.

When Mr. Nasty Gangster took that header off the Manhattan Tower Hotel, it was truly disturbing. Seeing a man fall to his death is about as horrible and gruesome as it gets. But as bad as that was, it also left us with a mystery. How did he fall? Whydid he fall? He had been chasing us around on the sixth floor. I couldn’t imagine he took a wrong turn and suddenly said, “Oops, this door leads to…air! Let’s go!” No way.

I also couldn’t imagine that he jumped deliberately. Not that I know anything about suicide, but this guy was busy doing other things, like trying to murder Spader and me. Why would he suddenly stop in the middle of the chase and say, “I can’t believe I lost those guys. I’m such a lousy gangster, I think I’ll just end it all.” That didn’t make sense either.

The only possible explanation was that he was murdered.

That leads to the bigger question. Who did it? It wasn’t his partner, Mr. Nervous Gangster. Spader and I saw him leaving the hotel only a few seconds after Mr. Nasty took the dive. That meant somebody else was guilty. There was somebody else in the hotel who was part of all this, and I could make a pretty good guess as to who it might be.

Yeah, you guessed it too. Saint Dane.

He had to be here somewhere, looking like somebody else. Still, why would Saint Dane murder a guy who was trying to murder us? I guess the bottom line was, we had a ton of questions and not a whole lot of answers. There was only one person who could shed any light on this, and that was Gunny. It was time for him to tell us what he knew about these gangsters.

After Mr. Nasty took the fall, Gunny told Spader and me to go back up to our room. He had to talk to the police and let them know what he saw. Of course he didn’t want Spader or me talking to them. They might ask tough questions like: “And where do you live, sonny boy?” or “Give us the name of your parents so we can call them.” That would have been tricky. So Spader and I went quietly back up to our room and waited for Gunny.

Once we hit the room though, we weren’t quiet anymore. Spader was all worked up.

“He’s here. I can smell him,” he said while pacing.

“Who?”

“Saint Dane. He’s in this building.”

“We don’t know that.”

“C’mon, mate!” Spader exclaimed. “You know he’s got to have his slimy hands in this. He sent those gunmen to the flume to kill Press, then he sent ‘em after us. How else would those wogglies know we were here?”

“Then how come one of ‘em is dead?”

“I’m still working on that; give me some time.”

Spader’s hatred for Saint Dane was starting to bubble up again. That was bad. We had to keep our eyes on the ball, and that meant not letting our emotions take over.

“Spader,” I said cautiously. “You know you’ve gotta be cool about this, right?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he assured me. “Cool as a cooger fish, that’s me. Don’t worry, Pendragon. I made you a promise. I won’t go back on you.”

“I believe you,” I said. I really, reallyhoped I was right.

That’s when the door opened and Gunny walked in. I thought he looked a little older than he had earlier. He was the kind of guy who wanted everything to be just so. Having gangsters plunge to a gruesome death from his hotel wasn’t part of his perfect picture.

“I’ve seen a lot of things happen at this hotel,” he said with a shaky voice. “But this beats ‘em all.”

“Be patient,” I cautioned him. “We’re just getting started.”

Spader said, “What’s all this talk about a natty-do around here?”

“A what?” asked Gunny, once again confused by an expression of Spader’s.

“You said there was going to be a war here at the hotel,” I jumped in. “What’s up with that?”

Gunny sat down in one of the easy chairs and let out a tired breath. Spader and I sat across from him on the same couch Spader had toppled over on the gangsters.

“You ever hear of a thing called Prohibition?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “Isn’t that when the government outlawed booze?”

“Exactly,” said Gunny. “No wine, no beer, no whiskey, no nothin’. From 1920 until they gave up on it in 1933. It was all against the law, unless you knew where to go. Most people knew where to go.”

“Speakeasies, right?” I asked.

“Speak easy?” asked Spader. “I’m losing you two.”

D. J. MacHale

The Never War

“A lot of people got rich during Prohibition,” Gunny continued. “Some did it making booze-they called it bootlegging. Others sold it in secret clubs called speakeasies; still others shipped it here, there, and everywhere right under the noses of the police. It was all very illegal. It made a lot of gangsters rich and put a lot of others behind bars. Put a lot of them six feet under dirt, too.”

“What’s that got to do with us?” I asked.

“There was a gang,” Gunny continued. “Operated on the Upper East Side here. They had it all covered-bootlegging, shipping, even ran a couple of speakeasies. Made a lot of money for the two bosses. One of ‘em was a gentleman named Maximilian Rose.”

“The big guy with the fancy suit we met outside?” I asked.

“One and the same,” answered Gunny.

“Who was the other boss?” asked Spader.

“Fellow named Winn Farrow.”

Spader and I shot each other a look. “That’s who those gangsters were working for!” I shouted. “Farrow and Rose are partners?”

“Theywerepartners,” Gunny answered. “Long time ago. As I heard it, Rose was the smart one. He knew Prohibition wouldn’t last forever, so he started investing his money into other businesses. Some legal, some not. He got his fingers into all kinds of criminal activities like gambling and smuggling and even art theft. When Prohibition ended, he didn’t miss a beat. Just kept going on making money.”

“What about Farrow?” asked Spader.

“He was just as crooked, but not as smart. He didn’t have the same style as Rose. Let’s say he was rough around the edges.”

“So he was a dumb thug,” I said.

“Pretty much,” agreed Gunny. “He spent his money fast as he made it. When Prohibition went away, he had nothing to show for it. Rose didn’t have any use for him, so they split up. Way I heard it, Farrow didn’t like that much. Now the two are what you might call enemies.”

“What’s Farrow doing now?” I asked.

“He’s got his own gang that operates out of an old meatpacking plant downtown. They’re a bad bunch. They’ll slit your throat just to get your wallet. It’s pretty much all they’re good at.”

“So while Max Rose is hanging out in a fancy penthouse uptown,” I said, “his old partner, Winn Farrow, is struggling to get by downtown.”

“That about sums it up,” Gunny said. “And that’s why I’m getting nervous. If Winn Farrow is sending his goons up here to make trouble, and they start falling out of windows, we might find ourselves in the middle of a gang war. People die in gang wars. We may have just seen the first.”

“It’s worse than that,” I added. “Saint Dane has gotta be in this equation somewhere.”

“Take it another step, mates,” Spader jumped in. “What do these two gangs have to do with setting off this tum-tigger you call World War Two?”

“There’s one thing we can say for certain,” I added. “Whatever Saint Dane’s got in mind for First Earth, I think we’re sitting right in the middle of it.” ”So what do we do?” asked Spader. “Just sit around waiting for more wogglies to show up with guns, looking for us?”

“I have an idea,” said Gunny. “You two have jobs now. Once people get to know you, you can come and go as you please. You might even get closer to Max Rose and his boys. He’s got a whole penthouse up there, with people coming and going all the time. There’s a lot you can learn just by doing your job in a place like this.”

“Sounds like a plan,” I said. “Tomorrow we go to work.”

And that’s how we began our careers as bellhops at the Manhattan Tower Hotel. Our goal was to learn as much about Max Rose and his gangster buddies as we could. We were going undercover. No problem, right?

Yeah, right.

Early the next morning Spader and I put on our spiffy uniforms and reported to Gunny in the lobby of the hotel. Our first duty was to get haircuts. Gunny brought us to the hotel barbershop where Spader and I sat side by side in big, padded leather chairs that spun around. I knew we were in trouble when the barbers didn’t start with scissors. They went right for the electric sheers. Gulp. With Gunny behind us smiling, Spader and I got buzzed. We didn’t end up with Marine cuts or anything drastic like that, but our hair ended up so short, it wasn’t even worth brushing.

The barbers put some kind of goop in our hair that smelled like lemons. It gave us both a slicked-back kind of look that may have been perfect for 1937, but felt greasy and awful. Mental note to self: Wash hair often.

Now that we were all cleaned up and presentable, we went to work. Gunny was right. The job wasn’t all that hard. We had to meet guests when they arrived at the hotel and bring their luggage up to their rooms. When they checked out, we’d pick up their luggage and bring it down to the lobby. It was pretty much a no-brainer. The main thing was to be polite and not break anything.

We ate our meals in the big, noisy kitchen with the other bellhops and soon became accepted as regular staff people. That was key because it meant we could pretty much go wherever we wanted in the hotel. Nobody questioned us. The only tricky thing was going back to our room. We didn’t want Dewey to start wondering why we always got off on the sixth floor. So at the end of our shift we always climbed the stairs instead of taking the elevator. What a pain.

I could tell you guys more about what it was like to be a bellhop, but that’s not the important part of the story. What mattered was figuring out the connection between the gangsters and Saint Dane. That meant we had to watch Maximilian Rose. Easier said than done. He always had these gorilla-look-alike bodyguards surrounding him and we couldn’t let them catch us spying on their boss. They might take us out into the alley and rub us out, or whatever it was the old-time gangsters did to people they didn’t like. So we had to be careful. Luckily there were three of us, so we could take turns and hopefully not be too obvious.

Rose lived in the penthouse on the thirtieth floor of the hotel. He didn’t leave very often. That’s because he had a lot of enemies and liked to stay where it was safe. He had tons of visitors though. I guess that’s how he did his business. People would come to him. Dewey told me stories about the odd assortment of goons he brought up to the thirtieth floor. What a strange and scary way to live.

Since Rose didn’t go out much, we didn’t see him much. Mostly all we could do was check out his visitors to try and figure out what he might be up to. But I’m no detective, and it’s not like these guys were walking around with big signs saying “Friend of Saint Dane” or anything. They all looked like average guys. Okay, they looked like averagegangsterguys, but you get the idea.

That is, except for one man. His name was Mr. Zell. I knew this because whenever he showed up, he had to pick up the lobby phone and call the penthouse to announce that he was there. Mr. Zell had a style that stood out from Rose’s other visitors. His hair was blond and shiny and greased straight back. He always wore these perfect, gray suits that looked real expensive, like they were made for him. His eyes were sharp and always darting around, checking out the room. But he wasn’t nervous. Just the opposite. He was real confident. I think he looked around because he always wanted to know exactly what was going on and who was watching him. The word would be “observant.” I had to be extra careful not to be observed by Mr. Zell.

But there was one other big thing that made Mr. Zell stand out.

He had an accent. A German accent.

Ordinarily I wouldn’t think twice about something like that, but I was in the middle of something that was definitelynotordinary. In a few years the United States would be at war with a whole bunch of guys with the same kind of accent. They weren’t our enemies yet, but they would be. And since we figured that World War II was probably the turning point for the territory of First Earth, having a German guy hanging out with Mr. Rose definitely caught my attention.

I couldn’t help but wonder if hiding beneath that slick, buttoned-up, German-accented appearance…was Saint Dane. Of course, I looked ateveryoneas a potential Saint Dane, but this guy jumped to the top of my list. It was making me nuts trying to figure out how to find out what he was doing with Max Rose.

Then one day I got my shot. It was a quiet afternoon and I was hanging in the lobby trying to look busy, when Mr. Zell strode in. I pretended to be polishing a table near the telephone he always used to call the penthouse. I was getting to be a pretty good detective.

Bobby Pendragon, Undercover Traveler.

“Penthouse, please,” Zell said into the phone. He listened, then said, “Good morning, this is Ludwig Zell. Yes, I will be staying for lunch today. Thank you.” He hung up and walked to the elevators.

Score! He was staying for lunch. That meant they would order room service. One of the other jobs the bellhops had was to deliver room service. This was my chance. I hurried through the lobby, trying not to look like I was hurrying through the lobby, and found Gunny at the bell captain station, reading a newspaper.

“Zell is here,” I said quietly. “They’re ordering room service.”

Without a word, Gunny dropped the paper and headed for the kitchen. He knew what I was thinking. Normally, one of the more experienced bellhops would take the order up to Mr. Rose. It was a sweet gig because the gangster boss always gave good tips. I didn’t care about the tip. I wanted to be in the same room with Max Rose and Ludwig Zell. When we got into the kitchen, the head waiter was already on the phone, taking the order. When he hung up, Gunny told him to give the order to me. The head waiter gave me a dirty look that said: “Why shouldheget special treatment?” But he couldn’t argue. Gunny was the boss.

I was on. While we waited for the food to be prepared, Gunny took me aside. “Be careful,” he said. “Listen, but don’t be obvious about it. If they think you’re spying, you’ll end up taking a walk off the balcony like that gangster from the subway.”

“Don’t worry,” I answered. I’m not sure why I said that. Isure as heck was worrying; why shouldn’t Gunny?

“These are bad people, Pendragon,” Gunny warned.

“I know. I got it,” I assured him. He was making me more nervous than I was already.

Ten minutes later the order was ready. It was spread out on a big cart that was covered with a sharp white tablecloth. There must have been two dozen plates covered with shiny steel lids. I wondered how many people were having lunch because there was enough food here to feed the Pittsburgh Steelers. Gunny gave me a wink of encouragement and I pushed the cart for the elevators.

“Going up!” Dewey announced as he slid open the elevator door.

I pushed the cart in and said: “Thirty, please.”

Dewey’s eyes grew wide as he closed the door. “You’re taking that to Mr. Rose?” he asked with awe. “Whatever you do, don’t look anybody in the eye.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“I once made the mistake of looking at one of those thugs,” Dewey said. “The goon picked me up and shoved me in the laundry chute. Headfirst! It was horrible.”

I almost laughed, but that would have been rude. The idea of somebody jamming this geeky little guy into the chute was pretty funny. “How far did you fall?” I asked.

“I didn’t,” Dewey said. “I stuck my arms and legs out and held on to the sides until he was gone. Then I climbed out. But I could have been killed.” ”Thanks for the advice,” I said. “I’ll be careful.” As funny as the image was, Dewey’s warning was valid. Max Rose and his pals were not nice guys. If they would jam somebody down a laundry chute for just looking at them, I didn’t want to think what they might do if they caught me spying on them. I had to push that thought out of my head or I would have chickened out. Not that I had a choice, because a few seconds later we arrived at the thirtieth floor. The curtain was about to go up.

Dewey pulled the door open and said, “Good luck.”

I gave him a weak smile and wheeled the cart outside. I had barely gotten out of the elevator when Dewey slammed the door shut behind me. I guess he didn’t want to be sent on another laundry run.

I was met by two thick-looking dudes who stared at me like I was toe jam. One guy made a motion for me to step away from the cart. I took a few steps back, not sure of what was about to happen. As it turned out, this was a security check. While one guy examined the cart, the other guy examinedme. I guess he was making sure I didn’t have a gun or anything. The guy pawed me over pretty good. I felt like a melon being checked for ripeness. But I didn’t complain. I didn’t want to end up in the laundry chute. After this totally rude once-over, both guys stepped back and motioned for me to pass.

I wanted to complain about the rough treatment, but remembered Dewey’s warning and put my head down and shut up. After all, I was on a mission.

Bobby Pendragon, Undercover Traveler.

The door to the penthouse was at the end of the corridor. I wheeled the cart up and was about to knock when I saw that there was a button for a doorbell. Pretty fancy. I pressed it and heard soft chimes ringing inside. A second later the door opened, and I came face-to-face with another tough-looking dude.

“Room service,” I announced cheerily. I probably didn’t have to say that, since I was wheeling a cart loaded with food, but this guy didn’t look like a brain surgeon. I didn’t want to take any chances. He motioned for me to come in. I wheeled the cart in and kept my eyes down.

“Wait here,” the guy grunted, and walked off. That’s when I looked up and got my first glimpse of the penthouse suite. Man, this place was fancy! It looked like I had stepped into some kind of European drawing room. Not that I had ever been in a European drawing room, but I had been in those fancy period rooms in the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I’m not exactly sure why they were called drawing rooms either. It’s not like they were doing any drawing.

The furniture was way fancy and kind of fragile looking. On the ceiling was an elaborate painting of some chubby babies with wings, flying around in the clouds, blowing trumpets. Not exactly my taste in art, but I guessed some people thought it was elegant. The room I stood in was a central entrance hall. Corridors spread in three different directions to the rest of the penthouse. As I stood there gazing at the fancy surroundings, one thought came to mind: There must be a lot of money in being a gangster.

Then I heard a gruff voice bellow from somewhere else, “This is what’s gonna happen…”

It was Maximilian Rose. He sounded angry. That was bad.

“If he says he needs two weeks, give him one,” Rose said angrily. “If he asks for one week, give him three days. If he doesn’t like it, I’ll have somebody pay him a visit and convince him to like it, understand?” This was followed by theslamof a telephone. A second later a door opened, and Max Rose stepped out. I tried not to look right at the guy, but it was hard not to. He was like a giant storm cloud-big and loud and angry. Though it was afternoon, he was wearing pajamas, a bathrobe, and slippers. It was a fancy robe, all red and shiny, like silk. I caught a quick glimpse into the room behind him. It was an office with a desk loaded with papers. This guy did business in his pajamas. Nice life.

When he stepped through the door, the first thing he saw was me. Before I knew it, we had made eye contact. Gulp. Hello, laundry.

“Hey, Buck Rogers!” he shouted with a smile. He wasn’t angry anymore. Phew. “Didn’t think I’d remember, did ya?”

I didn’t. He had only seen me for a few seconds a couple of weeks ago. Note to self: This guy was observant and had a good memory. Be careful.

“Hello, Mr. Rose,” I said politely. “Ready for lunch?”

“I’m starving,” he said. “Follow me.”

I wheeled the cart across to the far side of the foyer and into a room that was even fancier than the entryway. It was a huge, totally swanky living room. The couches were big and cushy, the tables were intricately carved, and there were tons of giant oil paintings with thick gold frames. But the big deal in this room was the view. One whole wall had nothing but floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over Manhattan. It was pretty cool.

Again, all I could think was that gangsters sure made a lot of money.

“Set it out there, Buck,” he ordered, pointing to a large, dark table. ”How many?” He looked at me like I had just asked him how many arms he had. “There’s two of us. How many did you think?”

I then noticed that Ludwig Zell was sitting in an easy chair near the door. The guy looked at me with cold eyes that made me shiver. Was it Saint Dane? If so, he wasn’t tipping his hand.

“Yes sir, Mr. Rose,” I said. I didn’t want to point out that he had more food here than they served to the whole school for lunch at Stony Brook Junior High. Then again, at Stony Brook they didn’t serve steaks and lobsters and salads made with vegetables carved into flower shapes. I kept my mouth shut and set the table.

“So, Ludwig,” Rose said to the German. “I wanted to make this meal special, like a celebration, you know?”

The German stood up and walked to Rose. “You are too thoughtful, Mr. Rose. This is the beginning of a relationship that will be long and fruitful for both of us. And our people.”

This was better than I could have hoped for. I was listening in on these two guys doing business. I didn’t want to finish setting out lunch too quickly so I could hear as much as possible, but I didn’t want to make it look like I was, well, doing exactly that. This was tricky.

“You know, Ludwig, I’ve gone out on a limb for you,” Rose said. “I’ve already started to deliver and haven’t seen a dime from those people of yours.”

“I understand, my friend,” answered Zell. “And we appreciate your trust. Now that we have determined the most efficient means of payment, you won’t have to work on faith much longer.”

“Yeah, but howmuchlonger?” asked Rose. ”Your first payment will be arriving May sixth, as promised,” answered Zell. “You have my word, and the word of my party.”

This was incredible. I was getting all sorts of stuff. Max Rose was doing some kind of work for this Zell guy. But what party was he talking about?

“Hey, spaceman!” barked Rose. “You done or what?”

“Yes sir, Mr. Rose,” I said, and stood at attention.

Max Rose walked toward me, digging into the pocket of his bathrobe. Uh-oh. Did I hear too much? Did he have a gun? Was I about to get filled full of lead?

No. He pulled out some dollar bills and jammed them into my hand. It was my tip.

“Now blast off,” he said.

“Thank you, sir. Enjoy your lunch,” I said, and beat it for the door. I had already gotten more information than I could have hoped for. So while Rose and Zell sat down for their stupid-huge lunch, I closed the door and made a beeline for the front door. I couldn’t wait to tell Spader and Gunny what I had learned.

I was halfway to the door when I saw something that made me stop. It was the door to Max Rose’s office.

It was open and the office was empty.

I knew instantly that I was faced with a huge opportunity. Sitting on that desk could have been more information about the business that Rose and Zell were in. All I had to do was duck in, take a quick look, and get out. Of course, I could also get caught, and rather than leaving through the front door, I could be exiting the penthouse through a window. Next stop: pavement. I had to make a decision, fast. Every second counted.

I did it. After a quick look around to make sure none of Rose’s goons were close, I shot into the office. It was crazy, but I had to.

As soon as I got inside, I closed the door. If somebody happened to walk by, it would be better if they didn’t see a sweaty bellboy flipping through Max Rose’s personal papers. That would hurt. Once the door was closed, I turned my attention to the desk. I wanted to be in and out fast, so I moved quickly behind the desk and looked down at the mass of papers.

I had no idea what to look for. It was just a bunch of business papers, contracts, and lists of figures like an accountant would use. My heart sank. Saint Dane’s plan on First Earth could have been sitting right in front of me and I wouldn’t know it.

I was about to give up and run out when something caught my eye. It couldn’t have stood out more from the rest of the pages if it had a flashing red light on it. First off, it looked nothing like any of the other pages. It was a single sheet with a bold logo on top. That alone would have made my eye go to it, but there was one other thing. It was the logo itself. It was something I had seen before, many times. I’d seen it in movies and in books and on TV. But seeing it now, this way, made my stomach do a flip. I knew what this logo represented. And this wasn’t a movie.

It was a swastika, the crooked cross that was the symbol of the Nazi party. It was surrounded by a wreath, upon which an angry eagle was perched with its wings spread wide. As I already told you, I’m no expert on World War II history, but I knew for sure that this was a letter from Germany and the Nazi party. The big question was, what was it doing on Max Rose’s desk? I did my best to calm down and read the letter. It was short and straight to the point. Dear Mr. Rose:

This letter is to confirm our agreement that the initial payments due to you for services rendered will be arriving in the U.S. via LZ-129 on May 6 of this year and will be available to you immediately. Form and amount of payment is as previously agreed upon. I trust this will be satisfactory and look forward to a long and successful partnership.

Sincerely,

Ludwig Zell

Now I knew what party Ludwig Zell was talking about. The Nazi Party. I couldn’t take my eyes off the paper. It was an actual letter from the Nazis to Max Rose, proof they were doing business together. The frustrating thing was that it didn’t say what kind of business. All it said was that payment was going to be made on May 6 and it was coming via LZ-129…whateverthatwas.

LZ. Ludwig Zell? Were there 129 Ludwig Zells? Whatever it was, it proved that my suspicions about him were correct. He was not only a German dude, he was working for the big bad guys over in Europe. He was a Nazi.

But the most important thing was that I had found hard evidence of a connection between the Nazis in Germany and these gangsters in New York. Suddenly Gunny’s far-fetched theory wasn’t looking so far-fetched. Up until then we only suspected that the turning point on First Earth was about World War II. This piece of paper confirmed it. We already knew there was a link between Saint Dane and the gangsters. Now we had a link between the gangsters and the Nazis. Connect the dots. We were getting closer.

There was no way I could take this paper out of here, so I committed it to memory. No problem. It was short enough that I could remember the most important facts: LZ-129; May 6; payment from the Nazis to Max Rose. Got it.

Now I had to bolt out of there. I snuck back to the door and put my ear to it, listening for sounds of anyone hanging around outside. I didn’t hear a thing, so I grabbed the doorknob and gently gave it a turn. What happened next was so impossible, my mind wouldn’t accept it at first.

The door was locked. I turned harder, but that didn’t make it any less locked. My heart started to race. Maybe it was just stuck. I gave it a jiggle and a twist and a push. But no amount of jiggling or twisting or pushing helped. Nope, the door was locked all right…and I was on the wrong side. I looked to see if there was a locking lever that I could flip. There wasn’t. There was only an old-fashioned keyhole. But seeing as I didn’t have an old-fashioned key, that wasn’t any help.

I wanted to scream. How could I have been so dumb as to pull the door closed without checking it first? This was totally my fault. I had snatched defeat from the jaws of victory. It would only be a matter of time before I was discovered, and then any hope of untangling the mystery of May 6 and LZ-129 would die right along with me.

Bobby Pendragon, DeadUndercover Traveler.