by Bill Doyle
“Do you mind?” Ms. Jenkins asked me.
TEDDY ATTACKED MS. JENKINS'S SHOE!
Blushing slightly, I scooped up Teddy, who clicked and squirmed in my hands, trying to break free so he could resume his attack on her shoes. I tucked him back into my jacket pocket.
“Passports, please,” Ms. Jenkins said to the man and the girl. With retina scans and other biometrics, there was really no reason for old-fashioned passports. But passengers felt better about having them. “And what was the purpose of your visit?” Ms. Jenkins asked them as she inspected their documents.
The girl gave the man a nudge. “I write travel guides. I'm Robert Noonan, and this is my daughter, Charlotte.”
“Uh-huh. Why are you so nervous, sir?”
“This has been our first trip into space,” his daughter Charlotte broke in. “I think it's natural to be a little shaky, don't you?”
Ms. Jenkins nodded and removed her security wand from her belt loop. She waved it over them and gave me a look that said, Why did you waste my time? Her search had come up empty.
Just as I knew it would. Her wand wasn't programmed to pick up what I had detected. Embarrassed, I mumbled something to her.
“I can't understand you,” Jenkins said.
I took a breath and said loudly, “Mr. Noonan has a piece of fruit!”
Everyone looked from me to Mr. Noonan. Realization dawned on his face. He reached into his coat pocket and removed a kiwi. The guard took it from him.
“Dad!” the girl cried, and then in almost the same breath, asked me, “How did you ever know that was there?”
But even Ms. Jenkins didn't know about my “secret weapon.” So I kept my mouth shut.
“Are you aware that it is illegal to transport foods grown on the Elevator Terminal back to Earth?” Ms. Jenkins asked coolly.
Charlotte's face went red. “How would we know that? This is the first time we're taking the Elevator down to Earth!” While her dad cowered behind her, Charlotte continued, “Where is that law about food written down? Is it on the wall?” She pointed to the blank wall. “No! Is it on our ticket?” She waved the ticket in our faces. “No! Is it in this journal?” She flipped through my journal and scanned a page. “No—”
CHARLOTTE AND MR. NOONAN
She broke off, and her eyes widened, slightly in surprise. She looked up at me and opened her mouth as if to speak. I knew she must have spotted something on the page about my training to be a private detective.
Questions whirled through my mind. Was she going to reveal my training to Ms. Jenkins? Would she use the information against me to get herself out of trouble?
And then Charlotte closed the journal and shoved it into my hands. Without a word, she looked at me. She raised one eyebrow, as if to say, The ball's in your court.
Meanwhile, Mr. Noonan was nervously clutching his daughter. His beady eyes shot from Ms. Jenkins back to me. “Are you going to arrest us?”
“No, of course not,” Ms. Jenkins said. “Just please be more careful next time you travel with us. And thank you for using the Space Elevator.”
I think I was more relieved than Charlotte and her father. Mr. Noonan threw one end of his scarf over his shoulder dramatically. “Come along, Charlotte,” he said. “We have a Climber to catch!”
I watched the two of them heading into the Elevator. The same one I would be boarding in a moment.
This is going to be a long ride, I thought.
MY ROOM LOOKED LIKE IT WAS STRAIGHT OUT OF THE OLD WEST!
MY ROOM LOOKED LIKE IT WAS STRAIGHT OUT OF THE OLD WEST!
JANUARY 2, 2031
Day 2 of 6 12:35 PM
Teddy woke me up this morning by yanking on my ear with his rubbery mouth.
“Enough!” I told him, but he knew better. He continued to bounce around my pillow like a metal flea that's had too much coffee. I'm not a morning person, so I've programmed Teddy not to stop bugging me until I'm up and moving.
“Okay, okay;” I said. “Good boy.” I sat up in bed and rubbed my eyes. Satisfied that he had done his job, Teddy turned in my lap and lay down.
“Lights up slowly, please,” I said to the computer, and the lamp around the room began to glow and grow in strength.
My room on the Elevator was pretty big—plenty of space to fit a bed, a desk, and a dresser. I even had my own bathroom. Fake wood was used for everything, just like in the Terminal. So it looked like a small hotel room—in the Old West.
But the real attraction was the window. A small mirror had been placed on the outside near the top. It was angled to give passengers a view of Earth without their having to get out of bed. And the view was spectacular.
We were orbiting Earth. But because we were tied to the planet's surface by the long ribbon, our position didn't change. I could see the western half of the United States and part of Asia.
With its swirling cloud patterns, gorgeous blue oceans, and rich green and brown continents, the planet was beautiful. It floated in black space like a welcoming light at the end of a tunnel. But I didn't have that happy feeling of returning home that I had expected I would.
Why should I be excited about going back to a place that wanted to destroy my dreams?
Ever since I could remember, private investigation had been outlawed. And lately there had been a growing movement to deal much more harshly with those who brae the law. Soon I wouldn't be able to risk even my simple training exercises—like helping one of my teachers track down her stolen painting. I just couldn't put my family in that kind of danger.
Yesterday's brush with discovery had made me realize that even more. If Charlotte tells anyone what she read in my journal, I'll be finished. But my family has been keeping journals for generations, and I don't want to be the first one to stop.
Not for the first time, I wondered what Judge Pinkerton would make of this whole mess. Of course, I'd never met her. The famous federal judge and creator of the Private Detective Academy had lived to be over a hundred years old, but she'd died before I was even born. Still, I felt like I knew her. She was a presence in all of my family's journals.
FIRST PRIVATE EYE ALSO A SPY!
Born in Glasgow, Scotland, Allan Pinkerton came to the United States in 1842 and settled in Chicago, Illinois. Pinkerton was an abolitionist, and his place of business also served as a station for escaping slaves on the Underground Railroad. Pinkerton (left) founded the first private detective agency in 1850. Ten years later, he foiled a plot to assassinate his friend and president-elect, Abraham Lincoln (right). After the Civil War began, President Lincoln hired. Pinkerton to form a secret service to spy on the South.
JUDGE WAS A PINKERTON!
And I've become kind of the keeper or librarian of all these journals. The actual journals themselves are safely hidden back in our home in New Hampshire. But I've downloaded all their content, including the sketches and attached items, into my personal hard drive, which I keep in a pendant shaped like a shark tooth that I wear around my neck. To keep my hard drive from being broken into, I've never connected it to the Net. And even though I download my old journals onto my hard drive, I use old—fashioned paper and pen instead of a handheld computer to keep the current one. Like my hard drive, this means my journal isn't connected to the Net—so no one can hack into it.
MY HARD DRIVE
After a few more minutes of sitting there, my grumbling stomach finally finished what Teddy had started. It got me completely out of bed. I went to the small closet and pulled out my dark green intelli-cloth shirt, plaid jacket, and brown pants. It wasn't the most stylish outfit in the world, but at least it wasn't the FSA uniform I'd had to wear in the Terminal. Plus the clothing had self-cleaned the night before and had that fresh, piney smell I liked.
I held out my journal, and Teddy clamped his jaws around the side that opened. He would keep his mouth closed around the book, keeping it locked and safe from prying eyes.
“Okay?” I asked him. He blinked twice, the signal for yes.
I tucked Teddy and my journal into my jacket pocket and walked to the door.
I said, “D'en,” and the door slid open. Most computers were smart enough to recognize this contraction for “Door open.” It was kind of lazy to say. “D'en,” but you can only say. “Door open,” so many times a day. And the Elevator's computer was supposedly one of the fastest and smartest ever created. It had to be. It ran our communications, heating, water, food, air—all the systems we needed to survive up here, thousands of milts above Earth.
I knew there were twenty-nine other passengers on board Climber so I was surprised to find that the hallway leading from my room to the interior elevator was empty. I guessed people were either still sleeping or down in the common areas. The elevator door opened with a DING! and I went in and pressed the button for Level 3.
Climber B is actually like a five-story box-shaped building that travels up and down a ribbon made of a lightweight material called “carbon nanotubes,” which is a hundred times stronger than steel. Right then, I was leaving Level 4—the sleeping quarters. I had no choice but to go down. You couldn't get up to Level 5 from inside the Elevator. Besides holding crates, boxes, and bags, it's where a lot of the Elevator's equipment is located.
On Level 3, the elevator door slid open onto a small hallway that led around the corner to the gym. In front of me was the Common Room. An Elevator worker had pulled out a partition, cutting the room in half. One side was for quieter activities—like reading or chatting—and the other had louder entertainment options—like semi-real video games.
I glanced into the quiet section. It looked like a small restaurant that had been combined with someone's modern living room. There were several tables where many adults were eating, watching news projections, or chatting with Interactive News Anchors about the latest events. I saw Mr. Bennett viewing a holo-exhibit of modern art. Other people lounged on couches scattered around the room, gazing out the observation window that took up most of one wall. Two adults were on a surround-show platform and acting in a virtual soap opera. Holo-actors whirled around the two of them as they took part in the drama. Across the room, I spotted my mom and dad talking with another couple over cups of coffee.
My dad raised his hand in greeting, and my mom mouthed, “How'd you sleep?”
I gave her the best smile I could this early in the day. She smiled back, knowing it was best to let me wake up at my own speed.
With another wave to my parents, I headed over to the other section of the room, where a mostly younger crowd had gathered. And where things were not nearly as peaceful. There were four couches but only one large central table on that side. A semi-real video game unit (a real game unit would be too dangerous up here) had been installed in one corner. A holo-gunslinger was there, shouting out taunts like, “Which of yer yeller-bellied so-and-sos thinks yer can outdraw me?”
But none of the five people in the room seemed interested in challenging the gunslinger. Everyone was too busy with a real-life drama.
“I want my chair back!” a boy with spiky black hair and a squat, muscular build was shouting.
The target of his anger was none other than Mr. Noonan. He was perched in a master control chair at the head of the table. The chair allowed the person to control the lights, temperature, sound effects—everything about the room. But Mr. Noonan didn't seem to care about all the buttons—he looked too terrified to move. His hands clutched the armrests and his knuckles were as white as his face.
A BOY WAS SHOUTING AT MR. NOONAN AND THE HOLO-NURSE.
The nurse hologram was standing next to him. “What seems to be the problem?” she asked in a soothing voice. “Please select from the following. One: upset stomach. Two: headache. Three—”
The boy interrupted, the veins in his neck popping out. “You can talk to the nurse on the other side, where all the other adults are!”
Before I could say anything, a girl with long jet—black hair stepped forward. “Maybe you should just leave him alone?” She spoke timidly, making the suggestion as if it were a question.
“And who are you?” the boy fired back at her, pointing a finger in her face. The girl looked stunned by his rudeness. When she didn't answer, the boy shouted into the air, “Computer, who is this girl?”
The pleasant voice of the computer answered,
LYSA A BENATO. AGE FOURTEEN. SHE IS THE DAUGHTER OF MAXINE—
“Computer, stop!” Lysa commanded, her voice rising. She looked even more flustered when the computer continued speaking.
—BENATO VICE PRESIDENT OF SALES AT URBANE COSMETICS.
“I gave the computer an order,” Lysa said, bewildered.
Looking smug, the boy gazed at her and folded his arms across his chest. It was clear from his bulging biceps that he had taken one too many muscle-enhancing pills. Which could also explain his aggressive behavior. “My family owns the hotel at the top,” he said, “so I'll decide what happens. My commands override all others.”
LYSA AND YVES FACED OFF
Now I knew who the kid was: Yves Jackson. He was my age, but he acted he owned the place. Well, in a way, he does—or at least, his family does. The Jacksons put up tens of billions of dollars to complete the Space Elevator. In fact, so much of their money had gone into the project, they'd been given sole ownership of the hotel at the top.
A TALL, SKINNY BOY TOLD THE HOLO-NURSE TO SHUT OFF.
“I need some medicine!” Mr. Noonan suddenly bellowed.
The holographic nurse looked at him. “This does not appear to be a medical emergency,” she said.
I stepped toward them, about to say something, when I was stopped by another new voice. “Nurse, please turn off.” It was a tall, skinny boy with limbs that reminded me of a grasshopper's. He had a long face with widely spaced eyes.
The holo-nurse smiled, said, “Have a healthy day,” and flickered off.
“Why didn't I think of that?” Yves Jackson said, then turned to Mr. Noonan and demanded, “Now can you get up?”
“What are you doing? I need the nurse,” Mr. Noonan whined at the new boy, who held out his hands in a calming gesture.
“You have to get up!” Yves snapped.
Enough is enough, I thought. “Yves Jackson?” I asked in my most official-sounding tone.
“What?” he demanded.
“I'm Otis Fitzmorgan, an official with FSA. I noticed someone suspicious luring outside your quarters on Level 4,” I lied. A little fib seemed worth it to help out Mr. Noonan.
“And what did you do about it?” Yves said angrily.
“Nothing,” I answered with an exaggerated shrug. “I'm no longer on duty.”
“Typical!” Yves cried. But my plan worked. Forgetting about Mr. Noonan, Yves threw up his hands and stormed out of the room to check on his quarters.
With Yves gone, the tension in the room instantly came down a couple of notches. And everyone seemed to sigh in relief.
CROCKETT TRIED TO CALM MR. NOONAN DOWN.
The skinny boy gave me a nod of thanks and then turned back to Mr. Noonan. He crouched down next to the man. “Hi, my name's Crockett Vinton,” the kid said in soothing tones. “I came up with my folks. They decided to stay behind for a few more days, but I have to get back to the books. I'm in medical school.”
“You're a doctor?” Mr. Noonan asked.
“Almost,” Crockett answered. It wasn't strange for kids our age to be doctors and lawyers anymore. Genetic enhancements had made some kids more mature. My own genes were straight from my parents—and hadn't been altered. Instead, my mom and dad had been feeding my love of art and detective work since I was a toddler. All the art history books, home training, and museum trips had paid off. They helped me rise to the top of my class and stand out as a government investigator.
“From what I can tell, you're just anxious,” Crockett was saying to Mr. Noonan. “You need to relax.”
“How can I? This is terrifying! I'm a writer, not an astronaut! Going up, I slept most of the way. But now we're g
oing down! I feel like we could crash at any minute!”
“Are you traveling with anyone?” Crockett asked.
“His daughter, Charlotte, is on board,” I answered for the man. “I'd get her but I don't think she's too crazy about me.”
Crockett cocked an eyebrow at this but stayed focused on Mr. Noonan. “I'm going to go get your daughter,” Crockett told him. “I'll be right back.” And he rushed out of the room.
But it didn't look as though Mr. Noonan would be able to wait. I had to do something. I took Crockett's spot, crouching down next to the man. “Hi,” I said. “Remember me?”
He nodded but looked too panicked to speak. To make things worse, Teddy chose that moment to pop his head out of my jacket pocket. He greeted Mr. Noonan with a little yap.
“Get that thing away from me!” he shrieked, startling Teddy and sending him skittering to the floor.
“Teddy, go see her.” I pointed to Lysa, who was sitting curled up on a couch. “Do you mind watching him for a second?”
TEDDY YAPPING AT MR. NOONAN
Lysa shook her head and gave me a little smile. Teddy clicked and hopped over to her.
I put my hand on Mr. Noonan's shoulder. “You're a writer, so you must have heard the phrase 'a little knowledge is a dangerous thing,' right?”
“I think a little ribbon is even more dangerous. And that's what this Climber is hanging from! A teeny-tiny ribbon!”
Good, I thought, at least he's able to make a joke. I had an uncle who was afraid to fly. When he found out that it was safer than driving a car, he changed his mind. “How would you like some background on the Elevator?” I asked him. “It might make you feel better.”
