So the wretched hours passed in the chilly chamber: water dripping, sewage gurgling, the kids tired and guilty, Bvletch missing, and the Resistance, Delaware’s only hope for freedom and liberty, betrayed.
NIBBLES AND WORRY
“The kids are probably having a great time,” said Mr. Gefelty.
No one answered him. Mr. Gefelty and his wife sat in the Dashes’ ultramodern living room. The room was made of white concrete and glass. The three of them had been sitting there, waiting for news, for four hours, and they did not have anything left to say. Mrs. Dash had prepared some party food to eat while they waited for the phone to ring. The food sat on plates, untouched. It was a dismal gathering. In the background there was music, a Moog synthesizer fluting away with its bloops and bleeps while Mrs. Dash stared through the plate-glass windows into the night.
She was dressed in a pink skirt-suit, and her hair was carefully fixed in a bell. She had tried very hard to put herself together, but she was falling apart. The flowers were wilting in chrome vases on the counters and tabletops. For days she had not left the big house with its cold cubicles and its huge, pitiless plate-glass windows.
Dolores Dash had neither husband nor boyfriend. Jasper’s father had been a beam of binary information transmitted from the region of the Horsehead Nebula. If there was a father, he was on another world.
Mrs. Dash had spent the last two days crying. She wished there was someone—human or alien—with whom she could share the worry about her son. Someone who would take her hand in his hand, or his tentacle, or his ratchety claw, and say gently, firmly, “Dolores—Dolores—everything is going to be all right.”
Instead Mr. Gefelty unconvincingly said, “Maybe the kids are someplace logical we haven’t thought of yet.”
“Ben,” said Mrs. Gefelty, “you can keep telling yourself that, but I’m terrified. And I think Dolores is too.”
Mr. Gefelty said, “They’re probably up late somewhere, watching movies and doing Mad Libs.”
His wife frowned at him and sighed. She picked at her pinkie nail with her thumbnail.
Dolores Dash stared down at the floor. By her elbow, the robotic table served more hors d’oeuvres. A platter of little beef Wellingtons rose up through a panel.
“Oh,” said Mrs. Gefelty without enthusiasm. “Beef Wellingtons. Dolores, I hope you didn’t go to any trouble, having us over.”
On small tables around them were a platter of shrimp, uneaten, a cheese board with some crackers, a plate of deviled eggs with each egg in its own divot, a bowl of hot chicken dip, a bowl of hummus, some cut vegetables, some party wieners on toothpicks, some mini-meatballs, some cocktail mushrooms, a pot of fondue, a tray of asparagus rolls, a bowl of olives stuffed with cream cheese, and triangles of spanikopita. Mrs. Dash stared at them.
“No,” she whispered almost too quietly to be heard. “No trouble at all.”
Ben Gefelty looked around at the glistening piles of food. None of them were hungry. He said, “Well, we should probably go. We don’t want to impose.”
Dolores Dash nodded. She thought of her son’s empty bedroom upstairs, the sheets still rumpled, the balsa-wood spaceship models standing on the shelves.
Mrs. Gefelty reached over and pressed Mrs. Dash’s hand. “If the kids don’t . . . if we haven’t heard by tomorrow, we’ll have you over for the day to wait.”
Mrs. Dash looked at the Gefeltys. What she said was, “That would be lovely, Susan. I’ll bring some deviled eggs.” What she wanted to say was, My boy was sent to me on a beam of light through all the lonely reaches of space, and he is all I love on this Earth.
“Don’t worry, Dolores,” said Mr. Gefelty, standing. “Bick Mulligan’s family are all on the police force. He’s made a bunch of calls and there’s an all-points bulletin out. Or whatever the police have these days. They have computers, you know. It’s not like back in the day.”
Mrs. Dash said, “That’s wonderful. I’m sure he’s got it under control.” Her voice was flat and sad.
“Dolores?” said Mrs. Gefelty. “You don’t sound so good. Are you holding up all right?”
What Mrs. Dash said was, “I’m fine, Susan. Thanks.” What she wanted to say was, I drive lonely country roads at night, longing for something to descend from the stars. I come to rest in cornfields and press my forehead against the cold glass of the windshield, praying I’ll see lights above the rows, huge beetle eyes gazing softly out at me through the stalks.
“So how does nine o’clock tomorrow morning sound for you to drop by?” Mrs. Gefelty asked. “None of us should be alone while we’re waiting.”
What Mrs. Dash said was, “Certainly. Nine o’clock sounds delightful.” What she wanted to say was, There is no time that is right to wait for news of tragedy.
“You call us if you need anything, okay?” said Mrs. Gefelty.
What Mrs. Dash said was, “Thank you. That’s very kind. Don’t worry about me.” And yet she wanted to cry to them, I wait for the radiant vision of saucer ships and silver suits in my backyard; I wait for a man’s voice, alien and yet familiar, to call across the static on the television set, which I leave tuned to dead channels; I long for the power outage, the whimpering dog, the whispering, gray bodies in the toolshed; I wait for the tractor beam to enfold me and lift me up above the Earth like an embrace.
But what Mrs. Dash said was, “It’s so nice of you both to visit me.”
There was a humming noise, and the robot table, oblivious to the departure of guests, delivered a plate of nachos and watery salsa.
BY THE LIGHT OF HIS TEETH
In the dirty, gray streets of Wilmington, people shuffled to work. Factory whistles were blowing all over the city. Wearing long coats and flat caps, men and women trudged up the hills, coughing and wiping their eyes.
And forty or fifty feet below them, deep in an octagonal chamber in the sewers, the refugees huddled on the brick floor, shivering.
Katie and Drgnan squatted next to each other. They didn’t hold hands again or talk about holding hands.
Katie couldn’t figure out whether Drgnan knew how much she liked him. She couldn’t guess exactly what he’d meant by taking her hand, back there in the courtyard. When she looked at him, though, he turned to look at her, and he smiled, and his smile made her feel warm despite the cold. He did not speak, but wrapped his arms around his knees.
She smiled back.
Lily and Jasper sat across from them. During the night, Lily had lent the Boy Technonaut her sweater to put over his bare legs. She couldn’t stand how cold he looked. He had finally fallen asleep with his head on her feet.
“Children?” said the monk they’d called Grzo’s friend. “It is time to rise and walk.” He was crouched next to them, his hands on his knees.
Jasper woke up. He and Lily exchanged glances and then stood.
“It is seven. The ferry sails at ten. We must be at the dock by nine, so that they can check our papers.”
“We don’t have papers,” said Jasper.
“Some of us have learner’s permits,” said Taylor Quizmo.
Jasper pulled out his wallet and flipped through it. “I have some cards relating to intergalactic organizations,” he said. “Are those accepted?”
“You are minors,” said the monk. “You will be covered by my forged papers. We are a school group going to New York City to take in a show.”
“My learner’s permit,” Taylor insisted, “was issued specially. Usually they wouldn’t give a learner’s permit to someone my age.”
“Very impressive,” said the monk. “But the sweet, young soul shall allow me to continue. We must be at the dock at nine, and it is an hour-and-a-half walk through the tunnels to get there. So let us leave now. We cannot be late.”
They said good-bye to the refugees.
Lily asked them, “Where will you go?”
“Drrok, the gardener, is gone,” said one of the guards. “He was the leader of our band. We must mourn for him. Then we shall fin
d another band of Resistance fighters to join.”
“We’re, um, sorry,” said Lily. “That . . . your . . . house . . .” She couldn’t bring herself to say any more.
The refugees looked at her with unhappy eyes. She was able to escape to her own home again; they were not.
“Good-bye,” she said.
The monk opened a metal door into a tunnel and bowed.
Katie gasped. As the monk bowed, she saw he had a gun hidden under his jacket. He saw her staring at him and smiled.
Silently, gagging on fear, she followed the others as they all filed out.
The others hadn’t seen the gun. But still, they were miserable.
They trooped, stooped, through corridors. The monk led the way. He had apparently memorized directions. He seemed to know his way very well.
Jasper watched the man’s back. “I don’t like this,” Jasper muttered. “I don’t like it one little bit.”
“He seemed nice when he was with Grzo,” whispered Drgnan. “Now, though, he does not have a look of trust and love on his face.”
“Do you think he’s even leading us to Brother Grzo?” whispered Lily.
The monk, who was carrying an industrial flashlight ten or fifteen feet in front of them, turned and said, “Of what do you whisper? We must hurry.”
At about eight, they took a breather.
“I am uncertain of which way to go,” said the monk. “If you, little brothers and sisters, will stay here for one solitary minute, I will run forward up both these two passages and determine which one is correct.”
He bowed and stalked off.
Immediately after he’d gone, Lily whispered, “He could be setting something up. Like an ambush.”
And then Katie said, “He has a gun. He has a gun hidden under his jacket. I saw it when he bowed.”
Lily’s blood ran cold. Jasper started to his feet, unable to remain sitting in the midst of so much dastardy.
For the first time, Lily saw a look of doubt and worry on Taylor Quizmo’s face.
“What are we going to do?” said Lily.
“He’s leading us into a trap,” said Taylor. “I just know it.”
“Alas,” said Drgnan, “that one who traveled with us upon the high road should beat us with the walking stick we shared.”
“Let’s get up to the street,” said Jasper. “We can find our way to the ferry landing ourselves up there. We’ll get lost down here.”
They heard footsteps. He was coming back.
“Let’s go,” said Taylor. He looked anxiously into the others’ faces. Everyone weighed the best thing to do.
“If this is true, then he has a heavy chain upon his spirit,” said Drgnan. “He betrayed Bvletch and betrayed the location of the safe house.”
“He’s coming,” said Katie.
And so they ran—fleeing down the corridor the monk hadn’t explored.
They sprinted as fast as they could.
Taylor had been using a flashlight built into his dental retainer, so he now led the way as they scampered down a side passage, wildly looking for a ladder that would lead up and out of the maze of sewers.
“Children!” the monk roared behind them. “Where—?”
The echoes shot and bounced and rebounded all around them, and so did the light: an arm there—a slice of shadow—legs—darkness—a bit of stair—“Don’t trip!” (called by someone, couldn’t tell who . . .)—a hole—pipes—more legs—Lily couldn’t see who was in front of her—Drgnan’s shaved head—then complete dark—
“Taylor!” yelled Katie. “Keep smiling! We can’t see when you close your mouth!”
Taylor, his face in an awful grin, his cheeks still glistening with the grease from last night’s fries, kept running, his arms swinging in panic.
“Come back, children! You will regret this jog! It will be called a sad jog by you, in the days to come!”
Jumbled in the dark, they had no sense of which way to run. They caught glimpses of pipes and drops and corridors—but only glimpses.
The rogue monk had switched off his light. They could tell he was creeping through the dark, seeking them, and they couldn’t see him.
Lily was last in line. She drew her arms in close to her. She felt like at any moment, she could be grabbed.
Taylor’s dental light swooped through the cavernous darkness.
They were on a rickety little metal bridge over an underground river. They had reached a T and could go left or right. The iron bridge swayed and creaked as they looked at the two branches. They could no longer hear the monk pursuing them.
“Where is he?” Jasper asked.
“I don’t know,” said Katie. “Where are we?”
“We’re lost,” Lily lamented. “And the monk is behind us somewhere.”
“There are times,” said Taylor, between gritted teeth (he was smiling), “when you can’t do something alone.” He pulled out his cell phone and hit a number. Over the sound of churning water, the phone dialed.
Quickly, he shouted, “Hello—It’s Taylor Quizmo, Secret Agent—I’m a friend of Senator Fairview’s—sent to pick up these children—little kids—who . . . Okay. Okay. Yeah, there’s a monk, a rogue monk—he has a gun—and he’s chasing us through the sewers. Can you fix on my location? Okay? Can you get it? From the phone . . . ? Great! Now tell us how we can get out of here. You must have a computer screen with a map, and there we are . . . Yes? . . . That’s us, blinking. Quickly: Where do we . . . ?”
It is lucky that Taylor Quizmo said a long letter e in “we.” This is what allowed them all to see that the nameless monk was standing on one side of the bridge, dressed in his T-shirt, jacket, and tracksuit bottoms. He was panting from the chase and holding his gun.
“Stop,” he said. “Put the phone down. Put your hands up. And walk back this way. Slowly.”
“RUN!” said Taylor Quizmo, and he shut his mouth and bolted.
Of course, everyone was happy that he had shut his mouth for several reasons, but mainly because it meant that the room was cast momentarily into darkness before the rogue monk switched his flashlight back on. He swatted the spot back and forth until he found Lily’s heels, and then he took off after them, clanking across the bridge.
Taylor was getting directions through his cell phone. He led them up little staircases and down ramps.
Finally there was a long, long staircase going up.
“We’re almost out!” said Taylor, and snapped his phone shut.
They all charged up the stairs.
Lily was falling behind. She could hardly see, since the only source of light was coming out of Taylor Quizmo’s mouth, which was several mouths in front of hers. Katie slowed to urge her along.
The nameless monk was behind them. He shouted threats still, but they could no longer hear the words. There were too many echoes, too much of the crack of hard shoe heels on brick.
“Through here! We’re free!” said Taylor, slamming a door open.
They ran through it—
Out into a dark room—vast by the sound of its echoes. They started to cross. . . .
Suddenly Lily realized there was a spotlight on them.
It was all she could see.
Them, surrounded by the light.
Taylor Quizmo had stopped running and looked around, gasping for breath.
Lily listened carefully. It sounded a little as if the room was full of hidden people waiting.
The nameless monk ran in behind them and skittered to a stop.
And a voice that Lily had never heard before—but which was the voice of the Governing Committee of Wilmington—hissed, “Super. I’m glad you could make it.”
And with that, all the lights came on.
THE GAME IS UP
It was hard for the kids to figure out what was going on in the next few seconds. Why, for example, was a huge jazz band blaring out a tune in an orchestra pit? Why all the shrieking brass and the thrilling, trilling chords? Who could explain the rows of fla
shing lights, or the disco ball, or the man in a long black coat sitting on a high stone seat, wearing metallic mittens? What was the reason for the huge studio audience clapping, for the giant neon words in Doverian, for the beautiful women in glittering, sequined dresses coming forward to take the kids by the hand and lead them down to a row of reserved seats?
Why was a booming voice welcoming them, saying,
It was the game show they’d watched earlier, in which the Autarch’s spies were celebrated for their weaselly trickery, and enemies of the Delaware government were unmasked and punished—all in front of a studio audience.
And Lily, Katie, Jasper, Drgnan, and Taylor were apparently guest stars!
Lovely assistants of the State, as beautiful and inhuman as angels, sat the kids in their seats and pulled out guns to keep them quiet. Lily saw that Drrok and the other Resistance fighters who’d been taken by the Ministry were sitting right next to her, handcuffed, also guarded by beauties with lamé sheath dresses and pistols. On the backs of all their seats were taped colored pieces of paper that read RESERVED FOR POLITICAL PRISONERS.
So far as the kids could make it out, they were in some room in Wilmington Castle. They didn’t know who the man on the granite throne to the side of the stage was—the pale man in the black coat and the iron mitts—but he seemed to be in charge.
There was only one person left on the stage itself.
The nameless monk.
He looked defiant and proud.
The man in the black coat rasped into a microphone, “Greetings, citizens. We are the Governing Committee of Wilmington. Welcome to our show. Are we going to have a great time today?” he asked the audience.
The crowd went crazy. Except for the people in the first couple of rows, who were all prisoners, and who didn’t seem very jolly.
Agent Q, or the Smell of Danger! Page 11
