No one answered, and they all remained silent for several minutes.
Paul snapped his fingers. “The last line of the riddle says, ‘Make sure your feet find the air,’ right? Well, maybe we’re supposed to catch a train and go somewhere else by five o’clock. Someplace called ‘air’ or something like that.”
“Hmm,” Sofia said. “That’s possible. The whole underground railroad system is kind of weird. There must be something about this place, a reason he sent us here—maybe it is the train!”
“I’ll admit it’s better than chanting to the time gods,” Tick said. “Let’s go.”
~
The streets were surprisingly busy for so early in the morning; most of the people out and about were heading down the stairs that led to the underground railroad.
“These people must all work in another city,” Tick said. “No wonder they have to leave when the sun comes up.”
“Good thing we’re not the only ones awake,” Paul said. “I didn’t want that cop barking at us again.”
They followed the crowd to the ticket counters, old-fashioned brick windows where old men took money and gave out printed slips of paper. Holding some of the local currency given to them by Phillip, they waited their turn.
“Next!” a white-haired man called out, a scowl scrunching up his face like he was having a kidney removed.
Sofia stepped up first. “We’d like three tickets for . . . a train.”
Somehow, the man’s face screwed up even tighter. “Well, that’s real nice to know you have that figured out, missy. How about telling me where you want to go?”
“Oh.” Sofia looked back at Tick, who shrugged.
“How many trains are leaving soon?” Paul asked.
“What kind of a fool question is that?” the old man grunted. “As many as you’d like. As few as you want. Now are you going buy a ticket or not?”
Just when I thought it couldn’t get any weirder, Tick thought.
“What are our options?” Sofia asked. “We’re tourists, and just want to do some exploring.”
“Oh, well isn’t that just peachy?” the man replied, rolling his eyes under his bushy white brows. “Good thing you got me, kids. One of the grumpy ticket masters would’ve sent you walking already.”
Tick could sense that something smart was about to fly out of Sofia’s mouth, so he kicked her gently on the calf.
“Please just give us our options,” she said instead.
“From this station, you can go to Martyrtown, Cook Reef, Falcon Bay, or Fourth City. Now choose and be done with it.”
“Okay, please give me just one second, sir,” Sofia said, so gushy polite that Tick was sure the man would kick them out for being smart alecks.
“Did you hear that?” Paul whispered. “He said Fourth City.”
“That’s the number of Chu’s Reality!” Tick said.
“Bingo,” Paul said.
“You really think that’s it?” Sofia asked, staring at the floor as if deep in thought. She finally nodded to herself and turned toward the old man. “Three tickets to Fourth City, please.”
“Well, congratulations on making a decision. I hope you have a swell time. That’ll be thirty-four yecterns.”
“Oh,” Paul said to the man as Sofia handed over the money. “Make sure we’ll be there by five o’clock.”
The ticket master printed out three tickets from a rickety metallic machine and handed them over the counter. “Boy, say one more snide remark and I’ll have the police boot you out of here. Now go.”
“Sir,” Paul replied, sounding more sincere than Tick had ever heard him before. “I promise I’m not trying to be difficult—we just don’t understand how the trains work here. And we need to be there by five o’clock.”
The man frowned deeper than ever, then looked at each of them in turn. “You three are just about the strangest kids I’ve ever seen. You go over to the portal that matches the number on your ticket”—he pointed at a series of large white cubicles—“step inside, and it’ll take you from there.”
“But—” Paul started.
“Go!” The ticket master’s face reddened as he pointed toward the booths.
Like three startled mice, they scuttled away. Tick hoped he never had to talk to the man again.
When they were sufficiently far enough away from the old buzzard, Sofia handed out the tickets.
Tick took his ticket. Printed in faded black letters as if the ink were running out in the old guy’s machine were the words, “Portal Number Seven. Fourth City. Round Trip.”
“Well, let’s go,” Paul said. “Hopefully we’ll get there in time to search around.”
The portals—tall, rectangular cubicles, white and shiny—were lined up in order along the sunken line of what Tick had thought were train tracks. He peeked into the ten-foot-deep trench and saw a series of long, metal rods stretching into a dark tunnel at the end of the station.
“Come on,” Paul said, holding open the door. It was made out of the same material as the rest of the small building and fitted to match its shape.