No Passengers Beyond This Point(24)

A tree limb cracks outside the window.

My cool mom is standing with a stupid expression on her face waving good-bye. Good-bye? Where is she going?

“Hey!” I scream as the splintering grows louder and the bed begins to split apart in a jagged line down the middle.

“Help!” I shriek as I try to get a grip on the slipping, sliding bed covers. I grab the side of the bed, the wall, the pillow, something permanent, but it all slides through my fingers. Everything is in motion.

Why doesn’t my cool mom do something?

She’s standing there watching, twiddling her fingers in a twinkling wave, as my whole body gets sucked down through darkness, a black hole, a tunnel. My hand hits the side, bends my fingers back, my ankle bone bonks the wall, and a sharp pain pierces my foot as I speed downward unable to stop myself.

Instinctively I roll up in a cannonball, my arms protecting my head. Now I’m spinning faster and faster. My legs are tucked tightly, I’m gripping my ankles. I can’t see anything but endless black and black and black as I hurl down. Ohmygod maybe I’m blind. I will get sunglasses. I want to be the kind of blind person who wears sunglasses, I think as I spin down and down, until at last I see a perfect circle of light that slowly grows. My world flashes light for one blinding second, before I hit hard.





CHAPTER 13

AN ELEVATOR UP

Before I leave my dream home, my dad guy has me sign a stack of papers. Each page says more or less the same thing. I, Finn Tompkins, understand under the laws of fair trade that I will be giving up time for information. I remember my mom said when you buy a house it feels like you’re signing your life away. But I’m not buying a house, so I don’t understand the need for this. The dad guy just says that’s the way they do things here.

When I’m finally finished, I arrange with him to get word to Mouse and India that I’ll meet them later. Then I push the tram icon and the rooms rotate until the station appears. Next tram to arrive in forty-five seconds, the blue light flashes. I hear the hum first and then I spot the tram approaching; sleek and fast, silver with sky blue trim and sparkling windows. The tram pulls up, the doors slide open, I wave good-bye to my dad guy and find a seat on a blue leather cushion. The tram is full of people, all in colorful uniforms with cloud patches embroidered with their names. Some are speaking English, some Spanish, some French.

“Next stop, Skyline,” the recorded voice announces. “Restricted area, authorized visitors only.” The voice launches into translations as the tram pulls to a stop in front of a platform with the name Skyline in sky blue on a big station sign.

No passengers get out. Just me.

I take the stairs leading up to a platform with an elevator. According to the sign, the elevator requires my fingerprint to open. They couldn’t possibly have my fingerprint, but when I press my index finger against the pad, the doors slide open.

Weird.

The inside of the elevator is painted like a mural of blue sky, clouds, and birds in flight. The elevator zips upward so quickly it makes my stomach drop. When the doors open to Skyline, I see how high we are. Through the glass windows are real clouds and the tiny city of Falling Bird below.

The room takes up an entire floor. It’s shaped like a cylinder with windows all around and an observation deck. Even the rug is a strange combination of old-fashioned tapestry patterns set into different size circles. There are desks in a ring around the room, with binders and books and computer screens on them. And then out from there are chairs all facing the windows and a vast system of old-fashioned radio switchboards. People with headphones are sitting at some of the radios.

In the very center of the lounge is a huge circular desk where a large man sits. He’s got bulky shoulders, dark skin, and a buzz cut, and he’s wearing an ordinary plaid shirt. He jumps up when he sees me as if I’m the person he’s been waiting for.

“Finn.” He pushes a button that opens a door in his round desk for him to walk through. He extends his big hand to me. “I’m Sparky.”

He has a friendly handshake and welcoming eyes. I like him immediately.

“You’re a guy after my own heart,” Sparky says. “I can’t tell you how rare it is for someone to exchange dreams for information.”

I’m not sure what’s so special about this, but I’m glad he likes me. “Yes, sir,” I say.

“The thinking, the planning, the organizing . . . all quite commendable.”

“And the worrying. Don’t forget that.” I crack a smile.

“You can call it worry or you can call it foresight. Either way there aren’t a lot of twelve-year-old boys who have that skill set. We could really use a sharp young mind like yours around here.”