Dragon Sword (8 page)

I’m midstepping and bounding now,
and extra guards have started to appear in the yard, standing
around nervously with their hands on what I believe to be some kind
of blasters. Apparently if I move either too slow or too fast, it’s
cause for alarm.

As I stomp, a quick shadow flickers
by, like that made by a small winged Saurian, or one of the avian
creatures here.

But there’s nothing in the
yard.

Then I see another shadow
flickering past the sunbeams. This time, though, it doesn’t go
away. It grows.

And it’s accompanied by a familiar
humming music that sounds…like home. Perhaps an ancient harvest
song — a chorus — that the gatherers would sing when they were out
in the old forests, collecting mossy greens.

The music grows louder. I stop
practicing any kind of a midstep, and the guards unsheath their
blasters. The shadow now covers the whole skylight — and crashes
through it.

Glass and metal rain down on us,
and a ship, a very Saurian-looking ship, lowers itself into the
yard.

Alarms make their screech-waves,
and blasters flash like small, frantic volcanoes. Looking up at the
barred windows that ring the yard, I could almost swear by old Temm
himself I see that strange, large, black eye peeping through one of
the slits, before it vanishes again.

But I don’t have time to think
about it very long.

Shots bounce off the ship, which
lowers itself steadily toward me. Has another student come
searching for me, to claim extra
extra
credit for bringing
me back?

More guards pour into the yard.
Thirty is with them.

They’re rolling out a large type of
cannon, with coils around it. They’re very fond of particle and
laser weapons on this planet, so perhaps it is a primitive
destabilizer ray of some sort.

I try to stay out of blast range as
the door to the ship slides open. If the guards land a shot inside,
it will be a glum welcome for whoever is piloting.

But I suppose one can’t stay out of
the line of fire forever. I aim for the vessel, going for the kind
of jump a top-stomper could be proud of.

The ship is too high. I
miss.

Landing hard on the ground, I roll
over. I don’t get another chance to jump before the particle beam
fires. Astonishingly, when it hits the ship, the vessel wobbles but
seems to…absorb the energy.

All the guards, and Thirty, stand
still for a moment, wondering what’s just gone wrong. In that
pause, I top-stomp again, just make the open ledge of the ship,
holding on with my foreclaws.

“
K’lion?”

A mammal voice I know. It’s Thea.
She doesn’t pronounce my name quite right, either, but I don’t
mind.

“
But how did you — ?” we ask each
other at the same moment.

There’s no time for an answer, of
course. I pull myself in and the hatch slam-cracks shut behind me.
Thea then makes one of the most stomper-like piloting moves I’ve
ever witnessed: She tilts the ship vertically and shoots it out of
the gap in the top of the dome before the zoo staff can regroup and
start firing again.

“
I don’t believe —” Once again, we
speak simultaneously. There’s so much to say, we can only start by
lapsing into silence.

Chapter Nine

Eli: Yankee Clipper

December 24, 1941 C.E.

“
To tell you the truth, kid, in the
off-season I try to avoid crowds.” That’s Joe DiMaggio, and he’s
actually talking to me.

We’re standing outside the de
Young, and the police are trying to interview everybody. The
antlers are gone. When the lights went out, somebody stole the
White Stag’s horns. So far nobody’s been able to tell the police
anything — no one saw who it was. When the cops get to me, I might
just tell them it was Dan the Oboe Man, on general principles. I
notice he managed to slip away, too, so why not?

A lot of people are shivering in
their tuxedos and evening gowns. They’re anxious for the cops to
hurry up and let them back in for their coats.

I’m cold, too, but I’m not in any
rush. After all, I’m standing next to a real live, famous, dead
baseball player. In his pre-dead days, of course.

“
When you shut that music fella up,
you did me a favor,” DiMaggio cracked when I finally met him a few
minutes ago. It was dark, but the glow from his cigarette let me
see his face. He was trying to stand as far away from the street
lamps and the hanging lanterns around the museum as he could. “I
didn’t want to give a big speech.”

“
How come?”

“
It wouldn’t be
me
doing it,
it’d be ‘Joltin’ Joe,’ ‘the Yankee Clipper.’ See? Me, I really
don’t have anything in particular to say.”

“
But, you
are
Joltin’
Joe.”

“
Nah, Joltin’ Joe’s just my
disguise now. A character. If you ever get famous, you’ll know.
What’d you say your name was again, kid?”

He blew out more smoke, and I
coughed. “Sorry. Guess you’re too young to puff ’em yourself. Let
me get a couple more drags and I’ll snuff it out.”

I’m standing next to DiMaggio
thanks to that reporter, Caen.

I was ushered outside with
everybody else after the police got here. I figured maybe my best
bet would be to find another cab, hope no one noticed the date on
my future money, and go back to the hotel.

But Caen found me first. “Some
party, huh, kid? A little thin on Christmas spirit with that
robbery at the end.”

“
I guess so.” I was starting to
feel a little sorry for myself again.

“
Hey, what’s the matter? Stranded?
Parents never made it?”

“
No,” I said.

“
Well, where are they?”

Then it occurred to me — I didn’t
necessarily have to go back to the hotel. Maybe I shouldn’t. With
the Oboe Man missing, maybe I should try to find Mom first. Just in
case.

“
My mom’s at a fort, I think.” If
the Oboe creep was right.

“
A fort, huh? Come over here.” Caen
motioned for me to follow, and I went with him right past the
police — he nodded and waved to one of the officers — to a little
area behind their squad cars, where a small handful of people were
waiting around. A few yards away from them, a man stood by some
trees, puffing a cigarette.

“
The VIP lounge, kiddo. The cops
let the swellest of swells hang out back here. If they don’t
question them soon, these people will send their butlers and maids
up from Atherton and down from Pacific Heights to stand in for
’em.” We came up to the man near the trees. “Hey, Joe, know any
good forts?”

The man stepped out from the
shadows.

“
Forts, huh? Well, there’s Fort
Funston, out on the Army base.”

It was him. Joe DiMaggio! He nodded
toward me.

“
Nice cap, kid.”

“
It’s the Seals.”

“
I know.”

“
Kid”— this time it was Caen
talking — “meet Joe DiMaggio.”

DiMaggio nodded again. “I don’t
like to give autographs, though. Just so you know.”

I had my hand sticking out to shake
his, but then put it back in my pocket.

“
What does your ma do?” Caen
asks.

How much should I tell them? I
don’t want to keep lying about a situation I haven’t fig- ured out
yet myself.

“
She’s ... she’s a scientist,” I
said.

“
She working on the war effort?”
Caen asked. “I think so.”

DiMaggio shrugged. “Maybe she’s out
at Fort Point.”

“
Where’s that?” I thought maybe I
could walk.

“
Right under the Golden Gate
Bridge, kid, but it’s sealed off. A lot of crazy rumors about
top-secret war stuff going on there. I think you’ll just have to
wait for your mom to get home.”

“
I’d like to try and get in
anyway.”

“
Well, kid, you’ll still need to
take a cab. Here.” Caen handed me a five-dollar bill. “Buy yourself
a milk shake later on, too. I’d tell Joe to take ya, but he never
brings his car anywhere.” DiMaggio gave us a kind of panicked look
as Caen continued. “Sorry I can’t stay. Gotta talk to a couple
folks here and buzz down to the paper to write this up before the
Call Bulletin
scoops us. Merry Christmas, kid!” He tipped
his hat and was gone. DiMaggio stood there, smoking, and nodded at
me but didn’t say anything else. I realized I was get- ting pretty
hungry. I’d only eaten a couple of those crepe things. So I asked
him about his restaurant. I read once that he had one.

“
You own a spaghetti place,
right?”

His look wasn’t panic this time,
but more like puzzlement, like why the heck was I bothering him
about noodles at a time like this. “A fish place. Joe DiMaggio’s
Grotto. Down in North Beach. But you can get a good plate of pasta
there.”

“
Do you eat there all the
time?”

“
It’s too crowded for me. To tell
you the truth, kid, in the off-season, I try to avoid
crowds.”

He goes silent again, and it’s kind
of weird that I have to keep the conversation going, since I’m the
one they all keep calling “kid.”

“
Well, you had a really great year,
right?” I ask. In the ’41 season, he had a record hitting
streak.

“
Yeah, they’re celebrating it over
at the Grotto,” he answers. “Put on a party for me. I hit in
fifty-six consecutive games this past season. Helluva thing. It’s a
record.”

“
Yeah, and it’s never —” I catch
myself. I’ve really got to watch it. “I bet it’ll never be broken.
You must be proud of yourself.”

“
Yeah, sure, but like I said, it’s
almost like someone else did it. I can’t just play baseball
anymore. I can’t just
play
. I have to be
him
. It’s
just not fun anymore.”

Wow, if playing baseball for a
living isn’t fun, grownups must have really depressing lives. “I
should tell you about Barnstormers.”

“
What’s that?”

“
A game. Like —” I don’t want to
mess up another detail here and seem any more
po
-like than I
have to. Let’s see, before games were electronic they were mostly
—“a
board
game. Where you manage your own baseball team. The
whole squad is made up of these really messed-up monsters who go
around from town to town, playing exhibition games, pickup games,
whatever they can. Because they
love
it. Of course, after
each game, they get chased away and have to go somewhere
else.”

“
Messed-up monsters? Sounds like
some Red Sox fans I’ve seen.”

“
On my team, Wolfman plays your
position. Center field.”

Even in the dark, I can see
DiMaggio looking at me a moment. “Center field, huh? Does he have a
hitting streak?”

“
He’s not bad.”

He reaches into a pocket and hands
me a piece of paper. It’s some kind of flyer or
pamphlet.

“
What’s this?”

“
Read it. I figure a guy who
manages werewolves might be able to make sense of it.”

DO YOU KNOW WHERE THE HOLY GRAIL
IS?

THE GERMAN HIGH COMMAND
DOES!

THE NAZIS ARE COLLECTING

—
POWERFUL OBJECTS—

Such as the Spear of Destiny, the
Holy Grail, and Excalibur — King Arthur’s Dragon Sword!

“
The Dragon Sword,” I tell him,
tapping my finger on the word
Excalibur
. “They had a fake
one inside the museum.”

“
Keep reading, kid. It gets
worse.”

The possessor of these objects could
wield

GREAT POWER!!

No government should be allowed to
own them!

No government should be
asleep!

Demand an investigation!

Demand ACTION!!

“
Corny stuff, huh?” DiMaggio’s
shifting around from foot to foot, like he’s getting colder. Or
maybe having a conversation just makes him nervous.

“
What does it mean?”

“
Well, if you don’t know, kid, ask
him.” He jerks his head in the direction of a man standing by the
steps of the museum, holding a sign with big letters saying
WAKE UP!
You could see him trying to give
handouts to people who were standing outside, but nearly everyone
was pretending to ignore him.

“
Who knows?” DiMaggio says. “That
guy marches around my restaurant, trying to get people to take his
flyers.”

“
Why?”

“
Hollywood people go there. Sports
people. He wants to get noticed. That’s why he came to the museum.
Figured this is where the action was tonight.” He shook his head as
if the sign man had done something wrong. “Everyone wants to get
noticed.”