Iris snorted. “Here.” She pulled out a bunch of glossy photographs. “What the hell did you think Polaroid cameras were invented for?” Miriam gaped. “Close your mouth, kid, you’ll catch a fly,” Iris added.

“Get some muscle,” Miriam told Roland. “Ones who can world-walk with us. We’ll need guns and medicine. And clothing that can pass at a distance in New London or on the train—” She paused. “And a plan of the Fort Lofstrom doppelgänger, and a compass and map of the area. We can pick one up in New London and find where its doppelganger location is, and then someone to get us in—” another pause. “Why are you all looking at me like that?” she asked.

Another day, another first-class compartment—this one crammed with seven bodies, plus another seven in the compartment behind them—with the window open to let the heat out. “How conspicuous are we going to be?” asked the guy with the toothbrush moustache.

“Just as long as you don’t stop, Morgan,” said Miriam. “Your suit’s all wrong, your coat isn’t a fashion item, and—hell, your hat isn’t right either. They’ll probably take you for a foreigner.” The train clattered over points as it began to slow.

“She’s not kidding,” said Brill. “It’s not like Boston at all, under the surface.”

“Be over soon,” said Roland, staring out the window at the passing countryside. “It all looks like something out of a history book—”

“May you live in interesting times,” muttered Olga, raising a startled glance from Brill.

“Miriam’s been corrupting you.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Ladies, ladies!” They turned and glared as one at Roland. “Is this our stop?” he asked plaintively. He looked decidedly off-color. Miriam decided to forgive him—her own headache wasn’t getting any better, and four trips in thirty-six hours was more than anyone should ever have to make, even with beta blockers and pain killers.

“Not yet.” Miriam refolded the map she’d bought at the station near where Niejwein would be in this world.

“Let me see that.” Ivor, short and squat, leaned over. “Ah.” A stubby finger followed the line into town. “This is Cambridgeport, in Cambridge. The Fort was built on a bluff overlooking the river almost exactly here. That’s—”

“Blackshaft. A rookery,” said Miriam. “Next to Holmes Alley.” She bit her knuckle. “What happens if you try to world-walk somewhere where you’d come out underground?”

“You get a headache.” Roland looked at her curiously. “Why?”

“Nothing,” she said, watching him sidelong.

Brill caught her eye. “Nothing.” She snorted. “It’s that revolutionary friend of yours, isn’t it?”

“Well.” Miriam sighed. “I suppose so.”

“What’s this?” asked Ivor.

“Miriam’s got dodgy friends,” said Olga. “Why is it that we only seem to do business with criminals?”