“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.