Kevin J. Anderson - Sky Captain & The World Of Tomorrow

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episode 1 "MECHANICAL MONSTERS"

A Frightened Passenger

A Winged Skull

A Sinister Observer

In the gathering dusk, a snowstorm settled around the huge

streamlined shape that eased through the cold fog.

As he stared out at the New York City skyline through the zeppelin's

glass observation-windows, Dr. Jorge Vargas felt as if he were trapped

within an enormous snow globe, the toy of a monstrous giant.

The trapped feeling was not his imagination. And he was certainly

familiar with monsters...

A cold breeze rattled the panes, and he withdrew from the window,

leaving a mist of condensation from his heavy, panicked breathing. From

up high, the skyscrapers of Manhattan looked like a diorama in a museum

display sparkling with driving white flakes.

Around him in the opulent observation lounge, other passengers

sipped wine or champagne, ate expensive cheeses, chatted. One potbellied

man laughed too loudly, while his companions puffed earnestly on cigars,

filling the lounge with a tobacco fog nearly as thick as the blizzard

outside. A band played mellow music: a clarinet, a violin, a saxophone.

The businessmen had neatly pomaded hair and immaculate tuxedos.

Women showed off their pearls and jewelry; colorful cocktail dresses

clung to their hips and legs, flowing like liquid fabric down to high-

heeled shoes, while leaving alabaster arms and shoulders bare.

Everyone in the lounge flaunted their wealth and social status. An

event of such grandeur would earn its place in history. In soirees and

cocktail parties for years to come, the passengers would brag about

being aboard the Hindenburg III on its maiden voyage from Berlin to New

York City.

Dr. Vargas didn't want to be seen, however. He was simply trying to

escape Germany - before it was too late.

Throughout the deceptively gentle flight over Europe and then across

the wintry Atlantic, the zeppelin's chefs had astounded the wealthy

passengers with exotic meals, pates and caviar, incredible desserts and

sugary confections. Vargas, though, had little appetite. He had spent

most of the time in his interior cabin, hiding, dreading. The lullaby

hum of great propellers reminded him of more sinister machinery...

A crewman stepped through the observation lounge on his way to the

bridge. He wore a white uniform, a smartlooking cap, gold epaulets, and

a mannequin smile on his clean-shaven face. He nodded to some

passengers.

"Excuse me, Captain," a rail-thin woman interrupted him. She had

short graying hair done up in a tight style more than a decade out-of-

date, as if she had never passed beyond her days as a young flapper.

The crewman's smile barely changed. "I'm just the copilot, madam."

"Will the snowstorm delay us? Is there anything to worry about?

Those buildings look very high -"

The flurry of white flakes and the gusting breezes did not seem to

bother the huge dirigible. Thanks to the constant knot in his stomach,

Vargas could feel any increase in the swaying motion. After the horrific

explosion of the first Hindenburg in Lakehurst, New Jersey, two years

before, everyone had good reason to be skittish.

Vargas had seen photographs of that other airship's fiery

destruction after atmospheric electricity ignited a gas leak in the

dirigible. (Some said the explosion was caused by anti-Nazi saboteurs.)

He had seen images of the charred skeleton of the great zeppelin lying

on the burned ground like the bones of a prehistoric monster. Oh, the

humanity!

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But that disaster was nothing compared to what terrors lay in store

for the human race... if Vargas could not get away.

The copilot gave the old flapper a reassuring smile. "Not at all,

madam. The Hindenburg III has none of the potential hazards of its

predecessors. For us, even a blizzard is nothing more than frosting on

the cake."

At the snow-speckled window, the woman's husband said, "Looks like

frosting on the whole city down there."

The copilot was obviously well-versed in public relations. "And I

think you'll agree that the amenities, the speed, and the comfort of a

transatlantic voyage via zeppelin are far superior to even the finest

luxury ocean liners. You mark my words, giant liners like the Titanic

will soon be a thing of the past." Tipping his cap, the crewman walked

past the couple to the polished wooden doorway that led to the bridge.

"We'll be docking - safely - with the Empire State Building in under an

hour."

The band continued playing. Bartenders served another round of

drinks. Vargas stared out the window, clutching his dark satchel with a

death grip. He carried the satchel with him everywhere he went, not

daring to leave it in his cabin, even with the door locked.

Dr. Vargas was a thin, nervous man with salt-and-pepper hair, an

aquiline nose, and a graying goatee. His unremarkable brown tweed suit

was beginning to show too much wear. He hadn't had much chance to pack

spare clothes when he'd fled Berlin.

But it wouldn't be long now. Ahead of them, spotlights crisscrossed

the skyline as the zeppelin lumbered forward. The Hindenburg III would

tie up to the world's tallest skyscraper. A brass band would welcome the

passengers on the rooftop, with another one on the streets below.

Vargas would disembark with the crowd and then intentionally lose

himself in the flurry of photographers and reporters. He would disappear

into a city where no one knew him, where the pursuers would not guess to

look for him.

Safe. For a short time at least.

The Hindenburg III seemed to take forever in its final approach.

Passengers, many of them tipsy from too much celebrating, lined the

windows of the observation lounge to gaze out at the spectacular

metropolis.

When they jostled the doctor's shoulders, making him feel threatened

and claustrophobic, he moved toward the back of the compartment, still

clutching his satchel. At the rearmost window, the view was blocked by

guy cables and the sweep of the dirigible's nearest fin. The seal of

vulcanized rubber did not fit perfectly around the pane of glass,

allowing a chill draft. Vargas huddled in his tweed suit, glad for the

brief solitude, anxious to be off the zeppelin.

Fidgeting, he swiped a handkerchief across his brow as he discreetly

eyed the room. When he was sure none of the passengers were paying any

attention to him, Vargas reached into his pocket and withdrew two small

test tubes.

Swallowing hard, thinking of all the work and all the dark memories

that had thrown him into this dangerous situation, he let his gaze

linger on the twin vials before he wrapped them in the soft folds of his

handkerchief. He snapped open his satchel and placed them protectively

inside.

The loudspeaker system crackled, and the captain's voice boomed out

in deep, rolling German. Vargas flinched in instinctive terror,

remembering other harsh commands delivered over blaring intercoms.

But the man was simply announcing the Hindenburg lII's imminent

arrival. "All passengers please take your seats and prepare for the

docking procedure. We may encounter some slight turbulence due to the

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snowstorm as we dock to the Empire State Building."

Outside, louder than the thrumming of the zeppelin's impressive

motors, came the drone of airplane engines. Six swift fighter aircraft,

each one painted with intimidating insignia - tiger stripes, leopard

spots, or a red mouth of snarling fangs - roared past the gliding

Hindenburg.

Vargas quailed, but the other passengers whistled and cheered. The

six aircraft sped past, tilting their wings in friendly acknowledgment.

The captain came back over the loudspeaker. "Ladies and gentlemen, we

are fortunate to receive a ceremonial escort from the famous Flying

Legion! If any of you had doubts that we would arrive safely, I trust

they are now put to rest?"

Vargas knew the heroics of the mercenary Flying Legion. The

daredevil fliers had saved the world from numerous threats, whether it

was deadly comet dust or mad scientists with super weapons or bank

robbers with machines that tunneled through the Earth's crust. He let

out a brief sigh of relief.

Two eager boys ran playfully past the old man, bounding to the only

uncrowded window. Adults formed an impenetrable barricade at each of the

prime observation spots.

"Let me see! Let me see!"

"Is Sky Captain with them?"

As Vargas drew back, the boys bumped him and knocked his satchel to

the deck. Since he hadn't clicked the clasp shut, the case broke open,

spilling papers. The doctor snapped at the boys, "Please, please! You

must be careful!"

But the youngsters were too eager to watch the daring maneuvers of

the Flying Legion planes to pay much attention to the old man. As Vargas

frantically scooped up his scattered papers, he doubted any casual

observer would see significance in all the documents. But to him the

schematics and diagrams of complex mechanical components held dire

significance for the future of the world.

Each paper bore a prominent, ominous emblem stamped in the upper

right corner - a grinning skull framed by iron-feathered wings. He

grabbed the documents, covering the winged skull before anyone could see

it.

At the bottom of the pile lay a grisly autopsy photo. Vargas froze,

remembering the victim's pitiful cries, the awful experiment. He feared

he might vomit right there in the observation lounge (which the other

passengers would no doubt attribute to airsickness). Then he glanced up

to see one of the boys staring at the photograph, horrified. Before the

boy could call out to his companion, Vargas stuffed the autopsy

photograph in the satchel and fled. He couldn't get off the zeppelin

soon enough.

As the passengers gathered their belongings, talked to stewards, and

waited for the final docking, Vargas moved down the Hindenburg's

passageways, looking right and left. Close to his chest so no one could

see, he held a pencil and a scrap of paper, on which he hastily

scribbled a note. He glanced at the bustling porters assisting with

baggage; he was searching for one in particular. He finally spotted the

familiar man with blond hair, a rough complexion, and an easy smile.

When Vargas caught the porter's eye, the other man nodded. "Yes, Dr.

Vargas?"

The doctor kept his voice low, pressing the satchel into the

porter's callused hands. "This parcel must be delivered the moment we

reach port. I... won't be able to do it myself." Passengers milled

around them, and Vargas swallowed hard. He clasped his own hands around

the porter's, forcing him to grip the case's handle. "A man will be

waiting at this address - Dr. Walter Jennings. You must see that the

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satchel is placed in his hands. Personally. There can be no mistake."

"Yes, Doctor. Right away." The porter lifted his jaw to show his

determination.

During the long journey, the porter had been cordial, not

overinquisitive or solicitous, but he had sensed this passenger's deep

anxiety. Perhaps it was desperation, perhaps it was foolhardiness, but

Dr. Vargas had decided to trust the man. Vargas had no allies, no other

choice - and the risk was too great to count on achieving everything

alone. He needed assistance, and that porter had no connection

whatsoever with Unit Eleven or their diabolical creations. He had taken

the chance.

The poor porter knew only the vaguest details of what he'd gotten

into. Vargas felt sorry for endangering the man, but he had no choice.

It was a long time since he'd been accustomed to dealing with innocent

people.

Taking the satchel casually, as if it were just another piece of

luggage, the porter walked away, leaving Vargas standing by the window,

feigning nonchalance. Finally, when he was far enough away, the porter

glanced at the slip of paper Dr. Vargas had curled around the handle of

the small bag.

HE KNOWS I'M HERE. YOU MUST PROTECT THEM. GOOD-BYE, MY FRIEND.

The porter blinked with concern. He hadn't believed how serious the

scientist's spy games were. He turned back to where the old man had been

staring forlornly out the window.

Dr. Vargas had vanished into the crowd of passengers.

Spotlights blazed against the zeppelin as it cruised above Manhattan

and approached its destination. Continually falling snow reflected the

bright beams of light, sparkling around the Hindenburg's smooth

exterior. From the skyscraper's rooftop, newspaper reporters took flash

photographs. In the streets below, crowds looked up to point at the

massive dirigible coming to dock at the world's tallest structure.

A team of men standing at the zenith of the Empire State Building

gathered the towing lines suspended below the zeppelin's belly.

Straining with the snow-wet ropes, they ushered the lighter-than-air

ship to the sheltered dock.

When the vessel had settled into position one hundred stories above

New York City, a gangplank was lowered into place, then anchored for

stability. Passengers, pleased to be among the first to disembark on the

craft's maiden voyage, moved down the suspended bridge. Though the wide

walkway was guarded with grip ropes, the plank spanned a dizzying height

between the Hindenburg III and the building. Most of the passengers

could not stop themselves from looking down...

Far below, at the base of the skyscraper, a dark figure watched the

activity above. Standing on the corner of Thirty-fourth Street and Fifth

Avenue, the stranger stared upward with all the other people, but this

person remained silent and isolated. Though other pedestrians shivered

in the cold from the falling snow, the shrouded figure was impervious to

the weather.

Eventually, a black-gloved hand produced a small notebook from

within a heavy jacket. Seven names were written in the notebook in

precise block letters, every line even. There were no other notes, no

markings. Five of the names had lines drawn through them.

The dark figure raised a quill and methodically crossed out the

sixth name on the list: DOKTOR JORGE VARGAS. Then the notebook was

snapped shut and tucked away into the jacket.

Only one name remained.

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An Intrepid Reporter

A String of Disappearances

A Mysterious Package

Hot off the presses!

At her desk in the Chronicle offices, Polly Perkins lifted her fresh

copy of the early edition, scanning the front page. She loved the feel

of crisp newspaper, the oily smell of black ink, the sound of rustling

pages as she shuffled through the sections. Each copy carried the heady

excitement of news. Sometimes she even went to the cavernous printing

factories and stood in front of the rumbling newspaper presses just so

she could snatch one of the first copies to come down the line.

Especially if the edition contained an article or a photograph she

had contributed. Like today's.

New York's tall buildings filled the window behind her, but she

leaned closer to the yellow glow of her desk lamp. The lamp's body was

an illuminated frosted-glass globe of Earth. She had never been able to

decide if it was an innovative art deco design or pure kitsch. Either

way, the lamp served its purpose.

Polly unfolded the front page of the newspaper, engrossed. The

headline in bold seventy-point type, heavy block letters, shouted

triumphantly:

HINDENBURG III DOCKED WITH EMPIRE

MAIDEN VOYAGE OF AIRSHIP

A photograph - made grainy either by the snow flurries or poor

reproduction - showed the prominent zeppelin tethered to the top of the

skyscraper, like a plaything for Willis O'Brien's King Kong. Another

photo, taken by a hardy amateur journalist who had stood out in the

blizzard, showed the Hindenburg III from a distance framed by the towers

and suspension cables of the Brooklyn Bridge.

Polly ignored the huge headline, though, and considered a small

article on the bottom of the page, which was much more important to her.

She turned the newspaper over, leaning close and smiling as she scanned

the words, alert for typographical errors.

POLICE SEEK MISSING SCIENTIST

by Polly Perkins

Her blue eyes lingered on the byline before turning to the rest of

the article. Accompanying the text was another grainy photograph, at

least ten years old, but it was the best she could find in all the

Chronicle's archives. Dr. Jorge Vargas had apparently disappeared as

soon as the zeppelin docked, and she hoped readers might be able to

identify the man, even if the picture was out-of-date.

It would be quite a scoop if she could find him herself.

Demure and unflappable, Polly was the Chronicle's crack

investigative reporter - at least she considered herself to be. Her

editor, Morris Paley, suggested she still needed a few more credentials.

As soon as he'd said that, his baggy eyes suddenly lit up in alarm.

"Now, Polly, that doesn't mean I want you to get yourself in trouble!"

"I don't want to get in trouble, Mr. Paley. I want to get the news.

Sometimes you have to do one to accomplish the other." She had smiled

and shooed him away so she could get back to her typing on a well-used

black Royal typewriter. Editor Paley had lingered at the office doorway,

paternally worried about her, but Polly had ignored him. With her icy

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coolness, she would one day convince him that she could take care of

herself...

Now, turning back to her typewriter, she became lost in her own

thought, her fingers pounding the keys furiously. Dr. Vargas was just

the latest in a disturbing string of disappearances of prominent

scientists who had worked in Germany for decades. She had noticed the

connection and tracked down five other incidents where researchers had

inexplicably vanished. Polly had written several articles, and Editor

Paley had printed them, sometimes prominently and other times at the

back of the section.

So far, she hadn't managed to create much of a hue and cry. Nobody

else believed the seriousness of the situation, but someone out there

must have been reading and wondering. This latest disappearance seemed

even more suspicious than the other five. With all the details she'd

pieced together, it was plain to her that Dr. Vargas had been attempting

to flee something...

The intercom on Polly's desk buzzed, and she stopped typing to flip

the switch.

"There's a package for you, Miss Perkins."

"Thanks, Isabel. I'll be right there."

Down in the Chronicle lobby, Polly rapped her fingers impatiently on

the front desk. Her wavy golden hair was neat and perfect, partially

pinned up with barrettes, but she did not waste her time with

complicated and fashionable new styles. She wore a smart business dress

and black shoes with sensible low heels that would allow her to run

after a story (or run from one, if the circumstances turned out badly).

Polly had a catlike mouth with full red lips, a delicately pointed nose,

and a calm, strong beauty that set her apart from the wilting, giggling

lovelies who spent their days trying to snag the attentions of men.

The lobby receptionist, on the other hand, walked like a wiggling

duck in her tight red dress and high heels as she returned from the

storeroom with a small brown package. "Here you are, Miss Perkins."

Polly took the package with a curious frown. "I'm not expecting

anything, Isabel. Do you know who -"

"They didn't leave a name. Said it was important." As Polly hefted

the package, then tore the paper away to reveal an old hardcover book,

Isabel leaned over her counter. "Is that one of those new bestseller

novels?"

Polly glanced at the title stamped in gold foil on a leatherette

cover. Mathematical Principles of Natural Philosophy by Sir Isaac

Newton.

"I don't think so, Isabel. Something a bit more classic."

In truth, she had no idea what it could mean. Curious, she flipped

open the front cover to find a loose movie theater ticket for an evening

showing of The Wizard of Oz. A note had been hastily scribbled on the

inside jacket in thin, spidery letters:

I know who's next. Meet me tonight at 6:00. Come alone!

The Editor and the Gun

A Clandestine Meeting

A Missed Opportunity

Reporters were good at protecting sources and keeping secrets.

Working for the Chronicle was a tough business, and Polly had learned

how to avoid obstacles or knock them aside. Not long after she received

her mysterious message, she crept into her dimly lighted office and

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moved toward a row of filing cabinets. In the dim illumination, the

beehive of Manhattan's lights began to glow through the window behind

her. Although the newspaper offices were quiet after the close of

business, Polly moved with unnecessary furtiveness. She slid open the

top drawer of the filing cabinet and reached inside as far as her arm

would go to rummage behind the file folders. From the back she withdrew

a gilded oak box and brought it to her desk, where she moved pencils and

notepads aside. With the fingernail of her index finger, she popped open

the catch and lifted the lid of the case.

"I've got a job for you tonight - I hope," she said to the small

camera that rested neatly inside the padding. Polly gingerly lifted the

camera out of the box, expertly checked the mechanism, loaded fresh

film, clicked the shutter, and adjusted the lens cap. Satisfied, she

slung the leather camera strap over her shoulder. The camera was a vital

tool of the trade, her secret weapon to be used only for the most

important stories. And if this strange message in Newton's book had

anything to do with the missing scientists, she didn't want to take any

chances...

With the Leica ready to go, Polly dug even deeper in the back of the

filing cabinet and pulled out a .45 caliber Colt service revolver and a

small box of bullets. She suspected there might be some shooting tonight

- either with the camera or the revolver.

She swung open the revolver's cylinder and casually spun it. She had

loaded two of the six empty chambers when someone suddenly flipped on

the lights. Momentarily blinded but moving with swift reflexes, Polly

spun around, holding the revolver ready.

Standing in the doorway was a gray-haired man in his late sixties.

Completely undisturbed by the gun pointed at him, Editor Paley let out a

long, slow sigh and shook his head. "Polly, why do you do this to me?

Where did I go wrong as your editor?"

Nonchalantly, Polly continued to feed bullets into the revolver.

"This?" She raised the heavy gun. "Colt New Service M1917. It's just a

toy. My grandma gave it to me."

"I'm sending one of the boys with you. I don't like this business

you're getting yourself into." He gestured to the revolver. "And that

stays here. No arguments."

Polly didn't have any intention of arguing... or listening. "I'll be

fine, Mr. Paley. You know what a careful girl I am." She spun the

cylinder shut and stuffed the Colt into her shoulder bag.

"My mouth moves, words come out, and you don't hear them."

"Oh, I hear them." She caught a glimpse of the big clock on the

wall, then grabbed her bag and headed for the door. "I'm late for a

movie. The Wizard of Oz - have you seen it?"

"I hear it's good, but I doubt it can compete with Gone with the

Wind. My wife liked that one." Editor Paley had three grown daughters,

none of whom had ever given him any trouble; Polly, though, wasn't

anything like them. When she flashed a smile that made him flinch, he

said, "Polly, I don't like it when you smile at me."

"You don't like my smile?" She smiled again, brighter this time.

"I don't like what's behind it." He stopped her at the door, but he

knew he couldn't block her way when she was determined. As a last

resort, he tried to be reasonable. "Six scientists are missing, Polly -

probably dead. Someone out there means business, and I don't want you in

the middle of it. It's time you leave the detective work to the police."

"I'm only going to a movie, Mr. Paley. Munchkins, cowardly lions,

tin woodsmen -"

"Uh-huh. With a gun and a camera."

"A girl can't be too careful these days. You don't have to worry

about me."

"I'm worried for me. If you get yourself killed, there's a lot of

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paperwork involved. And then I have to start from scratch training your

replacement." He rubbed his heavy cheeks, pensive. "Of course, maybe

somebody else would be a bit less intractable..."

Polly flippantly moved past him. "I'll bring you back some popcorn."

As she went by, the editor insisted on giving her a reassuring hug,

barely more than a pat, and Polly indulged him. His hand brushed her

leather bag.

After she had gone, Morris Paley's expression showed no defeat.

"You've still got a lot of tricks to learn about this business, kid." In

his right hand, he smugly twirled the Colt, which he had easily lifted

from her bag. "I hope you live long enough to master them all."

* *

Pinkish-orange neon lights spelled out the letters of Radio City

Music Hall. The usual throng of city dwellers passed by the theater

going about their daily business. The streets were wet and sloppy with

melting snow. Yellow cabs raced by, splashing slush as they stopped at

the curb to let out theatergoers.

Polly climbed out the back of a cab, bent into the window to pay the

driver, then turned to face Radio City. She wore a black fedora over her

long blond hair and a warm trench coat to hide her camera strap. She

glanced at her watch again. She didn't want to be late. Polly walked

purposefully toward the door, bypassing the ticket window. She didn't

even notice as her cab raced away, splattering other pedestrians.

In front of the theater, an elaborate display advertised the new

film everyone was talking about, The Wizard of Oz. Polly had heard rave

reviews, but hadn't found time to see the movie. Talking scarecrows and

heartless tin men weren't really her style. But she was supposed to meet

her contact here.

An usher took the ticket Polly had found inside the Isaac Newton

volume. As she entered the lobby of the theater, several men gave her

appreciative looks, but none showed any special sign of recognition. The

man who had left the brief, intriguing message inside the book must be

there waiting. Suspicious of everyone, clearly trying to make contact

with anybody who would meet her eyes, she moved slowly through the

foyer.

She settled into a place near the concession stand where she could

scan the crowd, then reached into her handbag and withdrew the book.

Maybe the man had only read Polly Perkins' byline and didn't know what

she looked like. She held the book out in front of her careful to keep

it prominently displayed by tilting it this way and that.

Most of the patrons didn't even notice her, and those who did

responded only with curious looks. A well-dressed man bumped Polly on

his way to purchase popcorn. She held out the book for him to see, but

when he read the title, he gave her a sour look and stepped to the

concession stand. When he had turned away, Polly made a face at him.

Sighing, she again glanced around the foyer - and this time noticed

a man standing in the shadows of the balcony staircase. He was clutching

a small satchel. She sensed something about him...

Their eyes locked. The man turned and started up the stairway,

apparently intending for her to follow. Trying not to be too obvious,

Polly waited a moment, then trotted up the winding stairs after him.

As if afraid to look at her again, the man did not turn around, but

moved directly toward a row of empty seats at the front of the balcony.

It was not a very good place to view the show, but the seats did provide

a place for private conversation. The movie had already started, and as

she followed the man down the empty aisle, she glanced up to observe

Judy Garland clutching a small dog to her chest as she walked through a

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decidedly exotic locale. The actress told the dog that she didn't think

they were in Kansas anymore, which seemed an astute observation, given

the circumstances.

She settled into the seat next to the man. He was thin and nervous,

with gray hair and the face of an absentminded professor. In the

flickering light from the movie screen, Polly saw that he had darting

brown eyes behind gold-rimmed spectacles. They sat stiffly beside each

other, silent but tense, like two teenagers on a first date.

Finally, Polly held up the book. "You sent me this?"

He glanced quickly around to make sure the nearby seats were all

empty, then nodded.

Emboldened and sensing a story, Polly asked, "Who are you? What's

this all about, Mister...?"

"Dr... Dr. Walter Jennings. But keep your voice down please." The

man had a clear German accent.

Polly obliged. "What kind of doctor are you? A surgeon?"

"I'm a research chemist. I specialize in nucleic acid emissions. The

bonding enzymes in proteus molecules which -"

Now her suspicions were verified. "The missing scientists! You said

you knew who was next."

He hesitated. "Yes... I..."

They sat a long time without saying another word. She could already

tell he needed more incentive to spill everything he knew. Polly stood

up and then turned to exit. "Doctor, you contacted me. I have a deadline

to meet. If you don't intend to talk -"

Jennings clutched the sleeve of her trench coat. "All right, listen

to me. I was one of seven scientists chosen to serve in a secret

facility stationed outside of Berlin before the beginning of the Great

War. It was known only as Einheit Elf, Unit Eleven. We agreed never to

discuss what went on behind those doors." His voice was distant. "The

things we were made to do there... terrible things."

Polly began to scribble notes on her pad. When the scientist saw

what she was doing, he paused, frightened again. Behind his spectacles,

tears glimmered in his eyes. "I... I really shouldn't have come..." He

rose and bolted in the opposite direction, threading his way past the

empty seats to reach the aisle, where he could scuttle out the back.

After those tantalizing comments, Polly had no intention of letting

the man get away. She caught up to the scientist and grabbed his arm.

"Wait! In your note you said you knew who was next. Six scientists have

already vanished."

"Yes... I..." His expression fell. "Don't you see? There is only one

left."

"Who is it? Who?"

"Me. He's coming for me!"

Suddenly, with a din that penetrated even the noise of the movie,

air-raid sirens began to blare from the surrounding rooftops. The

piercing wail of New York's civil defense warnings ramped up and down

with a warbling tone that struck fear into all men, women, and children.

The film on the wide movie screen flickered, then stopped. The house

lights came up as air-raid sirens transformed the theater into a riot

scene.

Terrified, Jennings struggled, but Polly would not let go of his

arm. "Who, Doctor? Who's coming?" People in the audience began to scream

louder than the sirens.

Jennings' eyes lit in terror. "Totenkopf! It's Totenkopf!"

Polly strained to remember the little bit of German she knew.

Totenkopf. Dead Head? Death's Head?

The scientist yanked his arm away so forcefully that he tore the

outer seam of his jacket. "I have to get out of here! He has found me!"

Panicked theatergoers streamed from the upper balcony and ran for

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the exits, crowding between Jennings and Polly. She could no longer

reach him. The scientist glanced back at her, his gold-rimmed eyeglasses

askew. Then he moved down the stairs, swept away with the crowd.

Evacuation alarms continued to wail, but Polly had other concerns

than an imminent bombardment from the skies. Turning back to where she'd

been sitting she noticed something out of the corner of her eye. A

folded sheet of paper had fallen from Dr. Jennings' satchel - by

accident, or intentionally? - and lodged in the theater seat.

Oblivious to the chaos around her as the balcony emptied, Polly

picked up the paper. When she unfolded it, she stared at the schematic

drawing of a strange machine. From the scale marks on the drawing, she

was sure she must be interpreting the blueprint incorrectly. The size

didn't seem possible.

Perplexed, Polly turned back to the exit through which Jennings had

just fled. Outside, she heard the menacing rumble of something huge

approaching.

Robots from the Sky

The Defense of Manhattan

Polly Gets Her Scoop

When Polly burst out of the movie theater into the street, she ran

into a scene of complete mayhem. Cabs skidded into one another, scraping

sparks and denting bumpers. Pedestrians ran headlong into the roadways,

blindly seeking shelter.

Though America was not at war with any nation, every year it seemed

another mad scientist with another doomsday plan tried to destroy a

major city. Polly remembered the flying Iron Sphere and its mind-control

antennae, and then it was Lord Dynamo and his terrible lightning-rod

zeppelin. By now the population of Manhattan had learned how to react in

an emergency. Air-raid sirens pealed out, and New Yorkers raced for

designated civil defense shelters.

Called into position by spotters stationed atop the tallest

skyscrapers, military and police battalions hurriedly set up defensive

blockades. They prepared their weapons and set up cars and tanks as

roadblocks. Piercing spotlights swept the darkening skies, searching for

the oncoming threat.

A droning, thunderous rumble echoed through the canyons of the city,

sounds reflected by the tall buildings. Policemen and soldiers tilted

the barrels of their guns high. Terrified people simply pointed their

fingers and stared upward.

Polly peered into the slice of sky visible between buildings and saw

an aerial invasion force unlike any she had ever imagined. A swarm of

strange flying machines cruised overhead, shaped not like aircraft, but

metal humans with legs pressed together and arms outstretched as wings.

The giant metal men cruised along under their own power, organized in a

tight formation descending over New York.

Polly ducked around the corner of a building as uniformed soldiers

ran past, their boots clattering on the wet sidewalk. They held rifles

and machine guns ready as if they were charging enemy trenches in the

Great War. Fifth Avenue was fast becoming a battle zone.

Moving with a reporter's automatic instincts, Polly had already

removed her camera, installed the electronic flash, and snapped a quick

photo of the mayhem. At least she had plenty of film. But she needed to

see more - and she had to get her story off to the Chronicle before any

other reporter got the scoop. By sheer dumb luck, because of her meeting

with Dr. Jennings, Polly Perkins was right in the thick of things.

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Kevin J. Anderson - Sky Captain & The World Of Tomorrow

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