Flames spread rapidly. Smoke poured out the door they left open while Rip, Blair and Twig walked down the street.

A head poked out of a nearby window as someone saw the smoke and yelled an alarm. What few men remaining in the neighborhood came running. Maybe half a dozen older men rushed to the scene. The Rangers ignored them, continuing back toward the intersection. No one seemed to care about them, with the fire attracting all the attention.

As they walked by the doorway where Blair had dispatched the guard, he stumbled out of the building rubbing the back of his head. He looked up and locked eyes with her, his expression instantly changing to rage.

“Why you little—”

“There’s a fire back there,” Rip interrupted him. “Better go see to it before it spreads.”

The man turned in the direction Rip pointed, where thick smoke now freely billowed up into the air. His face dropped and he raced off to join a bucket brigade forming in the street.

Rip and the others crossed the intersection, leaving Luddite territory. They headed straight for a pole with a phone box in a wooden box mounted on top with the word “POLICE” in thick white letters along the back.

Rip stopped and examined the phone, rubbing his chin in thought. He picked up the earpiece, taking it off the brass hook, and held it up to his ear.

“Hello? Hello?”

Twig cleared his throat and said, “You have to jiggle the hook a couple times, sir. Else there’s no way to let the operator know you need to make a connection.”

“Ah. I’ve never used one of these.”

Twig’s eyebrows shot up.

“Is that so? Are there no phones on your world, then?”

“Uh . . . yes, but not like this. Or at least, not anymore.”

Rip returned his attention to the phone and jiggled the hook.

He heard a click and a bored woman’s voice said, “Operator.”

“Patch me through to RVS HQ, please.”

“Would you speak up, love?”

“I said patch me through to RVS HQ, please!”

“Oh! Right away. And who should I say is calling in over there, love?”

“Ripley Coulter!”

He heard another click and the line went dead. He frowned at Blair, who seemed amused for some reason. She remained silent while Rip stewed and Twig seemed struck by thoughts of a parallel world.

Twig said, “So what are phones like where you come from, Sir Coulter?”

“Everyone carries one in their pockets.”

“Get back with you! How long are the cords?”

“There are no cords. We use radio signals. And the newest thing is to have a sub-dermal implant. Uh, that’s where the phone is on a chip that is placed under your skin and connects directly with your brain. I’ve got one, but it’s the military and our tech is always a few years ahead of consumer stuff. Mostly we used it for gaming.”

Twig looked genuinely astonished. In fact, he looked so flabbergasted that he did not even know where to pick up his line of questions.

This seemed to amuse Blair even more. She had learned to roll with Rip’s non sequiturs when discussing the other earth.

She said, “You must think we’re quite the barbarians, Muscles.”

“Actually, I’m impressed you’ve even got telephones. They were invented in my country, on my world.”

“Texas?”

“No—”

Before he could say anything more, the operator came back on the line.

“I’m patching you through to RVS, Mr. Coulter.”

Rip wondered if he should have let the woman know he was Sir Ripley Coulter. Was that a reverse faux pas? He was still a little dicey on some of the Umbrian social norms.

Another woman picked up and said, “RVS.”

“This is Ripley Coulter. I need a message sent to the Silver Comet.”

“Oh, yes sir! We’ve been waiting for your call. Go ahead.”

“Tell him, ‘Canvas top wagons, Ned’s Textiles.’”

“Is that all?”

“Yeah, we don’t know if they’re traveling together or not. That’s all we got. Should be relatively nearby. We think they’re moving slow, but we’re not sure in what direction.”

“Very good, sir. We will transmit this via wireless to him, right away!”

“Good. And will you please tell the police there is a fire at the Luddite’s headquarters?”

“A fire? Right away, sir!”

Rip hung the earpiece up, ending the connection.

“I can see the Silver Comet,” Blair said, pointing.

Rip looked up in the sky and nodded. More smoke drifted up in the air now.

Soon they heard the clanging bell on a fire wagon approaching. Around a corner, a water-laden wagon with a two-man hand pump on top rounded the bend, pulled by a six-horse team. Two firefighters sat up front, one of them driving the team and the other one hanging on for dear life. They both wore thick yellow overcoats and red duck-bill helmets.

Rip watched them trample by as the team raced for the fire, pulling hundreds of gallons of water on the wagon behind them. Four more men stood on the end, ready to pull the hose out and man the pump as soon as they arrived.

Above it all, above the six-horse team’s hooves clopping on the cobblestones and heavy steel-banded wooden wheels clattering, and the persistent banging of the alarm bell, a dog woofed furiously.

“Look! A Dalmatian!”

Rip pointed at the dog. It stood on top of the wagon, running in circles and barking in excitement.

The amused expression returned to Blair’s face as she turned to regard her husband.

“I think the dog impresses you more than the police phone.”

“I’ve just never seen it before. It’s one of those thing in the old picture books a kid might read, but . . . that was a real Dalmatian on the fire wagon! You just don’t see that where I’m from. At least, not anymore.”

Twig pointed up in the sky, where the dirigible caught the noon rays of the sun.

“Looks like our Mr. Powell has taken the egg up there.”

Rip frowned, unfamiliar with the slang. But he looked back up at the Silver Comet.

A flare shot out of the cabin, arcing out across the sky and slowly angling down.

“Yeah, that’s the signal,” Rip said. “Looks like he’s found at least one of the wagons. Okay, let’s go.”