Chapter Three

“The Call of the Bureau”

1.

IT WAS FAR FROM the kind of town that noticed people drifting in. From afar it had appeared a derelict—almost devoid of citizens, but up close Souptown was as raucous and full of life as the most brazen outskirts of the Gin Alleys of London. As they closed in, the toy-town figures that stumbled in the streets had resolved into rough, solid figures, either drunk or rambling as they made their way from one den of iniquity to another. To Bedford’s mind it was like something out of Hogarth; to Enderby’s a torrent of danger that had to be consistently observed for the next possible threat. Annabelle, for her part, rather enjoyed the rambunctiousness of it all, feeling no more danger here than she had on the deserts plains of Mars or the swamps of Venus.

They knew they should not ask questions. To do so would be a fatal mistake; this was the kind of hideaway where bank robbers, thieves and murderers would come to lay low for a while, and those with a few more pennies in their pocket would travel, unseen, to sample more illicit pleasures. Some days later they would ride home, poorer and with heads hung low, to hide their shamefaced sins from their wives and children in neater, more accustomed climes. Enderby had been clear—for the moment the only thing they should dare do was observe, and only make their move when the time was right and the situation wholly in their favour.

It was an almost unconscious decision between the adventuring trio that they should move towards the busiest place in the town, where they could dig themselves in and find camouflage amongst the reprobates. This, naturally, had been the saloon, whose double swing doors at the front were comprised of an old tea tray and a plank of wood held to the doorframe with a pair of rusted hinges. A creaking mezzanine looked out over the broad street, and on its balcony sat whores of distinctly varying ages and genders, all in a state of uncaring undress.

Bedford pushed his way in first. Under the dark, low ceiling a piano player tinkled tunelessly in one corner, somehow managing to cut through the cacophony of cackling and scraped chair-legs that blared from every table in the room. At one side, three grizzled men played five finger fillet, the snip of the knife on the bloodstained tabletop only occasionally interrupted by a yelp of pain and the mocking calls of the winners.

They found a table at the front of the bar, on which was slumped a snoozing old prospector who had his fingers gripped tightly around a cloudy, half-empty bottle of whiskey. Trying not to disturb him, the trio sat, thankful that the other lush and grimy indulgences of the place had masked their sneaking inside.

“Let’s stay here for a while,” said Enderby quietly. “At least make our faces known. We might even pick up a hint or two. I doubt this is the kind of place that quietens after the sun sets, but with all the hullabaloo some sneaking around won’t be noticed, not by these degenerates.”

“Limey… Limey son of a bitch,” mumbled the prostrate prospector, giddily raising his head to look up at Enderby. The spy, quickly and efficiently, slipped the bottle out from his insensate hands and picked it up before bringing the base down solidly on the back of the man’s dirty, matted skull, which clunked back down to the tabletop.

“Let’s get some drinks in, eh?” he continued. “Frank, if you’d do the honours?”

“I think,” began Annabelle, “in terms of the local accent…”

“Yes, yes,” cut in Enderby. “You’re quite the go-to gal. However, we don’t want people looking too closely at your face if we can avoid it. Which, in this instance, we can. Pip pip, Frank.” He winked at Bedford.

Bedford stood and looked down at Annabelle, who had crossed her arms and was fuming silently. Somewhat helplessly, he started to make his way towards the bar but his progress was shortly curtailed by a commotion that erupted at the doors of the saloon.

A man with a greying beard like Methuselah’s, decked in a wide floppy hat and braces over his dirty shirt, had burst in. “Hoo-ee!” he hollered as he slapped his knee, and even the piano player stopped to listen to him. “They done gone did it, boys, they gone done caught Harry Mackett! Bring your glasses and your lasses and get your asses to the court house! We’re gonna have ourselves a hanging!”

2.

TALLY HAD RETURNED HOME, a rather grand old building in the south London suburb of Herne Hill, to find a telegram awaiting him. It had been provided to him by the Bureau along with Mrs Drummond, a fussy housekeeper in her sixties with an expansive bosom and a penchant for mothering. It was she who handed him the missive, and he had retired to his room to read it with no small sense of foreboding.

This feeling of agitation had hardly subsided after he had read the note, which demanded he formally report to the Chancery Lane offices of the Bureau at 8am the following morning.

Once more he had been led through the maze of locked doors and ante-rooms to Tooler’s door, only this time he hadn’t had the pleasure of following Miss Baker’s heart-shaped behind on the way. Even if he had, he doubted he was in the mood to appreciate it. Seemingly for his benefit alone, a basic wooden chair had been left just beside the door, and it was on this he sat as he waited, fretting and jiggling his leg and starting up at every sound that echoed down the corridor. Tally had never been much of a one for school, but he imagined this must be what it felt like to be called to the headmaster’s office.

It wasn’t, after all, like Tally had been on his best behaviour since joining the Bureau.

Firstly there was his visit to Arnaud the other day. While there was nothing, technically preventing him from doing so he was as sure as sure could be that the unlicensed investigation into Nathaniel’s disappearance would not be looked upon fondly. Tally wouldn’t have worried so much if he hadn’t have delivered the aleksandrite, but that coupled with Nathaniel’s vanishing act sure had him feeling edgy.

Deep down, Tally knew his friend could handle himself, though he’d prefer to be there to give the professor a hand should the need arise. Book smarts and university degrees were all well and good, but when it came to a ruckus the world that Tally had grown up in had given him a far more hands-on education. It was, in part, his continuing links with that world that was also causing Tally no small worry. He wasn’t bold enough to assume that his presence in Dublin had stopped sectarian violence from spiralling out of control, but since his departure it did seem that the situation had worsened somewhat. It sickened Tally—sure, he wanted to see his mother country free from the empire’s yoke, but killing innocents to make it happen made his countrymen no better than the vandals that had stamped across his land some four hundred years ago. The only way forward, he believed, was with words and open discourse.

He had tried, in his own small way, to minimise casualties on both sides. He’d seen enough of dead bodies by the time he was eight years old, and he be damned if he didn’t do whatever he could to see no more blood seeping into Dublin’s cobblestones. Not all of his countrymen had wholly agreed with his approach, which is why the Bureau had spirited him away in the first place. But Tally wasn’t the kind of man to rest on his laurels, and when he’d read in The Times of an increasing tension back home he’d surreptitiously started putting a few feelers out to contacts he had in the city that thought very much as he did. He’d just passed on a bit of the old info here and there, the names of a few trusted sympathisers on both sides or those the right authorities should probably be keeping a keen eye on. Jaysus, it wasn’t like he was starting a revolution, and if he’d just met a couple of old friends in the pub and had a chat, what of it?

In retrospect he should have been more careful, perhaps employed some of the clandestine tactics he’d read about in the small black manual he’d been given as part of his induction. He was, after all, the proud son of a land that had been making merry hell for the empire of late. Perhaps he had been naïve, but there was no reason to believe one of Tooler’s agents hadn’t been keeping tabs on the new boy. But Tooler, he knew, was a reasonable man. He was sure that, given enough time to explain and assuming he could muster the front, he could convince the director that the path he was trying to make his fellow countrymen follow was the right one. That is, if he wasn’t booted out on his backside first. Or shot for treason. He wondered if he’d feel less nervous if he knew for certain exactly why he was about to be hauled across the coals.

He had been sitting there for a good fifteen minutes before the door clicked open and Tooler’s head popped out. His face was impassive, but Tally didn’t read too much into that. From his limited experience with the Bureau director thus far, it was the face he wore pretty much all of the time. When he did break out into some sort of emotion—more often than not it was a kind of charmed glee—the expression on his face looked twice as pronounced as it needed to be, as if the feeling had been storing itself up under all that stoicism. He wondered what would happen if the ol’ man lost his temper. Tally guessed it wouldn’t be pretty, but took solace in the fact he couldn’t actually imagine it happening all that often, if at all.

As with the last time he had visited, he took a seat across from Tooler in the Big Room. He couldn’t tell if the mess on the desk and the books and files propped up on the music stands were the same ones as the last time he visited or a whole new mishmash. One thing, however, definitely hadn’t been there before—a small alcove recessed into the wall to the right of Tooler’s chair, in which sat a couple of crystal glasses and decanters on a silver tray. Was it hidden before, or had it been actually cut from the wall in the interim since his last meeting here? Sure was strange, but Tally didn’t have a whole lot of worry left for such an inconsequential detail. Tooler indicated the drink with a nod of his head.

“You’re welcome if you’d like a dram, Mister Cahalleret.”

“Ah, no thank you, sir. Little early for me.”

“Quite so, quite so.” Tooler smiled and Tally felt he’d at least passed that little test. “I’m sure Miss Baker will bring us some tea presently. Until she does, however, shall we proceed to business?”

“I’d be in your debt if we did, Mister Tooler. Just between you, me an’ the garden post, I’ve been fretting about such business since I received your telegram.”

“As well you should, Tally. As well you should.”

Tally felt his stomach sink a fathom or two. Tooler leaned back in his chair archly, steepling his fingers and gazing impassively at Tally over the rims of his pince-nez. Tally stared back. If he was going to be fired, or killed, or sent back to Dublin to be fed to the dogs then so be it. He sure as hell didn’t like it but the last thing he was going to do was cower. His ma had always taught him that—your dignity was your own unless you let someone take it from you, and Tally wasn’t about to let that happen.

3.

LE BOEUF COULD NOT tolerate delays; alas, in his line of work, such things often happened. Were it up to him he would do everything himself, but he could not possibly exist in three places at the same time. He was needed in Russia, to ensure Count Dorokov did not exceed his relatively high position, but Le Boeuf’s presence in England was of far more importance. The last time he had trusted someone to handle Stone and those closest to him had almost ended in Stone’s death—twice! First in Dublin and then in Calcutta. Already, once, it seemed as if fate had intervened and taken Stone out of his hands when he had apparently drowned in the Thames back at the start of the year, but Le Boeuf later learned it was a lie to keep Stone’s activities a secret. Once again Le Boeuf swore his vengeance on Stone; the man would be destroyed, not killed. It was pity Tereshkov did not understand this. As if attempting to blow Stone to pieces wasn’t bad enough, the idiot then gave explicit orders for Stone to die at the hands of that monstrosity Potsdam. Never trust a madman. Doing so was not without its benefits, especially when the madman was a genius like Vladimir Tereshkov, but it was a gamble. Fortunately Le Boeuf would not need to worry about Tereshkov any longer—that man was far beyond his reach now. Beyond the reach of anyone, for that matter.

Unlike his agents in Arizona. The Soup Twins; opportunists the two of them—so unreliable, but an unfortunate necessity at times. They thought they were clever, siphoning off aleksandrite during the operation in Arizona. They thought he didn’t know, liked to think themselves mayors of their little bandit town, but there was also those who were easily bought off and willing to share information. He had bided his time; after all there were much bigger things to concern him than a couple of bandits. But in recent weeks word had reached him about their attempts to make another Potsdam. It couldn’t be allowed. They were a weak link, and had to be removed—far too much was at stake.

4.

ALL OF THE PATRONS in the saloon rose as one and began to file through the jury-rigged doors in an oddly decorous silence. There were smatterings of hushed excited whispers here and there between menfolk, and to Annabelle it evoked the civility of the pavilion at Lord’s more than the lawlessness of some small-time outlaw town. Sticking to the back of the crowd, George, Annabelle and Enderby followed suit.

Outside, the sun had continued to rise in the sky, heating the water in the clouds and the air, but choking any rainfall. The day was now muggy and thick, the sky full of insects, the low shuffle of feet making their way to the gallows drowning out the buzz of tiny wings.

The gallows were set up as part of the curious ironworking factory the trio had noticed upon their approach. At the front, it looked like a rectangle had been cut from the corner of the building’s rough cuboidal shape, a heavy brass door set into the wall made at the back. Now they were closer, they could see the factory and the Soup Twins’ grand mansion were joined where they met at the corner, the ugly steel plating suddenly giving way to marble tinged with the redness of the ever-present dust.

In the centre of the gangway stood the gallows.

They were ornate, built of good wood and polished brass, with cogs and gears jutting from a box installed at the corner. Despite these brave and hideous scientific advances, the noose was very much of the old design. Rough, strong hemp wasn’t meant to be comfortable around the neck.

There was a clank and the flywheel at the centre of the brass door span for a moment. The door creaked on heavy hinges dried tight by the sun, and out into the day strode the Soup Twins themselves to a gentle ripple of applause from the audience.

Enderby had not been wrong—the two were eerily similar in looks. Their movements on the balcony, however, were markedly different. One twin strode forward to the very edge and bowed with mock humility while the other skulked at the back, his arms crossed and a frown on his face. They were both tall, full-faced and corpulent with piggy little eyes and dewlaps, and both wore the same spotless white suit and bolo tie with a large chain of office hung about their necks. Both had the same neat goatees and slicked-back hair.

As the gregarious brother continued to mollify the crowd, other figures appeared in the doorway behind them. The ones at either side were bulky, hulking—she could not be sure, but Annabelle wondered if she didn’t recognise Potsdam’s grotesque gait in there somewhere. It was difficult to be sure due to the distance, and the fact they were wearing long black robes with curiously pointed hoods, a red cross embroidered in the space between the slits of their eyeholes. Between them they carried a raggedy, panicking man who, despite his bleeding and bruises, continued to fight against the grip of the behemoths. They manhandled him into place and attempted to get the noose around his struggling head.

“Ladies and gentlemen, esteemed citizens of Souptown,” began the more sociable twin, clutching his lapel as he began to stride about his little stage. His voice was tinged with the slightly unconvincing sincerity of a small-town lawyer. “You know that, above everything else, my brother Casey and myself have the safety and security of our town at stake. We go to great lengths—dangerous and I say perilous lengths, ladies and gentlemen, to keep the peace here and ensure we are untroubled by pious men of law or the savagery of the native Red Indians. And to keep such a peace, some sacrifices must be made!” He shook his right index finger stiffly in the air before him “I say some sacrifices must be made! When the code that we keep in our precious little community is broken, those who break it must make their sacrifice, and ensure…I say ensure the safety and liberty of those that they betray is maintained!”

There was a cheer of approval. The two cloaked figures had now managed to secure the rope around the ragged man’s neck. He whimpered and prayed in a hurried pathetic tone as the two brutes stepped away.

“But we are not savages!” continued the irrepressible Eustace Campbell. “And though we are outside the law it does not mean we are not subject to it. Brother Casey!”

Casey Campbell straightened himself up, dusted himself down and strode across to the side of the gallows where a small stool had been set up for him. He flicked his coat tails behind him and sat, still silent.

“As is tradition in these situations, we give final say to good brother Casey, a most merciful and perspicacious judge of a man’s sacred soul, his most precious possession. Good brother Casey, this man has made a transgression against our code. Can you find it in your heart to show him clemency?”

Casey leaned back slightly on his stool and made a show of pondering the question. He stuck his arm out straight before him, bunched his fingers into a fist and let the thumb jut out parallel to the floor. He held the gesture for a brief moment, and the only sound that could be heard was the panic of the man with the rope around his neck. Slowly, Casey began to turn his thumb downwards.

“Oh, brother Casey has decided that Mister Mackett’s crime is far too heinous to be forgiven. Sorry, Harry, but it done gone looks like your luck’s ran out on ya.”

Casey reached across beside him to a large lever inset into the side of the gallows. He gripped the release at the head of the handle and yanked it down.

An unseen trap door released under the condemned man’s legs, and he tumbled down into the darkness of the factory building in a flash. There was a pause, and then, horrifyingly, a blood-curdling scream came from the clanking bowels of the insidious factory. It echoed around the walls of the square, coming to rest as a chilling afterthought that still seemed to rattle around the ears in the silence.

“And so is our justice done,” said Eustace. “And now, if you will all join me in a couple of rousing verses of The Battle Hymn of the Republic, I’d be most obliged.” He produced a little tuning pipe and blew it briefly, then all the members of the lynching party began to sing together.

“Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord,

He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored!

He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword,

His truth is marching on…”

5.

“WHY DO YOU THINK we decided to employ your services, Mister Cahalleret?”

Tally didn’t answer straight away. He sat back and thought for a moment, and tried not to sound too bellicose when he answered. “Because, sir, I think you saw in me a set of skills that your service could employ.”

“Quite so, quite so, Mister Cahalleret. An excellent answer, if I may say so, for you are quite right. Now, let me ask you a rather more hypothetical question. As your employer, do you not think that, having employed you for said skills, we should rather be the ones who profit solely from their practice in this wide and uncertain world of ours?”

Ah, corks! Rumbled. But for what? He once more waited a moment before answering. No point rushing headlong into this, so he considered his response. “Well, that’s an excellent philosophical and socio-political point yer raisin’ there, Mister Tooler. Your own country may be said owns mine, but can any men truly be owned beyond the confines of his own skull? Is my freedom dictated by you, or by meself? It’s a stumper.”

Tooler laughed heartily, and Tally rather nervously joined him. “My my, Tally. You are a tonic, I’ll give you that.”

“What I’m saying is, sir, is that any misdemeanour I may have committed of late—and I’m not saying I did, mind—but if I did then I’m sure I’d be smart enough not to do something to put my standing with yerself or my position here in an jeopardy. Taking in the bigger picture, so to speak.”

“Indeed. A sensible attitude, I might observe.”

“That you might, sir.”

“And one, I hasten to add, that stood you in no small standing when we initially decided to take you on. So having said that, do you not think I would trust you to do the right thing?”

“I wouldn’t presume so, no sir.”

“Then we are on the same page. More so than you might think, in fact. I must commend you on your meeting, then, several nights past with one Mister MacLochlainn, late of Galway, and one prior to this with a gentleman named O’Davey from Cork.”

“Ah, it was just a bit of a catch up and a scoop with a friend or two from back home. Sure there’s no harm in it.”

“Now now, Mister Cahalleret. I’d be obliged if you did not push your luck. I am well aware of the nature of your so-called ‘catch-ups’, and should you assume I do not you may find my sensibilities, let alone my intelligence, somewhat offended.”

“Right so, sir. Duly noted.”

“I’m glad you understand. We are indeed a Secret Service, but that does not mean we do not cherish honesty within our walls. Quite the contrary, in fact. A little free rein in the execution of your duties is one thing, but underhand tactics and lying by omission are quite another. I hope I am making myself clear.”

“As a crystal ball, sir.”

“Good. Had you informed me of your intentions beforehand, I can assure you that any effect you may have had on the politics of your homeland would have been increased exponentially. We did not employ you solely for your skills, Mister Cahalleret, but also your contacts and the trust you have built with them. Believe it or not, but here at the Bureau we no more wish to see Ireland descend into violence than you, and we are far better equipped to see that that does not occur. We too like to look at the bigger picture, and as far as your homeland is concerned you have a larger part we would like to see you play in such plans. Thankfully, you appear to have already begun, and so while you should consider yourself very much admonished for your means, I thank you for your perspicacity in relation to the ends.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You must trust me, Tally.”

“Oh, I do, sir.”

Tooler’s eyes narrowed, the look shrewd and very much one of warning. “No, Mister Cahalleret, you do not.” His voice was stern, as cold as frost. “And I appreciate your reluctance to do so. It shows character and caution, traits which I cherish in my agents. Traits which also, I might add, you will need upon your next assignment.”

“I’ll do my best, sir.”

“I know you will, Tally. I know. For the moment, however, you must put the thoughts of helping your countrymen to the back of your mind. I give you my word that I will do everything in my power to ensure those in Ireland, no matter their political affiliation, come to no harm. As I say, we are working towards the same ends in that regard. I might point out, however, that had you come to me before striking off on your own there, your position on the matter would be rather more tenable. Do you understand, Tally?”

“I do, sir.”

Tooler beamed and sat back up. “Well then! Time for tea.”

Miss Baker entered without knocking, and from somewhere in the recesses under his desk Tooler pulled out a rectangular silver frame, roughly the size of a large book. It had four long legs at the corners that ended with a polished sphere of pewter, and he dug these legs into the chaos on his desk and shunted it side-to-side like he was panning for gold. When he was confident it was stable he gestured for Miss Baker to place the tea tray on top of the framework. Tally got a brisk whiff of her perfume as she bent over, a floral and citrus scent that seemed charged with femininity. She smiled at him with those rosebud lips as he straightened up and let herself out, having said not even a word.

Tooler poured milk into the two china cups that sat on the tray, fine bone china patterned with green and pink ribbons around the rim. As he poured the tea from the matching pot he spoke without looking up.

“I take it you’ve heard about gravitar?” he asked.

“I’ve been following it in the papers, sir, yes. Sure, everybody wants a piece of it. I’d say it was worth its weight in gold, only I reckon I’d be doing the stuff a disservice.”

“Quite so, quite so.” He passed the cup across to Tally, who took it gratefully. Christ, he’d only just become aware how dry his throat was, and he sipped at it gratefully. “Did it never occur to you to question how we managed to maintain Earth’s gravity on the decks of Sovereign?”

“Not at the time, sir. But I was rather distracted.” He pulled up the sleeve of his suit jacket to indicate the small metal splints that had been strapped to his arm with bandages. The plaster of Paris had been removed at the end of the previous week, and these straps served as a small precaution until his strength had fully recovered.

“Of course. How gauche of me. Well, as you may have inferred by some of the more lurid reports in the less respectable newspapers, gravitar is the very element that allows us to create a gravity field within Sovereign. The physics of it all are, I’m afraid, beyond me, but without it aether travel is a far less pleasant business. Our knowledge of the substance has been a state secret for some considerable time. The crew on Sovereign have all signed the Official Secrets Act, of course, and while it’s not impossible that some improvident rating has blabbed about Sovereign’s gravity field, it is highly unlike they would know its cause. Our current assumption is that the news of gravitar’s existence has been leaked by either the Russians or Austro-Hungarians, the only other powers besides ourselves currently utilising it.”

“Stirring the pot, eh sir?”

“Succinctly put, Tally, if not rather an understatement. The government, and by extension our Bureau, has come under considerable fire for not sharing this discovery with the rest of the world. The pros and cons of us doing so are now rather a moot point, so let’s not waste our time with them. Though my money is on the Russians, the honour of Austria-Hungary is being called into question by the powers that be, and I assure you it is in our best interests that our pact with them remains unbroken. This has not stopped many of the aether-faring powers making moves to get their own share of the substance, which may, I am sorry to say, have a rather destabilising effect on the balance of power in the world as we currently know it. We’d prefer for that not to happen.”

“Of course, sir.”

“I’m glad you appreciate the seriousness, not to say delicateness, of the situation. I must admit that this leak caught us totally off guard, and we are currently implementing some precautionary measures across the globe to ensure order be maintained. And speaking of which, how is Doctor Fontaine getting on? Better? Hmm?”

Tally blanched. He thought he’d got away with that one, and the fact Tooler brought it up from nowhere had wrong-footed the Irishman who had to do his best not to spill his tea. “Well sir, he…”

Tooler waved him off before he could finish the sentence, or come up with an even semi-plausible excuse. “The question was rhetorical, Tally. I know precisely how Doctor Fontaine is getting on. Your search for Professor Stone has been admirable, and I am well aware it comes from concern for your friend rather than any ulterior motive. Once again, however, you may have saved yourself a lot of time and effort had you simply come to me.”

“Wait… You know where Nate is? All this time you knew I was looking and you didn’t bloody well think of telling me?”

“Please, Tally. Calm down. Of course I was to tell you, but only when the time was right. That time is now. The professor is currently working at Otterbein Base on Luna.” Tally’s eyes widened. “Yes, yes, I know. The Luna Treaty. Nobody’s meant to be there, I know, but I can assure you the Admiralty very much took the lead on setting all that up, and so it is them who shall be responsible should the world discover our…shall we say, indiscretion concerning the moon. The fact is Professor Stone’s research into the properties of aleksandrite is vital to the empire’s future. If the leak of gravitar does indeed have the troubling repercussions that we predict, we must be ready. I know you don’t like it, Tally, but currently aleksandrite is crucial to that readiness.”

“You’re right that I don’t like it, sir. I don’t like it one little bit.”

“Your concern is noted, Tally,” said Tooler sternly. “But it should not cloud your vision on your assignment. Once again, Tally, I ask you to trust me. Our plans are solely concerned with minimising any potential loss of life. The results of the trust I now ask of you may not be immediately apparent—indeed, if all goes to plan then they may never become apparent at all, for the disaster that we see looming will not come to fruition. So long as you take my word for it, and trust me.” There was a sincerity in his eyes that Tally regarded coolly for a moment. The man was either on the level or one of the most exceptional liars he had ever encountered, and Tally wouldn’t like to have put money on either being the case. But what other choice did he have? “Anyway,” continued Tooler. “I take it you want to see Professor Stone again, yes? Excellent. We’ve already sent all the necessary documents and equipment to your Herne Hill address. Get your space legs ready, Tally. Tomorrow, you fly to Luna.”