security cutters still in close pursuit, Gitana launched him breathtakingly high above Cellular, then sent him streaking across the grid like a meteor. Felix watched the Ribbon, the Peerless Castle, and the dreaded Escarpment disappear below him, and all at once found himself free-falling toward a nondescript eight-sided construct located in the Wilds of the Network.
“Drop the data bundle into the octagon,” Gitana said without his usual calm. “Drop it now! Hurry!”
Harwood Strange was widely profiled on the Network, but if he had an e-address or a phone number, they were either unregistered or listed under a different name. Stumped, Tech and Marz had set about locating and downloading a copy of Strange's
Mystery Notes
DVD-ROM. Fleetingly popular a decade earlier, the self-published interactive album featured track after track of extraordinary music, each composition linked to various Network sites. Contact information provided with the album had given the brothers a starting point for tracing Strange's current whereabouts.
On learning that he lived in eastern Long Island, only an hour's monorail ride from the group home, they had decided to pay him a personal visit.
School would have to wait.
The town was small and weather-beaten, the shingled homes bleached gray by the nearby ocean. From the elevated monorail, Tech and Marz had gotten glimpses of working farms, fruit stands, vineyards, and fishing boats returning with fresh catch. The first hint of spring was visible in the green lawns that fronted enchanting homes. Surveillance cameras were obvious at the monorail station, but scarce in the town itself. Painted signs posted in the central square warned against loitering, boarding, ‘blading, and noise. A plastic playground sat inside a circle of cushioning material.
Strange's address corresponded to an apartment over a bait store in sore need of renovation. A creaky, dilapidated exterior staircase ended at a door stripped bare by wind and salt spray. The boys picked their way to the top and, after a moment of hesitation, knocked.
The man who eventually answered was a stooped giant with long, unruly gray hair and a thick beard. He was wearing a hooded cloth bathrobe that was spattered with either different colors of paint or various foodstuffs—egg yellow, strawberry red, coffee brown, jalapeño green. Hegave his head a sudden tilt that slid wire-rimmed glasses to the tip of his long nose, and he looked Tech and Marz up and down.
“The lawn doesn't need mowing and the windows don't need washing.”
The boys traded glances. “We don't do that kind of work,” Marz said.
“Well, you should think about doing it. You can make good money.” His gray eyes narrowed behind the rectangular lenses of his glasses. “Don't tell me you're selling cookies.”
“We're not selling anything or collecting for anything,” Tech said.
“Then I can only assume that you're lost.”
“Not even—if this is 466 Maple,” Marz told him.
The man twisted around to regard the rusted numbers nailed above the door, then eyed the brothers once more while he scratched at his beard.
“Are you Mystery Notes?” Tech asked.
The man's eyes widened, and a short laugh escaped him. “Ah, right to the point, I see.”
“I'm Tech. This is my brother, Marz.”
Strange squinted at them, scrutinizing Tech's blond hair and Marz's nut-brown face and curly dark hair. “You two are brothers?”
Tech gave his standard reply. “We were designed to be different.”
“Tech and Marz?” Strange said skeptically. “Those sound like robot names. And yet you appear to be flesh and blood.”
“We're cyberflyers,” Marz said, staring atStrange as if he were a comic superhero come to life. “Tech and Marz are our user names.”
“‘Robots in disguise,’ “Strange sang, then straightened somewhat and rubbed his bearded chin. “What exactly brought you to my humble abode, Tech and Marz?”
Marz held up the minidisk.
“Drop the data bundle into the octagon,” Gitana said without his usual calm. “Drop it now! Hurry!”
Harwood Strange was widely profiled on the Network, but if he had an e-address or a phone number, they were either unregistered or listed under a different name. Stumped, Tech and Marz had set about locating and downloading a copy of Strange's
Mystery Notes
DVD-ROM. Fleetingly popular a decade earlier, the self-published interactive album featured track after track of extraordinary music, each composition linked to various Network sites. Contact information provided with the album had given the brothers a starting point for tracing Strange's current whereabouts.
On learning that he lived in eastern Long Island, only an hour's monorail ride from the group home, they had decided to pay him a personal visit.
School would have to wait.
The town was small and weather-beaten, the shingled homes bleached gray by the nearby ocean. From the elevated monorail, Tech and Marz had gotten glimpses of working farms, fruit stands, vineyards, and fishing boats returning with fresh catch. The first hint of spring was visible in the green lawns that fronted enchanting homes. Surveillance cameras were obvious at the monorail station, but scarce in the town itself. Painted signs posted in the central square warned against loitering, boarding, ‘blading, and noise. A plastic playground sat inside a circle of cushioning material.
Strange's address corresponded to an apartment over a bait store in sore need of renovation. A creaky, dilapidated exterior staircase ended at a door stripped bare by wind and salt spray. The boys picked their way to the top and, after a moment of hesitation, knocked.
The man who eventually answered was a stooped giant with long, unruly gray hair and a thick beard. He was wearing a hooded cloth bathrobe that was spattered with either different colors of paint or various foodstuffs—egg yellow, strawberry red, coffee brown, jalapeño green. Hegave his head a sudden tilt that slid wire-rimmed glasses to the tip of his long nose, and he looked Tech and Marz up and down.
“The lawn doesn't need mowing and the windows don't need washing.”
The boys traded glances. “We don't do that kind of work,” Marz said.
“Well, you should think about doing it. You can make good money.” His gray eyes narrowed behind the rectangular lenses of his glasses. “Don't tell me you're selling cookies.”
“We're not selling anything or collecting for anything,” Tech said.
“Then I can only assume that you're lost.”
“Not even—if this is 466 Maple,” Marz told him.
The man twisted around to regard the rusted numbers nailed above the door, then eyed the brothers once more while he scratched at his beard.
“Are you Mystery Notes?” Tech asked.
The man's eyes widened, and a short laugh escaped him. “Ah, right to the point, I see.”
“I'm Tech. This is my brother, Marz.”
Strange squinted at them, scrutinizing Tech's blond hair and Marz's nut-brown face and curly dark hair. “You two are brothers?”
Tech gave his standard reply. “We were designed to be different.”
“Tech and Marz?” Strange said skeptically. “Those sound like robot names. And yet you appear to be flesh and blood.”
“We're cyberflyers,” Marz said, staring atStrange as if he were a comic superhero come to life. “Tech and Marz are our user names.”
“‘Robots in disguise,’ “Strange sang, then straightened somewhat and rubbed his bearded chin. “What exactly brought you to my humble abode, Tech and Marz?”
Marz held up the minidisk.
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