Trapped!: The 2031 Journal of Otis Fitzmorgan (2 page)

Starting in the last century, the powerful Notable family had launched a campaign to convince Americans that private eyes
were a security threat. The Notabes had made a fortune by developing ways to clone humans—and they spent that money freely
on their pet cause. It took a few decades to finally get their message across, but private investigation had finally been
banned in the United States. Detectives had to either give up being detectives—or work for the government.

“I'm Otis Fitzmorgan,” I told him, bracing myself for the reaction I knew was coming.

“Fitzmorgan?” His bushy eyebrows shot up. “As in the Fitzmorgan and Moorie family of private investigators? So I was right—”

“I'm extremely proud of my name,” I interrupted, “but right now it's not important. I'm a Deputy Customs Official with the
Federal Space Agency. That means I check to make sure that nothing phony or dangerous gets on the Elevator. And this, I'm
sorry to say, qualifies as dangerous. I'm not going to allow it on board.”

Mr. Bennett's reaction caught me by surprise. His mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out. He gazed at the mammoth
steel doors behind my des, which led to the Climber, which moved up and down the Elevator ribbon. The doors were large enough
to easily fit the airplane, and they were currently open. A giant clock hung above them. It read:

Mr. Bennett's face collapsed and tears spurted out of his eyes. “But the elevator is the only way back down to Earth … and
I love this artwork so much!”

“Mr. Bennett!” I said, alarmed.

I knew I shouldn't be swayed by displays of emotion, but I was actually starting to feel sorry for him.

I glanced over at my supervisor, Ms. Jenkins, the customs guard who was clearing passengers at the desk next to mine. I indicated
that Mr. Bennett should step closer so that we couldn't be overheard. I said in a gentle tone, “I'll tell you what, Mr. Bennett.
Let me remove the power source from this … work of art. That way it won't go snapping anyone's head off. The 'bots will load
it into the storage area on Level 5. That level isn't accessible from the main part of the Elevator. It will be safe there.”

This seemed to soothe him. “Thank you,” he said, wiping away his tears. Then I noticed his thin lips forming a small smile.
He quickly covered it with his hand. For a second, I wondered if he'd been acting. But before I could say anything, he was
gone, rushing over to Ms. Jenkins's security checkpoint, where the other passengers were waiting to be cleared.

MR. BENNETT SMILED SLYLY.

I should've known better, I thought. I can sometimes judge a work of art better than I can judge a person.

Sighing, I called over a 'bot and asked him to put his two-ton arm on top of S
HARP
T
EETH
to keep the jaws from opening. I took a screwdriver from my belt and carefully removed the panel at the bottom of the teeth.
As I began disconnecting the wires from the battery, I felt a message come up through the floor and into my feet:

CLIMBER B DEPARTS FOR EARTH IN TEN MINUTES. ALL TICKETED PASSENGERS MUST BE ON BOARD AT THAT TIME.

I ignored this announcement as best I could, which wasn't easy since it was a “smart” message. Only passengers with Climber
B tickets like mine could receive it. The words traveled through the floor as vibrations, up the correct passengers' legs
and into their heads. There, the vibrations became sounds. It was a great way to keep noise down in the Terminal, but annoying
if you were trying to concentrate.

Two minutes later, I'd disconnected the last wire inside S
HARP
T
EETH
. I tossed the battery in the trash and removed my microprobe from a loop in my belt. It was about the size of a cereal spoon,
and I placed the thicker end lightly on the artwork. The probe made a gentle chime that let me know the procedure had been
successful. I had just given my DNA stamp of approval to S
HARP
T
EETH
. I signaled for a 'bot to load it onto the Climber.

Once it was gone, I turned my attention to the last item waiting for inspection. I had been saving this one as a special treat
for myself. I threw back the tarp.

Underneath was a larger-than-life marble statue that captured a moment just after the assassination of President Lincoln in
1865. Lincoln himself isn't part of it. Instead, it shows Mary Todd Lincoln reaching out toward John Wilkes Booth, who is
leaping backward as if to avoid her touch.

E
SCAPE BY A
H
AIR

Now, this was my kind of art! It was sculpted in 1866 by the famous artist Maginold Moylan. The lines were smooth and elegant,
and it actually made you feel something—besides queasy, like S
HARP
T
EETH
did. You could really see the anger and confusion on Mrs. Lincoln's face as she grabbed at Booth and just missed him.

It's easy to see why the statue's name is E
SCAPE BY A
H
AIR
.

Part of my job was to fill out a Condition Report for the valuable artworks. Filling in the blanks about the statue helped
me to determine if the piece was a fake or not.

As the sculpture was loaded onto the Elevator, I thought it was strange that “human hair” was listed as one of the materials.
Must have belonged to the artist, I decided.

ALL TICKETED PASSENGERS MUST BE ON BOARD AT THIS TIME.

Done just in time, I thought, as I received another Climber B ticket announcement. I glanced again at the clock above the
huge steel doors. It read:

I snapped off my plastic gloves. It was time for me to join my parents on board. I could see Ms. Jenkins was wrapping things
up and packing up her gear.

“Wait!” a female voice cried. “Come on, Dad!”

A teenager with curly blonde hair, and a short, plump man were rushing toward Ms. Jenkins.

“Now, now, let's not panic, dear,” the man told his daughter. As he followed her, he read from a pamphlet about the Elevator.
“Did you know the Elevator is more than 60,000 miles high? That's like going from New York to Los Angeles and back—ten times.
No wonder the trip taxes six days!”

Without a word, Ms. Jenkins cleared the girl and her father through customs.

But when they passed within a few feet of me, I jerked around. I raised my hand urgently to get Ms. Jenkins's attention. Her
head snapped up, and I signaled for her to stop them. Something definitely wasn't right.

“Halt!” Ms. Jenkins bellowed. She placed a hand on the shock stick slung through a loop in her belt. The man noticed this
and started to squeak in terror.

The girl stepped in front of him protectively.

There was no reason to threaten such force. I didn't want things to get violent. I rushed over to them. “Hold on!” I called
to Ms. Jenkins.

MS. JENKINS PULLED OUT HER SHOCK STICK.

“Let me handle this,” Ms. Jenkins told me and grabbed my arm to pull me back from the man and girl. As she did, I caught a
whiff of Ms. Jenkins's petunia-scented perfume.

Her grip was strong, and I spun around. Ms journal—this journal—flew from my pocket and landed on the floor with a thud! And
the mini DogBot I use as a lock flicked off.

About the size of a large box of matches, the 'bot instantly leaped to life. DogBots were the most popular holiday gift a
few years back, and it had been almost impossible to find one. Then it seemed like they were everywhere, and suddenly, people
didn't want them anymore. Not me. I had given mine as much artificial intelligence as his little circuits could hold. He was
a kind of pet and went everywhere with me. His brown bio-real eyes—which looked like a baby seal's—clicked open.

TEDDY

“Teddy, stop it!” I commanded. But Teddy was cranky at being so rudely awakened and wasn't listening to me. He bounced about
like a flea on his little steel legs.

“Nice toy,” the girl said sarcastically, eyeing Teddy. “I think I had one of those when I was four.”

But she was nervous. I could tell by the way she was flipping through the pages of my journal without looking down at what
she was doing. I wanted desperately to snatch the journal out of her hands, but I was worried that I would just draw more
attention to it.

Meanwhile, Teddy was facing off with Ms. Jenkins's shoes. They were the new kind that had high heels in the front. It made
my shins hurt just looking at them, but I guess some people will do anything for fashion.

“Do you mind?” Ms. Jenkins asked me.