Doctor Fung and Dan Barrister followed the porter along the platform beside the train that would soon whisk them to Chicago. The Santa Fe Railroad's Super Chief was the last word in technology and style—​a hotel on wheels. Its sleek unpainted metal made it look more like an airplane than anything meant to move over land.

At the front of the train, two railroad employees manhandled a large wooden crate into the baggage car. It was covered in stickers and stencilled writing, as though it had already been on a long journey. It was almost too large to fit through the door, though it seemed light enough for one man to lift.

The porter stopped by the door of one of the sleeping cars. "Anything to go in the baggage car, sirs?"

"No, thank you," said Doctor Fung. "We believe in travelling light."

The porter picked up their suitcases. "Then let me take these to your room." They boarded the car and walked along the corridor, past closed doors with numbers on. They stopped outside number six, and the porter slid it open. He stepped inside and flipped on the light.

It was one of the most luxurious hotel rooms Dan had ever seen, and at the same time, one of the smallest. Not surprising, really, considering it was on a train made by Pullman. There was even a radio built into the wall at the head of one of the beds.

The porter lifted their suitcases into the overhead racks. The Doctor tipped him, and he left, closing the door behind him. Dan sat on one of the beds—​firm, yet comfortable. The Doctor remained standing for a few moments, then opened the door and looked both ways along the corridor. Apparently satisfied that nobody was eavesdropping, he closed the door and sat in the chair by the little table under the window.

"Assuming our trains are not delayed," said Doctor Fung, "we will be in New York City on Friday morning. That gives us two days of sightseeing before the meeting."

"What do you think this meeting's going to be about, then?" Dan asked. Their invitation had arrived in two parts. The first had been given to them two weeks ago by a man who'd been working as a driver for an Army officer, but who was evidently more important than that. His message had invited the Doctor and Dan to a meeting on Madison Avenue in New York City in March, but had not given the day or the street number. On Saturday, a dispatch rider had come to their hotel with the missing pieces—​the day was the 8th, this coming Sunday, and the street number was 335. He'd also brought first class tickets for the sleeper services.

"It seems obvious that it must be connected with the war effort," the Doctor replied. "Otherwise the pieces of the invitation would not have been delivered by military men. And it must be something large-scale or strategic. Otherwise the host would not have asked us to go three thousand miles out of our way."

"What do we know about military strategy?" Dan asked, before remembering that he probably knew less about the Doctor than he'd thought he did.

"I can cite Caesar and Sun Tzu. But so, I imagine, can our generals." He shrugged. "I expect that we are to be but two guests among many."

"You think it's anything to do with the Connaught Accords?"

The Doctor's expression darkened. "My friend, it is unwise to speak of such things in these surroundings. We should not permit thoughts of the destination to disrupt the enjoyment of the journey." He tilted his head. "Particularly not when someone else is paying for it."

"On that note," Dan said, "I'm going to get a beer. You want anything?"

The Doctor gave the slightest of frowns. "You know that I consider the consumption of intoxicants to be unwise. But as we have nothing to do until we reach Chicago, I judge there to be no risk to you on this occasion."

"You could've just said, No, thanks."

The frown turned into a smile. "You know me better than that."

Dan went along the corridor towards the front of the train. He passed through the dining car, currently empty, and into a car that served as a lounge and bar. This was full, mostly of the kind of people who seemed to have made a profession out of being visible, and the kind of people who helped them to be visible. Dan thought he recognised the braying young woman in the middle of the throng from a few B-movies. The bored-looking man on her arm was doubtless her future ex-husband.

Dan elbowed his way to the bar and bought a beer. At fifty cents, it was expensive even for LA, but the war had raised the price of everything.

To his surprise, a small table in the corner was vacant. He sat down and sipped at his beer. A copy of Sunday's Triple City Tribune lay on the table. Dan leafed through it. Of course, most of the articles were about how badly the war was going, which he already knew, and most of the rest were about events in Chicago, York City and Center City, which he had no interest in.

His thoughts drifted back to the stunning information about his father that Doctor Fung had revealed to him two weeks ago. Dan's father had not worked in Naval Intelligence during the twenties, as his mother had told him, but had left it in 1919 and gone adventuring all over the world with Doctor Fung, very much like Dan was now. They had parted ways in 1933, around the time that Dan had believed his father died. His father had told Doctor Fung that Naval Intelligence wanted him back, but the Doctor had suspected this was a cover story for something much more important.

When Dan and the Doctor had been in Singapore a few years ago, the Doctor had needed to visit a government office to sort out some paperwork, and had come across a civil servant who bore a startling resemblance to Dan's father. The man had initially insisted the Doctor must be mistaken, but eventually admitted he was Dan's father, and was working under the Connaught Accords. (Dan still wasn't entirely sure what those were, but the driver who'd delivered the first half of the invitation to New York City had mentioned them when he told the Doctor to drop their current investigation. That was what had led Doctor Fung to conclude that Dan's father must be involved in all this.) Dan's father had made the Doctor promise not to tell anyone that he was still alive. He'd read the newspaper accounts of his son's adventures with the Doctor, and if the truth could ever be told, he wanted Dan to know he was proud of him.

"Excuse me, do you mind if I sit here?"

Dan looked up to see a young woman standing on the other side of the table. She wore a sensible blue dress and a wide-brimmed hat. A coat hung over one arm, and in her other hand, she held a large cup of coffee. She had a plain face, and an expression that reminded Dan of a schoolteacher considering whether to discipline one of her pupils. He folded the paper and stood, intending to pull out the chair opposite. Before he could do that, she put the coffee on the table and pulled the chair out herself. She draped the coat over one of the chair's arms and sat down. From this angle, the hat concealed most of her face. Giving him a frosty smile, she took a sip of her coffee.

"No, I don't mind if you sit there," Dan said, returning to his own seat.

The smile thawed a little, and she pushed the hat back. "Sorry. I guess I've spent too long fighting to be treated like one of the guys."

"Why do you want to do that?"

"I'm a journalist."

Dan nodded his head in the direction of the movie actress.

Not following his gaze, the woman replied, "Not that kind of journalist."

"What kind of journalist, then?"

"Science and industry."

Dan's eyes widened.

"Yeah, I get that a lot."

"So, which paper do you work for?" Dan asked.

"I don't. I work for one of the wire services. We fill in the gaps when a paper needs an article about a story, but all their own journalists are working on something else, or they don't have anyone in a particular city, or they don't have anyone who knows a subject well."

"Do you live in LA, or were you here for a story?"

"I live in Chicago. We got a tip that the Navy might be showing off some new ships last week, but I didn't see any."

Dan thought any new ships ought to be steaming west to fight the Japs, not parading in front of civilians, but said nothing. He took a mouthful of his beer.

The woman drank some more of her coffee and smiled. She was cute when she did that. She nodded to the paper. "Is there anything about the Blue Beetle in there?"

"I haven't seen anything, but I'm only halfway through."

"If there was, it'd be near the front. The Tribune can't get enough of him." She accompanied this statement with a roll of her eyes. "What about you, then? Where do you live?"

"Nowhere, really. I travel the world. Not so much of it these last few months, obviously."

"And what do you do around the world?"

Dan was about to say he helped Doctor Fung to solve mysteries and crimes, but recalled the Doctor's warning to be tight-lipped. "Sightseeing, mainly."

She raised her cup again, not quite hiding a pout. "Nice work if you can get it."

Not wanting her to think he was a slacker, he added, "I travel with a rich old Chinese guy. He pays for the transport and hotels, and I keep him company and take care of the fetching and carrying."

"You've not thought of joining the Army, then? Or the Navy or Air Force?"

He had, and those thoughts lingered at the back of his mind, but he replied, "I've had enough excitement and danger already."

"Then I'm guessing you have a lot of stories to tell."

Perhaps it wasn't a good idea to be talking to her without the Doctor around. "Some other time, maybe." He finished his beer. Not wanting to sound rude, he added, "See you at breakfast?"

With a cuter smile than before, she replied, "Maybe."

Dan squeezed through the crowd to the door, then hurried through the still-empty dining car. He wanted to kick himself. He was out of practice at talking to women—​at least, women who weren't witnesses or victims or suspects.

He entered the sleeping car and slowed down, looking for the door of his and Doctor Fung's room. The engineer chose that moment to release the brakes. The train lurched forward about six inches. Dan stumbled and thrust out a hand, which skidded across the nearest door, making it rattle. Under the sound of the diesel locomotive starting to pull the train, a deeper rumble came from the floor and the walls. Dan had a sudden desire to run off the train and keep running.

Light from the platform passed across him, and the fear was gone, as quickly as it came. He was standing outside room five, one door from the one he wanted. He tapped on the door of room six, said, "It's Dan," and opened it.

Doctor Fung had already changed into his pyjamas, and was sitting up in bed, reading a small, thick book. "I had not expected you back so soon."

"The bar was too crowded. I think there's a movie star on board."

"A famous one?"

"Is there any other kind?" Dan sat on the other bed. "I sort of recognised her, so I guess so."

"Young? Pretty?"

"Both."

"Oh dear." The Doctor peered at Dan over the rims of his glasses. "I trust you informed her that the great Doctor Fung is on vacation for the foreseeable future, and so will not be able to assist her with whatever tragedy is about to befall her."

Dan loosened his tie, unsure whether the Doctor was joking. "Doc," he said eventually, "she didn't even look at me."

The Doctor chuckled. "Of course she did not."

Dan gazed out of the window at the lights of LA for a while. He took off his shoes, lay on the bed, and turned on the radio—​at low volume, so as not to disturb the Doctor too much. The station was playing big band music, which he liked, but the signal began fading as the train headed into the mountains. Not knowing what else to do, Dan changed into his pyjamas and settled down to sleep.