"We make a superior team," Alder added.

"And you'll be a team again," Uncle Press said. "For now you'll have to be with each other in spirit. You know that to be true now. None of you are ever alone."

Alder nodded. He understood. "Then I will say goodbye and be careful." He took a step forward and disappeared.

Loor folded her arms and walked right up to Uncle Press. "Where will you be?" she demanded to know.

"Third Earth. Patrick and I will return there to try and learn what Saint Dane is planning fora""

"No," I interrupted.

Uncle Press gave me a surprised look. "Excuse me?"

"You should stay here for when the Travelers return with news of the exiles."

"Bobby," Uncle Press said patiently, "you heard what I said. Third Earth is still in play. This is it. It may all come down to this last territory. I have to go."

"No, you don't," I said forcefully. "I have to go. You have to stay here."

The two of us stared each other down. I don't think Uncle Press knew how to react to my demand. He had everything figured out, except for me.

Patrick stepped between us. "Uh, I kind of like the idea that Press comes to Third Earth," he offered meekly.

Uncle Press added, "Bobby, go to Second Earth. That's your territory."

"The exiles aren't there," I argued. "Why would they be? That's where Naymeer started sending them into the flume."

This gave Uncle Press pause.

"He's right," Patrick said thoughtfully. "The Ravinians shot those people through the flume in the early twenty-first century. Unless they somehow boomeranged back, they aren't on Second Earth. If our mission is to locate the exiles, going to Second Earth would be a waste of time."

"It's not just about the exiles," Uncle Press argued. "We have to track down Saint Dane on Third Earth."

"Exactly," I shot back. "And who better to do that? I've been chasing that creep around Halla for years. You may know his history, but I know how he thinks."

Uncle Press looked to Loor. Loor nodded. She was on my side.

"Uncle Press, do you remember how you got me to go with you that night back in Stony Brook?"

He gave me a small smile, remembering. "Sure. I told you that some people needed our help."

"And I went because I wanted to help them. I still do. Maybe now more than ever. As impossible as everything is that you told me, I believe it. All of it. It's hard to get my head around the fact that I'm anything other than Bobby Pendragon from Second Earth, but maybe that's okay, because Bobby Pendragon has unfinished business. I'm the lead Traveler, remember? Saint Dane told me more times than I can count that this battle is between him and me. Heck, you told me the same thing. I get it now. I understand. I went with you that night because I trusted you, Uncle Press. Now I'm asking you to do the same. Trust me. This battle is mine. Let me finish it. I think that's the way it was meant to be."

We all looked up to the sky, drawn by an encouraging sight. Several clouds that had been dark, sparked to life. Brilliant color blazed from the heavens.

"You did that, Pendragon," Loor said in awe.

Uncle Press laughed and shook his head. "I guess we've come full circle. I had to drag you into the fight, and now I can't drag you out."

"We haven't come full circle yet," I cautioned. "Not until I stop Saint Dane."

The sky crackled with energy.

Uncle Press smiled. "I was right about one thing. The spirit of Halla isn't dead. It lives in those exiles, and it flows from you Travelers. From you, Bobby. You represent all that Halla is about. You aren't perfect. Far from it. But you understand that to find the greater good, you have to look inside each individual. That's why you are the lead Traveler. This is the way it was meant to be. I should have known that."

"You did know. You just want to stop him as badly as I do. As we all do."

"It's true. You're right. Go to Third Earth."

I felt a strange shift. Not a physical one, but more to do with my own att.i.tude. Uncle Press had been my mentor. He'd helped create the Travelers to battle Saint Dane. He'd chosen me to be the leader. But I never felt much like a leader, until that moment. I always felt Uncle Press was the light we should follow, even if he wasn't physically around. He set the standard. He knew what the game was all about. Now we all knew. The spirits of Solara had called upon me to lead the Travelers in the battle against Saint Dane, and for the first time there was no question in my mind: I wanted the job. Uncle Press had given us what I hoped would prove to be the most important power of all. He'd given us knowledge. It was up to us to use it wisely. It was up to me to use it wisely.

Gulp.

Loor said, "There is a battle coming, Pendragon. I feel it. If the exiles are on Zadaa, I will find them and return here. I want to be by your side in the end. Not like on Ibara."

"You weren't on Ibara because I wanted you safe, in case you had to lead the Travelers into the future. The future is here. We'll face it together."

Loor and I hugged. It felt good, and a little strange, because for the first time I was her physical equal. I had grown. I was strong. I was a warrior. Together we were going to do some damage.

"Find him," Loor ordered, pulling away from me. "When you do, we will take him down together."

She nodded to Uncle Press and to Patrick. With one hand she reached back and grabbed her wooden stave. She held it out across her body, ready for whatever she would find on Zadaa.

"Be careful," I said.

"Always," she replied, took a step forward, and was gone.

I ignored the rumbling in the sky.

Uncle Press, Patrick, and I were the only three left.

"Are you sure Press shouldn't come with us?" Patrick asked nervously. "I mean, I agree that you should come, Pendragon, but the three of us coulda""

"No, Bobby's right," Uncle Press said. "When the other Travelers return, I should be waiting for them."

"Do you know anything about what's happening on Third Earth?" I asked.

Uncle Press shook his head. "Only what we saw when those gunships attacked."

"Third Earth wasn't like that the last time I was there," Patrick offered. "When I was still a"

He didn't finish the sentence. The memory was tough for him. He had been killed on Third Earth. Saint Dane told me.

Saint Dane.

I was going to get one last shot at him. If he thought the war was over when I killed Alexander Naymeer, he was in for a very big surprise. The Travelers weren't finished. We were going to follow Spader's advice. We were going to get dangerous.

"This is it, Bobby," Uncle Press said. "Our last chance."

I stood next to Patrick. He looked squeamish. Patrick wasn't built for conflict. He was a teacher. A librarian. But he was brave. He had proved that many times over. With his brown hair falling in his eyes, he looked much younger than a guy in his twenties. Twenties? Did I actually write that? Who knew how old Patrick really was? Or any of us, for that matter. We were spirits. We were from a world other than the one we had grown up in. We were Travelers.

And we had one more shot at finishing the job we were born to do.

"You okay?" I asked him.

"I am," he said, taking a deep breath. "I really am."

"Then let's go get him," I said. I took Patrick's arm and looked at Uncle Press. "And so we go."

We both stepped forward on Solaraa .

And were instantly barraged by the sound of rolling thunder as we stepped into the swirling sand of the zoo in Central Park on Third Earth. As much as I knew that it was exactly what was supposed to happen, it was still a strange experience. I was disoriented. It didn't help that the thunder didn't stop rolling. At first I was afraid that by all of us traveling back to our home territories, we had done serious damage to Solara. That wasn't it. Maybe that would have been better, because the truth wasn't so good. It wasn't thunder we were hearing.

The gunships were back.

Two of the dark, deadly helicopters were flying in low, headed right toward us.

"Go!" I shouted at Patrick and shoved him out of the path of the incoming birds of prey. We hid under a crumbling brick archway that was not more than twenty yards from the long building that the helicopters had pulverized earlier. The helicopters continued on, pa.s.sing overhead, heading off to who knew where. I'm happy to say that they weren't firing any more rockets. Once they flew off, I moved to step out from our shelter, but Patrick pulled me back.

"Wait," he whispered. "Look."

There was movement on the ground. The air was so full of swirling dust and dirt that I couldn't make out what it was at first.

"Please tell me that's not a polar bear looking for lunch," I whispered.

Actually, it would have been better if it were the polar bear. A line of men appeared, headed our way. The first detail I noticed was the glint of gold off their helmets.

"Dados?" I asked Patrick.

Patrick shrugged.

There were ten of them. They carried silver rifle-looking weapons. Their uniforms were dark red. "Ravinians," Patrick whispered.

"They're looking for something. Or somebody," I added. "I hope it's not us."

"There's never a polar bear around when you need one."

The patrol was definitely searching for something. The long building that had been shot up by the helicopters was still burning. That meant the attack had just happened.

"I don't think they're looking for us," I whispered. "But I'd just as soon they didn't find us."

Suddenly the loud chime of church bells sounded directly above our heads. I jumped. Patrick jumped. I think the soldiers jumped too. They were just as startled as we were.

And they turned our way.

I grabbed Patrick and pulled him back into the ruins of the building. The bells continued, and I realized that they were playing a tune. "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star." Or the "Alphabet Song." Whatever. Same tune.

"It's the clock," I whispered.

It probably wasn't the exact same machine I had seen back on Second Earth. After all, this was three thousand years later. They must have restored it through the ages, because on top of the arches over our heads was a fanciful clock, with bronze animal sculptures that rotated around it to mark the hour, while the bells chimed out a nursery rhyme. It was kind of a sweet thing. That is, for a little kid on a sunny afternoon. For us it meant trouble, because it was drawing the soldiers' attention our way.

"They're coming," Patrick whispered.

There was no way to get into the building we were hiding next to. The doorway was blocked with debris. We were trapped.

"We'll have to fight," I whispered.

"Ia"I don't fight," Patrick stammered.

"I'll get the gun from the first one. Just stay out of the way."

I pushed Patrick farther back. It looked as if our mission on Third Earth would begin with violence. The lead soldier drew closer. I tensed up, ready to spring.

"Here!" one of the other soldiers called.

The soldier who was nearly on us stopped and ran back to the others. If he had taken one more step, I would have pounced. I had to force myself to back down. It's tough committing yourself to attack, and then have to pull back. Kind of like being all set to sneeze and then it doesn't come. Okay, maybe it's not exactly like that, but you get the idea.

"They found someone," Patrick announced.

The two of us peered out to see two soldiers dragging a man out of the ruins of the long building they had destroyed. The guy was a mess. I couldn't tell if he was sick or unconscious or dead. They had him by his shoulders and pulled him along with his feet dragging on the ground. When they got him to the center of the group, they dropped him down like a bag of laundry. The guy hit the ground and bounced. Ouch. When he went down, he let out a grunt.

"He's alive," one soldier growled.

Without hesitation another soldier hauled off and kicked the guy square in the gut. The poor man grunted and doubled over in pain. He was alive all right. Who knew how long he'd stay that way around these s.a.d.i.s.tic goons?

"How many are left?" the soldier who kicked him asked.

The guy's answer was a cough that sprayed blood. He was dressed in rags, much like the people I'd seen jumping out of the window to escape the attack. His hair was unkempt, and it looked like he had a short beard. Again, he wasn't Flighter-nasty, but he definitely hadn't seen a bar of soap in a while.

"Where are they?" another solder asked angrily.

The first soldier kicked him again. I guess he was the designated punter. Creep. The victim answered again with a pained grunt and a wet cough. The place kicker was about to launch another kick when he was stopped by one of the other soldiers.

"We do not want to lose him," he told his s.a.d.i.s.tic friend. "Bring him to the conclave."

He immediately pulled out what was probably a walkie-talkie and barked some orders into it.

"Did he say conclave?" Patrick whispered.

He was thinking the same thing I was.

A moment later the sound of the helicopter returned. The chopper flew in low over our heads and landed next to the dry sea lion pool. The soldiers dragged the beaten victim toward the gunship and threw him inside. Two soldiers jumped in with him, and the chopper lifted off. It wasn't on the ground for more than twenty seconds. The remaining soldiers trudged off in the same direction from where they had come. Their work was donea .

And "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star" hadn't even finished playing.

"He did say conclave, didn't he?" Patrick asked. "That's what I heard."

"Is it possible? Could the Conclave of Ravinia still be at the flume in the Bronx? It wasn't there the last time I was on Third Earth."