Sasha wasn’t supposed to read comic books, because they were trash, but these ones made her feel powerful and safe and protected. She knew they were only stories, but she was glad that the porter had given them to her, although she hoped she would never need to ask him or his friends for a free ride home. She had been brought up to pay for whatever she received. Her parents would not like her accepting charity.
Some hours later, Mr. Chesterton came lurching unsteadily into their compartment, reeking of beer and tobacco. Sasha was lying in her berth, reading, when he came in.
“What’s this?” he demanded when he saw the comics and snatched one up from the top of the pile. “Don’t tell me you’re reading — ” Then he saw his name and image on the cover. “Hmph! Well! Not exactly Horace Walpole, is it? Still, it can do you no harm, and it might conceivably do some good. Sometimes there’s useful information hidden in such pulp extravaganzas, like raisins in a cinnamon bun. Read on, child — read on!”
And, looking pleased, he climbed into his own berth, turned in a circle three times round, and curled up atop the blankets.
In the morning — but Sasha had to take Mr. Chesterton on his word that it was morning, for the sky outside was still midnight-black and spangled with stars — they arrived at their destination.
The station at the top of the tree was shaped like a star, with bright spikes in every direction. As they came toward it, it grew and grew until it filled the sky and then the train looked like it was going to crash right into the wall but instead rumbled into a tunnel entrance that had been invisible when the station first appeared. For an instant the train was enveloped in light. Then darkness swallowed it up.
When the train pulled into the station and Sasha tried to stand, to her amazement she bobbed up into the air. Mr. Chesterton pulled her down. “Mind your skirts,” he growled. “Keep them wrapped about your ankles, or at least your knees, at all times. You don’t want to give a bad impression.”
“But I’m… I’m… flying!”
“What did you expect? Gravity doesn’t affect us here. But be careful! You’ve still got all the mass you came in with, and you’ll find that momentum is a powerful force when it’s the only one operating on you.”
Sasha had no idea what Mr. Chesterton was talking about. But under his tutelage, she quickly learned how to move gracefully. She need simply tuck up her legs while floating alongside a wall or pillar and then kick out against that solid surface. This made her fly through the air at a comfortable and steady rate. When, floating down one of the vast radial corridors of the station, they came to an intersection, Mr. Chesterton would take her by the arm and then, snagging a pole at the intersection’s very center with his glass cane, swing them around and release them so that they were flying with undiminished speed down a new corridor. It was a delightful sensation, like playing crack-the-whip.
Finally, they found themselves speeding down a long white empty corridor like the inside of a rifle barrel. “Where are we going to?” Sasha asked.
“Tesseract House.” Mr. Chesterton pointed straight ahead of them at a black circle where the corridor ended. There might have been a faint speck of light in its center. “We have to cross miles of vacuum to get to it, but so long as you hold your breath and don’t show the yellow feather, all will be well.” Solemnly, he added, “This is your first test. If you want to be a hero, you must pass them all.”
“But I don’t want to be — ”
“Take a deep breath! Don’t let it out!”
Sasha did as she was told, and then glass doors flew open before them and they sailed out into space.
It was so cold that Sasha’s face stung and the tears that welled up involuntarily from her eyes froze on her cheeks. She held her breath, though the air within her lungs seemed like a living thing, eager to escape from her. But Mr. Chesterton flew alongside Sasha, holding her hand firmly, and the warmth of his paw lent her strength.
Outer space was not only cold but eerily silent. But when she turned toward Mr. Chesterton, he nodded reassuringly, as if to say, “There, there, old girl. Well done!” He never opened his mouth.
The voyage seemed to take forever — far longer, Sasha was absolutely sure, than she’d ever been able to hold her breath before. Finally, however, a dim spark directly ahead of them, seemingly one minor star in a myriad, brightened and grew and became a house. Mr. Chesterton nodded at it in a way that indicated that it was their destination. Tesseract House looked like five houses all crammed together so that there were roofs pointing in every direction, even down. Sasha had just enough time to suppose that they came in handy here, where it was weightless and you could never know from which direction the rain might come, when the house swelled up to encompass the universe and she was standing on its threshold.
Mr. Chesterton opened the door and ushered Sasha in. When they were both inside, he said, “You can stop holding your breath now.”
All the air in Sasha’s lungs whooshed out of her, and she gasped for more. It was warm here, and they stood on the floor as if everything were normal. Her knees felt weak and wobbly, but she was grateful the trip was over and done with.
They stood within a vast marble foyer that would not have looked out of place in a bank. Vases of albino roses rested on alabaster sconces and milk-glass chandeliers hung down from a whitewashed ceiling. At the far side of the foyer stood a big bald white man wearing wire rim-glasses and a snow-white three-piece suit. He turned his head, and Sasha could see that one side of his mouth curled up in a permanent sneer.
Mr. Chesterton looked grim. “Snow,” he said.
“That’s Lord Snow to you, Mr. Chesterton. You’re still a dog, I see.”
“It is an honest trade, sir. Unlike some I could mention.”
“Let us dispense with the neckties and the niceties, Chesterton,” the bald man said. “Who’s the brat?”
“This is my ward, Sasha,” said Mr. Chesterton. “Sasha, say hello to Lord Snow. Don’t get too close!” He gave Lord Snow a fierce look. “She is under my protection, sir,” he said.
Sasha curtsied, as she had been taught, and tried to say, “How do you do, Lord Snow.” But no sounds came out of her mouth.
“Cat got your tongue, my dear?” asked Lord Snow.
The hair on the back of Mr. Chesterton’s head stood up. He growled far in the back of his throat and his ears pricked forward. “I said, she’s under my protection.”
“H-h-h-how d-d-d-do y-y-you d-d-do?” said Sasha. She was annoyed at the stutter in her voice. “How do you do, Lord Snow,” she said again, forcefully. She did not curtsey this time.
The left corner of Lord Snow’s mouth went up as if he were smiling, but the right half remained straight and grim. Which side was the real Lord Snow? Sasha did not think she liked either of them very much.
“We are here for the child,” said Mr. Chesterton. “Roland.”
“Of course you are,” said Lord Snow. “He’s in my kennels. This way.” He turned on his heel and ostentatiously strode away.
“Come, dear heart,” said Mr. Chesterton. “We’ll dispose of this matter quickly, and then find ourselves someplace where we can get you a bite to eat.”