Without unkindness, the shadow belonged to a clown from the government, operating in an official capacity, and carrying several decorative screens and a bag of sand, with which he adorned the scene of the now-prepared Traycup and Roby and took several flattering photographs, offering them to the two in exchange for a mere handful of unused dish rags, which Traycup had aplenty. They each pocketed one of the 'graphs, which perhaps would become important someday, or perhaps, more likely, be forgotten and destroyed in the wash ere long, and at the end of long years after still-longer partings, they'd be taken to reminisce about their antique acquaintance and yearn against their short-sighted hygiene, the causation of the annihilation of such temporaneous relics.

“We are well afriended,” said Roby, “and unoffended, so let us pretend that it is intended to make a quite quick quest and behold we, ere long, Nesodi Iveent, home of my mom!”

Now, Traycup's terminal destination was, of course, far-off Oopertreepia, but its location was unknown to many, and Traycup was certainly counted in that number—his only clue was distance. His only lead was Nesodi Iveent, another city, old and classy like cars on a calendar, which he had both heard of, and knew to be far away. Could there be some link?

No. He was throwing fistfuls of darts into an industrial mixer.

“Let's travel like so: porcupineback!” declared Traycup.

“That is a likable idea!” said Roby. “But, the fee is steep for the service we seek—we will require the deed to half a meatloaf mine apiece! Have you an inkling where to find such wealth?”

“Oh, indeed, it's quite gettable. Let's make an amount of haste, for the 'pine departs promptly at the stroke of twenty or so.”

Traycup had a plan, and so led the way, and Roby did not have a plan, and so followed.

It was quite simple, really. In the northern part of the city, in the wheelchair ramp district, there lived a despondent basketball player who had very few thumbtacks, and to his chagrin, had never met a colonel. To Traycup he was a friend of a friend—a known face at least—and introductions would be brief, mercifully. Traycup and Roby would build a pinewood billiards table, set it to cool on the windowsill, and be back before supper. Thus would the factory supervisor be glad to give them the keys to the laundry room, wherein the first fragment of the Atlantean crown jewels was stored. With it, they could open their own cinema, and have access to vast amount of wholesale popcorn.

“It seems like rather a lot,” said Roby after one third of a moment's thought.

Traycup eyed her with pity, and then without, to get a good sample size. “I'll not let a friend get unfriended,” he said happily, “so fearn't. We need only cross one step at a time—or in this case, an accessible pathway explicitly built so as to forgo steps. For behold!—the very wheelchair ramp district of legend is before us!”

The very wheelchair ramp district of legend was before them. The sign said so.

“At last,” said Roby.

“At first,” said Traycup. “Now, we've to climb.”

A rather handsome spider came by. “Climbing, eh? I can give you a hand with that. I'm headed that way myself, as luck would have it.”

“We've two apiece,” said Traycup.

“Two what?” said the spider. “Oh, hands. Oh—you're one of those. Well, let it never be said that I did nothing for the less fortunate. Now, c'mon.”

The spider flew to the top of the ramp with a jetpack, and sent back a window washer's rig for Roby and Traycup to embark upon, for the ramp was so steep it was nearly vertical, owing to a scaling error on the original blueprints—a flaw for which, rest assured, the perpetrators were promoted to the window tribe and lived ever after.

“Is there safety of this?” said Roby, boarding the rig.

Traycup tugged on the complex cabling from which it was suspended. “We'll make an experiment of't, and know soon if it is, and never know if it isn't.”

Traycup boarded the rig, or rather boarded the board, for that thing was no more than a bare plank hung on too much cableage, and they clung to said cableage with their two aforementioned hands. It should be noted that there remains a possibility that Traycup was mistaken when he said that both he and Roby had two hands apiece.

“Now,” called the spider, “my friend will do the hauling, and you'll be atop the precipice in no time! Be well-braced, for the force is a reckoning one!”

So, Traycup and Roby stood on this board that was lying on the ground, hanging from a series of cables—each more spurious than the last—looped up and over the top of the mighty ramp, through a series of pulleys—each more matriculated than the last—and at the far end, was connected to the spider's good friend, Mr. Rhinoceros, who was in a charging mood, and had been practicing lately.

“Are they well-braced?” said Mr. Rhinoceros.

“Not yet,” said the spider, “so go now, quick!”

Mr. Rhinoceros abruptly accelerated to ninety percent of light speed, which is a lot, and almost as immediately, stopped again. Now, in obedience to the laws of physics—well, probably something about black holes, if we go by public education's best guess. But this is inside the hollow Earth, and neither general nor special relativity have any hold here, but only the real, secret physics driving the universe—embargoed relativity—had any dogs in this race. So, in accordance with embargoed relativity, the results were, well, practically normal. Traycup and Roby were catapulted quite high into the air, far above the peak of the ramp, up into the sky where there was nothing but wind and clouds and—

“What the hell is this?” said a passing 747.

“Ah! Our chariot awaits!” said Traycup. “Roby, we must seize the wings!”

“Then seize I shall!” said Roby. She and Traycup seized the wings.

“You fools!” said the 747. “I can't flap with you seizing so! A crash is imminent!”

The 747 went into a tailspin—back to boring old special relativity for this chemical reaction—and headed toward the city, which of course would have been a disaster for the tourism industry, particularly the one post card dispensing machine next to the abandoned amusement park, and not the least the poor 747's parents. Traycup and Roby finally braced themselves well. Better late than never.

Now Roby had an idea. “If flapping is a necessity, we can provide it! If we cling to the thing's wings with not hands but feet, then flapped arms shall stall our fall ere we hit a wall, and save us all!”

“Your daring is endearing,” said Traycup, “but we'd never convince a single florist. Now, stand back and forget about clocks, but rather try to remember to set the VCR to record the show tonight! Remember that it starts at five of, not on the dot!”

Ten golfers were going to play through today, rain or shine, and had mirror-finished umbrellas to keep score with, and lined up in a row across Main Street, waiting for their turn with the yacht. Bib the pixie took the day off, but since the weather called for forests, there was cause for concern, and the cowboys came home early, muttering something about an out-of-tune leper spoiling the mood. Seven dogs and seven cats became religious—not in an overly obnoxious way, they just kind of mentioned it at dinner one day and it was kind of awkward for everyone.

That did the trick, and the plane landed safely, and the mayor came to give a reward to the heroes who had saved the day. The mayor, Yonilicus, recognized Traycup from their meeting in the other chapter, and remembered how they had committed Traycup's name to a book, but on this day, a different book was used.

“A fine deed's been done,” said Yonilicus, “but misdeeds cannot be undone.”

“A good lesson,” said Traycup, “and one I mean to remember.”

Traycup and Roby were each given a medal made of metal and a grand sash declaring them to be officially licensed window washers, and hands were shook, and the press was pressed, and much ado was made. They even made the weather report—take that, forests—and there was a big banquet held in their honor, and all the partridges worked really hard on their Jell-O mold, but they wound up showing up late, so everyone had to grind down some mushroom spores for dessert.

At the end of all the festivities, Roby said, “Traycup, we are not one step advanced toward Nesodi Iveent.”

“Mayhap,” said Traycup, “but we must remember our plan!”

“Ah, so we must. But, must we so?”

“Well, consider some boulders,” said Traycup. “We could find some better parades to gawk at, or visit a peanut factory. We could stride about in our fine sneakers! It's pompous and showy to ride a porcupine, after all. You don't get a saddle.”

“Well! That is a thing of consideration,” said Roby.

“Of consideration, but not considered. You're right! We've been a wild goose the whole time, alas! Roby, my friend, you have an option afore you—grant me forgiveness, or not. I have omitted such an obvious thing!”

“I grant forgiveness with ease,” said Roby. “Now, here is a thing. If one plan is to be discarded, a new must be brought up.”

“Mine was faulty, so it falls to you to outdo me.”

“I do not think the ability is of me,” said Roby. “But I will make an attempt.” Roby thought very hard for two thirds of a moment, trying to come up with a method of traveling from one place to another. She thought very hard—but then, she thought less hard. Then she forgot what she was thinking about.

“We should get a stick of butter,” said Roby at last.

Traycup laughed with great joy at the obviousness of this plan. “What a fool I am! What an absolute cad! Yes—of course, the direct approach is best here! I'll not have it another way. Let us get started, at once.”

Now, all this time, as they had performed grand heroics for the city, after all, over one hundred orphans had formed a queue hoping to acquire autographs from the pair, lingering on after the weathermen had left and the parties had ended, and so the city had to call a man with a dump truck to deal with them, as there was no municipal orphan service. Then, in accordance to Roby's plan, they went and stood outside of a phone booth. Traycup had no idea about turnip prices while Roby knocked on the door, her telephone etiquette a little dated.

“One butter, please,” she said to the operator.

“I'm operating,” said the operator, scalpel in one hand and someone's lung in the other. “Can it wait?”

“It cannot,” said Roby. “A butter is necessary—please.”

Beginning to juggle, the operator said, “Very well, very well, but the commissar won't be pleased.”

The operator, operating from atop the phone booth, in accordance to tradition, called to the commissar within, and spoke in a language that they made up as they went along. After about two or three years, the commissar finally relented—somewhat. To Traycup and Roby he said, “Aye, ye'll have yer butter. Right as soon as I get me hands on the Blood Onyx of Zykluur! And with yer fine hands, ye'll do the handing—ahoy!”

With that, the commissar grabbed both Traycup and Roby, and threw them into his purse, and snapped it shut on them.