Rip and Blair remained cordial and mostly quiet the next morning, all through breakfast and the cab ride to Doctors’ Commons.

On the way, Rip thought about Marco Polo’s second book. He could see how it was easily dismissed in modern times. Polo, or whoever the author was, talked about truly fantastic things like caves lined with crystals; passages to the center of the earth where entire civilizations flourished with little outside contact; giant caverns with veins of gold practically bursting from the walls.

Indeed, it read like fiction. Rip also knew in those days before the printing press that sometimes books were distributed purportedly written by more famous authors as a selling point. It did not seem out of the bounds of reason that someone simply cashed in on the great traveler’s name with a more fanciful title.

However . . . the description of the upper levels with their rust-proof metal fashioned in large circular tunnels certainly rang true. Granted, if modern people had explored the upper levels, it seemed likely explorers in the Middle Ages knew their layout as well.

The author supposedly had assistance going much deeper. Apparently though, nothing he wrote about going beyond Level 15 of the Budapest steam vault could be corroborated with other sources.

Even so . . . Polo’s description of the lower levels had some elements that made Rip pause. He discussed poisonous vapors in certain caverns, and how his guide had him wear a wetted cloth wrapped around his face to pass. Others who worked on those levels wrapped sponges around their faces, presumably natural sponges harvested from the ocean, soaked in a charcoal solution.

This made Rip glad he bought the gas masks. If that part of Polo’s account was true, then they would certainly be needing a way to breathe fresh air on some of the lower levels.

He glanced across the seat at Blair, apparently lost in her own thoughts.

“You alright? You look tired.”

“Thanks, I’m fine. I didn’t sleep much last night.”

Rip bought the morning edition of the Trumpet at the same intersection, from the same newsboy, and read it the rest of the way in.

At Doctors’ Commons, they walked across the entrance garden to RVS headquarters. A receptionist greeted them at the front counter and directed them to their group’s meeting room.

They found most of the others waiting for them, along with Dr. Oggolopoli, Lord Humphries, and Lord Hedgefield.

“We’re keeping involvement of the Lyceum to a minimum, but these gentlemen are already involved, to an extent,” Hedgefield said by way of introduction.

Humphries nodded and handed out sheets of paper to everyone in the room.

“These are copies of our map for Levels One through Five. Granted, they’re over 150 years old. But as you know, the vaults don’t change that much over time. Oggy, is there anything you would like them to keep an eye out for, while they’re down there?”

“I want to know if the Ethinium vault has a source of electricity, like Gretna Green does. Logic dictates that if a rural vault has it, an urban one will, too. Please find the source of their electricity. I have a plan that if fulfilled, would enable us to transition from gas for all our lighting, and power from steam generated in the vaults, to electricity. But if you could . . . take a good look at their generator. Maybe bring something back? If they have a breadboard controlling it, that would be a wonderful item to recover.”

He said most of this while looking at Rip, but both Bixby and Sharp gave him assurances that they would deliver a full report upon their return.

The unspoken part, of course, was if they returned. But the barons exuded confidence.

Humphries concluded with some parting remarks.

“We think the vaults might hold technological treasures. Ways of doing things that are wonderful. Whatever you can record, whatever details you can bring back, could help the Lyceum’s research tremendously. No detail is too small. We know you will likely be fighting for your lives most of the time. But when you are not . . . please look around and make a note of what you see.”

With that, the professors left. When the door closed, Bixby cleared his throat, drawing all eyes toward him.

“Now we will make our final preparations. Lady Finley informs me she has plenty of room in her interspatial satchel for additional items, if we need to buy them. I assure you, we have more ammunition and dynamite than we could use on a dozen normal ventures.”

“What about food?” Rip said.

“We do have quite a bit of food, mostly hard tack and fresh water.”

A collective groan went up at the mention of hard tack.

“Do the satchels keep things fresh? Do they stay in a sort of suspended animation while in there?”

“I think so, Sergeant. Yes.”

“Then why don’t we order some extra food at Tomfoolery’s for lunch and pack it away for later?”

“Capital idea!”

An hour later everyone shoved away their favorite dishes into Finley’s satchel, plate after plate of fish and chips, meat pies, potato crisps, and every other item on the menu.

The waitress had never seen anything like this, and the fact the plates and silverware kept disappearing confused her. Sharp and Bixby gave her several coins, ultimately handing her a couple of guineas to keep everyone in the kitchen happy.

About that time, Twig had the idea to buy some casks of beer to take along with them. Finley’s available satchel space grew quite meager after he and Chance bought every cask the bar would sell them.

Blair quietly added a dozen bottles of wine, too.

Finley did not complain, and in fact asked the waitress to bring out every bottle of gin while back there.

The bartender came out from behind the counter to complain, but he shut up when Sharp, Bixby and Finley all gave him a half crown each for his trouble.

Rip, slightly confused with the profusion of coins and how much each were worth, decided that if they returned safely from the mission he definitely would encourage the king to switch to a decimalized monetary system.

They left the public house in good spirits. Chance said they may die, but at least they’d be well fed along the way.

As they stood outside waiting, a steam truck trundled up to the curb and the driver saluted Bixby.

“Right, this is our ride.”

Everyone filed into the back, Liza shutting the door when they were all seated.

“There is one more thing I suppose we should be aware of, Colonel Bixby,” Blair said as the truck started up, holding onto Rip’s arm.

“What is that, Lady Brooke?”

“My sources have informed me that Secret Service believes retaliation against us is imminent.”

“Retaliation? Whom do you refer?”

“The source indicated he believed the Hobnobbers would try and enact some sort of revenge on us.”

“When?”

“Today.”

As if conjured by her last word, they heard the clatter of hooves galloping over cobblestones as a horse raced up to the truck, followed by the pop pop pop! of small arms fire.