Penny Exchange

Chapter 1: Riverside Wormhole

June's Mansion. Sunday, April 30, 2006.

"Has Mozzie told you why he wants to meet with us?" June asked as Neal refilled her porcelain cup.

The two of them were enjoying coffee in the mansion's living room on a lazy Sunday morning while waiting for the man of the hour. The opening reception of Columbia University's art exhibition for master's candidates was held the previous evening. The paintings Neal had worked on for the past year were now out of his hands. If they passed muster with the review panel, he'd receive his master's diploma in a few short weeks.

Neal shook his head. "He was very mysterious about the subject when I discussed it with him at the reception. He mumbled something about time travel and wormholes but refused to reveal anything more. I'd hoped he'd explain at your after-party."

"He'd initially planned to attend, but he told me at the last minute that he'd experienced a eureka moment that demanded his attention." She gave a soft sigh. "It's a concern when Mozzie confuses his Arkham Files identity with his own."

Neal nodded gloomily. "I felt the same way when he made the time travel reference. I'm sure you remember what happened last December when he commandeered the Round Table to experiment on us." Neal didn't normally attend the writing group's sessions, but on that particular occasion, he was invited to participate along with Peter and Henry. That alone should have raised his suspicions. A blizzard had been forecast, and sure enough, they wound up being snowbound overnight at June's mansion. That wasn't the issue—it would be difficult to find more comfortable surroundings to wait out a snowstorm. But Neal was convinced Mozzie had slipped a hallucinatory drug into the honey wine he served them. The taste was foul, and that night everyone had weird dreams about meeting their Arkham Files characters.

The dreams were probably inspired by Mozzie expounding on a unified theory of literature. He proposed that writers didn't create stories but instead were subconsciously accessing alternate realities. Neal smiled at the memory of Diana's outrage at the notion. She found the concept insulting—a mockery of the effort she and the other members of the Round Table put into the stories.

"All I can advise," Neal told June, "is to avoid drinking anything Mozzie brings with him. Also, don't let him near anything we might eat." He glanced at his watch. Mozzie said he'd be here in the morning, and he better hurry. Neal had a master workshop on William Turner to prepare for. He'd been counting on spending his Sunday with the English painter, not sci-fi fantasies.

"There he is," June said, craning her neck to peer through the living room window overlooking the street. "Why is he wearing a helmet?" She frowned worriedly. "And what does he intend to do with that pickaxe?"

Mozzie's choice of attire was always eclectic but even for him, this was an odd combination. Neal stood up to get a better view. "The helmet is equipped with a light. It's the one he uses for tunnels."

She exhaled slowly. "He did mention wormholes. Should I take it as a positive that he doesn't have helmets for us?"

Neal drained his cup and set it down. "I'd hold off on the celebration. They could be inside his tool bag."

June chuckled. "I wonder if it also contains a ruby crystal. As you know, many a wormhole has been created in our stories thanks to the miraculous properties of crystals."

"We'll soon find out." Neal stood up. "I'll help him lug in his gear."

"Greetings, wormhole traveler," Neal said as he opened the door and unburdened Mozzie from his pickaxe and bag. He noted the rough twill pants and padded jacket his friend was wearing. "Do you expect a rough journey?"