Travis was the first to wake in the little hotel room he was sharing with Nish and Fahd and Lars. Nish was still snoring. He’d managed to turn completely around in the large double bed he was sharing with Fahd, and his toes were resting on the pillow beside Fahd’s head. Poor Fahd, thought Travis. What a sight to wake up to!
Sunlight was streaming in the window. There were dust particles dancing in the air – “angels,” Travis’s grandmother called them – and he watched for a while, wondering how they avoided the pull of gravity that ruled everything else on earth. Perhaps his grandmother was right.
Mr. Dillinger was filled with plans for the day. They would walk around the Capitol building, down the Mall to take in the view from the top of the towering Washington Monument, and on through the park and across the bridge to Arlington Cemetery. Then they’d walk back to the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum to see the Spirit of St. Louis and the spacesuit worn by Neil Armstrong, the first man on the moon, before returning to the hotel to rest before the first game of the tournament.
The Owls had drawn team number one in the round robin – Djurgården, from Stockholm, Sweden. Lars, who knew some of the players, had already warned the Owls that they would be in for a tremendous battle. Travis could hardly wait.
They set out in weather so beautiful it seemed impossible that there were still deep snowbanks back home. Here, the cherry trees were in full blossom as they headed out into the park, Muck and Mr. Dillinger leading the way, Sarah helping guide Data’s chair. They walked to the huge, open-air Lincoln Memorial, where Muck insisted on reading, out loud, Abraham Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address: “Four score and seven years ago …”
“I thought this was a hockey tournament,” Nish whispered in Travis’s ear, “not a history class.”
Travis said nothing. He knew how Muck loved his history, and knew, as well, how much Nish hated anything to do with school that wasn’t recess, March break, or summer holidays. But there was no point in arguing. Nish had already wandered off, fascinated with the echoes he could produce by tapping a small stone against the marble: tap-tap … tap-tap-tap … tap-tap. Where was security when you actually needed it?
They set out across the bridge over the Potomac River and up into the gently rolling slopes of Arlington National Cemetery, where they walked quietly about the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier and the graves of President John F. Kennedy and his younger brother, Bobby. Bobby might one day have become president too, if he hadn’t been shot like his brother. Muck seemed deeply moved. With his eyes shining, he tried to explain to them what the Kennedys had meant to people like him and Mr. Dillinger.
“Everything seemed possible back then,” he said in a quiet voice. “They were so young and so full of life. We all wonder what the world might have become if they had lived. If it hadn’t been for John Kennedy, you know, the world wouldn’t have reached the moon.”
“If it hadn’t been for Ol’ Nish,” Nish whispered in Travis’s ear, “the world wouldn’t have seen the moon.”
Nish could never leave well enough alone. Muck was talking about space travel and as usual Nish wanted to talk about himself. Besides, he was exaggerating. Maybe Nish had planned to moon the world in New York City, but he hadn’t done it. Fortunately.
“Why were they killed?” Fahd asked.
Muck shrugged. “Presidents are always in danger of being assassinated. We’ll see where Abraham Lincoln was killed at Ford’s Theatre. It’s not far from the rink. And Ronald Reagan was shot right back there, near the Capitol and surrounded by Secret Service. There’s no pattern, which is why it’s so difficult to defend against. It’s usually just some nut.”
“What about the President’s kids?” Jenny asked.
Muck furrowed his brow. “They have to be protected, too,” he said. “You never know what some lunatic might try.”
“Is that why there’s all that Secret Service stuff around the hockey tournament,” Lars asked, “because they’re worried about the kid?”
“That’s one reason,” Muck said.
“There’s another?” Data asked.
“What?” several of the Owls said at once.
Muck smiled sheepishly. “I’m not really supposed to say …”
“You have to now,” Jesse shouted.
“Well,” Muck said, “just don’t broadcast it around.”
“We won’t!” shouted Fahd. “What is it?”
“The championship trophy is going to be presented by the President.”
Travis swallowed hard. It felt like he was trying to push a pill the size of a puck down his throat. If the President of the United States was going to be presenting the trophy to the winning team of the championship, then he would be giving it to the captain of the winning team.
And if the Screech Owls won, that would be Travis Lindsay.