Rubella Degan's Mental Log. I've been sitting in the lobby of the Times Square Hilton for ten hours, and I've seen more aliens than most people see in a lifetime. Most of the hotel staff is dead, so the Thrags pretty much run the place, and I think they're more interested in keeping the alien diplomats safe than in finding my sister. Who knows what happened to her? Maybe she ran away, maybe she fell down a laundry chute and broke her neck, maybe she was vaporized. Now I know how war widows must feel. I should go out and eat something. I keep telling myself that, and then I wait a few more minutes, hoping that Prunie will come running and throw her arms around me. She's disappeared before...but this time, is it for good?
"An Alliance spokesperson has promised to launch a full inquiry into the disaster in Manhattan," said CNN correspondent Wolf Blitzen. "Several eyewitnesses claim to have seen unicorns murdered in cold blood by Thrag soldiers. There is, however, no recorded evidence to back up these claims, as the security camera tapes have mysteriously disappeared."
Francine, alone on the couch, pondered what she was watching. The Thrags weren't responsible for what they did, she thought, but it looks like they want to cover it up all the same. What if they mistook Prunella for some kind of recording device? What if they start eliminating witnesses? What if they come after us...?
Her father, wearing little else but shorts, sneakers, and an undershirt, walked back and forth impatiently. "I guess your friend Pokey isn't the big hero he's cracked up to be," he gloated. "He should've been here ten minutes ago."
"Oh, he'll show up," Francine assured him. "And when he does, you'll be sorry."
Mr. Frensky scowled at her. "If he doesn't show up, I expect things to go back to the way they were," he stated firmly. "Is that understood?"
"Dad, I'm trying to listen to the news," said Francine peevishly. Pokey will come, she told herself. After he kicks my dad's butt, maybe he'll help us find Prunella.
In the privacy of her bedroom, D.W. carefully scissored the stitches that held a stuffed unicorn together. Once the belly was open, she began to yank out the cotton stuffing and hurl it in every direction. "Die, unicorn! Die!" she yelled.
Muffy, half asleep on her mattress, listened to one of her music CD's as it played out:
Don't stop believin'
Hold on to the feelin'
Streetlight people
Her reverie was interrupted by her father, whose expression indicated that he had not only lost all patience, but transcended it. "Muffy!" he bellowed. "I just received a call from Mr. Gelt, thanking me for the dress I never sold him."
"Mm-hmm," said Muffy with disinterest. "Very thoughtful of the old man."
Don't stop believin'
Hold on to the feelin'
Mr. Crosswire seized the girl by her shoulders and began to shake her rudely. "You're going to tell me who the money went to," he demanded, "and you're going to tell me now!"
As Muffy struggled to resist her father's strong grasp, a trio of welcome visitors appeared in her doorway--none other than Mel Cooper, and behind him, policewomen Pinsky and Jones.
"In the name of the law, take your hands off that girl," said Cooper sternly.
Don't stop
THE END