Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow

1 A Frightened Passenger. A Winged Skull. A Sinister Observer

In the gathering dusk, a snowstorm settled around the huge streamlined shape that eased through the cold fog.

As he stared out at the New York City skyline through the zeppelin's glass observation-windows, Dr. Jorge Vargas felt as if he were trapped within an enormous snow globe, the toy of a monstrous giant.

The trapped feeling was not his imagination. And he was certainly familiar with monsters…

A cold breeze rattled the panes, and he withdrew from the window, leaving a mist of condensation from his heavy, panicked breathing. From up high, the skyscrapers of Manhattan looked like a diorama in a museum display sparkling with driving white flakes.

Around him in the opulent observation lounge, other passengers sipped wine or champagne, ate expensive cheeses, chatted. One potbellied man laughed too loudly, while his companions puffed earnestly on cigars, filling the lounge with a tobacco fog nearly as thick as the blizzard outside. A band played mellow music: a clarinet, a violin, a saxophone.

The businessmen had neatly pomaded hair and immaculate tuxedos. Women showed off their pearls and jewelry; colorful cocktail dresses clung to their hips and legs, flowing like liquid fabric down to high-heeled shoes, while leaving alabaster arms and shoulders bare.

Everyone in the lounge flaunted their wealth and social status. An event of such grandeur would earn its place in history. In soirees and cocktail parties for years to come, the passengers would brag about being aboard the Hindenburg III on its maiden voyage from Berlin to New York City.

Dr. Vargas didn't want to be seen, however. He was simply trying to escape Germany — before it was too late.

Throughout the deceptively gentle flight over Europe and then across the wintry Atlantic, the zeppelin's chefs had astounded the wealthy passengers with exotic meals, pates and caviar, incredible desserts and sugary confections. Vargas, though, had little appetite. He had spent most of the time in his interior cabin, hiding, dreading. The lullaby hum of great propellers reminded him of more sinister machinery…

A crewman stepped through the observation lounge on his way to the bridge. He wore a white uniform, a smartlooking cap, gold epaulets, and a mannequin smile on his clean-shaven face. He nodded to some passengers.

"Excuse me, Captain," a rail-thin woman interrupted him. She had short graying hair done up in a tight style more than a decade out-of-date, as if she had never passed beyond her days as a young flapper.

The crewman's smile barely changed. "I'm just the copilot, madam."

"Will the snowstorm delay us? Is there anything to worry about? Those buildings look very high — "

The flurry of white flakes and the gusting breezes did not seem to bother the huge dirigible. Thanks to the constant knot in his stomach, Vargas could feel any increase in the swaying motion. After the horrific explosion of the first Hindenburg in Lakehurst, New Jersey, two years before, everyone had good reason to be skittish.

Vargas had seen photographs of that other airship's fiery destruction after atmospheric electricity ignited a gas leak in the dirigible. (Some said the explosion was caused by anti-Nazi saboteurs.) He had seen images of the charred skeleton of the great zeppelin lying on the burned ground like the bones of a prehistoric monster. Oh, the humanity!

But that disaster was nothing compared to what terrors lay in store for the human race… if Vargas could not get away.

The copilot gave the old flapper a reassuring smile. "Not at all, madam. The Hindenburg III has none of the potential hazards of its predecessors. For us, even a blizzard is nothing more than frosting on the cake."

At the snow-speckled window, the woman's husband said, "Looks like frosting on the whole city down there."

The copilot was obviously well-versed in public relations. "And I think you'll agree that the amenities, the speed, and the comfort of a transatlantic voyage via zeppelin are far superior to even the finest luxury ocean liners. You mark my words, giant liners like the Titanic will soon be a thing of the past." Tipping his cap, the crewman walked past the couple to the polished wooden doorway that led to the bridge. "We'll be docking — safely — with the Empire State Building in under an hour."

The band continued playing. Bartenders served another round of drinks. Vargas stared out the window, clutching his dark satchel with a death grip. He carried the satchel with him everywhere he went, not daring to leave it in his cabin, even with the door locked.

Dr. Vargas was a thin, nervous man with salt-and-pepper hair, an aquiline nose, and a graying goatee. His unremarkable brown tweed suit was beginning to show too much wear. He hadn't had much chance to pack spare clothes when he'd fled Berlin.

But it wouldn't be long now. Ahead of them, spotlights crisscrossed the skyline as the zeppelin lumbered forward. The Hindenburg III would tie up to the world's tallest skyscraper. A brass band would welcome the passengers on the rooftop, with another one on the streets below.

Vargas would disembark with the crowd and then intentionally lose himself in the flurry of photographers and reporters. He would disappear into a city where no one knew him, where the pursuers would not guess to look for him.

Safe. For a short time at least.

The Hindenburg III seemed to take forever in its final approach. Passengers, many of them tipsy from too much celebrating, lined the windows of the observation lounge to gaze out at the spectacular metropolis.

When they jostled the doctor's shoulders, making him feel threatened and claustrophobic, he moved toward the back of the compartment, still clutching his satchel. At the rearmost window, the view was blocked by guy cables and the sweep of the dirigible's nearest fin. The seal of vulcanized rubber did not fit perfectly around the pane of glass, allowing a chill draft. Vargas huddled in his tweed suit, glad for the brief solitude, anxious to be off the zeppelin.

Fidgeting, he swiped a handkerchief across his brow as he discreetly eyed the room. When he was sure none of the passengers were paying any attention to him, Vargas reached into his pocket and withdrew two small test tubes.

Swallowing hard, thinking of all the work and all the dark memories that had thrown him into this dangerous situation, he let his gaze linger on the twin vials before he wrapped them in the soft folds of his handkerchief. He snapped open his satchel and placed them protectively inside.

The loudspeaker system crackled, and the captain's voice boomed out in deep, rolling German. Vargas flinched in instinctive terror, remembering other harsh commands delivered over blaring intercoms.

But the man was simply announcing the Hindenburg lII's imminent arrival. "All passengers please take your seats and prepare for the docking procedure. We may encounter some slight turbulence due to the snowstorm as we dock to the Empire State Building."

Outside, louder than the thrumming of the zeppelin's impressive motors, came the drone of airplane engines. Six swift fighter aircraft, each one painted with intimidating insignia — tiger stripes, leopard spots, or a red mouth of snarling fangs — roared past the gliding Hindenburg.

Vargas quailed, but the other passengers whistled and cheered. The six aircraft sped past, tilting their wings in friendly acknowledgment. The captain came back over the loudspeaker. "Ladies and gentlemen, we are fortunate to receive a ceremonial escort from the famous Flying Legion! If any of you had doubts that we would arrive safely, I trust they are now put to rest?"

Vargas knew the heroics of the mercenary Flying Legion. The daredevil fliers had saved the world from numerous threats, whether it was deadly comet dust or mad scientists with super weapons or bank robbers with machines that tunneled through the Earth's crust. He let out a brief sigh of relief.

Two eager boys ran playfully past the old man, bounding to the only uncrowded window. Adults formed an impenetrable barricade at each of the prime observation spots.

"Let me see! Let me see!"

"Is Sky Captain with them?"

As Vargas drew back, the boys bumped him and knocked his satchel to the deck. Since he hadn't clicked the clasp shut, the case broke open, spilling papers. The doctor snapped at the boys, "Please, please! You must be careful!"

But the youngsters were too eager to watch the daring maneuvers of the Flying Legion planes to pay much attention to the old man. As Vargas frantically scooped up his scattered papers, he doubted any casual observer would see significance in all the documents. But to him the schematics and diagrams of complex mechanical components held dire significance for the future of the world.

Each paper bore a prominent, ominous emblem stamped in the upper right corner — a grinning skull framed by iron-feathered wings. He grabbed the documents, covering the winged skull before anyone could see it.

At the bottom of the pile lay a grisly autopsy photo. Vargas froze, remembering the victim's pitiful cries, the awful experiment. He feared he might vomit right there in the observation lounge (which the other passengers would no doubt attribute to airsickness). Then he glanced up to see one of the boys staring at the photograph, horrified. Before the boy could call out to his companion, Vargas stuffed the autopsy photograph in the satchel and fled. He couldn't get off the zeppelin soon enough.

As the passengers gathered their belongings, talked to stewards, and waited for the final docking, Vargas moved down the Hindenburg's passageways, looking right and left. Close to his chest so no one could see, he held a pencil and a scrap of paper, on which he hastily scribbled a note. He glanced at the bustling porters assisting with baggage; he was searching for one in particular. He finally spotted the familiar man with blond hair, a rough complexion, and an easy smile.

When Vargas caught the porter's eye, the other man nodded. "Yes, Dr. Vargas?"

The doctor kept his voice low, pressing the satchel into the porter's callused hands. "This parcel must be delivered the moment we reach port. I… won't be able to do it myself." Passengers milled around them, and Vargas swallowed hard. He clasped his own hands around the porter's, forcing him to grip the case's handle. "A man will be waiting at this address — Dr. Walter Jennings. You must see that the satchel is placed in his hands. Personally. There can be no mistake."

"Yes, Doctor. Right away." The porter lifted his jaw to show his determination.

During the long journey, the porter had been cordial, not overinquisitive or solicitous, but he had sensed this passenger's deep anxiety. Perhaps it was desperation, perhaps it was foolhardiness, but Dr. Vargas had decided to trust the man. Vargas had no allies, no other choice — and the risk was too great to count on achieving everything alone. He needed assistance, and that porter had no connection whatsoever with Unit Eleven or their diabolical creations. He had taken the chance.

The poor porter knew only the vaguest details of what he'd gotten into. Vargas felt sorry for endangering the man, but he had no choice. It was a long time since he'd been accustomed to dealing with innocent people.

Taking the satchel casually, as if it were just another piece of luggage, the porter walked away, leaving Vargas standing by the window, feigning nonchalance. Finally, when he was far enough away, the porter glanced at the slip of paper Dr. Vargas had curled around the handle of the small bag.

The porter blinked with concern. He hadn't believed how serious the scientist's spy games were. He turned back to where the old man had been staring forlornly out the window.

Dr. Vargas had vanished into the crowd of passengers.

Spotlights blazed against the zeppelin as it cruised above Manhattan and approached its destination. Continually falling snow reflected the bright beams of light, sparkling around the Hindenburg's smooth exterior. From the skyscraper's rooftop, newspaper reporters took flash photographs. In the streets below, crowds looked up to point at the massive dirigible coming to dock at the world's tallest structure.

A team of men standing at the zenith of the Empire State Building gathered the towing lines suspended below the zeppelin's belly. Straining with the snow-wet ropes, they ushered the lighter-than-air ship to the sheltered dock.

When the vessel had settled into position one hundred stories above New York City, a gangplank was lowered into place, then anchored for stability. Passengers, pleased to be among the first to disembark on the craft's maiden voyage, moved down the suspended bridge. Though the wide walkway was guarded with grip ropes, the plank spanned a dizzying height between the Hindenburg III and the building. Most of the passengers could not stop themselves from looking down…

Far below, at the base of the skyscraper, a dark figure watched the activity above. Standing on the corner of Thirty-fourth Street and Fifth Avenue, the stranger stared upward with all the other people, but this person remained silent and isolated. Though other pedestrians shivered in the cold from the falling snow, the shrouded figure was impervious to the weather.

Eventually, a black-gloved hand produced a small notebook from within a heavy jacket. Seven names were written in the notebook in precise block letters, every line even. There were no other notes, no markings. Five of the names had lines drawn through them.

The dark figure raised a quill and methodically crossed out the sixth name on the list: DOKTOR JORGE VARGAS. Then the notebook was snapped shut and tucked away into the jacket.

Only one name remained.

2 An Intrepid Reporter. A String of Disappearances. A Mysterious Package

Hot off the presses!

At her desk in the Chronicle offices, Polly Perkins lifted her fresh copy of the early edition, scanning the front page. She loved the feel of crisp newspaper, the oily smell of black ink, the sound of rustling pages as she shuffled through the sections. Each copy carried the heady excitement of news. Sometimes she even went to the cavernous printing factories and stood in front of the rumbling newspaper presses just so she could snatch one of the first copies to come down the line.

Especially if the edition contained an article or a photograph she had contributed. Like today's.

New York's tall buildings filled the window behind her, but she leaned closer to the yellow glow of her desk lamp. The lamp's body was an illuminated frosted-glass globe of Earth. She had never been able to decide if it was an innovative art deco design or pure kitsch. Either way, the lamp served its purpose.

Polly unfolded the front page of the newspaper, engrossed. The headline in bold seventy-point type, heavy block letters, shouted triumphantly:

A photograph — made grainy either by the snow flurries or poor reproduction — showed the prominent zeppelin tethered to the top of the skyscraper, like a plaything for Willis O'Brien's King Kong. Another photo, taken by a hardy amateur journalist who had stood out in the blizzard, showed the Hindenburg III from a distance framed by the towers and suspension cables of the Brooklyn Bridge.

Polly ignored the huge headline, though, and considered a small article on the bottom of the page, which was much more important to her. She turned the newspaper over, leaning close and smiling as she scanned the words, alert for typographical errors

Her blue eyes lingered on the byline before turning to the rest of the article. Accompanying the text was another grainy photograph, at least ten years old, but it was the best she could find in all the Chronicle's archives. Dr. Jorge Vargas had apparently disappeared as soon as the zeppelin docked, and she hoped readers might be able to identify the man, even if the picture was out-of-date.

It would be quite a scoop if she could find him herself.

Demure and unflappable, Polly was the Chronicle's crack investigative reporter — at least she considered herself to be. Her editor, Morris Paley, suggested she still needed a few more credentials. As soon as he'd said that, his baggy eyes suddenly lit up in alarm. "Now, Polly, that doesn't mean I want you to get yourself in trouble!"

"I don't want to get in trouble, Mr. Paley. I want to get the news. Sometimes you have to do one to accomplish the other." She had smiled and shooed him away so she could get back to her typing on a well-used black Royal typewriter. Editor Paley had lingered at the office doorway, paternally worried about her, but Polly had ignored him. With her icy coolness, she would one day convince him that she could take care of herself…

Now, turning back to her typewriter, she became lost in her own thought, her fingers pounding the keys furiously. Dr. Vargas was just the latest in a disturbing string of disappearances of prominent scientists who had worked in Germany for decades. She had noticed the connection and tracked down five other incidents where researchers had inexplicably vanished. Polly had written several articles, and Editor Paley had printed them, sometimes prominently and other times at the back of the section.

So far, she hadn't managed to create much of a hue and cry. Nobody else believed the seriousness of the situation, but someone out there must have been reading and wondering. This latest disappearance seemed even more suspicious than the other five. With all the details she'd pieced together, it was plain to her that Dr. Vargas had been attempting to flee something…

The intercom on Polly's desk buzzed, and she stopped typing to flip the switch.

"There's a package for you, Miss Perkins."

"Thanks, Isabel. I'll be right there."

Down in the Chronicle lobby, Polly rapped her fingers impatiently on the front desk. Her wavy golden hair was neat and perfect, partially pinned up with barrettes, but she did not waste her time with complicated and fashionable new styles. She wore a smart business dress and black shoes with sensible low heels that would allow her to run after a story (or run from one, if the circumstances turned out badly). Polly had a catlike mouth with full red lips, a delicately pointed nose, and a calm, strong beauty that set her apart from the wilting, giggling lovelies who spent their days trying to snag the attentions of men.

The lobby receptionist, on the other hand, walked like a wiggling duck in her tight red dress and high heels as she returned from the storeroom with a small brown package. "Here you are, Miss Perkins."

Polly took the package with a curious frown. "I'm not expecting anything, Isabel. Do you know who — "

"They didn't leave a name. Said it was important." As Polly hefted the package, then tore the paper away to reveal an old hardcover book, Isabel leaned over her counter. "Is that one of those new bestseller novels?"

Polly glanced at the title stamped in gold foil on a leatherette cover. Mathematical Principles of Natural Philosophy by Sir Isaac Newton.

"I don't think so, Isabel. Something a bit more classic."

In truth, she had no idea what it could mean. Curious, she flipped open the front cover to find a loose movie theater ticket for an evening showing of The Wizard of Oz. A note had been hastily scribbled on the inside jacket in thin, spidery letters:

3 The Editor and the Gun. A Clandestine Meeting. A Missed Opportunity

Reporters were good at protecting sources and keeping secrets. Working for the Chronicle was a tough business, and Polly had learned how to avoid obstacles or knock them aside. Not long after she received her mysterious message, she crept into her dimly lighted office and moved toward a row of filing cabinets. In the dim illumination, the beehive of Manhattan's lights began to glow through the window behind her. Although the newspaper offices were quiet after the close of business, Polly moved with unnecessary furtiveness. She slid open the top drawer of the filing cabinet and reached inside as far as her arm would go to rummage behind the file folders. From the back she withdrew a gilded oak box and brought it to her desk, where she moved pencils and notepads aside. With the fingernail of her index finger, she popped open the catch and lifted the lid of the case.

"I've got a job for you tonight — I hope," she said to the small camera that rested neatly inside the padding. Polly gingerly lifted the camera out of the box, expertly checked the mechanism, loaded fresh film, clicked the shutter, and adjusted the lens cap. Satisfied, she slung the leather camera strap over her shoulder. The camera was a vital tool of the trade, her secret weapon to be used only for the most important stories. And if this strange message in Newton's book had anything to do with the missing scientists, she didn't want to take any chances…

With the Leica ready to go, Polly dug even deeper in the back of the filing cabinet and pulled out a.45 caliber Colt service revolver and a small box of bullets. She suspected there might be some shooting tonight — either with the camera or the revolver.

She swung open the revolver's cylinder and casually spun it. She had loaded two of the six empty chambers when someone suddenly flipped on the lights. Momentarily blinded but moving with swift reflexes, Polly spun around, holding the revolver ready.

Standing in the doorway was a gray-haired man in his late sixties. Completely undisturbed by the gun pointed at him, Editor Paley let out a long, slow sigh and shook his head. "Polly, why do you do this to me? Where did I go wrong as your editor?"

Nonchalantly, Polly continued to feed bullets into the revolver. "This?" She raised the heavy gun. "Colt New Service M1917. It's just a toy. My grandma gave it to me."

"I'm sending one of the boys with you. I don't like this business you're getting yourself into." He gestured to the revolver. "And that stays here. No arguments."

Polly didn't have any intention of arguing… or listening. "I'll be fine, Mr. Paley. You know what a careful girl I am." She spun the cylinder shut and stuffed the Colt into her shoulder bag.

"My mouth moves, words come out, and you don't hear them."

"Oh, I hear them." She caught a glimpse of the big clock on the wall, then grabbed her bag and headed for the door. "I'm late for a movie. The Wizard of Oz — have you seen it?"

"I hear it's good, but I doubt it can compete with Gone with the Wind. My wife liked that one." Editor Paley had three grown daughters, none of whom had ever given him any trouble; Polly, though, wasn't anything like them. When she flashed a smile that made him flinch, he said, "Polly, I don't like it when you smile at me."

"You don't like my smile?" She smiled again, brighter this time.

"I don't like what's behind it." He stopped her at the door, but he knew he couldn't block her way when she was determined. As a last resort, he tried to be reasonable. "Six scientists are missing, Polly — probably dead. Someone out there means business, and I don't want you in the middle of it. It's time you leave the detective work to the police."

"I'm only going to a movie, Mr. Paley. Munchkins, cowardly lions, tin woodsmen — "

"Uh-huh. With a gun and a camera."

"A girl can't be too careful these days. You don't have to worry about me."

"I'm worried for me. If you get yourself killed, there's a lot of paperwork involved. And then I have to start from scratch training your replacement." He rubbed his heavy cheeks, pensive. "Of course, maybe somebody else would be a bit less intractable…"

Polly flippantly moved past him. "I'll bring you back some popcorn."

As she went by, the editor insisted on giving her a reassuring hug, barely more than a pat, and Polly indulged him. His hand brushed her leather bag.

After she had gone, Morris Paley's expression showed no defeat. "You've still got a lot of tricks to learn about this business, kid." In his right hand, he smugly twirled the Colt, which he had easily lifted from her bag. "I hope you live long enough to master them all."

Pinkish-orange neon lights spelled out the letters of Radio City Music Hall. The usual throng of city dwellers passed by the theater going about their daily business. The streets were wet and sloppy with melting snow. Yellow cabs raced by, splashing slush as they stopped at the curb to let out theatergoers.

Polly climbed out the back of a cab, bent into the window to pay the driver, then turned to face Radio City. She wore a black fedora over her long blond hair and a warm trench coat to hide her camera strap. She glanced at her watch again. She didn't want to be late. Polly walked purposefully toward the door, bypassing the ticket window. She didn't even notice as her cab raced away, splattering other pedestrians.

In front of the theater, an elaborate display advertised the new film everyone was talking about, The Wizard of Oz. Polly had heard rave reviews, but hadn't found time to see the movie. Talking scarecrows and heartless tin men weren't really her style. But she was supposed to meet her contact here.

An usher took the ticket Polly had found inside the Isaac Newton volume. As she entered the lobby of the theater, several men gave her appreciative looks, but none showed any special sign of recognition. The man who had left the brief, intriguing message inside the book must be there waiting. Suspicious of everyone, clearly trying to make contact with anybody who would meet her eyes, she moved slowly through the foyer.

She settled into a place near the concession stand where she could scan the crowd, then reached into her handbag and withdrew the book. Maybe the man had only read Polly Perkins' byline and didn't know what she looked like. She held the book out in front of her careful to keep it prominently displayed by tilting it this way and that.

Most of the patrons didn't even notice her, and those who did responded only with curious looks. A well-dressed man bumped Polly on his way to purchase popcorn. She held out the book for him to see, but when he read the title, he gave her a sour look and stepped to the concession stand. When he had turned away, Polly made a face at him.

Sighing, she again glanced around the foyer — and this time noticed a man standing in the shadows of the balcony staircase. He was clutching a small satchel. She sensed something about him…

Their eyes locked. The man turned and started up the stairway, apparently intending for her to follow. Trying not to be too obvious, Polly waited a moment, then trotted up the winding stairs after him.

As if afraid to look at her again, the man did not turn around, but moved directly toward a row of empty seats at the front of the balcony. It was not a very good place to view the show, but the seats did provide a place for private conversation. The movie had already started, and as she followed the man down the empty aisle, she glanced up to observe Judy Garland clutching a small dog to her chest as she walked through a decidedly exotic locale. The actress told the dog that she didn't think they were in Kansas anymore, which seemed an astute observation, given the circumstances.

She settled into the seat next to the man. He was thin and nervous, with gray hair and the face of an absentminded professor. In the flickering light from the movie screen, Polly saw that he had darting brown eyes behind gold-rimmed spectacles. They sat stiffly beside each other, silent but tense, like two teenagers on a first date.

Finally, Polly held up the book. "You sent me this?"

He glanced quickly around to make sure the nearby seats were all empty, then nodded.

Emboldened and sensing a story, Polly asked, "Who are you? What's this all about, Mister…?"

"Dr… Dr. Walter Jennings. But keep your voice down please." The man had a clear German accent.

Polly obliged. "What kind of doctor are you? A surgeon?"

"I'm a research chemist. I specialize in nucleic acid emissions. The bonding enzymes in proteus molecules which — "

Now her suspicions were verified. "The missing scientists! You said you knew who was next."

He hesitated. "Yes… I…"

They sat a long time without saying another word. She could already tell he needed more incentive to spill everything he knew. Polly stood up and then turned to exit. "Doctor, you contacted me. I have a deadline to meet. If you don't intend to talk — "

Jennings clutched the sleeve of her trench coat. "All right, listen to me. I was one of seven scientists chosen to serve in a secret facility stationed outside of Berlin before the beginning of the Great War. It was known only as Einheit Elf, Unit Eleven. We agreed never to discuss what went on behind those doors." His voice was distant. "The things we were made to do there… terrible things."

Polly began to scribble notes on her pad. When the scientist saw what she was doing, he paused, frightened again. Behind his spectacles, tears glimmered in his eyes. "I… I really shouldn't have come…" He rose and bolted in the opposite direction, threading his way past the empty seats to reach the aisle, where he could scuttle out the back.

After those tantalizing comments, Polly had no intention of letting the man get away. She caught up to the scientist and grabbed his arm. "Wait! In your note you said you knew who was next. Six scientists have already vanished."

"Yes… I…" His expression fell. "Don't you see? There is only one left."

"Who is it? Who?"

"Me. He's coming for me!"

Suddenly, with a din that penetrated even the noise of the movie, air-raid sirens began to blare from the surrounding rooftops. The piercing wail of New York's civil defense warnings ramped up and down with a warbling tone that struck fear into all men, women, and children. The film on the wide movie screen flickered, then stopped. The house lights came up as air-raid sirens transformed the theater into a riot scene.

Terrified, Jennings struggled, but Polly would not let go of his arm. "Who, Doctor? Who's coming?" People in the audience began to scream louder than the sirens.

Jennings' eyes lit in terror. "Totenkopf! It's Totenkopf!"

Polly strained to remember the little bit of German she knew. Totenkopf. Dead Head? Death's Head?

The scientist yanked his arm away so forcefully that he tore the outer seam of his jacket. "I have to get out of here! He has found me!"

Panicked theatergoers streamed from the upper balcony and ran for the exits, crowding between Jennings and Polly. She could no longer reach him. The scientist glanced back at her, his gold-rimmed eyeglasses askew. Then he moved down the stairs, swept away with the crowd.

Evacuation alarms continued to wail, but Polly had other concerns than an imminent bombardment from the skies. Turning back to where she'd been sitting she noticed something out of the corner of her eye. A folded sheet of paper had fallen from Dr. Jennings' satchel — by accident, or intentionally? — and lodged in the theater seat.

Oblivious to the chaos around her as the balcony emptied, Polly picked up the paper. When she unfolded it, she stared at the schematic drawing of a strange machine. From the scale marks on the drawing, she was sure she must be interpreting the blueprint incorrectly. The size didn't seem possible.

Perplexed, Polly turned back to the exit through which Jennings had just fled. Outside, she heard the menacing rumble of something huge approaching.

4 Robots from the Sky. The Defense of Manhattan. Polly Gets Her Scoop

When Polly burst out of the movie theater into the street, she ran into a scene of complete mayhem. Cabs skidded into one another, scraping sparks and denting bumpers. Pedestrians ran headlong into the roadways, blindly seeking shelter.

Though America was not at war with any nation, every year it seemed another mad scientist with another doomsday plan tried to destroy a major city. Polly remembered the flying Iron Sphere and its mind-control antennae, and then it was Lord Dynamo and his terrible lightning-rod zeppelin. By now the population of Manhattan had learned how to react in an emergency. Air-raid sirens pealed out, and New Yorkers raced for designated civil defense shelters.

Called into position by spotters stationed atop the tallest skyscrapers, military and police battalions hurriedly set up defensive blockades. They prepared their weapons and set up cars and tanks as roadblocks. Piercing spotlights swept the darkening skies, searching for the oncoming threat.

A droning, thunderous rumble echoed through the canyons of the city, sounds reflected by the tall buildings. Policemen and soldiers tilted the barrels of their guns high. Terrified people simply pointed their fingers and stared upward.

Polly peered into the slice of sky visible between buildings and saw an aerial invasion force unlike any she had ever imagined. A swarm of strange flying machines cruised overhead, shaped not like aircraft, but metal humans with legs pressed together and arms outstretched as wings. The giant metal men cruised along under their own power, organized in a tight formation descending over New York.

Polly ducked around the corner of a building as uniformed soldiers ran past, their boots clattering on the wet sidewalk. They held rifles and machine guns ready as if they were charging enemy trenches in the Great War. Fifth Avenue was fast becoming a battle zone.

Moving with a reporter's automatic instincts, Polly had already removed her camera, installed the electronic flash, and snapped a quick photo of the mayhem. At least she had plenty of film. But she needed to see more — and she had to get her story off to the Chronicle before any other reporter got the scoop. By sheer dumb luck, because of her meeting with Dr. Jennings, Polly Perkins was right in the thick of things. Editor Paley would be proud… or angry.

Like a flock of sinister migrating geese, the giant robots droned overhead higher than the skyscrapers, heading toward an unknown target. Wave after wave of them passed.

As she considered her next move, Polly spotted a phone booth on the corner of Fifty-third Street and made a run for it. Tucking herself inside, she slid the folding glass door shut to block out most of the uproar of air-raid sirens and military preparations. She urgently produced a handful of change from her purse, deposited a coin into the phone's slot, then dialed.

Polly pressed the receiver close to her ear as Editor Paley's phone rang. She knew the older man would still be there. In fact, in such an emergency, he was probably standing at his window along with a few other reporters, watching searchlights scan the heavens and trying to make sense of the ominous fleet of flying iron giants.

On the third ring, Paley picked up the phone. "City desk!" In the background, she could hear that the newsroom was in a chaotic frenzy.

"It's Polly, Mr. Paley! I'm your reporter on the scene. Right here, in the midst of it all."

"Polly?" He didn't sound pleased at all. "Listen to me — you get out of there!"

"That doesn't sound like a good decision, Mr. Paley. Don't you want to sell newspapers?"

He grumbled. "Tell me what's going on. They're calling for Midtown to evacuate."

With rapid-fire chatter, Polly explained while flipping through pages in her small notepad. "Listen, Mr. Paley, I don't have much time. I met with my contact in the theater and got some information. Everything ties together with the disappearances. I'm sure of it."

"What ties together? What are you talking about, Polly?"

Watching the military tanks pull into position, she wedged the phone between her shoulder and ear so she could scribble another note. "I need anything you can dig up for me on a Dr. Walter Jennings and someone named Totenkopf. A project named Unit Eleven. Get me a phone number, an address, anything you can find. It's important."

"Totenkopf? Who is he?"

"That's what I'm hoping you can tell me. A German researcher or something. I think he may be involved with the missing scientists. Meanwhile, I'll see what I can find out around here."

"Uh, Polly — you do know they've set up a restricted perimeter? You're supposed to evacuate."

"I'm supposed to get a scoop for the Chronicle, Mr. Paley, so don't ask me to leave now."

On the phone, she heard him call to a copy boy and bark orders. "You there, dig up some information on this — fast as you can." His voice became louder as he spoke directly into the phone again. "Polly, listen to me. I'm your boss, and I want you out of there right now. Do you hear me? Hang up the phone, close your notebook, and just get out of there."

Polly turned to look through the window of the phone booth. "Wait a minute… I see something." Her eyes widened. "It's coming into sight now above the Palisades! They're… they're huge! They're crossing Sixth Avenue. Fifth Avenue. A hundred… a hundred yards away."

From inside the phone booth, Polly moved her eyes slowly upward, amazed at the massive size of the machines heading her way. They were taller than some of the buildings. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "My God…"

Desperate gunfire erupted all around her.

At the Chronicle's city desk, Morris Paley could hear the chaos through the telephone receiver. Out of his office window, he saw bright spotlights and the sparkling flicker of repeated gunfire from ground level. He clutched the phone. "Polly?" There was no answer. "Polly!"

On the corner of Fifty-third Street, the receiver swung freely inside the empty phone booth. The editor's faint voice called after her through the dangling telephone. "Polly! Polly!"

5 March of the Giant Machines. Calling Sky Captain! A Dangerous Photo Opportunity

While the police hunkered down in formation behind their squad cars, preparing to open fire, Polly sprinted away from the phone booth. Her camera dangled on its strap, and she knew she had to get closer — but the police barricade was right in her way. Everyone else had already evacuated or found secure shelter.

Her shadow cast a trim silhouette against the brick foundation of a tenement building as she ran down a narrow alleyway, sneaking around the squad cars.

"Stop! Hey, lady — come back!" A police officer blew a whistle at her. "Aww, c'mon, lady! I can't go chasing after you — we got giant monsters coming this way!"

Polly didn't answer as she caught her breath in the darkened alley, then checked her camera, ready for the best shot. She would do whatever it took to get the story or snap an award-winning photograph. Besides, she didn't see any of the male reporters from the New York Chronicle putting themselves in danger for the sake of a scoop.

When the ground around her began to shake as something enormous moved past the narrow opening of the alleyway, she wondered if she might have made too brash a decision. She looked up — and up — at what was coming her way. "I should have brought my wide-angle lens."

A line of military vehicles sped down Fifth Avenue in a hasty retreat, jeeps overloaded with anxious soldiers training their rifles behind them. Tanks clattered along the pavement, knocking parked cars aside as they fell back from the approaching menace.

Booming impacts followed them, each footfall a slow and inexorable thunderclap. Even at their top speed, the tanks and jeeps could never get out of the way in time.

With plodding movements, towering monstrosities stomped in lockstep through an abandoned intersection, looming as tall as the corner building. Hulking mechanical giants walked side by side down the streets of New York City, crushing everything in their path.

These robot monsters had arms and legs thicker than the girders that formed the tallest skyscrapers. Round swiveling joints marked what would have been elbows and knees. Each disklike hand bore three curved metal claws, a garden rake large enough to rip a furrow down the side of a battleship. Square torsos studded with rivets as large as manhole covers contained the mechanical systems, engines, and power generators. Each armored chest bore the sinister emblem of an iron-winged skull.

The heads of the robot monsters were shaped like heavy welding helmets. A single antenna rose from the right side of each helmet, and a broad bright panel of glowing glass served as the blazing wide eye of a cyclops.

Hiding in side streets, police trained their machine guns on the robot monsters. They fired in vain, a constant barrage of bullets that did nothing more than sketch bright sparks across the metal. The iron giants strode down the deserted city street, not intimidated, not even slowed by the gunfire. One huge foot came down on a squad car, flattening it into scrap metal as a policeman flung himself to the side.

Side by side, unstoppable, the robot monsters marched toward their unknown destination.

Scrambling from his ruined squad car, the disheveled police sergeant raced for a call box, shouting into a two-piece handset. "They've broken through the perimeter. Send reinforcements. Send us everything you've got!"

At command headquarters for New York City Defense Operations, a radio operator received the urgent call for help. At times such as these, the local military and the NYPD could not face the threat alone.

A flashing red light on the wall added urgency. The radio operator opened a scarlet three-ring binder, flipped tabs, and reached the relevant section. He'd done this before. Taking a deep breath, he grabbed his desktop microphone and broadcast on the necessary frequency. "Emergency protocol 90206. Calling Sky Captain! Come in, Sky Captain! Repeat, calling Sky Captain and the Flying Legion. Come in, Sky Captain."

Radio waves pulsed out from a special transmitting tower atop the Empire State Building. Amplifiers and booster stations received the signal and retransmitted it across the city, over the North American continent, the Atlantic Ocean, and across Europe. At the speed of light, the distress call crisscrossed the planet, summoning the brave aerial hero wherever he might be.

As the robot monsters lumbered ahead, the radio operator's voice continued to echo through the sky.

Then, from far out in the lower part of New York Bay, racing in from the Atlantic and through the Hudson River Narrows, a rumbling roar cut like a sword through the thick cloud base. Superfast engines drove the plane forward like an angry hornet, between Staten Island and Brooklyn, then over Manhattan.

Bursting through the murk, a P-40 Warhawk swept in between the tall buildings, flying as if obstacles meant nothing. The ferocious fanged mouth of a snarling tiger was painted across the plane's nose behind the blurred circle of the furious propeller. A painted pair of glaring red eyes seemed to search for targets ahead. Three 20mm machine guns mounted in each wing extended forward, loaded and ready to fire upon the mechanical monsters.

Sky Captain had arrived. Wedged into the cockpit of the battle-worn fighter, Captain Joe Sullivan worked the controls as if they were extensions of his fingertips. He felt his plane and sensed its movements with an uncanny instinct.

The radio operator's static-laced voice came again through a tinny speaker in the headset: "Come in, Sky Captain…"

With a gloved hand, Sky Captain raised his microphone and depressed the transmit key. The taciturn leader of the heroic Flying Legion was an aerial daredevil of unparalleled skill, and he radiated confidence as he roared toward the giant robot monsters. "This is Sky Captain. I'm on my way."

His leather hood fit snug against his hair, and goggles sat in place over his eyes. He hunched into the fleece-lined collar of his leather bomber jacket, ready to go.

The aluminum alloy propeller blades whirred like a buzz saw almost to invisibility. His P-40 did an arching loop as he rocketed toward the enormous robots menacing Manhattan.

Down in the chaotic streets, Polly was not about to let this story get past her. She skirted the abandoned police barricade and continued through the alleyway toward the other end. She dodged garbage cans and two empty boxes made of corrugated cardboard. Finally, she saw brighter light ahead, the last remnants of dusk. Automatic neon signs and streetlights began to glow as if it were any normal evening.

She made a run for the cross street, racing down the alley and into the wider avenue — emerging directly into the path of the marching robots.

In her sensible shoes, she slid to a stop in the middle of the street, craning her neck to stare. Her minuscule form was like a lone doll in front of the mammoth iron monsters crunching toward her down the street. She froze, knowing the robots must have seen her.

As the huge machines loomed over her, blazing cyclopean eyes cast harsh illumination down the evacuated street, as if scanning for something. Polly realized that if she could take this photograph, there was a Pulitzer Prize in it for certain.

In the middle of the street, Polly popped off the camera lens cap and determinedly advanced the film. Because her hands were trembling, she decided on a fast shutter speed, but with the fading daylight, maybe she did need a longer exposure. She raised the camera, pressed her eyelashes against the viewfinder, and lined the nearest robot monster in her sights. Steady… steady.

Before she could snap the photo, an enormous blast hit the side of an adjacent building, smashed by one of the destructive robots. The explosion sprayed rubble in all directions, and the shock wave threw Polly to the ground. Knocked from her hand, the camera skittered across the street to disappear into a drain gutter.

Polly jumped to her feet and raced for the gutter. The robots plodded forward, each massive footfall cracking the pavement. If she didn't hurry, she would either be squashed or lose her shot.

She dropped to the curb, not caring about the mud, dirt, and garbage. Urgently squeezing her hand through the sewer grating, she stretched her arm to its full length.

The ranks of giant robots marched ahead in lockstep. Their feet sounded like metal drumbeats shaking the ground. With her face close to the pavement, she stretched her arm down into the grate, and her fingers quested for the fallen camera. Her fingers tantalizingly touched the leather strap.

A dark shadow fell over her, cast by the oncoming machines. Polly looked up in terror to see the robot juggernauts only a few giant steps from her.

She tried to stay focused as her fingertips grazed the camera strap again, nudging it, until finally she touched the camera itself. She strained so hard she felt as if she were pulling her arm out of its socket. Then she slowly, carefully curled her pinky finger around the thin strap. Delicately, as if it were filled with nitroglycerine, she began to lift the camera out of the gutter.

Grinning in triumph, Polly pulled it out of the drain and jumped to her feet. Now that the camera was safe, she needed to get out alive.

She rushed toward the alley, but stopped short as the concussive force of the giant machines made the brick buildings shake and buckle. Chunks of concrete and mortar rained down on the street, blocking her way. Polly spun around, suddenly serious. She considered her options.

Farther down the street, the police had reassembled at a second fallback barricade. With pistols, rifles, and machine guns, they opened fire on the machines, unaware of her presence. Hot bullets ricocheted off the robots' bodies, singing and sparking in all directions.

Polly raced to the sidewalk, but buildings blocked her path on either side. She could dodge the hulking machines more easily than she could stay out of the way of the hail of bullets. Chunks of debris continued to crash around her, creating a dusty haze. She could never make it back to the barricade and the dubious protection of the police.

Polly took a tentative step backward, her mind racing. Then, with a look of resolve, she reached down and ripped the side seam of her skirt, freeing her legs because she needed to run.

"Desperate situations sometimes call for crazy solutions," she said aloud. Editor Paley had told her that when she'd been a new reporter doing nothing more dangerous than covering social gatherings and orchid shows. At the time, he had been giving her only theoretical advice so that he could sound wise. The older man had never expected her to be in a situation where she could actually put the idea into practice. "So here's my crazy solution."

With only one way out, Polly took a deep breath — and then bolted directly toward the robots. The monstrosities were huge but slow, and she had plenty of room to move. It seemed like a workable idea, though she had to admit the situation looked worse and worse the closer she came to the machines. One giant foot came down with a thud.

The best thing about brash actions was that, once she decided upon them, she couldn't change her mind. Like an insect about to be crushed, Polly dodged between giant legs. She ducked as an arm the size of a construction crane swung over her with a rake of crowbar-thick claws. Then she swerved to the side as an enormous metal foot as big as a taxicab landed in front of her. The force of the stomping step was so great the aftershock knocked her to her knees.

She looked up at the upraised iron shoe descending only a few feet above her. Gasping, Polly rolled out of the way as the robot boot struck the pavement. Another foot crashed down next to her, followed by another and another, like mortar fire. Polly covered herself as the street was pounded on all sides.

The deafening, whirring noise of robot gears made Polly roll, turning to look up into a shadow. The heel of a raised metal boot hovered over her body. Polly watched, helpless and unable to scramble out of the way as the robot's foot started downward.

There was no escape. She was doomed.