The green haze over New City stank of burnt oil mixed with sulfur fumes from Compton
Paperworks. A lone balloon lifted off Compton's tower trailing a large sign advertising
something. All Pigeon could see was Clara's face and her long arm draped across the copy.
Clara could sell anything.
He checked the time on his pocket watch: quarter past.
The portal opened behind him with a belch of steam. The destination: the Badlands. The
goal: to drag that fool Roosevelt back to New City. The means: this time and space folding
technological wonder that may not work.
It did.
