39 Clues _ Cahills vs. Vespers [03] The Dead of Night by Peter Lerangis Page A

armillary spheres, handheld astrolabes —”
    “Astro who?” Dan said.
    “An astrolabe is a small version of a sextant,” Umarov said. “Not as accurate, of course, but of great importance in early astronomy, for its portability. Many were exquisitely crafted, a perfect marriage of science and art.”
    Atticus peered down the length of the curve. What could Vesper One want — the enormous, heavy tracks themselves? “Excuse me,” he said, “but if I said anything about a stale orb, would you know what I was talking about?”
    The guide paused. He turned to Atticus with a smile and nodded amiably. “Why, yes, of course I do.”
    Four pairs of eyes snapped to the old man’s face. “You do?” Amy cried out.
    Bewildered, Atticus said, “Can you tell us how to find it?”
    Umarov laughed as he reached into a pocket of his long, flowing robe. “Indeed I can. But if you call her
it
, I’m afraid she will kick you out.”
    He handed Atticus a card:

Estelle Urb . . . a stale orb.
    Brilliant
, Atticus thought, as the taxi raced past the graveyard into town. Not a mathematical hint, not a strange word game, but a homonym!
    “This doesn’t seem right,” Jake said. “I think it’s a mistake. A coincidence.”
    “In this life,” Amy said, “there are very few coincidences.”
    Jake scoffed. “Thank you, World-Weary Winifred.”
    The driver was arguing on his cell phone, swerving wildly. He screeched to a stop in front of a small building with curtained windows. “My boss call,” he said. “Someone call him looking for two American kids. So he want to know your names. I tell him I have
four
kids, and I hang up.”
    Jake murmured, “This means, ‘I covered for you, so give me a big tip.’”
    Atticus leaped out of the cab as Amy paid up. “Come along, Arthur . . . Julius . . . Leonard!”
    Dan nearly fell out of the taxi, laughing.
“What?”
    Atticus waited until Amy and Jake were out. “It’s the real names of the Marx Brothers,” Atticus said. “To disguise our own names. Because maybe it was Interpol who called him!”
    “It was a good instinct,” Amy replied.
    “I agree, Julius,” Dan said.
    Jake walked toward the door of number 137. “You’re all crazy.”
    He knocked loudly. It was a dingy, neglected storefront nestled between two newer office buildings. The bell hung from a rusty electrical wire, and a faded, hand-drawn sign drooped low over the front door.
    Atticus heard shuffling footsteps. The door pulled open an inch, and a pair of bloodshot eyes peered out. “Who is calling?” a woman’s voice asked.
    “Are you Estelle Urb?” Jake asked.
    The face retreated, the chain slid back, and the door opened.
    Stale, musty air wafted out. Cautiously Atticus stepped into a small, dark room. As his eyes adjusted, he saw fringed lamps, lopsided chests of drawers, faded rugs, and ticking wooden clocks. A thick layer of dust had settled over everything.
    “Shop is upstairs,” she growled, heading toward a rickety staircase. “You come. But do not wake Ruhan.”
    Atticus assessed her accent.
Latvian or Finnish. Maybe Estonian.
He followed Amy and Jake up the steps, turning to look for Dan.
    But Dan was standing in the middle of the living room, wheezing, his face pale. “Can’t breathe. . . . asthma . . .”
    Amy spun around. “He can’t stay in here!”
    “I’ll get him outside,” Atticus said, leaping to the floor. “You stay. Don’t leave my brother alone.”
    He rushed Dan through the door and onto the sidewalk. Gasping, Dan pulled an inhaler out of his pocket and took two puffs. “Sorry,” he said. “It hardly ever happens anymore. I need to walk.”
    Atticus took him by the arm and headed down Kuk-Saray Street. Sheltered by the buildings, the air still had a hint of morning coolness. Atticus loved the desert dryness in Samarkand. It seemed to sharpen each scent, so that a trip down a street was like a journey through forests of sweet juniper and cinnamon.
    Now, as he breathed