Then my eye caught the great municipal sign, with its motto I WILL COMPETE. And I realized for the first time the seriousness of what we had done.
"The alarm will be out any minute," I told Celia. "I must land."
I nosed our ship down to the lowest air line, merging with slow local traffic above the city. For once I was not pleased to be driving such a conspicuous car. Where to land? Certainly not my usual parking lot. They'd check there as a matter of routine.
Celia read my thoughts. "Where would they least expect us?"
"Navy Pier traffic fines bureau!" I exclaimed. "They have a free parking lot there."
"That's good, for the car," said Celia, "but risky for us." She thought. "The Art Institute. They have a private lot and we're members."
"Ridiculous!" I started to say, then checked myself. "That's good. That's cultural. The cops would never think we'd go looking at pictures."
There would be people there, a crowd in which we could lose ourselves. A big building where we could remain all day, if necessary, without attracting suspicion. A place where I could think. I desperately needed to think.
"I don't want to go to the Art Institute," Freddie whined. "I want to go home."