They dialed out.
He lay in the hay a long time, making his plans. In the morning the women were delighted with him. He bubbled about relics and Indian bones and pranced and paced and kept running to the window to look for Mr. Fobey's copter. When it settled and the port opened he whooped aboard, the first one on, and scrambled into the baggage hold. He slammed the little door and slid a screwdriver between the knob and the door frame.
Up forward, he heard the others boarding. I gotta work fast, he told himself.
Somebody began to pound on the little door. "Petey's in there!" piped a voice. "He won't let anybody else in!"
He could tell it was old blabbermouth Sally Doolittle, that all the kids called a nosey little squirt.
"I'm gonna watch through the glass deck!" he yelled. "It's my party, and I'm gonna watch alone."
Crouching in the small hold, he began to work at the catches of the unloading hatch. He wasn't sure it opened from the inside—but it had to. He had to drop through before the copter left the ground.
The motors started.
He heard his mother's voice. "That's not like you, Pete. What are you doing in there? Open this door!"
"I'm trying," he called. "The lock's busted."