Then I thought of something else. "I don't think it will do any good," I said. "There's not much in there. He doesn't have any furniture or anything."

"How do you know that?"

"I told you, I was in there yesterday."

"Oh, yeah," said Peter. "I forgot."

I could tell he still thought I was making this up.

"Did you see the whole place?" he asked.

I shook my head.

"Well, maybe there's something in his bedroom," he said. "Or the attic. Or the kitchen." His face lit up. "That's it!" he said. "The kitchen. Who knows what they eat on the planet he comes from? I bet we'll find all kinds of gross alien slime in his refrigerator!"

"Peter, you're brilliant!" I said. I was actually starting to feel hopeful. All we needed was just one thing that would prove I wasn't making all this up.

"Now, when can we do it?" I asked. "We can't let him catch us!"

Peter thought for a minute. "There's a PTA meeting tomorrow night," he said. "I heard Dr. Bleekman say that all the teachers have to be there. That's the only time we can be sure Broxholm will be out of his house.

"Tomorrow it is," I said.

That was Wednesday. By the time Thursday afternoon rolled around, I was a wreck. I had spent two full days sitting in that cla.s.sroom, staring at Mr. Smith and knowing his handsome face was only a mask-a mask that hid the terrifying face of an alien.

While none of the other kids were crazy about Mr. Smith, they didn't think there was anything really wrong with him. Only Peter knew the secret-and he thought it was a game I had invented.

"What about Dr. Bleekman?" he said to me during afternoon recess.

"What about him?" I asked.

"Do you think he's in cahoots with Broxholm? They seem pretty chummy."

I shook my head. "My mother told me Dr. Bleekman was really angry with Ms. Schwartz for quitting so suddenly. He wouldn't have been upset if he'd been wanting to put Broxholm in her place."

Peter looked at me in astonishment. "Don't you know a cover story when you hear one?" he asked. "Of course he acted like he was upset! If he hadn't, it would have been suspicious. The way I figure it, Broxholm asked Dr. Bleekman which teacher he wanted to get rid of the most. Then he zapped Ms. Schwartz so there would be a spot for him to fill."

I felt like there were ants crawling on my skin. Peter was just playing a game. But what he said made sense-too much sense. I still couldn't believe that Ms. Schwartz had just quit without saying anything to us. Something must have happened to her.

My head was whirling. Was Dr. Bleekman really in on the whole thing? Had Broxholm really fried Ms. Schwartz? If so, what would happen if he caught Peter and me in his house? If Broxholm found some way to get himself excused and came home early to catch us rummaging through his house would he zap us, too?

That last question really terrified me.

But if the ideas Peter was spinning out were true, it was more important than ever that we unmask Broxholm.

"How are you going to get out tonight?" I asked Peter.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"What do you mean, what do I mean? How are you going to get out of your house tonight?"

I had no problem myself. My parents were officers in the PTA, and they always went to meetings. They had decided at the beginning of the year that I was too old for a baby-sitter, so as long as I was back before they got home, it wouldn't make any difference. I didn't really like sneaking out on them, but this was a matter of life and death.

Peter looked at me in surprise. "Are you really planning to break into Mr. Smith's house?" he asked.

"His name isn't Smith," I said. "It's Broxholm. And, yes, I'm really planning to search his house." (I couldn't bring myself to call it a break-in). "I have to have some way to prove what he really is."

Peter looked troubled. He rubbed his hands over his skinny face. Then he looked me straight in the eye and said, "This isn't a game, is it?"

I shook my head.

Peter's eyes got wide. He swallowed a couple of times. Then he took a deep breath and said, "Don't worry, I'll be there."

I could have hugged him.

That night I met Peter at eight o'clock on the corner of Pine and Main. He was carrying a flashlight, which made me feel stupid, since I had forgotten mine. It was nearly dark. The crickets were singing, and the moon had already risen. Even though it was May, it was cold. Or maybe I was just cold because I was scared.

"Ready?" I asked.

Peter nodded. "Ready," he said.

We each took a deep breath.

Then we set off for the alien's house.

"I was afraid you might not come," I said after we had gone a few blocks.

Peter shrugged. "I didn't want you doing this alone," he said. "For a while I was afraid you were trying to pull a joke on me. I thought when I got to the corner, you and some of the others might jump out and start laughing at me."

"Hey!" I said. "I wouldn't do something like that!"

"I didn't think so," said Peter. "That was one reason I came. The other reason was, I figured if you really were going to break into Mr. Smith's house, this must be for real. You're not the kind of kid who would do something like that unless it was serious."

"Believe me," I said, "this is serious."

"I believe you," he said nervously.

We didn't say anything else until we got to Broxholm's house.

"Well," said Peter. "Here we are."

"Here we are," I echoed.

But neither of us moved. We just stood there looking at the dark empty house. I don't know about Peter, but I was trying to talk myself into taking the next step. To tell the truth, I was so scared I thought I might wet my pants.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

The Alien's Lair I don't know how long we stood there, trying to build up enough courage to go in. I do remember looking up at the sky. It was as dark as black velvet, and the stars were like diamonds scattered across it.

Which one of them did you come from, Broxholm? I thought. And why did you have to come here?

I heard Peter sigh beside me. "Isn't it wonderful?" he asked, swinging his arm up and out to indicate the entire sky. "Don't you want to go there?"

"You've been reading too much science fiction," I said. "Come on-let's get this over with."

Sharp leaves sc.r.a.ped against our faces as we pushed our way through the hole in the hedge. On the other side we dropped to our hands and knees and crawled across the lawn. Even though we were pretty sure Broxholm wasn't home, we didn't want anyone else to see us and interrupt our mission. The lawn was drenched with dew. By the time we reached the porch the knees of my pants were soaked through and I was freezing.

"How are we going to get in?" whispered Peter.

Good question! It may sound stupid, but I had been so worried about what we were doing that I hadn't thought about how to do it.

"I don't know," I hissed back. "How do people usually break into places?"

Peter looked at me in disgust. "How would I know?" he asked. "I'm not a burglar."

"Well, neither am I!" I snapped.

I closed my eyes. Fighting wasn't going to get us anywhere. "Let's circle the house," I said. "Maybe we'll find an open window or something."

We crept along the side of the house. As Peter played his flashlight over the windows I felt thankful for the hedge that masked us from the street.

"Nothing on this side," he whispered.

"Check down low," I said. "Maybe one of the cellar windows is open."

But they were all sealed shut.

Peter gestured toward the back of the house.

Just around the back corner we found one of those slanting cellar doors. It was padlocked shut. But the wood was half-rotted, and when Peter shook the lock, the whole thing came loose in his hand. He set it aside and carefully lifted the door. It creaked for an eternity as it came open. I found myself staring down into a well of perfect blackness.

"Dark," I whispered.

"Sure is," said Peter.

Then he took a step forward.

I followed him, wondering if Broxholm had b.o.o.by-trapped the place. Then I wondered what kind of b.o.o.by traps an alien would use: lasers that would cut us off at the knees? Stun guns? Freeze rays? Hey, these guys had come here from another star system. Who knew what they could do?

We walked down eight concrete steps. At the bottom we came to a wooden door so old it had a latch instead of a k.n.o.b. Peter lifted the latch and pushed. Nothing. He put his shoulder against the door and shoved again. It swung open with an eerie creak.

"After you, madam," he whispered.

"Well, at least shine your flashlight in there," I hissed.

He pointed his beam through the door. I couldn't see anything special-just a dusty cellar, the kind you'd expect in an old house.

"Let's go together," I whispered.

Peter took pity on me, and we stepped through the door side by side.

"I don't think we're going to find anything down here," he said, shining his light around the cellar. I agreed. Except for the furnace, the stairs up to the first floor, and the cobwebs, the s.p.a.ce was completely empty.

Without speaking, he headed for the stairway. I ran into a cobweb. I shivered when the wispy, clinging threads brushed over my forehead.

"You don't suppose Broxholm has any friends here, do you?" whispered Peter when we were about halfway up the stairs.

I stopped. "I don't think so," I said after a minute. "He didn't mention any when he was talking to the guy in the s.p.a.ceship."

Peter nodded. But he had managed to make me even more nervous than I had been to begin with. What if there was another alien here? What would he do if he caught us snooping around?

"Where to?" asked Peter when we reached the top of the stairs.

"Let's try the kitchen," I said, remembering his idea about alien food.

But when we opened the refrigerator, all we saw were a bunch of cold cuts, a half-empty carton of milk, a bottle of catsup, and two six packs of beer.

"He sure doesn't eat like an alien," said Peter. "Are you sure this guy is from another planet?"

"Let's go upstairs," I said. "I'll show you the thing I saw him talking into."

Peter closed the refrigerator door. But before he would leave the room he insisted on checking the cupboards. He even opened the peanut b.u.t.ter jar to see if it really had peanut b.u.t.ter in it, and not some kind of extraterrestrial goo.

The second floor had three rooms. I had high hopes for the bathroom; I thought we might find some sort of weird shampoo there or something. But it was as disappointing as the kitchen. Even the medicine cabinet was filled with typical brand name items.

"Do you think Mr. Smith really uses Excedrin?" asked Peter. "Or is this just here to convince people he's a teacher?"

"If he was stocking his house to fool snoopers, he'd have put in some furniture," I said.

The only place where we found anything even remotely alien was the room where I had seen Broxholm talking to the man on the ship. The two speakers that looked like pieces of flat plastic were still hanging on the wall. I looked under the dressing table, and found the switch Broxholm had used to tune in his ship. I reached out to touch it, then pulled my hand back. What if I somehow turned it on and the man from the ship saw Peter and me standing there?

"Come on," said Peter. "We might as well go."

"You don't believe me anymore, do you?" I asked sadly.

Peter shrugged. "This place is kind of weird what with no furniture and everything. But there's nothing that would make anyone think Mr. Smith is an alien. I believe that you believe what you told me. But whether it's true or not . . ." He shrugged and turned to leave the room.

"Wait," I said, following him into the hall. "We still didn't try that door."

Peter swung his flashlight in the direction I was pointing.