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me,” the man said, without looking up. “I have three pastimes in life: machines, music, and making people squirm. You might be next.”
    â€œAre you Mr. Loren?” Hal asked, stepping forward with a hand outstretched. “I’m—”
    â€œI don’t use that name, and so I can only conclude that you’re new around here.” The teacher scowled. “It’s Tremelo, but don’t go thinking that a first-name basis makes us ‘pals.’ That goes for both of you.”
    With that, the motorbuggy roared into clinking, clanging action, and several students scrambled to get out of its way. The fox in the sidecar yipped at Bailey as it passed. Bailey gaped. His heart started beating loudly—he’d just encountered the very professor he’d meant to find.
    â€œ
That’s
Tremelo Loren?” Bailey asked Hal. “I didn’t think he’d be so”—he struggled to find the right word—“dusty.”
    Hal cleaned his glasses on his shirt; they had been knocked in the dirt when he’d fallen.
    â€œYou’ve heard of Tremelo?” Hal asked.
    Bailey nodded. “I read something about him, that he’s a trainer—he can make people’s bond with their kin stronger.”
    Hal squinted through his glasses, confused. “Really? I thought he just teaches Basic Tinkering—mechanics and stuff. Taylor says he’s a useless teacher. Then again, my brother isn’t exactly the most reliable source. I mean, just look at that motorbuggy; it’s impressive for having built it himself.”
    In the distance, the motorbuggy let out a rich belch of smoke as it backfired, scattering a group of girls and their goat kin. The goats took off toward some shrubbery at the edge of the grounds.
    â€œDon’t let those creatures near my berries!” called a red-faced woman with two buck-toothed groundhogs riding on her shoulders. “I
just
pruned them!” She hurried after the fleeing goats as the girls laughed.
    â€œSo,” Bailey said to Hal. “What now?”
    Just then, a short, squat woman in a tweed suit hustled toward them.
    â€œAre you new, boys?” she asked, as the wombat clinging to her head removed a hairpin from her messy bun.
    â€œUm  …  yes?” Bailey answered, watching the wombat chew on a piece of the woman’s hair.
    â€œExcellent. Welcome to Fairmount. Here you go.” She shoved a map into Bailey’s hands. “You’ve just come from  …  ?” the harried woman asked them.
    â€œThe Golden Lowlands,” Bailey answered.
    â€œExcellent—I don’t suppose either of you know a”—she stopped to scan a clipboard held in her tightly clenched hand—“Bailey Walker, would you?”
    Bailey gulped.
    â€œThat’s me,” he said, through a mouth as dry as sand.
    The woman looked relieved enough to hug him.
    â€œThank Nature. We’ve been looking for you—you’re to come with me. And your friend?”
    â€œHal Quindley,” Hal offered.
    The woman checked her list again. Her wombat eyed Bailey as if he were a piece of especially ripe fruit.
    â€œQuindley, you’re in the Towers, dear. Walker, with me!” She turned and walked quickly through the throng of bustling students toward the central campus. Bailey looked at Hal, stricken.
    â€œI’m sure it’s nothing,” said Hal, sounding very much like his uncle.
    â€œYeah. I bet you’re right,” Bailey answered, though his mind was racing. His hands shook as he followed the woman, her wombat bobbing above the crowd. He turned back and saw that Hal was watching him anxiously.
    â€œI’ll see you soon,” Hal called, waving. Bailey hoped he was right.
    The woman introduced herself as the dean of students, Ms. Shonfield. She led Bailey to the administration building, which housed the staff offices and the library. Bailey caught a