"Get off me, you overgrown lamb chop!" Fred yelled. He was on the ground, pinned beneath a sheep that was lapping at his face like a snow cone.
Meanwhile, Sam was struggling with another giant puffball. "Go away," he said. "I'm allergic to wool." Which is true, but then again what isn't Sam allergic to?
I looked around, trying to figure out where we'd ended up this time, but other than the kissing sheep, there weren't too many clues.
Mountains. Grass. Sheep. Sheep. Grass. Mountains. Yep, that was about it.
"Where are we?" I asked Sam and Fred, who had broken free of their woolly new best friends.
"We're nowhere," Fred said, eyeing the grassy landscape. "It's like . . . Outer Mongolia or something!"
"I don't see a single thing besides grass," Sam added. "Maybe over . . . AAAAAAAAH!"
Sam was suddenly face-to-face with a man in a pointed cap and a weird outfit trimmed with fur. Sam was still trying to catch his breath when the man's tan face lit up with a big, gummy smile. Wherever we were, people were not big on flossing—but, hey, at least they were friendly.
"Where'd he come from?" I asked, looking around.
"That's a yurt," Sam said, pointing to our friend's big round home. "It's a tent used by nomads in . . . in . . . Outer Mongolia."
Outer Mongolia. Just our luck. Weird stuff is always happening to us, especially when The Book is involved. Speaking of The Book, we'd have to find it before we could get out of this sheepy, grassy nowhereland and back to Brooklyn, New York. We always seemed to lose The Book when we warped, and, judging from the look of our surroundings, this time was no different.
I noticed our new nomadic pal had a cart parked near his yurt. "Uh, sir," I said. "Could we hitch a ride with you to, say, Inner Mongolia?"
That didn't seem to get through to him. He just stared at me blankly. So Fred decided to translate using his best caveman imitation.
"Me—Fred," he grunted. "You—" But before Fred could finish, the nomad leaned closer and started sniffing him.
"I think it's some sort of Mongolian greeting," Sam suggested.
As quickly as it started, the sniffing stopped. The nomad suddenly looked like he'd seen a ghost. He pointed a shaky hand behind us. We turned around to find out what could be so frightening, but all that was there was a big cloud of dust. Mountains. Grass. Sheep. And dust. Outer Mongolia was turning out to be one exciting place. . . .
Sam squinted through his glasses in the direction the nomad pointed. Then he asked, "What's he pointing at?"
We turned back and our nomad pal was gone—cart, yurt, and all.
"That's weird," Fred said. "I wonder what got into him."
"Uh . . . guys . . . " Sam gasped. "I think I know."
Fred and I turned around again and looked. The giant dust cloud had settled, and in its place was a band of ferocious Mongolian warriors on horseback.
"I'm guessing that's not the Mongolian polo team," I said. And I was right.