The Journal of Curious Letters

by James Dashner

  Mr. Chu went on to talk for at least a half hour straight, telling Tick all the basics of quantum physics and the experiments scientists had done to establish theories. What it really sounded like, though, was all a fancy way to say no one had a clue how it worked or why it was different from the big world.

  “ . . . and so by observing an electron, you are actually deciding where it is, what position it’s in, what speed it’s moving. And another person could be doing an alternate experiment at the same time, observing the same electron, but in a totally different position. Now, this is getting on the fringe of what the real experts say, but some people think an electron and other particles can literally be in more than one place at once—an infinite number of places!”

  Tick felt like he was a pretty smart kid, but some of Mr. Chu’s words made as much sense to him as an opera sung in pig latin. But that last sentence really made him think. “Wait a minute,” he said, stopping his teacher. “You keep talking about these little guys like they’re in a different universe. But aren’t those tiny things inside my body, inside this chair, inside this desk? Isn’t the big world you talked about just a whole bunch of the little worlds?”

  Mr. Chu clapped his hands. “Brilliant!”

  “Huh?”

  “You nailed it, Tick, exactly.” Mr. Chu stood up and paced around the room in excitement as he continued talking. “They’re not really separate sciences—they have to be related because one is made of the other. An atom is a bunch of tiny particles, and you, my friend, are nothing but a bunch of atoms.”

  “Right.”

  “This is where all the crazy, crazy theories come in—the ones that are so fascinating. One theory is that time travel is possible because of quantum physics. I don’t buy that one at all because I think time is too linear for time travel to work.”

  Tick’s head hurt. “Are there any you do believe in?”

  “I don’t know if believe is the right word, but there are some I sure love to think about.” He paused, then sat back down at his desk and leaned forward on his elbows, looking into Tick’s eyes. “One theory says there are different versions of the world we live in—alternate realities. An infinite number of them. If it can happen on the teensy-tiny level, why not on the big fat level too? All it would take is some vast manipulation of all those little particles that make up the big particles. Who knows—there might be some force in the universe, some law we don’t know about, that can control quantum physics and even create or destroy different versions of our own world.”

  Mr. Chu had talked nonstop without breathing and finally took a big gulp of air.

  “Sounds like it’d make a sweet movie,” Tick said, trying to act like a normal kid with simple interests. But the truth was his thoughts were spinning out of control. Different versions of the world! Though he couldn’t quite piece it all together, he knew this might explain where Mothball and Rutger came from.

  “Oh, trust me, it’s been done,” Mr. Chu replied. “Especially the time travel part of it—but nothing I’ve seen that I like yet.” He yawned. “I’ve talked your poor ear off for long enough, big guy. If you’re really serious about studying Q.P., you should get a book or two from the library. It’s fun stuff, especially for nerds like you, I mean, me.” He smiled as he stood up and held out his hand. “Nice talking to you, Tick. It’s always great to have students who actually care about what they’re learning.”

  “Yeah, thanks,” Tick said as he stood to leave. “See you tomorrow.” He slung his backpack onto his shoulder and headed for the door. At the last second before leaving, another teacher—Ms. Myers—poked her head in from the hallway.

  “Reginald, do you have a moment?” she asked. “I need to talk about parent-teacher conferences.”

  “Sure,” Mr. Chu replied. “Come on in. Tick, we’ll see you later. Thanks for coming by.”

  Tick almost dropped his books at the word Reginald, the coolness of their entire conversation fading into a disturbing, eerie feeling in his stomach. He forced out a good-bye then quickly exited into the hallway.

  He couldn’t believe it, but he knew he’d never heard his favorite teacher’s first name before. It was Reginald? His name was Reginald Chu?

  Tick suddenly felt very, very ill.

  Chapter

  31

  ~

  Paul’s Little Secret

  Tick lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling of his room as the last rays of the sun faded from the day, casting a darkly golden glow to the air. His stomach felt like someone had jacked up an industrial hose and pumped in five tons of raw sewage.

  Reginald Chu.

  He had thought it was all just a coincidence, but that was before he’d learned Mr. Chu’s first name. Rutger said the founder and owner of Chu Industries, the ones who manufactured the Gnat Rat and had done “awful, awful things,” was a man named Reginald Chu. Could there really be two people with that name in the world, much less two who both loved science? And who had both crossed paths with a kid named Atticus Higginbottom?

  No way.

  But then . . . how could his favorite teacher be someone who owned a major company the world had never heard of? Tick had looked up Chu Industries several times on the Internet, only to find nothing. Of course, he hadn’t looked up the name Reginald Chu yet.

  He got up from bed and headed downstairs, hoping a search might reveal something. As he passed Kayla on the stairs, clutching no fewer than five dolls in her small arms, Tick thought about the things he and Mr. Chu had discussed after school. One thing popped in his mind that seemed the most obvious answer to this dilemma.

  Time travel. Mr. Chu created this horribly powerful company in the future and sent things back in time to haunt his old students.

  Tick almost laughed out loud—talk about hokey and ridiculous. Despite the crazy stuff he’d seen the last few months, it didn’t make him think any more than before that time travel was possible. Even Mr. Chu said it was a dumb theory. Of course, if he was a bad guy . . .

  But what about the idea of alternate versions of the universe? Maybe his teacher had an alter ego in another reality. Just as nuts, but for some reason not quite as nuts. Tick shook his head, unable to believe he was actually having this conversation with himself.

  He logged onto the Internet, then did a search for the name “Reginald Chu.”

  Three hits.

  One obscure reference to a presentation Mr. Chu did at Gonzaga University with some other teachers, and a couple of unrelated hits about a guy in China. That was it. Just for fun, Tick typed in Chu Industries again, with the same result.

  Nothing.

  Trying his best to move his mind on to brighter things, he logged into his e-mail. He almost jumped out of his chair with joy when he saw replies from both Sofia and the new guy in Florida.

  He froze for a second, not knowing which one to open first.

  He clicked on Sofia’s.

  Tick,

  Wow, another kid! Why did it have to be another American? That’s all I need, running around with two boys who do nothing but eat hot dogs and belch and talk about stupid American football.

  Yeah, I figured out the riddle about hands, too. BEFORE I got your e-mail, just in case you’re wondering.

  Next time you write this Paul boy, make sure to put my name in the address, too. That way we can all talk together.

  Time is running out! We need to figure out the Magic Words!

  Ciao,

  Sofia

  Oh, please, Tick thought. She just has to make sure I know she figured it out on her own.

  He was about to hit REPLY on instinct, but remembered the e-mail from Paul. Tick quickly closed the one from Sofia and clicked on the other.

  Tick,

  Dude, are you serious about the whole Alaska thing? Man, I need to hear that story from the beginning. Try to do a better job of it next time—I couldn’t understand a single thing you said about it. :)

  I must be the dumbest person this side of the
Mississippi because I didn’t get the hands thing at first. Now it seems really obvious.

  But that’s okay. I’m one up on you, big time.

  I figured out the magic words.

  See ya later, Northern Dude.

  Paul

  P.S. No way I’m telling so don’t ask. Rutger said I’m not allowed to. We can talk about anything else, but each person has to figure out the magic words for themselves. Good luck.

  P.P.S. I’m fourteen years old, six feet tall (yes, six feet), African-American, and drop-dead handsome. I love to surf, I play the piano like freaking Mozart, and I currently have three girls who call me every day, but my mom always tells them I’m in the bathroom. Let me know a little about you, too. Later.

  What!

  Tick sat back, unable to believe his eyes. He couldn’t care less about Paul’s little introduction at the moment—the guy knew what the magic words were! It was finally right there for the taking, but he wouldn’t—couldn’t—share.

  That stupid little Rutger . . .

  Tick hit the REPLY button, then added Sofia’s e-mail address right after Paul’s. From now on, hopefully they could stay connected as a trio and make their way toward the special day together. After pausing to think about what he wanted to say, Tick started typing.

  Paul (and Sofia),

  Okay, this e-mail has both of your addresses on it, so be sure and do that from now on so we can keep in touch. Paul, this is Sofia. Sofia, this is Paul. I’ll forward the different

  e-mails to everyone later. Sofia needs to know that Paul seems to think he’s something special. :)

  Paul, did you really figure out the magic words? Are you serious? You really can’t tell us? I’ve looked at that first letter over and over and over and I can’t find the answer! Sofia, Rutger told Paul we’re allowed to share and help each other, BUT NOT ABOUT THE MAGIC WORDS.

  (If I ever get my hands on that guy . . . )

  Sofia and I will just have to start figuring out a way to get you to tell us anyway.

  Tick went on to write a very long e-mail, telling the story of Alaska and a little about himself and Sofia. When he finally finished and turned off the computer, Tick’s eyes hurt. He was just standing when his mom called everyone in for dinner.

  ~

  Frazier Gunn sat in his little prison cell and brooded.

  How had it come to this? He’d been having a dandy of a time in Alaska, pulling off his plan to take care of two of the bratty kids George was scheming with—and poof. Everything fell to pieces.

  After being knocked out in the freezing cold cemetery, Frazier had awakened in this teeny little room, which was barred and chained with enough locks to hold the Great Houdini. The walls of his cell were made of metal, lines of rivets and bolts all over the place. He felt like a grenade locked in an old World War II ammunition box.

  And he’d been here for over three months. His captor had obviously injected him with a shockpulse because his nanolocator was dead, not responding whenever he tried to send a signal to Mistress Jane. Plus, if it had been working, she would’ve winked him away a long time ago. Of course, that fate might be worse than his current one. The woman had a nasty temper and low tolerance for failure.

  At least he had a comfortable bed in which to sleep. And delicious food slipped through a small slot on the bottom of the door three times a day without fail. He’d been given books to read and a small TV with a DVD player and lots of movies. Mostly about cats, oddly enough, but still, it was enough to keep him occupied for a while.

  But three months. He felt his mind slipping into an abyss of insanity.

  To make matters worse, the room swayed. Not very much and not very often, but he could feel it. It was like a gigantic robot trying to put her cute little metal box to bed. He kept telling himself it was all in his imagination, but it sure seemed real enough when he leaned over the toilet and threw up.

  Frazier was a miserable, miserable man, and it only poured salt in his wounds that he didn’t know why he was here, or who had captured him.

  It had to have something to do with that nuisance of all nuisances, George. Master George. Please. What kind of man has the audacity to refer to himself as Master anything?

  The sound of scraping metal jolted him from his moping. He looked up to see a small slot had slid open in the center of the main door, only a couple of inches tall and wide and about waist-high from the floor.

  This is new. He stood and walked over to the opening, peeking through. He yelped and fell backward onto his bed when a cat’s face suddenly appeared, baring its fangs and hissing.

  “Who’s there!” he yelled, his voice echoing off the walls with a hollow, creepy boom. He recovered his wits and righted himself, staring at the small open space. The cat had already disappeared, replaced by a mouth with an old ruddy pair of chapped lips.

  “Hello in there?” the mouth spoke, the voice heavy with an English accent.

  “Yeah, who is it?” Frazier grunted back at his captor, though he already knew who was behind the door.

  “Quite sorry about the inconvenience,” Master George said. “Won’t be long now before we send you on your way.”

  “Inconvenience?” Frazier snarled. “That’s what you call locking up a man for three months?”

  “Come on, old chap. Can you blame us after what you did to those poor children?”

  “Just following orders, old man.” Frazier sniffed and folded his arms, pouting like a little kid. “I never meant any true harm. I was, uh, just playing around with the car to scare them. No big deal.”

  “I must say,” George countered, “I disagree quite strongly with your assessment of the situation. Mistress Jane has gotten too dangerous. She’s gone too far. I mustn’t allow you to return to her until . . . we’ve taken care of something.”

  “Taken care of what?”

  “Just one more month or so, my good man,” George replied, ignoring the question. “Then we’ll send you off to the Thirteenth where we won’t have to worry about you coming back.”

  Intense alarms jangled in Frazier’s head. What the old man had just said made no sense. Unless . . .

  “What do you—”

  His words died in the metallic echo of the small door sliding shut.

  Chapter

  32

  ~

  Shattered Glass

  A week went by with Tick, Sofia, and Paul e-mailing each other almost every day. They talked about their lives, their families, their schools. Though Tick had never met Paul and had met Sofia only once, he felt like they’d all become great friends.

  Tick and Sofia used every ounce of persuasive skills they possessed to convince Paul to tell them the magic words. On more than one occasion, Sofia even threatened bodily harm, never mind that she lived on another continent. But Paul stubbornly refused, not budging an inch. Finally, the other two gave up and reluctantly admitted he was right, anyway. Better to follow the rules in this whole mess than risk jeopardizing their chances of achieving the goal all together.

  The goal. What was the goal? Yeah, they pretty much knew that on the special day they had to perform a silly ritual in a certain place—probably to show their ability to follow instructions and obey orders as much as to show they could solve the riddles of the clues. But then what would happen?

  Tick felt strongly that if they did everything correctly, they would travel to another place. Somehow Mothball and Rutger were doing it. Somehow Master George was traipsing about the world to all kinds of strange places, mailing letters. Tick always felt a surge of excitement when he considered the possibilities of what may happen on the special day, only to have it come crashing down when he remembered he hadn’t figured out the magic words.

  After dinner one night, Tick sat at his desk, his Journal of Curious Letters open before him, while his dad lounged on the bed with his hands clasped behind his head. Tick had told him everything, but his dad hadn’t been much help, falling back on his normal Dad capacity of offering encou
ragement and rally cries. Tick suspected his dad knew more than he let on, but that he felt much like Paul did—it was up to Tick to solve the puzzle.

  “Go through your list again,” his dad said. “Everything we know needs to happen on May sixth.”

  Tick groaned. “Dad, we’ve gone over this a million times.”

  “Then once more won’t hurt. Come on, give it to me.”

  Tick flipped to the page where he’d accumulated his conclusions. “Okay, on May sixth, I need to be in a cemetery—any cemetery—with no one else there but all the dead people.”

  “That excludes me, unfortunately.” His dad let out an exaggerated sigh. “I still don’t know if I’m going to let you do this.”

  “Dad, it’ll be fine. It’s probably a good thing you won’t be there, anyway—I’m sure I’ll be abducted by aliens or something.”

  “Whoa, now that’s a dream come true.”

  Tick rubbed his eyes, then kept reading. “I need to be dressed warmly, and at nine o’clock on the nose I need to say the magic words, with my eyes closed, then stomp on the ground with my right foot ten times—all while keeping both of my hands in my pockets.”

  “Is that it?”

  “That’s it.”

  His dad rolled into a sitting position on the bed with a loud grunt. “All that’s pretty easy, don’t you think?”

  “Well . . . yeah, except for one tiny thing.”