by Phil Lollar
Blackgaard growled, exasperated. “Richard, I’ve given that girl free food, free games—the complete run of this place. You said she even has a crush on you.”
“She does.” He smirked.
“Then why haven’t you extracted more information from her?”
Maxwell held up his hands. “Hey, it takes time, you know? If I move too fast, I’ll scare her away.”
“I don’t care about scaring her!” He leaned forward and poked a finger in Maxwell’s chest. “I . . . want . . . Applesauce!”
Maxwell turned his palms toward his boss. “We’ll get it, we’ll get it . . . Lucy’s not the only way to get information, you know.”
Blackgaard straightened, his eyes widening. “Then you do have something else?”
Maxwell’s eyes wandered around the hallway. “Maybe.”
“What is it?!” Blackgaard hissed.
“Ask me nicely,” Maxwell said coyly.
Blackgaard’s face grew dark. He inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly, and then growled again. “Richard, I’m in no mood for guessing games—what is it?”
Maxwell knew he had pushed it as far as he dared. “All right, all right! I thought you had a sense of humor . . . Remember how I told you that to get into Whittaker’s computer I needed my own dedicated computer with Internet access?”
Blackgaard scowled. “Of course I remember! It has been sitting on my desk in boxes for the past two months while you’ve been doing who knows what around here and wasting time with that girl!”
Maxwell bristled. “Hey, I haven’t been wasting anything! Setting up a state-of-the-art computer network takes time, if you’re gonna do it right!”
“And have you?”
Maxwell smiled. “The question of the hour. And for an answer . . .” He opened the office door. “Voila!” He pointed to the desk. Instead of boxes, a gleaming black computer monitor and keyboard sat on the desk, and a dull silver computer tower was next to it. Wires ran from the back of the computer to other gadgets sitting on a shelf behind the desk. “I just finished this morning. It’s all hooked up and ready to connect.”
Blackgaard entered the office and examined the computer components carefully. He turned back to Maxwell and chuckled delightedly. “Oh, Richard! I knew you’d come through! By all means—connect!”
Maxwell strode into the room and slid into the desk chair in front of the computer. “Your wish is my command, Oh great one!” He began rapidly punching keys on the computer keyboard. Characters and algorithms appeared on the monitor, and suddenly, there was a loud blip, and the screen changed completely. A menu appeared, and through the computer’s speakers, a computerized female voice said, “Hello, John Avery Whittaker.”
Maxwell laughed. “Ha! It talks!”
Blackgaard’s eyes widened. “Interesting.”
“It must have artificial intelligence. I don’t have any way of talking back to it, though.”
“You mean, we can hear it, but it can’t hear us?”
Maxwell nodded. “Yeah—but I can type in what we need . . .” His fingers flew over the keyboard. “Load . . . program . . . menu . . .”
Blip. Whir. The screen changed again. “Program menu on screen,” said the voice.
Blackgaard leaned in eagerly.
Maxwell could barely sit still. “This is great!” He read the words on the screen. “Train Room . . . Noah’s Ark . . . Imagination Station—”
Blackgaard pointed and barked. “There! Applesauce!”
“I see it, I see it—ready for the picking!” Maxwell licked his lips and typed, “Download Applesauce.”
The computer buzzed unpleasantly, and the voice said, “Action not authorized. Please contact administrator.”
Blackgaard looked confused. “What does that mean?”
Maxwell huffed. “It means Whittaker is smarter than we thought. Only an administrator—namely, him—can download the program.”
Blackgaard growled. “Blast!”
Maxwell thought for a moment. “Hang on, now. Just because we can’t download it doesn’t mean we can’t . . .” He began typing again.
“What?” Blackgaard hissed. “Can’t what?!”
The computer voice intoned, “Loading Applesauce program . . .” It began whirring softly. Blip! “Applesauce program is loaded. Please push any key to continue.”
“It’s working!” Maxwell marveled.
Blackgaard grasped his shoulder. “Wonderful!”
Maxwell leaned back a bit from the desk and turned to Blackgaard, gesturing to the computer. “Be my guest.”
Blackgaard grinned from ear to ear. “Why, thank you, Richard.” He hovered his index finger over the keyboard for a second, then jabbed the letter B.
Blip! “Applesauce level one. Internal matrix for Whit’s End is loaded. Systems check is beginning . . .”
Maxwell laughed again. “Ha! Systems check!”
Blackgaard looked pleased but puzzled. “What’s that? What’s happening?”
“It’s running a systems check!” Maxwell replied joyfully. “That means everything is going crazy at Whit’s End!”
And so it was. Every display, machine, and invention at Whit’s End seemed to be going nuts—as was the human currently in charge of it all. “Aaaah! What’s happening!?” Connie yelled.
The entire place erupted in a dissonance of clanking, honking, buzzing, ringing, whirring, knocking, pinging, and revving. “Oh, no! Oh, no! That crazy computer!” she screamed. “Not again! Aaahhh!”
Her scream was joined by the screams of the few kids in the building. Connie turned to them and bellowed, “Everybody—get out! Now! Move!” They all raced for the front door.
Blackgaard and Maxwell roared with delighted laughter. “I’d love to be a fly on the wall there right now!” Maxwell croaked, wiping tears from his eyes.
Blackgaard clapped his hands like a child at the circus.
A sudden blip from the computer speakers hushed them both. “Systems check complete,” said the computer voice.
Blackgaard and Maxwell both leaned toward the screen again. “What happens next?” asked the doctor.
“I don’t know,” whispered Maxwell.
Blip, whir, blip! “Applesauce proceeding to level two.”
Maxwell’s eyes widened. “Level two?”
Whir. “Please enter password.”
“Uh-oh.”
“What’s the matter?” asked Blackgaard.
Maxwell pointed to the screen. “It wants a password!”
Whir. “Please enter password.”
“Then give it one!” yelled Blackgaard.
Maxwell held up his hands. “I don’t know what the right one is!”
Whir, blip! “You have ten seconds to enter password.” A steady blipping began, deep and evenly paced, that got progressively louder. At the same time, the computer voice started a countdown. Blip! “Ten.” Blip! “Nine.” Blip! “Eight.”
“What happens if you don’t give it one?” asked Blackgaard over the blips.
“It’ll probably shut everything down like it did before!”
Blip! “Seven.” Blip! “Six.”
“Good!” Blackgaard smirked.
“No, not good!” said Maxwell. “If it shuts down while we’re in it, they might be able to trace it back to us!”
Blip! “Five.” Blip! “Four.”
“Then get out of it—quickly!” Blackgaard shouted.
Maxwell lurched at the keypad. “I’ll have to break the connection!”
Blip! “Three.” Blip! “Two.”
“Do it!” Blackgaard roared.
Blip! “One.”
Maxwell smashed the proper keys and the blips stopped. The room was very still. The only sound was their breathing and the very faint and distant hullabaloo of the kids upstairs. Suddenly Blackgaard pounded a fist onto the desk, and Maxwell jumped and screamed. “Nyaah!”
“Blast Whittaker and his safeguards!” Blackgaard snarled. He began pacing around the room.
Maxwe
ll swallowed hard. “Well, sure. I mean, the guy’s no dope.”
“No,” Blackgaard grunted, then stopped and faced Maxwell. “Richard, we must get that password!”
Chapter Five
About ten minutes later, Whit strode down the walkway leading through McAlister Park to Whit’s End. He glanced behind him and saw Eugene several yards back, huffing and puffing, holding his side. Whit called out, “C’mon, Eugene! Just a few more steps and we’re there!”
“Mr. Whittaker . . . if you . . . could just . . . slow down . . .”
Whit quickened his last few strides and bounded up the front porch steps of the discovery emporium. He took a deep breath and turned back to Eugene, who staggered to the bottom of the steps and grabbed the railing for support, gasping for breath. Whit smiled. “Here we are! Not bad for a man of my ‘social standing,’ eh?”
Eugene shook his head, his shaggy hair damp with sweat. “No . . .” he replied, sucking in air. “Not . . . bad . . . at all . . .”
Whit chuckled. “C’mon—I’ll get you something to drink.” Eugene stumbled up the steps and joined his boss. Whit opened the door, and the little bell tinkled as they stepped inside. It was the only noise in the entire place.
Whit’s End was as dead as a mausoleum.
Whit and Eugene crept into the darkened soda fountain. Eugene’s jaw dropped. “Oh, my! Everything’s off!”
Whit called out. “Connie? Connie!” His voice echoed around the deserted room.
Connie’s voice responded from the kitchen. “Whit!” She burst through the door and ran up to him, hair disheveled, eyes wide as saucers, face white as a sheet. “Oh, Whit!”
“Are you all right?”
“Yeah, I’m okay.” She nodded. “But it happened just like it did before! Everything started goin’ bonkers, then it got crazier and crazier, and then it all shut down—kaput!”
Eugene frowned. “Applesauce again?”
Connie held up her hands. “I didn’t touch it! I promise you I didn’t touch it! I didn’t even go upstairs except to get everybody out of the building when it started goin’ nuts!”
Whit put his hands on her shoulders. “Calm down, Connie. I believe you.” He gave her a reassuring smile, and the color started returning to her face.
She heaved a sigh of relief. “Thanks, Whit.”
He gave her shoulders a quick squeeze and then stepped back and took a look around, brow furrowed. “So why would this happen?”
Eugene scratched his head. “Could we have a malfunction somewhere?”
Whit’s eyebrows raised, and he cocked his head. “I guess we’d better find out. C’mon, Eugene.”
They crossed to the stairs and quickly ascended them, as Connie sank into a nearby chair. “Oh, brother!” she sighed, leaning back. “What next?”
That afternoon, the bell above the front door at Whit’s End tinkled softly as Lucy entered. The building was still dark and deserted. She inched forward and called out tentatively, “H-hello?”
After a second Connie burst forth from the kitchen, calling out, “Who’s there?”Her eyes widened. “Lucy!” She made her way around the counter as Lucy moved farther into the soda fountain area.
“Hi, Connie,” she said a bit stiffly as she looked around. “What happened to this place?”
Connie shrugged and motioned upstairs. “That’s what Whit and Eugene are trying to figure out.” There was an awkward pause. “So, what are you up to?”
“I came to see Mr. Whittaker,” Lucy replied guardedly. “I have something I need to talk to him about, but if he’s busy . . .” She glanced back at the front door.
“Well, he is . . . kinda,” Connie said apologetically. “But I’m sure he’ll talk to you if—”
“No,” Lucy cut in. “That’s all right. I’ll come back later.” She turned to leave.
Connie piped up again. “You could always talk to me.” Lucy stopped, and Connie took a step toward her. “We used to talk a lot,” she said sadly.
Lucy nodded slowly. “Yeah . . . but things are different now . . . Richard says—” She stopped herself and sighed. “Oh, never mind.” She started to leave again.
“Wait,” Connie pleaded. Lucy stopped but didn’t face her. “Richard . . . Maxwell?”
“Yes.”
“Oh. You’ve been seeing a lot of him lately?”
Lucy finally turned and gazed straight into Connie’s eyes. “Yeah, I guess I have.”
Connie took a deep breath. “Lucy,” she said sincerely, “it’s probably none of my business, but do you think it’s a good idea for you to spend so much time with Richard?”
Lucy stiffened. “Why not? I like him, and he’s nice to me.” Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Nicer than a lot of people . . .”
Connie ignored the slight, though she couldn’t deny it hurt. She took a step closer. “But he’s . . . well, he doesn’t have a very good reputation, and he’s older than you are by quite a bit, and . . . and I don’t think he can be trusted. I’m afraid he’ll hurt you.”
A pause. Lucy’s gaze never wavered but stayed locked on Connie’s eyes. Her mouth tightened, and she took several breaths in through her nose. Connie thought Lucy might burst into tears. Instead she finally relaxed her mouth, licked her lips quickly, and spoke in a cold, controlled, low voice. “Maybe you’re right, Connie.”
Connie blinked. Have I actually gotten through to her? “I am?”
“Yeah,” Lucy said curtly, “it is none of your business.” She spun on her heel and made a beeline for the front door.
Connie was taken aback, but still managed to call after her. “Lucy—Lucy!” But it was too late. The bell tinkled, the door slammed, and Lucy was gone. Connie sighed heavily. “Way to go, Connie,” she muttered to herself.
Outside, Lucy stormed away from Whit’s End and into the park, furious thoughts boiling in her head. How dare Connie butt into my business?! She always treats me like I’m a little baby—like I can’t take care of myself or even know my own mind! Everyone treats me that way!
Everyone but Richard.
She sighed. He just wants me to spy on Mr. Whittaker and Whit’s End. But at least he treats me like an adult.
She came to a bench and plopped down on it. She knew Connie was just acting out of concern for her, but who asked her to? She didn’t need Connie’s concern or anybody else’s. Everyone is always making decisions for me . . . Well, I’m old enough to make my own decisions! Okay, so she snuck out of her cabin after hours at Camp What-A-Nut—Oh, my! Call the police! Alert the National Guard! Honestly, what was the big deal? Nobody got hurt. I was just trying to have a little fun—isn’t that what camp is supposed to be all about?
Not to Connie, apparently; her camp was all about following rules, no matter how dumb they were. But Connie didn’t follow the rules, and nothing really happened to her! Oh, sure, she was fired, but then she went to camp, and now she’s right back working at the place where she broke the rules! “And all thanks to me!” she muttered. “I made it happen for her!”
Lucy shifted uncomfortably on the bench. Okay, maybe she had to tell a couple of small lies to make it happen, but look at the good that resulted! It was just like Richard said—Connie was right back where she wanted most in the world to be. She should be thanking me—and Richard—but instead she’s questioning our friendship!
Just like Richard said, she thought again. She had done what he had asked before, and he had been right—Connie was back at Whit’s End. And since that had all worked out fine, then helping him out by getting him information about Applesauce and Whit’s End would work out, too, right? At least, it wouldn’t really hurt anything . . . would it? Besides, Richard had been right about something else—she did want to be a reporter, and reporters do gather information for their stories. And something told her this was a really good story.
A tingle went down her spine.
Almost without realizing it, she rose from the bench and headed back to Whit’s End. She knew she couldn’t
go in through the front door—the little bell would give her away. She had never entered through the back door before. She decided if it was locked that would be a sign she shouldn’t do this. She crept across the small parking lot and up to the door.
It was wide open.
She took a deep breath and swallowed hard. This is what reporters do, she thought and then slipped inside.
She was in a small hallway that led to a storage area just off the kitchen. It was a lot bigger than she thought it would be, but then again, that seemed to be the case with a lot of the rooms in this building. She sneaked past the prep tables, stove, and sinks to the swinging door behind the counter in the main soda fountain area. Lucy paused there and listened intently—all was quiet. She inched the door open to see if Connie was behind the counter. It was clear. She squeezed through the space and stayed low. Her heart was pounding so hard she was sure anyone in the room could have heard it.
She crept along the counter, and at its end, peered around it. The main room was empty. She took another deep breath and then raced to the stairs and climbed them as noiselessly as she could.
At the top, she heard voices—Connie and Eugene talking to each other loudly from different rooms. At the opposite end of the building were other rooms; she recognized one of them as Mr. Whittaker’s office. Its door was also wide open.
She tiptoed to it and stopped—there was movement inside, and someone was humming. It was Mr. Whittaker.
His presence made her balk. She was spying on Mr. Whittaker! This couldn’t be right! She almost turned and left right then, but then she heard a click, what sounded like a heavy door opening, and then the hum of machines. Was there another room inside of Mr. Whittaker’s office? Curiosity got the better of her and she scooted inside.
Sure enough, there was another room, behind the bookcase, filled with equipment. Mr. Whittaker stood at a computer terminal and said, “Hello, Mabel.”
The computer answered, “Hello, John Avery Whittaker.”
“Mabel, please run a self diagnostic; password: 5JKingProv04.”
“Password accepted. Estimated run time for diagnostic: twenty-five minutes.”
