Science Fair

by Dave Barry, Ridley Pearson

  “He was supposed to be in the basement,” she said.

  “Yeah?” said Roger. “Well, guess what?”

  GRDANKL, THE STRONG president for life, lumbered unhappily into the bunker deep beneath the presidential palace. Waiting for him were his first, second, and third vice presidents, who were gathered around the lone working computer in the Republic of Krpshtskan. They appeared nervous.

  “Well?” said Grdankl the Strong.

  The first and second vice presidents stared at the third vice president, indicating that he was going to have to do the talking. He cleared his throat and said, “The red flag is up.”

  “What red flag?” said Grdankl the Strong.

  “On the little mailbox,” said the third vice president, pointing to the computer screen. Grdankl leaned over and frowned at the mailbox, then rose up, looking displeased.

  “You disturbed my presidential nap for this?” he said.

  The first and second vice presidents edged away from the third vice president, who quickly said, “The flag means we have e-mail.”

  “How do you know this?” said Grdankl.

  “Vrsk told me,” said the first vice president. Vrsk had given him a hasty lesson on the computer before leaving for America with Drmtsi.

  Grdankl nodded. “E-mail,” he said. “It must be from Prmkt. What does it say?”

  “In order to read it,” said the third vice president, “we must first open it.”

  “Then open it!” said Grdankl the Strong.

  All eyes were now on the third vice president, who was sweating as he tried to remember his lesson.

  “To open it,” he said, “we must press on the mailbox.”

  As the others watched, Grdankl the Strong reached toward the screen and aimed for the little mailbox, pressing a meaty, sausage-shaped forefinger against the glass of the computer monitor. Nothing happened. Grdankl glared at the third vice president, who was sweating harder now as he racked his brain, trying to remember.…

  “The mouse!” he said, startling the others.

  “What mouse?” said Grdankl, looking at the floor.

  “Here,” said the third vice president, pointing at the computer mouse. “We must use this to press on the mailbox.”

  Grdankl the Strong picked up the mouse and pressed it against the computer screen.

  “No!” said the third vice president, quickly adding, “What I mean to say, Your Supreme Democratically Elected Excellency, is that you do it like this.” He gently took the mouse from Grdankl the Strong, set it on the computer table, and slid it back and forth. “See? It moves this little arrow on the screen.”

  Grdankl looked at the mouse, then at the arrow. “It is a stupid system,” he said.

  “Yes,” agreed the third vice president. “Stupid.” He put the arrow over the mailbox and pressed the mouse button. An e-mail header appeared on the screen. “Your Exalted Highness is correct,” he said. “It is from Prmkt.” He clicked on the header, and the e-mail filled the screen.

  “Let me see,” said Grdankl. He leaned forward and read the e-mail slowly, his lips moving. He grunted in surprise, then read some more. When he was done, he faced his vice presidents.

  “Drmtsi and Vrsk have been captured by the Americans,” he said. “In a jungle.”

  The vice presidents gasped.

  “America has a jungle?” asked the first vice president.

  “Yes,” said Grdankl the Strong. “It is called Norman.”

  The vice presidents nodded.

  “What will the Americans do to Drmtsi and Vrsk?” asked the first vice president.

  “They will hang them by their ears,” said Grdankl, “and poke them with sticks.” Grdankl did not know this for a fact, but it’s what he would have done.

  “It is terrible!” said the second vice president.

  “Yes,” agreed Grdankl, although he did not seem particularly upset.

  “Does this mean,” the first vice president said cautiously, “that our plan to destroy America has failed?”

  Grdankl the Strong smiled. “No,” he said. “The Americans think they have stopped the plan. But Prmkt”—Grdankl pointed at the e-mail—“says they do not know the real plan. Everything is still in place. We will still destroy the United States.”

  “Excellent!” said the first vice president.

  “But…” the second vice president began.

  “But what?” said Grdankl the Strong.

  “What about Drmtsi and Vrsk?” said the second vice president.

  Grdankl the Strong waved his hand, indicating this was not a major problem. “I will name something for them. A street, perhaps. A nice one, without too many mud holes.”

  The vice presidents applauded the generosity of Grdankl the Strong. He bowed, graciously acknowledging their praise. Then he sat down in front of the computer screen, put his hand on the mouse, and turned to the third vice president.

  “Now show me,” he said, “how to find Catwoman.”

  A KEY TURNED IN THE LOCK of the cell door, startling Toby out of his snooze. He jerked up and said a bad word when, for the fifth or sixth time, he banged his forehead into the ceiling only inches from his face.

  Toby was in the upper bunk of a bunk bed in a cell in a building somewhere near Washington, although he had no idea where. Micah was sleeping in the lower bunk. The other bunk bed in the small cell was occupied by the two weird foreign guys who had been arrested with them at Jungle Norman’s. Toby was pretty sure that the cell had microphones and cameras hidden in it and that the feds had put them all together so they would talk. But they hadn’t talked, because the weird foreign guys were not good at English. They also emitted a funky odor: the cell smelled like a cross between old cheese and dirty laundry.

  Both foreign guys were snoring. The big foreign guy was in the upper bunk, where he had insisted on sleeping even though it took him five minutes to climb up there. The little foreign guy was in the lower bunk; he had a bandage on his chin where he’d been decked by Gordon, the singing robot gorilla.

  Toby glanced at the clock: it was almost noon. They’d been in the cell a few hours after being kept up all night getting fingerprinted and questioned. The feds had taken away their belts and personal belongings—including Toby’s special iPhone and the special hat. Then the suspects were placed in this cell and instructed to get some sleep. Thanks to the snoring, Toby hadn’t gotten much.

  The door opened, and in came FBI Agent Turow, who apparently had not gotten much sleep either. His face was stubbled with beard growth; he still had orange dust on his suit. Wrinkling his nose at the smell in the cell, he nudged Micah and the two foreign guys.

  “Wake up,” he said. “Time to move.”

  “Move to where?” said Toby.

  “Interrogation,” said Turow.

  “Again?” said Toby.

  “Oh, yes,” said Turow, with the hint of a smile, but not a friendly one. “There’s gonna be lots more.”

  “I want to talk to my parents,” Toby said.

  “Me, too,” said Micah, adding, “I don’t mean I want to talk to Toby’s parents. I want to talk to my parents. But if I can’t talk to mine, I want to at least talk to his. But I’d rather talk to—”

  Turow cut Micah off. “As I told you both last night,” he said, “your parents have been contacted. They know you’re in custody. You’ll see them later.”

  “How much later?” said Toby.

  “Later,” said Turow.

  “Where are we?” said Micah.

  “You’re in a government facility, in what we like to call an undisclosed location,” said Turow.

  “But don’t we…” began Toby, “I mean, don’t we get to talk to a lawyer?”

  “Where’d you get that idea?” said Turow. “From TV?”

  “Yes,” admitted Toby.

  “Well, guess what, Toby?” said Turow. “This isn’t TV. This is real life, and in real life you don’t get to talk to a lawyer if it’s deemed a matter of nat
ional security.”

  Toby blinked. “National security?” he said.

  “Oh, yes,” said Turow. “Call us a crazy federal law-enforcement agency, but when we at the FBI find somebody holding stolen highly classified defense technology, which he’s apparently passing to two foreign nationals, we become curious.”

  “But I told you!” said Toby. “We don’t know these guys! We never saw them before! I only went to Jungle Norman’s because of the…”

  “Right, I know, the instant messages,” said Turow. “Except you can’t tell us who sent them.”

  “But it’s true,” said Toby. “Somebody IM’d me, and whoever it was is planning…”

  “I know,” said Turow. “He’s gonna do something terrible at your school science fair. Except you don’t know what.”

  “But…”

  “Save it,” said Turow. “You’ll have plenty of time to try to explain. Days, in fact.”

  “But the science fair is tonight,” said Toby.

  “Looks like you’re gonna miss it,” said Turow.

  “But…”

  “Save it,” snapped Turow. He pointed to the door. “Let’s go, gentlemen.”

  The little weird foreign guy on the lower bunk said something to the big weird foreign guy in the upper bunk. The big guy said something back. The language they used made them sound as though they were just about to hawk up major loogies, but they never actually did. They both climbed out of their bunks. This was a major effort for the big guy, who seemed to be the main source of the odor, emitting powerful stink rays from his pants. When he finally had both feet on the floor, he turned to Turow and said something, sounding pretty angry. The little guy translated it.

  “Fourth Vice President Drmtsi demands to speak immediately to a representative of the embassy of Krpshtskan,” he said.

  Turow nodded and said, “Mister…Vrsk, is it? Did I say that correctly?”

  “Vrsk, yes.”

  “Here’s the thing, Mr. Vrsk,” continued Turow. “There isn’t any Krpshtskan embassy here in the United States.”

  “Is not?” said Vrsk.

  “Is not,” said Turow. “Believe me, we checked. We also tried to call your country and speak to the authorities there, but we haven’t been able to reach anybody.”

  Vrsk nodded. The phone system in Krpshtskan was unreliable because people kept using the telephone poles for firewood.

  “Please tell Vice President Drmtsi we will keep trying,” said Turow.

  Vrsk translated this to Drmtsi, who said something back. Vrsk turned to Turow and said, “Fourth Vice President Drmtsi demands to know where is credit card.”

  “Tell him it’s in a safe place,” said Turow.

  Again Vrsk translated. Drmtsi answered at length. Somewhat reluctantly, Vrsk turned to Turow and said, “Fourth Vice President Drmtsi says he requires card for TV shopping peoples show. Very good price coming on machine for to make fodge.”

  “Fodge?” said Turow.

  “Yes, fodge,” said Vrsk.

  “I think he means fudge,” said Micah.

  “Yes,” said Vrsk. “Fodge.”

  Agent Turow rubbed his tired, stubbled face with both hands. “Listen,” he said. “Right now, you cannot watch TV, and you cannot have your personal belongings. Right now, you are going to be interrogated. I must insist that all of you come with me.”

  Vrsk translated this, and the four cell mates trooped reluctantly into the hall, where a half dozen largish agents were waiting, apparently ready to help Turow if there was trouble. Toby, as casually as he could, stuck a hand into his back pocket; he felt the two backup coils of thin fiberoptic cable. He wiggled his toes: the insoles were still in place.

  But he needed the phone and the hat. They’d been taken when he and the others had been brought into this building—wherever it was—the night before. The feds had stopped them at what looked like a reception counter and made them put their possessions into manila envelopes. Toby wondered where those envelopes were now, and how he could get to them.

  Accompanied by their large escorts, the four cell mates trooped down the corridor. They stopped at another cell. The door opened and Tamara came out, accompanied by an agent whose ID badge said IMMIGRATION AND NATURALIZATION, and under that, LEFKON. Tamara looked exhausted, and her eyes were red from crying, but she managed a wan smile when she saw Toby and Micah.

  “You know,” she said, “I used to think the worst thing that could happen would be if I got detention.”

  Toby managed to smile back and was about to say something when Turow nudged him forward. The group continued down the corridor into a large room, which Toby realized was the reception area. As they passed the counter, Toby noticed that there was a small room behind the receptionist. On the door, which stood ajar, there was a red cross; apparently it was a first-aid station. Inside the room, Toby could see a supply cabinet, a sink, a cot, a chair, and a small desk. On the desk was a plastic box containing a stack of manila envelopes. Toby’s heart leaped; they looked like the envelopes the feds had used to hold the prisoners’ possessions.

  They were past the reception desk now, but Toby’s thoughts were still focused on the first-aid room. If he could get in there, get his hat and phone…

  “In here,” said Turow, opening a door. The five prisoners trooped into what looked like a conference room. In the center was a long table surrounded by eight chairs. On a sideboard was a pitcher of orange juice, some plastic cups, and a plate of muffins.

  “You’ll wait here,” said Turow. “We’ll be back for you in a bit.” He closed the door, and the room echoed with the click of a dead bolt sliding home.

  Drmtsi and Vrsk headed straight for the food. Each man took a muffin and, while chewing it, stuffed several more into his pockets. Tamara, Micah, and Toby stood looking at each other.

  “We gotta get out of here,” said Micah.

  Toby shook his head and pointed at the ceiling. Micah looked up.

  “What?” he said.

  Toby pantomimed a video camera.

  “What are you doing?” said Micah.

  Toby sighed.

  “He’s pantomiming a video camera,” said Tamara.

  “Why would he do that?” said Micah.

  “Because they’re watching us, you moron,” said Tamara.

  “Ah,” said Micah. He winked at Tamara and Toby, then, aiming his voice at the ceiling, said, too loudly, “Well, we certainly aren’t planning to get out of here!”

  Toby and Tamara rolled their eyes.

  “What?” said Micah. “I don’t really mean it. I’m just saying it for the…”

  “Just shut up, okay?” said Toby.

  “Okay,” said Micah, looking hurt.

  Toby sat down and drummed his fingers on the table, trying to force his tired brain to think. If he could get to the first-aid station behind the reception desk…

  Toby sat up straight.

  The first-aid station.

  He looked toward Tamara and Micah, who had gone over to the side table with Vrsk and Drmtsi and were helping themselves to juice and muffins. Trying to keep his voice calm, Toby said, “Hey, Micah, Tamara—either of you guys have any gum?”

  “Nope,” said Micah.

  “I don’t chew gum,” said Tamara.

  Toby slumped in his chair. So much for his brilliant plan.

  “Excuse me?”

  Toby looked up: Vrsk was speaking to him.

  “Did you say gom?” said Vrsk, through a mouthful of muffin.

  “Gum, yes,” said Toby.

  “I have gom,” said Vrsk.

  Vrsk reached into his pocket and pulled out a small package. On it, in several languages, were the words “Air Zerkistan.”

  THE GYMNASIUM OF HUBBLE MIDDLE SCHOOL was humming. Literally. Motors were whirring, keyboards were clicking, lights were flickering, and the air itself seemed to buzz with tension as students worked frantically to get their science-fair projects ready before the deadline.

  At
four p.m. sharp, Mr. P would blow a whistle, then throw the master switch that cut off the power to the outlets. The gym would be cleared, closed, and locked. At six p.m., the students, along with parents, teachers, and school administrators, would gather outside on the ball field for what had become a major Hubble tradition and the much-anticipated highlight of the school year.

  All eyes and ears would turn skyward, awaiting the dramatic arrival of the TranScent Corp. helicopter, which would land near second base. Billionaire scientist/businessman/celebrity Lance Swingle would emerge from the chopper, waving to acknowledge the cheers of the crowd. After greeting the dignitaries, Swingle would lead the throng into the gym and take his place at the podium set up next to the master switch. There he would make what the official program described hopefully as “brief remarks,” although they usually lasted quite a while, as Swingle loved to tell the story of how he overcame many obstacles and was able to succeed because of hard work and because of being, with all due modesty, a genius.

  When Swingle was finally done, he would turn to the master switch, and, with a dramatic flourish, flip it up to the “on” position. Instantly, the science fair would come spectacularly to life. Then Swingle, accompanied by a clot of science teachers, would personally inspect the projects. With the inspection completed, they would confer, although this was really for show, as only one opinion counted. And then Swingle would, with great drama—he loved drama—announce the winner. The lucky student would come forward and, as cameras flashed, receive a check from Swingle.

  This year the check would be worth $5,000, a fact that was on the mind of every student in the gym. Many of them were still fiddling with their projects when the big clock on the wall clicked off the last minute to four. A shrill blast echoed through the gym as Mr. P blew his whistle. A second later, he grabbed the master switch on the wall and flipped it down. The project lights went off; the motors stopped whirring. Within ten minutes, all the students and teachers were gone. The doors were locked. The gym was empty.