Science Fair

by Dave Barry, Ridley Pearson

  The audience roared with laughter. Especially amused were Jason Niles, Harmonee Prescott, Haley Hess, and Farrel “The Ferret” Plinkett, who were standing near the front of the crowd with their parents and some other ME kids. They were absolutely sure that one of them would win; they had agreed, earlier that evening, that whoever got first prize, they’d split the money four ways.

  “But money,” Swingle was saying, “is not the goal. Yes, I am a wealthy man. Yes, I travel the world, dine with heads of state, date actresses and top supermodels. Yes, I have eight homes, two helicopters, an NBA team, a three-hundred-foot yacht and a 737 jet with a customized interior including a sauna. But those things are not important to me.”

  In the crowd, The Ferret whispered, “Okay, then give me the supermodels.”

  “Shut up,” hissed Harmonee Prescott.

  “What is important to me,” continued Swingle, “is that, through my role in making the Hubble Middle School science fair one of the most prestigious science fairs in the nation, I can encourage young people to advance the cause of science.” He gestured toward the rows of projects in the gym before the crowd. “Who knows,” he said, “what great new idea is sitting out there right now, waiting to be brought to life? It could be another TranScent, or perhaps something even more wonderful.” Theatrically, Swingle reached out his hand, placing it on the master power switch, then said, “Let’s find out, shall we?”

  He paused for a moment of drama, then flipped the switch. The crowd cheered as the gym exploded with flashing lights and a cacophony of sounds—the whir of motors and gears, the clunk and clink of levers, the snap of sparks, the alarmed ribbit of a frog being suddenly levitated. Swingle stepped down from the stage and, followed by a flock of judges, headed for the exhibits to begin the judging.

  In the utility room, Prmkt began tapping his keyboard.

  THE PHONE WAS RINGING AGAIN. Toby’s parents had ignored it the first three times, assuming it was reporters. Toby had been identified from the TV news broadcast of the Jungle Norman raid, and the press had been calling constantly, trying to get information. Except Toby’s parents didn’t have any information.

  They had called the FBI over and over, but were told only that their son was being held on a matter of national security, and for the time being they could not see him. They had called the local police, who said they had no jurisdiction in a federal matter. They had called their congressman’s and senators’ offices and been told, essentially, nothing. They had just returned from a visit to a lawyer, who, after making a few phone calls, had told them that, for the moment, they had no effective legal options.

  It was like a bad dream. Their son! A matter of national security!

  The phone stopped ringing. It was quiet for five seconds and then started ringing again. Roger and Fawn, their faces haggard from worry and sleeplessness, looked at each other across the small round kitchen table where they were trying to eat dinner. Neither had much of an appetite, mainly because of Toby, but also because the dinner was meatless shish kebab, which was basically tofu on a stick.

  “This is ridiculous,” said Roger. “I’m gonna take it off the hook.” He rose and went to the wall phone.

  “What if it’s not a reporter?” said Fawn. “Maybe you should check.”

  Roger looked at the phone for a second, sighed, and picked up the handset.

  “Hello?” he said.

  “Dad!” said Toby.

  “Toby?” said Roger, and in an instant Fawn was on her feet.

  “Yes, it’s me,” said Toby. “Listen—”

  “Where are you?” said Roger.

  “Ask him if he’s all right,” said Fawn.

  “Are you all right?” said Roger.

  “Please, Dad, just listen,” said Toby. “There’s these guys. They’re gonna come to the house tonight.”

  “What guys? What are you talking about?”

  “Two weird guys. One of them thinks he’s Darth Vader. They want to steal your Star Wars stuff.”

  “What? Darth Vader? What are you talking about?”

  “I can’t explain it now,” said Toby. “Just trust me. These guys are nuts, and they want your collection, so watch out, okay?”

  “But—”

  “I can’t talk. I gotta get to the science fair. You and mom be careful. I’m sorry. I love you. Bye.”

  “Wait!” said Roger. But all he heard through the earpiece was the sound of a siren, which was cut off in mid-whoop. Toby had hung up.

  “What is it?” said Fawn. “What did he say?”

  Roger, frowning, hung up the handset. “He said some guys are coming to steal our Star Wars collection.”

  “But how would he know that? Where is he?”

  “I don’t know,” said Roger. “But I heard a siren. And Toby said he was going to—”

  THUMP.

  Roger stopped.

  “What was that?” said Fawn.

  “I don’t know,” said Roger. “But it came from the basement.”

  TOBY, MICAH, TAMARA, and the Krpshtskanis were trapped. They’d been running away from the sound of sirens, going from street to alley to street, turning in so many directions they no longer knew which way they were headed. They had just emerged from an alley when they found themselves on a brightly lit, four-lane street with strip shopping centers on both sides.

  Toby, leading the way, started running to his right, but before he’d taken ten steps, four police cruisers appeared at the end of the block, sirens whooping and lights flashing. The cars skidded to a stop in the intersection, blocking it; police in riot gear quickly emerged.

  Toby turned to go the other way, only to see still more police cars screeching to a stop. Still more blue lights flashed at the end of the alley they’d just left.

  “Now what?” panted Micah.

  Toby looked around frantically: from several directions, at least two dozen shouting police officers were running toward them. The only escape path Toby saw was the parking lot across the street, which served a large grocery store.

  “This way,” he said, running toward the lot, followed by Micah and Tamara, who were followed by Vrsk with Drmtsi chugging in the rear. The pursuing police swerved to intercept them; some were shouting into two-way radios.

  Ahead, Toby spotted a crowd that had gathered in front of the grocery store; he didn’t know what it was about, but it gave him a flicker of hope. Maybe they could get into the crowd, where, hidden from the police, they could slip into the store and escape through the back.

  As he reached the edge of the crowd, Toby saw why it had gathered: parked outside the main entrance to the supermarket was the Oscar Mayer Wienermobile.

  About a hundred children and parents had gathered to look at the giant rolling hot dog, and get wiener whistles and other trinkets being handed out by the Wienermobile staff. Adding to the excitement was the presence of an animal-rights group, which was chanting and carrying signs to protest the Wienermobile and the practice of factory-farming animals. As Toby and the others drew close, an angry parent entered into a confrontation with one of the protesters—a person wearing a large, furry, pink pig costume and holding a sign that said PIGS ARE FRIENDS NOT FOOD.

  Toby darted past the shouting match, heading for the supermarket entrance. But he stopped suddenly when he saw two police officers standing in the doorway, apparently stationed there because of the protest. One of the men was talking into his radio. His eyes scanned the crowd—and stopped at Toby. The man shouted something into his radio, then pointed; both officers began moving toward Toby and his group.

  Toby whirled, looking for a way out; on every side, he saw police officers. He, Micah, Tamara, Vrsk, and Drmtsi stood in a small circle, watching as the officers approached them warily through the crowd—which was still focused on the parent-pig confrontation. Toby noticed that some of the officers had their hands on their pistols.

  “Use your phone,” said Tamara.

  “What?” said Toby.

  “Make
yourself invisible,” she said. “You can still get away. Maybe you can do something.”

  Toby looked down at the phone. Tamara was right: he could get away. His hand went to the magic-wand icon.

  But he couldn’t bring himself to touch it. He couldn’t leave his friends here in a mess that he alone was responsible for. And even if he got away, what good could he do? He’d only make a bigger mess.

  “Go on, do it!” said Tamara. “Do it! They’re almost here!”

  Toby shook his head.

  “No,” he said, his voice choking. “It’s over.”

  He bowed his head, not wanting to see the police, not wanting to look at his friends. He’d failed everyone. He stared at the ground, waiting. He heard the police shouting at him and the others to “GET DOWN! GET DOWN NOW!”

  He started to kneel on the hard, cold, parking lot asphalt.

  And then the world went dark.

  BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP.

  The harsh sound of an electronic alarm echoed through the master control room of the Mid-Atlantic Power Company’s command center, a reinforced-concrete bunker 125 feet underground, where not even a bomb could do any harm. Two dozen technicians, suddenly jerked from their dull routines, sat up quickly to read the trouble messages flashing urgently across their computer screens.

  A door banged open; a tall man with a football-flattened nose strode from the only enclosed office in the command center. This was Bernard Kosar; he was in charge and thus responsible for the entire Mid-Atlantic power grid. He hated alarms.

  “Turn that off!” he shouted. Somebody hit a switch, and the beeping stopped. Kosar nervously slapped a football back and forth between his hands; he carried it everywhere, except the shower.

  “What do we have?” Kosar said to the nearest technician, a woman named Laura Schweitzer, who really wanted to be a rock singer but had learned the hard way that being a power-company technician was steadier work. Although she often hummed at her computer station.

  “It’s down,” she told Kosar.

  “What’s down?” he said. Slap, slap went the football.

  Schweitzer waved an arm and said, “Everything.”

  “That’s impossible,” snapped Kosar. Technically, he was right: the power grid was designed with many safeguards and backup systems. Parts of the grid—even large areas—might go down. But only very rarely, and never for long.

  Technically.

  “Look at the tree,” said Schweitzer, pointing. Kosar’s gaze went up to a map high on the wall, dotted with over a thousand lights. This was the Master Grid Status Indicator Board. It was more commonly known as the Christmas Tree, because normally most, if not all, of the lights were green, indicating that electricity was flowing everywhere in the Mid-Atlantic region. Sometimes, during lightning storms or bad winter weather, parts of the Christmas Tree—little patches here and there—might glow red. Even then, it was mostly green.

  Not now.

  Now, every light—every single light—was red.

  The entire grid was down. This meant that Maryland, Virginia, and much of West Virginia and Delaware had no electricity. It also meant that all of Washington, D.C., was dark, except for buildings that—like the command center—had emergency generators.

  As Kosar stared at the Christmas Tree, a chilling thought came into his mind: nuclear attack.

  “Anything from the military?” he asked, keeping his voice calm.

  “Nope,” said Schweitzer.

  Kosar exhaled. “Weather?” he said.

  “Nope,” said Schweitzer.

  Phones were ringing all over the command center. Technicians were answering them, speaking urgently while tapping their keyboards.

  Kosar raised his voice, addressing the room: “Can someone tell me what’s happening?”

  A young man two desks over looked up. His name was Robert Joseph, and he was the command center’s sharpest computer jockey. He was also Laura’s boyfriend; they thought nobody knew this, but everyone did.

  “What?” said Kosar.

  “We’ve been hacked,” said Joseph, pointing at the screen.

  “So un-hack us,” said Kosar. He felt a bit of relief; Mid-Atlantic Power’s computer network, like most big corporate and government networks, was often attacked by hackers. They rarely succeeded, and even if they did penetrate the system, the problem was usually corrected quickly.

  “We’re trying,” said Joseph, his eyes back on his screen. “But whoever they are, they’re good. They got the whole net, and they’re shutting us out.”

  “What do you mean?” said Kosar, frowning.

  “I mean, right now, it doesn’t respond to anything we do,” said Joseph. He quickly tapped some keys, hit ENTER, and pointed at the screen. “Nothing,” he said.

  “Is anybody getting anything?” Kosar asked, looking around the room. All the technicians shook their heads. Every phone in the room was ringing now. Behind him, Kosar heard his office hotline phone ringing; that would be somebody very important and very unhappy.

  Kosar ran a hand through his wiry hair. “ALL RIGHT, PEOPLE,” he shouted. “WE NEED TO FIX THIS RIGHT NOW.” This was unnecessary; the technicians were all working furiously on keyboards and phones. Kosar again looked up at the Christmas Tree, a mass of red dots. For every tiny dot, he knew, there were more than ten thousand people—people who had just been jolted out of their comfortable, brightly lit, electrically powered cocoons; people who were now confused, frightened, and vulnerable.

  Kosar turned away and walked toward his office to answer the insistent ring of his hotline. But his mind was still on all those helpless people without electricity.

  Bad things happened to people in the dark.

  WHEN THE LIGHTS WENT OUT, Toby’s parents had been in the kitchen, arguing in whispers about the thump they’d heard in the basement. Fawn Harbinger wanted to call the police in case it was an intruder. Roger was balking.

  “We’ll look stupid if the police come and there’s nobody down there,” he said.

  “I’d rather look stupid than get shot by a burglar,” Fawn replied.

  “There’s no burglar down there,” he said.

  “Then what went thump?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe the plumbing.”

  “If it’s the plumbing,” said Fawn, “why are you whispering?”

  Roger didn’t have a good answer for that. The truth was, he’d been a little spooked by the thump. But, being a guy, he was reluctant to admit this even to himself, let alone his wife. And he definitely didn’t want the police to see the basement filled with rare Star Wars memorabilia. He didn’t want word of the collection to get out.

  “I’m gonna go look,” he whispered. He went to a drawer next to the sink and began rummaging through it.

  “What are you looking for?” asked Fawn.

  “Just something…just in case,” he said, pulling out the largest kitchen implement he could find in the drawer. It was a set of barbecue tongs. The Harbingers used them in the summer when they barbecued tofu.

  “You’re going to tong the burglar?” said Fawn.

  “Maybe I am,” said Roger, who at this point was feeling pretty stupid but, still being a guy, could not see a way to back down. Gripping the tongs, he started toward the basement door. He was relieved when Fawn grabbed his arm and stopped him.

  “Please, Roger,” she said. “I really don’t want you to go down there. I’m going to call the police and tell them it was totally my idea.”

  Roger sighed. “All right,” he said.

  “Thank you,” said Fawn. She went to the wall phone and picked up the handset.

  Then the lights went out.

  For a moment they stood in darkness. Then Roger said, “Maybe it’s a circuit breaker.” He hoped it wasn’t, because the circuit breakers were in the basement.

  “I don’t think so,” said Fawn, peering out the window. “The whole neighborhood is dark.”

  Roger looked out. The neighborhood was ink black. “Call the powe
r company,” he said.

  “I can’t,” said Fawn. “The phone’s dead.” All the phones in the Harbinger house were cordless and required electricity to work.

  Roger unclipped the cell phone at his waist. He looked at the screen: NO SIGNAL.

  “The cell isn’t working, either,” he said. “Weird.”

  In the distance, a siren wailed.

  “What should we do?” said Fawn.

  “I’ll get a flashlight,” said Roger. He put the tongs on the counter and began to feel his way through the darkness toward the drawer where they kept things like flashlights, Scotch tape, mystery keys, foreign money, random pieces of string, and half-used tubes of Krazy Glue.

  “No,” said Fawn. “I mean what are we going to do about the noise in the basement?”

  Roger didn’t answer that. He found the drawer, opened it, and groped around until he found a flashlight. He flicked the switch; nothing. He found a second flashlight; nothing.

  “What good is it to have flashlights,” he said, “if the batteries are dead?”

  In the distance, another siren wailed.

  “I think we should get out of the house,” said Fawn.

  “Are you crazy?” said Roger. “It’s pitch black out there.”

  “It’s also pitch black in here,” Fawn pointed out. “And there might be somebody in the basement.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” said Roger. He began groping the counter for the barbecue tongs.

  “What was that?” hissed Fawn.

  “What was what?” whispered Roger.

  “I heard a voice,” said Fawn. “Listen.”

  The voice was the Wookiee’s. He was getting antsy waiting in the basement, listening to the footsteps in the kitchen directly above. He also didn’t like hearing sirens.