“But then what do we do?”
“We point him out to these moron FBI agents who want to arrest everybody in the world except the guy causing the problem.”
“Okay,” said Toby.
“I’ll go this way,” said Sternabite, pointing to the left. “You go that way. Stay against the wall. If you see the guy, run in my direction and yell.”
“Okay,” said Toby.
“Good luck,” said Sternabite. He stepped into the foam and was gone.
“You, too,” said Toby, to the foam. He took a breath, stepped out of the doorway, and felt the foam surround him. He turned and pressed his face against the wall, then began sidestepping along it, keeping his head turned to give himself a breathing space. He counted his steps, figuring that might help him find his way back.
He’d gone twenty-seven steps when he came to another doorway. He stepped into it and tried the knob. The door opened. He stepped inside and found himself in a room considerably larger than the supply closet. It was lit by fluorescent lights, with plumbing, air-conditioning, and electrical conduits running along the walls and ceiling. Toby’s eyes quickly scanned the room; there was nobody else there.
Stepping inside, he closed the door behind him. His eyes fell on a workbench at the far end of the room. He took a few quick steps toward it.
The workbench held some electronic gear and a laptop computer.
The laptop’s screen was glowing.
Cables ran between the gear and some kind of electrical box on the wall.
This is it.
Toby turned to run back and alert Sternabite.
Then he heard it: click.
The door was about to open.
TOBY LOOKED FRANTICALLY around the utility room.
In the gloomy far corner stood a large tank with pipes running to it. Toby, on tiptoe, hurried over to the tank and squeezed behind it just as the door swung open. This was followed by the sound of the door closing, a key sliding into a keyhole, and the disturbing finality of a click as the door was locked from the inside. Then he heard footsteps come across the room. Toby crouched low to the floor and peered around the tank. From here, hidden in shadows, he could see the workbench and computer.
A figure appeared. It was a man, but his features were obscured by a head-to-toe coating of brown foam. He turned away from Toby and began brushing himself off. Toby considered making a break for the door. If he could get outside, he could find Sternabite, maybe the FBI agents. But he’d have to unsqueeze himself from behind the tank, then run right past where the man was standing; even if he reached the door, he couldn’t unlock it without the key. So he stayed crouched where he was, watching, waiting to see the face of the man who had caused so much trouble and was about to cause so much more.
The man looked vaguely familiar from the back: his build, his hair, the shape of his head. Toby was pretty sure he’d seen him before. But where? He frowned, studying the man, who was still brushing himself off, the foam spattering onto the concrete floor. The man said something harsh in a foreign language—apparently a curse word. It reminded Toby of how the two weird smelly foreign guys talked.
Then the man turned, his face finally coming into view. Toby cupped his hand over his mouth, stifling a gasp as he recognized the man—a man he’d seen around Hubble Middle School hundreds of times.
Janitor Dude.
Toby shook his head in disbelief. Could it possibly be? He thought he must be mistaken—J.D. had come into the utility room for some other reason, like escaping the foam.
But then why did he lock the door?
As Toby watched, J.D. stepped to the computer and tapped a key, bringing the screen to life. That did it. Toby realized there was no mistake. The school janitor—the guy everybody saw as a complete loser—was about to cripple the United States government. And there was nobody to stop him.
Except Toby.
He was looking around for something to use as a weapon. To his right he saw nothing. To his left, a few feet away, a thick pipe ran from floor to ceiling. Scattered on the floor around the pipe were some filthy rags and a bunch of old paint cans. There was nothing else. Toby decided a paint can would have to do. As quietly as he could, he slipped from behind the water tank, took a step, then another, and then slowly reached down for the wire handle of the nearest paint can.
He never touched it. There was a sound, and before Toby could turn toward it, he felt his head slam into the concrete-block wall. The next thing he knew he was on his back, with J.D. leaning over him. J.D.’s face was the same, but the look in his eyes was profoundly different. It was no longer slack and listless; now this total loser appeared utterly focused and intense.
And scary.
“I thought I got rid of you,” said J.D., his deep voice calm, cold.
Toby said nothing; he could barely think, let alone talk. The left side of his head throbbed viciously. He felt blood seeping from his scalp.
“How did you know to come here?” said J.D.
Toby shook his head. That was a mistake; a wave of pain surged through his body.
“Doesn’t matter,” said J.D. “You’re too late anyway.”
Quickly, J.D. snatched a fat roll of duct tape from the workbench. He took Toby by the shoulders and yanked him up to a sitting position. Toby moaned as another wave of pain engulfed him. J.D. dragged him backward, pushed him up against the thick pipe, and yanked his arms around the pole and behind his back. Toby heard tape being ripped off the roll, then felt his wrists being wrapped very tightly with the sticky tape.
“That will hold you long enough,” said J.D. He started toward the workbench and the computer. Toby yanked on the tape, but it was too tight. He wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.
J.D. had just reached the workbench when the doorknob rattled. He whirled around.
“HELP!” shouted Toby.
“Quiet!” snarled J.D., taking a step toward Toby, realizing he should have gagged him as well.
“Hello?” Toby recognized Sternabite’s voice coming from the other side of the locked door.
“HE’S IN HERE!” shouted Toby, though his last word was garbled as J.D., moving swiftly, reached him and roughly wrapped duct tape around his head, covering his mouth.
“Make another sound,” he hissed into Toby’s ear, “and I will bash your skull in.”
He turned back toward the workbench. The doorknob rattled as Sternabite tried it again. But the door was locked.
Sternabite had heard the fear in Toby’s voice. He gave the doorknob one last try, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a small box. He flipped it open. The thing inside looked, sort of, like a large spider: it was black, with eight metallic legs. Sternabite called it Charlotte.
Charlotte was a robot. Mostly, anyway. Sternabite had taken the two main nerve clusters from an actual spider—its “brain”—and implanted them in a computer microchip, which controlled Charlotte’s mechanical body. His theory was that the spider “brain”—which had amazing capabilities—could work together with the computer chip to form a new, enhanced creature that could be used to peform many tasks, including surveillance and counterespionage.
Unfortunately, Charlotte still had some bugs. Her spider brain and her computer brain didn’t always agree, so her behavior could be erratic. But Sternabite had brought her along anyway, on the hunch that she might come in handy. That hunch had been right: he needed her now.
“Charlotte,” said Sternabite. “Wake up.”
Two glowing red eye spots appeared, and Charlotte, with a whir, came to life, rising up on her eight legs. Sternabite moved the box next to the doorknob.
“Charlotte,” he said, “open.”
Charlotte scuttled onto the doorknob and slid a jointed leg into the keyhole. Locks were child’s play for Charlotte; in a second, the door was unlocked. Sternabite plucked Charlotte off the doorknob and tucked her into his pocket as he opened the door and stepped inside.
The first thing he saw was Toby on the fl
oor in the corner, hands behind his back, mouth gagged, his head bloody. Sternabite started toward him.
MMMPHH! said Toby, pointing with his head. Sternabite looked and saw a man standing with his back to a workbench on which sat a laptop computer. The man was facing Sternabite. In his right hand he held a thick, black wand. A stun baton. He raised it, showing it to Sternabite.
“Eight hundred thousand volts,” he said. “If I touch you with this…”
“I know what it will do,” said Sternabite.
“Yes,” said the man, with a hint of a smile. “I imagine you would know.”
Sternabite took a casual step forward. “So you’re the one who sent me those project plans,” he said. “Mr.…”
“My name is Prmkt,” said the man. “Although the students here call me Janitor Dude. They think I’m a loser. This makes them easier to use.”
“You used me pretty well, too,” said Sternabite, taking another step forward.
“Yes,” said Prmkt. “I was afraid you’d catch on sooner or later. I respect you. You’re a very intelligent man.”
“As are you, obviously,” said Sternabite, taking another step. “It’s a brilliant plan, using these kids, their parents…”
“I am intelligent enough to know what you are trying to do right now,” said Prmkt, thrusting the baton at Sternabite. “If you come any closer…”
“Charlotte,” said Sternabite.
Prmkt frowned.
“Attack,” said Sternabite.
It happened faster than Prmkt’s eyes—or any human eyes—could follow. Charlotte shot from Sternabite’s pocket and scuttled in a whirring blur to his forehead, from which she launched herself at Prmkt. She could jump thirty feet, so she easily shot across the five feet separating the two men. She hit Prmkt, as she was programmed to do, directly between his eyes, clinging to his face with needle-sharp legs. Prmkt reached up with both hands to claw at her and, in the process dropped the stun baton, which clattered to the floor and rolled under the workbench.
Sternabite ran toward the bench, but Prmkt sensed the movement and managed to get in front of him. Sternabite ran into him, and the three of them—including Charlotte—fell to the floor. The two men wrestled for position, each trying to get to the baton and to keep the other at bay. Sternabite quickly noticed two things: one was that Prmkt was stronger than he was. The other was that Charlotte was no longer clinging to Prmkt’s face. In fact, Sternabite didn’t see her at all.
“Charlotte!” he gasped. “Attack!”
Nothing.
Where was she?
In fact, Charlotte was attacking; she had simply chosen a new target. Her sophisticated robot sensors had detected an intruder, and her spider brain, overruling her computer brain, had decided that the new intruder was far more worthy of her attention. And so at the moment, as her creator struggled on the floor below, Charlotte was climbing up the wall. Stalking.
* * *
In the corner, Toby struggled to break free from the duct tape. He’d made no progress; Prmkt had bound him too tightly. As the two men rolled around on the floor in front of him, grunting, Toby felt around behind himself, looking for something, anything, that might help. His fingers brushed against an oily rag. He shifted position so he could grab it. As he did, he felt a sharp pain in his butt, caused by…
Rollerblade Barbie.
Frantically, Toby twisted his body until, with painful effort, he was able to pull the doll out of his pocket. Turning his head as far as he could in an effort to see behind his back, he pressed the doll’s roller wheels against the oily rag and then spun the flint wheel with his thumb. He saw a flash of sparks. He spun the wheel again.
He smelled it, then saw it: gray smoke. Then he felt the heat.
Great, he thought. I just set myself on fire.
He bit his lip to keep from screaming as the rag caught fire, and flames singed his arms. But he also felt the tape weakening. He leaned forward and yanked with all his might—once, then again, then…
Yes. The burning tape parted. Toby lunged forward on the floor. Behind him, the burning rag ignited others. Flames shot up, and an acrid, billowing smoke began to fill the utility room.
“Stop him!” shouted Sternabite. He’d lost the wrestling match; Prmkt had knocked him aside and was crawling toward the stun baton. Toby staggered to his feet and jumped onto Prmkt’s back, but the man was too strong for the boy. He flung Toby off, sending him crashing to the floor. In a second, Prmkt was on his feet. He had the baton in hand and was backing away toward the computer.
“No!” gasped Sternabite. He made a last desperate lunge toward Prmkt, who raised the baton and squeezed the trigger. Sternabite screamed, twitched violently, and fell to the floor with a sickening thud, unconscious. Prmkt whirled and aimed the stick at Toby, who was pulling himself up, coughing in the dense, choking smoke.
“Stay back!” shouted Prmkt, thrusting the baton at Toby. He took another step toward the workbench.
Toby looked down at Sternabite’s limp body, then, through the thickening smoke, at Prmkt. He moved closer.
“I said stay back!” shouted Prmkt. He thrust the baton at Toby again and pulled the trigger. Toby heard a ZZZZZZZT as it brushed his shirt. He jumped back.
One more step and Prmkt would reach the computer. He switched the baton to his left hand, to keep it between himself and Toby. Then he turned and reached his right hand out toward the ENTER key.
And then they both heard it, from directly above:
RIBBIT!
Prmkt looked up, an unfortunate move for him, because he caught the full, moist force of Fester—not a lightweight frog—who had fallen directly on his face after wriggling through the vent from the heating duct above. Prmkt yelped and swiped at the frog with his right hand, still keeping Toby at bay with the baton. Another RIBBIT, and Fester leaped off, which again was unfortunate for Prmkt, because a millisecond later Fester was replaced by Charlotte, who was in hot pursuit of Fester. Charlotte landed hard on Prmkt’s face with all eight of her sharp talons in Full Penetration Mode.
Prmkt screamed and reached for his face with both hands, including, of course, the one holding the baton. Toby saw his chance and lunged, managing to get hold of Prmkt’s left arm. Prmkt roared with rage and swung the baton down. His target was Toby, but with his vision mostly blocked by Charlotte, his aim was way off.
It was only at the last possible second, as he simultaneously knocked Charlotte loose and pulled the trigger, that Prmkt saw where he was sending the 800,000 volts.
Directly into the computer.
There was a loud crackling sound as a brilliant flash of light shot from the end of the baton and across the keyboard. Sparks flew everywhere, and then smoke curled and rose from the laptop, joining the already-thick smoke filling the utility room. The screen flashed white and went black.
And then it started to rain.
Actually, it was the fire sprinklers, which had been triggered by the smoke. For a moment, as the water cascaded down on them, neither Prmkt nor Toby moved. Toby stared at Prmkt, who was still holding the baton. Prmkt stared at the smoking ruins of his plan to destroy America.
Then Prmkt turned toward Toby. Slowly, he raised the stun baton. Toby flinched, closing his eyes, waiting for the awful shock.…
Clunk
No shock came. Toby opened his eyes.
Prmkt had dropped the baton. In a daze of defeat, he turned away from Toby and slumped to the floor, his back against the wall. He sat there, unmoving, his eyes utterly blank, as sprinkler water cascaded down his face. Like the Janitor Dude of old.
Toby heard a groan. It was Sternabite, regaining consciousness. Toby went over and knelt next to him.
“Are you okay?” he said.
“No,” said Sternabite. He raised his head a little, blinking, looking around the room through the smoke and the drizzling water. His eyes fell on Prmkt, slumped against the wall. Then he looked up at Toby.
“What happened?” he asked.
Toby smiled.
“I think we won,” he said.
OF ALL THE THINGS that happened over the next month, the coolest, for Toby, was meeting the president. This happened at a ceremony in the White House Rose Garden honoring the group the news media had dubbed the “Hubble Heroes”: Toby, Tamara, Micah, and—to the president’s annoyance—Fester.
“I am NOT going to honor a frog,” the president had declared when his chief of staff briefed him on the ceremony.
“But, sir,” said the chief of staff, “the frog played a critical role in taking out the Krpsht agent. And it was almost killed by the robot attack spider. The Porter boy has been nursing it back to health, and he won’t come to the ceremony without it.”
“But it’s a frog,” said the president.
“It’s a hero frog, sir.”
The president sighed. He knew he didn’t really have a choice; at the moment, the Hubble Heroes were a lot more popular than he was. They were huge, their names in every newscast, their faces on the cover of every magazine. Oprah had them on speed dial, and at least three movies were already in the works. They had been offered millions for endorsements, most notably from the manufacturers of Diet Coke and Mentos.
“All right,” said the president. “The frog can come. But I’m not touching it.”
“I doubt the Porter boy would let you anyway, sir. He’s concerned about infection.”
The president shot his chief of staff a glare, then said, “What about whatshisname? The science genius?”
“Sternabite, sir. He declined the invitation to the ceremony.”
“Declined? Why? Is he still worried about legal problems?”
When the science-fair plot details became public, there had been some discussion of prosecuting Sternabite for illegally obtaining classified technology. But in light of his heroic efforts to stop Prmkt once he realized what was happening—not to mention his immense popularity as a Hubble Hero—the president had decided to grant Sternabite a pardon for any crimes he may have committed.
“No, sir, it’s not that,” said the chief of staff. “It’s a privacy issue. Sternabite has been besieged by offers from companies and investors who want to give him money for his inventions.”
Science Fair Page 26
