Jack and the Geniuses

by Bill Nye

  And sure, I was mildly proud of my work in the lab, too. The place was downright beautiful. Although it had been somewhat organized already, now the floors and table-tops were always clean and clear of clutter. When it came to errands, I was masterful. The old couple at the Laundromat knew me by name. Same with the guys at the electronics supply store. In less than fifteen minutes, I could fetch a double cappuccino from Hank’s favorite coffee shop and carry it four blocks without losing any of the frothy milk. (The trick was taking a few sips through a straw, but don’t tell him that.) Answering Hank’s e-mails was probably the worst of my chores. Half of them I didn’t even understand, and I had to ask Matt to scan them to see if they might be important. But I managed to keep the job interesting by occasionally writing back to people and telling them they’d reached the wrong address. I pretended to be a florist in rural Michigan. One guy even placed an order for a dozen roses.

  Hank was constantly going on about what a great addition Ava and Matt were to the lab. And we certainly didn’t slow him down. The guy never slept and never stopped. He was always working on ten projects at once, traveling all over the world. He’d be in Moscow one week, Shanghai the next. He even had a trip to Antarctica planned.

  Basically everyone was happy but me. I’d turned into a twelve-year-old secretary and housekeeper. Not that there’s anything wrong with those jobs. It’s just that I had bigger things in mind. A leading role in a blockbuster. An NBA contract. (I planned to grow.) Even a job running a small country would have been fine. But table sorter? E-mail answerer? No, thank you. On top of all that, I’d lost both my Xbox controllers, so I didn’t even have gaming to get me through the day.

  So now I was going to tell Hank that I was finished.

  On a Friday afternoon in November, I sat down to write him a letter. Ava was hammering away at something on the other side of the lab. I couldn’t concentrate, so I tried one of Hank’s tricks. A few weeks earlier I’d noticed that whenever he was really deep into a project, he’d wear Birkenstock sandals, listen to jazz, and tap out miniature drum solos on his jaw, using his fingertips as sticks. I didn’t like sandals. The finger drumming was a little weird. But the music was actually kind of cool, so I slipped on my headphones, chose one of Hank’s jazz playlists, and grabbed a pen. I hadn’t even gotten to “Dear,” when Hank dropped into the seat across from me.

  “What are you writing?” he asked.

  I mumbled and stuttered.

  He knocked his fist on the table a few times, then held up his index finger and pointed at me. “You know, I’ve been thinking about you, Jack.”

  “You have?”

  “I have! Not much, I’ll admit. Just a little. But in that little bit of thinking I came to the conclusion that you must be bored out of your skull in here. Am I right?”

  After a pause I nodded.

  “So, I think I told you already, but I’m heading to Antarctica on Sunday.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “No?”

  “No, but I read about it in your e-mails. The Clutterbuck Prize, right?”

  “That’s right,” he said.

  The billionaire J. F. Clutterbuck—the genius inventor of the hugely popular odorless sock—had launched an annual contest designed to address the world’s biggest problems. Ridding the world of smelly footwear was not enough for Mr. Clutterbuck. He was determined to fight pollution, hunger, and more. The way his contest worked was fairly simple. He announced the goal, and the designs were due within one year. There was a demonstration of the entries, and whoever had invented the machine or system that best dealt with the particular problem would win a million dollars.

  Hank judged the contests for Mr. Clutterbuck, so we’d all heard about the previous winners. A lady in South Korea won the antipollution prize for a device that pulled plastic out of the ocean. A scientist in Minnesota won the feed-the-hungry contest with a system that recycled leftovers into healthy meals. I wasn’t too impressed with that one, though. Hank had one of the prototypes at the lab. To me it made everything taste like a combination of meat loaf, cashew nuts, and those gauze pads dentists jam into your mouth after pulling a tooth.

  The most recent contest, which I’d read about in Hank’s e-mails, challenged inventors to come up with a better way to filter the salt out of ocean water so it would be safe to drink. I hadn’t known it, but apparently hundreds of millions of people don’t have access to clean drinking water. They’re forced to drink stuff that’s filthy and filled with germs. The water-cleansing inventions designed for the latest Clutterbuck Prize were all going to be tested down in Antarctica. What I hadn’t been able to figure out was why they’d chosen such a remote spot. “Why Antarctica?” I asked. “Couldn’t you get them to send you someplace more fun? Like Tahiti?”

  “Huge shortage of drinking water down at the bottom of the world,” Hank explained. “They get all their water from an expensive and completely inefficient machine. It’s really the perfect place to test a new one. Plus, I’ve always wanted to go, so I talked J. F. into the idea. As a bonus, another friend of mine is doing research down there this season. She said she’s had some groundbreaking findings.”

  “Anna Donatelli, right?”

  His eyebrows rose. “How did you know?”

  That was the name on the envelope we found the day we tried to retrieve Fred. Plus, Hank had received a burst of messages from her recently. “Her e-mails,” I said. “She adds the weirdest emojis at the bottom.”

  “Anna’s a very strange and rare bird. You’d like her.”

  I wasn’t sure if I should be flattered or offended.

  His stare drifted toward the ceiling, and I waited until I was certain he was finished talking. “That should be fun for you,” I said at last.

  “It will be! Amazing fun. Antarctica is a real scientific paradise.” He knocked on the table again. Then he leaned forward and whispered, “I think you should come with me.”

  “Me?” I tried to look cool but couldn’t help smiling. “Really? Me?”

  “All three of you.”

  Of course he meant all three of us. I don’t know why I’d thought otherwise. Over Hank’s shoulder, on the far side of the lab, I could see Ava and Matt staring up at the robotic birds circling high overhead. The geniuses still hadn’t figured out what was wrong with them. Typically they lost a bird a week.

  “Did you ask them?”

  Hank leaned back and held up both his hands. “No, I’m asking you,” he said. “School won’t be a problem, right?” I shrugged; we could follow our assignments online. “The beauty of homeschooling. Your home could be anywhere. So, what do you say? You make the decision on this one, Jack. You lead. Should the four of us spend a few weeks down at the South Pole together?”

  I didn’t say anything. But apparently I didn’t need to.

  “You’re smiling. Is that a yes? Are you in?”

  “Well, I mean, it does sound like a lot of work, and since you’re not paying us, how about a little bonus?” I asked. “Maybe a nice big gift card?”

  Hank laughed and slapped the table. “You can’t put a price on an experience like this one!”

  I disagreed, but before I could respond, he yelled out the news of our trip to the others. They were puzzled at first, as any kid would be if an adult were to yell out, “We’re going to the South Pole!” But once Hank explained the situation, they didn’t need much convincing.

  “What do we get to bring?” Ava asked.

  “Bring? What do you mean? Clothes, of course. Winter gear—”

  “No, no, no,” she said. “I mean, which projects.”

  “You should bring Shelly, plus anything else you think might prove useful. I already sent a few larger items down ahead of us.”

  Matt peeked over his shoulder, then sighed with relief. “Not the catapult, though. Good.”

  “The catapult? Ha, no. Although I imagine penguins might enjoy that.”

  “So, what did you send?” Ava asked.


  “Well, you see, the South Pole isn’t very kind to machines. I’d like to see whether the robolegs can operate in such frigid conditions, for example. I’m planning to test a few other applications, as well, including a little surprise I’ve been working on in my spare time.”

  “A surprise?” Ava asked.

  “You don’t have spare time,” I noted.

  “True! None of us does. Life is too short. Anyway, we’ll have plenty of time to talk later. Go. You need to start packing. In fact, come to think of it, so do I.”

  Matt and Ava bolted off to different parts of the lab. I grabbed my backpack and stuffed in a few essentials from the Clutterbuck table, including the nose vacuum and the self-drying boxers. Then we hurried home. On our way back to the apartment, Matt kept going on about how parts of Antarctica resembled distant planets and moons. Practically everything he said started with “Did you know . . .” And I didn’t. And it really got annoying.

  What thrilled Matt most of all was the strange world under the ice-covered seas. “That’s what Anna Donatelli’s work is all about,” he said. “She looks for creatures under the ice.” He held up a huge stack of papers. “Hank printed out all her research for me. Plus pretty much every interview she’s ever done.”

  Ava reached over and thumbed through the pile. “Kind of a waste of paper, even if it is recycled,” Ava said.

  “Reading printouts is easier on the eyes,” Matt explained.

  Once home, Ava began trying to crowd her whole workshop into her bag. Hank had suggested bringing extra batteries for Fred and Shelly, since the power sources wouldn’t last long in the frigid air, so she grabbed every one she could find. I had to remind her that she couldn’t pack only electronics. We’d need clothes down there at the bottom of the world, too. You know, maybe even a toothbrush? But she wasn’t listening. As for me, I’d learned how to pack from my third foster father, the same guy who’d introduced me to coffee. He’d been in the navy—very briefly—and he’d showed me how to roll each item of clothing tightly, then stuff them into your bag one by one. He also showed me how to steal certain cars, which is why we didn’t last long as a team. Anyway, my pack was only half full by the time I’d jammed in all I needed, so I snuck into Ava’s room when she wasn’t looking, grabbed a few extra items of clothing for her, and added them to my bag. Just in case. I was halfway out the door when I decided that this opportunity was way too nice to pass up. So I swapped in clothes I knew she hated, including a pink fleece jacket she refused to wear because she was “no princess,” and a pair of Hello Kitty sweatpants. I may not be as brilliant as my siblings, but I’m a genius at annoying them.

  A little after nine on Sunday morning, a long black car pulled up in front of our apartment stoop. We were all red-eyed and bleary. Not one of us had slept. And when the back door swung open, Hank didn’t look too fantastic, either. He stepped out wearing Birkenstock sandals. The car stereo was playing jazz with a lot of mumbling in the background, so I guessed it was this musician named Keith Jarrett. He’s one of Hank’s favorites and he makes weird noises when he plays. Clearly Hank had been working hard and sleeping little. You would’ve thought an invisible puppeteer was hiding above him somewhere, holding his eyelids open and trying to pull his mouth into a smile. “Morning,” he managed. “Who’s ready for a little vacation to the most desolate and extreme place on the planet?”

  “When you put it that way, I’m in!” Ava said. Holding her bag with both arms, she bounded into the wide backseat.

  The driver sped us out to a small airport in New Jersey, where a private jet awaited us on the runway. A dented red Honda was parked at the foot of the rollaway stairs. We knew the vehicle. And the driver. Ava ran out to greet her when we stopped. “You’re coming with us?” she asked.

  Small and thin, with straight jet-black hair and greenish-brown eyes, Min was scowling. Hank stumbled out of the car. “No,” she said, “I’m not going with you. What were you thinking, Hank?”

  “You said I should do something nice for them,” Hank said, his words separated by yawns, “to show my appreciation. You said they haven’t traveled much, so I thought—”

  “I meant, get them a present!” Min said. “Or, if you were going to take them somewhere, Disney World would have been more appropriate.”

  “I’d prefer the South Pole,” Matt said.

  “Me, too,” I added. In truth, though, I wasn’t really sure. I’d never actually been to Disney.

  “They’re not going,” Min said, still staring at Hank.

  “Wait,” Ava said. “What do you mean?”

  Matt and I hurled several questions of our own at her.

  “This is completely irresponsible,” she said. “Antarctica is one of the most dangerous places on Earth. And you’re children!”

  “Not legally,” I noted.

  “Jack’s right,” Hank said.

  Min practically stuck her tongue out at me. For an adult she could do a really good impression of a six-year-old. “Physically they are,” she said, “and that’s what matters here.”

  I couldn’t really let that go. “Well, actually, what matters is the legal—”

  “Hank’ll take care of us,” Matt said.

  Eyebrows raised, Min replied, “Does he look like he’s going to be able to take care of anyone right now?”

  Hank yawned again. This time his eyes did not re-open.

  “He just had a late night,” Ava said.

  “Look at him! One of you is practically going to have to carry him down there.”

  As Hank started to crumple from exhaustion, Matt looped an arm around his back and held him up easily. “Not a problem. He’s actually kind of light.”

  Now Hank straightened and rubbed his face. He tapped the side of his head. “That’s because of all my lofty ideas.”

  Min sighed. “I can’t even—”

  “We’re going,” Ava said.

  “Please,” I added. “Trust us. We can handle ourselves.”

  “Up here, sure,” she said. “But from everything I’ve read, it’s a different world down there. Brutal. Hostile.”

  “We’ll figure it out,” Matt said.

  Hank held his hands together in front of his chest. “They’ll be fine. I give you my word. And I’ll send you regular updates.”

  Min closed her eyes and shook her head. Then she flicked her fingers in the direction of the jet. “Well, at least you’ll be starting the journey in style. Whose plane is this, anyway?”

  “Clutterbuck’s!” Hank answered, already on his way up the rollaway stairs. “And the chef is amazing.”

  “So, we can go?” Ava asked.

  “As Jack said, I can’t really stop you.”

  Ava gave Min a quick, stiff hug, then pointed a thumb at the aircraft. “There’s a chef in there?”

  “Apparently,” Min said. She pitched her head forward and stared at me. “Are you sure you know what you’re in for?”

  “Of course,” I answered. I’d skimmed Wikipedia the night before. And I almost watched a documentary about Antarctica, too. But the narrator had this really sleepy accent, so my eyes closed during the opening credits. “It’ll be fine.”

  As Ava started up the stairs, Min passed me a canvas bag full of books. “These might help you prepare,” she said.

  The top book was hardbound in blue cloth. The title, lettered in faded gold, read A Field Guide to the Frozen Frontier. “Are they all about Antarctica?”

  Min nodded. Then she put a hand on my shoulder and leaned in. “I know it’s hard trying to keep up with those two, Jack. But even if you don’t feel like you can outthink them”—she reached forward and tapped the book cover—“you can always outread them.”

  “Thanks,” I murmured.

  Min shooed me up the stairs. “Just be careful,” she said. “Promise me that you’ll be careful.”

  4

  THE BOTTOM OF THE WORLD

  So there’s coffee. And then there’s coffee on a private jet. When J
en, our hostess, took our drink orders, she kept trying to push me toward chocolate milk or ginger ale. She even offered a root beer float. But I knew what I wanted. Hank was snoring like a baby bear, so he couldn’t explain my obsession with the black gold. But it goes back to my third foster father, who used to wake me up before sunrise to drink a small, sugary cup with him at the wobbly kitchen table. Since then I’d been kind of hooked. I assured Jen that I was perfectly accustomed to drinking a cup.

  “Kids shouldn’t drink coffee,” she said.

  “It’s healthier than an energy drink.”

  Matt tapped rapidly on his iPad, then showed Jen the screen. I didn’t have to look to know that Matt had just dug up a scientific research paper or two that backed my claim. This was a galactically annoying habit when he used it against me, but not when Matt was on my side. “He’s right,” my brother said. “Here’s the research if you want to read it.”

  The expression on Jen’s face was a wordless “whatever.” “You kids sure are something,” she said, and not in a complimentary kind of way. “Keep the research. What kind of coffee would you like?” she asked me.

  “What do you have?”

  A slightly devious smile flashed across Jen’s face. “I have the perfect cup for you, made from very rare and expensive civet beans.”

  Ten minutes later, the billionaire’s version of my favorite drink was set down on the mahogany table in front of me. On a private jet, coffee does not arrive in a simple paper cup. It floats out of the galley on a silver tray, swimming in a porcelain cup. A separate porcelain container of fresh milk stands beside it, along with a silver bowl neatly packed with cubes of both brown and white sugar. I thanked Jen, prepared my cup with great care, sipped gently, and sighed with pleasure.

  “You are so lame,” Ava said, sucking down her third ginger ale. Then she glanced back at Hank, who was still snoring, and leaned toward my seat. She was trying not to smile. I could guess what she wanted to talk about. She’d mentioned her theory before. “Don’t you think it’s weird?”