Jack and the Geniuses

by Bill Nye

“Boost first, questions later. And be quiet. I don’t want the F. E. or the director seeing us.”

  Luckily, Ava is pretty light. Her feet are long but slim. As I leaned back against the wall, with my fingers clasped together below my waist, she planted one of her boots in my hands, grabbed my shoulder, and boosted herself up. Matt makes a much better stepladder, but I was trying. She fiddled briefly with the exit sign, then jumped down and landed as quietly as a cat. I shook out my fingers.

  She’d pressed the black golf ball up against one side of the sign. A small glass circle in the middle, about as big as the tip of my index finger, was facing Anna’s door. “Is that a lens?”

  “That’s my stickycam,” she whispered, hurrying me away. We stopped and hid around the next corner. “I’ve told you about it, right?” I shook my head. She might have; sometimes my brain shuts down when my siblings talk about their ideas and inventions. “Really? Huh. Well, it’s not entirely mine. Someone sent Hank a few of these little spherical video cameras. The idea was to roll them into a room to get a view of the interior before you enter.” She pulled her smartphone out of her bag and scrolled through her apps. She tapped a few buttons and peeked back into the hall. “But I thought it would be cool to put some sticky material on the outside, so you could pop one of these anywhere you wanted a spy camera.” She smiled and showed me her screen, which provided a decent view of Anna’s doorway. “This way we’ll know if our culprit tries to return the computer,” she said.

  “How many more of those do you have?” I asked.

  She pulled three others out of her bag. Then she nodded slowly. “You’re thinking we pop up a few more for surveillance?”

  “Why not?”

  So we did, picking spots throughout the main building. Then we headed back to Hank’s room to find him sitting up in his bed, wearing socks and sandals and a hooded sweatshirt. Jazz was playing. Apparently he was deep into his work, given the music and the footwear. For a moment the tune grabbed me. I’d been listening to Hank’s favorite playlists for months, hoping I might pick up a few scraps of his genius. Usually I’d try to guess the musician. This song was heavy on the drums. That meant one guy. “Art Blakey?” I asked.

  Hank did not reply. He was reading through a stack of papers and writing on a yellow legal pad. The diagrams on the top sheet suggested he was analyzing entries for the Clutterbuck Prize. Ava clapped her hands a few times. He looked up, more startled than annoyed. “When did you two get here?” he asked.

  Immediately we blabbered away, telling him all about the mess in Anna’s room, the F. E., the missing laptop, and the stickycams. We left out the meeting with the director.

  Just as we finished, Matt popped into the room. “Where were you guys?” he asked, his tone soft and weak. “I was looking everywhere. You didn’t even tell me—”

  “Sorry, Matt, we didn’t realize . . .” I looked to Ava, hoping she would help me out. Did he feel left behind?

  “I agree,” Hank said.

  I was still trying to read Matt. “Wait,” I said, turning to Hank. “What?”

  He looked up from his papers and paused his music. “Oh, hello, Matthew. I was just going to say that I agree, the pieces of the puzzle do not fit. But there’s little we can do at this point. I’ve already spoken with the director and the search and rescue team, but they all believe that Anna willingly went out alone.”

  “They didn’t know about the missing laptop.”

  “I’m not sure that will be enough to convince anyone of foul play,” Hank said. “The director especially. Not a very charming lady. She laughed at precisely none of my jokes.”

  I could not fault her for that. “What about you?” I asked. “What do you think?”

  “That you need more data,” Hank said. “I told you before, Anna does what she likes when she likes. For her, rules are irrelevant. Exploration, discovery—they are all that matter. So I have to say that you’re going to need more than a lost laptop and some clutter to convince me—or anyone else—that she is really in danger.”

  7

  HAPPY CAMPERS

  The next day I woke up with the crud. The word is kind of perfect. That’s how you feel, and that’s what you’ve got to dig out of the corners of your eyes, scrape off the edges of your lips, and pick from the rim of your nostrils. Crud. Several people had already warned us about getting dehydrated, and the inside of my mouth was as dry as sand. I chugged two glasses of water. Not even a scalding shower and some extended nose vacuuming could improve my condition, and I followed Matt and Ava into the dining room feeling like I’d been run over by Ivan the Terra Bus. The breakfast spread only made everything worse. The vat of oatmeal bubbling in the middle of the buffet had a greenish tint. The scrambled eggs were the consistency of sponge cake. I scooped some out and fire-hosed them with ketchup from a squeeze bottle.

  Hank was already at the table. He glanced up at me. “You don’t look that great,” he said.

  “I’m fine,” I insisted.

  Staying home at the base was not an option. Lying in bed the night before, I’d cooked up a little plan. If we could sway a few more people to believe in my theory, then we could organize a search party and go out onto the ice to find Anna ourselves. But to do that, we’d all need to pass the Happy Camper course first. So I had to go, crud or not.

  With his mouth full of eggs, Matt asked, “May I test the robolegs today?”

  “No, I’d rather we focus on the training.”

  My brother raised his eyebrows hopefully. “How about when we get back?”

  “And what about that surprise you mentioned back home?” Ava asked Hank. “Didn’t you talk about sending something else down here?”

  “Patience, both of you, please!” Hank replied.

  A rare note of frustration rang in his voice, so we finished our meal in near silence. Unfortunately, the start of the Happy Camper training program hardly improved our mood. Our education began in a gray and poorly lighted classroom. It had been two years since I was jailed in a schoolroom, and I didn’t miss the experience. We sat there for hours learning all the rules and regulations of the base. Our instructors taught us how to spot signs of frostbite, identify weak points in the ice, listen for seals in the water below, tie strong knots, and use different kinds of ropes. At one point Hank tried to use his climbing rope to lasso a folding chair. He claimed he’d learned the trick from a physicist who’d lived on a Texas ranch. But he only succeeded in annoying our instructor.

  Afterward, they took us through the various science labs and the Mechanical Equipment Center, where we learned about all the vehicles the researchers and rescue teams could use, including several different kinds of snowmobiles, a machine called a PistenBully, which had the tracked wheels of an army tank, and a big, beautiful beast that resembled a miniaturized, luxury version of Ivan the Terra Bus. Its knobby tires were as tall as my shoulders. The blue paint was so clean, it gleamed, and “Rambler” was painted on the door in white cursive script. I tried to climb up into the driver’s seat, but one of our instructors grabbed me before I even got close. Ava and Matt listened as the man told me that the Rambler was the director’s prized possession. The vehicle could carry ten passengers, plow through a wall, and outrace a snowmobile. And he warned us that she’d probably find out if we even looked at it too long, let alone jumped into the driver’s seat.

  The Rambler would have been much nicer than the rumbling vehicle we rode across the ice shelf. I’ll spare you the details of the journey, such as how we learned to use the major landmarks, like the cloud-belching volcano, to figure out our location in the middle of all that ice. Some of it was interesting. Honestly. But I’m jumping to the really good part.

  We learned how to build snow forts.

  And not just any snow forts, but some of the biggest, strongest, and warmest frozen houses you’ve ever seen. We constructed small ones, too, which were just large enough to lie down inside of without touching the walls. But my favorite was the shelter that
would be our home for the night.

  First we threw all our gear into a giant pile. Next we started shoveling snow on top of our equipment. That’s right. We buried our most important possessions. Following the lead of our instructor, a flat-nosed, long-haired Italian man named Angelo, Matt worked like a machine, hurling one heavy shovelful of snow after another onto the growing mound. Occasionally he’d glance at Hank, but his idol was too busy talking to Angelo to notice his hard work. Ava and me? We tried to help. A little, anyway.

  When Angelo said the mound was large enough, we packed down the snow, then began digging a tunnel to reach the equipment from below. Next we carefully pulled the gear through the tunnel until it was all outside. This left a huge, snow-covered space where our stuff had been. Finally, we dug out the inner portion a little more, so you could actually stand up in the middle of the shelter.

  Once we were all inside, we wolfed down a few chocolate bars. Did I forget to mention that candy was pretty much one of the major food groups down at the South Pole? It’s true. Everyone here actually suggests bringing at least three candy bars with you whenever you’re going outside because you burn calories so quickly. As we ate, Angelo reminded us to drink as much as we could, too. Even though we were surrounded by snow, Antarctica was as dry as the desert, so he wanted to make sure we stayed hydrated. Then he set a metal stove in the middle of the floor. With a few quick jabs he punched a soccer-ball-size hole right through a wall, opening a kind of window to the outside. I thought he was angry. I slid over to Ava and asked, “Did we do something wrong?”

  Angelo heard me and laughed. “This is just to let the shelter breathe. You should not punch the ceiling, though, okay?”

  “How about the ice?” I patted the frozen floor of our shelter. “You’re sure this is solid?”

  “Very,” Angelo said. “You would need a fairly big drill to get through to the water here. In other places the ice is thinner. There you might see seals popping up through small holes to breathe. You learned about those seal holes in class, right?” We nodded. “And they warned you about trapdoors, yes?”

  Ava scooted forward to answer. “When the seal holes freeze over, a thin layer of ice forms. You can’t see it sometimes.”

  “That is exactly why we come out onto the ice!” Angelo said. “You cannot learn everything in the classroom.” He smacked his lips. “Indoors you cannot feel the dryness of the air or spot a potential pitfall. We will show you what these dangers are like in the real world, because you do not want to step on a trapdoor.”

  Matt tapped Ava’s shoulder. “You should send Shelly down through one of those,” he suggested.

  “She’s not ready,” Ava said.

  Later, I heard the whine of an engine. Hank and Matt were talking with Angelo about the physics of our fort, and why an ice-encrusted snow house could be so delightfully warm. Ava was fiddling with Fred; the defunct smartphone she now used to control him was resting on her knee.

  As the engine noise grew louder, everyone but Ava looked up.

  “Who’s that?” Hank asked.

  Angelo crawled to the fort’s entrance, reached out, and pushed aside the flap he’d placed there to block the wind. A snowmobile was speeding toward us in a swirl of white. Angelo flopped back to his seat. “This is my ride,” he said. “I must return to the base. There is a contest tonight.”

  “Trivia?” Matt asked.

  “No, no,” Angelo said. “We had a trivia contest once, but a question about the origin of the universe sparked an argument, which turned into a fistfight. Luckily no one was hurt because cosmologists don’t throw very good punches. But there are no more trivia contests down here. Now we sing. Tonight is our weekly karaoke contest.”

  “So you’re leaving us out here all alone for a karaoke contest?” Ava asked.

  “Of course not!” Angelo reached out and patted her on the shoulder, laughing. “Otherwise you would all be Popsicles by morning.” The engine outside stopped. Angelo leaned forward and pushed open the flap again. A square-shaped man climbed off the snowmobile; Angelo gathered his things in an excited rush. “I am taking the snowmobile and my friend is staying here. He will take good care of you. If you have trouble sleeping, you should ask him to sing. He has the voice of an angel. He should really be going back for the contest, to tell you the truth, but he refuses to compete. Anyway, I will see you back at the base soon. Remember, keep drinking water, and eat your candy.”

  I laughed. Had an adult ever said that to a kid before?

  A blast of frigid air whipped through the tiny doorway as Angelo crawled out. A moment later his replacement wriggled inside. He removed his frosted goggles, then pulled off his icicle-encrusted helmet and a red woolen hat.

  Our new instructor was short and thick. Gray stubble was sprouting all around his very round head, and his eyebrows looked thick enough to braid. He rocked his chin back and forth, revealing jaw muscles I didn’t know existed. Then he dropped heavily to a seat on our icy floor and let out a sigh so powerful, I could feel his breath on my cheeks. Even with my crud-packed nose I could tell that it reeked of sausage. Apple sausage. How in the world could someone who blew such pungent mouth wind have the voice of an angel?

  A normal person would have said hello. Our new friend just nodded. Were we supposed to introduce ourselves? Ask him for his name? Thank him for coming all the way out here to make sure we didn’t turn into Popsicles? I had no idea, and a glance around our frozen room confirmed that the geniuses were just as confused.

  The man sneered at Fred, shook his head, and remarked in a thick accent, “In America, even children have drones now, eh?” Before anyone could reply, he sneezed and wiped his nose on his sleeve. He needed a few minutes with the vacuum. But there was no way I was going to let him shove that precious device up one of his cavernous nostrils.

  He lit the small metal stove in the center of the floor and leaned back. A blue and orange flame flickered and waved. He looked at me. “And now?” he asked.

  Luckily, I’d been listening in all those survival classes. “Snow, right?”

  “Yes! Very good,” he said.

  I piled a few handfuls of snow into our small metal pot, then placed it atop the stove’s blue flame.

  “Your accent is Russian, right?” Ava asked.

  “Yes, Russian,” our new instructor said. “I am Evgeny Evgenovich Levokin.”

  Levokin? This was the guy who had joined Anna on previous expeditions. The one Britney had suggested as a possible suspect. And now we were stuck with him in a frozen hut, miles from anyone or anywhere. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little excited.

  “Eugene Junior,” Ava said.

  “What?” I asked.

  “In Russian his middle name means ‘son of Eugene.’ It’s called a patronymic.”

  “Very nice,” Levokin said. “You speak Russian?”

  “No, I only read it,” Ava said. “Pushkin, mostly.”

  Next she was going to mention that she also read French, Italian, and Spanish. I had to stop her before it got ugly. “We have some questions for you,” I said.

  “About Pushkin?”

  “No,” Matt added. “About Anna Donatelli. Right, Jack?”

  Levokin cursed. Or at least I think he cursed. He spat out a bunch of Russian words I didn’t understand. “That minx stole my skin,” he said at last.

  “Your skin?” Matt asked.

  “My life’s work,” he said. “The greatest wet suit ever designed. It is like a new layer of skin for the diver. Normal wet suits keep divers warm for only twenty minutes. Mine protects you for hours.”

  Ava sat forward. “Hours?”

  “Hours! It is beautiful, my wet suit, and the one I lent to Anna was the only prototype.” With a long wooden spoon he stirred the quickly melting snow. Something was glimmering at the corner of his eyes. Was our suspect actually getting teary?

  “Well, that is disheartening, but we’re all looking forward to seeing your other invention in action
at the demonstration on Sunday,” Hank said.

  Deep creases formed on Levokin’s forehead. “My other invention?”

  “For the Clutterbuck Prize,” Matt said.

  “The what?”

  “You know, the award for the inventor who can come up with a more efficient way to make drinking water out of saltwater.”

  “Clutterbuck . . . this is the man with the socks?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Yes, I love this man!” He lifted up the legs of his pants and pulled at the top of his socks. “I have not changed these in fourteen days.” With effort he pulled off one of his boots. “Wonderful socks. Go ahead, smell. Please.”

  The others declined, but I braved a gentle whiff. I caught very faint hints of toe cheese, and maybe salami, but nothing too potent. “Not bad,” I said.

  “Yes, I admire this Clutterbuck,” Levokin said. “But I am not trying to win his prize. Must be mistake.”

  “How odd,” Hank said.

  While Matt leaned forward to smell our new instructor’s socks, I watched Levokin closely. His face was relaxed. He wasn’t avoiding anyone’s gaze. Was he really telling the truth? Or was it all part of a grand lie? Matt coughed. Levokin was still smiling. “Back to our missing scientist,” I said. “Do you know where she is, Mr. Levokin?”

  “No,” he answered.

  “Could you guess?” Ava asked.

  “I will tell you what I know,” he said. “But first we have hot chocolate.”

  Levokin removed a few square white packets from our kit of rations. He flicked his finger against the side of one, shook it, and repeated the process with the others. Slowly he began to talk. “I meet Dr. Donatelli for first time last year. I had written some papers on wet-suit design, using the seal as inspiration.” He shivered. “I don’t like these creatures. Very slimy. But very good at staying warm underwater. Beautiful adaptation. I had ideas for copying seals to make better wet suit. She convinces me to make her a prototype and let her test it. I agree. I make wet suit, come all the way down here to South Pole. We go to our first camp. Anna, myself, two engineers from McMurdo. Good men. A little smelly, but strong. On first day, she dives for three hours at a time in this frigid sea.”