The queen.
Her voice is loud and clear, and it gets louder, and clearer, as she approaches.
“NOR-BERT! Is that you? Finally! What took you so long? Where have you been? I've been worrying and worrying. You don't call, you hardly ever answer your phone, I hear such stories, I worry myself into a standstill! And – oh, wait, I'm picking up a call, but don't go away, there's an IMPORTANT THING I want to say….”
She drops her voice. “Hello? Oh, Cecile, you poor angel, how have you been? I was so mad when I heard….”
The band plays a fanfare. Norbert sighs.
“What do you think the important thing is?” I ask, in a whisper.
–There isn't one. She says that all the time, and then forgets what she's talking about. It's … the way she is.
“Oh. Have you known the queen long?”
–All my life.
I puzzle over that one for a bit.
The queen has a phone headset wrapped around her head and attached to one of her antennae. She moves in a hopping, shuffling motion. She wears slippers, like Norbert's. More bright stones in them. The crowd follows. There must be a dozen of them here, huffling together like so many bunnies. They're not much bigger than bunnies, either. No one in the place comes up past my waist.
The queen hasn't stopped talking. “… and that's what I'd do, Cecile. Of course, I can get away with things because I'm the queen, so maybe you'd better let him keep his fingers. Listen, it's been wonderful, but …”
The queen keeps talking on the phone until she's right in front of Norbert and me. A bunch of small lights flash together like sparklers. I guess the jupiterlings are taking pictures of us.
“NOR-BERT!” She says his name as if she owns him. My mom says my name that way sometimes. “Welcome home! I see your mission to Earth was successful. This is so exciting to see a genuine earthling.”
Without giving him a chance to speak, she goes on: “You heard what happened to Princess Nerissa? Of course you did. I remember, I called you. Terrible, just terrible. Stolen away while she was visiting here in Betunkaville. By now she's on her way to that horrible castle of his.” She shakes her head. “I don't know what this planet is coming to. I don't know what to tell King Sheldon if he calls. Nerissa isn't due back in Sheldonburg until the day after tomorrow, but he could call at any time. She is his only daughter. Maybe I'll just say she's out shopping. Or hunting. Or –”
–MOM! SHUT UP!
It's a shout, almost a scream, and it comes from Norbert. I peer around, startled. I wonder where his mom is. He's staring at the queen. Her view screens close and open again, so that it looks like she's blinking.
And she shuts up.
–Mom, I'm sorry, but you must stop talking for a moment. We don't have much time if we're going to save Nerissa.
She gasps. I suppose she's used to talking any time she wants – one of the many good things about being the queen.
The crowd gasps. I guess you don't talk to the queen that way.
And I gasp too. The queen is Norbert's mom. And, if his mom is queen, that makes him a prince, right? Prince Norbert.
Well, well. Prince Norbert. Didn't I say the queen said his name like she owned him? Didn't I say she sounded like my mom talking to me? Didn't I? I'm smarter than I think, sometimes.
The queen recovers first. “Oh, Norbert, dear,” she says. “Am I babbling? I am sorry. It's just that I …” She catches herself, and covers her mouth guiltily. “Sorry,” she says.
–I brought Dingwall from, Earth in a hurry, when I heard about Nerissa being taken. I do not want anything to happen to her. If Dingwall is going to find the Schloss in time, then we're going to start right now. There's no time for your kind of talking, Mom. He sounds grim and determined, and a little bit nervous. In fact, he sounds like a kid chewing out his mom.
I don't pay too much attention to what he says. There's more to work out. Norbert has mentioned Nerissa before. Is she the princess we're after? I'd bet on it.
Poor guy. His mom is a queen, and his girl has been captured. No wonder he's acting strangely.
I have a sudden memory: Norbert telling me that the inside of my nose was a lot bigger than his place on Jupiter. What a liar. Imagine that. I had a prince living in my nose! And now I'm his guest.
Alan Dingwall, I say to myself, you are really having adventures.
Norbert introduces me to his mom, Queen Betunka of Betunkaville, calling me a champion. I bow, and call her Your Majesty. He introduces me to the queen's entourage. I wave. They clap. He joins them, speaking over the applause.
–Dingwall comes from Earth to fulfill the ancient prophecy. Soon, we will not be afraid of the black day.
Everyone shivers when he mentions the black day. The queen's space suit ripples, as if in a high wind. Her jewels sparkle. I wonder when the black day was. I can remember one day when I failed a math test, got punched by Mary the bully, and spilled water all down the front of my pants in the bathroom, so that it looked like I wet myself. That was a pretty black day. There was leftover tuna and spinach casserole for dinner that night, too.
“Say, what is this ancient prophecy?” I ask Norbert. The whole cavern hears me, and they all start reciting. Listening to the high-pitched voices chanting together reminds me of the way we learned our times tables back in the second grade. Only instead of “two times two is four, three times two is six, four times two is eight,” they're chanting about this black day. Turns out I have it wrong. It's Dey, not day (Norbert spells it for me later) – a who, not a when. This is what I hear:
The Black Dey preys on Jupiter.
He makes it stupider and stupider
By stealing our citizens
From, backyards, kitchens, halls, and dens,
And holding them in durance vile
In the Lost Schloss – his domicile.
This castle – what a mystery!
In plain sight, and yet none can see.
Past bog and sudden mountainside
It lies where nothing else can hide.
The Black Dey's minions, great and small,
Wreak havoc on our place of birth.
Legend says his doom will fall
When Jupiter's champion comes from Earth.
The queen chants along with the rest. When the rhyme is over, she grabs my arm. “Everyone on Jupiter knows that,” she says. “I learned it from our nursemaid when I was very young. I can't remember the maid, but I do remember the rhyme. Isn't that funny. Do you remember rhymes, Dingwall? Or maids?”
“My family has never had a maid,” I say.
Norbert is casting quick glances around the cavern.
–There's a lot to do before we go, Dingwall, he says. We have to see Mad Guy. I want to pack. And you'll need some slippers.
“But you can't leave now,” says the queen, her view screens open wide in dismay. “It wouldn't be right. You're back from an interplanetary expedition. You want to rest and do your laundry. Have you been wearing your bed socks? You know what the doctor said. And there's a dinner party tonight that I want you to attend. I'm going to ask Cecile and her daughter. You used to like little Natasha, do you remember? We'll have cocoa pancakes, I think, and … wait.” Her head is cocked to one side. “Oh, dear, I'm getting a call. I'll be with you in a second, but I have a SUPER-IMPORTANT point to make, so don't go. Hello? Oh, Cecile, we were just talking about you. Isn't that wonderful. Listen, would you?”
The band plays a fanfare. Norbert's antennae droop like spaghetti. I know he wants to explode again. I know he wants to tell his mom that he really is in a hurry; that he doesn't like little Natasha, doesn't want to go to a dinner party, couldn't care less about bed socks. He wants to yell at her, but yelling is tiring. Anger is a steep hill. How often can you climb it? I know what I'd do if I was Norbert.
“D'you want to just … sneak away?” I whisper.
He nods eagerly and takes a step back. I put my finger to my lips and follow him.
The que
en keeps talking. I can't help thinking that her name is not exactly a sound like gentle rain, or children's laughter. It reminds me of something heavy and wet hitting the bottom of the wastebasket. Be-tun-ka.
Norbert leads me around the back of the crowd. The queen takes another call. She's waving her wand up and down.
I feel real self-conscious, creeping around. Mostly because I'm the size of a killer whale. If I was Norbert's size, I wouldn't mind.
In about a minute,* we're at a swing door cut into the rock about halfway down the long wall of the cavern. Norbert pushes through first. I'm right on his heels.
We find ourselves in a quiet corridor – tall ceiling, smell of disinfectant. No windows. Norbert breathes a sigh of relief.
–That's better, he says. Let's see if we can find Mad Guy's lab. I know it's around here somewhere.
He sets off at a huffling trot. I hurry to keep up.
–Listen, Dingwall. About my mom. I should apologize. I don't know why, but she sometimes … makes me crazy. He talks over his shoulder, embarrassed.
“That's okay,” I say. “Mine, too.”
–Why would I care about a dinner party? Nerissa is a prisoner somewhere.
“We'll find her,” I say. “Don't worry.”
–Thanks, Dingwall. I really … really …
He stops still and stands there. His hands are clenched into fists at his sides. His view screens are wide and staring. His antennae are vibrating like a tuning fork. Hard to know what to do when a friend is almost crying. I can't put my arm around him. I just can't. But I feel bad. I should do something. I decide to punch him in the shoulder.
He looks startled. Then he nods, and pokes me in the stomach.
So we're good.
That's when I hear the clitter-clatter of little claws. Much crisper sound than the huffling of the jupiterlings in their slippers. I peer down the corridor. Around the corner emerges a white lab rat. I know he's a lab rat because he's wearing a lab coat over a misbuttoned sweater vest, and thick glasses, which have been mended with tape.
–Butterbean! calls Norbert.
“I perceive you!” the lab rat calls back. “And I'm approaching your space-time nexus as fast as my organs and muscles and willpower allow. Welcome, my prince. I tracked your spacecraft on the UALS, and was on my way to the landing chamber to get you.”
He arrives, panting, just as the speech ends. He runs on all fours, like a mouse, then climbs onto his hind legs to talk to us face-to-face. He's about Norbert's height.
“Hail, Prince!” he says.
–Hey, Butterbean. How's Mad Guy? We were on our way to see him.
“Welcome home, Prince Norbert. We're all extremely concerned about Princess Nerissa, of course. There's been no communication.”
–Yeah.
Butterbean is staring at me. His eyes glitter like diamonds behind the spectacles. “Is this really … him?” he asks.
–This is Dingwall, says Norbert.
“A genuine earthling. This is quite exhilarating. My blood pressure is rising rapidly. And so the despacer actually worked on him? He's awfully large right now.”
–Like a charm, Butterbean. Ordinarily, he's the size of a building.
Butterbean's eyes widen behind the glasses.
Norbert introduces us. Butterbean is a scientist. He's responsible for something called the atomic despacer, which, apparently, is how I got here.
“Oh, please,” says Butterbean, shaking his head. “It wasn't me. Mad Guy is the real genius. I just do what he tells me.”
He holds out a neat, well-kept paw. I shake it without hesitation. A talking nerdy rodent is not the oddest thing that has happened to me today.
“If you choose to follow me to the laboratory, Mad Guy and I will be able to brief you both on the princess' disappearance and on our latest theories regarding the whereabouts of the Lost Schloss.”
–Excellent, Butterbean, says Norbert, putting his hand on the little rat's shoulder. The royal touch. Butterbean turns to trot back the way he came. We follow his clicking claws.
*I know time is different on Jupiter. So are weights and measures. But I plan to keep things simple. In this story, a minute's a minute. A day is a day (unless it's a Dey – but that's another problem). I may be inaccurate, but at least we'll both know what is going on.
“This is the basement, right?” I ask.
Norbert nods. –Betunkaville is a walled territory, with the royal palace as part of the wall. The secure strategy center, where we are now, is in the basement of the palace. You're in the safest part of the hemisphere right now.
Butterbean is ahead of us. He stops to beckon us onward. “This way, my prince,” he calls, in his light voice.
Norbert waves.
“Do you want me to call you Prince too?” I ask.
–It would be appropriate. But I wouldn't expect it of an earthling.
“Hey, don't knock us earthlings,” I say. “We're saving your planet.”
Butterbean reaches a narrow door, and ducks into it. Norbert follows easily, but I have to turn sideways to fit. My stomach scrapes against the side of the doorway.
The size of a building, indeed!
We're in an anteroom, rounded and dark. I feel like I'm inside a loaf of pumpernickel bread. Four guards stand in front of an arched doorway on the far side of the room. They wear uniform pants and jackets that stick to their skin like glue, and tight-fitting combat helmets. I recognize them at once – army men. I had a set like them when I was little. There's a guy about to throw a grenade and a guy with his rifle stuck out sideways and a pair in charge of a bazooka.
“Geez!” says the rifle guy, hoarsely. “Look at him!”
By “him,” they mean me. They all stare.
“He's even bigger than they said,” says one of the bazooka guys.
The rifle guy salutes as Norbert passes. He nods, and follows Butterbean into the next room. I follow at a slight distance. The guards stare as I crouch to get through the arched doorway.
It's a lab with benches and sinks and Bunsen burners like science class at school, only without Mr. Buchal and his elaborate sarcasm. (You want permission to go to the bathroom, Dingwall? Permission? Surely you jest! You have my enthusiastic approval, my unbridled support for your quest! By all means, go to the bathroom, Dingwall. I insist! And feel free to stay as long as you like!)
Mr. Buchal looked like a needle, and had a voice to match. The man at the far end of the lab is his exact opposite: short, round, and booming.
“Behold!” he cries, in a voice of thunder. He has hair the way Arnold Schwarzeneggar has muscles – lots, and all over the place.
“Mad Guy?” I whisper to Norbert.
–Mad Guy, he whispers back.
“Behold the boy from Earth!” Mad Guy declaims, more like a church minister than a scientist. He moves towards us in a weird rolling gait. An old old man down the street from me walks like that because he lost his leg in the war. I don't know which one (which war, I mean. It was his right leg). “This is a proud day for our planet!” he cries. “Welcome, Earthling! Welcome back, Prince Norbert.”
He has his hands full, balancing a tray. On it are three thimbles and one good-sized cup. Steam rises from them. I can't smell anything through my helmet, but I can guess what's in the mugs.
–Ah, cocoa! cries Norbert. Mad Guy, you think of every thing!
“Yes, cocoa! Cocoa for heroes!” cries the little round man, in his booming voice. “Cocoa and fruit. Come and eat and drink!”
He's smaller than Norbert and Butterbean – not even up to my waist – but he lifts the tray onto a workbench without spilling a drop. There's little cakey things as well. They don't look like fruit to me.
Trying to hop onto a stool, Mad Guy overbalances and falls to the floor. He then begins to topple slowly backward, arms flailing. His center of gravity is so low that he stops at an impossible angle, and then his whole body snaps back to vertical. His head, moving through a big arc, strikes me
forcefully in the side of my right knee. I go down like a felled tree, bruising my shoulder under the space suit and knocking my head against the stone floor, sending my helmet flying.
I'm not seriously hurt. More embarrassed, really. Sitting up, rubbing my head, blinking in the lab's bright light, I realize two things.
First, that I can see. I mean, really see. When my friend Nick, who is extremely nearsighted, got his first pair of glasses back in kindergarten, his world changed for the better. He told me about it later. “I wasn't caring how much of a Poindexter I looked,” he said. “I was like: Wow! That thing on the floor is my baby brother! I thought it was a dog all this time.” That's how I feel with my helmet off. I can see. If you really need your glasses, you'll know what I mean.
The walls are smooth and kind of light brown, except for a dark square of TV screen. Butterbean's vest is yellow, and Mad Guy's wild stick-out hair is white, like Albert Einstein's. And Mad Guy is short and moves oddly because he's got no legs – just a rounded bottom half. He's like that Daffy Duck punching bag I had when I was little: I'd knock it down, and it'd come bouncing right back at me. Daffy could floor me then, and Mad Guy can floor me now.
The second thing I realize is, that without my helmet, I am breathing Jupiter air. And it's fine. In fact, it's beautiful – full of the heady scent of dark chocolate.
“How can I be breathing?” I ask Mad Guy. I'm not worried, but perhaps I should be. “Why am I breathing? I should be dead. Why aren't I dead?”
Mad Guy holds my helmet in one hand. His eyes are wide open and interested. His mouth has a humorous twist. “Who can answer that question?” he says. “Not me. I am only a scientist. I can tell you that you are breathing. I can tell you how you breathe. I can tell you that breathing keeps you alive. But I cannot answer why you are breathing.”
He shakes his head, and pitches the helmet away. “You want a theologian,” he says. “Or a philosopher. Or a psychologist.”
“Actually,” I say, “I want something to drink.”
He laughs, and helps me up, pushing me back onto my feet. “Good for you, son. That's the right attitude. I am glad to see you. My name is Guillermo, but they call me Mad Guy.”
The Boy from Earth Page 2
