Science Fair (9 page)

Nobody could remember how this event got its name, or why it became a national holiday. It was an ancient tradition, and the Krpshtskanis observed it for the same reason they did everything else: because they always had. Also, it was a day off work.

Grdankl the Strong especial y liked the Tournament of the Fighting-Death Hamsters because he got to sit in the Presidential Chair, which was a recliner—in fact, the only recliner in the Republic of Krpshtskan. He enjoyed reclining it and normal y fel asleep during the tournament.

Grdankl the Strong had been snoozing today when he was awakened by a tentative tap on his arm. He opened his eyes and glared angrily at the person who had dared interrupt his nap. This was the fourth vice president, formal y known as Drmtsi the Medium-Sized, who had been assigned the unpleasant task of waking the president by the first, second, and third vice presidents, who were hovering nervously in the background.

“What?” snarled Grdankl the Strong, using the form of the word “what” that, in the Krpsht language, caused the speaker to eject as much as two ounces of saliva.

“I apologize with deepest sincere groveling regret, Your Utmost Excel ency,” said Drmtsi, wiping his face with his sleeve. “But there is a message for you.” He lowered his voice.

“From Prmkt.”

Grdankl the Strong smacked Drmtsi the Medium-Sized.

“Why did you not tel me!” he roared, in a voice so loud that it echoed throughout the arena, causing Lethal Thunder to make weewee on his wrangler.

Drmtsi might have pointed out that he had, in fact, just told Grdankl the Strong about the message. But he was not that stupid.

“Where is the message?” said Grdankl the Strong.

“It is on the computer, Your Utmost Supreme Excel ency.”

Grdankl the Strong grunted unhappily. The only way to read the e-mail was to go look at the screen, as the Republic of Krpshtskan did not have a printer.

“Up!” he said.

Drmtsi pushed the lever that un-reclined the Presidential Chair; the first, second, and third vice presidents heaved Grdankl the Strong to his feet. He turned toward the hamster wranglers and bel owed, “Nothing may happen until I return!” Then, fol owed by his vice presidents, he waddled out of the arena and into the presidential limousine, a 1961 Checker that had once been a New York City taxi. For a change it started on the first try, and it soon arrived at the presidential palace, which was directly across the street.

Grdankl and his vice presidents entered the palace and descended into the bunker. Waiting nervously in front of the computer screen was Vrsk, the Krpshtskani minister of technology. He stepped aside as Grdankl the Strong waddled to the computer and, frowning deeply, read the e-mail on the screen. This took some time because Grdankl the Strong was a poor reader.

Final y he turned to the vice presidents.

“It is from Prmkt,” he said.

The vice presidents nodded.

“There is a problem at the school,” continued Grdankl the Strong. “A student has found out about our plan. Prmkt says he can deal with it, but he needs help.” Vrsk’s eyes widened. He had read the e-mail, and Prmkt had in fact specifical y stated that he did
not
need help. Grdankl the Strong had read the e-mail wrong. But Vrsk did not even consider correcting Grdankl the Strong; that would be suicide.

“It is a dangerous mission,” said Grdankl the Strong. “Probably it means certain death. But we must help Prmkt. I wil send two men.” He pointed to Drmtsi. “You are one.” Drmtsi, looking like he had just eaten a live spider, managed to say, “I wil not disappoint you, Your Utmost Supreme Excel ency.”

“If you do,” said Grdankl the Strong, “I wil make your liver into a pudding. The second man to go wil be…” Grdankl the Strong looked around at the others, al of whom avoided his gaze “…you.”

Vrsk realized, with horror, that Grdankl the Strong was pointing at him. Vrsk knew a lot about computers but absolutely nothing about helping a spy. He didn’t even own a passport.

“You wil leave now,” said Grdankl the Strong. “Go! Do not be afraid! If you die, it is okay!” Drmtsi and Vrsk, both pale, stumbled from the room. Grdankl the Strong and his remaining three vice presidents returned to the presidential limousine, which failed to start. This greatly displeased Grdankl the Strong, who ordered the chauffeur imprisoned, then walked, most unhappily, back across the street to the National Arena and the Tournament of the Fighting-Death Hamsters.

T
OBY HAD BEEN SITTING IN THE HORNET
’s outer office for twenty minutes, watching J.D. the Janitor Dude mop the same spot in the hal over and over, and listening to the semituneless humming of The Hornet’s secretary, Mrs. Breetle. She was tapping on her computer and humming a song that Toby had final y figured out was “Oops!…I Did It Again.” This surprised Toby because Mrs. Breetle did not strike him as a Britney Spears fan. Mrs. Breetle struck Tony as being, by a conservative estimate, one hundred and fifty years old.

Also in the office was Mr. P, who glared briefly at Toby before resuming whatever he was doing with the fax machine; and five students who were also waiting, unhappily, to face The Hornet. One by one they were summoned in to see The Hornet, emerging a minute or so later looking as if they had just had dental work without anesthetic. Toby was about to abandon his plan when Mrs. Breetle pointed at him and said, “Your turn.”

Toby stood and shuffled into The Hornet’s office. The Hornet was sitting behind her desk, which had nothing on it but a letter opener the size of a bayonet. She looked at Toby with the expression of a person who had seen thousands of students standing in exactly the same spot and had not yet been impressed.

“Yes?” she said.

Toby found that his throat didn’t work.

“Urg,” he said.

“I see,” said The Hornet. “Was there anything else?”

“Urg,” repeated Toby.

The Hornet sighed. “Mr. Harbinger,” she said, “I enjoy a good frog imitation as much as the next person. But if you’ve nothing else to say, I have work to do.” The amazing fact that The Hornet actual y knew his name jolted Toby out of his paralysis.

“They’re cheating,” he blurted. “On the science fair.”

“Who is?” said The Hornet.

“The ME kids,” said Toby.

“Close the door,” said The Hornet.

Toby closed the door.

“By ME you mean—”

“The Manor Estates kids.”

“How are they cheating?” said The Hornet.

Toby told The Hornet about overhearing the ME kids talking in the cafeteria about envelopes and the fifty dol ars; about seeing ME kids after school in the corridor, first heading one way with envelopes in hand, then returning without; about picking up Harmonee Prescott’s paper in the corridor and seeing that it was covered with technical terms; about listening outside the back-room door at the Science Nook and hearing Sternabite tel the ME kids that the price of a project was a thousand dol ars, and that some of the components were classified technology. Toby then gave The Hornet the list he took from Sternabite’s desk, tel ing her only that he picked it up while Sternabite wasn’t looking. He didn’t think now was a good time to mention the robot security owl.

The Hornet read the list, placed it on her desk, and frowned at the wal for a minute while drumming her fingers on her desk. Then she picked up her phone, pushed a button, and said, “Please have Mr. Neckstrom come to my office. Yes, now.”

Two minutes later, Neckstrom entered The Hornet’s office, looking every bit as nervous about being there as Toby did.

“Toby,” said The Hornet, “tel Mr. Neckstrom what you just told me.”

Toby did. As he spoke, Mr. Neckstrom’s face got red, and then redder, and then very close to purple. When Toby was finished, Mr. Neckstrom glared at him then turned to The Hornet and said, “This is ridiculous. He’s making it up.”

“Why would he do that?” said The Hornet.

“It’s obvious,” said Mr. Neckstrom. “He wants to win the science-fair prize money. He made up this story to eliminate his competition.” Toby started to say something, but The Hornet held up her hand. “What about this?” she said, sliding Sternabite’s list across her desk.

Mr. Neckstrom picked up the list, looked at it for a moment, then tossed it back on the desk. “This is probably just technical-sounding gobbledygook he made up from words he found on the Internet,” he said. “Who knows if these things even exist?”

The Hornet looked at Mr. Neckstrom, then at Toby, then back at Mr. Neckstrom.

“I’m going to talk to the other students,” she said.

The color of Mr. Neckstrom’s face went immediately from borderline grape to skim milk.

“Bu…but do you think that would be wise?” he said. “If you accuse them of cheating, it could be very…I mean, their
parents
. . .”

“I’m wel aware who their parents are,” said The Hornet. “But this is a serious charge, and I intend to…” She was interrupted by the harsh electronic beeping of the Hubble Middle School fire alarm. As The Hornet rose to her feet, Mrs. Breetle appeared in the doorway.

“It’s a locker,” she said, “in the main corridor. Some kind of smoke or something. The fire department’s on its way.”

“Start the fire dril ,” said The Hornet. As Mrs. Breetle hurried away, The Hornet said, “We’l finish this later. Mr. Neckstrom, please see to your students. Toby, you’l join your homeroom class out on the bal field.”

Mr. Neckstrom, with a last glare at Toby, stalked out, fol owed by The Hornet, fol owed by Toby. The corridor echoed with the earsplitting sound of the alarm. Students were streaming from the classrooms in reasonably orderly lines, heading toward the main exit. Toby looked back down the corridor and saw the cause of the alarm: a cloud of what looked like bright green, glowing smoke was wafting from a locker just past Miss Cooney’s classroom.

Toby frowned. He counted the lockers leading to the smoking one.

Three, four, five…

He felt a cold lump in his stomach.

It was his locker.

A
N HOUR LATER
, the students stil stood waiting on the bal field. The excitement of watching the fire trucks arrive, with sirens whooping, had gradualy turned into the disappointment of realizing that the school was not, in fact, going to burn down.

Now, as they watched the firefighters load their gear back onto the trucks, most of the students were bored enough to actual y be glad to hear it was time to go back into the school.

The exception was Toby, who would have preferred to go anywhere else, including another planet. He had no idea why his locker had been emitting glowing green smoke, but he was pretty sure that whatever it was, it was not good for him.

As Toby’s class filed through the main door, The Armpit was waiting.

“Harbinger,” he said, “come with me.”

Toby shuffled behind The Armpit down the corridor to where a smal group of grown-ups had gathered around his locker. The Hornet was speaking softly to a fire-department guy.

Mr. Neckstrom and Mr. Pzyrbovich were watching as J.D. mopped up something on the floor.

Each locker had a combination dial with a key slot in the center of the dial. The firefighters had taken a crowbar to Toby’s locker rather than wait for the master key. His locker door was now badly bent and had been sprung open. In front of it, on the floor, was a pile of Toby’s stuff: some random papers, a copy of
PC Gamer
magazine, an old banana that he’d forgotten about that was now a real y gross banana-shaped mass of mold, some dead double-A batteries, a lone white sweat sock, and a basebal cap that Toby had been required to remove the day he wore it to school because it said BITE ME.

Included with Toby’s stuff was a canister about eight inches tal made of brushed steel. Its screw-on lid was off and lying next to it.

“Toby,” said The Hornet. “Is this your locker?”

“Yes,” said Toby.

“A little over an hour ago,” said The Hornet, “Mr. Pzyrbovich happened to be walking by and noticed that your locker was emitting some kind of smoke or gas. He sounded the alarm.”

Toby looked at Mr. P, who was staring at him with an unreadable expression.

“The firefighters forced the locker open,” continued The Hornet, “and found that the gas was leaking from this.” She pointed at the canister. “Toby, why was this canister in your locker?”