The air crackled as he vanished from sight. A moment later, he reappeared. “Sorry! I keep forgetting that you physical creatures have to travel with your bodies intact. Let’s try that again. Follow me.”
CHAPTER 16 [TIM]
MONKEYFOOD
Beezle Whompis led us to another level of the embassy, then along a corridor I had not seen before. We came to a door with a plaque that said, in English, RESTRICTED ACCESS: NO EARTHLINGS ALLOWED!
The phrase was repeated—at least, I assumed it was the same phrase—in French, Spanish, and several other languages that I recognized as Earthly but could not name.
Beside the door was something that looked like a keypad. On its surface were fifteen buttons, each of a different color.
I expected Beezle Whompis to tap in a code. Instead the tall, skeletal alien pointed a single long finger at the keypad.
A crackle of energy shot from his fingertip to the pad.
The door slid open. When Beezle Whompis noticed me hanging back, he laughed and said, “Feel free to enter.”
I shook my head. “The sign says ‘No Earthlings Allowed.’ I don’t want to get you in trouble.”
Beezle Whompis made a sound like a car trying to start on a freezing-cold morning. (It wasn’t until later that I learned this was his way of laughing.) Reaching forward, the energy being tapped me on the head. A jolt of power tingled through me.
“There,” said Beezle Whompis. “I have just granted you temporary galactic citizenship.” He paused, then added, “Actually, I believe you are the first Earthling to be so honored—at least, by this mission.”
“Cool,” I said. “Thanks!”
I followed Beezle Whompis and Pleskit into the room. “Cool,” I murmured again, dazzled at the sight of all the alien scientific equipment. Two long tables that looked as if they were made of blue glass held everything from bottles and beakers to conglomerations of wire and plastic that were so complicated, it made my eyes hurt to try to figure them out. Viewscreens and monitors lined one wall. I saw three workstations; each had a chair with keypads on the arms and more keypads in front of it.
Beezle Whompis sizzled out of sight and reappeared in one of the chairs. Rather than tapping any of the keys, he placed a finger against a lavender button. For a moment, he seemed to fade. A blue glow flickered around him.
“Ah,” he said, unfading as a flood of symbols filled the viewscreen in front of him. “Here we go.”
“What is that?” I asked.
“A complete map of the human genome… everything you ever wanted to know about your own DNA but didn’t know how to ask.”
I gulped. “You just have it on file? The government is spending, like, billions of dollars to come up with that information.”
“The practice will be good for them,” muttered Beezle Whompis, his attention focused on the screen. “Ah, here we go! Hmmm. Oh, that’s interesting.” He began to chuckle, then flickered blue again. The screen changed. “Good,” said the energy being softly. “Good. Good. Aha! I think we’ve got it.”
He crackled out of sight, then he reappeared again next to the door. “Let’s go to the kitchen. I want to see if Shhh-foop can whip up a little recipe for us. Tim, if you’re willing to taste it, the results should be… amusing.”
* * *
When we reached the kitchen, we found that Beezle Whompis’s “recipe” had already been transferred to Shhh-foop’s computer terminal.
“Oh, making this will be lovely fun,” she sang, her orange tentacles whirling excitedly. “Sit right down, younglings and Mr. Whompis, and I’ll get to work. Would you like a snackie-doodle while you wait?”
“Uh—I think one special food will be enough for me today,” I said.
“Alas, alas,” warbled Shhh-foop. “Young Earthlings fear the cooking of Shhh-foop. Where is the spirit of adventure? Gone, gone…”
Since she sang it more to herself than to me, I didn’t feel it was necessary to answer.
“I’d like a bowl of febril gnurxis,” said Pleskit. Turning to me, he added, “This is my favorite breakfast material, but sometimes I have it for an after-school snack.”
Beezle Whompis vanished altogether. When he reappeared, he said, “Having no physical body to nourish, I sustain myself by snacking on energy. Sometimes I go outside to bathe in the sunshine. This time I simply slipped into the embassy’s circuits for a little electron soup, so to speak.”
“Ready!” sang Shhh-foop a few minutes later. She slid over to the table, holding a silvery tray. On the tray were a stack of crackers (or something that looked like crackers), a spreader, and a bowl of goo. The goo looked a little like peanut butter, or at least like peanut butter would look if it were purple, not quite as thick, and given to releasing an occasional bubble, like a glass of soda working in slow motion. Or a mini volcano popping lava.
To my surprise, the stuff smelled amazingly good.
“What is it?” I asked.
Beezle Whompis smiled. “Try it and see.”
“I haven’t had real good luck with alien food,” I said nervously, remembering the explosive aftereffects of the finnikle-pokta I had eaten the first time I’d visited the embassy.
“Ah, but I designed this to be compatible with the human digestive system,” said Beezle Whompis.
I took a deep breath, then reached forward and spread some of the purple goo onto one of the cracker things.
The smell was so delicious that I was actually eager to eat it.
I took a bite, then chewed for a minute. “S’good!” I cried, popping the rest of the cracker into my mouth. “Very good!”
I spread another and ate it. Beezle Whompis stopped me as I was reaching for the third.
“Let’s wait and see what happens,” he said.
I looked longingly at the bowl of goo. “Okay,” I sighed. “But I want Shhh-foop to give that recipe to my mom.”
“I rather doubt your mother will want this one,” said Beezle Whompis.
I started to answer. Before I could get the words out of my mouth, my eyes went wide. I twitched twice.
“Oook!” I said, scratching under my arm. “OOO-OO-O-OOK!”
Then I leaped from my chair. Bending over, I pressed my hands against the floor like an extra pair of feet and went scrambling out of the room.
CHAPTER 17 [PLESKIT]
MONKEY BUSINESS
“Ai-yi-yikkle-demonga!” wailed Shhh-foop, forgetting, for the first time since the embassy had landed, the Fatherly One’s rule about speaking only in the language of our host country.
Beezle Whompis crackled out of sight. I sprinted down the hall after Tim, wondering if the Fatherly One’s new assistant was a traitor like Mikta-makta-mookta after all.
I found Tim leaping up and down on top of Ms. Buttsman’s desk, chanting, “Ook! Ook!” as he flung papers into the air.
Ms. Buttsman was crouched beneath the desk, shrieking for help.
“Tim!” I cried sternly. “Tim, get down from there!”
“AAAAIIEEEE!” shrieked Ms. Buttsman, which didn’t really help things much.
“Oook!” said Tim. Then he vaulted off the desk and raced across the room, where he began trying to climb one of the embassy’s moizel plants. The plant’s large purple leaves whirled wildly as it tried to defend itself from the intruder. It was just reaching out with a wiry purple vine when Tim leaped away and onto one of the seating devices.
I took several deep breaths, trying to keep myself from slipping into kleptra. Ms. Buttsman peered over the edge of her desk and shrieked again.
At that moment Beezle Whompis crackled into view. “This way, McNally,” he called behind him. “Hurry!”
An instant later, McNally appeared at the door to the room.
“Oook! Oook!” squealed Tim.
McNally heaved a deep sigh and strode to the seating device where Tim was hunched. “Tim, get down from there!” he said sharply.
Tim leaped forward, landed on McNally’s shoulder, and then sc
rambled over him and leaped to the floor. With another “Oook!” he headed for the door.
McNally made a flying tackle and caught him just before he left the room.
“Well,” said Beezle Whompis triumphantly. “I guess that proves the point!”
“Oook!” shrieked Tim.
“Do you have an antidote?” I asked nervously.
“Only time,” said Beezle Whompis. “Another ten minutes or so and he should be fine.”
“Easy for you to say,” growled McNally, who was struggling to keep Tim from crawling away. “What did you do to the kid, anyway?”
“Merely gave him a little monkeyfood,” said Beezle Whompis, sounding so innocent, it was actually possible to believe he didn’t see anything wrong with the idea.
“What,” demanded Ms. Buttsman, crawling out from under her desk, “are you talking about?” She began fussing with her hair.
“Just a small experiment, dear lady,” said Beezle Whompis, causing Ms. Buttsman to sniff in disdain. “We wanted to see if we could create a reaction in Tim similar to what peanut butter causes in Pleskit. The substance we came up with stimulated what your scientists sometimes refer to as ‘the lizard brain,’ causing Tim to revert to a primitive, apelike behavior that lies hidden as a latent possibility in every human.”
Ms. Buttsman snorted. “Given that boy’s typical behavior, I don’t think getting him to act like an ape represents any great scientific breakthrough.”
“I believe the ambassador prefers the staff to not say insulting things about our host species,” replied Beezle Whompis.
Ms. Buttsman snorted again and started to gather the papers Tim had strewn about. “I’ll thank you to remove him until… until whatever it is you did wears off,” she said. Her voice was so cold, you could have cut up the words and used them in a drink.
Beezle Whompis nodded to McNally, who managed to pick up the still-ooking Tim and carry him from the room.
* * *
Beezle Whompis’s prediction turned out to be correct. In ten minutes’ time, Tim reverted to his normal self. Blinking, he looked at McNally and said, “Why are you holding me?”
“Let them explain,” growled McNally. “I’m supposed to be on break right now!” Letting go of Tim, he began brushing off his clothes. “Will he be all right now?” he asked Beezle Whompis.
“He should be fine.”
“Good. Next time you try an experiment like this, you might tie him down first. Or at least do it while I’m not taking my nap.”
Shaking his head, he left the room.
I quickly explained to Tim what had happened after he’d eaten the substance Shhh-foop had prepared.
“Wow!” said Tim. “It really is monkeyfood! Now Mr. Grand will have to believe us!”
* * *
Mr. Grand, of course, did no such thing. When we went to see him the next day, he listened to our story with growing impatience.
“A fine concoction,” he said when we were finished. He began pacing back and forth in front of us with his hands clasped behind his back. “If you boys were doing this for a creative writing project, I would expect you to get a good grade. But you don’t need to be telling me this kind of fairy tale. I don’t believe in such nonsense. People control their own destinies, and there is no sense blaming their actions on chemicals. That is the coward’s way out—all excuses and no accountability. A real man takes responsibility for his actions.”
* * *
When we told this to Mrs. Vanderhof, she was outraged on our behalf.
“I can’t believe that man is so obdurate!” she fumed, setting a plate of chocolate chip cookies on the table. “Of course people should be responsible for their own behavior. But it’s not always possible. He’s so stuck on that one idea that he’s ignoring reality!”
I glanced at the cookies. “Do these have any peanut butter in them?” I asked nervously.
Mrs. Vanderhof looked offended. Then her face relaxed. “You’re smart to be cautious, dear. But no, there’s no peanut butter in them. I made them for the PTA Welcome Back event tonight.” She smiled. “I figured I ought to have you three sample them first—to make sure they’re good enough.”
“Good figuring!” said Tim enthusiastically.
Still feeling a little nervous, I picked up a cookie and took a big bite. “Skeegil sprixis!” I cried. “These are wonderful!”
Mrs. Vanderhof smiled modestly. The smile faded as her thoughts returned to Mr. Grand. “That man makes me so angry! Even if he doesn’t trust my experience—or yours, Pleskit—he really ought to know that three kids in your class are taking medication to control their behavior.”
“They are?” asked Linnsy.
Mrs. Vanderhof nodded. “Some prescriptions help certain people focus better. Kids who have trouble concentrating can find it helps their behavior in school considerably.”
“Who’s taking it?” asked Tim eagerly.
Mrs. Vanderhof shook her head. “That’s not my story to tell. You know I believe in being completely open about what I’ve experienced, Tim. But I also believe other people have to make that decision for themselves. The point is, your principal has proof right in his classrooms of the way body chemistry affects behavior, and he should be aware of it.”
“Proof or not, he’s still threatening to ask Meenom to pull Pleskit out of school,” said Tim bitterly.
“He hasn’t done it already?” asked Mrs. Vanderhof.
“The Fatherly One is not always easy to get in touch with,” I explained. “He has been dealing with emergencies for the last couple of days. But he is coming home this evening, and I fear he may want to go to the PTA reception. If he does, Mr. Grand will almost certainly talk to him while he’s there, since he knows he may not get another chance right away.”
“Then we have to do something tonight,” said Linnsy. “It’s our last chance!”
“Do what?” I asked.
She shrugged. “I don’t know. A demonstration or something. Prove to Grand the monkeyfood does what you said. Then he’ll have to accept the idea that the peanut butter could have caused your troubles.”
Tim put down his cookie and sighed. “Well, I guess there’s no way around it. I’m going to have to make a monkey out of myself again—this time in public!”
CHAPTER 18 [TIM]
OPERATION MONKEYFOOD
The Parent-Teacher Association usually held its annual Welcome Back Night earlier in the school year. But the disruption—and security problems—caused by having the world’s first alien in attendance had caused the group to move the date back to mid-October.
Some parents grumbled about the armed guards, and having to come through two sets of scanners before being allowed into the school. Others said they thought every school should have such an elaborate security system. Others were grumpy about the protesters, who were still standing just outside the police lines, and shouting anti-alien slogans at the people who were allowed in.
Because Mom had been scheduled for a late shift at the hospital where she works, and hadn’t been able to get out of it, I came with Linnsy and her parents. Given what I was planning to do that night, this was just as well, as far as I was concerned.
“Well, doesn’t this look nice!” said Mrs. Vanderhof when we came in.
The cafeteria had been decorated with artwork from most of the classes. A big WELCOME BACK banner made by the fourth graders stretched across the back wall.
I looked around, wondering if Pleskit had arrived yet. I didn’t need to wonder. The moment he did show up at the door, the whispers started.
“Look, there he is!”
“It’s the alien boy!”
“Holy cow, he really is purple!”
Parents who had not yet had a chance to see Pleskit in person were elbowing to get near him. Everywhere people were craning their necks to see the world’s most famous sixth grader.
It took me several minutes to work my way through the crowd to my friend’s side, and I had to step o
n a fair number of toes in the process.
“Have you got the goo?” I whispered when I finally reached him.
“Right here,” said Pleskit, patting the pocket of his robe.
“Then Operation Monkey is under way!” I said.
Only it wasn’t, really. As we watched for our opportunity, we realized the flaw in our plan: Mr. Grand was spending almost all his time talking to the adults, and wasn’t going to be particularly interested in talking to any kids—particularly kids he viewed as trouble—on this occasion.
“Now what do we do?” I muttered.
“Let’s try standing by the food table,” suggested Pleskit. “I’ve noticed that Mr. Grand has what you call a ‘sweet tooth.’ He’s bound to come that way sooner or later.”
“What are you two plotting now?” asked McNally when he saw us whispering.
“Just going for cookies,” said Pleskit. “Want to come?”
“As if I had a choice,” muttered McNally. “Stand back, everyone!” he bellowed. “Coming through. Give the kid some air.”
I was astonished at how much easier it was to move through the room with McNally in the lead.
* * *
Mrs. Vanderhof was standing behind the food table, smiling and chatting as she poured glasses of punch and helped people find just the right cookie. “Any luck, boys?” she asked when she saw Pleskit and me standing in front of her.
“Not so far,” I said glumly.
“We thought if we waited here, we might have a better chance of talking to him,” said Pleskit.
“Good plan,” said Linnsy. She had just come out of the kitchen with a new platter of cookies. “Mr. Grand always chows down hard at these things.”
“These two all right with you for a minute, ma’am?” asked McNally.
“Of course,” said Mrs. Vanderhof with a smile.
“All right, don’t move,” said McNally to Pleskit. “I’ll be back in a flash.”
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