by Bill Doyle
Mr. Noonan nodded. “Okay, fine. Anything to take my mind off where we are!”
I quickly searched my memory for facts. “To build this Elevator, a spacecraft was launched into geosynchronous orbit over Earth. That's 22,300 miles over the equator.”
“You're losing me!” Mr. Noonan cried.
He was right. I was being too technical. I had to keep things simple and positive. “The spacecraft lowered a ribbon made of superstrong material down to Earth as it kept moving outward into space. When the ribbon reached Earth's surface, it was attached to a base station in the middle of the ocean near the equator. Because hurricanes don't pass over the equator, it reduced the number of violent storms—”
“Hurricanes?” Mr. Noonan squealed.
Darn! I thought. I could tell he had been starting to relax. And then I had to go and talk about hurricanes!
I smiled and switched gears. “Two hundred and fifty small mechanical climbers stitched on additional ribbons to widen and strengthen the original one. That took three years. The ribbon we're riding on—”
THE SPACE ELEVATOR ON THE RIBBON TO EARTH
“The ribbon that's holding us up is thinner than paper, right?” Mr. Noonan asked, but the panic was gone from his eyes, and he seemed more interested than worried.
“That's true, and it's only about three feet wide. But it's strong enough to support a Climber carrying about 30 tons of supplies and equipment.”
“And people?” he said, and I could see he was making another little joke.
“Yes,” I nodded, chuckling. “And people.”
I kept talking about the technical aspects of the Elevator. Slowly he relaxed, and at last, the color returned to his face. He put a now-steady hand on my shoulder. “Thank you,” he said as he started to get up. “I do feel much—”
“Get away from him!” Charlotte stormed in, followed by Crockett. “What are you doing to my dad?” she demanded as she strode over to us.
“Otis was calming him down until you came bursting in here like a bully,” Lysa said.
“And he was doing a very good job of it,” Mr. Noonan added. “I think I'm ready to join the other adults now.”
Charlotte looked confused. “Dad…” She reached out to him.
“I'm fine, dear,” he said, taking her hand and patting it. “Why don't you just stay here and make friends?”
With that, he walked out and left Charlotte standing in the middle of the room. She appeared embarrassed.
Crockett glanced away. Lysa gave her a long look. Gazing at Charlotte and Lysa, I noticed how much alike they looked. They could have been sisters—twins even—except for their hair color and style of clothing. Where Lysa had straight, jet-black hair almost to her waist, Charlotte had a mass of curly shoulder-length blonde hair.
And now she was on the verge of blushing under those curls.
“Okay,” she said to me. “Maybe you made me think something different was going on.”
“Is that an apology?” Lysa asked.
Charlotte shrugged defiantly then cracked a smile. “My dad did say I should make friends. Guess I'm not following orders, as usual,” she said, her smile becoming a grin.
Her change of mood seemed to take the last of the tension out of the air.
Crockett, Lysa, Charlotte, and I chatted for a while. It turned out Crockett and Lysa are both from New York City and Charlotte is from Seattle, Washington. When the conversation started to lag, a flash suddenly erupted at our feet.
Startled, I looked down to see Teddy winking up at me mischievously. Teddy was equipped with a digital camera and had just snapped our photo.
I was about to apologize for Teddy's behavior when Charlotte struck a pose like a fashion model. Lysa gave him a few silly poses, and Teddy's metal tail whacked back and forth in glee. Soon, Teddy was bouncing around us and snapping photos like a full-blown paparazzo.
LYSA AND CHARLOTTE POSING FOR TEDDY
At one point Charlotte leaned over and said in a soft voice, “Don't think this gets you off the hook for nearly having us arrested for carrying a piece of fruit. I still can't figure out how you knew my dad had that kiwi.”
I shrugged. “Lucky guess,” I said, not completely truthfully. “What can I do to make it up to you?”
“I'd like to see the art collection,” she said as if she were asking for a glass of water. “I want to see the art that was sold at the auction.”
The words, “No can do,” were on my lips. After all, the artworks from the auction were on two different levels, one inaccessible and the other strictly off-limits to the passengers.
But instead I said, “Sure. Why not?”
LEVEL 2 WAS DARK EXCEPT FOR THE SECURITY LIGHTS.
JANUARY 2, 2031
Day 2 of 6 6:45 PM
Charlotte's eyes went wide, and she whispered, “Oh …”
I held my finger up to my lips. “We have to keep quiet. We're not supposed to be here.”
We'd just exited the elevator onto Level 2. Only people with security clearance could get here. I'd had to press my thumbprint against the elevator's control pad to gain access to the level, which was like a warehouse. The dull hum and clank of the powerful magnets that controlled our descent toward Earth echoed through the huge room. A 'bot or two whizzed around, but otherwise, we were alone.
“It's awfully dark,” Charlotte said, peering into the gloom.
There were no windows, only the large door through which the 'bots had loaded the art sold at the auction. Not wanting to attract attention, I left the main overhead lights off. We'd have to do with the security lights that cast pools of illumination over each work of art. Most of the artworks had been packed carefully into crates and stored on Level 5. But I'd asked the worker 'bots to put the larger objects—like the plane and the statue—on Level 2—. Even though I was off duty, I wanted to be able to keep an eye on them.
“Come on,” I told Charlotte, and led her over to the, biplane. Fleas of the original green paint still clung here and there to the body of the plant, which was shaped like a sleek bird of prey. Charlotte's reaction was what I had expected. “Incredible!” she exclaimed. “This is really fantastic! And you get to be around artwork like this all the time?”
“When I take a job like this, I do,” I replied, putting one hand carefully on the wing of the plane. “Honestly, though, I'm not always surrounded by master works of art. I go to classes, like other art students, and go hiking and camping with my friends.” I didn't add that I also spend a lot of time organizing my family's detective journals.
“So…,” Charlotte said, her gaze still drinking in the aircraft. “Tell me how you work, Otis.”
I guess that's when I started to show off. “Better yet, I'll show you,” I said, taking out the pocket watch that my dad had given me on my fourteenth birthday.
“Nice watch,” Charlotte said, glancing at me.
• ART FRAUD NEWSLETTER •
Fakebuster Tools
In 1998, an Egyptian papyrus was brought to London for auction. Spectroscopy provided by a Raman microprobe revealed that the blue and green ink used on it wasn't available until 1936, meaning ancient Egyptians couldn't have made it. Other tools used to detect art fraud include:
Provenance research Stylistic analyses X-rays
Ultraviolet fluorescence Infrared micro-spectroscopy
Microanalysis—analysis of pigments and binding material (both inorganic and organic)
Fiber identification
“Thanks. It's been passed down through our family for generations.” I detached the microprobe from my belt loop. I placed the thick end of the probe against the watch and proclaimed, “Watch this!”
There was a soft chime from my probe. “There!” I announced. “See this screen?” I asked, pointing at the color readout. “It tells me that this watch is made of steel, glass, a little crystal, and small amounts of white Paint.”
I could tell from Charlotte's face that she wasn't impressed. Desperate to ent
ertain her, I kept talking. “The probe uses a laser. It shines on a sample area, and the scattered radiation, or photons, are analyzed. This tells me what materials were used to make the object. Also, I can check out pigments or dyes. Were they around when the piece of art was created? None of the tools I use will harm the object itself, which is important”
Stifling a yawn, Charlotte turned back to the plane. “Can I touch it?” She was already moving her hand toward the tail.
I should let her, I thought. That'd put a stop to her boredom. But I said, “I wouldn't recommend it.”
Her hand was still moving. “Why not? You did.”
“There's a field set up around each item. And it will deliver a jolt of electricity that will knock you off your feet.”
She lowered her hand. “Well, I guess that's a good reason.”
“The field has been programmed to allow only people with the correct DNA through,” I said.
“We use DNA in another way, too,” I continued. “After I've inspected a work of art and determined it's real, I put an invisible stamp on it. The stamp is microscopic, and it contains my DNA. It's like adding my signature to the piece. I can use my microprobe to check that my DNA signature is in place at any time.”
DNA TODAY HOLO-ZINE
DNA Isn't Just for Eye Color!
In each of the trillions of cells in your body is a blueprint that makes you who you are. It's called DNA. There are billions of different DNA combinations that decide things like hair and eye color. Everyone—except identical twins and clones—has his or her own DNA combination, and that's what makes you unique.
DNA is superstrong because it's copied over and over as cells multiply. This stability makes DNA perfect for nonbiological uses—such as a stamp that works like a one-of-a-kind signature. That's right! You can now sign important documents with your DNA. Better than fingerprints, which can smudge, DNA is also harder to copy and will be an amazing weapon in the fight against fraud.
I ran the probe over the plane. Another pleasant chime let me know my DNA stamp was still there. “Everything's fine,” I told her. Once again, I was showing off, but I couldn't seem to help myself.
“What would happen if your probe told you one of these pieces of art was a fake?”
“Whoever found the real artwork would get a huge reward from the insurance company—and I'd be out of a job.”
“But working for the government isn't the job you want anyway, is it?”
“What makes you say that?”
“Just something I read somewhere…” Her voice trailed off, but her eyes locked onto mine with a challenging look.
I knew, of course, she was talking about what she'd seen in my journal when she was flipping through it at the security clearance area. But before I could say anything, she walked away.
I followed her over to the ESCAPE BY A HAIR statue.
“Now, this is something,” she said.
“What's it make you feel?”
Her eyes glinted, but she just shrugged. She started walking to the next object, which was a carved totem. As she moved away, the air stirred around the statue. I caught a whiff of the light smell of the soap she used.
CHARLOTTE SEEMED IMPRESSED BY THE STATUE.
“I think you'll—” I froze in my tracks. “It can't be…”
Charlotte turned to look at me. “What's wrong?”
I ran my microprobe over the statue and confirmed that my DNA stamp was in place, but I knew I was right. My limbs felt heavy, and my head swam. I pointed with a shaking finger at ESCAPE BY A HAIR and managed to say, “This statue is a fake.”
“Are you serious?” she asked. “How do you know?”
I sniffed around the statue.
“What are you doing?” she asked, as I smelled the air again.
“Forgers have been able to copy all kinds of materials. They can get past most physical inspections. But there's one thing they haven't been able to copy, and that's the smell of certain materials.”
“I don't follow you.”
“I have a secret weapon I use in my job. So far, the FSA has managed to keep criminals from finding out about it.”
“What's your secret weapon?”
“My nose.”
“Your what?” She asked, looking doubtful.
“My nose!” I almost shouted. “I can pick up and identify smells as well as any bloodhound.”
“You're kidding—” She broke off as understanding flashed in her eyes. “So that's how you knew my dad was carrying food in his pocket!”
I nodded.
INK STINK
Different inks and materials have different odors. Just a sample of the smells I try to detect when inspection art for fraud:
MARBLE (STONE): Has a clean, sharp odor—like an ice cube from a freezer packed with steaks.
MAHOGANY (DARK WOOD): Smells like a handful of rich, compacted earth.
VARNISH: A light acrid odor if the artwork is more than 100 years old. A stronger smell that fills my nose indicates a newer work.
GREEN INK: Reminds me of sweat or a gym locker.
BLUE INK: Makes me think of our musty old boathouse in New Hampshire.
YELLOW INK: Gives off a sugary smell, almost like candy.
When the materials above are listed as part of the art but the odor isn't there—my nose tells me something's fishy!
I removed a small blade from my belt. In one fluid motion, I hacked off a small piece of the statue.
“You can't do that!” Charlotte gasped.
“I'm confirming what my nose tells me to be true.”
I walked over to the minilab in the wall, hoping that it would be stocked with the materials I needed. I found a petri dish and dropped the hunk of statue into it. I could use my microprobe as a heating device. Now I just needed a food source.
“Do you have any kind of food in your bag?”
“All I've got is sugar,” Charlotte replied, handing me a packet from her bag. “It's rare to find real sugar these days, so I always carry some around with me to put in my tea.”
I tore open the packet and dumped it into the petri dish. I adjusted my probe and aimed it toward the dish.
I ZAPPED THE SHARD WITH MY PROBE.
BLAM!
There was flash of light, and the piece of statue seemed to explode.
Shocked, Charlotte jumped back.
“Sorry,” I told her. “I meant to say, watch out.”
In less than a second, the bit of statue had been reduced to a grayish brown pile of what looked like sand.
She gasped. “What just happened?”
After slipping on a plastic glove from the minilab, I ran my hand over the sculpture. “This statue is definitely a fake. Someone used biological nano—material to recreate a near—exact copy of the original.”
Charlotte shook her head. “Can you say that again for the back of the class?”
I took a deep breath and tried to explain it more clearly. “Nano—material is made up of smart cells that are manmade. They're alive, but they've been constructed by scientists.”
“Like mini living robots?”
“That's right. Nanobots are extremely small. If you lined up thousands of them end to end, they might only be the width of a human hair. They may be small, but because they're living, they need to eat. Nanobots can't resist a food source. It overrides whatever their secondary programming might be. It's kind of like a survival instinct. If you introduce a liquid food source, they act like a swirling school of starving sharks.”
“I remember now. We studied this stuff in grade school,” she said. “Wouldn't a group of nanobots this big be worth more than the statue itself?”
“Yes,” I said. “And no one has ever been able to copy a DNA stamp before. These nanobots must be the most advanced kind.”
I was shaking my head and staring down at the petri dish. I could be in serious trouble. “Come on,” I ordered. “I have to tell my parents.”
We rushed back to the eleva
tor. As the doors closed, I jabbed the button for Level 3.
I didn't speak on the way up. Charlotte nudged me with her elbow. I looked at her, and she gave me a small, reassuring smile. “It's going to be okay.”
I wished I could be so sure.
With a DING, the door slid open.
“There you are!” Yves cried, putting one meaty hand on my chest. “You lied to me! You sent me up to my room for no—”
I knocked his hand away. “Yves, I don't have time for this,” I said through clenched teeth.
His face went red and he took a step closer to me. “You'll make time—”
This was ridiculous. We pushed past him and walked into the Common Room. The partition had been removed, and the two rooms had been turned into a single large one. My parents were at one of the tables chatting with Charlotte's dad, who appeared to be feeling much better. I could see Lysa curled up on a couch and Crockett standing in the corner talking with the holo—nurse.
WES THE BULLY
As I tried to figure out how to tell my parents about the fake statue, the elevator dinged, and I heard Yves say, “What are you doing here?”
Many of the adults had looked up as we came in. My mom and dad were looking at me expectantly with half-smiles. Then they must have noticed the alarm on my face. They both stood.
“Honey, what is it?” my mom asked.
I opened my mouth to speak—and saw the most terrifying thing in my life.
Without warning, the bodies of each and every adult went rigid. Their arms were straight at their sides, as if they were being jolted by an electrical shock.
Then in flash, they all collapsed.
It was like a watching a forest of trees fall under the invisible axe of a ghost. If they were standing, like my parents, their bodies simply crumpled to the floor. If they were seated, they either pitched forward or slumped back in their chairs. It was over in about one second. Only five people remained standing—Crockett, Lysa, Charlotte, Yves, and I.