by Jo Nesbo
“Uh, give us the short version, would you?” Doctor Proctor asked.
“Okay,” Nilly said. “The moon chameleons are going to start a world war and they want as many people to die as possible.”
“Wh-wh-why?” Mrs Strobe asked after a pause.
“Because that’s what they live off of,” Nilly said. “They eat people.”
“Eat people?”
“Lots of animals do, you know,” Nilly said. “Saltwater crocodiles, pythons, polar bears and at least half of the animals in A.Y.W.D.E. We’re just protein, you know. Living hamburgers. The point is that in the near future the moon chameleons are going to need a bunch of food. That’s why this is all happening right now.”
“Why do they need more food now?”
Nilly pointed up towards the moon. “Their relatives up there. The moon is starting to run out of food. So they’re all planning to come here, the whole lot of ’em. They’re going to stop by for dinner, you might say. And the dinner is going to be us.”
“But this is awful!”
“Yup,” Nilly said. “But to them it’s really just like when we gather the family together and eat a flock of chickens. I mean, we don’t think about them as anything other than food.”
“Apart from the fact that in this case they are planning to let the food kill each other in a war instead of doing it themselves,” Lisa said.
“That’s the most practical way,” Nilly said.
“And how do they plan to” – Mrs Strobe searched for the right words – “prepare the food?”
“I saw sketches for waffle irons,” Nilly said. “Huge waffle irons. More like the kind of thing you might grill . . .”
“Hamburgers on.” Doctor Proctor finished his sentence.
“Oh my God!” exclaimed Mrs Strobe. Then whispered so that it was scarcely audible, “Poor Gregory!”
The table was quiet for a long time, and all that could be heard were cars and trolleys going by outside and a radio on which someone was singing about sunshine and springtime and birdsong.
FOUR OF THE Five Vincibles stood on the bustling pavement, gazing up towards Norway’s Royal Palace, as people hurried past them. Nilly turned to Doctor Proctor:
“Why don’t you invent a tank that could drive right through those palace walls up there and get Gregory out?”
“Inventing things like that takes time,” Doctor Proctor said. “And it’s expensive. Do you know how much just the snow tyres alone for a tank like that would cost? Not to mention the fan belt and—”
He was interrupted by Lisa: “It wouldn’t be ready by next Wednesday.”
“Exactly,” Doctor Proctor said. “What we have to do is use the same weapon the moon chameleons are using.”
“Which is?” Nilly asked.
“Influence. Yodolf Staler, disguised as Hallvard Tenorsen, hypnotises people to do and think what he wants, right? We need to get someone to tell the people that what he says isn’t true, that there’s no reason for us to go to war against Denmark.”
“We’re going to get a hypnotist?” Nilly asked. “Cool!”
“No, someone everyone will listen to.”
“People only want to listen to Tenorsen,” Lisa sighed.
“No, there’s someone else,” Doctor Proctor said.
“I think I know who you’re thinking of,” Mrs Strobe said, nodding slowly.
“Who? Who is it?” Nilly cried.
Mrs Strobe nodded towards the Royal Palace. “Don’t you remember from history class who the Norwegians listened to during the dark days of World War Two?”
“The king!” Lisa said.
“Exactly,” Doctor Proctor said. “We have to go to South Trøndelag and convince the king to convince the people to convince themselves not to listen to Yodolf!” Doctor Proctor sniffed the air. “And time is of the essence!”
Lisa sniffed as well. And of course it could just be her imagination, but she thought she smelled waffles.
“And when time is of the essence that means one thing,” Doctor Proctor said. “We’ll need to use the MWS.”
“The MWS?” Mrs Strobe repeated. “But isn’t that . . .”
“The Motorcycle With Sidecar,” Doctor Proctor said. “We’ll leave for South Trøndelag right away.”
“But a motorcycle and a sidecar,” Mrs Strobe said, “won’t be big enough for all of us.”
“You haven’t seen this sidecar, Mrs Strobe,” Doctor Proctor said. “Come on!”
IT WASN’T UNTIL Lisa, Nilly, Doctor Proctor and Mrs Strobe had been digging in the snowdrifts in Proctor’s front garden for twenty minutes that a pair of motorcycle handlebars finally became visible.
“That’ll do,” Doctor Proctor said. Then he started digging a cave into the snowdrift, and soon he was totally hidden from view, somewhere in the snow. It was quiet, apart from something that sounded like a hiccup coming from inside Nilly’s hat. Three minutes later, they heard a bang from inside the snowdrift. Then another one. Then smoke started seeping out. Then they heard several more bangs that turned into a gurgling engine sound, and then an old motorcycle with the worst-sounding engine anyone has ever heard came smashing out of the snowdrift along with the biggest and most attractive sidecar anyone has ever seen. It was round, like half a pumpkin, was painted gold and had the most elaborate wood carvings. Arranged along the inside were ten red-velvet chairs, enough to seat a whole small orchestra.
“Good Lord!” Mrs Strobe yelled over the noise. “What is this?”
“It’s a set of box seats from an old theatre!” Doctor Proctor yelled proudly. “I bought the whole box when they were going to demolish Das Goethe Volkstheatre in Leipzig. They threw the chairs in for free.”
“Well, there’s room for a whole little orchestra in here!” shouted Mrs Strobe. “But what a racket!”
“That’s not a racket,” Nilly said, smacking his lips in reverie, his eyes closed. “That’s a perfect A major. That’s a truly musical motor.”
“East German motor, Mexican body!” Doctor Proctor yelled over the shrill cackling of the two cylinders. He pulled a bunch of swim goggles out of the panniers. “Put these on and hop aboard!”
“I’m in!” cried Nilly, who had already hopped.
And when everyone was seated, each with his or her swim goggles in place – making the world appear a little yellower, bluer or redder than it actually was – Doctor Proctor turned the throttle grip on his handlebar. And with that they sped away, leaving a whirl of snow behind them.
Someone yelled, “Yippi-yai-yeah!”
You probably know who.
THEY DROVE AND drove, out of the Oslo metropolitan area, north through a small town and then through an even smaller town, and had just passed a tiny village when they suddenly encountered a sign that said CUSTOMS. Which was odd, because no matter what anyone said, South Trøndelag was not actually another country, just one of Norway’s nineteen counties. And then a second sign that said CUSTOIMS, which was odder, because although that was how it sounded when the yokels from the little mountain villages up in these parts pronounced the word, no one ever spelled it that way.
“That means we’ve reached the border crossing into South Trøndelag!” Doctor Proctor yelled, turning to look at the others who were seated in their velvet upholstered theatre chairs, with their hands tucked in their armpits, singing in three-part harmony to keep warm.
“Stop!” Lisa shouted, pointing.
And sure enough, they saw two signs right in front of them that said exactly that: STOP. Two men in uniform waved them to a stop. One had a strong underbite and an orb of curly black hair under his uniform hat. The other had red cheeks, a round face with bulgy fish eyes and, rather precisely, four long strands of hair combed into an S in the middle of his forehead.
“Are they South Trøndesians?” Lisa whispered.
“They’re wearing Norwegian uniforms, so they’re probably Norwegian Trøndesians,” Doctor Proctor said. “Let me do the talking, okay?”
; Lisa and Mrs Strobe nodded.
Doctor Proctor cleared his throat: “Did you hear that, Nilly?”
Nilly sighed heavily. “All right already. Fine.”
Doctor Proctor braked to a stop. The guards came over to them.
“Where do y’all think you’re going?” the man with the underbite asked in an extremely thick Trøndesian dialect.
“South Trøndelag,” Doctor Proctor said.
“Can’t y’all see that the border is closed,” said the guard with the fish face, pointing to the wooden crossing arm blocking the road ahead of them.
“Ah, yes, we do see that now,” said the professor. “What seems to be the problem?”
“We ain’t got a problem,” said Underbite. “Not if y’all aren’t trying to sneak out of Norway and into South Trøndelag, that is.”
“And if y’all was, y’all’d be the ones having the problem, not us,” said Fish Face.
“Nicely put, you Trønder-rascal, you,” said Underbite.
“Thanks, Trønderface,” said Fish Face, moving his legs slightly further apart and hooking his thumbs through his belt loops.
“Um, what do you guys mean?” Doctor Proctor asked, pushing up his swim goggles.
“Haven’t y’all heard?” Fish Face asked. “President Tenorsen decided that any travel outside of Norway is now strictly off-limits. Anyone who tries to leave will be sentenced for treason and have to face the death penalty. Possibly decapitation.”
“If not worse,” Underbite said. “And if y’all get ahold of someone in the resistance movement to smuggle you into South Trøndelag, the penalty for that is death.”
“If not worse,” Fish Face said.
“And where would we find a member of this resistance movement who might do this for us?” Doctor Proctor asked.
“Third forest service road to the right of that spruce tree over there. Red house with a green mailbox. Tell him we said hi and that he’ll be getting the death sentence as well.”
“We sure will,” Doctor Proctor said, turning his motorcycle around and gunning it so the snow flew.
“That was some sidecar, huh,” said Underbite, wiping the snow off his underbite.
“Must’ve been room in there for a whole little orchestra,” Fish Face said, wiping the snow off his fish face.
“Looks like they turned onto the third forest service road on the right,” Underbite said.
“Just as expected, you Trønder-rascal, you.”
THE BORDER SMUGGLER’S name was Guksi, and he was so old his face looked like a stack of pancakes it was so wrinkly. And his ancient body creaked loud and clear as he trudged through the snow, escorting them into the woods. After Doctor Proctor and Guksi had agreed on a price, they’d parked the motorcycle in his barn and set off immediately on foot.
“It was very nice of you to escort us over into South Trøndelag, Mr Guksi,” Doctor Proctor said.
“Shut up,” Guksi whispered. He spat in the snow and glanced up at the high-voltage lines running up above the treetops. “We need to be quiet. This isn’t without its danger, this border smuggling business, you know. If they spot us, they’ll shoot us.”
“Good Lord,” whispered Mrs Strobe. “Wh-wh-who will?”
“The South Trøndesians. Sh!”
They stopped suddenly, holding their breath while Guksi put a hand behind his ear.
A sound came from deep within the forest: cuckoo, cuckoo.
“A cuckoo bird,” Lisa whispered.
“Sounds South Trøndesian, doesn’t it?” Guksi said.
They listened again.
Cuckoo, cuckoo.
“To me it sounds exactly the same as a Norwegian cuckoo bird,” Lisa whispered.
“Well, to the untrained ear, perhaps,” Guksi said. “But those of us with special innate abilities can hear the difference. Come on, we’re on the right path.”
He straightened up and kept walking, his legs and joints creaking and groaning as he tottered along.
“What kind of innate abilities do you actually have?” Nilly asked.
“Oh,” Guksi said. “A little of this, a little of that. A bit of clairvoyance that allows us to see what’s going to happen. Hands that can cure all kinds of ailments. Arthritis that warns me about everything from nice weather with a few clouds to avalanche risk. Nothing special, really.”
“So what do you see now?” Lisa asked.
“I see . . .” Guksi squeezed his eyes shut. “I see . . . that the sun is going to rise at exactly seven fifty three tomorrow morning. And I see that you’re going to meet someone soon who will be significant in your future.”
“That must be the king!” Lisa exclaimed.
“There! You see? I have the gift,” Guksi said, satisfied.
“What do you think about the end of the world?” Nilly asked. “Have you seen any signs of it coming lately?”
“Oh, the end of the world comes and goes,” Guksi said. “That’s South Trøndelag for you.”
They had emerged from the forest, and ahead of them lay open countryside. And it was obvious to all of them that it was South Trøndelag, because in front of them there was a river, and on the other side of the river there was a road, and next to the road under the high-voltage line there was a house, and next to the house there was a banner, and on the banner it said:
SOUTH TRØNDELAG’S
LARGEST HANG GLIDER SELECTION.
BUY NOW!
(SEE HOW FAR THE PRICE HAS BEEN MARKED DOWN?)
“Good,” Doctor Proctor said. “But how do we get across this?”
He pointed at the river, which was unusually wide, greenish black and most definitely both icy cold and deep. And there was no bridge in sight for as far as the eye could see, either downstream or upstream.
“Afraid I can’t help you there,” Guksi said, picking his nose so that his nostril creaked.
“But my dear sir,” Mrs Strobe said. “We did pay you to escort us to South Trøndelag.”
“Yup, and now I’ve shown you the way. I mean, it’s not that hard. All you have to do is follow the high-voltage lines.”
They looked at the high-voltage lines running over the river to the next pole and then disappearing off into the Republic of South Trøndelag. And, of course, there was a rowboat with oars in it sitting on the riverbank on the South Trøndelag side, just to taunt them for being on the wrong bank.
“Don’t despair,” Guksi said. “Because I’d be happy to guide you back to your motorcycle for half the price you paid me to bring you here.”
“No thank you!” all four Vincibles said, pretty much in unison.
“No? Well,” Guksi said, “good luck with that, then.”
Then he turned around and walked back into the woods the same way they’d come.
“NOW WHAT DO we do?” Mrs Strobe sighed. They had sat down in the snow, gazing across at the other side of the river.
“Maybe we can swim across,” Lisa suggested.
Doctor Proctor shook his head. “The current is too strong, and the water is too cold. We’ll have to follow the high-voltage line back to Guksi’s. What are you doing, Nilly?”
“Looking for . . . ,” Nilly mumbled with his head down in his tiny backpack, “these!”
He came back up with a triumphant grin, holding a pair of red and orange shoes in the air.
“Hey!” Doctor Proctor said sharply. “Those are my balancing shoes!”
“I brought them along,” Nilly said. “Thought maybe we might have a use for them.”
He started putting them on while the other three watched him blankly, not understanding what he was doing. Then it seemed to dawn on two of them. Lisa saw Doctor Proctor turn and look up at the high-voltage lines that stretched across the river.
“No . . .” Lisa began.
“You . . . you can’t be serious . . .” Doctor Proctor said.
“You’re planning to . . . planning to . . . ,” Lisa said.
“Excuse me, but what are you talking about?�
� Mrs Strobe asked. “And what do those weird boxing shoes have to do with all this?”
“These,” Nilly said, “are Doctor Proctor’s Balancing Shoes. And these shoes are going to get me across the river so I can row that boat over here.”
“In that case, I’ll have to be the one to do it,” Doctor Proctor said.
Nilly licked his index finger and was now holding it up in the air. “Do you feel that? The wind is picking up. Which means that tall people would be blown right off the wires. What we need here is a little guy. Preferably one with red hair.”
“Hm,” the professor said, studying the treetops. And, sure enough, they were really swaying around.
“It could work,” Lisa said.
Mrs Strobe looked at the professor, looked at Lisa, looked at Nilly, and then looked up at the high-voltage lines.
“I think,” she said slowly, “that you three are stark raving bonkers, totally unhinged and completely insane.”
“There has actually . . .” Doctor Proctor smiled.
“. . . never been . . .” Lisa laughed.
“. . . any doubt about that!” Nilly completed the sentence.
THE WIND ROARED in Nilly’s ears. His lips were pursed in deep concentration, his arms stretching out to his sides. He was looking straight ahead while putting one foot in front of the other with the utmost caution. A gust almost sent him toppling head over heels off to the side, but the shoes sort of suctioned a firm hold on the metal wire beneath him.
As he regained his balance, his hat made a little jump on his head.
“Stop hiccuping, Perry!” Nilly whispered. “I’m trying to concentrate here!”
He glanced down.
“And don’t look down, Nilly!” he quickly whispered to himself, bringing his eyes back up again.
But it was too late. He had already seen how dizzyingly far it was to the surface of the water below him. Which was also black. Black as asphalt. And probably just as hard, at least if you came plummeting down from a height of several hundred feet. Nilly remembered his grandfather’s story about the time when he was a sailor and went ashore in San Francisco along with the third mate and it was so hot they decided to go for a swim and they jumped off the Golden Gate Bridge. But they only had one pair of swimming trunks; they were blue and quite loose fitting. So they had played rock-paper-scissors for the swimming trunks and his grandfather had done rock and the third mate had done paper, and this was back when paper beat rock. So the third mate had triumphantly removed his third mate’s hat, pulled on the loose swimming trunks, climbed up over the railing and jumped. And Nilly’s grandfather had watched, watched the third mate getting smaller and smaller, and realised that they were much higher up than it had appeared. And when the third mate hit the water, Nilly’s grandfather realised that the surface was much harder than one might have thought. Basically, it was good-bye to the third mate. All that was left were the blue, somewhat loose swimming trunks, which floated back up again. And Nilly had often wondered, What if his grandfather hadn’t chosen paper that time, what if he had been the one to jump, and then he never would have met Nilly’s grandmother and had his Dad so that Nilly could be born. Although right now Nilly was wondering if that actually would have mattered anyway. Because another gust of wind came and grabbed hold of the high-voltage lines. It made Nilly sway so violently that for a second he was looking straight down at the black water, which now had a fair number of teeny tiny whitecaps on it.