Harrumphrey turned to Leslie. “Now you.”
At first, Leslie wasn’t sure what to say, but then it occurred to her. It was so obvious.
“My mom,” she said. “She’s not great at staying in the same job for very long. She’s always quitting or getting fired, moving us to some new town. That’s how we ended up here. My grandpa said he’d do her a favor and give her a job in his restaurant. But there are hardly any customers and I don’t think she likes it.” She hung her head. “I’m worried we’re going to move again. Usually, I don’t mind so much, because most of the places we go are kind of dull, but Bickleburgh is different. It seemed boring at first, but . . .” Leslie looked up at the others. Her eyes jumped from creature to creature, finally landing on Elliot. “Now it seems like the most incredible place in the whole world. I’ve made friends with people and creatures I never thought I would have before and what if—”
“STOP!” Harrumphrey said. “That’s perfect.”
Leslie turned around and saw the doors had aligned with a grated platform similar to the scaffolds in the Creature Department. Pipes and wiring ran up and down the walls and the only light was dim and red.
“This is where we get off,” Harrumphrey told her, leading
everyone but Gabe out onto the platform.
Elliot took one look back as the doors were closing. Gabe, the expectavator operator, was peering dully out at them from his stool in the corner. He had one hand raised as if to wave, only it wasn’t moving. He was merely holding it up in a silent farewell. As he did, the expectavator began, inexorably, to sink.
When the doors came together, Elliot was astonished to see how perfectly they disguised themselves. What remained looked like smooth, ordinary concrete.
“Zere are some who say,” Jean-Remy began, hovering above the platform, “that to be as young as yourselves is to be free of trouble. But of course, as we have just seen in ze expectavator, it is not true at all. All of us, no matter who we are—or how old we may be—we all have a bit of ze troubles from time to time. But please, you should not worry! Ze troubles, zey come and zey go, but among ze creatures of creaturedom, I tell you zis: We believe ze troubles, more than anything else, zey make you who you are. It is true, non?”
Elliot and Leslie could see how, in a way, Jean-Remy was right. The things that worried them had a very clear effect on everything they did.
“It’s true,” said Elliot. He took the electric pencil out of his fishing vest. “If I didn’t admire my uncle so much, I probably wouldn’t carry this around with me everywhere.”
Leslie nodded. “When you stop to think about your troubles that way, it kind of gives you a new appreciation for them.”
Jean-Remy nodded, smiling at them both. “Among ze fairy-bats, we are known to even give names to our troubles.”
“You name them?” asked Elliot.
“Let me give you an example. Once, a long time ago, I was in love with a beautiful fairy princess, but . . .” Jean-Remy sighed deeply. “Well, let us say it did not work out. Now ze fairy princess, she is gone and I am only left with a terrible heartbreak, whom I call Bernard.”
Leslie snorted. “You were in love with a fairy princess called Bernard?”
“Non non non! You misunderstand!” Jean-Remy flapped his arms (along with his wings). “I told you, ze fairy princess—she is gone. Probably I will never see her again. But ze pain! Ze pain, it is still here.” He tapped his chest with one tiny finger. “And it is ze pain whom I call Bernard.”
“And you don’t think that’s kind of weird?”
“Mais non! It is quite sensible! Now, you see, ze pain—it becomes like a companion. A strange one, perhaps, but a companion none-ze-less. Now, whenever I feel ze pain, I do not feel sad or frightened. Instead, I say, ‘Ah! Bernard, my old friend! You have come to visit me, once again, you little coquin, you!’”
Elliot and Leslie weren’t sure they were ready to start naming their troubles, but like a lot of things in creaturedom, the practice made an odd sort of sense.
“Forgive me,” said Jean-Remy, flying ahead. “I should not waste any more time with such silly stories.”
“No kidding,” Harrumphrey grumbled. “The meeting’ll be starting any minute now.”
At the end of the platform, there wasn’t a door but instead a large ventilation shaft. They climbed inside and continued on until they reached a series of slated grates, where taut ribbons of light streamed through from the other side.
Elliot, Leslie, Harrumphrey, and Jean-Remy stood perfectly still and peered out into an enormous board room. . . .
CHAPTER 10
In which Sir William forgets something, Carl has a shock, and the professor is given one last chance
Sir William Sniffledon was so old, he had forgotten his birthday. Not merely the month and the day, but the year.
How old am I really? he wondered, limping down the corridor to DENKi-3000’s main conference room. Eighty-one? Eighty-seven? Ninety? He had always liked the sound of the number ninety-nine, but surely he wasn’t that old.
It wasn’t just forgetting his age that bothered him. There was something else—something even more important—that he had forgotten.
But what is it?
Every morning, Sir William awoke wondering if this would be the day he would finally recall whatever important thing had niggled at him for so long. Every evening, however, he climbed into bed disappointed.
At last, he approached the doors at the end of the hallway. This might be his very last meeting at his beloved DENKi-3000. It was certainly possible. The shareholders were scheduled to have their final vote on the Quazicom takeover.
If they voted yes, DENKi-3000 would cease to exist. The company would be swallowed up by Quazicom and the first thing they would do was spit out the bones (old bones like Sir William himself). Indeed, these were dark times for the company, and not merely because of the takeover bid. The very age they lived in was changing. When Sir William thought of inventing something, he thought of creating things, actual, physical, mechanical things that no one had ever made before.
The electric pencil, for instance. Now there was an invention! It never grew dull because tiny servos were constantly extending the graphite tip. Amazing! These days, however, people weren’t interested in what Sir William considered true inventions. Nowadays everything was virtual. Nothing seemed real anymore.
In spite of these rather discouraging thoughts, Sir William did his best to stand up a little straighter as he opened the door.
The shareholders were waiting, a large crowd of men and women in sharp, well-tailored suits. Nearly every one of the suits was either dark gray or navy blue. I must look like an old hermit to them, Sir William thought as he limped past, what with my corduroy slacks and ragged old cardigan.
The shareholders nodded politely, but most remained facing the stage up front, where the executives of the various departments were seated behind a long table. Sir William’s seat was in the middle, beside that of the vice president, Monica Burkenkrantz.
Monica, Monica, Monica, thought Sir William.
When he had hired her two years ago, she had already been the vice president of a toothpick company, a button manufacturer, and some sort of newfangled firm that produced vitamins and dietary supplements. Sir William hadn’t cared much for the third in the chain, but toothpicks and buttons—those were solid, useful products. As solid and useful as anything DENKi-3000 produced.
At the start, Monica had been wonderful—so enthusiastic, so full of ideas for improving the company. Lately, however, her enthusiasm had vanished. She was cynical, disappointed, angry.
Sir William had begun to suspect the source of her initial enthusiasm might have had something to do with his own advanced age. Was it possible Monica Burkenkrantz was merely waiting for him to die? After all, if anything were to happen to him, Monica Burk
enkrantz would become the company’s new CEO.
Perhaps, he thought darkly, her wish would soon be granted.
“Ah, Sir William!” said Monica, rising to her feet. She smiled and her teeth gleamed as artificially as her orange suit, which stood out sharply against the conservative colors of the shareholders. “I’m sure you’d like to kick off the meeting by addressing the audience.”
Sir William stopped and leaned on his cane. “I will, Ms. Burkenkrantz, just as soon as I make it to my seat.”
Monica let out an embarrassed laugh. “Of course, of course!”
One of the shareholders rose to help him up the stairs, but Sir William waved the man off. He wasn’t yet so old that he couldn’t climb four puny steps.
“In our last meeting,” Sir William said, once he had lowered himself into his chair. “You, the shareholders, recommended it would be in the best interests of the company if . . .” He had to pause before the next part. “If we were to accept the current buyout offer from Quazicom Holdings Incorporated. And now here we are, preparing to vote on the matter.” He swept his gaze indignantly across the crowd. “As you know, I was—and I remain—not in favor of selling.”
A shareholder in the front row stood up. He was the ap-pointed spokesperson for the meeting. “With all due respect, Sir William,” he said. “I think you’re only focusing on the negatives of the takeover.”
“Enlighten me, then. What are the positives?”
“It’s a very reasonable offer. DENKi-3000’s stock price has been falling for nearly a year. In all that time, we haven’t brought out a single new product. In light of this, we believe the offer from Quazicom is quite generous.”
“There’s more to this company than money.” Sir William honestly believed that. He didn’t know why (perhaps he had forgotten that too) but he felt it, deep down in his old bones.
“Gentlemen,” said Monica, “there’s no need for animosity. The buyout isn’t written in stone quite yet. In fact, Quazicom sent a representative—”
“A spy, you mean,” grumbled Sir William.
Monica laughed nervously. “Oh, Sir William! What a joker you are! No, no,” she added hastily. “Mr. Brickweather is no spy. He’s merely here to look over the company. Kick our proverbial tires, so to speak, before anything is finalized.”
“If it sounds like a spy and it looks like a spy . . .” said Sir William.
“Ahem!” Monica cleared her throat to interrupt. “In fact, Mr. Brickweather is here with us today.”
Sir William raised his wiry eyebrows. “Here? Now? Today?”
“Yes. Right over there.” Monica put out her arm, palm up, in something of a welcoming gesture. “Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Chuck Brickweather.”
A very tall man rose from the middle of the crowd.
He wasn’t dressed in somber blue or gray. Instead, he wore a black-and-white pin-striped suit, with stripes so thick and stark they were almost dizzying to look at.
He had blond hair, a sparkling smile, and an angular face (although, Sir William noted, it was tinged a bit pink, either the result of embarrassment or sunburn—impossible to tell which). Overall, the man was quite handsome, but in a generic sort of way. At the same time, there was something odd about Mr. Chuck Brickweather.
It was his eyes, thought Sir William. There were just a little too close together.
“Mr. Brickweather works for Quazicom’s Corporate Takeover Division. They have requested that he be granted full access to all areas of DENKi-3000.” Monica looked down the table at the heads of each department. Her eyes came to rest on Elliot’s uncle, who sat at the far end, near the windows. “Full access. Isn’t that right, Professor?”
Professor von Doppler shook his head. “I’m sorry. As long as this company is called DENKi-3000, it’s my duty to uphold the company charter.”
“Come now, Professor, I’m sure you won’t mind letting Mr. Brickweather have a just an eensy-weensy peek into our R&D Department.”
“Impossible,” Sir William said. This was something he did remember. “The DENKi-3000 charter clearly states that only the head of Research and Development knows what goes on in that department. Right, Professor?”
“I realize it’s an unusual stance,” the professor conceded, “but our products are simply too revolutionary to risk a leak.”
“Besides,” said Sir William, “those rules have been in place since the very beginning, and it’s made us the fifth-largest technology company in the world!”
“Perhaps if we weren’t so secretive,” suggested the shareholder spokesman, “we’d be ranked even higher—and not under threat of a takeover.” Before the man could say anything more, the conference room doors burst open.
A crowd of people came marching in, carrying signs and banners emblazoned with forthright (if somewhat simplistic) messages:
And so on.
Leading the march of protesters was Carl, the security guard Elliot and Leslie had met earlier.
Sir William wasn’t sure what to make of the disturbance. “What’s going on here?” he cried.
“You can’t be in here!” Monica Burkenkrantz shouted at the protestors. “This is a shareholders’ meeting!”
“And what about our share?” Carl shouted back at her. “We’re the ones who really run this place. Not them!” He pointed to the crowd.
Carl glared at Chuck Brickweather. “Scram, mister!” Carl said to him. “We know all about what happens when Quazicom buys a company. You pick it apart and shut it down!”
Chuck Brickweather opened his mouth to defend himself, but Monica spoke before him.
“Allow me to apologize for the interruption, Mr. Brick-weather.” She picked her phone up off the desk. “I’ll just call security.”
“We are security,” said Carl.
There was a triumphant cheer from the protesters.
Monica moved the phone away from her ear. “That’s fine,” she said. “I wasn’t talking about DENKi-3000 security.”
“Huh?” Carl was clearly baffled.
“Didn’t you know? Mr. Brickweather isn’t the only thing Quazicom sent us today. They were also kind enough to lend us their own security team.”
“They did?” asked Sir William. (Could this be the thing he had forgotten?)
Bringing the phone back to her mouth, Monica said, “Send them in.”
Behind the stage, a huge automated door slid open, revealing an army of . . . robots.
They were all identical, all round, black droids the size of large beach balls. Each one was set on three spherical wheels, making them fast and agile. Their only appendage was a single metal claw, rising from the top of their . . . heads?
They fanned out down the aisles on either side of the shareholders, whirring to the back of the room to surround the protestors.
“What are these things?” asked Carl.
“These,” Monica retorted dryly, “are the sorts of employees who won’t interrupt shareholders’ meetings.”
Carl scoffed. “We’re not scared of your little toy soldiers, are we, guys?”
There were shouts of support from the others behind him.
The robot directly in front of Carl glowed an eerie red color, and a soothing, perfectly calm voice oozed from its invisible speakers.
“Sir, I am awfully sorry to inform you of this, but I believe you may be distressing our valued shareholders.”
“Can it, dumpy. You don’t work here, but we do.” Carl jabbed one of the robots with the toe of his boot. “So speaking as a real security guard, I hereby request that you take your little round friends and—”
ZAP!
From behind him, a sizzling arc of blue electricity leapt out of one of the robots’ claws, zapping Carl’s butt.
“YOOOWW! Hey, you can’t do tha—”
ZZZAP!
“AIEEGH!”
“BWAAAH!”
“MEEEEH!”
Suddenly, there were blue arcs of electricity flying everywhere, zapping butt after butt of the DENKi-3000 protesters.
“We are awfully sorry for any inconvenience that may arise from these minor electrical shocks,” said the robotic (but incredibly polite) voice, “but a certain degree of coercion has been deemed necessary.”
ZAP!
“OWW!” screamed Carl. “Call that minor?! You gotta be kidding!”
“No,” the robot replied. “We are not programmed for humor.”
ZAP!
“YAAAAH!”
“Kindly accompany us downstairs—”
ZAP!!
“YOOOWW!”
“—and we will be happy to escort you back to your respective stations.”
ZAP!
ZZZAP!
ZZZZZZAP!
“EEEAAAAAGH!”
It took less than a minute of “coercion” for Carl and the protestors to be chased from the room. After a moment of reflective silence, Sir William spoke.
“Mr. Brickweather,” he said. “Is this how Quazicom deals with employee grievances? With shock treatment?”
The man from Quazicom held up his hands, as if in self-defense. He smiled a shining, thousand-watt smile (one that seemed to feature a few too many teeth). “As Ms. Burkenkrantz mentioned, I don’t work directly for Quazicom. It’s not my company at all. I was merely sent to gather information.” Perhaps to demonstrate, he held up an electronic notepad, where he would record his research.
“Nevertheless,” said Sir William. “You do represent the company responsible for those electric menaces.” He pointed to the remaining security bots, standing silently around the room.
“Why don’t we set aside a discussion about our security bots for now,” said Chuck, “and focus on the task at hand. It really would be ideal if I were granted full access to all areas of DENKi-3000.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” said Sir William. “As long as the company’s in my hands, we uphold the charter.”
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