“I should inform you,” said Chuck, speaking in a surprisingly sympathetic tone, “you may be jeopardizing the takeover.”
“What about a compromise?” said a voice at the back of the room. It was an old woman in a light gray suit that matched her hair.
Not as old as me, thought Sir William . . . at least I think she’s not as old as me. “Yes?” he said. “What sort of compromise?”
“Let me just say,” the woman began, “that not all the shareholders are in favor of the takeover. I represent the small minority who, like Sir William, are against it.” She put one hand in her pocket and took out a first-generation DENKi-3000 Electric Pencil with Retractable Telescopic Lens. “I’ve had this ever since I was a little girl.”
Sir William nodded proudly. “An excellent product, madam. Now, what’s this compromise you mentioned?”
“It’s really a question for Professor von Doppler.” She turned her attention to him. “Are you working on something, Professor? We know that if we just could announce a new product—even just a prototype—we wouldn’t even need to have this meeting.”
Elliot’s uncle opened his mouth as if to answer, but it was Monica Burkenkrantz who spoke first. “I’m sure we can all agree the professor has had ample time to produce something new for this company.”
“Let’s not be too hasty, Monica,” said Sir William. “Professor, why don’t you answer the lady’s question? Have you got some fabulous new invention to unveil for us?”
Professor von Doppler took a deep breath. “We’ve been working very hard in my department, trying to come up with something truly revolutionary, but I’m afraid—”
“You don’t have anything,” Monica cut in. “We know.”
“That’s not true,” answered the professor. “There is something.”
A murmur of astonishment bubbled through the crowd.
“There is?!” Monica Burkenkrantz was as shocked as anyone. “Why weren’t we notified?”
“I haven’t told anyone,” said the professor. “It’s something I’ve been working on privately. A personal project.”
Sir William smiled. Good old Professor von Doppler, he thought, I can always count on him to come through in the end. “Well, Professor,” he said, “why don’t you tell us all about it?”
But that’s not what the professor did. He ignored everyone on the stage and even everyone in the crowd. All his attention was on the old lady at the back of the room.
“When I was young,” he said to her, “I was like you. I loved strange inventions. There was one in particular I dreamed of more than any other. In fact, it was the reason I became an inventor and took a job here at DENKi-3000. It seemed like the one place where I might have a chance of realizing my dream!”
“What invention?” Monica demanded, slapping the table. “Surely, you can tell us what it is!”
“You’d never believe me,” said the professor. “Or you’d think it was silly.” He hung his head. “Besides, it’s not ready.”
The audience sighed in disappointment (even the shareholder spokesman).
“You see? More secrets. If it were up to me, and of course it’s not . . .” Monica glanced at Sir William. “I’d hurry up and let Mr. Brickweather do his job and proceed right away with the takeover.”
“Be careful, Ms. Burkenkrantz,” warned Sir William. “You were correct in saying it isn’t up to you.”
“That’s right,” she replied. “It’s up to them.” Monica spread her arms, indicating the shareholders.
Sir William knew she was right. “Yes, I suppose. . . .”
“Excellent,” said Monica, rising from her seat. “Since it seems the professor has nothing to show for all his work, and since he is demonstrably the person offering the strongest resistance to Quazicom, and since we’re all here for a vote, I say we put this to a vote too.”
“Put what to a vote?” asked the professor.
“By a show of hands,” Monica went on, “how many people here think Professor Archimedes von Doppler should be fired?”
“NO!”
Sir William jerked in his seat. So did everyone else. The voice had come from a large ventilation grate on the wall.
“You can’t!”
There was a loud CRACK and the grating tore away. It fell forward onto the carpet, bringing along a pair of children with it. The boy was dressed in a green fishing vest (a rather dashing accoutrement, thought Sir William), while the girl was dressed entirely in black.
Professor von Doppler leapt to his feet. “Elliot? Leslie? What are you—?”
“SPIES!” screeched Monica Burkenkrantz. She paused, a little confused, and leaned across the table to get a closer look at them. “Very. Tiny. Spies.”
The two children climbed to their feet and were instantly surrounded by a troop of the extremely polite Quazicom security robots.
“You’ll have to pardon us for blocking your way,” said one of the robots, “but according to our data, children are not supposed to be in the walls. Mice, perhaps, on occasion, but children?” The robot’s claw fizzled with blue electricity. “We’re afraid that’s highly peculiar, and so we have no choice but to—”
“N-no! Wait! They’re with me!”
Everyone looked to the professor.
The shareholder spokesman in the front row frowned. “With you, Professor? Are we to believe the R&D Department is staffed by children?!”
“You don’t understand,” said the professor. “That boy is my nephew, Elliot. He and his friend, Leslie, came to visit me today.”
“A visit to where?” asked Monica Burkenkrantz. “The ventilation shaft?”
“I must admit that I have no idea what they were doing crawling around in the walls.” The professor glared at the boy in the green fishing vest. “And I have no idea how they could possibly find their way in there.”
Sir William detected something odd in the sudden graveness of the professor’s voice. Sir William wondered if this had something to do with the important thing he had forgotten. Was it something about children living in the walls?
“I wonder,” said Monica suddenly, squinting into the hole where the grating had been. “Are those two the only ones in there? Why don’t we have a look?”
Professor von Doppler went pale. “You don’t have to—”
Before he could finish, one of the robots broke away from the rest and zipped over to the hole in the wall. It jabbed its claw into the ventilation shaft and made a series of bleeps and bloops.
“I’m afraid,” said the robot at last, “my monitors show no sign of other children.”
Sir William beckoned to the professor’s nephew and the other child. “Come up here to the stage, please.”
They did, looking very nervous.
“Are you having a good visit?” Sir William asked them.
They nodded.
“Would you mind telling us what you were doing inside the wall of our conference room?”
“You can’t fire my uncle,” the boy spluttered.
“If he’s working on something,” said the girl, “trust me, it’ll be awesome.”
“I’m afraid it’s too late for that,” said Monica Burkenkrantz. “And this is a corporate shareholders’ meeting. It’s no place for children. So can we please finish voting on—”
“NO!” The boy turned to face the audience. “You just have to believe me. Give Uncle Archie a bit more time. If he tells his, uh—well, his staff about this secret project of his, I’ll bet they’ll have something ready by . . . by . . . by the end of the week. I promise!”
“That’s quite soon,” said Sir William. “What would you know about it?”
“We just do,” said the girl. “If anyone can get it done, it’s the professor and his team.”
There was something oddly convincing about a couple of kids p
resenting to a roomful of executives. Sir William was pleased to see the expressions of many of the shareholders soften.
“The end of the week, you say?” Sir William looked at the professor. “That only leaves you a few days. If you don’t have anything now, what will change by Friday?”
“Well . . .” Professor von Doppler pondered the question for a long time. “Everything,” he said at last. “Everything can change by Friday.” He seemed to be drawing sudden energy and confidence from the children. “Somehow,” he said, “I’ll find a way!”
“Good,” said Sir William. “That’s what I hoped you would say.”
“It is?” asked Elliot.
Sir William nodded, his wrinkly face cracking into a huge smile. “Professor, you have until Friday.”
“What?!” Monica’s face burned red with frustration.
“I still have a modicum of clout left in this company, Ms. Burkenkrantz, and I’m going to use it.” Sir William leaned heavily on his cane and rose from his chair. “We’ll all leave Professor von Doppler alone until Friday or else . . . or else . . .”
The professor nodded grimly. “Or else we sell to Quazicom.”
Sir William was glad the professor had cut in. Those words were simply too difficult to say. “We’ll reconvene once again on casual Friday—possibly for the very last time,” Sir William announced, an undisguised note of sadness quivering in his old voice. “Professor, you have until then to wow us, and in the meantime . . .” He looked to the consultant from Quazicom. “Mr. Brickweather, you have free rein to go wherever you like except to the professor’s department. Until Friday, leave him to his work. Is that fair?”
“For now,” said Chuck.
Finally, Sir William returned his attention to the children. “As for you two, we’d better have—”
“The security robots will escort them out,” said Monica Burkenkrantz. “Quite frankly, I don’t think they should be allowed to return here.”
“No!” cried the children.
Monica pursed her lips. “We can’t have kids running around in the ventilation shafts. It’s unsanitary! Not to mention trespassing.”
The children and the professor voiced complaints, but in the end, Monica won out. (In a way, she was right. Having children in the ventilation shafts was probably a violation of health and safety standards.) The robots led the two youngsters away.
“And remember,” the vice president called after the robots. “If those kids give you any trouble, zap ’em!”
Once they were gone, Chuck Brickweather raised his hand. “Sir William, could I ask you a question?”
“Yes, Mr. Brickweather?”
“Are all your shareholder meetings like this?”
Sir William shook his head. “So far, just this one.”
“I see.”
“Of course, that’s not saying much,” said Sir William. “We hardly ever have shareholder meetings. In fact, this is the first one we’ve had since . . . since . . . I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I can’t remember.”
Chuck Brickweather narrowed his eyes, dutifully tapping this information into his electronic notepad.
CHAPTER 11
In which a lullaby for Leslie doesn’t work (and neither do tea and biscuits)
Leslie Fang’s bedroom was directly above the kitchen at Famous Freddy’s Dim Sum Emporium. It was small, dimly lit, and reeked of sesame oil.
Apart from the smell, it was the typical room of a twelve-year-old girl. The narrow bed was covered in a frilly white duvet, the mirror above the armoire was hung with hair elastics, multicolored necklaces, and clippings from music magazines, and on the bottom shelf of the bookcase was a menagerie of stuffed animals Leslie wasn’t quite ready to throw away.
Some aspects of the decor, however, looked like they belonged more to a brooding teenager. The color of the curtains, for instance (black), or the plush armchair in the corner (deep red with hypnotic silver spirals). Similarly, several of the necklaces hanging around the mirror featured tiny silver skeletons instead of jewels and pendants.
Oddest of all were her posters of Boris Minor and the Karloffs, a goth-pop band that had enjoyed its heyday about twenty years before Leslie was born.
This was what happened when your mother dragged you from city to city in pursuit of a dream job that never materialized. You became interested in things that weren’t really aimed at your demographic.
Three towns ago, Leslie and her mother lived above a used record shop. The only person Leslie saw on a regular basis (besides her mother) was the manager of the shop, a pleasingly plump woman who always dressed in taffeta hoop skirts and a felt top hat.
“Try this,” the woman told her one day, handing her the first album by Boris Minor and the Karloffs. “I think you’ll like it.”
Leslie did like it, and it was around this time her entire wardrobe turned black.
Leslie’s mother had been so appalled by the monster-movie imagery of the albums that she blamed the bad influence of the music for their subsequent move.
Unfortunately (at least for Leslie’s mother), by the time they packed up the car and set off for a new town, Leslie was already hooked on the band’s catchy three-chord melodies. Not to mention the deep, almost-bottomless voice of the lead singer, Boris Minor, whose gaunt face glowered out of the poster above Leslie’s bed.
Leslie stared up at him. She couldn’t sleep. Ever since she had visited DENKi-3000, her mind had been racing, repeating the same three words over and over.
Creatures are real! Creatures are real! Creatures . . .
On the album covers of Boris Minor and the Karloffs, the band members often dressed in silly costumes, pretending to be zombies or werewolves. It had all been part of the band’s theatrical image. Judging by the way they capered through the pictures, none of them—not even Boris Minor himself—took it very seriously. But it was serious.
Creatures were real!
They didn’t look anything like the cheap costumes and makeup of an old B movie. Real creatures were incredible!
Just thinking about them made her lightheaded (not to mention lighthearted). In fact, every time she thought the words—creatures are real—her entire body felt lighter than air. She felt as if she were rising up, weightless, hovering above the blankets of her bed! Yet it wasn’t merely high-spirited giddiness that kept Leslie awake. It was the basic mystery of it all. She had so many questions. . . .
Where had the creatures come from? How had they gotten there? And what was it in those photographs—those memories—that frightened them? Then there was Elliot’s uncle. What was the secret invention he was working on, the one he had dreamed of all his life?
She and Elliot would just have to go back. No matter what that Monica woman said, they had to get answers to all these questions. After all, once you had found the most amazing place in the world, how could you resist returning?
There was a soft knock on Leslie’s door. “Shouldn’t you be asleep?”
“I’m not tired.”
“Well, I am.” Her mother came into the room and plonked heavily down on the edge of the bed. “I’m bored. I just stand around all day. Nobody ever comes in here. It’s a waste of time, if you ask me.”
Leslie recognized her mother’s tone. There were always complaints about how dull or difficult a job was just before her mother quit.
Leslie closed her eyes. “I like it here,” she said.
Her mother seemed startled. “I thought you told me Bickleburgh was the most boring place we’d ever moved.”
Leslie opened her eyes just in time to see her mother slumping forward, elbows on her knees. “It’s great to see your grandpa and it’s nice that the job comes with a place to live, but I’m really not sure it’s worth it.”
“If waiting the tables is boring,” Leslie suggested, “why don’t you let Grandpa Freddy teach
you how to cook?”
Her mother shrugged. “Maybe.”
“Please, Mom, for once let’s stay somewhere longer than six months.”
“Here?”
“Why not?”
“You honestly like it here? Bickleburgh?”
“I do.”
“Is this because of that boy?”
“Elliot?”
“Just what I need! Your first crush.”
“Mom, trust me. It’s definitely not because of him.” Except, of course, that it was—just not in the way her mother suspected.
“I don’t know, Les, maybe I’m just feeling the wanderlust again.”
The wanderlust. It was always the reason her mother needed to suddenly leave a place.
“All you ever think about is the next big thing, but when we get there, it’s never like you thought it would be. Have you ever thought that maybe the only reason nowhere seems satisfying is because we never stay anywhere long enough to figure a place out?”
Leslie’s mother thought about this. “You’re smarter than you look, you know.”
Leslie nodded happily. “I know.”
“Is that what you want? To stay in the same place? Even if it’s Bickleburgh?”
Leslie nodded again. “It’s the same thing I always wanted. And yes, definitely here. Trust me, Bickleburgh is a way cooler place than it looks. Maybe you’ll see that too . . . if we stay.”
Leslie’s mother remained silent for a long time. It was one of those moments Leslie wished she could read her mother’s thoughts. Or better yet, influence them. Of course, that was impossible. All Leslie could do was wait.
“Okay,” her mother said at last. “We’ll stick it out a bit longer, see how it goes.” She leaned down to kiss Leslie’s forehead. “Now go to sleep.”
Leslie couldn’t, of course, and after her mother was gone, she went on lying awake. She started playing one of her Boris Minor albums, the volume turned low. The gentle rhythm of their one big hit, “Monster Gnash,” made for a decent lullaby.
It was funny that her mother had assumed Elliot was the reason Leslie wanted to remain in Bickleburgh. Leslie almost laughed, thinking about that vest of his. It looked like something Grandpa Freddy would wear—on vacation.
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