Benjamin Franklinstein Meets the Fright Brothers (14 page)

“Gentlemen, please!” Franklin stepped between the two boys. “I think it best we pause for a moment and collect ourselves. This is no time for arguments.”

“You take it back, Victor. Say my dad's an awesome weatherman, or I'm leaving.”

Victor turned to Franklin. “Ben, you see what I'm getting at, don't you?”

“No, Victor,” Franklin said sternly. “I do not.”

“You can't be serious!”

“I am perfectly serious. While I understand your concerns about the technical side of our plan, you have forgotten something even more important. We need someone we can trust. If Mr. Weaver's character is anything like that of his son, he is exactly the person we need.”

“But—”

“Scott, we will need to speak to your father right away. Is he home?”

“He's working right now,” said Scott. “But I know where to find him.”

Halfway across the Buy-and-Buy parking lot, Victor began to get a bad feeling. He could see the crowd gathered at the entrance, hooting and cheering. What kind of spectacle was Skip Weaver making of himself this time?

It was even worse than he had imagined. There was Skip, dressed in a skintight silvery spandex suit. He was more than just a little overweight, and the suit highlighted every fold and wrinkle of his doughy frame.

Skip's belly, thighs, and arms were tethered with cloth belts to a large, motorized wheel mounted on a tripod. When Skip pressed a button, the wheel spun violently back and forth, shaking his entire body as if he were being electrocuted.

“Step right up, folks! Nothing to be afraid of,” called Skip, his voice vibrating with the machine. “We call this beauty the Slimshaker Five Thousand. Take it from me, your weatherman, Skip Weaver: with this machine, the forecast calls for sunny skies and a slimmer you.”

“Ingenious!” said Franklin.

“Anyone here struggle with thunder thighs?” continued Skip. “This machine cures 'em as fast as lightning!”

“Do you think it hurts?” asked Scott.

“I'm sure it does,” said Victor. “And it probably doesn't even work.”

Skip patted his belly. “If you folks are like me, you may have noticed a large front moving in.” The crowd laughed in agreement. “My professional advice? Stay off the roads—and fix that spare tire with the Slimshaker Five Triple Zero!”

Victor groaned. “That doesn't even make sense.”

“Shall we purchase one?” asked Franklin, patting his own belly.

Fifteen minutes later, the four of them had gathered around coffee and doughnuts inside the Buy-and-Buy.

“So you see, Mr. Weaver,” explained Victor, “it's a very delicate experiment Mr. Benjamin is attempting here. Due to, er . . . patent issues, it's critical that we keep the whole thing secret.”

“Got it,” said Skip with a wink. He turned to Franklin. “And what do you need me for?”

“It is quite simple, really,” said Franklin. “We need to create lightning from scratch—just a single strike, you understand—and we are not sure how to do it. We were hoping you could help.”

“Is that all?” Skip laughed. “Create lightning? You're out of your mind. Seriously, what's this all about?”

“I assure you, we are perfectly serious,” said Franklin.

Skip Weaver stood up and dusted the doughnut crumbs off his silvery suit. “Look, fellows, this has been fun, but I've got to get back to work. What you're asking for is impossible. Sorry I couldn't be more help.”

“I knew we should have called a real meteorologist,” muttered Victor.

Skip spun around. “Excuse me? I
am
a real meteorologist,” he said, pulling up his hood, “and I'm telling you it can't be done, no way, no how.”

“Mr. Weaver,” pleaded Franklin, “I know our request must sound absurd, but I beg of you to give us one moment more. Theoretically, if resources were no object, what might it take to induce lightning? In your professional opinion as a premier scientist, of course.”

Skip paused, considering Franklin's words. Then he sat back down. “Okay, you want to create lightning from scratch? First you'll need to create a lot, and I mean
a lot,
of really warm air. How do you do that? I have no idea. Then you'll have to get this warm air up to about thirty thousand feet, really fast. And then, if you want to draw the lightning to the ground, you'll need something really high to attract the strike.”

“Like a kite?” offered Franklin.

“Sure, a kite,” said Skip quizzically. “Who do you think you are, Ben Franklin?”

“You flatter me,” said Franklin. “Now, there's much more we need to discuss. I cannot go into specifics, except to say that your ideas may be more feasible than you realize. Might we continue our conversation this evening?”

“Mr. Benjamin,” whispered Victor, “are you sure you want to do this?”

“Positive, my boy. Mr. Weaver, shall we say eight o'clock at my lodgings? I promise it will be worth your while.”

“Please, Dad?” said Scott. “We need you.”

“Very well,” said Skip, “but I still don't see what good it will do.”

“Excellent,” Franklin said. He swallowed the last of his doughnut. “On a separate topic, this Slimshaker of yours—may I give it a try?”

“Mr. Weaver,”
said Franklin, inviting Skip into his apartment, “I am sorry to take up your time this late at night, but I assure you, it is most important.”

Skip stepped inside. “Nice place. Lived here long?”

“You could say that,” said Franklin with a chuckle. “The boys are waiting for us downstairs.”

Franklin led his guest to the bookcase. He gave it a tug, and it swung open. “After you,” he offered.

Skip paused, a doubtful expression on his face.

“It's okay, Dad,” shouted Scott from below. “Come on down.”

Gingerly, Skip stepped onto the ladder and lowered himself into the shaft. A moment later, he found himself standing in the middle of an enormous laboratory filled with antique and modern equipment, all humming and pulsing with a faint blue glow.

“I apologize for the mess,” said Franklin. “We've been busy working and haven't had a chance to tidy up.”

Skip's expression transformed into one of utter confusion. “How . . . I mean where . . . What is this place?”

“This is my, or rather,
our
laboratory,” said Franklin, gesturing to Victor and Scott. “If you'd like to have a seat, I think I can explain everything.”

Franklin led Skip to a stool and sat him down. “I know from your son that you are a man of good character. I feel we can trust you with our secret.”

“Secret?” said Skip. “What's this all about, Mr. Benjamin?”

Franklin sat down on a stool and pulled it close. “Perhaps that is a good place to start. You see, my name is not Mr. Benjamin. Rather, it is Mr.
Franklin . . .
”

With Victor and Scott's help, Franklin brought Skip Weaver up to speed on the Modern Order of Prometheus, the Great Emergency, the Wright brothers, and the lightning net.

“You guys have to understand,” Skip said apologetically, “this is a lot to take in. Why exactly am I here again?”

“You're here, Dad,” said Scott, “because we need to make lightning, and only you know how to do it.”

Skip shook his head. “I told you, buddy—it can't be done.”

“Not exactly,” said Franklin. “You told us it
could
be done, but you didn't know how. We're hoping that maybe, with all of us working together, we can solve that second part.”

“The big problem is the heat,” said Skip. “You'd need a tremendous amount of power to generate it.”

Franklin gestured to several large machines behind him. “As it happens, generating power is something we know how to do. And as for heat, perhaps you've heard of the Franklin stove?”

“Sure, but what does that have to do with—” He suddenly remembered who he was talking to. “Oh, right. But even if you could generate the heat, you'd need to aim it upward, almost like a cannon.”