Operation Sherlock (21 page)

He seemed so lost in what he was playing that Rachel wondered if he had forgotten she was there.
How peaceful he looks,
she thought, remembering the impatient tones that had marked his voice just moments earlier. “What is it about music that can calm someone so?”

“I beg your pardon?” said Dr. Weiskopf, lowering the pennywhistle.

Rachel blushed; she hadn't intended to speak aloud. “I…I was just noticing how content you seemed while you were playing that tune. I wondered what it was about music that calmed people like that.”

“‘Music hath charms to soothe the savage beast'?” asked Dr. Weiskopf.

“Breast,” corrected Rachel.

“I beg your pardon?”

“The correct quote is ‘Music has charms to soothe a savage
breast.'
It's from William Congreve's ‘The Mourning Bride'—Act 1, Scene 1. People usually misquote it.”

Dr. Weiskopf looked at her strangely.

“I have sort of an overactive memory,” she explained, blushing a little. “Anyway, the point is, if you're any kind of an example, the quote is true. A minute ago you were…”

She began to blush again.

Dr. Weiskopf laughed. “Oh, come right out and say it. I was cranky. Then I played some music and calmed right down. It's true, music can do that. But it can also rile things up. And if you don't recognize that, you're only dealing with half the truth. Give me the right song, and I can start a war.”

Rachel raised a questioning eyebrow.

“Soldiers always have their battle songs. I have a historian friend who claims that if the South had had an anthem as inspiring as ‘The Battle Hymn of the Republic,' they might have won the Civil War. That's the other face of music—its dark side, if you will. Everything has one, you know.”

“You can't shine a light without casting some shadows,” said Rachel, quoting her father's favorite response to people who complained about problems created by modern science.

“Precisely!” exclaimed Weiskopf. “You're a very sensible young lady, Miss Phillips.” He leaned toward Rachel. “Can you keep a secret?”

Rachel had the uncomfortable feeling he was trying to look inside her head, to see if he could trust her. She licked her lips nervously. What was going on here?

“I said, can you keep a secret? Oh, come along—I know you can! You and your friends have got all kinds of secrets going on. You're the most closemouthed group of kids I ever saw!”

“How did you know that?” asked Rachel indignantly.

Dr. Weiskopf seemed flustered for a moment. “Dr. Remov told me,” he said at last.

Dr. Remov was another of the Project Alpha scientists, one the gang had turned to for help during their first adventure. Rachel didn't like the fact that he had mentioned their conversations to anyone else.

“I can keep a secret,” she said after a moment. Then she added: “Better than some adults, it would seem.”

It was Dr. Weiskopf's turn to blush. “Stanley had his reasons for talking to me. Believe me, I have not mentioned what he told me to anyone else. Perhaps you could consider what I want to show you a trade—secret for secret.”

“What is it?” asked Rachel. An eager note had crept into her voice, for despite her cautious nature, Dr. Weiskopf had made her curious.

“Patience,” said the scientist, holding up a finger. “All will be revealed in a few moments.”

Rachel thought she was going to burst by the time they entered Dr. Weiskopf's bungalow—one of the multitude of Air Force buildings that had been left behind when the government abandoned Anza-bora Island.

“All right,” said Dr. Weiskopf once they were standing in his living room, “stand here and watch.” Raising his whistle to his lips, he played a little tune. Though it couldn't have been more than twelve notes long, Rachel found it oddly moving.

“What…”

Dr. Weiskopf held up a hand to silence her.

Rachel heard a sound from the other room.

The door swung open.

To Dr. Weiskopf's dismay, Rachel broke into gales of laughter.

Trip Davis squirmed desperately as he tried to escape the hands that had grabbed him.
I wonder if Ray got away,
he thought as he slammed his right foot backward. He connected with something firm but fleshy, and the satisfying grunt of pain that followed made it clear his captor was at least human.

Trying to remember the self-defense lessons Wendy had given him, Trip reached over his shoulder. A few minutes of confusion, angry shouts, and loud thumping noises followed.

Then it was all over.

On the other side of the warehouse the Gamma Ray had taken cover behind a pair of huge wooden crates, where he was having second thoughts about the gang's “split up in an emergency” policy. The idea that someone should escape to go for help was good in theory. On the other hand, considering the look of the thing that had sent him running, there might not be much of him left to help when the others did get here.

Ray's second thoughts turned to dead certainty when he peeked around the edge of a crate and saw that the red-eyed monstrosity had chosen to come after him instead of Trip. No question about it: He did not want to face that thing alone!

Spurred by fear, he shot from between the crates and hurtled down a narrow canyon formed by stacks of boxes.
What is that thing, anyway?
he wondered as he raced around a corner.
Where did it come from?

He ducked through a small passage on his right, hoping to lose the relentless pursuer. His breath was getting short and a throbbing pain was tying knots in his side. He couldn't go on much longer!

Glancing fearfully over his shoulder, Ray was relieved to see that he had broken away. But looking back was a mistake, for with his next step he stumbled over a box and sprawled facedown on the floor.

His glasses went flying out in front of him.

As he scrambled for them, he heard a whirring noise behind him.

Behind that, he heard a deep laugh.

Who's back there?
he wondered.

A chill shivered along his spine.
What if Black Glove has come back?

He searched desperately for his glasses, his hands scuttling over the floor like a pair of spastic spiders.

Where are they?
Crawling forward, he bumped against another box. It rattled.

He could hear his pursuer closing in behind him.

The box was open. He thrust his hands into it, on the chance that his glasses might have fallen inside.

Ball bearings!

Without an instant's hesitation, he turned the box over and sent several thousand perfect metal spheres rolling across the floor.

A shout of anger let him know his move had scored.

But before he could congratulate himself, he was plucked from the floor by a pair of metallic hands.

Even without his glasses, Ray knew he was face-to-face with the red-eyed monstrosity that had been pursuing him.

Ignoring the treacherous curves in the road, Roger pushed his dune buggy to the limits of its speed. They had to get to Trip and Ray!

His sense of urgency was fueled by the guilt he felt over tampering with Rinty's program. He was painfully aware that his lighthearted joke had delayed the delivery of the computerized canine's vital message. Not by more than thirty seconds, of course. But the last mess the gang had been in had taught Roger all too well that half a minute could mean the difference between life and death.

The dune buggy bounced on. Because its electric motor was completely silent, the only sound was the complaining of the springs and an occasional screech as they rounded a sharp curve.

I should have left well enough alone
, he thought.
It's just that Wendy's so much fun to tease!

Of course, that was partly because it was so easy. The slightest thing could set her off; Hap had once called the Wonderchild a “four-foot stick of dynamite with a two-inch fuse.” And the little twerp was really cute when she got angry.

“Watch where you're going!” cried Hap.

Roger focused on the road and spun the steering wheel sharply to the right. The dune buggy swerved, bounced in a rut, and barely missed slamming into a roadside tree.

“Close one, good buddy!” said Hap, as calmly as if he were describing a near miss in a game of marbles. “Better keep your mind on the road.”

“Sorry about that,” said Roger sheepishly. He was glad Wendy wasn't in the buggy with them. Then he would never hear the end of it.

As it was, she was bouncing along in her own duner right behind them. So she had undoubtedly seen his near miss. She'd probably still suggest he needed a CAT scan to see if there was a bolt or two loose in his brain.

“Turn here,” said Hap, pointing to the left. “There's a back way to the warehouse over there.”

The dune buggy bounced across the uneven ground, and soon they pulled up outside Warehouse Two.

Wendy skidded to a stop beside them.

Three Jeeps, marked with the insignia of the island's security patrol, were already parked outside the building. Sitting in one of them, looking as angry as they had ever seen him, was Dr. Hwa.

“Wait! Where do you think you're going?” he yelled as the three youngsters sprinted past him for the warehouse door. They ignored him. The scientist might be the island's head honcho, but when their friends needed help, that didn't mean a thing.

Roger threw open the door, and the three kids burst into the warehouse.

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A Personal History by Bruce Coville

I arrived in the world on May 16, 1950. Though I was born in the city of Syracuse, New York, I grew up as a country boy. This was because my family lived about twenty miles outside the city, and even three miles outside the little village of Phoenix, where I went to school from kindergarten through twelfth grade.

Our house was around the corner from my grandparents' dairy farm, where I spent a great deal of time playing when I was young, then helping with chores when I was older. Yep, I was a tractor-ridin', hay-bale-haulin', garden-weedin' kid.

I was also a reader.

It started with my parents, who read to me (which is the best way to make a reader)—a gift for which I am eternally grateful. In particular it was my father reading me
Tom Swift in the City of Gold
that turned me on to “big” books. I was particularly a fan of the Doctor Dolittle books, and I can remember getting up ahead of everyone else in the family so that I could huddle in a chair and read
The Voyages of Doctor Dolittle
.

I also read lots of things that people consider junk: Nancy Drew, the Hardy Boys, and zillions of comic books. In regard to the comics, I had a great deal going for me. My uncle ran a country store just up the road, and one of the things he sold was coverless comic books. (The covers had been stripped off and sent back to the publishers for credit. After that, the coverless books were sent to little country stores, where they were sold for a nickel apiece.) I was allowed to borrow them in stacks of thirty, read them, buy the ones I wanted to keep, and put the rest back in the bins for someone else to buy. It was heaven for a ten-year-old!

My only real regret from those years is the time I spent watching television, when I could have been reading instead. After all, the mind is a terrible thing to waste!

The first time I can remember thinking that I would like to be a writer came in sixth grade, when our teacher, Mrs. Crandall, gave us an extended period of time to write a long story. I had been doing poorly at writing all year long because we always had to write on a topic Mrs. Crandall chose. But this time, when I was free to write whatever I wanted, I loved doing it.

Of course, you think about doing many different things when you're a kid, but I kept coming back to the thought of being a writer. For a long time my dream job was to write for Marvel Comics.

I began working seriously at writing when I was seventeen and started what became my first novel. It was a terrible book, but I had a good time writing it and learned a great deal in the process.

In 1969, when I was nineteen, I married Katherine Dietz, who lived around the corner from me. Kathy was (and is) a wonderful artist, and we began trying to create books together, me writing and Kathy doing the art.

Like most people, I was not able to start selling my stories right away. So I had many other jobs along the way, including toymaker, gravedigger, cookware salesman, and assembly line worker. Eventually I became an elementary school teacher and worked with second and fourth graders, which I loved.

It was not until 1977 that Kathy and I sold our first work, a picture book called
The Foolish Giant
. We have done many books together since, including
Goblins in the Castle
,
Aliens Ate My Homework
, and
The World's Worst Fairy Godmother
, all novels for which Kathy provided illustrations.

Along the way we also managed to have three children: a son, Orion, born in 1970; a daughter, Cara, born in 1975; and another son, Adam, born in 1981. They are all grown and on their own now, leaving us to share the house with a varying assortment of cats.

A surprising side effect of becoming a successful writer was that I began to be called on to make presentations at schools and conferences. Though I had no intention of becoming a public speaker, I now spend a few months out of every year traveling to make speeches and have presented in almost every state, as well as such far-flung places as Brazil, China, Ethiopia, and Bangladesh.

Having discovered that I love performing and also that I love audiobooks, in 1990 I started my own audiobook company, Full Cast Audio, where we record books using multiple actors (sometimes as many as fifty in one book!) rather than a single voice artist. We have recorded over one hundred books, by such notable authors as Tamora Pierce, Shannon Hale, and James Howe. In addition to being the producer, I often direct and usually perform in the recordings.