Hawking's Hallway by Neal Shusterman
“And,” Nick added, “Thomas Edison.”
Edison set down his fork, perhaps having lost his appetite, and looked to Nick. “Guilty as charged,” he said. “But it is my undying wish that you won’t make the same mistakes.”
And for the first time in the weeks that he’d been there, Nick smiled at the man.
The next day, in the lab, Nick worked with two new scientists. Mark and Cathy had recovered from their ordeal but were taking temporary medical leaves. “With full benefits,” Edison had reassured Nick.
With the countdown at T minus five days until the next surge, the reverse engineering being done in various workrooms was wrapping up, and all the objects were being brought back to the main lab.
The aurora was already visible again everywhere throughout the night sky, and carpet shocks were increasing in intensity. Around the world, no one was as worried as they should have been. Neither were the Accelerati, because they had the device, and they had Nick.
The scientists were getting ahead of themselves, extrapolating how the device might fit together. They were getting it completely wrong, and although Nick should have kept his mouth shut, he couldn’t help himself.
“No,” said Nick to the scientists. “The hair dryer goes over the lamp. Like this.”
“But then the fan won’t fit,” one of them said.
“That goes in the back, to cool the mini–Tesla coils.”
“The toaster?”
“No,” Nick said impatiently. “The hair curlers.”
“Ah.”
They did get one thing right, though.
“I assume,” said one of them, peering into the dryer, “this is where the missing globe goes?”
Nick nodded. He had never seen it in place, but he instinctively knew. Just as he knew the prism would fit into a slot in the globe.
“If only we knew where the missing items were,” one of the scientists lamented. “We could move to the next phase.”
“And that would be…?” Nick asked.
The scientists looked at one another. “We haven’t been told,” one of them said.
Nick wasn’t surprised. When it came to information, Edison was extremely tight-lipped. Suddenly he heard Caitlin’s voice in his head. How could you be helping them? she asked, with the kind of disapproval only she could generate. They’ll use it to control the world’s power supply, which means they’ll control the world.
But, on the other hand, the Accelerati first had to save the world in order to control it. If he could help them do that first thing, he could deal with the second thing later.
In his mind, Caitlin only shook her head in disgust. But she wasn’t here, was she? She couldn’t see the way things were.
Nick grabbed the hand mixer from the perplexed scientist beside him and shoved its odd, flat paddles into the toaster, where they belonged.
Ten minutes later, Edison burst into the lab with such force that the liquid in the huge battery attached to his wheelchair sloshed dangerously from side to side.
“Nick, I have a surprise for you,” he said. “A good one.” He hesitated for effect, his nearly skeletal smile never changing. “I know you’ve been feeling melancholy. So we’ve arranged to have your girlfriend visit. In fact, she’s here right now.”
Nick was both stunned and overjoyed. Caitlin was here? Now he could have the conversations with her that he was already having in his head. The good ones and the bad ones.
Edison rolled aside, and into the room strode Petula.
“Nick!” she shouted, and ran to him, throwing her unbroken arm around him and kissing him all over.
Nick pushed her away, but she came back at him, clunking him in the head with her cast and holding him in a death grip with her other arm.
“I missed you so much!” she shouted, then whispered in his ear, “Play along. I told them I was your girlfriend.”
“Why?” Nick whispered back.
“It’s the only way to save my life.”
“Why would I want to save your life?”
But she hugged him so tightly with her good arm he couldn’t get another word out.
The other scientists looked on, smiling.
“We’ll let you two have some time alone,” they said, leaving the room.
“Wait!” Nick managed to call after them. “We don’t need time alone!” But they were already gone.
Edison wheeled himself out as well. “I’ll be waiting outside. I hope Miss Grabowski-Jones will be our guest at dinner.”
“You betcha!” Petula said.
The door swung closed, and Nick finally succeeded at keeping her at arm’s length.
“Have you totally lost any concept of your mind?” Nick asked.
“After I saved you from Jorgenson,” Petula said, “and fought him so valiantly to stop him from taking control of that machine, I thought you’d be more grateful.”
“Being grateful and being your boyfriend are two different things.”
“Saying that was the only way I could infiltrate this place. I’ll tell you what I found out.”
“What is that?”
“Ms. Planck is Acclerati!”
“I know that,” Nick said.
“Vince has flown the coop.”
“I know that too.”
“Caitlin went back to Theo.”
“You’re lying.”
“Yeah, but it felt good to say it.”
“Petula, I’m telling them the truth. I don’t need or want you here.”
She looked at him, aghast. “If they know I’m not you’re girlfriend, they’ll probably kill me.”
“No they won’t,” Nick said.
Petula’s eyes peeled in horror. “You’re one of them, aren’t you?” She backed away and pointed at him. “You’re wearing one of their pins!”
“Stop it. It’s not what you think.”
“Do you know what they’ll do to me if you don’t tell them what they want to know? They’ll torture me.”
Nick wondered if wanting to see Petula tortured, if only even a little, moved him further along the supervillain spectrum.
“What could they possibly want to know that I haven’t already told them?” he asked.
“The prism. They think you know where it is.”
Nick didn’t respond right away, and he knew that was as good as an admission.
“It’s the last bargaining chip I have.”
“Great,” said Petula. “You can use it to bargain for me.”
Nick shook his head. “I was saving it for something important.”
“You’re just going to let them hurt me?”
“Well…” said Nick.
“Fine,” said Petula, storming away. “I’ll suffer for you, Nick. It’s what I do.”
Then she flung open the door. “Take me to your dungeon or whatever,” she told Edison. And she was escorted away by security.
Petula did not join them that night for dinner.
“She’s feeling under the weather,” Edison told Nick, making him begin to wonder if what Petula had told him was true.
And then, when she began screaming that night in the room next to his, he really began to wonder.
“Stop! No! I can’t take it!” he heard Petula scream. She spoke of chains, pokers, and branding irons. It was when she screamed, “Just kill me now! It’ll be less painful!” that he couldn’t stand any more. “No! Not the neck! I’m going to be sick!”
When he went into the hallway, Edison was already there.
“What’s wrong with the poor girl?” Edison asked.
“You aren’t, by any chance, having her tortured, are you?”
Edison shrugged. “Not that I know of.”
Nick tried the door and it was locked. But the door was made out of very old wood. He threw his shoulder against it three times, and the third time it broke open.
Nick found Petula, on the bed, as comfortable as could be, screaming while reading Twilight.
“No! Make it s
“Good Lord,” said Edison. “Stop that caterwauling! It’ll wake the dead.”
“And he should know,” said Nick.
Petula, caught red-handed, stood up and backed away.
“Would you torture her a little if I asked you to?” Nick asked.
“Absolutely not,” said Edison, indignant.
“I can explain,” Petula said.
“Please do,” said Edison, “before I quickly run out of patience.”
But apparently Petula was not ready to explain, so Nick started. “First of all, she’s not my girlfriend. Even calling her a friend is pushing it.”
Petula scowled at him. “You want me to hit you with this cast again?”
“Then why are you here?” demanded Edison.
Petula looked at both of them and sighed. “All right. Fine. Ms. Planck sent me here to get information out of Nick. That’s why I was pretending to be tortured.” Then she flipped up her collar to show a little gold pin. “I’m Accelerati too.”
Far from being surprised, Nick found himself relieved. “That explains a lot.”
But Edison looked very disgruntled. “Why was I not informed?”
“Don’t ask me,” said Petula. “She’s your Grand Acceleratus.”
Edison harrumphed and wheeled out of the room.
“So,” Petula said to Nick, once they were alone, “we’re both Accelerati. Wanna make out?”
“Ew,” Nick responded, then handed back the book. “Here, torture yourself some more,” he said, and then he left.
Instead of going back to his room, he sought out Edison. He found him in the parlor, having a cigar lit by Mrs. Higgenbotham.
“She was sent,” Nick said, “to pressure me to tell you where the prism is.”
“You told me you don’t know where it is.”
“I lied,” Nick said. “I do know.”
“Are you going to tell me?” Edison asked.
“No. But I’ll get it for you.”
“Why are you willing to now, when you weren’t before?”
Nick hesitated before he answered. And then he told Edison, “Because you wouldn’t torture Petula, even if I asked.”
Edison stubbed out his cigar before taking a puff. “I’ll have the plane prepared for you first thing in the morning.”
A few hours later, Nick was jetting west toward Colorado Springs, escorted by two fairly intimidating Accelerati guards and, of course, Petula.
“The worst part about being Accelerati,” Nick told her as they took off, “is knowing I’m on the same side as you.”
“Someday,” said Petula, “we’ll look back on this and laugh.”
“Or more likely vomit,” said Nick.
Petula thought about that. “Any physiological response is acceptable.”
Once Nick was gone, Edison had Mrs. Higgenbotham bring him the phone. He made a long-distance call.
“Did it go well?” Ms. Planck asked.
“Yes,” Edison told her. “Not as planned, but we achieved the desired result. He’s on his way back to Colorado Springs to get the prism. You were right. He does know where it is.”
“You realize,” said Ms. Planck, “once you have all the items, you won’t need him anymore.”
Edison considered that. “That will be my decision to make when the time comes,” he said a little curtly.
He could hear Ms. Planck’s smirk over the phone. “Are you getting soft in your old age, Al?”
“I will admit the boy brings a certain…idealism to the Accelerati that’s been missing for a very long time.”
“We’re not idealists, Al. We’re pragmatists.”
“Well, as Z often says, the idealism of theory must always come before practical application.”
Ms. Planck scoffed again. “The boy certainly won’t be your friend when he learns the part we’re going to play in what happened.”
Edison started to get frustrated. “We don’t even know what part we played!” he thundered.
“That may well be,” Ms. Planck said, “but I do have my theories….”
Dr. Alan Jorgenson, a low-level Accelerati sleeper agent recently of the food-service industry, strode through the halls of the underground headquarters. First, though, he had had to wait until some other agents entered, because Evangeline Planck, his “superior,” had changed the pass code on the bowling balls and apparently told everyone but him.
He knew the woman had never cared for him, but the level of misery she put him through made it very clear how much she despised him.
That was fine. He was certain he despised her more. Just because she was the great-great-granddaughter of a famous scientist did not mean she had any of his greatness. Genes do fade over time, after all.
Freed from his apron and hairnet and uninspired civilian clothes, he wore his new Accelerati suit. Its pale pink color looked like a white suit had been washed with several red socks. Even his overcoat was pink. The vanilla-colored suit was reserved for the Grand Acceleratus, a rule that Jorgenson had once appreciated but now detested.
His fellow Accelerati averted their eyes when they saw him coming. He was a pariah among his own now, an outcast, untouchable. They didn’t notice him pausing to look out of the windows of the great hall, where the grand Roman coronation continued. They paid no attention to him talking to the holographic projection, as eccentricities were more the rule than the exception among the Accelerati.
A few minutes later, he went to his appointment with Ms. Planck.
“Alan, come in,” she said when she saw him on the threshold of her office, the office that just a short time ago had been his. Gone were the Picassos, Dalís, and Armans that had graced his walls, replaced by hideous Kincaid cottages and Goddard walking cocktail olives. Jorgenson couldn’t hide his displeasure. Her artistic taste was one step above velvet Elvises.
She didn’t rise to greet him. She didn’t even offer to shake his hand.
“I requested an audience with you,” Planck said, “but you’re an hour late.”
“Perhaps if you had told me that you rekeyed the entry, I could have properly programmed my bowling ball.”
She grinned with the malice of a tiger. “I guess you didn’t get the memo.”
“I guess not.”
“Your new assignment was to keep close watch on Mitch Murló and Caitlin Westfield and anyone else at Nick Slate’s school that could pose a problem.”
“And?”
“Are you aware that Mitch and Caitlin are no longer in Colorado?”
Actually, Jorgenson was well aware. He had the full list of students who would not be attending lunch. He had had a choice: either find a way to prevent them from taking the Washington trip, or simply let them go. He had realized that by failing to do his job he would be hurting himself—but when you’re a world-renowned physicist forced to serve lunch at a public middle school, how much more could they punish you? Any failure in Colorado Springs might make him look bad, but it would make the new Grand Acceleratus look much worse.
“Well, how could I be expected to keep an eye on every student? Do you have any idea how hard it is to prepare and serve several hundred meals in under an hour? There are onions to be chopped, my dear Ms. Planck, potatoes to be mashed, and what good would my cover story be if I didn’t do my job to the best of my ability?”
She wasn’t smiling anymore. She was tapping her fingers rhythmically on the table. “You know, there are other functions you could be serving for us,” she said, not even trying to hide the threat in her voice. “We’ve already reassigned your former allies here—as experimental subjects. I only need sign an executive order to add you to their number.”
Jorgenson fumed. “You wouldn’t dare. The Old Man might allow you to humiliate me, but he’d never let you go that far.”
“The Old Man isn’t here,” Planck said. But she didn’t push the threat. Instead, she said, “We will find Caitlin and Mitch, no thanks to you. But one more slipup, Alan, and
Jorgenson felt the blood leave his face. His nose began to tingle and his lips felt numb. He had signed many a termination order in his time as Grand Acceleratus. Clearly, the tradition would continue if he didn’t make himself valuable again.
“May I offer you a word of advice, Evangeline?” he asked. “It has to do with your little project in the desert.”
She sat a little stiffer when he said it. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Of course you do. That massive hangar you’re building out there. Although I wouldn’t call it a hangar, exactly. If you ask me, its dimensions are too boxy.”
“You’re not supposed to know about that,” she told him.
Now it was his turn to grin. “I hear things. But be that as it may, here’s my advice to you: in order to build it, you’ve stretched us very thin financially, taking out loans and such from questionable sources.”
“You forget we have seven hundred and fifty million dollars to back us up.”
“You haven’t dipped into that, have you?” he asked.
“Of course not,” she told him. “The money’s safe. I’ve only borrowed against it.”
“That money isn’t there for you to gamble with—because there’s always the possibility you might lose.”
Although she tried to hide it, Jorgenson saw concern come over her face. Meaning deep down she must have known he was right. It made Jorgenson wonder how irresponsible she had been.
“I’ll take your concerns under advisement,” she said, and then dismissed him.
Theo Blankenship had quickly discovered that being a two-dimensional spy for Alan Jorgenson was a thankless job. There was no pay. There wasn’t even food. And although Jorgenson had pointed out that Theo’s flat metabolism no longer required that he eat, it didn’t make him any less hungry.