Doctor Proctor's Fart Powder Page 10

You’re going to get the answer right away. It takes almost exactly the same amount of time. Which is to say: It takes just about one hour and four minutes to dry a match. For an anaconda to swim across the fjord from the Nesodden Peninsula and make its way deep into the Oslo sewer system, it only takes one hour and three minutes. And after an hour and three minutes had passed, Nilly noticed his hand starting to shake from holding it up in the beam of sunlight for so long. And right then he heard a familiar hissing noise.

  Oh no, Nilly thought, since he felt that getting eaten once in twenty-four hours was more than enough.

  He struck the match hard against the metal on the inside of the sewer pipe, but nothing happened.

  The hissing noise came closer.

  Nilly struck the match against the metal again. The red tip sparked but didn’t light. And then Nilly was once again staring into the big pink mouth of the largest anaconda anyone had ever seen. The mouth came around the corner, and Nilly thought, This time that’s it, a red-haired boy only gets so many chances.

  He pulled the match along the wall one last time.

  It sparked. It sizzled. It ignited.

  Nilly acted very quickly now. He set the match down in one of the holes left by the fangs in the crate with the burning end up. Then he dove into the water and swam away underwater as fast as he could. And for the first time he was glad that this was really nasty, filthy sewer water, where it would be impossible to see or smell much of anything besides nasty, filthy sewer water. And the match burned. From the top to the bottom. From the top of the crate down into the highly explosive special gunpowder from Shanghai.

  And for the second time that day, the foundations of downtown Oslo shook. On Sverdrup Street a manhole cover shot up into the air. Drivers slammed on their brakes and pedestrians froze on the sidewalk, staring at the hole in the street. The manhole cover was followed by a geyser of wooden splinters and sewage. And then nothing. And then a tiny, red-haired, and soaking wet boy climbed up out of the hole. He bowed politely to the frightened onlookers before rolling up his shirtsleeves.

  Then he leaned over the manhole, spit some sewer water into it, and yelled, “Take that, you earthworm!”

  Before turning around to face the pedestrians, the shopkeepers who had come out of their shops to see what was going on, and the drivers who had rolled down their windows.

  “I’m Nilly!” the little boy yelled with his hands on his hips. “Anyone have anything to say about that?”

  But the people on Sverdrup Street just stared, their mouths hanging open, at this strange being that had emerged from the inside of the earth.

  “Nope, that’s what I thought,” said the boy, spitting one more time and walking away.

  The Patent Office

  WHEN THE BELL rang for first period, Lisa was still wearing her band uniform. Everyone in the band was standing in the playground, talking about the weird thing that had happened that morning when they were marching through downtown Oslo. About the two band members who’d been knocked unconscious, about the ambulances that had come, and about conductor Madsen, who’d been so upset that they thought he might pass out as well.

  Lisa pushed her way toward the classroom, through a crowd of children who were all pestering her and pulling on her and asking when they would be able to buy some fart powder because, after all, Independence Day was tomorrow!

  Lisa was sitting at her desk when Mrs. Strobe entered the classroom, pushed her glasses way out to the tip of her nose, and peered at the one empty desk.

  “Lisa, do you know if Mr. Nilly is out sick today?”

  Lisa just shook her head.

  Mrs. Strobe eyed her with suspicion. “Is something wrong, Lisa?”

  Lisa really wanted to say no, but she knew that Mrs. Strobe had a special kind of X-ray vision that could see through kids’ skulls and into their brains, to where their thoughts were. So Lisa just came right out with it:

  “Nilly’s in jail.”

  A gasp ran through the classroom, and Mrs. Strobe raised one of her eyebrows so high that it totally vanished up into her hair.

  “I’m sorry, could you please repeat that, Lisa?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Strobe. Nilly’s in jail. Actually, to be specific, he’s in the Dungeon of the Dead.”

  And then Mrs. Strobe lowered both eyebrows and pulled them together so that it looked like she had a mustache on her forehead. “You used to be someone I could rely on to tell the truth, Lisa,” she said. “But you’ve obviously been spending too much time with Mr. Nilly.”

  “But I am telling the truth!” Lisa cried.

  “Nonsense,” Mrs. Strobe scoffed. “Nilly is not in jail. Let’s pick up reading where we left off. Page seventeen, everyone.”

  “He’s in jail!” Lisa said.

  “No!” said Mrs. Strobe.

  “Yes!” Lisa said.

  “No,” said a voice. “Not anymore.”

  Everyone in class turned around and looked at the door. And there was Nilly. He was soaking wet and the ends of his hair were a little singed, but otherwise he was exactly the same.

  “Been swimming in the drinking fountain again, Mr. Nilly?” Mrs. Strobe asked sarcastically.

  “Just a little altercation with a relatively large anaconda in the sewer, Mrs. Strobe. And we handled it just fine with a couple of explosions.”

  The students all gasped, but were interrupted by Mrs. Strobe slapping her desk with the palm of her hand.

  “That’s enough nonsense for today. Take your seat, Mr. Nilly.”

  Nilly did as he was told, but as soon as he was seated he leaned over to Lisa. “I got your message,” he whispered. “Sorry I wasn’t able to get out sooner. I was unfortunately delayed by a visit to the digestive system of a large snake. What’s the situation?”

  “Truls and Trym broke into Doctor Proctor’s house last night,” Lisa whispered. “And stole both jars of powder, as far as I could see.”

  “See? You just watched them do it?”

  “Yup,” Lisa said. “To make sure everything went according to plan.”

  “Plan? What plan?”

  “Oh, just a teensy-weensy little emergency plan,” Lisa said. “There’s not really much to say.”

  AT THAT VERY moment five serious men were sitting behind a long table at the Oslo Patent Office. They were looking at Mr. Trane, who was standing on the floor in front of them, going on and on about the amazing fartonaut powder that was in the mason jar he had set on the table in front of them.

  “It’s faster than a race car or a rocket,” Mr. Trane said. “It’s better and cheaper fuel than a gazillion gallons of gasoline,” he continued. “It can move men to the Moon, Mars, and maybe Mercury.”

  As he talked and talked, the chairman—who was the most serious of the serious men—stared intently at Mr. Trane. Because wasn’t there something familiar, both about Mr. Trane’s name and his fat, pear-shaped body? Yes, he definitely reminded him of a boy in the neighborhood he’d grown up in more than thirty years ago. A place called Hovseter. And this boy was always getting new pets since his old ones went crazy, kicked the bucket, or escaped. He vaguely remembered a Mongolian water vole. And a nice little snake from the Amazon. Could this be that same boy, all grown up?

  When Mr. Trane was done, the chairman cleared his throat and said, “All this is well and good, Mr. Trane. But we here at the Oslo Patent Office cannot grant you a patent on what you call the … uh, fartonaut powder you say you invented if you don’t know what it’s made of. So, as the chairman of the Industrial Property Office, I am asking you for the third time. What is your invention made of?”

  Mr. Trane smiled as graciously as he could. “As I’ve already explained twice, I simply don’t remember at all. It sort of happened by accident. I just tossed in a little of this, a little of that, and stirred it up over a low heat. And then it turned into this powder that you see before you.”

  “Hmm,” the chairman said seriously.

  “Hmm,” the four other serious men ch
imed in.

  “We need proof,” the chairman said.

  “Yes, proof,” the other four said.

  “What kind of proof?” Mr. Trane asked, looking at the clock. The men from NASA had said they’d be arriving on the two o’clock flight from Houston, and he’d been hoping to have the patent signed and ready before he met with them at three.

  “A test,” the chairman said.

  “Exactly!” the others said. “A patentable patent test.”

  Mr. Trane looked at them uncertainly.

  “You must demonstrate for us,” the chairman said. “A very small dose, of course. Just so that we can see that what you’re claiming appears reasonably likely.”

  “Of course,” Mr. Trane said, obviously nervous. “Of course, my dear gentlemen of the patent office.”

  “By all means, please wear that,” said one of the serious men, pointing to a helmet hanging on a hook on the wall. “Although it didn’t help the last guy who used it very much.”

  “Who was that?” Mr. Trane asked meekly.

  “A guy who thought he’d invented a new special gunpowder for the cannons at Akershus Fortress,” the chairman said gravely. “It turned out it was far too explosive.”

  The other four shook their heads somberly and crossed themselves.

  Then Mr. Trane put on the helmet, walked up to the table, and stuck the teaspoon down into the mason jar of powder, making sure he took only a tiny little bit. Then he swallowed, squeezed his eyes shut tight, and waited. And waited. And waited.

  But nothing happened.

  Nothing that he noticed, anyway.

  But then he heard the five men starting to murmur back and forth to each other.

  “Remarkable,” one of them said.

  “Highly unusual,” the second one said.

  “But haven’t we seen this before?” the third one said.

  Mr. Trane cautiously opened one eye and saw the fourth man leafing through a big book.

  “Here it is,” the man said, pointing to the book. “This invention has already been patented.”

  The chairman cleared his throat and became even more serious. “Mr. Trane, you are a fraud, who’s trying to steal Doctor Proctor’s invention.”

  Mr. Trane stared and then sputtered, “Has that darned professor already patented the fartonaut powder?”

  “Fartonaut powder? Certainly not. We’re talking about an essentially rather unsuccessful invention called Doctor Proctor’s Light Green Powder. Look for yourself, my dear sir!”

  Mr. Trane looked down at himself. And he emitted a shriek of disbelief. Because he was glowing a phosphorescent green and was partially transparent, like some kind of see-through larva.

  AT THAT SAME instant, in Mrs. Strobe’s classroom, Nilly leaned over to Lisa’s desk and whispered skeptically, “You did what?”

  “I broke the cellar window, snuck in, and glued a new label over the old one on the mason jar containing Doctor Proctor’s Light Green Powder.”

  “And on the new label you wrote … ?”

  “Fartonaut Powder,” Lisa giggled. “Store Out of Reach of Children!”

  They ducked as they saw Mrs. Strobe’s eyes sweeping across the classroom, searching for the source of the whispering.

  “And then?” Nilly whispered.

  “I put a mason jar full of regular fart powder next to the other jar. So Truls and Trym wouldn’t suspect anything,” she whispered. “Then I put all the fartonaut powder and the regular fart powder that were left in my backpack.”

  “And what did you do with all that powder?”

  “Hid it in my closet.”

  “And then you watched Truls and Trym … ?”

  “Yup! I watched them from my bedroom window. They broke in and took both of the mason jars.”

  “I wonder where they are now. I didn’t see them on the playground before the bell rang.”

  “Oh, I know where they are all right!” Lisa said, forgetting to whisper. “There was actually this very weird accident when the band was marching in downtown Oslo this morning. Something fell out of the sky—”

  “Lisa!” Mrs. Strobe slapped her desk. “Mr. Nilly! What are you two talking about?”

  Nilly cleared his throat. “We were just discussing why women like Lisa and yourself are so much smarter than us men, Mrs. Strobe,” Nilly said. “I think women ought to take over the world.”

  Mrs. Strobe looked at him, bewildered.

  “But it was just a thought,” Nilly said. “And since I’m a man, it was probably a very dumb thought. So I say let’s forget the whole thing and thanks for your interest, Mrs. Strobe. Please, just pick up where you left off.”

  The corners of Mrs. Strobe’s eyes twitched. Her prominent nose and the corners of her mouth twitched. But before she managed to say anything, there was a loud knock on the door.

  “Come in!” she yelled quickly, actually sounding like she was relieved to have the interruption.

  The door opened and there was a man standing there with a pair of dark aviator sunglasses perched on a short, thick nose with black pores.

  “Good day, Mrs. Strobe,” he said. “Pardon me for interrupting.”

  “Come in, Mr. Madsen. What can we do for you?”

  The director stepped into the classroom and cleared his throat. “We have a little crisis. Or to be more precise: a big crisis. As some of you know, there was a freak accident as our marching band was practicing downtown this morning. Something very heavy and very hard and very unexpected fell out of the sky and hit two of our musicians on the head. They’re in the hospital with mild concussions. The two students are Truls and Trym Trane.”

  A murmur spread through the classroom. And a couple of almost inaudible hurrahs could be heard. Mr. Madsen cleared his throat again.

  “And now the crisis is that the two of them will not be able to play with us in the Independence Day parade tomorrow. In other words, I’m looking for someone who can stand in for them at extremely short notice. Someone who plays the … uh, trumpet.”

  Lisa looked at Nilly, who was sitting there with his mouth hanging open, staring at Mr. Madsen.

  Mr. Madsen shuffled his feet and looked like he was feeling sort of uncomfortable, but then he continued: “And if I’m not mistaken, there’s someone in this class who plays the … uh, trumpet. A boy with … uh, perfect pitch. A boy named … uh, Nilly.”

  Everyone turned to look at the red-haired, tiny little guy who was now studying his nails with a distant, aloof expression.

  “Nilly?” Mrs. Strobe asked.

  “Yes, Mrs. Strobe?”

  “Aren’t you beside yourself with happiness, son? You’re going to get to play with Mr. Madsen in the Dølgen School Marching Band in the big parade on May seventeenth!”

  Nilly squeezed one eye shut and stared thoughtfully off into space. “The seventeenth of May, May seventeenth, that date sounds familiar … oh, yeah, now I remember! Isn’t that Norwegian Independence Day? Because first of all I already have a lot of plans for Independence Day. I was planning to drink some traditional eggnog. Then there are a few sack races I’m signed up for. And then of course I have to defend my title as the reigning champion of the Great Egg-Rolling Race in Eggedal. And that’s even in the toughest group, the hard-boiled egg group.”

  The kids started laughing, but an extraordinarily powerful palm-against-teacher’s-desk slap shut them all up again immediately. Apart from Nilly, of course.

  “In short,” he said. “It may be difficult for me to squeeze any trumpet playing in on that particular day.”

  Mr. Madsen grimaced and groaned in despair.

  “Unless … ,” Nilly said.

  “Yes?” Mr. Madsen lit up. “Yes, tell me!”

  “Unless I’m asked very nicely, of course …”

  “Yes, yes, I’m asking nicely!” Mr. Madsen cried out.

  “Or even better, unless I’m begged.”

  “I’m begging, I’m begging!” Mr. Madsen wailed.

  “On you
r knees?” Nilly asked.

  And Mr. Madsen dropped to his knees and begged while Mrs. Strobe’s glasses slid twenty inches down her nose at this unusual sight.

  “All right!” Nilly said, leaping up onto his desk. “I’ll play. Just make sure you have a uniform that’s small enough.”

  And then all the kids cheered. So did Mr. Madsen. And although it was hard to tell, even Mrs. Strobe did, a little bit, on the inside. And while they were cheering, Lisa whispered a few words into Nilly’s ear. And then he stuck two fingers into his mouth and whistled so loudly that the keyhole in the door made a squeaking sound, and suddenly it got totally quiet again.

  “Now, a message for all children!” Nilly yelled. “This afternoon we’ll be selling fart powder in Lisa’s yard. Right, Lisa?”

  “Yeah,” Lisa said, jumping up on her desk. “And we’re lowering the price to twenty-five cents, since … well, since it’s cheaper.”

  “Isn’t she smart?” Nilly smiled.

  And with that the cheering started again, and since the bell rang right then, Lisa and Nilly were carried out of the room in triumph.

  Mrs. Strobe and Mr. Madsen were left standing there in the classroom watching them go, shaking their heads and laughing.

  “Those two are quite a pair, aren’t they?” Mr. Madsen said.

  “They sure are,” Mrs. Strobe said. “But there was just one thing I was wondering about.”

  “Yeah?”

  “What hit Truls and Trym?”

  “That’s the most mysterious part of the whole thing,” Mr. Madsen said. “Believe it or not, it was a manhole cover.”

  The Confession

  EVENING HAD FALLEN and in just one night it would be the seventeenth of May, Norwegian Independence Day, when all children and grown-ups put on their traditional costumes and march in parades until they get blisters and their feet swell up so much they can’t get their brand-new dress shoes off. They would yell “Hurrah” until their voices were so hoarse they wouldn’t even be able to whine when they stuffed themselves way too full of hot dogs and ice cream and their stomachs felt like they were crammed full of barbed wire. In other words, it was the evening before the day that all children and grown-ups were really looking forward to.