Operation Sherlock (11 page)

She made a gesture with her head. “Come here, I'll show you one.”

She led them to a work area several feet away. “This box is up for repair,” she said, gesturing to a clear cube about ten feet in height. Leaning against it was a grille made of the same clear material. The crisscrossing bars, each about as thick as a man's little finger, divided it into inch-square boxes.

“This goes across the top,” said Dr. Standish, tapping the grille. “It catches large debris that might clog the drains. When the boxes are pulled to the surface, the grille automatically pops up so that a powerful spray can clean off any gunk that has accumulated on it.”

“What's it made of?” asked Ray, walking around the enormous cube.

“A new form of Plexiglass. It's almost indestructible. Now, when the tide comes in, it fills this box with one thousand cubic feet of seawater.”

“A little over thirty-two tons,” said Trip, doing a quick calculation.

Dr. Standish looked impressed. “That weight carries the cube down the shaft. The depth of the shaft varies, according to the drilling conditions we encountered. Some of them go down a hundred feet or more.”

“Let me guess,” said Trip. “You've got a turbine system that the tide boxes pull against. When they're full, their weight rotates the turbines to generate electricity.”

Dr. Standish nodded. “Very good.”

“How do you get rid of the water?” asked Ray. “Once the tide goes out, the shafts must still be full.”

“Three ways. First, there's a drainage system at the bottom of each shaft. But that can only handle some of the water. We also have a siphon system. But again, that can only handle some of the water. The rest is pumped out, which, of course, uses up some of the energy. Too much. That's the main flaw in the system right now. Once the shafts are drained, the counterweights draw the boxes back to the surface and the whole cycle starts over again. It's a nearly perfect system—a power source we can't use up and that causes absolutely no pollution.”

“Awesome,” said Trip. “Why aren't more of these being built?”

“Cost.”

The bitter tone in Dr. Standish's voice was so harsh it made the boys catch their breath.

“Cost,” she repeated. “And blindness. This installation was designed to prove the concept can work. But right now the power it generates is too expensive to make it a reasonable alternative to nuclear plants, primarily because of the drainage problem. Given this situation, does the government provide the research money needed to solve the final problems and make this clean, efficient source of unlimited power more economical? Don't be silly. It funds another computer!”

With that she turned on her heel and stalked away, leaving the boys alone at the edge of the water.

Wendy Wendell III could never figure out which was worse: when her mother didn't cook—or when she did.

“I don't want to hurt your feelings Mom,” she said. “But a burger would have been just fine.”

“Oh, piffle,” said Wendy Wendell II. “You'd take a burger over anything—and almost anything in the shape of a burger, which will probably get you in trouble someday. It's good for you to try some other foods.”

“I know,” sighed the Wonderchild, gazing down at the mess on her plate. “But seaweed and tofu? I mean, it looks—”

“Wendy!” warned her father, Dr. Werner Watson, inventor of the famous Watson Double Memory System. “Not at the table!”

“That would have been good advice for this food,” said Wendy under her breath.

“Captain Wendy! Captain Wendy!” cried Mr. Pumpkiss, who was waddling down the hall with Blondie and Baby Pee Pants marching along behind him. “You've got a message, Captain Wendy.”

Wendy looked at her parents. “I'd better go check this out. It might be important.”

Her mother shrugged. Taking that as permission, Wendy was out of her chair before either of her parents could say a word. Scooping up Pumpkiss and the girls, she shot down the hall to her room.

The message light was blinking on her computer. Wendy sat down and typed in a command, then waited expectantly, thinking perhaps it was something important from one of the gang.

The terminal whirred briefly, then red letters began to dance across the screen.

BEWARE. YOUR DOOM IS WAITING.

Wendy let out a little scream. But before her parents could make it to her room, the message had vanished.

 

Remov and Mercury

The gang gathered, according to plan, on the small spit of land that thrust out into the ocean. A stiff breeze, warm and pleasantly salty, was making whitecaps on the water.

Trip and Ray started the meeting by thrilling the others with the story of their escapade in the power plant.

Next Wendy told her story.

“It was like getting a crank phone call by computer,” she said, describing the ominous message to the rest of the group. “Between that and the talk I had with Mr. Swenson, I'm beginning to think I'm losing my marbles.”

“Which is a problem,” said Ray. “Since you didn't have that many to begin with.”

“I don't get the thing with Mr. Swenson at all,” said Trip, as Ray dodged the Wonderchild's fist. “I was sure he was gonna kill us.”

“Maybe someone fixed the machine before he saw it,” suggested Rachel.

“Who?” asked Wendy.

“And why?” added Roger.

“And Hwa,” finished Ray, almost instinctively.

“Do you really think so?” asked Trip.

“Think what?”

“That Dr. Hwa had the machine fixed? Or maybe just told Mr. Swenson not to say anything to us about it. He does seem bound and determined to be nice to us.”

“Well, he owes us for dragging us to this place,” said Roger.

“Even so, that's carrying nice to the outer limits,” said Wendy. “The guy is okay, I suppose. But I doubt he had anything to do with this.”

“Then who did?” demanded Rachel.

“This is where I came in,” said Ray.

“Well, something has got to be done,” said Roger.

“Remov!” cried Rachel.

“This conversation is impossible!” shouted Ray. “What are you talking about?”

“Dr. Remov,” said Rachel. “He's the island's code specialist. I think he's involved with security, too. I bet he can help us trace those messages.”

“Do you think we can trust him?” asked Trip.

Roger shrugged. “Can we afford not to?”

“Well, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” asked Dr. Remov. The freckle-faced scientist was standing at the door of his house, staring at the five youngsters with some puzzlement.

“We need to talk to you,” said Roger, who had appointed himself spokesman for the group. “It's urgent.”

“Well, then, come in,” said Dr. Remov. He stood aside so the gang could enter. “You know my friend, Dr. Mercury, I presume?”

Dr. Armand Mercury, short and round, heaved himself to his feet and came waddling out of the living room. “Of course,” he said jovially, tucking a large black pipe into his pocket. “We met at Dr. Hwa's little get-acquainted party. How good to see you all again.”

“I must say,” said Dr. Remov as he led the way to the living room, “I'm rather happy with the houses they've provided for us. When Dr. Hwa told me we would be living on an abandoned Air Force base, I hardly expected anything this pleasant.”

“Officers,” said Dr. Mercury, picking up a bowl that sat next to his chair. “They always did know how to live right. You know that, Stanley.”

To the gang's astonishment, Dr. Mercury then took his pipe from his pocket, dipped it into the bowl, and began blowing bubbles.

“Lovely things, aren't they?” he asked of no one in particular. “Always was partial to 'em.”

“Now,” said Dr. Remov, ignoring his friend, “what brings you here?”

“We wanted to know if you could help us trace a message,” said Roger. “Someone is sending threatening notes to our terminals, and we want to find out what's going on.”

“Dear me,” said Dr. Mercury. There was a twinkle in his voice. “You don't suppose it's G.H.O.S.T., do you, Stanley?”

The five youngsters looked at him in puzzlement. “Ghost?” asked Rachel.

“This is no joking matter, Armand,” said Dr. Remov sternly. Turning to the kids, he added, “Despite Dr. Mercury's jollity, G.H.O.S.T. is a real group. The name is an acronym standing for General Headquarters for Organized Strategic Terrorism.”

“Balderdash!” said Dr. Mercury, who had just produced a remarkably large bubble. “The whole idea is nonsense, no more real than Bigfoot and UFOs. The group doesn't exist, any more than their mysterious agent”—and here he wiggled his fingers and made a spooky face
—”Black Glove.”

“I tell you, it does!” cried Remov, his face growing red. “And it's fools like you who make them so powerful, Armand. You'll sit there saying they don't exist until the day they take over the world.”

“Pay no attention to Stanley,” said Dr. Mercury, poking his finger through a bubble that was hovering in front of his round face. “He tends to get overexcited. It goes with the freckles.”

“That,” said Dr. Remov in a low but deadly voice, “is about as scientific as saying that fat people are always jolly.”

“Low, Stanley,” said Dr. Mercury, sounding hurt. “That was very low.” Picking up his bowl of bubble water, he headed out of the room. “I'll leave you people to your own devices,” he said as he disappeared into the kitchen.

Behind his freckles Dr. Remov's face was still red. “Two things,” he said tersely. “One: You should know that G.H.O.S.T.
is
a real group, and their chief operative is an agent named Black Glove. Like my portly friend Dr. Mercury, many people who should know better do not believe that either the group or the spy actually exist. They claim it's all some nutball conspiracy theory. But I saw too much in my years in intelligence work—intelligence as in spies, not computers—to believe that. The group
is
real, and a grave menace to the peace of the world.”

Having gotten that out of his system, Dr. Remov seemed to relax. “The second thing is, I think it highly improbable that your mysterious messages are coming from G.H.O.S.T. Though the group might be interested in this project, I can't think of why it would stoop to threatening you. More likely it's some prankster here on the island.”

Dr. Remov took a sip of some heavy amber liquid. “Come here,” he said. “I want to show you something.”

He led the way to an adjoining room, where he turned on a computer terminal. “Watch these codes carefully,” he said. “I will show them to you only once.”

Fingers flying over the keyboard, Dr. Remov typed in a series of numbers. Wendy, watching Rachel watch the keyboard, was satisfied that their memory expert had recorded Dr. Remov's movements.

A map appeared on the monitor. Numerous red circles were scattered across it, some solid, some blinking.

“This shows us all the terminals on the island,” said Dr. Remov. He squinted at it for a second, then said, “My goodness. Look at that!”

The gang gathered closer.

“Look at what?” asked Ray at last.

“That!” said Dr. Remov, pointing a long finger at a certain circle. “That shouldn't be there.”

“How do you know that?” asked Wendy.

“Because I looked at the chart before.”

“And memorized it?”

He looked pained. “Of course. And don't tell me I couldn't have done it, because just now I watched you making sure your friend memorized the code I used to pull this up. So you know it can be done, even if you can't do it yourself.”

Wendy took a step back. This guy was spooky!

“Now,” said Dr. Remov, “that mark is located in one of the abandoned housing units about a mile up the road. I would wager it's where your messages are coming from.”

Suddenly the red circle began to blink.

“You're in luck!” cried Dr. Remov. “It looks like your mysterious messenger is at work right now!”

Halfway across the island a figure wearing black gloves slipped into the ultra-restricted basement of the computer center. The spy smiled. All the advance preparation had paid off. In fact, things were going so smoothly, the job was almost boring.

Unlocking the door of the central chamber, Black Glove entered the super-cooled room where the computer was housed. What a delight this machine was; a true monument to the mind of man! All it would take was the right scientists, the right programming—the right brains gathered in the right place—and this machine could change the world.

In fact, in all the world only one computer could match the potential power of this one. Of course, the necessary scientists could never be convinced to work on
that
machine. They would be appalled at the very idea.

But that didn't matter anymore. With this transmitter in place, their work would be
sent
to that other computer. Black Glove's smile grew broader. If the Project Alpha scientists only knew what they were really creating! It would change the world all right—but not in the way they expected.

Once at the heart of the computer, the spy made a final check of the transmitter to verify that its switches were set properly. It would have been more comfortable to do that outside the chilly chamber, but also more risky.

Everything was in order. Time to begin the final installation.

Though shivering, the agent chuckled contentedly while working. How these smug scientists would react if they knew there was an electronic spy in the very heart of their great computer; knew that soon every keystroke they made, every idea they recorded, would be sent elsewhere!

The task was nearly finished. Black Glove gave the wires a final check, then applied the carefully designed cover that would hide the transmitter from anyone doing repair work here.