Science Fair (33 page)

“T
HIRTY SECONDS, MR. PRESIDENT.”

The president, sitting at his desk in the Oval Office, nodded slightly, his eyes on the teleprompter. He looked grim and felt grimmer. Trouble was erupting al over the United States; as the blackouts continued to wreak havoc, the national mood had quickly gone from worry to fear to ful -blown panic. The president understood now that he was facing his ultimate test as a leader: this was the crisis that would define his presidency and his place in history. In a few moments, the nation—no, the world—would be watching him, expecting reassurance, answers—leadership.

But the president had no answers. He had shouted at people; he had bul ied; he had pressured; he had begged. He had committed the vast resources of the mightiest nation on earth to an intense effort to stop the blackouts, or at the very least, explain them. So far, that effort had produced, essential y, nothing. The consensus of the experts was that the blackouts were being caused by some very sophisticated technology. But as for the specific kind of technology and who was using it—the experts had no clue.

So the president was about to face the world armed with nothing more than a vague speech about the need to remain calm and a promise that al would soon be wel .

The president didn’t believe that al would soon be wel .

“Five seconds, Mr. President.”

The president took a breath. The red light on the camera came on.

“Good evening,” the president said. “As you know, large areas of the United States have been affected by a series of power outages, which have also affected communications in many areas. Tonight I want to talk to you about what action we in the federal government, along with the public utilities, are taking to correct these problems. I also want to talk about how we, as a nation, can work together to minimize the disruption until this situation passes. And you have my word: it
will
pass.” The president paused and smiled his most confident-looking smile.

I hope they’re buying this
, he thought.

Prmkt, seeing the president’s smile on his computer screen, responded with a smile of his own.

His fingers went to the keyboard.

It was time to show America who was real y in charge.

In the Hubble gymnasium, only yards away from Prmkt’s makeshift headquarters in the utility room, the science fair crowd was gathered around a large-screen television, watching the president. The volume was cranked up; nobody had heard the Wienermobile-helicopter col ision on the bal field two minutes earlier.

By the second sentence of the president’s speech, the crowd had already begun to relax a little. The president was a good speaker, and he had a sincere-looking face. When he smiled his confident smile, people in the crowd, relieved to be reassured by their leader, smiled grateful y back at him.

And then something began to happen to the president’s face.

“What on
Earth
?”

The White House communications director grabbed his phone. He was in his office, watching the president’s speech on network TV. He could have been in the Oval Office, just down the hal , but he preferred to see the president exactly as the American people saw him.

At the moment, he couldn’t believe his eyes.

He stabbed the speed-dial for the broadcast control room. Two seconds later a voice said, “Yes?”

“What’s wrong?” the communications director asked.

“What do you mean?” said the voice.

“Something’s wrong with the broadcast!” said the communications director, pointing the remote control at the screen and switching rapidly from channel to channel. “Look at the president’s face!”

The voice said, “I’m looking at the president’s face right now, on our monitors and on the satel ite feed. It looks fine.”

“WELL, LOOK AT IT ON THE NETWORKS, YOU MORON!” said the communications director.

There was a pause, and then the voice came back.

It said: “Oh. My. God.”

The crowd in the Hubble gym—along with mil ions of people around the nation and the world—stared at the screen with a mixture of fascination, puzzlement, and fear. As the president’s face began to change, he stil sounded like the president; he was giving a very reassuring speech about the need to remain calm while steps were being taken to blah blah blah.

But the president no longer looked like the president. As he spoke, his face was morphing into another face entirely—the hair getting longer, the skin getting softer.…And although the president’s new face was unfamiliar to the rest of the world, it was recognized instantly in the Hubble gym.

“Hey!” shouted a voice. “The president turned into Harmonee Prescott!”

Prmkt said a very bad Krpsht word. After doing everything else perfectly, he’d forgotten to change the settings on the Hotness Box. His fingers flashed furiously over the keyboard.

Meanwhile, on mil ions of television screens around the world, the president’s deep and manly voice continued to come from Harmonee Prescott’s heavily glossed lips.

The White House communications director was on his feet now, shouting into the phone: “How can somebody hijack a satel ite? GET THE SATELLITE BACK!” He paused a moment, listening, then said, “No! We can’t stop the speech! That would look even worse! You have to…what?” He looked back toward the TV. “It is?” On the TV screen, the president—or, more accurately, the girl whose mouth the president was speaking through—had started to change once again, morphing back to an older face, a masculine face. A wave of relief swept through the communications director, who was already starting to formulate an explanation to give to the media about what had just happened.
Technical difficulties…solar flare interference with satellite radio transmissions…

“Okay,” he said into the phone. “When we get his face back, we’l have him wrap it up as quickly as—” He stopped speaking, now staring at the screen, his throat tightening as if tied into a knot. When he managed to say something again, his normal y deep, control ed voice came out close to a shriek.

“THAT…IS…NOT…THE…PRESIDENT’S…FACE!”

A
MONG THE FEW AMERICANS
not watching the president on television were federal agents Lefkon, Iles, and Turow. They were sitting in the conference room that, a short time earlier, had held their high-priority, top secret prisoners. Now it held only them.

They were stil trying to comprehend how these prisoners had managed to escape their top secret facility and then elude a massive manhunt. At the moment, the federal government’s attention was focused on the blackouts. But Lefkon, Iles, and Turow knew that once the immediate crisis was over, they would need to explain how they managed to be outwitted by two bumbling foreigners and three teenagers.
Teenagers!
The three agents could already see their careers swirling down the toilet. Their only hope was to find the escaped prisoners
right now
.

The problem was, they had no idea where to look for them.

“I stil don’t understand,” Turow was saying, “how you lose track of a thirty-foot-long hot dog.”

“It’s more like twenty-five feet,” said Iles.

“Oh, wel , THAT explains it,” said Turow, giving Iles a you-moron look. “No wonder we can’t find them! They’re in a twenty-five-footer! It’s practical y invisible!”

“You don’t have to be sarcastic,” said Iles.

“Wel , if you would…” Turow began, but he was cut off by the ringing of the phone on the wal . Lefkon reached it first. She listened for a few moments, then said, “They
what
?” She listened another minute, then said, “Okay, get everybody we have over there. Hold them until we get there. Do
not
let them get away.” She hung up and turned to Turow and Iles, who were watching her intently.

“They’re at their school,” she said. “A patrol car picked up the Wienermobile and chased it there. It crashed into a helicopter. The patrol car crashed, too, but the officers saw three kids and some adults running into the school gymnasium.”

“How did they crash into a helicopter and manage to survive?” said Iles.

“Who knows?” said Turow, already out the door. “And who cares? Let’s get over there.”

Only minutes later, the three of them were in a government car with Turow at the wheel, violating many traffic laws.

“You know, it’s funny,” Lefkon said.

“What is?” asked Iles.

“Wel , the one kid, Toby,” she said, “kept insisting that something real y bad was going to happen at his school science fair tonight.”

“So?” said Turow, running a red light.

“And now he’s gone to al this trouble to escape, and where does he go? He doesn’t go home. He doesn’t run away. He goes to his school science fair.” She turned to Iles.

“What’s your point?” said Iles.

“Wel ,” said Lefkon, “this might sound a little crazy, but what if he’s right? What if the science fair has something to do with al this weird stuff going on?”

“You mean the blackouts?” said Turow.

“Yes,” said Lefkon. “They’re saying on the news that whatever’s causing the blackout might be in this area.” Turow looked at her, then back at the road.

“Yeah, you’re right,” he said. “That’s definitely crazy.”

T
OBY REACHED THE DOOR FIRST
. He peeked inside and saw hundreds of people crowded at one end of the gym watching a TV screen set up on a stand. That was good news; as long as the crowd’s attention was on the TV, it would not be on the science-fair projects.

Toby turned around. Behind him, just outside the door, were Micah and Tamara; behind them were Toby’s mom and dad, who were stil —Toby was beginning to regret this—

wearing their Star Wars costumes. Behind them were Drmtsi and Vrsk, who had been talking to each other quietly in Krpsht.

“Al right,” Toby said to Micah, Tamara, and his parents. “We need to find the ME kids’ projects and disable them.”

“How do we do that?” said Roger.

“I don’t know,” said Toby. “Unplug them, or just break them, if we have to. Just as long as they don’t work.”

“I need to check on Fester first,” said Micah. “I bet he’s starving.”

“Micah,” said Toby, “we’re trying to save the country, okay? This isn’t the time to feed your frog.”

“It’l only be a minute,” said Micah, trotting off.

“Good to have priorities,” said Tamara.

“Come on,” said Toby. “Let’s find the ME kids’ projects.”

He and Tamara took the first aisle; his parents, trailed by Drmtsi and Vrsk, took the second. Toby had hoped it would be an easy search, but there were dozens and dozens of projects, many of them elaborate, emitting a confusing profusion of lights and sounds. He and Tamara had to stop and check each one, looking for the student’s name. Toby glanced back toward the crowd at the end of the gym; people seemed to be getting quite agitated about whatever was happening on the TV screen. That was fine with Toby; he was grateful for the distraction. He turned to look at the next project.

Then he froze, as a voice boomed behind him:

“THERE THEY ARE! STOP THEM!”

Toby whirled around and saw, standing in the gym doorway, the furious figure of Lance Swingle. His hair was messed up, his jacket was torn, and his nose was bleeding. He was pointing at them.

“GET THEM!” he bel owed. “THEY WRECKED MY HELICOPTER!”

In the crowd, heads turned. One of the heads belonged to Jason Niles, who yel ed, “Hey! It’s Hardbonger!” More heads turned.

“GET THEM!” yel ed Swingle again.

Some people—including Jason Niles and Coach Furman—separated from the crowd and started heading toward Toby and the others.

“What do we do now?” said Tamara.

“Now,” said Toby, “we run.”