Three Fishy Fellas with a Plan

WHEN LISA’S DAD came home that day, Lisa was sitting under the apple tree that had no apples.

“I’m so relieved,” growled the Commandant, wiping the sweat off his brow. “We thought the whole Independence Day celebration was going to be ruined. You know, Lisa, we’ve been looking for the special gunpowder for the Big and Almost World-Famous Royal Salute for several days. We were starting to think they’d forgotten to load it on the ship over in Shanghai. But it turns out it was the first thing they loaded onboard, so it’s all the way at the bottom. They’re going to bring it ashore tomorrow. Phew, imagine what a catastrophe it would have been if the gunpowder hadn’t come.”

Only now did he notice that Lisa was hardly paying attention. She was sitting there under the tree with her head in her hands, looking downhearted.

“Is there something wrong, pal?” he growled.

“Something terrible happened,” Lisa said glumly. “They arrested Nilly and Doctor Proctor. Just because Truls and Trym ate a little fartonaut powder.”

“I know,” the Commandant said.

“You know? How did you find out?”

“Because the police asked if Nilly and Doctor Proctor could be kept in the most escape-proof cell in all of northern Europe, apart from Finland. And that’s where they are.”

“You mean … you mean … ,” Lisa began, frightened.

“Yup,” her dad said. “They’re in the Dungeon of the Dead.”

“The Dungeon of the Dead! But Nilly and the professor aren’t the least bit dangerous!”

“Well, the police don’t agree. Mr. Trane explained to the police that the professor is a raving lunatic who’ll invent an atom bomb if he isn’t locked up immediately.”

“Mr. Trane? And they believed him?”

“Of course they believed Mr. Trane,” grumbled the Commandant. “After all, he’s the one who helped us invent the hardest and most secret material in the world. Which is used in the doors of the most escape-proof cell in the world …”

“Yeah, yeah, Dad, I’ve heard of all that,” Lisa sighed. “But what do we do now?”

“Now?” The Commandant noisily sniffed the aroma coming through the open kitchen window. “Eat Wiener schnitzel—at least that’s what it smells like. Come on.”

AS LISA WENT inside, the scent of Wiener schnitzel wafted out over the yard, where a light breeze caught it and carried the scent over Cannon Avenue, down to the fjord, to Akershus Fortress, in over the high stone walls, and past the towers and the black, old-fashioned cannons that were aimed out over the fjord. The guards standing outside the Dungeon of the Dead inhaled the scent with-out noticing it, and the part they hadn’t inhaled continued in through the bars to a corridor that led to a stone stairway going deep down, down to a very thick and very locked iron door.

An exceedingly small amount of schnitzel scent seeped through the keyhole into a room that was shaped like the inside of a cannonball. A bridge ran across the center of the room and led to another iron door, even thicker and even more locked than the first. And with a keyhole so narrow that only a couple of Wiener schnitzel gas molecules made it into the corridor behind. The darkness in that corridor was penetrated only by laser beams that ran back and forth, up and down. The grid of laser beams was so dense that not even a tiny Rattus norvegicus could hope to sneak through without triggering the alarm. And the alarm was connected to the guardroom, where the guard on duty was stationed. And also to the main panel at police headquarters. And also to the command center for the Norwegian antiterrorism police. And to the command-command center for the anti-antiterrorism police. And I’m sure you can understand, triggering an alarm like that would result in a lot of running and yelling and maybe shooting, and definitely the rather rapid arrest of the little rat or spider that was trying to do something so foolish as to break out of the Dungeon of the Dead.

At the far end of the corridor—and by now there was hardly any scent left—was the final door. And it was made out of a material that hardly anyone knows exists, but that is so hard, so ingeniously invented, and so secret that the author of this book had to promise the Norwegian government that he wouldn’t say anything else about the material in this story. The point—as you may already have surmised—is that the Dungeon of the Dead is absolutely impossible to escape from.

And there, behind that last door, sat Doctor Proctor and Nilly. The walls and ceiling were white, windowless, and sort of rounded, so it made them feel like they were sitting inside an egg. Each one was sitting on a cot on either side of the egg cell, which was lit by a single lightbulb that hung from the ceiling. There was a small table between the cots, and a toilet and a sink that were both attached to the wall, and a bookshelf with one single book on it: King Olav—The People’s King. Nilly had already read it four times. The book had a lot of pictures in it, and Nilly had gathered from the text that the best thing about Olav was how good-natured he’d been. But there’s a limit to how many times anyone sitting in jail wants to read a book about being good natured. And not just any old jail, but the most escape-proof jail in all of northern Europe, aside from Finland.

As Nilly read, Doctor Proctor scribbled and sketched something on a scrap of paper he had had in his pocket, scratched his head with the pencil stub, mumbled a few passages in Greek, and then scribbled some more. He was so absorbed in his work that he didn’t notice Nilly sighing loudly several times, trying to draw his attention to how boring it was for a boy like Nilly to be locked up in a place like the Dungeon of the Dead for as long as it had been. Then all of a sudden Nilly stuck his nose up in the air and sniffed. “Do you smell that, Professor?”

The professor stopped and sniffed. “Nonsense. There’s nothing to smell.”

“For those of us with sensitive noses, there is,” Nilly said, concentrating. “Hmm. Could it be French bread? No, farther east. Goulash? Farther south. Wiener schnitzel? Yes, I really think it must be. Fried in margarine.”

Right when Nilly said “margarine,” he noticed the professor’s shoulders sink and a sad look come over his face. Nilly hopped up onto the professor’s cot and peeked over his shoulder at what he’d been sketching.

“Nice drawing, boring colors,” Nilly said. “What is it?”

“An invention,” Doctor Proctor said. “A break-out-of-northern-Europe’s-most-escape-proof-jail machine. With probability calculations for its chances of working.”

“And what do your calculations tell you?”

“Do you see that number?” the professor asked, pointing to a number that was underlined twice.

“Yes,” Nilly said. “That’s a zero.”

“That means the probability of escape is zero. We’re doomed.”

“Don’t worry,” Nilly said. “They’ll come let us out soon. Once they’ve done a little more investigating and found out that the fart powder is basically harmless.”

“I don’t think so,” the professor said gloomily, rolling up his scrap paper.

“You don’t?” Nilly responded. “Sure they will!”

“I wish they would,” the professor said, tossing his papers at the toilet but missing. “I didn’t want to mention this before, but when they were questioning me, the police made it pretty clear just what a pickle we’re in.”

“Why? What did they say, exactly?”

“They said, ‘We can’t send that little guy named Nilly to jail because he’s a kid, but he’s looking at at least a year in juvie.’”

“Well, jeez, that wouldn’t be so bad,” Nilly said. “Maybe that would at least be a place with a band where I could finally do a little trumpet playing. What else did they say?”

Doctor Proctor thought about it, cleared his throat, and continued: “‘And you, Professor, since you’re an adult, will be sentenced to up to twelve years behind these walls—or some other walls—and never be allowed to invent anything ever again. Got it?’”

“Yikes,” Nilly said. “That’s worse.”

“A lot worse,” Doctor Proctor said. “I can’t even bear to think about any part of it—not the twelve years, not the walls, and definitely not not being allowed to invent anything. I have to escape.”

“Hmm,” Nilly said. “Where to?”

“To France. I have to find Juliette Margarine. She’ll help me, hide me from the police, give me shelter. And Brie. And red wine.”

“But how?”

“On my motorcycle, of course. It just needs a little lubrication, and then it’ll run like, uh, well, like it’s been lubricated.”

“But how do we get you out of here?”

“I have no clue … or, wait a minute!” Doctor Proctor looked like he was lost in thought. “Maybe I made a slight mathematical error… .” He leaped up and snatched the crumpled papers off the floor, opened them up, smoothed them out with his hand, let his eyes run up and down the pages, mumbled something, and started immediately scribbling and calculating things again. Nilly watched anxiously. Right up until the professor crumpled the pages up again, threw them over his shoulder, and started banging his forehead against the top of the little table.

“It’s no use!” he sobbed, covering his head with his arms. “I never make mathematical errors!”

“Hmm,” Nilly said, placing his index finger thoughtfully on his chin. “This doesn’t look good.”

“It looks terrible!” Doctor Proctor yelled. “What are we going to do now?”

“Now?” asked Nilly, who heard the sound of keys rattling, and sniffed. “It smells like we’re going to eat fish cakes.”

AFTER DINNER, LISA went out into the yard. She needed to think. So she sat down in the grass under the apple tree that had no apples and rested her head in her hands. But the only thoughts that came to her were that the Dungeon of the Dead was completely escape-proof, and that Nilly and Doctor Proctor were goners. She burped a Wiener schnitzel burp and mostly felt like crying. So she cried a little and as usual, crying made her very sleepy, so she yawned a little. And the afternoon sun shone on Lisa, and a bird sat on an apple tree branch and sang. But Lisa didn’t notice any of it, because she’d fallen asleep. And when something woke her up, it wasn’t the birdsong, but voices. The voices were coming from the other side of the fence. There were some people standing in the street talking.

“See that rickety old cellar door there,” whispered an adult voice she recognized. “I’m sure it’s locked, but you boys won’t have any trouble dealing with that.”

“Yeah, no problem,” said a voice that was even more familiar. “We’ll just use a crowbar and pry it open.”

“A break-in!” said a third voice, and Lisa knew exactly whose it was. “How fun!”

She stood up and peeked cautiously over the fence. And there she saw the backs of three people who were peering cautiously over the fence at Doctor Proctor’s house.

“Good attitude, boys,” whispered Mr. Trane’s voice. “And once you’re in the professor’s cellar, grab all the fart powder and fartonaut powder you find. Got it?”

“Yes, Dad,” Truls said.

“Yes, Dad,” Trym said.

“And then, boys, you can sell the fart powder to the kids at school.”

Suddenly they turned around, but Lisa was faster and ducked.

“What about the fartonaut powder, Dad?” Truls asked.

“Heh, heh,” Mr. Trane laughed. “I’ve already talked to someone in the U.S., in Houston, who’s very interested in an invention that can send people right into space without having to build a rocket.”

“Who? Who did you talk to, Dad,” Trym asked.

“NASA, you idiot,” Mr. Trane said. “Once we get our hands on the powder, I’m going straight down to the patent office to patent the fartonaut powder. And then, too bad, mister nitwit professor, I’ll be the only one who can sell the powder. I’m going to be a millionaire, boys!”

“Aren’t you already a millionaire, Dad?”

“Well, sure. But with a few more million, I can buy another Hummer. And an indoor swimming pool. What do you say to that?”

“Oh, yeah, Dad!” Truls and Trym shouted in unison.

“Okay,” their father said. “Now we know how it’s going to go down. We’ll get the crowbar and ski masks and then tomorrow night, we strike! Heh, heh, heh.”

Lisa sat motionless, listening as she heard Mr. Trane’s laughter and all of their footsteps fade into the distance. Then she leaped up and ran inside.

“Dad, Dad!” she shouted.

“What is it, Lisa?” rumbled the Commandant, who was lying on the sofa reading the paper.

She hurriedly told her dad about how she’d been woken up from her sleep and had overhead the Trane family’s plans. But as she was talking, a smile spread across the Commandant’s face.

“What is it?” she cried when she was done. “Don’t you believe me?”

“You never lie, Lisa dear,” the Commandant said, chuckling. “But don’t you see that you just dreamed it all while you were sleeping, that you weren’t actually awake? Mr. Trane and his family, breaking into the professor’s house and stealing his invention?” The Commandant laughed so hard he shook. “Can you imagine?”

Lisa slowly realized: If even her own father didn’t believe her, who would? Who could help her? And the answer was just as clear: No one. No one except herself.

The sun had just set and tomorrow, Doctor Proctor’s Fart Powder would be in the hands of those three fishy fellas. And Lisa was the only one who knew it.