Super-Bait and Kick-Sledding

SYVERTSEN’S PASTRIES IS in the middle of downtown Oslo, right next to the parliament building, three clothing stores, a hair salon, and a Freemason’s lodge. Pretentious women from pretentious neighborhoods sit around its small, round tables on round, slender chairs. They take demure little tiny bites of baked goods named after European cities like Berlin, Vienna, and Paris, and sip from little tiny cups of tea from remote places in Asia, while they talk about big children and little grandchildren and little tiny goings-on that are happening in their neighborhoods. But on this day three of them were discussing slightly bigger issues.

“Have you heard? The king has gone into exile abroad,” one of them said.

“Yes, to South Trøndelag,” another said.

“South Trøndelag is supposed to be very nice,” the third said.

“Tenorsen moved into the Royal Palace,” the second one said.

“Well, that makes sense,” the first said. “He is the president.”

“It is rather unfortunate that he declared war on Denmark, though,” said the third. “My husband and I, vee had cruise tickets for a little vacation to Denmark, and now of course nothing will come of it.”

“Don’t say such things,” the first said. “Our president knows what he’s doing.”

But the three ladies weren’t the only ones discussing important matters in Syvertsen’s Pastries that day. Four people, seated around a table in the very back of the establishment, were discussing nothing short of the end of the world, man-eating moon chameleons, and sock thievery. The four people were none other than Doctor Proctor, Lisa, Nilly, and Gregory Galvanius. Three days had passed since Lisa and Nilly had outed Gregory as a frog man.

“Do you think she’s—hiccup!—coming?” Gregory asked, looking at his watch.

“Of course she’s coming,” Nilly said.

And no sooner had he said that than the door opened. In walked a buxom woman, who purposefully and confidently strode over to their table. She stopped, let her glasses slide down to the tip of her nose, scrutinized the four of them, and asked, “And the four of you are going to save the world from certain doom?”

“There’ll be one more of us, Mrs. Strobe,” Lisa said.

“Oh?” Mrs. Strobe replied. “I’m not impressed. And, I must say, this is a rather unusual place for a resistance movement to meet.”

“That’s exactly the point, Mrs. Strobe,” Nilly said. “If we’d met at any of the usual resistance movement places, we would have been detected right away.”

“We’re not forcing anyone to join us, Mrs. Strobe,” Doctor Proctor said. “After all, being part of this movement entails a not inconsiderable risk.”

She stared unflappably at the professor. “I’ve considered everything you told me,” she said. “And I think you’re right. Almost all my students developed speech impediments overnight, socks are disappearing left and right, and now apparently we’re going to be invading Denmark. Something is very wrong.” She set her purse down in the middle of the table. “I’m in. Could someone get me a cup of tea?”

Gregory leaped up. His face was flushed and he gallantly pulled one of the unused chairs out for her. “Wonder—hiccup!—ful!”

Mrs. Strobe raised an eyebrow and gave her colleague a gracious nod. “I think you mentioned there would be one more?”

“He should’ve been here by now,” Nilly said, looking at his watch.

Just then the little bell above the door jingled. They turned and looked at the man who walked in. His polyester pants were so tight he could hardly bend his knees, and his aviator sunglasses were so dark he was about to walk right into the waitress who sailed past him with a tray full of teapots and cups. The man stood there over by the door, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dim lighting.

“So you invited Band Conductor Madsen,” Mrs. Strobe said. “How do you suppose he managed to avoid being hypnotized, unlike all the others?”

“Simple,” Nilly said, waving to Mr. Madsen. “Mr. Madsen can’t stand choral music. I guarantee he hasn’t watched a second of the NoroVision Choral Throwdown.”

The man by the door finally noticed Nilly waving and hurried over to their table. He fumbled his way over to the available chair, but didn’t sit down.

“Sorry I’m late, but the buses aren’t running anymore. They’re melting them down to make cannonballs, you know.”

“Glad you could make it anyway,” Doctor Proctor said.

“That’s just it,” Mr. Madsen said, fiddling with his sunglasses. “I . . . uh . . . can’t.” Then he sniffled loudly and held out a white slip of paper. Mrs. Strobe grabbed it and read it out loud: “‘Unfortunately, Mr. Madsen has a cold and will not be able to participate in the resistance movement today. Sincerely, Mr. Madsen’s mother.’”

“Hm,” Doctor Proctor said. “That’s too bad. What about tomorrow?”

Mr. Madsen shook his head.

“The next day maybe?”

Mr. Madsen gave a little cough. “It’s really quite a bad cold,” he said, staring at the floor.

Doctor Proctor sighed. “I see. Then I suppose we’d better just say ‘get well soon.’”

“Thank you,” Mr. Madsen whispered almost inaudibly, taking his note back. And in rapid, mincing steps he shuffled back to the door and left the same way he had entered.

“Well, then I guess that makes five of us,” Doctor Proctor said, trying to smile encouragingly.

“The fewer cooks in the kitchen, the less mess,” Mrs. Strobe said. “What’s the plan?”

“The first thing we have to do is find out where the moon chameleons are living, and then we can find out what their plans are,” Doctor Proctor said. “And Lisa had a brilliant idea.”

“Which is?”

“We set out some kind of bait,” Lisa said.

“And use this,” Doctor Proctor said. He held up a yellowed cardboard box labeled in all caps: FD &C E18. COLORING. NOT FOR INTERNAL CONSUMPTION.

“Hey!” Gregory snarled. “That’s the stuff that made your strength tonic look like orange juice! That stuff is dangerous!”

“Calm down, Gregory,” Doctor Proctor said. “I had a little left in the cellar.”

“Ah, I get it. That stuff might kill the moon chameleons,” Mrs. Strobe said. “But how are we going to get them to eat it?”

“Oh, they’re not going to eat it,” Lisa said.

“Well, then what . . .”

“Wait and see tonight.” Lisa smiled, winking knowingly.

“Ho ho ho!” Nilly cheered. “I’m looking forward to it so much my stomach hurts! Imagine, we’re like real guerrilla fighters!” He couldn’t sit still anymore and leaped up onto his chair. “We need a name! And—lucky for you guys—I’ve already come up with one. We’ll call ourselves . . .” Nilly paused for effect as he looked around at all the expectant—and some not so expectant—faces. “. . . The Five Vincibles!”

“Uh, you mean the Invincibles, don’t you?” Mrs. Strobe asked.

“The Vincibles, that’s a good one!” Gregory laughed. “Ha ha.”

“No, I mean Vincibles,” Nilly said. “That’s exactly the point. We can be beaten. We’re not indestructible. But we’re going to fight anyway. That’s what’s so great about us!”

They were quiet as they contemplated this. And then one by one they nodded.

“It’s a good name,” Mrs. Strobe said.

“A perfect name,” Doctor Proctor said.

“Let’s get started,” Lisa said.

“Yes, but first we have to celebrate,” Nilly said.

“Celebrate what?”

“Having a name. And that we’re going to save the world from something super-awful. Tomorrow we may have fallen in heroic battle and then it’ll be too late to celebrate.”

And after contemplating this for a bit, they all agreed that one heck of a celebration was in order, and Nilly hopped up and down on his chair and waved the waitress over: “More tea, Merete! Tea for the Five Vincibles!”

DARKNESS AND SILENCE had settled over Cannon Avenue.

The houses sat next to each other, quiet and blacked out, but if you listened extra carefully, you could hear sounds coming from three of them. The sounds were coming from the red house, the yellow house, and the crooked blue one all the way up at the top of the street, and it was the same type of sound from all three. The sound of a washing machine going around and around. But then the sound in the red house stopped. And then in the blue house. And then finally in the yellow house.

Then there were a few moments of absolute silence. Then, from the blue house, there was a scarcely audible creak, like a window being opened. And then right after that the same creak, as if from a window being closed again. Then a flashlight in a window in the blue house flashed three times. Which received an immediate response of three quick flashes from the yellow house and the red house. Right after that, the front doors of the red and yellow houses cautiously opened and then closed, and Lisa and Nilly dashed over to Doctor Proctor’s house, where they slipped inside.

“Down here!” called Doctor Proctor.

They went down to the cellar, where Doctor Proctor and Gregory were leaning over in front of the washing machine.

“One of them has been here!” the professor said. “I heard the basement window open.” Then he pointed to the floor with his flashlight. “And just as we were hoping, it opened the washing machine and helped itself to a pair of socks.”

And sure enough: Wet footprints led from the washing machine over to the cellar window, where the latch on the inside was now open. They hurried outside and found the tracks in the deep snow on the outside of the cellar window. They led through the yard, through the gate, and out onto the street. On the compact ice, of course, the footprints from the sock thief disappeared. But not the trail. In the glow from the streetlight, at first glance it looked a little like someone had maybe just peed in the snow. But on closer inspection, you could tell that they were footprints. Yellowish ones, sort of orange juice colored.

“Now that’s what you call bait,” Nilly whispered. “Sprinkle our socks with coloring that doesn’t come out in the wash, put some in each of our washing machines, and then just wait for a moon chameleon to fall for it. You’re a genius, Lisa!”

Lisa smiled. She was quite pleased with herself, too. “Now all we have to do is follow the footprints to find out where they live,” she said.

Doctor Proctor got out the kick-sled he’d set out in the deep snow on the inside of his front gate in preparation, since they had agreed that it would be wise to use the quietest possible form of transportation.

“Come on,” Gregory said, stepping onto the sled runners up by the handles.

Nilly sat down on the seat and shone his flashlight at the footprints, while the professor and Lisa climbed onto the runners behind Gregory.

Gregory kicked off with his powerful frog legs.

“Easy there, Gregory,” Doctor Proctor said. “Not too fast. We can’t let it suspect it’s being followed.”

Gregory slowed down a little, and they slid forward, frog kick by frog kick, in and out of the circles of light from the streetlights, soundless apart from the soft song of the runners on the snow. Nilly shone the flashlight on the path ahead and gave succinct commands whenever they needed to turn left or right.

A snowman stood in one yard, his round, coal black eyes watching in surprise as the overcrowded kick-sled sailed past.

A while later Nilly whispered, “Stop. There are no more tracks.”

Gregory stopped pushing the sled, and they stood completely still as they looked around and listened. “Maybe it camouflaged itself as that tree over there,” Nilly whispered.

“Or that doghouse over there,” whispered Doctor Proctor.

“Or to look like snow,” Lisa whispered. “But why did its footprints disappear?”

“Wait,” Gregory said, without bothering to whisper. He climbed off the kick-sled, and the others watched as he walked back the same way they’d come.

After about sixty yards, Gregory stopped and pointed down at the street. “The last footprint is here, right by this manhole cover. It went down into the sewers.” The others had all clustered around him. He bent over and lifted the manhole cover.

Nilly aimed his flashlight down into the pitch-blackness. All they heard was an echo of water dripping.

“What do we do now?” Lisa asked.

“Simple,” Nilly said. “We need volunteers. Anyone who wants to go down there and continue the pursuit, raise your hand.”

He counted. It didn’t take long.

“No volunteers,” Nilly said. “Well, then I volunteer to decide who’ll go. And I decide that the volunteer will be . . .” Nilly let his index finger wave around in the air before he pointed to himself: “Me!”

“Just you?” Lisa asked. “Don’t you think we all ought to go together?”

“Nope,” Nilly said. “One little guy splashes a lot less than four people. Besides, I can crawl into even the narrowest sewer pipes. Watch Perry for me.”

Nilly raised his hat, got the spider onto his finger, and passed him to Lisa, who cautiously accepted him.

“Nilly, this is untenable,” Doctor Proctor said firmly.

“This is tenable,” Nilly said, wrapping his long scarf around his neck one extra time and clearing his throat twice before launching into his farewell address:

“My fellow resistors, fear not. Do not let my sacrifice be in vain. Instead, you must continue to fight against this evil menace. If I don’t return, please pass my most affectionate greetings on to my hundreds of adoring female admirers. Tell them Nilly said not to cry. Not too much, anyway.” Nilly squeezed his thumb and index finger together, pinching his little turned-up, freckled nose shut, and said a nasal “Farewell!” And with that he did a little jump and—whoosh!—he disappeared into the black hole.

“He’s crazy!” Lisa said.

“There has actually never,” Doctor Proctor mumbled, “been any doubt about that.”

The sound of a small splash rose from the sewer way down below.

“On the other hand,” Proctor said, “he is right that one person of his stature makes less noise than four people. But he could do with someone who knows their way around down there. Or—what are your thoughts on the matter, Gregory?”

Gregory looked up from the hole and stiffened.

“Why . . . why are you looking at me? Hiccup!”

“You swim like a frog,” Doctor Proctor said. “You can see in the dark, like a frog. And most important of all: You know some people down there who could help us.”

“You’re being awfully liberal with your use of the term ‘people,’” Gregory said. “They’re frogs. Frogs aren’t actually very smart, and they’re not all that helpful either. Not enough to matter. Frogs aren’t really all that, to be honest.”

“Look,” the professor said, pulling a little flask out of his pocket. “I thought you could take a couple of swigs of this if you got into a tight spot.”

Gregory took the flask, looked at the label, and read aloud: “Doctor Proctor’s Strength Tonic with Mexican Thunder Chilies. Medium Hot.” He looked at Doctor Proctor in astonishment. “Victor, you want to make me more froggy? This is the poison that ruined my life!”

“I’ve . . . uh, tweaked it a little, Gregory. There’s less rhinoceros frog extract, so there won’t be as many side effects.”

“No!” Gregory yelled, so red with rage that he looked as if he were fit to burst. He flung the flask at the ground, where it broke.

“Hm,” Doctor Proctor said. “Maybe I should reduce the amount of type A Norwegian lemming as well.”

“Hello? You guys?” Lisa shouted. “While you’re up here arguing, Nilly is alone down there, trying to save the world from something really awful.”

The two grown-ups—or people who were older than Lisa, at any rate—looked at her.

“What do you think,” Lisa asked, leaning closer to Gregory, “the other members of the Five Vincibles will say if they find out you were too chicken to help Nilly with the moon chameleons, Gregory?”

Gregory snorted so that his breath showed in little clouds of steam rushing out of his nose. “I couldn’t care less what that band conductor and Mrs.—” He stopped suddenly, his face stiffening. “Hiccup!”

“Mrs. Strobe?” Lisa asked innocently. “You couldn’t care less what Mrs. Rosemarie Strobe thinks?”

Gregory stubbornly looked Lisa in the eye, not backing down. Then a little less stubbornly. Until finally he grumbled an irritated “Okay, okay. I’m going!”

And with that—without any further ado—he, too, disappeared into the manhole.