The Short Chapter
IT WAS MIDMORNING, and the sun was shining. People were sitting on the park benches along Oslo’s main drag in their winter coats, with their pale, smiling faces tilted toward the sun, their eyes shut, possibly dreaming of spring and summer. And about the new Greater Norway. But Lisa, Doctor Proctor, and Mrs. Strobe were sitting in the darkness at the very back of Syvertsen’s Pastries, their ears wide open and horrified looks on their faces as they listened:
“Razor-sharp teeth,” Nilly whispered, baring his own small and rather normal teeth. “Protruding snout.” He stuck out his lower jaw. “And deep-set, black, expressionless eyes below bushy eyebrows. Like this.” He pulled his forehead down as far as he could and scowled, almost making Lisa giggle. After all, she’d already heard Nilly’s description of the moon chameleon the night before.
“In other words,” Nilly whispered with his lower jaw still stuck out. “They look exactly like baboons. But they speak Swedish.”
“And that fits with the rumors that the moon chameleons went to Sweden to start a war from there,” Doctor Proctor said. “Apparently they tried for years, but the Swedes just wouldn’t fight with anyone, something about neutrality. Because Swedes hate arguments and are deathly afraid of having a falling out with anyone, no matter how much you hypnotize them. These moon chameleons must have spent their formative years in Sweden.”
“There were three of them. At least. And I recognized one of their voices,” Nilly said. “It was Hallvard Tenorsen’s voice. He’s the one in charge.”
Everyone at the table was quiet for a while as they studied Nilly, who was still wearing his baboon expression so that the others could have sufficient opportunity to study it.
“The point,” Doctor Proctor said, “is not where the moon chameleons are from or what they look like, although of course that’s terrifying enough on its own. What’s really terrifying is that they came here to see if their same super-terrifying plan works any better in Norway.”
A sound came from under Nilly’s hat, like a little hiccup.
“Poor, poor, poor . . . ,” Mrs. Strobe began, and Lisa counted another four “poors” before their teacher (who otherwise was generally known for her strictness and toughness) finally finished with a “Gregory,” practically stifled by sobs.
“Yes,” Doctor Proctor said. “And poor, poor, poor the whole world. Tell them, Nilly.”
“Well,” Nilly said, clearing his throat. “They came up with a plan that goes like this: Greater Norway starts a war with Denmark next Wednesday, and then this war will spread via Iceland, Ireland, and India to Iran, Istanbul, the Iberian Peninsula, and on to Israel, Iraq, Indonesia . . .”
“Uh, give us the short version, would you?” Doctor Proctor asked.
“Okay,” Nilly said. “The moon chameleons are going to start a world war and they want as many people to die as possible.”
“Wh-wh-why?” Mrs. Strobe asked after a pause.
“Because that’s what they live off of,” Nilly said. “They eat people.”
“Eat people?”
“Lots of animals do, you know,” Nilly said. “Saltwater crocodiles, pythons, polar bears, and at least half of the animals in A.Y.W.D.E. We’re just protein, you know. Living hamburgers. The point is that in the near future the moon chameleons are going to need a bunch of food. That’s why this is all happening right now.”
“Why do they need more food now?”
Nilly pointed up toward the moon. “Their relatives up there. The moon is starting to run out of food. So they’re all planning to come here, the whole lot of ’em. They’re going to stop by for dinner, you might say. And the dinner is going to be us.”
“But this is awful!”
“Yup,” Nilly said. “But to them it’s really just like when we gather the family together and eat a flock of chickens. I mean, we don’t think about them as anything other than food.”
“Apart from the fact that in this case they are planning to let the food kill each other in a war instead of doing it themselves,” Lisa said.
“That’s the most practical way,” Nilly said.
“And how do they plan to”—Mrs. Strobe searched for the right words—“prepare the food?”
“I saw sketches for waffle irons,” Nilly said. “Huge waffle irons. More like the kind of thing you might grill . . .”
“Hamburgers on.” Doctor Proctor finished his sentence.
“Oh my God!” exclaimed Mrs. Strobe. Then whispered so that it was scarcely audible, “Poor Gregory!”
The table was quiet for a long time, and all that could be heard were cars and trolleys going by outside and a radio on which someone was singing about sunshine and springtime and birdsong.
FOUR OF THE Five Vincibles stood on the bustling sidewalk, gazing up toward Norway’s Royal Palace, as people hurried past them. Nilly turned to Doctor Proctor:
“Why don’t you invent a tank that could drive right through those palace walls up there and get Gregory out?”
“Inventing things like that takes time,” Doctor Proctor said. “And it’s expensive. Do you know how much just the snow tires alone for a tank like that would cost? Not to mention the fan belt and—”
He was interrupted by Lisa: “It wouldn’t be ready by next Wednesday.”
“Exactly,” Doctor Proctor said. “What we have to do is use the same weapon the moon chameleons are using.”
“Which is?” Nilly asked.
“Influence. Yodolf Staler, disguised as Hallvard Tenorsen, hypnotizes people to do and think what he wants, right? We need to get someone to tell the people that what he says isn’t true, that there’s no reason for us to go to war against Denmark.”
“We’re going to get a hypnotist?” Nilly asked. “Cool!”
“No, someone everyone will listen to.”
“People only want to listen to Tenorsen,” Lisa sighed.
“No, there’s someone else,” Doctor Proctor said.
“I think I know who you’re thinking of,” Mrs. Strobe said, nodding slowly.
“Who? Who is it?” Nilly cried.
Mrs. Strobe nodded toward the Royal Palace. “Don’t you remember from history class who the Norwegians listened to during the dark days of World War Two?”
“The king!” Lisa said.
“Exactly,” Doctor Proctor said. “We have to go to South Trøndelag and convince the king to convince the people to convince themselves not to listen to Yodolf!” Doctor Proctor sniffed the air. “And time is of the essence!”
Lisa sniffed as well. And of course it could just be her imagination, but she thought she smelled waffles.
“And when time is of the essence that means one thing,” Doctor Proctor said. “We’ll need to use the MWS.”
“The MWS?” Mrs. Strobe repeated. “But isn’t that . . .”
“The Motorcycle With Sidecar,” Doctor Proctor said. “We’ll leave for South Trøndelag right away.”
“But a motorcycle and a sidecar,” Mrs. Strobe said, “won’t be big enough for all of us.”
“You haven’t seen this sidecar, Mrs. Strobe,” Doctor Proctor said. “Come on!”