Plan B for Nilly
AND AS THEY drove, the king told his story as loudly as he could so that they could hear him over the engine.
About his escape in the Rolls Royce. And how the crossing arm had been down when he got to the border, and two strange border guards had said that no one could come in, especially not kings. And how the king had turned around and on his way back had picked up a hitchhiker in red leotards.
“He shouted that his name was Petter, and that he’d lost all his money playing poker in Klæbu, and that he longed to go back home to his house and all his hang gliders.”
So the king had driven Petter home, and after Petter had served the king some hot chocolate and beat him at Chinese checkers four times (each time shouting “I’m the one and only Petter and a heck of a Petter I am!”), he’d rowed the king across the river and told him to follow the high-voltage lines and he’d make it into Norway unseen. So the king had followed some footprints in the snow, and they’d led to a red house where an old man lived who said he was a border smuggler and also a healer who cured people by the laying on of hands.
“And he was the one who sold me this motorcycle,” the king said.
“Sold?” Doctor Proctor exclaimed. “He sold you my motorcycle?”
“Yup. For one thousand one hundred and eleven dollars. Plus the laying on of hands. He cured me of arthritis of the liver and rectal bronchitis, actually. Clever chap. I wasn’t even aware I had them!”
They zoomed through the forest, and after a couple of intersections, they emerged onto a slightly wider road with fewer trees. Little by little they started seeing a few more cars. And then a few more. And then finally they saw a sign that read:
OSLO 7 MILES
WHEN THE CLOCK on the tower on Oslo City Hall struck three, the motorcycle was parked outside Syvertsen’s Pastries. And after the woman whose name wasn’t Marete poured them more tea and Mrs. Strobe’s teeth had stopped chattering and Nilly had eaten two and a half breakfasts, Doctor Proctor cleared his throat and said:
“So, what we know is that if we’re going to rescue Gregory, the country, and the world for that matter, we have to act fast. Unfortunately, what we don’t know is where Gregory is or what Yodolf’s plans for attacking Denmark are. And without that information, it may be hard for us to save anyone or anything at all.”
“Too bad you don’t know Morse code,” Lisa told the king. “Then you could’ve told us what Butler Åke was saying.”
“All I remember was that I was trying to sneak out of the cabin in time to the clicking from the device,” the king sighed, his mouth full of waffle. “It was like ‘clickety’ and ‘click-click-click-click’ something-or-other.”
“Well, that would be a T and then an H,” Lisa said. “But that’s not much help.”
“You know Morse code?” the king asked, clearly impressed.
Lisa nodded. “Don’t you remember even the tiniest bit more?”
“Let me rack my brains,” the king said, and started making faces.
“Hiccup-hiccup-hiccup hic-hic-hic!”
“That’s an O and an S,” Lisa said.
“I didn’t say anything,” the king protested, giving up on his brain racking with a moan.
“Hic. Hiccup-hic hic-hic hiccup-hic hiccup-hic-hiccup-hic hiccup-hiccup-hiccup hiccup-hiccup.”
Five pairs of pupils were all trained on Nilly. And Nilly’s two pupils were directed upward, trying to see the top of his own head, where Perry was sitting, hiccuping away:
“Hic-hiccup-hiccup-hic hiccup-hiccup-hiccup hiccup-hiccup-hiccup hic-hiccup-hiccup-hic hic-hic-hic.”
“E,” Lisa said. “And NINCOMPOOPS.”
“THOSE NINCOMPOOPS!” Nilly shouted eagerly. “Perry remembers the Morse code! Do you have any more, Perry?”
And Perry did have more. Eventually Lisa had to get out a pen to keep the letters straight. And when Perry finally finished, she read what she’d written on her napkin:
“Those nincompoops are coming to Oslo to rescue that crazy frog.”
Mrs. Strobe blew her nose into a big handkerchief. “Wescue dat cwazy fwog?” she sputtered, severely congested and raising her hand in the air for clarification.
“There’s more,” Lisa said. “This is obviously the response from Oslo: The nincompoops will be too late, ha ha. Because we’ve got him locked up in the palace’s tower dungeon and we will be cooking him for breakfast first thing tomorrow. We’re playing BABA music to keep him subdued. Looking forward to a nice waffle breakfast before we invade Denmark. Keep an eye on the King Dope.”
“King Dope?!” scoffed the king, raising his hand as well.
“We have to save Mr. Galvanius before they turn him into waffles,” Nilly said.
“They figured out that listening to BABA music saps his strength,” Lisa said.
“Poow, poow, poow dawing, dawing, sweet Gwegowy,” said Mrs. Strobe, drying a tear from her eye. The king looked at her in astonishment.
“Your Royal Highness,” Doctor Proctor said. “You have to give a speech on TV. Now, right away! You have to use all your royal influence to get people to storm the Royal Palace before the waffles are made in the morning!”
“Oh yeah?” asked the king, who was still staring at the sobbing Mrs. Strobe. His face had also taken on a greenish tint. “To save that poor, poor, darling, darling, SWEET guy? As if a king doesn’t have more important things to do?”
“Oh, but Youw Woyal Highness,” sniffled Mrs. Strobe, taking the napkin that Lisa had been writing on. “You have to.”
“I do, Rosemarie?” the king asked, crossing his arms. “And what if I don’t?”
Rosemarie looked at the king for a long time. Then she inhaled. She sort of puffed herself up before putting the napkin under her long nose and releasing the air in a long elephant-trumpet of a blow that caused her nostrils to vibrate, the chandeliers to clink, and everyone in Syvertsen’s Pastries to look around their tables in fear. Then she aimed her Strobe Stare at the king.
But the king shook his head decisively: “Just go right ahead with the brain boiling. I’m not saving any nincompoop of a guy I don’t even know, but who you’re obviously so head over heels in love with that you’re willing to do anything for.”
Mrs. Strobe gaped and completely lost the Strobe Stare. “You think . . . you think that I’m in love with . . .”
“It’s obvious to all of us,” the king said. “And it wounds me, Rosemarie.” His voice was suddenly on the verge of tears. “It wounds me profoundly, I’ll have you know. I mean, I’m the king, aren’t I? And what’s he? A frog? I’m sorry, Rosemarie, but this is awfully humiliating. You’ll have to clean this mess up yourself.”
Mrs. Strobe and the others stared dumbfounded at the king, who stood up, brushed the cake crumbs off his jacket, marched out, and slammed the door shut behind him so the little bell on it jerked and tinkled.
“Well, that didn’t go very well, did it?” Doctor Proctor said.
“What do we do now?” Lisa sighed.
“Simple,” said Nilly and leaped up onto the table. “Now the Vincibles implement Plan B of course.”
“Which is?”
“Well, there’s is and then there’s is,” Nilly said. “Naturally we have to come up with the plan first. But it’ll be stupendous. Nilly’s Plan B. A delightful, small, freckly plan. Just as ingenious as it is elegant and simple. To put it briefly: a Plan B that is so good no one will believe it wasn’t our Plan A!”
Doctor Proctor cleared his throat. “If you’re done advertising your plan, maybe we could get started coming up with it.”
“Of course,” Nilly said, hopping back down off the table. “Anyone have any ideas?”
It was quiet around the table for a long time.
Finally Mrs. Strobe began: “What if we go up the dungeon towew, unlock the doow and . . . uh, welease Gwegowy?”
“Well, that is certainly simple, Mrs. Strobe,” Nilly said. “But—with all due respect—maybe not that ingenious or elegant. Unless you have a strong desire to see yourself made into waffles, that is. That tower is more closely guarded than the Bank of Norway, and besides they know we’re on our way to rescue Gregory. We have to outwit them somehow. Any other suggestions?”
It was quiet for so long that they could hear the second hand on the clock on the wall. The second hand was ticking toward what they knew was going to happen if they didn’t come up with something ingenious and outwitful.
“I think maybe I have something,” Lisa said.
“What?” everyone else asked in unison.
“Let’s go to a hotel,” Lisa said.