From the kitchen, Tisa could hear Dr. Zimm and what sounded like a robotic young boy.

“We would’ve arrived sooner,” said Dr. Zimm. “But, well, there is so much bureaucracy when you work for a large corporation. Forms to fill out. Expense requisitions …”

“You have sixty seconds to make your decision, Max,” chirped the high-pitched boy-bot.

Tisa grabbed a pair of rubber dishwashing gloves and started scrounging through the pantry shelves as quietly as she could. She found what she was looking for: baking soda, vinegar, and, most important, a spice bottle full of red pepper.

“Come with us, Max,” said Dr. Zimm. “We have no interest in your friends. They can go back to cleaning wells. You, however, are destined for far greater things.”

“We’re going to build a quantum computer together,” said the humanoid. “Won’t that be fun?”

“Stand back, you lot,” said Mr. McGregor. “You make a move for the girl and—”

“And what?” said the robot. “Are you forgetting that you are outgunned and in a no-win situation? Do I need to run my statistical analysis for you again?”

“No need,” said Max. “Mr. McGregor? Why don’t you pour our guests some of that Irish whiskey you’ve been drinking? It’s 80 proof, right?”

“No, lassie. This is Redbreast. It’s 115 proof.”

Max did the math. Divide by two. The whiskey was 57.5 percent alcohol. It was perfect.

“Then pour Dr. Zimm and his friends a glass. Except the robot. You don’t drink, do you, Lenard?”

“No,” Lenard said with a giggle. “Ingesting liquids is bad for my circuitry.”

“Max?” called Tisa from the kitchen. “I have something I’d like to give our guests, too.”

“Perfect,” Max hollered back to the kitchen. “And don’t forget to light a candle and stick it in a meat pie. It’s Klaus’s birthday.”

Klaus had an “it is?” expression on his face until the look on Max’s face told him to play along.

“A birthday meat pie would be lovely,” said Klaus.

“Dr. Zimm?” said Lenard. “I can only assume that Max and her friends are stalling. Attempting to delay our inevitable victory and departure. It is not Klaus’s birthday. As you recall, that was last month.”

“But we weren’t all together last month,” said Max. “This is a belated birthday celebration. I just need to see Klaus blow out his candle, then I’m ready to roll out of here with you guys.”

“I’ve got your drinks, lads,” said Mr. McGregor, holding a silver tray with four tumbler glasses filled to the rim with amber whiskey.

The three Corp goons looked to Dr. Zimm.

“A quick drink will be fine, gentlemen,” said Dr. Zimm. “After all, now that Max has agreed to leave with us, we have much to celebrate. The future. Redeeming Dr. Einstein’s mistakes about quantum physics. You are his true heir, Max. You can take the theory the great Einstein couldn’t quite grasp and bring it to life!”

“Works for me,” said Max, who really was trying to buy some time.

Finally, Tisa and a cook came out of the kitchen.

Tisa was holding a rubber glove that jiggled like a water balloon. The glove had been inflated so much its fingers were extended. The thing looked like a bloated cow udder. The cook carried a plate with a meat pie spiked with half a dozen flickering birthday candles.

“Happy birthday to me,” Klaus sang loudly and off key. “Happy birthday to me!”

While everyone was distracted by his squawking (and covering their ears), Tisa dashed forward and pulled out a paring knife. She poked a series of holes in the bulging fingertips of her inflated glove. The carbon dioxide gas created when she combined baking soda with vinegar came spewing out of the openings, like warm soda shooting out of a shaken can. That gas carried with it the flecks of red pepper. Tisa aimed her improvised tear gas straight into the trio of armed thugs’ eyes.

Meanwhile, Max plucked a candle out of the birthday pie and tossed it into one of the whiskey glasses on Mr. McGregor’s tray. The alcohol erupted into blue flames. Mr. McGregor flipped the serving platter like a catapult and doused Lenard with the fiery liquid.

“Unacceptable,” squeaked Lenard as flames licked up his chest and singed his plastic face. “Unacceptable!”

Dr. Zimm grabbed a nearby tablecloth and tried to blot out the fire, which had already melted one of Lenard’s eyebrows into a drooping squint.

“Go!” shouted Charl.

The armed men from the Corp were still blinded by Tisa’s red-pepper tear gas and couldn’t find their weapons.

Siobhan, Tisa, Max, and Klaus raced out the pub door and practically threw themselves into Isabl’s waiting van. Charl tumbled into the passenger seat five seconds after everyone else was safely on board.

“Initiate extraction package,” Charl told Isabl.

She jammed her foot down on the accelerator. The van blasted off.

“Good job in there, Tisa and Max,” said Charl.

“What about the townspeople?” asked Max.

“Dr. Zimm isn’t interested in them. He’ll be chasing after us—just as soon as his men can see straight and his robot isn’t melting. You guys bought us at least a sixty-second head start.”

And with the way Isabl was driving?

Sixty seconds might be all they needed.