Beware the Fisj (12 page)

“Well, whoever it is,” she said, “I hope they catch him and punish him severely. I’m sick of this.”

Mr. Sturgeon frowned. “I’m positive I know that voice . . .”

* * *

At half-past eleven that night Sergeant Featherstone left his motel room and got into his car, intent on searching for Operation Flying Fish.

He wasn’t going to the Chutney town dump, he decided. That was the last place they’d use as a base of operations after he’d been there to spoil Operation Popcan for them. And so, for lack of inspiration, he turned off Main Street in the opposite direction.

The door of room 14 opened and the cadaverous man hurried out and got into his car. The tires squealed as he started out in pursuit of Featherstone.

* * *

The midnight solitude of Miss Scrimmage’s apple orchard was disturbed as three shadowy figures, laden with parcels, eased themselves over the wire fence and crept into the cover of the trees.

“Here’s a good spot,” said Bruno, dropping his burden.

Elmer, too frightened to speak, nodded.

Boots was also nervous. “Any sign of Miss Scrimmage? Or her shotgun?”

Bruno did not reply. “Okay, Elmer, set it up.”

Obediently Elmer got to work. In fifteen minutes he had assembled a large console with operating buttons and a tall antenna. In his hands he held a metal sphere studded with Christmas tree lights.

“You’re going to fly that?” asked Bruno. “That’s not an airplane.”

Elmer flicked a switch on the console to turn on the green and red bulbs. “This will fly,” he replied with great satisfaction.

“Well?” said Bruno impatiently. “Let’s see it.”

“Do you have to have it lit up like that?” asked Boots. “We don’t want old Scrimmage over here, you know!”

Elmer placed the ball inside a black tube attached to the console. “I must see it if I’m going to guide it,” he explained patiently. “And now the test.”

“Wait!” said Bruno suddenly, pulling the ball out of the tube. “It’s bad luck to launch a ship without a name.” With a marking pen he carefully printed
M.H. Flying Fish
on a clear patch of the metal.

“M.H.?” questioned Boots.

“Macdonald Hall, of course,” said Bruno. He returned the little craft to the tube. “And now the test,” he mimicked.

Elmer flicked a switch and turned a dial. There was a clunk, and the M.H. Flying Fish rocketed out of the tube and hovered among the branches of the trees, humming as it awaited instructions.

“Hot gazoobies!” cheered Bruno as he and Boots stared at the ball, which illuminated the portion of the orchard where they stood.

Skillfully Elmer manipulated the controls, putting his craft through a series of manoeuvres in, around and over the trees.

Suddenly there was a rustling in the darkness behind them and a voice called, “Halt!”

The three boys wheeled in horror.

Cathy Burton appeared from behind a tree. “Just kidding,” she grinned. She glanced behind her. “Come on out, Diane. I told you it had to be them.”

Diane appeared at her side. “What are you guys doing? What is that thing?”

“It’s our ship,” replied Bruno. “Elmer’ll explain it to you.”

Elmer shook his head violently, unable to speak in the presence of the girls.

“Oh, it’s Elmer!” said Cathy. She strode over to the console. “Hey, decent! What does this thing do?” She grasped one of the dials and twisted it as far as it would go.

“No!” cried Elmer.

The M.H. Flying Fish shot up and away into the sky. Elmer frantically hit buttons, but to no avail. The hum of the motor was gone. The distant lights could no longer be seen.

“Our ship!” cried Bruno. “Bring it back!”

“I can’t,” said Elmer sadly. “It’s out of range.”

“Oops,” said Cathy. “Sorry.”

“Cath-y!” moaned Bruno in anguish. “That was going to make us famous, and you lost it!”

“Sorry,” repeated Cathy. “Maybe you can build another one.” She smiled brightly. “Anybody want something to eat?”

“I want to go home,” groaned Elmer miserably.

“Yeah,” muttered Boots. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Are you very mad?” asked Cathy penitently.

Bruno shrugged. “It’s gone. I guess killing you won’t change that.”

The three boys picked up their equipment.

“Intruders halt!” shrieked a voice in the distance.

“A perfect ending to a perfect evening!” moaned Boots.

“Here she comes again,” agreed Cathy. “You guys get going.”

“What about you?” asked Bruno.

“Oh, don’t worry about us,” said Cathy. “If she catches us, we’ll just tell her you’ve been terrorizing us again.”

Carrying their equipment, the three boys vaulted the fence and ran off into the night.

* * *

Featherstone cruised aimlessly, alert for anything unusual that might be part of Operation Flying Fish. All was quiet. The farmhouses were dark, the fields deserted.

Suddenly he heard a strange distant humming noise. He rolled down the window to listen. Yes, it was definitely a hum, and it was growing louder. He stopped the car and stuck his head out the window.

“What the heck?” he gasped.

In the sky, approaching rapidly from the south, was a brightly lit UFO.

There was a sudden screeching of brakes, and Featherstone turned just in time to see another car skid out and around in front of him, missing him by a hair. He gaped in horror. It was the man from room 14, the Fish! It was a trap! He had been lured out here onto a lonely road …

The UFO was almost upon him now, but the Fish was blocking the highway. Blindly Featherstone pushed the accelerator to the floor. The small car shot off the road and smashed through an old wooden fence, coming to rest in the middle of a large pigpen. Frightened, squealing pigs stampeded through the hole in the fence, disappearing into the night.

Featherstone kicked madly at the gas pedal. The tires spun in the mud, but the car would not move. Desperately he looked around. He could see the UFO clearly now as it bore down on him from the sky, its red and green lights outlining a round body.

Plop!
The object landed in the mud of the pigpen not a metre from the car.

“Take cover!” shouted Featherstone to himself. Frantically he kicked the door open and threw himself out of the car to land face-down in the slop trough. He lay there tensely, waiting for an explosion. Nothing happened.

Cautiously he stole a look at the device. The green and red lights were flickering out, and the hum was dying. Slowly he picked himself up out of the trough and stood, dripping slops, staring down at the ball lying in the mud. The hum was gone now, the lights out. The sole remaining pig approached the now-dead UFO and rooted at it with his snout. Then, finding it of little interest, he too trotted out through the hole Featherstone’s car had made in the fence.

Covered in mud and pig slops, Featherstone tried to evaluate the situation he found himself in. Once again he could remember no precedent in the RCMP training manual. He glanced back at the road. The man from room 14 had left the scene. The round object, whatever it was, seemed to present no immediate danger. The first order of business, then, must be to extricate himself from the muck of the pigpen and get the UFO back to his motel room for examination. Featherstone wrinkled his nose ruefully — and a shower wouldn’t hurt.

He glanced at his car. The mud was over the hubcaps. It was a job for a tow-truck, possibly even a wrecker. From his pocket he produced an identification card, and with his index finger, wiped the mud from its face. He placed it under the windshield wiper for the benefit of the farmer, who was in for a shock. Then he tucked the surprisingly light UFO under his arm and began the long walk to Chutney, leaving a trail of mud and slime behind him.

* * *

“Miss Scrimmage,” demanded Mr. Sturgeon into the telephone, “do you realize that it is almost two in the morning? … My boys were there doing
what
? … Bombs? Oh, yes, atomic bombs, no doubt … Oh, just ordinary bombs. Really, Miss Scrimmage, you must attempt to control your imagination. My boys do not have access to bombs … That’s right, especially not flying bombs with red and green lights … Yes, well, Miss Scrimmage, sometimes our eyes deceive us. We’ve all been under considerable stress lately. Goodnight.”

He turned to his wife. “Mildred, according to Miss Scrimmage, our boys laid down an artillery barrage on their campus tonight.”

“That’s nice,” murmured Mrs. Sturgeon sleepily. “Go back to sleep, dear.”

“That Cathy!” muttered Bruno at the lunch table the following day. “I’d like to string her up by her ears!”

“It was just an accident, Bruno,” argued Boots protectively. “She didn’t mean it.”

“It was also a flaw in my reasoning,” admitted Elmer. “Because of the tremendous speed of the craft, I should have expanded the range of the controls.” He sighed. “It was out of range in less than three seconds.”

“Still,” snapped Bruno, “that dippy girl —”

He was interrupted by a commotion at the entrance to the dining hall. The three boys ran to the centre of the disturbance. There, surrounded by a crowd of laughing students, marched a large pig. The animal was examining his new surroundings and glaring at the boys reproachfully as if they were trespassing on his territory.

“Hot gazoobies!” cried Bruno in delight. “We haven’t had a guest for lunch since I don’t know when!”

“This is our first pig,” added Boots.

“Except for Wilbur!” shouted someone.

“Shut up!”

“Tell him to go away! There’s not enough food here for us, let alone him!”

“Maybe he likes spinach!”

“Where did he come from?”

“I don’t know. Hey! He’s eating my lunch!”

“Just like Wilbur!”

“I said shut up!”

“Do you think we can keep him?”

“Keep whom?” asked a quiet voice from the doorway. A hush fell as Mr. Sturgeon entered the dining hall. His steely grey eyes surveyed the students and finally came to rest on the pig, whose head was now buried deep in one of the garbage cans. “May I ask how that creature came to be here?”

“He just arrived, sir,” offered Bruno.

“I see,” said the Headmaster. “By any chance, did anyone here assist his arrival?”

Nobody answered.

The silence was interrupted by the grinding of a truck motor outside. Mr. Sturgeon glanced outdoors to see a truckload of pigs pull up in front of the flagpole. “You will all remain here,” he ordered, “and restrain the movements of that animal. I believe we shall be rid of him in a moment.” He went out and motioned to the farmer to drive his truck up to the dining hall.

“Afternoon,” said the farmer. “You folks got any of my pigs here?”

Mr. Sturgeon smiled. “We do indeed.”

“Darndest thing I ever saw,” said the farmer, getting out of his truck. “Woke up this morning and found a car sitting in my pigpen. Big hole in the fence and all the pigs gone. Later some young fellow comes down with a tow-truck. They haul the car out of the pen and this guy gives me some money for the damages. Claims he was forced off the road by a flying bomb with red and green lights. Did you ever hear a story like that?”

Mr. Sturgeon choked. “A flying bomb with red and green lights,” he repeated oddly. “There — seems to be a lot of that going around.”

“First I heard of it,” remarked the farmer. “Hope my pig didn’t do any damage.”

“No, indeed,” replied Mr. Sturgeon. “He’s just in here, and you’re quite welcome to him.”

With the help of the boys of Macdonald Hall, the farmer loaded his pig onto the truck with the others and drove off.

Mr. Sturgeon stood watching, scratching his head in utter confusion.

* * *

Featherstone sat on his bed turning the UFO over and over in his hands and observing it through a large magnifying glass. There was no doubt that it was some kind of device used by the notorious Fish, for written on the body of it in bold letters were the words
M.H. Flying Fish
.

Although puzzled, Sergeant Featherstone was exhilarated. He had once more ruined the Fish’s operation. Unfortunately he had also ruined his car, his clothing and his left ankle, which hurt abominably. The war against terrorism obviously had its fortunes, good and bad.

M.H. Flying Fish. He puzzled over the letters M.H. Code, obviously. Well, his best bet was to hang around the room and hope for a fish broadcast on TV. Maybe that would add another clue.

* * *

“Mildred, am I going crazy?” asked Mr. Sturgeon over the dinner table.

“Why, William, what an extraordinary question! Of course not! What makes you ask such a thing?”

The Headmaster shook his head. “I’m not certain,” he replied. “I’ve got a phantom voice talking at me from the television set, and now Miss Scrimmage’s absurd story about red and green flying bombs seems to come from something other than her fevered imagination. That pig farmer knows someone who saw the same thing.” Violently he speared a piece of cauliflower. “I’d like to know what’s going on around here!”

“There’s nothing going on around here, dear,” his wife soothed.

“Well, then,” he sighed, “I guess I am going crazy.”

“Now, William …”

* * *

“It’s hard to do homework,” exploded Bruno Walton angrily, “when tomorrow you may not have a classroom or a teacher to hand it in to!”

“Meanwhile, the school is still here,” soothed Boots, “and Elmer says he’ll build another aircraft.”

“Sure he will,” said Bruno unhappily. “But right now he’s on an overnight field trip with that enriched science group of his. That’s twenty-four hours lost — twenty-four hours closer to having the Hall bought and paid for by some dippy developer. I just can’t concentrate on math when the whole world is coming to an end!”

“Go talk to your fish,” suggested Boots sarcastically. “Maybe you’ll feel better.”

“Good idea. I think I need it.” Bruno got up and made his way over to Elmer’s PIT system.

* * *

This is the Fish Patrol in 201
, came the voice.
Our Flying Fish flew away. In fact, things are so rotten around here that even the pigs won’t stay. But we’ll fight to the bitter end! Beware the Fish!