Curioddity (28 page)

Lucy thought on this for an abnormally long moment. She pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes. “Groovy,” she said. “And also creepy.”

“What do we do?” asked Wil. “What does it mean?”

“It means we needed Lucy all along. Come on.”

*   *   *

M
R.
D
INSDALE
moved again toward the end of the hall, and the temporal exhibit. The hallway politely seemed to extend itself a few yards in order to accommodate the old man's explanation.

“For many years,” began Dinsdale, “I have been struggling with a certain Mr. Marcus James and his over-whitened teeth. I find the man to be a reprehensible toad.”

“That's unfair to toads,” said Wil.

“Indeed. The man has been picking away at my prototypes and patents for as long as I can remember. If I file one, he files something just close enough and just far enough away to prevent me from stopping him. And then he puts it up quickly on his television show, and my product is drained of potential before I ever have a chance to turn on the faucet. He's a master of ambiguity. No matter how many times I try to defend myself, he tends to beat me with sheer volume.”

“Sounds ugly,” said Lucy.

“It's worse than ugly. It's utterly bland and thoroughly banal. Marcus James knows people will look the other way if something isn't memorable enough to affect their lives. His products are cheap and instantly forgettable, his television pitch shows are meaningless and repetitive, and his personality is on a par with a shellfish. But this is how he gets away with double- and triple-billing people for the same product: it's difficult to remember something you probably didn't want in the first place, especially if it costs you more to return than it does to throw in your basement somewhere.”

“But that's not fair! You can't just steal people's ideas, and then sell an inferior version of them!”

“Marcus James can, and does. The devil is in the details—or in his case, the costs of shipping, handling, and those infernal micropurchases. The more money he earns from his exploits, the more he steals and the worse his products become. I'm afraid we have become a society that gives in to automated telephone answering services and accidental overcharges on our bank accounts. Who has the time to fight the system when the system is smarter and richer than we are?”

Wil was beginning to understand the problem: Mr. Dinsdale represented a particular threat to Marcus James, primarily because his museum took a stance against conventional thinking, and the slow death of intellect that comes with mediocrity. “So he's squeezing you out?” he asked. “This has to do with the repossession?”

“Yes. Without a copy of the original bill from the electric company, we can't tell if the surcharge was ever paid, or if it was fair, or if it even existed.” Mr. Dinsdale began to flap his hands again, like an emotional swan. “We all know that life isn't fair. But life should at least come with a printed copy in large type in case of misunderstandings and overbilling.”

“I'm probably going to kick myself for this,” said Wil, cautiously, “but where do Lucy and I fit in to all of this?”

“You're going to break into Marcus James's offices and steal the original electric bill back for me!”

*   *   *

I
T WAS
at this very moment that the hallway suddenly ended, and Wil, Lucy, and Mr. Dinsdale emerged into the temporal exhibit. For a moment, Wil was slightly less dumbstruck by the request Mr. Dinsdale had just made, and slightly more dumbstruck by the astonishing sight of the various displays behaving as they had always been intended to. Sparks played across the reverse periscope. A humming noise emanated from Einstein's answering machine. And over at the far wall, one of the Roberts was steadily banging away at the Levity box's shelf with a large hammer.

“So we're going to break into some guy's office and steal some old records that belong to you?” said Lucy, fixing Mr. Dinsdale with her best even gaze.

“Yes.”

“And we could get arrested?”

“I'm afraid so, yes. Assuming you were to get inside his offices in the first place. I think I can help you on that count: please know that you will have any and all exhibits in this museum at your disposal, should you so choose. And with crack detective Wil Morgan on the case—”

“—not to mention his beautiful and groovy partner!”

“Not to mention his beautiful and groovy partner—”

“—and her trained cat!”

“Let's not overburden the logic here. With crack detectives Wil and Lucy on the case, failure is not an option. Which is a good thing because we only have until midday tomorrow before the bank turns over the original deed to the museum in lieu of proof of payment of the original electricity bill.”

Lucy pondered this for a moment, then grasped Wil's hand firmly and stared deeply into his eyes. “If you say no,” she said, “I'll hit you over the head with
War and Peace
again. This is going to be awesome.”

Mr. Dinsdale fixed Wil with a steely—if somewhat watery—gaze. “Will you do it, Wil?” he asked. “If not for me, then for the sake of those at the mercy of automated answering systems and micropurchases everywhere?”

Wil lowered his gaze. This stood for everything his father had always taught him to avoid and, quite frankly, a few things his mother might have been a bit leery of as well. He was about to break into the offices—alarmed and brimming with security forces, no doubt—of a very nasty little man with a very nasty temper, and teeth that could not be trusted. He and Lucy might possibly be arrested or shot at; worse, he might provide his dad with enough ammunition to scupper Thanksgiving dinner conversation for the next thirty years.

Wil noticed that Einstein's answering machine was blinking, incessantly, suggesting someone had left a new message from the future since the last time he'd been here. On a whim, he reached out and pressed the Play button.

“Wil!” came Lucy's voice from some point in the not-too-distant future. “We're inside Marcus James's offices! There's no time to explain! Whatever you do, make sure you bring SARA's charging cord so that you can plug her in. You'll understand this later.”

The machine's message ended as quickly as it had begun. And Wil found two pairs of eyes staring at him, not to mention the rapt attention of a few nearby wooden crates, and Robert, who had stopped banging and was anxiously hanging on every word.

*   *   *

“
W
ELL,” SAID
Wil, without missing a beat. “I guess that answers that question.”

 

CHAPTER TWELVE

A
T FIRST
glance, the small, triangular device Mr. Dinsdale now held in his palm appeared to be in the running for the least useful item in history. Indeed, Wil surmised after allowing himself a second glance, if there were a national referendum imminent on the subject of futility, this particular item would stand a great chance of finishing in the top spot against, say, a half-eaten banana, a polka-dotted cummerbund, and a medium-sized sock with a hole in the toe.

The small device beeped at random intervals, accompanied by a little LED light that arbitrarily illuminated one of its sides. The beep was never the same tone twice. The device had a yellowish tinge to its underside that may or may not have been intentional, depending on whether or not the stains were composed of paint or bacteria.

“What is it?” asked Wil, eyeing the thing suspiciously.

“That's right!” replied, Mr. Dinsdale, proudly.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your powers of deduction are remarkable, Wil. You're spot on the nose: it's a Whatsit. A really good one, too—not one of those Lithuanian knockoffs.”

“Which makes it…?”

“Very expensive. And quite possibly highly contagious, depending on the operator. I want you to take it with you to Marcus James's offices. It will prove crucial to your efforts.”

Wil tried to muster all of the patience he could, and failed. He found himself wondering about the exact meaning of the word “muster,” and postulating on whether or not “muster” was even a real word. As was typical when he stood inside the museum, he was allowing himself to get distracted again. “Mr. Dinsdale,” Wil said in an attempt to muster something, “I have a headache. I'm not sure any of this is legal, I'm not sure what I've accidentally agreed to, and I'm not sure how this Whatsit of yours can be invaluable if I don't know how it works.”

“How it functions depends on you, Wil. The Whatsit taps into a person's innermost desires on a fundamental level. It will predict your suppositions, and it is programmed to adjust accordingly. In other words, it'll probably do whatever you want it to do as long as you don't think of what you need directly. When operating a Whatsit you must remember to concentrate on relaxing. It's a little like driving a bicycle on the Autobahn, blindfolded. Otherwise, I'm afraid I'm a little fuzzy on the details.”

Dinsdale handed the Whatsit to Wil, who scowled at the device, just to make it clear who was in charge around here, before thrusting it into his pocket.

“You know, Mr. Dinsdale, this all sounds delightfully bananas but I'm kinda monkeyed out this week. You're asking me—”

“And your groovy assistant,” interjected Lucy, quickly.

“—and my groovy assistant, minus her trained cat,” continued Wil with a sigh, “to break into someone's building and steal some ancient paperwork that probably crumbled into nothingness sometime around 1957!”

“My goodness! Where did you hear that? Is it true? Oh, calamity!”

“No, I'm not saying it's true. I'm saying we need a plan. Waltzing into someone's office building with absolutely no idea of the layout—not to mention the security systems—is akin to suicide. We could get shot and killed in there!”

“Aha!” yelled Mr. Dinsdale. He slapped his thigh in a show of enthusiasm that would have made a circus ringmaster blush. “But you don't get killed, do you? In fact, you most definitely survive. We know that Lucy sends us a telephone message from the future, which proves at the moment she sends it that you're both alive. Or at least she is!”

“Gee, thanks.”

“I'm sure she would have mentioned it if you were dead. Anyway, I rather feel we must do as she's going to ask and bring SARA's charging cord with you. We'll add it to the pile.”

Wil looked at the pile in question. The addition of SARA's charging cord was in danger of becoming a tipping point, he felt, to the mountain of objects Mr. Dinsdale had assembled in the middle of the Curioddity Museum's lobby. Over at the register, Mary Gold smacked her gum and tried to topple the pile with a few disdainful looks. The three Roberts stood to one side, flushed with the effort of retrieving various items from various floors of the museum.

The pile comprised sundry widgets pulled from their exhibit cases, and it most certainly did not create any feelings of confidence. At its base—covered by a wide variety of scrap—sat the Civil War periscope, a device that demonstrated the bizarre property of being able to see underneath the ground the farther one raised it up. Wil felt the chances of this particular item being useful during the upcoming festivities to be slimmer than a Hollywood actress preparing for a red carpet event. And he further felt that the cumbersome periscope was far and away the most useful item of the lot.

In addition to the periscope was a veritable cornucopia of the most amazing inventions mankind had ever shunned, reviled, or completely ignored. There was a top hat capable of turning into a large brown curtain as long as no one was looking. According to Mr. Dinsdale, the curtain would immediately turn back into a top hat if a bystander looked directly at it. To all intents and purposes, this incredible exhibit simply appeared as a top hat inside its regular display case, since no one had ever seen it in curtain form.

A small, innocuous-looking toolbox contained a series of ratchets, wrenches, and screwdrivers once belonging to world-famous escapologist Harry Houdini. The tools entertained the remarkable property of being able to unscrew screws, loosen nuts, and pop off various retaining bolts that Mr. Houdini would have encountered during his various attempts to drown in public. Wil had neither the energy nor the heart to inform Mr. Dinsdale that the “remarkable” properties ascribed to the tools were the very things any ordinary set of tools were supposed to possess in the first place.

Adding to the fun was a leopard whistle that could only be used to attract small dogs ever since it had been slightly dented in the middle. Again, Wil felt that pointing out the item was more than likely just a dog whistle was simply spoiling the fun, considering Mr. Dinsdale's obvious enthusiasm for the object.

Mr. Dinsdale had thoughtfully assembled a sewing kit containing famed mathematician Alan Turing's Quantum Needle. According to Dinsdale, Mr. Turing had worked as a part-time reality tailor after the Second World War, darning unraveled superstring, and generally making a nuisance of himself to the Nobel Prize committees of the time. The Quantum Needle was theoretically used to repair any tears in the fabric of the space-time continuum, though how it actually worked in the field was a matter of some debate. When Wil had pressed the question, Mr. Dinsdale had simply mumbled, “quantum physics,” which seemed to be his standard response to any question he didn't know the answer to.

Capping off the enormous pile was a plastic bag full of useless items of indeterminate origin. These items had all been hastily placed inside the bag, upon which was written the legend “kit and caboodle.” An old plastic bottle of window cleaner, a crystal ball, and a rainbow lollipop stuck out the top of the assortment. Wil suspected the word “caboodle” (like the word “muster”) would not prove to mean that which he expected—it was probably old English slang that had something to do with explosives. Lucy raised her eyebrows in response to his concerned look as if to say,
This is going to be the greatest—not to mention wackiest—thing I have ever done in my entire life, and you'd better not spoil it, mister
. Wil found himself surprised by Lucy's sophisticated body language, and hoped that she and Mary Gold never got to semaphoring about him behind his back.