Mummy Madness (3 page)

Ben knew his little brother was
desperate to get his hands on the HAPI crystals so he took the packet and zipped it
into his coat pocket out of the way.

‘And that's not all,'
grinned the professor. ‘I have invented a,
ahem
, hand-held mobile
phone,' he announced.

Lara raised a surprised doggie eyebrow
and Sophie coughed, to stifle a laugh. ‘Hand-held mobiles, Professor? I think
you'll find they've been around for ages.'

Professor Cortex gave a disapproving
glance and carried on. ‘Not like this one, young lady,' he said, giving
her his hardest stare. The professor held his right hand up and spread his fingers.
‘You see the mobile is
in
the hand.'

Cool idea
, thought Lara, her
mind racing ahead.

Ollie looked at
Ben. Ben looked at Ollie. They shrugged.

‘This could be even worse than the
daytime torch!' sighed Sophie, rolling her eyes.

The scientist pressed on, undaunted by
the children's lack of enthusiasm. ‘It's smaller than
pico-technology, you see.'

‘Pico?' repeated Ollie.
‘Cool word.'

‘Cool word indeed, young Oliver.
Let me explain,' nodded the scientist, delighted to have an opportunity to
share his knowledge. ‘When I was growing up, and GM451 was just a pup, we had
good old-fashioned “technology”.'

Steady on, old boy
, thought
Lara.
I'm not that old!

‘And then things got smaller so we
invented
micro
technology. And now most scientists are working on
nano
technology … which is smaller than micro.'

Ollie stifled a yawn.

‘But they're light years
behind. There is a Russian scientist who's working on
pico
-technology, which is so tiny that the human eye can't even see
it.'

‘Smaller than a flea?' asked
Ollie, imagining the smallest thing he could.

Why's
everyone looking at me?
thought Lara, resisting the urge to scratch behind
her ear.

‘Smaller than a flea's brain
cell,' nodded the professor. ‘But, as usual, kiddiewinks, I'm
ahead of the game. Fleas' brain cells are, quite frankly, far too big. We can
do better. I'm working on technology so small that the human brain can't
even
imagine
it. I've had to invent a new word for it. Forget
“technology”. I'm working on
“
titch
ology”.' The professor peered over the top of his
spectacles to see what reaction there was to his new word. The children's
faces were vacant. ‘Titch,' he repeated, ‘as in
“titchy”, which means “tiny”. Can you see that I've
replaced the “tech” bit with …'

‘Nice one, Prof,' cut in
Ben. ‘We get it. To be honest, I'm more interested in seeing
titchology
in action. Have you got any gadgets?'

‘Have I got any gadgets?'
fussed the professor, flapping at the pockets in his white coat. ‘Have I got
any gadgets …' he repeated, looking a little flustered. ‘The
problem with titchology is that it's too small to see. Almost too titchy to
imagine. So the gadgets sometimes, you know …' he continued, turning one
of his jacket pockets inside out.

‘Disappear?' suggested Sophie.

‘Quite,' agreed the
scientist. ‘Benjamin, is your mobile switched on?'

‘Yes, Professor,' said Ben,
tapping his trouser pocket.

‘Then let's try my
device.' The children and dogs watched as the professor made his hand into the
shape of a phone. ‘Thumb up,' he explained, ‘and little finger
raised, like so.' He put his hand to his ear. ‘It's like they do
on TV talent contests when they want you to vote for them,' he explained.
‘Not that I watch such rubbish. But I know that all those really annoying
contestants make a hand signal like a phone. “
Vote for meee. Vote for
meee!
” Except, you see, I have small implants under my skin so my
hand
is
a phone.'

The professor waggled his thumb.
‘Just getting a signal,' he explained. ‘Zero seven six one
one,' he began, talking to his little finger. ‘Eight eight zero three
five one.'

‘That's my number,'
said Ben, his eyes widening. Everyone jumped as Ben's ringtone rang out. He
fumbled in his pocket and looked around at everyone.

‘Well, go on then,' urged
Sophie. ‘Answer it. It might be Mum or someone.'

The professor
chuckled as Ben slid open his phone and put it to his ear. ‘Hello?' he
began.

‘Hello indeed,' said the
professor into his little finger. ‘Are you receiving, Benjamin? This is the
professor calling from his revolutionary hand-held mobile device.'

 

 

Ben looked up.
‘It's you!' he said, pointing at the professor. ‘Talking
from your … 
hand phone
?'

‘It most certainly is,'
beamed the professor, turning and walking into the next room. ‘So what do you
think of my new invention?'

‘It's kind
of … weird,' stuttered Ben into his phone. ‘And really cool, I
suppose.'

‘I agree,' came the
professor's reply. ‘One of my best-ever inventions. I mean, how many
times have you lost your phone or had it stolen? You can't lose this one
because it's implanted under the skin of your fingers.'

‘Does it hurt?' asked Ben,
talking into his mobile. ‘I mean the implanting bit.'

‘Not one jot,' assured the
scientist. ‘“Titch-ology”. Teeny-weeny. Unimaginably small. The
question is, young man, would you want to buy one?'

‘Of course,' stuttered Ben.
‘It's the best invention ever.'

‘Agreed again,' said the
professor. ‘As a famous astronaut sort of said, it's a small invention
by me that will result in a huge leap for humankind. Or something like that. Anyway,
over and out.' Professor Cortex shook his hand and the signal was lost. He
bounded back into
the laboratory and stood
hopping from foot to foot in what Sophie called the Mad Professor Dance.

The children's mouths were open.
Ollie was jumping up and down with excitement. Spud was bounding round the room.
‘That's the best thing ever, Prof,' he barked. ‘Can you do
one for dogs? I could have a hotline to the biscuit factory.'

Lara gave Spud a disapproving look.

‘Humans only at this stage,'
noted the professor. ‘But maybe,' he said, thinking aloud, ‘just
maybe the technology could be built into Spy Dog collars. And,' he announced,
beaming at Lara, ‘it's inventions like this that allow me to make huge
amounts of money that can be ploughed back into my Spy Dog training programme. What
do you say, GM451?'

Lara couldn't keep her tail still.
Her bullet-holed ear stood proudly to attention.
It's a winner, Prof
,
she wagged.
And, if you need a volunteer to try it out, semi-retired agent GM451
is at your service.

Mr Big went straight to the front of
the dinner queue. Nobody dared complain. He was still
relatively new to Hurtmore Prison this second time
around, but everyone knew who he was. In a prison reserved for the worst of
humanity, he was proud to stand out as the most dangerous man there.

He grimaced as food was slopped into the
various sections of his plastic plate. His minder took the tray and Mr Big pointed
to a table by the window. The prisoners stopped slurping. All eyes turned to the
world's most evil criminal. ‘Shift,' he grunted and chairs
immediately scraped across the floor as eight burly men rose to find another table.
‘Except you,' he snarled, nodding at an elderly gentleman with
glasses.

‘M … me?'
stammered the prisoner.

‘Yes. Y … you,'
growled Mr Big. ‘They call you Nigel “The Knowledge” Barrowclough.
You've been inside the longest. And I need some
insider
info.'

Mr Big parked himself opposite
‘The Knowledge'. His life of crime had brought him the finer things in
life yet here he was, eating slop with common criminals. He consoled himself that it
would only be temporary. ‘Which celebrity chef cooked this up?' he
asked, scooping up a spoonful of something grey and letting it
dribble back on to his plate from a great height.

‘Cannibal Joe's not a sleb
chef,' piped up Nigel. ‘But he is famous.'

‘Triple murder, so I've
heard,' growled the master-criminal. ‘And they never found his victims.
That's a real talent. He should stick to killing,' he grunted, pushing
the bowl away. ‘Cooking's not his thing.' The world's most
evil man sighed and looked around at the other prisoners. ‘It's about
time I got acquainted with my neighbours.' He pointed at a large man with a
flat face. ‘What's he in for?'

‘Weeto? Did away with several
wives.'

Mr Big looked impressed.

‘First wife? Poisoned her
cornflakes,' explained The Knowledge. ‘Imagine. What a dreadful way to
go. And his second? Well, the police weren't quite sure how he did it, but all
they would say was that it involved Cheerios and gallons of milk.'

‘Nice one,' purred Mr Big.
‘A cereal killer. And him?' he said, pointing at a flame-haired man who
was pushing food nervously round his plate.

‘Ginger Tom,' said The
Knowledge knowledgeably. ‘Also known as “The Cat
Burglar”.'

‘What's his specialism?' growled Mr
Big.

‘Er, cats,' said the man
hesitantly. ‘Steals pedigree moggies and sells them back to their owners. Dead
clever that is. Plus he's made a fortune from their collars apparently. Rich
owners like their pets to have diamond-encrusted neckwear.'

‘Don't we all?' agreed
Mr Big.

‘And what are you in for, Mr
Big?' asked The Knowledge. ‘If you don't mind me asking, that is?
We know of your reputation. I'm sure you've done hundreds of glorious
crimes. Which one are you actually in for?'

Mr Big's mood changed in an
instant. ‘I'm only in here for one crime,' he snarled.
‘Getting caught. And when I get out,' he growled, ‘there's
going to be one very sorry mutt. And one dead professor.' Everyone said
revenge was sweet, but he would have to wait to rid himself of the sour taste of Spy
Dog and her evil puppies. His nostrils flared as he looked around at the inmates.
The worst criminals from across the land. He had so much in common with his fellow
prisoners that he felt sure he was going to enjoy his temporary stay at Hurtmore
Prison.

‘And what's he in
for?' he asked, pointing to his own cellmate, sitting alone at another table.
‘
I can't get a word of
sense out of him. Just jabbers away all day and all night. Keeps mentioning
something about the legend of the Nile Ruby.'

‘Crazy Dez?' laughed The
Knowledge, pointing with one of his good fingers. ‘Dr Desmond Farquhar. Your
cellmate used to be a famous archaeologist who once met the Queen. But somehow he
became a tomb robber. And a serial museum thief.'

Mr Big's eyes widened with
interest. ‘Tombs and museums, eh? What else do you know?'

‘Only that he has broken into the
British Museum thirty-four times. Same place.
Thirty-four times!
That's bonkers, that is. And then, the final straw, he was caught in the
Egyptian Room, breaking into a coffin. But it wasn't a ruby he was after. He
was trying to steal a mummy! Nasty business if you ask me. Imagine trying to steal a
dead body. That's just weird, that is.'

Mr Big looked at the old man. He was
bony-thin with wild white hair which made him look rather like a spring onion. His
eyes darted around as though he was an animal on the run. The old man was chattering
to himself. ‘He even talks in his sleep,' grumbled the master-criminal.
‘Do you think they'll ever let him out?'