The Case of the Exploding Brains (18 page)

“Maybe he just had to get away from this place.” Holly gestures at the miserable-looking museum staff, who are all either glaring at us or punching each other.

“Maybe he had to get away from the Space Rock,” I say. “It’s here. I know it is.”

“Impossible! The police have looked in every plausible hiding place . . .” Holly says, and then grabs her head. “Whoa! Where did that thought come from?”

“I think you might be reading Miriam’s mind.” That can’t be good. Holly’s rude enough about the things I say. I don’t want to hear her opinions on the things
I think.

“Too late,” she grins. “You’re thinking,
It’s not in a hiding place, it’s in plain sight!
” She turns to Porter, who’s peering closely at
an old jacket potato. “And you’re wondering what counts as ‘plain sight’ and whether Space Rocks look anything like potatoes.”

Telepathic-Holly is going to get annoying, very quickly.

I empty my mind and remove the jacket potato from Porter. “The Space Rock is not going to be disguised as dinner. Ms Grimm can hardly pick it up later if someone accidentally eats it, can
she?”

Holly grins. “Now Porter’s thinking,
Noelle can be very patronising
.”

Porter gives me an apologetic shrug.

I give him a ‘that’s okay’ shrug as he probably has a point. As for Holly, well, I’m beginning to see why the Space Rock makes people start punching one another.

Holly just smiles smugly. “Porter is also thinking
Holly looks nice in that pink jumper.
”

Porter flushes bright red.

Fibonacci!
We need to find this rock fast. All this mind-reading is causing chaos. It has to be here somewhere. All the clues point in this direction. Plain sight. Where would you hide
a Space Rock in plain sight?

At the same moment, we all murmur, “Exploring Space.”

It makes sense for the Space Rock to be here. It’s obvious when you think about it:

It has to be here.

We race through the gallery, hunting high and low, setting off alarms and rattling cabinets. It’s not long before the replacement security guards start shouting and moving towards us.

The Space Rock is close by
, I think, as hard as I can.
If you want the pain and the voices to stop you should help us find it
.

There are advantages to this mind-reading stuff. The security guards stop yelling and join us in the search.

Everyone works together. Well, sort of. The security guards keep getting distracted by the urge to wallop and kick each other but we’re still covering a lot of ground. Porter, Holly and I
stick to the edges of the room, away from the mad scrum of arms and legs in the centre.

I squeal as a hand comes down on my shoulder. “
Pythagoras!
Uncle Max, you scared me. What are you doing here?”

“The more important question is what are
you
doing
still here
? We were supposed to meet fifteen minutes ago. I’m not going to sit out there all day.”

I check my watch. Uncle Max is right about the time. He looks cross and uncomfortable. That might have something to do with the huge square-shaped parcel tucked under his arm.

“What’s in the package?”

“None of your business.” In his zeal to protect his parcel, Uncle Max stumbles backwards and catches the brown paper wrapping on a missile.

As some of the paper rips away, I see a flash of gold. I stare at the shiny metallic glimmer.

The brain ray was wrapped in foil
.

Was that my thought? Or someone else’s? Don’t know, but it’s a good thought, so I’ll go with it – perhaps the Space Rock is disguised as a fake Space Rock, just as
the brain ray was positioned to make it look like part of the exhibition? A double bluff!

I scan the room for the best location to find fake Space Rocks. My army of mind-reading searchers are flagging and clutching their heads in pain. I need to move fast.

“Concentrate the search on the Apollo lunar model exhibit!” I yell, trying to hide my surprise when people actually follow my directions and head for the life-size Apollo lander
complete with lunar landscape and full-sized spacemen. “Finding the rock is the only way to make those headaches go away. Check out any fake rocks!”

Everyone jumps into the Apollo exhibit and starts rooting around like astro-squirrels looking for space-nuts. One by one, bits of fake lunar landscape are examined and discarded. Even Uncle Max
climbs in to help.

Into the chaos staggers Museum Curator Gnome. Even with a large bandage wrapped around his head, he looks far better than he did the last time I saw him. Following closely behind him comes PC
Eric. And Mum!

“Mum?”

She gives a little wave as she leans on the barrier beside the exhibit, wiping her forehead and breathing heavily. The journey from car to museum was obviously a bit much.

Museum Curator Gnome joins Mum in invalid-corner as PC Eric joins the hunt.

The weird combination of anticipation, suspicion and lunacy creates an atmosphere as sticky as treacle, slowing things down and making the air feel thick around us.

“Here!” Porter yells suddenly, tugging at foil. “I have something!”

The security guards dive for him. Holly jumps up to protect him. I shout, “Oi!” several times, in my bravest voice and provide cover-fire with a barrage of fake rocks so Porter can
clamber out of the lunar model display, using PC Eric for support. Slowly, carefully, he unwraps the foil and reveals . . . a lump of polystyrene.

“
Fermat’s
sake, Porter, you had us all excited,” I grumble, leaning back against Mum, who strokes my hair absent-mindedly.

We have several more false-rock-reveals. Museum Curator Gnome kneels to examine the fake rocks alongside us. But no luck. Fifteen minutes later, the ground around the lunar model is bare, the
outside area is covered in foil, and the security guards are now doubled over in pain, clutching their heads. And there is still no Space Rock.

Holly kicks the wall.

I kick myself. I was so sure this was where we would find it.

“Buzz Lightyear,” Mum mutters.

Everyone ignores her.

“BUZZ LIGHTYEAR,” Mum says more loudly, pointing this time.

“I think you mean Buzz Aldrin, Mum.”’ I turn to look at the model space person standing outside the full-sized replica of the Eagle lander. “We’re trying to figure
out where that rock is so could you shh . . . ?
Schrödinger!
” I peer more closely. “Mum! You’re a genius. Look! There’s something in Buzz Aldrin’s
hand!”

Porter moves forward very slowly to lift the small, round object from the model astronaut’s glove. He holds it up to the light, gazing at it in disbelief.

“Ooooooh!” The rest of us gaze too.

There’s something oddly familiar about the small, nobbly, blue-tinted rock. I track through my memory and smile when I realise. “It looks like one of the sparkly blue tablets
Vigil-Aunty hangs in all her toilets.”

“A Loo-nar Rock.” Holly giggles. “I was expecting it to flash, or glow, or at least make some kind of sinister humming noise. Something to reflect the insane effects it’s
been having on everybody.”

“Well, it’s making my heart glow to know it will soon be back where it belongs.” Museum Curator Gnome holds out his hand. “Let me see it, you wonderful boy.”

Porter drops the rock into his palm, keen to be rid of it.

Museum Curator Gnome stares at the rock for long moments before clutching it close to his chest. I have the feeling he’s about to hiss, “My preciousssssssss.” Instead, he
declares, “It’s been found! The people of the world can breathe safely once more.” A single tear rolls down his face. “You, madam, are a genius,” he says to Mum. Then
he pats Holly and me on the cheek with his spare hand. “As for you, my dear young ladies, your deduction skills are a credit to your father. Terribly clever man, you know.” He strokes
the Space Rock and lets the tears flow. “My reputation is saved.”

Everyone is busy congratulating themselves, so I’m the only one who sees Museum Curator Gnome stop mid-stroke and turn the rock over in his hand, his forehead wrinkling.

“What?” I demand, instantly on high alert. “What’s wrong?”

He shakes his head, rubbing the Space Rock’s surface thoughtfully. “Nothing. Nothing. Just . . . well, nothing. We should celebrate.” He begins a cheer, which all the staff and
policemen join in. Then, smiling widely, but only with the bottom half of his face, he runs from the room, declaring, “We need to get this back in its case.”

I stare after him thoughtfully.

Holly joins me. “What’s wrong with him?”

“What do you mean?”

“I could hear his thoughts. Something’s wrong with the rock. But he’s trying not to think about it because he’s worried it could cause problems.”

I remember the way he touched the rock, as if feeling for something that should have been there but wasn’t . . . A part of the Space Rock missing? No, that’s not possible. Is it?
Holly and I glance at each other in alarm.

Before I get the chance to alert PC Eric, Mum stumbles into him, knocking him into Uncle Max, who falls against the barrier, catching the corner of his parcel and ripping the paper across the
middle. All I can see is the back of the canvas, but Holly is on the opposite side. Her eyes widen and she makes a strange noise that could be a giggle, a cry or a signal she’s about to
transform into a warthog.

Porter moves round for a better view. His jaw drops open and he covers his face with his hands. “My eyes!”

I shuffle round to see what all the fuss is about.

Albert Einstein!
Painted on the canvas is Uncle Max, dressed as Han Solo. So that’s what he’s been doing in London – posing for a very large, very strange portrait!
But Uncle Max isn’t the main feature. Oh no. The vision that has Porter poking out his own eyes is a Mobi-tech-generated, frighteningly-lifelike image of Vigil-Aunty . . . wearing Princess
Leia’s tiny gold bikini.

“Blimey!” I say when I can speak again.

“It’s for your aunt’s birthday.” Red-faced Uncle Max tries to cover it up, but it’s too late. By now, even the most demented of the security guards have stopped
punching each other to stare at the picture.

“A long time ago . . .” Porter gasps.

“. . . in a galaxy far far away.” Holly giggles, grabbing Porter for support.

“Ha flaming ha,” Uncle Max mutters.

“I think it’s very romantic,” I tell him.

“Glad to have cheered everyone up,” Uncle Max mutters. “I thought you were supposed to be celebrating saving the world or something.”

“You’re right.” Porter does a little waltz with Holly, then releases her and raises his arms. “I declare the Case of the Exploding Brains closed.”

The response he gets is:

“It’s not really closed, is it?” she protests. “What about the Grimm Reaper? She’s escaped again and this time she has the brain ray.”

“Which is broken.” Porter dismisses Holly’s concerns.

“For now.” Holly says. “Plus, we think she’s—”

I don’t know if it’s telepathy or just knowing my sister very well, but I realise Holly is about to reveal that we think Ms Grimm’s taken a scraping of the Space Rock too. I
put my hand on her arm and think,
Not now. This is the time to celebrate
.

Holly takes a deep breath and nods.

There may be more work to be done, but for now we link our hands together, raise them in the air, and announce together, “We declare the Case of the Exploding Brains closed . . .
ish.”

Dad/ Prisoner 4837/ Wacky Scientist, Professor Brian “Big Brain” Hawkins . . .

. . . is still in prison. The governors kept their promise and reduced his sentence by one month in exchange for the information about the attempted prison break. However, when
it became obvious that the Neanderthugs couldn’t plan their way out of a paper bag and that Dad was surprised to discover he was the source of the tip-off, they then increased it by two
months. It doesn’t take a mathematical genius to work out that wasn’t the perfect result for Dad.

The prison officers decided he must have had inside help from one of the guards in order to communicate with his Mobi-tech allies and plan the prison break. So they’re transferring him to
a different prison, with a new set of Neanderthugs. The only special treatment he’s been offered is access to
TV WOW!
magazine so he can make sure no more of his documentaries are
shown on prison TVs.