Brainboy and the Deathmaster (7 page)

“Back among the living, I see.”

His head jerked around. Off to his right were a table and two red-velvet armchairs, one occupied by a man whose face was lit by the glow from a laptop computer in his lap. Darryl jumped out of the other side of the bed and stood at attention.

“Mr. Masterly!”

“Hi, Darryl.”

Was it possible Keith Masterly had really watched over him while he napped? “What … what time is it?”

“Noon.”

It had been around ten o’clock when Darryl had dozed off in the decrepit van with the fancy interior. “I can’t believe I took a nap in the morning. I’m really sorry. I hope you didn’t have to carry me!”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Twice in two days he’d conked out in a car and needed to be carried!

“How are you feeling?” Mr. Masterly asked.

In fact, Darryl was famished, in spite of the pastry he’d eaten. “I’m kind of hungry, sir,” he said.

“Small wonder. You haven’t eaten in over twenty-four hours.”

“But I just had that …
chausson aux pommes.
”

Mr. Masterly smiled. “That was yesterday.”

“Yesterday?”

“It’s Tuesday.”

“What? What happened to Monday?”

“You’ve been in a state of shock lately, running on adrenaline. It’s not unusual to sleep that long, under the circumstances.”

Darryl was stupefied. Once, when he’d had the flu, he’d slept twelve hours, but that was his record, at least since he was a baby. Over twenty-four hours didn’t seem possible.

He looked around for a window. Across the room were some drawn curtains, but he felt embarrassed
about parading around in his underwear in front of Mr. Masterly.

“Excuse me, sir, but do you know where my clothes are?”

“You might check in there,” Mr. Masterly said, pointing at the doorless wall beyond Darryl.

“Where, sir?”

“There.”

As Darryl stepped tentatively that way, a panel in the wall slid open, revealing a plushly carpeted dressing room, itself twice the size of the bedroom he used to share with his brother. He walked in. To his right was a gleaming, blue-tiled bathroom with a glassed-in shower and a Jacuzzi, to his left a mirror that showed how messy his hair was. As he stepped closer to it, combing with his fingers, the mirror parted, revealing a walk-in closet with dozens of shirts on hangers and a set of drawers and a shoe rack. The top drawer contained dozens of pairs of brand-new socks, every color, each with a small PL embroidered in dark-red thread. The second drawer was full of underpants: all white with the same dark-red PL on the waistband, all Darryl’s size. The third drawer was for T-shirts, all colors, all his size, all with PL on the right sleeve. The shoe rack held the sort of jelly shoes you wear at the beach, again in a dozen colors, all his size.

When he pulled a shirt off its hanger, he discovered
it wasn’t a shirt at all but a futuristic jumpsuit with a PL patch on the chest. He pulled out another, a dark-blue one, and put it on. He found a pair of matching shoes, put them on, and stepped backward. The mirrored doors closed. Staring back at him was a Darryl right out of
Star Voyager.

In the bathroom he washed the sleep out of his eyes and brushed his teeth. Along with a toothbrush and toothpaste on a glass shelf over the sink was a selection of fancy soaps, bottles of mouthwash and eau de cologne, a stick of deodorant, a hairbrush and comb set, and a sleek-looking electric razor. He gave his hair a good brushing. Though he’d never shaved before, and had no whiskers to speak of, the razor looked so cool he would have tried it out if he hadn’t been keeping one of the most important people in the world waiting.

“You look great,” Mr. Masterly said as Darryl emerged from the dressing room.

“Thanks,” he said, only now noticing that Mr. Masterly had on a similar futuristic outfit. “What’s PL?”

“You’ll see.”

Darryl walked over to the far wall and pulled the curtains, but instead of the expected view of Lake Washington, there was a movie screen. Setting his laptop on the table, Mr. Masterly got up and brought Darryl a remote control. It had a GameMaster-like
keyboard and a liquid crystal display panel at the top.

“Type in ‘Movies.’”

Darryl did, and a list of categories scrolled across the LCD panel: Action, Western, Drama, Romance, Animated. He clicked on Action, and an alphabetized list of titles scrolled across the panel:
Abduction from the Castle of Terror, The Abominable Snowman Meets the Loch Ness Monster, Absolute Force
—every action movie he’d ever heard of and many, many more. He hit fast forward, speeding up the list, and clicked on one. Sure enough, the familiar opening credits of
Star Voyager
flashed onto the big screen.

“Unreal! It’s twenty times bigger than a TV.”

“You’ve got over twelve hundred movies to choose from,” Mr. Masterly said.

“This is really my room?”

“Absolutely.”

Delighted, Darryl realized he could watch the rest of the movie later and pressed the pause button. He looked around for a window, but his eyes settled on a nearby painting, a portrait of a woman with a mysterious smile.

“The
Mona Lisa
,” he murmured.

“Perhaps you’d like something more modern? Try Art.’”

Darryl typed in “Art” on the remote. Another list of
categories appeared on the LCD panel: African, American, Australian Aboriginal, Chinese, Dutch, Egyptian, English, Flemish, French, German, Ancient Greek, Indian, Italian, Native American, Roman, Spanish … He clicked on American and soon replaced the
Mona Lisa
with colorful spatters of paint.

“Try ‘Music,’” Mr. Masterly suggested.

Darryl typed in “Music” and, after weeding through a bunch of categories, selected a legendary Seattle grunge band.

“Not bad, huh?” said Mr. Masterly as a familiar rock anthem filled the room.

“Unbelievable!”

“Unfortunately, it can’t produce food. How about some brunch?”

Darryl nodded enthusiastically, and Mr. Masterly pressed a button on his wrist device.

“Hedderly, will you please bring brunch for Darryl and me in room eight?”

His house was so big the rooms were numbered!

“How do we get some daylight, sir?” Darryl asked.

“You want more light?” Mr. Masterly turned a dimmer switch on the wall, and the rosy glow brightened.

“Aren’t there any windows?” Darryl said.

“I’m afraid not. Security.”

This made sense. Someone as rich and powerful as
Keith Masterly probably had enemies, or people who wanted to spy on him—and anyone could buzz by his house in a boat. The windows Darryl had seen in photos of the house must have been a false facade.

“Could I make a quick call, sir? BJ and his mom’ll be worried about me. They’ll never believe I slept a whole day!”

“Will you do me a favor first?” Mr. Masterly asked.

“Of course!”

“Listen to what I have to say.”

Mr. Masterly sat back down in his red velvet chair and pointed at the one opposite. It was the most comfortable chair Darryl had ever sat in.

“I consider myself a pretty good judge of character, Darryl, and I’ve decided you’re someone worth cultivating. You’re part of a very small elite. Do you know what ‘elite’ means?”

“That you’re snobby?”

“Not necessarily,” Mr. Masterly said, smiling. “It means being part of a select group. I’m speaking in terms of intellect. I think you may be a genius, Darryl.”

“Because I get straight As?”

“Let’s just say it’s an intuition. But the trouble is, young people with fine minds often don’t get proper encouragement and guidance, and their natural intellect ends up going to waste.”

“You must have had proper encouragement and guidance.”

“I was one of the lucky ones. And I want you to be one of the lucky ones, too.”

“You do?”

“Yes. I’ve decided to offer you a rare opportunity. In fact, the rarest in the world.”

“What opportunity?”

“To change the course of human history.”

Darryl waited for Mr. Masterly to smile again, to show he was kidding. But he didn’t.

“W
hat do you mean, sir? Darryl asked a little breathlessly.

“I mean there’s an opening at Paradise Lab, and I want to offer it to you.”

“Paradise Lab? That’s PL?”

Mr. Masterly nodded.

“What is it?”

“Do you know what a think tank is, Darryl?”

“A place where people sit around thinking?”

“More or less. Paradise is a kind of think tank. It’s become the primary focus of my life. I’ve been scaling back at MasterTech, delegating some of my responsibilities. I still enjoy dreaming up the games, but the business side has become tedious. Whereas Paradise is never tedious.”

“Where is it?”

“Right here in Washington State.”

“Really? I never heard of it.”

“It’s top secret.”

“Is it really a paradise?” Darryl asked, flattered to be let in on something top secret.

“Well, what do you think?”

“Excuse me?”

“This room is part of it.”

“You mean it’s in your house?”

Mr. Masterly shook his head. “We stopped by the house yesterday, then flew here last night.”

“While I was asleep?” Darryl said, more flabber-gasted by the moment.

“Do you like it?”

“It’s great, but … you mean we’re not on the lake?”

“We’re in Paradise Lab.”

“You mean … but where are we?”

“In Washington State, as I said. Have you ever thought about what paradise really is, Darryl?”

It was very hard to think about anything when he was feeling so disoriented. They weren’t in the house on Hunt’s Point; they were somewhere they’d had to fly to. In the copter? Mr. Masterly clearly wasn’t going to get any more specific than “Washington State,” seeing as it was top secret.

“Paradise would be a place where you’re happy,” Darryl said.

“Exactly. But what’s happiness? The absence of unhappiness, perhaps? That’s the conclusion I’ve come to. Do you know what the root of unhappiness is?”

“I’m not sure.”

“The root of unhappiness is time.”

Mr. Masterly’s watch gizmo beeped. He went to the door and returned wheeling a little trolley, which he parked by the table between their chairs. The biggest thing on it was a silver dome with a handle formed of the letters PL. There was also a silver coffee pot, a gold-rimmed cup and saucer, two silver forks, linen napkins with a PL monogram, and two glasses of orange juice with small paper cups beside them.

“I hope you like eggs Benedict,” Mr. Masterly said, releasing a puff of steam as he lifted the dome.

There, on a gold-rimmed plate, were twin mounds of poached egg and Canadian bacon perched on English muffins. Darryl had never had eggs Benedict, but they certainly smelled good.

“They’re all yours,” Mr. Masterly said.

“What about you?”

“I have to watch my weight.”

Mr. Masterly plucked a dark-blue pill out of the little paper cup and took it with his juice. Darryl pulled a pale-blue pill out of the other paper cup.

“Our MasterPills,” Mr. Masterly said. “They give you all the vitamins and minerals you need, plus they stimulate the brain cells. That one’s designed specially for young people. Try it.”

Darryl swallowed the pill with a swig of orange
juice. “Wow, fresh squeezed!” He tried the eggs. “These are great!”

He tried not to wolf down his brunch, but it was so good, it was hard not to.

“You were saying something about time, Mr. Masterly?” he said when his plate was clean.

Mr. Masterly poured himself a cup of coffee. “If you had to describe life as we know it in a word, Darryl, what would that word be?”

Darryl suspected life as he knew it, and as most people knew it, was pretty different from life as Keith Masterly knew it. “I’m not sure, sir.”

“I suppose it would be expecting a lot for someone your age to have a
Weltanschauung.
”

“A what?”

“An overview of the world. Even for someone who’s lost his family.” Mr. Masterly’s wrist buzzed again. “Unfortunately, time is still my master. We’ll have to continue this little talk later—if you’re interested.”

“Oh, yes!” Darryl said, afraid the buzz meant that he was boring the great man as Ms. Grimsley had.

“You accept my offer then?”

“Well, it sounds fantastic, sir. But …”

“But you have doubts. I understand. A pity, though.”

“I didn’t mean no! I only meant I wasn’t sure.”

“The trouble is,” Mr. Masterly said, standing up,
“there are several others in line for the spot.”

“For being adopted?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“What would I do there? I mean, here.”

“Learn. And apply what you learn to unlocking the mysteries of the universe. For example, have you ever wanted to communicate with someone who’s dead?”

As Darryl stared at it, the rosy globe lamp above Mr. Masterly’s head turned fiery red. But instead of feeling hot, Darryl started to shiver.

“Darryl? Are you all right?”

“Isn’t communicating with the dead impossible?” he said, barely above a whisper.

Mr. Masterly picked up the remote and pressed a button. The painting changed from loose, colorful splatters to a detailed still life of apples and peaches with a dead rabbit hanging on the wall in the background. “Fifty years ago people would have said doing that was impossible. If you believe something’s impossible, it is. Open your mind, and the possibilities are infinite.”

But the thought of talking with the dead was as painful as it was intriguing, and Darryl’s mind veered away. “What about BJ?” he said. “Could we still learn to water-ski?”

“Not if you decide to stay here, I’m afraid. But if you prefer to water-ski the summer away, you certainly may.”

“Is Paradise Lab in session now?”

“Paradise is always in session.”

“No vacations?”

“Depends how you look at it. You might say it’s all vacation, since being genuinely engaged in something is the only true source of pleasure in life. And at Paradise you’re always engaged.”

“Are there other kids here?”

“That’s all there are, except for a small staff. Would you like a tour?”