Omega City (5 page)

WE ALL STOOD IN SILENCE.

“A treasure map?” Howard repeated, gesturing wildly with his arms. “A drawing or list of instructions, usually coded, that are directions to some sort of valuable object or objects hidden by the maker of the map?”

“Well, yeah,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest. “But I don't think you earned the book if that's all you have to say about it. We aren't idiots. Of course it's a treasure map: it says ‘find my treasure' and ‘X marks the spot.'”

But what
was
the treasure? Why was it so secret that
they
had had Dr. Underberg killed? Why was it so valuable that Fiona was dating my dad just to find a map to it?

“It doesn't say that,” Howard pointed out. “Not exactly. It says he prefers IX.”

“So what?” I snapped. “You were supposed to tell us what Omega means. That was your job.”

“That's a dumb job,” he said. “I'm not an encyclopedia.”

“We did try a dictionary,” Savannah pointed out.

Howard was silent for a second. “Omega means a lot of things in space. There's the Omega Nebula, which is also called the Horseshoe Nebula. I have a picture of it. . . .” He shuffled around a few papers and pulled out a picture of what looked like a colorful outer-space cloud. “Because horseshoes and the Greek letter omega sort of look the same.”

Except the cloud didn't really look like a horseshoe or the letter omega. At least, not to me. “So you think he's talking about this nebula?”

“No. There are also a lot of stars called Omega.”

“A
lot
of stars?” Savannah groaned. “Oh boy.”

“It's to make star identification easier. See, constellations are made up of many stars—well, stars and other bright objects. Like clusters and nebulas and—”

Savannah looked at me as if to say,
See?
Okay, she had a point about Howard. This was way more than I needed to know about astronomy. It sounded like he was ready to go on all day about everything in the sky remotely connected
to the word omega. Now he was talking about something called the Bayer designation.

“—and each star in a designation is given a Greek letter, usually from brightest to dullest, though not always—”

“Like Alpha Centauri?” Eric asked, probably more to stop Howard's flow than anything.

“Yeah.”

“Is there an Omega Centauri?” I cut in. Let's get to the point.

“Yes. It's a globular cluster. But that's not what the guy in those pages you gave me is writing about.”

I bit my lip and took a deep breath. Maybe Savannah was right. Asking Howard to talk about space was like trying to get a spoonful of water out of a hose. This wasn't getting me anywhere, and who knew what else Fiona knew that we didn't? Maybe she had already figured out another way to get the information on this last diary page. “So what is he talking about?”

“Nothing in space.”

Savannah groaned. I wanted to join her.

“I don't know
what
it is,” Howard admitted. “But I think I know how to find it.”

Okay. That was something at least. Maybe we'd recognize . . . whatever it was when we saw it. Or we could take it to Dad and he could figure it out.

He pointed at the concentric circles on the first diary
page, where it read
I prefer IX
. “Look at the drawing. Nine circles around this central dot—just like the solar system. I think that by IX, he means Pluto. ‘IX' is often a symbol for Pluto in astronomy textbooks. Look—” He stood to grab one of the big, dusty textbooks from the shelf over his desk and opened it up. Sure enough, the illustration showed a solar system model where every planet was marked with a Roman numeral: I for Mercury, II for Venus, III for Earth, and so on. “Pluto is the ninth planet, so it gets an IX.”

“Pluto's not a planet, though,” said Eric.

“It was for most of the twentieth century,” said Howard. “It was only in the past few years that they demoted it to dwarf planet status.”

“Dr. Underberg died ten years before we were even born,” I said.

“So whenever he wrote this, Pluto was still a planet.”

“Wait. Just because he wrote IX, that means Pluto?” Savannah asked. “I think that's kind of a stretch.”

“Not really,” I said. Howard seemed like he was on the right track at last. “Underberg was obsessed with Pluto, all his life. It was discovered on his birthday: February 18, 1930. He'd had murals of it painted on the wall of his office, used it as his code word when working on secret stuff for the State Department . . .”

“His exact birthday?” Howard asked. “Like it's his twin?”

I thought of the last line of the riddle:
When you find my twin, you will find my treasure
. “Maybe. But who leaves a treasure on Pluto? No one's been to Pluto, right?”

“Maybe the green moon monsters,” said Savannah.

“There aren't any green moon—” Howard stopped. “Oh. That was a joke.”

She snickered. I glared at her.
Don't distract him
. He was finally giving us useful info.

He turned to me. “And that's not all. See this number?” He pointed at the long number at the bottom of the last diary page. “That's the average distance from the sun to Pluto: 5,906,376,272 kilometers.”

“Okay,” I conceded. “So you
are
saying there's some kind of treasure on Pluto?”

“Not exactly.” He pointed at the other group of numbers. “This number here: 1,391,000? That's the diameter of the sun.”

“Do you have all those memorized or something?” Savannah asked, rolling her eyes.

“Just the planets,” Howard replied. “I'm still working on the moons. Anyway, he says here to ‘
use the sun to start your journey
.' That made me think. In fourth grade, we made a scale model of the solar system. Do you remember?” he asked her.

Savannah shrugged. “Not really. It was two years ago for me.”

“Sav,” I hissed. She totally remembered that project. I know because she wrote me an email about it, back when I still lived in the city and she wasn't afraid to let people know she could do long division in her head.

But Howard didn't seem to hear her anyway. “Well, one of the things we had to do was figure out the relative size and distance of the planets. There was a worksheet with the measurements on them, and we had to translate them all to smaller sizes. The sun is really one point three-nine million kilometers across, but what if it was the size of an orange? How big would the planets be, how far away? All those calculations. And we made a solar system on the soccer field. Well, mostly on the soccer field. It didn't all fit, because if the sun was the size of an orange, then the relative distance to Pluto would be—”

“You think the treasure map is a scale model of the solar system?” I asked before he gave me the entire rundown.

Howard blinked at the interruption. Then he nodded. “Yes. And IX—Pluto—marks the spot.”

I looked at the page with Underberg's riddle.
You know where I'm from, and the gifts I have left there. And even if the sun sets on this Earth, you can use it to start your journey
. Howard was right—it did sound like he was trying to make the sun the start of a trail to the treasure.

“So all we'd have to do to find this treasure is figure
out the relative distance of the planets, like on the worksheet!” I exclaimed.

Eric tapped the page, where it said
0.05=1,391,000
. “But in this case, instead of the sun being an orange, it's 0.05 . . . something.”

“That's probably kilometers, too,” said Savannah. “0.05 kilometers is fifty meters.” I gave her a look but she didn't seem to notice.

“That's as far as I got.” Howard sat back down at the desk chair. “But I don't know what this fifty-meter thing was that Dr. Underberg was using for the sun.”

“Well, that's going to be impossible to find out,” said Eric. “It's been decades since he wrote this riddle. Whatever it was has been moved or destroyed long ago.”

I looked down at the diary page, and the concentric circles drawn there. When I'd first seen it, I'd thought it was a target. But now I knew it was supposed to be the solar system.

I also knew where I'd seen it before.

“No,” I said softly. “It hasn't been destroyed. We were just there.”

Eric's eyes got really wide. “Solar Park?”

“
Solar
,” I said. “Like the sun. And he says ‘you know where I'm from, and the gifts I have left there.' He has to be talking about the park. It's in his hometown. There's even an engraving of the solar system on the dedication plaque
that looks just like this one.” How funny. I always thought that was just because it was called Solar Park. I'd never even wondered why they'd called it that.

And then I remembered something else. Fiona, knocking on the granite block where the plaque was set. Did she think that was where Underberg's treasure was hidden?

“The park is fifty meters across?”

“It must be close,” said Eric. “Like half a football field?”

“It has to be precise,” Howard said. “Any variation could ruin the calculation.”

“Hey, Howard, can I see my dad's book again?” He handed it over and I flipped through, looking for the page I remembered. “I think Dad wrote about the park in his book. They had to reroute roads and stuff to get it exactly how Dr. Underberg wanted. . . .” I found what I was looking for and started reading. “‘
Town Hall meetings from this time indicate that there was much debate over Dr. Underberg's specifications. He would only donate the money under the conditions that the park meet the following qualifications: 1) perfectly round, 2) precisely fifty meters from end to end, and 3) in the exact spot he specified
.'”

“That's got to be it,” said Howard. He leaped up and snatched the book out of my hands, as if I was going to keep it.

And that was probably why Fiona had been so interested in the park the other day. She knew Underberg had
some kind of treasure, but without the last page of the diary, she had no idea about the riddle, and no clue that Solar Park was only the beginning of the trail. “So if the park is the starting point for the map, we have to . . . uh, find X.” I looked at Savannah helplessly.

She was entering numbers into the calculator app on Howard's computer. “If the sun is fifty meters across, then the relative distance to Pluto is . . .” She punched a button. “. . . about two hundred and twelve kilometers.”

“No ‘abouts,'” said Howard. “We need the exact number, because Pluto's going to be very small.”

“How small? What size is Pluto really?” Savannah asked.

“Two thousand, three hundred and sixty kilometers in diameter.” This time, when Howard rattled off the exact number from memory, Savannah didn't so much as smirk. She was already deep into her calculations, punching in numbers.

“Eight point four-eight centimeters,” she announced. “So about three inches.”

“Like an orange,” Eric pointed out.

“Or a doorknob,” said Howard.

“Or a soda can,” Eric said.

“Or a fist.” Howard was really getting into it now.

I closed my hand into a fist. All the hair on my arms stood on end and I swallowed. “Or . . . a battery.”

“What?” asked Savannah.

I flipped to another page in Dad's book. “The prototype for the Underberg battery,” I explained, pointing at the diagram in Dad's book. “It was supposed to be small enough to hold in your hand.”

Howard frowned. “You think the treasure is a battery?”

“Not just any battery,” I said. “A hundred-year battery. It was going to revolutionize the world, end the energy crisis. It was going to change everything!”

“Then why didn't it?”

I remembered what Dad had said the other day. “Because there were people out there who had a lot of power and money because the world didn't have a battery like that. And they made Dr. Underberg and his battery disappear.”

“
They
again?” Savannah asked.

Howard thought about this for a minute. “That seems stupid.”

“It's because it is,” Eric said. “There's no proof that battery ever worked, but Dr. Underberg kept trying until they fired him.”

I whirled to face him. “Since when do you know so much about it?”

“I live in our house, too.” He shrugged. “I know what's in Dad's book. I just came to a different conclusion than you guys did.”

I'd show him. I'd show them all. If we found the
battery, it would be a hundred times better than a statement from the diner owner. We could prove the battery worked, that Dr. Underberg wasn't a crackpot, and that all Dad's theories were right.

“Dad's book never mentioned anything about this riddle,” I said. “Do you think he just thought it was scrap paper, with all the random numbers?”

Eric considered this. “I'm sure if Dad thought this had any potential, he'd be tracking it down—and dragging us along. Should we ask him?”

“No way!” I shook my head. “If he finds out Fiona's been snooping, he'll go into security mode. And even worse, if he decides to trust her and tells her what we've discovered, she'll—”

“Be gone for good?” Eric suggested. “That is what you want, isn't it?”

I looked away. That was one goal, at least. But it also meant Fiona would get to . . . whatever it was first. I was pretty sure she had no intention of sharing the treasure if she found it. After all, she'd already stolen from Dad.

Eric sighed, letting his head fall back in frustration. “Oh no. You think there's
really
something to find there. Something that will maybe prove Dad was right?”