The 8th Continent (8 page)

MISSION FAILURE
, EVIE THOUGHT, WATCHING FROM THE LIVING ROOM WINDOWS AS MISTER SNOW'S
hovership disappeared into the clouds. Winterpole was too powerful, and now the risks were too great. Even she, who had sworn she would not rest until she stood on the solid earth of the eighth continent, had no options left. If she kept up her quest, her father would surely be sent to the Prison at the Pole. As it was, he had already sacrificed so much—his freedom, his inventions, everything.

She moved to give him a comforting hug, but he backed away.

“Wait, wait! Don't come any closer,” he said urgently. “The EMP!”

The cockatoo perched on a bookshelf nearby screeched in frustration on its owner's behalf. The cacophony filled Evie's ears. Rick expressed his feelings in the opposite way, pushing his chin against his chest and brooding quietly.

“Kids, listen to me.” Dad knelt down so they were all at eye level. “You can't worry about the risks, not now, after you have already come so far. No matter what happens to me, you must continue your search. You must find Doctor Grant and build the eighth continent. It's the only hope we have of getting out of this mess.”

“We think we know where he is,” Evie said. “He's apparently building an island in the Arctic Circle.”

Clapping his hands with amusement, her father said, “Ha! Evan, you dog. Of course he is. Great minds, after all. This is the good news we needed. Come with me down to my lab. I have something to show you both.”

The front door opened, and 2-Tor poked his silver domed head through, carrying a tower of wildly colored suitcases between his wings. “Doctor Lane! I have urgent news to convey to you.”

“It's all right, 2-Tor,” Evie's father assured the robot. “Rick and Evie have told me everything.”

2-Tor wailed, “No! You don't understand. It's much worse than any of our setbacks.”

The frantic tone in the robot's voice worried Evie. “What is it, 2-Tor? What's wrong?”

“It's dreadful, just dreadful news.”

“Did Winterpole come back?” asked Rick.

“Is the
Roost
broken again?” asked Evie.

“No!” 2-Tor lamented. “It's your mother, children. Madam Lane has returned from her business trip.”

Evie's father looked at 2-Tor, then at the luggage he was holding. Mom's luggage. Dad's eyes went as wide as optical discs. “Kids, you have to hide me, quick! She can't see me with this stupid squid around my leg.”

“See you?” Rick repeated. “You mean you still haven't told her about the arrest or the Eden Compound . . . or any of this stuff? I don't believe it. At this rate, there isn't going to be anything left of Lane Industries when we grow up.”

“In all of our phone talks the opportunity never arose.”

Rick gritted his teeth. “‘Never arose'?! How does getting arrested and being imprisoned in your own house never arose?”

“Never arise,” Evie corrected.

“Quiet, Evie,” Rick snapped, shoving his sister.

“Hey, knock it off!” Their father's cheeks reddened. “The truth is, I was waiting for the right moment.”

“We can fight about this later,” Evie replied, displaying an amount of grace that surprised even herself. “Right now, we need to sneak Dad down to his workshop and look for a way to conceal his squid-cuff. If Mom finds out what we've been up to, we'll
wish
we'd been sent to the Prison at the Pole.”

It wasn't that Mom was terrible. She was the best Frisbee thrower Evie had ever seen, she could ski like a pro, and she used to read them the greatest bedtime stories—each one was like a performance. But as the CEO of Cleanaspot, the world's third-largest international soap manufacturer, she was also a mega-powerful businesswoman. These days, she was always traveling and working. Just last week she was in Dubai consulting with hotel magnates about how to improve laundry procedures. After solving the problem of the sheikh's sheets, she was off to Prague for the European Bubble Festival, of which Cleanaspot was a major sponsor.

Evie, Rick, their dad, and 2-Tor crept down the stairs, careful not to make a sound. Every time 2-Tor's joints squeaked, Evie winced, and she wished she had actually listened all those times her dad had told her to clean him.

Through the ceiling, they heard Mom's voice giving her cell phone a stern lecture. “Catherine, for the last time, this is UN-AC-CEPTABLE. I want those sud reports on my desk by Monday morning, or we are all going out with the wash. Is that understood? . . . Good. Have a great weekend.”

They heard Mom walk into the kitchen, and so they sped back up the stairs and into the front hall, where she had just been.

“Quick, hide me!” The kids' father ran to the hall closet and opened the door. Four wetsuits, a surfboard, and two fifty-pound bags of birdseed tumbled onto the floor.

Evie's mom burst into the room. “George! What are you doing?”

Evie's dad pulled his foot under the bags of birdseed to conceal the squid-cuff. “Melinda! Hi! Welcome home! Nothing! Just helping the kids clean out the closet.”

She glanced at Rick and Evie briefly before returning her attention to their dad. “Hi, kids. George, we have that dinner at the International Lodge with those investors from the Soap Syndicate in forty minutes. Why aren't you dressed?”

“Oh! Um . . .”

“Did you forget?”

Evie's father swallowed hard. “No, uh, of course not! Just lost track of the time.”

“Well, hurry up! I'm going to shower. We are leaving in ten minutes.” She hurried up the stairs.

Rick, Evie, and their dad exhaled a collective sigh of relief.

They scrambled down to the workshop, where on the flatscreen Geneva's 110th annual bon bon–eating competition was playing. Evie's dad kept clear of the television so that he wouldn't torch it with his squid-cuff. “Rick,” he said, “run over to my laptop. Pull up the file ‘EC Zero to Zero-Point-Five' and transfer it to your portable hard drive.”

“You got it, Dad.”

Suddenly, Mom's face appeared on the TV screen. Her hair was wet, and she was in a towel. A foamy toothbrush hung out of her mouth. In a panic, Evie's dad stuck his foot in a tool chest.

“George!” Evie's mom said around the toothbrush. “What are you doing down there?”

“Sorry, honey! Just showing the kids a new video game I developed!”

“We don't have time for that! This is UN-AC-CEPTABLE. Go put on your suit.”

Evie's father looked nervous. “Sure thing, honey! Just a minute.”

The image on the screen went back to people stuffing their faces with chocolates.

Minutes passed as Rick worked out how to transfer the file their dad had sent him to find. Evie paced, agitated. Their dad stood perfectly still in the middle of the room, trying not to get too close to his computer equipment or any other electronics in the workshop.

“Got it,” Rick said at last, raising his portable hard drive like the triumphant knight raising his sword in
The Saga of Salma
. “What is it?”

“That's my half of the Eden Compound,” their dad explained. “When you find Doctor Grant, he should be able to reassemble the formula using his half. Hopefully, he can make enough of the compound to create the eighth continent.”

Evie's mom burst into the room. She looked ravishing, wearing a flowing emerald ball gown that matched the earrings she was struggling to fit through her ears. In the second it took Evie to look at her, her dad had thrown a greasy white sheet over himself like a blanket, once again hiding the squid-cuff.

“George!” Evie's mother said. “We are going to be so late.”

“Cough! Cough! Oh, Melinda. I don't think I can go. I think I ate some bad, uh”—he glanced at the television—“bonbons yesterday, and I feel like a goat cheese salad left out in the sun. I don't think I can do anything tonight.”

“Oh, you poor dear!” She stepped toward him to feel the temperature of his forehead with her hand.

“No, Melinda! Wait!” Her husband tried to stop her, but it was too late. She entered the EMP's invisible two-foot radius, and her cell phone exploded, blowing a hole in her purse. Lip gloss, old receipts, and her pocketbook tumbled to the floor.

“What on earth?” she asked, the wrinkles on her forehead at full attention. “My phone! Oh, dear. Maybe this is a sign I shouldn't attend the banquet.”

“No, go!” George insisted desperately. “I'm okay. It's an important meeting. I'll put myself to bed.”

“I don't know, sweetie. Are you sure?”

Evie took a closer look at her father. The edge of the squid-cuff had begun to peek out from the bottom corner of his blanket. “Yup, definitely sure,” he said.

“Oh, uh, okay, if that's what you want.” Evie's mother headed to the door, then hesitated. “I'll get you some chicken soup before I leave. Feel better, honey. Have a good night, kids.”

“Bye, Mom!” Rick and Evie chorused.

When she was gone, Rick turned to Evie. “We need to fess up to Mom. This whole thing is a bad idea. Maybe we should just give up on the eighth continent. Maybe it's not worth it.”

“Maybe you need to pull yourself together,” Evie snapped at him. “Think of all the trouble you've already gotten into. You want that to be for nothing? Winterpole is using Dad to keep us in line. Don't think they won't make note of what we did on your permanent record.”

Rick gasped. “Einstein's ghost! My permanent record? I almost forgot about that. Evie, what are we going to do?”

“We are going to build the eighth continent. That's the only way we can keep Dad from going to the Prison at the Pole. He stole that bird. We broke into Winterpole Headquarters and hacked their data system. We tampered with their records. Well, I tampered with their records. But we can't turn back now. We have to build the eighth continent, and we can't let Mom find out about it.”

Rick had the most horrified expression on his face, like a grotesque statue in a haunted house.

Evie shoved him. “It's not that bad. We'll be fine.”

But Rick wasn't looking at Evie. He was looking over her shoulder, where their mother was standing in the doorway, her head steaming even more than the bowl of chicken soup in her hands.

MRS. MAPLE'S OFFICE WAS THE EPITOME OF MODERN DESIGN AND CONTAINED ALL THE THINGS
a precise
woman like Diana's mother desired. A fine Swiss cuckoo clock adorned each wall, and a tremendous model of Winterpole Headquarters, carved of crystal clear ice, dominated the center of the room.

Mrs. Maple had several important meetings to attend that day, which left Diana and Vesuvia alone to do their homework.

“And so,” Diana said, finishing up an algebra problem, “if you divide both sides by two, you're left with just
x
on this side, and six over here.
X
equals six. See?”

Vesuvia flipped her tablet onto the coffee table. It bounced off and landed on the floor. She stretched like a cheetah after a big meal. “Uggggchh! My brain is exhausted from listening to you. Thank polyester I'm done with math.”

Diana scratched the back of her head awkwardly. “Heh-heh. Yeah. Um, Vesuvia? Now that I've finished your homework, do you think I could get started on mine?”

“I have a better idea,” Vesuvia said, swiping the tablet from Diana's hand and flinging it into the ice sculpture, where it struck with a wet
crack!
“Let's play Bribe Your Mom's Coworkers for Information about the Lanes.”

“That's a long name for a game,” Diana observed.

“Don't be a know-it-all, Diana. They're ugly. Now, we still don't know how the Lanes intend to make the eighth continent, and without that information I can't build New Miami.”

Vesuvia was right. Diana had not seen Rick and Evie since they rode by her mother's office window two days earlier. Since then, Vesuvia had embedded herself at Winterpole Headquarters, scouring the facility for any information that would provide answers about the Lanes' plan for the eighth continent. Now the weekend was almost over, and they were still no closer to solving the puzzle.

“Come on, Diana!” Vesuvia nudged her. “We need to know what they were looking for when they snuck in here.”

Diana shrugged. “I guess I could ask my mom for permission.”

“Sigh!” Vesuvia heaved aloud. “My way is much more fun. Who doesn't like to get paid to
not
do something? Daddy pays me fifty thousand US dollars a month
not
to drown my new puppy in the kitchen sink. It's awesome! And the joke's on Daddy, because I don't even
want
to do that again. After the first time, what's the point?”

Diana wanted to be horrified by this statement, but she had been friends with Vesuvia long enough to expect such twisted things to come from her mouth.

“Come on. Let's go!” Vesuvia hopped up, brimming with excitement. “Carry my tablet.”

Diana picked it up. A few glass shards fell out of the screen. She showed Vesuvia the spiderweb of cracks. “I think it's broken.”

Vesuvia groaned. “Be sure to file an official complaint. They put no effort into making those things last. All the time they break for no reason. Now. Onward! To the Bribe Zone!”

Diana had suggested that they begin their search at the guard barracks, where the uniformed troops who patrolled the halls of Winterpole Headquarters hung out when they weren't on duty. Winterpole guards gossiped like, well, like anyone with a watercooler or an Internet connection, to be honest. It was possible that one of them knew something about Rick and Evie's plan.

The drab barracks housed two rows of long blue cots, like the kind Diana used to take naps on in preschool. There was a small kitchen with no stove and a refrigerator filled with nothing but ice water. At the end of the room two guards were sitting in undershirts and sweatpants, hunched over a wet piece of tile floor. They were throwing ice dice, carved with a toothpick to indicate the dots on each face.

“Hurry up, Larry. Throw before the dice melt.”

Larry cupped the ice dice and blew hard on them. “It serves no purpose to roll, Barry, if I have not successfully channeled my luck.”

“Well, don't blow on them. You will only make them melt faster.”

With a flick of his wrist, Larry tossed the dice. They tumbled across the floor, settling on the numbers five and six.

“No, no, no!” Barry wailed.

“Yes, yes, yes! Eleven!” Larry cheered.

Vesuvia put her foot down. Literally. The ice dice went
crunch
under her pink patent pleather pumps. “What are you two idiots doing? Gambling, on Winterpole property? What would the director say about this appalling display?”

Barry mumbled, “Statute CS-Ta states that on our downtime we must relax however we choose.”

“One time I received a penalty for failing to observe mandatory recreation hours,” Larry added.

“I am appalled,” Vesuvia sniffed in loathing. “Now, you listen to me and do as I tell you, or you are both going to be in hot water.”

Barry shivered involuntarily. “Well, technically most of the water around Winterpole is fairly cold.”

“Silence!” Vesuvia hissed. “You are going to tell me everything you know about Rick and Evie Lane.”

A soft but stern voice behind them spoke. “They are not authorized to divulge that information—even if they did know it.”

Diana turned to see Mister Snow in a trim suit peering down at her. Mister Snow had never been one of Diana's favorite agents. Far from it. He never treated her special the way many did. He really stuck to the letter of the statutes, a true believer in Winterpole's mission. It obviously wasn't just a job to him.

Mister Snow met her eyes and looked perplexed. “Diana, what are you doing here?”

“We can go wherever we want,” Vesuvia snapped. “But now that you're here, maybe you can take us someplace else.”

“It is against regulations for me to take you to unauthorized locations in the building.” He led them back into the hall. “Why? Where would you like to go?”

“Take us to the computer room where Rick and Evie Lane hacked your system.”

“Whoa!” Mister Snow held up his hands in surprise. “That's awfully nosy of you.”

Vesuvia snarled like a rabid poodle.

“Don't make fun of her nose,” Diana cautioned. “She hates that.”

“All Winterpole business with the Lane family has been discarded. We no longer recognize them as a legal entity. And besides, the computer room in question is taped off for an investigation. Statute 20-51 prohibits me from showing you taped-off areas.”

“But what about Statute 100?” Vesuvia asked, slipping out of her purse a note for 100 Swiss francs.

Confused, Mister Snow asked, “Only authorized personnel are certified to refill watercoolers?” Then he glared at her. “Oh, wait a second. Young lady, are you trying to bribe me?”

Undeterred, Vesuvia reached for another bill. “Statute 105?”

The inspector turned to Diana. “Listen, I don't care who this girl thinks she is, or whose daughter you are, but what she is doing violates a half-dozen regulations.”

Vesuvia stuffed the money back into her purse. “Fine. We'll ask someone else.”

“You can ask the curb,” Mister Snow said.

Vesuvia put her hands on her hips. “The who?”