Beware the Fisj Page 3

  “Thank you, sir.” The boys backed out of the office and scurried down the marble corridor of the Faculty Building.

  Once outside, Boots let his breath out in a long sigh of relief. “A day’s punishment?” he said incredulously. “I thought he was going to murder us!”

  “I knew he’d go easy,” replied Bruno. “He doesn’t like Miss Scrimmage anyway. He was so mad at her he forgot he was mad at us. It’s all very simple. Anyway, we need a quiet day in our room.”

  “You bet!” said Boots enthusiastically. “I could use a nap. I hardly slept at all last night.”

  “Who said anything about sleep?” demanded Bruno. “Our suggestion box must be full by now. We have to get to work.”

  “Swell,” said Boots without enthusiasm. “We could have started getting publicity for the Hall last night if we’d thought of it. Picture this: Students Shot By Crazed Headmistress. Wouldn’t that have enlarged our enrolment?”

  “Don’t be an idiot,” scoffed Bruno. “This is an important thing we’re doing. If everyone takes it as lightly as you do and Macdonald Hall closes, then where will we be?”

  The two boys headed for Dormitory 2 to serve their punishment and read the suggestions.

  * * *

  “I don’t care about the budget!” snapped Mr. Sturgeon into the telephone. “My boys must have their evening snack … Because they’re young and healthy and they’re growing, that’s why. They’re also begging food over at Scrimmage’s, and I’ll not have that! We may be in financial difficulty, but surely we have some pride! … Yes, a little cereal and milk would be fine. I’m glad you agree, Jim … Thank you. Good-bye.”

  He replaced the receiver with a look of satisfaction on his face. It had taken Bruno Walton and Melvin O’Neal to get him back into harness, but at least now he was fighting back.

  * * *

  In room 201 the Pacific salmon smiled down on industrious activity. Elmer Drimsdale’s head was buried deep inside the black box containing his PIT system. He was tinkering happily while humming a Bach fugue.

  Bruno and Boots sat cross-legged on the floor. Between them was Boots’s duffle bag, filled to overflowing with small pieces of paper.

  “Here’s something,” said Boots. “Let them close the place up so we can all go home and get a square meal. It’s signed Anonymous.”

  “You know, I’m a little disappointed in all this,” said Bruno. “A lot of the guys don’t seem to have understood what we wanted. Look at these suggestions — rob a bank, get caught and get your name in the paper; commit a murder, same notation. What’s the matter with these idiots?”

  Boots laughed. “Here’s one from Sidney Rampulsky. It says, Discover gold on the campus.”

  “Ha!” said Bruno. “I wish we could. Here’s two more rob a bank, for goodness’ sake!” He shuffled through several others. “Hey! Now here’s something! Marvin Trimble says we should fake an ancient Indian burial ground. Then the government will declare the site a national monument and they’ll never allow anything to be built here, so the school will stay.”

  “Bruno, are you crazy?” Boots exclaimed. “We can’t do that. Where would we get ancient relics?”

  “An arrow is an arrow,” shrugged Bruno.

  “Not when it’s plastic and says Made in Japan!”

  “So we’ll make a few in shop,” argued Bruno, “and we’ll stomp on them a bit so they’ll look old.”

  “They won’t be ancient enough,” insisted Boots. “Those archeologist guys have ways of finding out how old things like that are. They’re not just going to take a quick look and say, ‘Great heavens! Arrows!’ and then put up a national monument. They’re going to check to see if the stuff is real — which it won’t be. And then we’ll be in trouble again.”

  “I guess you’re right,” conceded Bruno. “What a stupid guy that Marvin Trimble is! Do you see anything else in this mess?”

  Boots nodded. “Rob Adams says someone should make a great discovery, like a cure for a terrible disease. Just like that!”

  “That’s Elmer’s department,” laughed Bruno. “Hey, Elm, as soon as you’re finished with that TV thing would you mind discovering a cure for some dread disease?”

  Elmer’s head emerged from the black box. “Oh,” he said seriously, “as a matter of fact I’m working on a cure for the common cold right now.”

  “I thought you were working on that broadcasting thing,” said Boots.

  “I am,” replied Elmer. “I am currently involved in seventeen different projects — or is it eighteen? I don’t remember.” His head disappeared again.

  Boots cast Bruno a look of pure wonder. “Does he ever finish anything? Is he ever successful?”

  Bruno shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “At last!” cried Elmer. “It’s completed!” He leapt to his feet and gazed earnestly at Bruno and Boots. “Would you mind helping me set it up to test it?”

  “Sure,” said Bruno.

  He and Boots picked themselves up off the floor and watched in amazement as Elmer began gathering equipment from every corner of the room, under the beds and in the closet. They spent the next hour fetching, carrying and holding electronic gear for the eccentric genius as he set up his new invention.

  When it was all done, several yards of wire and cable snaked across the walls and under the furniture to Elmer’s PIT system. On top of the box sat an enormous jumble of circuits, tubes and resistors, and a condenser microphone, all attached to a camera turret. The lens was pointed directly at Elmer’s Pacific salmon poster. On the back of the black box was a small television monitor and speaker. Bruno and Boots were awed.

  “Wow!” said Boots. “Even if it doesn’t work, it’s a thing of beauty! Now what happens?”

  “We try it out, of course,” replied Elmer. “If my computations are correct, my salmon should appear on the screen and whatever we say will come out on the adjacent speaker.”

  “That’s it?” asked Bruno. “Come on, Elm, any camcorder could do that.”

  “Ah,” Elmer’s eyes gleamed. “But could a camcorder beam the image across a pathway of positive ions at the speed of light?”

  “Good point,” said Bruno. He reached for the On switch.

  * * *

  “Isn’t this movie exciting, William?” said Mrs. Sturgeon. “I don’t know when I’ve enjoyed an afternoon of television more. How do you think it’s all going to turn out?”

  “We’ll know soon enough, Mildred,” Mr. Sturgeon replied, glancing at his wristwatch. “The picture ends in five minutes, so the climax must be coming up soon.”

  The couple watched the action intently.

  Suddenly there was a buzz of static and the screen went momentarily blank. The Sunday Matinee was replaced by a fuzzy image of a large fish, dead centre on the screen. It wavered once, then stabilized. The audio crackled into what sounded like distant cheering, and a garbled voice cried, Attention, world! We bring you the Fish!

  This was followed by what sounded like laughter.

  “William, what in the world —?”

  Her husband frowned. “A fish. This is very strange indeed.”

  “But what is it?” she insisted.

  Both stared in perplexed fascination for some time until at last the image of the mysterious fish faded out. It was replaced by the Sunday Matinee just as the words “The End” appeared on the screen.

  “William, our movie is over!”

  Mr. Sturgeon stared at the television screen. “Attention world,” he mused. “We bring you the fish.”

  * * *

  “Hot gazoobies, Elmer, it works!” screamed Bruno ecstatically, jumping up and down in the little space there was left in the room.

  “It’s fantastic!” cried Boots.

  “Yes,” agreed Elmer, flushed with pleasure. “It would appear that I am on the right track.”

  “Hey, I know!” exclaimed Bruno. “We can use this thing to show up on people’s TV sets and tell them how great Macdonald Hall is and h
ow they should send all their sons here!”

  “No, no,” Elmer smiled indulgently. “There is a problem in the equations. It’s a new theory in digital transmission — a curious contradiction, you might say. This is a preliminary experimental model. It will only broadcast to the screen and speaker on my black box. I might be able to work it out for what you want in a few more months,” he added eagerly.

  But unaware of Elmer’s contradictory equations, all the television viewers within a forty-kilometre radius of Macdonald Hall were wondering why “the Fish” had invaded their homes.

  Chapter 4

  We’re Looking Into It

  In her five years as weekend switchboard operator at television station CHUT, Mary Webster had never had such a busy time as on that Sunday evening.

  “Everybody wants to know what happened at the end of the Matinee movie,” she told her boss, Mr. Tupper. “They’re all telling me something about a fish.”

  “A fish? What are they saying?”

  Mary excused herself to answer another call. “CHUT, good evening … Oh, yes, madam. John married Louise, and the murderer turned out to be Pierre … Yes, madam, I know — a fish. We’re looking into it. Thank you for calling CHUT.” Mary looked up. “You see? There’s another one.”

  Mr. Tupper frowned. “A fish? What about a fish?”

  “They say it appeared, sir,” said Mary. “Just at the climax of the movie, the screen showed a big fish. Then there was the most diabolical laughter and someone said, ‘Attention, world, we bring you the fish.’ Then more laughter. That ‘attention, world’ business really scared some of our viewers.”

  “Sounds like a broadcast from outer space,” laughed Mr. Tupper. “The invasion of the fish people.”

  “Go ahead and laugh,” she grinned. “But I have to answer the phone. What shall I tell people?”

  “Make up something about atmospheric conditions, and tell them we’re looking into it,” said Mr. Tupper. “That’s what we’re going to do.”

  * * *

  Elmer Drimsdale’s alarm went off with an ear-splitting jangle at six o’clock Monday morning, waking up the three boys in 201 and probably half the dormitory as well.

  Elmer threw off the covers and bounded energetically out of bed. He inhaled and exhaled deeply, unable to do his customary deep knee-bends because of the lack of space.

  “The beginning of another day!” he announced brightly. “Time to tend to all my little friends.”

  A slipper whizzed by his ear. “Your little friends’ll be fine. It’s your big friends you’ve got to worry about,” growled Bruno from the depths of his pillow.

  Boots sneezed five times, signifying that he was awake for the day. Slowly he began to crawl out of bed.

  “Would you like to feed my goldfish?” Elmer offered generously.

  “No, thanks,” said Boots. “Maybe some other time.”

  “Perhaps you’d like to sprinkle a little sugar for my ant colony?”

  “Oh, all right,” sighed Boots. He took the sugar dispenser over to the terrarium, removed the cover and switched on the lamp. He sprinkled a little sugar on top of the sand. Instantly several dozen ants broke to the surface. He sprinkled a little more and more ants emerged. Boots watched, transfixed. “Hey, Bruno,” he exclaimed, without taking his eyes from the terrarium, “you should see this. A miniature riot!”

  “No, I shouldn’t,” mumbled Bruno, half asleep.

  “Here, you guys,” said Boots to the ants. “I’ll give you some more.”

  “No, no,” said Elmer quickly. “That’s enough for today.”

  “Yeah,” Bruno agreed. “Too much sugar will rot their little teeth.”

  “You know,” said Boots, “that’s really neat! I’m going to get me one of these.”

  “Spare me!” moaned Bruno.

  While Boots showered and dressed, Elmer began the long, careful process of watering his plants. Then he too got dressed. Bruno never stirred. Finally, at about 7:15, Boots and Elmer left for the dining hall.

  Just as the door clicked behind them, Bruno hopped out of bed and went straight to Elmer’s invention. He switched it on and watched with delight as the salmon materialized on the screen.

  “The Fish has arisen,” he announced in the deepest voice he could muster. “The Fish is everywhere. Beware the Fish!” He laughed with glee and switched off. This was the best new toy he had had for many a year.

  Bruno sighed wistfully. It was too bad Elmer’s PIT technology could not deliver its broadcasts beyond the little screen on the black box. Bruno would dearly have loved to make his fish jokes via TV to Mr. Sturgeon himself, without the Headmaster’s being able to find out it was him.

  Little did Bruno know that his message, along with the picture of Elmer’s salmon, had reached Mr. Sturgeon — and every other television viewer in the vicinity of Macdonald Hall — by means of the Early Show.

  * * *

  A class detention made Bruno and Boots late getting out of science class. It was after four when they strolled across the campus towards Dormitory 2.

  “Boy, was Mr. Hubert ever mad!” said Bruno. “Who set fire to the counter anyway?”

  “Who else?” replied Boots. “Old Butterfingers. But it was an accident.”

  “With him it always is,” grinned Bruno.

  The two boys entered the dormitory and walked down the hall to 201. When they opened the door an amazing sight met their eyes. By relocating some furniture and various experiments, Elmer had managed to set up an extensive chemistry laboratory. There was a long table. On it sat a hot plate, two alcohol burners, two Pyrex flasks, three dozen test tubes of various sizes, one high-powered microscope with a stack of slides and countless little bottles containing chemicals. There were also beakers, eyedroppers, applicator sticks, stirring rods and a scale.

  “Elmer, what’s going on?” asked Bruno in amazement. “My cure for the common cold,” explained Elmer. “I think I’m on the right track.”

  “But we have to live here!” Boots protested. “There’s no room!”

  “Do you know the kind of publicity a cure for the common cold would bring to Macdonald Hall?” cried Bruno enthusiastically. “You go ahead and work, Elm. Take all the room you need!”

  “Thank you,” mumbled Elmer.

  Bruno climbed across Boots’s bed and carefully picked his way over to his favourite gadget. He switched it on and waited for the fish image to appear on the screen.

  “This is the Fish Patrol,” he announced loudly. “We bring you salutations from the fishbowl.” He laughed diabolically. “Beware the Fish! You never know where he may strike next.” Bruno switched the device off. “Marvellous,” he exclaimed. “It’s so good for my morale.”

  “The Fish would kill you if he heard all that,” observed Boots.

  “How can he hear it?” scoffed Bruno. “We’re our own little TV station — one camera, one set” — he pointed to the salmon poster — “and one superstar.”

  In the Headmaster’s residence an annoyed Mrs. Sturgeon, her favourite soap opera rudely interrupted by yet another fish broadcast, was dialling station CHUT.

  * * *

  At RCMP Headquarters in Ottawa, Deputy Chief Bullock sifted through a pile of memos and reports before leaving for the day. One in particular caught his attention.

  Request received from Board of Broadcast Governors to investigate unexplained interruption of TV broadcasts in Chutney, Ontario, Station CHUT. Picture of fish, accompanied by veiled threats and unrelated commentary, blocking regular broadcasts at irregular intervals. Special Division suspects possible development of terrorist activity. Local residents becoming alarmed.

  “A picture of a fish?” Deputy Chief Bullock muttered in disbelief. He swivelled in his chair, found Chutney on his map, then sat back in perplexity. Why Chutney?

  “Probably a joke,” he decided. Still, if it was something serious and he ignored it … A smile spread across his face. Sergeant Harold P. Featherstone, assigned to his di
vision just two weeks before, was young, eager and in need of field experience. And he had twice stolen his superior’s parking space at Headquarters. Deputy Chief Bullock flipped on the intercom.

  “Send Sergeant Featherstone to my office,” he told his secretary. “I have an assignment for him.”

  * * *

  “Okay, you guys,” announced Bruno, consulting his watch, “it’s after midnight. Time to go to Scrimmage’s.”

  “Bruno, are you crazy?” Boots protested. “The Fish said —”

  “The Fish said he never wants to catch us over there again,” finished Bruno. “If anyone catches us, which isn’t due for another million years, it’ll be Miss Scrimmage. So let’s go.”

  Their discussion was interrupted by loud, angry voices from down the hall. Boots crawled across his bed and opened the door just in time to see Sidney Rampulsky tearing towards him, trying to outrun a broken lamp that Larry Wilson had thrown at him. Sidney hit the bed and catapulted into the room. He came to rest in a tangle of TV wires and cables.

  “And don’t come back!” bellowed Larry from 204.

  The door of room 200 burst open and Housemaster Alex Flynn, the school’s athletic director, rushed out into the hall in his underwear. “Pipe down out here!” he hollered. “It’s the middle of the night!” He stormed back into his room and slammed the door.

  Bruno helped Sidney up off the floor. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  “Larry threw me out,” complained Sidney. “Gee, he’s crabby. It was just an accident.”

  “Another accident?” said Boots. “What did you break this time?”

  “His lamp,” admitted Sidney. “It fell when I overturned the desk on his foot.” He looked anxiously at the three faces around him. “Well, don’t look at me like that. Anyone can have a little run of bad luck.”

  “We have an appointment,” said Bruno. “You’ll have to go back to your own room.”

  “But Larry won’t let me in!” protested Sidney. “He’s really mad!”

  “Well, we can’t leave you here or you’ll wreck the place. You’ll just have to come with us to Scrimmage’s. There’s always room for one more.”