American security agents, suspecting Dr Zhang is hacking into U.S. computers, try to abduct him. The Canadian Security Intelligence Service is also interested.
And Murga is back in town with a proposition. I agree to tests of my super normal flyi...
Grandma got back from work later and she didn't look very happy.
'There's no food left,' I told her nervously.
'Oh! Am I responsible for everything that happens around here?' she snapped. 'I'm too tired. I've been working . . . to pay the rent.'
She snatched a $20 bill from her purse. 'Take this to the Galactic Deli. Buy six eggs and a loaf of bread, one that's on sale.'
'Can I buy some soy milk?'
'No. You can drink water from the faucet. It doesn't cost me money. Make sure you bring back the correct change and the sales receipt. I don't trust the galactic check-out clerk.'
I pulled on my parka and shoes and jogged down the street to the Galactic Deli where I found a day old loaf of bread, marked 50% off, and picked up a small box of the cheapest eggs. They tasted the same as the more expensive eggs according to Grandma. At the check out counter, I carefully checked the change against the receipt. Grandma wouldn't forgive me if I made a mistake. At least I now had toast and eggs for supper and breakfast.
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Our first class of the next day was Magimathics with Anti Smolkin, officially know as Professor Kelvin Smolkin, our maths teacher.
'I forgot to wish you all a happy new year,' he said as he checked the class list. 'And your new year resolution is to hand in all maths homework on time . . . Is Cliff Boswell still absent in mind?'
Clifford Boswell, (aka Boz) grinned from the back of the class as his crony, Austin Healy, applauded. Austin was called Oz or Ozzy. Collectively they were known as OzBoz.
Professor Smolkin squinted at a tiny piece of chalk despondently. 'No one remembered to buy me chalk for Christmas.'
'Cliff Boswell! Is that a stick of chalk you have projecting from your ear? It had better not be a cigarette. You know I won't tolerate smoking around the school.'
Boz grinned at his cronies. 'It's a plastic tube. I was saving it until later.' He guffawed at his own wit.
'I've got some chalk, Professor Smolkin,' Ryan rummaged around in his backpack and producing an oversized stick of pavement chalk.
Anti gave him a jaded smile. 'Pink is not my favourite colour but I guess beggars can't be choosers.' He began chalking fluorescent pink numbers on the blackboard and then stopped. 'I have a better idea.'
He turned to his computer and turned on the big flat screen TV next to the blackboard. A picture of a complicated chart appeared. 'This is a recent edition of the Periodic Table of Elements first published in 1869 by the Russian chemist Dmitri Mendeleev.'
Miguel groaned. 'I just looked up areas of triangles, parallelograms, trapezoids, and rhomboids.'
'Excellent Miguel,' Anti said. 'It will come in useful next time. But now, for a change, I want to study nuclear history. On your computers you will find an email I just sent to all of you. If you will all refer to it.'
There was a flurry of activity as everyone switch their computers on and a chorus of groans. 'Do we have to memorize all this?' Boz asked.
'No, no.' Anti was reassuring. 'This is a brief summary. What I want you to do is pick a topic from the email, do some research and write a two or three hundred word essay.' More groans.
'Or,' he added ominously, 'you can write about tritium, or americium and the common smoke detector, or radiation treatment for cancer.'
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I had just finished reading the email when a small pellet of wet paper hit the back of my neck and slid down inside my collar. It was followed by a snigger from the back of the class. I fished out the spitball while I decided whether to risk a reputation as a tattle tale. Another pellet hit the back of my head accompanied by a gleeful chuckle.
I raised my hand. 'Professor Smolkin, I . . . wonder if you would explain this for me.'
Professor Smolkin beamed with pleasure. 'So few students ask for my help these days.' He walked to my desk and, as he leaned over my shoulder, I got a premonition and ducked.
'What the . . . ?' Professor Smolkin withdrew a hand from his neck, examined the spit ball with disgust and glared around the room.
'A spitball! A classic case of criminal assault with a particularly offensive biological weapon.'
'Arul,' Professor Smolkin selected the heaviest student in the class. 'Come to the front of the class and push me, hard.'
Arul looked puzzled but he complied. He shoulder checked Professor Smolkin so hard that he fell over.
Anti Smolkin picked himself up. 'Good check, Arul,' he gasped.
'If I had not asked him to do that,' he told the class, 'Arul would have been guilty of criminal assault. If I had retaliated I would also be guilty of assault. I want you to remember, assault is a criminal offense and anyone twelve or older can be arrested and charged by the police. Also remember, if you hit someone with any object, even a spitball, you are guilty of a more serious crime, assault with a weapon. Also note that snatching someone's hat, or even touching someone without permission, is assault.'
'And now, to apprehend the criminal perpetrator,' he hissed. 'The missile came from the rear of the class. Clifford, show me the plastic tube that looks exactly like a cigarette . . . Good . . . Now take it to Principal Ball and explain how, and why, you were using it to propel unhygienic wads of masticated paper at unarmed and inoffensive professors.'
Professor Smolkin danced gracefully to the back of the classroom, hoisted Boz by the ear and marched him toward the door. 'Ow! Ow! Oow! Boz complained loudly, 'Call 911. I'm being assaulted.'
As they passed me, Boz twisted his face in a scornful wink. He was still proclaiming his innocence as Anti towed him out of the room.
