Chapter 4

  It was a bright day. Laughter and joy filled the air. It was Mr and Mrs Simpson's wedding anniversary. Mr Simpson and Anderson played Beach Ball over a net, and just within sight was Mrs Simpson high on the waves, surfing. She waved at them, and they waved back; all smiles.

  Then, all of a sudden, another wave swept her off balance. Before the guys could move a muscle, the wave swept her further away from them. The last thing they heard from her was her scream: "Honey!"

  "Mum!" Anderson screamed out, protectively, only to wake up in his room. It was that dream again, that taunting nightmare that had been replaying the scenario that'd occurred two years ago to Anderson.

  Some days, Anderson would sleep like a baby, and most. . .

  He turned the light, over his pillow, on.

  Tears slipped off his eyes as he stretched his hand and picked the frame beside the clock on his bedside table. He raised it to his face, all he could see was a blurred figure.

  Oh, my glasses.

  He scrambled for his glasses under the pillow then placed it on the bridge of his nose.

  He used his thumbs to feel the smooth surface of the frame with his mother's lifeless image staring back at him in all enthusiasm. It was so full of life, so warm, as though she were just standing right in front of him in person.

  Although he was seventeen, he felt like a seven-year old after waking up. He gasped, letting more tears flow down his cheeks.

  The part that hurt Anderson more was the fact that his mother's body could not be found. After a one-year survey to no avail, the search was called off. And it was concluded that her body was probably buried in the depth of the water (if that was possible) or eaten by a shark.

  His mother was a very beautiful and ambitious woman. It was claimed that she was as cautious as a snake, but — and most importantly — as innocent as a dove.

  Her cookies were the tastiest one could ever eat. She had owned a little catering shop at the outset of Mcbornie. The business went well; always full with customers; both retailers and wholesalers. And — she always gave a lot of cookies out to the neighbours. The people loved her — who wouldn't!

  In addition to the above, she was a mighty surfer — oh, how the mighty has fallen! — but ironically, she was a terrible swimmer.

  Behold — the result. . .

  Anderson waved the thought off, and turned his light on. He walked to the adjoining bathroom and washed his face. He stared at the person in the mirror for a moment or two, then dragged himself back to the bed, flipping out the lights.

JOCELYN watched from her window as the light in his room turned off. He didn't know, but every time he woke up with his nightmares, she equally woke up, sharing his grief. She monitored him, watching his silhouette, shaded form on the curtain until he went back in bed. Their windows were opposite each other, you see.

  She rested her back on the wall and her head in-between her parted legs, on the bed. Her mind played fortissimo on what had happened the previous evening. She smiled at the thought that her life-long crush could have also started conceiving a mutual feeling. It all seemed like fairytale to her. Why was he just too nervous?

  He is totally mesmerised, she concluded, then she went back to sleep with a smile drawn across her face.

* * *

  School was fun and quick, at least it appeared so for Anderson Simpson. Immediately the school bus dropped him home, he wasted no time to get in, grab a sandwich, and get himself a quick bath. Next, he threw on a plain top over a pair of shorts, then headed for the basement — what he called his "laboratory".

  He turned on the light to reveal some tables — and lots of metal craps scattered carelessly on it — then he paced about some drawers.

  "Where did I drop it?"

  He crouched low to pull out one of the drawers, scrupulously.

  "Bingo!" he exclaimed. He drew out a dust-beaten cardboard folded into a cylinder, like a scroll from the dead sea.

  He cleared the nearest table (by pushing the contents to the ground) and spread the cardboard on it.

  There was a sketch of a robot on it with many overwhelming mathematical signs, all over.

  He adjusted his glasses on the bridge and peered closer.

  "This should take me less than a month to build. I should be able to do some strategies on its prototype about right now."

  He quickly made a mental note on some of the things he already had for the invention, and things he'd be needing which he didn't have.

  Done, he went out of the basement, strolled to the backyard, and paddled his earlier propped up bike to the city's centre.

MR HANS' workshop was the most popular of its type in the whole of Mcbornie. Plus, the utilities and gadgets he sold were the cheapest anywhere. Not to mention — the best of the most trusted qualities. He'd been in the business since Andy was a little child; and whoever thinks it's impossible to have a boring job and call it fun? — meet Mr Hans. He found enthusiasm in everything he touched in his shop. It was probably the reason everyone liked him; he was an optimist.

  "Hey, Mr Hans. It's me, Young Simpson—" he chuckled at that. That was what Mr Hans called him.

  Earlier, Andy had parked his bicycle by the entrance and chained it to a pole just beside the workshop.

  He looked around for the man. He was nowhere, just lots of metals everywhere.

  "Oh, my! Young Simpson, is that you?"

  Anderson looked around trying to trace the old, froggy voice. He was successful at this, and found the old man working under a big machine.

  Mr Hans pulled himself out — he was all dirty and sweaty. He dragged a towel from one of the big contraptions by his side, and wiped his face and hands. He flashed an amazingly dashing smile at Anderson.

  "Hello, Mr Hans."

  "Oh, my boy!" came his voice with an accompanying arm, bracing around Andy's shoulder. "You came to see old Mr Hans—"

  "You're not old, you look sweet sixteen," Andy flattered.

  Mr Hans flexed his bony arms and kissed both "biceps" — if that's what those were called.

  Anderson couldn't help but laugh out.

  "I guess I'll have to watch out for those," Andy said with a big smile.

  "We really should keep in touch with one another, frequently, Young Simpson. You really make me feel better."

  Anderson smiled.

  "I guess so."

  "So what brings you to The Great Workshop of Mr Hans?"

  Anderson smiled broader.

  "I need some things for building a robot—"

  "A robot!" Mr Hans exclaimed. Then he arched a brow at him. "What kind are we talking about?"

  Andy sighed.

  "A complex contraption with artificial intelligence."

  "Naw! Don't tell me, Young Simpson, that you're planning to contest in the Greatest Scientist of the Age!"

  Anderson looked away.

  What a smart old man!

  He wondered how he could have guessed it right. Andy had come to this workshop over a thousand times in the past to buy stuffs even more crazier than building a robot, yet he could tell Andy was planning to contest.

  Mr Hans fiddled with a can of frozen food, comprehending the full picture.

  "It's a very big contest with lots of smart contestants. Some are teachers, others are scientists, and the lists goes on. You know that, right?"

  Andy gave a deep sigh. Then he looked up.

  "Yes. Yes, I understand that it's a challenge. But I'm sure and confident that I can do this, Mr Hans.

  "It's been my dream since I've been a child to leave Mcbornie town, soar through to Portsmouth, and accomplish my dream to contest and win as The Greatest Scientist of the Age. I have been waiting for the day when I'll hear the competition is out again, hoping that I'll be more experienced by then.

  "I am confident that I've reached the apex of my endurance. Last week, it was announced that by next month, the competition would be out. It's a great time for me to develop my potentials—"

  "And if you don't win?" Mr Hans voice came between his words.

  Anderson took a moment or two to digest the question. Then he looked Mr Hans in the face.

  "Where there's a will, there's a way."

  Mr Hans smiled in awe. His expression was also mixed with intense disbelief.

  "You're just like your—" he quickly cut himself from saying "mother", then he replaced it quickly. "— just like your parents. Both so strong-willed. Look at your dad, for instance. He was obsessed with this 'financial revolution' stuff. People thought he was crazy, but in just a period of one year, he erected that accounting firm over there—" he pointed to the skyscraper, through the transparent door, within sight.

  Andy tried to read his expression, but couldn't.

  "I believe you can do it."

  Andy eyes widened. He stared at Mr Hans, warmly.

  Mr Hans drew a ladder nearby and climbed it up. Andy supported by holding it for the old man. He watched as the old man picked something, and retraced his steps down. Then he extended it to Andy.

  Observing it, he said, "Is this some kind of battery, or something?"

  "Both." Mr Hans paced about, his hands behind him, in the choked room. "It's a battery and a something."

  Andy grinned.

  "That, my boy, is a quantum mechanic composing of a very high QED. I'm sure you know what that means."

  Andy's eyes popped out of its sockets.

  "A Quantum Electrodynamics?! No way!"

  "Yes way!" Mr Hans spread out both arms, side way.

  "How did you get this?" Andy asked, looking at him with suspicion, frowning.

  "Hmm. . .let me see," he replied, palms spread under his chin, caressing his beard. "Yes!" he snapped. "The same way I got that flying, little helicopter there—"

  Andy traced the old index finger to a machine he'd not noticed prior to the moment. The helicopter flew round and round the ceiling. Then comprehension swept him off balance.

  "What! You invented a QED?! Unbelievable! Besides. . .it doesn't even make sense, what would you be needing it for?"

  Mr Hans chuckled. His eyes were contemplating on something.

  "You do realise who my twin brother is, don't you?"

  "Twin brother?"

  Anderson tried to think but could not place Mr Hans as a twin. But there was something about that. . .wait. . .no way! The picture was becoming clearer. He flashed back to a couple of months ago when he found himself with a little argument with Harrison against the C.E.O of The Greatest Scientist of the Age whose program they were watching on TV at Anderson's home. He could remember the argument, clearly:

  "Dude, doesn't this guy look familiar?" asked Andy, pausing the image on the screen with a remote, adjusting his glasses to peer closer.

  Harry chuckled.

  "What's so funny?"

  "I've always thought he did. He looks just like—"

  "Like Mr Hans!" he cut in.

  Harry nodded.

  Anderson pulled himself to his feet. He zoomed the picture for a closer look. "That is Mr Hans. Come on, look at that!"

  "That's the president of Science and Technology, and one of the founding fathers of this program — that's Dr. Archer," Harrison pointed out.

  "I know that! Wait, he's a doctor?"

  "PhD in science."

  "Oh, how much do you know about him?"

  Harry cracked his voice.

  "My maternal grandfather claims to be a cousin to Dr. Archer's best friend and co-founder."

  "That's shit, man!" Anderson was countering, and the argument went on.

  All of these conversations were afresh in Anderson's head, in less than five seconds.

  "You're Dr. Archer's twin brother?!"

  Honestly, Mr Hans wasn't expecting it. He was actually expecting some wrong guesses before he'd reveal his identity.

  "Come over to my house after school tomorrow, we'll talk over dinner. 6:30 would be perfect."

  Andy nodded, then he looked down at the QED in his hands.

  "You don't have to pay for that, you can have it," Mr Hans said, as if reading his thoughts.

  Andy watched him in awe, then he surprised Mr Hans by hugging him. He whispered a thank-you.

  He ran outside, unfastened the hold on his bike, dropped the QED in the front basket, then he paddled home with a big smile.