Cloneward Bound (7 page)

Fisher’s brain was working furiously as Lucy Fir led the class toward the entrance to one of the studios. Kevin Keels—one of the most famous people in the world—had recognized him! It was incredible.

And very, very bad.

FP’s insistent snout-bumping was starting to make his ankle sore. “Yes, boy, I know you’re hungry,” Fisher whispered as FP began to gnaw on his sneaker. “As soon as we finish this tour I’ll find you something to eat, I promise.”

“And now, we’ll have a look at the
Strange Science
set,” said Lucy, leading the class through the door.

They passed inside the vast, white building, and there was a collective gasp as the students recognized the set of
Strange Science
and took in the dozens of cameras and boom mics littering the space.

Production crew members hurried back and forth getting the set ready for the next episode’s taping. Camera
crews were adjusting and calibrating their instruments, set workers were placing props and equipment, and they were all being followed around by assistants holding clipboards, calculators, and coffee cups big enough to double as hats.

Set against one wall was the craft services table, a wide, foldout table with a spread of rolls, fruit, cold cuts, and a variety of snacks for the cast and crew. Small groups congregated around it, piling food on their plates and discussing filming and design decisions. FP started to veer toward the table like it was a giant electromagnet, and he had a horseshoe tied to his head. Fisher gently steered him away with little taps of his foot.

“Not now, boy,” he said. “I’ll get you something in a minute.”

“Over here is Dr. Devilish’s main worktable,” Ms. Fir went on, “which I’m sure you’ll recognize if you’ve seen the show.” The table was eight feet wide and made of shining chrome, equipped with a variety of apparatus, including two sinks, multiple clamps, air hoses, and built-in test-tube racks. Hanging above it on flexible metal arms were three ceiling-mounted microscopes.

Fisher took a deep breath as he looked over the marvelous machinery. There was nothing quite like the sight of gleaming, cutting-edge apparatus to ease his mind and remind him of home.

“Over here is Dr. Devilish’s personal barbatic-aesthetic automaton,” Ms. Fir said, pointing to a small machine sprouting several multi-jointed arms sitting on a tall stand.

“His what?” said Ben Kraus, a tall, spindly boy with a spiked-up haircut.

“His beard-trimming robot,” she clarified.

Amanda was barely paying attention to the tour. Fisher, in spite of his fascination with Dr. Devilish and his show, found focusing on the tour difficult. He had a couple of days to find Two and as powerful as his mind was, he hadn’t come up with much of a coherent plan.

“Hey, could somebody give me a hand with this boom? It’s got a loose clasp.”

Fisher turned around.

A technician with close-cropped blond hair was standing behind him, holding a long, black steel boom with a foam oval enclosing the microphone at its tip. The clasp securing its extendable section was broken.

Fisher studied the boom for a second.

“I have an idea,” he said.

The man fiddled exasperatedly with the broken clasp, struggling to keep the extendable handle from slipping from his grasp. “Knock yourself out.”

“Have you got a cloth or a rag on you?” Fisher asked.

The man pulled a cleaning cloth out of his back pocket
and passed it to Fisher with one hand.

Fisher bent over and began to rub FP’s back with the cloth, which made FP promptly fall asleep. After a few moments, the last dregs of the highly adhesive hair gel in FP’s system were worked out of his skin, and Fisher stepped up to the boom, the cloth tacky in his hands.

Fisher wrung the cloth around the extending joint, and in short order the joint was sealed up with the stuff. The technician tested it. His face broke into a grin.

“Thanks for the help!” he said. “I do sound around here, and whatever else they can stick me with. My name’s Henry.” He extended his hand.

“Fisher,” Fisher said as his hand was engulfed by Henry’s.

“I’d be interested to hear about what exactly you just did. For now I’ve got to get to work, though. Thanks again!”

Henry walked away, and Fisher smiled a bit to himself. It felt good to be appreciated for something small. It was a good middle ground between being completely ignored and being celebrated as a conquering hero.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a tall man wearing a dark suit, watching Fisher with a severe look on his face. When he realized Fisher had seen him, he gave a friendly half smile and backed into a dark corner.

Probably just an executive
, Fisher thought.

Probably
.

There was a tremendous, clattering crash, and thoughts of the man in the suit flew out of Fisher’s mind.

“Hey!” a man shouted. “Who let this animal in here??”

Oh, no
. Too late, Fisher realized FP was gone.

He turned around: the craft services table had been toppled by his determined and very hungry flying pig. Kaiser rolls rolled away in all directions, cheese slices lay haphazardly everywhere, gallons of water and lemonade seeped across the floor, and FP was wearing a cold-cut sombrero. From a distance, it looked like a piece of turkey.

“Will somebody get this
pig
out of here?” a red-faced production assistant was trying to mop up the spilled drinks.

“I’m sorry,” Fisher said, hurrying forward, “I’m sorry, he’s just—”

“Brilliant!” a trumpeting voice cut in. As Fisher scooped FP into his arms, he saw a tall woman wearing a bright green suit, and a pair of enormous sunglasses that made her look like an insect. Her teeth looked like they were made of imported marble and were polished every hour on the hour. “Kevin told me that you were here, Basley. I’m glad I caught you! I knew that
you
had enormous potential, but I had no idea you had an animal sidekick! Did you see how he swooped into the table leg? I swear, he actually flew!”

“Uh …” Fisher said, looking around as he realized that everyone in the class was staring at him. Who was Basley?

“Just imagine the possibilities!” the woman said, looking majestically into the distance, which in this case was a wall ten feet in front of her face.

“The possibilities for what?” Fisher said, dreading the answer.

“Commercials! Public service announcements! Maybe even a television series!” she proclaimed, walking up and scratching FP on the back as he ate the turkey off
the top of his own head. “A pig with his talent could go far. Very, very far! I insist we have a meeting to discuss it!”

“Well,” Fisher said, “I guess, uh …”

“And maybe we can talk about your own career possibilities, Basley,” she said, giving a wink that Fisher could barely see under her titanic sunglasses. “I know that you’ve been in contact with that Lulu O’Lunney, but she can’t hold a candle to me. O’Lunney couldn’t agent her way out of a cardboard box! A potential star should be served by a star! My card.” She handed Fisher a business card that read in a giant, blocky font, GG MCGEE, and below that, AGENT OF STARS.

“Um, okay, yeah, whatever,” Fisher said, desperate to end the conversation.

“Perfect!” McGee said. “Bring him by tomorrow at three thirty, and we’ll talk.”

“Tomorrow’s Saturday,” Fisher pointed out.

“Time is money!” GG barked out. She clapped Fisher on the shoulder. “I’ll see you tomorrow!” Then she winked at FP. “Fame and glory await you, my little pink friend.”

Fisher looked down at FP as GG McGee walked away. He tried to look as stern as possible. “What have you gotten me into now, boy? If you could go fifteen minutes without a snack …”

“What was that all about, Fisher?” Ms. Snapper asked.

Fisher shoved his hands in his pockets. He had been in LA for less than an hour, and already Two’s growing popularity was proving disastrous.

“Yes, uh, Basley’s my stage name.” Fisher forced a big grin onto his face and avoided Amanda’s eyes. “I made a little tape and some talent scouts must have seen it. But for now, I really want to focus on schoolwork,” Fisher hurried to add. “Just, you know, being a normal kid and everything.”

“Cool!” Veronica said, turning her beautiful smile on him. The light of that smile warmed him up from his head to his feet. “So Kevin really
was
waving to you!” she continued, even more excitedly.

“Uh … yeah, I guess so,” Fisher said as the warmth became a harsh sunburn.

As the tour resumed, Amanda turned to glower at him. “Listen, Fisher Bas!” she hissed, tugging Fisher away from the other students. “I don’t know what game you think you’re playing, but we’re here to find Two, not chase flying-pig movie dreams.”

“Look,” Fisher said, “That woman—GG—has clearly heard of Two. She might be able to help us find him.”

“Fine,” Amanda said, putting her hands on her hips. “But I’m going with you to the meeting, and
I’m
doing
the talking. Congratulations,
Basley
, you’ve just hired your first manager.” She extended her right hand. Fisher knew there was no point in arguing, so he allowed her to crush his hand. Again.

Less than an hour in Hollywood, and things had gone from bad to terrible.

CHAPTER 7

“Rat! There’s a
rat
in the door!”

The arrival at the King of Hollywood hotel wasn’t going quite as smoothly as planned. Fisher scanned the lobby and felt his blood drain all the way to his toes. Not
again
. FP was stuck inside the revolving glass front doors. He must have wandered after someone and gotten trapped.

The original King of Hollywood location had started out looking like any other fast-food place, but as the chain had taken off, it had grown to monstrous size. Now, in addition to the expanded, well-decorated restaurant on the ground floor, a twenty-story hotel soared into the sky. It was an upscale, classy establishment. And not one that Fisher imagined would be welcoming to pigs, even small, flying ones.

An old woman, wearing a satin evening dress, a string
of ping-pong-sized pearls, and spectacles with lenses so thick they would probably stop bullets, continued screaming and pointing. Fisher was barely able to rotate the door back and scoop FP out before several of the hotel staff descended upon them.

“He’s not a rat!” Fisher protested. “He’s not a rat! He’s a little pig, and he’s fully house trained.”
Other than his tendency to stalk people and leap onto buses
, Fisher thought, but they didn’t need to know that.

“I’m sorry, young man,” said a woman, whose name tag identified her as the manager, “but I’m afraid we do not allow pets of any kind in this establishment.” She sniffed in distaste as she looked down at FP. “
Particularly
not pigs.”