Case of the Terrible T. Rex

  To the brilliant, beautiful, wise,

  and talented Illustrious M. You rock!

  A bajillion thanks to Harry Howell, the ultimate ham,

  for his patient help with all things radio related.

  (Hams can chat with Harry at KA7ECY.)

  M. T.

  For Mike, my scientist son

  B. J. N.

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  07/10

  Published by Sterling Publishing Co., Inc.

  387 Park Avenue South, New York, NY 10016

  Text © 2010 by Michele Torrey

  Illustrations © 2010 by Barbara Johansen Newman

  All rights reserved.

  Sterling ISBN 978-1-4027-4966-7

  Sterling eBook ISBN: 978-1-4549-0401-4

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  One • Midnight in Mossy Lake

  Two • A Most Horrible Howl

  Three • Creepy Campout Analysis

  Four • Picnic in Peril

  Five • A Terrible Answer

  Six • Paleo Pals Club

  Seven • Dino-Disaster

  Eight • Crispy Critters

  Nine • Fiesta Fiasco

  Activities and Activities Experiments for Super-Scientists

  The light of the full moon shone on the small town of Mossy Lake. It shone on the town’s square, where the clock chimed midnight. It shone on Ted’s Barber Shop, where a mouse nibbled on a crumb. It shone on Barbarella’s Dance Studio, where for just twelve dollars you could learn to waltz or even tango.

  Not least of all, the light of the full moon shone down upon a particular house. And standing at a particular attic window, staring back at the moon through a telescope, was a boy. His name was Drake Doyle, and he was a scientist. Not a mad scientist, mind you, but a most excellent scientist indeed. His cinnamon toast- colored hair stood straight up. He wore a white lab coat with his name on it.

  Drake whipped a pencil out from behind his ear and scribbled in his lab notebook:

  As I suspected.

  Hypothesis correct.

  Green cheese: negative.

  Just then, the phone rang.

  Now, in case you’re wondering who could be calling at midnight, wonder no more. You see, Drake was also a detective. And science detectives are on call 24/7. Drake’s business cards read:

  Doyle and Fossey:

  Science Detectives

  call us. anytime. 555-7822

  Nell Fossey was Drake’s business partner. Whether the case involved ghosts or garbage, penguins or parades, they were on it. No problem was too big or too small for Doyle and Fossey, the best science detectives in the fifth grade.

  “Doyle and Fossey,” Drake answered.

  “Detective Doyle? It’s me, Wiley.”

  “Ah yes, Mr. Wiley Millard.” Wiley was in Drake’s class at school and was a whiz at video games. He could put dozens of dragons to sleep at once. He could parachute into the Congo and rescue lost explorers. He could save little old ladies from armies of vampires—all while sitting on his couch. “What seems to be the trouble?” Drake asked.

  “I’m camping on Waxberry Hill with my dad.”

  “Lovely night for camping,” said Drake.

  “Hardly,” griped Wiley. “You see, my dad made me come camping. He said I spend way too much time playing video games and need to learn how to appreciate nature.”

  “Excellent advice,” said Drake, whose partner, Nell, happened to appreciate nature very much.

  “Not so excellent. I’m in my tent. My dad’s sound asleep, but I can’t sleep a wink. Something’s howling out there. I think—I think it’s a werewolf, and I don’t have my joystick!”

  Drake was so shocked that he dropped his lab notebook. A werewolf! Horrors! One bite from a werewolf, and, well, you became a werewolf yourself. If Wiley was right … if there really was a werewolf on Waxberry Hill … well, the thought was too horrifying to imagine!

  “I understand if you’re too scared,” Wiley was saying. “Not everyone’s a werewolf warrior. I’ll call Frisco … he likes to destroy things.”

  Egads! thought Drake, doubly horrified. Not James Frisco! Frisco was in the science detective business, too. But unlike Drake and Nell, Frisco was a bad scientist … a mad scientist, scientifically speaking. Instead of stirring a solution according to the instructions, Frisco said, “Stirring, schmirring. Waste of time.” Instead of recording everything in his lab notebook, Frisco said, “Notebook, schmotebook. Notebooks are for geeks.” And instead of turning everything off in his laboratory before leaving, Frisco said, “Off, schmoff. Who cares anyway?” His business cards read:

  FRISCO

  bad scientist

  (Better than Doyle and Fossey)

  Call me. Day or night. 555-6190

  Drake could never let Frisco handle this most horrifying case. “You’re in luck, Mr. Millard!” said Drake. “Last week I bought a Detect-O-Werewolf Gizmo Gadget! Guaranteed to detect a werewolf or your money back. We’ll take the case!”

  Immediately, Drake phoned Nell.

  “Doyle and Fossey,” she answered.

  “Werewolf wailing on Waxberry Hill. Wiley waiting for wescue—I—I mean, rescue. No time to lose. I’ll pick you up in ten minutes.”

  “Check.”

  Click.

  The second Drake and his dad pulled up in front of Nell’s house, Nell hopped into the backseat. She was the best partner a science detective could have. (Not to mention being Drake’s best friend.) She wore a backpack that Drake knew was filled with handy gadgets. Her coffee-colored hair was pulled back into a no-nonsense ponytail. Drake knew she meant business. Scientific business of the no-nonsense sort. “Waxberry Hill, Mr. Doyle,” Nell said. “Double time!”

  “Check,” said Mr. Doyle.

  Drake and Nell hung on as tires squealed.

  Through town, over Plum River, through Fernfiddle Forest … it was a long way to Waxberry Hill.

  Lucky for them, Mr. Sam Doyle was at the wheel. You see, Mr. Doyle was a scientist himself. He owned his own science equipment and supply company. He made certain that Drake and Nell never ran out of test tubes, sharpened pencils, or lab coats with their names on them. And if business called them out late at night? When the moon was full, and the clock had already struck midnight? When a werewolf was on the prowl? No question. Mr. Doyle was their man.

  The clock in the town’s square had barely struck one o’clock by the time Mr. Doyle parked next to the Millards’ truck near Waxberry Hill. The three of them jumped out of the car and hurried up the trail to the campsite.

  The moon hovered over Wiley’s tent. A steamy mist swirled between rocks and thorny brambles. Eyes gleamed from the bushes.

  “Creepy,” whispered Nell.

  “Spooky,” Drake replied.

  Mr. Doyle sat on a log and unfolded a newspaper. His headlamp illuminated the pages. “Scream if you need me,” he said, stifling a yawn.

  Drake scanned the area with his Detect-O-Werewolf Gizmo Gadget. “All systems clear,” he said to Nell. “Lucky for us, the werewolf must be taking a break. Tired of howling, perhaps.”

  “Hmm.” Nell sniffed the
air. “Peculiar odor. Like eggs, only stinkier.”

  “Hmm … right as usual, Scientist Nell. Stinky eggs. Odd. Very odd. Perhaps the werewolf is having an after-midnight snack.”

  Drake and Nell approached Wiley’s tent.

  “Knock, knock,” said Drake.

  “Who’s there?” Wiley opened the flap.

  “Doyle and Fossey at your service.” Nell handed Wiley their business card.

  “Mind if we take a look inside?” asked Drake.

  Wiley frowned. “But what about the werewolf? Aren’t you going to capture him? If I were at home, I would have blasted him to smithereens by now. He wouldn’t stand a chance.”

  “First things first,” said Nell. “All good scientists must make observations before they can draw conclusions.”

  And so the science detectives got to work. They whipped out their lab notebooks and their pencils. They shone their headlamps around.

  “Wiley’s dad, Mr. Millard, is in his sleeping bag,” observed Nell. “He appears to be a very sound sleeper.” As if to prove Nell’s point, Mr. Millard rolled over and gave a little snort, followed by a snuffle and a snore.

  Drake pushed up his glasses. “I couldn’t help observing that the tent is rather lopsided and not staked down very well.”

  “My dad made me pitch the tent myself. I got tangled in a thorn bush but finally did it.” Wiley frowned. “I hate tents. I hate camping. This is stupid, and we’re all going to turn into werewolves if you guys don’t put it into hyperspeed.”

  “Mm-hmm, yes, yes, I see.” Drake scribbled a note to himself: Wiley’s dad out like a light, tent lopsided, Wiley tangled in thorn bush, nature appreciation lesson a failure.

  “The smell of stinky eggs is especially strong in here,” said Nell.

  Wiley’s eyes widened. “It’s the stench of the werewolf.”

  Nell fanned her face with her lab notebook. “Not only is it stinkier in here, but have you noticed it’s getting steamy and hot?”

  “Excellent observation, Scientist Nell.” Drake wrote: Tent stinky, and getting steamier and hotter by the second. “Now, tell me, Mr. Millard,” said Drake, dabbing his forehead with a hankie. “When did you first hear the howling?”

  “Right after we hit the sack,” Wiley said. “Dad fell asleep right away, but I couldn’t get comfortable. That’s when I heard—”

  But before Wiley could finish his sentence, they all heard it.

  A howl …

  Coming from outside the tent, down a ways, and just a little behind.

  Then another howl … and another … The hair rose on the back of Drake’s neck. “Great Scott! We’re surrounded! There’s an army of werewolves out there!”

  Suddenly, the floor of the tent began to bubble. And boil. And ripple and roil. And then, just when they thought it couldn’t get any more frightening, a most horrible howl came from beneath their feet.

  “Jeepers creepers!” screamed Wiley. “The werewolves are clawing their way through the floor!”

  “Emergency evacuation procedure!” cried Drake and Nell. “No time to lose!”

  Together with Wiley, they dragged Mr. Millard—sleeping bag and all—out of the tent, zipping it shut behind them.

  “Stand back, everybody!” cried Nell.

  Then, before their very eyes, the tent blew up like a balloon.

  Bigger and bigger … Howling and howling … Until it began to rise in the air, straining against the stakes. One by one, the stakes popped out of the ground. Then the tent floated off into the steamy night.…

  “Amazing,” said Nell.

  “Fascinating,” said Drake.

  “Werewolves can do that?” asked Wiley.

  While they watched, the tent hovered in the moonlight, eerily glowing like a ghost before slowly deflating and sinking to the ground.

  “Hmm,” said Drake. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking, Scientist Nell?”

  “Indeed I am, Detective Doyle.”

  “Problem?” asked Mr. Doyle, glancing over his newspaper.

  “Nothing Doyle and Fossey can’t handle, Mr. Doyle,” said Nell. “Kindly wake Mr. Millard while Detective Doyle and I fetch the tent. We must return to the lab for analysis.”

  “I’m on it,” said Mr. Doyle. And he was. After all, Mr. Doyle was their man.

  Back at the parking lot, Mr. Millard loaded the rest of the camping gear into his truck. “No video games for a week, Wiley.”

  “A week? But—but—”

  “We’ll buy a tent and camp again tomorrow. There are no such things as werewolves.”

  “But—but—” Wiley turned to Drake and Nell. “You’ve got to help me, please!”

  “Not to worry,” said Drake. “Whatever is happening, we’ll get to the bottom of it.”

  So without further ado, Drake, Nell, and Mr. Doyle hopped into their car and zoomed off.

  Back at the lab, Drake and Nell got to work.

  Nell examined the tent. Drake pulled a book off the shelf and thumbed through until he found the right section: “Creepy Campout Analysis: What to Do When Werewolves Howl All Around You, Your Imagination Goes Bazonkers, and Your Tent Floats Off into the Night.”

  Just then, Mrs. Kate Doyle poked her head around the door. While Mr. Doyle was great for squealing around corners, Mrs. Doyle was fabulous for food and drink—so fabulous that she owned her own catering company. “Need anything?” she asked. “Hot chocolate, maybe?”

  “No, thanks,” said Drake.

  “Just coffee,” said Nell. “Decaf. Black.”

  “Affirmative,” said Mrs. Doyle. And she was back in a flash with coffee. No cream, no sugar, just coffee. “I’m off to bed,” she said.

  “Check,” they said.

  Nell phoned her mother, Ann Fossey. “Campout emergency, Mom. We’re pulling an all-nighter.”

  “Ah, yes.” You see, Nell’s mother knew about all-nighters. Professor Fossey taught wildlife biology at Mossy Lake University, where all-nighters were quite common. Especially when one was observing the nocturnal habits of whiskered screech owls. “Don’t drink too much coffee, and call me in the morning.”

  “Check.”

  Click.

  Next Drake and Nell shared their observations. Then they developed a hypothesis. (As all scientists know, a hypothesis is your best guess as to what is happening and why.) Nell said, “Based on our observations, Detective Doyle, I believe the tent floated off because …”

  Drake listened carefully. “Agreed. Let’s test our hypothesis.”

  So for the rest of the night, that’s exactly what they did. They built simulations. They tested this. They tested that. And by the time they’d finished breakfast (strawberry crêpes, plus orange slices and hot blueberry muffins, compliments of Mrs. Doyle), Drake and Nell had their answer.

  Drake phoned Wiley. “Mr. Millard? If you would be so kind as to come to the lab …”

  “How many werewolves do I have to battle tonight?” said Wiley the moment he arrived. “A hundred? A thousand? Did you develop a secret weapon? Maybe an anti-full-moon formula?”

  “First things first, Mr. Millard,” said Drake. “Have a seat and allow Scientist Nell to explain.” Nell whacked the chalkboard with her long, wooden pointer. “Imagine the Earth as a peach, if you will. Have you ever eaten a peach?”

  Wiley scratched his head. “Uh, do I get bonus points for this?”

  “The skin of the peach is like the crust of the Earth. The crust is the solid outer layer on which we stand.” Nell stamped the floor to demonstrate.

  “Ah, yes, the crust,” said Drake. “Quite solid. Rocks and whatnot.”

  Nell said, “Now, the juicy flesh of the peach is like the Earth’s mantle. The mantle is hotter and softer than the crust.”

  “Quite so,” said Drake.

  “Finally,” said Nell, “the pit of the peach is like the core of the Earth. The core is very hot.”

  Wiley frowned. “What I can’t figure out is just how the werewolves floated the tent
. Are werewolves allowed to have wings? ’Cause I don’t think that’s allowed. That’s against the rules.”

  Nell whacked the chalkboard again with her wooden pointer. “Listen carefully, Mr. Millard. Your life may depend upon it.”

  Wiley gulped. “My—my life?”

  “Affirmative,” said Drake. He clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace. “Now, the core of the Earth is composed of two parts. The inner core is solid, but the outer core is composed of hot liquid rock, called magma.”

  “Also known as lava,” said Nell.

  Drake pushed up his glasses with his finger. “As you can imagine, all of the heat beneath the Earth’s surface creates pressure. When a volcano erupts, the Earth is releasing this pressure.”

  “Quite right, Detective Doyle,” said Nell. “It’s like a pot of boiling water with the lid on so tightly that no steam is allowed to escape. Eventually the pressure from the steam blows the lid off.”

  “Now,” said Wiley, “about those werewolves?”

  Drake stopped his pacing and looked quite serious. “That’s just it, Mr. Millard. There aren’t any werewolves.”

  Wiley looked stunned. As if he’d just found out there were no such things as mashed potatoes, or baseball games, or arms and legs. “But—but—the howling. I heard—you both heard—”

  “Indeed,” said Drake. “But it wasn’t werewolves making that racket—it was steam.”

  “Steam?” For a second, Wiley looked disappointed, for as everyone knows, battling steam is not nearly as exciting as battling werewolves.

  “It was a fumarole, to be precise,” said Nell.

  Wiley laughed. “What the heck is that?”

  “A fumarole is no laughing matter,” said Nell.

  “Indeed not,” said Drake.

  “Fumaroles are caused when water drains down into the Earth and pools next to magma,” said Nell. “The water heats—”

  “Steam is produced—” added Drake.

  “And the pressure forces the steam out of the Earth’s crust,” continued Nell, “sometimes with a howl, like a boiling hot teakettle.”

  “What about the stinky air?” asked Wiley.

  “Dissolved minerals in the steam,” said Drake.