Prologue Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Epilogue

PART IV: BERNARD EXPLORES

Meanwhile, Bernard was not having much luck.
Two millions dollars for a diamond? Bernard didn't have two million dollars. Where was he going to get two million dollars from?
It was such a large problem that Bernard was, for the moment at least, in denial. Surely Doctor Fred was exaggerating - the Edisons must have some money.
So it was that when Bernard climbed out of the grandfather clock into the empty lobby, he made for the office behind the counter. He flicked on the light switch and started searching.
The Edisons didn't keep much in their office. There were no cupboards or filing cabinets - just a large pinewood desk, whose drawers were mostly empty. On the desk were some family photos (the Edisons were a spectacularly ugly family), a telephone, and a Swiss bankbook. Flipping through the book, Bernard was dismayed to find that, as of this moment, Doctor Fred didn't have a penny. Disappointed, Bernard cast the account book back on the desk.
One thing was missing - Bernard didn't see the safe Doctor Fred mentioned. Where was that? He saw a Star Wars calendar, a security camera in a corner, near the ceiling, and a large picture of a smiling Doctor Fred, wearing a powdered wig. For some reason, the security camera was pointed almost directly at this portrait.
Bernard had a sudden flash of intuition. He moved to the picture, and pulled the frame. It swung out on hinges, revealing the blank metal face of the Edisons' safe. It was combination locked. Bernard tried a quick rattle of the combination, but unfortunately the safe was very firmly built.
So much for that idea. Bernard stood there a moment longer, thinking, then left the office. Maybe Nurse Edna and Weird Ed were around. If they were, it was time for all their differences to be put aside. Bernard needed their help.
More late breaking news on the AP wire... FROOFROO EMERALD STOLEN CIRCULAR PRINTS LEFT BEHIND

Bernard walked up the stairs to the second floor. As far as he could remember, Edna and Ed had rooms higher up in the Mansion. But they could have moved since then, so Bernard opened the first door he came to.
The room beyond was in mild darkness, alleviated by the fall of light from the passageway. It was a motel room, where an enormously fat man lay curled up on a large queen sized bed, snoring noisily. Bernard shut the door (quietly, so as not to disturb the man), then continued down the passageway.
He stopped at the next door and debated what to do. Probably this was another guest room. But there was no way to be sure. Discreetly, Bernard pushed the door open a fraction.
He couldn't have opened it any further if he wanted to. The door was on the latch. Through the narrow crack Bernard saw a room in disarray, with sheets lying tangled on the floor, amidst beer stains and slices of moldy pizza. There was a man, too, sitting on the mussed bed, staring into the middle distance. He was thin, going bald, with grey hair and a dirty shirt. And now Bernard saw with alarm that there was a gun on the bed, beside him.
"It's useless," moaned the man. "No one will ever be interested in my designs. So I'm ending my novelty inventing career right here in this tacky motel." He paused a while to consider this. "How appropriate."
Before Bernard could even cry out, the man lifted the pistol to his head, and pulled the trigger.
From the barrel, accompanied by a muffled 'whish', came a red and white object. It unfurled into a humorous flag, which said 'BANG'.
The man looked at the flag, and tossed the gun on the floor. He sighed. "I can't even do this right..."
Bernard spoke up. "Hi," he said, in a warm friendly voice. "My name's Bernard. What's yours?"
"Dwayne. Isn't that depressing?"
Bernard was, by nature, a generous and thoughtful person. What this poor guy needed right now was a bit of friendly companionship, someone to stick with him in his hour of need. "Nice music they pipe in here, eh?" said Bernard.
"It's from the 'Elevator Classics' series. It seems like this one tune has been on all day." Dwayne paused. "I've never been so depressed in my life."
"Gee. You look depressed," said Bernard sympathetically.
A note of bitterness crept into Dwayne's voice. "What clued you in, Braniac?"
"What's wrong?"
Dwayne sniffed. "I'm having a crisis here. A warehouse of anguish. I'm a novelty goods designer by trade. I've come up with some fabulous ideas. The exploding lollipop, itching powder gum, and reverse 3-D glasses, to name a few. The problem is, no one likes my designs. I send them all over the world, and no one responds. I just wish someone would say they liked one, just once. Oh, woe is me." There were awesome depths of hurt and despair in Dwayne's voice.
"I like your design ideas!" said Bernard.
"Well, I didn't mean you," said Dwayne.
"Maybe I can help cheer you up!" said Bernard. He certainly intended to try.
"Oh, I can hardly wait."
"Why don't you try whistling a happy tune?" suggested Bernard.
Dwayne, if it were possible, got even more depressed. "I invented a whistle that turned your lips green. Nobody liked it." He sighed.
Bernard persevered. "Maybe some calisthenics would help," he said.
"Last time I tried calisthenics I ruptured my spleen," said Dwayne. Realising how pathetic that sounded, he sighed again.
What do you do to cheer up a failed novelty designer? Bernard thought. He couldn't see why that picture of dogs playing poker in his room wouldn't cheer him up. Ice cream usually brightened Bernard up instantly. Maybe he'd like to discuss theoretical valence analysis! thought Bernard. No, probably not. He'd probably be happier just if someone liked one of his designs.
"Let's discuss philosophy!" said Bernard brightly.
"Ok, here's my philosophy: Life is completely pointless, especially mine."
"Nietzsche had some interesting ideas along those lines," said Bernard, trying to draw Dwayne out.
It wasn't successful. "Oh, who cares?" said Dwayne. "Philsophers are all failures like me who couldn't make it in a real profession."
Bernard didn't immediately answer. He'd just had an idea, and was at the moment scribbling furiously on a blank piece of paper.
What he was about to do might have awesome consequences, and in the long run increase Dwayne's depression even more. But Bernard just couldn't bear to see the dull, glassy look in those eyes.
He scrawled in the last word, then put the pen away. "Hey, there's a letter here for you!" he said.
Dwayne perked up. "For me??" Then depression returned. "Probably another rejection slip," he sighed. "Oh, well." He stood up and trudged across the room to the door. He took the paper from Bernard's hand and read the single sentence, sandwiched between sender address and signature.
"'You're brilliant. What a novel design. Come to Baltimore at once.'" Dwayne stood there, his face blank, digesting this information. Suddenly, his mouth split open in an enormous grin. His eyes gleamed with excitement. Not even bothering to pack, Dwayne pulled the door open and ran down the corridor, once again full of life and energy.
Bernard watched him go. Good luck, Dwayne, he thought.
His work here was done. Feeling somewhat better, Bernard tried the next door.
Another wonderful surprise! Here, in his bachelor pad, standing ill-at-ease on a throw rug, was Green Tentacle!
"Green!" said Bernard happily. They were old friends. And Green had done his room up pretty well! There was a new stereo system, for instance, with huge speakers. Amidst all the memorabilia and books were some very interesting items: on the floor, a beanbag and a litterbox. On a desk, under a globe, was a bowling ball! And, most ominously, one whole wall was taken up by a map of the world, with tiny red dots marking key areas, and sheets of paper tacked up listing key objectives.
"Bernard!" said Green.
"What are you doing up here?"
Green sounded worried. "Well, I couldn't stop Purple, and he's going to go out and conquer the world, and I'm afraid of what he'll do if he catches me, if Dr. Fred doesn't find me first." He stopped. "Uh... Does that answer your question?" he added.
Bernard nodded. "Yeah."
"What's up, Bernard?" said Green.
"Why the litterbox?" asked Bernard. "Have you got a cat?"
"Don't ask," said Green.
"How does a tentacle sit in a beanbag chair?" continued Bernard.
"Oh, that part's easy," said Green. "It's getting back out of it that's hard."
"Can you actually use that bowling ball?" asked Bernard.
"No, Purple brought that in here after he grew arms," said Green. "He got really discouraged though, because he doesn't have fingers."
"What do you suppose Purple's up to now?" mused Bernard.
"Well, he wants to take over the world, so I figure he's up to something devious."
"Conducting cryogenic experiments on small animals?" suggested Bernard. "Designing a miniaturization ray? Pushing old ladies down the stairs?"
"I wouldn't doubt it," agreed Green, "but I was thinking more along the lines of politics!"
Bernard nodded. "Wanna help me save the world?" he said.
Green sounded regretful. "I'm afraid to leave the room. In fact, I don't think I can even move from this spot! Purple scares the daylights out of me!"
"How's your new band doing?" asked Bernard. It had been five years - there was a lot to catch up on.
Green was more than happy to explain. "Green T and the Sushi Platter? We're doing great! We've decided to really capitalize on our strongest quality as a band."
"Really? Which quality is that?" asked Bernard. Intoxicating three-part vocal harmony? Provocative lyrical content? Carefully crafted melody and distinctive counterpoint?
"Volume, man, volume!" said Green. "We have a chance to win a Grimy award as the loudest new band. We're pulling out all the stops."
"Weren't you looking for a new guitarist a while back?"
"Yes, but we decided to go with a guy who plays power tools instead. We can generate a lot more sound that way."
"Have you gotten any airplay?"
"No, we're a little too experimental for most radio stations," said Green. "But we have a huge following in the club scene."
"Are you working on an album?" asked Bernard.
"Yeah, we're doing a CD called 'Rap on the Forehead.'" said Green. "I've got a few tracks hooked up through the stereo, if you want to hear them."
"I'd love to!" said Bernard. He switched on the stereo. Immediately the room was filled with a thumping cacophony of noise, a low garrulous roar that must be shaking the whole Mansion.
"WOW!" yelled Bernard. He could barely hear himself. "This is LOUD!" He stumbled backward, involuntarily, and knocked over one of the speakers. Pressed flat into the floorboards, now the entire floor beneath his feet shook and rumbled with the beat.
Bernard hit the off switch. "Phew," he said, picking up the speaker. He crossed the room and had a look at the map of the world.
These were Purple's world domination plans. And, reading carefully, Bernard began to get worried. This looked like it might work!
The worry focused Bernard's mind back on the job: get a diamond. Reluctantly, he moved to the door. "Well, see you later, Green," he said.
"Yeah! Good luck saving the world, B-man!"
The Edisons obviously weren't on this floor. Bernard went to the stairs.

The third floor was a lot smaller than Bernard remembered it. There was just a single narrow passage, with one door on either side, and a murky set of stairs on the far side, leading up. Bernard looked left, looked right, and eventually decided to try the left door.
It opened up on Weird Ed's bedroom.
Bernard's memory of Weird Ed was of a tall, extremely muscular person with a fetish for military fear. His bedroom, which Bernard had spent a small amount of time in, extremely worried all the while, had been wallpapered in camouflage colours, and Weird Ed himself, with all his brown clothing, would be invisible in a dust storm.
Neither the room, nor the man sitting down in front of him, resembled what he remembered.
No more maps of military campaigns hung on the walls. Though the camouflage wallpaper was still there, it had faded with age, and in any case was mostly hidden behind books, an old computer, and the pipes of the Mansion's sewerage system.
Weird Ed himself sat right in front of Bernard, at a small white desk. Ed was still a big individual, with formidable upper body strength, but he seemed to hunch down, as if trying to reduce his bulk and make himself less threatening. He wore square glasses, which gave him a slightly geekish look, and he held a small magnifying lens in one hand.
Bernard couldn't believe what he was seeing. Weird Ed was a stamp collector. There they were, on the desk, all neatly lined up in a large bound volume. Even as he took all this in, Weird Ed looked up at him. "Peace be with you," said Ed placidly. There was no immediate recognition in his eyes, just a look of blank friendliness.
"Hey, aren't you Weird Ed Edison, the paramilitary nut?" said Bernard. What a transformation! He felt much more confident talking to this particular Ed.
"Why yes, I-" Ed suddenly broke off. "Hey! Do I know you?"
"Yeah! I'm Bernard Bernoulli. I broke into your house five years ago, kidnapped your hamster, broke into your piggy bank..."
Weird Ed digested all this. "Mmmm... Nope. Doesn't ring a bell, but I can't remember much about that period anyway. My psychotherapist thinks something traumatic happened to me back then that I'm blocking out."
"Does it have anything to do with a hamster?" Bernard, his eyes registering movement, looked right and saw a large red hamster, sitting in his perforated box and reading a copy of the Wall Street Journal. Five years ago, when Bernard had first broken into Weird Ed's room, there had been another hamster there. One that Bernard had kidnapped. And something had happened to that hamster, hadn't it? Something involving Syd, or maybe Razor, and the microwave in the Edison's kitchen...
Weird Ed was blank on the subject. "All I know is that I used to have a cute, white hamster with spots. And now I have a cute brown one, with no spots. It used to worry me, and the nightmares would come." There was no real undercurrent of emotion in his voice. Just a relentless placidity, of enforced calm.
"So you gave up the crazy military commando thing?" asked Bernard
"I'm much better now," Ed said. "I don't have those... those bad thoughts anymore. Now, I collect stamps."
"That's quite a nice collection," complimented Bernard. "Can I have it?"
"NO!!!" said Ed, loudly. He blinked, and control was re-established. "I mean... uh... ...no. They mean a lot to me... Sometimes, I think they're the only friends I've got."
"Nice hamster," said Bernard. "Does he do tricks?"
"No, he just sits there," said Ed. "I used to have a really smart hamster, but..." Ed's face suddenly clouded, as if a dark memory had just risen, just below the surface: "something... happened to him."
"What happened to the old hamster?" asked Bernard.
Ed sounded baffled. "I... I don't remember. When I try, all I can think of is a flash of light... and this horrible sound."
"What was the horrible sound?" asked Bernard gingerly, aware he was pushing into dangerous territory.
Ed thought deeply, staring at nothing. "It was sort of like... 'DING!' Oh God, I hear it in my dreams 'til this day!"
"That hamster really should get some exercise," said Bernard, referring to the present one.
"Well, Dad puts him to work down in the basement sometimes," said Ed. "But then he starts sweating, and then he gets wet, and then he gets cold, and then he refuses to work."
"Your dad or the hamster?" asked Bernard.
Ed looked at Bernard. "Are you making fun of me?"
"No!" said Bernard hurriedly. "I-"
"I get upset when people make fun of me!" said Ed, and colour was rising in his cheeks.
"I just meant-"
Ed ignored him. "Ooooh! It makes me so mad! I just want to..."
Ed stopped. Not a muscle moved. Waiting, statuesque, the colour slowly drained from his face. "...relax," he said calmly. "I want to relax. I'll be okay, if I just focus on my stamps."
"Are all your hobbies this fascinating?" asked Bernard.
"I don't have any other hobbies," said Ed, once again looking at Bernard. "These stamps are my whole life. If anything were ever to happen to them..." The implication hung in the air as Ed looked at Bernard, then turned his attention back to the stamps.
"How are the folks?" asked Bernard.
"Well, Dad's in the basement, doing an experiment. Mom's in the next room, spying on a honeymoon. Ted's in the front yard..."
"Holdin' up a bowl-a-lard?" suggested Bernard.
"Well... It's a birdbath, actually, but it rhymes better your way," said Ed.
Despite Ed's excessively calm demeanor, it was pretty stressing conducting a conversation with him. Bernard couldn't take much more of it. "Well, hope I didn't get you too excited," he said. "Bye."
"Peace be with you," said Ed, again.
Bernard paused in the hallway, looking in the right hand doorway. In there he could see a large bank of electronic equipment, and several security monitors, so that it looked like a hybrid recording studio / security complex. Manning the controls was Nurse Edna, on a chair that rolled from left to right on greased wheels.
Bernard shivered. Nurse Edna. Nurse Edna scared him. And he could tell that, whereas Fred and Ed were somewhat changed, Nurse Edna was the same as ever, except perhaps that her frizzy red wig (surely it couldn't be real) was larger, and her face even more wrinkled and made over. Her fingers flew over the switches and controls.
The sight of that enormous expensive surveillance equipment calmed Bernard's nerves. Soon he was able to pluck up enough courage to step inside the room.
"Excuse me-" he began.
Edna interrupted, impatiently. "What is it? I'm rather-"
She stopped talking, and working, and turned to look at Bernard. Her piercing stare made him feel quite inadequate. "Say, aren't you Bernard Bernoulli?" she said, the voice of someone who's smoked rather too many cigarettes.
"You must have me confused with some other Bernard Bernoulli," said Bernard quickly.
"No, you're the one," said Edna. "I never forget a face. You broke into our mansion a few years ago to save your little friend. What did you come for this time?"
"It's a secret," said Bernard. "I can't tell you."
"A secret, eh? How exciting! Well, I won't rat you out, hot stuff." She leered at him. "Yeeeheehee!"
"How's Dr. Fred doing?" asked Bernard. This was what he really wanted to know.
"Well, he's still upset about the family financial situation, seeing as it's his fault and all - but he seems a lot better now that he's stopped sleepwalking."
So Doctor Fred hadn't just been protecting his bank balance. Bernard felt he was losing hope. "How'd he wreck the family finances?"
"Well, we should have made millions on the computer game they made about us, but the resident genius locked the contract in the safe in his office and forgot the combination."
Something Edna had said earlier registered with Bernard. "What's wrong with sleepwalking?"
"Ordinarily nothing," said Edna, "but when Fred sleepwalks, he remembers the combination to the safe. I'd find him in the office, opening it, screaming like a cat in the oven, and slamming it again... something about what's in there really scares him. Unfortunately, I was never able to catch the combination since he works it so fast."
"How did he manage to stop sleepwalking?" asked Bernard.
"He stopped sleeping," said Edna simply. "Fred drinks a lot of coffee. Me, I only drink decaf."
There was something significant in what Edna had just said. Bernard memorised the information. "Well, enough about Dr. Fred..."
"Shall we talk about me?" suggested Edna. "Eeeheehee!"
"I was just admiring your statue," said Bernard. It was in the corner, by the doorway. It wasn't actually a statue of Edna, but that of a tall, gaunt man, standing tall and proud. One arm was crossed over his heart, the other held a sword.
"Thank you. It's been in the Edison family since colonial times. One of Fred's ancestors carved it."
"This is quite an array of gadgetry you have here!" said Bernard, and he wasn't kidding. He was really impressed.
"Yes, it's the best surveillance system in the state," said Edna
"Is that a Plexus 7000 VCR?" asked Bernard, in the reverent tones of the true tech-head. He pointed to an unlabeled black slot, underneath the monitors.
"It sure is! It's got a dual tape speed motor with cobalt casing! Don't touch it!" she added, as Bernard made signs of heading towards it.
"Are those Zenophobe crystal-matrix monitors?" he asked.
"They sure are! They're so clear you can see the fleas on the bedroom walls. Don't touch!"
"Well, enough about your equipment." said Bernard
"Let's talk about yours." She grinned lecherously at him. "Yeeeheeheehee!"
"I'll let you get back to what you were doing," said Bernard.
"Come back any time, you big hunk. Yeeeheehee!" Bernard got out before things got any worse. What now? he wondered despairingly.

Laverne was thinking much the same thing.
One thought was uppermost in her mind. Somewhere, somehow, she had to find a human and enter it in the show.
This single thought was the end result of a complicated chain reaction of guesses and supposition. All Laverne really wanted to do was get at the grandfather clock, which presumably led down to Doctor Fred's old lab. She couldn't get the guard out of the way, and the guard himself said only one thing would budge him from that spot - escaped humans.
Arranging this had proved to be supremely difficult. One, Zed didn't know how to break out. Two, from what Laverne had seen of the lethargic Edisons, he didn't seem very keen on doing so.
So it was up to Laverne. Her seductive attempts to lure the guard from his post had been unsuccessful, but for only one reason: the guard was broke.
Laverne didn't have any money. She did, however, know that there was a human show on in the Mansion, and first prize was dinner for two at Club Tentacle.
So now all she had to do was enter a human in the show, get them to win first prize, give the prize to the kennel guard, and when he'd left his post, flip off the force field. The prisoners would escape, the tentacle guard would hop after them in his best British accent, and Laverne would have access to Doctor Fred's old lab.
Thinking about all this made her head ache, as she crossed the floor of the lobby. It was time to go upstairs, and so she was headed for the metal stairs by the grandfather clock.
The tentacle guard didn't look twice at her. Even with all her worries, Laverne still chuckled as she reached the top of the stairs. "Heh. Stupid tentacle."
Now what?
The metal corridor of the second floor stretched away in front of her, curving to the left. There were no windows, just glaring white lights in the ceiling. On her left, dotted irregularly, were three tentacle doors.
Laverne started forward. One thing about her tentacle disguise was that it came down quite low, almost to her ankles. This was good for a disguise, but not so good when you had to move around. She actually had to reach down and pull the hem of the disguise up to her knees before she could move around with any kind of speed. The resulting gait made her look like a sprightly young peasant woman leaping down a hillside with a pile of hot steaming peppers in the folds of her apron.
She passed the first door which, sensing her presence, swung up with a whoosh. The room revealed was old in smell, illuminated by strong yellow sunlight from an open window, and incongruously vintage.
No metal. Instead, a wooden floor, plush leather seating, a table and a cupboard. On the table was a wrought iron candelabra, all three candles lit. A heavy-looking rug lay flat on the floor.
It all looked old. Much older than two hundred years even. Laverne remembered the tentacle guard talking about some 'worthless human relics' - this must be the place. That couch looked like it could have supported Thomas Jefferson.
Laverne wandered inside. She felt like a visitor in a museum. All the place needed were some plaques pointing out what the relics were.
In fact, there was one. It was set into the cupboard, right above a metal cylinder about a foot long. 'In Commemoration of the Constitutional Convention. Interred by Thomas Jefferson AD 1790. Run over by a plow AD 1795. Sorry about the dents.'
Laverne looked down at the cylinder. This must be Hoagie's time capsule. She took out the can opener, and after heaving and shoving away for several minutes, got the top off.
There was bottle of wine in there. Laverne took it out, thinking no wonder Hoagie wanted the time capsule open.
It was also a very old bottle of wine: Chateau de Cheap 1775. Over four hundred years old... surely it must have turned to vinegar by now. What would Hoagie want with a bottle of vinegar?
Laverne stowed the bottle in a pocket, and returned to the passageway. She walked on. A few metres later, another door swished open on her left. Laverne looked in.
Think of all the seventies cliches. Garish wallpaper in a dimly lit room. Lava lamp on the cupboard. Tacky Elvis merchandise. Billowing velvet furniture you could lose yourself in. This room had it all, along with a zombielike mummy resting against the armchair, wearing a white polyester suit. The mummy could have been a continuation of the theme, except he wasn't. He was Dead Cousin Ted.
Laverne came in. There was something comforting about Dead Cousin Ted, here in this warm, unmetal room. The door swished shut behind her, and now she was alone in here with Ted - a strangely exciting thought.
"Hello, my silent gauze-wrapped friend," said Laverne. Then, feeling very daring, she leant forward and kissed Ted on one parched cheek. It felt like kissing a bandage. "That's how we say Hi where I come from," said Laverne, her cheeks going red, "Mr. Mummy."
The mummy remained motionless.
"Do you think it's strange, me talking to a mummy?" Laverne asked. "I mean, you not being able to talk back and so forth."
The mummy didn't venture an opinion.
"Actually, I kind of like that in a guy," continued Laverne. "You probably haven't even got any lungs. Of course," she said, more for her benefit than Ted's, "it's not so different from talking to specimens at med school. Or guys at med school. Except you dress a bit better."
Ted didn't react. "All that white really gets to me," said Laverne. "My grandmother has a couch covered in that material. Is that what the well-dressed Egyptian wore?"
Maybe so, maybe not. Ted wasn't about to say. Faced with that somehow inviting wall of silence, Laverne began to unburden herself.
"I've got to get power to my Chron-O-John," she said to Ted. There was a moment or two of silence. "I guess I could wait for a lightning storm," said Laverne, thinking hard. "Maybe I could try to find some batteries. Maybe I might be able to use the hamster generator in the basement. That's if I had a hamster, of course," she admitted wryly. "Plus it's in the basement and the John's in the yard. And how am I going to get rid of the tentacle by the clock?"
There was something about Ted. He hadn't moved a muscle since she entered, but somehow Laverne could tell what Ted was more or less receptive to what she was saying. Right now, his blank face seemed to invite Laverne to continue.
"I could try to overpower him," Laverne suggested. Ted, somehow, seemed against this idea. "He must have something better to do," said Laverne. "I wish he was off chasing down hapless humans again."
She turned to another aspect of the problem. "I wonder where I could get a hamster?" She looked hopefully at Ted, but there was no help there. "I haven't seen any around here. Maybe I could find something similar."
The problem of getting power wasn't the only one weighing Laverne down. Ted was such an attentive listener, she just kept on talking. "I'm concerned about the human show," she confided.
Ted waited for her to continue.
"Is it really moral?" Laverne finally said, anguished. This was one of the grounds on which she was definitely opposed to the human show. "I mean, lining people up and judging them like meat," she continued. "Giving prizes for the best smile and hair? It reminds me of American politics."
Ted didn't say anything, but somehow Laverne got the idea that if the chance to enter ever came up, Ted wouldn't be averse.
That was another thing. "Where am I going to find a human to enter?" Laverne asked. "Most of the humans are probably entered already. I don't think I can get the Edisons out of jail in time. I've got to wear the costume and be the tentacle."
Ted's face, if it had ever offered advice or criticism before, was perfectly blank now. Maybe he was being polite.
Laverne, meanwhile, had said just about everything. "I really should go now," she said apologetically. "Call me sometime, OK?" She took one last look at Ted imperturbable face, then stepped back into the passage.
Third time pays for all. Laverne was now coming close to the last door. It swung open and Laverne stepped through before she knew where she was.
This was a mistake. She had entered a large metal room, clearly part of the tentacles' domain. Here, an old tentacle with a long bushy beard sat at a metal desk, underneath an enormous map of the world. The map was worrying enough - the tentacles' battle chart, it showed that most of the world was already under control - but it was the tentacle underneath, muttering under his breath, that caused Laverne to take in breath. He was purple, and distressingly familiar.
"Great Scott!" blurted Laverne. You're Purple-" She quickly got her voice under control. "-ahh, ahem."
"Yes?" said Purple Tentacle. The Purple Tentacle. The tentacle who had conquered the world.
Laverne was caught on the spot. "You look kind of familiar..." she stammered.
"Of course I do, nitwit! I'm Purple Tentacle, renowned world conqueror."
"Are you the same Purple Tentacle who knew Dr. Fred?" asked Laverne.
"Up on your ancient history, are you?" said Purple Tentacle. "Yes, I remember that insignificant insect." He chuckled. Not much had changed with Purple Tentacle, it seemed. The eyebrows had gone white and there were some wrinkles around the eyes, but still that same megalomaniacal attitude.
Laverne, meanwhile, was getting over her fears. This was the very tentacle they had to defeat. And up close, he really wasn't so fearsome after all. "Well, don't you just look good enough to eat?" she said.
"What's that supposed to mean?" said Purple Tentacle, baffled. "You're not a human sympathiser, are you?"
"Why, yes, I'm a firm believer in human rights," affirmed Laverne.
Purple Tentacle roared with laughter. "HAHAHAHA!! I'd almost think you were serious!"
"I couldn't help noticing you ranting," said Laverne. What was Purple Tentacle up to at the moment? she wondered.
"Not ranting, plotting!" said Purple Tentacle.
"So what are you plotting?"
Purple Tentacle, proud genius that he was, eagerly explained. "You know, I'm working on a way to get rid of the humans once and for all! I'm building a shrinking ray, which I can use to shrink those pesky humans out of my sight for good! I call it the Diminuator. The biggest problem left is to design a trigger that doesn't require fingers."
This sounded bad. "If you'll excuse me, I've got something in the oven," said Laverne, backing away.
"Anyone I know? Heh."
Outside, in the passage, Laverne was momentarily lost. Then she remembered Hoagie, and the bottle of vinegar.

Hoagie waited patiently by the Chron-O-John, thinking of nothing. He'd been there an hour or so when the John began to glow. Hoagie reached in, and there was a bottle of vinegar!
Whistling to himself, Hoagie returned to the Mansion. He didn't waste any time in getting to Red Edison's lab.
Red took the vinegar from him. "Aahh, I need that for my super-battery!" he said. "Now all I need is some gold."
That was the problem, thought Hoagie as he walked back up the stairs to the lobby. There was a gold pen in the main hall, but under the gaze of three founding fathers, and almost impossible to get.
On the other hand, Hoagie hadn't explored the whole Mansion fully. Maybe he might find some gold elsewhere. In particular, while he'd explored the second floor, the third floor and above were still unseen.
Humming to himself, Hoagie strode along the second floor hallway, and up the stairs to the third floor landing.
The third floor hall was much shorter. There was just one doorway on his right, and a horse on his left.
It was a large, placid horse, its head and neck sticking out of the open upper half of the door. It stared at the opposing door with an expression of weary contempt. Next to him, on the door sill, was a large glass of dirty water.
"Errr... Hi, horsey," said Hoagie nervously.
"Hi yourself!" grumbled the horse.
"Hi," said Hoagie. He stopped. There was something strange about what had just happened.
He realised. "Wow, you can talk!" said Hoagie.
"Wow, so can you! What a coincidence!" said the horse sarcastically.
"I didn't think horses could talk," said Hoagie.
"Maybe they just never had anything to say to you," said the horse. "Ever think of that?"
"You mean horses have been snubbing me my whole life?" said Hoagie.
"If you want to put it that way."
Hoagie peered forward, looking for the man undoubtedly hidden somewhere in the darkness behind the horse. "Is this some kind of a trick?
"I don't do magic. I'm just a horse," said the horse.
Hoagie came to the conclusion that this was genuine. "I'm trying to get back to the future and save the world," he said conversationally.
"The future, eh?" said the horse. "And I thought that Franklin guy was off his nut."
"See you later," said Hoagie. That glass of dirty water caught his eye again. "Looks like somebody's dentures have been in there," he said.
"Hey, I've got to put them somewhere," protested the horse. Hoagie turned back and looked at the horse's mouth. He felt a twinge of unease - apparently this wasn't something you were supposed to do - then he saw the dentures. Enormous, they were, gleaming yellow, and coated thickly with saliva. The horse showed them off, proudly. "I paid quite a bit for them," said the horse.
Hoagie nodded, and turned to open the door on his right. He heard the tom-tap of hammers on stone.
Inside was a large hall, with a bare wooden floor. Scraggy lumps of stone were piled up around the edges of the hall, leaving the centre free. There stood the Edison brothers, deeply embroiled in the artistic fire. One stood to attention, right arm over his chest, the sunlight from an open window falling down on his slight head. The other was several metres away, next to a large rectangular block of marble. He stood on a small stool, a wooden mallet in one hand, a sharpened stake of stone in the other.
The two brothers were identical. In dress, height, appearance, even mannerism. Moreover, the block of stone had already been carved halfway down, so that the head and shoulders of an Edison poked up from the bedrock, making three identical Edisons and further increasing Hoagie's confusion.
He looked from one, to the other, and back again. "Question is, which one's stuffed," wondered Hoagie, "and which one's the real McCoy?"
The Edison with the hammer answered him, sniffingly. "I assure you that we are both real, but we are neither one of us McCoys. We are Edisons: Ned and Jed."
"Who's who?" asked Hoagie.
"Does it really matter?" he was told. "Even our dear father can't tell us apart. He only knows that one of us is left-handed, while the other is right... but that neither of us are following in his tiny, scientific footsteps."
The second Edison, standing statuesque, tried to say something without moving his lips. It came out as "mmpflr!"
"Hold still, Jed!" Ned admonished him. He looked back at Hoagie. "So. I'm almost too frightened to ask: are you the marble deliveryman... or the model?"
"I'm the model," said Hoagie confidently. He liked the idea of someone making a statue of him. "Should I take my clothes off now?"
"No. No, you most definitely should not," said Ned firmly. "We couldn't get your body shape right anyway, unless we cemented two slabs of marble together. But then your statue would have a big seam in it..."
"That's okay," said Hoagie. "It would have one anyway."
"Look, don't call us. We'll call you," said Ned.
"Dang." Hoagie could see definite resemblances between the younger Edisons - well, Ned, at least - and Red Edison. For one, they shared their father's quick wit and impatience with fools. But they weren't scientists. Strange.
Hoagie had a small extract from one of Bernard's electrical engineering books in his back pocket. The impenetrably boring text never failed to amaze him. Just to see what would happen, Hoagie took it out and read a short bit.
"Ahem. The LALR compiler is constructed via the following method. First develop a rigorous elective grammar." He looked expectantly at Ned, who yawned.
"Did Father send you with that boring science text? Please inform him that we have chosen to pursue the finer pleasures of creating Art over the empty life of mad science."
"You some kind of artist?" asked Hoagie.
"What does it look like, nitwit?" said Ned sharply. "Oh, sorry about that... I'm trying to cultivate my artistic temperament."
Hoagie remembered what he was doing up here - looking for gold. He needed a pretext to get further into the room, though. "I'm the deliveryman," he said. "Okay if I unload in here?"
"Actually, we are well supplied with medium, so thank you, no," said Ned.
"This ain't medium," said Hoagie. "It's the extra-large stuff."
Ned tapped the statue a few times, but Hoagie was still there. "Please go away," he said. "We artists are very sensitive to your kind of people."
"What kind of people?"
"Big, dumb people," said Ned.
Hoagie thought of a joke. "I'm no marble deliveryman, but rock is my life. Heh heh."
"I'm sure that's terribly amusing," said Ned haughtily, "where you're from." Something struck him as strange. "Where exactly did you come from?"
Hoagie said the first thing that came to mind - as he so often did. "I can't really remember. I'm on the road a lot."
"Ah, the road," said Ned. He pricked up his ears. "Wait a second... what's that noise? I believe it's the road, calling your name right now!" he hinted, somewhat unsubtly.
"Well, actually," said Hoagie, "I'm from the Valley."
"Ah, the beautiful Shenandoah Valley," breathed Ned. "If only you could be there right now, eh? Wouldn't that be nice for both of us?"
"I'm from the future, also," explained Hoagie further.
Ned looked at him, a small smile with no humour in it playing across his lips. "Kind of spooky sounding, isn't it? Oooo-oooh! The future... I'm from the future... Look out!" He sighed. "Gosh, it would be so nice if you weren't here anymore..."
"I live off-campus with Bernard and Laverne," continued Hoagie.
"How nice for you!" enthused Ned. "How nice for Bernard! How nice for Laverne! How nice for everybody!"
"Well, actually they never let me play my music very loud," said Hoagie.
"Yes, of course," said Ned brusquely, losing what little shred of patience he had. "Well, goodbye."
"Sorry," said Hoagie. "Hope I haven't jostled ya."
"Too late," said Ned. He went back to work on the statue.
On the way out, Hoagie was troubled. Doctor Fred, the present-day Edison, was a scientist. But how? If Ned and Jed were to be artists, then none of the Edisons after them would grow up as mad scientists! Hoagie's mind, never the best at lateral thinking, had extreme difficulty with these time-travel paradoxes. But eventually it became clear to him that if he could somehow get Ned and Jed to regain the path of true science, Doctor Fred might yet grow up with a lab coat and slide rule.
And with this thought came a cunning plan. Most un-Hoagie-like. He ambled downstairs, whistling.

Downstairs, in the Main Hall:
"What do you suppose happened to Hamilton and Madison?" Hancock asked Jefferson.
"Yes, I'm certain we told them Thursday," said Jefferson. "I'll wager Madison's with that woman who bakes the cupcakes again... and Hamilton's probably gotten himself into another fight."
"I bet they show up late and take all the credit for our work," said Hancock.

A few minutes later, Hoagie was back, a wooden mallet in his left hand. A left-handed mallet, courtesy of Red Edison. Red didn't know anything about Hoagie's plan - he'd distracted him with a cry of 'Don't look now but the British are comin', dude', then made off with the hammer in one hand.
Ned was the right handed one, thought Hoagie, a thought confirmed when he re-entered the hall and saw Ned tapping away at the marble. Ned looked at him, witheringly, but said nothing.
This would be tricky. Hoagie stood there, not moving, and just watched. It seemed to relax Ned, who seemed worried he was going to be spoken to again. Eventually Hoagie was forgotten.
Soon he saw a pattern. Ned would tap five or six times, then pause, resting the mallet beside him on the stool. It stayed there for several seconds. Then it was picked up again.
Hoagie inched forward, coming behind Ned. Unseen, he waited. Soon the mallet was put down. Hoagie swapped the two, then backed away quickly, into the shadows.
Ned picked up the mallet and aimed at the stake. He swung, and missed, the mallet slipping down the left side. "Oh no!" said Ned. Frowning, he tried again, swiping harder. This went down the left side, too. "I've lost it!" he said, his frown deepening. He swung harder and harder, and kept on missing.
"O! Where hath gone the muse that once guided my hand with such care?" Ned beseeched. "Must inspiration be so transitory? Must art be so cruel?"
Finally, with an almighty wallop, he nailed the stake.
There was a loud crack. The marble block shattered, and Ned's many hours of careful work were lying on the floor, mere rubble.
Jed, shocked, loosened his posture.
Ned was staring down at the ruins. He sobbed, and quickly turned his head from Jed, crying into his arm. "I'm a failure," he moaned.
"Don't say that, Ned!" said Jed, concerned.
"Father was right," Ned wailed. "We Edisons are made to be scientists, not artists."
Jed hopped down from his pedestal and laid a comforting brotherly arm on Ned's shoulder. "Dear brother," he said, "We must be strong in these times of creative adversity. Why don't you let me take over for a while. I'll clean up this rubble and start over. You relax," Jed reached into his coat and took out a steaming cup of coffee, "have a cappuccino."

An hour later, and the work was going along fine. Jed was handling the left-handed mallet well. "I'm glad we switched places," he said. "I think you're coming out quite well."
Hoagie, meanwhile, had left the room some while again. He felt better. Doctor Fred probably would turn out to be a scientist after all. Then he felt worse. It was Doctor Fred's bungling that had gotten him and the rest of the world into its present mess! Perhaps he shouldn't have done that.
Well, it was done now. Besides, he had one more floor of the Mansion to explore.
A narrow set of stairs curled up to the fourth floor. Here was just the one room, a cramped attic that seemed tohave been converted into a bedroom for Ned and Jed. Two beds, made up, nestled at opposite corners of the room. For an attic, it was clean, with hardly any dust motes suspended in the yellow shafts of daylight coming from the attic windows. Hoagie went to one and looked out. In addition to the commanding view, he saw to his right the main chimney of the Mansion.
He wasn't the only one here. On the floor, a black and white cat was batting a rubber mouse toy back and forth from paw to paw. He was utterly uninterested in Hoagie.
Hoagie went to the cupboards and bedstands, looking for gold. He didn't expect to find any, and he didn't. At a loss, Hoagie sat down on one of the beds, and his considerable weight caused the springs to jingle.
The cat immediately looked up, interested, and paced over to the bed. Hoagie wasn't quite sure why he did what he did next. He darted forward and took the forgotten mouse toy. Why? Well, maybe this might be easier to bite the head off, thought Hoagie. He stuffed it in his pocket.

Bernard was despondent. He'd been searching for an hour. No luck.
After the unsettling meetings with Edna and Weird Ed, Bernard had tried his luck one floor up. The attic was both bare and full of stacks of paper, but no spare diamond. A small loft adjoined the attic, with just enough room for a bed. It was easy to ascertain there was no diamond there as well. Bernard even climbed out the window and took a look around. A chimney on his right, narrow tiling on his left, and a massive panorama of darkness in front of him. Down there in the parking lot, Bernard could see someone trying to break into a car with a crowbar - fortunately, not Bernard's. No diamond, unless that locked car had one.
So Bernard walked down the stairs, slowly coming down each floor. In the second floor passage, something stopped him. The sound of snoring, quite loud. It was coming from the last door on his right.
Bernard opened up. Oh yeah, that's right: this was Fatty's room. Face down on the bed, he slept on, snoring like a chainsaw through wood.
"Late night?" inquired Bernard. Fatty slumbered on. "Do you ever inhale flies when you snore like that?" asked Bernard. It had been a long, fruitless night, and he was a little less tactful than his normal self.
Hearing no reply, Bernard nonetheless pressed on. "I had an uncle who snored as loud as you do," he said. "He lived in California until he was declared an earthquake hazard. The steel works next door complained about the noise. Once he inhaled a pillow." Something Fatty looked in danger of doing.
Bernard left him alone, and took a look around the room. Patterned green carpet, and decorated pink walls. This was the honeymoon suite, and the double bed was the word of all - a massive plush bed-head, shaped like a giant heart. Fatty took up the whole mattress.
And, amongst all that, was a television, sleek and black. Bernard switched it on.
There was a commercial on. Then another one. Then one after that, just when Bernard was reaching for the off switch, that got his attention.
A salesman was pointing to a bench, on which rested a massive octahedric diamond. "That's right, an incredible four-thousand carat diamond, for the piddling sum of two million dollars," he said. "This beauuutiful four-thousand carat diamond can be yours today - for the special rock-bottom introductory price of two million dollars. The number to call is 1-800-STAR-WARS. Don't miss this amazing once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. That number again, 1-800-STAR-WARS. Call now, tell 'em Yoda sent you!"
Bernard memorised the number. But it didn't seem like he was any better off. Where was he going to get two million dollars from?
He left, drawing the door closed behind him. Fatty was very slack with his security - a large set of keys were hanging from the inner side of the door, the motel key stuck in amongst all the others. Someone less scrupulous than Bernard might make off with them in a moment.
Bernard wished there was someone less scrupulous around. Maybe he could get him to steal a diamond.
Outside Fatty's room, Bernard considered his next move. There was just one area of the Mansion he hadn't looked through yet - the convention hall and dining area, downstairs. Not that there was going to be a diamond there, but he had to look anyway.
Maniac Mansion's convention hall was not the grand arena of earlier days. If Jefferson, Washington and Hancock had written the Constitution in here, two hundred years ago, it was a different, more majestic room then. Nowadays the convention hall was a small, dim, cramped room with blue, gum-stained carpet, a strange stale smell in the air, and furnishings at least twenty years out of date. Even the fireplace had been converted from its original brick respectability to something that looked built from plastic.
All this Bernard saw as he entered the hall. He also saw a lot more, which did not improve the place much. The hall had been festooned up, for a big occasion. Huge garish posters hung on the walls, the worst of them a two metre square drawing of a giant set of Chattering Teeth, another a silhouette of a Rubber Chicken. Streamers and balloons hung limply from the ceiling. An inflated clown stood near the door. The place looked ready for a party, until Bernard saw that the party had been and gone. Several tables were jammed together in one half of the room, and on them was piled mounds of junk, leftover food and dirty dishes.
There was only one person left, a short, balding white guy who was round all over. Going on forty, maybe fifty. As he saw Bernard come in, he spoke up, cheerily: "Hey, boy, you missed the party!"
"You and the clown were having a party?" asked Bernard.
"No, no. Last night! At the novelty goods salesmen's convention! I tell you, we novelty goods salesmen know how to have a good time." He chuckled, making a sound like a gopher falling off a roof. "So, what can I do for you, kid?"
Bernard took this as an invitation to come into the room. He joined the salesman at a table piled high with - well, at first Bernard had thought it was junk, but now he saw it was a smorgasboard of novelty goods: cigars, chattering teeth, disappearing ink, and perched rather worryingly on top, a gun.
Bernard remembered the suicidal novelty goods designer upstairs. He wondered what last night's party might have been like. "So, where is everybody?" he asked.
"The really big bash was last night," said the salesman. "I guess they're all sleeping it off."
"Nice cigars," said Bernard, looking not at the specimens on the table but a row of them perched in the front shirt pocket of the salesman.
"Nice?" said the salesman. "These babies are practically exploding with tobacco goodness! I roll them myself," he added proudly. "So, want a cigar?" he asked, looking at Bernard over the top of his spectacles.
Bernard didn't smoke, but he didn't want to be impolite. "Sure, lay one of those Havanan babies on me," he said.
The salesman took a cigar and put it between Bernard's lips. Then he grabbed the gun from the table and pointed it squarely at Bernard's head.
Bernard's knees suddenly went to jelly. He looked at the salesman with wide, fearful eyes.
The salesman pulled the trigger.
A small yellow flame came from the end of the barrel, lighting the tip of Bernard's cigar. Bernard relaxed, as the end of the cigar began to smoke. "Thought I was going to blow your head off there, didn't ya?" joked the salesman.
The cigar blew up in Bernard's face.
"Well you were RIGHT!" guffawed the salesman. As Bernard wiped some of the soot from around his mouth, the salesman laughed, great huge bellylaughs that were almost completely silent. He stood rocking back and forth on his feet, eyes screwed up shut, hands on his gut, shaking uncontrollably.
He got himself under some sort of control. "You shouldn't smoke," Bernard was chided. "It's a bad habit."
Then he started his silent laughter again. Slowly, and by degrees, he was able to calm himself down. Finally, he wiped a tear from his eye. "That cracks me up every time," he said. "So, kid-"
But Bernard had gone.

Walking up the stairs to the second floor, Bernard wondered what on earth he was doing. It wasn't like him to go looking for revenge. But that salesman was just so immensely annoying, especially his laugh. Besides which, Bernard had come up with a brilliant plan, one that would get back the salesman and then some.
Two minutes later he was back on the convention floor. Everything was the same except for one thing: Bernard had the flag gun from the novelty goods designer's room. This called for some tricky timing, but he was ready.
Bernard came to the salesman's table. Suddenly an incredulous expression crossed his face. Bernard pointed behind the salesman. "Look, gravity has reversed itself over there!" he exclaimed.
The salesman turned. "Huh?" Quickly Bernard swapped the guns. "I don't see anything." He turned back, looking at Bernard.
"Oh, nothing," said Bernard.
The salesman looked at him a moment. Then he said, "So, want another cigar?"
"OK, but only if you promise not to light it this time," said Bernard.
"Would I do a thing like that?" The salesman gave him the cigar, then with whiplash speed took the gun and fired it.
A small red flag, ('BANG!') came out of the barrel with an unimpressive whooshing noise. The salesman stared at it, perplexed. "I don't get it," he said.
Bernard grinned. He pocketed the cigar.
The salesman turned his back. "Get lost, kid," he said.
I think we know who came out on top there, thought Bernard, as he walked away victoriously.

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