Mr. Beeba looked puzzled. “You? What did it give you?”

  “The creeps.”

  Mr. Beeba snorted. “You and me both.”

  Ragstubble brushed his hands together like a workman at the end of the day. “There we go. This here glagma-thieving operation is now officially over. Let's get out of here!”

  “Great,” I said. “But how? The ship we came here in is wrecked, and the police car ship is on a whole different planet.”

  Spuckler chuckled. “ 'Kiko, all the transport we need is right here under our feet.” He turned to Ragstubble. “C'mon, Fluggs. Show her how it's done.”

  “Next stop,” Ragstubble said, punching a few buttons and getting into a driver's seat on one side of the room, “shringlaRai!”

  An hour or so later we arrived outside Toog's capital city, lumbering into town the only way the core eater knew how: loudly and menacingly. We must have scared shringlaRai's population half to death. But once Poog went in and explained things to the Toogolian elders, word got around that a celebration was in order. By the end of the day, shringlaRai had transformed itself into a huge outdoor party.

  Of course, Toogolians being Toogolians, it wasn't a big crazy blowout like we'd have on Earth. It was mostly very quiet, except for the singing of Toogolians throughout the city, which was as soft as the sound of crickets on a summer evening. At night there was something Mr. Beeba called a phosphorescence ballet. It was a bunch of glowing balls of light—some as big as buildings, some as small as fireflies—that danced in the sky until the wee hours of the morning, making huge intricate patterns and painting the clouds a hundred different shades of violet, pink, and orange.

  The Toogolian elders made three great declarations that day: that all of us were to be guests of honor on Toog for as long as we wished to stay; that those TriYarms who had collaborated with Zeem would be banned from Toog forever; and that innocent Tri-Yarms throughout the universe were free to return to the planet Toog at once if they so desired, with a promise that amends would be made for all the injustices against them in the past.

  Toward the end of the celebrations, Poog called a special session of the elders, during which he admitted that he had abandoned his meditations and was not the proper Toogolian elder he appeared to be. The other elders voted unanimously that he be completely forgiven for this; they even offered him a higher position as a reward for his services to the planet.

  Poog caused quite a stir by turning them down on this last offer, saying he no longer wished to be an elder at all, but just an ordinary Toogolian. He had decided to spend the rest of his life on the planet Smoo, growing old with his friends there and returning to Toog only on special occasions. (The elders promised they would concoct as many special occasions as they could.)

  When the celebrations had ended, we all climbed aboard the core eater, and to Spuckler's delight, Ragstubble put its rocket boosters on full throttle, lifting us into the air, up through the clouds, and off into space. A couple of hours later we arrived back on Ragstubble's home planet. It was only when Spuckler got into the spaceship police car and revved up the engine that it suddenly hit me: I was going to have to say goodbye to Ragstubble, and there was no telling when I'd see him again.

  “Thanks for everything, Mr. Ragstubble. We'd have never pulled it off without your help.”

  “Fluggly,” he replied. “You gotta call me Fluggly from now on. We're friends, for cryin' out loud.”

  I smiled. “It's a little late for ‘from now on,' isn't it?”

  “You kiddin'? I want you back here soon. Real soon. Never did sample my skubb eel soup, did ya?”

  “You mean the little wormy things?”

  “I believe the phrase you used was ‘disgusting little wormy things.' ”

  “Hey,” I said, “I call 'em like I see 'em.”

  HONK HONK

  “C'mon, 'Kiko,” Spuckler called from the police car. “Enough already. Long sad goodbyes're for sissies.”

  I gave old Fluggly a hug and a kiss on his big stubbly cheek and trotted off to begin my flight home. The last I saw of him, as we rose into the air, was a toothy grin and three arms waving goodbye.

  During the flight back to Earth I had a nice long chat with Poog and Mr. Beeba.

  “That must have been tough for you, Poog, giving up being a Toogolian elder. Are you afraid you might regret it someday?”

  Poog shook his head and gurgled cheerfully. “He thinks he was never really cut out for elderhood anyway,” Mr. Beeba said. “Too many rules and far too little fun.”

  “That's for dang sure,” said Spuckler. “I never seen such a buncha tired old party poopers. Stick with me, Poog. I'll show ya what life's all about: fistfights and Bropka burgers.”

  Poog smiled, and Mr. Beeba rolled his eyes.

  Gax was burning with curiosity about what had happened while he was out of service.

  “WHY WASN'T ZEEM ABLE TO BRAINMELT AKIKO?” he said. “OR EVEN BRAINPIERCE HER?”

  Poog answered with a question.

  “He wants to know if you have something called an appendix,” Mr. Beeba said.

  “An appendix?”

  “It's a small organ in the human body, apparently.”

  I remembered how a friend of mine at school got appendicitis a few years ago and had to have her appendix removed.

  “Well, I've never had mine removed,” I said, “so sure, I guess I must have an appendix.”

  Poog gurgled a bit more.

  “You're very lucky, Akiko,” Mr. Beeba explained. “That appendix of yours is what saved you. It serves as a sort of shield against Toogolian brain warfare. Human beings are among the very few life-forms in the universe that possess such an organ.”

  “Wow. People on Earth think this thing is useless,” I said, tapping my stomach in what I hoped was the general area of my appendix. “I wish I could tell my science teacher about this.”

  We arrived back in Middleton on a cool sunny morning and caught up with the Akiko robot strolling along Wabash Avenue. Spuckler guided the ship into a nearby alleyway and we prepared to make the switch. When I saw my backpack slung over the robot's shoulders, I realized that we'd intercepted her on the way to Middleton Elementary for the start of another school day.

  “Lousy timing, guys,” I said as I opened the back door to get out. “Maybe we can take an extra spin around the galaxy until school's over.”

  Spuckler and Mr. Beeba looked at each other and chuckled. There was a kind of Why not? expression on their faces.

  I had one foot outside the car.

  “That was a joke,” I said.

  “I know it was,” said Mr. Beeba. “But it doesn't have to be.”

  I looked at the Akiko robot. There was no getting around it. She was a lot more ready for a day at school than I was.

  “Hey, c'mon, 'Kiko,” Spuckler said. “You just saved a whole planet. If that doesn't entitle ya to a day off, I don't know what does.”

  “I QUITE AGREE, MA'AM,” said Gax. “A BIT MORE REST WOULD DO YOU GOOD.”

  I pulled my foot back inside the car.

  Shut the door.

  Folded my arms behind my head.

  “You know, I've always wanted to see the rings of Saturn….”

  Mr. Beeba smiled.

  “Close your eyes,” he said. “We'll be there before you know it.”

  Be sure to read

  the exciting new series from

  Mark Crilley!

  Excerpt from Billy Clikk: Creatch Battler

  Copyright © 2004 by Mark Crilley

  Published by Delacorte Press

  an imprint of Random House Children's Books

  a division of Random House, Inc.

  New York

  All rights reserved

  CHAPTER 1

  SKEETER GIG. BACK LATE, DON'T WAIT UP. DINNER'S IN THE FUDGE. LOVE, MOM & DAD

  Billy Clikk read the Post-it again.

  “Fridge. She meant fridge.” Crumpling up the yellow square, Billy chucked it at the garbage can and watched it fly in and then bounce out onto the kitchen floor. It was the third time this week he'd come home from school to find his parents gone, leaving him to heat leftovers in the microwave, do his homework, and put himself to bed. At this point they could just leave a note reading THE USUAL and he'd know exactly what it meant.

  There was an upside, though: Billy was now free to kick back and watch his favorite TV show, Truly Twisted. He dashed into the living room, leaped over the couch, grabbed the remote, and switched on the TV.

  Truly Twisted was the one program his parents said he must never, never watch. These guys took extreme sports to a whole new level: they once snuck into a church, climbed up the steeple, and bungee-jumped right into the middle of some guy's wedding. It was pretty awesome.

  When Billy got to the channel where Truly Twisted was supposed to be airing, though, there was nothing more extreme than some lame college tennis championship. “Oh, come on!” Billy cried. They'd bumped the best show on cable for a couple of scrawny guys knocking a ball back and forth.

  Billy shut off the TV and slouched back into the kitchen. He yanked open the “fudge,” pulled out a brown paper bag, and peeked inside. Cold chicken curry: carryout from the Delhi Deli, an Indian restaurant down the street. Billy used to like their chicken curry. Back before he'd eaten it once or twice a week, every week, for about three years.

  Billy pursed his lips, made a farting sound, and tossed the bag back in the refrigerator. He slammed the door a lot harder than he really needed to and stared at the floor. There, next to his foot, sat the crumpled-up Post-it note.

  “Are pest problems getting you down?” he said, suddenly doing a superdeep TV-commercial voice. “Then you should pick up that phone and call Jim and Linda Clikk, founders of BUGZ-B-GON, the best extermination service in all of Piffling, Indiana.” He leaned down and picked up the wadded note, and as he straightened up, he added a tone of mystery to his voice. The TV commercial had turned into a piece of investigative journalism. “What makes the Clikks so busy? What drives them to spend their every waking hour on extermination jobs— ‘skeeter gigs,' as they call them? Is it really necessary for them to devote so much of their time and energy to saving total strangers from termites and hornets' nests? Is it just for the money, or is killing bugs some kind of a weird power trip?”

  Billy took aim with the Post-it and had another shot at the garbage can. This time the note went in and stayed in.

  That's more like it.

  Billy changed his posture and pivoted on one foot, transforming himself once again into a reporter.

  “And what of Jim and Linda's son, Billy? How does he feel about all this?” Billy went on, clutching an imaginary microphone as he strode from the kitchen back to the living room. “Well, let's ask him. Billy, how do you feel about all this?”

  “You want the truth?” said Billy, switching to his own voice. “I think it stinks. I think it's a lousy way to treat a devoted son who is so bright, well behaved, and good-looking.”

  Billy drew his eyebrows into an expression of great sympathy: he was the reporter again. “Tell me, Billy, do you think it bothers your parents that you have to spend so many evenings at home by yourself ? Do you think they feel the least bit guilty that you have to eat takeout night after night rather than home-cooked meals? Indeed, do you suppose—as your parents dash madly from one skeeter gig to another—that they even think of you at all?”

  Billy stopped, stood between the couch and the coffee table, and let out a long sigh. He dropped the imaginary microphone and the phony voice along with it.

  “I don't know.” Billy flopped onto the couch. “Probably not.”

  It hadn't been so bad the previous year, when Billy's best friend, Nathan Burns, was still living in Piffling. Nathan was the only kid at Piffling Elementary who was as obsessed with extreme sports as Billy was. They used to spend practically every weekend together, mountain-biking the cliffs that led down to the Piffling River, skateboarding across every handrail in town (they both had the scrapes, bruises, and occasional fractures to prove it), and even street luging on their homemade luges, which was apparently outlawed by some city ordinance or another. The only thing Billy and Nathan hadn't tried was sneaking a ride on the brand-new Harley-Davidson Nathan's father had stashed away in the garage.

  They would have tried it eventually, for sure. But then Nathan's family moved to Los Angeles for his father's work. There were other kids at Piffling Elementary who were into extreme sports a little. They just weren't willing to risk life and limb the way Nathan was. Billy soon realized that finding a new best friend was going to take a while. In the meantime, it was looking like it would be THE USUAL for many months to come.

  Piker, Billy's Scottish terrier, lifted her head from the recliner on the other side of the room, snorted, and went back to sleep.

  BACK LATE, DON'T WAIT UP.

  Billy had never been able to figure out why so much of his parents' work was done at night. Exterminators didn't normally work at night, did they? Were they trying to catch the bugs snoozing? Kids at school thought he was lucky. “If my parents left me alone at night like that,” Nelson Skubblemeyer had said just the other day, “I'd be partyin' like nobody's business. I'd be, like, ‘Yo, party tonight at my place.…'” (Nelson always said the word party as if it rhymed with sauté: in spite of his name, he'd somehow convinced himself he was the coolest kid in the sixth grade.)

  Billy had never thrown a party while his parents were out on a skeeter gig. He wouldn't have been able to get away with it even if he'd tried. There was someone keeping an eye on him.

  DRRIIIIIIINGG

  Leo Krebs, thought Billy. Right on schedule. Billy normally didn't let the phone ring more than twice before answering. But when he was pretty sure it was Leo, the high school sophomore down the street who “looked after” him whenever his parents were gone at night, he had a policy of screening calls.

  DRRIIIIIIINGG

  Billy leaned back into the couch and did his best Leo impersonation: “Dude. Pick up. I know you're there.” Doing a good Leo meant breathing a lot of air into your voice and ending every sentence as if it were a question. Like Keanu Reeves, only more so.

  DRRIIIIIIINGG

  Billy's voice had begun to change the previous summer, greatly increasing the range of impersonations he could do (which had been pretty impressive to begin with). “Duu-ude. You're wastin' my time here.”

  DRRIIIIIIINGG

  One more ring and the answering machine would kick in.

  DRRIIIIIIINGG

  There was a plick, then a jrrrr, then: “Your pest problems are at an end…,” Jim Clikk's voice said. Billy jumped in and recited the words right along with the answering machine, creating the effect of two Jim Clikks speaking simultaneously. “… because you're seconds away from making an appointment with the extermination experts at BUGZ-B-GON. Just leave your name and number after the tone and we'll get back to you as soon as we can.”

  DWEEEEEP

  “Dude.” It was Leo, all right. “Pick up. I know you're there.” Billy grabbed the remote off the coffee table and clicked the television on. When dealing with one of Leo's check-in calls, it was essential to have every bit of audiovisual distraction available.

  “Duu-ude. You're wastin' my time here.”

  Billy reached over, grabbed the cordless phone from one of the side tables, and pressed Talk.

  “Leonard,” he said, knowing how much Leo disliked being called by his full name. Well, at least he hoped Leo disliked it. Billy didn't exactly hate Leo, but he wasn't too crazy about him either. Part of it was Leo's I'm older than you and don't forget it attitude. Most of it, though, was Billy resenting the whole idea of being baby-sat at all. He was old enough to take care of himself.

  “Dude,” said Leo in return. He never called Billy anything other than dude. Leo probably called little old ladies dude. “Look, your folks told me they wouldn't be back until, like, midnight or whatever…”

  Billy was remoting his way through a bunch of cartoon shows. He paused on an old low-budget monster movie.

  “… so I can either come over there and babysit you for a couple hours—which neither of us wants—or just check in again at ten and make sure you're still alive. Not that I want you to be.”

  “C'mon, Leonard. You don't want anything bad to happen to me. You'd be out twenty bucks a week.”

  Normally Billy would have come up with a better verbal jab than the twenty bucks line, but he was devoting most of his attention to the image on the television screen: an enormous creature with lobster claws going to great lengths to stomp his way into a cheap imitation of Disneyland. There didn't seem to be any special reason why. Maybe he'd run out of office buildings and power stations to wreck.

  “All right, dude. Ten o'clock it is. Pick up the phone next time, will ya?”

  “Okay, Leonard. And hey: tell your skater buddies to learn some new moves. My gramma can do better kickflips than that.”

  Billy shut off the phone with great relief. He knew that the money his parents paid Leo involved him physically being inside the Clikk home. Periodically Leo would skip the phone call and just arrive at the front door. On these occasions he always left behind some very clear proof that he'd been there—doodles on a notepad, a half-finished bottle of Gatorade—apparently thinking a bit of Leo-was-here evidence every once in a while would be enough to convince Billy's parents they weren't completely wasting their twenty dollars.

  Doodles on notepads. Bottles of Gatorade. Billy noticed stuff like that: details. He'd always had a knack for it, even when he was just a kindergartner. If the dark blue crayon in Crayola's big box went from being called cerulean one year to cornflower the next, Billy knew about it and had a preference. And it wasn't just kid stuff. If Billy got even half a second's glance under the hood of a Hummer H2, he could tell which parts were new, which were old, and which parts the shady repairman had used strictly to skim money off the bill.

  The lobster creature had reached the roller-coaster mountain in the middle of the amusement park and was tearing apart its papier-mâché walls. Sweaty actors with loosened neckties pointed and screamed convincingly.