How many planets have you visited?
“They let you work when you were underage?” Silas chimed in. “I had to wait till I was eighteen.”
“I may have lied about my age.” Chelon chuckled.
Silas and Alastair had lived and worked in the same small town for countless years, Lucy realised, and yet her father didn’t know much about him at all. Why isn’t Dad more curious about the people who live here? It’s amazing how much information adults miss…
“So, you have a habit of lying about your age?” she asked.
“Luce,” Silas warned.
“How old are you?” she asked.
“You don’t have to answer that, Al.” Silas laughed, nervously.
Chelon smirked, a twinkle in his eye. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
Try me, Shifty.
The waitress slid Lucy’s hot dog and Silas’s melty cheeseburger on the table, then poured more coffee for the adults. Chelon added three packets of sugar to his cup.
That’s a lot of sugar for a grown-up, isn’t it? “Where are you from?” she asked.
“Right here in Sticky Pines,” Chelon smiled. “I’ve lived here since before I could crawl.”
“And before that?”
“My people hail from all over the place.” Chelon took another bite of pie. “Mmm-mmmm.”
Lucy swirled some ketchup and mayonnaise together with a fry. “What’s it like to work for the oldest business in the Big Crater Valley?”
“Now, Al –” Silas held up a hand – “feel free to forget that I’m technically your boss now.”
Chelon chuckled. “To tell you the truth, working at the sweetener factory was always a lot of fun.”
“Was?” said Lucy.
“I still love the factory, it’s just…” Chelon stared wistfully into his coffee. “I used to run the bottling machine, you see. I loved the splurty sound it made when you squeezed the syrup into the bottles. So satisfying.”
Silas laughed. “Yeah, that was a fun job.”
“What happened?” asked Lucy.
“Well, we’re not bottling sweetener any more,” said Chelon. “Not since the incident…” He cleared his throat. “Now we’re just processing sap and putting it in barrels.”
“And, boy howdy, is there more sap than ever,” said Silas, wiping cheese sauce from his chin.
They were getting off-topic but Lucy’s interest was piqued. “If you’re not making Nucralose, why are you processing so much sap?”
“That’s a good question. Do you know?” Chelon asked Silas.
“No idea,” said Silas. “All I know is that they’re expanding the orchard, and my orders are to make sure we increase sap production threefold.” His face darkened. “When the equipment is working, that is.”
“Ah yes.” Chelon raised an eyebrow. “The ghosts in the machines.”
Lucy’s ears perked up. “Ghosts?”
“Not real ghosts,” Silas cut in quickly, before Lucy got the wrong idea. “Just … technical difficulties. The tree harvester keeps breaking down. The sap boiler won’t boil, that kinda thing. You don’t want to hear about it, Luce, believe me.” He took a big bite of his burger.
Lucy recalled Gertie Lee saying something about people “fighting back” against Nu Co. Could someone be sabotaging the machines on purpose?
Lucy ate a couple of fries, then, as nonchalantly as she could, retrieved a piece of paper from her backpack. Time to get down to serious beeswax. Taking a deep breath, she unfolded it, revealing the page she had torn from the old yearbook at the library.
Chelon looked surprised, startled even. Lucy’s heart did a somersault.
She pointed to the name next to the picture. “Do you recognise this boy?”
“I, uh,” Chelon stammered. “Sure. That’s my great-grandfather.”
Sure it is, Alastair Chel-liar.
“Really?” Silas leaned in to look. “Cool!”
Lucy indicated the painting of the turtle. “Have you ever seen these symbols before?”
“Uh, maybe?” Chelon awkwardly sipped his coffee, spilling some on his shirt. “I remember seeing something like that in the tunnel under the factory. You know, where you found us that day.”
Silas choked on his food. “Lucy,” he coughed, “I told you not to bring that up.”
Lucy pressed on. “What do they mean? Where do they come from?”
“I really couldn’t say.” Chelon’s complexion paled.
“Okay, Lucita,” said Silas. “You’re done.” He closed his daughter’s notebook and shoved it in her backpack. “I’m so sorry about this, Al.”
“Wait,” Lucy begged. “I just wanna ask one last question.” Then something passed by the window that caught her eye. “What is Fish doing with a big red kayak?”
“Is that some sort of riddle?” asked Chelon.
“Not fish,” said Lucy, “Fish. As in Milo Fisher.” She pointed.
Milo was walking past the burger joint, struggling to carry a shiny plastic boat more than twice his size. He was dressed in an assortment of kayaking gear, labels still attached, including water-resistant leggings, a nylon orange jacket and a front-facing backpack. Lucy figured he’d just bought everything at the sporting goods shop next door.
“Is he planning to take that thing to the lake on foot?” asked Silas.
“How odd,” said Chelon.
“Yeah,” said Lucy. “It is.” She shot up, then wound through the tables and ran out the front door, knocking over a life-sized cardboard cutout of a Bigfoot dressed in overalls and carrying a pitchfork.
As soon as he saw her, Milo dropped the heavy kayak on his water shoe-clad foot. “Ow!” he cried, hopping up and down in pain.
“Sorry,” said Lucy. “What in the Crayola crayons are you doing?”
“I’m optimising my stock portfolio,” he said. “What does it look like I’m doing?”
Grunting, he lifted the boat to his shoulder and lumbered towards the bike rack, one end of the kayak dragging noisily on the concrete.
Lucy saw that he had tied a skateboard to the back of his mountain bike with a length of climbing rope. “Please tell me you’re not gonna pull that boat down the road on that tiny thing.”
Milo flushed. Clearly, that was precisely what he was planning to do. “Why do you care?”
Silas exited the restaurant carrying their uneaten food in a paper bag. “Hey, Milo. Good to see you.” He handed Lucy her backpack.
“Hello, Mr Sladan.” Milo tried to balance the boat on the skateboard, but
