“They could,” said Tisa. “I will talk to my father. If we bring electricity to a village, I am sure he will bring an investment. He might give us a deadline, though. Father is very focused on results.”

  “And we’ll give them to him,” said Max, her runaway enthusiasm growing stronger. “If we can bring a village electricity and new hope, maybe they wouldn’t have to tear their families apart and send their children down into the mines to pick through rocks with their bare hands.”

  “So, what do we do?” wondered Vihaan. “How do we bring electricity somewhere that doesn’t even have power lines?”

  “Maybe we don’t need power lines or even power plants,” said Max.

  “Here we go with the unicorns again,” groused Klaus, rolling his eyes.

  Max could see the answer so clearly. She could see well-lit homes. Less pollution. New industries. And it all started with Albert Einstein’s 1905 theory of the photoelectric effect. (It was the theory that won him the Nobel Prize; not the more famous theory of relativity.) The thought experiment was so vivid in her mind that she didn’t realize that everyone in the room was staring at her, waiting for her to actually say something.

  “What do you want to do, Max?” asked Isabl.

  “Hmmm?”

  “What’s the project?”

  “Oh. Right. It’s simple, actually. We’ll help one village generate electricity utilizing photoelectrons bouncing off a surface. We’ll show them how to harness the energy in a beam of sunlight.”

  “Solar power!” shouted Siobhan.

  “Exactly.”

  43

  Charl and Isabl pulled up a file on their laptop and displayed its contents through the holographic projector.

  “Max’s notion fits nicely with a plea the CMI recently received from a village in the Congo,” said Isabl. “It’s called Kasombumba and lies between Kolwezi and Lubumbashi near the southern border.”

  “Can you send me the details?” asked Tisa. “I will forward them to my father.”

  Max nodded. “Working with African investors would be awesome. We’ll set up the electricity. The investors can help the villagers plot a new course, free from the mines.”

  She moved closer to the 3-D images of the village of Kasombumba. It was a ramshackle collection of buildings. Their roofs were sheets of corrugated aluminum. Laundry was strung out to dry. The people puttered around on motor scooters. Max saw a few spindly poles holding up limp wires but no major signs of electricity.

  “Is it a mining town?” she asked.

  “Yes,” said Isabl, clicking her remote to bring up a montage of images of the village and its nearby mines. “The children don’t go to school during the day. They go to work.”

  “Recently,” said Charl, “the only school in Kasombumba burned down. It was late at night…”

  Max nodded. “Because the kids all work during the day.”

  “Exactly. They were using a kerosene lamp to light the classroom. Someone accidentally knocked it over. Everyone escaped but the school and all its books were destroyed.”

  “They need electricity,” said Max. “Solar panels…”

  “If I may?” said one of the professors, raising his hand.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Well, I’ve been working with a Non-Governmental Organization called Smart Energy Everywhere, or SEE. I’m sure they would gladly offer you their assistance.”

  “What about the solar panels?” said Klaus. “Will they gladly offer us those, too? Because solar panels cost a whole lot more than assistance.”

  The professor smiled. “Yes. That is what I meant to say. I think they might give us a steep discount on the solar panels.”

  “Excellent,” said Klaus. “We’ll hammer out a deal and ship the material down to Africa. We do a quick installation and—BOOM!—job done. We can move on to the next part of the planet that needs saving.”

  Max bit her tongue. She didn’t like Klaus’s attitude or the fact that he was, basically, trying to take charge. But to bring solar-powered electricity to the mining village, to make sure their next school didn’t burn down when somebody kicked over a kerosene lamp, they would definitely need solar panels. This project was bigger than her. She’d play along. Especially since detail work wasn’t her number one skill.

  “I’ll hang back here and work with the professor while you and the rest of the crew go scope out the situation in the village,” volunteered Klaus. “I can handle the logistics for getting the solar panels delivered and catch up with you guys later. I’m good with logistics.”

  “I’ll work with my father,” said Tisa. “We will hammer out a concrete plan for a new industry or agribusiness to replace the stranglehold of the mining companies.”

  “And let us know our deadline,” said Max.

  “Don’t worry. Father will be in charge of that!”

  “That seems like an excellent division of labor,” said Annika, because she was super logical that way.

  Max turned to Charl and Isabl.

  “How soon can we leave?”

  “As soon as you children get your shots,” said Ms. Kaplan, the Institute’s den mother.

  Max winced. So did everybody else. “Shots?”

  “We have to make sure you are up to date with vaccinations,” said Ms. Kaplan. “We also need to inoculate you against yellow fever. And then there’s the malaria medicine you’ll all need to start taking…”

  Ms. Kaplan led the way out of the room.

  All the kids except Klaus and Max followed her. Klaus was hanging back, chatting with the professor and the other adult scientists in the room.

  “Great idea about that NGO, doc,” Max heard him say. “I don’t know how our first finisher planned on doing solar power without solar panels, but, whatever…”

  Isabl came up and tapped Max on the shoulder. “Have you ever been to a doctor for vaccinations?” she whispered.

  “Yes. When I was in foster care.”

  “Good. You’ll need the other shots, though.”

  “Right.”

  Max headed for the door.

  Klaus blocked her path.

  “Great working with you, Max. But you know what?”

  “What?”

  “One day, probably pretty soon, after the benefactor realizes his blunder, I have a feeling I’ll be running the group.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yeah. This gig is all about logistics. Making deals. That’s my wheelhouse. I’m good at it. You? You’re more of a head case. Dreaming up big ideas. But big ideas don’t turn on the lights.”

  “Well, Klaus, when that day comes,” she said, “I’ll be happy to work for you. And, of course, your robots, too.”

  When she said “robots,” she gestured to all the grownups in the room.

  44

  The red blip moved slightly.

  Dr. Zimm leaned closer to his computer screen.

  The blip blinked.

  And then it started progressing slowly and steadily up a street in Jerusalem.

  The girl was on the move. The tracker Yahav had planted was working.

  A text confirmation soon followed: The CMI team is going on a mission. Word is they are heading to Africa.

  Dr. Zimm grinned. Yahav had been an excellent investment. He would send the spy a bonus—just as soon as they had the girl back in Corp custody.

  He happily watched the flashing red beacon work its way through the traffic-congested city.

  Another text scrolled across the screen: Congo. The Polish boy is yelling into a phone. Organizing a delivery of solar panels. A small village called Kasombumba close to Kolwezi and Lubumbashi. Near the southern border.

  Could this get any better? wondered Dr. Zimm.

  The southern Congo was where some of the Corp’s wealthiest members operated their extremely profitable cobalt mines. Labor was cheap. The high-tech world was hungry for Africa’s minerals. The Corp members sold everything they could scrounge out of the ground.

  They had so much money pouring in from their mining operations, they were eager to branch out into new endeavors. They wanted to finance the research needed to develop what they called a “quantum computer.” Normal binary digital computers store bits of information as either a 1 or a 0. Quantum computers process information quite differently. They use quantum mechanical phenomena such as superposition and entanglement.

  Dr. Zimm didn’t have a clue as to what those things were. Biology and genetics were his main areas of expertise.

  But he understood the financial windfall that would come to whoever perfected a computer that could process information ten times faster than any computer currently in existence.

  The Corp members in Africa insisted that no one could design such an advanced, quantum-physics-based machine unless they had the mind of an Einstein.

  Which Max, of course, did.

  And they would pay handsomely for her “services.”

  The board of directors at headquarters would be delighted with Dr. Zimm’s bold initiative, again.

  Everything was going to be fine.

  Dr. Zimm radioed his two associates.

  “We need to be in Africa,” he told them. “Bring whatever you think we might need to subdue the girl and any of her protectors.”

  Jimenez and Murphy needed a few hours to pack their gear.

  And their weapons.

  Dr. Zimm would plot the precise flight plan for the Corp’s private jet (it was one in a fleet of two dozen) just as soon as the girl’s red dot landed at its final destination.

  From his spy, Dr. Zimm knew that Max Einstein was going to the Democratic Republic of the Congo on some do-gooder mission involving solar power for the softies who worked at the CMI.

  Well, Dr. Zimm and his team had a mission, too.

  They needed to snatch back the one thing the Corp never should’ve lost: Max Einstein.

  45

  Max rode to the airport in a van with Isabl, Charl, and seven of the kids on her team.

  Klaus would be staying behind in Jerusalem for a day or two with the “growns” (which is what everybody started calling the grownup professors and scientists helping the CMI field team). Klaus, who was quite a brown noser, would be working on those solar panel shipping logistics. He’d also probably be working overtime to become the growns’ favorite.

  The only adults traveling to the Congo with Max and her crew were Charl and Isabl.

  They were in charge of “intelligence and security.” If the CMI field team got into any sort of trouble or jam, Charl and Isabl were charged with extracting them from the unsafe situation as quickly as possible.

  And, at least according to the United States State Department, the Democratic Republic of the Congo wasn’t exactly safe. “The security situation in parts of the DRC,” their alert reported, “remains unstable due to the activities of rebel and other armed groups and ongoing military operations. Sporadic but severe outbreaks of violence targeting civilians continue throughout many provinces. The kidnapping of humanitarian workers for ransom money is on the rise.”

  Great, thought Max when she read the State Department travel warning. We’re humanitarian workers funded by a mysterious but extremely wealthy benefactor. We might as well go to Africa with “kidnap me now” signs on our backs.

  The van entered a secure section of the airfield and parked alongside a very sleek and stealthy looking aircraft.

  “It’s the benefactor’s private jet,” said Charl as everybody tumbled out of the van to grab their duffel bags and gear.

  “It looks like a spaceship,” said Toma, the budding Chinese astrophysicist.

  “Almost,” said Isabl. “It currently has a ceiling of about nine miles.”

  “That’s a fifth of the way to what we call ‘space,’” said Toma. “Of course, a jet can’t fly in space. Jets need oxygen.”

  “Yeah,” said Keeto. “Me, too.”

  “Board up, folks,” said Charl. “It’s nearly three thousand miles to Lubumbashi.”

  “Is there food on the plane?” asked Keeto.

  “There are meals ready to eat in the galley.”

  “MREs?” Keeto wrinkled his nose like he smelled something extremely bad. “Rations? Like they have in the Army?”

  “Yes,” said Isabl. “At the CMI, we like to put our money into helping people, not helping ourselves to luxury items such as gourmet airplane meals.”

  “That’s the way it should be,” said Max. “But maybe next time we could splurge for a couple pizzas? Maybe some Chinese food?”

  “Point taken,” said Charl.

  A CMI cargo crew loaded luggage and trunks filled with scientific gear into the belly of the plane. Max and her team climbed up the steep staircase and found seats in the cabin of the jet. They were comfortable, but nothing fancy.

  “The benefactor has designed this plane to be extremely fuel efficient,” said Isabl, taking a seat next to Max. Charl strapped in across the aisle. “The less weight there is, the less fuel we need to burn.”

  “You guys are riding back here?” asked Max.

  “That’s right.”

  “So, um, who’ll be the pilots?”

  Charl grinned. “This plane doesn’t need pilots. It’s totally autonomous.”

  “Think driverless car,” added Isabl. “Only in the air.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  They both shook their heads.

  “The plane navigates itself utilizing GPS,” explained Isabl.

  “Which only works,” said Max, “because of Einstein’s theory of relativity.”

  “Well,” said the fiery Siobhan, seated in the row behind Max, “I certainly hope it’s more than a theory! Theories don’t keep airplanes up in the air!”

  The pilotless plane taxied itself to the runway.

  “This is so weird,” said Keeto.

  “Most scientific leaps of faith always seem weird at first,” said Tisa.

  “But we’re about to leap into the air without a pilot,” said Siobhan, who could be pretty edgy (and entertaining) when she was annoyed.

  When it was cleared for takeoff, the jet rocketed down the runway and gently lifted up into the air. Max thought the ride felt smoother than the flight from New York to Jerusalem. It was quieter, too.

  The door to the cockpit was wide open. Everybody could see the yoke and rudder pedals and throttle and all sorts of sliding levers gliding through their automated moves. It was like watching a super high-tech player piano doing two Beethoven concertos at once.

  Charl tugged down on his ball cap and closed his eyes. “Nap time,” he said after the plane reached its cruising altitude. “Wake me if the plane asks for any human assistance.”

  “Same here,” said Isabl, pushing the reclining button on her seat.

  The jet executed a smooth and flawless banking maneuver.

  “This is absolutely amazing,” said Annika.

  “Who is this benefactor?” wondered Keeto. “Tony Stark?”

  “And who is this Tony Stark?” asked Vihaan, who, Max guessed, probably spent most of his days with his nose buried in books about quantum mechanics, not make-believe superheroes.

  “You know—Iron Man,” said Keeto. “From the comic books. He has tons of money and all sorts of cool gadgets like planes that can fly themselves.”

  That made Max smile.

  Was she working for a real-live Tony Stark now?

  Or, maybe, somebody even more awesome?

  Because they had Max Einstein flying to Africa in their pilotless private jet.

  And that sure beat living in a New York City horse stable above a mountain of manure.

  46

  The team landed (with no pilot in the cockpit) at the Luano International Airport, just outside Lubumbashi, the second largest city in the Congo.

  Max was eager to explore the countryside. To wander off and bump into a gorilla or something.

  But she was there on a mission. And they didn’t have very much time. Tisa received a text from her father in Nairobi.

  “Father says he has lined up several investors who are eager to turn Kasombumba from a mining village into a fair-trade garment center,” Tisa reported. “But to do so, they will need sewing machines, which father’s money people will happily provide, along with training.”

  Max understood. “We just have to give them the electrical outlets to plug into.”

  “Exactly,” said Tisa. “And we need to do it within the month or the seed money will move elsewhere.”

  “Deadlines,” said Max.

  “I told you,” said Tisa. “Father loves them.”

  And Max wished she was better at meeting them. Organization, time management? That wasn’t for daydreamers like her.

  Lubumbashi, where the team landed, was the hub for the country’s major mining companies—including the ones affiliated with the Corp.

  Because the land surrounding Lubumbashi was rich with minerals. Cobalt, copper, tin, radium, uranium, and even diamonds. Copper mining had been going on for more than a thousand years. But, because cobalt was needed to make all the high-tech lithium-ion batteries charging the twenty-first century’s gizmos, gadgets, and electric cars, it was fast becoming the region’s big new money maker.

  Some people want to change the world for the better.

  Most just want to make money.

  Some, like Tisa’s father and his eco-friendly investors, actually wanted to do both!

  The reddish, rocky terrain reminded Max of the images she’d seen of Mars.

  “I’d love to map all this mineralogy,” said Siobhan as their vehicle rumbled along a rutted road.

  “Next trip,” said Max. “This time, we’re all about solar power.”

  Siobhan nodded. “Next time.”

  The team finally arrived in Kasombumba, where they were greeted by the villagers who had sent the desperate pleas to the CMI.

  “We are completely off the grid,” explained a man named Patrick. “What little electricity we do generate is fueled with kerosene and cakes of dried dung.”

  Max smiled slightly. The idea of burning dung reminded her of the stables and her idea for a green gas mill fueled by horse manure.

 

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