Free Brainboy and the Deathmaster by Tor Seidler

Masterly asked.
    “Not today, sir.”
    “Once you’re accepted here, Darryl, you have therun of the place, twenty-four hours a day. We have no locks in Paradise, do we, Suki?”
    “Of course not, sir.”
    Darryl glanced curiously at the elevator, which had the keyhole in the top button, but Mr. Masterly pointed at the next door over, labeled Emergency. “Stairs, in case the elevator breaks down. Though that never happens.”
    Mr. Masterly showed him through the third door, marked Books, and it was like traveling back in time. A long mahogany library table with green-globed student lamps was flanked by bookshelves so tall that there were sliding mahogany ladders for reaching the top shelves. The only modern touch was the computers in the study carrels.
    “How many books are in here, sir?” Darryl asked, wide-eyed.
    “You tell me.”
    Darryl quickly counted the books on one shelf, the number of shelves in each case, and estimated the number of cases.
    “Ten thousand?”
    “Very close. It’s our scientific library.”
    Darryl came up with a similar estimate of the number of tapes in the next chamber, which was called Video. The tapes were of lectures and demonstrationsgiven by the greatest scientific minds of their time. The next room, Bio, was a laboratory where high-powered microscopes were arrayed on stainless-steel tables flanked by shelves holding everything from slide racks and tweezers to glass jars containing dead frogs and pig fetuses suspended in formaldehyde. At the far end of Bio were stacks of cages containing crusty old white rats and what looked like aquariums, except with insects flitting around inside instead of fish.
    “Fruit flies?” Darryl guessed.
    “Exactly,” Mr. Masterly said.
    Next came Chem, another laboratory, with Bunsen burners, and racks of test tubes, and nozzled tanks, and more microscopes, and a device for X-ray crystallography, and setups for chemical experiments with rubber and glass tubes connecting beakers with various colored liquids in them. Here the shelves held brown glass jars labeled with the names of chemical compounds, acids, and elements, along with tanks containing gasses. In the rear of the room was what looked like a big, sunken, stainless-steel bathtub, for mixing chemicals.
    The next room, Accel, was dominated by what looked like a gigantic steel beehive.
    “A circular accelerator, for splitting atoms,” Mr. Masterly said.
    When they came to the last door, marked Snoodles,Mr. Masterly knocked. It was opened by a stooped old man with a crescent-shaped scar on his forehead.
    “S-s-sorry, s-s-sirs!” he stammered, shuffling out in a droopy white lab coat. “I thought p-p-people was at lunch. Want me to cook up some more of that p-p-polliwog?”
    “Polymer,” Mr. Masterly gently corrected him. “No, I just wanted you to meet Darryl Kirby. He may be joining us. If you need toxic chemicals mixed, Darryl, or need your microscope cleaned, Snoodles is your man. He keeps things shipshape.”
    “S-s-snoodles, at your s-s-service,” the elderly man said, bowing. “Twenty-s-s-seven hours a day.”
    “Twenty-four,” Mr. Masterly murmured.
    “S-s-sorry, s-s-sir,” Snoodles said, bamming his fore-head with the heel of his hand. “I’m s-s-such a knuckle-head.”
    After saying good-bye to Suki and the stammering old man, Mr. Masterly led Darryl back into the elevator, and they quickly swooshed up to E. The most spectacular gym Darryl had ever seen, E XERCISE ENTERTAINMENT was win-dowless, too, but bathed in a soft yellow light, as if morning sun was slanting down from the high, scaffolded ceiling. Mr. Masterly introduced him to an extremely muscular man in a gym suit who was mopping the rubber mat in the free-weight area.
    “Darryl, Abs. Abs, Darryl Kirby.”
    Abs quit mopping to shake Darryl’s hand, nearly crushing it. His biceps were as big around as Darryl’s waist.
    “Abs will help you with your fitness program. Won’t you, Abs?”
    Grinning broadly, Abs