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CHAPTER ONE
Eleven-year-old Sam Carnabie sat on the edge of his bed and finished packing his favorite things into his small rucksack. Actually, the rucksack itself was one of his favorite things. It was a recent present from his dad. Not a Christmas or birthday present either, but one of the I-saw-this-in-town-and-thought-you-might-like-it presents with which his dad occasionally surprised him. It was made of strong gray-blue canvas and brown leather and looked tough enough for a real expedition. Best of all, it had loads of compartments and side pockets with chunky brass zippers.
His ordinary stuff, such as clothes, toothbrush and comb, fitted easily into the main bag, leaving the side pockets free for his most prized possessions:
a Swiss army knife (with fourteen different blades and tools, including screwdrivers, pliers and a small hacksaw)
the binoculars he'd got for Christmas (really compact but very powerful)
his combined-travel-alarm-clock-compass-and-
magnifying-glass (water resistant to a depth of thirty meters)
the flashlight he'd got for his last birthday (which could be set to white, red or green, wide beam, narrow beam, constant or flashing)
Sam sighed. What a waste - all this stuff perfectly packed, the first Saturday of the Easter holiday and he wasn't going on a real expedition at all, but for a weeklong visit with his parents to his great-aunt Roberta's oppressively tidy house in Reading. Great-Aunt Roberta liked cats and china ornaments of cats but didn't much like children.
Well, it couldn't be helped. Sam's parents, both food scientists, had to be in Reading for the week to attend a conference (New Developments in Canned Vegetable Technology), and all the school friends with whom Sam might have stayed were away for the holidays themselves.
Remembering from previous visits that there wasn't even a proper park near the house, Sam slipped some pencils, pens and a well-used notebook into the back of the rucksack. The notebook was half full of drawings he'd made of his inventions: a pedal-powered airship, a wind-driven cable-car system, that sort of thing. At least he'd have plenty of free time to draw some more.
The overcast weather did nothing to improve Sam's spirits as he put his rucksack onto the backseat of his parents' car. His mum had just brought the last suitcase out of the house and Sam was about to get into the car himself, when a bright yellow motorbike and sidecar swung round the corner and rumbled to a halt in front of them.
Sam stared at the vehicle. It looked out of place in their ordinary Hertfordshire suburb. The massive bike was festooned with metal tubes, lamps, dials and dozens of complicated gadgets, the functions of which Sam could barely begin to guess. The sidecar was long and torpedo shaped, topped by a Perspex canopy. It looked to Sam just as if someone had sliced the middle out of a small airplane and streamlined the ends. The whole magnificent miscellany of sunshine yellow and shimmering chrome radiated an enticing smell of engine oil and old leather that made Sam's stomach tingle inside.
The motorbike's rider, a gangly man wearing a blue greatcoat that had seen better days, gave a cheerful beep on the horn and waved to them. The sidecar's two passengers, a brown-faced boy and girl, also waved. Sam looked at his parents. They were smiling and waving back.
"Right on time," said Mr. Carnabie. What did he mean, right on time?
The rider pulled off his leather goggles and helmet, revealing a pink beaming face and a bald domed head, fringed with wiry white hair. As he dismounted, the boy and the girl hinged back the middle section of the sidecar's Perspex canopy and clambered out. The boy, Sam reckoned, was about his own age, the girl maybe a year older. Sam decided that, whoever these people were, he liked them.
"Professor Ampersand!" said Mrs. Carnabie, giving the old man a hug.
"It's great to see you!" exclaimed Mr. Carnabie, shaking the professor's hand warmly. "Sam," he went on, "this is an old friend, Professor Alexander Ampersand. He attempted to teach applied technology to me and Mum when we were at college. He's a remarkable inventor."
"Delighted to meet you at last, Sam," said the professor, shaking his hand.
"And this must be your great-niece and great-nephew - Zara and Ben, isn't it?" said Mrs. Carnabie.
"That's right," said Zara.
"Hello," said Sam, still somewhat perplexed.
"Uncle Alexander built this himself," said Ben proudly, noticing Sam looking at the motorbike and sidecar.
"Well, I sort of put it together from various bits and pieces," said the professor modestly, "and added one or two wee ideas of my own."
"Do you want a closer look?" Zara asked Sam.
"Yeah!" Sam walked over to the machine and examined it closely. He could almost feel what it would be like to hurtle along in the sidecar, strapped into one of the seats, which were arranged one behind the other in the long cockpit.
"Professor Ampersand rang us last night, after you'd gone to bed, Sam," explained Mrs. Carnabie.
"We've just been down in London for a couple of days," said the professor, "and I thought we'd drop in on our way back home to Edinburgh."
"When I told the professor that unfortunately we were going away ourselves," continued Sam's mum, "and happened to mention that you weren't exactly looking forward to it, he very kindly offered to have you stay with him and Ben and Zara in Edinburgh for the week."
"We were going to tell you first thing this morning," said Mr. Carnabie. "But then we thought it'd be fun to save it as a surprise."
"We'll miss you, of course," Mrs. Carnabie assured Sam. "But you might have more fun in Edinburgh. It's up to you. What d'you reckon?"
"I would," advised Ben. "Before they change their minds."
"We'll have a great time," promised Zara.
"You really mean it?" Sam asked his parents, a grateful grin breaking across his freckled face.
"You'd better get your bag," said Mr. Carnabie.
Scarcely able to believe his sudden change of fortune, Sam took his rucksack from the Carnabies' hatchback and dropped it into the cockpit of the gleaming yellow sidecar.
