Chapter 3: Dib at work and the Investigation
Dib muttered to himself as he pushed the cart of instruments into the scientists' lab. He didn't understand it. He thought he was going to be working alongside his father, learning how to make Carbon Monoxide or sulfur, not being an indentured servant!
"Dad," he asked when he passed by Professor Membrane's table," When will I get to work with you?"
"Why, once you learn about the ins and outs of chemicals and mixing them, of course!" The disturbingly enthusiastic chemist replied, not really noticing the annoyed look on his son's face. He then demanded, "Give me a thermometer, son"
Dib sighed and handed to him. He then continued on, shaking his head.
Meanwhile, at Crazyhead, private detective Scott Chowley looked at his notes and compared the finger prints on the wand-like weapon or "wand" as they called it and the prints on the broken strait jacket.
"Yep, they seem to match. But hang on" Detective Chowley suddenly said, squinting at the prints on the jacket.
"What!" Marty and Jon asked anxiously in unison.
"On closer inspection, these seem to be a different set of prints!", he then turned to them, "Tell me, did either of you hear more than one set of footsteps or anything of the sort?"
"No," Marty piped up, "I heard a clang, but that was about it."
"Hmm, I may go to NASA again and see if there's anything else. Nelson is there searching as well. You two stay here and please report anything suspicious to me on these walkie-talkies." Chowley concluded gesturing to their shirt pockets; these were small, but functional versions that the FBI usually used if they were undercover.
Jonathan and Marty nodded as Chowley exited their office and flew off down the hall.
Zim felt good, damn good. He even felt somewhat aroused when he heard his car engine purr as he began another fun-filled day of terrorism. He was nearly ready to conquer the planet: the robots were in order, the police and detectives were thrown off trail. He snickered as he thought of the police and investigators frantically running back and forth from the NASA port to the mental asylum to identify the prints. Now all he had to do was bomb the laboratory where Dib was working at and hopefully murder him in the process. A thought suddenly sprung to his head: what about that Gaz female? Surely she' d try to save her brother and father? No, she wouldn't; she just didn't care! He couldn't help, but laugh out loud this time, he was so, so lucky. This would be a peace of cake.