— George's Secret Key to the Univers —
by Lucy and Stephen Hawking

The way home from school was long and hot; the unexpected heat of the early autumn sun was beating down on the asphalt, turning it soft and squishy under George’s feet. He trudged along the pavement while big cars whizzed past him, leaving smelly fumes behind them as they went. In some of these enormous, shiny monsters sat the smug kids from school, watching DVDs in the backseat as their parents drove them home. Some of them made faces at George as they drove past, jeering at him for having to walk. Others waved happily, as though he would somehow be pleased to see them as they shot off into the distance in their vast gas-guzzlers. No one ever stopped and offered him a lift.

But today he didn’t mind. He had plenty to think about on his walk home, and he felt glad to be alone. His mind was full of clouds in space, huge explosions, and the millions of years it took to make a star. These thoughts took him far, far across the Universe—so far, in fact, that he completely forgot an important fact about his life on planet Earth.

“Hey!” He heard a shout behind him, and it snapped him back to the here and now. He hoped it was just someone shouting in the street, a random noise that had nothing to do with him. He hurried along a little faster, clutching his school bag snugly to his chest.

“Hey!” He heard it again, this time a little closer. Resisting the urge to look back, he sped up his pace. On one side of him was the busy main road, on the other the city park, which offered nowhere to hide. The trees were too thin and straggly to stand behind, and going anywhere near the bushes was a bad idea. The last thing he wanted was to get dragged into them by the boys he feared were behind him. He kept going, getting faster every minute, his heartbeat thumping in his chest like a bongo drum.

“Georgie boy!” He heard the yell and his blood curdled. All his worst fears were confirmed. Usually when the end-of-school bell rang, George shot out of the gates and was well on his way home while the larger, slower boys were still flicking rubber bands at each other in the coatroom. He’d heard the awful stories of what Ringo and his followers did to the kids they caught on the street. Eyebrows shaved off, hung upside down, covered in mud, left up a tree wearing only underwear, painted in indelible ink, or abandoned to take the blame for broken windows—all were whispered tales at school of Ringo’s reign of terror.

But on that sunny, drowsy autumn afternoon, George had made a terrible mistake. He was walking home too slowly just when he’d given Ringo and his friends a reason to come looking for him. Angry with him for landing them with extra work in Greeper’s class, they were now clearly on his tail and ready to take revenge.

George looked around. Ahead of him he saw a group of mothers pushing carriages toward an intersection, where a crossing guard stopped the traffic to let people across. Scurrying forward, he joined the moms and babies, managing to insert himself into their midst so that he was surrounded by strollers. Ambling across the road while the crossing guard held up her bright yellow sign, George tried to look as though he belonged to one of the mother-and-baby groups. But he knew he wasn’t fooling anyone. As he passed the crossing guard, she winked at him and said under her breath, “Don’t worry, dear, I’ll hold ’em back for you for a minute. But you run along home now. Don’t let those nasty boys catch you.”

When George reached the other side of the road, to his surprise the crossing guard leaned her sign against a tree and stood there, glaring back at Ringo and his friends. The roar of the traffic started up again, and as George sped away he heard another menacing shout.

“Hey! We gotta get across—we need to get home and do our . . . schoolwork . . . . If you don’t let us cross, I’ll tell my mother and she’ll come and straighten you out.”

“You watch yourself, Richard Bright,” grumbled the crossing guard, walking slowly out into the road with her sign.

George turned off the main road, but the sound of heavy thudding feet behind told him they knew which way he’d gone. He was hurrying down a long tree-lined alley that ran behind the gardens of some very big houses; for once it was empty of adults who might have saved him.

George tried a few of the doors in the fences, but they were all firmly locked. He looked around in a panic and then had a flash of inspiration. Grabbing on to the lowest bough of an overhanging apple tree, he hoisted himself up high enough to gain a foothold on the top of the fence and leaped right over it. He landed in a large prickly bush, which scratched him, ripping his school uniform. As he lay groaning silently in the shrubbery, he heard Ringo and his friends pass by on the other side of the fence, making spine-chilling comments about what they’d do to George when they got their hands on him.

George stayed still until he was sure they’d gone. Wriggling free of his school sweater, which was hopelessly tangled in the spiky bush, he struggled out of the clinging branches. His pants pockets had emptied their contents onto the ground. He scrabbled around, trying to pick up all his important things. Then he emerged from the undergrowth onto a long, flat green lawn, where a very surprised lady lay in a deck chair, sunbathing. She lifted up her dark glasses and looked at him.

“Bonjour!” she said in a nice voice. She pointed toward the house. “Go zat way—ze gate is not so locked.”

“Oh, merci,” said George, remembering his one word of French. “And, um, sorry,” he added as he rushed past her and ran along a passage by the side of her house. He went through the gate, came out onto the road, and set off for home, limping a little because he’d twisted his left foot. The streets were quiet and sleepy as he hobbled along. But the silence didn’t last long.

“There he is!” A great cry went up. “Georgie-boy!” he heard. “We’re coming to get you!”

George gathered the last of his strength and tried to get his legs to move fast, but he felt as though he were wading through quicksand. He wasn’t far from home—he could see the end of his road—but Ringo and his gang were gaining on him. He plowed bravely forward, reaching the corner just as he thought he might collapse on the pavement.

“We’re gonna kill you!” Ringo shouted from behind him.

Staggering, George tottered down his street. His breathing had gone all funny—the air was going in and out of his lungs in great swooshing gasps. All the scratches and bruises and bumps he’d gotten running away from Ringo were hurting, his throat was parched, and he was exhausted. He couldn’t have gone much farther, but he didn’t need to—he was home. He’d reached the green front door without being turned into ground meat, or something worse, by Ringo and his terrible friends, and now everything was going to be all right. All he had to do was reach into his pocket and find his key to unlock the front door.

But it wasn’t there.

He turned out his pockets and found all his treasures—a marble, a Spanish coin, a length of string, a model red sports car, and a ball of fluff. But no key. He must have dropped it in the bushes when he climbed over the fence. He rang the bell, hoping his mom might have come home early. Ting-a-ling-ling-ling! He tried again. But there was still no answer.

Seeing him standing there, Ringo realized he’d won. He plastered a hideous smile on his face and started to saunter confidently toward George. Behind him, eager for trouble, came his three weasel-faced, hard-knuckled friends.

George knew there was nowhere left to run. He closed his eyes and stood with his back to his front door, his stomach churning as he prepared to meet his fate. He tried to think of something to say that might make Ringo back off. But he couldn’t come up with anything clever, and there wasn’t much point in telling Ringo he was going to get into trouble. Ringo knew that already, and it had never stopped him before. The footsteps stopped, and George opened one eye to see what was happening. Ringo and his friends had paused halfway down the path and were having some kind of conference about what to do with George.

“No!” Ringo was saying loudly. “That’s ridiculous! Let’s squeeze him against the wall until he begs us to let him go!”

But just as Ringo spoke, something happened. Something so peculiar that, afterward, Ringo and his friends weren’t sure if they’d dreamed it. The door of the house next to George’s flew open and out of it bounded what looked like a tiny astronaut. Everyone took a step back in astonishment as the small figure in a white spacesuit with a round glass helmet and an antenna attached to the back jumped into the middle of the road, striking a fierce, karate-style pose.

“Get back,” said the spacesuit in a strange metallic voice, “or I will put the curse of Alien Life on you. You will turn green, and your brains will bubble and leak out of your ears and down your nose. Your bones will turn to rubber, and you will grow hundreds of warts all over your body. You will only be able to eat spinach and broccoli, and you will never, ever be able to watch television again because it will make your eyes fall out of your head. So there!” The astronaut did a few twirls and kicks that looked somehow familiar to George.

Ringo and his friends had turned a ghostly color and were stumbling backward, their mouths hanging open. They were absolutely terrified.

“Get into the house,” said the spacesuit to George.

George slipped into Next Door’s house. He wasn’t scared of the little astronaut—he’d caught a gleam of bright blond hair through the glass of the helmet. It looked like Annie had saved him.