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off her cell phone, and then broke into a laboratory that handles low-security experiments…with one very important exception.”
    â€œOoooh,” Shelley said, leaning in, “I’m sensing this is about to get good.”
    â€œTo fully understand this story, I must first tell you about the chiropterologist,” Randolph began before pausing. “That is someone who studies bats.”
    â€œNo need to state the obvious, Randolph,” Shelley interjected while Jonathan rolled his eyes.
    â€œThe chiropterologist, Dr. Kashef, was well known in the research community for a variety of reasons, one of which was that he was a certified genius with an IQ of one sixty. However, a few months ago, while on a research trip in Africa, he was bitten by a previously unknown mutation of the common fruit bat. Within weeks he was a changed man—easily distracted, confused, unable to focus for more than a few seconds at a time and, as such, less intelligent—by thirty IQ points, to be exact. You see, this mutated group of bats carried a virus that attacks the brain’s frontal lobe, permanently affecting a person’s ability to focus and therefore their intelligence. The virus spreads via saliva. And though this small colony of bats was destroyed, one vial of the virus was brought back to the United Kingdom for research.”
    â€œDr. Kashef kissed a bat, didn’t he? Listen, I’m not judging; weird things happen in the dark. Once during a blackout, I let my sister’s hamsters out of the cage, only to hunt them down like a lion would rabbits….I turned into a real animal…until the lights came on. Then I went back to watching reality TV,” Shelley said, prompting the prime minister to whisper to Randolph, “It is not just the loss of great minds that scares me, but what will happen to those already lacking.”
    Randolph nodded as a creaking sound began to emanate from the closet to the left of the prime minister’s desk. The faint noise morphed into a raucous shuffling, prompting all in the room to turn.
    â€œDon’t tell me we have another rodent infestation,” the prime minister remarked as the door flung open, revealing a tall man in a double-breasted gray pin-striped suit, with a well-oiled head of black hair.
    â€œRandolph, call security!” Prime Minister Falcon shrieked as he pushed his chair away from the desk.
    â€œHammett!” Shelley and Jonathan cried in unison as the man popped a toothpick into his mouth and sauntered into the room.
    â€œNo need for security, Prime Minister,” Hammett said as he approached the desk, right hand extended. “The name’s Hammett, with two
t
’s, Hammett Humphries.”

    â€œThe chief operating agent for the League of Unexceptional Children?” the prime minister asked.
    â€œThat’s me, live and in the flesh,” Hammett said as he pulled the toothpick from his mouth.
    â€œYes, but what on earth were you doing in my closet?” Prime Minister Falcon demanded as he banged his fist against the desk.
    â€œYou’re a feisty one, aren’t you?” Hammett said with a sly smile. “Let me give it to you short and simple. These two here, they might not look like much, or talk like much, or even know much, but they’re going to save you, I guarantee it. However, unexceptionals are like porcupines in a cage full of gorillas. They need special handling, so President Arons thought it best I was on the ground in London, just in case.”
    â€œVery well, we can accept that your spies need a chaperone, but that still doesn’t explain what you were doing in the closet,” Randolph snapped brusquely.
    â€œWhat can I say? I like to make an entrance,” Hammett said just as a red-haired woman dressed in a traditional white nurse’s uniform exited the closet.
    â€œThe Thames flood of 1928 killed fourteen people. Gray and bloated; that’s how the