Robot Trouble (17 page)

What if Black Glove has already tampered with the rocket?

The gang had been banking on the assumption that spy work of that sort would, of necessity, take place in the dead of the night. But whoever Black Glove really was, his or her other identity was as a respected member of the Anza-bora Island community—a person who might be able to get access to almost anyplace without raising too much suspicion.

Rachel tried to suppress the idea.

It wouldn't go away.

Finally she decided the only thing to do was check the rocket and make sure.

Poking her head around the edge of the alcove where she had been hiding, she looked down the corridor. No sound. No glimmer of light. No sign of anyone approaching.

Flicking on her flashlight, she stepped onto the catwalk that led to the rocket.
I hope this doesn't upset Hap and Roger,
she thought.
If they see my light, they may think it's Black Glove
.

Of course, even if they did think that, they weren't supposed to do anything—any more than she was if the spy had walked past her. The plan was to snap a picture, not get involved in a fight.

She had no way of knowing that the boys could not see her light because, bound and gagged, they were lying unconscious beneath the rocket's exhaust vents.

She picked her way carefully along the catwalk. Her light, shining through the gridwork, made eerie shadows against the wall of the missile silo.

When she reached the rocket and could brace herself against it, she looked down. At the sight of that silver tube stretching into the darkness she shivered. The raw power of what they had created still astonished her.

Pressing the same sequence of panels that Korbuscek had earlier in the evening, she opened the door to Euterpe's chamber and peered in. The robot was playing the music of the spheres, the colorful lights on its chest flashing in merry patterns.

“Hi, Twerpy,” whispered Rachel. She flashed her light around the chamber. Everything looked fine. But there were a lot of places here to hide a transmitter—even inside Euterpe itself, if you were clever enough.

Deciding she had better check things more carefully, Rachel climbed into the chamber. A number of carefully worded questions aimed at various project scientists had convinced the gang that the smallest device Black Glove could use would have to be at least the size of a standard paperback book.

Rachel had helped design the main chamber. Working with Dr. Weiskopf, she had positioned Euterpe in the center of it. She knew virtually every inch of the space, including every place large enough to hold a device of the size Black Glove might plant. If it was already here, she would find it.

A sound outside the rocket sent a sudden chill shivering down her spine.
What was that?

Holding her breath, she listened carefully.

Nothing.

She began inching her way around Euterpe, back toward the door.

At the same instant Black Glove stepped into the rocket.

At the sound Rachel swung her flashlight upward. A well-aimed kick from Black Glove sent it flying out of her hand. It bounced off the wall, clattered to the floor, slid under Euterpe. In the jagged movement of the light, Rachel saw two things: her attacker had jet black hair, and wore a pair of smooth black gloves.

A rush of panic rose in her throat. She was about to scream when Black Glove grabbed her.

Instinct overwhelmed fear. She fought as best she could in the tiny space, scratching, kicking, screaming. But a sudden blow to the head sent her spinning into unconsciousness.

Panting, heart pounding, Black Glove took several deep breaths, then turned to the task of installing the transmitter. The spy could barely suppress the surge of excitement. As soon as the rocket was launched, every bit of top-secret information about Project Alpha could finally be sent to G.H.O.S.T.

Black Glove glanced back at the figure slumped on the floor and felt a twinge of regret. Too bad it had to be Rachel; in many ways, she seemed the most sensible kid in the group. But it was time to teach the brats a lesson they would never forget.

And it had to be done. Unlikely as it was that she had been able to identify her assailant in the dim shreds of colored light that had twinkled on the far side of the robot during their brief fight, it was not an acceptable chance.

She had to go.

Stepping out of the rocket, Black Glove sealed the door shut, thinking,
Space is probably as good a place as any to get rid of a nosy kid
.

 

Rude Awakenings

“I wish our parents weren't so protective,” muttered Ray bitterly.

He and Trip were crouched at the edge of the airfield, waiting for Wendy, just as their friends had earlier that evening.

Trip nodded. It was embarrassing to be forced to arrive so much later than the rest of the gang.

The Wonderchild showed up a few moments later. Her job this time was more to act as guide than to control the guard robots, since either of the boys could probably have managed that on their own.

“What time is it?” asked Ray.

Trip checked his watch, which brought his wrist about level with Ray and Wendy's heads. “Nearly four. Just three short hours until blastoff.” He glanced down at his friends. “That
wasn't
a short joke!” he protested, catching the expression on Wendy's face.

“I didn't say anything!” she exclaimed. “What makes you think I'm so sensitive anyway? To tell you the truth, if I could get something to eat right now, I might even let you tell a short joke and live. I'm starved!”

“I almost forgot!” cried Ray. Digging into his coveralls, he produced a still-warm burger, slathered with everything he had been able to get his hands on. “We brought this for you.”

“I can't remember if I was holding anything against you, Ray,” Wendy said, just before sinking her teeth into the burger. “If I was, all is forgiven.”

When she had finished chewing, or at least nearly so, she outlined their plans: “The main spots are already covered. Hap and Roger are at the base of the rocket, and Rachel is guarding the catwalk. I guess it's more important for us to be available if anything comes up than to guard any specific spot right now.”

Trip scuffed at the floor as they began walking through the tunnel. If only his parents hadn't been so strict lately! He felt completely left out. “What time are they going to meet us?” he asked morosely.

“Well, the computer is set to seal everything at six-thirty,” said Wendy. She recalled the fast talking they had had to do to arrange that little bit of timing. They had been afraid that if
all
operations had been sealed the night before, as Dr. Weiskopf had wanted, they would lose any chance of catching Black Glove in action.

“Which means we should meet the others at quarter of seven to watch the launch together,” concluded Ray. “Just as planned.”

“I know, I know,” said Trip. He kicked the wall. “This is going to be one boring night. I wish I was in Hap's shoes right now.”

Hap's shoes were actually one of the last places in the world anyone would have wanted to be right then—though at the moment the owner of those shoes was hardly awake enough to be aware of that fact.

As the gas began to wear off, Hap kept
trying
to wake up. But he didn't seem to be able to manage to do it until a groan from Roger, who was lying beside him, penetrated the fog that seemed to cover his brain.

Morning already?
he thought. He tried to stretch, but couldn't move his arms. Opening one eye, he found himself staring at the floor.

What was going on here?

“Hap?” moaned a groggy voice next to him. “Are you awake?”

“Roger? Is that you? What are you doing in my bedroom?”

Roger knew he wasn't in Hap's bedroom. But his brain hadn't come into sharp enough focus to figure out where he really was. He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again. The view didn't change. He was staring at concrete.

Where's the rug?
he wondered.
There ought to be a rug
.

Twisting sideways, Roger looked up and saw a glowing clock face several feet above him. It was the only source of light in the room. The large green numbers said 4:02:37.

Memory began to trickle though the haze in his brain. When it connected with the reality of the clock, the horrible truth came crashing in on him. That was the launch clock! In two hours, fifty-seven minutes, and twenty-three seconds, the rocket was going to blast off!

He lurched sideways again, dragging Hap with him.

“Hey!” cried Hap, roused by the sudden pull against his bonds.

Roger ignored his friend. His throat closed with horror as he found himself staring at the most frightening thing he had ever seen in his life: a set of conical openings that he himself had designed—openings that in less than three hours would erupt with a burst of chemical flame that would sear away first his clothes, then his flesh, and finally his bones themselves.

“Hap,” he whispered urgently. “Oh, Hap, we've really done it this time!”

Hap Swenson, fully awake now, stared at the launch clock as it counted down the remaining minutes of his life.

He thought, inevitably, of the time he and Trip had been trapped in what seemed sure to be a watery grave at the island power plant.

They had gotten out then. He and Roger would get out now.

Somehow.

They had to.

Now if only he could convince himself that that was true.

“Keep trying!” hissed Roger. “There's got to be some way out of these ropes!”

“If there is, squirming isn't it.”

“Have you got a better idea?”

“Yeah!” said Hap suddenly. “Fins!”

After a moment of wondering if his friend had lost his mind, Roger understood. The base of Euterpe's rocket sported three large fins designed to stabilize the initial stage of its flight. Their edges were hardly razor sharp.

But they might be sharp enough.

“Hap, you're a genius!”

Working together, the boys slid across the floor to one of the fins. The process was difficult, and maddeningly slow. Even worse was trying to maneuver themselves into a sitting position, a process that involved some extreme contortions and nearly caused Hap to wrench his shoulder out of joint.

“Slide to your left a little,” grunted Roger. “I think that will give us more contact.”

A moment later they began rubbing their wrists up and down the fin, trying to press the material that bound them against its edge. Though that edge was dull, it was abrasive enough to wear through the cord eventually—if it didn't wear
them
down first. Korbuscek had bound the boys so tightly that as they worked their hands up and down, the friction against the metal was slowly removing the skin on their wrists. Blood was already flowing freely down their palms.

“Roger,” said Hap after they had worked in silence for several minutes.

“Yeah?”

“What are we going to do if we don't manage to get loose until the silo has been sealed?”

“I'm working on that!” said Roger. He paused. “But be sure to let me know if you get any more brilliant ideas.”

He glanced up at the clock. Five-thirty. An hour and a half until launch time.

About forty feet above the boys, Rachel was starting to regain consciousness. Slowly, trying not to move too fast, she lifted her fingers to her forehead to find out why it hurt so much. To her surprise, she felt an enormous lump.

She opened her eyes. A flickering, colorful glow illuminated her surroundings. Beautiful music washed over her.

She tried to sit up but found she couldn't. She seemed to be blocked from moving in almost every direction.

A lump began building in her chest as panic overtook her.

Suddenly she recognized the music. It was Euterpe's singing! Instantly everything came flooding back to her: Black Glove, the fight, the rocket….

The rocket! She was still in the rocket!

She tried to get to her feet, hurt herself in about five different places, tried again, more carefully.

Moving slowly, she slid one arm underneath her. Then she got a leg free enough to use as a brace. The other was caught in something. Turning her head, she realized that it was held by Euterpe.

A little this way,
she thought.
Then if I scootch to the right…

It was no good. She was still caught.

“Euterpe!” she yelled. “Stop singing and help me!”

That was pointless, of course. The robot didn't respond to that kind of command.

She looked at the door. Euterpe's lights provided just enough illumination for her to realize that Black Glove had sealed it shut. So the message on Wendy's terminal had been true after all. Their enemy
was
desperate enough to kill.

And from the looks of things, she was first in line.

She redoubled her efforts to free her leg.

When it would not come loose, she began to scream.

The spell of panic was brief but terrible. When the frenzy had passed, Rachel put her hands against Euterpe and tried to steady herself. Now that the panic had passed, her mind was clear enough to know that if she was going to escape this death trap she would have to use her brains, not her emotions.

She reviewed the plans and functions of the rocket in her mind. Because it was not designed to carry a human, there was no standard radio in the chamber—only a transmitter linked directly to Euterpe, designed to carry its music back to the receivers on Anza-bora Island.

The robot continued to sing its cosmic song, completely oblivious to Rachel's danger.

Crunched between the robot and the wall of the rocket, Rachel stared at her watch, willing it to stop, and stop time with it.

An hour and a quarter and it would be all over. The computer would follow the commands locked into its memory a half a day earlier. The top of the silo would swing up. The ignition would be triggered. The mighty thrust engines would roar into life. And Rachel would join Euterpe on its voyage into space.