Robot Trouble (2 page)

Actually, the gang had started “Operation Sherlock” almost as a way of getting even for the disruption the Anza-bora project had created in their lives. With the exception of Hap, whose father had been chief mechanic for the island's recently abandoned Air Force base, the kids had all been uprooted from their homes almost without notice when their parents decided to join the project.

Even worse, it had been without explanation. Security on the project was so tight no one not actually involved in the work was supposed to know what it was about. When some clever guesswork on the gang's part tipped them off to the real reason their parents had come to Anza-bora, the kids decided to try to take a shot at the same goal.

Their initial idea had been somewhat less ambitious. It started when someone attached a small microphone to Rachel's collar during the first meeting of the top island staff and their families. The microphone had self-destructed as soon as the kids discovered it, but the incident had spurred the gang into launching “Operation Sherlock”—their attempt to develop a detective program that would help them sort and interpret the clues they gathered about the “bug.”

It was Roger, who—without vote or discussion had somehow become the gang's unofficial leader—who had first floated the idea that they should go all the way and compete with their parents to create a program that truly demonstrated A.I.—“artificial intelligence.”

What none of them liked to talk about was the fact that since the bug had been planted on Rachel at that first meeting, each one of them had at least one parent who was a prime suspect. None of them liked living with the knowledge that one (or both) of their parents might be a spy.

Even before Sherlock was operational the kids had managed to thwart a plan to blow up the island. In the process they had accidentally discovered a device designed to transmit all the work the Project Alpha scientists did to somewhere off island.

Unfortunately, like the bug on Rachel's collar, the transmitter had self-destructed before they could show it to anyone. As a result, their warnings about a spy among the project's top scientists were not being taken seriously by anyone except cranky, lanky, freckle-faced Dr. Stanley Remov.

The gang had responded to the official disbelief in the only way they could—by stepping up work on their own project.

In the process, they had learned to pull together as a team.

For that reason, no one was really surprised when only four days after the meeting where the scanner was proposed, they were nearly ready to install it.

“I just need two more parts,” said Hap, “and I'll have her up and running.”

He tapped a few letters into the keyboard sitting next to his workbench. The keyboard was attached to the terminal (now wildly modified and upgraded) that had been left in the house when the Air Force abandoned the island.

The terminal was attached to the island's incredibly powerful mainframe, which was housed a mile or so away in the computer center.

“Good morning, Hap,” said a crisp voice from across the room. “What can I do for you?”

Hap smiled. He still got a kick out of the way the others had programmed the computer's vocal simulator to sound like Basil Rathbone, the actor who had played Sherlock Holmes in so many old movies.

Hap typed in a series of classified codes that Wendy had wrangled out of the computer and called up an inventory of all the spare parts on the island. He scanned the list, then entered the codes for the items he needed.

“Those parts can be found in Warehouse Two, aisle seven, level six,” reported Sherlock.

“You know what that means,” said Roger.

“Scrounging time!” replied Trip with a smile.

“Major scrounge,” agreed Ray.

As a team, Trip and Ray were unbeatable at turning up hard-to-locate parts. “Beg, borrow, or temporarily reposition” was their motto, though the only things they ever actually took without permission were items the Air Force had abandoned when it left the island.

Items such as those in Warehouse Two.

“Take Rinty with you,” suggested Roger, gesturing to the mechanical mutt the gang had started building as a test project a few weeks earlier. “You never know. He might come in handy.”

Warehouse Two was dark, and aside from the noise Ray had made tripping over a box when they first came in, so quiet that it was almost eerie.

“Aisle seven should be that way,” whispered Trip, shining his flashlight to their right.

Clink!

It was nothing, really; the tiniest of sounds. But when Ray heard it he felt his stomach twist into a hard little ball. Tiny as it was, that sound had no business at all in a warehouse that was supposed to be abandoned! He switched off his flashlight and grabbed Trip's arm.

“Did you hear that?”

“I heard,” replied Trip, clicking off his own light. He licked his lips nervously, straining to see through the sudden darkness.

“What do you think it was?”

“I don't know. But I don't like it.” Trip paused, then added, “I wish you weren't so clumsy!”

Ray felt himself blush. He hadn't meant to stumble over that box! In fact, he had been making an extra effort to be quiet.

“It's coming this way,” whispered Trip. “Do me a favor and don't move!”

“I'm frozen in my tracks!”

Clink!

The sound was closer this time. Trip pressed himself against the wall, fervently wishing he had never returned
Ninja Experiments with Invisibility
to the library.

His wish intensified when a thin beam of light struck the floor in front of the boys.

Pretend you're a box!
Ray ordered himself, flinching away from the light.
Maybe no one will notice you
.

The sound drew closer.

Why did I volunteer for this scrounging mission?
wondered Trip miserably.
I could be home eating spinach
.

Trip hated spinach. But at the moment facing a plateful of the disgusting green stuff seemed infinitely preferable to being caught by whoever was prowling the warehouse.

Nervous as he was, the worst Ray was expecting was an angry member of Sergeant Brody's security force. As he was wondering just how much trouble they were going to be in an ear-piercing blare shattered the stillness. Ray looked up, and began to scream. A monstrous creature with curved fangs, flashing red eyes, and a face that made sudden death seem preferable to being captured was heading straight for him, clawlike hands stretching and grasping ahead of it.

“Run!”
screamed Ray.

Trip didn't need any encouragement. He sprinted to his right like a rabbit startled by a hound.

Ray started in the opposite direction, fell over another box, scrambled to his feet, and headed between two rows of towering shelves.

Aside from the stumbling, this was all according to plan. After their first adventure, the gang had decided it would be a good idea to split in a situation like this. Then if one person got in trouble, the other could go for help.

Go for help!
thought Trip.
Of course! What's the matter with my brain?

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a small control device.
I sure hope this works,
he thought as he pushed the button that would send Rin Tin Stainless Steel to fetch the rest of the gang.

He was turning to look for Ray when a pair of rough hands grabbed him from behind and snatched him into the air.

 

Laughter Here, Terror There

Roger glanced at his watch. He was starting to worry about Trip and Ray. And he was getting peeved at Rachel, who had left forty-five minutes earlier to visit Dr. Weiskopf. This optical scanner had been her idea, and now she wouldn't even be here to help them install it.

“Rats!” exclaimed Hap, who was tinkering with something on the other side of the room. Working delicately, he pulled a broken wire from the scanner's feed unit, then rolled some fresh wire off the coil at his side. “Will somebody give me a hand with this thing?” he asked irritably as he clipped the piece of wire.

Wendy had just gotten up to help him when something began scratching at the door. Wendy moved to open it, but Norman the Doorman—a primitive butler-bot Ray had salvaged from the scrap heap—beat her to it.

“Welcome to our happy headquarters!” it said, throwing open the door.

A small metallic form dashed through, far below Norman's line of vision.

“Welcome,” repeated the butler-bot.

“Arf!” yipped Rin Tin Stainless Steel. Heading straight for Wendy, the canine robot began leaping around her feet. “Arf! Arf!”

“Must have been a wrong number,” said Norman, slamming the door shut.

“We gotta work on his eyesight,” muttered Roger.

“Rinty, get off me!” cried Wendy, batting at the mechanical dog.

“Arf! Arf! I love you, Wendy. Will you marry me?”

“This is your work, Roger!” yelled the Wonderchild indignantly. “I'd recognize your warped sense of humor anywhere. Get this mechanical mutt off me!”

“And break his little electronic heart?” cried Roger, who was convulsed with laughter.

“Then catch!” Snatching up the yapping robot, Wendy flung it across the room.

“Cripes!” yelled Roger. Leaping to his feet, he snatched Rinty out of the air just before the little robot would have crashed into the wall.

“Watch it, Wendy!” said Hap. “You'll scramble his circuits!”

“I couldn't possibly scramble them more than Roger has already,” snapped the Wonderchild.

As for Rinty, the instant Roger grabbed the robot, its gas chromatograph—an electronic nose of sorts—went into action. Sorting out the molecules that marked Roger's chemically distinctive odor, it checked their pattern against its memory banks. Within microseconds it found a match and “recognized” Roger.

Immediately a new program took over.

“Trouble!” yapped the robot. “Big trouble. Come quick!”

Rachel Phillips was sitting under a small scrub tree on the east side of Anza-bora Island. The South Pacific stretched vast and seemingly endless before her. She was not looking at the water, however, but at the shiny metal tube she held in her hands.

“Like this?” she asked, placing her fingers delicately on the holes that lined the tube.

“No, no, no!” snapped Dr. Leonard Weiskopf, the little man sitting next to her. “Hold it like you mean business. You're not going to break it!”

Rachel brushed a strand of her fiery red hair away from her damp forehead.

“Come, come, Rachel,” said Dr. Weiskopf, speaking more gently now. “Pay attention to the business at hand!”

The business at hand was learning to use a pennywhistle, the cheap tin instrument Dr. Weiskopf was able to play with amazing skill and beauty. When Rachel had first approached the balding scientist about teaching her, he had been delighted at the prospect. Unfortunately, he was not always as patient as Rachel would have liked.

“Let me show you again,” he said, raising his own whistle to his lips. His hands, strangely large for such a small man, almost hid the tiny instrument.

Rachel wondered how he could make those sausage-like fingers move so swiftly over the whistle's holes; they became a near blur whenever he hurtled through some fast-paced piece of classical musical. Now, however, he piped a slower tune, closing his eyes and swaying gently with the music. A stray breeze wafting in from the ocean stirred the fringe of gray hair that circled his shiny head.

He seemed so lost in what he was playing that Rachel wondered if he had forgotten she was there.
How peaceful he looks,
she thought, remembering the impatient tones that had marked his voice just moments earlier. “What is it about music that can calm someone so?”

“I beg your pardon?” said Dr. Weiskopf, lowering the pennywhistle.

Rachel blushed; she hadn't intended to speak aloud. “I…I was just noticing how content you seemed while you were playing that tune. I wondered what it was about music that calmed people like that.”

“‘Music hath charms to soothe the savage beast'?” asked Dr. Weiskopf.

“Breast,” corrected Rachel.

“I beg your pardon?”

“The correct quote is ‘Music has charms to soothe a savage
breast.'
It's from William Congreve's ‘The Mourning Bride'—Act 1, Scene 1. People usually misquote it.”

Dr. Weiskopf looked at her strangely.

“I have sort of an overactive memory,” she explained, blushing a little. “Anyway, the point is, if you're any kind of an example, the quote is true. A minute ago you were…”

She began to blush again.

Dr. Weiskopf laughed. “Oh, come right out and say it. I was cranky. Then I played some music and calmed right down. It's true, music can do that. But it can also rile things up. And if you don't recognize that, you're only dealing with half the truth. Give me the right song, and I can start a war.”

Rachel raised a questioning eyebrow.

“Soldiers always have their battle songs. I have a historian friend who claims that if the South had had an anthem as inspiring as ‘The Battle Hymn of the Republic,' they might have won the Civil War. That's the other face of music—its dark side, if you will. Everything has one, you know.”

“You can't shine a light without casting some shadows,” said Rachel, quoting her father's favorite response to people who complained about problems created by modern science.

“Precisely!” exclaimed Weiskopf. “You're a very sensible young lady, Miss Phillips.” He leaned toward Rachel. “Can you keep a secret?”

Rachel had the uncomfortable feeling he was trying to look inside her head, to see if he could trust her. She licked her lips nervously. What was going on here?

“I said, can you keep a secret? Oh, come along—I know you can! You and your friends have got all kinds of secrets going on. You're the most closemouthed group of kids I ever saw!”