by Jon Scieszka
“Monster!”
Klank, his BrainTurbo throbbing, gladly follows.
BY THE TIME FRANK GETS DOWN TO THE KITCHEN FOR BREAKFAST, Watson is already on his third helping of Grampa Al’s classic French toast.
“Good morning, Einstein,” says Grampa Al, whisking a splash of milk into a bowl of beaten eggs.
“Good morning, Einstein,” answers a still-sleepy Frank.
“Good morning, Watson,” says Watson.
Frank plops down in a kitchen chair and shakes his head. “That doesn’t make sense, Watson.”
Frank rubs his eyes, then his whole skull. “Why is it so hard to get started in the morning?”
Grampa Al dips three pieces of his homemade bread into the egg-and-milk mixture. “Takes a lot to get our brains and bodies going again after we shut down for sleep. Like starting a cold car engine. Got to give it some fuel to burn to get going.”
Grampa Al drops the soaked bread slices into the butter sizzling in the frying pan.
“It’s kind of weird that we conk out and do nothing for eight hours every day,” Frank thinks out loud. “We could get a lot more done if we kept going twenty-four hours a day.”
“Hey, yeah,” says Watson. “Why do we sleep?”
“That is a great question,” says Grampa Al. “Scientists know that every animal sleeps in some way. And if you don’t sleep, your body breaks down, and your brain goes haywire.” Grampa Al flips over the bread slices. “But nobody really knows why we sleep. Or why we dream.”
“That’s crazy,” says Watson.
Grampa Al picks up the pan, forks a golden, buttery piece of French toast, and drops it onto Watson’s plate.
“And that’s beautiful,” says Watson. “More fuel for my engine!”
“But don’t scientists who study sleep have some ideas?” asks Frank.
“Do dogs have fleas?” answers Grampa Al, forking Frank his piece of toast. “One idea is called Restore and Repair. That the brain and body use sleep time to fix themselves.”
Grampa Al looks around the kitchen. “Now where did I put my fork . . . ?”
“It’s in your hand.”
“Yikes! Right,” Grampa Al forks the last piece of French toast onto his own plate. “Second idea is that the brain and body slow down in this sleep state to conserve energy.”
“Mmmmmm.”
Frank, Watson, and Grampa Al trance out, using touch, taste, sight, and smell senses to completely enjoy their French toast drizzled with Grampa Al’s very own maple syrup.
“And third,” Grampa Al says, picking up where he left off, “the brain uses dream time to process information it learned during the day and locks it into long-term memory.”
Watson thinks about this. “So do robots dream?”
“Absolutely,” answers Grampa Al.
“Of electric sheep?” adds Frank.
Frank and Grampa Al laugh.
“Which reminds my sputtering brain—Watson tells me you guys perfected both your BrainTurbo and his da Vinci!”
Frank gulps the last of his sweet and buttery breakfast. His digestive system starts working to break down the food and fuel his body and brain. “Just in time. Mud Hens tryouts are this afternoon. We took the idea of your turbocharger and used it on the brain.”
“Well, paint me red and call me Shirley!”
“Huh?” says Watson.
“Come on, Watson,” calls Frank, already halfway out the kitchen door, heading for the lab. “I told Janegoodall we’d meet her at the ballpark early. So we better make like trees . . . and leave.”
“Ohhhhh no,” says Watson.
“Or make like lightning . . . and bolt,” adds Grampa Al.
“Or make like dogs and flea.”
“Or make like DNA and split.”
“Thanks for breakfast, Grampa! We’ll be back in time for dinner. In our new Mud Hens team uniforms.”
Frank and Watson run to the lab, ready to go. And ready to show the world what the BrainTurbo can do.
They fall into the lab. “Rise and shine, Klink and Klank! Time to make like bananas and split!” calls Frank.
“Time to make like tires . . . and hit the road,” adds Watson, getting the hang of it.
“RRRRRhuh?” Klink, plugged into the outlet in the corner, powers up.
“Klink! Where is Klank? He was supposed to be guarding the BrainTurbo,” says Frank.
Klink quickly scans the entire lab and sonar-sweeps all of Grampa Al’s for any sign of Klank. “Klank is not here.”
Watson stares at the empty workbench. “And where is the BrainTurbo?”
Klink rescans . . . resweeps. And then bluntly confirms Frank and Watson’s worst fear.
“The BrainTurbo is not here.”
FRANK FLIES HIS ANTIMATTER MOTOR FLY BIKE OVER ALL OF NORTH Midville.
Klank is not there. The BrainTurbo is not there.
Watson searches South Midville on the maglev skateboard.
No Klank or BrainTurbo there.
Janegoodall covers East Midville.
No and nothing.
Grampa Al and Klink turbo-truck search West Midville.
Zilch and nada.
Time is up.
Grampa Al and Klink motor back to man the lab in case Klank returns.
And to look for clues they might have missed.
Frank, Watson, and Janegoodall meet outside the ballpark. Time for the tryouts.
“It’s all my fault,” says Watson. “I never should have told Klank he wasn’t human. Do you think that’s what made him take off?”
Frank slaps a baseball into his glove. “It’s not your fault, Watson. You were just telling him the truth. He isn’t human.”
“Sorry we let you down, J.”
“No worries,” says Janegoodall. “We’ll find that big lunk after the tryouts.”
Frank checks his watch. “Klank may not be the smartest robot. But he is a robot, absolutely loyal to his mission. I’m sure he’s somewhere following his orders.”
“But where?” asks Watson. “And where is the BrainTurbo?”
Frank looks at the huge sign behind them. “The one place we haven’t looked?”
“Klank hates Edison and his ape. He would be out of his robot mind to go there!” says Watson.
“Hmmmm,” says Frank, pulling on his baseball cap. “Exactly . . .”
“MIDVILLE MUD HENS!” booms the public-address speakers inside Midville Menlo Park. “Let the tryouts begin!”
WHAT USED TO BE THE BRAINTURBO SITS DELICATELY ATOP an electronic head.
The electronic head fits securely bolted to a large robot body.
The large robot body lies firmly strapped to a tilted operating table.
A tiny wisp of smoke curls into the air above the robot’s head and vanishes.
“There,” says T. Edison, powering down a wired baseball cap and taking it off the robot’s head. “That didn’t hurt a bit now, did it, Klank?”
Klank runs a quick electrical charge through his head circuits, his heart circuits, and his body circuits. Something is different.
“Owwww,” says Klank. “That . . . hurt.”
“Well, of course it’s going to hurt a little bit,” says T. Edison impatiently. “You don’t get to be what you want to be without some pain.”
Mr. Chimp nods and signs:
Klank blinks. He is not so sure. “More human?”
T. Edison checks the charts and graphs from the operation. “A little adjustment, a few improvements in that shoddy Einstein TurkeyBrain hat—and now we have a real invention!”
Edison holds up the rewired BrainTurbo. “It will improve the weak-brained . . . and guide the wrong-brained . . . just the way I want them to behave. I call it—the Edison BrainWaver! What do you think?”
Mr. Chimp thinks the Edison BrainWaver looks exactly like Einstein’s BrainTurbo, but with a big E instead of an M written on the hat.
Klank hums and thinks for a second.
Klank answers, �
��To be, or not to be, that is the question . . .”
Mr. Chimp nods.
“Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune . . .”
Edison unbuckles the thick leather straps restraining Klank.
“. . . Or to take arms against a sea of troubles . . .”
Mr. Chimp helps Klank down.
Klank looks out the window, down at the tiny humans in the Midville ballpark below.
“To die: to sleep—”
Klank goes quiet.
“Very impressive,” says T. Edison.
Klank doesn’t know exactly where this has come from. But it makes his circuits buzz with a hard-to-pinpoint unease. “Go, Dog. Go!?”
“Not exactly,” says T. Edison. “Shakespeare.”
Edison and Klank watch the humans in the baseball park for a minute. Edison awkwardly puts his arm around Klank’s midsection.
“Well, my new thinking-and-feeling robot friend, what do you say we take our new, improved brains out for a little stroll?”
Mr. Chimp shoots Edison a seriously unhappy look. But Edison is too thrilled with himself and his new invention to notice.
“What do you say we go down there and show who’s not a monster? Show who is a genius. And show these humans how to win brains and influence people!”
Edison pats Klank on the back with a metallic bonk!
“I am not a monster,” says Klank.
“Ooooh ooook,” huffs Mr. Chimp.
“Oh—and you can come too, Mr. Chimp.”
OK, PEOPLE,” CALLS POLICE CHIEF AND HEAD COACH JACOBS FROM the bench. “Let’s see if you got what it takes to be a Midville Mud Hen. Batter up!”
Janegoodall turns sideways to home plate. She folds her arms close to her chest, lifting her left leg in a windup.
“Bring the heat, JG!” calls Watson from his position at second base.
Janegoodall strides forward. She pushes off the mound with her right leg, unfolding her arms, turning her body, extending and windmilling her right arm, and releasing the baseball from her right hand.
“Smoke it!” yells Frank Einstein from his position in center field.
The ball flies from the tips of Janegoodall’s fingers and across the forty-six feet to home plate in just over half a second.
Little Harry Abrams closes his eyes, swings the bat completely blind, and makes lucky contact with the ball about to zip past him at fifty-five miles per hour.
Craaaaack!
The baseball rebounds off the bat and rockets up over Janegoodall’s head, past second base and into center field, heading for the wall. Frank turns his back to home plate and runs as fast as he can. He stretches out his glove, dives, and . . . pock! The ball drops right into a tough, leathery hand . . . with no glove on it.
Frank picks himself up off the outfield grass. “Mr. Chimp? T. Edison? Klank! I knew it!”
Watson and Janegoodall run out to center field.
“Klank! You’re safe!” yells Watson, jumping on Klank and giving him a big hug.
“We looked everywhere for you,” says Janegoodall. “Are you OK?”
Klank peels Watson off and drops him like a used rag. “Why would I not be OK? I am, in fact, much better, and now much smarter, than OK. No thanks to you three.”
“Klank?” says Frank Einstein, questioning.
“Klank!” says Janegoodall, scolding.
“Klaaaaank,” says Watson, begging.
“That is my name,” says Klank, in a completely unfunny way. “Do not wear it out.”
Watson turns to the kid with the goofy-looking haircut sticking out from under his baseball hat. “Edison, you rat! What did you do to Klank?”
The rest of the tryout players gather around to see what is going on with the chimp and the robot in center field.
Little Maria Karloff points at Klank, takes a deep breath, and screams, “EEEeeeeeeeeeee! That’s the monster! The one I saw ripping the doll lady to pieces. EEEEeeeeeee!”
Klank steps back in fear.
Edison grits his teeth and squints his eyes at the piercing sound of Maria’s scream.
“EEEEEEeeeeeeeeee! A monster!”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” says Edison, “shut up!”
Maria is shocked quiet. “We don’t say shut up.”
“Well, good for you,” says Edison. “Because I do! And I just did! So zip it! This is not a monster. This is my robot, Klank. He used to be a monster. When he had a bad brain given to him by this kid—Frank Einstein. But I helped Klank. And now he is smart and a fine citizen. All because of my new invention.”
Edison pulls a cap covered in electrodes and wires out of his back pocket. He holds it up for all the baseball players to see.
“I call it the Edison BrainWaver!”
“What?!” yells Watson. “No way! That’s Frank Einstein’s BrainTurbo! And you stole it!”
“Did not.”
“Did too!”
“Did not.”
“You did!”
“But it has my E right here—E for Edison. See?”
“Ooook!” adds Mr. Chimp.
“Great balls of fire!” yells Chief Coach Jacobs, pushing through the crowd of kids. “What is this, some kind of sewing circle? Or is this baseball tryouts?!”
“Oh, Chief Jacobs,” says Edison, in his most fake-sincere voice, “I am so glad you are here . . . to uphold the law.”
“Yeah,” says Watson. “Edison is a crook. He stole Frank Einstein’s invention. And his robot. Arrest him!”
“I just want what’s best for the Midville Mud Hens. And with my Edison BrainWaver, I promise you that this fine citizen”—Edison puts his arm around Klank—“can make us a winning team.”
“A robot?” says Chief Coach Jacobs. “Playing baseball?”
“There is nothing in the Intercity Baseball Rule Book that would bar me from participating,” says Klank.
Chief Coach Jacobs whips out his copy of the rule book and reads aloud. “Hmmm . . . ‘Players must be eleven years old or younger as of today’s date, and a resident of the town of Midville proper.’”
“I am younger than eleven years,” beeps Klank. “And I am a resident of Midville proper.”
“And with the Edison BrainWaver,” adds Edison, “he is better than humans at everything! A most amazing batter and catcher and . . . pitcher.”
“Also most intelligent,” brags Klank. “I have passed the Turing test, which determines whether an intelligence is robot or human. And just this morning I beat Watson, IBM’s supercomputer, in chess. Five hundred and twenty-seven times.”
Watson turns to Frank. “Did he really just say ‘most intelligent’? And is IBM’s supercomputer really named Watson?”
Frank shakes his head. “Something happened to Klank in Edison’s laboratory.”
Chief Coach Jacobs takes his hat off and scratches his head. “Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle.”
Mr. Chimp rocks restlessly from foot to foot.
“It is not a good sign when chimps do that,” Janegoodall whispers to Chief Coach Jacobs. “It might be best to let them do what they want.”
“OK! Enough of this chewing the fat!” Jacobs sputters. “We’ve got tryouts! Let’s see some pitching! Everybody—move it!”
KLANK TURNS SIDEWAYS TO HOME PLATE. HE FOLDS HIS ARMS close to his chest, lifting his left leg in a windup. Frank, and Watson, and Janegoodall watch from the home dugout.
“This is very weird,” says Watson, unwrapping a hot dog and chomping on it.
Klank strides forward. He pushes off the mound with his right leg, unfolding his arms, turning his body, extending and windmilling his right arm, and releasing the baseball from his right hand.
“Edison is up to something,” says Frank Einstein. “He is not doing this just to help Klank join the Mud Hens.”
The ball flies from the tips of Klank’s fingers in a blur.
Poooom! The ball pops into the catcher’s mitt with a puff of di
rt.
“Wonderful pitch,” says T. Edison from the visitors’ dugout.
Chief Coach Jacobs checks the radar gun. “Sixty. Not too shabby.”
“This is just wrong,” says Janegoodall, gripping her baseball in a four-seam baseball hold. “He is a machine.”
T. Edison hops out of the dugout. He talks to Chief Coach Jacobs, who shrugs. “Knock yourself out.”
Edison walks out to the mound, carrying the Edison BrainWaver.
“What is he doing . . . ?” asks Frank.
From the pitcher’s mound, Edison announces to everyone at the Mud Hens tryouts, “You may have thought that was good. But I want to show you that the Edison BrainWaver can be great.” He hands the boosted baseball cap to Klank.
“Oh, this is not good,” says Frank.
Klank puts on the Edison BrainWaver and dials it up to 3.
“So not good.”
Klank winds up again and fires a pitch.
Pooom!
“Seventy miles per hour!” calls Chief Coach Jacobs. Klank dials to 4 and pitches again.
Pooom!
“Eighty!”
Klank dials to 5 and pitches again.
Pooom!
“Ninety! We have us a fastballer! Throwing some cheese!”
“Grrrrrrrrrr,” says Janegoodall.
Watson’s eyes almost bug out of his head. “I thought you said the turbocharger didn’t work on robot brains.”
Frank calculates. “It can . . . up to a point. But too much boosting sets up an irreversible feedback loop that overloads pathways and results in catastrophic disintegrative combustion.”
Watson gulps the last of his hot dog and drops the foil wrapper on the dugout floor. “It feeds the reverse of what?”
“It will explode Klank’s head. To smithereens.”
Watson wipes the mustard off his lips and glares at Edison. “No! That is terrible. Hey! Now what are they up to?”
Edison takes the cap from Klank. “Now I am going to show you something even more astounding about the Edison BrainWaver.” Edison points Klank off the mound and back to the dugout. Then he dramatically places the BrainWaver on his own head—and without letting anyone see, clicks the WAVE ARROW DIRECTION from IN to OUT.