Robot Trouble

by Bruce Coville

  “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!”

  “How did you know that?” asked Rachel indignantly.

  Dr. Weiskopf seemed flustered for a moment. “Dr. Remov told me,” he said at last.

  Dr. Remov was another of the Project Alpha scientists, one the gang had turned to for help during their first adventure. Rachel didn’t like the fact that he had mentioned their conversations to anyone else.

  “I can keep a secret,” she said after a moment. Then she added: “Better than some adults, it would seem.”

  It was Dr. Weiskopf’s turn to blush. “Stanley had his reasons for talking to me.
Believe me, I have not mentioned what he told me to anyone else. Perhaps you could consider what I want to show you a trade—secret for secret.”

  “What is it?” asked Rachel. An eager note had crept into her voice, for despite her cautious nature, Dr. Weiskopf had made her curious.

  “Patience,” said the scientist, holding up a finger. “All will be revealed in a few moments.”

  Rachel thought she was going to burst by the time they entered Dr. Weiskopf’s bungalow—one of the multitude of Air Force buildings that had been left behind when the government abandoned Anza-bora Island.

  “All right,” said Dr. Weiskopf once they were standing in his living room, “stand here and watch.” Raising his whistle to his lips, he played a little tune. Though it couldn’t have been more than twelve notes long, Rachel found it oddly moving.

  “What…”

  Dr. Weiskopf held up a hand to silence her.

  Rachel heard a sound from the other room.

  The door swung open.

  To Dr. Weiskopf’s dismay, Rachel broke into gales of laughter.

  Trip Davis squirmed desperately as he tried to escape the hands that had grabbed him. I wonder if Ray got away, he thought as he slammed his right foot backward. He connected with something firm but fleshy, and the satisfying grunt of pain that followed made it clear his captor was at least human.

  Trying to remember the self-defense lessons Wendy had given him, Trip reached over his shoulder. A few minutes of confusion, angry shouts, and loud thumping noises followed.

  Then it was all over.

  On the other side of the warehouse the Gamma Ray had taken cover behind a pair of huge wooden crates, where he was having second thoughts about the gang’s “split up in an emergency” policy. The idea that someone should escape to go for help was good in theory. On the other hand, considering the look of the thing that had sent him running, there might not be much of him left to help when the others did get here.

  Ray’s second thoughts turned to dead certainty when he peeked around the edge of a crate and saw that the red-eyed monstrosity had chosen to come after him instead of Trip. No question about it: He did not want to face that thing alone!

  Spurred by fear, he shot from between the crates and hurtled down a narrow canyon formed by stacks of boxes. What is that thing, anyway? he wondered as he raced around a corner. Where did it come from?

  He ducked through a small passage on his right, hoping to lose the relentless pursuer. His breath was getting short and a throbbing pain was tying knots in his side. He couldn’t go on much longer!

  Glancing fearfully over his shoulder, Ray was relieved to see that he had broken away. But looking back was a mistake, for with his next step he stumbled over a box and sprawled facedown on the floor.

  His glasses went flying out in front of him.

  As he scrambled for them, he heard a whirring noise behind him.

  Behind that, he heard a deep laugh.

  Who’s back there? he wondered.

  A chill shivered along his spine. What if Black Glove has come back?

  He searched desperately for his glasses, his hands scuttling over the floor like a pair of spastic spiders.

  Where are they? Crawling forward, he bumped against another box. It rattled.

  He could hear his pursuer closing in behind him.

  The box was open. He thrust his hands into it, on the chance that his glasses might have fallen inside.

  Ball bearings!

  Without an instant’s hesitation, he turned the box over and sent several thousand perfect metal spheres rolling across the floor.

  A shout of anger let him know his move had scored.

  But before he could congratulate himself, he was plucked from the floor by a pair of metallic hands.

  Even without his glasses, Ray knew he was face-to-face with the red-eyed monstrosity that had been pursuing him.

  Ignoring the treacherous curves in the road, Roger pushed his dune buggy to the limits of its speed. They had to get to Trip and Ray!

  His sense of urgency was fueled by the guilt he felt over tampering with Rinty’s program. He was painfully aware that his lighthearted joke had delayed the delivery of the computerized canine’s vital message. Not by more than thirty seconds, of course. But the last mess the gang had been in had taught Roger all too well that half a minute could mean the difference between life and death.

  The dune buggy bounced on. Because its electric motor was completely silent, the only sound was the complaining of the springs and an occasional screech as they rounded a sharp curve.

  I should have left well enough alone, he thought. It’s just that Wendy’s so much fun to tease!

  Of course, that was partly because it was so easy. The slightest thing could set her off; Hap had once called the Wonderchild a “four-foot stick of dynamite with a two-inch fuse.” And the little twerp was really cute when she got angry.

  “Watch where you’re going!” cried Hap.

  Roger focused on the road and spun the steering wheel sharply to the right. The dune buggy swerved, bounced in a rut, and barely missed slamming into a roadside tree.

  “Close one, good buddy!” said Hap, as calmly as if he were describing a near miss in a game of marbles. “Better keep your mind on the road.”

  “Sorry about that,” said Roger sheepishly. He was glad Wendy wasn’t in the buggy with them. Then he would never hear the end of it.

  As it was, she was bouncing along in her own duner right behind them. So she had undoubtedly seen his near miss. She’d probably still suggest he needed a CAT scan to see if there was a bolt or two loose in his brain.

  “Turn here,” said Hap, pointing to the left. “There’s a back way to the warehouse over there.”

  The dune buggy bounced across the uneven ground, and soon they pulled up outside Warehouse Two.

  Wendy skidded to a stop beside them.

  Three Jeeps, marked with the insignia of the island’s security patrol, were already parked outside the building. Sitting in one of them, looking as angry as they had ever seen him, was Dr. Hwa.

  “Wait! Where do you think you’re going?” he yelled as the three youngsters sprinted past him for the warehouse door. They ignored him. The scientist might be the island’s head honcho, but when their friends needed help, that didn’t mean a thing.

  Roger threw open the door, and the three kids burst into the warehouse.

  Robots

  “I’m sorry, Dr. Weiskopf!” sputtered Rachel as she tried to catch her breath. “I just wasn’t expecting anything like… like… th-th-this!”

  She exploded in laughter again.

  The “this” she was referring to was a barrel-shaped robot with a five-by-five grid of flashing, multicolored lights centered on its chest. From its base jutted three stubby cylinders with wheels on their bottoms.

  All of this was standard, if a little clumsy in its styling. What had set Rachel to laughing was the robot’s face, which was unmistakably modeled after the great composer Ludwig van Beethoven. The bizarre contrast between the robot’s face and its body was what had started her laughing fit. The startled look on Dr. Weiskopf’s face had kept it going. Now no matter how she tried, she couldn’t stop.

  Looking mournful, Dr. Weiskopf raised his penny-whistle and played a little tune. The robot pivoted and began to roll out of the room.

  “Wait!” cried Rachel. The robot didn’t stop.

  She took a deep breath. Using all her willpower, she forced herself to hold it. Her lungs were almost ready to explode when she felt another burst of laughter coming on. She clamped her mouth shut, feeling as if she were trying to hold in a massive, inevitable sneeze. For an instant she was afraid the top of her head might blow off.

  Slowly she released the air from her lungs, then took another deep breath. She did this three times, then said softly, “Sorry. I’m all right now.”

  Dr. Weiskopf looked at her carefully. Still not speaking, he placed the whistle to his lips and res
ummoned the robot.

  When it rolled back into the room Dr. Weiskopf said, “Rachel, I’d like you to meet Euterpe.”

  Rachel bit the inside corners of her mouth and tried desperately not to break into a new fit of giggling. What a name to drop on someone trying to keep a straight face!

  Stop it! she commanded herself. I absolutely forbid you to start laughing again!

  After a brief struggle, she was in control, despite the absurd name. Then she remembered that she had heard it before and decided perhaps it wasn’t quite so ridiculous after all.

  “Euterpe—wasn’t she the muse of music in Greek mythology?”

  “Very good! As you will see, the name was chosen for a reason. Let me show you what she can do.”

  Positioning himself in front of Euterpe, Dr. Weiskopf took out his pennywhistle again. The grid of lights on the robot’s chest was glowing, but so faintly as to be barely discernible.

  Dr. Weiskopf put the whistle to his lips and piped a single, pure note.

  How does he do that? wondered Rachel. She had tried for days now, and still could not get the wobble out of her tones.

  Before she had time to give the matter much thought, the robot answered its creator, repeating the tone perfectly. The sound was pretty, but nothing very impressive. That kind of programming had been available for years.

  Dr. Weiskopf played another note.

  Euterpe answered.

  The scientist played a series of five tones.

  The robot repeated them perfectly.

  Just as Rachel was beginning to wonder what this was all about Dr. Weiskopf started to play a tune. To her astonishment, the robot began to sing along with him—not merely repeating the notes, but working in multi-toned harmony!

  Dr. Weiskopf glanced sideways. Catching Rachel’s eye, he raised his own eyebrow, as if to ask, “Now are you impressed?” Then he returned his attention to the music. He began to play faster, as if testing the limits of the robot’s ability. Euterpe kept pace with him. Soon the grid of lights on the robot’s chest began to flash, creating a rhythm and pattern that seemed to match the music.