Robot Trouble

by Bruce Coville

  “Then why bother to lock the door at all?” asked Hap as Rachel opened the door and led them into the house.

  “Basic psychology,” replied Trip, pushing back a lock of his sandy brown hair. “People always worry, even if they don’t think there’s anything to worry about. It’s called floating anxieties. Locking the door makes a person feel more secure.”

  “Okay, now just stand here,” said Rachel once they were all gathered in the living room. Smiling mysteriously, she took her pennywhistle from her pocket and played the twelve-note tune Dr. Weiskopf had taught her.

  Euterpe came rolling into the room.

  Rachel tried to scowl down the burst of snorts and giggles that greeted the robot’s arrival.

  “What’s its name?” asked Hap, trying to keep a straight face.

  “Euterpe.”

  Wendy whooped with delight. “Me Tarzan, you Twerpy!” she yelled.

  “Terpy,” said Rachel severely. “The name is Euterpe—without the w!”

  But the damage was done. Once Wendy had suggested the name, none of them was able to think of the robot as anything but “Twerpy.”

  “Okay, so what makes this bucket of bolts so special?” asked the Gamma Ray. He was standing next to the robot, examining the light board in its chest. “Tight construction,” he muttered to himself, checking the welding work.

  “Listen,” said Rachel. “I’ll demonstrate.”

  She put the pennywhistle to her lips and played another tune.

  Nothing happened.

  “Rats. I must have done it wrong. Let me try again.”

  She paused for a moment, trying to remember the exact combination of notes that would call up the program she was after. Closing her eyes, she tried to hear them as Dr. Weiskopf had played them.

  She tried again.

  Nothing.

  Her frown deepened. This was getting embarrassing—especially after the way she had babbled on about Euterpe while she was dragging the others over here.

  “How sensitive is its hearing?” asked Wendy.

  “Very, I think,” said Rachel. “Why?”

  “Your flute is flat.”

  Rachel blushed. She would have been more jealous of Wendy’s gift of perfect pitch if she had not been well aware that the Wonderchild was equally envious of her own highly trained memory.

  “I’ll try again,” she said. Tightening her lips, she concentrated on creating the purest tones possible.

  A moment after she put down the whistle, Euterpe’s eyes flashed on.

  The lights on its chest began to flicker on and off.

  And then the robot began to sing.

  The A.I. Gang listened, spellbound. Euterpe’s song was unlike anything any of them had ever heard before, pulsing with an eerie beauty that gave them goose bumps. Yet there was something strangely familiar about it, too; something as ancient as time, something else as new as tomorrow.

  The robot’s voice was nearly human, though its range was far greater than any human voice, with clear, flutelike tones at the top and rumbling bass notes so deep they were felt rather than heard. Its eyes flashed on and off as it sang, and the grid of lights on its chest worked in ever-changing patterns. The song went on, never repeating itself, somehow always new even though the same motifs sounded over and over in varying combinations.

  Trip felt the small hairs rising on the back of his neck. “What is that song?” he asked.

  “The music of the spheres,” said Rachel happily. Putting her pennywhistle to her lips, she trilled a five-note signal that commanded Euterpe to end its concert.

  The music did not end abruptly. Instead the robot played on for a moment, drawing the threads of the piece together, combining them in a climax that thundered out, then dwindled softly to a high, pure note that lingered hauntingly in the air.

  For a moment all was silent. Then the gang broke into spontaneous applause, tribute to both the robot and its creator.

  “Okay,’’ said Hap after a moment. “What, exactly, is the ‘music of the spheres’?”

  “It’s an old idea,” said Roger. “A mystical thing about the perfect sound made by the movement of the heavenly bodies.”

  “And that’s just what this is,” said Rachel. “Except it’s not mystical.”

  “Plasmodacious,” said Wendy. “Only I’m still confused.”

  Rachel smiled. “It took me a while to get it, too. According to Dr. Weiskopf, he analyzed and then coded into Euterpe’s databanks the motions of everything in the solar system—the planets, their moons, even the asteroids and the comets. Working from that information, Euterpe uses this incredibly complex algorithm Dr. W. created to translate all those orbits into music. The harmonies Euterpe plays are based on the relationship of the ‘spheres’ to each other at the very moment that she’s playing. That’s why the music is always different: The raw material is constantly changing.”

  “So what she just played for us really was the music of the spheres!” cried Roger in delight. “That is utterly cool!”

  “But what good is it?” asked Hap.

  “Art doesn’t have to do anything practical,” said Trip, sounding disgusted.

  “Oh, but this does do something practical,” said Rachel. “What’s the biggest problem in space right now?”

  “Junk,” replied Wendy instantly.

  “Right! Now, if you—”

  “Wait a minute!” said Hap. “I’m just a grease monkey, remember? I make cars run and stuff like that. So fill me in. Junk in space? What the heck are you talking about?”

  “Cut the false modesty,” said Rachel. “You’re ‘just a grease monkey’ in about the way that Leonardo da Vinci was just a paint splasher.”

  “All right, so I exaggerated,” said Hap, trying not to let Rachel’s compliment paste a dippy grin across his face. “I still don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Space junk,” said Ray. “In the last few decades we’ve launched so many satellites that heaven is getting crowded.”

  Hap scowled. “That doesn’t make any sense. The one thing I do know about space is how much there is of it! How can it get crowded?”

  “Well, we’re not talking about space in the grand sense,” said Rachel. “Just the small patch around our planet.”

  “That’s still billions of cubic miles!” protested Hap.

  “True,” said Ray. “But the situation is complicated by the fact that the best routes for communications satellites are limited—and nearly filled.”

  “And there are no controls on those routes,” added Trip. “Because no one can agree who should be in charge, or what the rules should be. So private companies all over the world are putting up satellites anywhere they want to. Plug in the fact that once a satellite is no longer useful, it tends to stay in orbit for a long time, and you get a real mess for those who are trying to put new satellites into useful positions.”

  “Okay, you’ve convinced me,” said Hap. “But what does that have to do with Twerpy?”

  Rachel put her hand on the robot’s head and smiled. “Right now she… it… makes music based on the motions of the planets—primarily because that’s the information Dr. Weiskopf fed in. But launched into space, where its detectors could pick up the motion of all the satellites whirling around up there, it could do the same thing: create harmonic patterns based on their motions.”

  “What good does that do?” asked Wendy.

  “I think I know!” cried Trip. “The program works both ways. Not only can Euterpe create harmonies based on their movement, it can make their movements harmonious!”

  “Translated, that means the program could keep all those satellites from running into each other, or interfering with each other,” said Roger.

  “Exactly,” said Rachel.

  “Brilliant!” cried Ray.

  Rachel smiled, and thought, Too bad Dr. Weiskopf isn’t here to see their reaction.

  To her surprise, a familiar voice behind her said, “Thank you. Euterpe an
d I are both very gratified—especially since no one else seems to appreciate us.”

  “Dr. Weiskopf!” cried Rachel, spinning around. Her delight in seeing him gave way to a puzzled frown. “What do you mean, no one seems to appreciate you?”

  Dr. Weiskopf shook his head, and a bitter expression crossed his face. “I just came back from a meeting with Dr. Hwa. He vetoed my request to take Euterpe to the U.S. Space Committee.”

  “Why?” asked Rachel, feeling both surprised and dismayed.

  The scientist slumped into a chair and shook his head wearily. “Good reasons, I suppose. At least, good from Dr. Hwa’s point of view.” He raised his hand and began to tick off the points on his oversized fingers. “First, he doesn’t want the publicity. As far as Dr. Hwa is concerned, the less attention we get, the better. Second, and more important, he’s afraid it would interfere with my work on ADAM. Third, he thinks—”

  “Back up a second,” said Roger. “What’s ADAM?”

  Dr. Weiskopf’s eyes widened, and a hint of a blush colored his cheeks. “It’s a classified term,” he said at last. He paused, seemed to debate with himself for a moment, then said, “Oh, I don’t see what it can hurt. It’s not as if you can tell anyone about it! ADAM is the name we’ve given to the main computer. It stands for Advanced Design for Artificial Mentality.”

  “Good name for an artificial intelligence project,” said Rachel. She started to add that she liked the idea of naming the new form of intelligent life the Project Alpha team was trying to create after the biblical first man. Just in time she remembered that the gang wasn’t supposed to know the project was trying to create a computer that was actually conscious of its intelligence, and bit back her words.

  Dr. Weiskopf looked at her oddly, then said, “Anyway, Dr. Hwa doesn’t want me distracted from my work on ADAM. I tried to explain that they were related but it didn’t seem to impress him. The bottom line is, Euterpe is grounded.”

  “That’s not fair!” cried Wendy. “You’ve done something spectacular. It deserves to be used.”

  Dr. Weiskopf spread his enormous hands in a gesture of despair. “I agree. But Dr. Hwa is in charge, and he pretty much gave me my choice: Take this to the Space Committee or work on Project Alpha. I can’t do both. And my primary commitment is to the computer team.”

  He let his hands slip into his lap.

  “Well, there’s only one thing to do,” said Rachel. She waited, smiling mysteriously.

  “All right, I’ll bite,” said Hap after a moment of silence. “What is it?”

  The Warning

  Rachel’s smile grew broader. “We build a rocket and launch Euterpe ourselves!”

  Wendy snorted. “Come on, Rachel. Get real.”

  “I am being real!”

  “Of course she is!” exclaimed Trip, turning to the others. “It’s not like we would have to design the rocket all by ourselves or work out the mathematics for the launch ratios and the orbit patterns, or whatever. The computer is chock full of sophisticated design functions.”

  “And we wouldn’t be doing it completely on our own,” pointed out Rachel. “After all, we’ve got one of the most brilliant scientists in the world to work with.” She turned to Dr. Weiskopf. “Haven’t we?”

  The little scientist was looking at her with genuine alarm.

  “Don’t you think we can do it?” asked Rachel.

  Dr. Weiskopf spread his hands. “But Dr. Hwa…” he said helplessly.

  “Oh, let Dr. Hwa build his own rocket,” said Wendy, now won over by Rachel’s idea. “He had his chance and he blew it.”

  “What can Dr. Hwa say?” asked Roger, taking a more diplomatic approach. “As long as you don’t let this interfere with your work on Project Alpha, he has no grounds for complaint. Besides, this way he won’t have to worry about the Space Committee trying to lure you away.”

  “Even if that were true, how would you build such a thing?” asked Dr. Weiskopf. “It’s one thing to design it, quite another to make it real.”

  “But that’s what’s so great about this idea!” cried Trip, who loved new projects. “I bet there’s not a better place in the world to try something like this. Where are we? On an abandoned Air Force base. And what did the Air Force do here? Oh, lots of things—but mostly test new types of aircraft, including missiles and rocket planes. This whole island is set up for that kind of work.” He paused, then added with a devilish grin, “And I know where there’s a whole warehouse full of spare parts!”

  “I bet I can get my dad to help us,” said Hap, catching Trip’s enthusiasm. “He loves to build things. We’ll have to design it, of course. But he’ll help with the hands-on stuff, which would be mostly my job anyway. It won’t make any difference to him whether Dr. Hwa wants us to build it. He’s still employed by the government. As long as he does his job at the motor pool, what he does on his own time is his business.”

  “This is great!” exclaimed Ray. “We’ll have Twerpy in orbit before Dr. Hwa knows what hit him!”

  “Twerpy?” asked Dr. Weiskopf. He sounded deeply offended.

  Rachel blushed. “She seems to have picked up a nickname.”

  “Yeah,” put in Wendy, who had never been known to blush for any reason. “When you stick a name like ‘Euterpe’ on something, you have to expect people to mess around with it a little.”

  “But that name is perfect for what she does!” exclaimed Dr. Weiskopf. “Euterpe was the muse of music. It’s a name filled with history, with dignity; a name honored among composers everywhere. I even keyed her command system to my pennywhistle because the muse Euterpe was usually depicted carrying a flute.”

  Typical scientist, thought Hap. Suggest we build a rocket to send his creation into space and he gets a little nervous. Start fiddling with the name of that creation and he goes bananas!

  “Anyway,” continued Dr. Weiskopf, “while I appreciate your enthusiasm, the whole idea is pointless. Without the cooperation of the Space Committee, Euterpe would have no control functions, so she couldn’t affect the orbits of the other satellites anyway.”

  “Could she still plot them out?” asked Rachel.

  “Well, yes…”

  “Then you’d have a demonstration of what she could do! That’s what counts at this stage.”

  Dr. Weiskopf looked a little confused. “I suppose that’s true,” he said reluctantly.

  “Just think of it, sir,” said Roger, putting one arm around Dr. Weiskopf’s shoulder and sweeping the other skyward. “Imagine Euterpe sailing through the heavens, creating beautiful harmonies to send back to earth. It wouldn’t be just the control of the satellites. It would be the music—new music that no one has ever heard before. That’s what she was made for!”

  “It’s true,” said Dr. Weiskopf, a dreamy look on his face. “That is what she was made for.”

  “Then it’s settled!” crowed Rachel. “You’ll never regret this, Dr. Weiskopf.”

  “I think I’m regretting it already,” said Dr. Weiskopf. He grinned impishly. “But it sounds like fun. Let’s do it!”

  “I found something at the lab I thought you might get a kick out of,” said Dr. Wendy Wendell II, when she sat down to dinner with her family that evening.

  “What is it?” asked her daughter, Wendy Wendell III.

  “Finish your tofu and I’ll tell you.”

  Wendy glared at her mother. “I think there’s something in the constitution about cruel and unusual punishment,” she muttered darkly.

  “This isn’t punishment, dear,” said her father. “It’s nutrition.”

  “I’m not sure that would hold up in court,” said Wendy, transferring her glare to her father.

  When it became clear that her parents were not going to relent, Wendy’s curiosity overcame her revulsion. “There!” she said fifteen minutes later, choking down the last bite of the revolting stuff. “Now—what did you find?”

  Dr. Wendell shifted her eyes from right to left, as if to make sure they were not
being spied on. “A black glove!” she whispered conspiratorially.

  Wendy’s eyes widened.

  “I found it in the hallway outside my office,” continued her mother with a laugh. “It made me think of that spy you and your friends used to claim was here on Anza-bora Island.”

  She took the glove out of her pocket and handed it to Wendy.

  “Thanks, Mom,” said the Wonderchild, trying not to let her voice betray her excitement and her fear. “Gee, the gang sure will be interested to hear about this!”

  Then she bolted from the table and headed for her terminal.

  “I can’t believe it,” said Roger, when the gang had gathered at their headquarters in response to Wendy’s emergency email. He was holding the black leather glove Wendy’s mother had found and staring at it as if it had come from another planet.

  “It could be just a coincidence,” said Rachel. “I mean, it’s not like Black Glove is the only person in the world who ever wore black gloves!”

  “True,” said Ray. “But given the climate on Anza-bora, how many people wear them here?”

  Rachel sighed. “You’ve got a point.”

  “So you think he’s come back?” asked Hap.

  “Either that, or he never left,” said Roger. “Remember Dr. Hwa figured that the boat that disappeared the same night we found the transmitter meant that Black Glove had fled the island. But what if our spy simply rigged that boat so it would sail away on auto-pilot, then blow up or sink a few miles out? He could still be here!”

  “If it is a he,” said Trip. “It could well be a woman. You certainly can’t tell from the size of the glove.”

  Roger turned the glove over in his hand. Aside from an odd bulge at the base of one of the fingers—and the fact that, as Ray had mentioned, no one would normally wear a glove in this climate—he could find nothing unusual about it.

  The gang stayed up until late in the night talking about what the glove meant. In the end, all they could agree on was that they had to be more careful, more alert, than ever.

  Close to morning the object of the gang’s speculations slipped into the secret room beneath the computer center. Taking a seat at the terminal, Black Glove found a message announcing a piece of email that had been flagged by a special search program. The program had pulled the message from the hundreds sent between people on Anza-bora every day because it contained two key words: Black Glove.