Robot Trouble

by Bruce Coville

  Dr. Hwa had been right. Being able to use an existing missile shaft had saved them an enormous amount of work. It had been easy to open, far easier than building a scaffold outside would have been. To the gang’s delight, it had also turned out to be in perfect working condition.

  “Well, why not?” Hap had wanted to know when the others expressed their surprise at this. “If you build something right the first time, it ought to keep working forever—or at least until the parts wear out. And nothing has happened to this to wear it out.”

  “Boy, do you live in a dreamworld,” snorted Roger. “Long-term use is not the American way these days.”

  Rachel had tuned out the discussion that followed. But now she found herself wondering how long Twerpy would last out in space. She was going to miss the silly-looking robot. Its music had become an important part of her life.

  Her reverie was broken by the voice of Dr. Ling, who was helping with the countdown checkoff. “Let’s hurry,” said the beautiful scientist. “This place gives me the creeps.”

  She was standing next to Rachel, dressed in a regulation lab coat and a white baseball cap that made her raven hair appear even darker and glossier than usual. In her hand she had an electronic clipboard with a countdown checklist.

  “What bothers you about it?” asked Roger, who was standing on the other side of Dr. Ling.

  Rachel was pleased to hear a note of genuine curiosity in his voice. It drove her crazy when she thought her twin was toadying up to the lovely scientist.

  “Consider what it was built for,” said Dr. Ling. “It used to house an atomic missile. Remember, this was a first-alert station for the next war. Which would likely have also turned out to be the last war, since it’s unlikely anyone would have survived.” She shuddered. “Besides, this cramped space makes me claustrophobic.”

  Rachel could understand that. Though nearly forty feet deep, the concrete shaft was only ten feet square. Its floor and walls were smooth and bare except for three things: the trapdoor in the floor through which they had entered; a clock to tell workers how much time they had before blastoff; and a ladder—no more than oversize metal staples, really—that led up the wall to the catwalk above.

  Rachel looked around the floor. It was smaller than her bedroom’s. She shivered at the thought of being caught here when the rocket blasted off. She had seen films of that first incredible surge of flame and the agonizing moments when the rocket was fighting free of Earth’s gravity. At that moment this concrete box would be wall to wall searing flames. Would even your bones would be left if you were trapped in such an inferno?

  Oh, stop it, she chided herself. You’ve got work to do.

  Leonard Weiskopf stood at the top of the missile shaft, looking down. He still couldn’t believe his robot was going to make it into space—much less that they had built the beautiful silver needle that would carry it there right here on Anza-bora Island.

  He watched the group at the bottom of the shaft scurrying about, making last-minute checks. Then he turned his attention to Euterpe. “Are you ready?” he asked, wiping the robot’s chest panel with a clean handkerchief. “This is what you were made for, you know.”

  Euterpe trilled a little tune, her light grid flashing rhythmically. She was operating the “music of the spheres” program.

  Dr. Weiskopf lifted his hand to the side of the Beethovenly face and flipped a switch.

  Then he took out his pennywhistle and began to play.

  A moment later Euterpe answered him. Soon they were jamming, the unearthly music echoing strangely from the walls of the missile silo.

  When the session was over, Dr. Weiskopf patted the robot fondly. “I’m going to miss you, Euterpe,” he whispered. He pointed upward. “Do a good job out there.”

  Then he turned and walked away.

  An hour later the final checks had been made.

  When everyone had called in his final reports, the launch clock was set in motion.

  Even though the launch clock was ticking, it was nearly eight o’clock that evening before the gang and the scientists working with them finished attending to the last-minute details.

  When they polished off the last of their checklists Dr. Fontana said, “Well, that’s it. We might as well call Brody.”

  A few minutes later the burly chief of the air patrol appeared in the control tower where the launch group had been working and shouted, “Everybody out! I’m sealing it up!”

  Kids and scientists filed out of the room together, deeply engaged in an assortment of conversations and arguments about the upcoming launch. Brody stuck his head through the door and did a quick check to make sure everyone was out, then locked the room with his master key.

  Wendy Wendell waited another half hour before she crept from behind the control panel where she had been hiding.

  The Missile Silo

  Wendy’s selection as “inside man” at the site was prompted by two things: First, her size made it easier for her to hide than anyone in the gang except Ray. Second, unlike Ray, her parents kept a loose rein on her. A few mumbled comments about spending the night with Rachel so they could go to the launch together in the morning was all it had taken to cover her whereabouts.

  Despite the fact that she and Rachel were still barely speaking to each other, what she had said was technically true. What she hadn’t specified was that she, Rachel, and the rest of the gang would be spending the night at the launch site, in the hope of catching Black Glove in action.

  Wandering to the front of the control tower, the Wonderchild gazed down on the net of humans and robots crisscrossing the airfield and its surrounding areas.

  This is weird, she thought. Except for Dr. Remov, none of the adults will even admit Black Glove exists. Yet the brass on this supposedly private island is acting like there’s a real risk of someone tampering with the launch. I guess the Korbuscek episode scared them more than they want to admit. She smiled. At least we don’t have to worry about him tonight.

  A pair of searchlights crossed in front of the control tower windows, looking like giant light sabers ready to do battle. Euterpe’s music, piped in from a direct connection to the robot, played softly in the background.

  Wendy pushed back her work hat and dug through the pockets of her “Twerps in Space” coveralls. After a little searching she retrieved a candy bar and a small pocket watch.

  She sighed. Another three hours until Rachel, Roger, and Hap were scheduled to arrive. There had been a bit of a security crackdown on the domestic side of the island, too, and Trip and Ray would be even later, depending on what time their parents fell asleep. Fortunately, with the launch scheduled for seven a.m. sharp, even the strictest of the parents had agreed the kids needed to be out before dawn to be on hand for the final preparations. They were expecting their kids to leave early—just not as early as the kids themselves had in mind.

  Actually, the excuse of making last-minute checks was a little lame. The launch pattern was already locked into the computer, and the takeoff could only be altered under extraordinary circumstances, and then only with extreme difficulty.

  Wendy yawned. She had better find something to keep herself busy if she was going to be awake when it was time to let the others in. She patted her pocket. The control device for Brody’s robots was right where she had put it.

  She wandered around the control room, trying out the various chairs. She felt a little silly—Like Goldilocks and the Three Astronauts, she thought—but getting access to this place had been a real thrill. It made everything seem so real, so professional.

  She glanced at the launch clock and frowned. Still two hours before the others would arrive! Leaning her face against the window, she began to count the robots scurrying around below.

  Two minutes later her eyes closed and she began to snore.

  Ramon Korbuscek slipped from his guard post and headed for the missile silo. Since he was officially a part of security, it was not that hard for him to breach it. All he had to
do was alter his assigned patrol, take care of his “personal business,” and then be back in time for his regular check-in. As long as he wasn’t late, no one would suspect a thing.

  Actually, Korbuscek would rather have performed this task on any other night. But Weiskopf’s robot had not been loaded into the rocket until this afternoon, and Korbuscek had finally decided that if he tampered with it any earlier his work might be discovered—and removed—before the launch. By waiting until now, he could be fairly certain that what he did would remain untouched.

  Slipping through the shadows, he made his way to the maze of tunnels that crisscrossed the area under the airfield. It had taken him several nights of exploration to learn them well enough to move freely and without hesitation. Now he could find his way through them blindfolded.

  Following a tunnel he had located three days earlier, he quickly came to the door that opened onto the upper level of the missile silo.

  A narrow catwalk led across the forty-foot chasm of the silo to the door of the rocket. When Korbuscek found himself dancing along it like a tightrope walker, he realized how bored he had become. It felt wonderful to be in action again.

  Pressing a sequence of panels, he opened the door of the rocket and stepped inside. Euterpe stood in the middle of the chamber. The lights on the robot’s chest were flashing as it computed the music of the spheres.

  Korbuscek made a snort of disgust. That is the dumbest-looking robot I have ever seen, he thought scornfully. Then he realized that, foolish as the thing looked, the music it was creating was extraordinary. To Korbuscek’s astonishment, he felt the small hairs on the back of his neck rise. He shivered. Nothing had affected him like that in a long time.

  He shook his head. He wasn’t being paid to judge the quality of the robot’s music. His job was to alter its capabilities.

  Squatting in front of Euterpe, he pulled a complex device from his backpack and prepared to install it.

  The workspace was cramped, but he had plenty of time. Holding a pair of micropliers, he studied the front of the robot. Getting into something like this was a little like performing an operation. Recalling the diagrams he had photographed, he reached out and touched what he thought was the right spot to begin.

  Immediately Euterpe began to shriek like an opera singer whose shower has just run out of hot water.

  Korbuscek cried out in pain and clamped his hands over his ears. Pushing himself against the wall of the rocket, he tried desperately to recall where the diagrams had indicated the key to turn off the alarm. But the shrieking was making it impossible to think. He clamped his eyes shut and used a deep-breathing technique to relax himself enough to concentrate.

  Right! He had it.

  He took his hands from his ears. The shrill alarm, amplified terribly by the small chamber, caused tears to form in his eyes. Wondering if his hearing would be permanently damaged, he groped desperately over the robot’s chest panel until he found the switch to turn off the alarm.

  Immediately Euterpe stopped shrieking and began to sing again.

  Sweat pouring down his face, Korbuscek collapsed against the robot and tried to recover his equilibrium.

  The Phillips twins and Hap Swenson crouched at the edge of the airfield, just outside the range of the guards and the robots. The dark blue of their coveralls helped them blend into the surrounding darkness.

  Gaining entrance to the restricted area would not be as simple for them as it had been for Korbuscek. Even as the spy was working his way toward the missile silo, the trio was waiting impatiently for Wendy to alter the pattern of the robot patrol so they could sneak past it.

  Roger checked his watch as two of the fierce-looking things crossed in front of them for the fifth time.

  “What’s going on?” he muttered. “Why doesn’t she redirect them?”

  “I don’t know,” said Hap. “Do you suppose something could have happened to her?”

  “I doubt it,” said Rachel. “I learned a long time ago not to worry about Wendy. The question is, what do we do now? We’ve got to get in there.”

  “Maybe we should tackle the robots ourselves,” said Hap. He didn’t sound happy about the idea. “I wish Trip and Ray were here,” he added.

  Aside from Wendy, who had designed the robot control mechanisms, Trip and Ray were the only ones who could be considered really expert with the devices—largely because they had gotten so much practice with them on their scrounging missions.

  Roger pulled one of the black boxes out of his pocket and looked at it uncertainly. “I don’t know. It’s a bit of a chance.”

  “We’ve got to get in there,” repeated Rachel. “If we don’t, Black Glove may pull whatever he’s got in mind before we can get in position, and we’ll have lost our chance to get a photo!”

  As she spoke, she touched the miniature camera, no bigger than a stick of gum, that hung around her neck.

  “All right, we’ll give it a try,” said Roger. He studied the control device for a minute, then whispered, “Be ready to move. I’ll try to stop them the next time they cross by.”

  The three youngsters tensed themselves for action. Suddenly the robots rolled into view, sooner than they had expected.

  “Now!” said Roger, pushing a button.

  Anticipating that the robots would stop, he stepped forward.

  He had anticipated wrong. The mechanical sentinels wheeled and headed straight for him, their red eyes flashing. Roger jabbed desperately at the controls. Nothing happened.

  “Run!” cried Rachel.

  It was too late. Roger felt the blood drain from his face as the lead robot reached out and snatched him into the air.

  Down for the Countdown

  The sound system carrying Euterpe’s music into the control tower had helped lull Wendy into a deep sleep. Now that same sound system carried the shrieking of the robot’s alarm, which would have roused any normal human to instant wakefulness, and did indeed actually begin to penetrate the Wonderchild’s slumber.

  “Whazzat?” she muttered, lifting her head. “Who-zere?”

  The alarm sounded for another thirty seconds, then abruptly fell silent.

  Someone’s going to pay for this, thought Wendy as she pushed herself away from the window. She wiped the drool from her squashed cheek, a dazed expression on her face. Where was she, anyway?

  Suddenly everything came back to her. The launch! The robots! She glanced up at the clock. She was late! The others would be waiting for her.

  She barreled out of the control room and headed down the stairs. Seconds later she emerged from one of the small buildings at the edge of the airfield—just in time to spot a robot snatch Roger into the air.

  This, she thought dismally, is not gonna enhance my reputation.

  Moving into high speed, she raced across the blacktop, ducking a searchlight that swept across her path. As she ran, she searched her pockets for the control box.

  It was missing! It must have fallen out while she was asleep!

  “Take this one!” cried Hap, tossing his own control to her as she came running up.

  She caught it just as the second robot was about to grab Rachel. “Take that!” she cried, jabbing one of the buttons. “And that!”

  The robots froze in position.

  “Wendy,” said Roger quietly. “How very nice of you to come. Do you suppose you could get me down from here?”

  “Sure thing, Chief,” said the Wonderchild, snapping him a salute.

  She twisted a dial and pushed a button.

  The robot set Roger gently onto the ground.

  “Where have you been?” asked Rachel angrily.

  “No time for that now,” said Roger, interrupting before tempers could really flare. “Let’s get to our stations!”

  Rachel nodded. Since she had stored the plans for the airfield and its tunnels in her highly trained memory, the next move was up to her.

  Success is almost at hand, thought Black Glove, caressing the device that would reest
ablish contact with G.H.O.S.T. All I have to do is get this transmitter into the rocket and I have a first-class communications satellite that will enable me to send the Executive Council everything we do here.

  A grim smile lit the spy’s face. Waiting until the last moment had been difficult, but it was the only way to avoid detection. And that was important, for this time there could be no mistakes. Nor could there by any interference. The moment for gentle persuasion was long past. Those foolish brats had been warned. If they tried anything tonight, their fate would be on their own heads.

  Stepping out of the secret room beneath the computer center, Black Glove chuckled at the thought, almost wishing they would interfere. It would provide an excuse to get rid of some of them, an act that would be unwise, but deeply satisfying!

  The thought made the spy chuckle all the way to the launch site.

  Euterpe’s rocket could be reached by one of two paths: the trapdoor at the bottom of the missile silo, or the door that opened onto the narrow catwalk Ramon Korbuscek had traversed earlier that night. Anyone who wanted to tamper with the rocket had to come in by one way or the other.

  The A.I. Gang, unaware that Korbuscek had already entered the rocket, was covering both routes.

  Wendy represented the first line of defense. She was huddled beneath the metal stairs that led up to the catwalk or down to the trapdoor. She had been stationed there, not entirely to her pleasure, so she could leave when it was time to help Trip and Ray through the security lines. If Black Glove came while she was still here, she was to attempt to take a photo through the wire grid of the stairs.

  Rachel was above her, at the top of the silo, lurking in one of the little control alcoves that flanked the corridor leading to the catwalk. Like Wendy, she carried an infrared camera.

  Each of the gang had one of these.

  Each was hoping to be the one to snap a photo of Black Glove.

  And, secretly, each was dreading the possibility of discovering that the spy was someone they knew and loved.