Eyes of the Killer Robot

by John Bellairs

  "If we leave him up here alone, do you think anyone will find him?" asked Sloane.

  The woman sniffed. "I don't think there's much chance of that. An old railroad switchman's house on an abandoned railway in the White Mountains does not exactly draw hordes of gawking tourists. So stop your fretting, and we'll attend to our friend here."

  The chair creaked as the woman got up. With her purse in her hand, she walked over to the bed and knelt down near Johnny's head. As she reached out to loosen the tape over his lips, her eyes met Johnny's, and his blood froze. Old Sloane was crazy—he knew that—but this woman was sane. Sane, but absolutely heartless. Johnny knew that she wouldn't mind causing him pain—she wouldn't mind killing him.

  On the following night, a large crowd of people gathered at the athletic field in Duston Heights to watch Cliff Bullard as he went to bat against the best pitchers that Essex County had to offer. The banks of lights over the field were blazing, and there was a carnival atmosphere inside the small brick stadium—people were laughing and talking, and munching hot dogs, caramel corn, and peanuts. It was a chilly night, and the man who was selling hot coffee and hot cider under the stands was doing a lively business. In the front row on the first-base side sat Fergie and Professor Childermass. Gramma and Grampa had decided to stay home—they were too worried about Johnny to think about having fun. Fergie was looking all shiny and clean in his brown suede jacket and corduroy trousers. He spent a lot of time muttering to the professor, who kept nodding and pointing at various things. The professor was properly done up for the occasion: he was wearing his blue woollen suit with the Knights of Columbus pin in the lapel, and he had brought the sword cane with him. Fergie wondered why he had brought the cane, but then he was wondering a lot right now about the professor's great plan—it all seemed pretty screwy to him.

  "Do you think it's gonna work, prof?" whispered Fergie. "How's Higgy gonna get close enough to the robot to do somethin' like that?"

  The professor glowered. "You haven't been listening to me, Byron!" he growled. And once more he explained his plan: Father Higgins, the pastor of St. Michael's church in Duston Heights, was going to be the umpire of the strikeout contest. Since the robot was a cursed thing, brought to life by evil magic, the professor thought that a dose of holy water would stop it. Father Higgins would be bringing a corked test tube with some of the blessed water, and he was going to slop some on the baseball before giving it to the robot, when the creature came out to pitch against Cliff Bullard.

  "It's going to be sort of a spitball in reverse," said the professor with a grim chuckle. "I haven't got the faintest idea of what will happen when that aluminum monster touches the holy water. Maybe he'll run away shrieking, or maybe his pitching arm will rust all to pieces and fall off. What I'm hoping for is that people will get to see what kind of a creature he really is. At any rate, I think the holy water will put an end to the robot's pitching career, and then we can turn our attention to Sloane and his dear sweet wifey. If the robot is stopped, I think that they'll get scared and run. I borrowed Higgy's Olds-mobile, and I'll follow them to wherever they're holding Johnny. And then... Well, we shall see what we shall see."

  Fergie glanced uncertainly at the professor. "Have you got a gun with you, prof?"

  The professor gave Fergie a scornful look. "You know that I detest firearms, Byron," he said. "That is why I have brought this sword cane along. I can use it to threaten the two of them, and if I have to, I can defend myself. After all, I was the fencing champion of my regiment during World War One."

  Fergie glanced at the professor doubtfully. He was about to say something when the professor poked him hard in the arm.

  "Look! Here comes Higgy!" whispered the professor excitedly. "Now we'll see what's what!"

  Fergie looked up and saw Father Higgins walking toward them across the baseball diamond. He was wearing his black clerical outfit with the stiff Roman collar and an umpire's padded chest protector. Father Higgins was over six feet tall, and he had a squarish jowly face. He was frowning, but this did not mean anything—Father Higgins often frowned, even when he was feeling fine. When he saw Fergie, the priest smiled and waved. Fergie had once played on a Softball team that the priest had coached, and they were old friends.

  "Hi, Byron!" boomed the priest. "How goes it?" He reached into the stands and shook Fergie's hand. Then he turned to the professor, and the grim look returned to his face. "I'm afraid we've got problems, Rod," he said softly. "Can I have a word with you in private?"

  The professor stared blankly. What could have happened? Without a word he got up and swung himself over the low brick wall that separated the field from the stands. Fergie watched as the two men walked a short way out into right field and stood there on the grass, talking. After a few minutes, Father Higgins turned away and trotted across the field toward home plate, where Cliff Bullard was standing with a bat in his hands. The professor returned to his seat, and Fergie saw that he was very pale. The corner of his mouth was twitching, and his hand shook as he picked up the cane.

  "What's wrong?" asked Fergie breathlessly. "What'd Higgy say?"

  "He said a great deal," the professor muttered through his teeth. "But the gist of it is this: He's lost the tube with the holy water in it."

  Fergie's mouth dropped open. "Oh, my gosh, no! How'd that happen?"

  "He doesn't know. He put the tube in a satchel that held some of his umpiring equipment, and he left the satchel in the locker room under the stands for a few minutes. When he went back to get it, the satchel was still there, but the tube was gone!" The professor paused. He banged the butt of his cane on the concrete floor. "Blast!" he exclaimed angrily. "It seems that some people are a lot more clever than we give them credit for! That old bat knows I'm on to her, and she probably guessed that we'd try something cute tonight. I'm afraid we're on our own now!"

  Fergie's heart sank. "Prof?" he asked in an anxious whisper. "What're we gonna do now?"

  "I don't know," the professor answered quietly. "If I think of something, I'll let you know."

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  RITTY CHITTY BOOM!

  RITTY CHITTY BOOM!

  RITTY CHITTY, RITTY CHITTY

  ROT BAM BOOM!

  With a riffle and rattle of snare drums, the Duston Heights High School marching band paraded out onto the field. Then, as everyone stood, they played "The Star-Spangled Banner." The drumming resumed, and they trotted off the field double-time. The preliminaries were over. Now the fun would begin.

  First came a home-run hitting exhibition. A pitcher who traveled with Cliff Bullard went out to the mound and served up batting-practice pitches. Bullard hit them all over the place. One shot disappeared over the top of the center-field scoreboard, 450 feet away from home plate. Others went rocketing over the roof of the grandstand, and still others landed in the center-field bleachers, where kids chased them down and proudly carried them off as souvenirs. Finally it was time for the strikeout contest. As photographers popped their flashbulbs, Bullard posed at home plate and a voice on the public address system explained the rules: There would be ten pitchers in the contest, and each pitcher would get one try. Every try would be like a regular time at bat during a baseball game: if Bullard hit the ball or drew a walk, he won. If the pitcher struck him out, he won ten thousand dollars. Nobody really thought that any of the pitchers on the list could whiff the mighty Bullard, but it would be fun to see if somebody came close.

  "It'd almost be worth it to see that wretched robot strike him out," muttered the professor as the first pitcher began his warm-up tosses. "I'd love to see the look on that big mug's face when the ball came sizzling in at one hundred and ten miles an hour!"

  "Well, we're probably gonna get to see it happen," said Fergie gloomily. "Unless, of course, you've had any bright ideas, prof. Have you?"

  "Not one," said the professor. He reached into his jacket pocket and took out a folded sheet of yellow paper. Sheets like this one had been handed out to everyone a
t the entrance to the stadium—they listed the pitchers in the order in which they would appear. Quickly the professor ran his finger down the row of names: Charles Hebden, Al McGee, Jack Humphrey, Spencer Talus ...

  The professor's finger stopped on the name Spencer Talus. "Ah-hah!" he said, and he gave Fergie a nudge in the ribs. "This fourth name on the list has got to be the robot! Talus is the name of the iron man in a fairy-tale poem by an old writer named Edmund Spenser. My, my! Aren't they the clever ones! So he's going to be fourth on the list—we won't have to wait long, it seems!"

  "Have you seen those two creeps?" Fergie asked. "Sloane and his wife. I mean, are they here?"

  The professor nodded. "Oh, they're here all right! They're sitting across the way, in box seats behind the third-base line. And I'm sure they're chortling and cackling about the money they're going to make, and the evil rotten things they're going to do later." The professor thought about Johnny, and his face grew hard. "By heaven," he said, in a low voice, "it's a good thing I hate guns! I'd be tempted to take a pot shot at them from where I'm sitting. By the way, I think I will have a closer look at them, just to make myself feel bad."

  He reached in under his seat and came up with a battered leather case. From it he took an old-fashioned pair of field glasses. Twiddling the little wheel, he scanned the crowd on the other side of the stadium, and finally focused in on the evil pair: Sloane was wearing dark glasses and a droopy white fake mustache; his wife was in a maroon tailored suit and pillbox hat. Her purse was balanced on her knees, and she clutched it tight with both hands.

  "Ah, there they are, the Gruesome Twosome!" muttered the professor. "If you wanted to lose weight, all you'd have to do would be to look at them, and it'd kill your appetite for days! By the way, I'll bet the old hag has the Key of Arbaces in that purse she's holding. That's how they control the—"

  The professor's little monologue was cut off by a loud burst of applause. Cliff Bullard had stepped into the batter's box. Father Higgins and the catcher took their places behind the batter. The pitcher went into his windup, and the ball came whizzing in. Wok! Bullard swung, and the ball went sailing in a long majestic arc into the left-field stands. The first pitcher had failed, and now the second came on. He had a pretty good curveball, but he had trouble getting it in there for strikes. The count ran to three balls and two strikes, and then the pitcher made a mistake: a fastball right across the middle of the plate. Bullard sent it rattling off the right-field fence. Then Jack Humphrey had his try: his specialty was a knuckle-ball, but it wasn't a very good one, and Bullard golfed Mr. Humphrey's third pitch high into the air. The ball sailed up over the roof of the left-field stands and disappeared into the night.

  The crowd applauded. Bullard grinned and tipped his hat to the stands, and the people roared in response. It was really a grand night for Bullard, at least it had been so far. As the cheering continued Bullard took a brief time out. He walked to the home-team dugout, had a glass of water, and mopped his face with a towel. Then he slowly returned to the plate. A figure stepped out of the visitors' dugout across the way. It was a tall man with a big mop of blond hair and staring blue eyes. He walked stiffly, and as he advanced an odd hush fell over the crowd. Even Bullard paused and watched silently—he seemed to sense that this was no ordinary person coming to challenge him. The name of Spencer Talus was announced over the P.A. system, and a polite ripple of applause greeted him. Father Higgins walked out to the mound to give Talus the baseball and explain a few things to him. The big blond man nodded as the priest spoke, and he held his hand out awkwardly to take the ball. But instead of handing the ball to the pitcher, Father Higgins did an odd thing: He raised his right hand and made the sign of the cross in the air. The robot staggered back a couple of paces, but then it stopped. Angrily it lurched forward and grabbed the ball from the priest. A murmur ran through the crowd as people realized that something peculiar was going on. For a few seconds more, the priest and the robot faced each other. Then Father Higgins turned away and started walking slowly back to home plate.

  "Nice try, Higgy!" said the professor with a sour grimace. He gripped the handle of his cane tightly and leaned forward. Was this it, then? Were they going to have to stand by and watch while that hunk of junk struck Cliff Bullard out? Would they have to sit tight and hope that Sloane and his creepy wife would let Johnny go unharmed? The professor felt helpless anger rising inside him. What could he possibly do?

  The robot raised its hands to belt level—apparently it was going to pitch from the stretch and not use a windup. Back went the arm, and around it came. A loud thock! sounded as the ball hit the catcher's mitt, and Bullard stood staring in disbelief with the bat on his shoulder.

  "STEEEErike ONE!" boomed Father Higgins, and his right hand shot up.

  An excited buzzing began in the crowd, and then it died away as the catcher flipped the ball back to the robot. Bullard pounded the plate and looked grim. He took little practice swings and yelled something out to the tall menacing figure on the mound. Once again, the robot began its pitching motion. The arm was a blur as it swept around, and this time Bullard swung mightily. But the ball was in the mitt before he had finished his swing.

  "STEEEErike TWO!" bellowed the priest, and the crowd roared. This was great! It was really going to happen! A local boy was going to strike out the great Cliff Bullard of the New York Yankees! The cheering, stomping, and whistling went on for a long time, and Father Higgins had to raise his arms to get the people to quiet down. Finally the crowd hushed, and the robot toed the pitching rubber. Bullard looked pale and shaken, but he stepped into the batter's box again and raised his bat... .

  "YOU DIRTY ROTTEN FRAUD!" screeched the professor, and he sprang to his feet. As the people around him watched in horror, the old man unsheathed the springy glittering sword, flourished it over his head, and vaulted up onto the brick wall in front of his seat. Then he leaped onto the field and went galloping madly toward the pitcher's mound. With heavy, lumbering steps the robot moved forward to meet him, and the baseball dropped from its hand. The professor advanced slowly. With the sword held out in front of him, he went into a dueler's stance. One whack of the robot's arm could crush his skull—the professor knew that.

  "Now then, come on, sir!" yelled the professor tauntingly. "We must have a drop or two of this malapert blood from you!"

  The robot swung, and the professor ducked. He felt the rush of the powerful arm as it passed over his head. The professor dashed around behind the robot. Frantically he searched for the shadowy hole in the back of its neck... was it there? Ah, yes, it was! Before the creature could turn round to face him, the professor raised the sword and plunged the tip of it into the slit. A shudder ran through the robot's body. It staggered drunkenly forward. With loud curses and yells, the professor plunged the sword's tip into the hole again and again and again. But the robot did not collapse. It was turning round to face him, and the professor felt sick with fear. Had he merely angered the creature? Was that all he had done? The professor heard angry yelling, and he realized that people were running toward him. At first everyone had been too shocked to move, but now at last two policemen had leaped onto the field, pistols drawn. They pounded toward him shouting "Stop!" and "You're under arrest!" And then something happened... .

  As everyone watched, the air around the robot shimmered. It did not look like a tall, blue-eyed man anymore—it was a grotesque, shiny metal statue with eerie glass eyes. Awkwardly the thing flung its right arm up. With a loud snapping sound, the arm fell off and hit the ground with a thud. The robot opened its jaw wide to let out a hideous, unearthly screech. The professor dropped his sword and covered his ears—the noise was unbearable. He closed his eyes tight, and when he opened them a second later, the robot was lying motionless on the grass.

  More and more people poured onto the field, and soon there was a ring of astonished faces around the professor and the dead robot. The professor felt extremely tired. Sweat was pouring down his face and he w
as gasping for breath. He stared silently at the two policemen, and they looked back in utter dumbfounded amazement. Then there was a loud commotion as somebody came shoving through the crowd. It was Sloane's wife, and she was hopping mad. Her face was twisted into a red mask of rage, and she lunged at the professor with her pocketbook raised high over her head.

  "You meddling old fool!" she screeched. "You filthy old man! What have you done? He's dead! You killed him!"

  Two men grabbed Mrs. Sloane, and they held her while she struggled. Wearily the professor turned to her. He was about to say that there was no law against killing robots, but then a thought occurred to him. "Where... where's Sloane?" he asked, in a dazed, dreamy voice.

  "I told you!" she yelped. "He's dead! His heart couldn't stand it! I'd like to break your filthy neck!"

  The professor scowled at the woman contemptuously. He turned to the policemen. "Gentlemen," he said quietly, "you had better take this harpy away and lock her up. She and her late husband kidnaped Johnny Dixon a few days ago, and they have been holding him prisoner God knows where. I will come down to the police station and make formal charges against her, and hopefully we can find out where Johnny is and rescue him. If you don't mind, I believe I left my binoculars under my seat, and I'd better go fetch them. I'll see you in a few minutes."

  Stooping, the professor picked up the sword. Fergie was at his side now—he had come running out with everyone else. The professor smiled at Fergie and patted his arm, and then the two of them started back across the field. The crowd parted to let them pass, and everyone started to cheer. The professor raised his hand to wave, but then he dropped it. He felt triumphant, but he also felt unbelievably tired, and he began to think about how nice it would be to be home in bed, sound asleep.