Something nudged him.
“Go way,” he mumbled. “Can’t you let a feller snooze?”
The something purred and nudged him again.
Bolts stirred and stretched. He blinked one eye light, then the other. His sniffer had already told him there was nothing to be alarmed about. It was only a cat, and cats were fine critters. This one had a wonderful purr.
He was a little surprised, however, to see the size of the playful paw that had awakened him. It belonged to about the biggest cat critter he could imagine.
“By Joe!” he exclaimed, crawling out of his corner and rotating his sniffer. “Didn’t know they had king-size kitties like you in the mountains!”
“I’m not exactly a kitty. They call me a lion.”
“Aw, don’t hand me that. You may be king-size, but you look like a cat, you smell like a cat, and you purr like one. If you’re not a cat critter, then I’m not a tin dawg.”
“Have it your own way,” the cat critter told him. “But I never heard of a dog that ticks and talks. If you’re a dog, why aren’t you barking at me? Can’t you bark and growl?”
“Oh, brother!” said Bolts, rolling his eye lights. “Don’t get me started. I got a growl to end all growls. The thing is, I like cats. I been conditioned to ’em, see? As for talking to you, seems I can talk to any kinda critter. It’s my trimmed-off brain.” He explained about himself and his shortcomings.
The cat critter purred again. “Oh, we all have our faults,” he said. “But you sound like a fine fellow in spite of yours. We should have fun hunting together. Would you like to try it?”
“Eh? Hunting?” Bolts stared at him, then said uneasily, “W-what d’you hunt?”
“Lots of things. This morning I was thinking of going down the mountain and hunting burros for a change. Young burros are quite delectable. Ever try one?”
“Ulp!” muttered Bolts, suddenly realizing that the king-size cat critter really was a mountain lion. The truth rather stunned him. This was where an ignorant tin dog had to be mighty diplomatic.
“I can’t go hunting,” he explained, “because I’m being hunted myself. That Lumpy Lopez is after me.”
“But he’s downright dangerous!”
“You’re telling me! And with him are Comrade Pang and Major Mangler. They chased me for miles last night. When I gave Lumpy’s dawgs a going-over, they stopped for reinforcements. Now they’re coming after me with a whole dratted army of dawgs and men. I believe I hear ’em, so I’d better scram.”
“We’d both better scramble,” grumbled the mountain lion. “I’ll take you where they can’t follow. Let’s go.”
They began hurrying upward on a winding trail. “What I can’t understand,” said the mountain lion, “is why anyone would chase you. I wouldn’t say you were delectable.”
“I ain’t,” Bolts said thankfully. “But I’m valuable.”
“I’d never guess it.”
“Never judge a tin dawg by his hide. I may look like a hunk o’ junk on the outside, but on the inside I could be something else.”
The lion, reaching a ledge, turned to study him curiously. “You mean you’re in disguise?”
“Dunno,” said Bolts, leaping for the ledge. “But there’s a strong possibility that I’m a Super-Thought Machine.”
Just as he spoke the last few words, Bolts landed on the ledge and his tail snapped up. The light on the end of it flashed, a buzzing went through him, and a voice cried, “Bolts! You’re not a Super-Thought Machine! You’re Bolts Brown. Keep your tail up and answer!”
Bolts was too startled to lower his tail. “W-who’s that talking to me?” he stammered, looking wildly around. “I-I don’t see nobody.”
“Bolts, this is Bingo! Keep your tail up!”
“B-Bingo!” gasped Bolts, and began to shake with joy. “W-where are you?”
“I’m speaking to you by radio from Battleship Lane. Don’t you know you have a built-in radio of your own? Your tail controls it.”
“By Joe! I thought I had a scorpion in my tail!”
“Well, you haven’t—and you’re not a Super-Thought Machine, either. What gave you that idea?”
“Never claimed I was something I ain’t—but there’s some no-good rascals that think I ain’t what I am, and it’s causing me a heap of trouble. They’re after me right now. I hear ’em coming—sounds like a thousand of ’em! Bingo, I gotta scram.”
“Don’t sign off! Tell us where you are, and we’ll come and rescue you.”
“Dunno where I am— ’cept I’m on a mountain in a foreign place. Wait’ll I catch up with my friend—they’re after him too, but mebbe he knows.”
“Bolts, we have a direction finder on you, and it’s pointing to Mexico. But we can’t tell how far down you are. Is your friend a Mexican?”
“Naw. He’s a king-size cat critter—claims he’s a mountain lion.”
“Bolts! Good grief, have you lost your marbles?”
“Never had none to lose. Bingo, they’re hot after me, and I gotta move—but I can’t move fast when my tail is up. I’ll call you later!”
Bolts could hear the rising sounds of pursuit below him on the mountain. There seemed to be hundreds and hundreds of dogs and men. Suddenly wishing he’d been given wings instead of feet, he began racing after the mountain lion.
5
He Finds a Deep Hole
Breakfast had been forgotten on Battleship Lane. Everyone was standing by the radio, waiting for Bolts to speak again. Bingo was tugging dazedly at his shock of red hair, and the commander was shaking his head. Even Claws, the cat, was looking doubtful. Poor Bolts, they thought. Imagining he could talk to animals!
Pirate cackled, “Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! He’s off his rocker! He’s off his rocker! He’s off his rocker!”
“Shaddup!” growled Big Butch. “So he’s lost his marbles—d’you wanna lose some feathers?”
“It’s bad enough to find him so uncouth and ignorant,” muttered the commander. “But on top of it he’s addled—and undoubtedly aberrated. Bingo, you couldn’t possibly want a dog like that!”
Bingo swallowed. “B-but, Pops, maybe he’s just sort of confused because of the trouble he’s in. Anyhow, he’s my dog, and he needs help. He—” Bingo stopped. Bolts was speaking again.
“Bolts calling Bingo! Are you listening, Bingo?”
“Go ahead, Bolts! Are you safe now?”
“Naw, but I’ve reached a spot where I can hold my tail up and still run. I asked my friend where we are, but being a cat critter he thought it was a foolish question. He says it’s more important to be somewhere else.”
“Bolts,” said Bingo, “don’t you know you can’t talk to animals?”
“You mean there’s a law against it?”
“Of course not!” Bingo said despairingly. “I only wish you could talk to them. But such a thing is impossible.”
“Well, I’m mighty glad I didn’t know it was impossible, ’cause I sure been doing it! It’s my trimmed-off brain, Bingo. It’s tender around the edges, see? Makes me mighty receptive.”
Bingo clenched his hands. “Bolts, are you telling me the honest-to-goodness truth?”
“Aw, Bingo, you oughta know I wouldn’t hand you no tripe! Sure, I got shortchanged here and there—I’m awful ignorant—but that don’t make me a stupe. I know which way is up. And if I hadn’t been able to yak with every critter I’ve met, I wouldn’t be ticking and talking to you now.”
Bingo drew a deep breath of relief, then said quickly, “O.K., that’s good enough for me! Now listen carefully. You’re somewhere in Mexico, but we don’t know where. We’re flying down immediately to look for you, but the only way we can locate you is with the direction finder. So keep signaling. Understand?”
“I gotcha. What kind of a crate are you coming in?”
“It’s not a crate,” said Bingo, scandalized. “It’s called a Space Jumper, and it’s very super-special. It looks like a silver balloon, only it’s not. It’s the
fastest thing that flies, so we’ll be there in practically no time.”
“Won’t be too soon for me! Things are getting rough.”
The moment Bolts signed off, Commander Brown gasped, “I just can’t believe it—a robot dog that can talk to animals! He may be uncouth, but he’s worth triple his weight in gold!” In the next breath he was bawling orders, snatching up equipment, and hurrying, panting and wheezing, for the Space Jumper.
Pirate flew behind him, cackling, “All hands aboard! On the double!”
Bingo unhooked the direction finder while Big Butch went thumping through the kitchen, raking this and that into a basket so the commander wouldn’t starve before they returned.
The Space Jumper, disguised as an ordinary water tank to fool foreign agents, was perched on its supports behind the shop. There was an air lock in the bottom section, a band of concealed viewing ports around the main cabin in the middle, and a zippy little cosmic ray motor under the cabin table. It could really zip when Bingo pressed the right buttons, and it could eat up space as if it were nothing. This was fortunate, for it was very crowded with the commander aboard, and no one liked to stay in it too long at a time.
The commander managed to squeeze through the air lock hatches without getting stuck, and the others followed.
“Secure the hatches,” he ordered. “Stations. Activate the generators. Release the port covers, and stand by to cast off. Lively!”
“All hands at stations!” Pirate cackled, and for a minute everyone was busy.
“The hatches are secured, sir, and all ports are clear,” Big Butch announced.
“The generators are activated, sir,” Bingo said, as power hissed through tubes, and dials and buttons began to glow.
“Cast off!” bellowed the commander, in his best shipboard voice.
Bingo, seated at the button panel, pressed the first button in the top row. Instantly the Space Jumper was floating gently above its supports, and everyone in it was floating gently also, for the cosmic power was nullifying gravity as soap nullifies dirt. Bingo, who weighed little enough, didn’t care for it, but the commander dearly loved it. It made him feel like a bit of thistledown.
“Off and floating free, sir,” Bingo said.
“Up to a hundred miles. Easy does it.”
“Easy does it, sir,” said Bingo, and carefully pressed more buttons.
The Space Jumper slid upward like an elevator, giving everyone except Big Butch an umpity feeling in his stomach for the first mile or two. Being a spaceship, it had to rise above the atmosphere before it could begin to zip, for it moved so fast at its slowest zip speed that friction could turn it into a cinder in half a wink.
“Altitude one hundred!” Bingo announced.
“Course two twenty-five degrees, dead slow on zip for five seconds. Then give it reverse zip, and look sharp!”
“Aye, aye, sir!”
Bingo set a compass dial, pressed a button in the second row, counted five, then pressed another. This was the ticklish part. Though they seemed to be standing still, the earth spun under them and in less than five seconds they were over Mexico. Before the reverse zip could take effect they were over the Pacific Ocean.
At this point the commander, realizing he had made a slight mistake in navigation, ran completely out of orders and suddenly remembered he hadn’t had his breakfast. “Ah, me,” he muttered weakly, “I can’t do another thing without food, and I’ve been so worried about Bolts I entirely forgot—”
“Your breakfast is right here, sir,” Big Butch said quickly, taking a plate from the basket he had brought. On it were a dozen griddle cakes floating in butter and honey. Bingo had to press a button quickly and add some gravity so the honey wouldn’t ooze away.
“Bless your tin bones,” the commander said thankfully, and added to Bingo, “take over, son.”
“Aye, aye, sir!”
It was a relief to Bingo to pilot the Space Jumper alone, for it was really quite simple when the commander wasn’t giving orders. It was much like using a typewriter, which he could handle blindfolded. In a few seconds they were back over Mexico, and dimly in the distance below them was a great range of mountains—possibly the very mountains where Bolts was running for his life.
“See if you can raise him on the radio,” Bingo told Butch.
The big robot had already rigged the direction finder, and now he sang out, “Butch calling Bolts! Butch calling Bolts! Come in, please!”
There was no answer.
Big Butch tried it again, then called in alarm, “Hey, Bolts! Where are you? We’ve come to rescue you! Give us a signal!”
Poor Bolts, at that moment, couldn’t have answered if his life had depended upon it. A great deal had happened in the few minutes since he had last talked to Bingo, and none of it was pleasant.
Had he known more about mountains and mountain lions, he might have saved himself more trouble than he dreamed existed. But how was an ignorant tin dog to guess that mountains are full of traps, and cat critters full of tricks?
They had reached a high valley with a deep ravine on the right, when Bolts heard alarming sounds ahead. He was dismayed to see a large pack of dogs pouring through a gap in the ridge directly in front of him. Behind the dogs were many men on horses.
The lion whirled about. Bolts followed, wondering how his pursuers had managed to cut them off. Then he realized that these horsemen belonged to a different group. Major Mangler must have divided his men and sent them to cover every gap in the mountains.
“Say, we’re in a pickle,” Bolts gasped. “What are we going to do?”
“Figure it out for yourself,” replied the mountain lion. “I know what I am going to do. It’s evident that you’re a very unsafe fellow to travel with, so I’m leaving. Goodby, and good luck!”
With that, the mountain lion bounded to the edge of the ravine, gave a tremendous leap that carried him over the yawning space, and vanished among the rocks on the other side. Only a bird could have followed him.
Bolts was so astounded by the leap and so upset at being abandoned in such a spot that he could hardly pull his wits together. Then a shout went up, and he was aware of the dog pack racing toward him with eager yelps.
“Oh, woe is me!” he muttered forlornly as he went scrambling around the slope. “I should have done my own thinking instead of depending on a cat critter. Now I got enemies in front, enemies behind, and there’s nowhere to go but up—and I ain’t got wings. If I can’t find a real hole to crawl into, I’m a gone dawg for sure.”
There just had to be a hole somewhere. If he didn’t find a hole in a hurry, he’d have to use his Number Three growl again, and somehow it didn’t seem that Number Three would help him much here. There were too many enemies, and it would probably wreck his battery to frighten them all.
Was that a hole between those rocks? Glory be, it was!
Bolts darted into it. At the moment it seemed like the most heavenly hole in the world, for it was narrow and winding and deep. The men couldn’t possibly reach him here, even with poles, and only one dog at a time could follow. What could be more perfect?
When Bolts figured he was in deep enough, he turned around so he could face the first of his attackers. Turning wasn’t at all easy, for his hole was so narrow he had to twist and squirm and nearly tie himself into a knot to manage it.
Safe at last, and ready for business, he remembered that he had better call Bingo. So much had happened that it seemed like hours since he’d last talked to Bingo, but when he checked his built-in clock—which he’d almost forgotten—he was surprised to discover that only a few minutes had passed.
“By Joe,” he muttered, “time sure is a funny thing. Seems like the more trouble you have, the slower it passes. Kinda hate to tell Bingo I’m bottled in a spot like this, but maybe he can figger what to do. Be mighty nice to hear his voice again.”
Quivering with expectation, Bolts tried to raise his tail and turn on his radio.
It was impossible.
He twisted, squirmed, wiggled, and turned, but there simply wasn’t room in the narrow hole to get his tail in the right position. This was a most unsettling discovery, and poor Bolts felt so thwarted he would have welcomed a tangle with the dog pack just to ease his mind.
But even this was denied him. He could hear muffled voices coming from the entrance to the hole. “Keep those dogs away. Don’t you know that monster can tear them to bits in there? Bring picks and shovels. And if we can’t dig him out, we’ll blast him out. He’s got to be destroyed.”
6
He Goes Spelunking
High up in the Space Jumper, Big Butch was hovering over the radio with growing concern. “Butch calling Bolts!” he repeated. “Butch calling Bolts! We’ve come to rescue you! Please answer!”
Finally he shook his head. “Something’s sure gone wrong,” he said dolefully.
“He seemed very hard pressed the last time he spoke,” said the commander. “I’m awfully afraid he’s been captured—or worse …”
“Poor little puppy dog,” muttered Butch.
Bingo sat biting his knuckles. Suddenly he looked at the parrot. “What’s happened, Pirate?” he begged. “Bolts isn’t d-dead, is he?”
“Ha!” the jealous parrot cackled happily. “He might as well be dead. He’s deep in the ground where he belongs, and good riddance!”
“Pirate!” snapped the commander. “That’s no way to talk about a new member of the family. Bolts may be ignorant and uncouth, but he’s just as much a member of the Brown family as you are, and that practically makes him your brother.”
“Sorry relation,” grumbled the parrot. “But if you want him, you can have him—if you can get him. He’s crawled into a hole.”
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