Robot Riot!

by Andy Griffiths

  ‘Is that a fact?’ I said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Jenny firmly. ‘It is a fact.’

  ‘All right,’ I said, ‘if that’s a fact, then what’s that fly doing there?’

  ‘What fly?’

  ‘The one on the window behind you.’

  Everybody turned to look at the fly on the window that I’d noticed had been there for a long time. A lot longer than a fly would normally stay in one spot.

  ‘What about it?’ said Jack. ‘It’s probably just admiring the view.’

  ‘It’s a robo-fly,’ I whispered.

  ‘What’s a robo-fly?’ said Gretel.

  ‘A robot spy in the shape of a fly. Roberta must have put it there. It’s recording every word we say.’

  ‘I’m scared of robo-flies,’ said Newton, rising from his chair and preparing to make a run for it.

  ‘Don’t move, Newton,’ I whispered. ‘Don’t do anything suspicious. It’s probably transmitting information to Roberta’s data banks right this minute . . . Jack, what are you doing?’

  Jack was on his feet, moving towards the fly. ‘Just going to get a closer look at it,’ he said. ‘I want to see if it really is a robo-fly like you say.’

  ‘Are you crazy?’ I said. ‘Sit down! Of course it’s a robo-fly! It’s been there the whole time!’

  As I spoke the words, the robo-fly took off.

  It was quick, but Jack was quicker.

  His arms shot into the air and he caught the fly in his cupped hands.

  ‘You’re making a big mistake,’ I said. ‘You shouldn’t mess with robo-flies. It may be programmed to self-destruct.’

  Jack opened his hands slowly, his expression changing from triumph to horror as he stared at his open palms. ‘Oh gross!’ he said. ‘I squashed it.’

  ‘Can you see wires and tiny cameras and microphones?’ I said.

  ‘No,’ said Jack, holding his hands up to show us. ‘Just regular fly guts.’

  ‘Ugghh!’ said Jenny. ‘That poor little thing. Are you happy now, Henry?’

  ‘Don’t blame me,’ I said. ‘Jack’s the one who squashed it.’

  ‘Accidentally!’ said Jack.

  ‘It does prove one thing, though,’ said Jenny. ‘There’s no such thing as a robo-fly.’

  ‘It proves no such thing! That fly was probably just a decoy. The real robo-fly must still be around here somewhere. I told you Roberta was smart.’

  ‘What makes you so sure that there is a robo-fly in the first place?’ asked Gretel.

  ‘Because Roberta’s a robot!’ I said.

  ‘You’ve got to get a grip, Henry,’ said Jenny. ‘My mother says that sometimes we see what we want to see, not what’s really there.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ I said, ‘but my mother says maybe the opposite is equally true: sometimes we don’t see what’s really there because we’re too busy not seeing what we don’t want to see.’

  ‘Does your mother really say that?’ said Jenny.

  ‘Well, I’ve never heard her say it,’ I said. ‘But if she were here I’m sure she would.’

  ‘This is getting confusing,’ said Jack. ‘I’m going to go and wash these fly guts off my hands.’

  ‘I’m scared!’ said Newton.

  But as scared as Newton was, he wasn’t as scared as me.

  18

  Story-writing

  After library we went back to class and worked on our stories.

  Well, to be more accurate, some of us worked on our stories more than others.

  Clive spent most of his time flicking spitballs at people.

  Jack was leaning back in his chair, staring out the window.

  Grant had a huge sheet of paper on the desk in front of him with what looked like plans drawn on it. He was busy with his ruler and calculator, no doubt working on some new invention. Grant was always working on some crazy new invention. His father was an inventor. I guess it ran in the family.

  Gina and Penny were drawing pictures of horses.

  Gretel was trying to bend a length of steel pipe.

  Newton was just sitting there staring at Roberta and looking scared. Jenny was kneeling beside his desk, trying to calm him down.

  I did my best to concentrate on my story-writing, and I did write down a few ideas, but to tell you the truth, no story I could make up was anywhere near as amazing as the true story of Roberta and her plan to exterminate us all and replace us with robots!

  In fact, the only person who was really working hard on their story was Roberta. For someone who had never written a story before, she seemed to be getting the hang of it pretty fast.

  She was writing away, filling page after page after page. She was like a writing machine. But there was a good reason for that. She was a machine!

  I was desperate to sneak a look at what she was writing, but every time I found an excuse to walk past her desk she was hunched over her work, her arm curved protectively around it. She wasn’t giving anything away.

  I was walking very slowly past her desk on my way back from borrowing a ruler from Jenny when Roberta put up her hand.

  At first I thought she was going to tell Mr Brainfright that I was trying to look at her story, but I was wrong.

  ‘Excuse me, Mr Brainfright,’ she said, ‘may I see you about my story?’

  ‘Of course, Roberta! Story-conferencing is an excellent way to develop and improve your story. Bring it up here and let’s have a look!’

  Roberta stood up, walked to Mr Brainfright’s desk and put a wad of pages in front of him.

  ‘My word, you have been busy,’ he said, picking up the pages and weighing them in his hand.

  ‘I just followed your instructions,’ said Roberta. ‘I hope that’s all right. Did I write too much?’

  ‘No, no, not at all!’ said Mr Brainfright, scanning the pages. ‘In fact, it’s marvellous!’

  Roberta looked embarrassed. ‘I just sort of made it up as I went along . . .’

  Mr Brainfright nodded, already too engrossed in her story to reply.

  ‘Congratulations, Roberta,’ he said when he’d finished. ‘It’s a great story!’

  ‘Do you really think so?’

  ‘Yes!’ he said. ‘I really do! Are you sure you haven’t written a story before?’

  ‘No, it’s my first.’

  ‘Well it’s the best first story I’ve ever read. In fact it’s one of the best stories that I’ve ever read.’

  Ouch.

  That hurt.

  Roberta had only just arrived. And she’d never even written a story before.

  It was impossible that her story could be better than one of mine.

  I mean, I’m not boasting, but I’m probably the best writer in the whole school.

  After all, I did come first in the Northwest Chronicle’s short-story competition, and you can’t get much better than that!

  Unless, of course, you are a robot and your brain is equipped with the latest automatic story-writing software—which was the only possible explanation.

  Roberta sat back down at her desk.

  I was dying to see what she’d written that had made Mr Brainfright so excited.

  I leaned over to her desk. ‘Can I read your story?’ I asked.

  Roberta looked startled. ‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s not finished yet.’

  ‘But you showed Mr Brainfright,’ I said.

  ‘I know, but he’s the teacher.’

  ‘Relax, Roberta,’ I said, as she hunched low over her desk. ‘I promise I’m not going to steal any of your ideas.’

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘Because you’re not going to see any of my ideas.’

  ‘Why not? Why won’t you let me see it?’

  ‘I already told you. Because it’s not finished.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ I said. ‘Maybe I could read it and give you some ideas to help you finish it. I’m really good with endings.’

  ‘No thanks,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to put you to any trouble.’

  ‘I
t’s no trouble,’ I assured her.

  But Roberta just shook her head and hunched down over her story so that I couldn’t see even as much as a full stop.

  It was bad enough having a super-advanced, super-intelligent robot from the future intent on exterminating every human in the school, but having a new serious story-writing rival in my own class was even worse.

  19

  Robot rival

  That lunchtime I sat with the gang, staring at my cheese sandwich.

  ‘What’s the matter, Henry?’ said Jenny. ‘Why aren’t you eating?’

  ‘I don’t feel like it.’

  ‘Can I have your sandwich?’ said Gretel. ‘I’m starving!’

  ‘Sure,’ I said, passing it to her.

  ‘Henry’s mad because Roberta wrote a better story than he did,’ said Jack.

  ‘No she didn’t!’ I said.

  ‘Well, how come I didn’t hear Mr Brainfright say how great your story was?’ said Jack.

  ‘Because I didn’t show it to him,’ I said. ‘I know my stories are good. So does Mr Brainfright.’

  ‘Yeah, but not as good as Roberta’s,’ said Jack, smiling.

  ‘Well, maybe if I was a super-advanced robot with super-advanced story-writing software, maybe my stories would be as good as hers,’ I said. ‘This is just one more piece of evidence that Roberta is a robot!’

  ‘Are you saying only a super-advanced robot with super-advanced story-writing software could write better than you?’ said Jack.

  ‘Well, um, ah, er . . . no, of course not,’ I said. ‘I mean . . . yes!’

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Gretel, ‘you’re not still on about Roberta being a robot, are you?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘you’ve got to believe me. Before it’s too late!’

  ‘Too late for what?’ said Newton.

  ‘I already told you!’ I said. ‘For the whole human race! We’ll all be exterminated!’

  ‘Yikes!’ said Newton.

  ‘Henry,’ said Jack, ‘all jokes aside, the only person it will be too late for is you if you don’t stop talking nonsense.’

  ‘Jack’s right, Henry,’ said Jenny. ‘Roberta’s a perfectly nice girl just doing her best to fit in.’

  ‘Just keep telling yourself that,’ I said. ‘Right up until she zaps you with some super-advanced robot weapon from the future and your head cracks open like an egg and your still-warm brains leak out all down your face.’

  ‘Henry!’ said Jenny. ‘Now look what you’ve done!’

  I looked.

  Oh great!

  Newton had fainted.

  20

  Hands up who loves cellophane!

  After lunch Mr Brainfright bounded into the room, greeted us with a big smile and yelled, ‘HANDS UP WHO LOVES CELLOPHANE!’

  We looked at him blankly.

  ‘Cellophane?’ said Fiona.

  ‘Cellophane!’ said Mr Brainfright.

  Nobody put their hand up. It was clear that 5B just didn’t feel that strongly about cellophane.

  ‘Let me rephrase that,’ said Mr Brainfright. ‘Hands up who loves looking through cellophane!’

  A few people put their hands up.

  ‘It’s my opinion,’ said Mr Brainfright, ‘that the world would be a better place if we all spent five minutes a day looking at it through a piece of coloured cellophane!’

  ‘What colour?’ said Fiona, her notebook already open and pen poised to take notes.

  ‘It doesn’t matter!’ said Mr Brainfright, reaching into a box and pulling out sheets of cellophane. ‘Red, green, blue, yellow . . . take your pick!’

  Mr Brainfright walked up and down offering the box to us. ‘Take a few pieces and look through them. See how different the world appears.’

  I chose a red piece first and held it up to my eyes.

  It was amazing.

  Everything looked the same as it usually did and yet completely different.

  That last sentence may not have made much sense, but trust me, it’s true. And if you don’t believe me, try it and see for yourself.

  Pretty soon we were all having fun staring around the room and out the window and at each other through pieces of coloured cellophane . . . well, all except for Roberta.

  She was just sitting there with a slightly puzzled expression on her face. On the desk in front of her was a square of green cellophane.

  ‘Come on, Roberta. Hold it up and look through it,’ said Mr Brainfright, who was looking through a piece of yellow cellophane.

  ‘Why?’ she said.

  ‘You’ll see the world in a completely different light.’

  ‘Why would I want to do that?’

  ‘Because it’s interesting!’

  ‘Hmmm,’ said Roberta, without enthusiasm. She held it up and looked. ‘Everything looks the same except it has a green tinge, which is exactly what one would expect.’ She put the cellophane down again. ‘I’m not sure of the point of this exercise,’ she said to Mr Brainfright. ‘Are we testing some scientific hypothesis?’

  ‘No,’ he replied. ‘It’s just for the fun of it!’

  ‘Will we be tested on this?’ said Fiona.

  ‘I’m afraid not, Fiona,’ said Mr Brainfright. ‘It’s not the sort of thing you can test—it’s just something that you have to experience.’

  Fiona sighed loudly.

  At that moment there was a knock on the door.

  Mr Brainfright went to open it, still holding a piece of yellow cellophane in front of his eyes.

  It was Principal Greenbeard.

  We all jumped to attention and saluted . . . well, all except for Mr Brainfright, who was just staring at Principal Greenbeard. ‘Oh, my goodness!’ he said. ‘Whatever’s the matter? You look as if you have some terrible disease!’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Principal Greenbeard, immediately looking worried. ‘Is it scurvy, do you think?’

  ‘I’m no doctor,’ said Mr Brainfright. ‘But, judging by your yellowish hue, I’d say you have some form of jaundice.’

  ‘Shiver me timbers!’ said Principal Greenbeard.

  ‘It’s okay,’ said Roberta. ‘There’s no need to panic. Principal Greenbeard’s skin merely appears yellow because you’re looking at him through a piece of yellow cellophane.’

  ‘Well, so I am!’ said Mr Brainfright, lowering the cellophane and staring at it as if he had no idea how it got there. ‘I quite forgot. I’ll try a red piece instead.’

  Mr Brainfright fished a piece of red cellophane out of his pocket and held it up. ‘Ah, that’s much better! Your cheeks are positively flushed. You’re the picture of good health, Principal Greenbeard!’

  ‘Glad to hear it!’ the principal replied cheerfully.

  ‘Now how can we help you?’ Mr Brainfright asked.

  ‘Well, I was just doing a tour of inspection and found things still not quite shipshape. The Northwest Tidiest School Award judges will be here any day now. I was wondering if you could spare me a small clean-up crew to pick up the rubbish and swab the decks?’

  ‘Certainly,’ said Mr Brainfright. ‘We’d be delighted to help! Henry, Jack, Newton, Gretel, Jenny and Roberta, report for clean-up duty, please.’

  We all stood up and saluted Principal Greenbeard. He saluted us back, then turned to Mr Brainfright. ‘May I have a piece of cellophane?’

  ‘Of course!’ said Mr Brainfright.

  ‘A red one if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Here,’ I said. ‘Have mine.’

  ‘Thank you, Henry, my boy!’ said Principal Greenbeard, holding it up to his eyes. ‘Ah, yes, wonderful! Takes me back to my days sailing the South Seas. The sunsets were amazing . . . a glorious blood-red . . . never seen anything like it since—until now, of course!’

  And with that Principal Greenbeard turned and walked off down the corridor with the cellophane held up to his eyes. ‘Glorious!’ we heard him exclaim. ‘Glorious!’

  21

  Mr Brainfright’s important lesson no. 1

  The world
would be a better place if we all spent five minutes a day looking at it through a piece of coloured cellophane.

  22

  Yard duty with Roberta

  Out in the yard we stood looking gloomily at the mess. The only one happy about it was Thief who, as usual, was nosing about looking for anything worth eating.

  And perhaps Roberta, who didn’t seem at all worried by the massive task in front of us. But then that kind of figured. After all, she was a robot.

  ‘Well, what are we waiting for?’ she said. ‘If there’s a job to do let’s get it done as quickly and efficiently as possible.’

  ‘Spoken like a true robot,’ I whispered to Jack.

  ‘I don’t want to pick up rubbish,’ complained Newton. ‘I’m scared of germs getting on my hands.’

  ‘Use a stick,’ said Roberta.

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Jack.

  Roberta went across to the grass and searched around under the trees for a while. She came back with five long sticks. Then she produced a red pocket-knife, slid out a small blade and within minutes had sharpened each of the sticks to a spear-like point. She folded up the knife, put it back in her pocket and handed each of us a stick.

  ‘What are we supposed to do with these?’ said Newton.

  ‘I’ll show you,’ said Roberta, taking her stick and spearing an apple core, a bread roll, a scrunched-up tissue and a banana peel before any of us could even blink. She placed her stick inside the bin and scraped it against the rim. The rubbish fell into the bin, untouched by human—well, to be more precise, robot—hands.

  ‘See?’ said Roberta. ‘It’s easy! No germs.’

  Newton gingerly poked at a piece of bread with his stick. He picked it up and put it into the bin. ‘Hey!’ he said. ‘It works!’ Then suddenly he froze. ‘But what if the germs rub off the rubbish and then crawl up the stick and get onto my hands?’

  Roberta frowned. ‘I hardly think that’s likely,’ she said. ‘Germs don’t crawl. For a start, they don’t have arms and legs—they have microscopic fibres that help propel them through liquid, but would be completely useless on a solid surface, such as an arm. As long as you don’t touch the end of the stick you’ll be fine. But even if you did touch the rubbish, Newton, all you would have to do is wash your hands with soap and warm water.’