by Jon Scieszka
“Klank?” asks Frank.
“Um . . . I have read X-Men, Guinness Book of World Records, and a Captain Underpants.”
Watson laughs. “Really? Which one?”
Klank thinks. Or tries to think. Frank and Watson hear something spinning—hard—inside Klank’s perforated head. There is a small bing! and Klank shouts, “Oooh, the one with Professor Poopypants!”
“Captain Underpants and the Perilous Plot of Professor Poopypants,” says Watson. “That is a good one.”
“What?” says Frank.
“Professor Poopypants is a misunderstood scientist and inventor,” Watson explains.
“Seriously?” Frank questions.
“Yes, he really is!” Klank confirms. “He invents a shrinking machine! It’s the Shrinky-Pig 2000! And he invents a growing machine! The Goosy-Grow 4000!”
“And he goes mad,” adds Watson, “and turns evil, because everyone makes fun of his name and ignores his brilliant inventions.”
“No, I mean seriously, stop talking about Poopypants.”
“He also builds a very smart Gerbil Jogger 2000 . . .” adds Klank.
“Stop!” yells Frank. “I’m trying to demonstrate something scientific here.”
“Right,” says Klink.
“What?” says Klank.
Frank digs his hands into his lab-coat pockets. “So, in I, Robot by Isaac Asimov, the Three Laws of Robotics—” begins Frank.
Klink finishes Frank’s sentence, “—are:
“Law One: A robot cannot injure a human, or let a human be injured by not helping.
“Law Two: A robot must obey orders from humans. Though not if those orders break Law One.
“And Law Three: A robot must protect its own life. As long as that does not break Law One or Law Two.”
“And do you, Klink and Klank, swear to always obey Asimov’s Three Laws of Robotics?” asks Frank.
Klink’s LED lights flash blue and white. “What do you think we are? Simple machines? Of course we obey the Three Laws of Robotics.”
“Yeah, jeez,” says Klank. “What do you think we are?” Klank copies Klink. Sort of. “Tippy Tinkletrousers? Of course we obey the Three Laws of Robotics.”
Watson laughs.
“OK,” says Frank. “Klink, please fire your heat laser at that doll.”
A beam of red light jets out of Klink’s body. It instantly melts the creepy, smiling head of a junkyard doll into a smoking puddle of pink plastic goo.
“Perfect.” Frank marks his notebook, gets up, and takes a couple of steps away from Watson. “Now do the same thing to Watson’s head.”
Klink turns his laser.
“Hey! What? Nooooo!” yells Watson, covering his head with both arms. “This is the terrible thing I said would happen!”
Klink shoots a beam of green light, targeting Watson’s forehead.
“Noooooo! Ahhhhhhhh . . . hey . . . ooo . . . This feels great. What is that?”
“Light Energy Manipulation of Positive Brain Waves I just invented,” says Klink.
Frank makes another note. “Klank!”
Klank jumps in surprise. “What?!”
“Pick up that cast-iron bathtub and smash yourself to bits with it.”
Klank clomps over to the bathtub and lifts it up over his head. He drops it right . . . behind him.
“Laws Two, One, and Three,” Frank notes.
“You didn’t have to tell him to shoot me in the head,” says Watson.
“Nothing personal,” says Frank with a slight smile. “But I figured if the experiment didn’t work, better to lose you than me.”
Watson rubs his head. “If I wasn’t so brain-wave positive right now, I’d be really mad at you. But OK, this is amazing.” Watson has a sudden thought. “And you will totally win the Science Prize with these guys as your project! . . . If I don’t win it with my Peanut Butter Bubble Gum.”
Frank shakes his head. “Nah, I don’t want to win the prize with robots I didn’t really make.” He holds up his notebook and smiles. “I have to come up with something even bigger and crazier.”
Klank lights up. “Peanut Butter Double-Bubble Gum?”
“Oh boy,” adds Klink.
“It has to be really big,” says Frank. “World-changing big.”
The cuckoo clock above the shop door flaps open.
The little cuckoo bird pops out and crows, “WARNING! WARNING! WARNING!”
“My newly wired motion detector,” says Frank. “We’ve got visitors in the shop. Klink, Klank—hide!”
“WARNING! WARNING! WARNING!” sings Frank’s rewired cuckoo.
“WARNING! WARNING! WARNING!”
KLINK ROLLS UP NEXT TO A BENT BICYCLE, AN OLD RADIATOR, AND a rusted riding mower. He crooks his vacuum-hose arm over his head and freezes, now disguised as a broken Shop-Vac.
“Hide?” says Klank. “What is ‘hide’?”
“Pretend you are some kind of broken machine,” answers Klink without moving.
Klank stomps over to the garage wall. He karate-chops a fifty-gallon drum in half and crams one of the halves over his head. He sits down next to a busted washing machine.
Frank and Watson stop at the back doorway of the shop.
“What are you doing?” Frank asks.
“I am a clothes dryer,” says Klank, his voice echoing inside the drum.
Watson checks out what looks pretty much like a robot with a fifty-gallon drum on its head. “Nice try.”
“WARNING! WARNING! WARNING!” calls the cuckoo one last time. It disappears back into its carved wooden house, and the little wooden doors flap shut.
Frank and Watson hustle into Grampa Al’s Fix It! shop.
“Hello,” Frank calls into the dimly lit shop. “Can I help you?”
Nobody answers.
Frank and Watson scan the shelves and aisles. The rows of old clocks and cameras and saxophones and typewriters and space heaters and tape recorders all seem to move on their own under the swaying repair-shop light. But no one is there.
Frank silently motions to Watson to check the front door. Frank crouches and sneaks behind the counter.
Nothing.
Watson looks out the storefront window. The sidewalks of downtown Midville are nearly empty, like they always are now, ever since someone started buying up buildings and kicking out businesses.
Watson scans the street for every detail, as he knows Einstein would. He sees an old man in a long black coat waiting at the bus stop, a blond woman with a stylish fur hunting cap walking a small long-haired dog, an empty blue plastic water bottle in the gutter.
Nothing suspicious.
“All clear,” Watson calls to Frank. Then, “Yikes!” as he turns to find Frank standing right next to him. “I hate when you do that!”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing,” says Watson. “Must be something weird with your motion detector. Nobody in here.”
Frank scans the clutter of ancient televisions and radios and record players that Grampa Al collects like old friends. He spots one detail that is out of place: a pair of size-five wing-tip shoes, just visible under the old phonograph.
“My motion detector is fine,” says Frank. “Because the person who triggered it is right behind that gramophone. Come on out, Edison.”
A kid with a scowly look and hair plastered down over his forehead steps from behind the phonograph’s big metal horn.
“T. Edison!” says Watson. “What are you doing sneaking into Grampa Al’s shop?”
“Calm down, Inspector Gadget,” says Edison. “I was in the neighborhood. The sign said OPEN. And I just stopped by . . . to . . . uh . . . get my watch fixed. Yeah, that’s it. My watch.”
“Oh,” says Watson.
“I also wanted to wish you braniacs good luck in the competition tomorrow. What have you got? No, wait—let me guess. A baking-soda model of a volcano?”
“Ha!” says Watson. “That’s a terrible guess.”
“A car powered by c
ow farts?”
“You wish! You think you’re so smart—”
“I know I’m so smart,” says Edison. “I am a genius.”
“You won’t think you’re such a genius,” Watson fumes, “when you see Frank Einstein’s supersmart—”
Frank quickly covers Watson’s mouth to stop him from blurting out the next word.
“What are you really doing here, Edison?” asks Frank. “You don’t even wear a watch.”
“Oh yeah? If you really want to know, Mr. Smart Guy—I came by to look at my new Fix It! shop. The one my family’s company is going to take over when you don’t win the Science Prize and your Grampa Al can’t pay his bills and—according to our agreement—loses all this to me.”
“You are so full of it,” says Watson.
“I know you are, but what am I?” says Edison.
Frank looks around Grampa Al’s shop—his favorite place. “That’s not going to happen. Grampa Al would never let that happen.”
“Oh no?” says Edison. “You might be interested in a meeting with my chief financial officer to see what he has to say about that.” Edison looks up into the shadows of the top shelves of forgotten machinery and junked appliances and calls, “Mr. Chimp!”
There is a rattling noise; a creak of metal shelving above. A small, dark figure drops into the light and lands next to Edison with a splat of naked feet on bare floor.
It’s chief financial officer Mr. Chimp.
Who is, in fact, an actual chimp. Wearing pin-striped gray dress pants, a white shirt, and a black-and-gold diagonally striped tie. And no shoes.
“Show him the document,” says Edison.
Mr. Chimp hands Frank a thick piece of paper covered in official Midville seals and stamps. Frank reads over the deed, sees his Grampa Al’s signature scrawled at the bottom, and knows with a sinking feeling that Edison is telling the truth.
Mr. Chimp takes the deed back and signs with his hands:
“Don’t do that,” Edison says to Mr. Chimp. “I am the boss. I say when we are leaving. If anyone says ‘Peace out,’ it should be me.”
Watson stares at Mr. Chimp. “Did he just spell ‘peace out’ in sign language?”
“Don’t encourage him,” says Edison. “He just learned hand signs for letters from a book that was near his cage in the lab, and now he thinks he’s a big deal.”
Mr. Chimp signs:
Edison frowns. “You should be signing how glad you are that I rescued you from that product-testing lab. And how lucky you are that I let you use my computers for your accounting software.”
Mr. Chimp leans casually against an old radio. He pulls a small metal box from his pants pocket, takes out a slender stick, and pushes it into a hole on top of the box.
Now Watson is really staring.
Mr. Chimp pulls out the stick, completely covered in crawling ants. Mr. Chimp slurps his ant snack off the stick-tool, smacking his lips loudly. He carefully slides his antbox back into his pocket and signs:
“‘So glad’ is right, Banana Breath,” says Edison. “Now let’s get out of here.”
Mr. Chimp gives Edison a look that is impossible to read. It could be glad. It could be sad. It could be planning murder . . . or a big payday. Nobody knows but Mr. Chimp. And he’s not talking. Or signing.
“Right!” says Edison. Then he suddenly, awkwardly, insistently pats Watson on the back. Twice.
“OK, peace out!”
“WARNING! WARNING! WARNING!” sings the alarm cuckoo as Edison and Mr. Chimp open the front door.
“What a jerk,” says Watson, watching the boy and the chimp climb into a long black limousine that pulls away from the curb and motors off.
“Absolutely,” says Frank. “But a dangerously smart jerk. So it’s a good thing he didn’t see Klink and Klank.”
“No kidding,” says Watson. “And that is one creepy monkey.”
“Ape,” corrects Frank.
But there is no arguing the “creepy” part.
FRANK EINSTEIN PULLS A PHILLIPS-HEAD SCREWDRIVER OUT OF HIS lab-coat pocket and quickly rewires the repair-shop doorbell button.
Frank pushes the doorbell to check his connection.
The newly connected rubber fish on a plaque on the wall of Frank’s laboratory whips its head out sideways and starts singing, “WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS!”
Watson listens to the tune coming from the lab. He nods. “Nice.”
Frank flips the shop sign over from OPEN to RING BUZZER. He locks the front door to keep out any more unwanted visitors.
“Now let’s get to work,” says Frank. “We’ve got a prize to win.” He and Watson head out of the shop and back into the yard. “Klink, Klank, into the lab!”
Klink pops to life and rolls quickly toward Frank and Watson.
Klank throws off his dryer-drum disguise and hustles across the backyard, dragging a mess of copper wire tangled around his left arm and a green garden hose wrapped around his right leg.
In the lab, Frank stands in front of his Wall of Science, which is plastered with hundreds of his plans, ideas, sketches, notes, inventions, doodles, and pictures of his favorite scientists.
Klink, Klank, and Watson face Frank and the Wall.
Frank starts pacing back and forth, the way he does when he’s really thinking. “OK, here’s what we’ve got. All of science. Every bit of what the world is and how it works. From the tiniest bit of matter to the giantest outer space of maybe a gazillion universes. But first—I need the coolest invention to win the Midville Science Prize. Klink and Klank, we are going to need every bit of your robot intelligence.”
“Yes,” says Klink. “I am sure you will.”
“Oh boy. Oh boy,” says Klank. “Are we going to make a baking-soda volcano?”
“No,” says Frank.
“Collect cow farts?”
Frank paces. “Could be a good idea . . . but not right now.”
Klank whirs and hums for a minute. “Build a Shrinky-Pig 2000?”
“Please do not start with the Poopypants again,” Klink beeps.
“We are going to need something crazy,” says Frank. “Something new. Something amazing.”
Watson drops his backpack onto the workbench. “We can use my project.”
“Thanks for the offer, Watson, but—”
Watson pulls out a plastic tub filled with a tan-colored goo. “It’s new. And it is amazing. It will do for peanut butter what the Kellogg brothers did for corn.”
“Yes!” beeps Klank.
“What Goodyear did for rubber.”
“Yes, yes!” boops Klank.
“What Walter Diemer did for gum!”
“Yes . . . Wait a minute. Who?” bleeps Klank.
Klink searches his database in a nanosecond. “Philadelphia accountant. Inventor of bubble gum. 1928. He maximized the elasticity of the gum for better formation of bubbles.”
Watson breaks off a big chunk of the tan goo and holds it up to the light. “Yes. We will win the prize, wow the world, and save Grampa Al’s place from Edison and his ape! It’s the universe’s strongest, most delicious, so amazing . . . Watson’s Universal-Strength Peanut Butter Bubble Gum!”
“Thanks for the very generous offer,” says Frank. “But—”
Klank shakes the garden hose off his leg. “Most delicious? So amazing? Yes, I want Watson’s Universal-Strength Peanut Butter Bubble Gum!” Klank snatches the goo out of Watson’s hand.
Frank calls, “Klank, don’t—”
But before anyone can stop him, Klank pushes the wad of gum into his input port.
“Mmmmmmmm,” says Klank.
Klank’s hard-drive brain whirs hard.
“Urrrrrrrk,” says Klank.
Klank’s head starts to heat up. His eyes roll funny.
“Quaaaaaaaaa,” moans Klank.
Klank’s brain fan spins furiously. Switches and relays click and grind and stutter. Klank wobbles. He shuts down. He tilts, tips, and crashes onto the floor with a hard, metallic
cccllllaaaaannnnkkkk!
Klink says in his flattest GPS voice, “So amazing.”
Frank and Watson hurry to sit Klank up against the workbench. Frank grabs his tools, unbolts Klank’s brain panel, and flips open Klank’s head.
In all the commotion, no one notices the small metal bug-shaped drone power up and take off from exactly where Edison patted Watson on his shoulder. Twice.
The DroneBug flies up to the center ceiling beam, lands, extends its broadcasting antennae, and points its compound-eye camera down at Frank’s entire lab.
Below, Watson and Frank pick the sticky tan mess out of the gears and wheels and discs of Klank’s brain.
Watson tugs at a long stretch of gum. It pulls pulls pulls and finally snaps free of Klank’s head. Frank examines the two small springs and a screw still stuck in Watson’s Universal-Strength Peanut Butter Bubble Gum.
Watson shrugs. “I told you it was strong.”
FRANK FLIPS KLANK’S SKULL SHUT. HE TIGHTENS THE LATCH BOLT, locks the brain panel closed, and flips Klank’s keyboard RHYTHM BEATS power switch on.
Klank’s Casio keyboard heart motor starts with a small bing.
Klank’s HugMeMonkey! brain revs. Zzzzzzzzimmmmm.
Klank lights up—left eye, right eye, antenna.
Frank shines his flashlight into Klank’s neck vent, checking the action of his spinning-disc brain. He moves one finger back and forth in front of Klank’s eye lens to test its tracking. “Klank, can you hear me?”
“Can I hear you? Why should I hear you?” asks Klank. “Why do bees hum?”
“Uh-oh,” says Watson. “I think we really messed him up.”
Klink searches his own memory for BEES HUM, then reports: “Bees flap a forewing and a hind wing at two hundred thirty beats per second. Muscles attached directly to the wings. Stroking in a variety of patterns to fly, dive, and hover. Vibration of the wings creates the humming sound.”
“Nope,” says Klank. “Bees hum because they do not know the words.”