Robot Trouble (3 page)

“How did you know that?” asked Rachel indignantly.

Dr. Weiskopf seemed flustered for a moment. “Dr. Remov told me,” he said at last.

Dr. Remov was another of the Project Alpha scientists, one the gang had turned to for help during their first adventure. Rachel didn't like the fact that he had mentioned their conversations to anyone else.

“I can keep a secret,” she said after a moment. Then she added: “Better than some adults, it would seem.”

It was Dr. Weiskopf's turn to blush. “Stanley had his reasons for talking to me. Believe me, I have not mentioned what he told me to anyone else. Perhaps you could consider what I want to show you a trade—secret for secret.”

“What is it?” asked Rachel. An eager note had crept into her voice, for despite her cautious nature, Dr. Weiskopf had made her curious.

“Patience,” said the scientist, holding up a finger. “All will be revealed in a few moments.”

Rachel thought she was going to burst by the time they entered Dr. Weiskopf's bungalow—one of the multitude of Air Force buildings that had been left behind when the government abandoned Anza-bora Island.

“All right,” said Dr. Weiskopf once they were standing in his living room, “stand here and watch.” Raising his whistle to his lips, he played a little tune. Though it couldn't have been more than twelve notes long, Rachel found it oddly moving.

“What…”

Dr. Weiskopf held up a hand to silence her.

Rachel heard a sound from the other room.

The door swung open.

To Dr. Weiskopf's dismay, Rachel broke into gales of laughter.

Trip Davis squirmed desperately as he tried to escape the hands that had grabbed him.
I wonder if Ray got away,
he thought as he slammed his right foot backward. He connected with something firm but fleshy, and the satisfying grunt of pain that followed made it clear his captor was at least human.

Trying to remember the self-defense lessons Wendy had given him, Trip reached over his shoulder. A few minutes of confusion, angry shouts, and loud thumping noises followed.

Then it was all over.

On the other side of the warehouse the Gamma Ray had taken cover behind a pair of huge wooden crates, where he was having second thoughts about the gang's “split up in an emergency” policy. The idea that someone should escape to go for help was good in theory. On the other hand, considering the look of the thing that had sent him running, there might not be much of him left to help when the others did get here.

Ray's second thoughts turned to dead certainty when he peeked around the edge of a crate and saw that the red-eyed monstrosity had chosen to come after him instead of Trip. No question about it: He did not want to face that thing alone!

Spurred by fear, he shot from between the crates and hurtled down a narrow canyon formed by stacks of boxes.
What is that thing, anyway?
he wondered as he raced around a corner.
Where did it come from?

He ducked through a small passage on his right, hoping to lose the relentless pursuer. His breath was getting short and a throbbing pain was tying knots in his side. He couldn't go on much longer!

Glancing fearfully over his shoulder, Ray was relieved to see that he had broken away. But looking back was a mistake, for with his next step he stumbled over a box and sprawled facedown on the floor.

His glasses went flying out in front of him.

As he scrambled for them, he heard a whirring noise behind him.

Behind that, he heard a deep laugh.

Who's back there?
he wondered.

A chill shivered along his spine.
What if Black Glove has come back?

He searched desperately for his glasses, his hands scuttling over the floor like a pair of spastic spiders.

Where are they?
Crawling forward, he bumped against another box. It rattled.

He could hear his pursuer closing in behind him.

The box was open. He thrust his hands into it, on the chance that his glasses might have fallen inside.

Ball bearings!

Without an instant's hesitation, he turned the box over and sent several thousand perfect metal spheres rolling across the floor.

A shout of anger let him know his move had scored.

But before he could congratulate himself, he was plucked from the floor by a pair of metallic hands.

Even without his glasses, Ray knew he was face-to-face with the red-eyed monstrosity that had been pursuing him.

Ignoring the treacherous curves in the road, Roger pushed his dune buggy to the limits of its speed. They had to get to Trip and Ray!

His sense of urgency was fueled by the guilt he felt over tampering with Rinty's program. He was painfully aware that his lighthearted joke had delayed the delivery of the computerized canine's vital message. Not by more than thirty seconds, of course. But the last mess the gang had been in had taught Roger all too well that half a minute could mean the difference between life and death.

The dune buggy bounced on. Because its electric motor was completely silent, the only sound was the complaining of the springs and an occasional screech as they rounded a sharp curve.

I should have left well enough alone
, he thought.
It's just that Wendy's so much fun to tease!

Of course, that was partly because it was so easy. The slightest thing could set her off; Hap had once called the Wonderchild a “four-foot stick of dynamite with a two-inch fuse.” And the little twerp was really cute when she got angry.

“Watch where you're going!” cried Hap.

Roger focused on the road and spun the steering wheel sharply to the right. The dune buggy swerved, bounced in a rut, and barely missed slamming into a roadside tree.

“Close one, good buddy!” said Hap, as calmly as if he were describing a near miss in a game of marbles. “Better keep your mind on the road.”

“Sorry about that,” said Roger sheepishly. He was glad Wendy wasn't in the buggy with them. Then he would never hear the end of it.

As it was, she was bouncing along in her own duner right behind them. So she had undoubtedly seen his near miss. She'd probably still suggest he needed a CAT scan to see if there was a bolt or two loose in his brain.

“Turn here,” said Hap, pointing to the left. “There's a back way to the warehouse over there.”

The dune buggy bounced across the uneven ground, and soon they pulled up outside Warehouse Two.

Wendy skidded to a stop beside them.

Three Jeeps, marked with the insignia of the island's security patrol, were already parked outside the building. Sitting in one of them, looking as angry as they had ever seen him, was Dr. Hwa.

“Wait! Where do you think you're going?” he yelled as the three youngsters sprinted past him for the warehouse door. They ignored him. The scientist might be the island's head honcho, but when their friends needed help, that didn't mean a thing.

Roger threw open the door, and the three kids burst into the warehouse.

 

Robots

“I'm sorry, Dr. Weiskopf!” sputtered Rachel as she tried to catch her breath. “I just wasn't expecting anything like… like… th-th-this!”

She exploded in laughter again.

The “this” she was referring to was a barrel-shaped robot with a five-by-five grid of flashing, multicolored lights centered on its chest. From its base jutted three stubby cylinders with wheels on their bottoms.

All of this was standard, if a little clumsy in its styling. What had set Rachel to laughing was the robot's face, which was unmistakably modeled after the great composer Ludwig van Beethoven. The bizarre contrast between the robot's face and its body was what had started her laughing fit. The startled look on Dr. Weiskopf's face had kept it going. Now no matter how she tried, she couldn't stop.

Looking mournful, Dr. Weiskopf raised his penny-whistle and played a little tune. The robot pivoted and began to roll out of the room.

“Wait!” cried Rachel. The robot didn't stop.

She took a deep breath. Using all her willpower, she forced herself to hold it. Her lungs were almost ready to explode when she felt another burst of laughter coming on. She clamped her mouth shut, feeling as if she were trying to hold in a massive, inevitable sneeze. For an instant she was afraid the top of her head might blow off.

Slowly she released the air from her lungs, then took another deep breath. She did this three times, then said softly, “Sorry. I'm all right now.”

Dr. Weiskopf looked at her carefully. Still not speaking, he placed the whistle to his lips and resummoned the robot.

When it rolled back into the room Dr. Weiskopf said, “Rachel, I'd like you to meet Euterpe.”

Rachel bit the inside corners of her mouth and tried desperately not to break into a new fit of giggling. What a name to drop on someone trying to keep a straight face!

Stop it!
she commanded herself.
I absolutely forbid you to start laughing again!

After a brief struggle, she was in control, despite the absurd name. Then she remembered that she had heard it before and decided perhaps it wasn't quite so ridiculous after all.

“Euterpe—wasn't she the muse of music in Greek mythology?”

“Very good! As you will see, the name was chosen for a reason. Let me show you what she can do.”

Positioning himself in front of Euterpe, Dr. Weiskopf took out his pennywhistle again. The grid of lights on the robot's chest was glowing, but so faintly as to be barely discernible.

Dr. Weiskopf put the whistle to his lips and piped a single, pure note.

How does he do that?
wondered Rachel. She had tried for days now, and still could not get the wobble out of her tones.

Before she had time to give the matter much thought, the robot answered its creator, repeating the tone perfectly. The sound was pretty, but nothing very impressive. That kind of programming had been available for years.

Dr. Weiskopf played another note.

Euterpe answered.

The scientist played a series of five tones.

The robot repeated them perfectly.

Just as Rachel was beginning to wonder what this was all about Dr. Weiskopf started to play a tune. To her astonishment, the robot began to sing along with him—not merely repeating the notes, but working in multi-toned harmony!

Dr. Weiskopf glanced sideways. Catching Rachel's eye, he raised his own eyebrow, as if to ask,
“Now
are you impressed?” Then he returned his attention to the music. He began to play faster, as if testing the limits of the robot's ability. Euterpe kept pace with him. Soon the grid of lights on the robot's chest began to flash, creating a rhythm and pattern that seemed to match the music.

Suddenly, Euterpe's notes went soaring above those of the pennywhistle in a thrilling descant. The sound was like nothing Rachel had ever heard before, some strange combination of a human voice and a flute. No—wait. Now it was like a trumpet, quavering, hovering over a note, then diving onto it and carrying it down with a series of trills into a deep bass tone that sent a shiver trembling down her spine.

Dr. Weiskopf was sweating now, as if it was all he could do to keep up with his robot. Euterpe's lights flashed merrily, including a pair that shone forth from the eyes in the Beethoven-like face.

The duet (or duel—Rachel was never quite sure which it was) went on until Dr. Weiskopf finally put down his whistle and wiped his brow. Euterpe went right on playing, toying with the themes its creator had offered, trying variations, using different tones and voices.

The music was so beautiful that Rachel hugged herself with pleasure.

“I'm glad you like it,” said Dr. Weiskopf softly. “Of course, that's not what I've really designed her for. It's just a little trick that works off her main program.”

“Little
trick?” asked Rachel.

“Oh, yes.” Dr. Weiskopf smiled. “Her real purpose is much greater. You might even say it's … cosmic!”

Roger could hardly believe his eyes. The sight of Tripton Duncan Delmar Davis standing over a burly security guard who was cradling his head in his hands and moaning softly was strange enough. But the fierce-looking robot rolling in slow circles while a bellowing Ray Gammand tried to escape from its metallic clutches was almost beyond belief.

“Plasmagoric,” muttered Wendy, who was standing beside Roger.

This sight would actually have been amusing, were not Ray so clearly terrified.

What
was
amusing was the sight of Staff Sergeant Artemus P. Brody—head of the island's security force and no fan of the A.I. Gang—trying to get his footing on a floor full of ball bearings.

Roger winced as Brody's feet went flying out from under him and he crashed to the floor with the full force of his two hundred pounds. He nudged Wendy, in an attempt to keep her from laughing out loud. There was no love lost between the Wonderchild and the head of security.

Brody's bellow of anger was cut off by a sharp voice from behind them. “Sergeant Brody, stop this nonsense and get to your feet at once!”

It was Dr. Hwa.

Brody scrambled to his feet and snapped his boss a salute. Immediately his legs flew out from under him and he hit the deck again. Fortunately for Brody, he landed on the most well-padded portion of his body.

“Sergeant Brody!” snapped Hwa again.

The furious tone in his voice bothered Roger; it didn't sound right coming from the usually calm scientist.

Like the rest of the kids, Roger was fond of the diminutive Dr. Hwa. Even if he wouldn't take their warnings as seriously as they wished, he had done all he could to make their stay on Anza-bora Island pleasant, including providing them with access to everything from dune buggies to the main computer itself. What's more, he was almost always willing to talk to them, despite the fiercely protective nature of his secretary, Bridget McGrory. To top it off, Dr. Hwa had a great deal of personal charm; he was the kind of man other people just naturally wanted to be with.