Robot Trouble

  “And isolated cells?”

  Rachel frowned. “Well, having an isolated cell is a little like memorizing a formula from a physics book without understanding what to do with it. The information is there, but it doesn’t do you much good. Right now this computer has a lot of specific knowledge without knowing what to do with it.” She paused and frowned. “Was that clear?”

  Hap grinned. “Like mud.”

  “Let me see if I can think of an example.” She paused again and rolled her eyes sideways, as if she was actually looking into her brain for the answer. “Let’s try this one. The computer ‘knows’ plants can’t grow without water.”

  “How do you know it knows that?” asked Wendy, drawn into the conversation in spite of herself.

  “I don’t, I’m just trying to set up an example. Now, let’s say it also knows that there’s no water in the Sahara. But it holds those facts in isolation. So if I ask if plants can grow in the Sahara, unless I tell it how to get the answer, it doesn’t know. That’s isolated cells.

  “Now, the material in the comprehensive memory has been integrated. That means that in the structure of the computer’s functions, it can be applied in many different ways, to many different problems. I hate to use this word, but you can almost think of it as material the computer understands.

  “The problem I’m having now is that when I feed material through the scanner, I don’t know what it’s going to integrate and what information will end up as useless facts.”

  “I thought that was the whole point of attaching the scanner,” said Hap. “To build up its supply of facts.”

  “Useful facts,” said Rachel. “Although the ‘useless’ ones aren’t entirely wasted. They’ll be there when the time comes.”

  “What time?” asked Roger, walking in from the other room. “Lunchtime, I hope.”

  “No, pea brain. The time of critical mass when all this comes together and brings the computer to the next step of awareness. Right now my big job is moving stuff from the isolated cells to the comprehensive memory. But the more stuff you get in there, the easier it gets.”

  “Which means the smarter it gets, the faster it can get smart,” said Roger. “Until finally it reaches the Breakthrough Point, and then Bingo! It puts everything together. All that knowledge, completely integrated. It will be awesome. Now can we eat? I’m hungry!”

  “How are the rocket plans coming?” asked Hap.

  “No problemo. We start construction tomorrow!”

  A rocket.

  Black Glove stared at the wall of the secret room without really seeing it. Those crazy kids were actually building a rocket for that crackpot Weiskopf and his singing robot.

  The funniest part was, it would probably work. They were just bright enough to pull it off—especially with the help they could get from some of the more softhearted scientists.

  Hands pressed together, Black Glove drummed one set of leather-covered fingertips against the other. After a time a slow smile creased the spy’s face. Interesting possibilities were beginning to present themselves.

  This rocket could be the key to solving my communications problem. Which means there doesn’t have to be any “probably” when it comes to the success of the thing. I’ll just make sure they get all the help they need!

  Black Glove chuckled.

  Yes, that’s it. We’ll all help each other! I’ll do whatever I can to make sure the rocket gets built successfully. In return, those brats will give me a perfect way to start getting information off the island again!

  “Okay, that does it!” said Wendy. “I think it’s going to work!”

  “Shall we give it a trial run?” asked Hap, snapping the back onto the black plastic case he had just finished rewiring.

  “Why, Dr. Swenson—I thought you’d never ask! Let’s drive over to the cavern and see if we can’t make Deathmonger sit up and whistle Dixie for us.”

  Hap insisted on driving, much to the Wonderchild’s annoyance.

  “You attract too much attention,” he explained. “Partly because you drive so fast. but mostly because people can barely see your head above the wheel and so they think the dune buggy is driving itself!”

  It was only the fact that they were driving along a narrow road that edged a steep drop to the ocean when he said this that saved Hap from Wendy’s wrath.

  Deathmonger was waiting in the cavern, right where they had left it.

  “Hi, gorgeous,” said the Wonderchild, patting the fanged monstrosity. “Ready to strut your stuff for your new boss?”

  “He’s not talking,” said Hap. “Must be in a bad mood.”

  “We’ll see about that!” Wendy pressed a button on the remote control. Immediately Deathmonger’s eyes began to flash. A low grumbling sound issued from its center. “Contact!” crowed Wendy.

  She pushed another button, and the robot began to roll in their direction.

  “Not so close!” cried Hap. “That thing still makes me nervous.”

  “Do you take back that crack about my driving?” asked Wendy.

  “I take it back, I take it back! Now get that thing away from me.”

  Wendy punched another button and the robot turned right. “This is all pretty elementary,” she said as she directed the robot through a series of figure eights. “But I think we’ve got the problem licked. Now we need a control box for each of us, and the code numbers for the other robots. Of course, if my password program was still working, I could just call those up on the computer.”

  “Give it a rest, will you?” said Hap. “We’re all waiting for you and Rachel to patch things up so we can get back to normal.”

  Wendy acted as if she hadn’t heard him. “Come here,” she said. “I want you to help me with a little surprise I’ve got in mind. Then we can take Deathmonger here home.”

  “That’s going to be a relief,” said Hap. “Brody’s been like a mad dog since the thing disappeared. I can’t say as I blame him. He’s got to know we have it. He just can’t figure out what we did with it.”

  “Probably thinks we took it out to sea and sank it,” said Wendy. “One of the many things that bothers me about that clown is he’s the only person I know who thinks I get away with more than I actually do.”

  “As opposed to your parents,” said Hap, “who would die if they knew even half of it.”

  “I can’t believe it,” said Dr. Weiskopf, looking at the array of parts that stretched across the floor of the abandoned hangar. “I never thought you would get this far.”

  “We’re determined little devils,” said Roger, flipping down his safety visor so he could resume welding. “I think we’ll be ready to launch before the month is over.”

  “I’m delighted!” said Dr. Weiskopf. “Of course, that means I have a lot to do myself. I need to get Euterpe into tiptop shape for her journey. And the sensors still need some work. Plus I’ve got to check the gravity compensators…”

  He wandered away, ticking off the tasks on his sausagelike fingers. Rachel smiled as she watched him leave. “What a sweet little man,” she said fondly.

  Mr. Swenson gave her a bemused look. “Do you know what his nickname used to be?”

  The twins shook their heads.

  “I do,” said Trip, who was measuring a sheet of metal for a fin. “He was called ‘The Sword of the Desert.’ ”

  “The Sword of the Desert?” echoed Rachel. “Why, for heaven’s sake?”

  “He was one of the most respected soldiers in the Middle Eastern wars a few decades back,” said Mr. Swenson. “He had a reputation for killing swiftly, and without mercy.”

  “Dr. Weiskopf?” asked Roger incredulously.

  “Yes. He… uh-oh. Looks like trouble.” Roger turned to follow Mr. Swenson’s gaze.

  Dr. Hwa had just walked through the door of the hangar, Bridget McGrory striding along beside him.

  “Well,” said Dr. Hwa, surveying the accumulation of parts. “This is quite a project you youngsters have developed. I’m most i
mpressed.”

  “Please don’t make us stop,” pleaded Rachel. “We’re not hurting anything, and it means so much to Dr. Weiskopf. It really won’t be any problem. And—”

  “My dear girl, you misunderstand me,” said Dr. Hwa, holding up his right hand. The large ruby ring he always wore glittered as it caught a stray beam of light reflecting off the rocket. “I don’t want you to stop work. I will say I am quite offended that no one saw fit to tell me about this little project. But I’m here to give it my blessing.”

  Rachel had been about to launch into another defense of the project. Her jaw hung open as she tried to assimilate the meaning of Dr. Hwa’s words.

  “Actually,” he continued, “I’ve been concerned about staff morale for some time. Between the isolation and the security problems, group spirit is not what it should be. A project like this could provide some useful diversion.”

  “Makes sense to me,” said Roger.

  “I think you’ll be interested in this,” said Dr. Hwa, extending a carefully folded sheet of paper in Roger’s direction.

  Twerps in Space

  Roger opened the paper. Inside, written in a tight, tidy hand, was a seemingly meaningless string of numbers and letters.

  Dr. Hwa chuckled at the puzzled look on Roger’s face. “It’s a security code for the computer. One of many,” he added pointedly. “Don’t expect it to give you unlimited access to our classified files!”

  Rachel blushed, wondering if despite Dr. Remov’s assurances, information about Wendy’s password program had somehow reached Dr. Hwa.

  “What you can access with this,” continued Dr. Hwa, “are the original plans for Air Base Anza-bora, and an inventory of materials left behind by the Air Force. That should prove useful to you. Among other things, this will give you the locations of some missile silos. You may find using one of them more efficient than trying to build a launchpad from scratch.”

  “I…I don’t know what to say,” stammered Roger.

  “Which is almost unheard of for him,” said Rachel. “But if he was thinking straight, he might start with ‘thank you.’ We really are very grateful, Dr. Hwa.”

  The little scientist waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal. “I only hope you will open this to the other researchers so that they can participate as well. As I said, I think it will be good for morale. You see, Rachel, at heart I am a pragmatist. My offer may seem generous, but it is also good for me. The best arrangements always work that way.” He smiled, then added, “I had one more reason, quite compelling, to offer my assistance.”

  “What was that?” asked Roger.

  “Safety. I was worried that you might blow yourselves to kingdom come. Pragmatically speaking, that would be very bad for the project. Besides, I have grown quite fond of you, and so would prefer to keep that from happening. My assumption is that the more expertise you have to draw on, the less likely you are to come to a sad, if spectacular, end.”

  He turned to Mr. Swenson. “Please be sure to let me know if I can help in any way.”

  Then he pivoted on his heel and walked away.

  “I can’t believe it!” said Roger. “I was sure he was going to tell us to stop.”

  “That shows what you know,” said Bridget McGrory, who had lingered behind. “That man is the salt of the earth. And it’s about time you kids learned it!”

  She started to walk away, too, but turned back. In her lilting Irish brogue she said, “By the way, if any of you happen to know who left a robot wrapped in red ribbon on Sergeant Brody’s doorstep last week, you can tell them from me that it was a job well done. I have it on good authority that when he opened the door and the robot started to sing ‘Happy Birthday,’ Brody darn near broke down and cried.”

  She gave them a wink, then scurried to catch up with her boss.

  “One of Anza-bora’s many mysteries,” said Rachel. “I can never figure out if that woman loves us or hates us.”

  “I think it’s both,” said Roger. “But when it comes to Brody, there’s no question. She has no positive feelings at all.”

  While Dr. Hwa and his secretary were examining the gang’s progress on the rocket, Ramon Korbuscek was examining Sergeant Brody’s mail. He sat with his feet on the security chief’s desk, leafing through the letters and memos. He had started going through Brody’s mail about a month earlier, and already the habit had proved quite useful. For example, he had recently intercepted a top-secret letter suggesting that Brody do some checking in regard to a guard named Brock A. Rosemunk.

  Naturally, he had destroyed that little bombshell before it got anywhere near Brody’s eyes.

  He had also known before anyone else on the base that poor Graham Tidewater had been transferred back to the mainland to face a court martial for treason.

  The removal of Tidewater created an excellent operating situation for Korbuscek, since it tended to make everyone believe they had gotten rid of the spy. This greatly enhanced his freedom of movement.

  He had already used that freedom to good advantage by making several swings through Weiskopf’s quarters. He now had a complete photo-record of the documentation for Euterpe—material that should fetch a high additional price from his current employers when he turned it over to them.

  Unfortunately, what he had not been able to do was tamper with the robot itself. And that was vital—especially since he had found out they were actually planning to send the damn thing into space. But Weiskopf took it into his room to sing him to sleep every night.

  That alone wouldn’t have stopped Korbuscek, of course. But according to some of the notes he had photographed, Euterpe was equipped with an alarm system that would just about raise the dead if anyone tried to tamper with it.

  So he had been avoiding that task. But it had to be done, and soon, because the launch date was fast approaching.

  Korbuscek swung his feet off Brody’s desk, stood, and chuckled. Watching those kids in action had been one of the best things about this assignment. They were a riot.

  He almost hoped he wouldn’t be forced to hurt them before this was over.

  Dr. Hwa’s invitation for his staff to participate in “Operation Euterpe” had had exactly the effect he predicted. The nimble minds of the small scientific community had leaped at the chance for a diversion.

  Between the name of the robot and the fact that the whole project had been generated by the kids, it hadn’t taken long before someone suggested calling the project “Twerps in Space.”

  When Trip’s father designed a logo featuring a robot, a rocket, and that slogan, the name was official.

  At first Roger worried that the project would be taken out of their hands. But the adult scientists, always protective of their own turf, seemed to respect the fact that the gang had staked out this territory first. Their behavior was like that of the ideal houseguest: They pitched in to help, but never demanded that things be done their way.

  And when Dr. Hwa hired Ray’s mother to make a set of coveralls for everyone in the gang, each specially embroidered with the “Twerps in Space” logo, they felt it was definitely their project.

  In fact, there were only two bleak spots for the gang in all this time.

  First was the continuing tension between Rachel and Wendy. They were cordial to each other now; certainly there was nothing that would be noticeable to an outsider. But within the group there was a sense that things were not as tight as they had once been. Something precious had been lost, and no one was certain how to get it back.

  Second was the question of Black Glove—a question that became more pressing when they entered the headquarters one morning to find a message on Sherlock’s main screen:

  To: The A.I. Gang

  From: A Friend

  Re: Our Mutual Enemy

  Warning! The person you call Black Glove has plans to subvert the launch. This agent is desperate, and may do anything at this point.

  Proceed with extreme caution. Guard against deceit. Do not let yourself be fooled
by smiling faces.

  I have watched you for some time now. You are doing good work. Unfortunately, I cannot reveal myself at this point. But you should know that you do have a friend who understands your problems.

  “Plasmagunderundum!” cried Wendy. “What kind of message is that?”

  “I think cryptic is the word,” said Rachel coolly.

  “Maybe it’s really from Black Glove himself,” said Ray. “Or herself. Whatever. I bet it’s just to scare us off.”

  “Could be,” said Trip. “But by now he or she knows enough about us to know we don’t scare easily.”

  “Well, I’ve had more useful ‘friends,’ ” said Roger. “I can think of lots of things we could use more than a warning.”

  “I’m not so sure about that,” said Hap. “Maybe we’ve been getting a little careless in the last few weeks. It’s been so long since we saw any sign of Black Glove, we stopped worrying about him that much. A kick in the pants might be just what we needed at this point.”

  “Hap could be right,” said Rachel. “And the game’s not over until the last play; our unknown friend might have something more substantial to offer before everything is finished. But I sure hate to think of anyone trying to mess up the launch. Everyone has worked so hard on it.”

  “I doubt Black Glove will try to mess it up,” said Trip. “That rocket isn’t going to hurt her…him…whatever!…any. And if he, she, or it still hasn’t come up with any other way to get information off the base, it could be the answer to the problem. When our mysterious friend talks about Black Glove trying to subvert the launch, I bet he or she means the spy is going to try to slip some sort of transmission device on board. But that was just what we were counting on—that the rocket would be a trap to catch the spy in action.”

  “I just hope he doesn’t catch us first,” muttered Hap.

  “I just wish we had better pronouns,” replied Trip.

  Two months later, on a sunny afternoon in mid-October, Rachel Phillips stood at the bottom of a concrete tunnel, leaning against one of the fins of Euterpe’s rocket.