It was, in fact, the message Wendy had sent to the gang after her mother had given her the black glove.
The spy’s eyes widened in dismay. This had to be nipped in the bud!
Fingers flying, Black Glove began to type.
Wendy was sleeping when Black Glove’s message arrived. That meant she was snoring, which meant her bedroom sounded like a small thunderstorm had just cracked loose inside it.
Competing with the noise of Wendy’s snoring was Mr. Pumpkiss, her automated teddy bear. He was sitting on the Wonderchild’s head, holding his toes and rocking back and forth while he sang “Melancholy Baby” at the top of his mechanical lungs.
The bear’s morning concert had been triggered by a pair of light detectors Wendy had installed behind its eyes. When struck by enough light, they activated his singing. This made him a convenient alarm clock.
Wendy opened one bleary eye as the bear began a third chorus. She found herself staring at the bottom of a furry foot. “All right, Pumpkiss,” she muttered. “I’m awake, I’m awake.”
This was true, but only for a matter of seconds. Soon she was snoring again.
Blondie and Baby Pee Pants stood at the side of the bed, clamoring to be let up. Blondie was a twelve-inch tall plastic celebration of voluptuous womanhood, Baby Pee Pants a foul-mouthed baby doll. Like Mr. Pumpkiss, they had been programmed by Wendy to swing into action when the morning sun struck the photoreceptors hidden behind their glass eyes.
It was fortunate that they were mere automatons and not subject to hurt feelings, since waking their owner tended to be a thankless task. In fact, on a bad morning it could be downright dangerous.
“Captain Wendy,” called the two dolls. “Get up, Captain Wendy. We’re lonely!”
“Come to me, my melancholy baby,” sang the bear, hiccuping on every fifth note.
“All right!” cried Wendy, sitting bolt upright. The bear fell into her lap, still singing. She pushed its nose, sending a signal to its electronic components that would end the concert.
She looked around her room and groaned. It was disgusting. Her parents had a robot that kept most of the house clean, of course. Unfortunately, its programming was not up to dealing with Wendy’s room. Every time it came in to straighten up, it ended up rolling in helpless circles, muttering “Where do I begin? Where do I begin?”
Picking her way across the floor, Wendy located an old sweatshirt of her father’s. She slipped it on, then sat down at her terminal and typed in a series of commands.
As far as Wendy was concerned, her access to the island’s mainframe—to ADAM, she told herself, savoring the bit of classified information they had picked up from Dr. Weiskopf—was one of the few real benefits of living on this isolated stretch of sand.
However the horrifying message that now scrolled up on her monitor was enough to make her reconsider that idea.
Suspicion
“Put down that monster and eat your eggs,” said Mrs. Gammand impatiently. She was talking not to Ray, but to his father, Dr. Hugh Gammand.
Ray glanced up from his own eggs to see how his father would react to this command.
“Just a minute, dear,” murmured Dr. Gammand. It was the only indication he gave that he had heard his wife’s complaint. Without looking up, he continued to fiddle with “Thugwad the Gross,” the hideous polystyrene creature beside his plate.
Ray was fairly certain his father actually had no idea that his breakfast was waiting for him. He smiled. While he had grown quite fond of his stepmother over the last two years, he did not always like the way she tried to impose her ideas on the household. His father had fiddled with monsters at the breakfast table for as long as Ray could remember. That was the way things were supposed to be.
“Is he for the new version of Gamma Ball?” asked Ray.
His father nodded and muttered something that sounded like “due yesterday.”
Since the family made a great deal of money from the royalties Dr. Gammand received for his Gamma Ball games, Mrs. Gammand turned her attention to Ray. “What do you and your friends have planned for today?” she asked, trying to keep a pleasant tone in her voice.
Ray shrugged. “The same old stuff.”
He wondered what she would say if he told her he was supposed to begin feeding information into an optical scanner designed to help them push the island’s computer into awareness of its own existence.
The thought, slightly amusing, was followed by another that was deadly serious: Just how interested would she be in that information?
The idea that one of their parents could be the spy trying to leak information about Project Alpha was an unpleasant possibility each member of the A.I. Gang had to face in his or her own way. Most of the time Ray’s tactic was simply not to think about it. But the fact was, his stepmother was a prime suspect, if for no other reason than that she had chosen to marry his father.
The thought made him sick. What if Elinor had only married his father because G.H.O.S.T. wanted her to spy on his work?
Ray shivered. Everyone in the gang wanted to believe Black Glove was one of the “strangers”—one of the scientists none of them was related to. But the hard fact was this: the person who planted the bug on Rachel’s collar their first day on the island could have been any one of the adults at that orientation session.
What if it’s Dr. Weiskopf? thought Ray suddenly. Maybe this whole Euterpe thing is just a plot to set up a new method for getting information off the island.
The thought depressed him. He didn’t want to believe Dr. Weiskopf was capable of such a thing.
Be reasonable, he ordered himself. No one would go to all the trouble it took to create Euterpe just to set up a way to send information to a bunch of spies.
The thought made him feel better. But the seed of suspicion had been planted. He knew from experience it would be impossible to eliminate it completely.
Ray’s thoughts were interrupted by a cry of dismay from his father. Thugwad had malfunctioned and the little monster was now sitting in the middle of Dr. Gammand’s plate, pounding on the fried eggs. The yolks were spattering in all directions, and several bright yellow spots now decorated Dr. Gammand’s formerly white lab coat.
“Thugwad, you die!” cried the scientist. Snatching up his spoon, he smacked the dripping creature on top of its head.
Thugwad began beeping frantically.
Mrs. Gammand broke into helpless laughter. “Hugh, leave that poor creature alone!” she cried when she could catch her breath. “If you hadn’t been fiddling with him at the table, this never would have happened!”
Dr. Gammand looked up in surprise. Thugwad fell over, landing on the toast, then began to twitch.
“Now look what you’ve done,” said Mrs. Gammand severely. “He’s got butter all over his sensors. Go clean him up.”
“Yes, dear,” said Dr. Gammand meekly. He scooped Thugwad into his hand and stood to leave the table.
Ray looked up in chagrin. It wasn’t easy having a father who topped seven feet when you were barely pushing five yourself. But Dr. Gammand’s height had turned out to have an unexpected benefit: It had cleared him of any suspicion that he might be Black Glove. The one time the gang had caught a glimpse of their foe, the spy had run under a pipe that was located five feet and seven inches above the floor—and done it without ducking.
Remembering that, Ray stole a glance at his stepmother.
She was only three inches taller than he was.
Plenty short enough to have cleared that pipe.
“Do you think we’ve bitten off more than we can chew?” asked Rachel Phillips.
“A fine question for you to ask!” said Roger. “Who was it that within the space of an hour decided we should both capture one of Brody’s robots and build a rocket for Dr. Weiskopf’s musical one?”
The twins were walking to the gang’s headquarters. It was a beautiful morning on Anza-bora Island. Sunshine streamed all around them. Not far away they could hear the rol
l of the breakers against the shore, punctuated by the caws of the ever-present gulls. The smell of the ocean, seasoned lightly with the fragrance of tropical blossoms, filled the air.
“Let’s take the day off and do nothing!” said Rachel.
“Idle hands are the devil’s playground,” replied a metallic voice from the bag Rachel carried at her side.
“Shut up, Paracelsus,” said Rachel, automatically uttering the cue to turn off the bronze head’s ability to speak.
To her surprise, rather than falling silent the head cried, “Abuse! That’s all I get from morning to night. It’s enough to give me a headache—which is pretty serious, when you consider how I’m built!”
Rachel glared at her twin, who was whistling nonchalantly as he gazed out toward the ocean. “Roger, if you’ve changed the shut-off code…”
Roger looked astonished at the menacing tone in her voice. “It still turns him off,” he said, his voice dripping innocence. “I just thought he should have a chance to express an opinion before he was put out of commission.”
“I think someone’s going to put you out of commission if you’re not careful, Roger,” said Trip Davis, walking up behind them. “If I were a fortune-teller, I’d say you should be very watchful today. I see an angry redhead in your future.”
Rachel glanced up at Trip. “Thank goodness you’re here,” she said. “Now I have someone sane to talk to.”
Roger made a face at her.
“Cool it, guys,” warned Trip. “Joggers coming.” He squinted into the distance. “I can’t quite make out who they are.”
“It’s Dr. Ling and Dr. Fontana,” said Rachel, more because she knew that the two female scientists were jogging partners than because she could make out their features.
“Good news at last!” cried Roger.
Rachel scowled. Among the males of the A.I. Gang, it was generally agreed that of all the scenic spots on Anza-bora Island, the most beautiful at any given moment was wherever the raven-haired Dr. Bai’ Ling happened to be.
“Hi, kids!” said Dr. Fontana as she and Dr. Ling came puffing toward them. “What are you up to today?”
The women jogged in place as they waited for an answer.
“Not much,” said Roger with a shrug. “We’re going to install an optical scanner on the computer, figure out how to catch one of Brody’s security robots, and then begin designing a major communications satellite.”
It was all Trip could do to keep from jabbing Roger in the ribs.
“Well, at least you won’t be bored,” said Dr. Ling with a chuckle. She was wearing a visor, T-shirt, and shorts; her shoulder-length ebony hair glistened in the sunlight.
“Is that Paracelsus?” asked Dr. Fontana, indicating the bag Rachel was carrying.
“Yes!” cried Paracelsus. “Thank God you found me! I’ve been kidnapped by gypsies!”
“Well, that answers that question,” said Dr. Fontana with a smile. Her specialty was trying to make machines express themselves more clearly in human language, and she had been very impressed the first time she had seen Paracelsus in action. Now she never failed to ask about him when she ran into the twins.
“We’d better get moving if we’re going to get our five miles in,” puffed Dr. Ling. “See you kids later.”
With that, the two women began running down the road. Trip and Roger watched happily until they were out of sight.
“You two are disgusting,” said Rachel, shaking her head. “And I thought you told me Paracelsus’s shut-off code still worked.”
“It does,” said Roger. “But I also put in a key so he would boot up if someone asked about him.”
Rachel sighed and turned to Trip and said plaintively, “How would you like to let Roger be your brother for a week or so? I’d like to try being an only child for a while.”
Hap Swenson squeezed a tiny drop of oil into the hole in Rin Tin Stainless Steel’s belly, then glanced at his watch. He wished the others would get here. He was eager to get started for the day.
More than that, he wanted to tell them about the strange thing he had seen that morning.
He turned the mechanical dog back onto its feet and walked to the computer console.
“Good morning, Hap,” said Sherlock, when he had punched in his identification code. “How are you today?”
Hap smiled. Though he has been skeptical when Roger had suggested that they give their terminal a British accent, it really did make the machine seem more real somehow; friendly, almost.
I wonder if it really will be friendly if it ever becomes truly conscious? thought Hap.
It wasn’t the first time Hap had fretted about what success for the project would actually mean, not only for them, but for the rest of the world. He wondered if his own father even knew the real purpose of the Anza-bora Island project. The gang had figured it out from clues the others had picked up from their parents, who were actively working on the project. But Mr. Swenson was only here to keep the island’s machines running. So he might never have been informed of the project’s true goal.
Hap frowned. Even though his father had explained several times why they had not left with the others when the Air Force pulled out, it still seemed strange.
Like the rest of the gang, Hap was unwilling to believe that one of his parents might actually be Black Glove. But each of them had had at least one parent at that orientation meeting. So each of them, himself included, had at least one parent who was open to suspicion.
Hap’s gloomy thoughts were interrupted by Wendy Wendell storming into the room. She was sputtering like a power cable that had fallen into a mud puddle.
“Have I got news for you guys!” she cried.
The Trap
“Send the men in, Sergeant Brody,” said Bridget McGrory, speaking into the intercom on her desk. “But let’s keep this short, all right?”
She snapped off the intercom, then sighed. Brody’s insistence on doing everything precisely by the book would drive her out of her mind yet.
Dr. Hwa stepped out of his office. Bridget went to his side. Together they watched as Sergeant Brody and his eight new guards filed into the room.
Ramon Korbuscek was third in line.
Those two would make good bookends, thought Korbuscek as he walked past the observers.
Indeed, with their short, jet-black hair and diminutive stature (neither stood more than a few inches above five feet) Dr. Hwa and Bridget McGrory did look like a matched set. Most of the island staff felt that they made a good pair in more ways than one. The feisty Irishwoman was notorious for shielding her softhearted boss from people who wanted too much of his time. Dr. Hwa, in turn, seemed to be the only person who could keep McGrory from removing someone’s head once her temper had been aroused.
“Staff Sergeant Brody reporting, sir,” said Brody, snapping off a salute.
Dr. Hwa gave him a gentle nod in return.
Korbuscek’s gaze circled the room, taking in every detail. If he had to make a midnight visit it would be helpful to know the location of the desks, the chairs, the wall sockets, even the wastebasket.
Moreover, he could discern a great deal about someone’s personality by the way he or she kept a room. This woman McGrory, for instance, was highly efficient and intolerant of intrusions. Comfort for visitors was almost nonexistent. Yet there were touches—the flower on her desk, the green silk scarf on the coatrack—that spoke of a softer side. That, too, was good to know.
The spy’s brow furrowed momentarily. Other signs, even more subtle, indicated something else, something more interesting: This woman was keeping a secret.
Korbuscek’s brain began to race. What was going on here?
While trying to analyze McGrory, Korbuscek was also listening to Dr. Hwa’s brief remarks about the work being done on the island. Suddenly the spy felt a surge of excitement—no sign of which was allowed to reach his face. He had been sent to Anza-bora Island because the government that hired him was interested in a robot called Eut
erpe. After months of monitoring the scientist who was making the robot, their operatives had temporarily lost track of him. Considerable effort had finally turned up the information that Dr. Leonard Weiskopf had moved to Anza-bora Island under “mysterious circumstances.”
Now, that government wanted to know what he was up to.
Actually, they wanted more than that. If Weiskopf was still working on his robot, they wanted a few “changes” made.
That was fine with Korbuscek. He would do exactly as his employers desired. But Dr. Hwa’s speech, oblique as it was, confirmed what the spy had already begun to suspect. Whatever was being created on Anza-bora Island, it was bigger—much, much bigger—than the people who hired him had even begun to guess.
That meant information—information that could be sold to the highest bidder.
Looking at his solemn face, no one could possibly have understood how happy that thought made Ramon Korbuscek.
From his position at the computer Hap looked up at the sputtering Wendy and said, “What guys? I’m the only one here.”
Wendy scowled. “This is important. Where are they?”
“I don’t have the slightest idea.” Hap paused, then added tartly, “You don’t have to wait for them to tell me, you know.”
Wendy smacked her palm against her forehead. “Duh!” she said. “Sorry.” Then, talking so fast she could barely keep her words straight, she spilled out the story of Black Glove’s warning message.
Hap turned pale. But his response was interrupted by a commotion at the door as Roger, Rachel, and Trip came piling into the room. A moment later Ray, clutching his beloved basketball, came stumbling in as well.
“What happened to you two?” asked Roger, when he saw the expression on Hap and Wendy’s faces. “You look like you just saw a ghost.”
“Not saw,” said Wendy. “Heard from. Black Glove left a message on my computer this morning.”