Bruce Coville - Robot Trouble

BRUCE COVILLE

PUBLISHED BY POCKET BOOKS

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The sale of this book without its cover is unauthorized. If you purchased this book without a cover, you

should be aware that it was reported to the publisher as "unsold and destroyed " Neither the author nor

the publisher has received payment for the sale of this "stripped book "

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and inci-dents are products of the author's

imagination or are used ficti-tiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or

dead, is entirely coincidental.

A Minstrel Book published by

POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster Inc.

1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York NY 10020

ISBN: 0-671-89252-5

First Minstrel Books printing April 1995

10 987654321

A MINSTREL BOOK and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster Inc.

Cover art by Broeck Steadman Printed in the U.S.A.

To my mother, who gave me the gift of music.

Chapter 1: Two Spies

THIS ENTIRE MESS IS THE FAULT OF THOSE BRATS WHO call themselves the A. I.

Gang! thought the shadowy figure slipping into the secret room hidden beneath the Anza-bora Island

computer center. If they had minded their own business, everything would be fine.

The figure crossed to the far side of the room and thrust a pair of black-gloved hands into a cage

mounted on the wall. The birds inside began to flutter and scuffle. After a moment the hands closed over

one of them and drew it from the cage.

"This is insane!" muttered the mysterious figure, deftly strapping a capsule to the bird's leg. "I'm

on an island equipped with the most advanced technology in the world. Yet to communicate with my

Executive Council, I am forced to resort to the most primitive methods imaginable. If those A.I. brats

don't watch out-

"The words were interrupted by a soft cooing. The black-gloved figure glanced at the pigeon,

then laughed. It was only a bird. How could it know that the person holding it was Black Glove, chief

operative of G.H.O.S.T.? Or that G.H.O.S.T. was trying to steal the secrets of the world's most

advanced computer project? Or that those secrets were guarded by an electronic blanket that shielded

Anza-bora Island from the outside world-a blanket that could have been pierced by the transmitter Black

Glove had mounted inside the Project Alpha computer, if those kids hadn't found and removed it!

No, the pigeon only knew that it wanted to be free to fly home.

Black Glove wrapped the bird in a towel, then stuffed the towel into a gym bag. It was late and

the computer center should be empty. Still, there was no point in taking any chances.

On the next floor up the spy spotted a light in an open office-one of the Project Alpha scientists

work-ing late. Quickly the black gloves were stripped off and hidden in the pocket of a white lab coat.

The researcher glanced up from her work and nod-ded pleasantly as Black Glove passed her

doorway. And why not? In day-to-day life Black Glove was a well-known island personality. No one

suspected that the friendly smile they knew so well masked a deadly, now desperate, enemy.

Outside the computer center the spy unwrapped the pigeon. A moment later the bird was soaring

toward the clouds. Cutting an arc across the sky, it headed east, toward home-G.H.O.S.T.

headquarters.

Black Glove felt an uncomfortable shiver. The Ex-ecutive Council of G.H.O.S.T. could be most

unpleas-ant when it was angry. And it was sure to be angry when it got the message the pigeon carried:

Transmission of data delayed by unexpected cir-cumstances. Seeking new route to get information off

island. B.G.

Black Glove faded into the shadows, thinking furi-ously. There had to be some other way to get

informa-tion off Anza-bora, a way those nosy kids couldn't

interfere with.

Of course, the fact that the kids thought their enemy had fled the island on a stolen boat should

help slow them down. But even so....

Reentering the computer center, Black Glove vowed two things. First, there would be no rest

until the new information path was established. Second, this time no one would be allowed to stand in the

way.

Not even the A.I. Gang.

Not even if they were just kids.

Not even if that meant it would cost them their lives.

Heading back to the secret room, the spy patted the pockets of the white lab coat, then shivered

with a wave of cold terror.

One glove was missing....

* * * *

Ramon Korbuscek moved slowly toward the aban-doned building. It was a windmill, ruined by

one or another of Central Europe's seemingly endless wars.

Someone with extremely good eyes might have been able to see him picking his way through the

shadows that surrounded the windmill-but probably not. Nor would they have heard him, for Korbuscek

moved as silently as a hawk floating on the wind.

Associated with no government, loyal to no single organization, he was one of the deadliest free

agents in the world.

He paused to study his destination. One crumpled blade rested on the ground. The others, battered and

torn by time, weather, and war, cast eerie, broken shadows around him.

A moment later the spy slipped beneath the crum-pled blade. He whistled a five-note tune as he

entered the building. A pair of rats scurried away from his feet. Pigeons cooed and whirred above him.

All else was silent.

Korbuscek frowned and whistled again.

From the darkest shadows on the opposite side of the mill came an answering whistle-not the

same tune, but a variant of it, chosen months earlier as a signal for this meeting.

Korbuscek moved slowly across the floor, careful to avoid the gaping holes, many of them large

enough to drop him through to the basement.

A woman emerged from the shadows. "I have your orders." Her voice was low and husky. Her

hand trem-bled as she held out a brown envelope.

"And my money?"

The woman frowned. She was well aware of how much Korbuscek would make for this job,

and she considered the fee outrageous. But her superiors decided these matters with no thought for her

opinions.

"Your usual rate," she said gruffly, passing him an-other envelope.

"What's the job?" asked Korbuscek, relaxing a little.

The woman shrugged. "The orders are in the enve-lope. All I know is that you'll be going to

Anza-bora Isl-"

Before she could finish the sentence, Korbuscek grabbed her by the shoulders and threw her to

the floor.

A shot rang out above them, then another.

Without a word the two separated. Scuttling into the deepest shadows, Korbuscek pressed

himself against a worm-eaten beam and held his breath. Three more shots were fired. But there was no

cry of pain.

When enough time had passed that he was sure his contact had managed to escape, Korbuscek

allowed himself a brief smile. As little as he cared for her, he would not have wanted his baby sister to be

captured by these particular enemies.

Moving as silently as he had come, he left the mill, eager to read his orders.

Chapter 2: The Scroungers

Ray "the Gamma Ray" Gammand raced up to the abandoned house the A.I. Gang used as a

secret headquarters. Thudding to a stop, he checked his watch, then let out a sigh. He was late again.

He tucked his beloved basketball between his knees, then took off his thick glasses and wiped

them on his shirt while he caught his breath. Trying to act casual, he opened the door and stepped in.

Unfortunately, he tripped over an untied shoelace, dropped his basketball, and stumbled into the

living room.

"Somebody's la-ate!" sang the handsome bronze head sitting in the middle of the coffee table.

"Shut up, Paracelsus," said Ray.

"Nobody loves me," sighed the head, which had been created by the Phillips twins, Roger and

Rachel.

The twins were constantly programming Paracelsus with new remarks directed at their friends'

behavior. By setting it to respond to things they expected the other kids in the gang to do, they could

make its com-ments remarkably appropriate.

"Glad you could make it, Ray," said Trip Davis. Tall (over six feet!), slender, and intense, Trip

was sitting against the wall on the opposite side of the room. To his right, in a chair that barely let her feet

touch the floor, was Wendy Wendell the Third, a pint-sized dynamo the gang sometimes referred to as

"the Wonderchild."

Straddling the workbench across the room from Wendy was Hap Swenson. As usual, the

handsome, sturdy blond had a screwdriver in his hand and was poking away at some gadget-probably

one that the Wonderchild had designed.

Sitting between Hap and Trip were the red-haired Phillips twins, who Ray thought of privately as

"Vol-ume One" and "Volume Two." This was because the twins carried so much information in their

heads that between the two of them they were a virtual walking encyclopedia.

Ray sighed as he finished his inventory. That was it-all five of them. He was last again. "So what's

the big emergency?" he asked.

"No emergency," said Wendy. "Just a new idea. Rachel wants us to add an optical scanner to

our sys-tem. Problem is, we have to build the darn thing!" She took a bite from the enormous burger

clenched between her hands and smiled blissfully. "Should be fun," she added, speaking with her mouth

full.

Hap looked up from whatever he was tinkering with, scratched his blond head, and said, "You

guys have got me again. Just what the heck is an optical scanner?"

Ray relaxed. If they hadn't explained that to Hap yet, he couldn't be too late. Their greaser-techie

friend was the only member of the gang who didn't come from a scientific family, and they often had to fill

him in on the reasoning behind their plans. The amazing thing was, he was such a whiz with tools that

once they had explained something to him, he could almost always build it.

"A scanner is a device that will let us teach the computer to read," said Rachel.

"I wish someone would teach me to read!"

"Shut up, Paracelsus," said several of the kids simultaneously.

Seeing the puzzled expression that remained on Hap's face, Rachel's twin took up the

explanation. "Basically, the scanner will photograph a page of printed material, then translate it into

symbols the computer can understand."

"Which means we'll be able to feed information into Sherlock several times faster than we do

now," put in Trip Davis.

"Sherlock" was the gang's pet project-a computer program designed to sort clues and solve

crimes. Trip stood up and began pacing across the floor. His lanky frame towered over Ray, who was

barely more than five feet tall. "It will be like going from a tricycle to a ten-speed as far as our

programming goes," he added.

"But Sherlock won't actually understand what it reads," objected Hap. "Will it?"

"Of course not," said Rachel. "At least, not yet. That's what the information programming project

is all about-turning that material into usable data for the computer. But right now we're wasting an

enor-mous amount of time typing the raw stuff into the computer. The best thing would be if we had this

stuff on CD-ROM or something, but, unfortunately, we don't, and with the communication blockade we

can't get it without a lot of explanation. The scanner is our next best bet. It should save us a huge amount

of time."

"Which means," said Wendy, tugging on one of her blond pigtails, "we might even win the race!"

The "race" Wendy was referring to had begun shortly after the head of Project Alpha, Dr. Hwa,

had gathered a handful of the United States' top computer scientists at the deserted Anza-bora Island Air

Force Base. Their mission: to create a "conscious" com-puter-a computer that could not only think, but

be aware that it was thinking; aware, in fact, of its own existence.

Actually, the gang had started "Operation Sher-lock" almost as a way of getting even for the

disrup-tion the Anza-bora project had created in their lives. With the exception of Hap, whose father had

been chief mechanic for the island's recently abandoned Air Force base, the kids had all been uprooted

from their homes almost without notice when their parents decided to join the project.

Even worse, it had been without explanation. Security on the project was so tight no one not

actually involved in the work was supposed to know what it was about. When some clever guesswork

on the gang's part tipped them off to the real reason their parents had come to Anza-bora, the kids

decided to try to take a shot at the same goal.

Their initial idea had been somewhat less ambitious. It started when someone attached a small

microphone to Rachel's collar during the first meeting of the top island staff and their families. The

microphone had self-destructed as soon as the kids discovered it, but the incident had spurred the gang

into "Operation Sherlock"-their attempt to develop a detective pro-gram that would help them sort and

interpret the clues they gathered about the "bug."

It was Roger who had suggested that they go all the way and compete with their parents.

What none of them liked to talk about was the fact that since the bug had been planted at that

first meeting, each one of them had at least one parent who was a prime suspect. None of them liked

living with the knowl-edge that one (or both) of their parents might be a spy. Even before Sherlock was

operational the kids had managed to thwart a plan to blow up the island. In the process they had

accidentally discovered a device designed to transmit all the work the Project Alpha scientists did to

somewhere off island.

Unfortunately, like the bug on Rachel's collar, the transmitter had self-destructed before they

could show it to anyone. As a result, their warnings about a spy among the project's top scientists were

not being taken seriously by anyone except cranky, freckle-faced Dr. Stanley Remov.

The gang had responded to the official disbelief in the only way they could-by stepping up work

on their own project. In the process, they had learned to pull together as a team.

So no one was really surprised when only four days after the meeting where the scanner was

proposed, they were nearly ready to install it.

"I just need two more parts," said Hap, "and I'll have her up and running."

He tapped a few letters into the keyboard sitting next to his workbench. The keyboard was

attached to the terminal (now wildly modified and upgraded) that had been left in the house when the Air

Force aban-doned the island.

The terminal was attached to the island's incredibly powerful mainframe, which was housed a

mile or so away in the computer center.

"Good morning, Hap," said a crisp voice from across the room. "What can I do for you?"

Hap smiled. He still got a kick out of the way the others had programmed the computer's vocal

simula-tor to sound like Basil Rathbone, the actor who had played Sherlock Holmes in so many movies.

Hap typed in a series of classified codes that Wendy had wrangled out of the computer and

called up an in-ventory of all the spare parts on the island. He scanned the list, then entered the codes for

the items he needed.

"Those parts can be found in Warehouse Two, aisle seven, level six," said Sherlock.

"You know what that means," said Roger. "It's scrounging time!" replied Trip with a smile.

"Major scrounge," agreed Ray. As a team, Trip and Ray were unbeatable at turning up hard-to-locate

parts. "Beg, borrow, or temporarily reposition" was their motto, though the only things they ever actually

took without permission were items the Air Force had abandoned when it left the island. Items such as

those in Warehouse Two. "Take Rinty with you," suggested Roger, gesturing to the mechanical mutt the

gang had started building as a test project a few weeks earlier. "You never know. He might come in

handy."

Warehouse Two was dark, and aside from the noise Ray had made tripping over a box when

they first came in, so quiet it was almost eerie.

"Aisle seven should be that way," whispered Trip, shining his flashlight to their right.

Clink!

It was nothing, really; the tiniest of sounds. But when he heard it, Ray felt his stomach twist into a

hard little ball. Tiny as it was, that sound had no busi-ness at all in a warehouse that was supposed to be

abandoned! He switched off his flashlight and grabbed Trip's arm. "Did you hear that?" he hissed.

"I heard it," replied Trip, clicking off his own light. He licked his lips nervously, straining to see

through the sudden darkness.

"What do you think it was?" asked Ray.

"I don't know. But I don't like it." Trip paused, then added, "I wish you weren't so clumsy!"

Ray felt himself blush. He hadn't meant to stumble over that box! In fact, he had been making an

extra effort to be quiet.

"It's coming this way," whispered Trip. "Do me a favor and don't move!"

"I'm frozen in my tracks!"

Clink!

The sound was closer this time. Trip pressed himself against the wall, fervently wishing he had

never returned Ninja Experiments with Invisibility to the library.

Suddenly a thin beam of light struck the floor in front of the boys.

Pretend you're a box! Ray ordered himself, flinching away from the light. Maybe no one will

notice you.

The sound drew closer.

Why did I volunteer for this scrounging mission? won-dered Trip miserably. I could be home

eating spinach.

Trip hated spinach. But at the moment facing a plateful of the disgusting green stuff seemed

infinitely preferable to being caught by whoever was prowling the warehouse.

Nervous as he was, the worst Ray was expecting was an angry member of Sergeant Brody's

security force. He was wondering just how much trouble they were going to be in, when an ear-piercing

blare shat-tered the stillness. He looked up, and began to scream. A monstrous creature with curved

fangs, flashing red eyes, and a face that made sudden death seem prefera-ble to being captured was

heading straight for him, its clawlike hands stretching and grasping ahead of it. "Run!" screamed Ray.

Trip didn't need any encouragement. He sprinted to his right like a rabbit startled by a hound.

Ray started in the opposite direction, fell over an-other box, scrambled to his feet, and headed

between two rows of towering shelves.

Aside from the stumbling, this was all according to plan. After their first adventure, the gang had

decided it would be a good idea to split in a situation like this. Then if one person got in trouble, the other

could go for help.

Go for help! thought Trip. Of course! What's the matter with my brain?

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a small con-trol device. I sure hope this works, he

thought as he pushed the button that would send Rin Tin Stainless Steel to fetch the rest of the gang.

He was turning to look for Ray when a pair of rough hands grabbed him from behind and

snatched him into the air.

Chapter 3: Laughter Here, Terror There

Roger glanced at his watch. he was starting to worry about Trip and Ray. And he was getting

peeved at Rachel, who had left forty-five minutes earlier to visit Dr. Weiskopf. This optical scanner had

been her idea, and now she wouldn't even be here to help them install it.

"Rats!" exclaimed Hap, who was tinkering with something on the other side of the room.

Working delicately, he pulled a broken wire from the scanner's feed unit, then rolled some fresh wire off

the coil at his side. "Will somebody give me a hand with this thing?" he asked irritably as he clipped the

piece of wire.

Wendy had just gotten up to help him when some-thing began scratching at the door. Wendy

moved to open it, but Norman the Doorman-a primitive butler-bot Ray had salvaged from the scrap

heap-beat her to it.

"Welcome to our happy headquarters!" it said, throwing open the door.

A small metallic form dashed through, far below Norman's line of vision.

"Welcome," repeated the butler-bot.

"Arf!" yipped Rin Tin Stainless Steel. Heading straight for Wendy, the canine robot began leaping

around her feet. "Arf! Arf!"

"Must have been a wrong number," said Norman, slamming the door shut.

"We gotta work on his eyesight," muttered Roger.

"Rinty, get off me!" cried Wendy, batting at the mechanical dog.

"Arf! Arf! I love you, Wendy. Will you marry me?"

"This is your work, Roger!" yelled the Wonderchild indignantly. "I'd recognize your warped sense

of humor anywhere. Get this mechanical mutt off me!"

"And break his little electronic heart?" cried Roger, who was convulsed with laughter.

"Then catch!" Snatching up the yapping robot, Wendy flung it across the room.

"Cripes!" yelled Roger. Leaping to his feet, he snatched Rinty out of the air just before the little

robot would have crashed into the wall.

"Watch it, Wendy!" said Hap. "You'll scramble his circuits!"

"I couldn't possibly scramble them more than Roger has already," snapped the Wonderchild.

As for Rinty, the instant Roger grabbed the robot, its gas chromatograph-an electronic nose of

sorts- went into action. Sorting out the molecules that marked Roger's chemically distinctive odor, it

checked their pattern against its memory banks. Within micro-seconds it found a match and "recognized"

Roger.

Immediately a new program took over.

"Trouble!" yapped the robot. "Big trouble. Come quick!"

* * * *

Rachel Phillips was sitting under a small scrub tree on the east side of Anza-bora Island. The

South Pa-cific stretched vast and seemingly endless before her. She was not looking at the water,

however, but at the shiny metal tube she held in her hands.

"Like this?" she asked, placing her fingers delicately on the holes that lined the tube.

"No, no, no!" snapped Dr. Leonard Weiskopf, the little man sitting next to her. "Hold it like you

mean business. You're not going to break it!"

Rachel brushed a strand of her fiery red hair away from her damp forehead.

"Come, come, Rachel," said Dr. Weiskopf. "Pay attention to the business at hand!"

The business at hand was learning to use a pennywhistle, the cheap tin instrument Dr. Weiskopf

was able to play with amazing skill and beauty. When Rachel had first approached the balding scientist

about teaching her, he had been delighted at the prospect. Unfortunately, he was not always as patient as

Rachel would have liked.

"Let me show you again," he said, raising his own whistle to his lips. His hands, strangely large for

such a small man, almost hid the tiny instrument. Rachel wondered how he could make those

sausagelike fingers move so swiftly over the whistle's holes; they became a near blur whenever he hurtled

through some fast-paced piece of classical musical. Now, however, he piped a slower tune, closing his

Bruce Coville - Robot Trouble

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