Bolts (4 page)

A great deal depended on finding Bolts, and finding him soon.

“I can't understand it,” said Bingo. “I've been signaling him for a half hour, but he doesn't answer. He's supposed to have a built-in radio like the one Butch has. If he's turned on, he
must
be able to hear me.”

“Maybe he's not turned on yet,” muttered the hungry commander.

“But, Pops, he
has
to be turned on. It's plain logic. Whoever stole the other box would certainly open it as soon as he could.”

“H'mp, yes, I suppose so,” came the grumpy reply.

“And naturally,” Bingo went on, “anybody finding Bolts inside would be curious enough to turn him on.”

“Naturally, naturally.”

“And once he's turned on,” argued Bingo, “he's bound to escape. How could you hold a dog like Bolts?”

“Wouldn't want to try it,” growled the commander. “Not with those teeth.”

“Then why doesn't he answer when I signal him?” Bingo cried. “What's wrong?”

The commander threw up his hands. “Don't ask me!” he fumed. “How can I think when I'm starving to death?” He glared in the direction of the kitchen, then bellowed in sudden wrath, “What's holding you, Butch? You know I need food!”

Pirate flapped his wings and cackled to Big Butch, “Shake the lead out of your feet, you tin dummy, and look alive! Bilge-water needs his chow!”

At that moment Big Butch struck the dinner gong and called, “Chow's on! Come an' get it!”

“Heaven be praised,” breathed the commander, too relieved to give Pirate a dressing down. He waddled hurriedly into the dining alcove and settled himself gratefully before a table heaped with enough food to stuff a whale.

Bingo had no appetite at all. “Pops,” he said presently, “if you don't go easy on those biscuits, you'll
never
be able to squeeze yourself into the Space Jumper. Then where will we be?”

“Without Bolts,” replied the commander, “we'll be nowhere. Without food I can't think, and without thought we'll never find him. However”—he paused to deal with another biscuit—“I'm feeling better already. Now, it occurs to me that one of two things is wrong. Either Pirate doesn't know what he's talking about or—”

“I do too! I do too!” the parrot squawked. “I'm never wrong!”

“If you're so smart,” Bingo said, “why don't you tell us where he is?”

“Aw, you want too much out of a bird,” grumbled Pirate. “I can't force my second sight. It has to come when it comes.”

“Very well,” said the commander. “If Pirate's right, we'll have to assume that something is wrong with Bolts. Call him again, Bingo. Only give it more power this time. Maybe he needs a little jolt to tingle his circuits.”

Bingo went to the very super radio in the corner of the shop, which he had tuned to the special robot wave that only Big Butch and Bolts could hear. He turned it up to full power, so that it positively whined and shot bands of blue light all around it. He pressed the sending button, which sent sizzling impulses jumping around the earth, and spoke loudly into the mouthpiece: “Bingo calling Bolts! Bingo calling Bolts! Please come in, Bolts!”

In the kitchen Big Butch gave a sudden yelp and instantly turned off his own built-in set. “Wow!” he exclaimed. “That's hot! You trying to sizzle us down, Bingo?”

Poor Bolts, far off in a strange desert, felt a sudden stinging in his tail as if he'd been nipped by a playful streak of lightning. “Ow! Wow! Ow! Oh-h-h-h-h!” he bawled, and jumped so hard he turned a complete somersault.

“What's the matter?” asked the little burro, who was racing along beside him. “Did a scorpion sting you?”

“Dunno,” muttered Bolts. “Something bit me, but good!”

“We have awful scorpions in this country,” the burro told him. “Though it seems odd that one can hurt a tin dog. By the way, were you holding your tail straight up when it happened?”

“Yup,” Bolts admitted. “Believe I was. Didn't mean to, 'cause every time I hold it up, a buzzing starts through me.”

“That's odd,” said the burro. “But I've noticed a peculiar thing about you. Every time your tail sticks up straight, a light flashes at the end of it. I can't imagine the purpose of it, but I must say it's quite decorative.”

“Pshaw!” grumbled Bolts, disgusted. “Who wants a light in the end of his tail?”

It might be decorative, he thought, but he sure didn't like it. And at night, when he was being pursued, it could be downright dangerous. Those rascally lion dogs, he realized, were getting closer. And what was that behind the dogs? Men on horses?

As they topped a small rise, the burro glanced back. “That's Lumpy Lopez—with Comrade Pang and the major. We'd better put more speed on.”

“I'm putting all I got into it,” Bolts told him. “My legs are too short. Looks like we'd better start using our heads instead of our feet. Can't you think of something?”

“There's a cactus forest ahead of us,” the burro said. “That's our best chance. The dogs can follow us in there—but the men and horses can't. The cactus stands up too high; the thorns would tear them to pieces.”

“Lead on,” growled Bolts. “I'll handle those dawg varmints.”

The lion dogs were very close by the time they reached the first tall clumps of cactus. The little burro lowered his head and plunged into the tangle. A few feet above the ground the thick branching cactus made an almost impenetrable cover. It stopped the galloping horsemen, but the lion dogs came on, barking furiously.

When they reached a small open area deep in the tangle, Bolts whirled and faced the dogs. The first close sight of them here in the dimness rather dampened his confidence. Each one looked three times as big as himself, and forty times as mean. He decided at once that even his worst growl wouldn't help him too much with such ornery critters. If they were used to tangling with mountain lions, they probably thrived on snarls and growls.

Mebbe I'd better talk to 'em with my trimmed-off brain, Bolts thought to himself. There's a lot of power in the right kind of words.

The huge dogs bared their teeth and leaped toward him, snarling.

Bolts sidestepped very neatly, and said, “What's the big rush, fellers? You lose something?”

It was the wrong approach, as he found out instantly. All they did was back up for a moment in surprise, then come at him again, this time using language that no self-respecting dog would think of using. It was positively shocking. Bolts decided it was time he taught them a lesson.

“Why, you mangy, low-down, flea-bitten, knuckleheaded tramps,” he roared fiercely, snapping out his trick teeth and raising the sharp hackles on his neck. “I'll show you who's tough! I'm the toughest critter alive! I'm all steel, and armor-plated! I'm a rip-rarin' thunderbolt, full o' dynamite and lightning! I'm gonna cut you both down to size, unzip you good, and chaw you up for the buzzards!”

He whirled upon them, using teeth and talk.

Whether it was his outrageously tough talk or his very tough teeth that did the work, Bolts didn't know. But in less than a minute his opponents gave up trying to damage his metal hide and fled with frightened yelps.

Now Bolts could hear angry shouts from the horsemen. “What are we going to do?” cried Comrade Pang in his sharp voice. “If we don't catch that little monster, we're in trouble. Whatever he is, he knows
entirely
too much about us.”

“Get more dogs!” bellowed Major Mangler. “Get more men! He's
got
to be stopped!”

Bolts couldn't help a slight shiver as he heard these ominous plans. Then he told himself, “Aw, I'll worry about that later. If I can handle a couple no-account curs, I can sure take on a few more.”

Feeling quite proud of himself, he turned to hunt for the little burro. But in his pride he forgot about his tail, which naturally snapped up straight. Instantly the light on the end of it flashed, and a sizzling scorpion seemed to sting him again.

“Yipe!” he burst out, turning another somersault and landing hard on his sniffer. Shaken, he got to his feet. “Looks like pride goes before a fall,” he mumbled. “But it sure is queer. Seems like a feller oughta be able to hold his tail up in proper fashion without getting himself stung. Guess I got short-changed in more ways than one.”

Carefully holding his tail down, Bolts hurried through the cactus and caught up with his companion.

“I don't know what you did to them,” said the burro, still twitching with nervousness. “But it sounded ghastly. Perfectly ghastly. Did you completely unzip them?”

“Aw,” Bolts said modestly, “it was mainly talk. There's all kinds of power in the right sort of words—but you sure gotta choose 'em carefully for the occasion. Where do we go from here?”

“On to the mountains. They are not far ahead.”

“Ump!” muttered Bolts. “I didn't figger on mountains. Do we have to cross 'em to reach Battleship Lane?”

“I would imagine so. Since the place you seek isn't on this side, it almost has to be on the other side. But you'll have to cross over alone. I'm staying in the cactus.”

Bolts's mouth dropped open in surprise. “Naw! How can you live in a prickly place like this? Thought a critter like you had to have grass and water.”

“Not when there's cactus to eat.”

“You
eat
this stuff?”

“Certainly. If you know how to nibble it, tender young cactus is perfectly delectable. Furthermore, I'm quite safe here. You see, there are lions in the mountains.”

“Lions!”

“Indeed, yes. Mountain lions. Unfortunately, they find burros delectable. I'll miss your good company, but I'd prefer to remain here and eat—instead of going on to be eaten.”

Live and learn, thought Bolts. This sure was a tough world for a tin dawg to be lost in. Mountains and hungry lions ahead of him, Comrade Pang and the major and all Lumpy's cutthroats behind him, and not a friend save the burro this side of Battleship Lane. On top of it the factory had shortchanged him all around, and doubled his misery by putting a scorpion in his tail. What was a poor dawg going to do?

At this moment Bingo and the commander were hovering over their special radio. “I'm sure I heard him a couple times,” said Bingo. “But he always cuts me off. Doesn't he know he's got a built-in radio?”

“Dumb dog!” squawked Pirate. “Dumb dog! No brains!”

“He's
not
a dumb dog,” Bingo told the parrot. “He's a lot smarter than you. He's supposed to have one of the best brains the factory can make.”

“Ha!” cackled Pirate. “They had to trim it. Trimmed off the smart part. Left all the dumb part.”

“Oh, no!” Bingo cried. “They wouldn't do
that
to him.”

“Oh, but they did,” Pirate said smugly. “He's not worth having. Who wants a dumb dog?”

Commander Brown said, “I'm going to call the Inspector at the robot factory and find out about this. If Bolts had his brain trimmed, it could be a very serious matter.”

While the commander was on the telephone, Big Butch came clumping in from the kitchen. “Bingo, don't you know you've got that thing turned up too high? We robots got mighty tender circuits. How can that poor puppy dog answer when he gets himself sizzled every time he turns on his receiver?”

“B-but I
had
to get his attention, Butch.”

The commander came back from the telephone, shaking his head. “It's true about his brain,” he said sadly. “They had to trim it to make it fit. The factory wasn't at all satisfied with him, but they said it was the best they could do. From the way they talk, I'm afraid Bolts isn't worth saving.”

Bingo looked sick. “B-but, Pops, we
can't
abandon him!”

“I'd really hate to do it,” the commander admitted. “But if Bolts isn't very smart, we can't afford to take him along in the Space Jumper. It could be very dangerous.”