Bolts (5 page)

Fortunately for his peace of mind, poor Bolts had no idea that his fate was hanging in the balance. He had enough worries as it was, even though he was not one to fret about the future. Already the burro had led him to higher ground. The mountains were close, and the cactus forest was beginning to thin.

“I'm stopping here,” the burro said at last. “I do hate to part with you, but being edible rather limits one's travels. If you'll take my advice, you'll go as far and as fast as you can while you have the opportunity. If you can get high enough in the mountains, the major won't be able to follow you on horseback.”

Bolts stood blinking uneasily at what lay in front of him. The ground was sloping steeply upward, rising so high that it seemed to scrape the stars. He hadn't realized that mountains could be so big—and so dark and threatening.

“Sure gonna be lonesome without you,” he mumbled.

“Oh, with your personality,” the burro assured him, “you're certain to make friends. Just hold your teeth back, and keep your growl down.”

Bolts thanked him for his good words and sound advice, then gave himself a little shake to stiffen his courage, and set out for the unknown dangers ahead.

It soon occurred to him that he'd forgotten to ask the burro what country this was, but he decided it didn't matter. All that mattered was to get out of it as soon as possible—and the only way to do that was to keep moving. If a dog kept moving long enough, he was bound to reach Battleship Lane.

4

He Is Partially Located

Far away on Battleship Lane, the fate of Bolts was still being decided. “I don't like to abandon him,” Commander Brown was saying, “but what else can we do? If he won't answer us, we can't find him. And if he's not worth saving anyway—”

“B-but we
need
him!” Bingo cried. “We've
got
to find him! How can we make that space trip without him?”

“We'll have to change our plans,” growled the commander. “Even if we found him, I'd hate to be caught in space with a fool robot dog that's got a trimmed brain and a mouth full of stainless-steel teeth!”

“Aw, Pops,” poor Bingo wailed, “a little trimming wouldn't hurt his brain. If they trimmed it, they'd just snip off some useless knowledge on the outside. That wouldn't make him dumb!”

“Would too! Would too!” cackled Pirate.

Big Butch glared at the hateful bird. “Button your beak,” he muttered threateningly. “Everybody knows you don't like dogs. Honest, Commander, don't you think it's awful unchristian-like to abandon a poor little lost puppy dog that never—”

“Pipe down!” ordered the commander, swallowing hard in spite of himself. “You know I don't
want
to treat a dog that way, even a stupid tin one. And, as you say, Bingo, there's a possibility that a slight brain-trimming wouldn't hurt him too much—though I have my doubts. Anyway, I'm willing to give Bolts a chance—
if
we can locate him.”

Bingo almost collapsed with relief. In the next instant he had darted to the radio and his red hair was flashing all around it as he went swiftly to work. “I'm
sure
I can locate him,” he said. “This time I'll cut down the power and rig up a direction finder. If he answers at all, we'll have a compass bearing on him. Then we can go hunting for him in the Space Jumper.”

Big Butch looked doubtful. “If that poor dog's been sizzled,” he began, blinking worriedly at the commander, “he sure won't answer now. There must be another way we can find him. Can't you think of something, sir?”

“There
is
another way,” the commander said miserably. “But I've been so upset by all this I can't remember it. You've got a brain, Butch. Start using it!”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Big Butch began clumping back and forth, scratching his metal head. The scratching always helped, for it seemed to loosen his circuits and jiggle his memory banks.

“Oh, stop clumping!” fumed the commander. “How do you expect me to remember anything when you clump?”

“S-sorry, sir.” Big Butch stopped and stood blinking his eye lights unhappily. It took both clumping and scratching to jiggle an idea loose in his head. “What we need,” he grumbled, “is some special super thought. But I sure don't see any around.”

“Super thought?” said Bingo, turning. Suddenly his eyes widened. “Jiminy! I'd forgotten we have the Super-Thought Machine here! Why don't we try it out?”

Before the commander could give him the order, Big Butch had the Super-Thought Machine unpacked and ready for duty. It seemed to be only a simple metal box on the outside, but inside was the most ultra-super-special thinking apparatus the robot factory could make. It had taken Bingo, Big Butch, and the commander all winter to design it.

The moment it was turned on, the Super-Thought Machine began to hum. In a metallic voice it said aloofly, “State your problem. I am capable of solving anything.”

“Our problem is a robot dog named Bolts,” the commander began. “He has been stolen by persons unknown, who thought they were stealing you. Please locate him.”

“I doubt if the creature is worth my consideration,” replied the metallic voice, “but as a favor to my designers, I will find him. Describe the dog. Give his serial number, brain rating, battery power, exact time he was stolen, all details of the theft, and the latest weather information.”

The commander did so.

“Very elemental,” said the Super-Thought Machine. “Ordinarily such a simple problem would be solved in four seconds. But since my circuits are still warming, it will require exactly seventeen minutes and nine seconds. Kindly maintain absolute silence.”

Everyone said, “Sh-h-h-h-h!” and stood very still.

At that moment three Navy cars, bristling with guns and guards, roared into the lane. A half dozen worried officers and men sprang out and dashed to the door. Big Butch was forced to open it, and they poured through the house and into the shop.

“Commander,” said the officer in charge, “we've just discovered that the new secret Super-Thought Machine was delivered to you by mistake. The Admiral is tearing his hair. He's ordered us to pick it up immediately.”

“B-but we're using it!” exclaimed the commander, dismayed. “We—we're trying it out on a problem of great importance.”

“Sorry, sir. This is an emergency. There's been more Mongolian skulduggery, and things are in a ticklish tangle with their space fleet. We have hopes the machine can solve it, but there's not a moment to lose, sir.”

In practically no time the Super-Thought Machine was crammed back into its box, rushed out under guard, and the Navy cars were roaring away with it.

Big Butch was so upset that he had to be turned off before he blew a fuse. For long minutes the commander raged while Bingo sat biting his knuckles.

When everyone had calmed and cooled a bit, Bingo turned Big Butch on again. “I'll bet it was the Mongolians that stole Bolts,” he said. “It just
had
to be. And I'll bet they think he's the Super-Thought Machine in disguise. If he's escaped, they'll never stop till they catch him.”

The commander was more upset than ever. “Great guns, if the Mongolians are behind this, it becomes a Navy matter. Why, Bolts may have learned the secret of the Mongolian spy organization. Get busy on that radio, son. That dog
must
be found.”

Big Butch said, “B-but suppose he's in Mongolia?”

“He's not there! He's not there!” cackled Pirate.

“Can't you tell us where he is?” begged the commander.

“Not tonight,” replied the infuriating parrot. “It's long past my bedtime.” He tucked his head under his wing and pretended to go to sleep.

At the radio, Bingo was repeating over and over, “Bingo calling Bolts! Bingo calling Bolts! Please answer, Bolts!” …

Bolts didn't answer because he was very carefully keeping his tail down as he climbed the mountain. He was in a terrifying up-and-down region that grew steadily worse the higher he climbed. There were boulders bigger than houses that he had to scramble around, not to speak of sudden cliffs and ledges that had to be avoided, and great black ravines that seemed to have no bottom. In the dark, it was no place at all for a dog to take chances, especially a tin dog with a scorpion in his tail.

But in spite of his watchfulness, he almost went tumbling when his feet slipped once on a rock. Instantly his tail shot up as he fought to keep his balance. There was a moment of pure horror when he was sure the scorpion was going to sizzle him again. Instead, there was only a faint buzzing, and just before his tail jerked down he heard a voice, as clear as anything, say: “… calling Bolts!”

He was so astounded his teeth snapped out accidentally and he almost cut loose with his Number Two growl.

Bolts looked fearfully around, blinking his eye lights. Seeing no one, he slid his teeth back in place and tried his sniffer. He discovered some interesting smells ahead, but the critters they belonged to were too far away to have spoken. Anyway, how would they know his name?

“Hey!” he demanded loudly. “Who's that calling me? Come out and show yourself!”

The only reply was the faint moaning of the mountain wind.

“By Joe,” he muttered, “this is
mighty
mysterious.”

He shivered suddenly, though not from cold. That moaning wind had a real ghosty sound, and it occurred to him that the voice he had heard might easily have come from a mountain ghost.

The very thought sent a prickling through his circuits. The idea of mountain lions was worrisome enough, but if there were mountain ghosts around, his predicament was ten times as bad. Suppose one got into his circuits and started to sizzle him?

“I'd better find me a safe hole for the night,” he told himself. “I'm too wore out to tangle with mountain ghosts.”

The shallow cave he presently found wasn't at all to his liking, but it was the best that a tired dog with a weak battery could do. What with all his running, growling, fighting, and climbing, he'd used up a fearful amount of energy. Now it was time to recharge.

He took a final uneasy look around, hoped that neither lions nor ghosts would notice him here, then curled into a tight ball in the corner of the cave. Instantly his circuits clicked off and he was sound asleep.

On distant Battleship Lane, a despairing Bingo stayed by the radio until his voice grew hoarse, then the commander took over. Butch relieved the commander at midnight, and continued to call until it was time to put on his chefs cap and fix breakfast.

“I'm afraid we've lost him,” the big robot said sadly, when Bingo relieved him. “Didn't get a peep out of him all night.”

“We've got to keep trying,” Bingo said stubbornly. “His radio switch is in his tail. He's bound to raise it some time and hear us.”

Bolts was just beginning to twitch and stir as Bingo began calling him again. Ordinarily, a recharged robot pops up with his eye lights blinking, wide awake on the instant. But Bolts, having a trimmed brain, not only had taken longer than usual to recharge, but now he was dreaming—something no other robot could possibly do. He was dreaming that his trials were over and that he was safely home on Battleship Lane. It was such a pleasant dream that he was doing his best to hang on to it.

Something nudged him.

“Go way,” he mumbled. “Can't you let a feller snooze?”

The something purred and nudged him again.

Bolts stirred and stretched. He blinked one eye light, then the other. His sniffer had already told him there was nothing to be alarmed about. It was only a cat, and cats were fine critters. This one had a wonderful purr.

He was a little surprised, however, to see the size of the playful paw that had awakened him. It belonged to about the biggest cat critter he could imagine.

“By Joe!” he exclaimed, crawling out of his corner and rotating his sniffer. “Didn't know they had king-size kitties like
you
in the mountains!”

“I'm not exactly a kitty. They call me a lion.”

“Aw, don't hand me that. You may be king-size, but you look like a cat, you smell like a cat, and you purr like one. If you're not a cat critter, then I'm not a tin dawg.”

“Have it your own way,” the cat critter told him. “But I never heard of a dog that ticks and talks. If you're a dog, why aren't you barking at me? Can't you bark and growl?”

“Oh, brother!” said Bolts, rolling his eye lights. “Don't get me started. I got a growl to end all growls. The thing is, I
like
cats. I been conditioned to 'em, see? As for talking to you, seems I can talk to any kinda critter. It's my trimmed-off brain.” He explained about himself and his shortcomings.