Sprockets Page 3

“I—I’m terribly sorry, sir,” he said in a small voice, “but I did not progress so far as the Spanish tape. I had time only for French, German, Sanskrit, and Zapotecan.”

  “That does it!” exploded the doctor. “What earthly good will you be in Mexico if you can’t speak Spanish? I should have had my head examined before I ever let Miranda put you aboard!”

  “Sir—”

  “Quiet!” snapped the doctor. “Or I’ll turn you off! Jim, can’t you get more speed out of this helicopter?”

  “I can fold the rotors and use the jets. But, Dad, I’d rather save the jet fuel for an emergency.”

  “This is an emergency,” the doctor said sharply. “If we don’t get to that saucer ahead of Professor Katz, he’ll steal everything in it for the Russians—or whoever it is he steals for—and science will be the loser.”

  “Sir,” Sprockets began again, “with Mars and Saturn in conjunction, I implore you—”

  “I don’t want to hear about Mars and Saturn!” cried the doctor. “All I want is to find that purple saucer. I told you to be quiet, or I’ll turn you off!”

  “But, sir—”

  CLICK!

  Sprockets froze, with his mouth wide open. He no longer ticked. The doctor had turned him off. Only his positronic brain continued to work, and this time he was too upset to add numbers.

  Of course, he knew he shouldn’t have tried to talk when he had been ordered not to. But he’d only been doing his best to help the doctor. A robot has to help his master even if it means disobeying an order. According to his learning tapes—and those included several ologies as well as an onomy—this was a very, very, bad time to travel, especially in the air.

  Astrology said it was inauspicious.

  Numerology said their numbers were all at odds and that they had only one chance in nine.

  Meterology said the weather was going to be foul, with isobars and isotherms all tangled up with rain, sleet, snow, and hail, as well as thunder and lightning.

  Astronomy said the sun was full of spots, a most serious matter, which affected practically all the onomies and ologies.

  But when you’re a turned-off robot, unable to tick a tock or budge a sprocket, and small in the bargain, all you can do is sit and worry. So Sprockets sat and worried while Jim folded the rotors and turned on the jets. The helicopter—which was no longer a helicopter but the next thing to a comet—streaked cometlike for Mexico.

  They reached the border in practically no time. There was a fretting delay while Jim used the rotors to come down and be checked through by the border guards. There was even more delay on the other side of the border when Mexican customs officials pried through the bags and made a great fuss about Sprockets. The air rattled with their incomprehensible Spanish, and the doctor rattled back at them.

  Finally they were allowed to proceed. Again Jim folded the rotors and used the jets. In less than a tick they were streaking over the Mexican mountains. In slightly more than a tick they were darting through thunderclouds and trying to dodge lightning. Then hail was pelting the cabin like buckshot, snow was blinding the windshield, and suddenly it was raining rivers where it had never rained before.

  “Great jumping jiggling jeepers!” cried the doctor. “What could have happened to have caused all this?”

  Sprockets tried to say sunspots, but he was still turned off and all he could do was hope. There came a blinding flash of lightning, then it turned black as night and the helicopter began to fall, spinning and twisting. The jets had failed.

  Somehow Jim got the rotors unfolded, and barely in time. The rotors broke their fall, but only enough to save them from being killed as the helicopter crashed.

  The helicopter was a complete loss. Jim had a scratch or two; Sprockets was aware of a dent in his leg, which he was afraid would make him squeak when he tried to walk; but the doctor had nothing wrong with him save his temper.

  For a while all the doctor could mutter was, “Blankety, blankety, blankety!” Then he managed to say fumingly, “If it wasn’t for that blankety little robot, we wouldn’t be in this blankety big trouble.”

  “Aw, now, Dad,” said Jim. “It wasn’t Sprockets’ fault.”

  “It was his blankety fault for being along!” sputtered the doctor. “He jinxed everything!”

  “But, Daddy, I didn’t know scientists believed in jinxes.”

  “We don’t,” fumed the doctor. “But look what’s happened! Where are we?”

  “I don’t know, Daddy. Maybe Sprockets can tell us. Shall we turn him on?”

  “You turn him on. I absolutely refuse to touch him.”

  CLICK!

  Sprockets came to life again as Jim turned his switch.

  “Where are we, Sprockets?” Jim asked.

  “One moment, please,” said Sprockets, blinking his eye lights and reaching for his cerebration button.

  The storm had passed. The evening sun was out, shining brightly. Around them great mountains rose, brown and jagged and spattered with green cactus.

  “According to my calculations,” Sprockets began, “we are one thousand, seven hundred and seventy-seven and approximately one-twelfth miles from home.”

  “And where does that put us?” growled the doctor.

  “North-northwest and a fraction north of Monteverde and the Rancho Diablo. The latter, sir, is three miles and a few yards down the valley.”

  “H’mp,” grunted the doctor, somewhat mollified. “H’mp. Then get our bags and let’s start walking.”

  They began walking toward the Rancho Diablo. Sprockets trotted behind, carrying their bags and squeaking with every step because of his dented leg. Twice he stopped to oil it, but still it squeaked. He felt very much ashamed, and unwanted besides. Maybe he had jinxed the trip by trying so hard to please the doctor. Now they had lost the helicopter, and instead of being able to fly to the purple saucer, they would have to climb through the mountains on foot.

  As they neared the big adobe ranch house, Don José Salazar saw them coming, and leaped upon his horse and galloped to meet them. He was a huge man with big sweeping mustachios, big limpid black eyes, a pair of very big pearl-handled pistols in his belt, and a pair of very expensive cameras slung over his shoulders.

  “Barnabas!” he roared in English. “Welcome! What happened? Where is the helicopter?”

  “Wrecked, José,” the doctor said grimly. “How far away is the saucer?”

  “Without the helicopter, we must journey maybe a night and a day. And we must start at once, pronto. Our luck, she is very bad! That no good hombre—”

  “Professor Katz?”

  “Sí, sí! That no-good Prof. Vladimir Katz! He is in Mexico. My scouts, they see him. He is climbing the mountain this moment to find that saucer. Come queek! There is no time to waste! I am all ready to go with pistols and cameras loaded.”

  5

  He Meets Professor Katz

  There was no time at all to waste if they would reach the purple saucer before Prof. Vladimir Katz got to it. According to Don José’s scouts, the purple saucer had fallen somewhere in a high valley in the mountains beyond the ranch. Prof. Vladimir Katz and his men had been seen struggling up a narrow mountain trail only an hour ago.

  “But I know a shorter trail,” said Don José. “We will take horses and get ahead of them to the high pass. Then we will leave the horses and go on the feet. The way, she is very deeficult.”

  Don José bellowed orders. Men ran. Horses were brought and saddled, and saddlebags packed.

  Sprockets tried valiantly to mount one of the horses, but even with Jim helping, he simply could not manage it.

  “The leetle mechanical one,” said Don José, “ha, he is not built right for the horse.”

  “Then we’d better leave him behind,” said the doctor. “We’ve had enough headaches with him already.”

  “Oh, please, Dad,” Jim begged. “There must be some way he can go. We’ll need Sprockets.”

  “Ah, maybe he fit the burro,” said
Don José.

  A little burro was quickly brought and saddled. Now Sprockets had no difficulty, for he fitted the burro perfectly. However, he had to turn on his balance button so he would not fall off.

  They started away at a fast gallop for the distant trail, Don José Salazar leading with cameras and knapsack flopping over his shoulders. Behind him came Dr. Bailey, Jim, and two of Don José’s scouts, who looked like Mexican bandits—which they probably were when they were not scouting.

  Far behind them all rode Sprockets on the burro. Try as he would, the little burro could not keep up with the galloping horses. Minute by minute the horses got farther and farther ahead, till at last they vanished in the distance.

  Sprockets was not worried. Easily he followed their hoofprints until dark. Then he turned on his radar vision and rode bravely on through the night. But up on the wild slope of the mountain, with huge rocks as big as houses everywhere around him, his radar vision did not help at all. He tried his night vision button, but that did not help either, because the horses’ hoofs had left no print on the hard rocks. So there was nothing he could do but make use of the very special button that controlled his ultraviolet perceptors.

  Now, his ultraviolet perceptor button was so very special that Sprockets was not supposed to touch it except in an ultraspecial emergency, and then for only a few seconds at a time. He did not know exactly what would happen, but he resolved to take no chances. He stopped the burro, clung tightly to the saddle with one hand, and quickly turned on the button with the other.

  Instantly he shone all over with a strange violet fire. Violet fires danced about his head and shot in blazing streaks from his eyes. He looked so much like a hot hobgoblin that the sight of him frightened a curious mountain lion almost out of its wits. Even the patient little burro was frightened for a moment, and Sprockets might have been thrown from the saddle if he hadn’t been clinging tightly and had his balance button on.

  “Wow!” Sprockets said fervently. “I didn’t know I had that in me!”

  Hurriedly he turned off the button that had caused such a commotion, and rode on, using only his night vision. His ultraviolet perceptors were so strong that they had showed him every hoofprint on the bare rock for as far as he could make out the trail, which he memorized instantly. It was midnight when he reached the spot where Don José Salazar and his party had left the horses and gone ahead on foot.

  Sprockets tied his burro to a bush near the horses, oiled his squeaky leg, and patiently began climbing through the narrow pass.

  With his balance button turned on, he was able to climb very easily, though squeakily, over places where ordinary humans had to pant and groan and spend much of their time resting. It is not surprising, therefore, that he caught up with the others just as the Moon came up over the mountain peaks. The Moon, which had been rising on the other side of the mountains, now shone upon them, round and full and bright.

  Jim and Dr. Bailey were so tired they could hardly groan. Don José Salazar was too angry to be tired. He had lost his pearl-handled pistols in a deep ravine. He had lost both his scouts, whom he suspected of being bandits. He had lost one of his precious cameras, and finally he had lost his way in the darkness.

  Now he was in the middle of losing his temper.

  “Peegs!” he roared. “Peegs and worms! Peegs, worms, and bandits!” He paused and then shouted, “If I ever catch those unspeakable, unmentionable, unhallowed, unholy, unnecessary, un—un—un—”

  “Sir,” said Sprockets. “Are you referring to your lost scouts?”

  “Shut up!” roared Don José. “Let me be unhappy in peace!”

  “Sir,” Sprockets pleaded. “I beg you to be unhappy quietly, or you will be heard.”

  “I want them to hear me!” Don José shouted. “What’s happened to the rascals?”

  “Sir,” said Sprockets. “They have been captured by Prof. Vladimir Katz and his men.”

  Dr. Bailey sat up. “Nonsense!” he said. “Utter, complete, positronic nonsense!”

  “Reedeeculous!” said Don José. “That Vladimir Katz, he is miles behind us on the other trail!”

  “Sirs,” said Sprockets, “I regret to inform you otherwise, but he is ahead of us. I can hear him with my superaudio hearing. By the sound, he is only seven hundred and sixty-nine feet away. He has captured your scouts, Don José, and now he is ordering his men to come and capture us.”

  “There’s something fishy about this,” said Dr. Bailey. “Sprockets, how can you understand what he’s saying to his men if you don’t know Spanish?”

  “Sir, he is not speaking Spanish. He grunts in low German when he speaks unspeakably, but he talks to his men in Zapotecan, with which I am familiar. I would deduce, sir, that his men are renegade Zapotec Indians.”

  “Well, bless me!” said the doctor. “Bless me!”

  “Sir,” Sprockets continued hastily. “I would suggest that we hide quickly, for they will soon be here. We have no weapons, and I believe they are armed to the teeth. They sound very bloodthirsty. There is some mention of slicing us in little pieces and feeding us to the mountain lions.”

  There was no time to search for a good hiding place. They crouched in the black shadows behind the rocks on the side of the trail. Now the only sounds in the stillness were the occasional rattling of falling pebbles, and a distinct ticking that came from Sprockets.

  “We’d better turn him off,” whispered the doctor. “They are bound to hear him tick, and he squeaks every time he moves.”

  “Oh, please—” Sprockets began, but that was as far as he got.

  CLICK!

  He was turned off. It was the last thing Sprockets wanted, for he had a plan—a beautiful plan—that would have saved them all. But now he couldn’t use it. He was helpless.

  The next few minutes were the worst Sprockets could remember in all his short life. He couldn’t turn his head or actually see anything, but he was vaguely aware of movement, of fierce Zapotec Indians armed with long, sharp machetes creeping stealthily down the trail toward them.

  The Zapotecs reached the rock where Sprockets was hiding. They stopped. There were hurried whispers among them. Then a guttural voice gave an order. The Indians moved soundlessly on.

  A minute passed. A cloud drifted over the Moon, and suddenly it was dark again on the mountain.

  Dr. Bailey whispered: “Here’s our chance! Let’s get away from here!”

  The doctor touched Sprockets’ switch that clicked him on, and started to leave. But Sprockets stopped him.

  “Wait!” he whispered. “They are coming back! Please don’t turn me off again. I have a plan.”

  Before the doctor could protest, Sprockets darted squeaking down the trail toward the approaching Indians.

  When he was a few yards away from them he paused, adjusted his voice button in a way he hoped would be proper for the occasion, then instantly turned on his ultraviolet perceptors.

  Again he glowed like a hot hobgoblin. Violet fires circled his head and shot in blazing streaks from his eyes. He raised his arm and pointed a fiery finger at the approaching Indians and Prof. Vladimir Katz.

  In a hollow voice—as dreadfully hollow as his button would allow in Zapotecan—Sprockets said: “Flee to your homes, Zapotecs! Flee for your lives! Have nothing to do with Vladimir Katz. He is a man of evil.”

  Five fierce Indians stopped in their tracks. They stared at him, utterly astounded. Their mouths dropped open, and their gleaming machetes dropped from their hands. Abruptly, without a sound, all five of them whirled and fled, leaping like mountain goats to get away from this fiery horror with the pointing finger.

  Only Prof. Vladimir Katz stood his ground. Or rather, he tried to stand his ground. He was a fuming, wheezing, waddling barrel of a man with no hair on his head, no neck under it, and a great many chins—possibly four or five. Being very learned in several ologies, he should have known better than to think of trying to stop five fierce Zapotecs with a sudden urge to go home. So, natura
lly, he was knocked sprawling, and might have rolled off the mountain if Don José Salazar had not pounced upon him and sat upon him hard.

  “Scoundrel!” roared Don José. “Peeg! Trespasser! Stealer of purple saucers—”

  “Let me go!” Professor Katz tried to roar back, though he could only wheeze. “I am a friend of the governor of Monteverde. When I tell him of this outrage—”

  “Fool!” said Don José, “I am the governor of Monteverde. You are in this country without the permit. For a brass peso I would have you put in the jail for life. Instead I will only fine you till your purse she is very thin. Then I will deport you to the worst place I can think of—if I can think of a worse place than Vladivostok or Sputnik-sky, which may take me years and years.”

  6

  He Finds the Saucer

  Sprockets was so tired when it was all over—or rather, his little atomic battery was so run down—that his eye lights practically went out, and all of a sudden he collapsed in the trail with a loud squeak and a tock.

  Jim rushed over to him. “Are—are you sick or something, Sprockets?”

  “I am deplorably depleted,” Sprockets answered in a very weak voice.

  “What’s ‘deplorably depleted’ mean?”

  Sprockets was always surprised that Jim, who was so smart, had trouble with so many words. “It’s my battery,” he answered faintly. “It’s dreadfully low from using my ultraviolet perceptors.”

  “If only we were home,” said Jim, “Mom could give you another hot shot.”

  “That would be wonderful,” Sprockets whispered, tingling at the thought. “But I will fully recharge myself if I lie here six hours, fifty-seven minutes, and twelve seconds. Please let nothing disturb me.”

  “Just one question,” Don José interrupted, his mustachios quivering in his eagerness. “Has the leetle mechanical one any way of knowing where the purple saucer is?”

  Even Professor Katz, securely bound, and just as securely gagged—so no one would have to listen to him speak unspeakably in low German—pricked up his thick ears at the question.