Operation Sherlock

by Bruce Coville

  Operation Sherlock

  The A.I. Gang, Book One

  Bruce Coville

  Contents

  Messages and Secrets

  “Let’s Blow This Popsicle Stand”

  Gamma Ball

  “Cogito, Ergo Sum”

  Security Measures

  Bugged!

  Brainstorm

  Collision Course

  Hap

  Trespassers

  Power Play

  Remov and Mercury

  The Mad Messenger

  Explanations = More Mysteries!

  A Visit to Dr. Hwa

  The Bomb

  Death Trap

  Descent into Doom

  The Fanatic

  Into the Computer

  An Apology, and a Secret

  Epilogue

  Preview: Robot Trouble

  A Personal History by Bruce Coville

  Messages and Secrets

  Wendy Wendell jumped over the pile of dirty laundry that blocked her doorway—not easy, given the size of the pile and the shortness of her legs—and tore down the hall of her California home. Skidding to a stop in front of the computer room, she groaned at the sight of the flashing red light on her parents’ Synermax 2020.

  When she had first heard the beeper that signaled the arrival of some e-mail, Wendy had been sure it would be for her. After all, she had been expecting to hear from that miniatures specialist in Tokyo for days now. But her own computer was sitting quiet and lifeless while the Synermax blinked merrily away. With a sigh she stepped into the room and punched a command into the computer’s keyboard. Her parents usually appreciated it when she printed out the mail.

  To her surprise, the Synermax began to beep urgently. A message heading appeared on the console:

  TO: Dr. Watson and Dr. Wendell

  DATE: June 16

  CLASSIFICATION: “TOP SECRET: FOR YOUR EYES ONLY”

 

  Wendy shrugged. As two of the top computer scientists in the country, her parents were always getting this kind of mail. She pushed up the sleeves of her sweatshirt (actually it was her father’s, all her own being, as usual, dirty) and typed in a short code.

  The Synermax let out an earsplitting shriek, then fell silent. The screen went blank for a moment, then displayed a message written in large red letters:

  MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS, DAUGHTER DEAREST!

  “Chips!” said Wendy. “Mom changed the code on me again.”

  Brushing aside a strand of blond hair that had escaped from its pigtail, she went to her own computer and called up a program she had written three months earlier. Then she stretched a cord between the two machines.

  “Take that, silicon brain!” she said smugly.

  With the program running, she headed back to her own room, figuring that in about fifteen minutes her machine—operating on a number-pattern matching approach—would find the code to unlock the secret message.

  It turned out to be closer to twenty. And when the beeper finally did summon her, she was annoyed because she had gotten involved in another project. Dropping her tools, she shoved the head back on the doll she had been wiring, then scurried down the hall to fetch the printout.

  Her annoyance turned to amazement as she read the message. “This,” she whispered, “is absolutely plasmodic!”

  A day later and three thousand miles away, Ray Gammand sat scowling in the center of his parents’ elegant New York City apartment. He was perched on his basketball—his favorite position for thinking.

  Only he wasn’t thinking now; he was wishing.

  His current wish was that adults wouldn’t act so silly. This new apartment was a dream come true. But what good would it be if his parents were going to start fighting?

  After a moment the Gamma Ray (as his few close friends called him) scrambled to his feet. “Utmost importance!” he said bitterly, repeating one of the phrases he had managed to overhear during last night’s argument. “Top secret!” he muttered, crossing to the window. “Chance of a lifetime!” He pressed his face against the glass and looked glumly out over the New York skyline.

  What was going on here?

  He was itching to get his hands on the mysterious piece of e-mail that had arrived late yesterday afternoon. He was sure it was what had started the whole argument. But his father had stuffed the printout into his lab coat pocket, and it had remained there ever since.

  It wouldn’t be so bad if the fight had simply blown over, as Gammand disagreements usually did. But at breakfast this morning his father—usually cheerful to the point of being silly—had been so quiet Ray would have thought he was sick if the angry glances shooting back and forth across the table had not told him otherwise.

  Now it was Ray who felt sick. Though his father had remarried two years ago, it was only in the last month or so that Ray had begun to feel comfortable, even happy, with Elinor, his new stepmother. He didn’t think he could stand it if things suddenly went sour again.

  And then there was this new apartment, such a step up from their last place. And—

  His thoughts were interrupted by the chime that signaled someone wanted to come up to the apartment. Ray turned to go answer it, tripped over his basketball, and tumbled to the floor. His thick glasses flew off his face and landed in the plush carpet. This was a mixed blessing: The glasses landed without breaking, but so silently he had no idea where they were.

  He began groping ahead of him, moving carefully so he wouldn’t accidentally crush them. Not that there weren’t times that he wanted to do just that. Sometimes he thought he was the only person in the world who still wore the darn things. The eye doctor had promised that they would be able to correct his vision with laser surgery—” But not until you’ve finished growing.”

  As if he had done any of that in the last few years. Short and nearsighted, he thought disgustedly. What a combination for someone who wants to be a basketball star!

  He continued his search in complete silence. He wanted no help, and he wanted no one to see him.

  The chime sounded again. He heard his father, his voice oddly gruff, answer on the extension in the office where he and Elinor had been conferring all day. A loud buzzing sound followed, indicating that the visitor had been okayed.

  Ray cursed to himself. His father and Elinor had asked not to be interrupted. They were counting on him to handle such minor annoyances, and he had goofed up—as usual. His hands closed over something smooth and cool.

  “Gotcha!” he whispered. He slipped the stems of the glasses back over his ears, and the room shimmered into focus. He headed for the door. The visitor should be on the elevator by this time. Ray began counting. Allowing for one stop on the way up and fifteen seconds to walk down the hallway, the visitor should be here just about…

  “Now!” Ray said softly to himself as he swung open the door. He smiled. He might be clumsy, but his timing was fantastic.

  The guest, about to knock, looked startled. However, he recovered quickly. “You must be Raymond,” he said with a smile. “I am Dr. Hwa.”

  Ray looked the man over carefully and decided he liked him. Actually, he seemed slightly familiar. With a shock Ray realized it was because meeting him was a little like glancing in a mirror. Like Ray, Dr. Hwa was short and had close-cropped dark hair. However, that was where the resemblance ended. For one thing, Ray would rather die than be caught wearing the kind of carefully tailored gray silk suit Dr. Hwa had on.

  For another thing, while Ray was half African, half Irish, Dr. Hwa was clearly Asian.

  But the major difference, one Ray sensed immediately, was marked by the doctor’s open, sunny smile and twinkling eyes. Ray himself had never been comfortable with people and found making fr
iends a painful process. Dr. Hwa, he could tell, was just the opposite.

  “Very pleased to meet you, Raymond,” said the doctor, extending a carefully manicured hand.

  As Ray took it he couldn’t help but notice the man’s ring—a thick gold band topped by an enormous ruby that seemed to glitter with a fire of its own.

  He barely had a chance to tighten his grip on Hwa’s hand before a shadow loomed over them. Dr. Hwa looked up and smiled. “Ah, Dr. Gammand! I hope I’m not too early?”

  “Not at all,” replied Ray’s father cheerfully. “You’re right on time.”

  “I try to be punctual,” said Dr. Hwa to Ray, almost as if it were a secret between the two of them. He added a conspiratorial wink and then was gone, whisked away by Dr. Gammand.

  Ray watched them go, amused by the contrast between his dark-skinned father, who was close to seven feet tall, and the diminutive Dr. Hwa.

  Elinor Gammand joined the two men in the hallway. Then all three adults entered the soundproof computer room.

  “What’s going on here?” bellowed Ray, knowing that no one could hear him. “Who is this Hwa?” The sound of the words struck him, and he began to play with them. “Who Hwa?” he repeated with a smile. “Why Hwa? Who, what, why… and Hwa?”

  Then it hit him; he knew why the little man looked so familiar.

  Gamma Ray Gammand let out a low whistle. “Holy mackerel,” he whispered. “I knew Dad was good, but I didn’t know he was that good.”

  He sat down on his basketball to think.

  Tripton Duncan Delmar Davis scooped up the enormous orange cat that had positioned itself at the top of the stairs. “Well, Lunkhead,” he said affectionately, “let’s go see what the ’rents want this time.”

  He ambled down the curving stairway of the stately old Philadelphia home, straightening one of his father’s paintings as he went. When he reached the bottom, he congratulated himself on only stumbling once. Ever since his body had suddenly shot up past six feet, his nickname—“Trip”—seemed to have taken on a new significance. It seemed like he was never sure exactly where his arms and legs were going.

  Managing to step out of the path of a vacuum cleaner that was rolling itself back and forth across the expensive living room rug, he made his way to the sunroom.

  His parents were sitting at the glass-topped breakfast table, drinking coffee.

  “Good morning, Tripton,” said his mother.

  Trip winced. His full name had never been one of his favorite things. Most of his friends called him “3D,” which annoyed his mother almost beyond endurance. His parents usually just called him Trip. His mother’s use of “Tripton” meant this was going to be a heavy discussion.

  “Morning,” said Trip, taking his place at the table.

  Lunkhead settled into his lap and began purring loudly.

  For a moment no one said anything. Trip glanced at his father, then back at his mother. What’s going on here? he wondered. Then, with a sudden flash of panic, Are they going to tell me that they’re getting a divorce?

  He beat down the thought. That can’t be it. It has to have something to do with that piece of e-mail that came for Mom the other day. The two of them have been jumpy as cats on a freeway ever since she got it.

  He looked up and gave his parents a sunny smile; he had learned long ago it was the best way to get them to talk when they were nervous about telling him something.

  Elevard Crompton Davis drummed his long, paint-stained fingers on the table and smiled back at his son. His wife, Dr. Millicent Davis, sat with her hands cupped together, as if guarding some precious secret.

  Since the smile didn’t do the trick, Trip decided to give them a little shove. “Does this have anything to do with that Dr. Hwa who was here yesterday?” he asked innocently.

  His mother looked startled. His father’s dreamy eyes opened a fraction of an inch, which was his way of looking startled.

  “Why, yes—yes, it does,” stammered his mother. She looked to her husband. “Cromp?”

  Mr. Davis reached out and put his hand over his wife’s. He nodded to her encouragingly.

  Dr. Davis took a deep breath. She glanced around, as if looking for someplace to hide. Her eyes darted over the room, from her own priceless antiques to Trip’s rare tropical fish to her husband’s award-winning paintings, and finally returned to her son. “Trip,” she said softly. “I have to ask you to promise me something.”

  Trip ran a long-fingered hand over his close-cropped brown hair. Now she was making him nervous. “Okay,” he said. “Shoot.”

  “Silence.”

  He raised a pale, questioning eyebrow.

  “I have to have your promise of silence.”

  Trip shrugged. “I can keep my mouth shut.”

  Dr. Davis nodded. “Good. Because you can’t tell anyone about what we’re going to be doing.”

  “What are we doing?” asked Trip.

  “Leaving,” said his father.

  A chill tingled down Trip’s back. “Where are we going?”

  His parents locked eyes for a moment.

  “We don’t know yet,” whispered his mother.

  Rachel Phillips folded up the small instrument she had been looking through and nodded in satisfaction. It had been three weeks since the mysterious visit from Dr. Hwa had disrupted their lives so thoroughly, and at last she knew their destination. Dropping the tool into her pocket, she nudged her twin brother, Roger. The government plane they were riding in touched down with a slight bump. “The South Pacific,” she said confidently. “Somewhere east of Australia.”

  Roger shook his head. “Can’t hear you,” he said, pulling a plug out of his ear. The strains of Beethoven’s magnificent Ninth Symphony drifted out until he twisted the end of the plug. It fell silent, and he dropped it into his pocket. “What were you saying?”

  “We’re in the South Pacific,” repeated Rachel as the plane taxied down the runway.

  Roger shrugged. “So what’s the news? I was watching the stars, too. This whole thing about landing at night so we won’t know where we are seems pretty silly to me. It’s easier to figure it out then. I’m not sure Dr. Hwa’s as bright as Dad thinks he is!”

  Rachel tugged at her braid, a length of hair so red it seemed to be on fire. “I think this whole thing is pretty fishy,” she whispered.

  Roger nodded, then shoved back a lock of red hair that had fallen across his own eyes. Their father often said that if nothing else had marked them as twins, the hair would have done it. People had trouble believing one such head of hair could exist. Two of them had to mean twins!

  “I wish Dad wasn’t being so mysterious about the whole thing. You’d think we were blabbermouths or something.”

  “That bothered me for a while,” admitted Rachel. “But you’ve got to remember how everyone at Harvard was always wondering what he was going to come up with next. Like that graduate assistant who tried to make friends with us so he could get a jump on Dad’s research?”

  “That twit?” asked Roger with a wave of his hand. “I knew what he was up to from the beginning.”

  “Are you two ready?”

  Their father, Dr. Anthony Phillips, had been riding a few seats ahead of them, next to Dr. Hwa. Looking up, Roger was disappointed to see that the mysterious scientist was already on his way out the door. He had wanted to corner him for a brief talk.

  “As ready as we’ll ever be,” said Rachel glumly.

  “Come on, Rach,” said Dr. Phillips. “It’s not the end of the world.”

  “No, just the end of our lives,” said Roger. “Who wants to leave Cambridge for some deserted island in the South Pacific?”

  Dr. Phillips’s eyes widened, and he looked at his son nervously. “How did you know where we are?”

  “Come on, Dad, give us some credit,” said Rachel. “We’re not your kids for nothing.”

  Dr. Phillips ran a hand through his thinning auburn hair. “Okay, I can guess how you figured out the location�
�actually I expected you to do that, if not quite this quickly. But how did you know the island is deserted?”

  “Well, if it wasn’t, what would be the point of keeping it secret?” asked Roger. “We’d have figured out where we were as soon as we got here anyway.”

  Dr. Phillips smiled. “You have a good deductive mind, son, but you’re still too quick to jump to conclusions. Or sometimes you come to the right conclusion for the wrong reasons—which can be just as confusing in the long run. The point wasn’t to keep you from figuring it out. It was to keep anyone else from knowing before we got here. Besides, the place isn’t totally deserted. It used to be an Air Force base, and some of the staff has been kept on for this project.”

  Rachel began to giggle.

  “What’s so funny?” asked Dr. Phillips.

  “You!” said his daughter. “One of the reasons Roger jumps to conclusions is he knows you can’t resist correcting him. It’s a great way to find things out.”

  Dr. Phillips blushed.

  “There goes my secret method!” complained Roger.

  “Oh, don’t worry,” said Rachel. “Dad can’t help himself.”

  Anthony Phillips looked at his children and wondered, not for the first time, how he would survive the six years left until they were eighteen, and old enough to leave home. “All right, you two,” he said at last. “Let’s get moving.”

  Reaching above their heads, he hauled down the bags the two of them had brought to carry their most necessary or most beloved items. Then he grabbed his own satchel and headed for the door. The twins followed at his heels.

  “Ouch!” said a voice as Roger accidentally banged one of his cases against a seat. The voice came from inside the case.

  Rachel rolled her eyes.

  “Hey!” yelled the voice. “Who turned out the lights? Somebody, turn on the lights!”

  “Roger,” sighed Dr. Phillips, “will you please turn him off?”

  Roger slapped the side of the case. “Shut up!” he said fiercely.

  “Rats!” muttered the voice. “I hate it when you make me go to sleep!”

  “Let’s Blow This Popsicle Stand”

  Wendy Wendell was snoring in her new bed when the pale morning light began to filter through her window. After a few moments the sunrays struck the face of a large doll that sat on the shelf opposite her bed.