Bolts

by Alexander Key

  “Bad business!” squawked Pirate as the truck driver put the box on the ground and Bingo signed for it. “Very bad business! Something’s wrong! Something’s wrong!”

  “Pipe down!” ordered the commander. “There’s nothing wrong about Bolts’s being crated. Butch, take him into the shop. We can’t unpack him out here.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” the big robot said uneasily, for Pirate had a perfectly awful instinct that was nearly always right. As he picked up the box and carried it into the workshop, he hoped that Bolts would be everything that Bingo wanted him to be. No one needed a dog more than Bingo Brown—but it had to be a very special robot dog, and not a real one. A real one simply wouldn’t do, especially for space traveling.

  “I hope his growl is just right,” Bingo said anxiously, hurrying to bring tools. His mass of red hair seemed to be aflame with excitement, but his eyes behind his huge horn-rimmed glasses were suddenly worried.

  “Aw, he’ll have a howling horror of a growl—and teeth to go with it,” Big Butch assured him. “Don’t pay any attention to that crazy bird.”

  “I’m not a crazy bird!” Pirate cried angrily. “I’m older than Bilgewater, and twice as wise. And I know what’s what.”

  Commander Brown glared at his parrot. “Do you want to be court-martialed?” he said severely. “My name is Bridgewater—not Bilgewater. Only my worst friends call me that. Hurry up, Butch—open that box!”

  “Aye, aye, sir. One moment, sir. You forget, sir, that I’m not allowed to do shopwork in this uniform.”

  Quickly, Big Butch took off his kitchen apron and his chef’s cap, and drew on a leather shop apron and a blue cap with crossed anchors. Properly attired, he reached for the tools and very carefully pried open the cover of the box.

  The thing inside that should have been Bolts was covered with heavy wrapping paper. Bingo’s eager hands tore the wrapping aside. He stared.

  Everyone stared.

  “I told you so!” cackled Pirate, flapping his wings. “I told you so! I told you so!”

  “Aw, button your beak!” Big Butch told him out of the side of his mouth. “You old crow! You oughta be plucked and boiled for the cat.” He peered again into the box. “I declare,” he muttered, “isn’t this the Super-Thought Machine we designed for the Navy?”

  “I’ll be scuttled and sunk!” the commander burst out. “It is our Super-Thought Machine. But what’s it doing here?”

  “Mix-up! Mix-up! Mix-up!” Pirate squawked.

  “Oh, my goodness,” muttered Bingo, looking sick, “I’ll bet Pirate’s right. They must have packed Bolts in a box just like this, and got the boxes mixed. That means Bolts is on his way to the Navy instead of here!”

  Fuming and wheezing, the commander waddled to the phone and called the robot factory. His round face grew red as he talked. Suddenly the single hair on top of his shiny head began to tremble. “What?” he bellowed suddenly. “Oh, this is terrible!”

  “W-what’s happened, Pops?” Bingo asked worriedly, as his grandfather slammed down the receiver.

  “Son,” Commander Brown said grimly, “Bolts has been abducted.”

  “Oh, no!” Bingo looked sicker than ever. “B-but how—why—who—”

  “Skulduggery! Skulduggery!” squawked Pirate. “Foreign agents! Spies!”

  “Yes,” said the commander. “It’s obvious that the persons who did it believed they were stealing the Super-Thought Machine. They held up the truck, loaded the box on another truck, and carried it to a plane. But that’s all anyone knows. It was a strange, fast plane, and now it’s vanished without a trace.”

  “This is awful,” Big Butch said miserably. “Poor Bolts! If foreign agents have stolen him, we may never get to see him.”

  “Don’t talk like that,” Bingo pleaded. “He’s my dog, and I’m going to find him!”

  The commander shook his head. “I don’t see how, son. He was stolen hours and hours ago. By this time he could be in Europe or down in South America.”

  “But—but there must be something we can do,” Bingo persisted.

  For a while everyone was silent, trying desperately to think of an idea. Even Claws, the cat, seemed very much concerned, for he kept twitching his whiskers and scratching his head. But unfortunately Claws, if he had a thought, could only make purry noises that no one understood, unless it was Pirate.

  Suddenly Bingo looked at the parrot. “Snap out of it, Pirate, and give us some help. What’s Bolts doing now?”

  “Running from trouble,” squawked Pirate. “Running from trouble.”

  “Why,” said Bingo, “he’d have to be turned on if he’s running—and if he’s running from trouble, that means he’s escaped! There’s a chance we can get in touch with him by radio. Oh, if only we knew where he was!”

  At that moment, Bolts, hundreds and hundreds of miles away, was wondering the same thing.

  As he dashed out into the strange and starry night, he heard a confusion of voices all around him, most of them in a language that certainly wasn’t English. Great jumping dingbats, he thought. I must be in a foreign country! How’m I ever gonna get out of it and reach Battleship Lane?

  But there wasn’t time to worry about that. Comrade Pang and his big stick were only three leaps behind him—and ahead, appearing from every direction, were jabbering men with dark ugly faces. They were trying to head him off.

  Bolts dodged to the left, wishing he had longer legs and more experience in using them. Being fresh off the assembly line made it twice as rough, for it wasn’t at all easy to keep his balance and cover distance in a hurry. Once he took a tumble, going heels right over head. But in an instant he was up, dodging again as men came leaping into his path.

  Suddenly he saw a stone wall looming in front of him. He looked frantically for an opening through it, but there was none. He whirled, and found himself facing a line of jabbering figures.

  He was cornered.

  What was a poor dog to do if he wanted to save his tin hide?

  Just in the nick of time Bolts remembered that he not only had teeth to be proud of, but a special Number Three growl that would put his frightful Number Two to shame. It was supposed to be used only outdoors, where it wouldn’t shatter windows, and only in an emergency of the most desperate kind.

  Well, this did seem like an emergency, and a pretty desperate one at that. In a flash he opened his mouth, snapped out his terrible teeth, raised the steel hackles on his neck, and loosened his unspeakable Number Three. Then he charged.

  Ninety-seven lions, all tied in a bundle and tearing each other to bits, couldn’t have sounded worse. Afterward even Bolts didn’t like to think about that Number Three growl. It did such awful things to his circuits that there was no pleasure at all in seeing his enemies drop like quivering lumps of jelly, with their blood turned to water. Anyway, escaping was no problem. Bolts kept moving, fast, and not a soul tried to stop him.

  He whipped past a row of huts along the edge of a village, wiggled through a fence, and tore lickety-split down a rocky gully that led out into open country. Not until the village was far behind did he pause and look around. There was no sign of pursuit.

  Now what should he do?

  The best course, he figured, was simply to follow his nose. If he had patience, and followed his nose long enough, he was bound to end up in Battleship Lane. With such a sniffer as his, he didn’t see how he could miss it.

  Bolts turned slowly about, rotating his sniffer. He sifted through a few dozen interesting smells, chose the most exciting one, and began trotting hopefully in the direction of it. In a few minutes he came to a narrow trail that seemed to be used only by animals with hooves. His sniffer told him it was a trail well worth following, so he took it.

  “What lonesome country!” he said aloud, just to keep himself company. “Sure hope I don’t have to go through much of this to reach Battleship Lane.”

  It was really quite dreadful country, all covered with stones and patches of cactus. In the brigh
t starlight he could see it stretching away for a great distance. His sharp eyes could make out only one living thing in sight—it was some sort of smallish hooved critter ahead on the trail. Bolts barked at it by way of greeting, but the sound only frightened the hooved critter and it started to run.

  “Hey, what’s the big rush?” Bolts called to it. “Nobody’s gonna bite you.”

  The hooved critter stopped. It turned and stared back at him curiously. Bolts trotted up to it, sniffing. Suddenly the hooved critter—it looked like a small donkey—twitched its big ears and said loudly, “Hee-haw! Ha! Ha! Hee-haw!”

  “Hee-haw yourself!” Bolts snapped. “I don’t claim to be no prize beauty—but do you have to laugh at a feller?”

  “I’m not laughing,” retorted the critter. “That’s only my way of saying hello.”

  “Say, you’re talking!” Bolts exclaimed. “I didn’t know a real critter could talk!”

  “I’m not talking,” the critter told him. “I think you’re just hearing what I’d say if I could talk.”

  “Ump!” muttered Bolts, puzzled. “Something’s mighty queer here.”

  “It can’t be me. I’m only an ordinary burro, and on the smallish side—but I’ve got common sense. It has to be you. You’re queer-looking, and you even talk a queer language—but somehow I know what you say. Must be something in your head that does it. What are you, anyway?”

  “Tin dawg,” said Bolts, wondering about his head. “Nothing wrong with me—except that I sorta got shortchanged here and there. Now, don’t misunderstand me. I’m no stupe—just kinda shy on knowledge, is all. Factory had to trim my brain to make it fit.”

  “Maybe it’s your trimmed brain that does it,” the burro suggested. “Doesn’t it feel sensitive around the edges?”

  “Yup, it sure does.” Bolts blinked his eye lights in sudden understanding. “By Joe, that’s the answer! It’s all those exposed circuit ends. Well! Well! It’s really a comfort to be able to yak a bit with a guy like you. Where you heading?”

  “Anyplace but where I was!” The little burro glanced back nervously in the direction of the village. “Didn’t you hear the racket? Scared me so I jumped clean out of the corral, which is practically impossible. But when you hear something like ninety-seven mountain lions—”

  “Oh, that was me,” Bolts admitted. “Me an’ my Number Three growl. I had to use it to escape.” He explained what had happened. “Sorry I shivered you so—but I mighty near shivered myself. That Number Three is rough!”

  “It’s murder. Don’t—ever—use—it—near—me—again.”

  “Won’t,” Bolts promised. “That is, if you’ll keep me company for a spell. Looks mighty lonesome out here.”

  “Suits me, brother. Now that I’m out of that corral, I wouldn’t go back if they paved it with oats. Any master’s better than Lumpy Lopez—except Comrade Pang and that hairy major. He’s afraid to shave because he might be recognized. He’s wanted everywhere.”

  “Wouldn’t trust none of ’em with a lead penny. What are they, anyway?”

  “Bandits, thieves, spies, foreign agents, conniving cutthroats—you name it, and they’re it. If one’s any worse than the other, their own mothers wouldn’t know it. I’ve heard they’re all in the pay of the Mongolians, which I fear is very bad.”

  “We’d better get going,” said Bolts. “They’re liable to come after me in spite of my growl. I’m valuable, you know.”

  “You sure don’t look it.”

  “Never judge a book by its cover,” Bolts quoted as they began to trot along the trail. “There’s a possibility, my friend, that I’m a Super-Thought Machine. At least, that’s what they think I am.”

  “What would that be?” asked the burro.

  “How would I know?”

  “If you’re a Super-Thought Machine, you’d know it. I haven’t heard a super thought out of you yet.”

  “Well, that does make sense,” Bolts admitted. “Anyway, I’d rather be what I am instead of something I ain’t. Do you know where Battleship Lane is?”

  “Never heard of it. What is it?”

  “Home,” said Bolts. “I got folks there. I’m surprised you don’t know about it. It’s bound to be a well-known place. Hey, stop a minute—I hear dawgs behind us.”

  They stopped and listened.

  “Those are lion dogs,” the burro said uneasily. “They belong to Lumpy. Sounds as if they’re after us.”

  “What kind of critter is a lion dawg?”

  “Big, tough, and ugly—and they’re the only things I know that wouldn’t be afraid of your growl. Lumpy uses them to hunt mountain lions when he isn’t out cutting throats. Brother, we’d better really move!”

  Bolts and the burro began to race down the trail.

  3

  He Tangles with Trouble

  While Bolts and the burro were running for their lives Bingo and Commander Brown were pacing worriedly around the workshop, trying to plan what to do. Because of the trouble over Bolts, Big Butch was unusually late with dinner tonight, and the commander was fit to be tied. He couldn’t think without food, yet some very quick and right-on-the-ball thinking had to be done.

  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 ve
ry 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.”