“But what about Project Maddie?” asks Dad. “Don’t you need to work on that tomorrow?”
“It’s done. Finished.”
Dad actually smiles. “You figured it out? Congratulations! We should celebrate.”
Mom shakes her head. “No need to bake a cake, Noah. I failed. So, tomorrow I’m going to go back to doing what I actually know how to do. I’m going to teach my classes at Notre Dame. And then I’m going to fix and repair every single robot in this house so they don’t all turn into complete failures, too.”
“You’re not a complete failure, Mom,” I say, kind of softly. “You just made a mistake.”
“Correct, Sammy. Unfortunately, it was the biggest mistake of my life.” She heads for the stairs. “Now for the worst part. I have to go upstairs and tell Maddie.”
Wow.
Remember when I was kind of jealous because Mom was spending so much time working on her project for Maddie instead of helping me and Trip come up with something super cool for the science fair?
Now I kind of wish she were still in her lab, working on her science project.
I wish I could help her make it not be a mistake anymore.
Monday after school, Trip comes home with E and me so we can work on our science project.
I’m super excited because I had a breakthrough idea in gym class.
Plus, since Mom’s project to help Maddie turned out to be a total bust, the one Trip and I are working on is even more important.
“Why are lockers square?” I ask when we lean our bikes up against the garage door. “So they can handle the impact of people banging into them all day, every day. You never see a round locker because a square can handle the hits better.”
“Actually,” says E, “most lockers are rectangular in shape.”
“Well,” says Trip, “a square is sort of a rectangle.”
“Indeed,” says E. “All shapes with four sides are considered rectangles. Therefore, a square is also a rectangle.”
“I’m actually more interested in a cube,” I say, breaking up E and Trip’s great geometrical shape debate. “One made out of super tough, unbreakable plastic!”
I might be able to help Maddie after all!
“Doing a quick internal internet search,” says E, “I have found some polycarbonate plastic drinkware that claims to be ‘unbreakable.’”
“We need an unbreakable, poly-whatcha-callit-nate plastic box,” I say. “Big enough to hold the walker ball!”
“Are you thinking what I think you’re thinking?” asks Trip.
“Depends on what you think I’m thinking.”
“Well, here it is: the last time we tried the walker ball, Lena Elizabeth Cahill’s table leg burst our bubble and then McFetch chewed right through it. But if we put the rubbery bubble inside a hard plastic box, it’ll be protected from punctures.”
“But,” says E, “if I may offer some constructive criticism, boxes don’t roll like balls.”
“True,” I say. “But if you push them hard enough, you can tip them over and flop them forward! What if, instead of pushing the outside of the box, we push it from the inside?”
“It might work!” says Trip.
“No,” says E. “It will not.”
He sounds so certain.
But I am the son of a scientist. I need to push the outer edge of the envelope, or in this case the inner edge of the box. I need to boldly go where no one has gone before.
I also need to come up with a halfway decent science project idea before the big science fair or I may bring home something worse than that big fat fifty-two I scored in Spanish.
You know, E, ‘It won’t work’ is what they told the Wright brothers and Thomas Edison,” I say.
“And they were, occasionally, correct,” says E. “For instance, Thomas Edison once invented a device he called the electric pen. Driven by a small, battery-powered motor, it featured a needle that punched tiny holes through paper to create a stencil. It was a colossal failure.”
“Well, we won’t know if my idea is a ‘colossal failure’ until we try it.”
“Very well,” says E. “I’m all for the employment of the scientific method to prove, or in this case disprove, theories.”
“Good,” I say. “We’ll put McFetch inside a clear beach ball. We’ll seal it up with duct tape, inflate it, and then put the beach ball inside one of the clear plastic bins Mom uses to store spare parts.”
“Very well,” says E. “As a robot, I am here to be of service.”
“Me too,” says Trip. “Even though I’m not a robot. At least I don’t think I am…”
We run around the house and gather up all the gear we need.
“The robots are behaving better,” Maddie tells us when we dash into her room. “Mom spent all afternoon working with them.”
“Great,” I say, scooping up McFetch.
“Um, Sammy? What are you guys doing with that beach ball, plastic box, duct tape, and my dog?”
“A science experiment!” I tell her.
Maddie pouts a little. “Is it going to end up like Mom’s? Because hers didn’t work out so well.”
E pipes up: “Unfortunately, Maddie, I suspect that this experiment, no matter how noble its intentions, will also prove to be a failure, disappointment, and flop.”
“Well, we don’t think that way,” says Trip.
“We have to try,” I add.
“I am a robot,” says E with what sounds like a sigh. “I am built to serve.”
I slap E on the back. “So, let’s do this thing!”
We set up our experiment in the driveway.
McFetch scoots into the clear beach ball through a slit in the side. We seal it up and inflate it. The beach ball goes into the shatter-resistant plastic box.
Mom comes out to observe.
“What’s up, you guys?” she asks.
“Well,” I say, “in our attempt to make a walker ball that’s both shatterproof and punctureproof—an invention that would give Maddie all sorts of new freedom and mobility—we’re putting our soft round object inside this hard square object.”
“Because it’s a rectangle,” blurts Trip. “And rectangles are strong!”
“Actually, spheres are stronger,” says Mom, “but proceed.”
“I agree,” says our nosy neighbor Randolph R. Reich, as he struts up our driveway. “Proceed. I can’t wait to see what mistake you two make this time!”
“Who are you?” asks Mom.
“That’s Randolph R. Reich,” says E. “I have his most recent selfie in my database as the visual image for the words smug, snobbish, vain, conceited, and arrogant.”
“Because he is,” says Trip. “All those things.”
Reich just laughs. “For your information, Dr. Hayes—if you really are a doctor—I live down the block. Your so-called autonomous automobile nearly crashed into our living room, remember?”
“Aha!” says Mom, pointing a finger to the sky. “Nearly being the operative word. As in, ‘almost but not quite.’ Soovee’s artificial intelligence corrected the course trajectory before it did any damage.”
R.R.R. blows mom a lip fart. “Whatever. Kindly initiate your demonstration, Sammy and Trip. I need a good laugh.”
“Ignore him, boys,” says Mom. “It’s what I do to all my critics.”
“Thanks, Mom. Okay, E? Toss the ball!”
“Will do!” says E. He pulls back his arm and hurls McFetch’s favorite ball into the yard.
I hold my breath.
Will I finally be right about something?
McFetch barks once and takes off after his ball.
His walker ball rolls forward and bounces into the side of the box.
Then it bounces back.
McFetch yaps and tries again. Legs spinning, he runs harder.
And bounces off the front wall of the box harder.
In case you were wondering, that’s not what we hoped would happen.
So much for science su
perheroes.
Randolph R. Reich is shaking his head. “I pity you, Samuel. Truly I do.”
He walks away. I think he’s giggling.
“I thought the bubble in a box idea was a good one,” I mumble.
“What was your hypothesis?” asks Mom, sounding super scientific.
“Well,” I say, “we thought the box would topple over when the ball hit the inside wall of the box.”
“Actually, Sammy thought it would do that,” says Trip, sort of turning traitor on me again. “E and I told him it wouldn’t work.”
“I don’t remember you saying that, Trip,” says E, arching an eyebrow.
“Well, um, I do!” says Trip.
“Ah,” says E, “but I have a petabyte of memory at my disposal, and…”
“It doesn’t matter who said what when,” I tell E and Trip because I’m ready to admit defeat. “We tried. We failed.”
“Yeah,” says Trip. “We definitely did. I’d give us an F.”
“Me too.”
“It was a good effort,” says E. “Onward and upward.”
Trip and I shake hands and he starts for home.
I take the inflatable bubble out of the box. “Wait a minute,” I say, looking at it closely. Trip stops and turns back. “The idea could work if we made the bubble ball out of the same material as the box.”
“What do you mean, Sammy?” asks Mom. Trip and E look just as confused.
“I think if the ball was connected to the box, it would work. I mean, they would be attached, because they’d be made of the same stuff—the same plastic. So when McFetch rolls the ball, the box would have to roll along with it.”
All of a sudden, Mom gets this incredible smile on her face.
“You’re right. It’s that simple.”
I can tell: Mom may not be in her lab, but she is definitely back in the zone, working on Project Maddie. She also has a very happy “Eureka, I have found it!” look in her eyes.
“Sammy, I love you!” Mom gushes, squeezing me in a big hug and kissing the top of my head with a loud MWAH!
“I love you, too, Mom.” I nod toward Trip. “But can we lay off the mushy stuff here in public?”
“Of course, of course.” She unhugs me.
“Thanks, Mom. Appreciate it.”
“Sammy? I have an idea. How about you, me, and E all work on the same science project—together?”
“That’s cheating!” says Reich, who didn’t actually go home. He pops up from behind the bushes at the edge of our driveway. “Parents can’t help!”
“They can if it will make my daughter’s life more wonderful!” Mom sort of yells this at Reich, so I sort of love it. “Go home, Randolph R. Reich, before I call your mother. Practice tying your bow ties. Sammy, E, and I have work to do.”
“You mean you have more mistakes to make!” Reich shouts back.
“Maybe,” Mom hollers down the driveway. “But do you know what incredible inventions were created thanks to mistakes? Penicillin! The pacemaker! X-rays! Microwave ovens! The Slinky! Cornflakes! Potato chips!”
“I’m going to tell the teacher!” Randolph screams. “You’ll be disqualified. You’re cheaters!”
“We’re not cheaters,” says Mom. “We’re scientists collaborating on a major medical breakthrough! Come on, you guys. We have work to do.” She looks down the driveway at Reich, shakes her head, and laughs a little.
Can I tell you something? It’s awesome to see her laughing again. Especially when her laughter is aimed at our local neighborhood jerk.
“Can I help, too?” asks Trip.
“Sorry,” says Mom. “I really only need E and Sammy. Actually, I should say Sammy and E, because Sammy is the most important part of this particular science project.”
“But Trip and I are supposed to be doing our school project together,” I remind Mom. “We can’t just leave him hanging.”
Mom nods. “You’re right. My bad. Okay, Trip. You can be our cheerleader.”
“Really?” says Trip. “Who knew science projects had cheerleaders, too?”
“This one does,” says Mom. “Because together, we’re going to give Maddie a whole new life!”
“Woo-hoo!” shouts Trip. “Go, Team Maddie!”
Mom leads the way into her workshop.
I’ve never seen the place look so tidy. When Mom shuts down a project, she shuts down a project. She even has the windows open to air out her lab.
“So, what are we going to do, Dr. Hayes?” asks Trip. “Build a better bubble? A stronger ball for Maddie to roll around in? Because my mother has this exercise ball she uses, and it can handle a ton of weight.”
Mom shakes her head. “No, Trip. Working together, the four of us are going to usher in a new robot revolution.”
“Um,” I say, “we kind of already had one of those.”
“Not like this.” She flips the power switch on this way cool microscope connected to a computer.
“I had been attempting to engineer a genetic solution for Maddie by using laser-controlled bubble-bots.”
“That’s your science project?” sneers Randolph R. Reich, sticking his head through one of those open windows. “Bubble-bots?”
“Yes, Randolph,” says Mom. “If you’re interested, why don’t you come in and I’ll explain—”
“No need to explain such a ridiculous idea. Cheat all you want, boys.” He laughs. “You’ll never defeat me.”
He scampers away from the window.
And guess what? That was the start of Randolph R. Reich’s very first (and maybe worst) mistake ever. You’ll see. I promise.
“He was spying on us!” says Trip.
“Indeed,” says E. “This sort of espionage is quite common amongst high-tech firms.”
“But this is just a science project,” I say.
Mom grins. “Actually, Sammy, if we’re successful, it could be more. A whole lot more.”
She fiddles with more knobs and flat glass dishes filled with goop. She slips her arms back into those slinky sleeves and rubber gloves inside the big sterile box.
“E,” she says, “while I set up the equipment, why don’t you give Sammy and Trip a brief overview of nanorobotics and bubble-bots?”
“With pleasure, Dr. Hayes.” E straightens his back and launches into full-on nerd mode. “Nanorobotics refers to the nanotechnology engineering discipline of designing and building nanorobots—devices constructed of nanoscale or molecular components.”
“Huh?” says Trip.
“They’re super small,” I say.
“You are correct, Sammy,” says E. “Only about six atoms in width. A single hair is about one hundred thousand nanometers thick. To create one is a long and grueling process.”
“Tell me about it,” jokes Mom.
“Is that what you’ve been working on back here all this time?” I ask.
“Yep. Nanobots. Tiny nuclear-powered silicon transducers on legs.”
“Awesome!” says Trip. “Can we see one?”
“No,” says E. “Not without the aid of a very powerful microscope. As I stated previously, they are quite small. However, their impact in the fields of genetic engineering and medicine could be quite large. For instance, researchers have already developed miniature nanoparticle robots that can travel through a patient’s bloodstream, burrow into tumors, and turn off cancer genes.”
“No way!” says Trip.
“Way,” says E. “Laser-controlled bubble microbots can work at the molecular level and assemble cell structures.”
“Is that what we’re going to do?” I ask Mom. “Send tiny little bubble robots into Maddie’s cells to fix them?”
“Not exactly. My plan is to first—”
Her explanation (which I probably wouldn’t understand anyway) ends when a swirling red light starts strobing in her lab.
“Maddie’s in trouble,” says E, touching his ear like someone just sent him a message. “She needs us. Now.”
Maddie is suddenly
super sick.
“I don’t feel so good,” she tells us when we race up to her room. Her voice is weaker than I’ve ever heard it, but she’s still trying to smile.
(Trip has gone home. He knows the drill. To cut down on germ exposure, it’s family-only during a major Maddie meltdown.)
Everybody, robots included, is in a panic.
“I’ve already called nine one one,” says Dad.
“I did, too,” adds Geoffrey the butler-bot.
“Me three,” says Blitzen.
“Reckon that makes four of us,” says Hayseed, who’s even more fidgety than usual.
“I hope they send Dave and Dylan,” moans Maddie. Dave and Dylan are her two favorite paramedics. They’ve made this same run dozens of times. It’s what happens when your whole immune system is severely compromised. You get sick and go to the hospital. A lot. Usually in the middle of the night.
“You’re going to be fine, hon,” says Mom, the calm in the center of the chaotic storm.
“I know. I just… don’t…”
Maddie’s eyes roll up in her head. She conks out. That makes me freak out!
“E?” Mom says calmly. “Carry Maddie downstairs. Mr. Moppenshine? We need a quick disinfecting of the SUV-EX. The ambulance won’t get here in time. Stat!”
Stat is a word doctors use. It means “Hurry up, already!”
Mr. Moppenshine, limbs swirling, zips out of the bedroom.
“Geoffrey? Pack a bag for Maddie. She might be in the hospital for a week, maybe longer. Blitzen? Grab her oxygen tank. Haul it down to the car.”
Mom is amazing. Totally focused.
She reminds me of those lasers she was talking about.
The ones we were going to use with our bubble-bots to make Maddie’s life better, before it got so incredibly worse.
Robot Revolution Page 10
