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    Bolts: A Robot Dog
    Bolts: A Robot Dog
    Bolts: A Robot Dog
    Ebook116 pages1 hour

    Bolts: A Robot Dog

    By Alexander Key

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    About this ebook

    Captured by spies, a robot dog fights to return to his master

    The Consolidated Mechanical Men Corporation makes all sorts of robots, but it has never produced a robot dog. When Bingo Brown, grandson of the famous navy inventor Commander Brown, sends in a request for just such a marvel, the engineers do their best, but no matter what they try, their standard brain just won’t fit inside the pooch’s head. Finally, they shave a bit off either side of the gray matter, and the result is Bolts: a scrappy little mutt with razor teeth, a razor wit, and a habit of speaking his utterly deranged mind.
     
    When a gang of Mongolian spies searching for Consolidated’s new superbrain diverts Bingo Brown’s shipment, the puppy puts up quite a fight. On the run from spies and desperate to find his owner, Bolts will prove that his bite is just as bad as his bark.

    Bolts is the 3rd book in the Sprockets series, which also includes Sprockets and Rivets and Sprockets.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherOpen Road Media
    Release dateJun 2, 2015
    ISBN9781497652583
    Bolts: A Robot Dog
    Author

    Alexander Key

    Alexander Key (1904–1979) started out as an illustrator before he began writing science fiction novels for young readers. He has published many titles, including Sprockets: A Little Robot, Mystery of the Sassafras Chair, and The Forgotten Door, winner of the Lewis Carroll Shelf Award. Key’s novel Escape to Witch Mountain was adapted for film in 1975, 1995, and 2009. 

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      Book preview

      Bolts - Alexander Key

      1

      He Goes to the Wrong Address

      It was the strangest order that had ever come into the office of the Consolidated Mechanical Men Corporation.

      The specialty of the Consolidated Mechanical Men Corporation, which made robots, was a big, clanking half-ton model that could fetch and carry half-ton loads. The corporation also made a pleasant kitchen model, which baked cookies and tended children, and some smart special models with special brains—they could add and subtract like sixty—but it had never even heard of making anything like this.

      The Chief Engineer said it couldn’t be done. The very thought of trying it made him blue in the face.

      The Head Designer (who designed heads) said that the head on the plans was impossible, improbable, and impractical. He also said it was bound to be unbalanced, unsafe, unmannerly, and entirely unsatisfactory. And anyhow, he added, what could we do for a brain?

      The Brain Designer (who designed brains for the heads designed by the Head Designer) shook his long head and said some very long words, all of which meant simply, Nothing. The whole thing’s cuckoo.

      It was only the Office Boy who thought it could be done. Being too young to know that it couldn’t be done, he said, Aw, it’s just a dog! We make everything else. What’s so hard about making a little old dog?

      Bah! We make mechanical men—not mechanical dogs, grumbled the Chief Engineer. Who ever heard of a robot dog? Who wants it, anyway?

      The name on the plans is B. B. Brown, said the Office Boy. "Why, I know him! Everybody calls him Bingo Brown, and when it comes to inventing things, he’s really smart. They say he helps his grandfather design all those secret gadgets we make for the Navy."

      You mean to tell us he’s Commander Bridgewater Brown’s assistant?

      I do, said the Office Boy, though he thought it wiser not to mention that Bingo wasn’t yet twelve.

      Well, if he’s old Bridgewater Brown’s kin and helper, said the Chief Engineer, he can’t be a nitwit. Maybe we’d better give the thing a whack.

      So they gave it a whack.

      The assembly line in the factory of the Consolidated Mechanical Men Corporation was so long that all the robot workers had to use roller skates. Whenever the big boss robot pressed the button at the beginning of the line, there would be a mighty whirring clatter, a quick zipping and purring, and a thousand mechanical hands would begin punching, twisting, driving, pounding, and slamming things together. Rods and wires, nuts and bolts, bulbs and sockets, springs and sprockets, and millions of little wheels and cogs would suddenly take shape. Then like magic, zip, zip, zip, one new robot after another would slide off the end of the speeding belt.

      But the assembly line wasn’t geared for this kind of robot.

      The first time they gave it a whack, the assembly line jammed, making an awful mess. Only after they had cleaned the line, oiled it with a zippier zip oil, and given it a stronger whack, did a smallish doglike shape appear.

      It was a bit smaller than it should have been, but it was the best the factory could do. As it neared the end of the assembly line, a tentacle plucked down a slightly misshapen brain box—which was all that the brain department could manage—trimmed it a bit to make it fit, and slammed it into place. It was this trimming, unfortunately, that gave Bolts his failings, as well as some of his peculiarities.

      As he slid off the assembly line, the Inspector stared at him and shook his head. Bolts, as he had been named on the plans, looked like a cross between a poodle and a dachshund, plus something from outer space. He had short jointed legs, a longish jointed body, and a funny sort of head that was much too big for the rest of him.

      What would anyone want with a thing like you? the Inspector muttered, not knowing that Bolts had been designed for a very particular purpose, and that he had turned out a bit smaller than Bingo Brown had planned.

      Bolts didn’t answer because his switch wasn’t on yet. He merely lay still and listened while the Inspector inspected him, oiled his joints, and stamped his number, name, and master’s name on the plate covering his switch box. The plate now read: Z-1—BOLTS—B. B. Brown.

      Finally, the Inspector turned him on for testing.

      The moment his eye lights brightened and he began to tick, Bolts jumped to his feet, finding it quite wonderful to be alive. Instantly he raised the steel hackles on the back of his neck, snapped out a set of teeth that would have made a barracuda happy, and gave a frightful G-r-r-r-r!

      Hey! yelled the Inspector, leaping back. Don’t you bite me!

      Bolts slid his hinged teeth out of sight, thoroughly satisfied with them. Nope, he said gruffly. Won’t. Just testing.

      Better watch it, cautioned the Inspector. I don’t like those trick teeth. In fact, I don’t like anything about you.

      Feeling’s mutual, grumbled Bolts. You gonna stand there all day not liking me?

      Not if I can help it. But I’m not turning a thing like you loose on the world till I’ve checked you thoroughly. Now, your name is Bolts Brown, and you—

      Reckon I know my own name. I’m no stupe.

      Well, you look like a stupe. Do you know to whom you belong?

      Natch. I been conditioned. Bingo Brown’s my master. They don’t come better—so don’t make no cracks about him, see?

      The Inspector sighed. At least you have loyalty. You’re going to Battleship Lane, where Bingo lives with his grandfather and a proper robot named Butch. Er—do you like cats?

      Cats are great critters. So are birds. I love ’em all.

      That seems to be the right answer, the Inspector said doubtfully, glancing at his list. Though I don’t understand it. What about dogs?

      I’m a dawg myself. But let me catch some mangy, lop-eared, low-down, bone-snatching cur come meddling with Bingo! Brother, I’ll chew him—but good. Whaddaya think I got teeth for?

      I did wonder, the Inspector admitted, shuddering. But I’m afraid that makes you very dangerous. Would you bite a human being?

      "Aw, I wouldn’t really hurt nobody. I tell you I been conditioned."

      I doubt if you’ve been conditioned enough. The Inspector shook his head. Your speech is absolutely terrible. So are your manners. I’m afraid you’ll never be a proper robot.

      Bolts spun his rotary nose about, and decided he had a sniffer to be proud of. What’s the diff? I’m only a dawg. Plenty smart, though.

      I’m afraid not, the Inspector said sadly. Your brain had to be trimmed to make it fit.

      So what? said Bolts, sniffing him. Trimmed off the nonsense. Left the smart part. Let’s get on with this. I don’t like your smell.

      "You’re not

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