Читать книгу The Case of the Burrowing Robot - John R. Erickson - Страница 6

Chapter One: Mechanical Geniuses at Work

It’s me again, Hank the Cowdog. Everything about The Case of the Burrowing Robot was strange. It started strangely and it ended strangely, and in between it was . . . well, strange.

And scary, very scary. This one will test your courage.

It began one dark night toward the end of . . . was it April? Yes, April. I remember it well, because “April” spelled backward becomes “Lirpa.”

In the Security Business, we often spell important words backward to confuse our enemies. Have we mentioned this? Maybe not, but it’s true. It drives ’em nuts, heh heh, which is exactly where we want to drive ’em.

See, we’ve suspected for a long time that they sometimes plant secret listening devices in our headquarters compound. Once in place, these sensitive devices can pick up Top Secret conversations between and among the elite troops of the Security Division.

You can imagine how serious this could be. Why, if our codes and plans fell into the wrong hands . . . well, it could lead to terrible things, things so grave and dangerous that I’m not even allowed to discuss them. Sorry.

Where were we? Oh yes, The Case of the So Forth. It all began one morning in Lirpa. I had been out doing a routine patrol of the headquarters compound, when all at once I became aware of . . .

Wait, hold everything. Lirpa? What the heck does that mean? Hang on a second, we need to check this out.

Hmmmmm.

Data Control shows no listing for “Lirpa.” According to our files and records, it’s not a real word. Nor is it the name of any known animal, vegetable, or mineral. So what is this non-word, non-name doing in a classified report of The Burrowing Robot?

This could be serious. Can I speak openly and honestly about this? Might as well. Okay, here’s the deal. Our enemies are very cunning and sometimes they try to confuse us by introducing garbage words into our communication systems. Perhaps they know that garbage words foul up our systems and that without proper communication, communication is virtually impossible.

When our language is reduced to garbage, everything we say is nothing but rubbish.

So, yes, what we have here is an attempt on the part of our . . . wait a minute, hold everything. Weren’t we just talking about . . . ?

Okay, forget the Security Alert. Remember that business about reversing important names and so forth? Lirpa instead of April? Ha ha. You might say that we stepped in our own . . .

Skip it.

The mystery began one warm afternoon around the middle of April, and never mind all that stuff about trying to confuse our enemies. I had just finished checking out a couple of unauthorized sparrows in our elm trees and was on my way back to the office, when I noticed something odd.

I caught a glimpse of High Loper, the owner of this ranch . . . well, he thinks he owns it, and most of the time we dogs play along with the illusion. It works better when the people around here think they’re in charge, but we dogs know the real story.

(We’re running things, if you want to know the truth.)

We give the humans little jobs to keep them happy, don’t you see, and on that particular afternoon I noticed Loper preparing himself for one of those little jobs. Sally May had been hinting that it was time for him to plow up her garden. After the hints had failed, she had announced that it was time for him to so forth, and I found him in front of the shed, glaring down at the dusty Rototiller, which had sat in the machine shed all winter.

He didn’t look happy at all. He bent over and blew the dust off the top of the engine, but most of the dust came back in his face, causing him to cough and mutter.

He took hold of the starter rope and gave it a pull. The motor chugged but didn’t start. He adjusted the choke and gave the rope another pull. Same deal. It chugged but didn’t start. He continued pulling the rope for five long minutes. By then his face had turned a deep shade of red and he was talking out loud to the tiller.

“Stupid pig-nose cantankerous dysfunctional piece of junk!” He kicked the tiller with his left foot. Right foot. Who cares? “Junk!”

Just then, Slim appeared, wearing a little grin. “What’s up?”

“Garden time.”

“How fun.”

“You want to do it?”

“Well, I’d love to, Loper, but I’m real busy. And I think Sally May kind of likes your special touch.”

“Very funny.”

Slim craned his neck and looked at the machine. “How’s it going?”

“How do you think it’s going?”

Slim’s body slumped against the side of the shed and he moved his toothpick to the other side of his mouth. “Not too swell, I’d say. Maybe you ought to kick it again. Sometimes it takes two kicks.”

“Sometimes a man should keep his mouth shut.”

Slim tried to look serious. “What seems to be the problem?”

Loper heaved a sigh and looked up at the sky. “Slim, if I knew the problem, I’d fix it. It won’t start.”

“I don’t reckon you bothered to check the gas tank. These motors run better when they’ve got gas.”

Loper stared at him. “Am I stupid? Do I look stupid?”

“Well, now, that’s a matter of opinion, I reckon, but the truth is that sometimes you don’t check the gas.”

“Once. I did that once, and it was so long ago, nobody remembers it. Nobody but you, that is. Half the time, you can’t remember which boot goes on which foot, but you’ll never forget the one time I forgot to check the gas.”

“You’ve done it many times, Loper. You just slam-bang your way into these deals and then throw a little fit when the thing won’t start. If you ask me, that’s pretty childish, a grown man yelling and carrying on. And kicking the poor machine. How’d you like to be a garden tiller and have some yahoo kick you first thing in the morning?”

Loper studied him for a long moment. “You know, Slim, if somebody didn’t know better, he might think you’re some kind of hotshot mechanic.”

Slim raised his chin. “I’ve made a few turns with a wrench, and if I do say so myself, I’ve bailed you out of more than one mess.”

“Oh, you have, huh?”

“Yes sir, I sure have, and the reason is that you’ve got no more patience than a teenage boy during a full moon.”

“Is that so?”

“That’s so. We’ve got raccoons on this ranch that would make better mechanics than you.”

A wicked smile slithered across Loper’s mouth. “What are you saying? Are we drifting toward some kind of friendly wager?”

“Not friendly.”

“How much?”

Slim hitched up his jeans. “Five bucks says I’ll have this tiller throwing up dirt in thirty minutes. You just run along and find some little job to keep you out of my hair, and I’ll do the rest.”

“By grabs, I’ll take that bet.” Loper waved good-bye and started walking toward the corrals. “See you in half an hour.”

“Good deal. And bring cash. We don’t take checks or credit cards.” When Loper had gone, Slim gave me a wink. “Heh. He never checks the gas. Watch this, pooch.”

He unscrewed the lid of the gas tank and poked a finger into the opening. His smile faded. When he brought it out, the finger was dripping gasoline. He wiped it on his jeans and said, “I’ll be derned. He checked the gas. I guess we’ll go straight into Plan B.”

He took the starter rope in his hand and gave it a pull. Again and again. Minutes passed. The motor turned over but didn’t start.

Twenty minutes later, Slim had shucked off his hat and shirt. Sweat dripped off the end of his nose and his face had turned a dangerous shade of red. He stretched a kink out of his back and started screaming at the tiller.

“Contrary machine! Moron! Dadgum frazzling modern contraption!” Then, before my very eyes, he kicked the tiller. “All right, by netties, you asked for this. I’m fixing to give you open-carburetor surgery, and if you die on the operating table, I’ll personally haul you to the junk yard.”

With that, he stomped into the machine shed and stomped back outside with a handful of wrenches and other tools. He bent over the machine and was about to begin the surgery, when Sally May walked up. I guess she’d heard all the screaming and wondered what was going on.

She stood there for a moment, looking over Slim’s shoulder. “It won’t start?” Slim was too mad to speak. “Didn’t we have this problem last year?” Slim grunted and went on working. “What was the problem last year? Oh, some little valve or gizmo on the gas line. Somebody had shut off the valve.”

Slim’s head drifted up. He cut his eyes from side to side. “That ain’t it, Sally May, I already checked.”

She smiled and shrugged and went back down to the house. Slim watched her leave. When she reached the yard gate and was too far away to see what he was doing, he slipped his fingers under the carburetor and turned a little valve. Then he reeled his watch out of his pocket and checked the time.

A smile spread across his mouth and he yelled, “Loper! Come get your tiller!” Then he looked down at me and chuckled. “Heh. Clean living and patience have triumphed again, pooch.”

Loper arrived moments later. Slim pointed to the machine and said, “Give ’er a twirl and see what she says.”

Loper stepped up to the machine and pulled on the starter rope. It chugged on the first pull, and started running on the second. Loper scowled, shook his head, muttered, pulled out his wallet, and shut off the machine.

He handed five bucks over to Slim. “Here. May it bring you misery. What did you do?”

“Oh, not much. Overhauled the carburetor, blew out the lines, changed out the piston rings, replaced the head gasket. Thanks, Loper. We sure appreciate your business.”

Slim flashed a grin and stuffed the money into his pocket.

Loper was silent for a moment. “Slim, suppose you’ve got two men standing side by side. How can you tell which is the boss and which is the hired hand?”

“Well, let’s see. The hired hand’s handsomer and looks quite a bit smarter?”

Loper shook his head. “Nope. The boss is the one who goes to town on an errand, and the hired hand’s the one who plows the garden.”

Slim’s smile died. “Now hold on . . .”

Loper patted him on the shoulder. “I don’t know how you started that thing, buddy, but it was some kind of crooked deal. Never cheat the boss, Slim. Have a great day.”

Then, whistling a tune, Loper hiked over to his pickup and drove away.