Operation Sherlock (9 page)

At the same time Roger and Rachel, in separate buggies, had gone shooting off to the left. They splashed into the surf, then spun back onto dry sand.

For a moment the beach resembled nothing so much as a bumper-car ride where it had just been announced that one of the cars was carrying nitroglycerine. Instead of trying to ram each other, the six dune buggy drivers were weaving wildly back and forth, trying desperately to avoid collisions. The shouts of joy had become cries of terror.

The driver who had cut in front of Trip was the first to get his vehicle under control. He spun his buggy in a tight circle away from the others. Riding on two wheels, he ground to a stop in a screen of sand.

Roger and Rachel halted only inches apart.

Wendy and Ray came rolling slowly back to the beach.

But Tripton Duncan Delmar Davis, confused and frightened by the near collision, hit his accelerator pedal instead of his brake, flew over a small sand dune, and disappeared from sight.

 

Hap

The five remaining drivers shot out of their vehicles like corks from a row of champagne bottles. The sand seemed to clutch at their feet as they raced toward the dune where Trip had disappeared.

Cresting it together, they faced an awful sight.

Ahead and to the right lay Trip's dune buggy. It was on its side, two wheels spinning slowly in the air, the other two buried in sand.

“It's empty!” cried Rachel before they were even halfway there.

For an awful moment no one could spot Trip. Finally Wendy shouted, “There he is—see, under that big bush, where the beach ends and the scrub begins. He looks like he's hurt!”

Indeed, Trip's long, lean form was stretched face down some twenty feet away from them. As the gang began running toward him, he pushed himself to his hands and knees, shook his head, and let out a low moan. Before he could move again, Ray and Roger were at his side.

“Come on,” said Ray, grabbing Trip's arm. “We have to help him up.”

“Are you crazy?” yelped Roger. “Trip, before you make any other moves, take a deep breath and try to see if you've broken anything.”

Trip shook his head again. “Nothing's broken. Come on, help me to my feet.”

Once he was standing, a babble of questions broke from the gang: “Are you all right? Do you want us to go for help? Do you think you should lie back down?”

“All right!” bellowed Roger at last. “Shut up and let him catch his breath!”

Trip gave them a weak smile. “I'm okay,” he said after a moment. Looking around the group, he spotted the driver who had cut in front of him. It was Hap, the boy who worked at the canteen. “You idiot!” he snapped. “You could have killed us all!”

Hap gave Trip a cold stare. “I was following an established roadway,” he said. “You're the one who was roaring down the beach like it was a drag strip.”

Trip swallowed. He knew the other boy was right: He shouldn't have been going so fast—especially not on his first day of driving.

Before he could apologize, Ray leaped into the argument. “Established roadway or not, only a fool would drive out into an open space like that without looking first.”

“What was I supposed to be looking for? As far as I knew I was the only one on the island driving a buggy. No one told me they were going to turn the things over to a bunch of amateurs.”

“Who are you calling amateurs?” cried Wendy. She was getting wound up to say more when she realized that the boy was right. They
were
amateurs.

The Wonderchild's eyebrows worked up and down furiously as she tried to think of something to say. Rachel, afraid her friend was going to explode, decided it was time to change the subject. “If Trip is all right,” she said, “we'd better take a look at his buggy.”

“I'm fine,” said Trip. “Just a bit wobbly. Come on, let's go see what it looks like.”

To their delight, the vehicle didn't look bad. From what they could see, nothing was broken or dented.

Unfortunately, there was still part of it they couldn't see.

“I think the six of us can get it upright if we work together,” said Trip. He glanced at Hap to see how he would react to this suggestion.

Without saying a word the sturdy blond stationed himself at one end of the buggy, ready for action.

The others found a spot to hold.

“On a count of three,” said Roger. “Ready? One…two…
three!”

The buggy rocked sideways as the group pushed on it with all their strength. But it was not enough. Before they could get it all the way over, their strength gave out and they had to let it fall back.

“Again!” said Roger. “One. Two. Three.
Heave!”

They leaned into it with all their might. The vehicle tipped, tottered—then fell back on its side again.

The third try was no better.

“All right,” said Rachel, “muscles are obviously not the solution to this. Let's try working smart instead.”

All the shades in the fanatic's quarters had been drawn, plunging her room into nearly complete darkness. The only light was shed by a single high-intensity lamp that cast a near-perfect circle of brightness into the center of a desk notable for its odd lack of clutter.

Indeed, except for the leather-bound journal in which the fanatic was feverishly scribbling, the desk was completely bare. Though the afternoon was hot, anyone reading her words would have been chilled to the bone:

“I have discovered why the explosives went off too early and blew up the guard shack. What a foolish miscalculation on my part! Next time I will not make such a mistake. How fortunate that it was only a small, experimental charge, and not the full-scale bomb I shall use when it is time to accomplish my mission.”

The fanatic closed the journal. Her glittering eyes stared into the darkness.
The mission
. Soon it would be time to begin the mission, the holy mission with which nothing must interfere. For nothing could be allowed to protect the monster computer from the destruction ordained for it.

Brow covered with sweat, the fanatic opened her journal and began to write again:

“Tomorrow, if I am lucky. The day after, at the latest. Then the bomb will be placed, the countdown will begin. Then sanity will triumph and this devil's project die before it has really begun.

“And if I die in the process? Small price to save mankind from this monstrosity. In my death shall be seen the glory of the human spirit—a thing no computer could ever hope to match.”

A slight smile twitched at the corner of the fanatic's mouth. What a glorious death that might be.

Her smile grew larger as she wondered if perhaps a death that glorious ought to be shared with everyone on Anza-bora Island.

The gang had considered—and discarded—a number of wild ideas involving hand-dug trenches, jungle vines, and jumping off rocks onto levers when Hap said, “I've got some rope in my buggy.”

“Why didn't you say so before?” cried Wendy.

“No one asked me. Besides, I was enjoying your harebrained schemes. But now I'm bored with them.”

His manner was cool, collected, slightly mocking. The others found it infuriating.

“If you don't mind sharing, I would appreciate it if you would let us use it,” said Roger stiffly.

Hap shrugged. “Why not?”

Within ten minutes he had not only provided the rope but hooked it to strategic points on Trip's buggy. After tying it to the bumper of his own buggy, he righted Trip's vehicle with just a few gentle pulls.

He untied the rope and began coiling it. “I'm late for work,” he said. “See you around.” Then he tossed the rope into his buggy and shot off down the beach.

“What a creep!” said Wendy as they watched him go.

“Our behavior wasn't the greatest,” replied Rachel. “And we
are
still the invaders here. Come on, let's get these things back to the motor pool and head for home.”

Turning, they saw Trip sitting on the sand, staring disconsolately at the side of his buggy. “Disgrace,” he murmured. “Humiliation. Pain. Degradation.”

Crossing to his side, they saw a dent scooped into the side of the buggy. It looked like the inside of a huge clamshell.

“Mr. Swenson is going to kill me! I'll never be able to use one of these again.”

The others looked for words of encouragement, but could find none. “You're probably right,” said Ray at last.

“Thanks,” muttered Trip.

“Look at it this way,” said Wendy gloomily. “By the time that Hap kid gets done telling his story,
none
of us will be able to use these things again.”

As it turned out, the motor pool was deserted when they got back.

“I wonder where everyone is?” said Roger, troubled by the quiet.

“Maybe they took a long lunch,” said Ray.

“That, or there's some kind of meeting going on,” said Wendy. “I've noticed these guys are big on meetings. Probably they're talking about security again.”

“They should be,” said Rachel ominously, remembering the bug that had been planted on her collar the previous day. “And so should we. We'd better stop fooling around and get busy on Operation Sherlock.”

Her words only added to the general gloom that had overtaken the group. In the excitement of the morning they had put aside thoughts of the strange happenings of the day before. But everyone knew Rachel was right. It was time to get to work.

In the end they left a long note for Mr. Swenson, apologizing over and over and promising to make up for the time and energy involved in fixing the dent by doing work for him anytime he wanted. Huddled together, they left the building.

“You're home!” cried Paracelsus. “Let's have a party!”

The five youngsters trudging into the Phillips house were exhausted, hungry and depressed, and definitely in no mood for chatter. “Shut up, Paracelsus,” said Rachel.

“Wounded!” shrieked the bronze head. “Cut to the quick! My heart is breaking!”

“Do you change his programming every day?” asked Wendy.

“Once a week,” said Roger. “Come on, let's get something to eat. My belly button is kissing my backbone, and I don't even want to think about a machine right now.”

“Not even Operation Sherlock?” asked Ray.

“Not even a can opener until we eat! Which means it's peanut butter sandwiches, unless some miracle has happened in the kitchen.”

“No burgers?” asked Wendy wistfully.

“You start the sandwiches,” said Rachel to her twin, ignoring Wendy's distress. “I want to see if there are any messages from Dad.”

She disappeared into the next room. Before she had been gone ten seconds, the others heard her let out a strange moan.

 

Trespassers

“Rachel?” called Roger. “You all right?”

“I don't know. You guys better come take a look at this.
Now!”

The others went running to join her. She was sitting at her terminal, staring at the message that appeared in large red letters on her monitor. Though it was only seven words long, it sent a chill shivering down all their spines.

BEWARE! SOMEONE IS WATCHING YOUR EVERY MOVE.

As the letters faded, Roger turned to the others. “I think we'd better get to work on that program,” he said grimly.

When Dr. Anthony Phillips arrived home that evening, he found five young people sprawled across his living room floor. Each was working separately—either sketching diagrams, outlining flowcharts, or poring through one of the dozens of computer manuals that littered the floor like leaves on an autumn lawn. Yet the air of furious concentration filling the room seemed to bind the youngsters together.

“Hello,” said Dr. Phillips, setting down his briefcase. “I'm home!”

“Good evening, sir,” said Paracelsus. “I hope you had a nice day.”

Everyone else was silent.

“I said, ‘I'm home!' ” repeated Dr. Phillips, somewhat more loudly.

Roger glanced up from the table of numbers he was consulting. “Oh, hi Dad. How are you?”

Before Dr. Phillips had a chance to answer, his son had returned his attention to what he was working on.

“What is going on here?” asked the scientist, more loudly still.

The angry tone in his voice caught Rachel's attention. “We're writing a program,” she explained.

“Ah! A program!” This was something Dr. Phillips understood. He often became so absorbed in his own programming that he ignored everything around him. His friends still talked about the time he had scheduled a meeting at his home and was working in the living room when the other people arrived. They had held their meeting and left without him ever realizing they were there! “And what is the purpose of this program?”

“We're trying to create an intelligent machine to solve crimes,” said Roger.

Dr. Phillips nodded. Then he picked up his briefcase and left the room.

Wendy looked at Roger in astonishment. “Do you think you should have told him that?”

“I never lie to my father,” replied Roger. “And he almost never pays attention to what I tell him. He won't think anything more about it.”

“He should,” said Paracelsus. “Thinking is important.”

“So is eating,” said Wendy. “And
I
think it's time to do just that. Can we get together someplace after supper?”

In a matter of minutes everyone had agreed to Trip's suggestion that they meet at seven o'clock on the same rocky point where they had gone to confer after they found the bug on Rachel's collar.

“Bye, guys,” said Paracelsus as they headed out the door.

To get home, Ray and Trip had to walk past the power plant. “I'd love to get in there and look around,” said Trip, peering toward the mysterious building perched on the edge of the island. “It sounds like quite a system.”

“Why not?” asked Ray. “My parents aren't expecting me for a while.”