Bruce Coville - The AI Gang 02 - Robot Trouble.pdf - Bruce Coville - widez2

BRUCE COVILLE

PUBLISHED BY POCKET BOOKS

New York London Toronto Sydney Tokyo Singapore

The sale of this book without its cover is unauthorized. If you purchased this book without a cover, you

should be aware that it was reported to the publisher as "unsold and destroyed " Neither the author nor

the publisher has received payment for the sale of this "stripped book "

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and inci-dents are products of the author's

imagination or are used ficti-tiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or

dead, is entirely coincidental.

A Minstrel Book published by

POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster Inc.

1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

Page 1

For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York NY 10020

ISBN: 0-671-89252-5

First Minstrel Books printing April 1995

10 987654321

A MINSTREL BOOK and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster Inc.

Cover art by Broeck Steadman Printed in the U.S.A.

To my mother, who gave me the gift of music.

Chapter 1: Two Spies

THIS ENTIRE MESS IS THE FAULT OF THOSE BRATS WHO call themselves the A. I.

Gang! thought the shadowy figure slipping into the secret room hidden beneath the Anza-bora Island

computer center. If they had minded their own business, everything would be fine.

The figure crossed to the far side of the room and thrust a pair of black-gloved hands into a cage

mounted on the wall. The birds inside began to flutter and scuffle. After a moment the hands closed over

one of them and drew it from the cage.

"This is insane!" muttered the mysterious figure, deftly strapping a capsule to the bird's leg. "I'm

on an island equipped with the most advanced technology in the world. Yet to communicate with my

Executive Council, I am forced to resort to the most primitive methods imaginable. If those A.I. brats

don't watch out-

"The words were interrupted by a soft cooing. The black-gloved figure glanced at the pigeon,

then laughed. It was only a bird. How could it know that the person holding it was Black Glove, chief

operative of G.H.O.S.T.? Or that G.H.O.S.T. was trying to steal the secrets of the world's most

advanced computer project? Or that those secrets were guarded by an electronic blanket that shielded

Anza-bora Island from the outside world-a blanket that could have been pierced by the transmitter Black

Glove had mounted inside the Project Alpha computer, if those kids hadn't found and removed it!

No, the pigeon only knew that it wanted to be free to fly home.

Black Glove wrapped the bird in a towel, then stuffed the towel into a gym bag. It was late and

the computer center should be empty. Still, there was no point in taking any chances.

On the next floor up the spy spotted a light in an open office-one of the Project Alpha scientists

work-ing late. Quickly the black gloves were stripped off and hidden in the pocket of a white lab coat.

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The researcher glanced up from her work and nod-ded pleasantly as Black Glove passed her

doorway. And why not? In day-to-day life Black Glove was a well-known island personality. No one

suspected that the friendly smile they knew so well masked a deadly, now desperate, enemy.

Outside the computer center the spy unwrapped the pigeon. A moment later the bird was soaring

toward the clouds. Cutting an arc across the sky, it headed east, toward home-G.H.O.S.T.

headquarters.

Black Glove felt an uncomfortable shiver. The Ex-ecutive Council of G.H.O.S.T. could be most

unpleas-ant when it was angry. And it was sure to be angry when it got the message the pigeon carried:

Transmission of data delayed by unexpected cir-cumstances. Seeking new route to get information off

island. B.G.

Black Glove faded into the shadows, thinking furi-ously. There had to be some other way to get

informa-tion off Anza-bora, a way those nosy kids couldn't

interfere with.

Of course, the fact that the kids thought their enemy had fled the island on a stolen boat should

help slow them down. But even so....

Reentering the computer center, Black Glove vowed two things. First, there would be no rest

until the new information path was established. Second, this time no one would be allowed to stand in the

way.

Not even the A.I. Gang.

Not even if they were just kids.

Not even if that meant it would cost them their lives.

Heading back to the secret room, the spy patted the pockets of the white lab coat, then shivered

with a wave of cold terror.

One glove was missing....

* * * *

Ramon Korbuscek moved slowly toward the aban-doned building. It was a windmill, ruined by

one or another of Central Europe's seemingly endless wars.

Someone with extremely good eyes might have been able to see him picking his way through the

shadows that surrounded the windmill-but probably not. Nor would they have heard him, for Korbuscek

moved as silently as a hawk floating on the wind.

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Associated with no government, loyal to no single organization, he was one of the deadliest free

agents in the world.

He paused to study his destination. One crumpled blade rested on the ground. The others, battered and

torn by time, weather, and war, cast eerie, broken shadows around him.

A moment later the spy slipped beneath the crum-pled blade. He whistled a five-note tune as he

entered the building. A pair of rats scurried away from his feet. Pigeons cooed and whirred above him.

All else was silent.

Korbuscek frowned and whistled again.

From the darkest shadows on the opposite side of the mill came an answering whistle-not the

same tune, but a variant of it, chosen months earlier as a signal for this meeting.

Korbuscek moved slowly across the floor, careful to avoid the gaping holes, many of them large

enough to drop him through to the basement.

A woman emerged from the shadows. "I have your orders." Her voice was low and husky. Her

hand trem-bled as she held out a brown envelope.

"And my money?"

The woman frowned. She was well aware of how much Korbuscek would make for this job,

and she considered the fee outrageous. But her superiors decided these matters with no thought for her

opinions.

"Your usual rate," she said gruffly, passing him an-other envelope.

"What's the job?" asked Korbuscek, relaxing a little.

The woman shrugged. "The orders are in the enve-lope. All I know is that you'll be going to

Anza-bora Isl-"

Before she could finish the sentence, Korbuscek grabbed her by the shoulders and threw her to

the floor.

A shot rang out above them, then another.

Without a word the two separated. Scuttling into the deepest shadows, Korbuscek pressed

himself against a worm-eaten beam and held his breath. Three more shots were fired. But there was no

cry of pain.

When enough time had passed that he was sure his contact had managed to escape, Korbuscek

allowed himself a brief smile. As little as he cared for her, he would not have wanted his baby sister to be

captured by these particular enemies.

Moving as silently as he had come, he left the mill, eager to read his orders.

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Chapter 2: The Scroungers

Ray "the Gamma Ray" Gammand raced up to the abandoned house the A.I. Gang used as a

secret headquarters. Thudding to a stop, he checked his watch, then let out a sigh. He was late again.

He tucked his beloved basketball between his knees, then took off his thick glasses and wiped

them on his shirt while he caught his breath. Trying to act casual, he opened the door and stepped in.

Unfortunately, he tripped over an untied shoelace, dropped his basketball, and stumbled into the

living room.

"Somebody's la-ate!" sang the handsome bronze head sitting in the middle of the coffee table.

"Shut up, Paracelsus," said Ray.

"Nobody loves me," sighed the head, which had been created by the Phillips twins, Roger and

Rachel.

The twins were constantly programming Paracelsus with new remarks directed at their friends'

behavior. By setting it to respond to things they expected the other kids in the gang to do, they could

make its com-ments remarkably appropriate.

"Glad you could make it, Ray," said Trip Davis. Tall (over six feet!), slender, and intense, Trip

was sitting against the wall on the opposite side of the room. To his right, in a chair that barely let her feet

touch the floor, was Wendy Wendell the Third, a pint-sized dynamo the gang sometimes referred to as

"the Wonderchild."

Straddling the workbench across the room from Wendy was Hap Swenson. As usual, the

handsome, sturdy blond had a screwdriver in his hand and was poking away at some gadget-probably

one that the Wonderchild had designed.

Sitting between Hap and Trip were the red-haired Phillips twins, who Ray thought of privately as

"Vol-ume One" and "Volume Two." This was because the twins carried so much information in their

heads that between the two of them they were a virtual walking encyclopedia.

Ray sighed as he finished his inventory. That was it-all five of them. He was last again. "So what's

the big emergency?" he asked.

"No emergency," said Wendy. "Just a new idea. Rachel wants us to add an optical scanner to

our sys-tem. Problem is, we have to build the darn thing!" She took a bite from the enormous burger

clenched between her hands and smiled blissfully. "Should be fun," she added, speaking with her mouth

full.

Hap looked up from whatever he was tinkering with, scratched his blond head, and said, "You

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Bruce Coville - The AI Gang 02 - Robot Trouble.pdf

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