Sprockets by Alexander Key Page A

can think of some way to beat the Mongolians.”
    â€œB-but, ma’am—”
    â€œNo buts. You’ve only been half educated in a few onomies and ologies. I’m going to give you stacks more, and include some otomies and istics.”
    â€œOh–no–no–no–no–no—”
    There was absolutely nothing, aside from being returned to the robot factory, that Sprockets and Rivets hated more than to have learning tapes run through their heads. The thought of it now, with their poor heads splitting, was enough to give them spasms.
    But it was either that or the robot factory; and in three ticks and a double tock they were sitting on their stools, and Mrs. Bailey had turned on their learning buttons and inserted a learning tape in the slot in the back of each robot’s head.
    â€œLet’s see,” said Mrs. Bailey, “linguistics would help a lot, as would statistics and ballistics. As for the otomies, there’s lobotomy, pneumotomy, monotomy—oh, dear, this is making me abbled! I don’t know why they don’t make a single tape for all the otomies, then I wouldn’t have to worry about them.”
    Neither of the robots could hear her, for new knowledge was screaming through their aching circuits, making them sizzle like frying fish. It was bad enough for Rivets, whose circuits were limited; but for poor Sprockets, who had twenty trillion to sizzle, all at the same time, it was absolutely horrendous. Their heads were blistering, but Jim put fresh ice packs on them whenever Mrs. Bailey put new tapes in their slots. When they finally stiffened from so much education, and passed out completely, they had to be turned off and put to bed.
    It seemed ages and ages before they were turned on and began to tick again.
    â€œDo you feel wide-eyed and bushy-tailed now?” Mrs. Bailey asked hopefully.
    â€œI feel wonnerful, ma’am!” said Rivets, bouncing to his feet, his loose screw only slightly loose. “I bet I can count to a hundert!”
    But poor Sprockets could hardly sit up. “I feel practically fused, ma’am. It must be remembered that my mechanism is far more sensitive and complicated than my brother’s, and that it has taken an awful walloping. It will be fourteen hours and eighteen seconds before I can click properly again.”
    â€œBut, Sprockets!” Jim burst out. “The truck from the robot factory will be here before that! What are we going to do?”
    â€œWould it help if you turned on your cerebration button?” Mrs. Bailey asked.
    â€œI wouldn’t dare, ” said Sprockets. “Then I’d really be fused.”
    Mrs. Bailey wiped a tear from her eye. “We can’t have you any more abbled than you are. Can’t anyone think of anything?”
    Rivets said: “Ma’am, my bwain’s only themi-pothitwonic, but I bet if it could be hooked up to Spwockets, we’d have a whole bwain between us. Then mebbe we could fink what to do.”
    Jim said, “Would it work, Sprockets?”
    â€œAccording to my new learning tapes, which include lobotomy,” Sprockets answered, “it would be like lobotomy in reverse. All we have to do is connect Rivets’ pay-attention button to my special perceptors. Then possibly I will have brains enough to cope with the Mongolian question.”
    Jim brought wires and tools and speedily made the connection.
    â€œWow!” said Sprockets, as his buttons flashed and a halo of color began spinning about his head. “This is really super!”
    â€œHurry up with the answer,” poor Rivets pleaded. “It may be thuper for you, but it ith or ful hard on me!”
    â€œPatience,” said Sprockets. “First I must tune in on the Mongolians and find out what is happening.” Hastily he adjusted his built-in radio and listened.

    â€œOh!” he said finally. “This is bad. It will make the doctor very