Frank Einstein and the Bio-Action Gizmo Page 3

  The drills whine.

  “. . . take picture!”

  Klank raises his camera attachment.

  But before he can record anything, a massive drill-pipe hammer smashes down and flattens him with a metal-bending CRUNCH!

  A giant bucket loader rumbles through the woods, carrying two crumpled robot heaps. It drives them to the edge of the preserve. And dumps its load in a ditch.

  The bucket-loader driver stuffs a plastic bag inside each robot head.

  Then punches both Klink’s and Klank’s backup beepers.

  And drives off.

  Laughing.

  Frank Einstein pushes an old red wheelbarrow, filled with pieces of bent and twisted metal, into Grampa Al’s barn.

  Watson, carrying his rope bag filled with more crumpled metal, follows.

  “Hello, Einstein,” calls Grampa Al, fastening another knot on his Board of Essential Knots. “Check out this fantastic bit of engineering.”

  “Hello, Einstein,” answers Frank glumly. “And I think we are going to need something more fantastic than knots in old rope.”

  At the sound of Frank’s sad response, Grampa Al looks up from his knot board. “What’s going on?”

  Frank sets the wheelbarrow down.

  “More like ‘What’s getting smashed to pieces?’” says Frank. “This is what’s left of Klink and Klank.”

  Grampa Al walks over to inspect the jumble of robot parts. “Heavens to Betsy! What happened?”

  “We don’t know exactly. But we are pretty sure it wasn’t an accident.” Frank pulls a plastic bag, with a familiar blue logo, out of a vent piece and holds it up. “A message from the company trashing the preserve.”

  Watson drops his bag of metal. “And our planet!”

  Two brass bells on a wooden box attached to a barn beam ring.

  They ring again.

  “What the heck is that?” asks Watson. “Your fire alarm?”

  Grampa Al lifts up the handset receiver attached to a cord.

  “What? You’ve never seen a real telephone before?”

  Mr. Chimp rolls the die on the library and map table.

  He hops his small metal tree token five places from space 16 to space 21.

  T. Edison complains, “Oh for goodness’ sake!”

  Mr. Chimp slides his piece up the ladder on space 16, all the way to space 82, zooming past T. Edison’s iron steamroller token.

  “Ooook oook,” Mr. Chimp teases.

  “It’s pure luck, I hope you realize.”

  Mr. Chimp considers the origin of this game in ancient India. He ponders the Indian Hindu philosophy of destiny and desire shaping the outcome of one’s life.

  T. Edison takes his turn, rolls his die.

  “Six! Ha!”

  T. Edison smacks his iron steamroller six spaces forward. From 65 to 71.

  “And I roll again!” T. Edison shakes the die in his hand. “Maybe smart people do get rewarded in this game . . .”

  T. Edison rolls a 2.

  He slams his steamroller on 72, lifts it up, then notices the grinning head of the longest snake on the next square, 73.

  T. Edison skips 73. He drops his piece down on 74.

  Mr. Chimp locks eyes with T. Edison. He holds his stare for one, two, three, four, five, six long seconds. He raises the hair on the back of his neck.

  Without breaking his stare, Mr. Chimp reaches over and slides T. Edison’s piece back to 73. Back onto the head of the longest snake on the board.

  T. Edison looks down at the board. “Oh geez. I must have miscounted.”

  Mr. Chimp slides T. Edison’s steamroller slowly down the snake. From 73 . . . through 68 . . . through 53 . . . 47 . . . 35 . . . 25 . . . 16 . . . 4 . . . 3 . . . 2 . . . and . . . 1.

  “Hmmmph,” says T. Edison. “All the way back to square one.”

  Mr. Chimp nods.

  “What a stupid game.”

  Mr. Chimp thinks about destiny and desire.

  Mr. Chimp thinks about his recent successes.

  Mr. Chimp signs:

  And rolls the die . . .

  The old barn phone’s brass bells ring again.

  Grampa Al puts the receiver to his ear and speaks into the bell-shaped mouthpiece.

  “Hello, Einstein Laboratories and Farm Tool and Tractor Repair.”

  “Hello, Dad,” says a voice from the black plastic receiver.

  “Oh, hello, darling. So nice to hear from you! I thought you were out in the middle of the ocean.”

  “We are. And it is fascinating. So immense. Yet so fragile. Which is what I wanted to tell Frank about. How are he and Watson and my two favorite robots enjoying farm life?”

  Grampa Al looks at the motionless pile of bent and broken robot parts.

  “Oh great, great. . .” says Grampa Al. “Just hunky-dory. The cat’s pajamas.”

  Frank gives Grampa Al a look.

  “Everyone is just ummmmmm. . . really loving it to pieces.”

  Frank grabs the handset away from Grampa Al before he says any more.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Hi, sweetie. Listen, we can’t talk long. Because we are in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. But your dad and I have found a problem that desperately needs your inventor help.”

  Frank scratches his head. “Watson and I are working on a couple of big problems right here . . . but what have you got?”

  “Hellllooooooo from the middle of nowhere!” booms a voice from the phone.

  Frank holds the handset away from his ear. “Hi, Dad.”

  “So we are on our way by ship to Hawaii. To check out a new spot for travelallovertheplace.com. And about halfway between California and Hawaii . . . guess what we found?”

  Frank sits on a milking stool. “Uhhh, fish?”

  “Nope.”

  “Water?” guesses Watson.

  “Well, yes. But, no. It’s a strange mess. Right here, the currents of the ocean water swirl around. And that collects all kinds of plastic debris. And it’s called the Great Pacific Garbage Patch!”

  “Oh yuck,” says Watson. “So you are just floating in a giant garbage dump?”

  “Not exactly,” says Dad Einstein. “But it is an area bigger than Texas! And it has all kinds of big and little pieces of garbage pollution floating at all different depths.”

  Mom takes the phone and adds, “Eighty percent of the garbage is plastic. Because plastic doesn’t disintegrate.”

  Dad chimes in, “And get this . . .”

  The old phone suddenly extends a very modern microprojector, which beams onto the barn wall:

  “Oh, man!” says Frank Einstein. “That is terrible.”

  “Sorry to be such a downer,” says Mom Einstein. “But if anyone can help save the planet, it’s you and Watson and your robot pals.”

  “Thanks, Mom,” says Frank Einstein. “We’ll see what we can do.”

  “Love you, sweetie. Say hi to Klink and Klank!”

  “OK. Love you.”

  Frank hangs up the phone.

  “What a mess,” says Watson. “What are we going to do?”

  Frank thinks out loud. “Too much carbon. Too much pollution. Global warming. It’s all part of the same giant problem.”

  Frank looks at the robot parts and the barn full of rakes and hoes and shovels and plows and barrels and drums and old cars and tractors and vacuum-tube radios and belts and fans and an old piano and saws and hoses and axes and hammers and weather balloons and pumps and spark plugs and wires and watering cans and an old pickup truck and glass jars and skeleton keys and rusty locks and horseshoes and nails and leather harnesses and pipes and rope and chains and pulleys and gears and an old tricycle and binoculars and telescopes and screws and springs.

  “I’ve got a few ideas. . .”

  14 A

  “This is it!” says Frank.

  He stands proudly in front of his canvas-covered Bio-Action invention, behind Grampa Al’s barn.

  Watson and a rebuilt Klink (with new tri
cycle wheel legs) look on.

  “The answer to rising CO2, the greenhouse effect, and air pollution in general!”

  “Oh gee, is that all?” says Watson sarcastically.

  Frank ignores Watson.

  “I give you—S.U.C.K.! The Super Ultra Carbon-absorbing Klank!”

  Frank whips the canvas off the figure. And reveals. . . Klank.

  Klank blinks his rebuilt robot eyes to adjust them to the change of light.

  He turns left, and right, and bows.

  “That is just Klank,” says Klink. “With radio tubes and an old piano keyboard.”

  Frank smiles. He plays six notes on Klank’s chest keyboard: E, D, C . . . E, D, C . . .

  Klank raises his arms as a series of windshield wipers covered in long pink plastic fibers pops out of them.

  Watson and Klink don’t know quite what to say.

  “You have turned Klank into a fuzzy pink hairball?”

  “More like a carbon-absorbing super hero!” says Frank. He cranks the wooden handle on Klank’s side.

  “Ha!” booms Klank. “That tickles.”

  Frank flips Klank’s new switch labeled EARTH.

  Klank’s pink plastic branches expand and begin to wave in the air.

  “Go, Super Ultra Carbon-absorbing Klank!”

  Klank runs toward the woods. He bounces on big tractor-tire feet. He waves his still-sprouting fuzzy pink branches, playing:

  Three Blind Mice, Three Blind Mice.

  See how they run. See how they run.

  “My branches absorb one ton of carbon a day.”

  “Wow” says Watson.

  Klink calculates. “So one million S.U.C.K.s could absorb one million tons of carbon from the atmosphere in one day.”

  “Exactly,” beams inventor Frank.

  “But that is only one percent of global carbon emissions.”

  “We have to start somewhere,” Frank begins to explain, when suddenly—

  Klank freezes, and spreads his fuzzy pink carbon-absorbing branches wide.

  Klank falls over.

  “Rats,” says Frank.

  “And by the way,” says Watson. “That is a terrible name for an invention.”

  14 B

  “OK, this is really it!” says Frank.

  He stands proudly next to his canvas-covered invention, behind Grampa Al’s barn.

  Watson and Klink look on.

  “This will slow the greenhouse effect, and cool global warming for sure.”

  “Why do you always do this with the canvas?” asks Watson.

  “It is supposed to be dramatic.”

  “Oh,” says Klink.

  “I give you—the Sulfur Action Distribution cannon!”

  Frank whips the canvas off the figure. And reveals . . . Klank again. This time with a milk-can body and two long metal tubes, studded with shower nozzles, for arms.

  Klank waves his arm cannons.

  Watson and Klink jump out of the way.

  “Be careful where you are pointing those cannons!” Watson calls from behind a bale of hay.

  “Why would you give Klank cannons?” asks Klink.

  “In 1991, a volcano in the Philippines exploded. . .” Frank Einstein explains.

  “Yes, the effects of the eruption affected the entire Earth,” Klink confirms. “Ten billion tons of magma were ejected. Twenty billion tons of SO2—sulfur dioxide—were ejected. In the months following the eruption, the ejected material farmed a global layer of sulfuric—acid haze. Over the next two years, global temperatures dropped by about 0.5 degrees Celsius, and ozone depletion temporarily increased substantially.”

  “So?” says Watson.

  Frank smiles. “So what if we imitated that eruption? And put sulfur particles in the stratosphere?”

  “Sunlight would reflect off the sulfur particles, cooling Earth” figures Klink.

  Frank plays a new series of notes on Klank’s chest piano keys.

  Frank cranks the handle on Klank’s side. He flips Klank’s EARTH switch.

  A back panel on Klank’s new milk-can body flaps open. A weather balloon unfurls, fills with helium, and rises over Klank’s head.

  Klank floats up.

  Frank holds on to him with a rope and harness.

  Klank drifts over Grampa Al’s hayfield. He sprays a mist out his shower-nozzle arm cannons.

  “‘All around the Earth’s stratosphere . . .” sings the floating Klank, happily building a dense cloud over the field.

  “Look at that!” cheers Frank. “He’s shading the whole field. And cooling it, too.”

  Watson admires the sun-stopping cloud. “Very impressive. But what is that terrible smell?”

  “Ah, just a little SO2,” says Frank. “Sulfur dioxide.”

  “And why are those plants wilting?”

  “Other effects of SO2 include damage to plant life,” beeps Klink.

  “Ack, ack ack!” Watson coughs. “And why am I having trouble breathing?”

  “Some individuals are sensitive to SO2. Breathing difficulties, headache, and nausea may occur.”

  Frank’s eyes water. He coughs, too. “For the good of the planet.”

  “Any tig edlse?” wheezes Watson, holding his nose.

  Klank takes a wide turn overhead.

  “Sulfur dioxide may also damage fabric, paper, leather, paints, marble, slate, cement, rocks, and electrical components,” reports Klink.

  Right on cue, Klank’s electrical spraying components start sparking.

  “Pop goes the—”

  Klank sputters, jets, and starts cartwheeling through the sky.

  Frank can’t hold the thrashing robot on the end of the rope. He quickly ties it to the fence.

  “EEEEEEEEEEEE!” beeps out-of-control Klank.

  He spins, sprays, plunges straight for Earth . . . and crashes with a hollow POOOOM! in a lucky-for-Klank haystack.

  “Other side affects of SO2 distribution are unpredictable . . .”

  “And by duh way. . .” adds Watson, still plugging his nose, “S.A.D. is another terrible name for an invention.”

  14 C

  “OK, this is really, really it!” says Frank.

  He stands proudly inside Grampa Al’s pasture.

  Klank, newly fitted with one vacuum-hose arm and one metal-scoop hand, looking very nervous for a robot, stands next to Grampa Al’s cow, Mildred.

  “Now this is the Einstein invention guaranteed to save the planet.”

  “What, no canvas?” asks Watson.

  Frank gives Watson a look. “So carbon dioxide is a big problem warming the atmosphere. But did you know that methane gas is twenty-five times more harmful than CO2?”

  “I did not.”

  “And do you know where a big percent of that global methane gas comes from?”

  “No,” says Watson.

  “Moooooooo,” says Mildred.

  “Yes,” says Frank. “From the burps and farts of cows.”

  Watson stares at Frank, trying not to laugh. “You are kidding.”

  “I am not kidding,” answers Frank. “So if we get rid of this methane, we reduce greenhouse gases.”

  Watson raises one eyebrow, still not sure about this whole idea. “But how do you do that? You can’t stop cows from burping and farting.”

  “No,” says Frank. “But here is what we can do. We can use my invention.”

  “Mooooooo,” says Mildred.

  Now Klank looks completely uncomfortable.

  “Let me guess,” says Klink, “Is it named P.O.O.P.?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” says Frank. “That is a terrible name for an invention. This is the Methane Organizing Recycling Engine Device Of Organic Dynamics Occurring Outside!”

  It takes a minute for Watson to figure out the acronym.

  “M.O.R.E. D.O.O. D.O.O.?”

  “The demonstration!” says Frank.

  Frank feeds a handful of grain to Mildred. She chews.

  “We can’t eliminate the methane,�
� says Frank.

  “But you could DOO DOO a much better job of collecting it and using it,” says Klink.

  Watson looks at Klink.

  “Did you just make a joke?”

  Klank frowns. “That is not Funny.”

  It looks like Klink smiles.

  Frank cranks the handle on Klank’s side. He activates Klank’s M.O.R.E. D.O.O. D.O.O. by playing a new sequence on Klank’s piano keys.

  Klank’s vacuum-hose arm and metal-scoop hand extend.

  Frank feeds Mildred another handful of grain. Mildred chews and swallows.

  Klank’s processing light blinks red. His piano keys play “. . . and on his farm he had a—”

  Mildred sniffs, snorts, and then belches: “BUUUURP!”

  Klank’s M.O.R.E. D.O.O. D.O.O. vacuum arm inhales the burped methane gas and stores it inside Klank’s holding tank.

  Mildred snorts. She lifts her tail.

  Klank’s keyboard plays, “. . . with a moo moo here—”

  Mildred excretes a steaming load of manure.

  Klank holds out his M.O.R.E. D.O.O. D.O.O. scoop arm and catches the pile of hot cow poop.

  Klank closes his eyes, and drops the dung into his collection slot.

  Klank’s processor light blinks yellow. His keyboard plays, “. . . and a moo moo there. Here a moo, there a moo, everywhere a moo moo. . .”

  Klank processes the cow poop into gas. Klank’s processing light blinks green.

  “Aha!” says Frank. He pulls Klank’s gas-release finger.

  It hisses methane gas. Which lights on fire with blue flame.

  “Success!” cheers Frank. “And we have made a new, usable source of heating and cooking power!”

  “That’s great,” says Watson. “But how are we ever going to build enough. . . um. . . M.O.R.E. D.O.O. D.O.O. machines to follow every cow and goat and sheep around?”

  “Ninety million tons of methane a year,” calculates Klink, “would require at least forty million M.O.R.E. D.O.O. D.O.O.s.”

  Klank makes a sad sound.

  “Awww shoot,” says Frank. “You are right. That is too much robot-building. We would end up using more energy, and producing more CO2, than we would collect.”