“Mr. Z, have you got a minute?” I said.
“Sure, Howard,” he said. “I’ll be right with you.”
Mr. Z was manning the “welcome” table at the Robotics Fair. The welcome table was the first stop for science classes and tour groups who’d scheduled a sneak peek at the robots while they were still in the building stage. The actual Robotics Fair hadn’t started yet but, when it did, it would be a three-day public event where crowds could roam the exhibit hall, attend lectures, and watch the competitors show off their robots. To be honest, the only days that mattered to me were the ones they set aside for judging and the awards presentation. I could hardly wait for those!
But I’d have to, for a while anyway. Since the exhibit hall was empty this time of year, the county let the Believer Achievers set up early and use the space as a workshop. So, for the past two weeks, robot-builders had been bringing in their entries, meeting the other contestants and swapping robo-secrets with their fellow BAs.
Mr. Z was writing something down on his clipboard. I cleared my throat, just in case he’d forgotten about me.
“Just another minute, Howard,” he said.
Today, instead of a T-shirt, Mr. Z was wearing a red golf shirt with a collar. It had “BA” embroidered in cursive on the pocket.
“Nice shirt,” I said.
“Thank you,” he said, and kept writing. I guess he noticed I was still staring at him and tapping my foot, because he added, “I like your parka.”
“Thanks,” I said. But I didn’t stop tapping.
Finally, he finished what he was doing and gave me his full attention.
“What can I do for you, Howard?”
“I’m here to enter the robot contest,” I said.
Mr. Z’s eyes narrowed, and he scratched the top of his head.
“Didn’t you just withdraw from the contest?”
“Yes,” I said. “Now I’d like to reenter.”
“But you told me your robot ran away.”
“He did,” I said.
“Did he come back?”
“No. This is a different robot.”
I smiled. Mr. Z looked very confused.
“You have another robot? What, like a backup robot?” he asked.
“Sort of,” I said.
He laid his head back and stared at the ceiling.
“You understand, Howard, most people don’t have extra robots just sitting around in their closet.”
“This is my last one,” I assured him.
“Howard . . .”
Mr. Z let out a long, tired sigh and propped his elbows on the table. His tone was warm but firm, the kind of tone parents use when they have to explain to a small child why they can’t have an elephant.
“I’m glad you’re so excited about this competition. I really am. But I’ve tried to make it clear to you that this isn’t a game. These aren’t toys out there. These are actual, real, working robots. And the judges at these things can be . . . well, some of them can be downright rude. They’re robot snobs, and they don’t like to have their time wasted. And I’m only telling you this, Howard, because I think you can be one of the best someday. And I’d hate to see you be embarrassed and get discouraged because you entered the contest before you were ready.”
“Oh, I’m ready,” I said. The grin simply would not leave my face.
He stared at me without saying a word. Then he shrugged and handed me the form. I took out a pen.
“So, Howard, where is this robot?”
“Right outside,” I said. Then I sat down and started filling in the information. “Name of robot? M-O-N-S-T-E-R.”
Mr. Z craned his neck until he could see out a wide window beside the front doors. He had a curious look on his face.
“Howard . . . is your robot in a box?”
“No, that’s him,” I said.
His forehead wrinkled.
“Your robot is made out of boxes?”
“Just his body,” I said. “The rest of him is made out of . . . other stuff.”
He shook his head. “Howard, I don’t think this is going to . . .”
“Robot! Come!” I yelled.
The outside door opened. In strolled a six-foot cardboard creature with blinking, twinkly lights and the words “Handle with Care” on his torso.
Mr. Z stood up. He looked stunned.
“It walks . . .” he said, as if he was trying to convince his own brain. “Howard, do you have any idea how difficult it is to make a machine mimic human walking?”
I shrugged.
“It wasn’t all that hard,” I said. “The hard part was making him do this.”
I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out an iPod connected to a small, portable speaker. I hit Play.
“BOMP! BOMP! BOMP! BOMP!”
The robot began to move. His hose-like arms were above his head, and he swayed to the left and the right in perfect time to the beat.
“This is unbelievable!” Mr. Z shouted, moving in for a closer look at the dancing creation. “Howard, how did you do this?”
“Oh, you know, hard work, all that,” I said, hitting the stop button on my iPod.
A crowd had started to gather around the welcome table. They were all staring at the spectacular, cardboard, voice-activated boogie-bot.