Bolts Read Free Page B

worry about that. Comrade Pang and his big stick were only three leaps behind him—and ahead, appearing from every direction, were jabbering men with dark ugly faces. They were trying to head him off.
    Bolts dodged to the left, wishing he had longer legs and more experience in using them. Being fresh off the assembly line made it twice as rough, for it wasn’t at all easy to keep his balance and cover distance in a hurry. Once he took a tumble, going heels right over head. But in an instant he was up, dodging again as men came leaping into his path.
    Suddenly he saw a stone wall looming in front of him. He looked frantically for an opening through it, but there was none. He whirled, and found himself facing a line of jabbering figures.
    He was cornered.
    What was a poor dog to do if he wanted to save his tin hide?
    Just in the nick of time Bolts remembered that he not only had teeth to be proud of, but a special Number Three growl that would put his frightful Number Two to shame. It was supposed to be used only outdoors, where it wouldn’t shatter windows, and only in an emergency of the most desperate kind.
    Well, this did seem like an emergency, and a pretty desperate one at that. In a flash he opened his mouth, snapped out his terrible teeth, raised the steel hackles on his neck, and loosened his unspeakable Number Three. Then he charged.
    Ninety-seven lions, all tied in a bundle and tearing each other to bits, couldn’t have sounded worse. Afterward even Bolts didn’t like to think about that Number Three growl. It did such awful things to his circuits that there was no pleasure at all in seeing his enemies drop like quivering lumps of jelly, with their blood turned to water. Anyway, escaping was no problem. Bolts kept moving, fast, and not a soul tried to stop him.
    He whipped past a row of huts along the edge of a village, wiggled through a fence, and tore lickety-split down a rocky gully that led out into open country. Not until the village was far behind did he pause and look around. There was no sign of pursuit.
    Now what should he do?
    The best course, he figured, was simply to follow his nose. If he had patience, and followed his nose long enough, he was bound to end up in Battleship Lane. With such a sniffer as his, he didn’t see how he could miss it.
    Bolts turned slowly about, rotating his sniffer. He sifted through a few dozen interesting smells, chose the most exciting one, and began trotting hopefully in the direction of it. In a few minutes he came to a narrow trail that seemed to be used only by animals with hooves. His sniffer told him it was a trail well worth following, so he took it.
    â€œWhat lonesome country!” he said aloud, just to keep himself company. “Sure hope I don’t have to go through much of this to reach Battleship Lane.”

    It was really quite dreadful country, all covered with stones and patches of cactus. In the bright starlight he could see it stretching away for a great distance. His sharp eyes could make out only one living thing in sight—it was some sort of smallish hooved critter ahead on the trail. Bolts barked at it by way of greeting, but the sound only frightened the hooved critter and it started to run.
    â€œHey, what’s the big rush?” Bolts called to it. “Nobody’s gonna bite you.”
    The hooved critter stopped. It turned and stared back at him curiously. Bolts trotted up to it, sniffing. Suddenly the hooved critter—it looked like a small donkey—twitched its big ears and said loudly, “Hee-haw! Ha! Ha! Hee-haw!”
    â€œHee-haw yourself!” Bolts snapped. “I don’t claim to be no prize beauty—but do you have to laugh at a feller?”
    â€œI’m not laughing,” retorted the critter. “That’s only my way of saying hello.”
    â€œSay, you’re talking !” Bolts exclaimed. “I didn’t know a real critter could talk!”
    â€œI’m