Robert wasn’t sure he should do it.
Lesley Grooves said he probably couldn’t.
Felix Didler said he probably shouldn’t.
James B Consonant said he probably wouldn’t.
Robert said nothing. He tapped his foot, twitched his nose and stared at the floor for a long, long time.
He probably could, but as to the should and as for the would…
Robert wasn’t so sure about those.
He could get into trouble.
He could get into big trouble.
It was a problem, though.
It was a big problem.
Robert liked problems.
Robert liked big problems.
When he was six years and four eighths of another year old, Robert’s mum shouted at him. “It’s time you started to pull your weight,” she said.
To Robert, this sounded like an interesting problem worth solving.
He put his mind to it and in just eighty-three hours and sixty minutes, had constructed a machine in which he could stand in and lift himself to the top of his house.
Robert’s mum didn’t know what to say. Here was her son, just six years and four eighths of another year plus eighty-three hours and sixty minutes old, standing in a machine of his own invention. She did what all wise mums do, she handed him a bucket of soapy water and a cloth and told him to wash the windows.
After that, Robert found more problems to solve.
He discovered his bed didn’t, in fact, make itself every day and so made a machine which neatened the sheets and fluffed the pillows in the morning.
He discovered his breakfast didn’t put itself on the table each morning and so made a machine which cooked eggs, toasted bread and placed it all on a plate for him and his mum each day.
He made machines to clean clothes, to answer the door, to drive him to school, to read eight books at once and even (because it was an emergency) one which helped him go to the toilet on the beach without anybody noticing.
Some of the fish noticed, but he made a special machine for them too.
Robert could build something for anything. Especially when it meant being helpful in some way.
He liked to help people almost as much as he liked solving problems.
Which was fortunate because there were lots of problems at Robert’s school.
Lots of problems. And almost all of them involved people fighting.
The boys with short hair were always fighting the boys with long hair.
The girls with knee-length socks were always fighting the girls with ankle-length socks.
The younger boys were always fighting the older girls.
And the older girls were always fighting the boys with long hair.
Then at lunchtimes, things really got out of hand.
Things got so out of hand that Robert’s friends had an idea. They suggested he might solve the problem by making one of his machines. Something which would show everyone how silly they were for fighting.
Robert liked to solve problems. Only… the idea his friends had sounded a bit much. A bit, drastic.
But yes, if Robert did as he was asked then he could stop the fighting.
And yes, Robert was certain he could do as he was asked.
His mind whirred.
His fingers twitched.
He set to work.
He scribbled and calculated, he hammered and cut, he twisted and turned, he hopped up and down.
His friends came, and his friends went.
His teachers watched, and his mum called (twice).
Then, precisely one thousand four hundred and sixty hours and ninety seven seconds later, Robert finished making his machine. Look, everyone said, there’s Robert and the bomb, he’s finished.
Robert was very proud of his bomb. It would end the fighting once, for all, and quite possibly for ever. It was the best bomb anybody had ever made.
It would shake the entire school and cause enough damage to make everybody think very carefully about what they were doing to one another.
It might hurt some people, but not as many as were already being hurt by the fighting.
All that remained was for someone to push the button.
Lesley Grooves said she couldn’t.
Felix Didler said he shouldn’t.
James B Consonant said he wouldn’t.
Robert wasn’t sure.
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Illustration courtesy of, and copyright, Carl Pugh. Follow him on Twitter.