Sole Survivor td-72

by Warren Murphy

"I will be in the embassy lounge. Drinking."

  Anna Chutesov was drinking vodka when the consul general found her. She did not look drunk. Probably she wasn't. But the bottle on the bar was nearly empty.

  "We have isolated the area at which the transmissions are directed," he said.

  "Where?" snapped Anna Chutesov, pausing with a tumbler just under her elegant lips. The consul general noticed that there was no ice in the glass.

  "In the state of California. Near Los Angeles."

  "Is that the best Soviet science can do?"

  "No. A team will be dispatched to triangulate the exact location, if that is what Comrade Chutesov desires."

  "Comrade Chutesov only desires the loan of the equipment necessary to locate that point. Comrade Chutesov will handle the matter herself. Comrade Chutesov would not trust this to a man. Comrade Chutesov will never trust a man ever again."

  "Yes, Comrade Chutesov," said the consul general. "You will not require backup agents on this matter?"

  "I already have them, if the fools were able to pass themselves off as untrained migrant workers-which I think may have been too much for them."

  And Anna Chutesov downed the remainder of the tumbler of warm alcohol, telling herself bitterly that all men were like straight vodka, colorless and so damned transparent.

  Chapter 16

  Larry Lepper hated robots. "I hate robots," he said.

  "These aren't robots," said Bill Banana, head of the famous Banana-Berry Animation Studios, in a soothing voice. Normally Bill Banana saved his soothing voice for his girlfriends. When you were the head of the largest cartoon factory in the history of television, you did not soothe, you barked. Sometimes you did neither. Sometimes you just fired people when they refused to let you have your way.

  Bill Banana did not want to fire Larry Lepper. He wanted to hire him. Larry Lepper, despite his youthful appearance, was the greatest animator in the business.

  "I don't do robots," insisted Larry Lepper. "I did robots over at Epic Studios. You could fill a junkyard with the robots I designed for Epic. No more."

  "These robots are different," soothed Bill Banana. He leaned back in his office chair, surrounded by life-size papier-mache statues of his studio's cartoon creations. They looked more realistic than he did.

  "I thought you said they weren't robots," said Larry Lepper.

  Bill Banana spread his hands in an expansive gesture. He broke out in a pleased grin. Somehow, his grin looked wider than outspread arms. He had good reason to grin. When you grossed three million dollars a year and were responsible for exactly seventy-eight percent of the cartoons shown on Saturday morning, you were king of your industry. Even if it was an industry in which artistic skill, technical brilliance, and storytelling ability were reduced three percent each year as a hedge against rising production costs, so that after nearly thirty years of animation, the Banana-Berry Studio was reduced to cranking out cartoons that were only one step above flip-page books.

  "They aren't robots. Exactly." Bill Banana grinned.

  "Robots are robots," said Larry Lepper. "You can call them Gobots, Transformers, or Robokids, but they're still robots."

  "Robokids made us a cool quarter-million last year," said Bill Banana seriously, rolling a stubby cigar to the other side of his mouth.

  "The ratings sucked. You made it all on toy-licensing deals."

  "That's where the action is these days. You know that. And don't knock Robokids. It was brilliant. I should know, I came up with it myself. Kids who transform into robots. No one had ever thought it up before. They had trucks that turned into robots and jet airplanes that turned into robots. They even had robots that turned into other robots. But Robokids? Original."

  "I'm not working on robot shows," repeated Larry Lepper. "I'm sick of them. Here," he said, unzipping a black portfolio that was the size of an executive's desktop. "Let me show you my latest concept."

  Bill Banana accepted the Bristol Board reluctantly. He looked at the drawing, cigar ash falling on the board with each puff.

  "Buster Bear?" he barked.

  "Look, this robot trend's gotta peak soon," Larry said eagerly. "Be the first guy out of the gate for a change."

  "No good. No one will buy a Buster Bear toy. Look at him. He looks like a cream puff. Maybe we could change him, though. Call him Blaster Bear. Stick a whatchamcallit an Izzy-in his paw."

  "Uzi," said Larry Lepper wearily.

  "We'll call it an Izzy. That way we can copyright the design and spin off the gun as a separate toy."

  "And copyright the character yourself? Nothing doing," said Larry Lepper, snatching back the presentation piece before cigar ash burned holes in it. "Thanks, but no thanks."

  "So let me tell you about my new show," said Bill Banana, happy to get Buster Bear off the negotiating table.

  Larry Lepper wiped at his shiny forehead unhappily. He was only thirty-four, but he had already lost most of his hair. Oddly, his high forehead made him look younger than his years.

  "No robots," said Larry Lepper.

  "We call them Spideroids. They're not robots, exactly. They're giant spiders, see, but they turn into androids. An android is a robot that looks like a real person. My manicurist explained it to me."

  "How original," said Larry Lepper dispiritedly.

  "I knew you'd get it!" Bill Banana said excitedly, slapping the desk with a beefy smack. "I knew that you, Larry Lepper, of all the guys working in the industry today, would see the awesome potential of this concept. How fast can you come up with the designs? I'll put you on at our top salary."

  Larry Lepper quietly zippered the presentation piece marked "Buster Bear" into his portfolio like a man closing the lid on his dreams.

  "I'll do the model sheets," he said dully. "Get someone else to do the animation."

  "Done," agreed Bill Banana, reaching across the desk to shake Larry Lepper's limp hand. He was not entirely happy, because it meant he'd have to hire other artists to do the stuff that Larry wouldn't, but it was dealable. He just wouldn't pay Lepper the top rate. The dumb schmuck hadn't worked for Banana-Berry in five years and would never know the difference.

  "When do you need it?" asked Larry Lepper. "Monday morning. The sponsors are gonna show up at nine."

  "But this is Friday. I'll have to work all weekend."

  "Work here. I'll give you a studio, have your food sent in, and if you want, a girl. Or a boy. Or both. I treat my employees right."

  "Just leave me alone all weekend and I'll see what I can do," said Larry Lepper miserably, visions of drawing stupid robots for the rest of his life dancing in his mind's eye.

  By Sunday evening Larry Lepper had generated a roomful of Spideroid model sheets, showing front and side views of different spider characters. He had jumping spiders, spinning spiders, and climbing spiders. There were brave spiders, mean spiders, and, for comic relief, silly spiders. They looked pretty sharp-if you liked spiders.

  The problem was, Larry couldn't figure out plausible android transformations for any of them. Designing robots that became cars or planes was easy. But spiders had eight legs. Larry didn't know what to do with the extra legs. If he kept them, the androids still looked like spiders. And he couldn't ignore the extra legs. If the show sold, the model sheets would be turned over to a toy company for immediate production so that the toys would hit the stores the week the show premiered.

  Larry tossed his pen into the inkwell in frustration. In his portfolio he had designs for dozens of funny animal characters which, if he had gotten them on the air twenty years ago, would have made him famous.

  But Larry Lepper had not been an animator twenty years ago. He had been a child dreaming of drawing cartoons for a living and maybe, just maybe, owning his own theme park like his idol, Walt Disney. He never told anyone this, but Larry was more interested in operating his own version of Disneyland than he was cartooning. That was where the real money was. Animation was just the road to the greater dream.

  Larry Le
pper had pursued his dream-disappointing his father, who had had his heart set on Larry following him into the family hardware business-and come to Hollywood. He was good. But more important, he was fast. And he had found work.

  Drawing robots that turned into motorcycles and flying saucers that became robots, all fighting mindlessly, and not a single human character in any of the scripts-that was the depressing part. If they wouldn't let him draw Buster Bear or Squirrel Girl or any of his other creations, at least they could give him a real-life person to draw once in a while.

  Instead, he was stuck trying to come up with a plausible android counterpart for a giant spider with eight laser-beam eyes and vise grips for feet. He decided to work on the character's names instead. But even that defeated him.

  "What the hell is another word for 'spider'?" he muttered aloud.

  " 'Arachnid,' " said a metallic voice from the open door. "It is the scientific term."

  Larry Lepper turned at the sound. There was a man framed in the door. He was a tall man, dressed in Hollywood pastels and wearing wraparound sunglasses that looked like they were part of his face and not an accessory. His shirt was open at the throat but instead of chest hair, Larry saw glass. Probably a medallion, but it looked pretty big. The man's hair was the color of sand, and when he smiled, it was like a camera shutter locking into the open position. His teeth looked too good to be true, even for Hollywood.

  "Hello," said Larry Lepper, thinking the man was some assistant producer come to check on his progress.

  "Hello is all right," said the man, walking in. He walked stiffly, as if his joints were arthritic.

  "It works for me," said Larry dryly. Probably on coke, he thought to himself. Half the town was.

  "I am looking for Commander Robot," said the man politely.

  Larry extracted himself from his drawing board and distinctly heard two vertebrae pop. He had been hunched over the board since dawn.

  "Um, he's not here," said Larry cautiously. And just in case this nut was dangerous, he reached for a sharpnubbed Speedball pen.

  "Lieutenant Cyborg, then," the man said calmly. The breeze wafting through the open window sent the man's scent toward Larry Lepper. Distinctive personal scents were in this year. On Rodeo Drive, where the stars shopped, you could buy colognes that made you smell like everything from avocados to old money. This guy smelled like the Las Vegas shuttle.

  "Nope," said Larry. "I really think you should try the security guard at the front gate."

  "He was most helpful. He directed me to this building. You are the only one here."

  "He's not supposed to do that. We're normally closed on Sundays," said Larry Lepper, sliding toward the door.

  "Yes, he was reluctant at first. I broke his arm in three places and his attitude changed. I have always been intrigued by the cooperative attitude caused by inflicting physical damage on meat machines."

  "Meat machines?" asked Larry. The man was coming toward him, a hand outstretched.

  "Homo sapiens," said the man, taking Larry by one wrist. He exerted sudden pressure. With the Speedball, Larry stabbed him in the stomach three times. The Speedball broke on the third thrust. When Larry looked up at the man's face, that fixed smile had not changed one whit. It also seemed very far away.

  Larry discovered that he was on his knees from the pain.

  "What ... what do you want?" he moaned.

  "I have told you. I will ask again. I wish to speak with either Commander Robot or Lieutenant Cyborg. I have seen them on television fighting the Stone Kings and I wish to enlist their aid in combating two personal enemies of mine. I have lost my former tutor, who was a survivalist, and am in need of allies."

  "You can't," Larry lepper groaned.

  "Why not?"

  "Because they're not real."

  "I do not understand your meaning. I saw them myself on the television screen."

  "They're cartoons. They don't exist in real life."

  "According to your skin tension reading, you are telling the truth, but I still do not understand your words."

  "I ... I can show you," gasped Larry Lepper, feeling the two bones of his wrist clicking together in the strange man's one-handed grip.

  Larry Lepper felt himself being yanked to his feet. "Show me," the man said tonelessly.

  "The next room," said Larry.

  In the next room, Larry showed the man paintings of scenes from the Robokids show done on clear acetate. They festooned the walls.

  "These are called cels," Larry said. "Artists paint pictures of Commander Robot and the others on them."

  "This one is very realistic," said the man, plucking a eel from the wall.

  "You gotta be kidding," said Larry Lepper, who had a low opinion of cel artists. He rubbed his sore wrist. The feeling was coming back.

  "It looks exactly like Commander Robot."

  "Well, yeah, that's true," Larry said. He picked a pile of cels off an acrylic-splattered worktable. "Here, see these others? The Commander Robot figure is different in each one. We shoot these in sequence so that Commander Robot seems to move against painted backgrounds. It's an optical illusion. It's called animation."

  The man gathered up the cel paintings, and faster than it seemed possible, he sorted them into the correct order. Then, holding them up to the light, he fanned the cels until the illusion of movement was created.

  "See?" Larry said hopefully.

  "They do not talk." His voice sounded disappointed.

  "They can't. They're just paintings. Actors dub in the voices. "

  "That would explain why Commander Robot and the announcer had identical voice recognition patterns."

  "The actors double up. It's in their contracts. You must have a great ear to be able to tell that."

  "Why is this done?"

  Larry Lepper shrugged. "To make money, to provide entertainment for the children who watch the show. But mostly to sell toys and breakfast cereal."

  "Is that your goal-to sell toys and breakfast cereal?"

  "No, I just want to make enough money to launch my own business. I sank my savings into an abandoned theme park, but I need more cash to get it off the ground. That's the only reason I'm wasting my time on this junk."

  "I am beginning to understand," said the man, letting the cels fall to the floor. "It is all make-believe. Yes, this explains another fact that had puzzled me."

  "What's that?" asked Larry Lepper conversationally. "Why Commander Robot and his fellow Robokids went to such great lengths to conceal their secret identities and then broadcast their adventures for all to see."

  "I can see why that would bother you, pal. I sure am glad I was able to clear up the mystery for you. I sure am. Yes sirree."

  The man stood in silence for a long time after he dropped the cels to the floor.

  "You okay, pal?" asked Larry Lepper.

  "Commander Robot and I would have made an effective team," said the man. His chin fell and even his too-square shoulders seemed to droop.

  "You had a lot in common, yeah," said Larry. "Anyone can see that." The man was blocking the only path to the door and Larry knew he had to humor the guy. He might survive if he humored him.

  "You understand," said the man, looking up.

  "I'm good with robots," said Larry sympathetically. "Everyone knows that."

  "Actually, I am an android survival machine. My name is Mr. Gordons."

  "Glad to meet you, Mr. Gordons, I'm real sorry about the confusion. Real sorry. I'll ask the studio to put a disclaimer on the next episode so it won't happen again." Larry inched to the door. Mr. Gordons matched him step for step. Larry gave up.

  "I appreciate your sympathy. Although I am a machine, I have the capability of feeling emotion. Also I can transform myself into any object with which I come in contact."

  "Yeah, that's handy, all right. Real handy. Popular, too. I know lots of robots who can do that. Almost all of them, actually."

  "I told you, I am not a robot. I am a survival android.
My name is Mr. Gordons."

  "Right. I got that. 'Robot' was just a figure of speech. No offense."

  "None taken. Would you like to see me assimilate an object of your choice?"

  "I really would, but I have to finish making Spideroids."

  "What are Spideroids?"

  "Cartoon characters. They're spiders who turn into androids."

  "Would you like to see me become a spider, then?"

  "No, not that," Larry said hastily. "I hate spiders. They crawl up my pants leg and make me itch."

  "I would become a very big spider, and I would promise not to crawl up your leg if you do not wish it."

  "Thanks just the same. Okay if I go back to work now?"

  "I will watch you work," said Mr. Gordons. "Perhaps I will learn something useful."

  "Suit yourself," said Larry Lepper, backing into the other room. He climbed behind his drawing board and pretended to get to work. Maybe the nut would get bored and leave.

  Mr. Gordons watched him silently. He gave Larry the creeps, but he was afraid to make a break for it. When Larry had not drawn a single line for five minutes, Mr. Gordons had a question.

  "Why are you not working?" he asked.

  "I can't think of a name for this one."

  Mr. Gordons looked at the model sheet and the blank space at the bottom for the name.

  "I am very creative. It is one of my newer skills. Let me try."

  "Sure," said Larry Lepper, who couldn't get out of Mr. Gordons' way fast enough. "Go right ahead. I'll get lunch."

  "Wait. I will not be long."

  "Took me all weekend to do all those sheets," said Larry Lepper, and then he stopped talking.

  The right-hand fingers of the man who called himself Mr. Gordons blurred suddenly. One minute he was touching the tumbler of ink pens on the desk, and then the next, he had an assortment of drawing utensils for fingers.

  As Larry Lepper watched, slack-jawed, Mr. Gordons began writing names onto the model sheets with his index finger, which was a pencil. He inked them with his other fingers, which ended in different size nibs. His thumb was an ink eraser, but Gordons never resorted to it. He seemed incapable of drawing a false line.

  Less than a minute after he began, Mr. Gordons handed a stupefied Larry Lepper a neat stack of model sheets. Larry went through them, his eyes bulging like those of a thyroid patient.