Warren Murphy - Sole Survivor

"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 Lepper 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. "