"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.