Tubular Android Superheroes

by Mel Gilden

  I said, "What's that?" and pointed to a machine about the size of a coin-operated canned soda dispenser. It was painted in cool green and blue stripes and had a thick slot all down one side. Across the top it said Melt-O-Mobile.

  "You'll see," Will said as if I'd be sorry when I did.

  After that I noticed one of those machines on almost every corner.

  The other surfers were not so polite as Whipper Will and Bingo. They made contemptuous barnyard noises at the androids. Bill got right into the spirit, of course. "Dorks," Mustard said. "Androids drill me bad. Not cool and gnarly like surf-bots." The other surfers agreed. Captain Hook added, "Hodads," and made the word sound as if androids never bathed or brushed their teeth.

  As we approached PCH, I noticed a bad smell but it wasn't the traffic. It was like rotting slaberingeo spines, like dirty dishes that had been in the sink too long, like a factory where more people than the national average would be dying of some wasting disease. "What's that?" I said.

  "What?" Whipper Will said. I was a little surprised he was not too preoccupied to answer.

  "The smell."

  "Something big and ugly is dead," said Grampa Zamp.

  Whipper Will said, "I don't smell anything." Nobody else did either. Just me and Zamp. We had the noses for it.

  We stopped at PCH and waited for the light to change. Every shop on the street was doing a brisk business. People who walked by had six or eight sunglasses hanging from their necks by cords, a hamburger in one hand and a taco in the other, and a box of fried chicken tight under their arms. T-shirts, rubber shoes, and souvenir clamshells also moved faster than hotcakes on skids.

  Near us, an android pulled up in a small automobile that could have been a million others except that it had the flat lackluster look of something that had been assembled from a sheet of cardboard. Tab A in Slot A.

  No parking space was there, but a couple of very young kids leapt out, followed by a woman with no more shape than a potato. "Do it," the kids cried, "do it," as they danced around like water on a hot stove. The android got out of the car, leaned back in through the open window, and hit something on the dashboard. The top of the car began to fizz; as it bubbled and popped, the top of the car evaporated.

  The light changed, but we didn't move. We iust watched as the fizzing spread quickly; soon the car was gone, up in nothing at all. The kids cheered. The dead smell was a little stronger now but not much. My friends continued not to notice it.

  "We want Popsicles," the kids demanded in voices that would make dogs whimper.

  "Not good for you," the potato woman said as if she'd said it before and had no hope it would do any more good this time.

  I'd been on Earth long enough to know what kids are. If it came to that, kids on T'toom were not so different. They want what they want when they want it. But when the fat woman denied these kids Popsicles, one said, "No good at all," and the other said, "You're right, Auntie." Auntie looked surprised but was quick enough to take advantage of the situation. She herded the kids as she followed the android toward the beach. They let themselves be herded.

  I said, "Did anything unusual happen there, or was I just not paying attention?"

  "Nothing to it, dude," Whipper Will said.

  The light changed again. When we still didn't cross PCH, far back in the troops. Captain Hook called, "Are we having pizza, or what?"

  As we stepped into the crosswalk, I said, "Another android superpower? Making kids behave?"

  "Maybe it wanna-be. Nobody knows, bro."

  I noticed three more cars up the street fizzing as they evaporated. In a low voice, as if not wanting to wake the baby, Bingo said, "SA makes those too. Cars that evaporate on demand. Never again will you get snaked on a parking place. They're called Melt-O-Mobiles." I said, "Like on the green-and-blue machines."

  Whipper Will shook his head.

  "No?"

  "Yes. Of course. Just like. But all that SA stuff dogs me. You'll see." He shook his head again.

  "I don't care who makes them," Grampa Zamp said. "They smell awful."

  "You hotdogging, dude?" Whipper Will said.

  Zamp looked confused. "Why not?" he said.

  Whatever it was that nobody else could smell, the air was full of it, thinner, then thicker, as it was pushed around by the sea breeze, but always there.

  As we passed a shop a fat guy came to the front of it. In the window were T-shirts featuring spiky paintings in unnatural colors not usually seen outside a car dealer's showroom—T-shirts from Hell. Above his protruding tummy—a thick line of skin and black hair—the guy wore one of his own shirts. It did nothing for his looks. He cried, "Beautiful T-shirts! You need these beautiful T-shirts."

  A crowd gathered, many people in it shouting, "I need a beautiful T-shirt!" Money and T-shirts changed hands.

  I looked again. The shirts were still not beautiful. "Want a shirt?" I asked nobody in particular.

  "Grotty shirts, dude," Hanger said.

  Thumper nodded and said with disgust, 'Dance club stuff. For gremmies and hodads only."

  We skirted the crowd and came at last to Guido's, a small stucco building with a green-and-red awning that looked like a flag of the losing side in many bad battles. Along with the squat green bottles in the window was a flyspecked card that said open. But we were not there for the atmosphere. For the surfers, this was the temple of pizza.

  Out in front a guy in work shirt, jeans, and a Peterbilt baseball cap was counting his change. I studied the clear blue sky and experimentally said to him, "Looks like rain."

  The guy looked up at the same clear blue sky and nodded as he frowned. "Funny time of year for it," he said.

  The bad smell was good. It made people believe things against their own intelligence, observation, taste, and desire. I was sure that Knighten Daise would have something to say about this too. It was funny that the stuff seemed to have no effect on me and Zamp or on the surfers. Me and Zamp I could understand:

  We were not of this Earth. But what made the surfers in Whipper Will's house different from all the other dudes and dudettes on the beach?

  After the glare outside Guido's was dark and cool and smelled of exotic spices. So little of the terrible smell was in the air, I might have only imagined it was there at all.

  Our waiter was a big kid who had cannon-balls for muscles. Maybe he was a Surfing Samurai Robot in a flesh-colored suit. His short hair looked like sandpaper. He glanced around the big table, appreciating the local fauns, but mostly was interested in me and Zamp. "We don't get many like you two in here," he said as if he'd said something clever.

  It occurred to me that I had never been inside Guido's before. I'd eaten his pizza, but it had always been take-out, and I'd never been the one to do the taking. I said, "We're bookends. You know? Books?"

  I don't know what it was, the crazy smell in the air or my sparkling personality, but he smiled as if he'd figured out addition at last, and said, "Sure. Bookends." He took our order and while we waited, Zamp rubbernecked.

  Whipper Will wanted to give Bill a handful of change so he could play the video game in the corner while we ate, but Bill said, "Watch my dust." He waddled to the game, did something to it, and began to play. I had seen him do the same thing to parking meters and Laundromats.

  When the kid brought the pizza, Zamp said, "This is it?"

  "Give it a chance," Thumper said.

  "It's very flat, isn't it?" Zamp said as he took a slice. When he bit into it his eyeballs rolled up into his head and when he was done with the first slice, he took another. Flopsie and Mopsie had a good time wiping the sauce off his face, and Zamp didn't seem to mind. By the time we left the kid was watching Bill through narrow eyes and drumming his fingers on the counter next to the cash register.

  All in all the meal at Guido's was more successful than the walk home. Whipper Will would not look at any android, and he ignored the clumps of people in front of the stores to the point that he would walk right through t
hem as if they were clouds of insects. For him, cars effervescing like soda water had all the fascination of cracks in the pavement. Bingo watched him with the concern of a nurse watching a patient who had a colorful disease.

  I told her. "He'll be OK."

  "You don't know the whole story."

  "There's a way to fix that."

  She shook her head. "I can't. Whipper'll throw it down if he gets cranked enough."

  "I wouldn't want him any more cranked than he is right now."

  For some reason, Bingo looked even more concerned after that.

  The rude noises that Bill and the surfers made at androids were sometimes mistaken for comments about the owners. Not even this snapped Whipper Will out of his trance. Bill and the surfers worked out their problems by being as cute and nonthreatening as a basketful of kittens. We slipped past fights like a ship narrowly missing icebergs.

  When we got back to the house a woman was reclining in the sun on a chaise lounge on the back deck. She was relaxed enough to be asleep. Even in repose as she was, she gave the impression of being in languid graceful motion. She had long dark hair that fell in feathers to her shoulders. Where the sun caught it, red coals seemed to smolder. The enormous black lenses of sunglasses covered her eyes, and from high cheekbones hung a wide mouth splashed with red, and a wicked chin. The relaxed mouth smiled a little, as if smiling came naturally to it. At the moment, she was wearing a tight, denim jumpsuit that emphasized what was most interesting about her slim body. One knee was raised a little. High boots matched her hair.

  Earth women did nothing for me personally, of course, but the surfers had given me the short course in what to look for. She had all of it.

  Whipper Will seemed genuinely surprised to see her. He glanced at Bingo for her reaction. Bingo's face was as emotional as a cube of butter. The woman on the chaise started suddenly, as if she had in fact been asleep, and stretched, making cats I had seen look clumsy. She said, "Hi," in the wispy voice of a child who has awakened among friends.

  In a way that told me nothing, Whipper Will said, "Hello, Darken. What's shaking?"

  Darken poured to her feet and hugged Whipper Will. She was just enough shorter than him to be comfortable resting her head on his shoulder. He held his hands away from her back and tried not to enjoy the hug, but his face was red when she came away. "Bingo," she said. The two women hugged, but I'd seen goldfish in a bowl be warmer. "These are my bros," Whipper Will said, and introduced the surfers. "Dudes, this is Darken Stormy, an old bro."

  The guys leered at Darken Stormy, and the gals were reserved and suspicious. I guess it was a compliment.

  "Can we talk?" said Darken. The sleep was gone from her voice now. It was as deep as the ocean and soft as a tub full of rabbits.

  "Sure," said Whipper Will. "Dig my hang." He held out his hand like a waiter. Darken strolled into the house, her hips having everybody's attention. Whipper Will followed her and turned at the doorway. "You dudes want to come?" Without saying a word Bingo slid past him into the house. "How about you, Zoot? Zamp?" I said, "Trust is a funny thing, isn't it?" Whipper Will tried to smile, but his mouth was too concerned with other things to take it on. He said. "Maybe I just want witnesses."

  "Fair enough." Zamp and I went into the house. I sent Bill back outside so the surfers wouldn't feel entirely abandoned.

  In the living room Bingo was sitting in the middle of the couch. Across from her Darken Stormy sat in a frayed old armchair no newer than last year's wasted hours. The air was warm, but you could have ice-skated on the vibes. Whipper Will sat down next to Bingo and took her hand in his lap. It lay there like a salami. Zamp sat on a low stool and I stood behind him. From where I stood I could see through the kitchen door and out the window. The surfers were walking their surf-bots onto the back deck.

  "Very groovy to see you. Darken," Whipper Will said.

  "Nice to see you too."

  The meaningless words floated out the open window.

  "I have my own radio show now. It's on every afternoon. Perhaps you've heard it."

  "No," said Bingo like a door slam.

  But Zamp brightened right up. "Radio?" he said. "Like The Shadow? Like Jack Benny and Fibber McGee? Like The Voice of Firestone?" He caressed the words as he said them. Earth radio was a big deal on T'toom—it was how we knew English, but the shows were a little out of date. T'toom and Earth were far enough apart that the speed of light made historians of us all.

  Darken Stormy laughed. She had a beautiful laugh, like water over stones. She said, "I'm afraid not. It's a talk show."

  "A show about talking?" Zamp said.

  Bingo and Whipper Will said nothing. I don't know if they were even listening. Maybe Whipper Will was just relieved that for the moment the conversation had nothing to do with him.

  Darken laughed again. "We have interesting guests. People call in to talk to them."

  "Eavesdropping on other people's conversations," I grumbled. But Zamp was impressed. He said, "Wow," and meant it.

  Darken turned to Whipper Will and said,

  "You let your hair grow."

  "My hair," Whipper Will said. "My brain." She nodded and said, "Your father misses you." Bingo and Whipper Will recoiled as if Darken Stormy had slapped them. Whipper Will said,

  "You still work for my father?"

  "Well, for one thing," Darken Stormy said, rolling her eyes humorously, "he owns the radio station."

  "And for another thing?" Whipper Will said.

  "He needs you. The work on the androids is not going well." "Bummer."

  "Yes." "I said I would never go back to Willville."

  "People change their minds."

  "He said no," Bingo said.

  "I know what he said," Darken Stormy said.

  They sounded like two lionesses fighting over a piece of meat. Darken Stormy let her eyes wander the room.

  Bingo patted Whipper Will's hand, but it was just a breeze to him. Outside, Bill and the surfers were ostentatiously polishing surf-bots. Every time an android walked by on the public walkway the surfers whooped. Bill sometimes whooped too, and when he did the androids walked a little faster while casting unhappy glances over their shoulders.

  Darken rose to her feet and went to the fireplace. From behind some very old flowers and some seashells and two tiny jars of colored sand she took a blue thing not much bigger than a shoe box. I had not noticed it. It looked like a lot of other junk in the surfer's house.

  When Darken Stormy held it before her, I could see that it was a surfer made from pipe cleaners standing in the classic Quasimodo pose on a chip of wood that was supposed to be a surfboard. Behind the surfer a single wooden wave arched over him.

  "How sweet," Darken said. "You still have it."

  Bingo didn't think it was sweet. Whipper Will tried to look cool.

  Darken Stormy wound a key at the back of the thing and the surfboard rocked up and back slowly to a tinkly rendition of "Surf City."

  "What is it?" I said.

  "A music box," Darken Stormy said. "I bought it for Whipper Will's birthday one year." She smiled again, but this one wasn't for us. It was a cozy one just for her. She said, "We had some good times, Whipper."

  "We had 'em," Whipper Will said, "and they're gone, like yesterday's aggro waves. Tell Dad to stop bugging me."

  "Should I tell him you're sorry you won't come back?" Darken Stormy said sarcastically.

  "Tell him anything you want as long as he stops trying to snake me by sending old buddies around."

  "I wanted to see you too."

  "Here he is," Bingo said.

  Darken Stormy held out the music box. "Can I have this?" she said. "You don't seem to have any use for it." At the same time, Whipper Will said "Yes" and Bingo said "No." "No," Whipper Will said.

  "I see." More carefully than I would have expected, she set it back onto the mantel. She turned and ran her hands down her hips. I think if I'd been a human male the top of my head would have come off at that
point. She said, "You'll be hearing from him." "Groovy," said Whipper Will as if it were no such thing,

  Using that special hip motion that only human females can manage she strolled past the couch to me and Zamp. From a breast pocket she pulled a business card and bent over to give it to Zamp, thus giving Whipper Will a really astonishing view of her ass. It was one of the most difficult things he'd ever done, but Whipper Will didn't look. Or maybe he did. He might have been good enough. To Gramp Zamp, Darken Stormy said, "You're kind of cute. Call my talk show anytime. We'll talk." The way she said it, talking should have been illegal without a marriage license. She walked out of the room, through the kitchen, and out the back door. She watched Bill and the surfers for a moment before she went away. The surfers missed the show. They were too involved with insulting androids to notice. "Ahh-roooh!" they cried.

  Chapter 3

  Iron Will

  BINGO was still sitting on the couch. Whipper Will was standing in the middle of the room raking his hair with his hand. Grampa Zamp was sniffing the card. When he saw me, he said, "This is great. In about forty years, I'll be a radio star on T'toom."

  I nodded but I had things on my mind other than Grampa Zamp's stardom. Darken Stormy had shaken up Whipper Will and probably done worse than that to Bingo, but she still hadn't done anything illegal. She'd only mentioned androids in a way that caused me to believe that Whipper Will had more than a casual connection with them. That interested me. I wasn't yet working for Knighten Daise and already androids interested me.

  I sat down on one end of the couch. Bingo attempted to smile at me, but it was a weak thing with a lot of worry in it. For a moment I listened to Bill and the surfers whooping on the back deck. Then I said, "Does Darken Stormy come with instructions or should I just guess?"

  "She's just an old girlfriend," Whipper Will said as if he were reading baseball scores. Bingo said, "Hang loose, dude. I'm not dissed by her." Certainly no more than by a broken foot, I thought. I said, "She's an old girlfriend. What made you break up?" I was just a nosy old friend of the family. Whipper Will could have asked me why it was my business and that would have been the end of it, but I could see he wanted to talk. He waited for Bingo to speak. When she didn't, he said, "I used to work at the Superhero Android labs. Darken was a model at Will Industries trade shows. We met out at Willville, and ..." He tried to jack up his voice with his hands. Bingo said. "As you can see, she's quite a dish." "You're not exactly chopped sushi yourself," Whipper Will said. "Go on," Bingo said, not buying any soft soap right now.