Avie James thought she heard what sounded like tires on gravel in the alley behind the apartment. She was in the kitchen at the rear of the apartment, not cooking or cleaning but planning a stage production on the small kitchenette table. Her notebooks, sketchbooks, and drawing and writing implements were spread out.

What was weird was that vehicle, whatever it was, was strangely silent.

Then she heard a scratch at the door. She got up and went to the door; looking through the screen she saw a red car—some type of Italian-looking sports car, backing up; on the stoop was a black cat sitting patiently, its green eyes looking up at Avie.

“Dr. Sax,” she said, opening the screen door. “You don’t usually knock.”

The cat had secret ways of getting into the apartment Avie had yet to figure out; or, she could have just come in the torn screen of the front door.

Perhaps this was Dr. Sax’s way of letting Avie know she had a friend with a lavish sports car, and wanted her to meet him or her. Apparently, the friend didn’t want to be met.

Avie let the cat in and closed the door, but by the time she looked up, the red car was gone; yet she hadn’t even heard the sounds of tires on gravel as it went back down the alley.

“I was expecting Donna, dropping off Clarissa,” she said to the cat.

“Who was that?” asked a young man’s voice as he walked barefoot down the hall. He was wearing boxer shorts and a T-shirt, and appeared groggy from an afternoon nap.

“Just our resident stray cat,” said Avie, who was already reaching into the cupboard for a can of tuna. “Remind me we need to get more cat food, Chas. I mean, Chase.”

“Oh, Dr. Sax,” said Chase, stroking the feline who had hopped up on a kitchen chair. “I was hoping it was Clarissa, so we could clear it with her it’s okay for me to stay.”

“I told you, I’m sure it will be fine,” said Avie. “But you’re going to have to sleep on the sofa. Just because we … fooled around a few times doesn’t mean you have bedroom privileges. And Clarissa’s seeing somebody.”

“I should have known better than to try to crash in a pad were I’ve slept with both roommates,” Chase whispered to the cat. “Sisters, yet. You know women, Dr. Sax; how sex is just ‘fooling around’ and ‘fooling around’ is just friendship gone too far—when it’s not convenient to acknowledge a sexual relationship.”

Avie glared at him as she twirled a can opener around the perimeter of the lid. “You can find one of your art school friends right now and save us all a lot of trouble,” said Avie. “What happened in there a while ago was just … a little welcome home present. It wasn’t meant to be a renewal of any relationship.”

Chase sat down in the empty chair and thumbed through Avie’s sketchbook. “You’re between engagements, right?” he said. He laughed at his own wordplay. “See what I did there? You’re between theatrical productions, and also between monogamous relationships. That’s what we call a double entendre.”

Avie scowled as she set out the cat food in a bowl on the floor.

“Okay, I get it,” said Chase. “Don’t worry; it’s just for tonight … maybe a day or two at most. I told you, I have money and expect to be able to rent a room at the A-B-C building, or the Canfield Arms Apartment, or someplace close to campus tomorrow.”

“What happened to Megatron Man? I thought the comic was a success. Did you burn your bridge with your publisher?”

“It was a success. I have a sixth issue still coming out.”

“You just didn’t like living in Wisconsin, is that it?”

“I told you, last summer was wonderful when I first moved out there. The publisher had a barn in the middle of cornfield’s he’d converted into a warehouse and publishing offices—part of the hippie-sixties back-to-nature movement. He built a nice loft with a bunk for me and everything, and me and the art director and the colorist and the editor formed a kind of bullpen for production. And all the visiting hippie artists and antique collectors a few professors from Ripon College formed a softball team. It was great. Did I tell you I knocked in the winning run, breaking our thirteen-game losing streak?”

“You told me in one of your letters,” said Avie.

“Then the winter set it. It was pretty brutal, I have to admit. Three feet of snow September first. Shining-like isolation. Trucks parked on frozen lakes. Only a bowling league as a social activity. It was culture shock. I got down to Chicago and Madison a few times, but I missed the arthouses and bookstores of a city. As rough as Detroit is, I realized in had a lot to offer, especially around the University-Cultural Center. Rents are cheap here.”

“Aren’t you still doing the comic book?”

“That was the other problem. I ran out of ideas. I made fun of all the silver age comics I grew up reading and found I didn’t have anything else to say. The publisher wanted me to spoof this trend or that fad in comics, but I really wasn’t interested.

“But the real problem was, I started going to conventions—big ones in Chicago, Dallas, San Diego, where all the artists and editors and publishers in the business congregate. For the big New York publishers, they were practically editorial retreats; they were about the only time their editors and freelancers could all get together and socialize, because nobody can get into New York to meet—everybody just sends in their art through the parcel service.

“It’s also an opportunity for editors at those big publishers to go head-hunting for new talent,” Chase continued. “That’s how they got Bill Lear and Mick Ryan; they’re both from Detroit. And Harlan Cooper. They’re all penciling or inking or scripting some superhero book now.”

“That’s how you got a script for Aquavolt,” said Avie. “You sold out.”

“I told you, Megatron Man had run its course; I was out of ideas. Also, it’s hard work writing, penciling, lettering, inking, and doing half the coloring of a bimonthly comic book. Besides, I’d like to just hone my craft on penciling—just worry about the storytelling and the anatomy and figure drawing. Besides, I haven’t closed the door or burned my bridges with Kitsch-In-Synch. But I couldn’t very well sit in their bullpen penciling Aquavolt, now could I? I illustrated a short story by the British writer Byron Starkwinter—he’s hot on Cesspool Cecil right now—for a benefit book, and my publisher, Ken Schindler, nearly had a cow. It was tense couple of weeks in the bullpen, before I went back to Megatron Man #5, which was only slightly late.”

“Yeah, well, you better get started on your script,” said Avie. “And you better get dressed. Clarissa should be home shortly—I think I heard her land on the roof.”

***

The red car had not driven off; instead, it simply had disappeared, become invisible under cloaking technology foreign to the twentieth century. Rory Smash sat in the vehicle and had watched from the alley as Avie let in the cat and looked around his vehicle; he watched her close the screen door and disappear.

Smash made calculations on the wheel-less, knob-less flatscreen dashboard while waving his hands. After plotting a course to his apartment, he looked at the estimated times, the clogged traffic routes.

“It’s going to be deadly rush hour,” he said to himself. “That’s one drawback to this simpler, primitive time—flying cars are so conspicuous.” Perhaps there were others, but he knew he couldn’t risk it.

Instead of heading for home right away, Smash sat in the quiet, invisible vehicle asking the dashboard questions: about Donna Blank, about the Crime Busters, about megaheroes in general. He learned that the Crime Busters, for example, had disbanded in the 1970s; he learned that a new team had formed in the region: the Troy+Thems, and that Donna Blank—also known as the Phantom Jungle Girl, was affiliated with both the Troy team and the Megatropolis Quartet in New York.

“I’ll need to pay these Troy+Thems a visit,” thought Smash, who decided it was time to begin the journey home. But as he happened to look up, he saw a primary-colored figure flying toward the apartment building Dr. Sax had entered, and disappear from view as it landed on the roof.

“The girl who was spying on us the other day,” said Smash to himself. “Dashboard, who is the megahero—female, primary colored, African-American …”

“Ms. Megaton Man,” said the dashboard in electric-monotone vocals. “Lineage Megaton; nominally America’s Nuclear-Powered Hero. Associated with Megaton Man, Yarn Man, the Megatropolis …”

“Thanks, I don’t need a complete rundown,” said Smash. “So, the local costumed characters are looking for me while I’m looking for them. Interesting.”

In a few moments, a figure climbed down from the roof of the apartment building on a metal ladder attached to the brick wall. It was the same figure as before, now changed into civilian clothing, a garment bag over her shoulder. Stepping onto the landing, she entered the back door of the apartment.

“Well, if the Meddler’s in no condition to aide me, perhaps the Phantom Jungle Girl and Ms. Megaton Man can,” said Smash. “Dashboard, drive home to the Brightmoor neighborhood, please.”

The red Ferrari became visible again and sped off down the alley.