The hovercar door clicked open. The driver unfolded itself from the seat and stepped out like an oversized praying mantis in the reddish gloom.
Director X (as was his designation from the Global Security Protectorate) was a tall, silver robot who roughly approximated the human form. That is to say, Director X was bipedal, with two accordion arms and long, multijointed legs. It even had two eyes, like little flashlights protruding from the glass dome atop its neck.
The eyes swiveled around, casting twin beams in the blackness. They halted at the door’s intercom.
The robot stabbed one of its blocky fingers into the button and said cheerfully, "Hello! I am Director X. By authority of the Global Security Protectorate, I humbly thank you for opening your doors immediately and inviting me inside!"
The black door lifted so quickly it seemed to have disappeared. Behind it, another door vanished, and then another, revealing a lengthy corridor opening into a gray rotunda.
Director X plodded forward towards the lobby. The doors behind it snapped shut with a successive thump! thump! thump!
The robot stood motionless in the soapy decontamination spray that followed. The spray, it knew, was unnecessary; radiation had long ago declined to perfectly safe levels. Nonetheless, Director X waited patiently as the liquid ran over his glass head and silver torso, black accordion arms, and the actuators in his legs. Blowers roared to life, drying him.
One final door snapped open. Director X trundled through…
… and into the quaint town Retro Los Angeles.
The Stygian metropolis was a weak echo of its namesake. Brick buildings and plastic green parks, churches and schools, brass corporate doorways and outdoor cafes. Artificial palm trees lined the sidewalk like cheerful soldiers.
Director X gazed up at the "sky." It was the rocky ceiling of a cave, painted azure and with billowy clouds. The sun—a blazing globe like a massive heat-lamp—crawled east to west along a thinly concealed metal track in the granite.
As the robot was descending white-lacquered steps into the town proper, someone cried, "You there!"
Director X’s flashlight eyes snapped towards an approaching group of men and one little boy. "Hello," it said.
The men halted. Their presumed leader stepped forward, gray moustache bent in a mighty frown.
"I’m Jonathan Croker, Mayor of District 5."
"And I am Director X, filmmaker of the Protectorate. Thank you for receiving me." The robot hesitated, and then chose a complimentary line of small talk to put these obviously nervous people at ease; the only one who looked happy was the little boy. "I like your shelter’s doors. Very Forbidden Planet."
Croker’s expression didn’t soften. "Director X? You make those crappy… um… late-night movies, right? Why are you here? Robots never visit us."
"I was hoping to enlist the services of my human peers."
"What services?"
"Well you see, there is a problem topside. This problem is—"
"Giant ants!" the little boy shouted. "The topside world is filled with giant ants, right? You need people to help fight them, and locate their queen!"
The mayor grinned bleakly. "This is my boy, Bobby. Sorry, he has an overactive imagination."
Director X stooped and patted the little human on his head. "Hello, Bobby! There are no giant ants in the world. But I see you are a fan of the Them! series. That makes me glad. I also like the Them! series."
The kid looked crestfallen. "No giant ants?"
"Bobby!" Mayor Croker snapped. "Enough!"
Director X straightened. "You are familiar with my movies, yes?"
"Sure, when I can’t sleep. I’ve caught a few of your pictures."
"I am looking to make a new series of films and I have chosen District 5 to be my partner in this endeavor."
Jonathan Croker frowned until his moustache bent. "Your partner for what?"
"I wish to enlist your townspeople as actors and writers and to utilize your town as a location. Ah! I can see several choice locales, including that beautiful church and lovely library. What a charming park! Why, even that bank could be used for an exciting robbery sequence!"
The mayor regarded his associates. "I’m afraid we don’t understand. Robots make all the movies."
Director X gave an exaggerated nod. "That is correct. But as you surely know, before the War of 62, human beings made movies. I wish to involve human beings in the moviemaking process once again."
Suspicion creased Croker’s forehead. "Why? Is there a problem?"
"Well yes. The problem is—"
"Giant locusts!" the little boy cried.
"Bobby!"
Director X hesitated. Several lines of response suggested themselves, and the robot’s processors clicked and whirred as they weighed an appropriate response. Its flashlight eyes swiveled in their sockets.
The problem was that the silicon studios were running out of ideas.
With copyright law as extinct as the old world, the Protectorate’s twenty-six filmmakers had gone on to mine literature until they were scraping bottom: Director L had recently been reduced to producing cinematic treatments of ancient Babylonian literary fragments, including The Epic of Lugalbanda, Marriage Contract of My Sixth Daughter for Three Oxen, and Prayer to Protect the Soul Against Crocodile Spirits. These had not been well-received—achieving truly abysmal viewer ratings—and the wretched feedback had precipitated the Great Studio Conference of last summer.
Protectorate filmmakers met to debate the problem. After six hours of discussion, they reached a near-unanimous decision: start making crossovers. Production slates rapidly filled with everything from Sir Gawain Versus the Great God Pan to Dorothy Meets the Hounds of Tindalos.
Director X had been the lone dissenting vote.
"I’m seeking something new to make," Director X explained to Mayor Croker. "Something in the vein of The Day the Earth Stood Still, or Earth Versus the Flying Saucers, or…"
The robot trailed off.
The men were staring without comprehension. Little Bobby frowned.
"Or," Director X continued, "an outer space adventure series similar to Flash Gordon."
"Flash who?"
"Buck Rogers?"
No reaction.
Now it was Director X who stared dumbfounded. It recalled how they hadn’t responded to its Forbidden Planet quip earlier.
"Science-fiction films," the robot said at last.
Mayor Croker rolled his eyes. "Sure, we’ve seen science-fiction films. Kind of silly stuff, if you ask me. Mutants, monsters from under the sea…"
"Giant bugs," Bobby muttered.
"I’m referring to films about outer space. Travelling in rocket ships to other stars and planets."
Croker seemed to go blank. His associates blinked stupidly.
"What’s ‘outer space?’" Bobby asked. "What’s a ‘rocket ship?’"
"Surely you must have old books," Director X prompted. "Asimov, Bradbury, Clarke? Moore, Nowlan, Oliver?"
"Moore? Didn’t she write that sea monster story?"
"Yes," Director X said, "but she also penned a series of outer space adventures."
Mayor Croker reddened. "And what the hell is an outer space adventure? What’s this ‘outer space’ you’re talking about?"
Director X froze in place.
This was not possible.
Its self-preservation protocols immediately kicked in, having identified an anomaly so profound that it warranted immediate and discreet analysis.