Solo, a robot who doesn't take orders, leaves the jungles of Nicarauga and tries to fit in, in New York City.

Every bit as personable as Arnold Schwarzenegger's Terminator but, with his black carbon-fiber exterior, less-well-human, Solo has pulled himself back from the bottom of the ocean, paid a courtesy call on his adopted Nicaraguan family, wowed a Stone Age Indian tribe, hacked into the Defense satellite-computer system for an update on the military-industrial complex, watched old movies to brush up on the fine points of being human, and stowed away in the bilges of a banana boat on his way to New York. In Manhattan, he hooks up with a brokenhearted bag-lady whom he reconstructs and with whom he builds a thriving business based on his marvelous ability to talk heart-to-heart with the computers at Merrill Lynch, Shearson Lehman Bros., and Nomura Securities. Solo needs his newly earned fortune to rebuild his batteries so he can go disconnect from Con Ed and go to florida. He wants to rescue his younger, stronger brother, an Army colonel who's programmed to kill without question. Solo can't do it alone. He needs the help of his brilliant and filthy-rich inventor, who is only too glad to leave the office and have some fun.

The techno-thrills are secondary to such amusements as Solo adapting to N.Y.C. and N.Y.C. adapting, more or less, to Solo. Much fun for the techno-credulous.