At the end of each fiscal year, the corporate balance sheet was healthy, and thanks to the advent of the Cold War, many subsidiaries of Wayne Enterprises had landed government contracts to provide urgently needed military supplies, services, armor, and vehicles. Only LuthorCorp had a greater number of direct contracts with the U.S. military.
Paying little attention to the new logo designs, Bruce gazed around the table at these men. After the death of Thomas Wayne, the original set of directors had been excellent regents to watch over the company. Bruce’s father had been a well-known surgeon as well as an innovator and inventor. He had created a new type of iron lung that saved the lives of tens of thousands. The money from those patents had gone directly back into medical research.
Vivid in Bruce’s memory was the time when the head of one of Gotham City’s well-known crime families had been shot and severely wounded. Thugs in business suits had brought the bleeding man to Wayne Manor, pounding on the door late one night and pushing their way in when the door was answered. They didn’t want to be seen at a hospital.
Understanding the wounded man’s need, Thomas Wayne did not hesitate to operate, no matter who he was. Instead of viewing the men as criminals, instead of noticing the threatening bulge of handguns beneath the blood-smeared business suits, Thomas saw only an injured human being. He worked using the expensive dining room table as an operating surface and succeeded in saving the crime boss. He urged the thugs to take the man to a hospital for further treatment, but they had carried their boss away into the night with only grunts of thanks.
Some months later, an anonymous two-million-dollar donation had been made to the Wayne Foundation. Bruce remembered how upset his father had been, claiming the money was dirty, since he knew exactly who the donor had been. But as he wrestled with his conscience, Thomas had also realized how much good he could do with the untraceable money. Therefore, he built a new cancer wing at Gotham General Hospital. His father found it ironic and gratifying to think of how many lives the crime family was inadvertently saving. Once, when he didn’t know Bruce was listening, Thomas had told his wife, “I don’t like using money from such people, Martha, but I suppose it’s better for their souls than simply lighting a candle in church.”
As a skilled surgeon, Bruce’s father had an acute awareness of how capricious death could be. He had loved his son and his wife ferociously, and he had made certain his family was well cared for. He’d left very detailed instructions in his will, and his ironclad testaments and codicils had directed Wayne Enterprises for years.
The original handpicked board of directors had been close friends of his father, men who owed their lives to Thomas Wayne in one way or another. Newly orphaned and alone, young Bruce had gone off to boarding school for years, and those directors had carefully and honorably watched the company.
But Bruce had been gone for a long time, wrestling with his own demons, learning how to become more than just a man, building his skills, his mind, and his body—paying little attention to his fortune. More than twenty years had passed. Directors, and whole departments, had changed dramatically. These men now were two or three times removed from the ones Thomas Wayne had hired. The directors thought more about profit than about the great dreams of a skilled surgeon gunned down in an alley long before his time.
Several years ago, Bruce had returned to Wayne Manor to dust off the cobwebs, pull the sheets from the furniture, and turn the long-empty house into a glorious mansion once again. But he’d still needed time to prepare himself for his real work—to develop his armor, his weapons, his entire plan.
Obsession was not enough. With Wayne Enterprises, he had resources as well. Although he spent his nights protecting the innocents of Gotham City, becoming a caped and masked avenger—like Zorro in that last wonderful movie, at a time when Bruce had been so young and innocent—he also had to protect his parents’ legacy.
While the board members assumed they had the time and freedom to run the company as they wished, Bruce was watching them. Always watching. This was the only thing he could do for his parents now. Wayne Enterprises was his, and the directors would be reminded of that—when the time was right.
The oldest of the directors, a thin, quiet, and extremely intelligent man named Richard Drayling, sat silent during the meeting. Come to think of it, the man had said nothing the previous Tuesday either. Bruce pretended to ignore him but quickly picked up on Drayling’s mood of simmering anger and discomfort. He occasionally cast a sharp glance at Bruce, his disappointment palpable. A great battle seemed to be going on in his conscience.
Although Drayling, the director of materials science, had worked with Thomas Wayne and respected him greatly, it was abundantly clear that he did not approve of Bruce’s aloof playboy behavior. It was also clear that Drayling had no great love for the other board members.
Bruce interrupted a droning report from the director of chemistry applications. “Mr. Drayling, I sense that you have something to say.”
Drayling sat up stiffly, looked at Bruce, swept his gaze slowly over his fellow directors, and sighed. “Very perceptive, Mr. Wayne. Yes, I do.” He reached inside his suit jacket, paused for just a moment with eyes closed, as if gathering his strength, then withdrew an envelope. He set it on the table in front of him.
“This is my letter of resignation from the board of directors of Wayne Enterprises.” He stood as if carrying a great weight on his shoulders. “This is no longer a company I can believe in. It is better if I’m not a part of it, and it’s time for me to retire.”
Bruce was surprised by the brash move. Despite his careful study of the actions of the board members, he had not expected Drayling to leave. Something else was at the root of it. “No further explanations?”
“Not at this time. As you’ll note in the letter, my resignation is effective immediately. I’ll be going now.”
The remaining directors expressed their surprise and disappointment, but not too convincingly. The tenor of the overlapping conversations sounded more like relief and farewell rather than any attempt to persuade Drayling to change his mind. The old man didn’t seem to hear any of it as he turned and left the meeting room with pride and dignity.
Disturbed, Bruce pocketed Drayling’s letter of resignation. He would read it in detail later. Right now, he studied the reactions of the other board members, and he learned from them.
“We should get back to business,” Henning said into the awkward silence, glancing down at the agenda, as if resignations were a weekly occurrence.
“The dinosaurs are finally extinct,” someone muttered with a snicker; Bruce couldn’t tell who had spoken.
“We should get him a retirement gift,” added Frank Miles, one of the research VPs, to a chorus of muttered approval.
“We have prepared the annual report for you, Mr. Wayne,” said Terrence McDonnell, the chief financial officer, with a smile. He proudly handed over a glossy report that boasted impressive color photographs and a specially commissioned painting on the cover: a handsome Bruce Wayne standing in front of the monolithic Wayne Tower. The design and printing of this one report had probably cost enough to feed Gotham’s poor for almost a year.
He remembered to remain aloof, despite his troubled thoughts. “Thank you. I’ll glance at it when I get a chance.”
“We’re very pleased you’ve decided to devote your energies to charity work,” said Shawn Norlander, VP of pharmaceuticals and medical applications. “Not only does it put the best public face on all our activities, it’s also closely in line with what your father would have wanted.”
Norlander sounded sincere, but Bruce knew that most of the directors looked upon his charity work, extravagant society functions, and huge donations as a ball and chain, despite the tax deductions—unnecessary expenditures that could have been better used to build new factories, make more extensive investments, or provide bonuses to management. Nevertheless, the directors let Bruce manage his charities without complaint, as if they were
throwing him a bone.
Bruce slipped the flashy report into his briefcase. “I have to cut this short today, gentlemen. I’m holding an important charity gala at the manor tonight with quite a few celebrities. We expect to raise hundreds of thousands of dollars for polio research, and Eleanor Roosevelt has promised to come. Marilyn Monroe and Arthur Miller may even be there.”
“Interesting. I’ll try to make it,” Buchheim said, but Bruce knew the directors usually made excuses.
“I’ll expect to see some of you there,” Bruce added with an undertone of warning, which he then turned to a flippant suggestion. “Draw straws if you have to.”
“You know you have our full support for your humanitarian activities,” Thomson said in an irritatingly sycophantic tone, trying to mollify him. “In any case, you are the best spokesman for the company, Mr. Wayne.”
“I suppose I am,” Bruce answered, lifting his chin. “And it’s quite a full-time job. Please be sure to show me a list of candidates for Mr. Drayling’s replacement. Thank you again for the report, and”—he gestured gravely toward the easels—“let’s try a little harder on those logos for next week.”
AS THE CHAUFFEUR DROVE HIM HOME FROM WAYNE TOWER, Bruce went over the flashy report the directors had given him. None of the information was new to him. Though they believed Bruce to be an indifferent manager—an impression he had actively cultivated—he familiarized himself with every department, scrutinized every project, analyzed every budget.
Two questions continued to weigh on him: Why had Drayling resigned? And why now? Bruce had tried to intercept the man to talk to him before he left Wayne Tower, but Drayling was gone, his desk cleaned out beforehand, his office dark. He would have to dig deeper, seek out the man so they could have a real conversation in private.
Back inside the Cave, surrounded by shadows, he found that his concentration always improved. This was far more than just a cave—it was a nerve center from which he kept watch and truly observed what work he needed to do to clean up his city. The cave roof high overhead was jagged with sharp stalactites. He had electric lights, surveillance cameras, an extensive library, all the information he could possibly need at his fingertips. Communications systems monitored police radio bands. The sophistication of his whirring, cutting-edge computer banks surpassed anything the U.S. government would admit existed. Part of the Cave was a chemistry lab; another grotto held an engineering bay and a machine shop. Small periscope cameras were hidden at strategic points on Gotham’s prominent buildings, their images viewable from his command center.
Since he needed to be present at the gala reception above, he didn’t plan to go out hunting, and so he had not taken the time to don the uniform. But the persona was always there. The Batman within gave him a different perspective, helped him think clearly and make difficult but necessary decisions. The dark suit remained on its stand nearby, always there as a reminder.
So many crimes in Gotham City were not obvious, and virtually the entire police force was corrupt, especially under Commissioner Loeb. Graft and blackmail ran rampant. Strong-arm tactics were used against anyone who accidentally witnessed activities best unseen.
He activated the high-tech cameras and receiver screens. As the cathode-ray tubes warmed up, he observed a black and white image fed directly from the boardroom of Wayne Tower. Hidden microphones had captured every word uttered since his departure and recorded everything on reel-to-reel tapes, gathering information. Now he watched the recent recording of these men, who had thought their conversations secret once Bruce left for the day.
Surprisingly, the directors did not seem concerned about the loss of Drayling. The conversation was more about Bruce and his increased interest in running Wayne Enterprises.
“Do you think he’s been meddling more lately?” asked Dennis Huston, vice president of applied technologies.
“Maybe he’s started believing the title on his office door,” answered Frank Miles with a snort. “We’ll just have to deflect him. Point him toward a new crusade, find a famine in Mongolia or something. He’s like a magpie—show him a bright and shiny object, and he’ll chase it. Then we’ll be able to do the real work without any interference.”
Bruce was not surprised by the scorn in their voices; he’d been hearing it every week, but lately he had suspected that something truly fishy was going on, and Drayling’s resignation had convinced him even more.
Alfred had to clear his throat a second time to make himself noticed. “Excuse me, Master Bruce. This evening’s first guests will be arriving within the hour.” The butler frowned disapprovingly at his rumpled clothes. “You might wish to change into more appropriate attire.”
“I see your point.” Bruce rose, switching off the monitor. He would review the recordings in much greater detail later. He turned to the butler. “Alfred, you knew Richard Drayling well.”
“Well enough, sir. He was an acquaintance of your father, and he and I have remained in touch. He is, after all, the last member of the ‘old guard,’ as it were.”
“He resigned today. He said something vague about not believing in the company anymore, but I get the feeling that something’s happened.”
Alfred frowned deeply. “I’m very sorry to hear that. He was a good man, one of the last good men on the board.”
“I agree, but I don’t think he respected me. My public persona fooled him completely.”
“You are quite convincing, sir.”
“Thanks.” Bruce frowned. “But you were his friend, Alfred. Talk with him. Find out if he’ll tell you more about his reasons, and see if he’ll have a private conversation with me. Discreetly.”
“Discreetly. Of course.” Alfred cleared his throat. “But this evening, sir…the party?”
Bruce gazed at the empty cowl of his uniform with its empty eye sockets, the stylized and frightening bat silhouette. He heaved a deep sigh at the thought of the party he had to endure upstairs. “Time to put on my other mask.”
CHAPTER 9
THE DAILY PLANET
CLARK KENT PICKED THE WRONG MOMENT TO GO TO THE watercooler. He bent over to fill a conical paper cup, and an air bubble belched up from the bottom of the tank. He straightened just in time to see Perry White lugging a swollen canvas mailbag across the bullpen.
When he spotted Clark, the editor in chief turned directly toward him. “Kent! Today’s your lucky day. I need somebody to take over the ‘Lorna for the Lovelorn’ column.”
Clark nearly dropped his water. Lorna Bahowic, who wrote the Planet’s personal advice column, was a spinster in her forties, thin, with mousy brown hair. Hundreds of letters arrived weekly from people begging her for help with their love problems. Lorna had also just gone into the hospital for gallbladder surgery and would be recovering for at least a month, maybe two. Clark had already sent her a small flower arrangement and a “get well soon” card.
“But, Mr. White, I—I wouldn’t have the foggiest idea how to give advice on relationships.”
Perry whistled loudly. “Lane! Kent needs your help understanding women and their problems. You’re a woman. Give him suggestions on how to write Lorna’s column.”
Lois turned, clearly annoyed by the editor’s whistle. “And just because I’m a woman, that means I’m an expert on women’s problems? I’m a reporter, Chief, not a psychiatrist.”
“Besides, surely all the letters aren’t from women,” Clark pointed out. “A few must come from men—”
“We usually don’t publish letters from whining men. It can be embarrassing. The two of you have worked together before, and I need that column.”
Clark made a last-ditch effort without much hope. “But, Mr. White—the Korean War Veterans parade is today!”
“Olsen can cover that. I just need pictures.”
“And the ribbon-cutting ceremony at the new observatory—”
Perry snorted. “No excuses. You’re the reporters, I’m the editor.” He lobbed the bulky mailbag, which Clark caught easily. “
And this is your assignment. We’ll still run it under Lorna’s byline. Nobody needs to know she’s in the hospital.”
Lois bustled past, purse already on her shoulder, pulling on her jacket. “Sorry, but I’ve got an interview scheduled. Confidential source about LuthorCorp, remember? Clark, you’re on your own for this one.” Then her expression softened, and she smiled at Clark. “All you really need is a soft heart. You’re halfway there already. And I promise I’ll help—just not right now.”
“I’ll give it a hundred percent—I always do,” Clark managed forlornly, not needing X-ray vision to realize that the satchel contained hundreds of letters, each one written by a sad or tormented person. The only saving grace was that he would get to spend more time with Lois, working closely on the column.
He had admired her from the first day he’d walked into the Daily Planet with his original story about Superman. Lois was smart, funny, talented, and beautiful—a girl as different from anyone in Smallville as the moon was from the sun. Lois carried an energy around her, as if Metropolis itself charged her like a power substation. He felt like a small-town boy whenever he was with her, and he couldn’t help but blush any time she paid him attention.
With a sigh, Clark carried the heavy sack of letters back to his desk and thunked it on the floor beside his rolling chair. He pulled out the letters one by one, opening them, reading the problems, and setting them aside. He was quickly overwhelmed.
I’m sure my husband is cheating on me. Should I confront him? Should I forgive him?
My boyfriend keeps hitting me, even though I know he doesn’t mean it. My friends tell me to leave him, but I love him. What should I do?
We’ve been going steady for three whole months—will he ever propose?
My husband doesn’t like my cooking….
Letter after letter left him mystified about basic human nature. He could bend girders with his bare hands, outrace a speeding locomotive, fly from one side of the country to the other faster than the most advanced fighter jet. He could grab Lois Lane out of the air as her car plunged off the Twelfth Street bridge. He could whisk victims of a school bus crash to the hospital faster than any ambulance. He could carry a sinking passenger ship to the docks in Metropolis Bay. He could hunt down jewel thieves, stop kidnappers.
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