But this? He had no idea.
My boyfriend won’t look at me anymore. He didn’t even notice my new $20 hairdo.
We’ve been trying to have children for five years, but nothing’s worked. Should we adopt? My husband says there must be something wrong with those babies, otherwise why would the mother give them away?
For the rest of the day, Clark felt he was reading the same basic letters over and over. These people posed difficult questions and had deep emotional problems that couldn’t be solved by simply twisting steel or outracing a bullet.
He thought about going to visit Lorna in the hospital, to ask her advice on giving advice. How did she deal with this every day? Clark tried to imagine the conversation in the sterile hospital room, with him awkwardly attempting to discuss love with an older spinster who, despite being single, still knew a lot about the human heart.
In fact, everyone seemed to know more about emotions than he did.
Clark had a deep-seated desire to help people, and he had never questioned his own motives or feelings on the matter. To him, it was the obvious thing to do whenever he saw someone in need. Until today, he had always felt he could overcome any challenge, but now he thought perhaps he was wrong. Helping people overcome emotional pain and suffering was obviously a lot more difficult than exhibiting feats of strength.
Still, in a different way, by answering these letters and writing the “Lorna for the Lovelorn” column he would also be doing something important for people in need.
But he couldn’t do it alone.
CHAPTER 10
METROPOLIS
THE LUTHORCORP ANGLE. LOIS HAD AN INSTINCT FOR these things.
She’d arranged to meet her source for coffee at a Canal Street diner. Blanche Rosen was a forty-eight-year-old widow whose husband had been killed in the Korean War. Though she had worked on various factory assembly lines for twenty years, and the last five at LuthorCorp with an exemplary job performance record, Blanche suddenly found herself jobless. Lex Luthor had systematically removed all of his female and older male employees and put “a man in a man’s job.”
It had happened previously in American industry, particularly after World War II. With the overseas war wrapped up and all the men returning home, many women had found themselves booted out of the factories and sent back to become barefoot and pregnant homemakers.
But with no such flood of returning soldiers now, LuthorCorp’s deliberate action really stuck in Lois’s craw. Worse, Blanche Rosen’s surreptitious message strongly implied that something more sinister was going on. Lois was doing some digging, but so far she couldn’t find anyone else willing to talk. In fact, she could find few of the fired LuthorCorp employees at all.
Very fishy indeed. She couldn’t wait to hear what Blanche had to say.
Lois waited in a bright red Naugahyde booth. Exactly on time, an older, severe-looking woman arrived and took the seat across from her. She wore a nice dress, perhaps her best, the one reserved for temple on Saturdays. Her voice was gruff, no-nonsense. “Are you Lois Lane?”
“Yes, I am. I’m the one who can get your story told, Mrs. Rosen.”
Blanche nodded. “It’s not only my story. There’s a lot of women and men just like me from LuthorCorp, but most of them aren’t alive anymore.”
Lois was shocked. “Are you saying Lex Luthor killed them?”
“In a manner of speaking. Hazardous duty, no safety procedures or equipment, harmful radiation exposures…‘Caribbean vacations.’ I’m one of the last few left, mainly because I’m a tough old bird.”
Lois took out her notepad, her expression intent. “I’m all ears, Mrs. Rosen.”
The waitress came over. Both women ordered coffee, but Blanche also asked for a pastrami sandwich and potato chips. With only the briefest hesitation, she added, “And wrap up a second one to go.” She clung to her pride as she looked across the booth at Lois. “You don’t mind, do you, newsgirl?”
“A girl’s gotta eat.” Lois felt a tug at her heartstrings. “But you have to sing for your supper.”
Blanche looked around the diner, studying the other customers. She lowered her voice. “How do I know you’re not in Luthor’s pocket?”
Lois let out a laugh. “That’s not an image I want to think about. My journalistic credentials should speak for themselves.” She leaned across the table. “Frankly, Mrs. Rosen, Lex Luthor makes my skin crawl. I’ve been face-to-face with him. I’ve seen him smile. Ever see a snake smile? There’s nothing behind it. Nothing.”
Blanche slurped her coffee and heaved a long sigh. “The things I’ve seen, Miss Lane. LuthorCorp and their munitions factories, the military bases, the test flights, black programs that don’t show up on any official paperwork. I had a security clearance, and I performed the most delicate work…and now look at me. Crumpled up and discarded like a chewing gum wrapper—practically living on the streets, without a job, without a pension, my husband’s death benefits almost gone. It’s a damn shame, I tell you. Forget what Senator McCarthy rails about—this is un-American! This is not what my family left Germany for.”
Blanche paused to take a large bite of her pastrami sandwich as soon as it arrived. Lois stole a potato chip and pressed for more information. “What kind of work did you do, exactly? And what’s this about a ‘Caribbean vacation’?”
“Reactor assembly. Luthor has his own island, complete with a small atomic power reactor.”
Lois began scribbling in shorthand as quickly as possible. “Is that where he works on his secret projects for the government?”
“Miss Lane, the government doesn’t know half of what Luthor does. That uncharted island is a test bed for some of his most dangerous technology. Once Luthor’s weapons systems function, he’ll sell them to the U.S. military for ten times his investment.”
“So how did you get involved?”
“He invited some of his employees to help build facilities there and do the technical work. He hired Cuban locals to do the heavy construction of remodeling an old fort into a new base. Many of those men and women were just like me, divorced people and widows living on a shoestring without much to keep us here in Metropolis. When we got the offer to spend a few months in the Caribbean, who were we to complain? At the time, it didn’t occur to us that we were the employees Luthor considered the most expendable…the ones who wouldn’t be missed.”
Lois nodded, letting the woman continue.
“But then they started getting sick. The Cuban work crews left, and we didn’t see them again. I heard something about their boat sinking in open water, all souls lost. On the island, those poor men and women in charge of installing reactor fuel rods and coolant systems fell terribly ill, and Luthor—such a generous man!—took them to his own hospitals back on the mainland. He said he would provide the best possible medical treatment.” She set down her sandwich as if she’d lost her appetite. “They’re all dead now.”
The cheery waitress came back to fill their coffee cups.
“Apparently there was a radiation leak. All their hair fell out—I heard Luthor make jokes about them being bald.” She shook her head. “I haven’t shown any symptoms yet, but Luthor swept all of us under the rug.”
The story made Lois’s blood boil. “Do you have any proof of this, Mrs. Rosen?”
“They took everything from me. I have no records, no photos, nothing tangible. But you’ll find everything you need in the LuthorCorp munitions factory in the barrens outside of Metropolis.” Her eyes lit up. “And I can tell you how a smart, resourceful reporter might be able to slip inside and take a look around.”
CHAPTER 11
WAYNE MANOR
GOTHAM CITY’S MOST ILLUSTRIOUS CITIZENS ATTENDED Bruce Wayne’s famous parties, and ample front-page coverage in the Gotham Times society section went without saying. Sparing no expense, Bruce always centered these soirees around an important humanitarian cause; though most of the celebrities and important personages attended just to be seen, they also
brought their checkbooks.
“Wayne Manor is, after all, my father’s house,” Bruce had once told the lovely reporter Vicki Vale for a feature article. “Thomas Wayne devoted his life to helping people, and I intend to honor his memory.”
“You can’t possibly remember him very clearly, Mr. Wayne. You were only six years old when—”
He had been tempted to cut off the interview then and there, but instead he interrupted and said, “I remember him, Miss Vale. I remember him well.”
The guests arrived in limousines that glided into the porte cochere. They displayed their most expensive formalwear, furs, and jewels. The glitterati included Gotham’s most prominent citizens, as well as celebrity guests: movie stars, singers, and sports personalities, including Rock Hudson, David Niven, Buddy Holly, Paul Anka, Sugar Ray Robinson. The quiet, revered star of the show was Eleanor Roosevelt, the former first lady, who had turned her considerable energies to supporting the cause of polio research.
Though he’d changed promptly into his finest tuxedo, Bruce did not step through the entry doors until he considered himself fashionably late. His aloof nature was well known, and the guests had started without him.
When he finally descended the grand staircase, moving with an air of casual mystery, all conversation stopped. A few—the first-timers or the nouveau riche—applauded politely until Bruce alighted in the main hall and held up one hand for silence, the other for a drink. Alfred appeared immediately with a tray bearing a martini glass and his specially mixed Vesper (in reality, a bit of lemon peel and chilled ice water).
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to my humble home.” There was a quick titter at the old joke. “Tonight I offer you an opportunity to be generous—to raise funds for polio research. Countless poor children around the world are crippled by this awful disease. The medical research and new vaccine of Dr. Jonas Salk shows great promise, and we must not let him lack for resources.” He nodded toward Eleanor Roosevelt, who stood stoic and proud, like visiting royalty; she applauded loudly, though her gloved hands muffled the sound.
The former first lady cleared her throat and spoke in a strong, confident voice that might have been used in a Shakespeare performance. “You all know my personal reasons for wanting to rid humanity of this terrible scourge. My wonderful husband would have congratulated Mr. Wayne for his efforts. And I congratulate you all for being here. Please help fight this disease with the weapons you all wield—your checkbooks.” The audience responded with a ripple of laughter.
Bruce stepped forward to conclude his speech. “Let us show Mrs. Roosevelt the generosity and vision of Gotham City. Tonight we can make our mark on the world—a mark that begins with a dollar sign.”
“Bruce, dear, you have more money than all of us combined,” purred Selina Kyle, dusky, lithe, and beautiful as she came up behind him as if to take possession. “For the cost of this party, you could have made a substantial donation of your own.”
Bruce lifted his glass to salute the beautiful socialite. “I intend to do both, Miss Kyle. After you all make your donations, Wayne Enterprises will match the total, dollar for dollar. So if you’d like to make me dig deep into my pockets, then dig deeply into yours.”
A squawking chortle emanated from a dapper, rotund man, whom Bruce instantly recognized as Oswald Cobblepot. “At that rate, he’ll fund a cure for polio in a single night.”
“Don’t worry, Mr. Cobblepot, I’m sure we can find other worthy causes.” Bruce bowed slightly. “All of you, please enjoy yourselves.”
Alfred ran the manor household and serving staff like a militia. No tray of hors d’oeuvres was allowed to circulate half-empty; glasses of wine and champagne always had to be filled. Cuban cigars and Turkish cigarettes were offered in ornate silver cases.
Bruce worked his way through clusters of the rich and famous, shaking hands, trying not to spend too much time with any one person or group. Selina Kyle slipped her arm through his and walked along smoothly beside him. Her well-trained society voice carried perfectly. “We really should see each other more often, dear. You know, we are absolutely perfect for each other.” She rolled her r’s as she talked. He had never been able to place her accent precisely.
Despite the temptation, he expertly cut her out of his sphere and slid into another clutch of the well-to-do, pleading an important bit of business with the city treasurer (though he had met the man only once). Selina accepted the brush-off with a flirtatious smile and a promise that they would talk again soon.
The conversations generally had nothing to do with polio, extending well beyond the concerns of Gotham City. Bruce repeatedly heard the excited buzz about the so-called Superman from Metropolis. Gotham police commissioner Loeb, a corrupt man at the top of a blue pyramid of corrupt officers, delighted in talking about strangeness in another city rather than the problems of his own. He lost no opportunity to make disparaging comments about the inept Metropolis police.
“But Gotham has its own costumed maniac.” Cobblepot chomped down on his ebony cigarette holder. “Maybe the Batman has alien superpowers, too, eh, Commissioner? That would explain why your men can never catch him.” He let out a nasal snicker.
Loeb’s face darkened. “Superman’s a hero, saves children from burning buildings in broad daylight. The Batman slinks around at night, evades arrest, and assaults on-duty officers. He’s nothing but another criminal. We have twenty-nine pending charges against him, and that’s just for starters. He’s Gotham’s number-one most wanted.”
Cobblepot took a long draw, then tapped a stem of ash into a silver tray as he let out his birdlike laugh again. “You’re just upset, Commissioner, because you can’t make the Batman pay you a bribe.”
Loeb bristled. “I will not be insulted by a petty gangster in an ill-fitting top hat and tails!”
Now it was Cobblepot’s turn to take umbrage. He screwed a monocle into his eye to inspect the commissioner as though he were an interesting specimen. “I am a respectable nightclub owner, sir.”
“Respectable!”
“And what is your opinion on the Batman, Mr. Wayne?” said an unmistakable breathy voice. Bruce turned from Cobblepot and Loeb to see that Marilyn Monroe had shown up, accompanied by her new husband, playwright Arthur Miller.
“He baffles me, Miss Monroe. Why should the Batman spend his nights lurking in alley shadows when he could be at a cocktail party instead?” His flippant comment drew polite laughter from the nearby listeners. “Speaking of which…” He raised his now-empty “martini” glass. “Time to freshen my drink.”
He melted away again, seeking Alfred. The butler was handing a leather jacket back to Rock Hudson, ushering him genteelly out the door. The heartthrob actor had to leave early due to his shooting schedule. As they watched Hudson’s sports car swirl away down the drive, Bruce asked quietly, “How much longer, Alfred?”
“The evening has barely begun, Master Bruce. Chin up.”
“All for the greater good, I suppose,” Bruce said, then lowered his voice again. “Are you marking the glasses carefully when you collect the empty drinks?”
“Indeed, sir. You’ll have plenty of new specimens for your crime lab—tomorrow.” He emphasized the word with a scolding tone. “Tonight, you must play your part and socialize with your adoring public, no matter how difficult it may be for you.”
“Yes, Alfred.”
With a wry expression and freshened faux-Vesper, Bruce returned to the social fray. The people were laughing and drinking and smoking in a background drone, a blur of sensation and sound and smell. He made them all feel welcome.
Trays strategically placed about the halls and exit received checks and envelopes of cash donations. It was a bright and glittering party, one of his best, judging by the amount of money raised for charity. The members of Gotham’s high society would consider it a triumph. Even Eleanor Roosevelt seemed to be enjoying herself, and Bruce spent a generous amount of time talking with her. She sat alone at the side of the room, watching t
he people who seemed too intimidated to engage her in casual conversation.
Bruce, though, was a gracious host. Mrs. Roosevelt sipped her soda water. “Thank you for this evening, Mr. Wayne, but you don’t need to bother with me. I know you have many social obligations. I’m doing just fine, thank you.”
“Why, you’re no bother at all, ma’am. We wouldn’t be here if not for your work. I’m just helping to rid the world of an awful blight on humanity.” At least this was one blight he might be able to eradicate completely, forever.
She shooed him away. “Now, you go on and talk to your other guests. You’re making me all teary eyed.”
He bowed politely and went to attend his party. Through every excruciating moment, Bruce maintained his cordial smile. He had an innate aversion to being relaxed in public, but he had a flair for looking comfortable in almost any social setting, while his sharp eyes and ears picked up on every bit of knowledge that might prove useful. It definitely made his detective work easier.
He didn’t view the event as a party so much as a chance to gather data on some of the wealthiest people in Gotham society so that he could analyze the information in his secret lab tomorrow. For tonight, he had his role to play.
CHAPTER 12
THE DAILY PLANET
THE NEXT MORNING, LOIS LANE STRUTTED INTO THE DAILY Planet office as she always did, head held high, heels clicking a confident staccato. She flung open the glass doors into the bullpen with her typical saucy “What’s news, everybody?” (countered by the just-as-usual daily groaning at her corny joke).
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