At his desk, Clark was buried in letters, still not sure which ones to answer or how. When she noticed him, she paused, her face showing a sudden and unexpected warmth. “Were you working all night on that, Clark?”
“Oh, hi, Lois. I went home, but I didn’t stop thinking about it. I’m a fish out of water with this stuff.” He shrugged his big shoulders helplessly. “I sure could use your advice.”
She hesitated, as if on the verge of turning away with a dismissive “Not my problem,” but then she stopped. “You’re a sweet aw-shucks kind of guy, Clark, but I wouldn’t call you an expert on women. I don’t know what the Chief was thinking giving you that assignment.”
“He did suggest that we work together.”
Lois plainly heard the hopeful lilt at the end of his sentence.
He showed her a few of the toughest letters. “What kind of advice can I give these people?”
Lois read the handwritten pages with an eagle eye, face tightening and frown deepening. She finally slapped them down on the desk. “I see what you mean. These women don’t really want to do the work to solve their problems. They just want someone to commiserate with them. If you give them an honest answer, they won’t want to hear it. So you’ve got to give them the right answer instead.”
Clark was confused. “The right answer isn’t the honest answer?”
“Trust me. Just look at the letters. This one”—she pointed sharply—“and this one. Her boyfriend keeps beating her, and she goes back to him every time? I’d like to give that guy a knuckle sandwich myself, see how he likes a taste of his own medicine.” She sighed. “Then again, even if she left him, that woman would probably find someone just the same, or worse. I know the type, Clark. If they knew how to find the strength within themselves to see their own worth, then they wouldn’t let men take advantage of them, much less write letters complaining about it. Unfortunately, they’ve gotten themselves in up to their necks, and they just expect some hero to swoop in and magically save them.”
Clark baited quietly, “You mean like Superman?”
“He’s the exception.” Lois was obviously embarrassed, but a bashful smile crept across her face. “If only there were more exceptions like him.” She covered her blush quickly. “Do your best, Clark. You’re good at showing compassion. Just be yourself.”
“Would you read over the draft before I turn it in to Mr. White? I…I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”
She smiled. “It’s a deal.”
Clark watched her go, not sure whether or not he had actually asked her out for a date. He faced his task once more, wanting to do a good job. He still didn’t understand these problems…but he knew someone who might. Someone who would also understand just how lost he was—and why.
His mother had always helped him out when he couldn’t understand the nuances of life from a human point of view.
Mind made up, he went directly to Perry’s office. He straightened his tie, smoothed down his shirt collar, then knocked on the door. “Excuse me, Mr. White, I’m feeling a little under the weather. I’d like to take the rest of the day off, please.”
“I need your column by tomorrow, Kent—no excuses!”
“You’ll have it, Mr. White. I’ll be back at my desk in the morning, I promise.”
CHAPTER 13
WAYNE MANOR
A PLAYBOY LIKE BRUCE WAS EXPECTED TO SLEEP IN AFTER a party, and the doors of his bedroom suite remained locked for hours. While armies of housekeepers and cleaning staff restored the manor to its quiet grace, however, he got up early and descended through a secret passage to the Cave, where he could do his research.
First off, he stood before a table where Alfred had arranged a line of empty, dirty glasses from the night’s party. The butler had been careful to collect at least one item from each guest, and now every specimen sat on a handwritten card identifying the user.
Getting out his packets of powder and a thick brush, Bruce quickly and gently dusted the smooth surfaces. The fingerprints came out quite clearly, and Bruce spent an hour photographing them so that he could add them to his detailed library and catalog the results. By now his fingerprint collection must have rivaled that of the Gotham City Police Department. He had no way to tell when, or if, the information might become vital for an investigation.
But his mind was elsewhere, focused on a much more challenging riddle.
Ever since the first appearance of Superman, Bruce had been intrigued by the man’s amazing powers, and the previous night’s party gossip had only sharpened his interest. Now he hunched in his large chair and pondered. Next to the blinking lights of his computer banks with spinning reel-to-reel tapes, a set of rounded cathode-ray tubes projected images and information.
He watched newsreel footage of Superman’s exploits; he studied photographs, newspaper clippings, eyewitness accounts. Even though most photographs were motion-blurred due to Superman’s incredible speed, the hero wore no mask, as if confident that his identity would remain a secret.
Bruce could not understand how a mere man accomplished so many amazing things. Superman had hefted a huge passenger ship with ease and set it down safely in the Metropolis harbor. As the rescued passengers filed onto piers toward rescue teams with warm blankets and hot coffee, they were thrilled and giddy. The weeping boat captain had practically fallen to his knees in gratitude. After acknowledging the sincere thanks, Superman had simply waved and flown away….
Another time, he’d burst from a burning building with a child in each arm as flames raged all around. The children were coughing and gasping but largely unharmed. The fire hadn’t singed a hair on Superman’s head….
Bruce studied photographs of Superman cornering a group of gangsters. With their backs to a brick wall, they brandished tommy guns and unleashed a hail of bullets—which bounced harmlessly from the big s emblem on his chest.
Bruce paused the tapes, used magnifiers to study every image, but he could not figure out the trick. What sort of fabric could deflect bullets so perfectly, so painlessly? Even with the best-known bulletproof technology on his armored Batman suit, he still felt bullet impacts like the blows of a hammer.
What about Superman’s heat vision? Some sort of laser built directly into his optic nerves?
His strength was incredible. He bent iron girders in his bare hands. The flashy blue and red uniform must have been augmented somehow—with reinforced fibers? Pulleys? Hydraulics? Bruce tapped his fingers, deep in thought.
Superman flew effortlessly through the air, but beneath the cape, there was no room for a hidden jetpack, and none of the images showed any indication of exhaust or rocket flames. Where did the man get such technology? Lois Lane at the Daily Planet would have had the world believe he was an alien with extraordinary inhuman powers, but Bruce didn’t buy that for a second.
Carefully dividing the problem into several apparently unrelated parts, he had slipped technical challenges into the workload of Wayne Enterprises’ divisions, but so far his crack scientists had yielded no answers. Even they could not come close to what this costumed hero did on a routine basis.
Only one other U.S. company approached the technological innovation of Wayne Enterprises. Could Superman actually be a LuthorCorp creation? An experimental soldier released by Lex Luthor? So far, the bald genius had been curiously silent on the matter of Superman, making only offhand skeptical statements about the “so-called hero” who had “walked onto the stage with his grandstanding exploits.” That alone made Bruce suspicious that Luthor was behind Superman himself—or at the very least deeply engaged in an investigation of his own.
Alfred interrupted him, wearing a singed and stained laboratory coat and insulated black rubber gloves. Protective goggles hung on a strap from his neck. Leaving the household staff to continue their work, the butler often assisted Bruce in his large-scale experiments. On a test rack in a side grotto, he had fired up a set of small, self-contained rockets designed to be installed in a jetpack. The gauges recorded s
tresses, thrust, stabilization.
The butler shook his head. “I’m afraid that these bulky jets have the thrust to carry a person through the air, Master Bruce, but not smoothly or with any precision. Even with a more compact design, the pack would require a full-body support framework and fireproof materials, practically a suit of armor.”
Bruce sighed. “That won’t do. Superman moves with flexibility and speed.” He had given the problem to the applied technologies division, and Director Huston had accepted the task, but he had not expected to find an easy solution. “I’m beginning to doubt I’ll understand Superman’s abilities any time soon. The more questions I ask, the fewer answers I get. I don’t have the slightest idea how he does it or how to re-create those abilities myself.”
Alfred raised his thin eyebrows. “Have you considered, Master Bruce, the possibility that Superman may be exactly who he says he is? That he does indeed come from another planet?”
Bruce frowned. “That’s not a rational suggestion at this point, Alfred. There must be some other answer.”
Alfred shucked off the thick gloves and removed his lab garments to reveal incongruously formal garb underneath. Bruce was sure that few other scientists wore a tuxedo (sans jacket) beneath a white lab coat. “It is time that I oversee the household staff—a far more difficult job than this, if you ask me, sir.”
The butler hung his lab coat on a peg, pulled his jacket from another peg, and brushed off the front of the dark fabric. Before leaving the Cave, he turned. “You will be pleased to know, sir, that I’ve arranged to have a conversation with Richard Drayling later this afternoon, as you requested. Based on our longtime friendship, I believe Mr. Drayling does want someone to confide in. He and I are of an age, and we’ll talk casually of old times, of your father…and of why he felt the need to resign from your board of directors.”
“Thank you, Alfred.” Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose, concentrating. “If there’s something going on at Wayne Enterprises, then I need to know about it. Let’s hope we can solve that mystery at least.”
CHAPTER 14
SMALLVILLE, KANSAS
SMALLVILLE WAS HALFWAY ACROSS THE COUNTRY, BUT A man who could outrace a supersonic jet covered the distance in no time. As Kal-El flew, lighter than air and faster than the wind, his thoughts remained unsettled by reading about so many troubled romances and complicated emotions.
After crossing the Great Plains, looking down at the colorful checkerboard of crops, he found his beloved Kansas town. When he saw that the Smallville Cemetery was empty, he alighted there first, just to have some time alone.
The grave was immaculate, the vase on a stand filled with fresh-cut flowers: bright yellow daffodils and scarlet tulips, signs of spring. His father had always loved spring: planting season, time to ready the soil for a new year. Clark had been a one-man army on the farm, helping Jonathan Kent.
Now that his mother was all alone, she didn’t even try to handle all the acreage. Martha had her garden, her chickens, and her house. The rest of the land she leased to neighboring farmers, the Hubbards and the Schmidts.
Kal-El knelt by the headstone.
JONATHAN KENT
FAITHFUL HUSBAND
LOVING FATHER
YOU WERE OUR GREATEST STRENGTH
His vision shimmered a little. Jonathan Kent had been a man of few, but wise, words, and now no words were needed. The silence felt comforting rather than empty. For hours and hours, Clark and his father had done their chores, baled hay, planted crops, fixed the fence line, without needing to reassure each other with incessant conversation. Their relationship was comfortable, no frills, just a solid core.
When his father did decide to make a comment, it was bound to be important. “If you don’t need to say anything, son, there’s no need to talk. These days, with their radio programs and phonograph records, people forget the virtues of an hour of good, quiet thinking.”
Though he knew his true name was Kal-El, here in Smallville—especially at his father’s grave—he would always be Clark Kent. It didn’t matter what he learned about the destruction of Krypton or his biological father, Jor-El. It didn’t matter that he was the only one of his kind on Earth. Here in Smallville, he would never be alone.
He ruffled his palm through the thick, lush grass of the gravesite. He closed his eyes and remained quiet, though he badly needed to say many things. Jonathan Kent had always understood his thoughts, even when they remained unspoken.
IN THE FARMHOUSE KITCHEN, MARTHA KENT WAS JUST TAKING a golden-brown apple pie from the oven. He didn’t need supersenses to detect the aromatic cinnamon, sweet sugar, and tart Cortland apples. Martha’s face showed her delight when he opened the front screen door. “Welcome home, son. You’re just in time.” She displayed the luscious-looking pie.
“You always seem to have one ready, Ma. How do you know when to make them?”
Her eyes crinkled behind her gold-rimmed glasses. “Superman always knows when people need him. How can you underestimate a mother’s ability to do the same with her baking? There’s coffee in the percolator and a jug of whole milk in the icebox for you.” Her gaze traveled over him, and she nodded at his red boots, blue suit, and scarlet cape. “You go change clothes while I cut you a big slice of pie. That nice Pete Ross comes around to check on me at least once a week. He’d love to see Clark Kent, but it wouldn’t do for him to catch a glimpse of Superman at my kitchen table!”
Clark dashed up to his old bedroom and returned seconds later wearing an old plaid shirt and dungarees. Martha was just scooping a generous slice of pie onto an aqua Melmac plate. She cut herself a much smaller wedge and settled into her chair at the Formica-topped kitchen table.
“So how is Pete these days?” He did his best to follow the lives of the friends he had left behind in Kansas.
“Oh, still running the general store, still talking about heading out into the world and making his fortune someday.”
Clark laughed. “And still not doing anything about it?”
“That boy has never driven across the county line, as far as I know.” Martha sipped her coffee. They chatted about his daily work at the newspaper, his apartment in Metropolis, the new gladiolas she had ordered from the seed catalog, which would really spruce up her flower garden.
But Martha wasn’t fooled. During a brief lull in the conversation, she leaned forward and spoke in her no-nonsense way. “Something’s troubling you, Clark. What is it? You didn’t come here in the middle of the week just to chat with your old mother.”
Clark straightened quickly. “That’s not true! I missed you.”
Martha set her cup down and gave him the “mom” look. “I know that’s not technically a lie, Clark, but you didn’t answer me.”
With a sigh, he told her about his predicament with the “Lorna for the Lovelorn” column. “So many people have so many problems, and I don’t know how to solve them all. I don’t know what to tell them.”
Martha patted his hand. “For a man of steel, you’ve got a heart of gold.”
He was finally able to confess his deeper concern. “I’m not from Earth, I’m from Krypton—and I’m the only one of my kind. What if I never understand this world and this world never understands me?”
“Do you think any of us humans really understand each other? If the troubles of people could be so easily fixed, then nobody would be jumping out of windows, no marriage would end in divorce, no crime would ever be committed. But that isn’t the world we live in, so we have to do our best to make it a better place. And believe you me, son, you do far more than your share.”
Though she was trying to comfort him, she had inadvertently touched upon another thing that troubled him. “But I can do so much more, Ma. From the moment I first put on that suit, I’ve been helping people in danger, stopping criminals, preventing accidents—but people need to be saved every hour of every day. How many car wrecks have happened in the time I’ve been here talking to you? How many robberies? How many s
hootings?
“And it’s narrow-minded for me to worry only about crimes committed in Metropolis. What about the whole world? Couldn’t I prevent wars? Stop slavery? Divert rivers and prevent drought? Distribute food and stop hunger? I could work every second, and still the job wouldn’t be done.” He looked at her, his blue eyes sorrowful and intense.
His mother gave him a wistful smile. “Your father used to talk like that when he saw how much work needed to be done around the farm. Thought it would never get done…and yet it did.”
Clark shook his head and took the last bite of pie. “Here I am in your kitchen as mild-mannered Clark Kent. But what business do I have trying to lead a ‘normal’ life? Doesn’t the world need Superman to be a hero twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week?”
Surprisingly, Martha chided him gently. “Clark, you’re entitled to your own life. You deserve to know people, to observe them, so that problems like the ones in those letters you’re reading won’t be such a mystery to you.” She couldn’t resist and leaned over to kiss him lovingly on the cheek. “You have to learn to be human as well as a super hero. Pay more attention to your friends, your relationships. Spend time with your pal Jimmy Olsen. And I know you’re sweet on that Lois Lane.”
He glanced away, embarrassed. “She certainly likes Superman, but I doubt she notices Clark Kent.”
His mother patted him on the shoulder. “Dear, you keep forgetting that they’re one and the same. It doesn’t matter whether you wear a suit and tie or a blue outfit and red cape. It’s who you are inside. You’re a good man, Clark. Lois seems to be as sharp as a tack—I guarantee you she’s noticed. Give her the benefit of the doubt.”
“I will. In fact, we’re planning to have coffee together. If she remembers.”
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