The Further Adventures of Batman

by Martin H. Greenberg

  “Mr. Wayne?”

  There was no answer, but my determination was so great I decided to waken him at all costs. I touched his shoulder lightly and realized . . . I wasn’t touching flesh!

  Swiftly, I drew back the covers and saw that I had been deceived by a cleverly constructed dummy, an artificial man so lifelike that it even contained a breathing mechanism. Then I recalled the time when Batman, threatened with disclosure of his dual identity, had created a “Bruce Wayne” robot to take his place while Batman performed his deeds. Now, Mr. Wayne was using the dummy to fool me, the one person in the world entrusted with his most important secret! I was so baffled that I spoke the word aloud to the darkness:

  “Why?”

  Of course, madness was the Great Explainer of all mysteries, but the least satisfying. Even madness has method in it, and what lunatic reasoning could Batman have for this deception of his loyal servant? Irrational as it sounds, I felt a tinge of anger, and that emboldened me to make still another clandestine trip to the cave beneath Wayne Manor.

  I detected nothing out of the ordinary—if “ordinary” can describe the Batcave, a combination of computer room, laboratory, museum, and central headquarters. I understood enough of Batman’s methods to know that his starting point is often at his liquid-cooled Cray computer console. Its workings were a mystery, but on one occasion Batman, in another location, had needed some stored data in a hurry, and had instructed me in the technique of “booting” the device. I did so now, and I was in luck. There was a program still in memory, and it asked:

  Do you wish to see list again?

  I hesitated, then punched the Return key. There on the screen, appeared the following:

  PENTOTHYL DIAZINE

  CHLOROPAM E.

  ALPRAPROXIDE

  TRITOPHENOZENE

  I was unfamiliar with the names, but they sounded like pharmaceuticals, perhaps prescribed by Dr. Lace? Surely Batman couldn’t take them all, although that might explain his erratic behavior. I had little time for speculation, because I heard the distinct whine of the Batcave elevator and realized that Batman was coming down!

  I confess to a moment of sheer panic. Batman never denied me free access to the Batcave, but I would be hard pressed to explain why I was tampering with his computer. I decided to hide. The first place of concealment that met my eye: the back seat of the Batmobile.

  It was not the most fortuitous choice because Batman went straight to the Batmobile and climbed into the driver’s seat. A touch on the dashboard, and the camouflaged door of the Batcave opened, the Batmobile engine growled, and with a burst of speed that made my ears ring, we roared off into the night.

  You can imagine the trepidation I felt, clad in robe and pajamas, at the mercy of a man who was almost certainly mentally unsound. After the department store break down, the emergence of Fatman, Batman, and Splatman, I could no longer deny that “Batty Batman” was the correct appellation for the former superhero of Gotham City. Who knew what lunatic visions were driving him now, or me, for that matter?

  The ride lasted no more than twenty minutes, but it seemed an eternity until the powerful vehicle slowed to a purring halt and grew silent. It was only when Batman left the Batmobile that I ventured to steal a glance at my surroundings. We were in the suburbs, in a parking lot behind a looming square structure with only one or two lighted windows.

  Finally, I made out a sign that read:

  PINE-WHATNEY CLINIC

  Physician Parking Only

  Violators will be prosecuted

  That sign was innocuous beside the one I discerned on the tall wire fence surrounding the building.

  WARNING!

  ELECTRIFIED FENCE

  DO NOT TOUCH

  Then, as if once again demonstrating the loss of his reasoning powers, I saw that Batman was preparing to scale that very fence!

  As I watched in horrified fascination, he removed an instrument from his belt that appeared to be a small snubnosed revolver. He aimed it at the roof of the building and fired a tiny grappling hook attached to a length of batwire. It draped right across that electrified fence, evoking a shower of sparks, but Batman began his climb just the same.

  To my great relief, nothing happened, It took me a moment to realize that Batman’s rubberized boots and gloves were acting as insulation.

  Then Batman disappeared into the darkness above the roof of the Clinic, and I was left alone to ponder the mystery.

  Why did Batman return to the Pine-Whatney, the clinic he had once called “that antiseptic prison?” Was there some sub-conscious desire to seek help for his pathetic mental state? Why was he using stealth? Most of all, was there any rational explanation for his behavior?

  I decided that my best course of action was to leave the Batmobile and make my way back home. It was probably the worst decision of my life. When I unfolded my frame from the back seat, a space never intended for passengers of my size, I lost my balance and fell forward toward the dashboard. I reached out to steady myself and my hand slammed into the Batmobile horn!

  That sound, in the stillness of the night, was as penetrating as the wail of an air-raid siren and caused as much alarm among the residents of the building. I heard shouts that rose to a chorus so cacophonous that I felt sure it came from the throats of the inmates. Then some of the voices became discernible, and what they were saying was alarming indeed.

  “We got him! We got Batman!”

  I didn’t know who was celebrating this victory; I hoped it was merely some hospital authority, but there was something distinctively malevolent about the tone. When I saw the two white-coated figures emerging from a back door, my instincts sent me back to my hiding place in the rear of the Batmobile.

  Once again, I found myself an involuntary passenger. The two men chortled over finding the Batmobile, but their delight was tempered when they discovered they couldn’t start the motor. No one but Batman could, of course; its ignition would respond only to the palmprint of Batman at the wheel. But that didn’t prevent them from pushing the vehicle down a ramp and into a garage beneath the hospital. Then they took the stairway to the upper floor, leaving me to my anxiety and indecision.

  My indecision didn’t last long. I couldn’t leave under the circumstances; I simply had to know what had become of Batman. I tried to tell myself that he was in compassionate custody; that this was a hospital, a place of healing, and the people who “got” him had acted out of humanitarian motives. Still, I couldn’t shake a feeling of dread. I left the Batmobile and followed the route of the two attendants to the upper floor.

  I climbed eight flights in all, pausing at each landing to open the door barely a crack, looking for a scene of activity.

  It was on the topmost floor, when I was almost entirely breathless from fatigue and apprehension, that I heard the raised voices. I entered a dimly lit corridor and made my way to the source of the sound. It was apparently some kind of medical conference room, and judging from the medley I heard, there were at least a dozen men in heated discussion. The thought of eavesdropping was frightening, but, as my old grandfather used to say, in for a penny, in for a pound. I put my ears to the white door and listened.

  “You’re sure he can’t use any of his tricks on us?” a grating voice asked. “He’s smarter than a dozen foxes, you know.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” another man replied. “We’ve got him in our camisole. He’s helpless as a baby.”

  It took me a moment to deduce that a “camisole” was what they used to call a “straitjacket.”

  “All right, then,” the first man said. “Bring him in and let’s find out how much he knows.”

  There was the sound of half a dozen chairs being scraped back on a hard wooden floor, and then an excited murmur that must have been produced by Batman’s entry I could no longer resist the opportunity of peering into that room. With agonizing slowness, I turned the knob and opened the door a fraction of an inch, enough to catch sight of my poor master strapped
into a white restraining garment, being unceremoniously shoved to the head of a long conference table around which sat what appeared to be a strange convocation of doctors in their hospital whites and patients in their robes and pajamas.

  “Go on, Batman,” the grating voice said, its owner not in my line of sight. “Tell us how you got here.”

  “Maybe he missed the place,” another voice said, and there was a rumble of unpleasant laughter.

  “I didn’t want to miss this meeting,” Batman said, in a clear, steady voice. “There hasn’t been a conference like this since Appalachin.”

  The reference meant nothing to me, but it caused a stir among the seated figures.

  “We all know you’ve got bats in that belfry of yours, Batman,” another voice said. “This is a hospital, remember? We’re doctors.”

  “And patients, I see,” Batman said dryly, confirming my own suspicion. “Do you let the inmates run this asylum, too?”

  “Why are we listening to this maniac?” someone else said. “Let’s give him a healthy dose of Alpaproxide and throw him into a rubber room.”

  “No,” the grating voice said loudly. “Let’s hear what he has to say. Go on, Batman. What’s all this crap about Appalachin? That’s in the mountains, ain’t it?”

  Strange grammar for a physician, I thought.

  “Yes,” Batman said. “It’s in the Catskills. Back in 1957, it was where the biggest crime boss meeting in history was held. Also the most embarrassing, since it was broken up by the police.”

  “And is that what you think you’re doing, Batman?”

  I gasped at this implication.

  “I knew this conference was going to take place because I overheard your boss making the arrangements. Where is the Big Boss, anyway?”

  I didn’t expect them to answer Batman’s bold challenge, but someone did. Astonishingly, the voice was female. Even more incredible, it was a voice I recognized!

  “I’m right here,” Dr. Lace said composedly. “But I can hardly believe you ‘overheard’ anything, Batman, since you were well under the influence of a hypnotic drug at the time.”

  Batman’s smile was wide beneath his mask.

  “Sorry, doctor. Whichever delightful concoction you introduced into my system had no effect whatsoever. You see, I made sure I was immunized against all your hypnotics some time ago. At the beginning of your treatment, as a matter of fact.”

  “That’s impossible!”

  “The nice thing about Alpaproxide and Chloropram and the rest of those drugs—they can all be nullified by one compound. Of course, I had to be my own guinea pig before I could offer the same remedy to your other patients—like Commissioner Gordon, and Randolph Spicer of the FBI, and of course, your latest victim, Mayor Donovan.”

  “Hey, what is this?” The grating voice was harsher than ever. “What’s going on here, Doc? I thought you said Batman was completely under control?”

  “He was!” Dr. Lace said, and I detected a nervous quaver in her voice. “You know what he’s been doing, acting like a complete lunatic, just as I ordered . . .”

  Batman laughed, without a hint of nervousness.

  “I enjoyed those little charades you devised for me, Doctor. It was fun carrying out your ‘hypnotic’ suggestions. Almost as much fun as becoming your patient in the first place.”

  “Wait a minute!” one of the others cried. “Are you kidding us? You didn’t have a nervous breakdown?”

  “Sorry to disappoint you,” Batman said. “I simply thought it was the best way to find out if what I suspected was true—that Commissioner Gordon and others were being strangely influenced not to do their jobs. I’ve known Gordon a long time, and he never gave so many wrong orders, or followed such wrong leads, or reacted so wimpishly to a crime wave. I knew there was something wrong with his attitude, and I began to wonder if that ‘attitude’ wasn’t being formed by somebody else.”

  “He is lying!” Dr. Lace said defensively. “The man was an emotional wreck when he came to me.”

  “Actually, you did do me good,” Batman said with a grin. “You took my mind off my problems, Doctor. You gave me something to look forward to—like seeing all these illustrious gang bosses locked up in Gotham City jail.”

  “I’ve heard enough!” the harsh voice exploded. For the first time, I saw its owner, a huge man with barrel chest and hands like two sides of beef. I recognized Tough Teddy Thomas, once the most notorious crime figures in the country, long believed to be part of the asphalt in the Gotham City thruway. “This guy made a jackass out of you, Doc! He was the one playing games, not you! Only I’m making sure the game is over—”

  To my horror, he drew a revolver from a shoulder holster, aimed it point blank at Batman, and fired! The force of the bullet sent Batman flying back against the wall of the conference room, and then limp as a rag doll, he slid to the ground and rolled over on his face.

  Before my very eyes, Batman had been executed.

  The stunning event electrified the assembly. Suddenly, chairs were pushed back and overthrown. The air was thick with cries and imprecations, and then there was a mad rush for the exit. The doors of the conference room were slammed open so precipitously that I was momentarily concealed behind them. Even when I could no longer remain hidden, my presence went completely unnoticed by the mobsters. Then I realized the reason. I was dressed just like most of the hoodlums posing as hospital patients, in robe and pajamas. They assumed I was one of them!

  When the room was emptied, I hurried to Batman’s side, certain that I could do no more than pay my last respects. I was already in tears, deeply regretting that I could never tell the fallen hero how sorry I was not to have trusted him from the beginning, not to have understood the elaborate game he had been playing to defeat this terrible criminal conspiracy. It was painful to realize that all his valiant effort, his willingness to humiliate himself for the greater good, was all in vain, that the villains had escaped leaving Batman to History.

  Then I heard the sirens, and realized that Batman had foreseen this possibility, that he had arranged for police action before his arrival—but would they be in time?

  “Don’t worry, Alfred,” Batman said. “I’ve wired all the exit doors shut with Batwire. The only way out of this building is through the garage, and they’ll run into quite a number of squad cars there.”

  I could only gape at Batman as he rose to his feet and began to work his way out of the camisole.

  “I’ve heard Houdini could do this in four minutes,” he said lightly. “Let’s see if I can beat his record.”

  I must record that he did not. Batman was free of his restraint in four minutes and fifteen seconds. The cloth garment hit the ground with a metallic thud.

  “It’s a bullet-proof shield,” Batman explained. “I slipped it into a camisole before I allowed myself to be captured. Just to be on the safe side.”

  “You wanted to be caught?” I gasped.

  “I thought it was the best way to get a confession from Dr. Lace.” He removed the tiny tape recorder attached to his belt, and smiled. “Now I have it.”

  I must have collapsed suddenly, because the next minute was lost to my memory. I found myself in a chair, with Batman administering to me with a glass of water.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “The truth is, I thought it was entirely my fault that you were captured.”

  “I’m the one who has to apologize to you, Alfred,” he said. “I simply couldn’t confide in you or anyone else about what I was doing; I couldn’t afford to rouse the slightest suspicion about the state of my mental health.”

  “Then—it was all a ruse? From the beginning?”

  “Only a game,” Batman smiled. “There was definitely a method in my ‘madness.’ ”

  “Yes, sir,” I said. “I understand perfectly. And I’m sure everyone in Gotham City will deeply appreciate the sacrifices you made.”

  “However,” Batman said amiably, “no matter what the news media say about all t
his, don’t be surprised if some people persist in believing that I really am ‘bats.’ ”

  Of course, it was the truth. It’s human nature, I suppose, to believe the worst of others. To this day, there are people who think Batman is some schizophrenic with delusions of grandeur. There are others who think Batman is only a figment of someone’s fevered imagination. Batman doesn’t mind. He’s willing to let the criminals of this world continue to live in fool’s paradise, until that dark night when they see the black shadow of batwings against the circle of the yellow moon.

  Subway

  Jack

  A BATMAN ADVENTURE

  Joe R. Lansdale

  OLD GOTHAM CITY CEMETERY (early October)

  The moon . . .

  The cemetery was at the top of the hill and dead center of the hill was the grave. It was marked by a stone cross covered in dark mold and twisting vines. There were other graves, of course, and all of them in a state of equal disrepair, but this was the one Jack Barrett wanted.

  He climbed to the top of the hill and leaned on his shovel with one hand and held his flash with the other. The beam played across the stone marker but revealed little. Age and mold and vines had taken care of the writing there. Still, Jack had researched enough to know this was the spot.

  He turned off the flash, put it in his coat pocket, and looked around. The hill the grave was on was high enough that it stood above the stone walls of the cemetery and afforded a look at the city; the city that had grown up around it over the years and now blinked its neon eyes over this pile of dirt and stone and bones.

  Jack could hear the cars roaring along the city streets, and he thought he could hear the rumble of the subway nearby. To the left of the hill was a great, brittle-looking oak, and he looked up through the branches to watch the moon coasting through the sky behind a veil of clouds. A cool wind blew through the cemetery, rattled the limbs of the tree, ruffled Jack’s hair, and blew leaves before it.

  Jack took a deep breath, put the shovel to the dirt and began to dig. The sound of the wind, the cars, and the subway died for Jack, and all he heard was the whistle of the shovel sliding into moist earth.