by Stan Lee
Sturdley felt a moment of panic. The technicians were doing this on his say-so. If that turned out to be a real human being—like an empty-headed government bureaucrat ...
Harry redirected probes, just to be sure. There was a spreading liquid stain from the downed figure’s ruined leg. Relief flooded Harry as his immaterial senses assured him it was some kind of oil.
The robot tried to push itself up and got its other leg blown for that effort. Then the third technician swooped low, a gossamer-thin netting of glowing wire in his hands. This was the nullifier, a new toy Triadon had whomped up in his lab. In theory, it would yank a robot out of anyone’s remote control—and also dampen any inbuilt self-destruct commands.
The sparkling mesh descended over the robot, which now lay inert.
“Looks like it worked,” Harry exulted, executing an Immelman loop in the middle of Kaldoa’s traffic. “The S-Force has caught itself a spy!”
Scaladon stared down from the quarter-mile-high spire—a modest structure for the planet Argon. Who would expect that it housed the headquarters of those trying to seize the planet? An early escapee from the Sphere of Exile, Scaladon had ruthlessly begun organizing the Deviants almost as soon as he’d recovered from his transit through the Rift. Now he was the supreme leader of the attack on Argonian society.
As he listened to the reports of underlings, Scaladon’s mind kept overlaying the view of municipal decrepitude he now saw with his memories of a vital city of manufacturing and technology. Beneath his armor, his face tightened. The city he remembered was a thousand years gone, sacrificed by the so-called Rationalists to some doltish ideal of ease and peace, along with Argon’s future, Argon’s freedom ...
Scaladon’s heavy, armored gauntlet tightened on the windowsill, leaving finger-sized dents. A difficult thing, freedom. He’d allowed his research to take him where it would. The result had been physical scars, and still worse, social stigma as the Rationalist movement gained momentum. The Rationalists had branded him a freak—a Deviant who would never fit into the barren confines of their new society. One who would never give up the genes that gave him genius.
Till now, he’d laughed at the efforts of the dwellers in the sty to pen him up again. But the latest word from his agents in Kaldoa caused him unease. “So,” he said, turning to the bearer of the tidings—a young, cocky career criminal named Emsisdin. “Our attempts to seize the manipulator of the dimensional flux and our infiltration of the Consensus computers were both foiled as the result of interference by the newcomers.”
“Well, neither of those scams was going to make us rich,” Emsisdin spoke up boldly.
Behind the mask of his helmet, Scaladon’s lips curled. Emsisdin was a true genetic disaster—a minor gang leader with no tinge of ideology cluttering his naked greed. Still, one used whatever tools came to hand ... “Tell me more about the newcomers,” Scaladon ordered.
“There’s only four of them—three with some kind of mind powers, or so I’m told,” Emsisdin reported. “The one you wanted is called Jancam—Jahncam’run.” The gang leader struggled with the alien appellation. “Their leader seems to be an older man called Sturdley”—another nonsense collection of sounds—“who has made alliance with Triadon and his pathetic bunch.”
Scaladon frowned. “That could be trouble.”
“There’s only four of them,” Emsisdin protested, to be cut off by an abrupt gesture from his chief. No sense in antagonizing the big man, though he found it insulting to report to an anonymous armored suit. Still, he’d heard Scaladon had horribly disfigured himself in a lab accident before the great exile ...
“To this point, we, the wolves, have battled a pack of over-domesticated dogs,” Scaladon said. “But these newcomers are as wild as we. They’ll require ... testing.” He turned from the window to face his subordinate. After the horrors of a centuries-long exile and his struggle to seize command of the motley crew of Deviants who had escaped, Scaladon knew how to be hard. He’d be harder yet on this effete, so-called “civilization.” Yes, there would be stern tests ahead for the newcomers.
“Activate all our people and machines, Emsisdin. We’ll be undertaking a major offensive.”
Marty Burke hammered on the table in vain. The noise level in the Fantasy Factory’s conference room roared on at maximum din. It was as though the room were too small for the number of people in attendance—though, in fact, there were a few people missing.
Burke pounded again, making a mental note to get a gavel before the next meeting. This table-banging was hard on his hand.
How come Sturdley never had this noise problem?
“Come on!” Burke yelled.
The tumult ebbed, individual conversations becoming audible in the receding tide of noise. Close by, Burke made out the voice of one of the young artists in his clique.
“‘— sticking to your fur?’ the bear asks. The squirrel says ‘no’ ... so the bear wipes his butt with him.”
A knot of artists broke into sniggering laughter until they were silenced by a glare from Burke. These were the guys who were supposed to be supporting him?
“We’ve got a lot to get settled today,” Burke said, pitching his voice to ride over the remaining hubbub. “I’m appointing a new creative team to take over The Amazing Robert.”
“We’re appointing a new creative team,” Bob Gunnar interjected, fighting gamely to retain the joint authority vested in them by the Fantasy Factory’s board.
“Of course, Bob.” Burke said with a smile. It wouldn’t hurt to defer to him now. Besides, he had a couple of surprises in store for Gunnar, the last obstacle to his complete control. But those would surface later in the meeting. “It won’t be easy to replace John Cameron on the Robert book—”
ODYSSEY 35
In terms of talent, that was the truth, Burke knew. But in terms of style, nothing could be easier. Everyone had commented that Cameron’s art looked like vintage Marty Burke—in some cases, improved Burke.
Well, most of the Young Turks in the office credit me as an influence on their styles, Burke thought. Hell, some of them just copy me. It will be easy to keep the look of the book the same. And one more artist around here will owe me big-time.
Burke glanced at the young illustrator who’d been telling the dirty joke when he wanted silence. He wouldn’t be the one to benefit. Zeb Grantfield was leaning forward, looking eager. He was the Fantasy Factory’s current wonderkid, but Burke figured he was soon to fizzle out. Instead, Burke directed his eyes to an even younger artist. “Charlie Myers is my art choice for the book,” he announced coolly. “Bob, have you got a writer?”
Gunnar nodded. “Dave Cobb,” he said immediately. “He’s gotten some seasoning on The Petulant Lump, and done some fill-in work with the Ex-Wives. The whole ‘Brawnette Amuck’ storyline was his—”
“Fine, fine,” Burke cut him off. “Cobb and Myers it will be. Which brings us to the next question.” He glanced at the youthful writer down the table. “John Cameron got the material for his stories from daily newspaper reports. But with the PBA’s injunction keeping the Heroes off patrol, we’ll need new material. I suggest squaring Robert off against Megalomanik...”
The room burst out in a ruckus three orders of magnitude louder than the earlier din.
“—can’t use fictional supervillains in a Hero book,” Bob Gunnar made himself heard over the wall of noise. “Our contract with the Heroes has a clause specifically dealing—”
“That clause was put in by Harry Sturdley while he was facing a very different situation. At the time, the Heroes were on the streets, preventing crime.“ Burke looked at Gunnar, outwardly calm but exulting in the confusion on his rival’s face. ”You yourself agreed to taking them off patrol when the police union got those court papers. No patrols, no new adventures.“
“We’ve got plenty of stories from before the injunction,” Gunnar insisted.
Burke gestured dismissively. “Old news.”
“Well, the new news
isn’t all that great,” Gunnar spat. “All hell is breaking loose in New York. I don’t know how you could have missed it, considering your own girlfriend got hit with a beer bottle while covering the craziness. Every crook who went on holiday while the giants were out taking care of things is back in business with a vengeance. The Heroes had just about done away with illegal guns, but now there’s a caravan of trucks coming up from the south loaded with enough ordnance to outfit an infantry company. In some neighborhoods, they’re holding handgun flea markets, for chrissake.”
He glared at Burke. “For the people in this town, the Heroes were the one hope to stem the rising wave of crime. Do you really think it’s a good idea to trivialize the city’s faith in the Heroes with some fictionalized villain-bashing?”
“I think it’s good business,” Burke stated flatly. “And as far as the contract goes, Robert has agreed to sign a rider voiding the reality clause. There’ll be no legal impediment.”
He let the words hang in a now-quiet room. As things stood, Marty Burke looked like the good steward of the company, seeking a solution to a tough problem, making the effort to arrange things with the Heroes. Bob Gunnar looked like the one who’d blown his responsibility, carping at a ready-made plan, hindering Burke’s efforts.
A thin voice from down the table shattered the silence. “I hope you’re not going to try foisting that nonsense on me.”
Burke turned to confront a furious Mack Nagel. Mere months ago Nagel had been a has-been, an old horror- comics artist out of a job. Harry Sturdley had thrown him a bone, giving him page breakdowns for Zeb Grantfield’s books. Their styles had rubbed off on each other. Nagel’s ability to draw giant, slim-hipped, busty babes had manifested itself just as the Fantasy Factory had launched The Fabulous Barbara, the first Hero title to feature a female.
Now Nagel was riding the crest of a huge wave of fan adulation. His stooped, storklike figure had straightened a bit, and some of the worry lines had gone from his face. He still dressed a bit shabbily, however. Most of his Barbara royalty money was spent on medical care for Nagel’s invalid wife.
“I believe this is something we should implement across the board,” Burke began.
“Hey, you’re not turning my book into more of your run-of-the-mill crap,” Nagel told him flat out. “You may think you’re a genius, Burke, but you don’t have as much vision as Harry Sturdley had in his little finger.”
“Harry Sturdley isn’t around here anymore,” Burke snapped, his voice switching to intimidation mode. “And you—”
“And I’ve got at least six months of reality-based stories I can still use,” Nagel cut him off. “By that time, this stupid court injunction against the giants will be history—or would be, if you got on the stick.”
Burke glared at the grizzled man, stung. If that old fart thinks I’m going to take this, he has another think coming.
“And as for any threats or pressure tactics you might be thinking about, let me tell you something,” Nagel went on. “I’ve got a standing offer from Umbrage Comics to come work for them. Carte blanche—anything I want to do. How good are you going to look with the board if you drive the artist on your number-two book over to the newest competitor on the block, huh?”
Marty Burke felt as if his head were going to burst as he hammered on the conference table again, trying to head off the rush of muttering that now filled the room. “I’m not wasting time on silly arguments, Nagel. Not when we all have deadlines to meet.”
He promised himself that the next issue of Barbara would get his personal attention—to make sure that Nagel was late. Every word of dialogue, every line of the art would be dissected. It would be easy enough to find something to send back for reworking. Thumbs always required close attention. Nagel would have to redraw the offending digits, and even then, they might not pass Burke’s discriminating eye.
The meeting broke up, but Burke remained seated, smiling savagely to himself as the conference room began to empty. If Nagel wanted to bust balls, he’d find himself up against a master ball-buster.
Burke glanced sourly over at editor Thad Westmoreland, who had kept quiet during the heated exchanges. That was not according to plan. Westmoreland was supposed to have chimed in on the advantages of bringing the Hero titles more into the mainstream of the Fantasy Factory galaxy.
“Who’s editing The Fabulous Barbara?” Burke asked. With luck, maybe it would be Westmoreland himself. Then Burke could delegate the job of screwing Nagel to his supposed ally.
Westmoreland only shook his head. “With the rush schedule they were on, Bob Gunnar’s been handling it himself.”
Burke clenched his fist on the tabletop. Damnation! Another fight in the offing.
John Cameron was sitting up in a terrestrial-looking bed as Peg Faber waltzed lightly into his room, an excited smile illuminating her face. “Nice outfit,” he said, commenting on the form-fitting jumpsuit she wore. “You look a lot better.”
“Just what I was going to say to you,” she told him.
He shrugged. “I’ll be here another day to get my brain reintegrated. Triadon doesn’t want to mess around with the ‘wetware.’ Afraid he’ll futz up my mental powers. Tomorrow I get fitted for a suit of armor.“ He looked at her a little nervously. ”How was it?“
“John, I was flying!” Her face was flushed as she plonked herself down on the edge of his bed. “It was like—well, did you ever have dreams about soaring into the sky?”
John stroked his chin in a professorial gesture. “Ah, yes,” he said. “Freud tells us such dreams deal with ze repressed sexuality.”
Peg made a face at him, then pressed on. “It’s not as effortless as in dreams. There are controls that take a lot of attention. Those suits react to the barest twitch. I was worried about just keeping airborne. But it was ... exhilarating!”
She glanced at John, her mood coming down to earth. “Have you noticed anything about the translating machines Triadon gave us?”
“Like what?”
“Well—” Peg drew the word out. “While I was getting fitted for my armor, I heard the head technician say, ‘We’ll have to recalibrate the Framistat.’ ”
John’s eyebrows rose. “Framistat?”
“That’s what I said. The technician called it the Framadon aerostatic controller—that’s what fine-tunes the gizmoidal drive.”
This time, John didn’t say anything.
Peg merely nodded. “Yeah. They hook up the Framistat to the gizmo, and that’s how they fly. Either Triadon has a bug in his translator, or he’s got a weird sense of humor.” She shrugged. “But they sure as hell can fly. And Harry did more than just fly. Have you heard? He caught a spy!”
“I saw it on the 3D news,” John told her. “It made for a nice change. All I did today was watch the Argonian version of television.”
Peg gave him a sympathetic look. Argonian broadcast technology was highly impressive—viewers found them selves surrounded by a three-dimensional holographic image. But the content, at least to her sensibilities, was abysmal. “I watched last night,” she admitted. “All I found were sitcoms—and they were all about nothing. It was like watching Seinfeld without getting any of the cultural references.”
“Daytime 3D is even worse,” John told her grimly. “No game shows—that would be competition. And you wouldn’t believe the soaps! They have no idea of conflict, Peg. And you can’t have drama without conflict. Just look at the news. The merest hint of disagreement in their government—this Consensus—and they treat it like a major crisis. When the newscasters did the story on Harry and the spy, the tone was almost titillating. They treated it as if it were something forbidden—because it referred to a fight.”
He shook his head. “Harry was right to offer our help in catching these Deviants. We—I made it happen. All those visits I made to sketch here ... if I had realized I was also freeing criminals ...” His face was etched with concern. “The worst part is, the Argonians have no idea what they’re in for.�
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Marty Burke was prepared for a long lunch. In fact, he told the gofer who’d been temporarily moved to fill Peg Faber’s job that he didn’t know when he’d be back. Three times on the elevator ride to the ground floor, he twitched the jacket on his trademark black suit—straightening it, then rearranging it. Burke strode across the lobby and out the doors onto Park Avenue. The glaring sunlight shafting down between the buildings of the upper Twenties was almost uncomfortably brilliant. He was glad to turn his back to the sun as he headed west toward Broadway.
Burke’s destination was the largest collection of greenery in the neighborhood, Madison Square, four blocks long and an avenue block wide. As he reached the northeastern tip of the park, Burke wondered for at least the hundredth time why Madison Square was here while Madison Square Garden, where he had season tickets for the Knicks, was located more than half a mile to the north and west. This scrubby collection of lawns, trees, spindly benches, and forgotten statues and monuments had nothing to do with the sports center, at least as far as Burke could see. No, the local products of Madison Square seemed to be squirrels and derelicts. But it was an open, public space, and apparently an excellent impromptu platform for a politician who hated homeless people, unions, and anything even vaguely liberal.
Burke had heard Bob Gunhar describe New York Senator Al Demagogua’s politics as “considerably to the right of the Ku Klux Klan.”
But the Senator had developed an instant love for the giants whom Sturdley had dubbed “the Heroes”—for their vigilantism, their willingness, as Demagogua put it, “to sweep the scum from our streets.”
The great man was using that very phrase as Burke joined the frantic crowd drawn to Madison Square by the political rally. There were a lot of new-money businesses moving into the neighborhood. New money meant yuppies, and that was a vote Demagogua wanted to court. This rally was a given crowd-pleaser, because the guest speaker was Robert, leader of the Heroes.