by Stan Lee
He leapt into the air, pushing to maximum speed and hugging the firing control to his chest. In three seconds, four to make sure he was out of the blast zone, he’d push—
Searing blue bolts of energy came flaring at Quagamor from apparently clear air. One speared into the control box he cradled, blasting it to atoms right under his hand. Another obliterated his radio gear. Damage alarms and proximity reports suddenly screamed into his eyes and ears. His suit was barely crawling along, and two armored figures swooped to intercept him, spreading a nullifier net to take him prisoner.
Quagamor couldn’t allow that. He twisted his head inside the armored helmet, accessing the controls for the injector pack located at the top of his spine. The needle would send a fast-acting poison directly into his brain as soon as he touched the button with his jaw ... But he couldn’t trigger it. His entire body froze, his paralyzed jaw bare micrometers from the suicide control.
“Blast his armor right at the base of the neck,” John ordered Melador, pinpointing the area. Sweat poured down John’s face as he psychically struggled to hold the saboteur immobile. Then Melador blew away the injector, and the others wrapped Quagamor in the nullifier net. A couple of quick adjustments, and the terrorist’s armor was an inanimate hulk, imprisoning the shocked Deviant.
Even through his helmet, John could feel Melador turning wondering eyes at him. “How—why—” the technician fumbled for words. “What made him fly right into our guns, out here in the open?”
John shrugged—another useless display in armor. “When he came onto that platform, I probed his mind and did a little mental editing on what his eyes were reporting to his brain. He saw what he wanted to see—a clear escape path.”
“But it wasn’t clear—we were right in the way.”
“The image I pushed into his brain was clear. Then it was just a case of keeping him from noticing the proximity reports.”
“And rummaging in his memories to pinpoint where the bomb control and his radio were,” Peg added. “Not to mention convincing him he was zooming out of there when he was barely moving at a crawl. And holding him stiff when he tried to off himself.”
“Aw—” John began.
He halted at a message from Peg on a more intimate thought channel. Keep this up, and Harry will launch The Adventures of John when we get home, she beamed.
Melador was considerably more respectful on the trip back to the Citadel of Silence, but still conscientious in familiarizing John and Peg with their armor. The technician even enabled their weapons systems so the intruders from Earth could try some target practice.
After her tridigirector had vaporized a boulder, Peg commented, “A girl could get used to this.”
They flew through the main gates of the Citadel of Silence, landing lightly in the hangar area where Harry Sturd-ley eagerly awaited them.
John had to smile when he saw that Harry had adopted native garb—that is, the clothing the locals wore when they weren’t in armor. Harry was in the Argonian equivalent of a business suit, a bathrobe-like garment with matching tights and ankle boots.
“You’ve got to see the news!” Harry gushed, shepherding them into a huge room where Triadon and most of his followers were watching the holographic images on 3D. “The S-Force is up and running!”
As he removed his helmet, John could feel the color rising in his cheeks.
A four-times life-size talking head floated in the middle of the holographic field. “The act of this stranger to our world can only be described as true heroism,” the commentator burbled. John blushed even more. “Lest there be any difference of opinion, we have this recording of the facts.”
“Gee,” John muttered to Peg, “I didn’t think there were any cameras on us.”
The face faded away, to be replaced with the image of a huge paved courtyard at the base of a totally unfamiliar tower. John and Peg both glanced at each other in puzzlement.
“This evening, the city of Valgrin enjoys its usual peace,” the commentator’s voice went on. “But the scene this afternoon was quite different.”
The image shimmered into bright daylight. A flying platform loaded with a cargo of boxes stood by the tower. Several still bodies surrounded it, and the only moving figures were larger than human size—armed robots.
At the outskirts of the plaza, taking what cover they could, several of Triadon’s technicians—John was beginning to recognize the arcane Argonian heraldry—were exchanging blasts with the killer machines.
“A gang of Deviant robots attempted to steal this shipment of ultramicrochips when they were surprised by the intervention of the S-Force. The—ah—fighting could have continued indefinitely, but was brought to a close by one of the newcomers to our world.”
A figure in plain gray and black armor suddenly erupted from the Triadonian fire party, heading straight into the air.
The robots all turned to aim, but the figure was already pointing both arms down in the tridigirector gesture.
Twin bluish bolts darted down, not toward the robots, but to a shiny metallic panel imbedded in the wall of the tower. Energy beams reflected off the panel to strike an area behind the loaded platform, an area occupied by an armored figure, John now realized. The figure crumpled, and the robots froze, their controller out of action.
The flying marksman came in for a landing and removed his helmet, revealing Mike’s smiling face.
Enthusiastic newsmen clustered around him, and he answered their questions in flawless Argonian.
“Maybe Harry will launch the comic adventures of The Mighty Mike,” John said ruefully.
Peg grinned and gave him a light tap on his armored arm. “Them’s the breaks in the hero biz.”
* * *
CHAPTER 5
Marty Burke wore a white shirt and a brand-new tie that looked like someone had regurgitated a hearty meal of Dr. Martin’s airbrush colors. His trademark black suit was fresh from the dry cleaners—and already wilting from cold sweat.
For about the fifteenth time, Burke checked his watch. It wouldn’t do to arrive too early and seem too eager. Okay. It was time. He walked down the block and pushed open the ornate gold and glass door of Le Chateau D’If.
Even worse than the unfamiliar tie was the challenge of haute cuisine. Marty Burke had grown up as a hamburger and fries kind of guy. Boone’s Farm had been the first wine he’d encountered, and whenever he could, he used the line, “Hey, any year is a good vintage for beer.”
That stance wouldn’t fly here, he knew. Leslie Ann had told him all about Le Chateau D’If. It was the hippest, most expensive French restaurant in New York this season, with a star chef, an insufferable maitre d’, and a reputation for serving hot and cold attitude along with delicious food.
Three steps past the door, Marty found himself confronted by a blond wood podium guarded by a guy who could have played Dr. Wayne Walters, the ultra-suave human alter ego of The Petulant Lump. The factotum’s hair was brushed straight back, immaculately in place. A high forehead and strong brow ridges topped flinty blue eyes, a perfect nose, expressive lips, and a carefully-trimmed beard. In his crisp tuxedo, the maitre d’ was the exact antithesis of Burke in his rapidly wrinkling suit, and, still worse, he knew it.
He gazed at Marty as if his eyes hurt—as if Marty were the cause of the ache. “Yes, sir?”
“I have a one o’clock lunch with Stuart Silikis,” Burke said.
He’d hoped for a bit of a thaw when he mentioned the name of Hollywood’s latest cinematic genius. If anything, the ambient temperature went down further, and the maitre d’s face showed pain.
“Ah.” Those mobile lips twisted, and the deep-set eyes grew more flinty. “Mr. Silikis is already at his table. If you’ll just follow me ...”
Burke followed the stiff-backed figure into the main room of the restaurant, to a table in the middle of the chamber. Leslie Ann had warned Burke of the dangers of Siberia, being stuck at a side table. Apparently Stuart Silikis was a regular here, or at lea
st knew how to get a prime location. Marty relaxed just a tad. Hey, it was Silikis’s lunch invitation, the producer’s choice of restaurant.
The man sitting at the table was a couple of years younger than Burke, lighter of build but a bit more fleshy. A goatee did nothing to hide his incipient jowls, and his glasses magnified watery blue eyes.
What a nerd, Burke thought.
Then Stuart Silikis pointed to the chair opposite him and opened his mouth. “Good t’meetcha, Burke. Siddown.”
The thick “Noo Yawk” accent was augmented by a vocal tone like a buzz saw encountering a steel I-beam. Wincing, Burke took his seat.
The effect was even worse on the supercilious maitre d’. He fled back to his podium as if all the devils of hell were at his heels.
Silikis smiled, watching the man retreat. “He tried the snooty act on me when I foist came heah,” the producer explained. “I like ta shake him up.”
“Whatever works for you,” Marty said.
Stuart Silikis nodded. “I don’t kid myself. I was born in Flushing, did the NYU film school thing, and got real lucky in la-la land. And I’m not gonna kid you, Burke. The Fantasy Factory has something I want.”
Burke shrugged. “Hey, in my old neighborhood, everybody knew me as ‘Mawdy.’” He didn’t mention that he always hated that pronunciation.
They smiled at each other, two guys who had come to an understanding. “You guys sell more comics, but yaw competition—Dynasty Comics—always gets the cushy film deals. Y’know why?”
Before Burke could answer, Silikis plunged on. “Because Dynasty and Dirk Colby got the guys with name recognition. The guys who survived for fifty years. Heroes like Zenith—the Man of Molybdenum, and Ram-man—the Midnight Shepherd. My father knows them. Hell, his father knows them.”
“We’ve got recognizable heroes,” Burke said, stung.
“Yeah, but the Human Torpedo was out of print for fifteen years. And I may like your new characters, like the Ex-Wives, or Mr. Pain—”
Burke preened a little. Thanks to him, Mr. Pain had gone through his twenty-year update.
Silikis continued inexorably onward. “Problem is, my dad don’t know them from bupkis.” He raised his hands. “Yeah, I know—movies are for the youth market. But the blockbusters bring in everybody. And now you got blockbuster material.” Silikis smiled. “After all, there are regular heroes, and then there are giant Heroes.”
This was the offer Burke had expected. “Robert and his people are already all over the newspapers and TV,” he said. “Not to mention our comics.”
“I’m offering to put them on the big screen,” Silikis said. “None of this ‘made for TV’ crap, no animation deal. I tell ya. Burke, this could be bigger than Jurassic Park. I’m talking an honest-to-god, big-budget feature.”
“Not as big a budget as you’d need if you had to do the special effects,” Burke pointed out.
Silikis shrugged, conceding the point. “No opticals, no models.” He grinned. “I guess no stunt-giants, either.”
“So the question becomes how big a budget you’re talking.” Burke’s eyes became cunning slits. “How much human-size talent you can afford—and how big will their names be?”
“If we’re doing a movie about giants, why do we need regular-sized people?” Silikis sat a bit straighter, his pudgy face tightening, the washed-out eyes sharpening behind his glasses.
“Why did Warner Brothers need Jack Nicholson or Michelle Pfeiffer when they were doing movies about Batman?” Burke shot back.
Silikis stared for a moment. “And who would these regular-sized people play?”
“Heroes fight villains,” Burke said. “And the Fantasy Factory has a million villains.”
Mr. Hollywood broke into a toothy grin. “I like it!” he said. “You got any villains into nook-you-lar terrorism? I think that would make a good plot.”
He beckoned the waiter over. “Mind if I ordah? I know the menu in this dump.”
Burke assented gratefully.
“We’ll have the sea urchin mousse for an appetizer, then the bass in the potato crust.” He glanced at Burke. “They do it real nice, sculpting the potato so it looks like fish scales.” Then Silikis directed a stern glare at the waiter. “And don’t try to screw around with any of that nouvelle crap—full plates, right? Oh, and a bottle of Mouton-Rothschild, ’49.” He turned to Burke as the server scurried off. “I don’t know squat about wine but a foodie friend of mine ordered it once. It’s the third most expensive wine on the list, but hey, we’re eating on the studio.”
Burke nodded with a smile. At this point, he’d have drunk vinegar with gallstones to celebrate his victory. By the time this film was over, the Fantasy Factory’s villains would be inextricably mixed in the public mind with the giant Heroes. And what the public believed inevitably became what the comics portrayed. Before this movie ever hit the screens, he’d have the villains of his choice squaring off in the giants’ comics.
The suburban Virginia mansion looked like something dating from the Civil War, although when Robert probed the mind of the owner, some sort of builder, he discovered the ersatz plantation house was less than twenty years old. It was a pleasant enough place, situated atop a hill with several acres of other hills blocking off the view of the developments that had paid for the estate—as well as for the owner’s new status as a major campaign donor.
At the moment, the gently sloping front lawn of the mansion was dotted with graceful white pavilions shading tables of buffet food, and lavish wet bars serving a variegated crowd that numbered in the hundreds. The clothing styles ranged from understated old money to loud nouveau-riche. But the mental atmosphere that Robert sampled was all of a kind—something called “conservative.” The giant had a hard time pinning down the term. The best definition seemed to come from a conversation their host, Lonnie Something-or-other, had with Senator Al Demagogua. “We gonna keep what we got, and to hell with everybody else.”
The senator was making his way through the crowd, an oleaginous smile on his stubby features. As he spent more time near Demagogua, Robert had idly dissected the politician’s mind, finding it a mass of contradictions. The strongest and most burning motivations were the senator’s hates—whole classes, cultures, and groups whom he categorized as not human.
Robert wasn’t particularly shocked by this outlook. It was similar to his own. For the giants on Robert’s homeworld, there were only two classes: the Masters, such as Robert, and the Lessers—people of Demagogua’s stature. Well, al-most-people.
The senator gave Robert a cheerful wave as he passed at the giant’s feet. Under his buskins, Robert’s soles itched to slam down on the impertinent Lesser. Instead, he summoned up a smile of his own.
One day, little man, he promised himself silently. One day...
Robert had allowed himself to be shipped to this new population center, Washington, because he wanted to see what another Lesser city looked like. This was also where the rulers of this domain—nation, Robert corrected himself—were located. He still found it difficult to concede the notion that Lessers could rule themselves, so he had come to mentally test these leaders, especially those who controlled the weapons of radiation.
Robert found that he liked Washington. The streets were wide and the buildings not quite so towering. However, there seemed to be a much higher percentage of Lesser vermin—petty criminals—on those streets. The giant could well understand now why Demagogua had invited him as an icon for a series of speeches on public safety. Even with his mental probes, Robert found the point of those orations to be obscure. Demagogua seemed to be exhorting “decent people” to form vigilante groups to fight crime. Robert found a delicious irony in a lawmaker apparently urging his followers to break the law.
But then, many of the lawmakers he had met here appeared to have extremely elastic consciences. Their greed was great, but their wills were weak. Robert had no compunction in reaching into their minds and Binding them to his service. Many of them
already acknowledged several masters in secret—political bosses, interest groups, or corporations.
The giant hoped for bigger game at this party, where Demagogua had promised the “movers and shakers” would be found.
As he passed his eyes over the crowd, Robert noted the Senator talking to a man with hooded eyes and a palpable sense of power. After a brief mental prompt, Demagogua beckoned Robert over. “Meet Ben Seckert—he does something shadowy at the State Department.”
Robert’s research into the machinery of Lesser government told him this could be a useful contact. A few judicious probes of Seckert’s memories revealed his work was shadowy indeed, dealing with intelligence, assassination, and money laundering. The State Department agent had a well-ordered, lucid, powerful mind, yet he viewed his job as game-playing on a global board.
“A pleasure, Mr. Seckert,” Robert said, sinking to one knee so he only towered twice the government man’s body height.
“I’d seen the pictures and the videotape, but I’ve got to admit, a giant in the flesh is much more . . . impressive.” Seckert took him in with sharp-eyed curiosity. “The Senator here swears by you, but then, he’s more interested in domestic affairs. I’d worry more about a bunch of people showing up here from apparently nowhere on Earth.”
Robert eased tendrils of thought past an impressive shield of suspicion. A mind ever ready to see enemies would definitely have its uses.
“A country must be strong internally to face its external threats,” Robert said, playing carefully on Seckert’s thoughts. “I’d like to believe the age of the courageous individual influencing events is not quite over.”
Another deeply held Seckert view. The State Department man looked up in surprise as Robert delicately bored ever deeper into his psyche.