Odyssey

by Stan Lee

  “Where—how did they get these?” Triadon demanded. “These are my personal notes on the interdimensional flux—my experiments with the Rift!”

  It was a Saturday afternoon, and the halls of the Fantasy Factory were empty. Marty Burke’s laughter seemed to echo uncannily loud from his open office door.

  “Leslie Ann, you’ve got to see some of the files Sturdley kept. I think he’s got his first pay stub in here. It’s dated January, 1945—and it’s signed by Louis Fanchik.”

  “One of the famous Fan-boys who founded the company,” Leslie Ann said from the desk outside Sturdley’s office, where she was going through Peg Faber’s papers. She’d heard it all before.

  “I wonder if Fanchik’s signature is valuable,” Burke wondered aloud.

  “Marty,” Leslie Ann said, feeling a mite testy, “the idea is to finish making this office your own. You’re supposed to be gathering stuff together to give to Sturdley’s wife, not picking out the collectibles.”

  Instead of an answer, raucous laughter burst from the office door. “Come on in,” Burke called. “You gotta see this.”

  Leslie Ann neatly piled the small collection of Peg Faber’s personal possessions atop the desk and headed into the office. “Do you know if the portable radio on the desk was hers?” she asked.

  Burke gave her a who cares? look. “You’ve got to check this out,” he said, waving a fairly thick file folder. “Earlier, I stumbled across a bunch of bills from an outfit called Farley Investigations. Now I found their reports. Happy Harry was paying for a surveillance job on his giants! The old bastard didn’t trust anybody!”

  Leslie Ann, however, didn’t join in the laughter as she took the folder. Her eyes narrowed in concentration as she paged through the contents.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 12

  The turmoil in the Rift did not subside. New strains racked the interdimensional flux. Down in the lower-order universe of four dimensions, the eddy twisted around the nexus representing the planet Earth. A shearing force was exerted on the Rift-stuff, with the pressure generating new disruptions in the lower substrate ...

  Things get pretty boring in Flatlands, Oklahoma. They’re more boring still when you have to push your pickup way past the speed limit to make it to town in under forty-five minutes. And even then, “town” refers to a two-block shopping strip.

  No, in Flatlands—especially at the edges of the Greater Flatlands Metropolitan Area—the locals try to get their fun wherever they can find it. Which is why Billy-Ray Woolsey had been flipping a quarter for the past thirty minutes. The first few flips had been to kill a little time. Then he noticed he was consistently flipping heads, so he’d started counting.

  And the heads kept coming.

  Finally, Billy-Ray got on the phone to his pal Jesse-Bob Fargis. “I got a run of luck here you just wouldn’t believe,” he reported. “Been flippin‘ a coin for half an hour, and got—” He made a quick calculation of the Xs on the piece of scratch paper. “Shee-it! Nearly two hundred heads in a row.”

  “And you did it all by your lonesome?” Jesse-Bob demanded. “You are an idjit for certain-sure. If you had a witness, you could be gettin‘ into the Guinness Book of Records. You just sit quiet till I get over there!”

  Peg arched her body gracefully, steering her flying suit out of the slow circle it had been describing around the Citadel of Silence. As she’d expected, Harry Sturdley was sitting atop the stony prominence she’d mentally christened his Thinking Rock. That’s where he’d conceived his plan to crush the Deviant network. The planes and angles of his face seemed tighter than usual, more gaunt.

  Harry still hasn’t gotten over the effort he put into his intelligence operation, she thought. Indeed, he’d hardly contributed to the follow-up. Armed with records and equipment captured at Deviant HQ, John, Mike, and Triadon had begun making inroads on the enemy’s organization. Every day, 3-D was full of the exploits of the S-Force.

  But Harry sat up here.

  He glanced up now, his graying hair ruffling in the breeze.

  I’ll have to remind him to get a haircut before the big ceremony next week, she thought.

  Then she received a telepathic greeting. Hi, Red.

  Peg swung around, aiming her feet groundward and delicately adjusting the gizmoidal drive to bring her to a flat section of rock somewhat below Harry’s perch.

  It took a moment to unlatch her helmet, and then she shook out her profusion of red curls. “Harry, can we talk?”

  He directed a piercing gaze down at her. “You’re not going to mother-hen me because I don’t want to play Gang-busters with the other boys?”

  “I think you’ve done more than enough,” Peg said. She glanced down, unwilling to meet his eyes. “This is personal.

  “I know that at first you didn’t approve when John and I—” she made a hand gesture, trying to express a concept for which she couldn’t seem to find the words.

  “ ‘Expressed an interest in each other,’ ” Harry filled in.

  Peg nodded gratefully. “And you were really worried when Mike and I—”

  “Got entangled.” Harry’s lips quirked. “And yes, that is a more loaded way of putting it.”

  “I messed with Mike’s mind, Harry,” she began defensively. “I feel responsible for him.”

  “You know, I must be a real lucky boss to have two such responsible people on my staff,” Harry said. “John felt so responsible for the mess here, he’s spent all his time since he got off that hospital bed playing superhero—and neglecting you.”

  Peg shot him a surprised glance. “You think so?” she asked, her voice suddenly soft.

  “I think it takes two to tango—or as you young moderns put it, relationships are a two-way street. If John got distracted saving the world, you got distracted by Mr. Muscles.”

  He grimaced. “1 had enough problems with John not being exactly down-to-earth. But you pick a guy from another planet—in fact, after this vaporware hoo-hah, from two other planets.”

  “No,” Peg said a little bitterly. “He’s the one who thinks I’m from another planet.” She related the story of their last date, and Mike’s final reaction.

  “So, you’ve got to make a choice here,” Harry said. “And whichever way you go, you’re going to meet a little sales resistance. I don’t see where I—”

  “Harry, I’ve got to talk to John!” The words came out in a rush. “And I—I can’t.” Peg bit her lower lip to keep it from trembling. “We were always able to talk, even before—before all this. He was the only guy in the office who’d talk to me, rather than moving his mouth and looking down my blouse.”

  “Maybe it would have done him some good to look down your blouse,” Harry grumped.

  “Now he just looks through me,” Peg said, ignoring the jibe.

  Harry softened his tone at the look on her face. “Let me rephrase that. If you want to talk, first you’ve got to get him to notice you.”

  Peg was surprised to find him suddenly acting like Uncle Harry, stepping down and giving her an avuncular pat on the shoulder. “You never know. He might be willing to meet you more than halfway.”

  Harry generally enjoyed ceremonies. He was a gregarious guy, it was a chance to press the flesh—and, of course, a chance to step into the spotlight.

  On the other hand, this was the first ceremony Harry had ever attended while clad in a bathrobe. Almost unbidden, his hands checked once again that everything was pulled together and tightly tied. Argonian formal wear tended toward the ornate. Harry wore a deep purple robe with muted highlights. John had chosen basic black, while Triadon was gorgeously clad in a brocade ensemble that combined his garish heraldic colors.

  Ahead of them, waiting on the reception line, Boradon’s heavy frame was swathed in fire-engine red. It made him look vaguely like a Catholic cardinal.

  Mike, who had become quite the Argonian clothes-horse, was clad in the most radical of local couture, chameleon cloth. His robe seemed a sober matte
black, but unexpected flashes of flaring silver would appear in random patterns. It was rather like watching a distant sheet-lightning storm.

  When the flying limo had come for them, Peg appeared in a floor-length black cape with a high collar. With her mane of red curls teased into an elaborately casual cascade of ringlets, she look like an outtake from a Dracula movie. Now, as they prepared to enter the packed banquet hall, she shrugged off the cape—an entrancing spectacle as she bared shoulders, and much of her upper body. The tan she’d acquired in their outdoor days on the planet of the giants had mainly faded, but she was still heavily freckled, and her skin yet retained some of that pseudo-pregnant glow.

  Harry found himself staring at a pair of lithe, perfectly sculpted breasts, nearly revealed by a bodice that only high technology kept in place. In Harry’s experience, uplift bras were generally designed to turn droopers into bulgers. Peg certainly had no problem with sag, but Harry wondered what marvel of lingerie engineering could upthrust and present warm, perfumed flesh like a gelatin dessert and still keep things decent.

  When old Red goes for attention, he thought, she goes all the way.

  He glanced at John, who stood slack-jawed and pop-eyed at what a difference a cape makes. The last time Hairy had seen an expression like that was when an army buddy had inadvertently walked into the backswing of an eight-pound sledgehammer.

  With lowered eyes and an enigmatic smile, Peg stepped out ahead of them, toward the receiving line. Taking in the back view, Harry realized something he’d never even noticed while confronted with that neckline. Peg’s floor-length, hip-slit gown was also made of chameleon cloth—-but of a far more daring variety than Mike’s. At irregular intervals, sections of the gown would shimmer, then fade to a misty insubstantiality, revealing trim ankles in spike heels, or a flash of thigh, or—

  Holy Jumping Judas! Harry found himself thinking. What is that girl wearing under there? A G-string?

  He jabbed a quick elbow into John’s ribs, startling him out of his daze. “Be a gentleman,” Harry hissed. “Get up there and take her arm.”

  “W—which one,” John asked, still seemingly in a dream.

  “The left one. She’ll want to shake hands.” Among other things, Harry thought, urging his protege forward. Then he moved to intercept Mike.

  “Who’d have thought our little Peg capable of that?” Harry said, deftly blocking the younger man’s path. “I think she’s quite stolen the evening.”

  “Mnnnnn,” Mike said noncommittally.

  Harry had quietly tampered with the seating arrangements so that he sat at Peg’s right hand, John on her left, and Mike off beyond Triadon. Throw ‘em together, keep them together, and see what happens. It worked in the comics.

  But throughout the feast and the subsequent required congratulatory speeches, John had steadfastly kept his eyes focused on his food, the speakers, the cameras, the diners spread out below the dais—anywhere but toward Peg.

  She sat with downcast eyes, idly poking the remains of her meal (had he really heard correctly? Roast loin of botk?), looking forlorn. Boradon had just finished pouring on the old oratory oil, and then it was John’s turn to speak. He carefully faced the cameras, going into a speech he’d rehearsed for Harry until the older man had taken to hiding from him.

  “It didn’t work,” Peg whispered, slumping in a highly distracting way in her seat. John briefly stumbled in his address, but managed to go on.

  “You think he didn’t notice you?” Harry responded. “He hasn’t touched a drop of wine, and his face is as red as a forge.”

  Harry’s breath caught in his throat as Peg’s chameleon cloth gown momentarily flashed transparent. “Peg,” he whispered hoarsely when his voice returned, “haven’t you ever heard of overkill?”

  Scaladon stared in cold fury at the assemblage of Deviant leaders sitting before him. Not only had their rebellion suffered a severe disruption of its physical assets, but a worse blow had been dealt to his prestige and viability as com-mander-in-chief. That was why he’d been forced into this meeting, facing the inner circle of his own faction. It was necessary to reestablish himself here before he faced the full leadership, the criminal wolves who’d hope to pull the pack leader down.

  Here at least he faced kindred souls, scientists and others who valued progress for Argon—who’d fought the Rationalists in the past and were still willing to battle the grotesque stagnation that had taken over their world. There were two at the meeting who didn’t fit that description, however—one being the head of the Deviant intelligence network, here to explain the lack of warning.

  The other interloper was tolerated because of what he carried. Emsisdin had happened to be at the former headquarters delivering reports when the farcical S-Force had proven not so amusing after all. By rescuing the prototype force cannon during the S-Force attack, Emsisdin had vaulted to the upper hierarchy.

  Scaladon, however, had his doubts about this powerful new “ally.” The weapon that Emsisdin delivered from capture had been guarded by two of Scaladon’s hand-picked followers. Amazingly, neither of them had survived the onslaught of the raiders. But Emsisdin, the only grinning face among the councilors, had brought the force cannon through. He held onto its gleaming length even here in the conference chamber.

  Raising the golden scepter he’d carried since the days before his exile, Scaladon brought the meeting to order by rapping the table with the butt end. Besides acting as gavel, the scepter gave him a useful edge. Everyone in the room knew it was packed with the circuitry for several weapons systems.

  “I see no need to restate the obvious,” Scaladon said to the assembled leaders. “The question is where can we go from here?”

  A figure rose at the table—Megladon, a brilliant scientist who served as Scaladon’s chief of research. “With regard to material resources, I fear we can’t go very far. Not only were our central labs captured, but the bulk of our fabricating facilities had been located at the—ah—prior headquarters.”

  “But our sources of supply are still available,” Scaladon rejoined quickly. “And surely we can create new manufactories.”

  “The enemy also has most of our records,” another at the table quietly pointed out. “This Sturdley can move to cut our supply lines at will.”

  “It will take time for the so-called S-Force to sort through the captured information,” Scaladon said, “and still more to root out our supply network. In that breathing space, we must obtain as much as possible from our present suppliers while developing viable alternatives. We must rearm, and quickly.” He swung ponderously in his concealing armor, bringing his gaze to bear on everyone in the room. “Because at the earliest opportunity, I intend to attack and obliterate this upstart S-Force.”

  Scaladon’s eyes locked onto the potent feminine form of his designated intelligence chief. His skin crawled, as if at the tiniest stirring of insect legs across his flesh. Did the bitch have the nerve to use her psionic powers to probe and examine his disfigurement?

  His voice was rough as he finished. “The responsibility of finding the time and place for our attack must fall to you, Matavi. I trust your sources will not fail us in this instance.”

  Leslie Ann Nasotrudere lay sprawled across the Haitian cotton of her living room couch, a file folder lying across her trim stomach. For the third time she read through the collection of surveillance reports she’d retained from the clean-out of Sturdley’s office, a frown clouding her perfect features.

  “When was the last time you saw the giant Gideon?” she called to Marty, who was in the kitchen in search of a bottle of sparkling water. He’d been getting pudgier since taking over Sturdley’s job, and Leslie Ann did not tolerate fat lovers. She had put him on a ruthless diet, and all sweets, soda, and beer had disappeared from her refrigerator.

  “Gideon? The short one? 1 dunno.” Burke’s response had a decidedly full-mouthed cast. Leslie Ann resolved to check how much bread was left. Marty was supposed to get only two slices per d
ay.

  “I remember him being part of Operation Hero,” Leslie Ann said. “But after that...”

  “Maybe they didn’t think it was safe for him out on the street,” Burke suggested when he returned to the room.

  “He’s seventeen feet tall, for chrissake!”

  “Well, maybe they have him patrolling in the boonies. We haven’t seen a lot of the giants since the PBA injunction stopped them from acting as a vigilante force. I’ve got to talk to Robert about a more high-profile Hero presence now with the movie coming out.” Burke squinted as if he were looking into the distance. “Personal appearances, maybe. We could send them to comics conventions, state fairs—”

  “Used car dealership openings,” Leslie Ann muttered, shaking her head. And she’d thought Sturdley was crass!

  “Most of the giants have been keeping to themselves at Heroes’ Manor.” Burke changed the subject, a little stung. “What’s the big deal about Gideon?”

  “It’s these reports,” Leslie Ann said, rustling the papers as she sat up. “From the way it sounds, Sturdley hired this detective to look for Gideon. And the private eye never found him.”

  Burke laughed. “Hey, you said it yourself. The guy’s seventeen feet tall. Where could you hide him?”

  “Where indeed?” Leslie Ann’s blue eyes were hooded as she squared up the papers on her lap and returned them to the folder.

  “I can ask Robert about Gideon, if you want. He’s due back from Washington to spend some time at Heroes’ Manor, learning his lines for the movie.”

  “No!” Her newsgatherer’s instinct prompted the abrupt negative from Leslie Ann. “No,” she said a bit more easily. “I’m sure it’s nothing.” She didn’t want any advance warning when she began poking around.

  “Got a call from Silikis today. He said everything’s going great on the set.”

  Leslie Ann rolled her eyes. Burke got a call from Silikis every day. And, almost always, everything was rosy on the set.