by Stan Lee
“He got good news from those computer-retouching people. They think they’ll be able to animate some sort of halter onto Barbara in that scene where she lost her top. Just for the domestic release, of course. Silikis is still debating a few more topless shots for the foreign version. The Europeans will love it!”
“Uh-huh,” Leslie Ann said listlessly.
“I think Harry’s request is reasonable,” Mike said, staring around the conference table in the Citadel of Silence. The table, with its built-in computer terminal and 3-D projector, barely accommodated the six people around it—Harry, Mike, Peg, John, Triadon, and Melador.
The room was located at the pinnacle of the butte that housed the combination fortress/laboratory, and was enclosed by solid rock. Holo-projector wall units gave the illusion of a view. Harry looked away from a “window” exposing a vista of swaying palm trees and restated his case.
“We’re all agreed that the Deviants are on the run now— their organization is shattered, their leaders are fugitives. I don’t think there’s anything more I can do to help the fight.” He gave a significant look to John and Peg. “And I think there’s a lot to do back home.”
“I’d still like to finish here before we take on any new battles,” John said with a frown. “We’d be better off heading home together.”
“Triadon, Melador, and I could wrap up the loose ends,” Mike said stoutly. “And when you speak of going home, I hope you’re not referring to me.” He hesitated. “I’ve spoken to Boradon and other members of the Consensus. They’re happy to have me stay.”
Sure, Harry thought, a position as hero in a world of super-science beats being an escaped slave on a planet of primitive savagery.
Mike turned to Peg. “In fact, Boradon and the others said they’d be happy to have you all stay.”
Peg jerked up as if she’d been stuck with a pin. She drew a deep breath and said, “There’s a lot we’ve got to do on our world, and we can’t turn our backs on it forever.”
Mike went poker-faced. That wasn’t the response he’d hoped for.
“Some of us want to continue the war against the Deviants with our full forces, and some would rather all the newcomers—except for Mike—return to their world,” Melador said. “By Argonian custom, we should seek compromise and consensus, which in this case, I believe, is Harry Sturdley’s original proposal—that he return, with the others joining him later.”
John frowned. Mike brightened—this would give him more time to work on Peg. The vote came in at four to two, Triadon joining the consensus, Peg surprisingly voting against.
Triadon turned to John. “Are there any particular preparations you must make to send Harry home?” Argonians might seem wishy-washy in their desire for consensus, Harry thought, but once a decision was reached, they were demons for execution.
“I could do it right now if you like.” John sounded defeated.
The Argonian scientist shook his head. “I’d prefer to arrange various pieces of equipment to monitor the transition,” he said, “not to mention implementing some security measures.”
Triadon sent a grin toward Harry. “Besides, there are gifts to prepare for our departing friend.”
For some reason, Peg kept thinking of the part where Dorothy is supposed to be going home by balloon at the end of the Wizard of Oz. There was the same sort of garishly cheerful feeling in the air, although the brass band was missing.
Too bad, she thought. Harry would have enjoyed a brass band.
Harry stood completely encased in Argonian armor, carrying several bulky packages—Triadon’s gifts. He stood in the middle of the Citadel of Silence’s hangar, facing John Cameron who, though armored, was not wearing his helmet. A large crowd of Argonian members of the S-Force had gathered to give Harry a good sendoff. He’d responded with a speech by loudspeaker and radio, then waved goodbye.
Peg and Mike were also in full armor. They and a squad of S-Force personnel were acting as security, ringing John and Harry, weapons ready. When John shifted Harry into the Rift, he would also be opening a conduit between the‘ mysterious Sphere of Exile and Argon. They wanted to be ready for any unwelcome visitors.
John’s eyes got a faraway look, and Peg felt the queasi-ness, that floor-dropping-out-from-under-your-feet feeling she associated with the Rift. Harry faded away, but the sickening feeling stayed—John had warned them it would take a couple of minutes to complete the transit safely back to Earth.
At first Peg thought it was a trick of vision when she saw something move inside the security circle. But something was there, at first barely visible as if made of the finest mist. But the mist-shapes resolved into armored humans, running to grapple with the guards. John stood unmoving, still routing Harry through the Rift.
Peg instinctively raised her arms, spitting stun-bolts in two different directions as the spectators surged in surprise.
Then the hangar doors disappeared in a glaring white flash, and armored figures came storming through the breach. The Citadel of Silence was under attack both from inside the Rift and without!
* * *
CHAPTER 13
Sturdley smiled as the sickening void of the Rift faded from around him and the evening skyline of New York City appeared. As planned, he found himself looking down on midtown Manhattan, atop the landmark spire of the Empire State Building.
Even as he’d gone through the Rift, his breadbox-sized burden—a gift from Triadon—had come to life. The servomotors of his armored suit whined under the weight of the gift’s heavy shielding until the built-in gizmoidal drive went on-line.
After that, the combination cold fusion/broadcast power unit (or Hoozits, in the original Argonian) seemed light as a feather. Sturdley stowed the machine in an inconspicuous corner of the Empire State’s antenna housing and activated the self-imbedding bolts on the underside of the box. He attached a few simple leads, and the Empire State Building’s broadcast antenna had a new player—a narrow-cast power beam that would energize Argonian suits anywhere in a ten-mile radius. Maybe it wouldn’t reach all the way up to the northern tip of Manhattan, but that was sufficient for him to fly to Forest Hills in Queens—or Kearny, New Jersey.
Not that Sturdley was in a hurry to visit any of those places right now. He had to find a safe harbor for his suit of armor. Next on his to-do list was locating a pawn shop where he could raise Earthly cash for some of the Argonian knick-knacks in his other bag. Finally, he needed a place to stay. His mind racing with plans, the armored Sturdley arrowed upward into the evening sky.
By the following afternoon, the ache pounding in Sturdley’s head was due equally to eyestrain and fury. The eyestrain came from trying to decipher the fuzzy, scratched images from the New York Public Library’s overused microfiche newspaper files. Catching up on the local news—with special reference to events at the Fantasy Factory—accounted for the fury.
Imagine that little worm Burke elbowing his way into the management of his company—and having the nerve to clinch what looked like a successful movie deal! By the time Harry had followed the news to the nearer past, he was fuming.
Then, in the back pages of the Times metropolitan section, he caught a two-inch-column story about a planned memorial service ... for him. Damn! It was today, in about an hour and a half.
Harry bolted out of the library in search of the nearest secondhand men’s store. An off-the-rack suit, some quick alterations, and then he was off to the theater district in search of a makeup shop before his final destination on Manhattan’s West Side.
The ready-to-wear suit seemed to balloon around him, and he wasn’t all that sure of the stitches that had gone into hemming the pants. After months without wearing one, the necktie felt like an alien growth to Harry. Worst of all, however, was the wig he’d bought as a disguise, with its matching beard spirit-gummed to his face. The blasted thing seemed glued so tight, he was afraid it would spring off if he moved his lips.
Well, he wasn’t here at the memorial chapel to sp
eak anyway—just to look and listen.
The crowd was large and respectfully silent. Harry was gratified and a little surprised at the number of people—he’d drawn as good a house as Harvey Kurtzman’s farewell.
Familiar faces dotted the pews. There was Bob Gunnar, and Elvio Vital, a bunch of the young turks from the office ... by God, they’d even gotten Rip Jacoby to fly in from California.
In the front row, chatting quietly with Marty Burke and his newscaster girlfriend, was a welcome familiar figure. Myra looked well, if a bit tired. For a wild second, Harry wanted to abandon his master plan, run up there, and take her in his arms. But two considerations kept him where he sat: his public appearance could put her in danger ... and Myra hated scenes. If he tried pulling that “back from the dead” stunt, he’d probably find his life in danger—from her.
So Harry sat quietly as he could, listening to eulogies. Elvio offered a charming, even poignant, remembrance of Peg Faber. He was genuinely fond of the girl. Bob Gunnar strove manfully to pay tribute to John Cameron, hamstrung by the fact that there was so little to talk about.
I wish we could have gotten somebody who really knew the kid, the lanky editor thought as he spoke. Harry was glad his face was covered with crepe hair—nobody could see him gawking. He’d taken it for granted that his erstwhile mental powers were somehow related to the strange worlds he’d been on. But he was back on Earth—and he still had them!
While he tried to absorb this fact, some of the old warhorses of the business got up to say a few words. Harry felt a little guilty sitting there, silently taking part in his own wake. God knows, it mightn’t be so long before he’d be making similar speeches at some of their funerals. Poor old Bill Schaffter, creator of the now-defunct Crimson Cape, looked like death warmed over, his hair gone from radiation treatments. Every year, there were fewer and fewer representatives from the golden, even the silver age of comics.
Rip Jacoby brought chuckles—and a bit more reality—into the room with some war stories of the young Sturdley at the height of his genius (or was that hubris?). Harry risked the integrity of his beard with a broad smile as Rip reminisced. Lord, but he’d been full of himself in the old days.
The final speech was a sample of latter-day arrogance as Marty Burke rose to the podium to deliver the eulogy.
“Thank you, Mr. Jacoby, for bringing Harry so vigorously to our memories.”
Mentally, Burke added, and showing what a royal pain in the ass he was.
He favored the whole chapel with a smile. “And just as the stories we’ve heard remind us how the Fantasy Factory was in its first glory days, I’m sure Harry would be delighted to see us moving into the next great era.”
Burke’s mouth might have been talking about Sturdley, but his brain was almost screaming Mememememememe!
It was a bizarre experience for Harry as he probed into his rival’s mind, like hearing the speech in stereo—the public utterances, with personality and off-color commentary from Burke’s ego.
And what an ego it was! Even on his best—or was that worst?—days, Harry didn’t think he was quite as full of himself as Marty the Genius.
For an encore, Burke brought in his new Hollywood buddy for a media sound bite. Stuart Silikis adjusted his coke-bottle glasses and said, “Although I never had the honor of meeting Mr. Sturdley, or—” He glanced at a slip of paper in his hand—“John Cameron or Peg Faber, I join with you in mourning their disappearance. So I’d like you, his family and friends, to know that we at Silikis productions intend to make the film Heroes a permanent memorial, by officially dedicating the movie to them.”
Inwardly, he was thinking, Who gives a rat’s ass about any of these futzers, but it may mean another million’s worth of gross!
On the whole, Harry rated the experience as slightly better than some proctological exams he’d undergone. He waited till the chapel had pretty well emptied, then evaded the reception line at the door, using a side exit. He’d probed several minds to be sure he knew the next stop on Myra’s itinerary—a small restaurant over on the East Side, not far from home.
During his undercover stint on Argon, tracking down Deviant HQ, Harry had perfected his surveillance technique. So his time standing in a building doorway staking out the restaurant was completely uneventful. For any passersby, he simply projected a mental message that said “homeless.” Most New Yorkers then rushed along, ignoring him—though a couple of less well-off types had pressed small amounts of change into his palm. When cops passed, he sent a message that said “harmless.”
Myra put up with the Fantasy Factory’s elite for about an hour before making her escape. Bob Gunnar saw her to the exit. Harry eavesdropped as Myra firmly turned down Gunnar’s offer to see her home. She set off at a smart pace down the block, and Harry shadowed her from across the street, tugging and silently cursing as his beard now refused to come off.
His longer legs allowed Harry to catch up with Myra two blocks before she reached home. He swallowed an apple-sized lump that had somehow appeared in his throat, and croaked, “M-Myra?”
Myra turned, her delicate features set in the tight mask used to deal with panhandlers, street people, and New Yorkers in general. Then, as Harry removed his wig, her eyes—those big, blue eyes he’d always wanted to go swimming in when they were kids—went wide.
“Harry?” she whispered. Then Myra hauled off and belted him a good one in the arm. “ What the hell have you been up to?”
She tried to sound tart, she tried to sound angry, but there were tears in her eyes as she flung her arms around him. “There seems to be a lot less flab and considerably more muscle on you,” she commented into his chest. “What happened? Did you get shanghaied off to Oregon to work as a lumberjack?”
“It will take a bit of explaining,” Harry admitted.
They went to a park over by the East River and claimed a bench. Then Harry told Myra everything about his disappearance, including the secrets of John Cameron and the giants.
“Your gofer brought the giants over here? That’s how you got the contract with them?” Myra said.
“Oh, there’s more,” Harry assured her. She became even more poker-faced after hearing about the planet Argon. “Before you call the guys in the white coats, let me show you a few things.”
Harry reached into the inside pocket of his suit and pulled out what seemed to be a flat case, wallet-sized, made from some sort of matte-finish black metal. He placed it on the bench between them and tapped the top. Like some sort of puzzle box, the object flipped to a new configuration, now becoming an open-topped cube with three-inch sides.
“Interesting,” Myra said, “but—”
Her words died as little motes of color came into existence over the box, forming a mist, then a tiny cloud of light, which finally coalesced into three-dimensional holographic figures. Scenes of Harry, John, and Peg appeared, in and out of armor, fighting Deviants, speaking at the congratulatory dinner, while a running English commentary told the story of the S-Force in a slightly tinny vocal tone.
Myra stared at this example of impossible technology that backed up Harry’s story. “Well,” she said with a sigh, “that beats some of the thoughts I’d been having about you and that red-headed secretary,” she said.
Harry put his hand on hers. “There’s only one redhead in my life.” He pulled up a memory from fifty years before, the two of them on their first date, before he’d even gone to work for her dad’s company, and beamed it into her mind. In his mental image, Myra had hair like burnished copper.
She raised a hand to her head, pressing fingers against her carefully coiffed curls. The years had faded her hair to a tawny gray, but errant coppery gleams still reflected in the late afternoon sunshine. “You did that—sent that picture—didn’t you?” she said in a soft voice.
Still offering confirmation, Harry pulled out more items from his pockets—a kid’s toy that floated in midair; and something for self-defense—a fountain pen-sized rod that projected
a beam powerful enough to cut the edge off three of the bench slats.
“Well, either you’ve got very persuasive delusions or you’re telling the truth,” Myra finally said. “What are you going to do?”
“Letting those giants onto this world is the biggest mistake I ever made,” Harry said. “I’ve got to set that right.”
He looked at the expression on her face and added, “And don’t go saying this is the first time in my life I’ve ever admitted a mistake.”
“Well, hardly ever,” she replied with a smile. “But I’ll bet you’ve got a plan.”
He smiled. Myra knew him all too well. “It’s in three parts. Number one, I want to get you out of town. Once the giants know I’m back, I’m afraid they’ll put pressure on me through you.”
He forestalled a quick and mutinous reaction by raising his hands. “Two, I’ve got to get back in harness at the Fantasy Factory. Saving the world is all well and good, but there’s business to be done. I’m not going to let Burke run my company into the ground.” He grinned. “And let’s face it, after what I’ve been through, I’ve got a trunkful of new ideas.”
That got a laugh, at least.
“Third—there’s the giants. From what I learned about them on their homeworld, they are not good guys. So I think we can take it for granted they’re up to something, and I’ll have to come up with ways to keep an eye on them and find out their plans.”
“Couldn’t you go and tell—” Myra began, then stopped.
Harry nodded. “Who could I tell? The police? The feds? The media? I’ve tried to come up with a way to do that, and all I see in the end is either public panic, ruin for the Fantasy Factory—or myself being committed someplace.” He shook his head. “I’ve got a couple of aces up my sleeve, though—technology from Argon, including an armored suit. And once John and Peg clean things up there, they’ll be along to help.”