by Stan Lee
Now Robert looked forward to inspecting the progress in constructing the living and storage facilities of his survival compound—this place which the Lessers called the old Jud-son ranch.
Argonians had no organized religion, but they took their memorial services seriously—especially, it seemed, memorials for war dead. John cast a worried glance over the huge crowd in the amphitheater. This would be a prime target for a Deviant bomb—although their attacks had been petering out lately.
John’s eyes then went over to Peg. If he’d had a choice, neither of them would be here. But because of their positions in the S-Force, they had to attend. Two of the honored fallen were Mike and Melador. In fact, the heroes from Earth had to give eulogies.
There was his cue. He rose to the podium, trying to ignore the thousands of eyes and the lenses of the 3-D cameras. “I only knew Melador a relatively short amount of time,” he began. “But they were tumultuous times for Argon—nothing less than a new Age of Strife for this world. And in that strife, he distinguished himself as a defender—and a leader.”
John felt an all-too-familiar hardness coming over his face. Probably the better to hide the lies he was about to tell, of the brave death the traitor had suffered. Not only had John killed Melador, now he was called upon to fabricate a myth to go with it. If his voice became strained, he could only hope that it would be taken as a sign of emotion.
He marched through the speech and somehow finished it. That was the easy part. Now he’d have to listen to Peg talk about Mike. She stepped past him on her way to the podium, her face as pale as if she were about to be shot. Peg hated crowds and speechmaking, but she’d agreed to honor Mike’s memory.
“You—” her voice cracked, and she looked down for a second. “You know Mike as the alien, the barbarian with the short name, the hero. I knew him from his humble beginnings. He was a slave, you know. But he loved freedom enough to risk his life for me ... and, here on Argon, for you. As we all know, he lost his life saving John and myself—”
Her gray eyes held steady on the crowd, even as tears slowly flowed down her cheeks. “But it was for Argon, a world that had given him a home, knowledge he’d never have hoped to achieve, a life beyond any he’d have imagined. He had everything he’d always wanted—” Her voice broke here, and she turned a little away from John, who stood rigidly behind her. “Well, almost everything.”
John wanted to reach out to her, but couldn’t. It would be like a desecration of what she was saying—words from her heart, as opposed to his speech. In the weeks since the battle at the Citadel, he’d tried not to think of the competition that had run between himself and Mike. He’d wanted Peg for herself, not as a prize. Now the backlash of guilt came. Mike, S-Forcers like that tech Moradel, thousands of civilians, all would be alive if he had never come to this planet. Not to mention the ever-growing score of Deviants who had died by his own hand—the guy who’d fallen to his death, the one whose head he’d blown away, the victims of his berserk rage at the Citadel hangar, the footsoldiers who’d died at the farm—even Melador.
The muscles in his face tightened so hard, they ached.
When his suit radio suddenly came to life with reports of a Deviant attack on the outskirts of the city, it was like a reprieve. He left his place silently, beckoning several guards to come with him.
Better to face the blasters of the enemy than the words of his lover—or his own thoughts.
Hefting his rifle in his left hand, Elmo Forte used his right to push upward on the strand of barbed wire strung between the wooden posts. The old Judson place had gone to ruin lately, but Matt Judson always maintained good fences.
Old Matt had posted his place against trespassers and hunters, but Elmo paid little mind to that. Matt had been his friend, and had always let Elmo do a little shooting on his land. Judson was gone—the only land he owned now was a plot in the Elk Pass cemetery. The ranch had been sold, but stood empty except for some sort of construction project the new owners had going near the road. They weren’t even leasing the grazing rights.
It’s not like I’m hurting anything, Elmo thought as he trudged down a grassy hill in the predawn murk. There were a couple of snug, tree-filled valleys in the Judson place. With luck, Elmo would bag himself a deer.
He had followed a creek to a copse of woodland and was down on one knee, trying to make sense of some mighty odd-looking tracks, when he heard the splashing of water.
Figuring something mighty big had to be crossing the creek, Elmo brought up his rifle and began sneaking through the underbrush. It cleared quicker than he expected, and Elmo found himself face to face with a giant naked fella—with the emphasis on giant.
Even though the stranger was down on his knees in the creek water, he stretched more than twice Elmo’s height of six-foot-one.
One look, and Elmo did what most every local boy would have done. He threw that hunting rifle to his shoulder and fired. As a member in good standing of the NRA, Elmo didn’t believe in hunting with a single-shot gun. He had a full magazine, and he emptied it as fast as he could pull the trigger.
At the first blast, Robert rose from the stream where he was washing himself, leapt to his feet, and stepped back.
Fool, he chided himself. You were so sure the land was empty you failed to scan for intruders. Heavy bullets impacted against his aura, staggering him slightly as they bled their kinetic energy into the mental force-field that surrounded his body.
He stepped into the water again, heading for the figure frozen on the far bank clad in the speckled clothing called camouflage. Seen in the urban environment, he hadn’t truly perceived its usefulness.
The interloper stood his ground, still trying to operate the now-depleted weapon. It wasn’t courage, Robert knew, but a sort of aggressive panic.
A heavy fist rose almost of its own accord to bludgeon the little man down, the unconscious response of a Master to such temerity in a Lesser.
But second thoughts made Robert stay his hand. Elk Pass wasn’t a large city, where dead bodies were an everyday occurrence. Questions would be raised, investigations started, unwelcome attention directed to what he was doing here.
No, another course would have to be taken.
Robert extended psionic probes into the intruder’s brain, seizing control of the motor area, freezing the Lesser in place. The man—a hunter, Robert ascertained from the uppermost thoughts—was now safely immobilized, and Robert could step back across the stream at his ease to recover his clothing.
Returning to loom over his captive, Robert then exercised his immaterial powers in some mental surgery. This was much more demanding and delicate than the Bindings he’d performed in Washington. He was editing memories, altering conceptions. In the end, Robert chose simply to erase the minutes since this Lesser—Elmo—had stumbled across him. They would simply have a new, nonthreatening encounter.
Moving as if in a dream, Elmo reentered the underbrush. Robert stepped back across the stream, then came forward, splashing in the water. Elmo emerged to stare, his eyes growing noticeably larger. “Holy—” the huntsman yelled.
The gun was still coming up as Robert inserted a calming impulse in Elmo’s mind, even as he shaped his lips in a smile and waved.
“Sorry to surprise you,” Robert said, taking his cues from Elmo’s mind. “I know most everybody thinks this place is empty and is going to stay that way. Well, it’s not. You’re looking at the new owner.”
“Y-You own this place?” Elmo asked in a voice still on the edge of panic.
Robert gave him a smile, a nod, and another impulse of calm. “Sure do. My name’s Robert. Maybe you’ve seen me on TV.”
“That giant fella in New York City? The Hero?” Elmo at last was calming down.
Robert nodded yet again. “The thing is, we aren’t city people. We wanted someplace to get away, some ... country. I’m sure you can understand that.”
Better, he’d decided, to establish a Masterly presence here in a friendly way,
with a story that this Lesser, at least, found plausible.
A little quiet manipulation, and Elmo was now apologizing. “... know I shouldn’t be on your land, but old Matt Judson used to let me hunt.”
Robert went for the light touch, shaking an admonitory finger. “But the land is posted. I’d sure appreciate you spreading the word.” His smile grew wider. “We don’t want any other hunters picking on game that’s too big for their size.”
He stood at the verge of the woods, waving farewell to Elmo Forte, who was heading for the property line at a fast walk, slowed only by frequent backward glances. When the hunter was at last out of sight, Robert dropped his hand ... and his smile.
This could have been an unfortunate encounter. When they established a regular presence here, his people would have to maintain a constant watch. And this acreage would require a considerably larger defense perimeter than the one they maintained at Heroes’ Manor.
Andrew’s morning swim seemed a casual enough exercise, a quick dip from the lakefront Westchester property known as Heroes’ Manor. In fact, it was a regular precaution taken to protect the giants’ enclave.
Every day, at random times, Masters went into the water, their routes taking them close to the far shore. As they swam past, they scanned potential observation points with their immaterial powers. Depending on what they discovered, and, of course, the giants’ individual personalities, action was taken.
Andrew, for instance, was usually amused by the teenagers, many of them girls, who collected on the shoreline rocks with binoculars, bodywatching. He had early on, however, been called upon to dissuade investigators who’d set up a telescope for surveillance. Once he’d even paid a threatening house call when the investigators hired a bungalow for their spying.
Thomas, on the other hand, regularly chased all voyeurs away.
Of late, Andrew’s attention had been drawn to some newcomers on the water’s edge, partly by the strange language he detected in the bungalow, odd clothing, and the general air of hate in the neighborhood.
To the people on the lakefront, the strangers were known as “towelheads” who would blow up buildings in the Lessers’ cities. Several times, while he’d been swimming past, people would call out warnings and invective about the foreigners.
Today he was aware of observation from the bungalow itself.
Andrew swam to the shallows and rose from the water, heading for a screened back porch where he’d detected several men with binoculars. As he approached, the screen door opened and a man in a dark suit and gleaming white head scarf—kaffiyeh, he caught the term from the man’s mind—went to meet him.
“I represent my nation’s government,” the suit-clad man said in accented English. “I am told that you have powers to discover which nation from my very mind.”
Andrew could and did.
“If you know something of this world’s economics, you may know that my homeland is very rich, and needs a mighty protector. We have been hoping to make this proposition to your people, but your leader has not responded.”
The Arab diplomat cleared his throat. “We wish one of your males to live in our country, lead our armed forces, and of course, protect the person of our Supreme Leader.” He smiled ingratiatingly. “In return, we would make such a hero’s life very, very ... pleasant.”
“Making such a proposal to some of my fellows could be very dangerous for you,” Andrew said, poker-faced.
“And ... making it to you?” The diplomat was unperturbed.
Andrew remembered Victor’s words around the campfire, about the pleasures to be found in faraway places. And the domain making this offer was even farther away than California. Andrew considered the advantages of greater distance from Thomas’s bullying, from Robert’s demands.
Now he allowed himself a small smile. “We’d have much to discuss,” he said. “What sort of ... pleasures ... can you offer?”
Could he persuade one of the women to leave with him? Andrew wondered.
The diplomat smiled back. “Where there is interest,” he said, “there is room for negotiation.”
Elk Pass boasted an old-fashioned general store in its tiny business district, and the store served as the meeting place for a number of local characters. So when Elmo Forte arrived with his announcement of a giant in the neighborhood, there was a ready-made audience.
Unfortunately for Elmo, the spectators were hostile.
“A giant, eh?” Anse Chandler scoffed. “With horns and fangs? Mebbe he’s one of those ‘Terminated’ guys.”
“Naw,” Woodie Ledbetter put in, “I betcha he’s a ‘Alien.’ Jump right out of your chest next.”
When Ken Tillman stopped laughing, he said, “Mebbe a buncha rabbits ganged up on Elmo while he was drunk.”
Poor Elmo tried his best to convince the local gentry that he’d been stone cold sober and recognized his giant as an East Coast celebrity.
“Oh, he’s a New York giant?” Woodie chortled. “They seem to think a powerful lot of them out there, but t’me, they just play so-so football.”
“New Yorkers are always blowing stuff up,” Anse said. “Buildings, prices—giants too, I ‘spect.”
“This was Robert,” Elmo tried again. “The one who was on TV—with the President.”
“Yeah, well,” Ken said, “I always thought that president of ours was a weaselly little guy—you vote for him, Elmo? Did anybody here?”
“Right,” Woodie chipped in. “Most anybody would look big beside him.”
Elmo got so disgusted, he went to leave the store. He was quite surprised when the others joined him.
“Got nothin‘ better to do,” Anse announced. “So we thought we’d go up the Judson place and do some giant huntin’.”
Ken’s pickup had a well-supplied gun rack, and by the time they reached the fence, the outing had taken on a definite party flavor, despite Elmo’s warnings.
The boys had no problem slipping through the wire and finding Elmo’s trail. They followed it to the copse of trees and the bank of the stream.
“Look at all this brass here,” Ken said, kicking the cartridges still gleaming against the scrub grass. “What were ya shootin‘ at?”
Elmo frowned, his brow wrinkling in puzzlement. He checked his gun and found it empty. “I got no recollection of shootin‘ anything at all.”
“He was drinking!” Woodie hooted. “What was it, Elmo? A little blackberry brandy to chase the chill away? You never could handle your likker.”
He turned to his friends. “Boys, he didn’t shoot ET. He shot at the DTs!”
No laughter greeted this sally, however. Anse and Ken were silent and a bit nervous. Elmo looked smug as they stood on the perimeter of a footprint lodged in the damp soil. The length of the print was half the height of any of the boys, and wider than their torsos.
“This ain’t some silly joke, is it, Elmo?” Anse clutched his borrowed rifle tighter.
“ ‘Cause it ain’t funny,” Ken added.
That was the moment the huge shadow suddenly engulfed them.
Eight scared eyes stared up at Robert.
Then the general store gang showed an interesting quirk of human behavior—the difference between complete surprise and having an inkling of what one is in for. Coming on a giant unexpectedly and alone, Elmo had fired. After hearing about the giant from Elmo, the boys gaped, gasped ... and ran like rabbits.
“They—they wouldn’t believe me!” Elmo shouted in explanation. Then he, too, set off after his friends.
For the first time in weeks, Robert enjoyed a gust of unforced laughter as he watched the quartet fall all over themselves to get back to town—or perhaps to the next county.
He felt satisfied with the work—half the storage facilities were dug, some of them even with emergency supplies stowed. The living quarters needed additional labor. Although the builders had referred to the rooms as cavernous, Robert found them on the small side.
He’d almost been ready to leave when hi
s mental picket line had been breached. Robert was still chuckling as he tramped off to the construction site and the waiting flatbed truck serving as his limousine.
Only when he arrived back at his plane was the shine taken off Robert’s day. The airline had tracked its wayward jumbo jet, and passed on a message from the Fantasy Factory.
“Someone named Burke called the airline, trying to get in touch with you,” the pilot reported, reading from a hastily-scratched note. “Apparently he wanted you to know that Sturdley was back at the Fantasy Factory.”
The pilot, who didn’t collect comics and merely flew where the airline sent him, glanced from the note to his giant passenger’s face. Had the guys in the office screwed up in transmitting? Or was the message in code?
A nasty-edged rumble came from deep within Robert’s throat. Obviously, those few words had meant something to the big guy.
“Arrange for takeoff as soon as possible. We’re still heading to Los Angeles.” Robert glanced at the pilot. “My mobile phone—can I operate it in midair?”
“The airline arranged for it to be patched into our system,” the pilot responded. “One of the cabin crew will help you make the connection.”
As they leveled off at their flight altitude, Robert was only too aware that he was speaking over an open line with witnesses nearby.
Still worse, his most trusted lieutenants were on the wrong side of the continent to deal with this emerging crisis. Sturdley’s return meant that John Cameron was alive. The oddly-powered Lesser could still thwart everything Robert had planned.
Deep in thought, he punched a complicated pattern of codes into his giant mobile phone, finally getting Heroes’ Manor. He asked for Victor.