by Stan Lee
Silikis shrugged. “We’re screwed.”
“There’s no money at all?” Harry asked.
The producer sighed. “We’ve got enough for a very limited premiere—say, ten cities.”
“New York, L.A.—where else?” Sturdley wanted to know.
Silikis went back into his bedroom and came back with a slip of paper. “Here’s the list my people made up. The studio just dropped a big bomb with that supposed comedy sequel about the half-wit. We can slip into a few of those slots in ten days, get some momentum going, and move to wider distribution in a week or two.”
“What can we do to help?” Sturdley asked.
“Well, those giants of yours kinda draw crowds,” Silikis said. “If you could get a few to each of the premiere cities, that might help our numbers.”
Sturdley frowned, thinking it over. After hearing of the bizarre doings at Heroes’ Manor, he wasn’t sure he wanted the giants spreading their tentacles farther around the country. On the other hand, less giants around New York might open new opportunities for some undercover action against Robert’s plans.
“Okay,” he finally said. “My staff will get to work on it.”
The lobby clock at Harry Sturdley’s building was just striking ten when the elevator arrived for Peg and her boss. She stifled a yawn, then glanced over at Harry, who seemed almost asleep on his feet.
“I’m getting too damned old for twelve-hour days,” Sturdley muttered, holding the door for Peg.
“That goes for both of us.” Peg squinched her big gray eyes shut, then opened them wide. “All I’m fit for is bed.”
She stretched until she noticed Harry staring at her—or rather the interesting things she was doing to the sweater she wore. “Sorry,” she said, blushing. “I really am out of it.”
“The two of us have spent more than a week making travel plans for thirty giants to reach nine destinations. That meant hiring planes and trucks at a cost that wouldn’t break us and arranging food and lodgings once they got there— not to mention stopovers along the way for publicity purposes.” Harry grinned. “It’s a lot easier when your characters are just on paper. If we want the Rodent to turn up at six conventions, we just hire a model in each city and FedEx the costumes.”
Peg didn’t respond to Harry’s feeble joke. She was in a brown study as she waited for Sturdley to unlock the door to the apartment.
“I guess Myra’s not home from her bridge game,” Harry said, glancing at the phone machine in the vestibule. The LED on the machine flashed the red numeral one at them as they entered.
Harry pressed the “message” button, and Peg moved on to the living room. She stopped when she heard John Cameron’s voice come from the speaker. “Mr. and Mrs. Sturdley, this is John—Cameron—leaving a message for Peg.” The voice stopped for a moment, then went on, trying to sound casual. “Uh, Peg, if you’ve got a minute, give me a call at 555-1463. That’s um, 718 area code. Hope to hear from you. Bye.”
The machine’s mechanical voice came on to give the day and time of the call. Peg didn’t turn even when Harry asked, “You want me to erase it?”
“Um, yeah ... please,” she said.
She heard Sturdley tap the “rewind” button, and the subdued chatter as the tape ran over John’s message.
Peg was heading for the guest room when Harry spoke. “Maybe I’m sticking my nose in where it’s not wanted, but I can’t help noticing that this is becoming a nightly occurrence.”
She ran a hand through her mop of red curls—getting kind of long, she thought. Then she tried to phrase some sort of answer for Harry. “I’m just too tired to call him tonight. Tomorrow—”
“Tomorrow you’ll be too busy, and chop him off at the knees when he calls you,” Sturdley said. “You’ve been doing that all week. It’s gotten to the point where I think John’s afraid to come into the office, after getting turned down five days in a row for a lunch date.”
“I don’t have the time,” Peg began.
“Pardon me, but we both know that’s baloney,” Harry interrupted. “Even when we were tearing our hair out getting the first Robert issue on the stands, you still had time for John. He’s the only guy on Earth who could take you to Paris for lunch and get you back two seconds after coffee and dessert.”
Peg didn’t respond. Harry stepped into her field of vision, his hands jammed into his pockets. “It’s just that I saw the two of you getting closer. Hell, you both asked me for advice on Argon. And when you came back ... well, I’m not blind, you know.”
He paused for a second, but Peg had nothing to say. “There’s been something wrong between you two. You’re avoiding John, barely letting him come near you.”
“I can’t touch him!” Peg burst out, dropping herself onto the couch. “You know how touching boosts the contact between minds? Well, when we—uh, got close, it was as if we were one person. It’s too easy to pick up his thoughts, even from a casual contact, like brushing his hand.” She hunched her shoulders miserably. “I don’t want him to know what I’m thinking—what I suspect about him. And I don’t want to know if I’m right.”
She turned to Sturdley. “Harry, what if everything that’s happened really did come out of John’s brain? That would make him responsible for all the crappy stuff that happened to us.” Peg bit her lip. “It would mean he’s responsible for killing Mike.”
“That’s a lot to hold onto,” Harry said. “I think you’re wrong, by the way. If the giants were wish-fulfillment, why wouldn’t they be real heroes? Why would the giants’ world be such a pit?”
Peg opened her mouth to reply, but Harry raised a hand. “I can’t tell you why Fantasy Factory look-alikes were there on Argon. But I wonder again—why only villains? Why no heroes?”
“Who says a daydream has to make sense?” Peg asked.
“Well, if you want to make sense of it, you should have a talk with John.”
Peg shook her head so vigorously, curls bobbed around her face. “That’s just what I can’t do.”
“Why?”
She raised worried eyes to Harry. “What if he writes me out of his dream?”
Sturdley stood stock-still for a moment, giving her a thunderstruck look. Then he finally said, “I’ve heard all sorts of reasons from guys about why they can’t commit to someone. But, girlie, this one takes the cake! If you think there’s something more between you and John than some nice bouncey-bouncey, the two of you have got to talk!”
“That’s easy enough for you to say,” Peg complained. “You’ve been married for years—what’s kept you and Mrs. Sturdley together for so long?”
“That’s easy.” Harry sat beside her on the sofa, an odd gleam coming into his eyes. He leaned close to Peg, his voice going low. “Myra has done things for me that she’s done for no other man.”
Peg shifted uncomfortably on the plush upholstery. This was like having your trusted old grandpa suddenly start chatting about his bedtime practices with grandma.
“Yes,” Harry’s voice drew the word out into a whispered hiss. “She’s washed my dishes. She’s picked up my dirty socks—and cleaned them. She’s even been known to bring me a beer without my asking.”
Peg had been so prepared for awful revelations, it took a moment for Harry’s words to get through. Then they both began laughing.
“Along the way,” Sturdley said, “I learned a little about give and take—like picking up and washing my own socks and doing the dishes sometimes. Myra’s not so much into beer, but she enjoys it when I make the occasional pot of tea. Give and take, Red. That’s how people stay together.”
Peg nodded, but added nothing to the conversation.
“You should give him a call,” Harry insisted. “Hell, I’ll get in touch with him.”
Harry frowned, reaching out psionically. It took a bit of effort, finding John several miles away in the mental babble of the metropolis.
“There he is,” Harry muttered. As he made contact, the imagery invading his mental cir
cuits was so intense, it spilled over to Peg’s consciousness.
She caught only an instant of emotion—a furious John in armor, smacking down a burly looking creep with a gun. The fleeting contact came just as John’s fist crashed down on the gunman’s wrist. Peg winced at the crunch conducted through John’s nerves to her brain.
Harry broke the connection and turned, pale-faced, toward Peg. “Maybe we should give him a buzz tomorrow.”
Peg shook her head. “Somehow,” she said, “I’m not sure he’ll be in an answering mood.”
Peg brought the list of comics-related media people back to her desk to make sure they were on the invitation list for the movie premiere, only to find someone had been there while she was gone. Atop the usual clutter lay a neon-orange envelope marked PEG in large red letters.
Frowning, she tore it open. The envelope contained one thing she’d been expecting—her own invitation to the premiere screening of Heroes. But the words “and guest” on the invite had been underscored in red. There was also a slip of paper—apparently an itinerary. It seemed that the remainder of this afternoon was to be spent in an expensive hair-cutting establishment. Tomorrow was marked in blocks labeled “WORK,” “GETTING READY,” dinner at a restaurant she’d only read about, and the premiere, followed by a post-screening party at a famous club.
While the list was mysterious, Peg recognized the handwriting. She headed straight for Harry’s office, to find him in the act of hanging up the phone. “Just finished arranging the limo for tomorrow night,” he announced.
“You’re taking a limo?” Peg asked.
“And so are you.” Sturdley’s eyes went to the envelope in her hands. “I see you got my schedule.”
Peg rattled the paper. “What’s it all about?”
“Today’s activities are so you’ll look your best tomorrow. You’re getting a little shaggy, Red.”
Peg pushed back her hair. “And the rest?” she demanded.
“I took the liberty of making some arrangements for you and your escort.”
Now Peg was staring. “My escort?”
Harry gave her his most avuncular smile. “That was one of the arrangements I made. / couldn’t take you, but John agreed with just a little arm-twisting.”
“John is taking me?” Peg shook her head. “I’m beginning to sound like an echo—and a particularly dim one, at that.” She glared at Sturdley. “You’ve got some nerve, just dropping this in my lap.”
In the face of her annoyance, Sturdley’s Uncle Harry facade faded. “Well, you weren’t going to do anything. So I figured I’d push you two together. A romantic dinner, the movie, a hot party, and after—” He didn’t look at her— “well, there’s a hotel room available, if need be.”
When his eyes finally met hers, they were filled with concern. “Come on, Peg, give it a chance. It’ll be an evening to patch things up.”
“Oh, all right,” she flared, heading back to her desk. “But don’t blame me if it busts things up instead.”
By the next evening, Peg was glumly aware of her prediction. The silence in the limousine was thick enough to slice and package.
It was a shame, really. John was looking the best she’d ever seen him. His hair was freshly cut and styled, and he wore a designer suit with a crisp white shirt and a dark silk tie.
Peg tried unsuccessfully to hide a smile, recalling her first vision of John “dressed up” in fresh jeans and a too-small corduroy jacket.
“What’s so funny?” he asked.
“Remember the last time you wore a tie?”
An answering grin appeared on his face. “I had to get Elvio Vital to tie it for me.” In his first days at the Fantasy Factory, the suave Mexican artist had often served as John’s mentor.
“And now?”
John’s smile grew wider. “I finally got him to teach me how to do it.”
No longer quite the innocent he used to be, Peg thought as they arrived at the restaurant. The maitre d‘ fell all over himself to seat the young couple. Peg immediately detected the heavy hand of Sturdley. The mood in the place was almost aggressively romantic—the alcove they were led to was quiet and out-of-the-way. The lighting was almost as soft as the banquette they were seated on.
John handled the wine order without even consulting the proffered list. Another hint from Elvio? Peg wondered. The menu was an unwieldy monument to haute cuisine, with dishes even Peg’s college French couldn’t decipher.
Again, John took the lead, offering to order for both of them, requesting dishes that brought a hint of awe to their waiter’s eyes while John’s perfect pronunciation brought a smile to the Frenchman’s face.
As the man hurried off, Peg stared at her companion. “John?” she finally whispered in disbelief.
“I almost shouldn’t tell you, and leave you impressed.” John tapped his forehead. “I took a look inside the guy’s brain and ordered what he considered the top of the line— staying away from the stuff like snails.”
He paused for a second, waiting for Peg to laugh. “Hey, I’m not the office goof anymore,” he said, his smile fading. “Do you miss that John so much?”
“Sometimes ... yes,” Peg said.
John’s eyes filled with shadows. ‘To tell you the truth, at times, so do I. He was a lot more—innocent.“
His use of the word she’d just been thinking jolted Peg. She beefed up the shielding around her mind. John must have caught the psychic reverberations. “Why do you keep pushing me away?” he asked. “I used to think it was just a temporary thing—the whole shock of coming back to the city. But it’s not, is it?”
“I want things to be normal—at least as normal as they get at the Fantasy Factory.” It angered Peg to hear how defensive she sounded. “Is that so much to ask for?”
John’s face grew tight. “But we’re not normal, are we?” he asked in a low voice.
“Speak for yourself.” The words were out of Peg’s mouth before she could stop them.
John forced a tendril of thought through Peg’s shields even as she tried to strengthen them.
But we’re not what you’d call normal—or you wouldn’t be able to receive this.
Peg flung him back with a blast of raw fury. Get out of my mind! Out! She glared at him in silence, her shields up to maximum, her hands clenched on the silverware as if she intended to stab him.
“Oh, don’t get excited,” John said. “Remember Harry’s low profile. Let the giants do whatever they want—beat their own kind into a coma, torture them.. . what do you think they’re going to do to us?”
“You and Harry can argue over how to save the world,” Peg replied. “I don’t feel the need to dress up in my armor every night to play Zorro.”
“Maybe you and Harry live in a nicer neighborhood.” Peg bridled at the scorn in John’s voice. “I live closer to the streets—near the projects. And when I see trouble out there, I try to stop it.”
“While turning yourself into a whole new UFO phenomenon,” Peg shot back acidly. “Did you know that armored figures have been spotted in Georgia and Alabama as well as Manhattan?”
‘That’s not me,“ John said. ”I’ve kept in Queens. And I try to stay out of the public eye. Nobody’s even gotten a picture of me.“
“Yet,” Peg interrupted.
John shook his head impatiently. “Look,” he said, “we aren’t just plain civilians anymore. We have powers. And with power comes responsibility.”
“Where’d you get that gem of wisdom?” Peg gibed. “This month’s issue of TZenith? Or the Harry Sturdley Book of Comics Aphorisms?”
John drew back. “Actually, I found it in a biography of Theodore Roosevelt. His full quote is, ‘Power invariably means responsibility—’” he paused—“ ‘and danger.’”
Peg looked at him for a long moment, trying to come up with something to say. In the end, she could only sigh. “I’m afraid I come down more on the side of Ralph Waldo Emerson. He said, ‘You shall have joy, or you shall have power .
.. you shall not have both.’”
Over John’s shoulder, she could see the waiter hovering in the distance, holding back their food until the argument was over.
John followed her eyes. “Tell Harry I’ll pay him back for whatever the tab comes to.” He rose to his feet, yanking his carefully knotted tie askew, “Enjoy the movie. I’ve got business in a different suit tonight.”
* * *
CHAPTER 24
Harry walked into the restaurant to find Peg sitting before a barely-touched plate and an empty chair with a full dinner spread before it. One glance at her eyes told him the whole story.
“The jerk left?” he said.
Peg nodded numbly. “He said he had business in a different suit.”
Harry scowled. “Forget it, Red. He’s not worth worrying about. Anyway, you’ve got a new escort for the evening.”
Peg came out of her misery long enough to look around. “Where’s Myra?”
“Home in bed with some version of the flu. She’s doing a rather rude imitation of Mount Vesuvius every forty-five minutes, and decided to pass on the premiere. I was going to stay with her, but she said this was my night.” Sturdley’s Voice was baleful. “More like Marty Burke’s night—or Robert’s. But I’m stuck now—just as I’m stuck with the giants. Making a deal with Robert—that was the worst mistake of my life.”
He glanced at Peg, but she was busy contemplating other mistakes.
Sturdley cleared his throat. “I suppose we should head over to the theater,” he said. “Your limo or mine?”
That got at least a ghost of a smile from his assistant as he paid the bill.
After five minutes of stop-and-barely-go traffic, Harry came to the sad conclusion that they’d have been better off leaving both limos behind and walking to the premiere. His mood didn’t improve as they got closer to the theater, and he realized that the congestion was all his own fault.
Harry had wanted the kind of movie premiere he remembered from the days when he was a kid. Stuart Silikis complained about added expenses, but had finally given in. The result was limos, searchlights, rubbernecking traffic, and jammed pavements on Sixth Avenue. Not only were reviewers, guests, and celebrities from both the comics and entertainment worlds arriving, the sidewalk was thick with gawkers.