You

only thought you knew the whole story . . .

On November 18,1992, the news of Superman’s death stunned the world. The
issue of Superman that chronicled the Man of Steel’s final battle with the
monster called Doomsday made headlines all over the world and sold four
million copies in a matter of days, making it the fastest-selling comic book of all
time. No one suspected at the time that the story of Superman’s death would
soon be eclipsed . . . by the incredible news of his return.
Yet in all the excitement and fanfare surrounding the spectacular revelations
of Superman’s death—and life—many questions have remained unanswered.
Until now.
In this new novel Roger Stern—author of the Superman: The Man of Steel
Sourcebook and writer for Action Comics, the oldest comic-book series in the
world and the longest-running of the four monthly Superman comics—utilizes
details available nowhere else to reveal the complete story of the events leading
up to Superman’s tragic end and the extraordinary occurrences that followed.
Here for the first time is the story behind the story of the cataclysmic battle
with Doomsday and the dark days following Superman’s funeral when all the
world stood still; of the mysterious Superman sightings in the skies above
Metropolis; and of the fate of Clark Kent, Lois Lane, Ma and Pa Kent, Justice
League America, and the others involved in this magnificent drama. Here, too, is
the truth about the four superbeings who simultaneously appeared in the city
shortly the Man of Steel’s death to usher in the Reign of the Supermen, each
claiming to be the true last son of Krypton.
With never-before-published background material and exploring the story of
Superman’s battle with Doomsday, his death, and his return to life on Earth in
greater detail and depth than possible in any other form, The Death and Life of
Superman offers an exclusive inside look at the man, the legend, and the comics
story of the decade.
 THE DEATH AND LIFE OF SUPERMAN
A Bantam Book / September 1993
Superman and all related characters, slogans, and indicia
are trademarks of DC Comics

“With a Little Help From My Friends” words and music by John Lennon and Paul McCartney, copyright ©
1967 by Northern Songs. All rights controlled and administered by MCA Music Publishing, A Division of
MCA Inc., New York, NY 10019 under licence from ATV Music. Used by permission. International
Copyright secured. All Rights Reserved.

Copyright © 1993 by DC Comics

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 93-72615
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or
mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,
without permission in writing from the publisher.
For information address: Bantam Books.

ISBN 0-553-09582-X

Published simultaneously in the United States and Canada

Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group,
Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books” and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in
U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, 1540
Broadway, New York, New York 10036.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
CONTENTS
Titlepage
Dedication
Acknowledgments

SECTION ONE: DOOMSDAY

PROLOGUE
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10

SECTION TWO: FUNERAL FOR A FRIEND

11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18

SECTION THREE: REIGN OF THE SUPERMEN

19
20
21
22
 23
24
25
26
27
28
29
EPILOGUE

About The Author

 To my mother and father,
who encouraged me in all things . . .

To David Purvis,
teacher extraordinaire,
who encouraged me to write and to think . . .

To Charles Kochman and Carmela Merlo,

who kept telling me I could do it . . .

To Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster,

who created a legend . . .

And to George Reeves,

who first made me believe that a man could fly . . .

. . . this book is respectfully dedicated.

The Death and Life of Superman was primarily adapted from the story serialized
in the following comic books, originally published by DC Comics: Superman:
The Man of Steel #17-26 (1992-93)
Superman #73-82 (1992-93)
Adventures of Superman #496-505 (1992-93)
Superman in Action Comics #683-92 (1992-93)
Supergirl and Team Luthor #1 (1993)
Editor: Mike Carlin
Assistant Editors: Jennifer Frank, Frank Pittarese
Writers: Dan Jurgens, Karl Kesel, Jerry Ordway, Louise Simonson, Roger Stern
Pencillers: Jon Bogdanove, June Brigman, Tom Grummett, Jackson Guice, Dan Jurgens
Inkers: Brett Breeding, Jackson Guice, Doug Hazlewood, Dennis Janke, Denis Rodier
Colorist: Glenn Whitmore
Letterers: John Costanza, Albert DeGuzman, Bill Oakley

With additional material adapted from:

Man of Steel #1-6 (limited series, 1986) Editor: Andrew Heifer

Writer/Penciller: John Byrne
Inker: Dick Giordano
Colorist: Tom Ziuko
Letterer: John Costanza

Justice League America #69 (1992)

Editor: Brian Augustyn
Assistant Editor: Ruben Diaz
Writer/Penciller: Dan Jurgens
Inker: Rick Burchett
Colorist: Gene D’Angelo
Letterer: Willie Schubert

Action Comics #650 (1990)

Editor: Mike Carlin
Assistant Editor: Jonathan Peterson
Writer: Roger Stern
Artist: George Perez
Colorist: Glenn Whitmore
Letterer: Bill Oakley

Star-Spangled Comics #7 (1942)

Written and drawn by Joe Simon and Jack Kirby
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Before we get started, there’s one thing you should know about this book.
I didn’t write it all by myself.
The story within these pages was first published by DC Comics in some forty
comic books from the autumn of 1992 through the summer of 1993. It represents
a fine collaborative effort on the part of the nearly two dozen comic-book
creators who see to it that a new installment in the never-ending story of
Superman appears on the newsstands and comic-book racks of North America
virtually every week. For over half a decade, yours truly has been privileged to
be a part of this superteam; I can truthfully say that a wackier, more wildly
creative group of men and women would be hard to find. Their names appear on
the preceding page, and the debt that this book owes them cannot be stressed
enough. Without their good works, the story that you are about to read would not
exist.
But the collaboration that produced The Death and Life of Superman isn’t
limited solely to the present Superman team. Some six decades of source
material from various media have shaped and influenced the personality of
Superman.
It all began in the comics with the genius of Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster, who
created Superman and gave a new industry its first major star.
It continued with the work of Joe Simon and Jack Kirby, who together created
the Guardian and the Newsboy Legion . . . with the work of Julius Schwartz,
Gardner Fox, and Mike Sekowsky, who breathed life into the Justice League and
gave us new heroes when we so desperately needed them . . . and with the work
of Wayne Boring, Curt Swan, Murphy Anderson; of Edmond Hamilton, Otto
Binder, Dennis O’Neil, and so many more who added to the legend of
Superman.
It’s a legend that. I’m happy to say, continues to grow.
In 1986, my good friend John Byrne went back to the basics and, as both
writer and artist, launched Superman’s second fifty years with the Man of Steel
miniseries. John’s work laid a solid foundation for the entire Superman family of
comic-book titles and was a major influence on this novel.
As a child of the fifties, I also must mention the contributions of George
Reeves, Noel Neill, Phyllis Coates, Jack Larson, John Hamilton, and Robert
Shayne. The images and voices of these people, the cast of the original
Adventures of Superman television series, will forever be a part of my memory.
They have been and continue to be a constant inspiration whenever I sit down at
the keyboard to put words in the mouths of Superman and his friends.
In writing this book, I also drew upon a small network of folks who provided
invaluable advice and support.
Thanks then to the real-life Mark Spadolini, who generously shared the
knowledge he has gained as a paramedic . . . to Christie “Walt” Davenport for
her medical expertise, and to Joe Davenport, for his geological advice.
Thanks to my military affairs advisors, former Petty Officer Second Class Lou
Ann Batts and Army Reserve Sergeant William Val Kone . . . to Richard
“Scratch” Lauterwasser for lending technological verisimilitude and other
constructive support . . . and to Joseph Collins Edkin who lent time, office space,
and his laptop computer and who occasionally supplied dinner to fellow writers
who might otherwise have forgotten to eat.
Thanks to Curtis King of DC Comics, and to Ari Kissiloff and the folks at
Public Communications, Inc., of Ithaca, New York, for computer logistic
support.
And thanks to my copy editor, Zoö Kharpertian, who labored long and hard
under the crunch of deadlines to catch my typos and keep my spelling in line.
I must give special thanks to Mike Carlin, my comics editor of many years,
who suggested me as the writer of this book. As editor of the Superman line of
comics, Mike has displayed uncommon strength and patience. Without his
guidance, the stories that led to this novel could never have happened. Mike has
been a friend as well as an editor. I hope that I will always be worthy of his trust.
In addition, I owe a great debt to all the people at DC Comics and Bantam
Books who worked so hard behind the scenes to produce this book.
Finally, there are two people who—more than any others—got me through the
writing process alive and with a minimum of scars.
The first is my book editor, Charles Kochman. Working both in person and
over the phone, Charlie provided a clarity of guidance (if not always of
penmanship), as well as a wonderfully goofy sense of humor that sustained us
both through the often difficult process of birthing a novel. Writing this book has
been a constant learning experience, and Charlie has been a most generous
instructor. My hat’s off to him.
The second is my wife, Carmela Merlo. Carmela organized my notes, kept
track of outlines and time-lines, proofread my rough drafts, found problems and
devised solutions, and suggested scenes and dialogue. She checked my science,
ran down research, and held my hand (often literally) as I battled my way
through this, my first novel. Correction, our first novel. I couldn’t have done this
without Carmela’s love and help. She has been my strength and inspiration; and
after eleven years of marriage, she still laughs at my jokes.
So, you see, I really did have quite a bit of help in writing this book. I hope
that you enjoy the result.

—Roger Stern
SECTION ONE

DOOMSDAY
Prologue

It was dark as pitch, the place where he awoke, and the air was stale. The
Creature tried to flex his stiff muscles and discovered that he could not move.
The Creature was bound tight, his face covered. Both arms were lashed behind
his back, and his feet were manacled. Even the rise and fall of his massive chest
was restrained.
The rage grew inside him. From deep within his great chest, a low, muffled
growl built to a mighty, defiant bellow. The sound that echoed back seemed to
suggest that he was enclosed in a small place, a room with metal walls.
Who had imprisoned him? Where was he, and how long had he been there?
He did not know, nor did he care. All that mattered was that he be free.
The Creature began to thrash about wildly, and the bonds that held him began
to creak and groan under the strain.
He would be free . . . oh, yes! It was just a matter of time . . .
1

The Sun was still burning the early morning fog off Metropolis Harbor, but it
was clearly going to be a beautiful day. There was just a hint of a breeze in the
air, and the sky was forming a bright blue dome over the city’s skyscrapers.
Henry Johnson eased his big frame down onto the high steel of what would
soon become the fifty-third story of the Newtown Plaza and sat staring off into
the canyons of Metropolis. The big ironworker’s mood was anything but bright.
He looked out at the gleaming towers before him and wondered if he deserved to
live. It would be so easy, he thought, just to push off and fall. Everybody’d say it
was an accident. It’s not as if anyone would miss another single black male.
Probably wouldn’t rate more than a mention on the evening news. How long
could it take? Fifty-three stories . . . twelve feet per story . . . acceleration of
thirty-two feet per second per second. A mathematic equation whizzed through
his head—a shade over six seconds. He frowned, realizing how effortlessly he
had computed the figure. Always were too damn smart for your own good, came
the inner voice. Just remember, you’re not an engineer anymore . . . that was a
different Henry. You’re not a weapons engineer anymore. You’re working
CONstruction now, not DEstruction. Henry removed his hard hat to wipe his
brow, angry with himself. As he grabbed the cable to pull himself up, he heard
someone yell, one story above him.
Pete Skywalker had tripped and tumbled over the edge. Without thinking,
Henry pushed off from the girder, grabbing for Pete’s belt. The metal strands of
the inch-thick cable cut into Henry’s hand as it drew taut under the weight of the
two men, but he would not let go. For an instant, they were suspended in midair,
with the whole city beneath them. And then they went swinging back in over a
completed floor. Henry shoved the big Mohawk to safety, but his own wrist had
become enwrapped in the cable. His pendulum swing carried him back out into
space. Then the cable came loose.
In the split second he began his fall, Henry knew for certain that he was a
dead man, and he mourned, less for himself than for those people he had
wronged in his life. Sorry, Grandma . . . Grandpa. Wish I could’ve told you how
sorry—
 Suddenly, he was not alone. At the fifty-story level, Henry felt a jolt as a
powerful arm reached out, grabbing him by the wrist with a hand as strong as
steel. A calm, confident voice rang out, “Don’t worry, I have you!” For an awful
moment the fall continued, and Henry felt his guts start to clench. No! I’ve
pulled another man down with me. But then the sting of rushing air began to
ease, and by the forty-sixth floor the fall had stopped. Hanging in midair, Henry
craned his head around to look at his rescuer.
He was a big man, as big as Johnson, and the dark blue overshirt fit him as
snugly as a second skin. Emblazoned across his chest was a pentagonal shield of
red and yellow, and tucked in at his collar was a bright, flowing red cape. His
jaw was firm and wide, and a lock of unruly black hair curled down over his
forehead.
“Superman!” Henry choked on the name.
The big man smiled back. “Relax. You’re going to be all right!” Before Henry
could draw another breath, Superman effortlessly swung about and set them both
down onto the solid flooring of the forty-fifth story.
“You . . . you . . .” Henry couldn’t make his mouth work right.
“Easy does it!” Superman put a hand on his shoulder. “Take a deep breath and
let it out.” His voice was soothing, reassuring, and Henry reflexively did as the
caped man said.
“You’re Superman! You’re really Superman . . . the Man of Steel!” The words
finally came tumbling out. “You saved me—!”
“My pleasure,” said Superman, clapping him on the back. “You know, I saw
how you helped that other man. I’d say that your efforts were more impressive
than mine. You certainly took a much bigger risk than I just did.”
“Doesn’t matter, man. I owe you my life!”
Superman smiled gently and shook his hand. “Then make it count for
something!”
With a wave, Superman leapt into the air, soaring away across the city
skyline. Johnson watched him disappear behind a maze of high rises. For a
second, all was deathly still, save for the whistle of the wind through the high
steel. Did that really happen? Henry looked down at his lacerated hand,
inspecting the cable cut for the first time. And then a crowd of workers came
rushing up around him.
 “Henry!”
“You okay, man?”
“Geez, I thought you was a goner for sure!”
Henry rubbed his hand. “For a second there, I was a goner.” I was a dead
man. But I’m not anymore. Superman’s given me a second chance at life, and I
can’t blow it this time. Henry stared off across the skyline. Got to make it count
for something. It’s the only way I’ll ever pay him back!

Superman flew in a long, lazy loop out over the West River. He loved spring
days in the city, and any morning that started with saving a life seemed
especially sweet. I got back from Tokyo just in time for that one, he thought.
Another few seconds—! Superman repressed a shudder. Early in his career, he’d
had to recognize the simple fact that he couldn’t save every life.
It was an unpleasant realization he had gradually come to accept, much as
he’d adjusted to the growth of his superhuman powers throughout early
adulthood. The more powerful he became, and the more he tried to do, the more
it became apparent that he couldn’t do everything. Still, he’d resisted facing his
limits until that hellish week nearly a decade ago . . .

Superman had been away from the city for three days, helping to put out a forest
fire in Northern California, and returned barely five minutes after a jet crashed
shortly after takeoff from Metropolis International. The flight crew had done a
heroic job of bringing the plane down in a nearby field, but three passengers had
died. For days after that, Superman had maintained an almost constant presence
in the city’s skies. He’d brooded over those three deaths to the point at which it
put a strain on his double life.
His boss was fit to be tied. “Kent, you were supposed to cover the mayor’s
speech. Where the blazes were you?”
“Sorry, Mr. White.” Clark Kent straightened his glasses. He’d been patrolling
the skies, but he couldn’t say that. “I guess I lost track of the time.”
“Step into my office. Now!” Perry While closed the door behind them. “For
the past week, you’ve been walking around the City Room like a zombie—no,
more like a ghost. It’s become a rare occasion when you show up! What in
blazes is wrong with you, Kent?”
 “It’s . . . personal, Chief.” Clark couldn’t very well tell the managing editor of
the Daily Planet that his newest reporter was also Superman. “I’m having to
adjust to a lot of things.”
“Well, adjust faster!” White slammed both palms down hard on his desk top,
and Clark could sense the increase in his editor’s blood pressure. “I hired you on
the basis of that Superman exclusive you got for the Planet. It was a damn fine
piece of reporting, but you can’t coast on one story. Not at this paper!”
“No, sir.”
“My reporters work for a living! I won’t put up with any slackers.”
“No, sir. I’m sorry, sir. It won’t happen again.”
“See that it doesn’t!”
Clark got up to go.
“Kent?”
“Sir?”
“I meant what I said about that exclusive. It was one of the best-written pieces
I’ve seen in twenty-five years of newspaper work.” Perry’s gruff voice softened.
“I know it can be tough . . . to suddenly burst on the scene, making a big splash.
You’ve made a lot of people jealous. They’re all out there, waiting for you to fall
on your face. They think you’re a flash in the pan. Well, I think they’re wrong. I
think you have the makings of a great reporter.”
“Thank you, sir. That means a lot. You—”
“Aw, I’m just an old beat reporter who got some lucky breaks.” Perry opened
a desk drawer. “Cigar?”
“No, thank you. I don’t smoke.”
“Oh. That’s right. I forgot.” Perry stuffed a Corona in his vest pocket for later.
“Look, Clark, if something’s troubling you—”
“It really is personal, Mr. White. I’d rather not talk about it.”
“Fair enough.” Perry came around from behind his desk. “We all have a life
outside these walls, and what you do with yours is none of my damn business . .
. as long as it doesn’t reflect badly on the Planet. But I want you to know that
my door will always be open to you. If you have a problem, I’ll listen. If you
don’t feel like telling me, fine . . .” Perry paused and looked Clark in the eye, “. .
. but tell someone, someone you can trust. It doesn’t pay to keep things bottled
up inside.”
It had been good advice. That night Clark had flown home to Kansas and
poured his heart out to the two people in this world whom he trusted above all
others . . . the couple who had raised him as their own son.
“Dear, you mustn’t do this to yourself!” Martha Kent’s worry lines became
deep furrows in her ivory skin. “Mercy sakes, Superman can’t be everywhere.
Even if you’d been in Metropolis at the time, there’s no guarantee you could’ve
saved those people.”
“Your ma has a point, son.” Jonathan Kent pulled an old red bandanna from
the right rear pocket of his overalls and began polishing his glasses. It was a
contemplative mannerism that Clark had seen so many times before—when his
father had sat him down to explain the facts of life, when Aunt Sal had died,
when Jon had showed Clark the craft that had brought him to Earth. “From the
way you described it, that plane crashed on takeoff, without more’n a few
seconds’ warning. Why, you’d have had to been right there at the scene to have
done any good. On the other hand, who knows how many lives you saved by
putting out that forest fire!”
“That’s right. You’re able to do so many wonderful things with your powers,
Clark, but even you can’t solve all the world’s problems.” He could tell Martha
was upset. She had practically twisted the hem of her apron into a knot. “Don’t
dwell on what might have been, or you’ll worry yourself into a terrible state!
Think of what you’ve already accomplished. You’re just one man . . . and you
manage to do so much good. And we’re so very proud of you. Don’t you ever
forget that!”

Superman hadn’t forgotten. He couldn’t forget anything. That’s the blessing and
the curse of a good memory, Pa had once said, and his memory was just about
perfect. Jonathan and Martha had done their best to set him straight, bless them,
and time had proven them right.
A growing chorus of car horns cut into Superman’s consciousness. Five
hundred feet below him, rush-hour traffic was already backing up through the
borough of Queensland Park along the Burnley Expressway. A quick scan
showed him the problem . . . about three miles away, a late-model sedan sat
stalled in the express lane, its emergency lights blinking. As Superman sped to
the scene, his ears picked up a high-pitched wail coming from the vehicle.
 “MOMMEEEE!”
In the driver’s seat, Rosemary Carson kept trying the ignition in a vain hope
that the engine would turn over. In the back, strapped into a child seat, was the
two-year-old source of the wail.
“MOMMEEE! I gotta POTTEEE!”
“Honey, I asked you if you needed to go before we left.”
“Didn’t need to then.”
“We’ll get you to day care soon, Benjamin, and then you can go. Okay?”
“Whennnn?”
“It won’t be long.” I hope. “First, Mommy has to get the car started.” And
later Mommy has to remind Daddy that he didn’t get the car serviced, like he
promised.
“Need to go nowww!”
Benjamin’s whine was reaching the point where it was just slightly less
annoying than the miles of car horns. Rosemary had to grit her teeth. No, don’t
yell at him, he’s just a kid. This isn’t his fault. “Try not to think about it, sweetie.
Let’s . . . let’s sing a song. What shall we sing?”
“ ‘She’ll Be Comin’ Round the Mountain’ was always one of my favorites,
when I was his age!”
Rosemary sat up with a start at the sound of the rich baritone. She hadn’t
heard anyone approaching, but suddenly—there he was, leaning, down to look
into her car!
“Superman! SUPERMAN!” Benjamin had instantly forgotten the pressure on
his bladder. The man he’d seen fly on TV was now smiling at him.
“Hello, Benjamin.”
Superman knew his name!
“Don’t worry, we’ll have things taken care of before you know it.”
Benjamin’s mother just nodded, not quite sure whether to believe this was
happening or not. Still, the horn honking seemed to have stopped. Rosemary
checked her mirror. Yes, drivers in the cars backed up behind her looked as
surprised as she felt. When she looked ahead again, Superman was staring at the
front end of her car and stroking his chin. Of course, X-ray vision. He can see
right through the hood. Superman came back to her window, and this time she
cranked it all the way down.
“I don’t think I can fix it. At least not right here.”
“You can’t? I thought you could do anything!”
“Not quite.” He grinned, perhaps a little self-consciously, and she realized
how intently she was staring at him. She dropped her eyes, a bit embarrassed.
“Tell you what, how about if I give you and Ben a lift to day care? Then we
can call a tow truck.”
“Sure, I . . .” Her jaw dropped. “How did you know where we were going?”
Now it was his turn to look embarrassed. She found it charming.
“I, ah, overheard. We’d probably better get going, if we want to avoid any
more emergencies.” Superman glanced pointedly back at the boy.
“Oh. Yes! Yes, of course.”
“Who’s your day-care provider?”
“The Little Pitchers Children’s Center . . . on Melrose.”
“I know the place. Do either of you suffer from acrophobia?”
“No.” What an odd thing to ask, thought Rosemary. “In fact, Benjamin loves
heights.”
“Fasten your belts, then. This won’t take a minute.”
Suddenly Superman literally dropped out of sight. For a second, Rosemary
wondered if he’d fallen. But then the car gently began to rise into the air.
“We’re flying, Mommy! Superman is making the car fly! WHEEEE!”
“Flying . . . yes, of course.” Rosemary was amazed by the even timbre of her
voice. Just the same, she clutched the end of her seat belt and cinched it tighter.
No wonder he asked about acrophobia! She turned in her seat to see Benjamin
bouncing happily in his car seat and trying to undo its harness. “Don’t do that,
Benjamin!”
“Wanna look out the window! WANNA LOOK OUT THE WINDOW!”
“No, honey. Superman wants us both to stay buckled up. Just sit still and
you’ll see—!”
“Don’t wanna sit still! DON’T WANNA!”
“Ben!” The boy froze in the seat as his name echoed through the car.
Superman’s voice was deep, much deeper than his father’s. The whole car
vibrated with the sound. “Do as your mother says!”
“I will.” Benjamin’s voice was a bare whisper.
“That’s what I like to hear.” Superman lowered his voice to a more
conversational volume. “Your mother wants only what’s best for you . . . it’s
important to listen to what your parents say! Understand?”
“Uh-huh.” The boy nodded almost reverentially.
Rosemary smiled. They were already descending toward the day-care center.
No one at the office will ever believe this, she thought. Not in a million years.
“What a baby-sitter he would make!” Her words came out as a wistful sigh, but
Superman heard her all the same.
Coming from a farming family, he knew all about the problems working
couples faced in raising their children. The Kents had faced them all, and more.
Thank God my powers developed slowly, he thought. Imagine the hell Ma and
Pa would have had with a super toddler going through the Terrible Twos!
Superman shook his head and smiled. He hoped his folks liked the surprise he’d
left for them.

At that moment, one time zone to the west, Jonathan Kent padded into the
kitchen of the old family farmhouse and gave his wife a peck on the cheek as she
stood stirring a pot at the stove. “Morning, love. Why’d you let me sleep so
late?”
“It does you good to sleep in, dear. You are supposed to be retired, alter all!”
“Semiretired, Martha. You ought to know by now that a real farmer never
completely retires. I intend to work until I fall over in the field and they plow me
under for fertilizer.”
“Jonathan Kent! What a thing to say!”
“Well, it makes more sense than pickling a man in formaldehyde and burying
him in a box.” He looked down into the pot and made a face. “Oatmeal again?”
“I thought you liked oatmeal.”
“I do, but I also like a little variety. Seems like forever since I last had steak
and eggs . . . with home fries and biscuits.”
“Now, you know what Doc Lanning said! You have to be careful with your
heart. And it does us both good to eat smarter and cut down on fats.” Martha
considered her husband’s sour expression. “I could see about getting some of
those egg substitutes at the market.”
“Can you fry ’em sunny-side up?”
“I don’t think so.”
“I’ll stick with the oatmeal, then. We got any brown sugar and cinnamon to
put on it?”
“There on the table. I bought raisins, too. Raisins are good in oatmeal!”
“Uh-huh. The morning paper come yet?”
“I haven’t checked.”
Jonathan opened the door to the back porch, and a brown-paper-wrapped
package toppled in onto the floor. “Jehoshaphat! What’s this?”
He turned the package over. There were no postal or delivery service
markings, but a small envelope had been taped to one side. Jonathan fished out a
note.
“Martha, it’s from our boy! ‘Dear Ma and Pa, I saw this when I was in Tokyo
and thought you might like it. Sorry I couldn’t stop in, but I had to get back to
the city. All my love, Clark.’ ” Jonathan handed the package to his wife. “Here,
you open it!”
Martha carefully pried loose the package’s sealing tape with the corner of one
fingernail and slowly unfolded the brown paper. “Oh, Jonathan, look! It’s a
framed watercolor of . . . what’s that mountain?”
“Mount Fuji, as I live and breathe! I visited it when I was in Japan on leave,
back during the war. You remember, I brought back that postcard. Oh, but this is
a real beauty!” He looked at his wife, watching her start to tear up. “Almost as
beautiful as you.”
“You’re full of malarkey, Jonny Kent.” But as she said it, she smiled, and in
that smile he saw the girl he’d first fallen in love with, all those years ago.
“And you’re lull of salt water.” He handed her his bandanna. “Here, take this
before you rust up on me!” It hasn’t always been an easy life, but it’s been a
happy one for the most part, thought Jonathan. I’m glad we’ve shared it. He
looked again at the watercolor. And I couldn’t love that son of ours more if he
was really our own.
The memory of the night they’d found him remained one of the most vivid in
his recollection.
It was November, and a big storm was blowing in out of the west. Martha and he
had just secured the last of the shutters when it happened. A brilliant, dazzling
light had shot across the sky, passing so low over the house that Martha had
cried out in alarm. The light disappeared behind the barn, and there followed a
low, echoing thud that reminded Jonathan of nothing so much as the impact of
an unexploded mortar round.
“Jonathan, was that—?”
“A meteor! By gum, it had to be! It must’ve hit somewhere in the back forty!
C’mon, Martha, let’s go see!”
“Now? But the storm—”
“From the feel of the wind, that storm’s gonna drop snow. If there’s an
honest-to-god meteorite on our land, I want to know where before it gets buried.
You don’t have to come if you don’t want to.”
But she did, of course. Martha was every bit as curious as her husband, and
the two of them jumped into their old pickup and set out across the fields.
They soon found the source of the mysterious light. In a remote section of
their property, in the midst of a surprisingly shallow crater, sat what appeared to
be a huge, glistening egg mounted onto a set of smoking metal fins.
“Jonathan, what in the world is it?”
“I don’t know. Looks almost as if it’s some kind of little rocket or satellite or
something! Better stay clear, Martha.”
“But . . . look, Jonathan!” Dark as the egg was, it was still translucent, and
Martha could see signs of movement. “There’s something inside! Something
alive!”
“You think so? It’s awfully small. Maybe this is some sorta test craft?”
Jonathan gingerly reached out to touch the smooth surface of the egg. “That’s
funny . . . it’s cool. I read these things were supposed to get hot on reentry an’ . .
. what the hey?!”
The outer surface of the egg seemed to melt away beneath Jonathan’s hand,
revealing its precious cargo within.
“Oh! Ohhh, Jonathan! It’s a baby!” Martha pushed past her amazed husband
and gathered the squirming newborn infant into her arms. “And so small! Those
. . . those monsters! They put a poor little baby into a rocket ship! And then they
shot him off to the moon or somewheres! What kind of people are they?”
“Now, you be careful, Martha! We don’t know that this baby came from
Earth! He could be some kind of—I don’t know—Martian or something!”
“Oh, now you hush, Jonathan Kent. You’ve been reading too many of those
science-fiction magazines! Just look at him, he’s as human as you or me!” The
baby boy seemed to smile up at Martha and then shiver as the cold wind picked
up. Martha pulled her coat close around him and headed for the truck. “Well,
little one, whoever the monsters were who shot you into space, I’m going to
make sure that they never get their hands on you again!”
“Martha!” Jonathan had to scramble to catch up to his wife. He started to
protest, but before he could open his mouth again, she turned and fixed him with
a stare.
“We can’t just leave him here, now can we?”
Jonathan scratched the back of his neck for a moment, then went around the
truck and held open the door for his wife.
All during the bumpy ride back to the house, Martha kept the infant cradled in
her arms, alternately cooing to the child and arguing with her husband. From the
moment she’d laid eyes on the boy, Martha had wanted to keep him. She and
Jonathan had been trying for eight years to have a child of their own, but after
two miscarriages and a stillbirth they had just about given up. Neither of them
were regular churchgoers, but Martha believed in destiny, and she felt that this
child was meant to be theirs. She was determined to keep him, and Jonathan was
hard-pressed to counter her arguments. By the time they got home, they’d
already decided to name him Clark, Martha’s maiden name.
That’s when the storm hit. Actually, it was the first of many storms. A whole
series of fronts swept across Kansas that winter, effectively isolating the Kents
from friends and relatives in the surrounding area. It was five months before they
were again seen in town. Being farmers, they had a full larder and were able to
survive in relative comfort, if in solitude, when the phones periodically failed.
For his part, the tiny infant thrived under his new parents’ care.
With the spring thaw, the Kents finally made it into the nearby town of
Smallville, where they proudly displayed Clark as their own natural son. Their
friends were thrilled and happy that at last they had the child they’d so long
wished for. Knowing Martha’s medical history, their families willingly accepted
their story that she’d kept another attempted pregnancy a secret. And Jonathan
had helped deliver so many calves, they knew that he could easily have played
midwife. When questioned further, the new father just beamed and said, “It was
a good birth . . . easier than a cat dropping kittens,” which, as a matter of fact, it
had been.
Young Clark Kent at first exhibited no extraordinary powers or abilities. To
all outward appearances, he was growing up to be just another normal, healthy
American boy.
But Clark was not like other children. Years later, the Kents would learn that
Jonathan had been right, that their son was not of this Earth. He had, in fact,
been conceived on the dying world of Krypton, some fifty light-years from our
planet. His genetic father, the Kryptonian scientist-historian Jor-El, had sent the
gestating child to Earth within an artificial womb, so that Krypton’s last son
would have a chance for survival.
As Clark grew older, he also grew increasingly stronger. When he was just
eight years old, the boy was trampled by an angry bull. His clothes were left in
tatters, but Clark himself didn’t suffer so much as a scratch. A few months later,
Martha looked out her kitchen door to see her son nonchalantly lift up the back
end of their truck to retrieve a softball that had rolled just out of his reach. As he
reached puberty, Clark discovered that he could see farther and in far greater
detail than any of his friends. And if he concentrated, he was able to actually see
through solid objects. Finally, in the summer of his seventeenth year, Clark
found that he could step off into space and defy gravity. His joy at discovering
that he could fly was as boundless as his parents’ amazement.

Throughout Clark’s adolescence, Martha and Jonathan kept his incredible

abilities a secret and cautioned their son to do the same. They feared that if the
boy’s powers became public knowledge and the authorities learned the truth
about his birth, he might be taken away from them. They suspected that some
people might be afraid of Clark or consider him a monster, and that
unscrupulous people would want to exploit his powers. And they knew that, at
the very least, they would all become part of an unending series of stories in the
supermarket tabloids.
The Kents counseled Clark to think of his powers as a great gift. Martha and
Jonathan both impressed upon the boy that being stronger or able to fly didn’t
necessarily make him better than anyone else. “Power carries a lot of
responsibilities, son, and it’s up to each of us to use whatever talents we have to
leave this world a better place than we found it.” And they stressed to Clark that
he should never use his special powers to make other people feel useless.
Clark took their lessons to heart, and when he reached manhood and left
Smallville, he was careful to keep his powers a secret. For seven years, he
wandered around the world, working covertly to help people. But finally
circumstances forced him to use his powers in public.
An experimental NASA space plane had become involved in a midair
collision over Metropolis. With only seconds to act, Clark had leapt into the sky
to catch the ship and guide it down to a safe landing. No one was able to get a
clear photograph of his face, so quickly did he move, but there were thousands
of witnesses to the rescue. After he’d brought the space plane safely to the
ground, Clark had been mobbed. People were clutching and pulling at him, their
voices becoming a roar of offers and demands and desperate pleas for help. It
was as if they all wanted a piece of him.
Appalled, Clark shot into the air to flee the mob and didn’t stop until he’d
flown halfway around the world. He finally came to rest on a remote
mountaintop in Tibet, where he sat and shook with shock and revulsion.
Unsure of what to do, Clark returned to Smallville to seek the guidance of his
parents. Recalling the legendary mystery-men of the 1940s, Jonathan suggested
that his son adopt a separate identity through which he could publicly use his
powers. Within a few days, Clark and the Kents had devised his new persona of
Superman, taking the name used in newspaper articles to describe the unknown
rescuer of the space plane.
Working with Jonathan, Clark developed certain subtle tricks of appearance—
using horn-rimmed glasses and changes of voice, posture, and body language—
by which he could divert any attention from his resemblance to Superman. The
Kents reasoned that if he appeared unmasked as Superman, most people would
never even consider that he might spend part of his time as someone else.
Martha had stitched up his first costume on her old sewing machine.
“I made the fit nice and snug,” she explained. “When you were a boy just
about twelve, I think—I started noticing that cloth right up close against you
never seemed to tear or get dirty. Besides, it shows off your muscles.”
Martha was especially proud of her work on the long, flowing cape, designed
to emulate the costumed heroes of an earlier era. But as her son put it on, she
began to have second thoughts. “Oh, dear. It hangs so nicely, but it’s sure to tear
. . . not being skintight, I mean.”
“Don’t worry, Ma. I’ll try to be careful with it.” Clark’s voice seemed to have
gone down an octave. Martha and Jonathan were astounded. In the costume,
their son seemed to be a whole different person.
“The whole outfit works just fine. It has exactly the symbolic look I wanted.”
And then, to reassure his mother, Superman bent down and kissed her on the
forehead.

Wish I had a picture of that moment, thought Jonathan. Could’ve knocked us

both over with a feather, I’ll bet. Just the thought brought a smile to his face.
“That boy, Jonathan . . . that boy!” Martha wiped away her last few tears, still
marveling over the gift of the watercolor.
Jonathan hugged her to him. “Yeah, we raised us a good one, hon. We surely
did.”

Barely five hundred miles east of the Kents’ Kansas farmhouse, the Creature
pulled at his bonds. His massive, hulking body was covered from head to toe by
a hooded garment three times as thick as the thickest cowhide and more than
fifty times as strong and tough. It muffled his snarls of frustration, reducing them
to a low feral murmur.
Thick cables—forged of the strongest metal alloys—encircled his limbs and
torso. They ranged from three to twelve centimeters in diameter and were
attached to a great metal harness that was somehow bonded to the material of the
garment. The harness held him upright and his limbs motionless.
Considerable time had passed since the Creature had awakened, but just how
long—days? weeks? months?—he had no way of knowing. He knew that he had
not slept since, and that he had spent every moment fighting against the bonds
that held him. And now . . . now he felt some of the restraints beginning to
weaken. The Creature thrashed all the more wildly, and one of the smaller cables
snapped. With a roar of triumph, he pulled even harder, his strength seeming to
feed off his rage. With a groan, more cables parted, and the Creature yanked his
left arm free of the harness!
 He reached out with his free arm. He could touch the wall. In the darkness, he
still could not see it, but he knew where it was. And he knew it was hard.
It was, in fact, forged of the same metal as his bonds. The wall was but one of
six that formed a vault around the Creature. The walls were eighteen centimeters
thick, and above them lay a mile of rock and clay. No one alive was aware of the
buried vault . . . no one, save for the Creature inside.
All was quiet and motionless. Then he began beating at the wall.
2

Superman soared high above the sprawl of Queensland Park and headed north,
across the river into Metropolis’s central borough, the island of New Troy.
Separated from the other five boroughs by two rivers and a deep harbor, New
Troy was what out-of-towners thought of when you told them you were from
Metropolis.
To Superman’s left stretched street after street of five-to ten-story buildings,
some of them fine old brownstones and apartments with first-floor storefronts.
Others were old factory buildings, slowly being retrofitted into condominiums,
lofts, and studios, as the last of the small manufacturers continued their exodus
to the industrial parks of the outer boroughs and the suburbs. Beyond that, at the
northwest part of New Troy, lay the greenery of Centennial Park and the
adjacent campus of the University of Metropolis.
Alma mater, we shall not falter . . . Dear old U. Met, we all hail you! The
school fight song which had so appalled his literature professor—for attempting
to rhyme mater with falter—immediately sprang, unbidden, to Clark Kent’s
mind. He had earned his bachelor’s degree in journalism at U. Met, astounding
his faculty advisor by fulfilling all the requirements for the four-year program in
just two years. It wasn’t that difficult if you could get by on one hour of sleep a
night. Ah, the resiliency of youth, he thought with a smile. I could never do that
now! These days, if I don’t get at least two hours, I’m wasted.
Off to Superman’s right lay Metropolis’s central business district, its skyline
dominated by the ninety-six-story L-shaped tower that served as the world
headquarters of LexCorp International.
Over the past quarter century, LexCorp had grown from a feisty young
aerospace engineering firm into one of the world’s largest, most diversified
multinational corporations. LexCorp was into everything from banking and
brewing to robotics and sanitation. Nearly two-thirds of Metropolis’s citizens
were employed by companies owned—either in whole or in part—by LexCorp.
LexCorp had been named for its vainglorious founder, Lex Luthor. Luthor had
generally been considered the most powerful man in Metropolis.
 Until Superman came along.
That was the big problem, thought Superman, wasn’t it? Luthor couldn’t stand
being second best at anything, and he hated anything he couldn’t own or control.
Taken together, those two qualities had made Luthor Superman’s greatest
enemy.

During his first year and a half as Superman, the Man of Steel had been fortunate
to avoid contact with the billionaire industrialist. Luthor had left the country to
inspect business holdings in South America shortly after Superman’s public
debut.
At first Luthor had dismissed reports of a superstrong flying man as media
hype and exploitation. But in the course of his travels abroad, Luthor had
become at first bemused and then intrigued by satellite news stories of
Superman’s exploits.
Upon his return to Metropolis, Luthor received information that a terrorist cell
planned to hijack his yacht, the Sea Queen, the next time he took it out of port.
Where other men might have felt threatened or outraged, Luthor saw only
opportunity and connived to provide an irresistible target for the terrorists.
Luthor organized a lavish party aboard the ship, inviting the elite of Metropolis
society. He ordered his security team to hold back in case of trouble. His hope
was that Superman would show up, and that he could see for himself if all the
wild stories he’d heard were true.
The terrorists went for Luthor’s bait, just as he’d planned, and Superman
indeed intervened. The billionaire was greatly impressed and attempted to hire
Superman on the spot, handing him a check for twenty-five thousand dollars.
“Consider that a retainer. Everyone who’s anyone in Metropolis works for me.
And you’re far too valuable a resource to leave undirected.”
He thought he could buy me. Luthor always treated people as commodities.
But Luthor had gone too far this time. Among the partygoers was Frank
Berkowitz, the mayor of Metropolis, and he was outraged that they’d all been
placed in jeopardy just to satisfy Luthor’s curiosity. “Superman, as mayor I
hereby appoint you a special deputy. I want you to arrest that man. The charge is
reckless endangerment!”
“Don’t be absurd, Frank!” The big, balding man hadn’t even tried to hide his
contempt. “You can’t arrest me. I’m Lex Luthor. I’m the most powerful man in
Metropolis.”
“No you’re not, Lex.” Mayor Berkowitz looked at Superman. “Not anymore.”
Luthor was photographed and fingerprinted like any common criminal.
Despite the fact that he was one of the world’s wealthiest men, he was then
locked up behind bars. His attorneys immediately sprang into action and
arranged his release. All charges were subsequently dropped, but the public
humiliation gnawed at Luthor. He again sought out Superman, confronting him
privately outside Metro General Hospital.
“You’ve made a mistake, Superman . . . a big mistake. Metropolis belongs to
me. Its people are mine, to nurture or destroy as I see fit. They’ve just forgotten
that. They’ve looked at you, with your costume and your flashy superhuman
powers, and they’ve forgotten who their real master is. Well, I intend to remind
them, Superman. I’m going to show them that you’re nothing. I’m going to
destroy you, but no one will ever be able to prove me responsible. I’ll not be
arrested again, Superman . . . not ever again!”
From that day on, Lex Luthor had devoted much of his time and energy, and a
considerable amount of his fortune, toward fulfilling his threat. The industrialist
even went so far as to outfit an elite LexCorp security team with jet-propelled
body armor, forming his so-called Team Luthor in a vain try to overshadow the
Man of Steel. Superman survived countless attempts to discredit and kill him,
but was never able to prove that Luthor was behind the attacks.
Then Luthor had gotten his hands on a chunk of kryptonite.
Kryptonite was the common ore of kryptonium, an unusually stable
transuranic element which had been created in the thermonuclear destruction of
Superman’s ancestral world of Krypton. The two-pound chunk of glowing ore
was the only such specimen on the planet. Ironically, it had come to Earth on the
tail section of the same drive vehicle that had brought Krypton’s last son to our
world. The rock had passed through several hands before it came into Luthor’s
possession and he discovered that its radiations were deadly to Superman.
Ecstatic over his find, Luthor had a fragment of the kryptonite cut, polished,
and set in a signet ring which he wore for many months. He taunted Superman
with the ring and used it to keep the last son of Krypton at bay. But the
kryptonite was not as harmless to terrestrial lifeforms as Luthor’s physicists had
thought. The ring’s radiation slowly poisoned him. His doctor was forced to
amputate Luthor’s right hand, although even that drastic measure proved in vain.
He managed to avoid a slow, wasting death from kryptonite poisoning, however,
when his plane crashed in the Andes. Superman himself recovered Luthor’s
remains, but he could never determine whether the crash had been an accident or
if his old enemy had planned it.

I never thought of Luthor as being the kind to take his own life, but you just
never know. He was a complicated man, thought Superman. He stared long and
hard at the LexCorp Tower but was unable to discern much. The old man had
retrofitted the building with a fine mesh of lead that frustrated Superman’s X-ray
vision and installed elaborate sound baffles to keep him from hearing sounds
spoken inside. Still, it was a different world without Lex Luthor around. Without
the first Lex Luthor, anyway.
LexCorp had momentarily floundered in the wake of Luthor’s death, the value
of its stock plummeting on the open market as members of its board of directors
vied for power. The corporation was looking like a prime candidate for
downsizing and restructuring when Luthor’s son arrived to take control.
Accompanied by Sydney Happersen, the elder Luthor’s chief aide, Lex Luthor
II had taken the city by storm. As his father’s only heir, he had access to both a
personal fortune and a controlling interest in LexCorp, and he used both to put
the recession-strapped Metropolis back to work. Young Lex proved every bit as
wily as his father in handling the board of directors, and within days he had
himself approved as LexCorp’s chief executive officer. It was now generally
acknowledged that he had turned the company around. Just twenty-one years
old, Lex Luthor II was a genuine wunderkind. Until he had been recognized as
both heir and son in Luthor’s will, it was claimed, his existence had been kept
hidden for his own protection. The boy had apparently been fathered by Luthor
with his personal physician, Dr. Gretchen Kelley, and brought up by LexCorp
employees in Australia.
A son, raised in secret. Superman shook his head at the thought. Even now it
sounds like something out of a soap opera. But, Lord knows, Luthor had plenty
of enemies from whom he might need to protect a son. It was just the sort of
Byzantine scheme he and Happersen would concoct. Superman had personally
flown overseas, using both his powers and the contacts he’d made over the years
as Clark Kent, to investigate young Luthor’s background. All the stories checked
out.
 When young Lex became aware that there’d been bad blood between
Superman and his father, he had gone out of his way to apologize to the Man of
Steel. He seemed utterly sincere, but . . . I don’t know. Maybe it’s just me, but
there’s still something about the man that bothers me. He’s almost too good.
Superman turned away from downtown, trying to put LexCorp Tower and its
young owner out of his mind.

Straight ahead of Superman lay a ten-square-block area known officially as

Hob’s Bay. Named for Elias Hob, an early Metropolis landowner, it had been a
prosperous, middle-class neighborhood at the turn of the century. With the
beginning of the Great Depression, it began a slide into poverty and decay from
which it never recovered. Now only City Hall and the Chamber of Commerce
referred to the neighborhood as Hob’s Bay. To the rest of Metropolis, it was
Suicide Slum.
Suicide Slum was a hellhole. Its most famous sons and daughters were those
who had escaped to a better life. Despite numerous attempts over the years at
urban renewal and Superman’s best efforts, it remained a venue for X-rated
theaters and adult bookstores, for run-down tenements, and for crime-infested
streets. Life was cheap in Suicide Slum. On the other hand, so was the rent.
On the edge of Suicide Slum stood a blocky five-story brick building whose
single distinguishing characteristic was an oversized satellite dish. The sole
tenant of the building’s top floor was an eccentric former college professor by
the name of Emil Hamilton.

Professor Hamilton was an inventive genius whose unorthodox work habits had
resulted in his being fired from a score of commercial research laboratories. Like
his boyhood idol Nikola Tesla, Hamilton was able to design circuitry in his head,
visualizing it so vividly that he sometimes neglected to commit his preliminary
notes to paper. While still a young man, Emil had conceptualized a magnetic
field generator that he theorized could provide protection from nuclear attack.
He spent much of the next twenty years laboring on his own to develop a
working prototype. During that time, he repeatedly tried to interest the Defense
Department in his proposed generator but was able to obtain only an occasional
small federal grant to continue his work. For the most part, government
bureaucrats considered Emil a crank and dismissed his work as impractical. The
one man who had seen possibilities in his work was Lex Luthor.
Luthor began funding the professor’s work through a dummy corporation with
an eye toward eventually discrediting him and claiming full ownership of his
device. Under extreme stress from the pressure put on him by Luthor’s people,
Emil had suffered a nervous breakdown. He became obsessed with proving the
effectiveness of his invention, and irrationally set out to test its power against
that of Superman. In doing so, Hamilton pushed his prototype device beyond its
limits, requiring Superman to use his own invulnerable body to protect the
professor from the explosion of the overloaded generator.
Hamilton was remanded to a mental health facility for treatment and
counseling. He later served a few months of a sentence in a minimum security
prison before being paroled on Superman’s recommendation. Upon his release,
he managed to secure enough funding to set up a small, independent lab in the
old building, where he began to eke out a modest living as a technical consultant.
In that capacity, the professor had aided Superman on numerous occasions and
had eventually come to serve as the Man of Steel’s unofficial science advisor.

The big double windows on the fifth floor swung open, apparently of their own
volition, at Superman’s approach. That’s new, he thought, landing silently inside
the lab. As the windows began to ratchet closed, he heard the whir of tiny
servomotors mounted onto their hinges. Looking more carefully, Superman saw
where the new wiring connections passed through the wall into a conduit leading
to the roof, and from there to a new array of equipment mounted just under the
eaves. A glance at the circuitry within confirmed what he already expected. “Ah-
ha! Infrared motion detectors!”
“What about them?” The voice came from beneath a nearby computer console
and was immediately followed by the squeaking of wheels. A gray-haired figure
emerged from beneath the console astride an old mechanic’s dolly, soldering gun
in hand. A quizzical look beneath the man’s safety glasses quickly brightened.
“Superman! How good to see you!”
“And you, Professor!” Superman reached out a hand and pulled the lanky
scientist to his feet. “Overhauling the mainframe?”
“Just making a few alterations.” Emil ran a hand through his beard,
discovering a few flecks of solder.
“I was just admiring your new window opener.”
 “Like it, do you?” Emil beamed. “I noticed that you usually fly in from that
direction when you visit, so I decided to make things a bit easier. I’m glad to see
that it worked so well.” He winced as a clump of hair came out with the solder
from his beard. “I had the devil’s own time getting the proper setting for the
motion detectors. When I first installed it, it admitted a flock of pigeons to the
lab. What a mess!”
“I can imagine!” Superman tried mightily to stifle a laugh but was only
marginally successful. If his host noticed, he did not mention it.
“So,” asked Emil, “what brings you here?”
“I was wondering if you’d finished analyzing the data we’d compiled on my
powers.”
“Ah, yes! Your physical! Come right this way!” Emil led his visitor past
several cluttered worktables.
“Professor? What the devil is this?” Superman paused before a lathe, upon
which was centered a ruby-red translucent tube, six inches in diameter and
nearly four feet long.
“Eh? Oh, that. Just a new synthetic I’m experimenting with, as a component
for a laser cannon.”
“A laser cannon? Who are you working on that for?”
“Oh, nobody. The idea just intrigued me . . .” Emil let that thought trail off.
“Watch your footing. I upset a box of ball bearings around here the other day,
and I’m afraid I still haven’t recovered them all.”
Superman shook his head. Same old Emil. He just can’t let an idea pass him
by without exploring it.
The professor came to yet another console. Plopping down into an old swivel
chair, he hit a series of switches and pushed his safety glasses up onto his
forehead. Graphs began to appear on the monitor screen as Emil’s fingers
danced across the keyboard.
Superman stared intently at the screen. His “physical,” as the professor called
it, had been a series of tests they’d put the Man of Steel through over the past
few months, in an attempt to determine just how his powers worked.
“Here we go,” said Emil, pointing out a series of intersecting lines. “While
I’ve been unable to determine the exact cellular mechanism, there is something
about your Kryptonian physiology that stores and channels solar energy.”
 “We already knew that, Professor. I’m essentially a living solar capacitor. My
body’s converted all the energy I’ve absorbed over the years, amplifying my
senses, boosting my strength, and so on.”
“Exactly! It’s the sun that made a Superman of you. Your body holds vast
energy reserves, but they’re not inexhaustible. See here.” An inverted bell curve
appeared on the screen. “This represents the twenty-four-hour period during
which you towed a disabled Amtrak train through the Rockies, flew several tons
of food and medical supplies into Central Africa, repositioned a falling
communications satellite, and thwarted a terrorist bombing in Rome, among
other things.”
“I remember. It wasn’t the busiest day I’ve ever had, but I was kept on my
toes.”
Hamilton’s safety glasses fell back down onto his nose as he gaped at his
friend. “ ‘Kept on your toes?’ Egads, you were shot at and blown up! You
endured extremes of temperature, radiation, and hard vacuum! You flew nearly a
million miles, often at speeds far faster than that of sound, and I’ve just barely
been able to estimate how many ergs you expended!”
Superman shrugged. “I did feel a little weary by the end of that day.”
“Well . . . I . . . I should think so!” Emil removed the safety glasses and tucked
them into his shirt pocket. The very act of doing so seemed to calm him. “That’s
the point I was making. The public looks upon you as an indestructible
champion, and they’re right—up to a point. Certainly, your body is invulnerable
to harm from a wide array of weaponry, but there is no such thing as absolute
invulnerability. Look at this.”
Emil hit a series of keys, and the graph on the monitor was enlarged. “At the
end of that day, the readings I took showed a noticeable energy deficit. By that
point, you were drawing heavily on your body’s energy reserves. If you had
continued to exert yourself beyond that point, your strength would have
continued to ebb, your senses would have dulled—and, of course, use of your
heat vision would have accelerated the process. The greater the expenditure, the
weaker you would become. Eventually, the bioelectric aura that accounts for
much of your body’s invulnerability would begin to break down. That being the
case, you could find yourself in mortal danger.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time, Professor. Twice, I’ve survived thermonuclear
explosions in the forty-megaton range.”
 Emil looked at him thoughtfully. “We must talk more about that.”
“Some other time, Professor?” An oddly plaintive tone came to Superman’s
voice. “Neither experience was very pleasant.”
“I’m not surprised. The fact that you lived was miraculous. It must have put a
terrible drain on your system.”
“I felt . . . awful afterward.”
“Yes . . .” Emil made some quick calculations. “Such an ordeal would
severely affect your invulnerability. Still, the fact that you suffered no lasting
effects is testimony to your body’s resiliency.” Emil turned back to the monitor.
“Looking back at our testing period . . . by this point”—Emil’s finger traced the
upward curve on the screen—“on the following day, you had already recovered
nearly a third of the energy you’d expended.”
Superman studied the graph. “Then, according to your readings, within a day
and a half I was back to normal? That sounds about right. I remember feeling
much more on top of things by the end of that week.”
“Really? That is reassuring. My figures are, unfortunately, still the roughest of
approximations. When it comes to measuring the limits of your power, I’m
afraid my instruments are woefully inadequate.” A gleam came to Emil’s eyes.
“How I’d love to have another opportunity to use the equipment in that
wondrous Antarctic Fortress of yours!”
Superman considered that. The Fortress did have a lot to offer. In addition to
an array of advanced analysis systems, its vast halls held holographic dioramas
commemorating the history of his home planet Krypton, as well as working
models of Kryptonian battle suits and robots. The robots, in fact, served to
maintain his hideaway. Superman flinched inwardly at the thought of the
Fortress as “his.” He rarely went there. Intellectually, he saw it as a memorial to
the world of his genetic parents. On an emotional level, the place gave him the
willies. Visiting the Fortress, he thought, is like walking through a tomb . . . a
cold, sterile tomb.
To be sure, Superman was the last son of Krypton, the sole survivor of that
dead world. Had Krypton not exploded, his predetermined birth name would
have been Kal-El. But he had not been born on Krypton. He had been born in a
Kansas field, when Martha Kent had lifted him from the birthing matrix that had
carried him to Earth. It was only in his eighteenth year that the Kents told him
they weren’t his natural parents. He was over thirty before he knew of his
Kryptonian heritage. Since then he had learned much about Krypton—its entire
history was locked in his subconscious; however, he still thought of himself—
first and foremost—as an Earthman and an American.
To Superman that Fortress of Solitude was like an unwanted inheritance from
a distant relative, something to keep buried in the basement. It had been
constructed beneath the ice of Antarctica, without his knowledge, by an ancient
artifact called the Eradicator.

The Eradicator had been created millennia ago by one of his Kryptonian
ancestors. It had been passed on to Superman by a dying alien cleric, who’d
recognized him as Krypton’s last son. Its possession had been an endless
nightmare for the Man of Steel. The Eradicator had proven to possess an
artificial intelligence, programmed to preserve all things Kryptonian. To that
end, it had manipulated Superman’s mind, submerging his emotions to remake
him in the image of what its programming had come to consider the perfect
Kryptonian. Superman had finally overcome the Eradicator’s influence,
smashing the infernal device and hurling it into the sun.
But that had been a mistake.
Although the Eradicator’s physical substance was destroyed by the intense
solar heat, its intelligence had somehow managed to survive. Slowly, this
independent “mind” had managed to tap into the thermo-nucleai reactions of the
sun’s core, using that immense energy source to re-create itself as a humanoid
entity. This new Eradicator, possessing incredible solar energies, had returned to
Earth, determined to transform the planet into a second Krypton. When
Superman had tried to stop the Eradicator, it had nearly killed him. Superman
had just barely managed to survive, pulling himself together enough to confront
the Eradicator deep within the Antarctic Fortress. There, with the aid of
Professor Hamilton, the entity had finally been defeated, its intelligence
dissipated and its energies dispersed.

Superman looked at Professor Hamilton. The Eradicator had put Emil through
hell while he was in the Fortress, but he’d come through all that without any
lasting trauma. Typically, what was foremost in the scientist’s mind was the
vivid memory of the Fortress’s Kryptonian technology.
“The things I could learn down there . . .” Emil’s voice trailed off dreamily.
 Superman suppressed a smile. “Maybe we can arrange that, Professor.”
“Emil? Where are you?” A new voice echoed off the brick walls.
“Over here, Mildred. We’re just past the lathe! Watch your step—!”
The last warning came too late. Mildred Fillmore stepped onto an errant ball
bearing, and her feet flew out from under her. Like a shot, Superman was across
the room, catching the woman and sparing her a painful landing.
Mildred gaped at her rescuer as he set her back down on firmer footing. “Th-
thank you.” She’d heard the professor mention working with Superman once or
twice—and she’d of course seen the Man of Steel flying over the city—but she’d
never expected to see him in person. I didn’t realize he was so . . . tall.
“Mildred! Mildred, are you all right?” Emil came dashing forward, almost
tripping over his own feet in the process.
“Fine . . . I’m fine, Emil. Just a bit startled, that’s all.” She straightened her
waitress’s cap and tried to compose herself. “When you didn’t show up at the
diner at your usual time, I figured you were working on something, so I brought
you some breakfast.”
“Really?” Emil rummaged through the bag she offered. “Coffee black . . .
large grapefruit juice . . . head cheese and liverwurst on pumpernickel with
mustard and extra onions . . . and a giant kosher dill! Mildred, you shouldn’t
have!”
“I know. Still, you always seem to survive.”
“Survive?!” Emil looked mildly offended. “A man can thrive on such a
repast!”
Mildred smiled gently as Emil eagerly took a big bite of the sandwich. She
gave Superman a wry look and shook her head. “I don’t know how he can stand
that stuff, especially at this hour of the morning!”
“And I thought I had a cast-iron stomach.” Superman chuckled. He glanced at
a clock on the wall. Eight-oh-five . . . it’s getting late! “Well, Professor, I have to
be moving on.”
“Mmmph . . . oh, yes,” mumbled Emil. He swallowed his mouthful with a
contented sigh. “Could you excuse us just a moment, Mildred?”
“Of course.”
Emil casually switched off the computer screen and accompanied Superman
back across the lab. The big windows opened automatically at their approach.
The Man of Steel grinned appreciatively as he clapped Hamilton on the
shoulder.
“Thanks for all your time and effort, Professor.”
“My pleasure, Superman. I am so indebted to you. If not for your support, I
would no doubt still be behind bars. I am honored by the confidence you have in
me.”
“You’ve returned the favor a hundredfold. I know I can trust you to keep your
findings secret.”
Emil made a zippering motion across his lips. “Mum’s the word!” With a nod
and a wink, Superman leapt out into the skies. As the windows ratcheted shut
behind him, he could hear the professor turn and walk back across the lab to his
visitor.
“Sorry for the interruption, Mildred. What do I owe you for breakfast?”
“Consider it on the house, Emil.”
“That’s very kind, but . . . are you certain I can’t give you anything in return?”
“Well . . . you could take me dancing again.”
Superman immediately focused his senses in a different direction. Better
watch that eavesdropping, Kent. He did his best to respect other people’s
privacy, but it wasn’t always easy for someone who could see and hear as well
as he.
Superman was glad to see that Mildred had taken an interest in Emil. And if
he knew anything at all about human nature, the professor was interested in her,
in his own way. Well, good. Everyone needs a little love in their life. Superman
banked sharply to the west, picking up speed. And if I don’t step on it, I’ll miss
meeting the love of MY life!
3

“US Air 793, service from Ottawa, has arrived at gate twenty-three.”
Lois Lane walked up the jetway, carry-on bag in hand. It sometimes seemed
to her that she spent most of her life in airports. That’s what happens when
you’re born into the military, she thought ruefully. Her father had been
transferred to base after base on the road to promotion, and the family had
dutifully followed. Before she was twelve, Lois had lived on three different
continents. Captain Sam Lane had clearly enjoyed the constant change of
scenery during the years when his daughters were growing up; the family had
adapted as best they could. To this day, Lois’s mother, Ella, had boxes that she
had never unpacked. Lois’s sister, Lucy, seemed unable to stay in any one place
for long and had found work as an airline flight attendant. And Lois herself had
become a reporter, her job often taking her across the country or out of it.
It wasn’t until the girls were grown and out on their own that Sam surprised
everyone by opting for early retirement and settling in Metropolis. For Mom’s
sake, I’m glad he did, Lois reflected. Things are finally a little easier for her. But
it figures that the Captain would turn into a homebody after teaching his
daughters to be vagabonds.
That wasn’t all he’d taught them. Complications with Lucy’s birth had
prevented Ella from having any more children, and Sam had never bothered to
hide his disappointment.
“All my life I’ve wanted a boy . . . a son to carry on my name. Your mother
has let me down twice, but I’ll make do.”
The memory of her father’s words still slung Lois. You “made do” all right,
Dad. The Captain had drilled her and Lucy in hand-to-hand combat, and even
put them through a course in survival training. You were determined to make us
as tough as any boy. Lois grinned wryly. The problem was, you did too good a
job. During her last year of high school, Lois had stood up to her father, told him
off, and moved out. It was years before they even spoke to each other again.

“Pardon me, ma’am . . .” Lois was suddenly aware of a tall figure behind her. “. .
. but ‘would you believe in a love at first sight’?”
She turned and smiled at a square-jawed man in a double-breasted suit. “ ‘Yes
I’m certain that it happens all the time.’ Lennon and McCartney, 1967.”
“Mostly Paul, y’know,” he lapsed into a Liverpool accent, “though I think I
read where John helped out with a lyric here or there.”
Lois tried unsuccessfully to choke back her laughter. “Clark Kent, you’re
terrible!”
“I am?” He assumed a look of mock dismay. “And here I thought my accent
was pretty good.”
“Oh, it’s spot-on. No, I meant your using an old Beatles song to pick up
strange women in airports!”
“Correction—one particular strange woman!” He bent down, and their lips
met.
“Mmm, I stand corrected. You’re a great kisser, you know that?”
“So you say. I guess I can trust your judgment.”
“You’d better!” she teased. “After all, I did say that I’d marry you.” Lois
slipped her arm through his and they headed for the main terminal.
“So, how was your interview with the prime minister?”
“It went great. Honestly, Clark, she is so funny. I just wish we could print
some of the stories she told me off the record.”
“Do you have any pressing need to get back to the office?”
“No, I already faxed in the interview.”
“Any baggage to claim?”
She shook her head. “Just this carry-on. Why? What do you have in mind?”
“Well, I faxed my story in earlier, too. So, I thought we could get some
breakfast, and you could tell me all about your Canadian adventure.”
“You’re on, Clark! Come on, my car’s in the short-term lot.”
The glass double doors of the terminal hissed open, and they were greeted by
sunny skies, a warm breeze, and the whine of jet engines. As they waited for
traffic to clear the crosswalk, Lois traced the contour of Clark’s bicep with the
tip of her finger.
He beamed down at her. “Remember the first time I picked you up at this
airport?”
“Remember? That’s something I’ll never forget . . .”

Lois had been working full-time for the Daily Planet barely five years, but she’d
already made quite a name for herself as an investigative reporter. The power
and prestige of the Planet had given her work national exposure and led to her
being chosen as a civilian crew member for the maiden flight of NASA’s
experimental space plane, the Constitution.
The launch went off on schedule without a hitch, and Lois had made history
as the first journalist ever to file her stories from out in space. Her daily reports
on the flight of the space plane saw print in newspapers throughout the world,
inspiring interest in space the likes of which hadn’t been seen since the days of
the first Apollo mission to the moon. As a result of all the public attention, an
enormous crowd, numbering in the hundreds of thousands, had turned out to see
the Constitution land at Metropolis International Airport.
The unusual landing site had been agreed upon thanks to a serendipitous
joining of forces. NASA wanted a landing at a civilian airport to maximize
publicity and display the commercial potential of its space plane project. The
city’s movers and shakers had wanted a big event to cap off a series of
celebrations of the 250th anniversary of the founding of Metropolis. And the
presence of a Daily Planet reporter in the flight crew had sealed the deal.
Even with all the hassles involved in rescheduling the scores of commercial
flights to provide ready clearance, everything had gone like clockwork. It looked
as though the Constitution would complete her maiden flight in picture-perfect
style.
But then suddenly, despite all precautions, a small civilian jet aircraft
somehow slipped into the restricted airspace, though whether by accident or by
design was never determined. The small plane slammed into the Constitution’s
tail section, metal locking onto metal. For one surreal moment, the two ships
seemed to hang motionless in the air. And then, fused together, they tumbled
Earthward.
Aboard the space plane, Colonel Howard Morrow let out a string of curses as
he fought for control of his ship. Two seats back, Lois wondered if she would
live to file another story, and the plane went into a spin. It’s like being inside a
clothes dryer, she thought numbly, just cooler.
 Up front, the white-haired Morrow felt his stomach clench. “This thing is
going to hit just like a brick.”
But then, inexplicably, the spinning ceased.
“We’re leveling off . . . we’re slowing down!” Morrow turned to his copilot.
“Callahan, did you—?”
Major Adam Callahan shook his head. “Not me, boss. We’re still dead stick
and power down. I don’t know what’s going on.”
“I . . . I do.” Lieutenant Anne West, the ship’s navigator, looked up from her
monitor station, her eyes wide. “I’ve got it on our belly camera, but I don’t
believe it for a minute.”
Lois looked at the video display. There was someone under the Constitution.
And he looked as though he was holding the ship aloft!
“It can’t be! A flying man?!”
“Don’t argue with it!” barked Morrow. “He’s saved us! Start cranking . . .
we’ve got to get the landing gear down.”
The instant they were down and had come to a halt, Lois was out of her seat
and headed for the forward hatch. She knew that she’d found the kind of story
that reporters dreamed of. That man was news—the story of the decade, maybe
of the century—and she wasn’t about to let him get away. Scrambling from the
space plane, she spotted the tall stranger as he emerged from under the fuselage.
Lois put all the authority she could muster into a shout. “Hold it right there,
buster!”
It worked. The young man froze in his tracks. Lois dashed up to him, and then
a strange thing happened. Their eyes met, and the brash young auburn-haired
reporter found herself speechless.
Thus far in her career, Lois Lane had already interviewed three heads of state
and a number of Nobel Prize winners. Moreover, she’d just returned from a
three-day flight on the edge of space. She was not easily impressed. But . . .
there was something about this man.
It wasn’t just that he was tall and handsome, which admittedly he was. Lois
stood five foot six, and the stranger towered over her a good head taller. Six-two
at the least, she thought. His eyes were a deeper blue than any she’d ever seen.
And his hair was very dark, with an errant lock that boyishly curled down across
his forehead, almost forming the letter S.
 No, aside from his striking appearance—even aside from the astounding fact
that he’d flown through the air and saved their lives—there was something very
different about this man. There was nothing distinguishing about his clothing.
He was dressed quite simply in slacks and a jacket. Yet he had a presence about
him.
Lois opened her mouth but found that she still couldn’t speak. The stranger
appeared to be similarly affected. They stood just inches apart, staring at each
other for what seemed like hours.
Gradually, Lois became aware of a distant roar which grew in volume and
intensity. The roar suddenly turned into voices . . . cheering, shouting, screaming
voices. Across the runways streamed hundreds of people who had broken
through a chain link fence and overwhelmed the security barricades. Before Lois
could gather her wits, the crowd surged around her, separating her from the
handsome stranger. A look of panic flashed across his face, and he leapt straight
up into the air . . . and kept going.
Stunned silent by the flying man’s sudden departure, the mob fell back and
began to disperse. In the confusion, Lois made her way nearly unnoticed to a pay
phone and called through to the Planet’s city desk.
“Morrie? This is Lois.”
“Lois? What’s goin’ on? The TV just showed—”
“Don’t say another word. Just take this down.” She paused to collect herself.
“The crew of the Constitution, NASA’s experimental space plane, was saved
from certain death this afternoon by a mysterious flying . . . Superman.”
Within minutes, the story went out over the wire, and newspeople across the
country seized upon the name Lois had given her rescuer. To the media, he
became Superman, and neither his life nor hers would ever be the same again.
It was just three days later that Superman reappeared in the skies over
Metropolis, and this time he was not trying to escape notice. Wearing the red,
yellow, and blue costume that would become his trademark, he seemed to be
everywhere. He was the one who swooped from the heavens to stop the purse
thief, pull people from the burning building, or prevent a terrorist bombing.
And for that first week, Lois Lane found herself one step behind him. No
matter how quickly she moved, Superman was always gone by the time she
arrived at the scene of the crime or the rescue.
“Fine thing,” she groused. “Everyone’s using the name I gave the guy, and I
can’t find out the first thing about him! I’ve chased him all over Metropolis, and
all I have to show for my trouble is sore feet.”
Determined to interview Superman, Lois finally devised a phony emergency
to attract his attention. Taking the precaution of stashing a scuba tank under her
front seat, she actually drove her car off a city pier and into the river. As she’d
hoped, Superman responded to her “danger,” fishing her and the car from the
waters.
In costume, Superman cut an even more striking figure, the tight fit of the
garment accentuating every ripple of muscle as he opened the car door. Not just
tall, thought Lois, he’s BIG.
“Are you all right, Ms. Lane?” His voice was a deep baritone.
“A . . . a bit waterlogged, but otherwise fine . . . thanks to you!”
“Don’t mention it.” His mouth widened into a smile that actors would kill for.
Every tooth was perfect. “It’d probably be wise if you got into some dry clothes
as soon as you could. Here, let me fly you home.”
In a matter of moments, Lois found herself whisked through the air to her
midtown apartment.
“You . . . know where I live?”
“Of course, Ms. Lane. I know where everyone lives.”
Everything was happening so fast, but this time Lois kept her wits about her.
She asked her rescuer to wait and rushed to make herself more presentable. As
Lois threw on dry clothes, she fought back a giddiness she hadn’t felt since she
was a girl. Let’s keep this professional, Lois. That’s the story of the century
sitting out there in your living room. She started to reach for the hair dryer, then
stopped and wrapped a towel around her hair. Mustn’t keep him waiting. Taking
a deep breath, Lois returned to find her visitor scratching her young cat, Elroy,
behind the ears. He likes cats. That’s a good sign, she thought and promptly
shifted into reporter mode.
Superman was not a difficult interview, but neither was he very forthcoming.
Lois was able to pin him down on the specifics of his amazing powers but not
much else.
“Okay, you can obviously fly . . . you’re very strong and very fast . . . you can
see through anything . . . and you can produce some kind of heat-ray zap with
your eyes.”
 “Yes. But as I’ve already said, Ms. Lane, I don’t think knowing all this will be
of much use to you.”
“You’re too modest. You happen to be the story of the century, Mr. . . . Mr. . .
. just what should we call you?”
“I think the name you gave me is quite appropriate, Ms. Lane.”
“Superman?” So, he won’t admit to any other name? “All right, Superman it
is. Now, is there any way I can get you to call me ‘Lois’?”
“I’d be delighted . . . Lois.”
“Thank you.” Now maybe there’s a chance I can pry more details out of you.
“Just where are you from, Superman? Are you a Metropolis native, or are you
from out of town?”
“Out of town. To be honest, I don’t know exactly where I’m from originally. I
guess it doesn’t really matter. Let’s just say I’m an American.”
Try as she might, Lois couldn’t get him to talk about his private life. He
remained in complete control of the interview, even in bringing it to a close.
“There’s nothing more I can tell you, Lois. And as I said, what I have told you
isn’t going to be of much use.” He rose to his feet. “So I’ll say good-bye for
now.” He crossed the room, covering the distance to the balcony with an even,
effortless stride. There, he paused for a moment and looked back, shooting her a
wry grin. “Just out of curiosity, Lois . . . do you always drive around with a
scuba tank under your front seat?”

“I never could keep anything a secret from you.”

“What was that, Lois?” Clark’s clear, even tenor was a marked contrast to the
deeper voice he used as Superman.
“Nothing.” She unlocked the passenger door for him and walked around to the
driver’s side of her car. “Just thinking out loud.”
“You think wrong, kemo sabe! In all the time I’ve known you, you’ve kept
plenty of secrets. In fact, you continue to surprise me!”
“Good!” Lois tossed her carry-on bag into his lap. “You kept me in the dark
about so many things for so long, it’s only fair that I occasionally return the
favor.”
“Now, Lois, we’ve been over this before. I couldn’t very well tell you that I
led a double life . . . not during that first little . . . discussion.”
“Interview!” Lois could feel her face growing hot. “It was an interview, not a
discussion! It would have been the story of the century if it’d ever seen print!”
“Honey . . . I told you when we talked that it wouldn’t be of much use.”
“You didn’t tell me that you’d already written up the story yourself!”
“I know. Looking back, I should have said that I’d already talked to another
reporter. Except I wasn’t officially a reporter at that point. That story got me my
job at the Planet.” Clark put a hand on her shoulder. He was relieved that she
didn’t pull away. “I never meant to steal your glory. Don’t be angry with me.”
“I’m not. I’m just . . . well, yes—I guess I still am.” She stopped just short of
turning the key in the ignition. No good sense in driving while I’m mad. That’s
how accidents happen. She turned in her seat to face him. “Two hours! Two
hours I spent at the keyboard, whipping that story into shape. And it was good—
Pulitzer material for certain!”
“I believe it. You were a better reporter than I was—!”
“And still am!”
Clark let the challenge slide. “But ask yourself this. If our positions had been
reversed, what would you have done?”
Lois looked down at the wheel. It was a question she’d put to herself many
times, even before she’d learned his secret. “Probably the same thing.” Her voice
was barely a whisper.
“Uh, what was that, Lois? Did you say something?”
“You heard me, Mr. Super-hearing!” She playfully elbowed him in the ribs
and instantly felt an electric tingle shoot up her arm. “Ow!”
“Honey, are you all right?”
“No! I hit my funny bone on you!” Lois gingerly rubbed her arm. “Might as
well have tried to elbow a brick wall!”
“Here, let me.” Clark moved closer, gently rubbing her elbow and applying
pressure to certain nerves.
“Oh, that’s good!” The pins and needles feeling faded. “You’re very good at
that.”
“My back rubs aren’t bad, either. They’re almost as good as yours.”
She looked into his eyes. His glasses had a dulling effect, muting the color of
his irises so that they looked more gray than blue.
“I love you, Lois.”
“And I love you.” She sighed. “That’s why it’s so infuriating! If you hadn’t
scooped me with the Superman story, we might not have become such rivals.
And then we might have gotten together a lot sooner.”
“Maybe . . . maybe not.” He planted a little kiss on the tip of her nose. “Things
might have been different, but there’s no way of knowing for certain that they’d
have been better.” He kissed her right cheek. “As it was, there was competition
between us, sure, but we also got to work alongside each other . . .” He kissed
her left cheek. “. . . got to know each other better . . . and fell in love.”
Clark gazed into her eyes. “Besides, anticipation makes the heart grow
fonder.”
“I thought that was ‘absence.’ ”
“No, absence just makes it sadder.”
Their lips met, and no further words were exchanged.
4

Days passed, but they might as well have been minutes to the imprisoned
Creature. As he flailed away at the wall of the vault that held him, he seemed
neither to weaken nor to tire. Again and again he struck at his prison wall. And
with each strike, the heavy gauntlet that encased his free hand gradually began to
shred and fall apart.
Bony spurs, protruding from the huge knuckles of the Creature, began to
emerge from the tattered glove. With each succeeding impact, the spurs scored
deeper grooves into the thick metal wall. Although ever so slightly, the metal
began to deform under the assault of his ceaseless pounding. Trailing strands of
cable whipped about like maddened snakes as the Creature continued, his huge
arm working like a trip-hammer.
And then, finally, the tips of his bony knuckles pierced the wall. Four tiny
little points, none bigger than the tip of a finely sharpened pencil, broke through
solid alloy.
A satisfied growl rumbled beneath his hood, and the Creature redoubled his
efforts.

Northwest of Metropolis, far beneath the surface of Mount Curtiss, another

heavily fortified structure lay buried, far bigger than the vault that held the
Creature. This structure was a sprawling underground complex of research
laboratories and test facilities of the federal government’s top-secret Cadmus
Project.
On this particular morning, Project Security Chief Jim Harper was, as usual,
in the middle of his calisthenics. Every day without fail, Harper started out with
five minutes of stretching and thirty minutes of sit-ups, push-ups, pull-ups, and
jumping jacks, followed by another thirty minutes of working out with weights.
The other men and women on his staff might use the more high-tech workout
equipment, but Jim preferred the old standbys. He’d first begun his daily
regimen over fifty years ago, while working with the Metropolis Police
Department. The regimen had stood the test of time. Better than I have, thought
Harper. Though he prided himself on staying fit, time and circumstances had
eventually taken their toll. I’d be long dead, if not for the boys.
The boys . . . Harper set down his hundred-pound weights and walked across
the room to where an old framed photograph sat on his desk. The photo was
yellowing around the edges, but it still brought a smile to his face. There he was
in his old police uniform with four boys clustered around him. They were grown
men now, each one of them near the top of his chosen field, but in Jim’s heart of
hearts they’d always be his boys. We’ve all come a long way from Suicide Slum.
Hard to believe that it’s been so long.

Over half a century ago, Jim Harper had been a young rookie cop, newly
assigned to the precinct that encompassed Suicide Slum. Then, as now, it was
the toughest neighborhood in Metropolis. That point was driven home one day
when, after going off duty, Jim was beaten by a band of hoodlums who had lain
in wait for him. Satisfied that they’d taught the rookie a lesson, his attackers left
him lying bruised and battered in an alley. But Jim Harper was a stronger, far
tougher man than they’d realized. His clothing in tatters, he pulled himself to his
feet and lurched down the darkened street after the hoodlums. Leaning against
the threshold of a local costume shop to catch his breath, he was surprised when
the door, left unlocked by a careless cashier, swung open. Harper’s eyes settled
on a prominently displayed crash helmet. Seized by a sudden inspiration, he
cobbled together a mystery-man outfit complete with gloves, boots, and mask.
Easing the helmet onto his aching head, he topped off the look with an
ornamental metal shield that he found hanging on the wall. Leaving behind cash
to cover his late-night purchase, the disguised Harper secured the storefront and
ran off in pursuit of his attackers.
He found them in a neighborhood pool hall. With the protection of his helmet
and shield, and the advantage of surprise, Harper made fast work of the
hoodlums. Checking their wallets for identification, the masked man discovered
thick wads of cash, bearing serial numbers identical to the numbers on the
money paid in the ransom of a recent kidnapping. As he tied up the groggy
thugs, one of them stared at him in disbelief.
“Who are you?”
“Why, I’m . . .” Harper hesitated. The question surprised him. The mask
worked better than he’d thought; they really hadn’t recognized him. “I’m . . . sort
of a . . . guardian, I guess. Yes, that’s it. I guard society from the likes of you!”
And then, as the wailing sirens of approaching patrol cars grew louder, the
Guardian slipped away into the night.
The next day, back in his normal uniform and back on duty patrolling the
streets, Harper was still mulling over his Lone Ranger-like adventure of the
night before. He could almost have dismissed it as a dream or perhaps an
hallucination if not for the costume he’d hidden in the back of his closet.
“Hooligans! Thieves! Stop them!” The angry cry roused Patrolman Harper
from his reverie. He bolted down the sidewalk and ran right into four young
street urchins who were in the act of fleeing a hardware store with stolen goods.
The four were a motley crew of orphans who had banded together to live on
their own, in defiance of continued attempts by authorities to find them foster
homes. The boys—the soft-spoken, athletic Tommy, talkative Gabby, short and
feisty Scrapper, and tall, thin Big Words, the thinker of the group—tried to make
ends meet by hawking newspapers on the corner and occasionally supplementing
their income with petty theft.
When Harper brought the boys before Judge Charles Benjamin Collins, the
jurist was not happy to see them. “According to past records, you boys have
stolen radiator caps, tires, and other goods. And now this!” Collins paused to
remove his pince-nez glasses and rub the bridge of his nose. “I have no recourse
but to find you guilty. These crimes brand you as potential enemies of society.
As you have no families, it is my sad duty to commit you to the State Institution
for Boys, where you will remain until you reach the age of twenty-one.”
“W-w-what?” stammered Big Words. “Institution—? Imprisonment—?”
“Till we’re twenty-one?!” Tommy couldn’t believe it.
“You can’t do that to us!” yowled Scrapper.
Gabby strained to hold him back. “Holy geez, Scrap, don’t go startin’ nothin’
now. We’re in enough trouble as it is!”
“Your Honor?” Harper stepped forward. “I’d like to say a few good words on
behalf of these boys.”
“We don’t need your help, copper!”
“Scrapper! Geez!”
Judge Collins gaveled for silence. “Well, Patrolman?”
“I know these boys, Judge Collins. Just about everyone in Hob’s Bay does.
They’re basically good boys. They’ve had to fight and steal their way through
life to avoid starving. If you send them to that reform school, they’ll associate
with tougher, more hardened offenders . . . and become more hardened
themselves. I wish you’d reconsider your decision.”
The judge gave Harper a quizzical look. “I take it that you have another plan
to help these boys, Patrolman?”
“Yes, Your Honor.” Jim Harper looked at the boys. He’d been an orphan
himself, not so different from them. Jim knew that he might just as easily have
grown up to be a criminal as a cop, if not for a few good breaks. Now he saw a
way to pass those breaks along to a new generation. Harper looked back at the
judge. “I ask that you release the boys into my custody. Give me a chance to
prove that they can become useful, productive citizens.”
Judge Collins stroked his mustache. So many officers who appeared before
him were hardened and cynical about life in Suicide Slum. The judge was
frankly astounded by the young patrolman’s plea. Here was obviously an
idealist! “I’d like to see you in my chambers, young man.”
Alone with the judge in his paneled office, Harper again made his case.
“Do you know what you’re asking, Harper? Do you realize the responsibilities
involved?”
“Yes, sir.”
“All right, your point about the State Institution is well-taken. It probably
breeds more young criminals than it reforms, and it’s horribly overcrowded.
And, at this point, so are the orphanages.” The judge studied the young rookie.
“Normally, policy prohibits assigning the guardianship of a child to any single
man or woman who is not a blood relative, but our state law does allow me a
certain amount of leeway. Still, all four of them—?”
“They’re all the family they know, sir. Breaking them up would be a mistake.”
“A mistake is probably what I’m about to make, but . . . all right, Harper.
They’re yours for now. But I don’t ever want to see them in my court again! Is
that clear?”
“Absolutely, Your Honor.”
In the years that followed, Jim Harper saw to it that his ragtag “Newsboy
Legion,” as he came to call them, stuck to the straight and narrow. Often, he
used his other identity as the Guardian to help them out of rough spots. They
eventually caught on to his double life, but they’d never betrayed Harper to
another living soul. In time, the boys grew up and moved out of the old
neighborhood, and the patrolman put his Guardian outfit away.
Harper had done a good job in helping his boys turn their lives around. Big
Words graduated from the University of Metropolis to become Dr. Anthony
Rodrigues and gained fame for his expertise in quantum mechanics. Scrapper
dropped his street name long before he became the much-sought-after engineer
Patrick MacGuire. John “Gabby” Gabrielli’s talent for public speaking
contributed to his success in the business world. And Dr. Tommy Tompkins’s
research in genetics led to the creation of the Cadmus Project, which had
ultimately brought them all together again.
Along with the renowned geneticist Reginald Augustine and his eccentric
colleague Dabney Donovan, Dr. Tompkins had founded the Cadmus Project
after decades of independent research. The idea of the founders was to launch a
study of DNA and the human genetic code with the same degree of intensity and
support that the Manhattan Project had garnered during the Second World War.
When, after years of lobbying, they finally got government funding, Tompkins
called upon his three boyhood friends for assistance in making the Project work.
It was Pat MacGuire who remembered an old, abandoned aqueduct, stretching
from far beneath the streets of Metropolis to distant Mount Curtiss, and
developed the underground site plan for what became the Cadmus Project.
Tompkins and his friends became so involved in the design and construction of
Cadmus that they all stayed on the job, eventually becoming high-ranking
department heads within the Project.
Years after the four friends got the Cadmus Project up and running, they
received word that their old mentor, Jim Harper, was dying. Pulling every string
available to them, they had Harper brought into the Project. Utilizing still-
experimental processes developed by Cadmus’s amazing genetics laboratories,
they cloned him a powerful new body, literally giving him a new lease on life.

Jim picked up his weights and continued with his reps. Not bad for an old man,
he thought. It felt good to be strong and vital again. And, of course, after all the
boys had done for him, he could hardly turn down their offer to head the
Project’s Security Team.
As it turned out, there’d been considerable problems brought about by some
controversial experiments started by Dabney Donovan. Before his death, the
eccentric geneticist caused a major scandal, which the department heads were
still trying to put behind them. They’d desperately needed their old mentor’s
help in getting the Cadmus Project back on the up and up.
Harper shook his head and chuckled to himself. One way or another, I always
wind up playing the Guardian.

In a plush penthouse apartment on the ninetieth floor of the LexCorp Tower, Lex
Luthor II tossed and turned in his sleep, dreaming.
In his dream, Lex was running for his life. Something was chasing him down
a long series of twisting corridors. His chest burned from the effort, and every
muscle ached. Why . . . do I feel . . . so tired . . . so old? Even his thoughts were
labored. An old familiar pain seized him, and he looked down to see an ugly
prosthetic hand clamped to the end of his right arm. My hand! No! He stopped
and pulled at the metal hand. It came away, revealing the reddened, irritated skin
of the stub of his arm. It was a fat, flabby arm.
The wall suddenly became a mirror, and Luthor screamed. The man who
stared out at him was old and fat and bald. Behind him the shadows laughed.
“You shouldn’t run so hard, Lex. You’re not a young man anymore.”
“Who is it? Who’s there?” Luthor’s voice was a tortured wheeze.
“Don’t you recognize me, Lex? I’m disappointed.” A gaunt and gangly figure
shambled forward, a soiled and tattered lab coat flapping about his ankles. A
week’s growth of beard crawled along his jaw, and a disreputable brush of a
mustache grew beneath his hook of a nose. Above, a scraggly wisp of hair was
all that was left of the widow’s peak that had once topped his forehead. His eyes
were all but hidden behind the thick lenses of gogglelike glasses.
Luthor swallowed hard. “Dabney Donovan. I don’t believe it.”
Donovan laughed. “Is that any way to greet the man who made you what you
are?”
“But you’re dead, I killed you!”
“You killed one of my clones, Luthor. You see, I trusted you even less than
you trusted me.”
“You bastard, what have you done to me?” Luthor grabbed Donovan by the
lapel of his lab coat and shook him.
 Donovan’s mouth gaped wide in a grotesque smile, and then his jaw fell loose
from his head and clattered across the floor. Luthor let go of the lapel and
jumped back as Donovan’s body fell apart, collapsing into a bleeding, oozing
heap.
“Oh, my God!”
“God had nothing to do with it!”
Lex whirled around. There was another Donovan right behind him.
“Genetic engineering, Lex. If you know the right molecules to tweak on the
chromosomal matrix, you can create anything. You don’t need to rely upon any
deity.”
Donovan’s breath smelled like rotting meat. Luthor tried to turn away but
found himself back against a wall.
“That’s how we saved your miserable life, after all!” Donovan poked a bony
finger against his chest. “First, we faked your death by letting your body-double
die in the plane crash. Then, while the world was mourning the passing of the
great Lex Luthor, we got you on the table and scraped away all the tainted
tissue.”
Donovan took a step back and began fishing around in his coat pocket. “Now,
where did I put that—? Ah, here it is!” He pulled what looked like a television
remote control from the pocket and flipped a switch. In response, an image
appeared in midair . . . a ghastly image of a brain and two staring eyes floating in
a chemical bath within a huge glass retort. Donovan assumed a professorial
demeanor.
“There wasn’t much left of you by the time we got through, Lex. Just a brain,
a bit of the spinal column, and two eyes . . . and they were slightly astigmatic!
Ah, but we fixed all that. There was more than enough DNA to play with. With
the proper manipulation, it took us only a few months to make a new man of you
. . . stronger, taller, younger . . . we even did something about that annoying
pattern baldness.” Donovan ran a hand through his own thinning mop. “Must
remember to do something about that myself.”
“Then what went wrong?” Luthor demanded. “What’s happened to me? Why
am I old again?”
“You were young only in body.” A new voice echoed from down the corridor,
drawing nearer. “Inside, you were still the same old Luthor. You might have
convinced the rest of the world that you were your own son, but you couldn’t
fool me . . . not for long.”
From out of the shadows came a tall, powerful figure that Luthor knew all too
well.
“Superman!”
“Yes, Lex, and I have something for you.” From beneath the folds of his cape,
Superman produced a heavy lead canister.
“What’s that?”
“Oh, I think you know what it is, Lex.”
“Keep away from me!”
“Why, Lex, I want only to give you a hand!” He opened the end of the
canister with a twist, revealing a withered human hand. It was Luthor’s hand. On
one finger was the ring with its dimly glowing kryptonite gem . . . the ring that
had nearly cost him his life!
“This is what you want, isn’t it?”
“No . . . no . . .”
“Take it. Lex. Take it!”
The hand flew from the canister, grabbed Luthor by the throat, and began to
squeeze.
“No! NOOOOOH!”

Lex awoke with a start, clutching at his throat. His heart racing, he raised a good
right hand to his head. The neatly cropped beard, the long, flowing mane of hair
was still there. He hit a switch on the nightstand and a soft diffused light
illuminated the far corner of the room. He arose from his bed and walked toward
the light, regarding his reflection in the window. A rugged young man with
broad shoulders and a tight, firm gut looked back at him. He breathed a sigh of
relief.
“Lex?” A body stirred behind him. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, love. Just had m’self a bit of a nightmare ’sall.”
A lithe, athletic young woman emerged from beneath the covers and padded
across the room to join him at the window. Her long blond hair fell across his
chest as she snuggled close to him.
 “Why, I can feel your heart pounding. That must have been a real horror.”
“Wasn’t any fun, to be sure. I . . . I dreamt that I’d lost m’hand . . . like
m’father had.”
“Oh! How awful!” She kissed his hand and gently caressed it. “What do you
think could have caused such a terrible dream?”
Lex shrugged. “I think about Father all the time.” That was no lie. “Guess
m’mind just jumbled things up, and made me imagine what it must’ve been like .
. . to be in his shoes. Nothing to really worry about.”
Except for Dabney Donovan, thought Luthor. The one I killed did turn out to
be a clone . . . that much of the dream was true. He’s the only one outside of
Kelley and Happersen who knows my secret. Gretchen Kelley had been his
personal physician for years and had been willing—however reluctantly—to
play the part of his mother. In her own way, she loved Luthor, and he knew that
he could trust her with his life. Syd Happersen was a valued aide who had been
with him since LexCorp’s founding. Happersen couldn’t betray Luthor without
exposing his own part in a number of capital crimes. Only Donovan was a
potential danger to him . . . He’s the only one beyond my control.
“Are you sure it’s nothing?” The young woman’s face was a picture of
concern.
“Would I lie to you, love?”
“No, of course not.” She smiled. “Come on, let’s go back to bed.”
They slipped back under the covers and she cuddled close to him, softly
crooning in his ear.
“Mmm, lovely tune.” He stifled a yawn and looked at the clock: 3:47. “ ’S the
hour, love, not the comp’ny.”
“Shhh, that’s all right. You need your sleep.” She kissed him, more
affectionately than passionately. “Sweeter dreams, Lex.”
“An’ to you . . . m’darlin’ . . . Supergirl.”
Within moments, Lex Luthor was once again fast asleep. It was, he had once
told her, a talent he had inherited from his father. For nearly half an hour she
watched as his chest slowly rose and fell and his eyelids twitched rapidly
through REM sleep and beyond. Then, satisfied that his nightmares had passed,
Supergirl silently arose, floating free of the covers and gliding across the room.
She stopped at the door, looking back once more at her slumbering lover before
slipping out into the hall. There she glanced down at her clinging nightgown.
Can’t go out like this, she thought, as the cloth began to flow about her,
changing in both form and color. In an instant, she stood attired in a bright red
skirt with matching cape and boots—layered over a royal-blue leotard. Across
her chest stretched a red and yellow pentagonal shield, forming a familiar
stylized letter S. She paused but a moment to check her reflection in the window
at the end of the dimly lit hall before leaping from a nearby window and flying
out over the city of Metropolis.
Hundreds of feet above the streets, Supergirl swooped and soared to her
heart’s content. She hoped she hadn’t made a mistake, leaving Lex alone tonight,
but she needed far less sleep than he did. And it wasn’t as if she hadn’t slipped
away many times before. She loved to fly at night, with the lights of Metropolis
spread out before her.
It’s so beautiful at night, thought Supergirl, like a huge Christmas tree, going
on for miles and miles. The city, with its millions of residents, held a constant
fascination for her. There were no cities where she had come from, only ruins.
This is what my world would have been like, if not for General Zod.

Supergirl had come to Earth not just from another planet but from another
universe. That extradimensional realm had been an altered copy of our own
reality, a kind of pocket universe created by a mysterious cosmic entity.
There was a duplicate of Earth in that pocket universe. But that world had
possessed no Superman and had been all but defenseless when attacked by a trio
of superpowered terrorists led by the murderous General Zod. Zod’s forces
effectively subjugated that world, forcing the native resistance forces to go
underground.
Although that other-Earth had no Superman, it did claim among its residents a
doppelganger of Lex Luthor. That alternate-version of Luthor was a younger,
more vital man than the aging industrialist of our world, but he was no less
ambitious. He was a scientific genius without equal, and he quickly became the
leader of the resistance forces. In an attempt to devise a means of combatting the
superterrorists, he made two remarkable discoveries. The first was a substance of
his own invention that he called “protomatter,” and the second was the existence
of our universe and its Superman. Despite being able to observe our world, he
was at first unable to make contact with it. And so he set out to create his own
superpowered champion.
The other-Luthor deduced that protomatter could be manipulated to duplicate
the human form right down to the molecular level. After much grueling work, he
finally managed to create an artificial life-form inspired by his observations . . . a
Supergirl. Luthor was her Pygmalion, and she his Galatea. He had created in his
Supergirl a being able to levitate and fly at incredible speeds. While not as
strong as Superman, she wielded powerful psychokinetic energies and could
generate energy shields capable of cloaking her presence, effectively rendering
her invisible. And due to the fluidity of her protomatter substance, Supergirl
could also alter her appearance at will.
But even with her amazing powers, Supergirl was no match for Zod and his
partners. They ran roughshod over the planet, boiling away its oceans and
depleting its atmosphere. Soon they rendered it all but uninhabitable.
In desperation the other-Luthor tried transporting Supergirl to our world to
locate and enlist Superman’s help in ending Zod’s reign of terror. The
complicated transfer left Supergirl dazed and disoriented, but her quest finally
proved successful, and Superman returned with his young namesake to aid the
resistance fighters.
But Superman’s help came too late. Before they could be stopped, Zod’s
terrorists left Supergirl gravely injured and destroyed all other native life within
that other-universe. In the name of the resistance, Superman was forced to
execute the terrorists. It was the only way he could keep their killing spree from
crossing over to our world.
Superman gathered up the injured Supergirl and left the dead duplicate of
Earth, carrying her back to our reality and entrusting her to his own parents.
Although her injuries had affected her mind, leaving her childlike and simple,
under the care of Jonathan and Martha Kent she slowly began to recover.
Supergirl came to love the Kents dearly, but—in her attempts to regain mastery
of her powers—she feared that she had inadvertently put the Kents in danger.
Afraid that she was too dangerous to remain around normal human beings, she
flew off into space.
After some time spent wandering among the stars, Supergirl finally came to
realize that Earth was the closest thing to a home that she might find. Locating a
small abandoned starship, she put her doubts behind her and set a course for our
world.
 But something went wrong.
Supergirl’s ship went off course, crash-landing in the New Mexico desert.
There it was spotted and recovered by a research team from the aeronautics
division of LexCorp International. The first face that Supergirl saw upon
regaining consciousness was that of Lex Luthor II. He was the very image of the
man who had created her, and she had fallen hopelessly in love with him.

I was so lucky to find him, thought Supergirl, as she looped around the Daily
Planet Building. I wish Superman could understand that. She frowned,
remembering the awful scene with Superman when he had learned that she was
living with Lex. He said that he didn’t want to see me hurt, but he was just as
worried that I’d spill the beans about his double life. As if I’d ever reveal
anything that would jeopardize him or the Kents! I just wish I hadn’t lost my
temper.
Their argument had escalated, and she’d wound up blasting Superman into a
landfill halfway across the city. He had not been physically injured, of course,
but they’d both been embarrassed by the altercation.
We’ve hardly spoken since. He knows I’m sorry, and I know he’s not the type
to carry a grudge, but I still feel awful about it. We should be . . . well, not
partners . . . and certainly not lovers! I have Lex and he has Lois. But I wish we
could be closer. She briefly considered dropping by Clark’s apartment but
decided against it. He might have company. He is engaged, after all! Besides,
there’ll be other times to talk.
Supergirl turned in a wide loop back toward the LexCorp Tower. She loved to
soar over Metropolis and tried never to miss her nighttime flights. But dawn was
now just a few hours away, and she had to be there for her darling Lex when he
awoke.
5

“Hey, Mr. Kent! Wait up!”

Clark stopped in midstride and turned as a red-haired young man dashed
toward him from a nearby subway entrance, a camera case slapping against his
leg.
“Hello, Jimmy. And how goes things in the borough of Bakerline this fine
morning?”
“Okay, I guess, for Bakerline.” Jimmy Olsen shrugged. “I’d still rather live
here on the big island—like you do, Mr. Kent—but it’s so hard to find an
apartment I can afford.”
“Jim, I’ve told you, I really don’t mind if you use my first name. Every time
you call me ‘Mr. Kent,’ I feel like looking around to see if my father’s there.”
“Yeah, I know. Ms. La—I mean, Lois has been after me about the same thing.
I still feel funny about it, though.”
“I’ll make you a deal. If you don’t call me Mr. Kent, I won’t call you Mr.
Olsen.”
Jimmy chuckled. “Okay, Clark . . . I’ll try.”
“Good. As to your apartment problem, have you considered finding a
roommate?”
“Aw, I tried that once and it didn’t work out.”
“Maybe you just didn’t find the right roommate. It’s worth another try, don’t
you think?”
“Yeah, I guess so.” Jimmy absentmindedly smacked his hand with a rolled up
magazine as they waited for the traffic lights to change.
“What do you have there, Jim?”
“This? It’s the latest Newstime.”
“Ah. Did they pick up another of your photos?”
“Not this week. No, I was reading an article about Guy Gardner, you know,
the ex-Green Lantern.”
 “I’m . . . familiar with Gardner’s exploits, Jimmy.”
“Boy, I don’t know why the Justice League puts up with that jerk. Seems to
me, when I was in high school—which wasn’t that long ago—the Justice League
used to go after butt-heads like him; they didn’t admit ’em as members!”
“Well, the world turns and times change, Jim.”
“Yeah, and not always for the better.”
The WALK light came on, and they started across the street.
“It doesn’t pay to be negative, James. Besides, you’re much too young to be a
curmudgeon.”
“Well, if I were Superman, I’d bounce Gardner out of the League so hard,
he’d come down in Australia.”
“Maybe Superman has a good reason for keeping him in the Justice League.
Maybe he thinks it’s better to have Gardner around people who stand a chance of
keeping him in line, rather than letting him run off and get himself into trouble.”
Jimmy considered that. “I suppose. But I still don’t like the idea of him and
that Maxima woman being considered super-heroes. Heck, Maxima gave
Superman all kinds of grief, and now she’s his teammate?” The young
photographer shook his head. “The Justice League used to stand for something,
but now they’re just a bunch of joke-heroes . . . except for Superman, of course.
I don’t know why he let himself get mixed up with those guys!”
“I’m sure Superman has asked himself that question many times, Jimmy. I
suppose it seemed like a good idea to him at the time. Maybe he feels . . .
responsible for them.”
“Responsible? For the Justice League? How so?”
Okay, Kent, explain your way around that one. Clark scratched the back of his
neck. “Well, Jim, wasn’t Superman the first hero with extraordinary powers to
go public since the end of the Second World War? Certainly there were earlier
costumed heroes, people like the Hourman and Dr. Mid-Nite, but they’d mostly
retired by midcentury. It wasn’t until after Superman came on the scene that we
started to see a lot of new super-heroes. I guess he really started something.”
“I see what you mean. I remember reading an interview with the Black Canary
once, where she said that most of today’s heroes would probably never have
gotten started if it hadn’t been for Superman. I’m not even sure there was such a
term as ‘super-hero’ before he came along. From what my Uncle Phil once told
me, the wartime heroes were mainly called crime fighters or mystery-men,”
“Exactly. You might say that Superman was the first of a new generation. He
was followed by the Batman over in Gotham, the Flash in Central City, Green
Lantern out on the West Coast . . . Aquaman, the Canary, J’Onn J’Onzz. And
with all those heroes running around, they eventually founded the Justice League
as an organization to take on the menaces that were too big for any one of them
to handle.”
“Yeah, and the League was really something back then. It’s too bad Superman
couldn’t have been a member of that original team!”
Well, they did ask me, thought Clark.

Superman had been flying over the Aleutian Islands when he spotted a strange
series of flashing lights. He’d followed the lights into Alaska’s Valley of the Ten
Thousand Smokes when he saw the five founding members of the Justice
League. They were fighting among themselves.
One moment, the Flash was punching Aquaman, and the next he suddenly
turned and tried to tackle Green Lantern. There was no rhyme or reason to their
actions. Each of them was striking randomly, and they were rapidly wearing
themselves down. What are they trying to do, he wondered, kill each other?
And then Superman spotted the robot.
It stood twenty feet tall and looked like a high-tech metal gorilla. It was a
formidable construct, but he noticed that it kept a prudent distance from the
superpowered combatants. He also noticed a strange ripple in the air which
seemed to be originating from a sort of turret in the robot’s midsection. And
behind the turret, secreted within a heavily reinforced control chamber, he could
see a strange little gnome of a man.
He’s doing something to them, playing with their minds maybe, thought
Superman. I have to put an end to this before one of them is seriously injured.
Staying out of range, Superman trained his heat vision on the turret. Under the
bombardment, it began to glow red, then white. With a flash of energy the turret
turned to slag.
The heroes of the Justice League froze in their tracks, looking on in wonder at
the red and blue blur that dove from the sky, slamming into the big robot like a
runaway train. Within moments, Superman gutted the walking tank and
confronted its controller.
“No! NO!” screamed the gnome. “You couldn’t have destroyed my illusion
maker!”
“Illusion maker?” If the situation hadn’t been so serious, Superman would
have laughed. The weird little man had a strange accent, unlike any he’d ever
heard, but he spoke like a mad scientist from one of those old movie serials
Clark used to watch in college. “What is going on here?”
The little man cowered in the back of the control chamber. “There was no
mention of this in the histories!” His voice rose to a high, thin shriek, and to
Superman’s astonishment he began to fade away. “I was supposed to win—to
WIN! What went wrong? What went wro . . .”
With that, he disappeared completely, and Superman was left alone amid the
wreckage of the robot. He scanned every last bit of the metal hull with his X-ray
vision, but he could find no trace of the little man.
“Superman, you did it! You stopped Xotar!”
Superman turned to find himself suddenly face-to-face with a masked man
wearing a crimson bodysuit. “I beg your pardon?”
“Xotar . . . that’s what the fellow who ran this contraption called himself. He
claimed that he was from ten thousand years in the future.”
“Ten thousand—?”
“That’s what he said. Personally, I think he was fudging his dates to impress
us.” There was the slightest hint of a midwestern drawl in the masked man’s
voice. “Oh, say, we haven’t really been introduced. I’m the Flash!”
“I’ve heard of you.”
“Really?” The Flash fairly vibrated in his excitement. “Well, hey, you’ve got
to meet the others.”
“Wait a minute.” Superman held up a hand. “What about Xotar? He just . . .
vanished on me.”
“Can’t say that I’m surprised.” The Flash looked thoughtful. “I think he had
some sort of fail-safe device to send him back to his own time. Don’t worry,
we’ll check it out.”
As they walked out of the robot’s metal shell, the other members of the Justice
League gathered around them.
 Another masked man, this one lanky and dark haired, stepped forward,
offering his hand. “An honor, Superman. They call me Green Lantern.” As they
shook hands, Superman swore he could feel an endless wave of energy surging
within the glowing emerald ring on the Lantern’s second finger.
“I need your help with this wreck, Lantern,” said the Flash. “We want to make
certain that Xotar hasn’t pulled a fast one on us!”
Green Lantern nodded and followed the Flash back into the remains of the
robot. As they disappeared from view, a nimble young blond woman dressed in
black and navy spoke up. “I’m Black Canary, and this tall drink of water”—she
gestured to a muscular, fair-haired man—“is Aquaman.”
The fifth and final member of the League towered over Superman. His skin
was an unusual shade of green, and his eyes were shadowed by the ridge of his
brow. “I am J’Onn J’Onzz, a detective of sorts. And to answer your unasked
question . . . no, I am not of this world. My planet of origin is Mars.”
“I didn’t think there was any life on Mars.”
“That is unfortunately correct . . . in this era.”
Before Superman could question J’Onzz further, Green Lantern and the Flash
returned, looking pleased.
“Xotar’s gone back to his own time,” the Lantern reported. “My power ring
detected a deviation in the”—he turned to his teammate—“what did you call it?”
“Quantum field,” said the Flash. “Anyway, G. L.’s ring traced him through
the field into the future. Get this . . . Xotar beamed himself right back into the
hands of his own time period’s police. And he’s no problem there. Thanks to
Superman here, he had to bug out without any of his fancy weapons . . . not that
there’s much left of them now!” The Flash began pumping Superman’s hand.
“That was great! Superman, this is a real pleasure.”
“The pleasure is mine, Flash. This Justice League of yours has made a lot of
news in the past few weeks. I’m glad I finally got the chance to meet you.”
Superman glanced back at the wreckage of the robot. “I just wish it could have
been under more sociable circumstances.”
“Well, with Xotar gone, I’d say we all have reason to celebrate,” said Black
Canary. She gazed admiringly at Superman. “We have a place back east where
we meet in private. Why don’t you join us?”
Unable to turn down such an intriguing invitation, Superman accompanied the
Justice League back to their hidden sanctuary. It was an impressive hideaway,
from its extensive computerized library to its satellite uplink. This group is full
of surprises, thought Superman. But the biggest surprise came when the Flash
gaveled a meeting to order and nominated the Man of Steel for membership, a
nomination immediately seconded by Aquaman.
“Flash . . . Aquaman . . . I’m very flattered. And I’d be honored to join . . . if I
could devote the time to your League that membership demands.” Superman
paused. “But my time is not my own. I’m afraid I cannot accept your
nomination.”
Superman regretted the decision, but he could see no way to be an active
member of the Justice League in addition to his other activities. Just being
Superman is as much a full-time job as working for the Daily Planet. I wonder
how these people manage to find time for private lives? Maybe they don’t. After
all, as far as the public knows, I’m Superman all the time.
Superman could see the disappointment in the Flash’s face, even without
peering beneath his mask—and he respected the privacy of his fellow heroes too
much to do such a thing. All five of them looked disappointed, even the big
poker-faced Martian.
“Look,” he said, “you’ve created a well-organized team. I doubt that you
really need me as a member. But rest assured, if you ever truly do need me, I’ll
be there.”
In the years that followed, Superman proved true to his word. He stood by the
Justice League as a faithful ally in fighting and defeating threats to this planet
and others.
But time did not remain kind to the Justice League. There were countless
changes in membership and two major reorganizations, and eventually the
League disbanded. Shortly after the group’s dissolution, Superman enlisted the
aid of former members to organize a superpowered fighting force to combat an
alien invasion. The success of that mission led him to reassess his standing in
what the media was starting to call “the super-hero community.” Finally,
Superman agreed to become a member of a new American division of the Justice
League.

Since then, it’s been one hassle after another, thought Clark. It would have been
different, if he’d been working alongside the original members. They knew how
to work together. But his new partners, on the other hand, were not all team
players. New League members Fire and Ice had once been part of a European
supergroup and could be counted on to the fullest extent of their powers of heat
and cold. Likewise, the Blue Beetle was an expert hand-to-hand combatant and a
highly skilled engineer. But if you put him in the same room with Booster Gold,
there was trouble. Together, Booster and the Beetle became insufferable
practical jokers.
Guy Gardner was even worse. Guy had belonged to an intergalactic corps of
Green Lanterns, as had one of the League founders, but he was nothing like the
Green Lantern whom Superman had first met. Guy was a loose cannon who shot
his mouth off as readily as he did his power ring. He was, frankly, an obnoxious,
egotistical oaf. After finally being drummed out of the Green Lantern Corps, he
managed to acquire a golden power ring which allowed him to continue
operating as a member of the League.
Clark grimaced inwardly. Gardner was a far cry from his idea of a super-hero,
but as long as he worked with the League, they could conceivably keep him
reined in.
Maxima was yet another matter. The heir to the throne of an interstellar
empire based on the distant planet Almerac, Maxima had first come to Earth
looking for a suitable consort with whom to enrich the bloodline of the royal
family. Arrogant, self-righteous, and quick-tempered, she had set her sights on
Superman. He had done his best to persuade her that he wasn’t interested in
fathering any future galactic despots. But thanks to the part she’d played in
stopping the alien invasion, she had been inducted into the Justice League. Her
physical strength and her extensive psychokinetic powers made her a valuable
addition to the group, but her imperious attitude continually put her at odds with
other League members.
And then there was Bloodwynd. Clark still wasn’t sure what to make of him.
None of the others in the Justice League really knew anything about the tall,
powerfully built black man, but he had proven to be a valuable ally. Bloodwynd
seemed nearly as strong as Superman and claimed to be a sorcerer. As
Superman, Clark had had dealings with supernatural entities in the past, and
Bloodwynd certainly fit the mold; he was more aloof even than Maxima.
They are an unruly lot, thought Clark. But—barring a massive change in
membership—they were his unruly lot, and he’d just have to make the best of
things. After all, the Justice League had a history nearly as long and
distinguished as his own. And there was only so much one man, even a
Superman, could do on his own. That was why he had welcomed the emergence
of the other heroes in the first place.
“If we’re lucky, they’ll all pull together eventually.”
“What was that, Mr. Ken—Clark?”
“Eh? Oh, just thinking out loud, Jimmy . . . about the Justice League. For all
their eccentricities, they’re still very capable people. I don’t think we should be
so ready to write them off just yet. After all, the original founding members
weren’t very experienced when they started out.”
“I suppose so.” Jimmy didn’t sound very convinced. “I just hope that
Superman’s as optimistic as you are.”
“I’m sure he is, Jim. I don’t think that Superman would stay with the League
if he didn’t think they had promise.”
“Yeah, well, if he’d come out and say so, I’d feel a lot better about it.”
“Maybe he will, Jimmy. Maybe he will.”

As the alarm Klaxon went off in the Cadmus Security Office, Jim Harper
crossed the room in three giant strides and hit a switch on the comlink.
“Guardian here. What’s going on?”
“It’s those blasted kids,” choked a voice which Harper recognized as
belonging to one of the Project’s resident mechanics. “Those Newsboy clones!
They set off a stink bomb in the motor pool and made off with the all-terrain
wagon.”
Not again, thought Harper. “All right, I’ll take care of it. Have my bike
ready.” He quickly fitted his helmet into place. “Those blasted kids,” eh?
The “kids” were, in fact, the result of an experiment in human cellular
replication that had gone awry, producing young teenage doppelgangers of the
five Cadmus Project department heads. The young clones had adopted their
progenitors’ old street names, and “Flip”—the clone of Cadmus biochemist
Walter Johnson—had been welcomed as a new member of this second-
generation Newsboy Legion.
Scooping up his shield on the run, the Guardian sprinted down a corridor.
They’re even more of a handful than their fathers were . . . and now there are
five of them! The Guardian shook his head. A stink bomb . . . I’m getting too old
for this.
By the time he reached the Project’s motor pool, exhaust fans had already
drawn off the worst of the stink bomb’s residue. But there was still an acrid
stench in the air and more than a few puffy-eyed mechanics. One grease monkey
was suddenly seized with a coughing fit. When it had subsided, he glared at the
helmeted man through his tears. “Guardian, you have to do something about
those brats!”
Harper straddled the gleaming motorcycle that had been wheeled out for him.
“What do you suggest we do?”
The man shrugged. “I don’t know. Find them and lock them up, I guess.”
“We already keep them locked away in this Project as if they were prize
guinea pigs. They’re young teenage boys . . . they didn’t ask to be born into
this.”
“None of us asks to be born.” The new voice was low and even and
unnaturally distinct. All activity ground to a halt as its speaker stepped into the
chamber.
He stood just under six feet tall, and his skin was a light gray. His green eyes
were elliptical, like those of a cat. But by far his most striking features were the
two hornlike protuberances that grew from his high, wide forehead. He was
called Dubbilex, and though he had been a fixture at the Project for many years,
there were still many who felt uncomfortable around him.
Jim Harper was never one of those. Quite to the contrary, he found Dubbilex
fascinating. The gaunt gray man reminded Jim of a benevolent alien from an old
science fiction pulp of his youth, and that image wasn’t far from wrong.
Dubbilex, he knew, was the creation of Dr. Dabney Donovan.
One of the Cadmus Project’s three original founders, Donovan was a brilliant
and—unfortunately—highly unstable genius who had become obsessed with the
idea of creating whole new species through genetic engineering. Dubbilex had
been the first survivor of a series of experiments to produce a race of what the
doctor called his DNAliens. When the other Project heads had begun to raise
questions about Donovan’s ethics and place restrictions on his research, he
committed suicide.
If it was a suicide, thought the Guardian.
Dubbilex looked at the Guardian quizzically. “Then you also have doubts
about my creator’s supposed death?”
The Guardian looked around him. He had heard the DNAlien’s thought as
clearly as if it had been spoken aloud, but no one else in the room seemed aware
of it.
“Sorry,” came another thought, “I didn’t mean to pry. But the thought was so
strong in your mind, I couldn’t help but ‘hear’ it.”
That’s all right, Dubbilex, thought the Guardian. I guess I’m still not used to
working with a telepath.
“I quite understand,” came the reply. “It hasn’t been all that easy for me,
either. Mastering the powers of the psyche is a bit like learning to master
Rollerblading. You fall on your tail a lot.”
The Guardian grinned, tickled by the very image of Dubbilex on Rollerblades.
I read you.
Dubbilex nodded toward the staring mechanics. “I believe they’re feeling a bit
ill at ease. Perhaps we should say something?”
Ah, yes. The Guardian broke the silence. “We could use your help, Dubbilex.
The youngsters have taken off on a joyride. Any ideas as to where they might be
headed?”
Dubbilex cocked his head to one side and stared off into space . . . Trying to
hear beyond hearing, to see beyond sight, thought the Guardian.
The lanky DNAlien slowly brought his hands to his temples. “I think that they
are not far away. Yes, I can feel their exuberance. I feel . . . freedom.”

The underground vault rang like a blacksmith’s anvil under the force of the
Creature’s hammering blows.
The Creature kept pounding.
Sparks flew from the metal, sporadically lighting the tiny chamber.
The Creature kept pounding.
Finally, the tortured metal of the wall began to give, curling away as if trying
to escape from that pounding fist.
With a muffled bellow, the Creature tore at his bonds, and more of the thick
metal cables snapped. Now more mobile, he threw himself against the tiny
opening, pushing the twisted metal farther apart. Then, when he’d widened the
hole enough for his shoulders to slip through, the Creature began to claw at the
compacted clay and rock beyond.

“Free at last, free at last!” Young Flip Johnson punched the air, feeling the
slipstream sting his fists, as an experimental high-performance vehicle emerged
from a cave near the base of Mount Curtiss.
“Hey, Johnson, keep yer mitts inside this Whiz Wagon, if ya don’t wanna lose
’em!”
“Aw, lay off ’im, Scrapper! Ain’t a guy entitled to celebrate a little? I mean,
geez Louise, this’s been our first chance to go outside, since . . . since the last
time we ran off to the city.” Gabby stopped only briefly to take a breath before
rambling on. “I mean, I feel like celebratin’! Don’t you feel like celebratin’?
You oughtta! I think this is great, really!”
“Hey-hey! Turn off the faucet, will ya?” Scrapper peered out from under the
brim of his cap at Gabby, fixing his buddy with a look of exasperation. “I was
jus’ tryin’ to give a li’l friendly advice. It ain’t safe to stick a hand out, not as
fast as we’re goin’!”
Big Words nodded judiciously. “Our colleague is quite astute, gentlemen.”
“What?!” Scrapper lunged toward Big Words, straining against his safety
harness. “Who’s a stupe?! C’mere an’ say that again, ya four-eyed, walkin’
encyclopedia!”
The gangly teenager pressed a big, bony hand against Scrapper’s chest,
holding him at arm’s length. “I merely meant that you spoke wisely.”
“Well, why din’t ya say so?”
“I believed that I had.” Big Words scanned the array of indicators before him.
“As a matter of fact, our present velocity is a hundred and seventy kilometers per
hour. At such a speed, a chance encounter with another object, whether in
motion or at rest, would prove quite injurious, not to mention painful.”
Flip, who’d fought to keep a straight face through the exchange, nodded in
mock imitation of Big Words. “I can dig it. So, Tommy, how long till we get to
Metropolis?”
From behind the wheel of the Whiz Wagon, Tommy just grinned. “We’re not
going to Metropolis.”
“Huh?”
 “Not goin’—?!”
“Oh, man—!”
Tommy downshifted, and the silvery vehicle began to decelerate. “Tell ’em,
Words.”
“Well, simply put . . .”
“That’ll be a good trick fer you,” Scrapper grumbled.
“. . . our previous attempts at freedom met with failure when we were
intercepted either in or in transit to the city. Clearly, a change of destination is in
order, if we are to succeed.”
“Okay, okay, I can see that, sorta, but if we’re not going to Metropolis, where
are we gonna go? Where else is there? Around here, I mean?”
“Gabby’s got a point, man. We have the wheels and the fuel to get us to Philly
or Gotham or . . . heck, even all the way out to California, if we wanted. But the
Whiz Wagon ain’t exactly a Chevy.” Flip gazed appreciatively out past the
windscreen and patted the padded dash. “Not to put her down, but she does look
like a cross between a grand prix racer and somethin’ outta Star Trek. We’re
gonna attract attention wherever we go.”
“Oh, most assuredly. There is, however, within close proximity an arboreal
sanctuary wherein we can conceal ourselves for the preparation of any further
course of action.”
Scrapper pulled his cap low over his eyes and sank back into his seat. “Can
anybody put that into plain English?”
“Arboreal?” Flip looked skeptical. “You mean we’re gonna hide out in some
trees?”
“Not just some trees . . . those trees!” Tommy pointed across a small clearing.
Big Words smiled smugly, as three sets of jaws dropped in amazement. Ahead
of them loomed wooden towers, terraces, and avenues.
“Holy cow.” For once Gabby had trouble finding his voice. “It’s . . . it’s . . .”
“It’s dat big tree city what the Project built! I remember now . . . they called it
‘Have-a-trap’ or somethin’.”
“Habitat, Scrapper! And it wasn’t built, it was grown—right into the shapes of
buildings and streets.”
“Correct, Flip. But Habitat wasn’t exactly a product of the Project per se.
Strictly speaking, it was more of a by-product or offshoot of allied research into
—!”
“Yeah, yeah. We get the picture, Words. The Project don’t keep close tabs on
the joint, do they? So we can hide out here for as long as we want, wit’ no one
the wiser.”
“Well, within reason, Scrapper. By the time they’ve exhausted their normal
search patterns, we shall be—!”
“Nuts!”
“What’s wrong, Tommy?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then why’re you slowing down?” asked Flip.
“I’m not. We’re losing power. The Whiz Wagon’s turbines just shut down.”
“Don’t tell me . . . we’re gonna have to get out and push.” Scrapper was
already starting to unbuckle his seat belt.
Tommy fiddled with the starter. “Maybe. But we’re still on a bit of an incline.
With a little luck we can coast the rest of the way into—uh-oh.”
“ ‘Uh-oh?’ ” Flip gave Tommy a worried look. “What’re you ‘uh-oh’in’
about?”
“Him!”
Straight ahead of them, the Guardian sat astride his motorcycle, arms folded
across his chest. Tommy hit the brakes, and their vehicle rolled to a stop barely a
foot in front of the man clad in blue and gold.
“Going somewhere?” In a half century of police work Harper had developed
the ability to assume a very businesslike monotone.
“Oh, man, he’s Jack Webbin’ us,” whispered Flip. “We’re in trouble now.”
“Guardian, we . . . uh . . . we were just catchin’ a little air. Ain’t we, guys?
Guys?”
“Yeah, Gabby’s right,” insisted Scrapper. “We’re growin’ boys, after all. The
docs said we needed more fresh air.”
“I see.” The Guardian drummed his fingers against the side of the long silver
vehicle. “And these . . . doctors . . . advised a nice long drive in the country?”
“Yeah. Sure!”
 “In a stolen car?”
“Yeah, we . . . no!”
“We din’t steal no car! Tell ’em, Words.”
“Yes, well . . . ahem . . . there may have been a slight lapse in acquiring the
proper requisitions, sir, but I assure you, it was never our intent to abscond with
the Whiz Wagon. We have the greatest respect for all Project equipment.”
“Yeah, we didn’t mean to break it!”
Scrapper clamped a hand over Gabby’s mouth. “Will you pipe down?”
Tommy slumped glumly behind the wheel as Big Words nervously cleared his
throat. “I’m sure you realize, sir, that some of our progenitors worked on the
design of this vehicle, so naturally we would have a proprietary interest in it.”
The Guardian towered over them. “But you don’t own it, do you?”
“Well, technically . . . we . . . ah . . . no.”
“And did any of you ask permission to use it?”
“No.”
The Guardian locked eyes with Tommy. “I didn’t realize you were even old
enough to have a driver’s permit.”
“I-I’m not sure how old I am, sir.” Tommy tried—and failed—to keep from
blinking. “It’s hard for a clone to know. Sometimes, I feel almost thirty.”
“How do you feel right now?”
“Like mud.”
“And how do you think your fathers will feel when they find out what you’ve
done?”
“I don’t know, sir. Surprised?”
“I doubt that. You’re too much like them.” Entirely too much like them!
“Well, if our pops turned out okay, then there must be hope for us! Right,
Guardian?” Flip was thinking fast and talking faster. “I mean, we can’t help
being the way we are.”
“Yeah!” Scrapper set his jaw at a determined angle that the Guardian knew all
too well. “We’re just livin’ out our genetical hermitage . . . doin’ what our old
men woulda done under the same soicumstances.”
“ ‘Soicumstances’?” Under his helmet, Jim Harper raised an eyebrow. I’d like
to know how that Bowery Boys accent managed to become genetically
programmed.
“What he’s trying to say, sir . . .” Gabby was making a feeble attempt to choke
back mock tears. “. . . is that we’re just poor, misguided youths, trying to find
our way in the world. We didn’t mean to cause any trouble.”
“What about the stink bomb, boys?”
They all looked at Big Words.
“Ah, yes . . . well . . . that was the result of an experiment in organic
chemistry, sir. And like many experiments, it was none too successful.”
“I’d say it was very successful in clearing your way through the motor pool.”
“Guardian—?”
“Yes, Tommy?”
“We just had to get out for a while. We were going stir crazy in there.”
The Guardian sighed. “I know, but that doesn’t excuse—!”
“Oh, you ‘know.’ Right!” Scrapper’s face was a study in disgust. “You can
waltz outta the Project anytime you like. You get to pal aroun’ wit’ yer buddy
Sooperman, an’ help ’im fight aliens, an’ have all kinda great adventures—an’
all wit’out us!”
“I’ve aided Superman a few times, yes. But those were dangerous missions.
There’s no way you could’ve gone along.”
“Hey, man, it doesn’t matter.” Flip sounded just as disgusted as Scrapper.
“The fact remains that you’re allowed to leave the Project, and we’re not.”
“Ain’t fair,” sniffed Gabby. “Ain’t fair at all . . . keepin’ us cooped up all the
time.”
The Guardian nodded. “You’re right. It isn’t fair.”
“Huh?”
“We are?”
“It’s not?”
“I’ve been working on getting approval to take you characters into Metropolis
for extended periods—”
“All right!”
“—but if you keep setting off stink bombs and causing mayhem, I’m never
going to get that approval. Paul Westfield takes a very dim view of such
shenanigans!”
“Dat bum? He don’t like nothin’! He don’t even like Sooperman!”
“Mr. Westfield’s likes and dislikes are beside the point. The fact remains that
he is the administrator of the Cadmus Project, and what he says goes!” Whether
we like it or not, thought the Guardian. He was none too keen on Westfield’s
hard-nosed approach himself. “Do me a favor, guys. Try to toe the straight and
narrow for a while, and I’ll do my best to get some vacation time for you all. Do
we have a deal?”
“Well . . .”
“Tommy?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Flip?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Gabby?”
“Yeah, yeah. Sure, sure.”
“Scrapper?”
“You promise to get us some free time?”
“I’ll do everything in my power.”
The young tough gave the Guardian a toothy grin. “Okay, Officer Harper, ya
got me!”
“And I shall be most happy to make it unanimous.” Big Words’s ear-to-ear
grin looked to rival even Scrapper’s.
“Good. Now, what do you say we turn this wagon around and head home?”
“Uh, we have a problem there, sir.” Tommy tugged nervously at his collar.
“The Whiz Wagon seems to have stalled out, and I haven’t been able to restart
it.”
“No problem.” The Guardian pulled a small wireless microphone from behind
his shield and spoke into it. “Override stall-out command. Initiate power-up and
ignite turbines.”
The Whiz Wagon’s engines suddenly roared to life.
“Holy smokes!”
 “Do you mean to say—?”
“You shut us down . . . by remote control?!”
“Well, don’t look so surprised.” The Guardian no longer tried to hide his own
grin. “You’re not the only ones who can play it sneaky!”
6

Hundreds of miles away, in a remote section of the Midwest, the ground began
to shudder. Spooked by the underground rumbling, a flock of crows abandoned
their perches, filling the sky like a living cloud. A stag stood stock-still, listening
for the sound, and then bolted as he realized it came from beneath his hooves.
The ground itself began first to shake and then to heave, as the Creature pounded
and dug his way to the surface, his progress impeded by the bonds still
immobilizing his right arm. And then, with a final, wrenching punch, he broke
through to the surface.
Sinking his knuckle spurs into the compacted soil, the Creature slowly inched
his way up out of the newly hewn hole. Little of the fresh air filtered through the
material of his restraining garment, but he did not seem to care. He strode to the
top of a nearby hillock, surveying the surrounding wilderness through the thick
goggles of the enshrouding hood. For nearly an hour he just stood there in the
dwindling sunlight, as still and unmoving as a rock.
As twilight came, a tiny goldfinch, its curiosity getting the better of it,
fluttered in for a landing on the outstretched hand of this strange figure. For a
moment, a pair of crimson eyes glared out through the goggles at the peeping
little bird. Then, like a vise, his fist snapped shut, crushing the life from the
goldfinch. A horrible growl of laughter echoed from beneath the hood.
Dropping into a crouch, the Creature bounded skyward, his leap carrying him
thousands of feet into the air and fully a mile away. He landed in the midst of an
old growth forest, squirrels scattering at his approach. The Creature lurched
forward toward a huge oak which stood in his path. In minutes the tree, which
had stood on that spot for well over a hundred years, lay in splinters on the
ground.
Again the Creature leapt, this time covering nearly two miles, and then again.
From the apogee of one leap, he caught sight of something shining far to the
east, and he set out to discover what it was.
Night had fallen when the Creature finally came to rest on a high embankment
overlooking an interstate highway. The small cluster of speeding vehicles
fascinated him, and he leapt directly into their path.
A late-model Ford pickup braked and swerved in an attempt to miss the
hulking form that had suddenly appeared on the roadway. The Creature seemed
to take this as a challenge, lashing out with a punch that sent truck and driver
rolling over and over into oncoming traffic. A cacophony of squealing brakes
and car horns was quickly joined by the crunch of metal and the whoosh of
igniting gasoline. An approving howl came from the Creature as he charged
headlong at the abutment of the highway overpass. With one arm still tied
behind him, he struck and clawed at the reinforced concrete, slamming into the
weakened supports with his back and shoulders until, finally, the entire overpass
fell in a mass atop the crash scene. The Creature looked around him. No signs of
life came from the crushed cars and trucks. No other shiny challenges were to be
seen. With almost an air of disappointment, the Creature leapt on, following the
highway.

Chuck Johnston stifled a yawn as his rig flashed past the road sign. TOLEDO.
SIXTY MILES. He’d have to hustle if he was going to make it there by daybreak.
These overnight hauls’re gonna be the death of me! He shook his thermos.
Empty. Dang! I shoulda got a refill back in Wapokeneta. Chuck rubbed the
bridge of his nose. No time to stop now. He stifled another yawn. He’d need
some conversation if he was going to keep himself awake. He thumbed the mike
switch of his CB. “Yo! Breaker! This’s Chuckie-Jay, anybody got their ears on?
C’mon!”
“Chuckie, baby! This’s Moon Pie, where you been keepin’ yerself, bro?”
Chuck smiled. It’d been a good six months since he’d last seen Donny Moon.
Donny was one of the few white men he knew who called him “bro” and meant
it.
“Yo, Moon! Been down runnin’ Houston to St. Loo. Got me a load on for
Dee-troit this mornin’, though. ’M headed north on I-75 just outside’a
Beaverdam.”
“Shoot, good buddy, you must be just ’bout breathin’ down my neck. What
d’ya say we hit J. C.’s at Toledo for steak an’ eggs?”
“Okay, man, but I’m buyin’!”
“Woo! Texas musta been good to you, bro! I can’t wait to—what the heck?!”
 Chuck’s grin faded. “Moon? What is it?”
“Don’t know. Some big cuss just lit in the middle of the—!”
Chuck heard the weird double-echo of Donny’s horn—half over the CB and
half through his partially open window—and realized with a start that he’d
almost caught up with his friend’s rig. He, too, could see a huge figure lurching
onto the roadway.
“Hey, buddy,” Moon’s voice sounded oddly strained over the speaker, “get
outta the way!”
Chuck hit the brakes reflexively as he saw Moon’s rig slam into the hulking
figure and flip over! “Moon!” The radio let out an ungodly squeal as the
upended tractor-trailer burst into flames.
“Oh, man . . . Moon . . .”
And then a huge, dark figure emerged from the fire, laughing.
Rolling to a stop, Chuck hit the dial of his radio. “State troopers!” he
screamed the words. “Chuck Johnston calling state troopers!”
“I read you, Mr. Johnston. What—?”
“Big monster flipped Moon’s rig . . . one hand tied behind its back!”
“Excuse me?”
“A monster, man—on I-75 just south’a Bluffton! It just wrecked my friend’s
eighteen-wheeler! It’s burnin’—!”
“Did you say . . . monster?”
“Yeah . . . big as a damn house! It’s tearin’ up the whole interstate!”
Miles away, at the nearest highway patrol post, an alarmed dispatcher
immediately put out a call to all cars in the vicinity and punched up an
emergency code. If the report coming over was true, they’d need special help.

Dawn was just beginning to break over Manhattan when the call came through.
In the shadow of the United Nations Plaza, a low glass and granite complex
jutted out into the East River. Deep within that complex a little man sat before a
bank of communications equipment, a Manhattan Yellow Pages directory on the
seat beneath him. The soft amber lights of the display screen were reflected in
his bald pate. Oberon was the only name he answered to, though whether that
was his first name or his last, nobody knew for certain.
 Oberon was a dwarf. He had spent half a lifetime in show business, first as a
clown in a traveling circus and then as sideman to the renowned escape artist
Thaddeus Brown. When Thaddeus died, Oberon had gone on to work with his
successor, a young man who called himself Scott Free. But Scott was no
ordinary young man. He possessed amazing powers and knowledge, and as Mr.
Miracle, he became not just a super-escape artist, but a super-hero. When Scott
eventually joined with the other heroes in the Justice League, Oberon had tagged
along. Before the little man could realize what was happening, he had become
second-in-command to the League’s administrator. Scott was gone now, off to
God knows where on some wild adventure, but Oberon stayed on. Through
changes in operations and membership, he had remained a fixture in the
management of the League.
This particular morning, Oberon was enjoying a cup of ginseng tea when the
police monitor bank began to warble electronically. Oberon grimaced. Why can’t
they program a decent bell tone into these things? The last thing a man ought to
hear at this hour is that infernal chirping. The little man hit the monitor switch,
and command codes started crawling across the soft amber of the screen. Ohio.
Oberon smiled. Haven’t played Ohio in over ten years. What was the name of
that place . . . the Richland County Fairgrounds? Yes, good crowd . . . nice
audience. His curiosity piqued, he hit a second switch, and a tiny microphone
emerged out of the console. “Good morning, this is Justice League Command.
What is your situation?”
“This is Captain Brian Stang, Ohio Highway Patrol. We’re not certain, but we
may have a problem involving a metahuman or superbeing of some sort.”
“You’re not certain—?”
“Reports are still sketchy, but something’s tearing up sections of highway in
the northeast quadrant of the state . . . something big. We recorded a call just a
few minutes ago.”
Oberon listened intently as Stang relayed the tape of Chuck Johnston’s call for
help. “A monster . . . big as a house, eh? Now, this does sound like a job for the
Justice League.”

Less than five minutes after Oberon hit the priority alert, a strange flying object
lifted off from the Justice League compound. Outwardly, it appeared to be a
giant, thirty-foot water bug. It was, in fact, a supersonic aircraft of a highly
sophisticated design. Its creator, Ted Kord, sat in the pilot’s seat, his face
masked by the hood and goggles of the Blue Beetle.
“Next stop, eastern Ohio! Hold on to your hats, kiddies!”
“I am not wearing a hat,” said Maxima, looking disdainfully at the Beetle,
“and I am not a ‘kiddie.’ ”
“Chill out, Max, it’s just an expression.”
“My name is Maxima, Mr. Gold. You may address me as ‘my lady.’ ”
“Whatever you say, ‘your lady,’ but you don’t have to call me ‘Mr. Gold.’
You can call me ‘Mr. Booster Gold, sir’!”
“Could you please hold it down?” Fire raised her hand to cover a yawn. “It’s
too early in the morning for all this noise.”
“It’s not that early, Fire!” The snowy-haired young woman seated beside her
gave Fire a gentle nudge in the ribs. “Of course, if you hadn’t been up all night
—!”
“Ice, please! Don’t remind me.” Fire stifled a second yawn and ran her fingers
back through her mane of green hair. “Is there any coffee service on this flight?”
“Coming right up!” Blue Beetle flipped a switch on his control board, and a
china mug popped up from the armrest of Fire’s seat.
“Yuck! This coffee . . . it’s tepid.”
“Sorry. I’ve been having a little trouble with the dispenser. I can try to reheat
it.”
“Never mind. I’ll do it myself.” As Fire clutched the mug tightly, a gout of
emerald flame flared up from her hands, bringing her beverage to a quick
simmer. “Mmm, now that’s coffee!”
“Neat trick, Fire. If the hero biz ever gets slow, you and Ice could always
become caterers!”
“If I might interrupt?” The sepulchral tones of Bloodwynd’s voice brought
Booster’s needling to a sudden halt. “Have we received any further word on this
monster whom we’ve been asked to find?”
“Not so far . . .” Beetle paused to enter a code into his communications
console. “. . . but we should be getting a fax from the Ohio Highway Patrol soon
. . . hopefully before we arrive.”
“I wish Superman was with us.” Ice looked uncertainly toward the forward
view port, worry lines deepening beneath her bangs.
“Hey, we don’t need that Boy Scout!” The new voice emanated from a
glowing wall in the aft section. From out of the light, a tall man clad in leather
and denim materialized through the side of the craft. His sharp features were
topped by an unruly mop of red hair that was cut close on the sides. Upon the
middle finger of his right hand glowed a golden ring. “You don’t need nothin’
but your favorite Guy!”
Oh, fine, thought Beetle. “Morning, Gardner. Nice of you to make it.”
“Guy, I was wondering where you were!” Ice’s eyes sparkled as Guy Gardner
folded down the jump seat next to her.
Fire just shook her head as he brushed past. I wonder what Ice sees in that
self-centered louse?
“Hey, as America’s foremost hero, I’m one busy Guy!” Gardner settled in
next to Ice and took her hand in his. “Ever since those jerks in the Green Lantern
Corps decided that they were too good for yours truly, I’ve been twice as busy
—”
“Trying to convince people that you’re not as worthless as they thought?” Fire
suggested sweetly.
“—teaching lowlifes that I still have what it takes to kick their behinds!”
Gardner favored the green-haired woman with his best sneer. “Yeah, my new
power ring is just as effective as the ones the Green Lanterns use, maybe more
so. After all, it does respond to my willpower . . . and there’s nothin’ that’s
stronger.”
“Except maybe your socks!” needled Booster.
“You’re a real funny man, aren’t ya, Gold? Well, I’ll put this ring up against
all the fancy microcircuits in that battle suit of yours, any day of the week.”
“Hey, everybody,” called Beetle from the front of the cabin, “that fax is
coming across now. Sketchy stuff, but this monster sounds like one tough
hombre.”
“Bring ’im on! I’m ready for ’im.” Guy put his boots up against the seat in
front of him. “You’ll see, Ice. We don’t need Superman to put one lousy monster
in his place!”
7

In his third-floor apartment at 344 Clinton Street, Clark Kent stepped from the
shower and slipped into a gray terry cloth robe, whistling the theme from Star
Wars. Wiping the condensation from the mirror, he reached into the medicine
cabinet, removing a small, curved piece of polished metal that he’d long ago
scavenged from the stardrive that had brought him to Earth. He stopped
whistling to concentrate his attention on the metal, directing a slender beam of
radiant heat from his eyes. The curved metal reflected the beam back at his chin,
neatly searing away the exposed whiskers. In a matter of seconds, Kent was
clean-shaven.
The sound of a key being inserted into the lock of his apartment door caught
Clark’s attention. He glanced at the far wall, and it seemed to dissolve away as
he focused past it to the rooms beyond. As he watched, Lois entered the
apartment, shifting a brown paper bag from hand to hand as she dropped the
keys back into her handbag. “Oh—” The word escaped her lips as the bag
slipped from her grasp.
The next instant, Clark was at her side, deftly snagging the bag in midfall,
even as she finished, “—darn it.”
The big man grinned at her. “Consider it darned!”
Lois stood there with her mouth open for a second. Then her hands went to
her hips and she assumed a look of mock exasperation. “Mr. Kent, I don’t think I
am ever going to get used to that!”
“No? Well, how about this?” He leaned down and planted a kiss full on her
lips.
“Mmm.” Lois smiled. “Maybe not . . . but it’ll be fun finding out!”
“Same here.” Clark glanced down at the bag. “Oh, boy! Cinnamon bagels and
. . . What’s that? Neufchâtel cheese? You’re such a good provider!”
Lois heaved a sigh. “I can see where coming up with ways to surprise you will
be one of the bigger challenges of married life, Mr. X-ray Vision!”
“I have every faith that you’ll find a way, dear.” He gathered her up in his
arms. “You’re very resourceful. That’s why I asked you to marry me!”
“It is? And here I thought it was because you liked my hair.”
“Oh, I do.” His smile softened. “Have I told you lately how much I love you?”
“Not since last night.” She snuggled closer. “I wish we had time for a more
leisurely breakfast.”
“So do I, but this is going to be a busy day. Superman has a live interview
with Cat Grant today, and I have to get into the office early enough to set up my
cover story.”
“What did you finally settle on? What will the great reporter supposedly be
off investigating?”
“Gun smuggling.”
“Sounds very sexy.”
“Potentially very deadly.” He frowned. “From the tips I’ve picked up, some
street gangs are trying to get their hands on a shipment of extremely
sophisticated ordnance. I’ll actually be checking it out as soon as I finish Cat’s
show.”
Lois looked Clark over, as if seeing him for the first time. “I’ll never know
how you managed to juggle two identities for so many years.”
“It hasn’t always been easy.” He nuzzled her ear. “But things have improved
considerably since I found a fiancée to help cover for me.”
“Just keep thinking that way.”
“Believe me, Lois, I will.”

On the western edge of Metropolis’s central business district stood the thirty-
seven-floor Daily Planet Building. Though long since dwarfed by larger office
towers, the building, with its signature rooftop globe, was still one of the most
recognizable landmarks in the Metropolis skyline.
As the elevator doors were closing on the lobby floor, a red-haired young man
rushed to get on. He broke into a wide grin. “Morning, Mr. Kent, Ms. Lane!”
Clark and Lois winked at each other, then turned and answered in unison,
“Good morning, Mr. Olsen, sir!”
Jimmy Olsen blinked, then blushed, turning almost as red as his hair. “I did it
again, didn’t I? Sorry, Clark . . . Lois.”
 “Jimmy, we’ve known each other how long?” Lois fixed him with a world-
weary look. “Almost a decade, for heaven’s sake! I remember when you were
just a runny-nosed kid hanging around the City Room.”
“That’s just the point, Ms. . . . Lois! I was just a kid, and you were already a
hotshot reporter! I still feel like a kid next to you two!”
“Next to us old folks, you mean?” asked Clark.
“Yeah. No! It’s just that . . . it’s a habit, you know? Mom brought me up to
show respect for my elders—!”
“Deeper and deeper, James!”
“I don’t mean that you guys are old like Mom . . . I mean—”
“I’m going to tell her you said that!” Lois scolded.
Jimmy blanched. “You wouldn’t!”
Lois and Clark gave the young photographer their most serious looks for at
least fifteen seconds before they both broke up.
“Aw, gimme a break, you guys!” Jimmy thrust his hands into his pockets and
slouched back against the side of the elevator. “I’ve got enough on my mind
without having to get the needle from my friends.”
The elevator door opened with a ping, and the three filed out, entering the
bustle of the Daily Planet City Room.
“What’s the problem, Jim? If you’re a little short, I can float you a loan until
payday.”
“Money’s no big deal, Clark . . . not now, anyways. The problem is time!
Remember that contract I signed to play Turtle Boy?”
Clark nodded. There’d been some serious cutbacks at the Planet earlier in the
year, and Jimmy had been temporarily laid off. One of the many odd jobs he’d
taken in the interim had been playing the part of the Godzilla-like “Turtle Boy”
in a pizza commercial.
Jimmy lowered his voice. “Well, WGBS made a deal with the pizza shop
owner to produce a Turtle Boy kids’ show . . . and the contract I signed made me
part of the deal. Now I’ve got to juggle my regular assignments with playing a
monster on a kids’ show!”
Clark leaned over his desk and punched up his computer monitor, checking
his messages. “Surely the contract has some sort of escape clause?”
 “I don’t know. Mom’s lawyer is checking it over for me. In the meantime,
I’ve managed to talk the production team into scheduling my scenes for my
lunch hour.”
“Maybe you should talk to someone on the paper’s legal staff.” Lois stopped
and looked at Jim pointedly. “Does Perry know about this?”
Jimmy looked around guiltily at the mention of their managing editor. “No. I
haven’t had the nerve to tell him. I mean, I’m not all that recognizable in the
makeup, and they’re not using my name in the credits or anything. But I don’t
think the Chief would be too keen on having one of his photographers playing a
monster on TV. I’m hoping to get the whole mess settled before he finds out.
You won’t tell him, will you?”
Clark clapped Jimmy on the back. “Don’t worry, Turtle Boy! Your secret is
safe with me!” He winked at Lois.
“And me! Clark and I are very good at keeping secrets!”
“Well, I’ve got to go,” announced Clark. “Big story brewing in midtown.”
“Is that the street gang story?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Well, be careful.”
“I always am.” He leaned down and gave Lois a peck on the cheek. “At least
as careful as you are, m’dear!”
“See you later, Mr. . . . Clark!”
“Later, James.”
No sooner had Clark passed through the double doors of the City Room than a
bell went off on the wire service machine. Curious, Jimmy wandered over and
tore loose the latest printout.
“Anything interesting, Jimmy?”
“Not unless you’re into stories about Bigfoot.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Jimmy chuckled. “According to this, there’s some monster tearing up part of
Ohio. Unbelievable!”

Exiting the City Room, Clark headed toward the elevator bank. When he was
certain no one was watching, he slipped into the stairwell and started up, three
steps at a time. Moments later, he was standing on a metal catwalk within the
hollow globe atop the building. There he removed his glasses and began to doff
his street clothes. In seconds, Clark Kent had disappeared, replaced by the bold
figure of Superman!
Glancing around, he used his X-ray vision to make certain that the coast was
clear. And then, when he was satisfied that no one would see him, he exited
through a cleaning port in the side of the globe and launched himself
heavenward.
Superman soared over the city, indulging himself by making a few loops as he
went. It was a bright, sunny morning, a good day to be alive, another great day
for flying.
The arc of his flight carried Superman high over Hob’s River toward the
northwest borough of Park Ridge. From five miles away, he spotted the flag
flapping majestically from the pole on the roof of Roosevelt High School and the
WGBS broadcast van with its microwave uplink dish parked just outside. Inside,
he knew that Catherine Grant would be waiting for him to arrive for his
interview.
Superman frowned. He hated taking such a high public profile. He knew that
his activities made news—much of Clark Kent’s career as a journalist had been
built on reporting Superman’s exploits. But ordinarily he avoided personal
publicity in his costumed identity. That first awful experience after the rescue of
the space plane had driven home to him the importance of maintaining his
privacy. It was simply a matter of self-preservation to keep the Man of Steel a
figure of mystery rather than of celebrity. It kept people from suspecting that
Superman might live among them under another identity.
It’s worked pretty well, he thought, as he landed on the school grounds. Of
course, it helps that I try to keep Clark Kent’s and Superman’s personal
associations as separate as possible. His relationship with Lois had been the one
weak spot in his armor. She had come close to seeing through his deception, but
his parents had helped conspire to make her doubt her own judgment. When
Clark had finally told Lois of his double life after they were engaged, she was
initially taken aback. But she couldn’t truly admit to being surprised. That
problem’s over now. She’s already become my partner in life.
Striding into the school’s main building, Superman tried to ignore the sudden
silence that his presence inspired. He could not help but be aware, though, of the
turning heads and the nervous whispers. Inwardly, he was embarrassed by the
attention. He’d long since learned to deal with the fame Clark had garnered as a
journalist and author, but that kind of fame was nothing compared to what he
engendered as Superman. Like living in the proverbial goldfish bowl. If I
couldn’t keep my lives separate, I’d go crazy. How on Earth do rock stars cope?
“Superman! This is a great honor!” The officious little man who approached
him, hand outstretched, had a girth that suggested too many years spent behind a
desk. “I’m Morton Wolf, principal of Roosevelt High. We’re so happy to have
you here.”
Superman shook the offered hand, wishing that Wolf wouldn’t stare at him so
intently. “Happy . . . to be here, Mr. Wolf,” he lied. The principal nodded,
paying no notice to the caped man’s hesitation. Bet he’d have noticed it in one of
his students, thought Superman. He hated deceiving the man, but it was a small
deception, and he knew how hurt Wolf would be if he told him how he really
felt.
“Superman, over here!”
He turned, glad for the interruption, and suddenly found himself being led
away by a young woman wearing jeans that were one size too tight and a cowl-
necked sweater three sizes too big.
“Hi, Ann McNally. I’m Cat’s producer. She’s been wearing a groove in the
floor, afraid you wouldn’t make it. I told her not to worry, but that’s Cat for you.
Auditorium’s back this way. It’s really just a glorified gymnasium, but there’s a
stage with a proscenium at one end. We’re set up around here. When we start the
show, Cat will introduce you and start the interview. Sometime after the second
commercial break, we’ll start taking questions from kids in the audience.”
Superman nodded, wondering how she managed to get through all that in one
breath.
“Cat! He’s here!” The volume of Ann’s voice suddenly increased by a factor
of five, drawing the attention of a statuesque blonde who nervously paced back
and forth in the wings of the stage area.
Catherine Jane Grant looked up, turning in midstride, the anxiety melting
away from her face. “Superman, darling, so good to see you again! It was so
good of you to finally consent to an interview.”
“Well, I’ve never appeared on a talk show before, Ms. Grant. I hope I don’t
wind up boring your audience.”
 “You? Boring?! Never! Why, the network is already talking about rerunning
the show next week in prime time!”
“ ’Scuse me, Cat,” Ann interrupted, “but the kids are filing in and we really
need to start the warm-up!”
“Be right there!” Cat fixed the Man of Steel with her most dazzling smile.
“We’ll be starting shortly. If there’s anything you need, Ann will see to it.” In a
swirl of fabric, she was gone through the curtain.
With his X-ray vision, Superman watched Cat work the crowd. She’s very
good at this, very smooth. And much brighter than anyone gives her credit for.
Cat Grant had first made her mark in the newspaper trade as a West Coast
gossip columnist. She’d gained fame through a series of in-depth interviews with
leading Hollywood celebrities, sometimes becoming romantically linked with
several of her more famous male subjects. Eventually, Cat moved to Metropolis,
writing features and columns for the Daily Planet in the same breezy style that
had made her the talk of Los Angeles. Her fame and reputation had led to
additional work for Galaxy Communications, first as cohost of WGBS’s
Hollywood Tonight and finally to her own talk show.
Superman looked out at all the eager young faces on the students fidgeting in
their seats. They looked like a bright bunch. He was struck by the memory of the
one interesting assembly he’d attended in high school, when astronaut Pete
Conrad had visited Smallville. Clark and his friends had been so excited to meet
and hear a man who had actually walked on the moon. It had made him want to
go into space himself . . . and eventually he had.
Superman smiled. Perhaps this wouldn’t be so bad after all. Still, he never
would have agreed to such an interview, in any forum, if il hadn’t been for the
Justice League.
No, not the League . . . not directly. I doubt that I’d be doing this if not for
Guy Gardner. The former Green Lantern saw himself as leader of the group and
carried a chip on his shoulder a mile wide. There had been unpleasant
confrontations between the two of them, some of them in public. There were
already dozens of rumors flying about the League—rumors that the UN was
thinking of canceling their charter, even that the federal government was
considering putting restrictions on the exercise of superpowers. Things were
getting out of hand, and Superman couldn’t let that continue. The Justice League
was just too important to the world. Cat’s show was an opportunity for him to
reassure the public on that count. I just hope that I’ve seen the last of the trouble
with Gardner. I don’t have time to go on TV every week.

On U.S. Highway 30 just outside of Bucyrus, Ohio, a LexOil tanker truck lay
twisted and burning around a late-model Subaru. The drivers of the two vehicles
were pinned within the wreckage. Both had mercifully lost consciousness.
They could not see the two glowing figures who dropped through the curtain
of fire. Nor did they hear the wrench of metal as the wreckage was ripped open
by powerful gauntleted hands.
In an instant, the Lady Maxima had lifted the unconscious trucker from the
cab of the tanker. “Quickly, Booster! These men require immediate medical
attention.”
Booster Gold nodded, carefully cradling the other driver as he extended the
electromagnetic force field of his battle suit to cover them. “Let’s get out of this
inferno!”
As they rushed the injured men to safety, Ice thrust out her arms and through
force of will began to draw heat from the surrounding air. The air appeared to
thicken as moisture began condensing. Then, as if by magic, a wall of ice formed
around the perimeter of the fire, momentarily halting its spread.
Guy Gardner circled overhead, using the energies of his ring to form a lid over
the blaze. “Yeah, I’ll have this little campfire snuffed out faster than you can say
weenie roast.”
Less than fifty feet away, the Blue Beetle’s bug-ship hovered silently over a
highway patrol car. A state trooper mopped his brow uneasily as Bloodwynd and
Fire administered first aid to the rescued men.
“We appreciate the help, Justice Leaguers. I guess that Ohio is a little out of
your normal jurisdiction.”
“Not at all, Officer.” The Beetle’s manner was uncommonly serious. It was no
time to be flippant. “We go where we’re needed.”
“We surely needed you today. Whatever it is that’s responsible for this . . .”
The trooper stopped, gesturing toward the smoldering wreckage, and swallowed
hard. “Well, it’s more than we’re used to handling.”
Fire looked up from her work. “These men both have concussions and some
minor fractures, but I think they’ll be all right. Maxima and Booster got to them
just in time.”
The trooper nodded. “Best news I’ve had all morning. Dispatch says the
ambulances should be here within another couple minutes.”
A dark, caped figure arose from Fire’s side. “We must find the beast.”
“I agree, Bloodwynd.” Blue Beetle waved to get Gardner’s attention.
“Everybody back into the Bug and we’ll be on our way.”
In seconds, the strange ship was circling the area. “Keep your eyes on the
ground, people. The sooner we spot our monster, the better.” The Beetle glanced
from his craft’s infrared scanners to the countryside below. “Uh-oh. Looks like
we’ve found our man’s trail of crumbs.”
A freshly hewn path cut through a wooded area to the east. Trees were
splintered and in some cases completely uprooted.
Booster let out a long, low whistle. “Looks like a tornado came through here.”
Beetle turned in his seat. “Bloodwynd, Maxima . . . you two have all those
psychic powers. Any chance you can scan ahead and tap into this thing’s mind?”
Bloodwynd shrugged. “I will try. But it will be difficult.”
“Speak for yourself.” Maxima settled back into her seat and began to
concentrate.
Ice looked out of the ship, staring down at the path of destruction. “This is
terrible. Such pointless, needless devastation.”
Gardner drummed his fingers impatiently. “Let’s just find the sucker, okay?”
For several long minutes, the ship was silent. Then Maxima stiffened and let
out a cry. “I’ve found the Creature. He is east of here, perhaps no more than fifty
miles. Yes, his presence is very strong . . . He . . .” She shook her head and her
eyes narrowed. “He is hate . . . death and bloodlust personified. Nothing more.”
Gardner laughed, and his ring glowed all the more brightly. “Sounds like my
kinda guy.” He leaned over and patted Ice’s hand. “Don’t worry, doll. We’ll kick
his butt!”
Ice shuddered involuntarily. Guy, I don’t care what you say, I still wish that
Superman was here.

In the Roosevelt High auditorium, a floor manager held up a hand, fingers wide
as he ticked off the seconds to the end of the first commercial break. Four, three,
two, one. The tally light atop camera one burned red.
“Welcome back!” Cat smiled. “We’re coming to you live from Roosevelt
High with an incredible show.” She paused for effect. “He is perhaps the most
celebrated man of our time! He’s been called the Man of Tomorrow, the Last
Son of Krypton, and the Man of Steel! But he’s most appropriately known as—
Superman!”
The auditorium erupted into thunderous applause—and not a few cheers—as
Superman stepped through the curtain. Waving in acknowledgment, he strode
across the tiny stage, taking Cat’s hand. As they waited for the response to die
down, Superman felt relieved that she was willing to accept a handshake rather
than an air kiss. People always look so damned foolish when they do that. The
applause showed no sign of ending, and he finally held out his hands, gesturing
for calm.
Following his example. Cat added her own admonition. “Please! This is only a
ninety-minute show! If we don’t get to the interview soon, Principal Wolf will
make us all stay after school!” The gag got the cheap laugh she was looking for
from her audience, and they at last settled down.
“I can’t thank you enough for joining us here, Superman.” Cat fine-tuned her
smile. “Interviews with you are a true rarity! You so seldom speak for the public
record.”
“I seldom have the time, Ms. Grant.”
“Yes, well, let’s cross our fingers and hope that any natural disasters hold off
for the next hour and a half.”
“That would be fine by me. I could use the rest.”
“All right then . . . Superman, like others of your colleagues—Booster Gold,
the Elongated Man, Wonder Woman—you’ve led a fairly public life, but we still
know so very little about you! As leader of the Justice League—”
“Pardon me for interrupting, Ms. Grant, but I have to correct you on that
point. It’s unfair to the other members to paint me as the leader of the League.
Every member has a say on issues . . . and a vote as well.”
“Surely, though, you have a greater influence than some, Superman. Longtime
observers suggest you’ve provided a quality of strength and focus that the
League has been lacking for some time.”
“I don’t know who these ‘observers’ are, or how qualified they are to speak.
But I’ve found the members of the Justice League to be a talented, dedicated
group of individuals. They have a long, proud history, and I’m honored to be in
their ranks.”
“Superman, I’m sure no one disputes the long-standing reputation of the
Justice League. But aside from yourself, this new League is relatively
inexperienced.”
“So were the original members, when the League was first founded.”
“That may well be. But the original members seemed on the whole more . . .
oh . . . even-tempered? Certainly, if they had any disagreements, they kept them
private. That clearly isn’t the case with the new League. As the whole country
must know by now, you and Guy Gardner exchanged blows just a few weeks
ago! What about that?”
Superman shook his head. I knew she’d get to that sooner or later.
“Reports of that incident were greatly exaggerated, Ms. Grant. In point of fact,
I never struck Mr. Gardner.”
“But he did hit you?”
“I allowed him to, yes. There had been an unfortunate misunderstanding
involving the alarm system at the Justice League Compound in New York. Some
members believed they were under attack, and Guy was caught up in the middle.
He lost his temper . . . and I let him take it out on me.” It was the truth, as far as
it went.
“He must have quite a temper. It still doesn’t sound as though he gets along
with anybody.”
“I can’t say. I don’t know the man that well. We’re obviously not the closest
of friends. But we’re both professionals. When the chips are down, we work
together and get the job done.” He stole a glance at his image in the monitor and
felt relieved. His nose hadn’t grown at all. Lord, but I’ll be glad when this is
over.

While Superman diplomatically parried Cat Grant’s questions, a big bear of a

man lay sprawled facedown across an old, swaybacked bed in a second-floor
walk-up over a Suicide Slum tavern known as the Ace o’ Clubs. His last name
was Bibbowski, and his first name was known only to a handful of police
officers who had required it for their reports. To friends and acquaintances, he
was simply Bibbo.
A fly settled tentatively on Bibbo’s puffy left ear, causing it to twitch
involuntarily. Still asleep, Bibbo rolled onto his back, his mouth flew open, and
a window-rattling snore filled the room. His close-cropped gray hair and
prominent beer gut suggested a man on the far side of fifty, but just how far was
uncertain. His cauliflower ears and battered nose were mute evidence that Bibbo
had once supported himself as a boxer.
To hear some people talk, Bibbo might have once been a serious heavyweight
contender. Others dismissed him as just another lowlife, the veteran of too many
barroom brawls. Bibbo had a reputation as a man who could clear a saloon in a
matter of minutes. And it was rumored that on one occasion it had taken a dozen
burly policemen to hold him down.
Bibbo had supported himself by working the docks as a longshoreman until
the day when a gust of wind literally blew a lottery ticket into his face. The
ticket won him a fourteen-million-dollar jackpot. Others might have taken the
money and run as far from Suicide Slum as they could, but not Bibbo. With the
first year’s worth of his winnings, Bibbo bought the Ace o’ Clubs and set about
silently helping his more down-and-out buddies.
“Yo, Bibbo! You in there, man?” A knock came at the door of the apartment,
answered only by a loud, beery snore. The pounding on the door became more
insistent. “Bibbo? Hey, man, it’s me . . . Lamarr! Hey, wake up! The beer truck’s
here!”
Bibbo awoke with a snort. “Beer truck? Oh, yeah . . . mus’ be delivery day.”
He stumbled to the door and yanked it open so suddenly that Lamarr Powell all
but fell into the room.
“Bibbo, are you—? Hooeee!” Lamarr pulled back from his friend, his nose
wrinkling so that it appeared to bury itself deeper into his face. “Man, you smell
like a sour keg!”
“Hey, your breat’ ain’t exactly daisies! What time is it?”
“I dunno. ’Bout a quarter to eleven, I guess.”
“Quarter to ’leven?!” Bibbo came fully awake, his eyes fairly popping out of
his head. “Oh, no! I’m missin’ it!”
Bibbo shoved past Lamarr and bolted down the stairs, two steps at a time. He
sprinted down the back hall like a crazed bull, knocking over the man from the
beer truck. “Outta my way! I’m missin’ my fav’rit!”
 Following in his friend’s wake, Lamarr helped the delivery man to his feet.
“You all right?”
“Yeah, I think so. What got into him?”
“Beats me. I ain’t seen Bibbo so agitated since the night Milwaukee was down
two runs to Seattle in the bottom of the ninth.”
Cautiously, they entered the back of the tavern to find Bibbo up on a stool
hastily changing channels on the bar’s old television.
“Yo, Bib. You won’t find any game on this time o’ day.”
“Ain’t lookin’ for a game. What channel’s the Cat Grant Show on?”
“Channel two. Since when do you follow talk shows?”
“I don’t. But my fav’rit’s s’posed to be on today! An’ I been missin’ ’im!”
Bibbo hopped down from the stool.
“His favorite?” The delivery man regarded Bibbo with a fishy stare. “His
favorite what?”
“Oh, I get it now!” Lamarr gave the delivery man a reassuring grin.
“Superman must be on.”
“Superman? But he doesn’t do talk shows!”
“Well, he’s doin’ this one!” Bibbo glanced impatiently at the screen, waiting
for the commercial break to end. “It said so, right in yesterday’s Planet!”
“Okay. Whatever you say. But in the meantime, can I get you to sign for this
delivery?”
“Yeah, sure.” Bibbo scribbled his name on the proffered bill.
“Thanks. So . . . you like Superman, eh? Ever see him? Up close, I mean?”
“See ’im?” Bibbo let out a raspy laugh. “I almos’ busted my knuckles on ’im
once!”
“Excuse me?”
“Yeah, before I bought this place . . . Sooperman came in here one night
lookin’ for info on some crumbum. I thought ’e was just some jerk wearin’ a
phony costume, but ’e was real! An’ ’e was tough! C’mere—!” Bibbo threw an
arm around the delivery man and steered him to the middle of the barroom. “See
here where we replaced the tile? Y’know why we hadda do that?”
“Uh, look, I really have to be going—!”
 “ ’Cause this is where Sooperman pulled me through the floor!”
“He what?!”
“Pulled me through the floor! Me an’ some other guys! See, we was hasslin’
this pal o’ his, Olsen . . . only we din’t know him an’ Sooperman was buddies,
see? Anyways, this Olsen kid was askin’ a lotta nosy questions, an’ we din’t
know ’im from Adam, so we was givin’ ’im a hard time . . . not really leanin’ on
’im, but lettin’ ’im think we was. When all of a sudden, these hands come
smashing up through wood, tiles, an’ everything, an’ pulled us right down
through the floor! Haw-haw-haw!” Bibbo merrily slapped the confused delivery
man on the back. “Sooperman, ’e’s my fav’rit!”
“Let me get this straight. You nearly broke your hand punching Superman . . .
and another time, he pulled you through a floor . . . and now you like him?”
“Like ’im? Ain’t you been payin’ attention? ’E’s—!”
“He’s your favorite . . . yeah, right. But . . . why?”
“Why?!” Bibbo looked at the delivery man in amazement. “ ’Cause ’e’s
tough! ’E’s the toughest guy I ever met! Ya gotta respect that!”
“Yo, Bibbo!” Lamarr called for his friend’s attention. “Commercials’re over!
The show’s comin’ on!”
Bibbo pointed proudly at the caped figure on the screen. “Ya see? I tolja
Sooperman was on!”
“Yeah, I—”
“Shaddup! I wanna hear what he hasta say!”

“Hello! We’re back with Superman and the students of Roosevelt High.” Cat
stood in the central aisle of the auditorium bleachers, a wireless microphone in
hand. “And I think it’s high time that we let these students ask a few questions.”
She nodded to one young man who rose uncertainly from his seat. “And your
name is—?”
“Kenny. I was wonderin’ what you super-heroes do when you’re not bashing
the bad guys. I mean, do you get together and party all the time or what?”
“The members of the Justice League have a variety of interests, Ken, just as
you and your friends do. The Blue Beetle, for example, is an inventor who
enjoys spending his free time in the lab. Ice grew up in an isolated section of
Norway and as a result likes to travel and learn about other cultures. Booster
Gold is a sports buff. Maxima is busy adjusting to life on Earth. And Guy
Gardner . . . well, Guy tends to be a bit more private with his free time. We don’t
see him much when he’s on his own.”
A freckle-faced boy approached the mike. His hair was an unruly mop that
had been cut close on the sides. “Yeah, I have a question for Superman about
Guy Gardner. Why won’t you let him be a Green Lantern anymore? Why did
you fire him?”
Superman cleared his throat. Be diplomatic, Clark. The boy obviously idolizes
Gardner enough to have his hair cut the same way. “I can assure you that we
didn’t ‘fire’ Guy.” Much as we might like to. “We really had no say regarding
his status as a Green Lantern. You may not be aware of it, but all the many
Green Lanterns are part of a much larger Green Lantern Corps. Guy’s retirement
as a Green Lantern was an internal matter of the corps . . . and I’m not qualified
to speak on their behalf. Nor would I wish to second-guess them.”

Three hundred miles away, students in Noah Swanson’s third-period history

class sat fidgeting in their seats as the interview played out on a classroom
monitor. Noah himself was getting annoyed. “Look, this interview is taking
place in Metropolis for the benefit of high school students nationwide. I want
you kids to pay attention!”
Daryl Warner rolled his eyes and held his voice down to a whisper. “If you
ask me, Mitch, this is turning into a real yawner.”
Across the aisle, Mitch Andersen nodded wearily. “No kiddin’! If they’re
going to talk about Guy Gardner, why don’t they get Guy Gardner on there with
that Boy Scout? But no . . . they wouldn’t do that! Besides, Guy wouldn’t waste
his time with some stupid talk show!”
“Mr. Andersen? Mr. Warner?”
Nuts! Old Man Swanson caught us.
“Is there something you wish to share with the class?”
“Uh . . . no, sir.”
“No.”
“Let’s keep it down, then, shall we? Some of us, at least, want to hear what
Superman has to say!”
As Cat came up the aisle, a boy in a battered old leather jacket rose and leaned
over the microphone. “Hey, Superman, I got a question about Fire. Does she
score as high on the babe-o-meter as she seems?” The boy plopped back into his
seat, to the amusement of his friends seated nearby.
Ah, yes. Sophomore, no doubt. Superman tried to maintain a poker face, but it
was a battle not to grin. “Fire is good at her job and a terrific person. You’d like
her. Next question?”
Cat stepped down a few rows and held the microphone out to an earnest
young girl. “I was, y’know, wondering, Superman, if there’s anything out there
that, y’know, really frightens you? I mean, I’d get scared facing all that stuff if I
were you.”
“That’s a very good question, miss. One way or another, fear is always part of
my job. Mainly, there’s the fear of failure. There are criminals who have eluded
me, and there have been people whom I was unable to save.” Like the crew of
the Excalibur.
Several months before, the space shuttle Excalibur had crash-landed outside
Metropolis, its crew the victims of an orbital radiation experiment. Of the four
crash survivors, Superman had been able to save only one, Terri Henshaw. The
Man of Steel had watched helplessly as her husband, shuttle commander Hank
Henshaw, succumbed to the radiation. Henshaw’s body had failed, and then—!
Mustn’t dwell on that, he reminded himself. Answer the question.
“Aside from that, I’m also afraid of unintentionally hurting innocent people.
And, to be candid, there have been times when I have feared for my own life. On
numerous occasions, I have encountered forces powerful enough to kill me.”
Superman noticed some doubting expressions in the audience. They wouldn’t
look so skeptical if they’d ever met Mongul or Darkseid.
The girl pressed on. “What about all that, y’know, hitting and violence? Don’t
you get tired of it? I mean, aren’t there better ways to work things out, other than
caving in someone’s head?”
Superman nodded appreciatively. She sounded a little uncertain at first, but
she’s obviously given a lot of thought to this. “There certainly are better ways,
and we must use them whenever possible. The Reverend Dr. Martin Luther
King, Jr., spoke of the need for humanity ‘to overcome oppression and violence
without resorting to oppression and violence.’ That’s a goal that every one of us
must strive to meet.” He paused. The school auditorium had grown unnaturally
quiet. “I wish that the use of force would never be necessary. But experience has
taught me that there are some opponents who cannot be stopped any other way. I
have torn apart tanks and planes with my bare hands, and I have used these
hands to render other people unconscious. Believe me when I say that I am not
proud of that. It is something that I find necessary to do to protect others, to
accomplish a greater good, a common good. It is that common good that we
choose to protect with our powers . . . and our lives.”
8

The Justice League did not find the Creature. He found them.
The shadow of the bug-ship passed over the Creature as he stalked through a
small wooded glen not far from Canton, Ohio. Intrigued by the odd flying craft,
he hurled a good-sized rock through it.
“Everybody assume crash positions!” Beetle frantically fought the controls.
“Our hydraulics are shredded! We’re going down!”
Thousands of feet in the air, the bug-ship began to break apart. The seven
Justice Leaguers suddenly found themselves in free-fall.
“I’m gonna find the creep who whacked us and sew his eyelids shut!”
“Give us nonfliers a hand first, Guy!” The Beetle’s plea had its hoped-for
effect.
Guy swung about and swooped under Ice, while Booster grabbed hold of
Beetle and slowed his fall. “Gotcha, ol’ buddy. Nothing to worry about now!”
“There’s plenty to worry about! What’s left of my Bug is about to slam into
Route 62! When it hits—!”
“It will not!” Maxima stood in midair, a ripple of energy swirling around her.
As she gestured, the ship’s wreckage came to a slow stop.
While Maxima occupied herself with holding the wreckage together and
lowering it to Earth, the other members of the League assembled along the
shoulder of the highway. No sooner had they caught their breath than the ground
shook and a gout of flame roared up beyond the adjoining grove.
“Before we were hit I saw—!” Beetle swallowed hard. “That is, I think . . .
there’s a LexOil refinery over there!”
“All right! That does it!” Guy Gardner shot away from the group, headed for
the fiery glow. Flying over the grounds of the refinery, he quickly spotted the
heavily shrouded figure emerging from the ruin of one huge tower. Ring blazing,
Gardner swooped down to confront the Creature.
“What’ll it be, fella—burial or cremation? Your pick!”
 The Creature seemed at first startled by the appearance of a glowing, flying
man. But his surprise was short-lived. Despite Gardner’s ring-generated force
field, the Creature grabbed hold of the cocky former Green Lantern and threw
him headfirst to the ground. A huge boot came down hard on Guy’s head, again
and again. And then, with his one free hand, the Creature picked Guy up by the
head and shook him like an old rug.
“Let go of him, you . . . monster!” Fire streaked across the sky, awash in
emerald flame. Guy may be a jerk, but he’s our jerk. She directed her flame in a
searing stream at the Creature. He dropped Guy and stood there for a moment,
flames crackling all around him, staring silently at the blazing woman. And then
he simply turned and walked away.
Fire pursued him, pouring on the heat until the Creature’s bonds began to
smoke and smolder. “I don’t believe it! No matter how much flame I throw at
this goon, it doesn’t seem to faze him in the least!”
“I will deal with him, Fire!” Bloodwynd dropped from the sky directly into
the Creature’s path. Calling upon all the eldritch power at his command, the
sorcerous warrior channeled that energy into one single devastating punch. The
Creature hardly appeared to feel it. He barely paused as he returned the blow
tenfold, punching Bloodwynd and sending him through the side of a massive oil
storage tank.
The Blue Beetle ran onto the refinery grounds, trying to help the downed
Bloodwynd. But before he could reach his injured teammate, a monstrous hand
grabbed him from behind. The Creature turned the Beetle around and slammed
the Leaguer against the side of a metal tank. So hard was the impact that the
Beetle’s goggles shattered and his protective mask peeled away from half his
face. Then the Creature tossed the unconscious hero to the side.

“Cut!”
“Cut?” Cat Grant turned to confront her director. “What do you mean,
‘Cut’?!”
“I mean, we’re off the air.” he clutched his headset tightly to his ear as the
monitors set up around the auditorium flashed the familiar Galaxy Broadcasting
G. “We’re being preempted by network news. There’s something weird going on
in the Midwest . . . some sort of trouble.”
“Trouble?” Superman was on his feet and across the stage in an instant.
 The director reached for the volume control. “You want me to turn up the
sound?”
“If you want. I can hear it fine as is.”
“Turn it up, Mickey.” Cat joined them by the central monitor. “If I’m being
preempted, I want to know by what!”
“. . . reports at this hour of intense fighting between members of the Justice
League and what authorities are calling a monster at an oil refinery near Canton,
Ohio.” The voice of a WGBS news announcer suddenly boomed out across the
chamber. “Initial indications are that the League has been unable to halt the
destructive rampage of the as-yet-unidentified creature.”
“I have to go, Ms. Grant.” Superman became a blur.
“Superman—?” Cat ran after him, but by the time she reached the exit door,
he was already several miles away.

The Blue Beetle landed hard and did not move. Ice and Booster Gold were the
first to reach him.
“My God, Ice, is he breathing?”
“I think so. But he’s so still . . .”
“Do everything you can for him. I’m going after that thing!”
Booster streaked after the Creature, catching up to him at the perimeter of the
burning refinery. “No more games, Ugly. Not after what you did to my buddy!”
Thumbing the microcontrols on his battle suit, Booster peppered the Creature
with high-intensity energy blasts from his gauntlets.
The Creature gave out an angry snort and charged at the hero full tilt. Booster
just barely had time to divert power to his force field before the thing struck.
With a blow that cracked like thunder, the Creature sent Booster flying out of
control.
The sound of the wind sluicing off his force field was almost deafening as
Booster arced several miles into the sky. Never been hit like that before. The
thought came to him slowly. Even with the cushioning effect of his protective
field, Booster was seeing stars. That thing smacked me so hard . . . flight circuits
are overpowered. Don’t know if I can stop.
“Drop your field, Booster! I’ll catch you.”
 “What—?” Booster’s eyes went wide, but he recognized the voice almost
immediately and did as he was told. A mighty hand reached out, firmly grabbing
hold of him.
“Superman? Where’d you come from?”
“I heard that the League was having some trouble.”
“ ‘Trouble’ isn’t the word for it!” Booster took a deep breath and shook his
head. “It’s more like Doomsday has arrived!”

Mitch Andersen sailed down the sidewalks of his neighborhood atop his
skateboard, a warm breeze blowing through his hair. This sure beats hanging out
with the dweebs in the cafeteria, getting ptomaine from the City Chicken or
whatever today’s Mystery Meat was. Mitch hated school. He especially hated it
on such a bright and sunny day. In the back of his mind, he weighed his chances
for cutting his afternoon classes without getting caught. His stomach rumbled.
Better grab some lunch first.
Mitch jumped the curb and kicked his way down the street to the two-story
tract house at the end of a cul-de-sac. The “War Zone,” he called it. He hated
that house almost as much as he did school, but until he was ready to move out
on his own, he was stuck there . . . with a mother and baby sister who were
slowly driving him nuts. He already knew what his mother would say when he
walked in the door: “Mitch, dear, is that you? How’s your day been?” That’s
what she always said. He’d heard the same thing—day after day, week after
week, month after month. It was like some corny, sickeningly sweet mantra.
That was his mother all right. That’s what people were always telling him.
“Your mother is so nice . . . so sweet and sincere.” Yeah, as if being sincere
could excuse anyone for being that sweet! Mitch skidded to a halt and kicked the
skateboard up into his hands. He sometimes wondered if his father had left them
because he just couldn’t take the sweetness anymore.
Mitch opened the back door, his skateboard under one arm.
“Mitch, dear, is that you?”
Why doesn’t she just record it and save her voice? It’s not like anyone would
ever notice. “No, it’s Axl Rose.”
Mitch’s baby sister, Becky, was in her high chair, getting fed something that
looked even more disgusting than usual. Mitch surveyed the kid and his mother.
He could never understand why his mom had wanted to have another baby at her
age. Had she thought it would hold the family together? Mitch shrugged to
himself. “We got anything worth eating around here?”
“Help yourself to whatever’s in the fridge. How was school this morning?”
Mitch almost blinked. His mother had actually said something different for a
change! He answered with a snort.
“How did you do on your algebra test?”
“Like you care.” Mitch stuck his head in the refrigerator. “Hey! What
happened to all the soda?!”
“Mitch! Of course I care.” She paused, a spoon of strained squash in hand.
“Say, wasn’t today the day that Superman was going to address high school
students on TV? It must have been a thrill to see that!”
“No way. The superweasel was called away on some case and he bailed out
early. Probably had to yank a cat from a tree.” Mitch shoved the refrigerator
door shut and leaned back against it in disgust. “Why do we always run out of
soda around here? Why can’t you ever buy enough to last?”
“Look, I’m sorry, but your sister isn’t feeling well. I haven’t had time to go
shopping—”
“I am really tired of that baby being the only one who rates around here! I
mean, Dad always has soda waiting for me at his apartment!”
“I’m sorry, Mitchell, but I cannot keep up with everything here. This house
isn’t perfect and neither am I. We just have to do the best we can!”
“Jeez, if this is the best you can do, it’s no wonder Dad left. No wonder he
wants a divorce.”
Claire Andersen opened her mouth to speak, but not a word came out. She
turned away from her only son, tears welling up in her eyes.
What is the matter with her? Why doesn’t she say something? Why does she
just sit there and take it? Mitch could feel his stomach knotting up. Why doesn’t
she yell and scream? Other mothers would. Why is mine such a wimp? “I’m
goin’ over to Aaron’s.” He turned and headed for the door. He tried to sound
cool, but his voice had all of a sudden gotten husky. “See you later.”
Becky made a gurgling noise and reached out to her mother. Claire brushed
away her tears and was attempting to smile for her daughter when an odd
cracking noise came from somewhere outside.
 “Mitch, wait! Did you hear that—?”
Suddenly Ice came crashing through their big kitchen window.
As Ice tumbled across the room, Claire instinctively threw herself in front of
Becky, shielding the baby from the shower of flying glass. She pulled Becky
from the high chair and turned to her son, who stood frozen in the doorway.
“Mitchell, call 911! Hurry!” Then something beyond the shattered window
caught her eye, and she froze as well.
The Creature came striding straight toward their house. Only the family car
stood in his way. With one sweep of his hand, he batted it aside.
“Our car!” Still unable to move, Claire clutched the baby to her.
Mitch was moving, but slowly, as if he were caught in some movie filmed in
slow motion. Behind the looming Creature, he could see a row of uprooted trees
and, far beyond, a darkening cloud of smoke. Whoa! That dude did all this—with
one hand tied behind his back?!
Less than ten feet from the house, the Creature stopped and looked up.
Something was approaching . . . something up in the sky.
Booster Gold and Superman landed directly in the Creature’s path. “That’s the
guy, Superman. He’s the one who took the Justice League apart at the seams.”
Superman quickly sized the Creature up. Seven feet tall if he’s an inch. With
his X-ray vision, Superman looked beneath the heavy shroud. No, not a robot . .
. but dense, very dense . . . and ugly. “What was it you called him, Booster?
Doomsday?”
The newly named Doomsday saw a challenge in the caped man who stood so
boldly in his path. He cocked back his free arm and delivered a powerful blow to
Superman’s midsection.
Superman did not budge, but he felt the blow. If I hadn’t seen it coming,
hadn’t tensed my abdominals, that could have hurt.
Booster flinched. “Superman . . . are you all right?”
Superman looked back at Booster, and in that moment, Doomsday struck
again, wheeling around and this time kicking him in the midsection. Caught off
guard, Superman went flying backward through one side of the Andersen house
and out the other. The entire house sagged to one side as he crashed into an old
oak in the side yard. The Man of Steel sprawled back across the toppled tree,
stars swimming before his eyes.
 Booster made a grab for Doomsday, but the creature evaded his lunge and
slammed him into a large sycamore. As the tree cracked and fell, Booster’s force
field flickered out.
The Andersens were just starting to pick themselves up from the rubble of
what had been their kitchen when Doomsday bashed his way in. Mitch froze in
slack-jawed disbelief, not that this monster was ripping apart their house, but
that his mother—his mother!—was standing her ground.
“Why?” Claire’s voice shook with indignation. “Why are you doing this to
our house? What do you want from us?”
Doomsday’s only answer was a muffled snort. His attention was drawn to Ice,
who lay semiconscious amid the remains of a kitchen counter. Gleefully,
Doomsday pounded her, laughing at the sound of breaking ribs. Behind him,
little Becky found her voice and began to wail. Doomsday turned, fist raised.
Claire’s eyes went wide with fear.
“No! Not my baby! Please, not my baby!”
Doomsday raised his arm to strike, but suddenly Superman was there. With a
punishing combination of blows, he drove the creature away from the Andersens
and back out of the swaying house.
“Get your family out of here!” Superman shouted over his shoulder. “I’ll
cover your escape as long as I can!”
“You won’t have to do it alone, Supes! The Cavalry is on the scene.”
Superman didn’t need to risk a glance this time. Booster—who else would call
him “Supes”?—back on his feet. And from the sound of things, he’s rallied some
of the others.
“ ’S’matter, Boy Scout?” Guy Gardner sounded unsteady, his words spit from
painfully swollen lips. His eyes were nearly swollen shut. “Is that guy too tough
even for you?”
“Guy, that monster might be too tough for all of us!” Fire’s usual confidence
was missing.
“No way, babe!” Booster had never sounded more serious. “I say we hit him
with everything we got!”
“All our powers in a combined, concerted effort.” Bloodwynd looked to
Superman. “Agreed?”
Superman nodded. “Let’s do it!”
 Five beams of incredible energy shot out at Doomsday. Fire aimed another
searing blast of green flame at the creature. From Superman’s eyes came a
tightly focused beam of radiant heat. Likewise, Bloodwynd trained the coherent
energy of his eye-beams on Doomsday, even as he helped the half-blinded Guy
Gardner aim his power ring’s golden beam. Booster Gold went into a crouch,
routing all the energy of his power cells into his gauntlets, adding their blasting
power to his teammates’ miniature fire storm.
“Give it everything you’ve got!” yelled Booster, squinting into the glare.
“We’ll show this dude what kind of trouble he buys when he takes on the Justice
League!”

Mitch’s head swung back and forth as though it were mounted on a spring; he
literally didn’t know which way to turn.
“Mitch, get hold of yourself! I need you!”
He looked at his mother with something akin to shock. Did she really say
that? She’d never said a single, solitary assertive thing for as long as he could
remember. “Mom—?” Before he could finish his question, she thrust the baby
into his hands and stooped down to grab Ice by the shoulders. “Mom, what’re
you doing?”
“What’s it look like I’m doing?” Claire slowly eased the unconscious Justice
Leaguer across the linoleum. “You heard Superman! We have to get out of here,
and we can’t very well leave this poor woman behind!”
“Yeah. I guess not.” Mitch numbly fell in alongside his mother, holding
Becky in one arm and using the other to shove debris out of their path.

Superman peered down the length of his heat beam. “Amazing. I can’t even see
him anymore, but I think he’s still standing!”
“Don’t stand there blabbin’, Boy Scout. Just turn up the juice!” Guy’s voice
had become a raspy growl.
Fire began to sway, her flame flickering out. “I’m spent . . . can’t go on
anymore!”
“Me neither.” Sweat was running down Booster’s face. “My power cells are
shot . . . drained!”
 Bloodwynd looked pained. “I . . . am weakened myself.”
“Okay, let’s give it a rest!” Though he’d never admit it, Guy was about to
collapse. “After all this there’s no way the creep could still be standin’!”
But as the smoke and fire of their barrage dissipated, it became all too clear
that Doomsday was indeed still standing. He had stood his ground throughout
their high-energy attack. The ground around him, however, was scorched and
smoldering. Doomsday’s heavy suit was partially burnt away, and his left arm
was completely free of its bonds.
All they had succeeded in doing was destroying the last of his restraints.
Doomsday launched himself at the assembled Justice Leaguers, scattering
them like tenpins. He battered the powerless Booster Gold unconscious and then
used Gold’s body as a weapon, hurling him headlong at Guy Gardner. Superman
and Bloodwynd tried to surround Doomsday in a flanking maneuver, but the
creature lashed out unexpectedly, stunning them both. Groggy, Bloodwynd tried
again to focus his eye-beams on the creature but succeeded only in accidentally
igniting the ruin of the Andersens’ house. Stumbling away from the battle, Fire
tried to give Claire Andersen a hand with the injured Ice.
That’s when the house fire touched off a gas line. Already severely weakened,
the house blew apart. A huge burning section of roof and wall fell toward Mitch
and his family, separating them from the stunned Justice League.
Amid all the chaos and confusion he had caused, Doomsday leapt away,
laughing madly.
With that awful laughter ringing in his ears, Superman scrambled to his feet, a
look of horror on his face. All his life, ever since he’d reached maturity and
realized the extent of his powers, he had held himself in check whenever
circumstances forced him to fight another living being. If my holding back has
resulted in this—! The thought terrified him. No . . . no way is that maniac
escaping me! With a spring and a leap, Superman shot into the sky. The others
could deal with the fire—he had to stop Doomsday!

Mitch came to, surrounded by smoke and scattered debris. “Where . . . where is
everybody? Mom? Becky—?!” He had been holding his baby sister. Now where
was she? My God, did I drop her?
Then he saw them. They were just a few feet away, but they might as well
have been on the moon. A burning beam separated him from his family.
Through the wall of flame, Mitch could see Becky sitting huddled next to their
mother’s body. No, don’t think that. She’s alive, she’s got to be! A wave of heat
forced Mitch back and he stumbled from the wreckage. The Justice Leaguers lay
sprawled around him like broken dolls. Mitch looked around wildly. There’s
only one guy who can help us . . . Where is he?
“Superman! Please, Superman, you gotta hear me! Help us! Please!”

Superman was already many miles away. He caught up to Doomsday at the apex
of his second leap and struck the creature in the side so hard that the sound of his
punch echoed like a thunderclap. Stunned, Doomsday fell from the sky, landing
like a rock in the fields far below.
Superman glanced back toward the ravaged suburban subdivision. He could
hear the distant wail of sirens and the cry of a desperate young man.
“Superman! Please—you’ve got to help us! My mom . . . my baby sister . . .
they’re trapped! Please!”
Scanning the scene with his super-vision, Superman discovered to his horror
that the rest of the Justice League were in no shape to help, and civilian rescue
workers were still several minutes from the scene. Good Lord! I’ve got to get
back there!
But in that moment’s distraction, Doomsday launched himself skyward,
slamming into Superman like a guided missile. The Man of Steel tumbled
backward, the creature holding on to him.
This creature’s fast and strong, but it seems to leap rather than fly! As long as
I can hold it, it’s at my mercy as to where we go.
Clutching Doomsday tight around the shoulders, Superman dove beneath the
waters of nearby Westville Lake. There he forced the creature deep into the silt
at the bottom of the reservoir. Superman then shot up out of the lake. That
should keep the monster out of trouble. I just pray there’s still time to help that
family!

Claire Andersen regained consciousness amid the fiery rubble of what had been
her home, her baby crying plaintively by her side. She picked up her daughter
and cradled her in her arms, trying to shield the child from the blistering heat
with her own body. “It’s okay, Becky. It’s okay. Well get out somehow.”
Then came an awful cracking noise. Claire looked up to see another huge
beam toppling toward them.
Suddenly, a crimson and blue flash swept through the fire, and a pair of
powerful arms scooped up Claire and her baby.
“Come on, let’s get you out of here.”
“S-Superman?”
They soared out of the wreckage, high and away from the heat and flame.
Claire looked down and saw what was left of her home going up in smoke.
Down below . . . mother’s china, the family photos . . . everything’s burning . . .
it doesn’t seem possible. Becky squirmed in her arms, and she hugged her
tighter. But it doesn’t matter . . . they were just—things. We’ll get by . . . as long
as the kids are safe. The kids—!
“Where’s my son? Where’s Mitch?”
“Don’t worry, ma’am, he’s all right. An EMS crew’s just arrived . . . I can see
him down there with them.”
Mitch Andersen looked up in wonderment as Superman descended. “He did
it! He saved my mom and baby sister.”
Superman handed the Andersens over to the paramedics and then looked
about him. Booster Gold, Fire, and Guy Gardner were being laid out on
stretchers. One rescue worker was starting to tape Ice’s ribs, even as she was
trying to get Guy to lie still. Bloodwynd was standing, but he didn’t seem all that
steady on his feet. Finally able to take a head count, Superman realized that two
members were missing.
“Where are the others?”
Ice looked up tearfully. “Before you ever arrived . . . Beetle was beaten . . .
horribly. I . . . I convinced Maxima that she should rush him to the hospital.”
Superman looked grim. “You should all go to the hospital. None of you is in
any shape to carry on.”
“Yeah, but you are.” Guy Gardner reached up, tugging on his cape. “Don’t
wuss out on us. Boy Scout! Get that Doomsday creep. Put him in a pine box for
me . . . or I’ll crawl off this stretcher and kick both your butts!”
“I’ll take care of things, Guy. You just let the doctors help you.” Superman
turned to the nearest paramedic. “Have your local hospital contact the Justice
League Compound in New York City. They’ll supply you with the medical
records for these people.”
And then Superman was gone, rocketing off into the heavens.
9

Doomsday emerged from the lake, growling like an angry bear. The previous
attacks had blasted away part of the goggled hood that masked his hideous face,
and now he stared with his exposed eye, scanning the skies for signs of the
flying man who had tried to bury him in the lake bottom. But where was he?
High overhead, an air force jet fighter shot across the sky, its contrail marking
its flight path. Doomsday regarded the fast-moving speck for a moment. Was
that the flying man?
Crouching low, Doomsday leapt nearly a mile into the sky. It was not high
enough. The contrail drifted far higher. The creature let out an angry snort as he
arced Earthward. If his target flew higher, he would just leap higher. It would
not escape him.
Doomsday landed feetfirst on a rocky cliffside, and immediately sprang
skyward again. Higher and higher he climbed . . . two miles, then three . . . but
still not high enough. Again he fell to Earth, and again he leapt into the sky. His
third leap carried him well into the wilds of Pennsylvania, and still he did not
stop. He would not stop—not until he had caught up to his quarry and brought it
down.

Superman scourcd the bottom of Westville Lake, finding no sign of the creature.
He emerged to find a highway patrolman waving to him from the shoreline.
“Superman! Superman, if you’re looking for that monster, it’s gone!”
“Any idea of where he went?”
“Not for certain. Some kids playing near here say they saw it jump up into the
air and just keep going. Can—can it fly, too?”
“Not exactly. Did they say which direction it was headed?”
“Sure did. It took off to the east.”
Superman looked eastward and instantly noticed the contrail. “Oh, no!”
Captain Joyce Miller cruised eastward in her F-15, appreciating the day and the
fine weather, and simply appreciating being alive and in flight. She had
thoroughly enjoyed taking part in the Wright-Patterson air show, had been sorry
even to see it end. Too bad Will had to cancel at the last minute. Two F-15s
make for an even better show than one. Oh, well, there’s always next year.
She was eight miles high and twenty miles south of Lancaster, Pennsylvania,
when a blip suddenly appeared on her short-range radar.
“Dover Control . . . Dover Control, this is Momma Bird, do you copy? Over.”
“This is Dover Control. We read you, Momma Bird. What is your situation?
Over.”
Captain Miller frowned at her screens. “Not clear. Short-range is showing a
bogey on my tail . . . no, wait, it’s falling off screen.” For a moment it had
looked like the simulations of a surface-to-air shot. But that’s ridiculous! Who’d
be firing a SAM in southern Pennsylvania? “Wait a minute! There it is again!” A
warning buzzer sounded in the cockpit. “It’s gaining on me!”
Miller yanked the stick sharply to the side and hit the afterburners, taking
evasive action, but it was too late. “I’m hit! Repeat, I’m hit!” She looked back
over her shoulder and saw an apparition out of her worst nightmares crawling
down the fuselage toward her. The air tore at the monster’s tattered hood,
exposing a huge red eye that stared out at her through a cage of craggy bone.
More bone protruded, tusklike, from around the gaping mouth.
“What the hell is that?!”
“Momma Bird? What is your—?”
“I’ve got some refugee from the Twilight Zone on my back!” She could swear
she heard it bellow, even over the roar of the jets.
“Momma Bird? We didn’t copy that—!”
“I don’t believe it myself!” Miller pulled back on the stick. She was losing
power fast. But, hallucination or not, as long as she had some degree of control,
she was determined to bring her craft down.
The F-15 shook as Doomsday sank his fists into the fuselage, defiantly
hanging on against the force of the onrushing gale. Inch by inch he worked his
way toward the helmeted figure beneath the canopy. It was not the flying man
who lurked within the falling metal craft, but it lived. He would kill it before he
moved on.
 Miller mouthed a silent curse. She was losing control and that . . . thing
seemed to be getting closer. She looked down. The Susquehanna River stretched
out before her, emptying into the upper Chesapeake Bay. At least she wouldn’t
have to worry about crashing into some town. The jet shook again. This time,
when she looked back, the creature was scraping at the edges of the canopy. That
does it!
“Dover Control, this is Momma Bird! You may ground me for this, but I have
a monster on my back!” Her voice suddenly calm, she gave her location and
initiated procedures for ejection.
The canopy suddenly exploded out of Doomsday’s grasp, and the next instant
Captain Miller shot up and out of the damaged craft. When her parachute finally
opened, she was still high enough to watch as the monster rode her ship down
into the bay.

Several minutes after the jet disappeared beneath the waters of the bay, the air
overhead was chopped by the rotors of an Apache helicopter from nearby Fort
Schiff.
“I don’t get it, Marcus.” The copilot looked up from the instrument array and
shot his buddy a quizzical look. “An F-15 goes down and some fly-boy bails, but
we’re not looking for him?”
“Her. We’re not looking for her, Ralph.”
“Whatever. So what are we looking for?”
“A monster.”
“Oh, a monster! Why didn’t you say so? A monster . . . get serious!”
“The CO seemed very serious. The jet pilot claimed that some monster lit on
her bird and forced it down. Air rescue’s already been dispatched to scoop up the
pilot.”
“And we drew boogeyman duty.”
“You might say that, Ralph . . . but I wouldn’t. At least not to the CO.”
“Well, if you ask me . . .” Ralph Greenwood let the thought trail off. “What
the hell is that?!”
Below, the surface of the bay began to swirl and churn. And then Doomsday
erupted from the waters.
 “Holy—! That’s our target down there, Ralph! Launch the Hellfires.”
But as the missile-launch cycle was triggered, Doomsday’s leap carried him
straight up through the helicopter. The Apache lurched sickeningly to one side,
sending the two army airmen tumbling helplessly Earthward. In a blur of motion,
Superman suddenly dropped down over the bay, plucking the wayward Hellfire
missile from the air and turning it back on course toward the soaring Doomsday.
The Man of Steel then executed a perfect 180-degree turn and swooped beneath
the falling airmen, gently slowing their falls.
The missile locked on to its intended target and shot across the sky. Some
three miles away, its smart warhead hit its mark fair and true. The explosion
caught Doomsday unawares, flinging him far from the bay.

In the Kirby County village of Griffith, Chief Ray Newton shook his head as he
hung up the phone. “Turn on the TV, Rusty,” he called out to his deputy. “CNN.
Lowell said a bunch of folk, including some of the Justice League, are being
rushed to the hospital over in Ohio. Way he put it, sounded as though some
kinda monster tore up a chunk of the Midwest and headed east.”
“Should I crank up the civil defense siren, Chief?”
Ray sighed. Rusty meant well, but he’d seen too many Saturday matinees in
his youth. “I’m sure we’ll get a warning, if this whatever-it-is gets anywheres
close—”
“Say, you hear that?”
Ray usually hated to have Rusty interrupt him, but there was something in the
air. “What is that? Some sort of . . . whistle?”
“Yeah. Kind of a cartoony sound. You know, like a falling bomb makes just
before it goes kerblooey!”
The building was suddenly rocked by a thundering crash.
“Mother of pearl! We are bein’ bombed!” Rusty grabbed at his holster,
fumbling to pull out his side arm on the run.
Ray jumped up from his desk, bolting after his eager deputy. “Rusty, don’t go
running off half-cocked.” Durn fool’s likely to shoot himself if he isn’t careful.
But the next moment, Ray came to a halt on the doorstep of the village police
station, just half a step behind his deputy.
Not more than five feet away, Doomsday arose from the ruin of their police
cruiser.
“Uh, Chief?” Rusty’s voice had become a squeak. “I think I’m gonna need a
bigger gun.”
A low growl came from the monster before them. Ray and Rusty each took a
step backward. Then there came another whistling rush of wind. Three heads
turned upward to see Superman dropping toward Doomsday feetfirst.
The pavement cracked and buckled as Superman drove Doomsday beneath the
village street. Superman looked up at the two policemen.
“Get back! He’s too—”
Before Superman could finish his warning, Doomsday’s fist shot up from
underground. The Man of Steel was thrown half a block away and landed hard,
plowing up several yards of Main Street on impact.
And then Doomsday was on top of him, one huge hand encircling his throat.
Ray Newton was already back inside his office, cursing into his telephone.
“Look, Mr. Vice-Lieutenant Governor, I’m telling you this is going to be more
than ‘just’ a local emergency, if’n you don’t get the blasted National Guard
down here ASAP!”
There was a loud thud outside, and the building shook anew. A huge crack
appeared in the far wall of the station. “Oh, sweet Jesus!” Ray grabbed the phone
and pulled it under his desk as Superman and Doomsday came tumbling through
the station in a shower of plaster lath and masonry.
“Mother o’ mercy! You hear that, you tin-horn bureaucrat? This county’s in
the process of losin’ its one and only police station!”
Aware of the chief’s danger, Superman feinted back and then drove into
Doomsday with a double uppercut which knocked him back out of the building.
Out on the village streets, sirens were sounding and people were running for
their lives. Overhead, the familiar whir of rotor blades heralded the arrival of
another army helicopter.
“This is Blue Leader. Target sighted and we’re ready for a run. Over.”
“Blue Leader, approach with extreme caution. We’ve already lost one chopper
to this thing. Over.”
“We hear ya, Control.”
The Apache cut loose with its guns, peppering Doomsday with high-caliber
shells. Annoyed, the creature tore a lamppost from the pavement and rammed
one end of it into the fuselage of the hovering copter.
“We’ve been hit!”
“No . . . we’ve been speared!”
Doomsday swung the Apache around wildly, using his end of the lamppost as
a huge handle. Then he let go, and the craft veered drunkenly toward Griffith’s
town hall.
“Backup systems are down! No time to bail! Mayday! Mayday!”
Moments from impact, two powerful hands suddenly ripped through the
cockpit, grabbing the airmen and pulling them from the helicopter.
“Wha—? Who?”
“Relax, soldier. You and your copilot are going to be okay . . . though I’m
afraid the town hall won’t be open for business anytime soon.” Superman set
them down on the outskirts of town. “Now you’ll have to excuse me. I can see a
dozen people trapped inside that building who need my help, and I don’t have
much time! If anyone comes by, warn them to stay off the streets!”

In his chambers within the Cadmus Project, Jim Harper pulled off his radio
headset and frowned. For much of the morning, the special bands set aside for
federal and defense department transmissions had been humming with
scrambled emergency messages. A whole chain of incidents—some verified,
others not—had been reported, starting in the Midwest and snaking their way
east. If the reports were to be believed, there was some sort of monster on the
loose in the northern part of Kirby County, less than fifty miles from the Project.
And according to the latest communiqués, Superman himself was being hard-
pressed to stop the creature from leveling the village of Griffith.
Harper punched up a code on his comlink. “Fitzsimmons? I’m going out.
You’re in charge until I return. If the directors need to know where I’ve gone,
it’s all on the board.”
Jim Harper fitted his golden helmet and headed for the motor pool. If
Superman needed help, the Guardian would be there.

Maxima had been flying for over an hour, searching for the monster who had
injured and humiliated her teammates, when she saw the smoke rising from the
horizon. As she descended from the skies over Griffith, she saw Doomsday
stride through the burning rubble, roaring his awful laugh to the heavens.
Revel in the destruction while you can, warrior. She could not be certain of
his motives, but if it was battle that he craved, Maxima would be pleased to
oblige! Silently, she landed behind the seven-foot-tall behemoth and arrogantly
tapped him on the shoulder. When Doomsday turned at her touch, Maxima
struck him with all the physical might at her command, knocking the creature
half the length of the town’s deserted Main Street.

The security guard at Metropolis’s Galaxy Communications Building was giving

Lois Lane a hard time. “You can’t just barge in there like that, lady!”
Specifically, he was blocking her entrance into Studio B.
“You don’t understand, this is an emergency!”
The guard crossed his arms. “Look, lady, that red light over the door means
they’re taping. The mikes are live and the cameras are rolling, capice? You can’t
go in.”
Lois silently counted to ten. “Can you at least tell me how I can get a message
to someone in there?”
“Lois? What are you doing here?”
She turned. “Cat Grant! Thank God, a familiar face. Look, Jimmy Olsen’s
somewhere behind that door, and I need to get to him. He has an assignment.”
Cat stared soulfully at the guard, and he shifted uneasily from one foot to
another.
He coughed, and his voice grew plaintive. “They’re taping that Turtle Boy
show in there, Ms. Grant. I got my orders.”
“Cat, Jimmy could lose his job at the Planet.” Lois was pulling out all the
stops.
Cat gave the guard a sweet smile. “I’ll take the responsibility, Gus. Everything
will be fine.” His resolve gone, the guard stepped aside, and Cat gestured for
Lois to follow her.
“Just keep your voice down, Lois.” Cat dropped her own cheery tone to the
barest whisper. “This has to do with Superman, doesn’t it? And all that
destruction upstate?”
 “How do you know about that?”
“This is television, darling! We know about everything—as it happens! Oh,
good, it looks like they’re between takes. Good heavens, is that really Jimmy
under all that makeup?”
At the far end of the studio, James Bartholomew Olsen stood atop a riser, his
hair moussed into a strange variation of the classic ducktail. Two bulging
prosthetic appliances were spirit-gummed over his eyes. He was wearing a green
scaled skinsuit with red trunks and an ersatz tortoiseshell strapped to his back.
Lois gaped, her emergency momentarily forgotten. “How can he see through
those things?”
It was all Cat could do to keep from cracking up. “Yoo-hoo!” She waved,
wiggling her fingers in the air to get his attention. “Oh, Turtle Boy!”
Jim looked up past the camera, shielding his “eyes” to see past the lights.
“Cat? Lois?”
“Jimmy Olsen, the Chief will have your hide! Your lunch hour isn’t three
hours long, you know!”
Jim looked distinctly uncomfortable. “Sorry, Lois, but the taping ran longer
than I thought. This is my first TV show. What’s up?”
“Perry wants us to cover this ‘Doomsday’ incident. They’re holding a chopper
for us at the heliport!”
Jimmy turned to the director. “I’m sorry, but I’ve really got to go.”
All the color drained from the director’s face. “But we still have another setup
to finish!”
Lois stepped between them. “I’m sorry, too, but he does have other
commitments. It’s your call, Jimmy, what’ll it be? This . . . or your day job?”
“Sorry, Dave.” Jimmy handed his false eyes to a makeup man and began
loosening the straps of his tortoiseshell costume.
Cat tried unsuccessfully to suppress a giggle. “Come on, you two! I know a
shortcut out of here.” She led Lois and Jimmy through a maze of zigzagging
corridors.
I hope she knows where she’s going, thought Lois. I’m completely turned
around.
As they passed through the network’s master control, Cat called out to one of
the men seated at the panel. “Hi, Leon, what’s happening?”
Leon shrugged. “Just got a call from News. Gotta interrupt The Brave and the
Bold for an alert.” He shuddered. “The soap fans are gonna hate that. Glad I
don’t have to answer the phones.” On one of the monitors a blank-faced man
could be seen adjusting his toupee. Leon hit a switch, and the man seemed to
come alive.
“This is a GBS Newsbreak. I’m Steve Lombard. The destructive force known
as ‘Doomsday’ has left approximately thirty people dead in its wake, and
hundreds more have been injured, including members of the famed Justice
League. Doomsday’s path of destruction has cut across Ohio and through
Pennsylvania, and authorities fear what will happen if it should reach the large
urban areas of the Eastern Seaboard.”

In a penthouse office atop the LexCorp Tower, Supergirl stared intently at a wall
of television screens where multiple Steve Lombards delivered the news in
unison. “Reports at this hour place the monster in upstate Kirby County, only a
hundred miles from Metropolis. More after this.”
Supergirl looked away as the Lombardses were replaced by multiple cherubs
touting hamburgers.
“Lex, I should go. Maybe I can lend a hand.”
Lex Luthor caressed her hand and kissed it gently. “I don’t think that would
be wise, love. I need my Supergirl here with me. We need a contingency plan in
case this menace does make his way to Metropolis.”
“I guess you’re right.” She bit her lip.
“Of course I am. You’ll see.”

On the edge of the village of Griffith in the parking lot of a small supermarket,
Maxima was breathing heavily. “By the House of Almerac, you still stand?” The
beating she had given the monster would have killed a dozen warriors, but
Doomsday was not even showing a bruise.
“You will bow down before me, creature!”
Just then Doomsday lunged at Maxima, but she ducked beneath him and rose
to deliver a powerful blow to his lower abdomen. The low blow lifted the
creature up and back through the plate glass window of the tiny local
supermarket. Aisles of canned goods went flying as a handful of terrified
shoppers scrambled for the exits.
With a rush of wind, Superman touched down beside Maxima. “Maxima?
What on Earth are you doing? There’re bound to be people in that store.”
“There are always innocent victims in battle. I resent your tone.” Maxima
started to elbow him aside, but Superman caught hold of her arm and held it.
“Just think before you swing, okay, princess? We don’t have time to argue.”
Doomsday had already regained his footing. With a low, feral growl, he
charged from the store like an express train, barreling into both of them.
Superman flipped about in the air, landing on Doomsday’s back and getting him
in a throat lock.
“Hurry, Maxima, hit him with everything you’ve got! I can’t hold him long!”
But as Maxima threw her punch, Doomsday suddenly dropped into a crouch,
so that her blow struck Superman instead, sending him flying.
How could he move so fast? He didn’t before—! Maxima was scarcely more
surprised when Doomsday turned and flung her onto the lot of a gas station half
a block away. Was he just toying with me before? As Maxima lurched to her
feet, he charged toward her, scooping up a small panel truck and dumping it
down upon her.
Maxima ripped her way through the van, glass and metal flying before her.
“Your onslaught does little but stimulate me, creature. Maxima welcomes this.
For only when a warrior faces death can a conflict be deemed truly worthy!”
Superman again dove toward Doomsday feetfirst, driving the monster back
against a row of gas pumps. How can Maxima still revel in this? Doesn’t she see
the danger? Doomsday doesn’t seem to be slowing down much. He grappled
with the beast as gasoline began gushing up around them. We have to do some
damage to him soon. I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up.
“Hold him tight, Kryptonian—Maxima will not miss again!”
Superman stole a glance her way. Maxima was ripping out the gas station’s
signpost by the roots, trailing ripped electrical cables.
“Maxima, no! That pole’s sparking—!”
A mile away, the Guardian saw a flash of light a split second before he heard the
thunderclap boom of the explosion. Looks like I won’t need the trucking gear. A
plume of thick black smoke arose down the road. He turned his motorcycle in
that direction, reaching the devastated village in a matter of moments.
It looked as though a hurricane had battered the area. Just ahead of him,
Superman and Maxima lay sprawled in the village street.
“Superman? Friend, can you hear me?”
“Guardian?” Superman accepted the offered hand and struggled to his feet.
“Sorry I didn’t get here sooner.” Harper turned and knelt over Maxima.
“How is she?” asked Superman.
“She’s coming around. I think she’ll be okay . . . probably suffered a pretty
serious concussion, though.” He watched as Superman took an uncertain step
forward. “You don’t look so hot yourself.”
“We’ve never faced anything like Doomsday before, Guardian . . . never.
Where is he?”
“I don’t know. You two were the only living things I’ve seen in this town.
Looks like most everyone else managed to get out. Maybe that explosion did
him in . . . whatever he was.”
“No, we couldn’t be that lucky.” Superman looked around, scanning the area
with his super-vision. He could see signs of destruction heading south out of
town. “He must’ve come to before I did . . . if he lost consciousness at all.”
A monster . . . tougher than Superman? The Guardian couldn’t believe it.
“What sort of creature is he?”
“Hate . . . he is hate.” Maxima groggily began to stir. “We must stop
Doomsday . . . we must.”
“She’s right. Doomsday must be stopped! He’s a threat to every living thing!”
The Guardian looked up at his friend. He’d never before heard such worry in
the big man’s voice. Maxima braced herself against the Guardian’s knee and
tried to rise. “Please, ma’am, take it slow and easy. You took quite a hit.”
“She’s in no condition to go on, Guardian . . . better get her to a hospital.”
Superman looked again to the south, and his fists clenched involuntarily. “I’ll
stop Doomsday—if it’s the last thing I do!”
Superman took three great strides and sprang into the air, soaring high above
the countryside. Below, a trail of splintered trees and tortured soil meandered
southeastward. It was like following the path of a tornado. There was utter
destruction wherever Doomsday touched down.
I wish I knew where that monster came from. In all his life, Superman had
never seen anything—on Earth or off it—to equal Doomsday either for brute
strength or sheer irrational rage.
There was no discernible pattern to the creature’s movements. He seemed just
to wander from place to place, attacking whatever caught his eye. Sometimes he
merely disabled what he attacked, while other times he smashed things to dust. It
was a frightening realization.
There were a half-dozen major urban centers in this region. A chill gripped
Superman’s heart. Well over twenty-five million human lives could be in
jeopardy.

Miles ahead, Doomsday smashed his way through the gigantic concrete support
post of an interstate highway overpass. The huge tanker truck that toppled down
on top of him did not appear to concern him one bit. He simply pounded the
truck apart. As Doomsday stepped from the wreckage, a late-model sedan came
around a bend toward him.
From behind the wheel, Charlie Sussman put on the brakes the moment he
saw that the overpass had collapsed. He hit the horn and yanked the wheel hard
to the right, but there was little chance of avoiding the monstrous figure that
charged right at him.
Doomsday grabbed hold of the swerving car and swung it about, using its own
momentum to toss it high into the sky.
Charlie’s first thought was that he must be dreaming. That’s it . . . I’ve dozed
off at the wheel. Got to wake up before I have an accident! “Wake up, Charlie!”
Wow . . . must be nearly a mile up. Everything looks so pretty from up here . . .
so real. “What is the matter with me?” Charlie pinched himself hard and
screamed. “Wake up already!” The car reached its apex and began tipping
backward. Omigod, this is no dream—I’m gonna die.
But then the car jerked slightly to one side, and its fall slowed. It was a strange
sensation. For a moment, Charlie wondered again if he was asleep.
A red cape flapped against the side of Charlie’s window. “It’s okay! I’ve got
you!”
“You’ve got me?” Charlie was starting to come unraveled. “Heh! Sure.”
Somebody caught me. Why not?
“Sir? Don’t be afraid—everything’s going to be all right. I’m Superman.”
“S-S-Super . . . man? I hope you’re real. Otherwise, I know I’m dead!”
“No chance of that, sir. Keep talking, and take long, deep breaths. Don’t go
into shock on me now. I’ve been searching for the creature that must have
attacked you. Can you remember anything about him—anything at all?”
“Creature? I . . . yeah! He was big . . . came right at me. H-he grabbed hold of
my car and just . . . threw it! It happened so fast. Didn’t seem real at first. What
—what is he, Superman?”
“I wish I knew. He came from out of nowhere—destroying things at random
—apparently for the sheer hell of it!”
“Then . . . yeah, it musta been him that collapsed the overpass!”
“Overpass?!” Superman peered down with his telescopic vision. “I don’t see
any survivors among the wreckage. There’re dozens of chain-reaction fender-
benders up and down both highways . . . lots of minor injuries there. Ah—there’s
a state trooper on the scene. And I hear sirens . . . rescue vehicles are on the
way.” Superman’s face fell. “Oh, no!”
“What’s wrong?” Charlie could hear the fear in his rescuer’s voice. “What do
you see?”
“More trouble . . . terrible trouble. I’m needed—! I’ll set you down near that
state trooper. Tell her to call for more rescue teams. We’ll need them at the
shopping plaza on the northwest side of Midvale.”

At the suburban plaza, the parking lot of a Lex-Mart discount center lay in ruins,
as if a bomb had gone off. A line of smashed cars led to a gaping hole where the
main entrance had been. Inside, a stammering assistant manager desperately
thumbed the public-address system and tried to keep his voice even. “Attention,
Lex-Mart shoppers. This is an emergency situation. Repeat, this is an emergency
situation. Please exit the store in a calm and orderly fashion.” A refrigerator flew
past, no more than a foot from the assistant manager’s head, and he lost it. “Oh,
hell! Just get out! Get out as quickly as you can!”
Doomsday had already smashed his way through garden supplies, sporting
goods, and notions and was ripping his way through home appliances when the
voice rang out.
“Hey, you!”
Doomsday turned at the challenge, a guttural growl on his lips.
“Yeah, I’m talking to you! Come closer.”
Doomsday followed the voice down the aisle into home electronics and found
himself standing before a seventy-two-inch video projection screen. Across the
screen flashed a series of scenes of half-naked men throwing each other across a
cabled-off section of arena. Doomsday moved in on the screen slowly, never
taking his eyes off it, but he made not a move to lash out. He seemed spellbound.
“. . . you don’t want to miss a single moment of the greatest spectacle in the
history of professional wrestling! I’m talkin’ tag teams! I’m talkin’ steel cages!
I’m talkin’ knock-down, drag-out grudge matches!”
Suddenly, the image on the screen switched to a closeup of a big, beefy man.
His flowing blond hair stuck out from under an officer’s cap and a bandolier of
bullets hung strapped across his bare chest. It seemed to Doomsday that he was
pointing right at him.
“I’m talkin’ ’bout WAR-BASH 9000! This weekend! At the Metropolis
Arena! I’m Major Mayhem, troopers—and I’m out for blood! I’m takin’ on the
Mighty Gorilla! Ugly Ben Studly! And the Masked Bone-Crusher! And—I—
WILL—prevail!” The image of the wrestler screamed out from the screen. “This
time . . . IT’S WARRRR!!!”
Abruptly, Major Mayhem disappeared from the screen and was replaced by a
supergraphic of the Metropolis Arena logo. An announcer’s voice came blasting
from the speakers. “Pro-wrestling as you’ve never seen it before! This weekend
at Metropolis Arena . . . Metropolis Arena . . . METROPOLIS ARENA!” With
each staccato repetition, the volume shot up and the Metropolis logo flashed
bigger. “Now—where ya gonna go?”
Doomsday’s huge mouth gaped open, and his lips twisted as he tried to mimic
the sound. “Mhh-trr-plss?”
“DOOMSDAY!” The voice of Superman echoed loud and strong throughout
the store. The creature turned away from the television as Superman came flying
at him. Superman smashed into Doomsday like a lineman sacking a quarterback,
driving the creature back through the television screen and the wall behind it.
Together they tumbled out across the back loading dock, sending workers
scattering to get out of their way.
Bellowing his awful laugh, Doomsday joyously pummeled Superman through
the side of a semitrailer truck.
To Superman, it felt as though his entire body hurt. Pain was not unknown to
him, but it had been years since he’d felt it this intensely. I’d swear the harder I
fight, the more Doomsday likes it! He’s been fighting most of the day, but he still
seems as eager—and as strong—as ever! If he has energy reserves as extensive
as mine, I may be in trouble!
From overhead came the sound of rotor blades. As Doomsday shoved him
down onto the asphalt, Superman saw two helicopters approaching from the
south. One bore the logo of superstation WLEX, the other of the Daily Planet.
Oh, Lord, Lois and Jimmy are on board! Superman’s blood ran cold. Those
pilots better keep their distance!

Jimmy Olsen hung halfway out of the open helicopter, camera in hand. “That’s
Doomsday? Wow, he’s a big one!”
Very big, thought Lois. Be careful, Clark. She thumbed the switch of the
microphone in her hand. “The Midvale Lex-Mart stood in ruins as Superman
struggled with the mysterious creature. End of paragraph . . . stand by for more.”
Lois released the talk switch and said a silent prayer.

Lex Luthor returned to the video lounge where Supergirl continued to stare
intently at the array of screens. “Well, love, my news director assured me that
he’d dispatched a camera crew to get to the bottom of this Doomsday nonsense .
. .”
“It’s not nonsense, Lex! They’re on the air now, and Doomsday just wrecked
one of your shopping marts.”
“What?!” Luthor turned to the screens. Superman was grappling with a
monster in front of what had been the Midvale Lex-Mart. “Bloody hell!”
“Superman’s trying to stop the creature, but he’s not having much luck.
Anything that can give Superman that hard a fight must be incredibly powerful!”
Supergirl rose from her chair. “I’d better go help!”
Lex put a hand on Supergirl’s shoulder. “We’ve been all through that, love!
The last thing we need now is for you to go flying off! Whenever Superman’s
away, the local citizenry start getting . . . edgy.” It pained him to admit that, but
he couldn’t deny it. “And with the ol’ boy off havin’ a go-round with some ugly
drongo, the city needs its Supergirl to fill the void.”
“Are you sure, Lex?” Supergirl looked at him uncertainly. “Doomsday’s
already caused so much destruction. Your newsman placed the latest death toll at
over a hundred!”
“Superman can handle him, and I can weather the loss of a Lex-Mart! Trust
me, pet, the good people of Metropolis will feel better knowing that you and
Team Luthor are home.”
“All right, I’ll stay put for now.” She looked back at the screens. One of them
showed Superman closing in on Doomsday, but the monster was lifting what
appeared to be an empty tour bus.
As if Superman ever really needs help, thought Lex. He’s always survived—
despite my best-laid plans! He pulled Supergirl closer and gave her his most
sincere smile. “You’ll see, love. Superman will be just fine!”

With a mighty heave, Doomsday hurled the tour bus directly at Superman.
Unable to avoid the collision, Superman was driven backward by the impact.
Inside an adjacent Big Belly Burger restaurant, a customer shoved his son to
the floor as the Man of Steel came tumbling out of control through the big glass
window. Superman had only a moment to shout out a warning before he
disappeared out the other side of the building. He landed hard on the shoulder of
the highway outside in a shower of glass, steel, and plaster. At least the bus was
empty. But all those people in the restaurant—! He had to hope, to pray that they
were all right. He rolled over onto his chest and pushed himself up to his knees.
He had to pull himself together. He had to end this fight before more people
were hurt.
A shadow loomed over Superman as he tried to catch his breath. As that
horrible laugh again echoed in his ears, he steeled himself for the expected blow,
but it didn’t come. The laughter abruptly stopped, replaced by a lower, more
guttural sound.
“Mhh-trr-plss?”
Superman looked up. Doomsday was starting to turn away. What’s drawn his
attention away from me?
Doomsday stood on the shoulder of the highway, looking intently at a huge
information sign. There, emblazoned in letters a foot high, were the words:
METROPOLIS 60 MILES.

“Mhh-trr-plss!!”
Oh, no, he remembers that stupid commercial! He’s made the connection—!
Superman bounded to his feet and launched himself at the distracted beast,
pounding away at him with fists that could shatter solid steel. Sixty miles might
as well be sixty paces to this monster! I can’t let him get any closer! I can’t!!

Overhead, Olsen let out a low whistle as he snapped off shots of the battle.
“Geez! Superman must’ve gotten a second wind or something! I’ve never seen
him fight so hard!”
“N-neither have I, Jimmy!” Lois fought to keep her voice under control. She
had to have faith that her lover would be able to stop this creature. And she had a
job to do; maybe if she concentrated on that . . .
“Next paragraph . . . Taking advantage of Doomsday’s momentary distraction,
Superman redoubled his efforts . . .”

Superman had indeed caught his opponent off guard. Evading the monster’s
reach, he grabbed Doomsday by the ankle and began to swing him around and
around, as though he were a hammer thrower. He must weigh nearly half a ton.
Got to use that weight . . . build up enough momentum.
On his fifth rotation, Superman let go of Doomsday, sending the monster
flying high and away to the northwest, away from Metropolis.
Superman bounded into the sky, streaking after the vanishing form of
Doomsday. He’s taken everything I’ve dished out so far. Maybe crashing into
the hills at a few hundred miles per hour will soften him up. I hope so! As he
flashed past the WLEX helicopter, Superman found himself suddenly surprised
by the absence of any “hands-on” LexCorp response. By now young Lex Luthor
must be aware of what happened to his company’s store. I’d have expected him
to send in Supergirl, maybe with a squadron of his Team Luthor security force.
And this is one time I could really use some help. Superman shook his head. He
was never sure what to expect of the Luthor heir. Of course, if his father were
still alive, I’d have half-expected the old man to have engineered this Doomsday
monster.

The Daily Planet’s chopper pilot scratched his head. “I don’t know if I can catch
up with them, Ms. Lane, not as fast as they’re going!”
“Just do your best, Garret. Metropolis isn’t that far . . . I’ll bet Superman’s
trying to keep Doomsday away from the city.”
“Well, he’s got him headed in the right direction. Not much to worry about
out where they are. No one’s allowed much up into the hills around Mount
Curtiss. Even a lot of the airspace is restricted. I think some sort of federal
preserve is tucked away up there.” Garret glanced at his instruments. “We’re
getting low on gas. Sorry, but we’ll have to set down and refuel while we can.”
Lois looked back helplessly as the helicopter turned about, skirting well clear
of the restricted area which sheltered the Cadmus Project.

In an underground chamber hundreds of feet beneath Mount Curtiss, Drs. Walter

Johnson and Anthony Rodrigues were in the midst of arguing with their Project
administrator over research budgets for the upcoming year.
“Paul, with Dr. Augustine still on the mend, we desperately need another
research geneticist to take up the slack.”
“I’m sorry, Walter, but we can’t take on any more personnel at this point. We
don’t have the wallet for it, and Congress isn’t about to increase our
appropriation any time soon.” Paul Westfield stood and leaned back against his
desk, arms folded. Despite his words, he didn’t seem very sorry.
Suddenly there was a deep rumble, and the entire complex shuddered.
Westfield’s feet went out from under him, and he cut loose with a curse he
hadn’t used since his army days.
“What’s going on?!” Johnson ducked, narrowly avoiding a falling chunk of
ceiling tile. “Is this an earthquake?!”
“Inconceivable! This is one of the most geophysically stable regions on the
continent!” Rodrigues steadied himself against a filing cabinet as the shaking
subsided. “The Project must be under some manner of bombardment!”
Johnson turned to help the adminstrator to his feet. “Take it easy, Paul, we’ll
get to the bottom of this.”
“The Guardian would have to be away! This is inordinately inopportune.” It
had been years since anyone had called Dr. Rodrigues “Big Words,” but the
origins of his nickname were still clear. “You don’t suppose—? No, the level of
coincidence is far too great. And yet I cannot help but wonder if this seismic
disruption is somehow related to that nearby monster scare which Harper went
off to investigate.”
Johnson answered with only a shrug. Westfield was still fuming.
Rodrigues himself shrugged and picked up the phone. “This is Dr. Rodrigues.
What is the situation?” He listened patiently as the security officer ticked off the
damage reports. “I see. Well, then, go to code red and patch me through to the
Guardian.”

High up on Mount Curtiss was a huge new crater, formed by Doomsday’s

impact with the mountain. As Superman dove down over the crater, the shattered
rock and debris in the center of the depression began to shift. Then Doomsday
slowly arose, a raspy growl on his lips.
He’s still conscious, thought Superman. Another second and he’ll be back on
his feet. I can’t allow him that second. Superman rammed into the rising monster
with the speed of an express train, sending him barreling down the mountainside.
Got to pound him—and keep pounding him!
Superman dove after Doomsday, striking him again and again as they slid
below the timberline. Gigantic tree trunks began to crack and splinter as they
grappled their way to the base of Mount Curtiss. Gradually, Superman became
aware that the great wooden trunks around them weren’t just trees. They had
tumbled into the middle of Habitat.
Superman recognized the tree city from previous visits to the area. He thanked
God that the place stood abandoned. I must be getting punchy! I was so worried
about keeping Doomsday out of the city, I forgot all about Cadmus’s research
zone extending into this wild area.
Research . . . Now there was a troubling thought. All manner of beings have
been created in the Project’s genetics labs. Could Cadmus be responsible for
creating Doomsday?
Outside the emergency entrance of Midvale General Hospital, the Guardian had
dropped off Maxima and was striding toward his motorcycle when it suddenly
began to beep, he immediately dashed to the big bike and flipped a switch. A
miniature LED screen lit up just behind the handlebars, showing the concerned
face of Dr. Rodrigues. “Guardian, return to base at once!”
“What is it, Rodrigues? What’s wrong?”
“Unknown. But the mountain seems to be under attack by forces of incredible
power!”

In the middle of the deserted Habitat, Superman ducked in under Doomsday’s

great reach, turning the monster’s head halfway around with a devastating right
uppercut. Incredibly, Doomsday laughed.
It wasn’t getting any easier for Superman. The mere act of hitting Doomsday
was starting to hurt, and the big monster didn’t seem to have weakened one iota.
This is just wearing me down. Got to change my tactics. Maybe if I hit him with
something big. Above them, a giant wooden column came toppling down,
shattered by the pounding. Straining, Superman caught the column and used it
like a battering ram, smashing Doomsday back through the heart of Habitat. The
whole settlement began to sway.
Half a mile away, the Guardian came riding over the foothills just in time to
see Habitat start to topple. There was an ominous crunching sound, as if God
Himself were cracking His knuckles. And then the center of the deserted
settlement collapsed in on itself, more like a house of cards than a stand of trees.
“Guardian to base! Habitat . . . my God, Habitat is in ruins! And I think that
Superman and the Doomsday monster were smack in the middle of it! It’s bad . .
. I’m going in for a closer look! I’ll keep this channel open.”
The Guardian zigzagged his bike down the hillside, finally skidding to a halt
by a shattered wooden column that had once been as big around as a sequoia. A
hand reached up from behind the column, and Superman came crawling out
from beneath the wreckage. The Guardian quickly dismounted and ran to help
his friend.
“Guardian? Where’d you come from? Where’s Doomsday?”
“Buried under what’s left of Habitat. You barely got out of it yourself. You
took some terrible hits in the collapse. Why didn’t you fly out of it?”
 “Too wasted. Need to rest . . . soon as I make sure . . . Doomsday’s stopped.”
The Guardian’s breath caught in his throat as he got a good look at his friend.
One whole side of Superman’s face was bruised and swollen. The eye behind the
blackened lid was red and inflamed. He had never seen Superman look so
mortal.
The Guardian was so shaken by the sight that it took him a moment to find his
voice. “Relax, you got him that time!”
“Hope so . . . but I have to be certain.” Superman shuddered. “Hard to see . . .
through the ruins. Eyes don’t want to focus. I . . . Oh, no!”
Before Superman could utter a single word of warning, Doomsday kicked his
way out from beneath the wreckage, sending it flying in a shower of wood and
stone. The monster emerged from the remnants of Habitat and surveyed the
splintered debris around him. There was no sign of a single living thing. With a
snort, Doomsday turned and leapt away. Behind him, buried out of sight beneath
several tons of debris, lay the unconscious forms of Superman and the Guardian.
An electronic squawk arose from the buried motorcycle. “Guardian? We were
cut off for a moment . . . can you read me?”
In the Cadmus Communications Center, Dr. Anthony Rodrigues paused,
waiting for a response. An assistant thrust a seismograph printout into his hand.
“We detected another shock, Doctor.”
“What’s going on out there? Guardian? Guardian!”
The speaker buzzed and clicked, and a voice other than the Guardian’s came
on-line. “Dr. Rodrigues, this is Fitzsimmons in Security. Select-scan radar has
just confirmed the apparent launch of an object—somewhat larger than man-
sized—from the Wild Area. It’s headed south-southeast at approximately half
the speed of sound!”
“Good Lord!” Rodrigues turned to the radio officer on duty. “Patch me
through to Metropolis Civil Defense Command—now! We have to warn those
poor people—Doomsday is coming!”
10

The two news helicopters had set down at a small regional airport for refueling
when Doomsday flashed by overhead. Lois turned to their pilot in a panic. “How
much longer will it take?”
Garret shook his head. “Five, maybe ten minutes.”
Jimmy scowled. “That’s too long! We’ll lose him!”
“Maybe not!” Lois pointed across the field where another Planet copter was
setting down. “Come on!”
Lois and Jimmy raced across the tarmac to where Bud Sheldon of the Planet’s
sports desk was deplaning.
“Bud, we need your chopper. It’s an emergency.”
“Okay by me, Lois—if it’s okay by Joe!” Bud hooked a thumb back toward
his pilot.
Lois and Jimmy piled on board the idling copter, much to the surprise of Joe
Jacobi. “Where did you two come from?”
“Long story,” said Lois. “How’re you fixed for fuel?”
“Got three-quarters of a tank.”
“Good. Get this eggbeater into the air. Jimmy will explain as we go.”
As Jacobi took off, a second figure flashed by overhead.
“Superman!” Jimmy let out a whoop. “All right!”
Lois felt her spirits rise. She’d tried not to worry when Doomsday had
bounded past alone. Knowing that her lover was still in pursuit didn’t alleviate
all her worries, but it helped. “Follow him, Joe. Where he goes, we go!” Lois
grabbed up a headset and reestablished contact with reporter Fran Thurston in
the Planet’s City Room.
“Lois? That was fast!”
“We got a new ride. Ready to continue?”
“Whenever you are. Feed me.”
 “As the monster called Doomsday abandoned the furrow of destruction, he
plowed through the northern part of the state and headed, in ten-mile leaps,
toward the East Coast and Metropolis. End of paragraph.”
At her end of the line, Fran paused at the keyboard. “Metropolis?! Oh, dear
God. Lois, you’re sure of that?”
“ ’Fraid so, Fran. But Superman is on the creature’s tail. We’re airborne over
the beltway now . . . hope to catch up to them soon.”
“We’re getting company, Lois!” Jimmy pointed to the south where a
helicopter showing the WGBS logo was closing in on them.
Lois nodded. “Probably Cat Grant, hoping to finish her interview.” She looked
ahead, scanning the horizon. The city was coming up fast. “Keep your head
down, Fran. If our calculations are right, that monster must be reaching
Metropolis right about now.”

The ground suddenly shook with a muffled thud at an office park under
construction on the far edge of suburban Park Ridge. The foreman looked
around, expecting to see that a load of steel had fallen.
“Sounded as though it came from the other side of that dump truck,” said a
backhoe operator. The dump truck’s driver was craning his head in puzzlement.
The dump truck suddenly lurched crazily to one side. The driver tumbled from
the cab, screaming, as a huge, hulking figure lifted the truck up over its head.
A hod carrier dropped his load of bricks and jumped back. “What the devil is
that?”
“I dunno.” The foreman was already looking around, waving away his men.
“Just run!”
The dump truck went flying, landing in a tangled heap beside a big diesel
crane. Roaring his defiance, Doomsday strode into the midst of the site, grabbing
two construction workers by their heads. One worker barely had time to scream
before the monster snapped his neck like a matchstick. The other was speechless,
still gasping for breath, as Doomsday hurled him against a steel support column.
Superman was just a few hundred feet away when he saw the second man
slump lifeless to the ground. He could feel his blood pressure spiking.
Doomsday had knocked at the door of the city—his city—and already two men
were dead. Superman dove at the monster. There was a sharp crack as his fists
found their target in Doomsday’s kidneys . . . If he has kidneys, thought
Superman. Filling his lungs with air, the Man of Steel then grabbed hold of his
enemy’s bony back and rocketed straight up. We’ll see who can hold his breath
longer on the moon!

As they closed in on the construction site, Lois nearly shouted into the
microphone. “We’ve got him, Fran! New paragraph . . . Doomsday’s rampage in
Park Ridge was cut short when Superman grabbed the monster . . . comma . . .
rocketing him away from Metropolis toward the vacuum of space . . . period.”
Jimmy reached the end of a roll of film and grabbed up a second camera.
“Man, that has to be the ugliest cuss Superman’s ever fought! Did you get a
really good look at him, Lois? He’s got a hide like an elephant and a face like
five miles of bad road!” Out of the corner of his eye, Jimmy noticed the worry
on his friend’s face. “Hey, don’t sweat it, Lois. Superman . . . he’ll be okay!”

“Guardian!”
Jim Harper stirred, roused to consciousness by a voice in his head.
“Guardian, are you all right?”
Harper blinked. He was alone, but he could feel a presence with him. And
when he closed his eyes, it seemed that he could almost see a face staring back at
him, a gray-skinned, horn-headed face.
“Dubbilex?”
“Yes.” From deep within the Project, the DNAlien reached out to Harper
telepathically.
He could feel Dubbilex’s relief wash over him. “What happened?”
The responding thought was instantaneous: “As near as I can tell, that
Doomsday creature left you and Superman for dead, buried in the rubble of
Habitat. When you failed to respond to a radio summons, I . . . came ‘looking’
for you.”
“Superman . . .” The Guardian sat up and looked around him. The rubble had
been scooped out and massive chunks of wood stacked protectively around him.
“Where’s Superman?”
“Already revived and gone in pursuit of Doomsday. He was digging you out
even as I found you. He was quite concerned about you, but I assured him that I
could see to your well-being.” The air shimmered, and Dubbilex’s visage
appeared clearer, stronger. “He is a good man, Jim . . . a good friend. I felt in
him a great sense of duty. He is determined to stop the creature.”
The Guardian rose painfully to his feet. “I’m afraid Doomsday may be too big
for even Superman to handle alone.”
Was the mental image frowning? It was sometimes hard to tell with Dubbilex.
“I fear that Doomsday might be one of ours, Guardian . . . a DNAlien. Perhaps
another Dabney Donovan creation.”
That thought had already crossed the Guardian’s mind. He looked around at
the ruins of Habitat and prayed that their fear was unfounded, that Cadmus
wasn’t responsible. “We have to find out. Can you get a mind-fix on
Doomsday?”
“It will not be easy at this distance, but I shall try.” The image of Dubbilex
flickered out, and the Guardian set out to find his motorcycle. He located it, back
up on its kickstand at the edge of the space that Superman had cleared around
him.
Suddenly Dubbilex’s visage reappeared. “I have found him.” The telepath
seemed very alarmed. “There is nothing in his mind but anger . . . no thought but
destruction. I cannot tell from where he came.”
“It’s all right, Dub.” The Guardian kick-started his bike. “We’ll have to work
hard to stop him, in any case—if anyone can stop him.”

Three miles up over Metropolis, Doomsday fought to break Superman’s grip.

Twisting free, the creature drove the air from his captor’s lungs with a savage
kick and leapt toward the heart of the city. Aboard the Planet helicopter, Lois’s
heart caught in her throat as she saw the stunned Superman hurtle Earthward. He
tumbled out of control, crashing down through the steel skeleton of the building
under construction at the Park Ridge office park.
Just a few hundred yards away, the WGBS copter wheeled around in Cat
Grant’s direction. “Superman’s down!” She could hardly believe it. “Get closer!
We can’t miss this shot.”

One time zone away, Martha Kent had been in the middle of cleaning the parlor
when the news first broke into her soap opera. She had dropped her Aunt
Gracie’s milk-glass vase and run to the barn to call in her husband. The vase still
lay in pieces where it had fallen beside the old Hoosier cabinet, forgotten as
Martha and Jonathan sat on the old parlor sofa, their eyes glued to the images on
the television. With a start, Martha realized that Clark had given them the set
two anniversaries ago.
The station cut to a dizzying shot of the wrecked steel skeleton of a building.
“. . . Here, live at the scene, is WGBS’s Catherine Grant.”
“Roland, in a battle that has raged across nearly a third of the nation,
Superman has so far been unable to stop the Doomsday monster. In fact, as you
can see, he’s not having an easy time of things at all!”
Martha winced, clamping her eyes tightly shut, and felt Jonathan’s arm
immediately slip gently over her shoulders.
“That’s our son, Jonathan! He’s being beaten to a pulp, and those TV
reporters are treating it as . . . as entertainment!”
“I know . . . I know.” Jonathan Kent drew in a deep breath, searching for the
right words. Sometimes he thought his whole life had been a search for those
words. “Clark may be our boy, Martha, but to the world he’s Superman. It’s not
that they’re callous. Least, they don’t mean to be. It’s just that they don’t think
anything bad can really happen to him.”

Civil defense and emergency sirens wailed all over Metropolis. Radio and
television stations shifted over to the Emergency Broadcast System, and on the
streets, police loudspeakers began warning people to take shelter.
At the counter of the Hob’s Bay Grille, Professor Emil Hamilton looked up
from his pie and coffee. He had been composing a compliment to Mildred’s
appearance—Must be careful, can’t appear too forward—when a high-pitched
hum suddenly blared from the little diner’s radio, most rudely interrupting
“Begin the Beguine.”
“Attention! This is not a test! Local, state, and federal authorities have
declared a state of emergency to exist in the greater Metropolis area. Citizens are
urged to seek shelter immediately. If you are within the sound of my voice, tune
your radio to 860 kilohertz AM or 93.1 megahertz FM for more information over
your designated local Emergency Broadcast Station. Repeat, this is not a test!
WUMT must now sign off for the duration of the emergency . . .”
 Emil looked at Mildred and blinked. The waitress’s face had gone white, and
she was frantically pounding on the old radio’s dial.
“I told ’im! I told ’im, but would he listen?”
“Whatever is the trouble, Mildred?”
“I don’t know! We may never know! The tuner on this thing’s been busted for
nearly a year! I told the owner, but he said one station was enough! Now what
do we do?”
“Well, we can’t stay here, my dear! I haven’t a clue as to what sort of
emergency this is, but the Grille, for all its virtues, is hardly a fortified shelter.
Get your coat! I’ll help you lock up and we can repair to my building. I’ve
plenty of provisions, and the lab has sufficient stores to hold off a small army, I
daresay.”
Mildred forced a brave smile. She didn’t know what was happening, but if the
world might be coming to an end, she could think of few people she’d rather see
it out with. “Just let me lock up the register.”
Arm in arm, Emil and Mildred sprinted down the rapidly emptying streets. A
block away, a police cruiser was warning people to stay inside. “Whatever could
be going on?” muttered Emil.
From behind them came a low growl. “Doomsday’s comin’!”
They nearly jumped out of their shoes. Emil was about to grab Mildred and
run when he realized that they were in front of the Ace o’ Clubs, and that the
growl had come from the man standing in the shadows of the doorway.
“Bibbowski!” There were few people in the neighborhood who had not
encountered the tavern’s proprietor. “What are you talking about?”
“Doomsday,” repeated Bibbo. “He’s some big monster, see? My fav’rit’s been
chasin’ him cross country—an’ gettin’ nowheres!”
“Your favorite?” Mildred was quickly regaining her composure.
Emil knew there was one man whom Bibbo regarded over all others. “You
mean Superman, of course! This Doomsday monster has been giving Superman
trouble?”
Bibbo looked troubled. “Yeah—it’s been on the TV all afternoon. Can’t
understand it. Sooperman’s the toughest guy I ever met, tougher even’n me! But
he can’t seem to stop the ugly so-an’-so!” Bibbo’s countenance suddenly
brightened. “Perfesser, yer smart! Can you think of any ways to help ’im?”
 Emil’s mind was racing. “Perhaps. But I have to know more about this
creature. There may be something in my lab—!”
“Hey, I’m comin’ wit’ youse!” Bibbo straightened his cap.
“Really, that’s not necessary—!” Emil began to protest.
“Hey, if I can do anything to help youse help my fav’rit, I’m gonna do it!” He
turned to shout back into the bar. “Lamarr, I got stuff to do. Stay put an’ look
after things for me while I’m gone, okay?”
“No problem, Bibbo.”
“An’ don’t let me catch you an’ Highpockets downing too many free beers
this time!”
A cheery belch echoed from within the tavern. Satisfied, Bibbo turned and
threw a protective arm around both Emil and Mildred. “Okay, now let’s go help
Sooperman!”

Back at the Park Ridge construction site, a huge pile of scattered girders shifted.
And then, from the bottom of the pile, Superman emerged, shouldering aside
several tons of steel, a trickle of blood oozing from the corner of his mouth.
Blood? When was the last time I was hurt badly enough to bleed? If I’ve become
that vulnerable, my reserves must really be depleted. Better finish this quick, if
I’m going to finish it at all. He emerged from the wreckage, aching with every
move, his cape in tatters. Shouldn’t be hard to find him . . . just have to follow
the path of destruction.
With a running stride, Superman leapt uncertainly into the air. The coppery
taste in his mouth was turning his stomach. All he could think of was that time
when he was four, before his powers began to develop. He’d fallen from his
folks’ old walnut tree, breaking his arm. It’d hurt so bad, he’d bitten his lip, and
the taste . . . Careful, Clark! This’s uncomfortably like having your life flash
before your eyes. He tried not to think of the danger. He could not stop now,
could not waver. The lives of too many people depended on him. In the distance,
across the river, a cloud of smoke rose where a high-rise apartment had once
stood. To his ears, it seemed that every siren in the city was sounding. As he
flew deeper into the heart of Metropolis, Superman concentrated, screening out
the sirens, listening for the squawk of police radios.
“Attention, all units! Doomsday has been sighted—repeat, Doomsday has
been sighted—on the four-hundred block of Shayne Boulevard.”
The four-hundred block of Shayne . . . that’s where the Newtown Plaza is
being built. Superman poured on the speed. Doomsday’s found another
construction site to attack.
As he approached the half-completed complex, Superman saw a huge hole
near the foundation of the main tower. Oh, great. He’s gone underground! The
Man of Steel plunged down through the hole, a maze of ancient pipes stretching
all around him. The lead pipes inhibited his vision, but following the trail of
debris, he finally found his quarry. Doomsday was ripping his way into the
Metropolis sewer system.
Leaping onto the monster’s back, Superman reached under Doomsday’s arms
and around the back of his neck, gripping him in a full nelson.
“Stop squirming, damn you! You’re not kicking free of me this time!” Then
Superman caught the telltale scent of leaking gas.
With Doomsday in tow, he shot toward the surface. As they emerged into the
light of day, construction workers were still being evacuated from the Newtown
Plaza complex.
“Come on, move it! Move it!” The job foreman desperately herded his
workers away from the towers.
Amidst all the chaos and confusion, ironworker Henry Johnson saw the
monster flailing away at Superman. “What is that thing?”
“Ain’tcha heard? That’s Doomsday. He’s a demon or something—and he’s
been kickin’ Superman’s butt all over town.”
“No way, man. No way!” Henry bolted away from the others, grabbing up a
sledgehammer on the run. Sledge in hand, he vaulted over a small stack of
girders, determined to help Superman stop the monster.
Deep underground, the leaking gas flowed over a sparking power line. There
was a sudden, violent, foundation-rattling explosion, and the largest of the
complex’s buildings split wide open. Henry Johnson fell to his knees, and the
floors above fell on top of him as the entire central borough shook from the force
of the blast.

In the media suite of LexCorp Tower, Lex Luthor II was in the middle of a news
conference.
 “In answer to your question, Ms. Anderson—no, I don’t know what
Doomsday is or where he came from, but it has become increasingly obvious
why he is here. The creature has some manner of grudge against Superman!”
Lex could feel Supergirl tensing by his side. He knew that such talk disturbed
her, but he couldn’t pass up the opportunity to tear a strip off his old foe. WLEX
might be blacked out locally during the emergency, but he could still feed his
message to the rest of the world via his superstation’s satellite and cable
connections.
“I’m loath to ask, but does Metropolis need a champion who draws such
negative attention? Does Superman’s presence here cause more harm than
good?”
At that point the shock wave from the Newtown Plaza blast hit them. The
tower noticeably swayed, and the cameraman struggled to hold his Minicam
steady. Supergirl kept Luthor on a steady footing, but she was clearly alarmed.
“I think Doomsday may be more than Superman can handle alone. Don’t be
annoyed, Lex, but I have to help him!”
“Annoyed? Not at all!” Lex played to the cameras for all he was worth. “Very
generous, love. Indeed, I agree with you, Metropolis must be preserved!”
As the cameraman turned to follow Supergirl down the corridor, Lex smiled. I
couldn’t have timed that better if I’d planned it!

Buffeted by the shock wave, Superman bore Doomsday up toward the vacuum
of space. The monster struggled in his grasp, lashing out with the bony spur of
an elbow. So hard was the spur, and so weakened had Superman become from
the prolonged struggle, that Doomsday drove it deep into his captor’s side.
Superman cried out in shock and pain. He could feel an initial gush of blood
wash down his side. This was far worse than any cut, this was a ragged puncture
wound. No one . . . has ever cut me like that before! His head grew foggy and his
limbs went numb as Doomsday hurled him away. Unconscious, the Man of Steel
fell to Earth.
Doomsday roared with laughter as he stretched out into a free-fall. But before
he dropped more than a hundred feet, a red and blue blur streaked up from the
city below, slamming into him with unexpected force. Doomsday reached out to
grab his foe and found himself gripping only air.
 “I don’t know what you’ve done to Superman, but I’ll make you sorry you
were ever born!”
Doomsday was confused. The voice was much higher-pitched than the one
he’d expected to hear. The caped figure that pulled his arm behind him was
smaller, slimmer, and topped with long, flowing blond hair. Doomsday turned to
shake off the grip, and Supergirl kicked him square in the gut.

On a rooftop far below, Professor Hamilton and Bibbo rushed to assemble a

series of huge components. Mildred kept glancing uneasily from their labors to
the skies above. She lifted the electronic field glasses Emil had given her—That
man, doesn’t he have anything low-tech?—and looked up, watching Supergirl
struggle with Doomsday.
“My lord in heaven! What . . . what is that creature?”
Emil tightened one final connection. “I suspect it’s a living weapon, Mildred,
perhaps sent by some would-be alien invader to decimate the Earth.”
Bibbo wiped his brow. “We finally got dis laser cannon put together, Perfesser
Ham—so let’s use it!”
Emil checked the skies. “As soon as Supergirl gets out of the way, Bibbo.”
The Girl of Steel’s battle with the monster was drawing closer as she strained to
carry him away from downtown. They could be seen quite clearly now with the
naked eye.

Doomsday hammered away at Supergirl as she fought to subdue him. But her
punches seemed to have little effect on the monster, and his were beginning to
make her eyes cross. Can’t give up—can’t fail Superman.
With a bellow of rage, Doomsday hit Supergirl so hard that the young shape-
shifter’s face deformed with the force of his blow. All the color drained from
her. Supergirl went limp and fell spinning toward the Earth below.

Bibbo let out a howl. “Doomsday’s dropped Supergirl, Perfesser! Hit him now!”
Emil hit a switch, and a mighty beam of coherent energy blasted skyward. For
a moment, Doomsday’s free-fall seemed to stop as he was transfixed in the
cannon’s awful energies. A bellow of pain echoed across the sky.
 “We did it!” cheered Emil. “We got him! He’s falling, but . . . Oh, dear.”
“Emil, he’s coming straight at us!”
Bibbo squinted. “If he’s tryin’ ta fall on top o’ us, he’s gonna make it! Run for
it!”
Emil grabbed Mildred and scrambled for the fire escape with Bibbo hot on
their heels. As they reached the third floor, Doomsday slammed into the building
with the force of a twenty-ton bomb. The metal staircase began to collapse,
shaking them loose, and they fell into the building’s dumpster.
They landed with little grace among the trash bags but were otherwise
unharmed. “Mildred! Mildred, where are you?”
“Over here, Emil.” She emerged from beneath a green plastic bag, her glasses
slightly askew. Everything had happened so fast, she’d had little time to be
frightened by the fall.
“Thank God. Bibbowski? Are you still with us?”
Bibbo rose up at the far end of the dumpster, covered with packing material.
“I’m okay, Perfesser. That din’t hurt no worse’n fallin’ off a stool. Ouch! Hey,
what gives?”
Bricks, dislodged by Doomsday’s impact with the building, started raining
down from above. As they ducked for cover, Emil looked back up at the building
and shook his head. It’d be a while before he dared to go back inside.

Superman came to in what had once been an abandoned tenement building, now
boarded up and waiting for demolition. His fall had already begun that process.
All around him the old structure lay in ruins. A wave of heat washed over him,
and the acrid smell of smoke hit him in the face. He could hear a series of
explosions rumbling not too far off.
Another gas main must have been ruptured. The thought came to him slowly,
as if he were still trying to shed the fog of a deep sleep. Just sitting up was a
struggle for this man who had once changed the course of mighty rivers. His side
burned as though it were on fire. He felt for the spot where Doomsday had cut
him. The wound was already starting to close, but his hand still came away wet
with blood. My blood. The realization was very matter-of-fact, as though he had
become numbed to the shock of finding himself wounded. He grabbed hold of a
slab of masonry to pull himself up. His arms felt like lead and his legs like jelly.
Every move was agony, but still he forced himself to his feet.
Around him, the neighborhood looked like a war zone. He grimaced at that
thought as he staggered from the ruins. Suicide Slum had sometimes been
compared unfavorably to New York’s South Bronx and Chicago’s Cabrini
Green. Now this section of it looked more like Beirut.
“Help! Superman—help!”
The cry cut through the fog in his head like a searchlight. It was the high,
earnest cry of a small, terrified boy. Superman became instantly alert. Who
needed his help? Where—? He strained to peer through the smoke and dust.
There . . . just a few blocks away. A fire at the Coates Children’s Center . . . the
orphanage maintained by the Metropolis Children’s Aid Society! The building
was being evacuated, but a caseworker and two young children were trapped
inside.
Reflexively Superman leapt skyward and almost came crashing down again,
so great was the pain in his right side. Keep going . . . got to keep going . . .
they’re depending on you! They may die unless you do something! Gritting his
teeth, he dove into the midst of the burning orphanage. The careworker gave out
a shriek at the sight of him.
“Don’t be afraid!”
The boy in her protective grasp let out a whoop. “It’s Superman! I knew he’d
come!”
“You just hush, Keith!” The woman looked uncertainly at the bloodstained
letter S emblazoned across the front of the man’s tattered shirt. His face was
bruised and swollen. A raw and bloody wound oozed at his side. This man
looked more like someone in need of rescuing than a rescuer.
“I guess I must really look like a mess, don’t I?” He tried to grin, but it came
out more like a grimace. “Even Superman has a rough day now and then. Come
on . . . I’ll get you out of here . . . just stay close.”
Not good for much, he thought, but I still make a pretty good shield.
Fire trucks were arriving as Superman led the woman and children to safety.
A fire fighter on the scene was aghast. Superman looked in much worse shape
than those he had just saved.
“Sit down for a moment, over here. Let me take a look at you.”
Numbly, Superman did as he was told, and a paramedic pressed an oxygen
mask gently to his face. The fire fighter shook his head in dismay. What is the
monster, he wondered, that it could do such a thing to Superman?!

The metal back door to the building Emil Hamilton had called home exploded
outward, sending shrapnel flying for half a block. The exploding door was
followed a split second later by Doomsday.
Doomsday was a hellish sight to behold. The last few tatters of his outer
restraining garment had been burnt away by Emil’s laser. All that clothed him
now was a pair of dark olive trunks, which ended in metal bands encircling his
thighs, and a pair of massive boots. He was covered all over in a gray, leathery
hide wherever stark white bone did not protrude, and it seemed to protrude in
sharp spikes or spurs at every major joint. Doomsday’s hideous face was a
catcher’s mask of chiseled bone, its high forehead topped by an unruly shock of
white hair, now singed and smoking at its ends.
From around the corner of the alley, Emil Hamilton watched furtively as the
monster angrily flung the huge metal dumpster out of his way. No wonder the
beast has been able to take such a pounding . . . he has a partial exoskeleton, as
well as an endoskeleton. The professor prudently slunk back into the shadows,
hugging the wall, as Doomsday looked around. This was clearly not the time to
inspect the creature’s anatomy too closely. Emil glanced back to warn Mildred
and Bibbo to silence. He could hear his own heart thundering in his chest.
Should Doomsday turn down this cul-de-sac, they would be finished. But when
Emil looked back, Doomsday was already leaping away.

The oxygen smelled sweet to Superman. It was having a revitalizing effect. His
thoughts were coming faster now, more coherently. Is this how boxers feel? Is
this what it’s like to be hit so hard that your brains rattle? What sort of damage
has been done to me? He considered that thought for a moment. How dangerous
would a brain-damaged Superman be?
Someone let out a shout. Superman looked up just in time to see Doomsday
bounding high into the sky, and his blood ran cold. The monster was headed
toward the central business district. Taking one last hit of oxygen, Superman
gathered himself together and launched himself skyward.
“Superman!” The little boy whom he’d saved turned to the caseworker. “Ms.
Myra, what is that Doomsday thing? Did somebody build him? Like a giant
Frankenstein monster?”
“I don’t know, baby.” Myra held the boy tight. “From the way he’s behavin’,
I’d say he’s the devil incarnate . . . usherin’ in the end of the world!”

From where she lay, Supergirl could see Doomsday passing by overhead.
Painfully, she rolled over onto her stomach and pressed her hands to the
pavement. Inch by inch, she worked to raise herself to her knees. Unable to grit
her teeth, Supergirl squeezed her eyes shut tight, and concentrated. Her face
throbbed, and her breath burned against the inside of her mouth as she tried to
reshape and heal her injuries by force of will. But the pain was too great, the
effort more than she could bear. Supergirl fell back down into the street. All was
silent, save for the wail of distant sirens.

As police helicopters spread out over the city, radioing in Doomsday’s ever-
changing location, the department’s Special Crimes Unit was tightening its
dragnet. A line of police cars and vans roaring up Bessolo Boulevard suddenly
braked to a halt at Thirty-second Street.
“He’s headed this way! Fall out and get ready!” The unit commander, Captain
Margaret Sawyer, pulled taut the last strap of her flak vest. This was looking to
be their toughest mission ever. Despite the situation, Sawyer allowed herself a
quick grin as she watched her second-in-command, Inspector Dan Turpin, slam
an oversized ammo clip into his custom assault gun. She’d grown quite fond of
the old cop, and she knew the feeling was mutual. “Ready, Dan?”
“Uh-huh. And just in time!” Turpin pointed skyward. “Those sky jockeys
were right on the money, Maggie. Here he comes! Ugly sucker, too!”
“You’re a master of understatement, Turp. Come on, nail him—now!”
A hail of ten-millimeter armor-piercing shells greeted Doomsday as he
touched ground. But if the monster was done any harm, he didn’t show it.
“He’s not stopping!” a cop yelled.
Like a maddened bull, Doomsday charged the police line, upending cruisers
as he went. Answering the challenge, Turpin ran ahead to meet the monster,
emptying his weapon in Doomsday at point-blank range. With a hideous laugh,
Doomsday grabbed Turpin and flung him away. The old cop flew backward
down the boulevard, the storefronts a blur to his eyes. But as he crossed Thirty-
first Street, another figure shot past Turpin, and an arm slipped around his
midsection. An instant later, he was jerked to a stop, the wind momentarily
going out of him.
“Suh . . . suh . . . Superman!” Turpin was having a hard time catching his
breath.
Superman’s breathing was a little ragged as well. “Get Maggie and the unit
out of the way, Turpin—on the double!”
In a flash, the beleaguered hero bounded over the heads of the police line and
again faced Doomsday. A look of recognition burned in the monster’s eyes.
Superman returned the monster’s stare. Have to hit him with everything I’ve
got. Have to hope that he has his limits . . . like I do.
Doomsday eagerly lunged forward, and Superman answered with a right to
the throat that echoed like the crack of a rifle. Part of the bony escarpment that
was Doomsday’s chin broke away, and the monster staggered back a step.
Doomsday shook his head, and his eyes widened in wonderment. Truly, here
was a challenge. Here was an enemy whose power rivaled his own, one who
would no more give up than he would.
With a bellow of unholy glee, Doomsday waded into Superman, reopening the
Man of Steel’s wound with one swipe of his huge fist.

“Closer! Move in closer!”

“Look, Ms. Grant, are you sure you want to—?”
“I said closer! This is going out live.”
The pilot crossed himself—something he hadn’t done with this much feeling
since the third grade—and slowly eased the helicopter in closer. He’d flown in
nearly a half-dozen brushfire wars over the past quarter century, but he’d never
seen anything like this. Skyscrapers had been ripped down by the monster below
them. And the tide of battle looked to be going against Superman. From the
WGBS copter, the scene was going out live via satellite to a worldwide
audience. And around the globe, a common thought came to billions of people:
If Superman can’t stop that monster . . . perhaps this is our Doomsday!

Supergirl crawled painfully down a deserted side street until she reached the
corner of a building. Her fingers oozed as she gripped the rough brick and pulled
herself up until, finally, she had regained her footing. There, she paused and
listened, long and hard. The noise of the battle reverberated through the canyons
of the city. One didn’t need superhearing to know where it was coming from.
Steadying herself with one hand, Supergirl began to hobble in that direction.

Teeth gritted against the pain, Superman came in close, ducking and weaving to
avoid Doomsday’s greater reach as he fired punch after punch at the creature’s
midsection. It was one of the few large areas on the beast’s body not protected
by a bony exoskeleton. Was it his imagination, Superman wondered, or was his
assault starting to have an effect on the big monster?
With a roar of rage, Doomsday grabbed the winded Superman and threw him
to the street, shattering the pavement. As the Man of Steel struggled to slay
conscious, the creature lifted him high overhead and chucked him into the side
of the hovering Daily Planet helicopter.
Lois screamed as the copter pitched to one side, slamming the pilot hard
against the windscreen. The screen spiderwebbed wildly from the impact, and
the pilot sagged back in his seat, unconscious.

The WGBS pilot choked as he saw the Planet copter drop. “It’s getting nasty
here, Ms. Grant! That could’ve been us. We better back off!”
“No way!” Cat grabbed the pilot hard by his collar. “We are not going to miss
the story of the century!”

Lois felt her heart pounding as they fell. Omigod, this is it!
But four stories above the ground, they abruptly lurched to a stop.
“Superman!” Jimmy excitedly gave a tug on the side door. It fell away.
Wrapping a safety strap around one wrist, he leaned out onto the landing skid
and looked down. From his precarious vantage, he could see a tattered crimson
cape whipping up against the fuselage. Despite his injuries, Superman had
managed to get under the falling helicopter and was lowering it to the street.
Jimmy surveyed the scene through his lens-finder. “Man, I don’t believe this!
These are the greatest pictures I’ve ever gotten—and the most awful.”
Once the copter touched down, Lois and Jimmy eased Joe Jacobi from his seat
and gently laid him on the ground. Reflexively, Superman removed the pilot’s
glasses and quickly scanned through the layers of his skin and skull.
“It’s a minor concussion. He’ll survive . . . assuming that any of us do.”
“Superman, are you all right?” Lois wanted to take him in her arms but was all
too aware of Jimmy’s proximity.
Superman brushed aside her concern. “I’d like to get you two as far from
danger as possible, but I just don’t have time! No telling how many lives
Doomsday could take while I’m gone.”
No more than half a block away, Doomsday was lifting a bus, preparing to
throw it at the Special Crimes Unit, which was now bombarding him with
explosive shell fire from an armored assault wagon.
Jimmy’s shutter clicked. “He’s shrugging it off like it was nothing! He’s
unstoppable!”
Superman rose from where he’d been tending to the unconscious pilot. Lois
took his arm and felt his blood on her fingers. “Maybe you should fall back and
get help.”
Superman shook his head. “Too late for that, Lois. The Justice League has
already fallen. There are too many innocent lives in jeopardy. It’s all up to me.”
Jimmy was already cautiously moving away from them to get a closer shot of
Doomsday. As the photographer turned away from them, Lois looked into her
lover’s eyes and her voice dropped to the merest whisper. “Clark—!”
“Shhh!” He took her in his arms and silenced her with a kiss.
Superman looked at her longingly. In that moment, he wanted to pick her up
and fly away to the ends of the Earth. But he knew he couldn’t. “Just remember,
Lois . . . no matter what happens . . . I will always love you.” And then he leapt
into the sky, a tattered piece of his sleeve coming loose in her hand.
As he sped by, Jimmy caught a fleeting look at the rage on his friend’s face.
“Wow, I don’t think I’ve ever seen the big guy so fired up.”
So hard and fast did Superman collide with Doomsday that the momentum
carried them both through the deserted lobby of an office high rise and onto the
street beyond.
“Can you believe that?” Overhead, the WGBS pilot spun his copter around to
follow the action. “If this keeps up, we won’t have a city left!”
“Just stay close and try to hold us steady,” Cat ordered. “The whole country
will want to see Superman kick that creep’s backside!” Then the breath caught in
her throat as she suddenly recognized the avenue below. “Oh, my God, look
where they’ve landed!”
There, in front of the Daily Planet Building, Doomsday seized Superman and
drove him headfirst into the pavement. The tattered remnant of his cape came
loose and tumbled away on a gust of wind.
“NO!” Lois ran forward.
“Stay back, Ms. Lane!”
“Superman is in trouble, Jimmy! We have to help him!”
Doomsday was momentarily confused. Who were these yammering little
people? No matter. He would just kill them. A low, satisfied growl built deep
within his chest.
“Uh, I don’t think we’re going to get a chance to help. Grizzly is coming this
way!”
“Run, Jimmy! I’ll try to distract him—!”

Painfully, Superman clawed his way up from the beneath the street, only to see
Doomsday menacing Lois and Jimmy. In that instant, the Man of Steel felt no
pain, no weariness. The fog in Superman’s brain was burnt away by a rage
rivaling that of Doomsday himself, and he dove at the monster.
Energy poured from Superman’s eyes in a torrent, as if he’d thrown the
throttle of his heat vision wide open. Lois flinched as though she’d suddenly
found herself standing next to a blast furnace. The monster reeled before the
sheer rush of heat. His hide began to sear and blister. Bellowing in pain,
Doomsday lashed out and kneed Superman in the chin. Superman stumbled, and
the monster pressed on, delivering a slashing left that laid open Superman’s
cheek. The Man of Steel could feel the blood flowing again, but even more he
felt the energy surging through him. If he had held back earlier that day, he now
reached down into reserves of power that he’d never tapped before.
Superman grabbed hold of Doomsday’s fists, forcing him back. He lashed out
hard with the heel of his boot, catching the bone spur of Doomsday’s left knee
and snapping it off. The monster bellowed louder, staggering back, but
Superman did not let up. He pressed on, using blows he’d never before dared use
on any living being. Doomsday returned the attack, but the power of his blows
seemed to be waning.
He’s weakening. He’s finally weakening!
Both warriors were swaying on their feet. Doomsday’s eyes appeared dull,
cloudy. Superman’s face was so swollen that his eyes were barely visible, but
they were clear. The throttle, the tap to his deepest energy reserves, was still
wide open, and the power was building within him, demanding to be let out. He
knew that once he released that power he would be spent . . . that it would all be
gone in a flash. But he knew he could do it—he knew he could take the monster
down. He had to—for Lois, for his parents, for the world. Everything depended
on him. This is it, Doomsday. We check out together!
Heart pounding, Superman threw himself at the monster one last time. The
echoes of their blows were heard as far as fifty miles away. Windows shattered,
and observers on the scene were shaken to the very bone. Then, before the
unblinking gaze of the television cameras, both fighters collapsed. Superman
toppled over onto his back, his chest heaving. Doomsday fell facefirst to the
pavement and did not move again.
Lois and Jimmy were the first to reach Superman’s side. Jimmy numbly
clicked off pictures, unable to believe what he had just witnessed. Lois tenderly
reached out to cradle her lover in her arms.
Superman’s face was so bruised and swollen that he could barely see. It was a
struggle for him to speak. “Doomsday . . . is he . . . is he . . . ?”
Lois held him to her. “Down. You stopped him. You saved us all!”
Superman nodded. Then his head fell back against Lois’s shoulder, and he slid
limply to the pavement. Lois saw all their hopes and dreams slide with him. She
began to weep uncontrollably. For a moment the whole world seemed still, save
for the sound of her crying.

“He’s . . . dead.” Cat Grant looked down in shock, the microphone falling slack
in her hand.
“He can’t be.” Her cameraman gripped his Minicam all the tighter. “I mean . .
. he’s Superman.”
“I don’t know . . .” The pilot shook his head. “Every man has his limits.”
Cat bit her lip. The pain seemed to galvanize her. She reached down and
pulled the plug on her mike. “Cut the feed.”
 “What—?”
“You heard me, cut it! Tell the network there’s a technical difficulty. We’ll
keep taping the video, but there’s no need to stay live with this—not until we
know what’s really going on.” She turned to the pilot. “Set us down—but not too
close.”

As if in slow motion, people began to gather around Superman. Police of the

Special Crimes Unit began to fan out, securing the immediate area. From uptown
came the roar of a powerful turbine engine, and the Guardian came riding in, a
heavily cloaked figure seated behind him on the motorcycle. They both hopped
from the bike and strode quickly to where Lois knelt over the fallen hero.
“Damn. We can’t be too late!” The Guardian’s curse hissed out under his
breath. He looked at his companion. Dub?
The disguised Dubbilex slowly shook his head. “I’ve been scanning
Superman’s mind and there’s nothing there . . . no brain-wave activity . . .
nothing.”
“No—aw, no!” Dan Turpin came running up alongside the Guardian, Maggie
Sawyer close on his heels.
“He’s alive, Turpin,” said Sawyer. “He’s got to be.” But her voice sounded
neither convinced nor convincing.
“Why are you all just standing around?!” Lois rose to her feet, gripping the
tattered remnant of Superman’s cape. “We’ve got to do something! We can’t just
give up—we owe him more than that!”
“Of course we’re not giving up!” The Guardian knelt down by Superman.
“Captain Sawyer, call the paramedics in here!” He carefully tilted Superman’s
head back and checked to make certain that the airway was clear. Then, pinching
the nose shut, the Guardian took a deep breath and, placing his mouth over
Superman’s, began to breathe for his friend. It was not easy going. His lungs
must be like steel tanks . . . all the wind I’ve got barely gets a rise out of his
chest.
In between breaths, the Guardian searched in vain for a pulse. “Turpin! Come
here—quick!”
The big, beefy police inspector was at his side in a flash. “What do you need?
I’ll do anything!”
 The Guardian came up for another breath. “Do you know CPR?”
“Yeah, but I’m a little rusty. Sixty compressions a minute, right?”
“More like eighty to a hundred. Let’s do it!”
Turpin laid his big hands on Superman’s sternum and pushed down hard with
all the force his two hundred pounds could muster, again and again and again.
And all the while the Guardian continued with the breath of life.

Just a few feet away, SCU police gathered around Doomsday’s body. The
creature lay sprawled, motionless, across the shattered pavement.
“Oh, man!” One of the cops looked up and down the length of the monstrous
gray body. “If Superman’s really dead, we’d better pray to God that he put this
Doomsday thing down for keeps. Doesn’t look like it’s breathing—but maybe it
didn’t need to.”
“Stand back!” another cried out. “I—I thought I saw it move!”
“No.” Dubbilex stepped closer. “It was only the broken pavement settling
beneath him.”
“I’m telling you, it moved!”
“Put a lid on it, Champley.” Maggie stepped between her officer and the
cloaked man. “We don’t need any more excitement here.”
“Captain Sawyer, please order your unit to back away from the creature. I
believe I can determine whether there is any further reason for concern.”
Sawyer looked at the cloaked figure skeptically. “Uh-huh. And just who are
you supposed to be?”
“You may call me Dubbilex.”
Sawyer blinked and took a step back. The answer she’d received was
decidedly not vocal.
“I believe you once had occasion to visit the Cadmus Project? I am of that
facility. You could call me the resident telepath.” Then, aloud, “Guardian can
vouch for me, if you have any further questions?”
“N-no. Go ahead . . . check things out.”
Dubbilex knelt over Doomsday’s body and reached one hand out to touch the
upper cranium. The color of the monster’s rough hide, he noted, was
disturbingly similar to that of his own skin. Several minutes passed.
 “Well?” Sawyer was becoming impatient. She began to regret her decision to
stop smoking.
Dubbilex did not need any powers of the mind to sense her anxiety. He
decided against any further nonaudible communication and chose his words
carefully. “Before . . . this creature was filled with rage . . . anger. Now . . . there
is nothing.”
“Good.” The captain turned to one of her officers. “Russell, throw something
over that monster and get it out of my sight.”

“Any response?”
The Guardian looked up to see a team of paramedics setting up around him.
“He’s still not breathing on his own. Beyond that it’s hard to tell.”
One paramedic broke out an oxygen canister while another felt along
Superman’s throat. “No discernible pulse.”
The Guardian paused between breaths. “I couldn’t find one, either. But I
wasn’t sure if I was looking in the right place . . . his origins are of another
planet.”
The paramedic with the oxygen moved in quickly, inserting an endotracheal
tube through Superman’s mouth and down his throat. One of her partners slipped
in to take over the chest compression from the exhausted Inspector Turpin.
Another pulled away what was left of the tattered blue and red shirt and attached
two round adhesive-backed electrodes to Superman’s chest.
Lois and Jimmy stood close by, helplessly watching with quiet horror as an
ominous flat line appeared on the screen of the rescue team’s heart monitor
equipment.
Paramedic Mark Spadolini’s voice broke slightly as he radioed their findings
to the trauma center at Metropolis General Hospital. “Victim is asystolic. We’re
administering epinephrine via the breathing tube. No, we can’t get an IV into
him. No, we’ve already wrecked three needles trying. There’s a puncture wound,
partially closed, on his lower right side, just below the ribs. Uh-huh. Okay . . .
try to find a vein in the wound.”
The monitor was still showing a flat line. Mark shook his head. “We’ll have to
try shocking him.”
There was a discernible crackle as voltage was applied to the Man of Steel’s
broad chest. But he didn’t even twitch.

Dan Turpin stepped away, a tear welling up in the corner of one eye. He’d seen
too many fellow officers cut down in the line of duty. He’d had to deliver the
bad news to too many young widows. He’d never gotten used to it. As the big
cop turned, he saw a brightly clad figure stumble from an alley and collapse
amid the rubble. Turpin rushed up to render assistance. “Hey, are you okay?”
Supergirl rolled onto her back. Her jaw was slack and misshapen, her skin
discolored to a sickening lavender. “Superman . . .” Her voice was a thin, reedy
whisper. “Where is he? Am I near him?”
“Mother o’ mercy!” From the looks of her, Turpin could hardly believe that
she was still alive, let alone able to talk. “Hold on, little lady, I’ll get a medic
—!”
“They wouldn’t know where to begin with my Supergirl, Inspector.”
Turpin turned to find himself nearly face-to-face with Lex Luthor II. The
LexCorp heir brushed past the old cop, pulling off his jacket and gently
wrapping it around the battered young woman. Turpin looked back over his
shoulder and saw a limousine with LexCorp vanity plates waiting less than half a
block away. The fact that it had gotten through the police lines was proof
positive that the name Luthor still carried a lot of power in Metropolis.
Supergirl looked up into her lover’s eyes. “I . . . tried to help Superman . . .
but . . . hurt so much . . .”
“Shhh. It’s all right, love.” Luthor gingerly picked her up and headed for the
limo. “He’s beyond help now—beyond our reach. But we can help you.”

As the paramedics continued to work on Superman, Lois stood clutching his

cape. Her hands had nearly wadded one end of the cloth into a knot. Jimmy
watched her worriedly, uncertain of what to do next.
“Lois?”
She turned with a start at the sound of her name. Cat Grant stood less than a
yard away. She hadn’t even heard her approach.
Cat reached out to Lois, taking her by the arm and steering her away from
Superman’s body. “Lois, are you going to be all right?”
 “I don’t know if any of us will ever be all right . . . ever again.”
Cat caught Jimmy’s eye. “Where’s Clark? He should be with her at a time like
this.”
“Geez, I don’t know. He was gone all morning, chasing down some story, but
I’m surprised he hasn’t shown up here. He must have heard by now. The news
has been all over radio and TV.”
Cat nodded. “I can guarantee that!”
“Maybe he couldn’t get through the police lines.”
“I doubt that. Nothing’s ever kept Clark Kent from getting where he wanted to
go!” Cat looked around as if expecting to see Kent suddenly materialize. She
shook her head. “He must have gotten tied up somewhere.”
“Lois?” Jimmy took her by the arm. “Let’s go inside the Planet.”
“No . . . we can’t leave him now . . . not like this . . .”
“Lois, listen to me!” Cat grabbed her by the shoulders. “You’ve got to snap
out of it. We can’t do Superman any good by getting in the way of the
paramedics. Look, I know he meant a lot to you . . . He meant a lot to all of us.
But you’re a reporter—and a darn good one. This story needs to be told . . . by
you.” She stared hard at Lois until the other woman blinked.
Lois brought up a hand and kneaded the bridge of her nose. “You—you’re
right.”
Cat heaved a sigh of relief. She could see her cameraman waving to her from
down the block. “Look, I have to run. Take good care of her, Jimmy.”
“Sure, Cat.” Olsen managed a weak thumbs-up. “We’ll get by . . . somehow.”

“No go.” The weary paramedic shook his head. “We’ve run the voltage off the
scale, and we’re still getting no response. I’m beginning to think we’d need to hit
him with a bolt of lightning to get a rise out of him.”
“We can’t give up!” The Guardian gripped the man’s shoulder so hard that he
flinched. “We mustn’t!”
“H-hey, don’t worry! We never do. Once a resuscitation’s started, we don’t
stop until an MD takes over.” Mark waved over one of his partners. “Back that
ambulance over here. Metro General’s standing by for us. We’ll pack him and
work on him en route.”
 Mark looked back at the line on the monitor. It was still flat. “I just wish we
could get some response. Anything!”

Halfway across the country, Jonathan and Martha Kent held one another as the
horrible sights and sounds were played out and replayed on their television. A
somber news anchor stared back at them from the screen. “This just handed me .
. . Superman has been loaded into an ambulance and is at this moment being
moved to Metropolis General Hospital, where GBS correspondent Martin Phelps
is standing by. Martin, what’s the situation there at Metro General? Can you tell
us what preparations are being made?”
“David, it’s still not clear what measures, if any, can be taken to revive
Superman. We’re told that the alien nature of his body precludes normal revival
techniques. We do know that Dr. Jorge Sanchez has been called to the hospital
and is expected to arrive momentarily. Dr. Sanchez, it should be noted, has
treated Superman in the past, the first time over two years ago, when the Man of
Steel was shot with a kryptonite bullet by the sociopath Bloodsport. We’ll try to
speak with Dr. Sanchez when he arrives.”
“Thank you, Martin. Again, for those of you just joining us, Superman has
been loaded into an ambulance and is being moved to Metropolis General
Hospital. His condition is unknown. We know that paramedics have been
making attempts, heroic attempts, to revive him. There has been one report from
the site of Superman’s battle with Doomsday—and again, this is unconfirmed—
a report that no brain activity could be detected.”
“Please turn it off, Jonathan.” Martha clamped her eyes shut and hid her face
in her hands.
Jonathan angrily snapped the set off, almost wrenching away the switch.
“Damned fool doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”
They stood for several minutes before Martha broke the silence. “What if
they’re right? What if it’s true?”
Jonathan hugged his wife to him. “We keep on praying to the good Lord for
our boy, Martha.”

“If only . . . I could . . . have helped him, Lex.”

As his limousine rushed through the darkening city streets, Lex Luthor cradled
the battered Supergirl in his arms.
“Love, if I could turn back time, I would have sent you and Team Luthor in to
help as soon as we heard about that monster. But who knew—who knew?” Lex
stared numbly out the window. I certainly didn’t— Not until the very end did I
have the slightest inkling this could happen. He had long looked forward to the
day when he would successfully engineer the death of Superman. But now that
moment had been forever stolen from him. Unless they manage to revive him . . .
Supergirl began to sob, and Luthor clutched her to him tightly. “I know . . . I
know . . . it’s a tragedy. We can’t ever forget what was, but we all must carry on.
Show me some spirit, love. We need you—good and whole—now more than
ever!” He kissed her mottled cheek. “You must try to pull yourself together now.
Take it one step at a time. Use those wondrous shape-shifting powers of yours
and mend yourself. You can do it, love! I know you can!”
“It . . . will be . . . painful, Lex . . . but for you, I would move mountains.” Her
brow furrowed and her fists tightened. She shook, as if in the throes of a seizure,
but the swelling of her face began to subside. Her color noticeably improved,
and her jaw appeared to flow back into its normal position.
“Amazing. Simply amazing.” Lex stared at her, enraptured.
“How do I look, Lex?” Her breathing was labored, but she was clearly finding
it easier to speak. “Am I . . . presentable?”
Lex ran his fingers through her hair. Once again, it glistened like spun gold.
“You’re far more than presentable, love. You’re beautiful . . . my precious,
precious gem. Together, you and I are going to make a new future for this city!”

Jimmy Olsen threw a stack of pictures down on Perry White’s desk in disgust.
“Here they are, Chief. The photo editor’s still out sick, so I guess it’s up to you
to pick the shots that’ll earn me my thirty pieces of silver.”
Perry got up from behind his desk. His hand went reflexively to his vest
pocket. It was empty—had been so since he’d given up smoking three months
before, but old habits died hard. “Jim, I understand why you’re upset . . .”
“Do you, Chief?” Jimmy looked back out through the managing editor’s open
door. The City Room was unnaturally quiet, despite the fact that most of the day
staff was still around. Every eye in the room was glued to the television
monitors. “Superman—was the greatest. And look at the way the media reacts!
The television crowd’s crawling all over themselves, trying to be the first to
officially pronounce him dead. You’d think they were happy he died—he
probably saved them all from a slow news day.”
Jimmy slumped back against Perry’s filing cabinet. “And they call it
‘journalism.’ It makes me want to puke! We lost a friend today, Mr. White . . . a
good friend.”
“That we did, Jimmy. We owe it to him to honor his memory.”
“You know these pictures I took of Superman? When I saw them coming out
of the developer, I couldn’t believe that I’d taken them. I wanted to rip them up,
destroy the negatives. Using them to sell papers . . . I don’t know . . . it seems
like a violation of my friendship with him.”
Perry sorted through the stack of pictures. There was no denying their power.
“Olsen, one of these photos will serve to remind this city—no, the world—of the
tremendous sacrifice one man made.” He placed a hand on the young man’s
shoulder. “Superman’s passing has left a great void in all of us. But we are still
journalists. And we’ve still got a paper to publish. Think of what Lois is going
through.”
They both looked across the City Room to where Lois Lane sat alone at her
desk. She was staring a hole into her desktop monitor, tears sporadically beading
up in the corners of her eyes. But her hands moved ceaselessly back and forth
across her keyboard, as if trying to purge her system of some unbearable
knowledge.
Perry shook his head. “She may have lost more than any of us. There’s been
no word from Kent, and the area of town he’d gone to was hit pretty hard by
Doomsday. Latest reports have at least a hundred buildings down. Thousands of
people are missing, presumably trapped in the rubble. Kent could be one of
them.”
Jimmy’s face fell. “Oh, no. He’s got to turn up, Chief. It’s bad enough that
Superman died in her arms. What’ll it do to her if she’s lost Mr. Kent, too?”
 SECTION TWO

FUNERAL FOR
A FRIEND
11

Ruby Mayer Stood behind the large front window of her store, staring off down
the street. For nearly forty years, she had been running Mayer’s Newsstand &
Sundries, at first with her husband and then, after he’d passed on, by herself.
Every day, year in and year out, in all kinds of weather, a parade of customers
trooped through her door seeking the latest magazines and newspapers, and
Ruby always did her best to see that they found what they were looking for.
Often, in the evening, they’d linger over a cola or an egg cream at the old soda
fountain and talk with her about what sort of day they’d had.
But not tonight.
Tonight, the store was empty, and Ruby felt more alone than she’d felt since
the Mister had died.
Down the street, a lone pair of headlights came around the corner, and a big
panel truck whizzed by the store, dumping its bundle of newspapers without
even slowing down. That in itself was nothing new; it happened at least twice a
day. It was, in fact, the subject of a longstanding joke between Ruby and her
customers. “They always drop the papers and run,” she’d say. “I think they’re
afraid we’re going to blame them for the news!”
Tonight, however, she wasn’t laughing. Tonight everyone had reason to be
afraid. Ruby had had her radio on all afternoon, listening to the news, and she
had dreaded this delivery. She pulled her sweater tight against the wind and
trundled out to the curb to retrieve the bundle. Back inside, Kuby pulled out a
pair of snips and cut the wire that held the bundle together. The wire snapped,
and six dozen copies of the Daily Planet’s late-evening extra spilled across the
counter. The front-page headline consisted of just two words: SUPERMAN—
DEAD.
Ruby shivered when she saw it. A headline that big you’d expect for nothing
less than a notice of the end of the world. She dabbed at her eyes with the
kerchief she kept up her sleeve. And maybe it is . . . maybe it is.

Miles away, in WLEX’s Studio Seven, anchorman Wallace Bailey felt his throat
tighten as the floor manager held up a hand and began the five-second count to
air. He’d been at the news desk most of the day without a break, and the strain
was beginning to take its toll. The tally light atop camera one suddenly glowed
red, and he swallowed hard.
“For those of you just joining us, much of Metropolis remains under a dusk-
to-dawn curfew, following the—” Bailey took a deep breath. “—the death of
Superman.”
The death of Superman. There, he’d said it.
Bailey took a second deep breath and opened his mouth, but no more words
came out. He glanced nervously at his written notes, then at the lines on the
TelePrompTer, but they might as well have been written in Sanskrit. In a panic,
he tried to think of something—anything—to say, but all that came to his mind
was an old videotape he’d once seen in journalism school. Among other things,
the tape showed one of those rare moments when Walter Cronkite fumbled on-
screen, an unsteady few seconds the afternoon that JFK was shot. It was another
terrible day, not unlike this one, but he found the memory strangely reassuring.
See, it seemed to say, this can happen to the best of us. It’s no sin to get
flustered. Somehow, we all manage to go on. Miraculously, Bailey discovered
that he could read his notes again, even as the silent, traitorous voice in his head
reminded him that he was still a long way from being a Walter Cronkite.
“The world-renowned hero laid down his life today to stop a berserk monster
called Doomsday, who threatened to level the city. The origins of the monster
remain unknown at this hour. The final battle followed a several-state rampage
that resulted in over five hundred deaths and left the Justice League in disarray.”
The camera cut from Bailey to taped footage of Superman and Doomsday
punching each other across the parking lot of a suburban shopping plaza. No
longer on-screen, the anchorman felt his voice steady a bit further as he began
the voice-over. “Superman joined the battle at midmorning, but though he fought
valiantly, he seemed unable to stop Doomsday’s odyssey of death and
destruction. It was, tragically, a fight to the finish . . . that claimed the lives of
both combatants.”
The on-screen images changed again, this time to clips of hustling paramedic
teams working over Superman’s body. “Despite prolonged heroic efforts, the
Man of Steel could not be revived at the scene. Resuscitation efforts continued
as Metropolis’s paramedics rushed the Man of Steel to Metro General Hospital,
where a trauma team headed by Dr. Jorge Sanchez labored for hours in an
attempt to save his life.”
Bailey paused in his narration, tears coming to his eyes. “The final
pronouncement came just ninety minutes ago.” On the studio monitors, he could
see a slim, mustached man approach a makeshift podium outside the Metro
General emergency entrance. Across the bottom of the screen, a superimposed
caption identified the man as Dr. Sanchez. The clicking of camera shutters
sounded like crickets chirping as the doctor stepped up to the microphones.
Dr. Sanchez cleared his throat. “It is my sad duty to inform you that Superman
was declared dead at approximately 6:23 P.M. eastern daylight time.” On the
pretaped segment, the doctor blinked, apparently dazzled by all the television
lighting.
In the studio, Bailey was cued to continue his narration. “For more on this
story, we go now live to Scott Harris.” The cameras abruptly cut to a rugged-
looking, dark-haired man with a microphone standing outside a nondescript
municipal building.
“Wallace, Superman’s body was brought here to the city morgue just minutes
ago. As Superman has no known relatives, there is apparently some controversy
brewing over who has rights to the—” Suddenly there was a loud electronic
squawk, and the picture broke apart to snow.
“Scott, can you hear me?” The screen cut back to the anchor desk and a
noticeably surprised Wallace Bailey. “Well, we seem to be experiencing some
technical difficulties.”
Back outside the morgue building, Harris turned, startled by the sound of
gunfire. “Wallace, are you there? Someone is shooting—” He looked up and
knew it was pointless to say another word; armed soldiers were being deployed
from a troop carrier just a few yards away, and one of them had just shot apart
the microwave uplink dish atop the WLEX broadcast van.
Harris had spent time overseas covering a number of brushfire wars, and he
could tell at a glance that there was something odd about these troops; they
weren’t dressed in standard army-issue uniforms. He located a soldier who was
wearing officer’s bars and started screaming at him. “What’s the big idea of
shooting out our dish? You can’t get away with this! What’s going on here?”
The officer gave Harris and his news crew a cursory glance and turned to an
aide. “Arrest that man . . . arrest them all!”
Police Captain Maggie Sawyer and Inspector Dan Turpin stood at the head of a
squad of heavily armed Special Crimes Unit police, blocking the path of Paul
Westfield and an equally armed squad of soldiers wearing the shoulder patch of
the Cadmus Project. Turpin was fit to be tied. “Westfield, I advise you an’ yer
pack of ghouls to turn ’round and goose-step outta here!”
“I’d listen to Inspector Turpin if I were you!” Maggie slipped the safety
switch of her automatic.
“You and your Special Crimes Unit don’t impress me, Captain Sawyer.”
Westfield coolly pulled a folded set of papers from his coat. “I direct a federal
project. And under section twelve of the Executive Emergency Act, I am
authorized to collect for study the bodies of any alien decedents, which includes
Superman and that monster he fought!”
“Yeah.” A soldier at Westfield’s side had his rifle pointed directly at the
police line. “So you and your boys better step aside, or things could get real
messy!”
“You can’t be serious!” The Guardian emerged from a doorway behind the
police, astounded at finding troops of his command involved in an act of force
outside the Project. “What do you think this is, the Old West? There’ll be no
shoot-out with local authorities! Lower your weapons!”
“Ignore that order!” Westfield scowled. He hadn’t expected the Guardian to
still be here.
“B-but, Mr. Westfield,” one soldier wavered, “the Guardian is our security
chief.”
“And I’m Project administrator!”
“Pulling rank, Westfield?” The Guardian defiantly folded his arms. “I’d say
you’ve already exceeded your authority.”
“That was out of line, Guardian! You of all people must realize how important
this is to us. There’s no telling what we could learn from Superman’s body!”
“You’re exposing the Project to further public scrutiny!”
“Not at all.” Westfield’s face twisted into a nasty smirk. “My troops have the
entire area secured. Only one television crew was set up when we arrived, and
they’ve already been dealt with. The good people of Metropolis won’t learn
anything about the Project that I don’t want them to.”
“What do you mean, there’s a news blackout?” In his quarters atop the LexCorp
Tower, Lex Luthor had phoned his news director the moment that WLEX’s
remote crew was knocked off the air. “A blackout by whose authority? A federal
agency? What federal agency? Well, find out! We are not going to stand for
this!” Lex slammed down the phone. We are most definitely going to do
something about this.
Luthor stalked into the next room, where Supergirl sat staring blankly off into
space. The bruises she’d sustained in her battle with Doomsday had already
faded, but she’d been deeply emotionally affected by her failure to help
Superman. A little mission now might do her a world of good. “Supergirl . . .
love?”
“Yes, Lex?” She sounded hollow.
Lex gently laid his hand on her shoulder. “Time to call out the dogs, love.
There’s work to be done.”

The Guardian drew himself up, standing tall and blocking Westfield’s path with
his own body. “Have you lost all decency? Show some respect for the dead!”
“There’ll be time for that later!” Westfield was becoming impatient. “We have
to act quickly before the bodies start to decompose! Now, are you going to do
your duty and help or—”
“No, Westfield.” The Guardian looked him square in the eye. “If you want
Superman, you’ll have to go through me!”
Westfield’s face and lips paled visibly.
Uh-oh. Maggie Sawyer could feel her stomach clenching. From hard
experience, she knew that when the blood drained from the face, the bluster was
over and the body was committed to action. It’s fight or flight, and I doubt that
Westfield has the grace, the brains, or the guts to back down now. She also knew
without needing to spare a glance in their direction that Turpin and her men had
read the situation the same way.
Suddenly, before anyone in that corridor could make another move, two
armored figures crashed through the walls on both sides of them. A highly
amplified voice bellowed, “SURPRISE!”
“Holy Geez! It’s a couple o’ Team Luthor’s armor boys!” Dan Turpin
sounded a lot less annoyed than he ordinarily would have been at a civilian
commando raid. Maggie was far from displeased herself. Luthor’s men had
broken the impasse nicely.
As one, the Guardian and the SCU dove for cover as Westfield’s troops
opened fire on Team Luthor. The Cadmus soldiers were heavily armed, but for
all the effect their assault rifles had on the intruders’ glistening body armor, they
might as well have been throwing popcorn.
“Nuts!” Turpin’s pleased surprise was swiftly giving way to embarrassment
“That’s our fight they’re fighting!”
Sawyer grabbed the inspector by the arm and held him back. “All things
considered, Dan, I don’t really mind.”
The Guardian brought his shield up as a seven-millimeter bullet whizzed by
his head. “Keep your forces down, Captain. Team Luthor seems mainly to be
drawing fire. They must have something up their sleeves.” He peered at the
nearer wall, through one of the gaping holes left by Team Luthor. “And I think I
see what it is!”
The first Cadmus trooper who saw the blue-and-red-caped figure come
through the opening was so shocked that he felt his heart skip a couple of beats.
He looked again and elbowed his superior officer. “Uh, Sarge—?”
“Keep firing, McIntyre! Don’t stop for anything!”
“Anything? What about her?”
Supergirl landed among them, and the fire fight stopped as abruptly as if
someone had thrown a switch. “Good start.” Supergirl looked them over sternly.
“A very good start. Now put down your weapons or I’ll take them away from
you.”
Westfield dashed toward her, nearly tripping in his haste. “Supergirl, no!
You’re making a big mistake. We’re an authorized federal agency!”
“Don’t trust ’im for one minute, li’l lady!” Turpin’s voice boomed as if he still
needed to shout above gunfire. “He an’ his goon squad are tryin’ to take
Superman’s body!”
“They’re what?” Supergirl’s eyes went wide, and she thrust her hands out at
Westfield and his troops.
They never knew what hit them.
Paul Westfield was the last to regain consciousness. As he came to, he thought
he could hear someone calling his name. When his eyes finally focused, he saw
the Guardian crouched over him, offering a helping hand. If a sudden wave of
nausea hadn’t hit him, he would have been sorely tempted to slap the hand away,
or maybe bite it.
“Is he going to be all right?”
Westfield turned his head—slowly—to look for the source of the second
voice. He gaped. It’s Supergirl, and she has the consummate gall to look
concerned.
“I think so. He’ll be sore for a few days, though.” The Guardian also looked
concerned, Westfield noted. Charming. If only these people showed half the
regard for my authority that they did for my health.
“Paul? Can you hear me?”
“Yes.” What hit me? Westfield had to force himself to listen to the Guardian.
“Good. Do you remember your full name? Do you know where you are?”
“Yes, dammit! I’m Paul Westfield, and we’re in Metropolis . . .” There was a
slight chill in the air, and Westfield looked around, suddenly realizing that he
was lying on a stretcher on the sidewalk. “. . . outside the city morgue building!
And don’t worry, I don’t have a concussion! I’m just—just—” I’m just mad as
hell! I’ll have your shield, you self-righteous fool, as well as Superman’s body,
before this is over. “Never mind!”
The Guardian smiled wryly. I wish Dubbilex hadn’t already left for the
Project. I can guess what you’re thinking, Paul, but I’d love to get confirmation.
“Do you feel like sitting up?”
Westfield dearly wished to say no, but he decided that he’d already shown
enough weakness for one day. He nodded carefully and grudgingly accepted the
Guardian’s hand. He started to look around, saw Supergirl again, and drew back
involuntarily.
“What did she do to me?”
Much to Westfield’s distress, Maggie Sawyer stepped forward. “It’s called a
psychokinetic blast. And you’re lucky that all she did was sweep you and your
toy soldiers out the door.”
Lucky? “You can’t talk to me that way, Sawyer!”
“Paul . . .” The Guardian’s hand tightened on his. “You were lucky. Don’t
press it.”
Westfield shuffled uncertainly to his feet. He nearly fell over when he saw
Inspector Turpin supervising the roundup of his Cadmus forces. They were filing
back into their troop carrier, walking a gauntlet of heavily armed SCU cops. One
last Cadmus soldier was glumly dropping his weapon atop a pile of captured
assault rifles.
“Hey!” Turpin shoved his derby forward. “Come back here and stack that
neat!”
The soldier looked up at the big bear of a man. Turpin glowered down at him,
ominously cracking his knuckles. The soldier swallowed hard and rushed to
comply.
This was too much. Later, Westfield would wonder where all the adrenaline
was coming from, but for now he was simply grateful for the energy rush. He
pulled himself up as tall and straight as he knew how and peppered the air with
every profane and pungent comment he could think of.
Maggie Sawyer stood patiently with her hands on her hips until his verbal
barrage had died down to a sputter. Then she poked a finger into his chest. “I’d
light a candle if I were you, Westfield.” Her voice was a brittle whisper. “You
could have gotten your boys killed in there . . . and we’ve had enough killing
around here today.”
Westfield glared at her, furious and frustrated almost to the point of apoplexy.
A glance across the street brought added insult: The WLEX news technicians
were mounting a new microwave dish to the top of their van.
“You won’t get away with this, Sawyer! I’m holding you all responsible!
When Washington hears about this fiasco—!”
“Washington has already heard, Mister . . . Westfield, is it?” Westfield jerked
around, but he’d already recognized the voice; the Australian accent was a dead
giveaway.
Lex Luthor II sauntered toward him; a shorter man huffed alongside. Luthor
gave Westfield his most sharklike smile. “Yes, Mr. Westfield, Washington
knows all about this fiasco, as you so accurately put it. And what’s more, they
hold you responsible. They’re none too happy with you for ordering the
destruction of equipment belonging to my television station, not to mention your
interference with the local constabulary.” Lex glanced down at the man who
accompanied him. “Isn’t that right, Mayor Berkowitz?”
 “You can take that to the bank, Luthor.” Berkowitz stepped forward, his face
red with fury and wounded civic pride. “I have a little something for you, Mr.
Westfield—faxes from the White House!” The mayor brandished a curling sheaf
of pages like a protective talisman, waving them under Westfield’s nose.
Westfield almost laughed in Berkowitz’s face. The man’s seen too many old
movies. But then he caught a glimpse of the seal of the President on the top page
of the faxes. Suddenly there was nothing at all funny about the little mayor.
“The President himself has rescinded your authority in this matter.” Berkowitz
continued to shake the faxes as he spoke. “Superman’s genetic heritage may be
alien, but as far as we’re concerned—and the President agrees—he’s an
American! And by God, we intend to see that he’s given a decent burial. In
Metropolis!”
“But, Mayor Berkowitz . . .” Westfield swallowed his pride. “Sir, please, if
only you’d let me explain—”
“Don’t bother, mate.” Lex looked at Berkowitz, ready to step aside in case the
mayor wanted to do his own interrupting. Berkowitz just smiled tightly and
gestured for Luthor to continue.
“I’d say you’ve already blathered on quite enough. You put your foot right in
this one, Westfield. You’ve made a priceless ass of yourself and your entire
organization. Oh, and don’t bother trying to claim that Doomsday beastie, either.
We’ve convinced the president to let S.T.A.R. Labs dispose of him.”
Westfield felt numb. How could everything fall apart on me like this? What
did I do wrong?
“Now, as a patriotic citizen, I’m willing to overlook the extensive damage
done to my property.” Lex took the Cadmus boss by the arm and steered him
toward the captured troop carrier. “I’ll even agree to keep mention o’ your little
project out of the news, if you get in your truck and return to your base—now.
Do we understand each other?”
Westfield nodded weakly.
“Good. Team Luthor will help the Guardian escort you to the county line.
Good-bye to you, Mr. Westfield.”
In a matter of minutes, the Guardian kick-started his big motorcycle to life and
pulled out, leading the caravan up a deserted Metropolis boulevard. The Cadmus
troop carrier followed close behind, and the two Team Luthor men flew
alongside, the eerie whine of their armor’s miniature jets echoing down the
empty streets. For the sake of Project security, the Guardian had decided that
they’d take the long way home. Once they were out of the county and free of
Luthor’s men, they could proceed over the back roads to Mount Curtiss
undetected. It wasn’t that he had any reason to distrust the LexCorp team, but
Westfield had already made far too public a display of Project resources, and
Harper was determined to see that some of Cadmus’s secrets remained secret.
I knew that Westfield had it in for Superman—he could never trust anyone
with that much power, especially someone not under his control—but I never
thought he’d stoop so low as to pick a fight over the man’s body. The Guardian
couldn’t deny that Cadmus had harbored more than its fair share of loose
cannons over the years, Dabney Donovan being the prime example, but he’d
been caught unprepared for this kind of reckless behavior from the
administrator’s office. Hijacking Superman’s body was the sort of high-handed
stunt I’d have expected from Donovan. There had better be some changes made
at Cadmus after this!

Scott Harris had just about convinced himself that the interests of national
security would be best served by suppressing the story of Westfield’s aborted
mission when Wallace Bailey’s voice crackled over his earphone. “I’m told that
our remote crew has corrected their technical problems. Scott, are you there?”
“Yes, Wallace.” Harris firmly silenced any last qualms of conscience.
“Everything is . . . under control now.” Except for my nerves. As soon as we’re
off the air, I think that I just might go behind the van and throw up. He paused
for a moment, thinking of all those millions of viewers tuned in to WLEX,
totally unaware that a paramilitary operation had just been squelched at the city
morgue. And they’ll never know. They’ll never have the slightest idea. The
surrealism of the situation hit him and he had to grit his teeth to repress a sudden
hysterical urge to giggle. Hello, Mr. and Ms. America and all the ships at sea!
Guess what? I’ve got a secret!
Scott hurriedly cleared his throat and launched into the introduction he had
already prepared. “LexCorp CEO Lex Luthor II has just arrived, accompanied
by Supergirl. I believe that Mr. Luthor is about to make a statement.”
The cameras cut to a medium close-up of Luthor and Supergirl standing on
the steps of the morgue building, just in front of the main doors. No one would
ever have guessed that, just minutes before, both of these glamorous people had
taken sudden, ruthless action. Harris had been there, as his queasy stomach kept
reminding him, and he himself could hardly believe it, even now.
Luthor stared into the cameras as if he were making eye contact with each
viewer individually. “Ladies and gentlemen, the . . . death of Superman . . . has
affected us all very deeply. A legend has been cruelly taken from us.
“It is fitting and proper that we mourn his passing . . . especially those of us in
Metropolis, who knew him so well. To that end, Mayor Berkowitz has informed
me that a section of Centennial Park will be set aside as a final resting place for
our fallen champion.
“And I pledge to you now that the full resources of LexCorp International
shall be put to work at that site, to erect a monument worthy of a Superman!”

Among the millions following Luthor’s broadcast were three people in the office
of Perry White, managing editor of the Daily Planet. Lois Lane sat on an old
swaybacked couch, blank faced and blank eyed, still clutching the torn remnant
of Superman’s cape. Jimmy Olsen stood across the room, nominally listening to
Luthor but keeping a worried eye on Lois. Perry himself stood next to the
television, his hands jammed into his pockets. In times of stress, his old nicotine
cravings were still acutely strong, and listening to the Luthor boy was most
stressful. If Perry closed his eyes and ignored the accent, he swore he could hear
Lex the First speaking. When young Lex pledged his company’s help in erecting
a monument to the Man of Steel, the editor swore softly but fervently under his
breath. Slimy, opportunistic bastard. He’s setting himself up as chief mourner!
Jimmy kept glancing anxiously from the TV to Lois, increasingly concerned
by her lack of reaction. She’s hardly said a word since she turned in her story.
He started to take a step toward her, hesitated, and uneasily leaned back against
White’s desk. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. She’s had two awful shocks, what
with Mr. Kent missing and Superman dying in her arms. Why, she was even
responsible for giving Superman his name, for gosh sakes. Jimmy stared
forlornly past Lois, looking out unseemingly through one of the big windows in
the corner office. I wish Superman were still alive. I wish Mr. Kent would show
up. And I wish Lois would say something. Anything!
Jimmy was so lost in thought that he jumped when Perry White abruptly
snapped off the television set. “It’s been a long, hard day. Why don’t you kids go
on home?”
 “Home. Sure.” Lois spoke as if using the words for the first time.
Jimmy walked over to her. “Need a lift, Lois?”
“Thanks, Jimmy . . . but no. I’m . . . well, I’m not all right, but I can find my
way.” She paused at the office door. “Thanks again, though.”
Lois was halfway across the City Room before she was noticed by Allie
Fitzgerald. “Ms. Lane? L-Lois?” The copygirl had a round, cheerful face, a
cherub’s face, but tonight she looked drawn, and her eyes were red from crying.
“Has there been any word jet from Mr. Kent?”
“F-from Clark?! Clark is . . . is—!” Oh, God! “No, Allie. No word.”
“Well, don’t give up hope. There are thousands of folks still missing—and the
phones are such a mess! Mr. Kent will turn up all right. I just know he will!”
“Sure. G’night, Allie.”
From the doorway to White’s office, Jimmy watched Lois pass through the
double doors of the City Room and turn down the hall toward the elevators. “I
hope Allie’s right.”
“Amen to that, Olsen. But, great Caesar’s ghost, you were there. You know as
well as anyone—scores of buildings were toppled during Doomsday’s attack.
Most of the people still missing—Kent included—are trapped in all that
wreckage. Even if Clark is alive out there somewhere, he might not be by the
time rescuers find him. If ever there was a time when we needed Superman and
his X-ray vision, it’s right now! But he’s gone . . . and I doubt we’ll ever see
another like him.”
“It’s so unfair, Chief. Ms. Lane and Mr. Kent had been engaged just a few
months.”
“You don’t have to remind me, Jim. She’s taking it pretty hard.” White paused
absently. “I’ve known Lois since she was little more than a girl, and I’ve never
seen her so absolutely shattered. Lord, I don’t even want to think about how this
must be affecting Clark’s parents! Jon and Martha Kent are damned good people
—salt of the Earth! And Clark was dammit, is their only child. I should have
called them earlier, but I keep waiting, hoping there’ll be some good news to
give them. But with things still up in the air . . .” Perry sadly shook his head. “I
tell you, Olsen, I’d almost rather face a firing squad than place that call!”

Lana Lang stood in a phone booth on the perimeter of a little self-service gas
station outside Cloverdale, Indiana. She glanced nervously through the streaked
station outside Cloverdale, Indiana. She glanced nervously through the streaked
glass, watching Peter Ross fill the tank of their car with unleaded gas. Their car .
. . it was still strange to think of things as being theirs, to think of Peter as her
fiancé. She loved him—loved him dearly—but it would never be like it was with
Clark.
Clark—! Tears began to stream down Lana’s cheeks. She was one of the few
people on Earth who knew that the boy from her hometown, the boy that she’d
loved so very much, had gone out into the world to become Superman.

Lana had met both Clark Kent and Peter Ross at old Eisenhower Elementary
School in Smallville, she remembered. She was infatuated with Clark from the
day she started first grade, much to the young boy’s dismay.
Like many other six-year-old boys, Clark thought that all girls were cooties.
He gradually came to revise his opinion—of girls in general and Lana in
particular. By the time they entered their teens, Clark had come to regard Lana
as one of his closest friends.
By the time they reached high school, Lana’s infatuation with Clark had
grown into something much stronger. She was perceptive enough to realize that
her feelings for him were deeper than his for her, but she lived in hope that he
would come around. As for Peter . . . well, she was always fond of Peter, and she
knew that he liked her. He was always there for her if she needed him. But there
was no one quite like Clark for Lana. She always thought he was someone very
special.
It wasn’t until their senior year that she discovered just how special he truly
was.
Clark had shown up on her doorstep one moonlit evening and asked Lana to
come for a walk. As they strolled along an old country road, part of her was
hoping that he’d come to propose. But instead, Clark started to talk about world
events, about war and crime and so many other things.
“One man can make a difference, Lana, if he’s the right man. And I think,
maybe, I was meant to be that man.”
“You, Clark?” She smiled up at him. If any other boy had said such a thing,
she would have giggled. “Well, you’re a terrific athlete—and smart as a whip!
But what can you do that a thousand other people can’t?”
“Lots of things, Lana. Things maybe nobody else on Earth can do. I’ve been
learning things about myself. Let me show you.”
And with that, Clark scooped Lana up in his arms and flew off into the night
sky.
Lana was astonished to see the land zooming by beneath them. The rush of the
wind nearly took her breath away. Oddly, she was not afraid, and certainly not
repulsed, to be borne along in Clark’s strong embrace. Even so, when they
finally touched down on the outskirts of San Diego, the first thing she asked was
whether Clark had considered that this stunt might scare her out of her wits.
Clark seemed genuinely surprised. “Gosh, no, Lana. I . . . I guess I was just so
sure that you’d understand.”
And so she had.
They flew around the world that night. In Hong Kong, Clark bought several
small packets of firecrackers and lit them for Lana from yards away with his heat
vision. Atop the cliffs of Dover, he used his thumbnail to carve her initials on a
flat white stone. Her initials only, she noticed, not theirs. Clark asked her to
throw the stone out into the English Channel. Then he dove in and recovered it
for her, all within seconds.
Throughout that magical night, Lana came to realize that Clark wasn’t
showing off. He wasn’t even really trying to impress her; rather he was sharing a
secret, showing her why he felt a responsibility to help as many people as he
could. With every incredible power and ability he displayed, Lana became more
and more certain that Clark wasn’t going to propose to her. Not then, and not
ever. He was looking for a confidant, not a mate, and he’d chosen her.
When they finally landed back in Kansas, Clark escorted Lana home and
kissed her good-bye. The kiss was short and sweet . . . and on her forehead. It
was the sort of kiss a brother would give his sister.
And then he’d flown away—away from Lana, away from Smallville, away
from any life they might have shared—as she knew he must.
Years after graduation, when Lana read about the mysterious flying man who
had saved the space plane, she knew immediately that it had to be Clark. And
when an in-depth article on Superman saw print days later under Clark Kent’s
byline, she’d laughed out loud. Talk about hiding in plain sight!
Her laughter was a reassurance that she’d finally gotten over the pain of
Clark’s leaving. She and Clark had kept in touch, and with every year, she felt
more honored that he’d taken her into his confidence. She had been the first
person outside of his parents who’d known about his powers, the first he himself
had told. That had to count for something. Lana Lang knew that she would never
be Mrs. Clark Kent, but in a way she had become Superman’s sister. That, she
told herself, ought to be enough for anyone. And eventually it was.
She’d faithfully kept his secret all those years, even from Peter.

Dear, sweet Peter. I could never tell him. Not even now.
Lana’s hands shook as she shoved quarters into the slot of the pay phone and
punched in the area code and number. There was a buzz and a click, and then an
old familiar voice answered. It was all Lana could do to keep her voice from
breaking.
“H-hello, Jonathan? It’s Lana. Pete and I were on the road when the news
came over the radio. I told him I wanted to call . . . to see if you’d heard from . . .
from Clark—!” She lost control and sank against the side of the booth, sobbing.
“Oh, Jonathan, I still can’t believe it! He can’t be gone . . . he just can’t be! It
has to be some horrible mistake!”
“I wish it were, Lana, but Martha and I—we saw the whole thing on the
television.” Jonathan Kent paused to listen and dabbed at his eyes with a corner
of his bandanna. “Martha? She’s holding up as well as could be expected.
Neither of us . . . ever really expected we’d have to mourn a child. Guess we
were just foolin’ ourselves. There’s not a one of us who isn’t mortal. Not even
Superman. I expect that this’s made just about everybody stop and think a little.”
At her end of the line, Lana could see Peter replacing the pump handle. Now,
at least, she could tell him that she’d talked to Clark’s parents. She could tell him
that their old friend was among Metropolis’s missing.
Now she would have an excuse for her tears.

Word of Superman’s death spread quickly across the country and throughout the
world. In years to come, all who were alive that day and old enough to realize
the significance of the event would recall where they were and what they were
doing when they heard the news.

The streets of Fayerville, South Carolina, were dark and quiet. Aside from three
functioning streetlamps, the only real source of illumination on Main Street was
the light that came from Gasper’s Diner. Other than the sheriff’s office and the
little county hospital on the edge of town, Gasper’s was the only establishment
in Fayerville that you could count on to be open around the clock. Tonight the
diner was all but deserted. The only customer in the place was Sheriff James
Frye, who’d wandered in at around half past nine for a late dinner and stayed on
to keep Daisy and Clovis Gasper company. Not a good night for anybody to be
alone, thought Frye. He drained the last few drops of coffee from his mug, and
Daisy reflexively reached over to refill it. Not a good night at all.
None of them had exchanged more than a few words for over an hour. They
just sat watching the shifting images on the tiny portable TV that Daisy had
plugged in at the end of the counter. The old Soder Cola clock on the far wall
was grinding its way to eleven when the big stylized letter G filled the screen.
“Our continuing coverage of the death of Superman will resume in one half
hour. This is the Galaxy Broadcasting System. We return you now to your local
affiliates.”
The network logo abruptly disappeared, replaced by an earnest-looking gray-
haired man who looked up mournfully from a stack of papers piled before him.
“Good evening, this is News-Five at Eleven. Tonight’s top story: The city of
Metropolis begins to dig out of the rubble as the world mourns the passing of a
great man.”
“Lordy.” The lanky short-order cook slapped his hands down onto the
counter. “Didn’t anything else happen in the world today?”
Sheriff Frye looked up from his coffee. “If it did, Clovis, it doesn’t matter.”
“Yeah . . . reckon yer right, Sheriff.”
“Course he is!” Tears began welling up in Daisy’s eyes, and she gave her
brother that hurt expression that their mother had used so many times before to
put him in his place. “We all owe our lives to Superman, an’ you know it!”
Sheriff Frye handed the waitress his napkin, motioning for her to dry her eyes.
“A lotta folks’re beholden to that man, Daisy, the whole world over!”

In a rough-and-tumble pub at a settlement in the Australian outback, the usually

rowdy patrons grew still, as news of Superman’s death came over the satellite
dish. At one end of the bar, a station manager turned to a tall, broad-shouldered
man in the uniform of the Australian Special Forces. “You met ’im once, didn’t
you, Jack?”
Lieutenant Jack Higbee threw back his drink. “Yeah. It was back during the
bloody alien invasion. He saved my men and me from getting blown sky-high!”
The lieutenant set a wad of bills down on the bar and nodded to the bartender. In
minutes, everyone’s glass was filled, and the teary eyed bartender was filling a
pint for himself. Jack raised his own glass high, and the whole pub followed suit.
“To the finest bloke who ever drew air! To Superman . . . God bless ’im!”

In downtown Tokyo, people stood shoulder to shoulder, filling the streets, as

giant display screens carried a worldwide address by Lex Luthor II.
“There is reason to mourn, but not to panic.” Luthor’s mouth moved slightly
out of sync as translators filled in. “Superman may be gone, but Supergirl and
Team Luthor are still on the job.”

In Jidda, a Saudi sheik watched Luthor’s address with interest. He knew of

Luthor as a corporate leader with extensive oil holdings, and he respected the
young CEO’s ability to take charge. But the sheik felt trepidation when a close-
up of Supergirl appeared on his wide-screen television. If an emergency in his
country should require her assistance, how would his people react to this
unveiled young woman?

In a small African village, a young couple sat before a battered, old shortwave
radio, listening.
“Superman, it will be remembered, personally flew tons of grain and medical
supplies to remote areas during last year’s drought. Many of our people are alive
today, thanks to Superman.”
The woman ran a hand down over her swollen belly. She and her husband
were two of those many people. Now she was pregnant, and she again knew
what it was like to be fearful. Whatever world they were bringing their child
into, it would be a world without a Superman.

In Moscow, crowds gathered around sound trucks broadcasting the news in front
of the Kremlin. Yes, it was true. Superman—the famous Superman, who had
saved a city of half a million people in the Urals—was dead.
In Paris, pedestrians clustered around a taxi to listen to the news from its
radio. Many wept openly.
In London, Rome, and Berlin . . . in Cairo, Jerusalem, and Mecca . . . in
Beijing, New Delhi, and Islamabad . . . in thousands of cities, towns, and
villages, people around the globe mourned in public and in private.
Superman was dead.
The world would never be the same.
12

Jorge Sanchez sat at the cramped little desk in the morgue, filling out what
seemed to be an endless stream of forms and affidavits. I know that there are
good, legal reasons why this must be done, but I wish that I was not the one who
had to do it. The doctor put down his pen and gently massaged his writing hand.
Normally, this would have been the job of the city coroner or her assistant, but
through his involvement in the resuscitation efforts, the duty had fallen to
Sanchez. He pulled his jacket tighter around him. Wish I’d brought a sweater
with me. They always keep it so damned cold in here. He shivered—what was
the old expression?—“as cold as the grave”? Whoever came up with that one
must’ve worked in a place like this!
A knock came at the door, and before Sanchez could answer, a derby sitting
atop a massive pair of shoulders pushed it slightly ajar.
“Ah, Doc, you’re still here. Good. Got a moment to gab with a VIP?”
Sanchez looked at the pile of forms. Given the alternative . . . “Of course,
Inspector Turpin. Be glad to.”
Turpin nodded and swung the door wide. “Mr. Luthor, this is Dr. Jorge
Sanchez. Doc, say hello to—!”
“Mr. Luthor!” Jorge was already on his feet, taking the hand offered by the
red-haired visitor. “This is an honor, sir!”
“An honor, Doctor? What, to shake hands with me?” The hint of a smile
flickered at the corners of the young man’s mouth. “Why, the inspector here
could tell you, I’m just a lucky young bastard who inherited too much money
from an absent father.”
“From what I’ve seen, you spend it as well as he did, sir. The funds you’ve
given my hospital have helped save many lives.”
“Well, we all do what we can. I understand that you signed Superman’s death
certificate, Doctor.”
“Yes, Mr. Luthor. As I’m sure you’re aware, due to his body’s virtual
invulnerability, a standard autopsy was impossible. And as I’d had occasion to
examine Superman during his life—”
“You had? Really?”
“Yes, sir. Just a couple of years ago, I treated Superman when he was shot
with kryptonite bullets by a deranged killer who called himself Bloodsport.”
“Ah, yes . . .” Bloodsport botched the job badly; I never should have
employed such a sociopathic fool. “I—ah—believe I read about that, Doctor.”
“Because of my familiarity with Superman, I was called in to assist with the
resuscitation efforts. After those proved unsuccessful, this—” he gestured
around the room “—became my duty.”
Luthor looked over at an examination table where a still form reposed. It was
covered by a stark white sheet. “Is that—?”
Sanchez nodded. “Yes.”
“May we—?”
Sanchez nodded again and solemnly pulled back the sheet, revealing
Superman’s battered face. Turpin removed his hat, holding it respectfully over
his heart, while Luthor silently stared long and hard at the fallen hero. It was as
if, thought Sanchez, Luthor was trying to commit every contour of Superman’s
face, every bruise and contusion, to memory.
“I never thought I’d live to see the big guy in here.” Turpin’s voice cracked
and snuffled. “I still can’t believe that he’s gone. There’ll never be another like
’im. Never.”
“No.” Luthor finally turned away. “No, there never shall.” He stopped and
speared Sanchez with his eyes. “The murderer—Doomsday—where is his
body?”
The doctor wilted slightly in Luthor’s gaze. “O-over there.”
Across the room, behind a curtain, Doomsday had been laid out across two
examination tables shoved together. Luthor pulled back the sheet. “So this is the
beast.” He glowered at the ugly creature. “It isn’t right. It’s just not right!”
Luthor’s hand brushed against an old straight-backed wooden chair. Before
either Sanchez or Turpin could react, Luthor swung the chair up over his head,
smashing it down on Doomsday again and again.
“Hey!” Turpin came charging across the room. “What do ya think you’re
doing?”
 “Not right! Not right at all!” Lex was screaming as the chair broke apart.
“Miserable, stinking—!”
Turpin grabbed Lex by the shoulders and hauled him back. “Take it easy,
Luthor! I know how ya feel, but smashin’ furniture over Mr. Ugly here won’t do
you any good.”
No, Inspector, you do not know how I feel. Lex stood shaking with anger.
Superman was mine to kill. Mine! And this bloody monster has robbed me of my
revenge.

The elevator of the Clinton Apartments stopped at the third floor, and Lois Lane
stepped out. Like a sleepwalker, she shuffled down the hall to apartment 3-D,
her head bowed as if in prayer. Please, God, don’t let anyone come along. I
couldn’t bear to talk with any of Clark’s neighbors . . . not now.
Lois fished a key from her purse, fitted it into the lock, and went in. Clark’s
apartment was just the way they’d left it that morning. Maybe I shouldn’t have
come here, but all I have of Clark’s . . . all that’s left me . . . is in this place. She
felt suddenly light-headed and had to lean back against the door for support.
After several minutes of slow, deep breaths, she regained enough of her
equilibrium to make it to the bathroom, where she lost what little was in her
stomach. After washing her mouth out under the tap and splashing her face with
water, she felt more capable of facing the empty apartment again.
Lois looked around. It wasn’t a very big apartment, but it seemed monstrously
large and empty without Clark. I can’t believe I’ve lost him. Just this morning,
we were having breakfast here. Just last night—! She ran her hand along the
edge of a table, collecting no dust. Clark always kept the place so tidy. Lois’s
fingers brushed against two framed photographs. One picture was of her and
Clark, taken just a few weeks after they’d become engaged, just days after he’d
told her that he was Superman. The other picture was of his parents.
Jonathan and Martha . . . by now they must know what happened. The whole
world knows by now. The room seemed to sway, and Lois gripped the desk to
steady herself. By tomorrow morning, the Kents will be getting the same sort of
reassurances from their friends as I got from Allie at the Planet. Lois shuddered,
remembering her earlier encounter with the newspaper’s copygirl. Allie meant
well, but it just about killed me when she said that Clark would turn up. I almost
slipped . . . almost told her that Clark was Superman.
 Lois reached under her coat and pulled out the tattered piece of Superman’s
cape. She held it out in front of her, trying to smooth the wrinkled S-shield. I
mustn’t tell anyone. Superman had so many enemies . . . some of them wouldn’t
think twice about taking their revenge on his family. Lois looked again at the
picture of the Kents. His family . . . I was almost a part of it.
I . . . I must call them. They loved Clark so much. Lois turned and managed to
take two steps toward the telephone before she felt all the strength go out of her
legs.
Clutching the cape, Lois sank to her knees. We all loved him . . . so very, very
much. She knelt there on the floor for several minutes, sobbing until there were
simply no tears left in her. Completely drained, Lois then slid the rest of the way
to the floor and fell into a mercifully dreamless sleep.

In a dark alley in the Metropolis borough of Bakerline, George Rogan sat behind
the wheel of a late-model Plymouth. He nervously drummed his fingers against
the steering wheel and kept glancing from his watch to the service entrance of
the jewelry exchange, waiting for his friends. What’re they doing in there?
George didn’t care if Superman was dead, this was no time to dawdle. Why can’t
I ever pick smart guys to work with? George shook his head. Because I’m not
smart, that’s why. There they were, risking their necks on a heist that might net
them a few thousand bucks—if they were lucky—when every day, guys in suits
sat in their offices and scammed millions from suckers who never knew they
were being taken. Yeah, white-collar crime . . . that’s where the real dough is.
Inside the jewelry exchange building, Danny Wilson and Richard Drucker had
finally forced open the door of an old vault and were merrily scooping precious
gems into a couple of canvas bags. Danny felt something rustle under his touch,
and broke into a broad grin. “Oh, mama! I believe we’ve hit the mother lode!”
“Keep your voice down!” Drucker’s warning was a harsh, hissing whisper.
“Okay, okay! But dig it, Richie, there’s a huge wad of bills back underneath
these gem cases . . . twenties, fifties, hundreds!”
“And you’re excited about that? Danny, that’s petty cash compared to what
we got here in stones . . . even after the fence takes his cut.” Richard pulled tight
the drawstrings on the bags. “You want that chump change? Fine. But don’t take
time to count it here. We gotta run!”
The two men grabbed up their booty and dashed down a back hall, kicking
open the rear door of the exchange. Danny laughed like a kid on the last day of
school.
“ ’S about time!” George Rogan turned in his seat as they scrambled into the
idling car. “Did you have to make so much noise? What took you so long?”
Richard jerked a thumb at his partner. “Ask Danny-boy.”
“Hey, I was just pickin’ up a little tip, that’s all! Talk to me nice, and I might
give you some.”
“You there—this is the police!” The cry echoed down the alley.
George spun back around in his seat and felt the bile rise into his throat. A
patrolman was standing in the mouth of the alleyway, his service revolver
drawn, and he was walking their way.
“Get out of that car and put your hands on top of your heads!”
“No—aw, no!” George could feel his sweat start to flow. He swiftly slipped
the car into gear and hit the gas.
“Stop! Stop or I’ll shoot!”
George wasn’t going to give him the chance. The big Plymouth side-swiped
the cop as it peeled out of the alley, knocking him back against a stack of crates
piled by a dumpster.
“Look what you doofs have gotten me into now!” George yanked hard on the
wheel and turned onto Dunmore Avenue, heading uptown.
“Hey, watch those corners, Georgie! You’ll make me lose count!” Danny
fanned himself with the stolen cash, laughing wickedly.
“Oh, you’re a funny man, Danny. Real funny! Both you guys are just
hilarious! ‘It’s a simple, easy job,’ you said. Lordy, I may have just killed a
cop!”
“Relax, George! Even if you did, they’ll never be able to pin any of this on us.
We didn’t trip any alarms. By the time anybody finds that cop, we’ll be halfway
across the state.”
“Oh, yeah. That’s real easy for you to say, Richard—your sheet’s clean. I’m
lookin’ at hard time if I’m caught!”
“Will you lighten up?! The blue boys are way too busy digging people outta
rubble and enforcing the curfew downtown. They won’t be looking for us.”
“Danny’s right. It was just a fluke that cop came by when he did! We got
nothing to worry about!”
George had stopped listening to Richard and Danny. He glanced at his side
mirror, half-expecting to see a flashing red light. But all George could see in the
tiny mirror was a swirl of red and yellow curves. It took him a few seconds, but
George finally realized what he was looking at. It was a reversed letter S . . .
Superman’s emblem!
George made a choking sound as a red and blue blur shot past the Plymouth.
“Hey! Danny slid across the backseat as the car was buffeted by backwash.
“What was that?”
George gripped the wheel so tightly that his knuckles turned white.
“Superman . . . it’s Superman. You said he was dead!”
“He’s supposed to be—” Danny stared down the street to where the flying
figure was landing. “Wait a minute, that’s not Superman!”
The figure was now framed in the Plymouth’s headlights. They could clearly
see the trim, tapering legs . . . the long, flowing blond hair. Richard gave an
appreciative whistle. “Definitely not Superman!”
“It’s that Supergirl bimbo! Damn—” Danny let out a long string of curses.
“Who?”
“You know—that flying chippie that LexCorp’s been promoting! From what I
heard, she ain’t nowhere near as tough as Superman! Floor it!”
George’s foot reflexively went to the floor, and the Plymouth shot straight at
the Girl of Steel. At the last possible moment, Supergirl dove for the pavement.
There was a loud thump from beneath the car, and then nothing.
“Did you see that?” Danny roared. “Tripped over her own feet and fell flat on
her face! I told you she wasn’t so tough!”
“Shut up! Just shut up!” George’s shirt was wringing wet with sweat. “Two of
’em. I never killed anyone before, and now I’ve killed two in one night!”
Richard patted the driver on the back. “It’s okay, George. It’s over. No more
trouble now.”
The next instant, the Plymouth lurched six feet into the air. Danny and
Richard fell to the floorboards and slid to the right. George lost his grip on the
wheel and was flung, screaming, across the right front passenger’s seat. He hung
there, helplessly searching for the seat-belt release, as the car shook like a loose
shutter in a windstorm.
 Out on the street, Supergirl had risen from the underside of the car. She held it
by its frame high overhead, shaking the vehicle as hard as she could. The doors
on the right side finally swung open, and the felons and their loot tumbled
roughly to the pavement. Satisfied that the car was empty, Supergirl hurled it
into a vacant lot and turned to face the three men.
“S-she . . . she’s alive!” George was practically gibbering.
Richard grabbed him by the arm and gave a shove. “Run!”
Supergirl stalked after them. “I hate reckless drivers.”
Danny reached under his jacket and pulled a scored and battered .38 automatic
from his waistband. “How about lead, huh? Ya like hot lead?!” He squeezed the
trigger, and three sharp retorts rattled the air.
Danny was never quite sure what happened next. From what he could see, the
air started to ripple around Supergirl, and the bullets stopped just inches from her
face.
For a moment, the Girl of Steel seemed to study the bullets. Then she
frowned. “I don’t think I like hot lead at all.”
The bullets suddenly veered away from Supergirl and flew back toward the
fleeing men, striking the pavement all around them. George and Richard froze in
their tracks and Danny hit the ground, still clinging to his automatic.
“Drop that gun and stay where you are—all of you!”
Danny looked at Supergirl, then looked back at the others. George and
Richard were already standing with their hands behind their heads. All the fight
drained out of Danny, and he let the gun drop.
Within minutes, police were on the scene, handcuffing the men and reading
them their rights.
A police sergeant tipped his hat to the Girl of Steel. “We can’t thank you
enough, Supergirl. We’re pretty shorthanded right now. Most of my men were
shifted downtown to help out in the precincts under the curfew, and . . . well . . .
it hasn’t been a good day.”
“No, Sergeant, it hasn’t. How’s the officer who was hit?”
“He’s pretty banged up, but he got off lucky . . . just a few cracked ribs and
some bruises.”
“I’m glad to hear that. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” With a sudden spring,
Supergirl lifted off into the air.
“Hey, you take care!” the sergeant shouted after her. “We need you more than
ever now!”
A patrolman stepped up to the sergeant and followed his gaze as Supergirl
disappeared over the rooftops. “You know, Sarge, I never really worried about
any of those supertypes before. They always seemed sort of . . . immortal, I
guess. But they’re not, are they?”
“No, they’re not. They’re harder to kill maybe, but they put their lives on the
line the same as we do.”
Supergirl soared across Bakerline and headed back toward downtown
Metropolis. She was glad she’d happened across that crime in progress, but now
there was other work that demanded her attention. Buildings were down all over
the city, and people—most of them, she hoped, still alive—were buried in the
rubble. She prayed that those still living could be found while there was time to
save them. As Supergirl flew over Hob’s River, tears came to her eyes. With
Superman gone, she had some very big shoes to fill.

Bibbo left the Bayside Clinic and stalked down the still-deserted side streets of
Suicide Slum. The doctors had checked him, the professor, and Mildred over and
given them a clean bill of health but suggested that they spend the night at the
clinic for their own safety. Bibbo wasn’t having any of that. “Keep them beds
open fer people what really need ’em,” he’d told them, and headed for his bar.
As Bibbo turned onto Simon Street, a shadow flickered across the sidewalk in
front of him. He looked up in time to catch a fleeting glimpse of a caped figure
flying by overhead. For a split second, he thought it was actually Superman, but
then he realized Naw, it ain’t my fav’rit. It’s just that Supergirl. We’ll never see
Sooperman again. When he needed help the most, there was nothin’ I could do.
His head bowed, Bibbo crossed the street to the Ace o’ Clubs, lost in thought.
Why’d I think I could do any good anyways? Perfesser Ham, he’s the smart one,
an’ even he couldn’t do any good. I was just dumb muscle, gettin’ in the way.
The tavern was uncommonly quiet as Bibbo entered, empty except for
Lamarr, who leaned back against the bar, polishing a glass, and Highpockets
Hannigan, who sat on his usual stool listening to the soft drone of the TV.
Lamarr looked up as the door swung shut. “Hey, Bibbo—where ya been, man?”
 “Walkin’. Walkin’ an’ thinkin’.”
“Guess it’s not easy gettin’ around tonight, huh? Half of Metropolis must be
under curfew.”
“Izzit? I di’n’t notice. Course, it wuzn’t like I had anyplace to go . . . or
anythin’ important to do.”
Highpockets swiveled around on his stool. “Lamarr an’ me heard about what
you did, Bib—how you an’ the perfesser tried to help Superman. It was on the
TV. That wuz a real good thing ya tried to do.”
Lamarr put a hand on Bibbo’s shoulder. “Yeah, we’re proud o’ ya, man.
Howzabout we buy you a drink for a change?”
“Don’t wanna drink.” Bibbo stared down at his shoes. “You guys go on home.
Bar’s closed for this evenin’.”
“Closed?” Lamarr stopped with a clean mug, already halfway to the beer tap.
“You sure, man?”
Bibbo swung out one huge mitt, angrily clearing the mugs from the bar with
one swipe. “This is my bar! When I say it closes, it closes! Now go on home!”
Lamarr shrugged and reached for his jacket. “Okay, Bibbo, whatever you say.
You’re the boss.”
Lamarr and Highpockets filed out of the tavern, closing the door behind them.
Highpockets scratched his head. “Chee, I ain’t never known Bibbo to turn down
a drink. I ain’t never seen him like this before!”
“Me neither, man. Then again, I’ve never seen a day like this one before . . .
and I tell ya now, I hope I never see another.”
Inside the Ace o’ Clubs, Bibbo turned over the CLOSED sign on the door and
flipped a switch, shutting off the lights. The only illumination left was the
streetlight filtering in through the tinted windows. Bibbo stood alone in the
middle of his tavern, hands thrust deeply into his pockets, waiting for his eyes to
adjust to the darkness. Then he cleared his throat and addressed the air around
him.
“God? ’S me . . . Bibbo . . . been a while since we talked. I know my pal
Sooperman is with ya now, so I guess he don’t really need my prayers. But the
rest o’ us sure do.”
Bibbo removed his hat and, with head bowed, knelt on the barroom floor.
“Hail Mary, fulla grace, the Lord is with you. Blessed art thou amongst women
an’ blessed is the fruit o’ thy womb Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother o’ God, pray fer
us sinners now an’ at the hour of our death. Amen.”
A tear formed at the corner of Bibbo’s right eye and began to make its way
down the stubble of his cheek.
“Take good care o’ Sooperman . . . okay, God? I miss ’im . . . I ’spect just
about ever’body misses ’im.” The tavern owner paused for a moment before
continuing. “God? I gotta ask ya—why? I mean, I know ya got yer reasons, but
why should Sooperman die, when a washed-up ol’ roughneck like me goes on
livin’? It ain’t right, God . . . it just ain’t right.”
13

Franklin Hastings took one look at the rush of activity within the LexCorp
Executive Suite and slipped back out the door before he could be noticed. Alone
for a moment in the outer corridor, he reached for the bottle of antacid his wife
had tucked into his jacket pocket yesterday morning and took a deep swig. There
were, at his best guess, at least a dozen people inside the office, most of them
waving papers and all of them vying for the boss’s attention. In the two days
since the official pronouncement of Superman’s death, Hastings had had little
sleep and less peace. His entire department had been called in to coordinate
arrangements for the funeral.
Hastings was impressed by all that Luthor had set in motion. The boss had
mobilized LexCorp resources within the state, across the country, and even
around the world to bring everything together for tomorrow’s memorial service.
From what Franklin had seen, Luthor worked the phones as expertly as his father
had ever done, cutting through more red tape in half a day than the CEOs of
most companies usually dealt with in a year. An incredible amount of work had
already been accomplished, but so much remained to be done. Security for the
various heads of state and foreign dignitaries had to be coordinated, the
worldwide satellite feed had to be set up, the foundations for the tomb had to be
completed, and the memorial statue—! Hastings heaved a weary sigh. He didn’t
want to think about the statue, but he had to.
Months ago, two students at the Cleveland Institute of Art had started work on
a twenty-five-foot statue of Superman for an upcoming exhibition. Learning of
the statue after the Man of Steel’s death, Luthor had hastily designed the planned
tomb and memorial around it and offered the budding sculptors an extravagant
fee to rush completion of their work. He wanted the statue in place for the
interment, and Franklin Hastings had been handed the task of arranging for its
delivery and installation. In the last few hours, it had become his most pressing
assignment.
The demands that Hastings was being asked to meet on such short notice were
beginning to take their toll. He hadn’t gotten any sleep in the past thirty-six
hours, and his mind was starting to get a little fuzzy around the edges. To be fair,
the boss hadn’t so much as napped since this ordeal began, but Luthor was
barely twenty-one years old. That long-haired kid could probably go a week
without sleep and still be sharp enough to buy and sell half of the Fortune 500,
thought Franklin. He ran a hand through his own thinning hair. The days when
he himself could blithely shrug off the effects of an all-nighter were long gone.
Hastings was starting to close the antacid bottle when Supergirl brushed past
him and headed into the suite. He paused and took another quick gulp of the
chalky liquid. Then he took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and pushed
open the door. Okay, once more into the breach.
Supergirl had already moved through a sea of writhing arms and swirling
papers and reached Luthor’s side. She crouched beside him, whispering in one
ear, while he took a series of calls. Progress report on the rescue efforts?
wondered Hastings. Six of Hastings’s most ardent rivals were jockeying for
position around the boss, but they had to compete both with Supergirl and with
Mr. Roy, Luthor’s personal barber. Incredibly, Mr. Roy ignored the chaos
around him and continued to trim the boss’s hair as calmly and nonchalantly as
if he had the LexCorp CEO seated in his private salon.
Hastings began to weave his way through the crowd as Luthor took yet
another call.
“Yes? No, that’s out of the question. Look, we have room for national and
international leaders only!” Luthor listened impatiently for a moment, then let
out a long, exasperated breath. His reply was almost a hiss. “Okay, include Perry
White, but no one else! And make sure you contact the Justice League about
providing pallbearers!”
As Luthor hung up, a junior aide handed him a series of requisition forms to
sign. He hurriedly scrawled his name across them and was about to shove them
back when he stopped himself. “Sorry, lass.” He half-smiled, a sudden gesture of
extraordinary charm. “It isn’t you I’m upset with.”
The aide, an astonishingly buxom young lady with green eyes, nodded
sweetly and gave the boss a warm, sympathetic smile of her own before
withdrawing. While others were momentarily distracted by the aide’s departure,
Hastings managed to slip into the space she’d occupied.
“Mr. Luthor? Sir?”
Luthor whipped around. “What is it, Hastings?”
Hastings opened his mouth and absently shut it again, fascinated by how Mr.
Roy had compensated so smoothly for Luthor’s sudden movement and gone on
trimming.
“I said, what is it, Hastings?”
Franklin snapped out of his momentary reverie and gripped his report more
tightly. “It’s about the memorial statue you commissioned, sir. The sculptors say
that they’ll be finished in time, but we’re going to have trouble getting it to the
crypt site in Centennial Park. Rubble is still blocking the main access routes.”
“So bring it in by helicopter, Hastings. Do I have to think of everything?”
Hastings bit his tongue. He’d already thought of using one of their heavy-duty
construction helicopters, but they were all tied up at the moment, helping to lift
the wreckage of collapsed buildings. He nervously shifted his weight from one
foot to another. We can’t divert the choppers from the rescue efforts, but how do
I tell the boss that without having him jump down my throat?
Supergirl suddenly spoke up. “Let me bring it in, Lex.”
“You, love?”
For a moment, all the furious activity surrounding Luthor ground to a halt.
The aides grew silent and the papers stopped swirling. Even Mr. Roy paused and
put down his scissors. Without moving his head so much as a single degree,
Hastings glanced from Luthor to Supergirl and back again.
Supergirl put a hand on Luthor’s shoulder and tilted her head to look deeply
into his eyes. It was, Hastings thought, almost a caricature of earnest intent, but
he could swear that the young woman was completely sincere.
“I want to bring the statue in, Lex. I want to do it for Superman.”
Lex reached up and laid his hand over hers. “You do that, love. I can see it’s
important to you.”
Still holding Supergirl’s hand, Luthor glanced at Hastings. “I believe that
solves your little problem, Hastings. Do you have any others?”
“No, sir.” Maybe just a question or two . . . like how did you manage to gain
such a hold on this stunning young woman? She’s clearly worried enough about
your welfare that she willingly took time out from her own rescue efforts. For
one giddy instant, Hastings actually considered asking the question. That’d be
rich, but it’d probably be safer to cut myself shaving and go swim with the
sharks. “No other problems at all.”
“Fine.” Luthor turned his whole attention back to Supergirl. He raised her
hand to his lips and lightly kissed her curled fingers. “You bring that statue in,
love. I know you’ll do us proud.”
Supergirl blushed. She blushed! All that power, marveled Hastings, and she
actually blushed. “Thanks, Lex. I won’t let you down.”
As Hastings followed Supergirl from the room, the phones began to ring again
and the flurry of activity resumed. In all the confusion, no one noticed the fury in
Luthor’s eyes. Try as I might, he thought, I couldn’t kill Superman—but I’m sure
as hell going to bury him.

The television had become a constant presence in the Kent household. Jonathan
and Martha would watch until they couldn’t stand to see or hear another word.
Then one or the other would turn it off . . . only to turn it back on after a few
minutes, when the silence in between became just as unbearable.
Jonathan sat staring into his coffee as a somber network commentator outlined
plans for the public ceremonies. “The funeral cortege will roll past the spot
where Superman fell defending the city he loved, then continue to Centennial
Park, where world leaders will witness the interment.”
Martha nervously picked at the hem of her apron. “They’re gonna put our boy
in the ground, Jonathan. They’re gonna put him in the ground, and we’ll never
see him again. We should be there in Metropolis.”
“Now, you know that we couldn’t get anywhere near him, Martha. We lost a
son, but the world lost a hero . . . and they’re gonna bury that hero with full
honors. You heard what they said, only the big shots’ll be allowed in close.”
A silent nod was the only acknowledgment Martha gave her husband. She
turned and looked back at the television, a vacant, faraway look in her eyes.
“Martha?” Jonathan slowly got up from his chair and laid his big farmer’s
hands on her shoulders. She hardly seemed aware of him. “Martha, you’re
staring at that damn set like it’s gonna bring our Clark back. You can’t go on
like this. Neither of us can.”
In the silence of the room, the volume of the television seemed to blare. “Live
coverage of the funeral will begin tomorrow at eleven o’clock eastern, ten
o’clock central time.”
“I can’t take another minute of this.” Fuming, Jonathan strode across the room
and, for the fifth time that day, turned off the set. “I just can’t stand it.”
The sun did not come out the next morning in Metropolis. A dense cloud cover
had rolled in over the Eastern Seaboard during the night, and the skies outside
looked threatening as Jimmy Olsen walked into the Daily Planet City Room.
“Hey, Jimbo, great photo!”
Jimmy looked up with a start as Danny Jawarski clapped him on the back.
“What? Which photo—?”
“ ‘Which photo?’ he asks! The photo, my man!” Jawarski unfolded the
memorial edition of the Planet and smacked his hand across the picture that
covered nearly a third of the front page. It was one of the last shots Jimmy had
taken of Superman. “Incredible composition, Olsen. I love the way the shot is
framed with Superman sprawled out like that, and the cracked pavement sort of
radiating out from his body. It’s like . . . it’s like a Michelangelo, you know? It’s
as though you got him just as he was breathing his last.”
“I did.” Jimmy’s voice was so low that the other photographer could barely
hear him.
“Yeah? Well, I tell you, Jimbo, you really captured the spirit of the old boy’s
death. Man, I wish I’d snapped this one!”
“I wish you had, too. I’m sorry I ever took it.”
Jawarski looked genuinely puzzled. Was Olsen pulling his leg? “Hey, lighten
up, guy. That picture’s gonna make you famous. The wire service picked it up—
it’s appearing in papers all over the world! After this, you can write your own
ticket.”
Jimmy shook his head. “Dan, I’d give it all up—I’d take that ticket and tear it
into confetti—if it would bring Superman back.”
“Uh, well, sure. But it couldn’t.” Jawarski coughed nervously into his hand.
“Bring him back, I mean. So, you might as well enjoy the glory, right?”
“There’s nothing to enjoy.” Jimmy fixed the other photographer with his most
penetrating stare. “You just don’t get it, do you, Dan? The man was my friend.
He was everybody’s friend.”
A few feet away, Perry White caught the tail end of the exchange as he paused
to straighten his tie. The managing editor just shook his head. Danny will never
get it. He has no heart, and it comes through in his work. That’s why he’ll never
be more than a good photographer. But Olsen . . . Olsen has the makings of a
great one. Perry squared his shoulders and walked on; he doubted that Jawarski
even knew the meaning of real friendship.

Across the room, Lois stared at the telephone on her desk with something akin to
dread. The phone had always been one of the main tools of her trade, but now it
seemed like a miniature gargoyle crouched on the corner of the desk, daring her
to pick it up. It had been over two days since she’d lost Clark, and she still
hadn’t called his parents. What’s the matter with me? Why can’t I call them? In
addition to all the shock and horror she had endured, Lois now felt overwhelmed
with guilt. The more she fretted, the guiltier she felt, and the harder it became to
reach for the phone.
“Lois?” Perry leaned across her desk, gently breaking into her thoughts. “You
know, I always thought of you as one of Superman’s real friends. You’re the one
who should be marching in the funeral procession—the one to be present at the
burial, not me. Want to go in my stead?”
“Thanks, Perry, but . . . no.”
“You’re sure?”
Lois shook her head. “I don’t think I could bear it.”
Perry came around the desk and crouched down beside her. “Are you going to
be all right? I can send someone else—”
“No.” Lois gave him a halfhearted smile. “You go ahead. I’ll be fine.”
Perry saw that she was hurting; she’d lost a close friend and, as far as he
knew, perhaps her fiancé as well. He started to say something, then thought
better of it. Before he became managing editor, he’d had a good, long career as a
reporter, and in that time he’d seen hundreds, maybe thousands, of people in
mourning. Sooner or later, he knew, everyone needed to weep and wail in the
company of friends. But some folks just wished to be alone, at least at first. If
that’s what Lois wanted, Perry would respect it. He patted her gently on the
shoulder and eased off down the hall.
Lois glanced back at the phone. The superstitious part of her could swear it
had moved closer. Ridiculous. It’s just a trick of the light. Or maybe Perry
brushed against it. Tentatively, she reached out one hand toward the phone. Her
fingers were just about to make contact when it rang. Lois nearly jumped out of
her chair. In the stillness of the half-deserted City Room, the phone seemed to
ring as loud as any fire bell. Heart pounding, she snatched up the handset. “H-
hello?”
“Mary?” The voice at the other end sounded confused.
“Excuse me?”
“Is this the Daily Planet? I’m looking for Mary Powers.”
“Oh. Yes, this is the Planet, but you have the wrong extension. Mary’s
number is 0320. I can try to transfer you—”
“Naw, that’s okay. Sorry if I bothered you.” There was a click, and the dial
tone began humming in her ear.
Lois set the phone back down and turned away. I can’t stand to look at that
hateful thing anymore. She pushed away from her desk and headed for the door,
grabbing her coat on the way. She paused briefly by the elevators, then shoved
open the stairwell door. Almost without realizing what she was doing, Lois
started up the stairs, her brisk pace turning into a run. Minutes later, she stood on
the metal catwalk within the building’s rooftop globe.
Lois pushed open the cleaning port and stepped out onto the globe’s outer
deck. The wind hit her full in the face as she looked out between the giant metal
letters—DAILY PLANET—that encircled the globe. A light rain began to fall as
she tried to collect her thoughts. A gust suddenly swirled her coat around her,
making it flap . . . just like a cape. The image startled her, and she suddenly
recalled the first time she’d come up there with Clark. Until he’d showed her the
way, she’d never even realized the globe had an interior access. Ever since he’d
shared his dual identity with her, she’d considered this as their secret place. She
had often come to this spot to see him off on missions . . . or to wait for him to
return.
Is that why I came up here? To wait for him? Sure, why not? Superman’s gone
missing before, but he always comes back, doesn’t he? Doesn’t he?!
Lois gripped the side of the big metal D and fought off the feeling of hysteria.
But he’s never been dead before.
From far below came a slow, rhythmic rumble. It took Lois a moment to
recognize the sound as the echoing beat of drums. Superman’s funeral cortege
was approaching the building. It would be passing by soon on its way uptown.
He won’t be flying back to me this time. I . . . I have to go to him. Lois
shivered and stepped back inside the globe. She bolted down the stairs to the top
floor and leaned on the button for the express elevator. Wait for me, Clark. I’m
coming.

The crowds lining the street in front of the Planet Building were ten deep by the
time Lois made it to the lobby. Pushing her way out through the revolving doors,
she began to squeeze through the crush of people on the sidewalk. She was
making slow, steady progress until the toe of her boot caught on something and
she stumbled into a space along the curb that was clear of people. Though there
were no barricades, the crowd was standing back from this area, almost
reverentially. In the center of that clearing, freshly set into new pavement stones,
was a big brass plaque bearing the pentagonal S-symbol and the words: IN
MEMORY OF SUPERMAN. KILLED ON THIS SPOT WHILE DEFENDING
METROPOLIS. All around the plaque, people had left flowers.
Lois knelt silently in the drizzle before the plaque. It seemed impossible to her
that this was where her lover had died in her arms barely three days before. She
looked at the garlands of lilies and dozens of roses piled neatly all around. So
many flowers, she thought. Many had little notes attached to them; some were
formally printed, but most, she noticed, appeared handwritten. One little
dandelion had been laid carefully beside the brass S, accompanied by a taped-on
scrap of paper. Lois touched the rain-soaked paper gingerly. The childish
printing on the paper read simply, I miss you.
“Lois?”
She looked up, tears in her eyes, into Jimmy Olsen’s worried young face.
“They loved him too, Jimmy.”
“Yeah . . .” Jimmy was trying hard to choke back his own tears. “Guess we all
did.” He reached down, helping Lois to her feet. “I’ve been looking all over for
you. Some of the guys from the sports desk are saving us a place down front.
Come on, we have to hurry . . . he’s almost here.”
Jimmy wrapped one arm around Lois’s shoulder as they gently elbowed their
way through the crowd. They reached curbside just as the four drummers—one
each representing the army, navy, air force, and marines—passed by, beating
their mournful rhythm. Slightly out of tempo with the drums came the clip-clop
of hoofbeats. And while Lois and Jimmy held one another, two chocolate-brown
stallions came abreast, pulling the funeral carriage.
The carriage itself was quite simple in design, its only distinguishing factors
being the burnished metal S-medallions affixed to either side. Upon the carriage,
covered with the flag of the United States of America, the coffin bearing the Last
Son of Krypton was borne through the streets of Metropolis.
Directly behind the carriage came a procession of the most powerful beings
who had ever walked the Earth. There were members of the Justice League, past
and present, and veteran mystery-men of the Second World War. There were
heroes from around the world and beyond the stars. There was Wonder Woman
and the Flash, Green Lantern and Captain Marvel, and so many more. There
were dozens of them, resplendent in their colorful uniforms, marching along to
the slow, staccato drumbeat. Each of them wore a black armband emblazoned
with a scarlet S-shield in tribute to the fallen Superman.
As they passed by, those heroes with especially acute senses could not help
but catch snatches of conversation from mourners lining the route.
“Mommy, is it true that Superman was from another planet?” A little boy
looked up at his mother for the answer.
“I don’t know, honey.” The woman held her son close. “But he was the
greatest hero this poor old world has ever seen.”
A tall black man stood with his head bowed as if in prayer. His hair was
closely cropped, with a Superman S shaved into one side. As the coffin passed
by, he turned to an older Middle Eastern couple who stood nearby. “Dude pulled
me out of the wreck when my cab was hit. If he hadn’t been there then, I
wouldn’t be here now.”
The old man nodded, brushing tears from his eyes. “Many of us have such
stories, my friend. Superman once stopped a thug who had robbed our deli.” He
shook his head in sorrow and turned to his wife. “Remember, Mara?”
“I remember, Bashir. When we have been dust a hundred years, I still will
remember. He would take no reward. He protected us as if we were his own
family—it was plain he cared so much for everyone.”
A little girl squirmed in her mother’s arms, straining to see better. “But,
Mommy, Superman saved us from that bad fire! Why did he have to die? It’s not
fair.”
No, child, thought Wonder Woman as she passed by, it is not fair. But there is
much in life that is not fair. All we can do is strive to make things better.
The procession of super-heroes was followed by units of police and fire
fighters, with Mayor Berkowitz and members of the city council close behind.
And then, flanked by a special Secret Service detail, the President of the United
States walked down the street, leading a long line of international dignitaries.
Virtually every nation in the world had sent a delegation. Never in all of history
had so many heads of state been in one place at one time.
When the cortege had passed the Daily Planet Building, Jimmy started to
steer Lois away from the curb. “It’s over, Lois. Come on, let’s go inside.”
“No, Jim.” Lois pointed down the street. “It’s not over yet. Look, the whole
crowd is following.”
People were indeed filtering out into the street and falling in behind the
procession. It looked as if most of Metropolis had decided to walk to the burial
site.
“Uh, Lois, wait. I’m not sure that’s such a good idea with a mob that size,
things could get out of hand.”
“I want to go, Jimmy.” Lois gave him a tug. “I—I need to be with him at the
end . . . the way he was always there for . . . for all of us.”
Unable to dissuade her, Jimmy let Lois lead him along.

As the funeral procession moved further uptown, one furtive little man slipped
through the crowd, darting back and forth as he searched for the delegation from
the Republic of Kanad. When he found them at last, his eyes fixed on a gray-
haired man in the lead. Kanad’s president struts in this funeral parade as if he
had every right—as if his people did not labor under the yoke of ethnic
oppression! The little man reached into his coat pocket, his hand fingering a
crude bomb of plastique explosive. Before the day is over, the world will know of
the Kanad Liberation Front and its heroic struggle. As soon as an opportunity
presented itself, he would hurl his bomb at the president and disappear into the
crowd before anyone was the wiser.
The opening never came. Instead, a loop of high-test nylon cord suddenly
dropped down over the little man’s shoulders, tightened, and yanked him
skyward. Several stories above the ground, the man found himself dangling in
the grasp of a dark, brooding figure. The figure was cloaked in a black cape that
flared out around him like ebon wings, and his face lay hidden behind a black,
horned mask. The would-be bomber knew that this could be but one man.
“B-Batman!” The little man swallowed hard. He’d thought nothing of the fact
that the Dark Knight was missing from the procession. I didn’t think he came out
in the daylight.
The Batman crouched on the cornice of a building, the cord that held the
terrorist aloft looped around one powerful hand. His eyes narrowed behind his
mask, and his voice thundered. “Explain the bomb in your coat pocket.”
“B-bomb? What bomb? I don’t—”
The Batman shook the cord, and the terrorist felt his shoulders start to slip
through the loop. The little man desperately clutched at the cord. The pavement
seemed miles below.
“A-all right,” he confessed, “I do have a bomb. I’m a patriot—fighting
oppression! I—”
The Batman hoisted the little man up until they were face-to-face. “Innocent
people would be hurt in a bombing.”
The little man screwed up his courage. “None who harbor that monster, that
so-called president, are innocent!”
The Batman started letting the cord slide.
“No! Don’t drop me!” The little man closed his eyes tight and pleaded for his
life. “I’ll turn myself in! Anything! Just don’t drop me.”
“If this were Gotham, I’d almost be tempted . . .” The Batman let his threat
trail off. “But Metropolis is Superman’s town. And for today, I’ll play it his way.
Today, I’ll be merciful.”
When Lois and Jimmy passed by, moments later, they saw the police setting
up a ladder to rescue a little man who dangled precariously from a rope attached
to a third-story flagpole. And what was more amazing, the man was begging to
be arrested: “Hurry, please, he might be back!”

Several blocks away, Professor Hamilton and Mildred Fillmore stood watching
the growing procession.
“Look at that crowd, Mildred. There must be over a million people.”
“They don’t want to let Superman go, Emil. He helped them—he helped all of
us!—so many times. Oh, Emil, if only we could’ve done more. Your laser
machine was brilliant!”
“Not brilliant enough, my dear. Literally. Not nearly enough to save him.”
 In silence, Mildred watched the crowd pass by for a few minutes more. Then
she turned to Hamilton. “Come on, Emil. Let’s follow them to the park.”
The professor frowned. “I don’t think that would be wise, Mildred. A crowd
this large can so easily turn into a mob.”

As the cortege skirted the edge of Suicide Slum, a huckster started working the
crowd. “Getcha T-shirts! I got Superman T-shirts right here! I got Daily Planet
memorial editions—custom bagged with a commemorative armband! Getcha T-
shirts!”
“Hey, you!” A big arm shot out of the crowd, grabbing the man by the lapels
of his jacket. “You tryin’ to cash in on Sooperman’s death? In my
neighborhood?!” Bibbo tightened his grip on the huckster and shook him like an
old mop. “Ain’tcha got no respect?”
The man’s merchandise slid from his hands as he hung in Bibbo’s grip,
gasping for breath. “H-hey, l-look, man. You think I like doing this? Superman
saved my family from a burning building. B-but now we’re on the streets—and
I’m out of work. I gotta feed my family somehow!”
Bibbo gave the man a fishy eye. “Ya wouldn’t be lyin’ to me, would ya?”
“N-no, man. I swear.” The huckster looked close to tears.
Bibbo considered that for a moment. The man did seem too afraid to be lying.
And from the looks of him, he hadn’t been eating regularly for some time. Bibbo
didn’t like the idea of anybody making money off his favorite, but he liked even
less the idea of people going hungry. Slowly, the old roughneck lowered the
huckster to his feet.
“Okay, tell ya what. I’ll take ’em.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’ll take ’em all,” repeated Bibbo. He spoke more slowly this time, trying to
make himself as clear as he knew how. “Every T-shirt. Every paper.”
“All?! But there must be nearly three hundred—!”
“I tol’ ya, you’ve sold yer stuff! Now shuddup an’ lissen.” He poked a big
beefy finger into the man’s chest. “You want honest work, you come see me
tomorrow. M’name’s Bibbo. I own the Ace o’ Clubs on Simon Street. You got
that?”
 The huckster barely had time to nod before the tavern owner threw a huge arm
around his shoulders.
“C’mon. Everybody’s headin’ ta the park ta pay their last respects. You can
come along with me. I wanna be there when they buries him.”
Bibbo’s voice ordinarily boomed even when he whispered, but now it
softened and thickened to little more than a croak. And when the former huckster
looked up, he was startled to see tears running freely down Bibbo’s face.

The nearer people got to Centennial Park, the higher emotions ran. All around
the ceremonial grounds, police barricades were in danger of being overwhelmed
by sheer numbers. As people caught sight of the massive new stone statue of
Superman towering over the treetops, they began pushing, trying to get closer to
the tomb. Caught up in this giant shoving match, Lois and Jimmy suddenly
found themselves being separated.
“Lois, grab my hand—quick!”
Lois strained to reach her young friend, but it was no use. “Jimmy, I can’t—!”
“Lois?!” Jimmy couldn’t see her, couldn’t even hear her anymore over the
noise of the milling crowd. The press of human bodies was carrying them farther
and farther apart. The increasingly restless throng was on the verge of becoming
a full-blown mob.
Fortunately, those in charge seemed alert to the potential danger. Several large
stadium-size video screens, which had been placed at regular intervals around
the perimeter of the park to show televised coverage of the funeral, were
suddenly filled with the image of Lex Luthor II.
“People of Metropolis!” Luthor’s voice boomed out over the park. “The eyes
of the world are on us. I ask you . . . please remain calm.”
While Luthor got the people’s attention, the super-heroes in attendance fanned
out through the crowd, bolstering the police lines and gently separating those
spectators who were on the verge of becoming violent.
The situation was defused in a matter of minutes, although for those caught up
in the crowd—and those watching at home on TV—the tension seemed to go on
for an eternity.

Jonathan Kent came in from the barn to find his wife sitting mesmerized in the
parlor. “Martha, you haven’t got that TV on again?”
“They’re making a circus of his funeral, Jonathan. Doesn’t anyone have a
sense of dignity?”
Jonathan looked at the screen. Lex Luthor stood on a dais at the base of the
tomb appealing for calm. Peace was slowly being restored, though the
compression of the television lens still made it appear as if people were pushing
and shoving up to the edge of the tomb.
“Some of those folks have surely lost their heads,” said Jonathan. “But they
mean well. They loved him, Martha. Everybody loved him.”
“You’re being too charitable, Jon. Remember what happened that time when
Clark rescued the space plane? Remember how they mobbed him? He said it
was like they all wanted a piece of him. Things haven’t changed a bit.” Martha
shook her head, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Jon, he was our son. I can’t
stand what they’re doing to his funeral.”
“Martha . . . honey . . . turn the thing off.”
Martha closed her eyes and switched off the set. Jonathan knelt beside his
wife and hugged her to him, gently stroking her hair. “Let all those people say
good-bye to Superman their way. We’ll go say good-bye to Clark in ours.”

As order was restored at the Metropolis funeral site, Lois Lane found herself
standing less than fifty yards from the base of the tomb. The carriage that had
borne the Man of Steel through the city sat virtually in front of her. As Lois
watched, the six surviving members of the current Justice League lifted the
coffin onto their shoulders and began to slowly carry it to the waiting crypt.
Unable to move any closer, Lois craned her neck to follow the pallbearers’ slow
progress and then gave up and turned to watch the rest of the ceremony on one
of the giant screens.
As the coffin was placed onto its bier, a group of clergymen and women
gathered on the dais for a series of invocations. It was a most ecumenical
gathering. There were ministers and priests, rabbis and mullahs, and bishops and
monks. Virtually every religion had sent a representative to invoke the deity on
behalf of Superman.
Finally, a stocky black man whom Lois recognized as the pastor of the Hob’s
Bay Mission approached the microphones.
 “Brothers and sisters,” he began, “we, the family of humankind, have gathered
here to celebrate the life and mourn the passing of a great and kind man. We do
not know his name. We knew him only as Superman.
“He was different from us, possessing powers and abilities almost beyond
imagining, but he did not use those powers to set himself above us. No,
Superman used his powers to bring comfort to those in need and hope to those
mired in the depths of despair.
“And he could fly. Oh, how he could fly! He soared through our skies—some
say like a great bird, but I say like an angel.
“I once saw him tear apart the walls of a burning building—rip them apart
with his bare hands!—and pluck a young baby from certain death, cradling that
child in his mighty arms as gently and as tenderly as would that child’s own
mother.
“It is said that Superman had enemies. Well, there were among us men who
made of him their enemy; that cannot be denied. But his real enemies were the
enemies that bedevil us all: greed . . . fear . . . hate . . . ignorance! He fought
those enemies and inspired others to fight them as well!
“Superman came to us, a stranger from another planet. He was many things to
many people. Some saw him as a champion of life, others as a protector of the
oppressed, and still others as a mighty warrior in the battle for truth and justice.
And, yes, he was all those things and more. But mainly, he was our friend.
“He did not care about our religious beliefs or our politics. He did not care
about our nationalities or our gender or the color of our skins. He cared about
people. He cared about us. We are, all of us, richer for having known him, and
poorer for having lost him.
“Superman was, as I said, from another planet—and I do not know what God,
if any, he worshiped. But I pray to my God to comfort and protect him, as he
comforted and protected us all.”
Lois had heard so many prayers that day—dozens, it seemed—but few had
been as personal, or as direct, as the pastor’s. The image of Superman as an
angel was strangely comforting, and she let the pastor’s words repeat over and
over in her head. She became so caught up in his final prayer that she barely
heard the next speaker.
The next thing Lois knew, the President of the United States was walking onto
the dais, accompanied by the First Lady. Hand in hand they approached the
microphones. His face lined with sorrow, the President began to speak.
“Undoubtedly, Superman himself would remind us to care for the many
victims of Doomsday’s attack, and so we do. But how could we not especially
honor the man who gave his life to save so many more?
“His powers and abilities were amazing, but how much more amazing was the
way he chose to use those powers! If there is a lesson in this, it is that the
greatest power of all is our own ability to care about each other, to help each
other.”
The President nodded to the first lady, and she stepped forward to complete
their brief eulogy.
“As we extend our help, our care and concern, to the families of Doomsday’s
other victims, we also send our thoughts and our prayers to Superman’s loved
ones . . . whoever they may be.”
Upon hearing those words, Lois felt a great barrier breaking apart inside her.
It was as if the first lady were speaking directly to her, as if the hundreds of
thousands of people around her simply weren’t there. She turned and slipped
back through the crowd. Incredibly, the people let her pass.
On the edge of the park, Lois saw a pay phone, and before she was conscious
of it, her telephone credit card was in her hand.
“. . . we also send our thoughts and prayers to Superman’s loved ones . . .”
Lois punched in the code for directory assistance. She saw now that she didn’t
have to make sense of Clark’s death; no one could do that. She didn’t have to
resolve her own grief; only time could do that—time and sharing.
“Directory assistance for what city, please?”
“Smallville—Smallville, Kansas. The number of Jonathan and Martha Kent.”
Lois still wasn’t certain what she was going to say, but she knew that she had
to call—that she had to reach out to Clark’s parents—that only by trying to
speak could she ever hope to find the right words.

In Kansas, Jonathan and Martha Kent stood side by side in an untilled section of
field at the far south end of their property. It was here that they’d first found the
vessel that had brought them their son over thirty years before.
Jonathan had pried away the half-rotted planks that covered the eroded old
impact crater. Now he leaned on his shovel and stared down into the Earth as if
he could see to its core the way his late son could.
“Here’s where it all began, Clark . . . where the rocket that brought you to us
came crashing down. I’ll never forget how amazed we were when we found it. It
didn’t seem possible that anything could have lived through that crash, but there
you were.”
Martha inched nearer the crater, cradling an old strongbox in her arms. “I
remember, Clark. I reached right in and lifted you up in my arms. We didn’t
know where you’d come from, but we didn’t care. From that moment forward,
you were ours . . . the sweetest little baby in the universe. You were our gift
from heaven, and right from the start, we loved you with all our hearts.”
Martha opened the strongbox, and together they looked once more inside, as if
to pay their last respects. Within the box was an old threadbare blanket that
Martha had wrapped her baby in when they’d first taken him back to the house.
There was also a battered old teddy bear that Aunt Sal had sent the boy for his
first birthday and a worn baseball and mitt that Jon had bought Clark when their
son had turned ten.
Jonathan closed the box and latched it. “Doesn’t seem like much.”
“These were just a few of the things Clark loved. There were others in the
house, but I couldn’t bear to part with any more.” Slowly, Martha stepped down
into the depression, setting the box into the ground as gently as if it held the
body of her son. “Good-bye, Clark. Good-bye.”
Jonathan gave his wife a hand up out of the crater and then tossed in the first
shovelful of dirt. The dirt hit the old strongbox with a thump that seemed to echo
forever. Jonathan hurried to finish the burial. He was just tamping down the last
bit of soil when he felt a painful pressure building in center of his chest. He
stiffened, gripping the shovel for support.
“Jonathan, what is it?”
“Nothing.” He caught his breath. “Just my stomach acting up.”
“Are you sure?”
“Course I’m sure.” He wasn’t really, but the last thing he wanted was for
Martha to worry about him. “I’d hoped that this little service would help some,
but . . . it just wasn’t enough, was it?”
“No. No, it wasn’t.” Martha covered her face with her hands. “I feel like
nothing can plug the hole in my heart.”
Jonathan leaned against his shovel, trying to rub the ache out of his left arm.
He felt just as empty. I’m just a useless old man. If it wasn’t for Martha, I don’t
think there’d be any reason to go on living. He put his arm around his wife and
they headed for home.
As they got closer to the house, they could hear the phone ringing. Though
they had no way of knowing, it had been ringing off and on for nearly ten
minutes. Martha hurriedly unlocked the back door and rushed across the kitchen
to answer it.
“Hello? Kent residence—”
“Martha, thank heavens. I was so worried!”
The voice that cracked over the receiver sounded so frantic that it took Martha
a moment to recognize it. “Lois? Lois, is that you, dear?”
“Yes. Oh, Martha, I’m so sorry I haven’t called sooner. I—I just couldn’t. I
couldn’t believe it was true . . .”
While Lois had been trying to call, she’d imagined the worst, that the Kents
were ill or had suffered some terrible accident. Now that she’d gotten through,
all her grief and guilt came gushing out.
“. . . just couldn’t believe he was really gone. I kept asking myself, what could
I say to you? And I just didn’t know, so I didn’t call, but the longer I waited, the
worse it was.”
Lois began to cry softly, and Martha put her hand over the phone’s
mouthpiece, gesturing for her husband. “Jonathan, it’s Lois! The poor child
needs us.”
Jonathan came near, as Martha cradled the receiver between them. They both
did their best to reassure Lois, but when she could speak again, she kept on
apologizing.
“I was there . . . all the time Clark was fighting that monster . . . and all I could
do was report on the battle . . . a-and watch him die. I couldn’t do anything but
watch him die. Clark died in my arms and I didn’t even call you. How can you
ever forgive me?”
Jonathan spoke up firmly. “Now you listen to me, Lois. It was not your fault.
You did all that you could. Everyone did what they could. You’re talking with us
now. That’s all that matters.”
 “Jonathan is absolutely right. We’ve all had a—a terrible loss. And I think we
need to be together.” Martha looked over at her husband, and he nodded his
agreement. “You hold on a while longer, honey. We’re coming to Metropolis.”
Jonathan pulled out his bandanna and dried his eyes. If he could do anything
to help that young woman through her pain—well, maybe he wouldn’t be so
useless after all.
14

As night fell on Metropolis, the gangs came out to reclaim Avenue M.

Avenue M skirted the edge of Suicide Slum and for almost a decade had been
teetering between renewal and squalor. The Newtown Plaza project had been
designed to save a five-square-block area and perhaps even bring the possibility
of rebirth to all of Hob’s Bay. Doomsday had put an end to that. All that
remained of Newtown Plaza now were several blocks of rubble and twisted
girders. The project had been left in such a hopeless mess that the construction
company hadn’t even bothered to post guards.
The police were busy elsewhere. Superman was dead. And so, the gangs
filtered out of Suicide Slum, out of the shadows, and down Avenue M.
On a vacant lot that had been planned as a green space for the plaza complex,
the Dragons met the Sharks, and words were exchanged. Both gangs were armed
and dangerous, but the Sharks were packing what amounted to one-man portable
artillery pieces. They called their weapons Toastmasters, and the big guns lived
up to the name. Within minutes, their incendiary shellfire had reduced a half
dozen young men to toast and sent the surviving Dragons running for their lives.
The Sharks had little time to savor their victory. Their ammunition spent, they
were forced to fall back as police sirens wailed up the avenue.
The first patrol car onto the lot had to brake sharply to avoid hitting the
smoldering remains of what had been a fifteen-year-old boy.
“My God, what happened here?” Patrolwoman Jean Coyle was suddenly
thankful for the head cold that had blocked her sense of smell.
“Looks like a freakin’ war zone, Jeanie.” Fred Moore, her partner, had served
a hitch in the army and seen action in the Middle East, but this was beyond his
experience. He fought to keep the contents of his stomach down. What kind of
weapons do this? What kind of people would use them?
A second cruiser was just pulling up to join Coyle and Moore when there
came a sharp, cracking noise from not more than twenty feet away. The officers
had their automatics out and were bringing them up to the ready position when
the headlights of the backup car silhouetted what appeared at first to be a huge
figure crouching behind the rubble.
“Police!” There was just the slightest hint of an edge in Fred’s voice. “Get
those hands up where we can see ’em! Now!”
“Hold your fire!” Jean rushed forward, bringing up her flashlight. “He’s not
hiding back there. He’s—oh, Lordy. He’s trying to dig his way out!”
“Huh?” Fred couldn’t believe it. “I thought this place had been evacuated.
Who—?”
“Who doesn’t matter.” She turned and barked at their backup, “Call for an
ambulance.”
In the glare of flashing lights, ironworker Henry Johnson rose up out of the
rubble, his sledgehammer still in his hand. His shoulders were cut and bruised,
and his overalls hung in tatters. The big construction worker’s every pore was
caked with dust and dirt, but he was alive!
“Take it easy, mister.” Jean was cautiously solicitous. “You can put that
hammer down now. Why don’t you sit down and let us help you? Is there
anything we can get you?”
“Doomsday . . .” Henry’s voice was a parched croak.
“What?”
“Gotta . . . stop . . . Doomsday.” Henry took one step forward, and then all the
strength drained out of him. His hammer slipped to the ground, and he toppled
forward, unconscious.

It was pouring rain the day that Mitch Andersen arrived in Metropolis. For
several minutes, he stood in the doorway of the old midtown bus terminal,
hoping that the rain would let up. He was alone in this big city, hundreds of
miles from home—from where home had been, anyway—and he didn’t have
enough cash in his pocket even for bus fare back. Hailing a cab, even if he could
find one, was out of the question. Still, Mitch knew where he had to go, and the
man at the information desk had told him it was only twelve blocks away. He
turned up the collar of his jacket and stepped out into the deluge.
By the time Mitch had gone two blocks, he’d discovered two things:
Metropolis city blocks were a lot longer than Ohio city blocks, and his jacket
wasn’t as waterproof as he’d thought. Looking back, Mitch found that the bus
station had already disappeared from view. No sense in turning back now, he
thought. It’s not like I have a ride back or anything. Mom is probably gonna
freak when she finds my note anyway. Head down, he trudged ahead, convinced
that the lousy weather was probably just what he deserved. At one point he took
refuge under a storefront awning, only to be drenched from the splash of a
passing truck. Mitch cursed under his breath. As far as he was concerned, this
was just more evidence that his life sucked.
Still, Mitch pressed on, plodding his way downtown with a determination he
rarely displayed except, perhaps, when he was trying to advance to the next level
of the latest video game. As he progressed against the downpour, his thoughts
kept going back to his mother and how she had changed, how everything had
changed, since things had fallen apart. She somehow seemed tougher and
stronger to him now. Maybe she wouldn’t freak over my blowing town and
coming to Metropolis. Maybe she’d understand that it was something I had to
do. Mitch hoped that he’d made that clear enough in his note. His note—if he’d
done something like this a couple of weeks ago, he wouldn’t have bothered to
even leave a note. Maybe he had changed, too.
Mitch tried to put his family out of his head, concentrating instead on his
destination. According to what he’d heard on the radio, some relative of
Superman’s was supposed to be speaking here in Metropolis at three o’clock.
Mitch checked his watch; it was already 2:50, almost 2:55, and he had six blocks
to go yet. Better step on it!
The rain was finally starting to slack off as Mitch crossed his twelfth block.
For one awful moment, he was afraid he’d made a wrong turn. But then he saw a
crowd gathered under the awning of what looked like a big hotel and a cluster of
microphones set up by the building’s entrance. As Mitch got closer, a bank of
lights switched on, and he could see several cameramen jockeying for position
under the awning. A thin brown-haired woman came out of the hotel and slowly
inched her way to the microphones.
“Hello. I want to thank all of you for coming to hear my announcement.”
Mitch was surprised by the woman’s appearance. She reminded him a little of
his mother, only his mother was prettier. This woman wore so much makeup that
she looked almost cheap. The only really distinctive thing about her was a star-
shaped birthmark on her right cheek, and Mitch could swear that it was fake. He
wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but this woman wasn’t it.
The woman coughed into her hand, clearing her throat. “There have been a lot
of rumors floating around, a lot of malicious gossip, and I felt that I had to come
forward and tell my story . . . the story of Superman and me. Though we kept
our love a secret all these years, I was—I am—Mrs. Superman.”
She paused, and for a moment all that could be heard was the click of camera
shutters and the soft patter of the rain on the canvas awning. Mitch started to
notice smirks on the faces of people in the crowd, and a lot of those smirks
belonged to reporters and cameramen. They clearly didn’t believe her, and Mitch
wasn’t sure what to believe himself. The woman seemed sincere, but there was
something strange about the way she stared into the cameras.
“Yes, it’s true. For years, Superman and I lived secretly in a Park Avenue
penthouse in New York. He kept our relationship secret from the world to
protect me from his enemies.” She clutched the microphone stands and leaned
forward, her eyes very wide. “But ours was a life of vacations in Vegas and
Paris. It was an endless adventure!”
Mitch was starting to feel uneasy about all this when a voice rang out just a
few feet away from him.
“Oh, please! Give me a break!” The skeptic was a tall, attractive woman—
much more attractive, noted Mitch, than the woman who claimed to be Mrs.
Superman—and appeared to be a reporter. She had a miniature cassette recorder
in her hand, but she was switching it off and starting to stick it in her coat
pocket. The photographer next to her seemed as surprised as Mitch by her
outburst.
“Lois! Why don’t you let the woman finish?”
Lois looked totally exasperated with the young photographer. “Jimmy Olsen,
don’t tell me you’re actually buying this line of baloney?! That charlatan is no
more Mrs. Superman than . . . than I am!”
Jimmy shrugged. “Well, yeah . . . sure. Anybody can see that she’s lying, but I
say we cover the story and pin her to the wall—her and all the other pretenders.”
“No, Jim.” Lois pulled a small, collapsible umbrella from within her coat and
began to unfold it. “People are already flocking to Metropolis in droves to visit
Superman’s tomb. Most of them are good, earnest souls, but too many of them
are morbid leeches like her. Any publicity, even negative publicity, just
encourages more of them, and I don’t want to have any part of that.” She put her
umbrella up against the rain. “I’ll see you later, Jim. I have some friends to
meet.”
 “Sure, Lois. Later.” Jimmy stood there for a moment, rubbing the back of his
neck and staring after Lois.
“Uh, ’scuse me? Mr. . . . Olsen?”
Jimmy turned, startled at hearing a younger voice call him “Mr.” No wonder
Lois always seemed so weirded out when I called her Ms. Lane . . . or Clark,
when I called him Mr. Kent. He found himself looking down into the face of a
rain-soaked teenager. Geez, I can’t be that much older than he is. “Yeah?”
“That lady you were talking with? The one who just left? Did I hear her say
that the other lady”—Mitch pointed toward the microphones—“wasn’t really
Mrs. Superman? Is that true? I mean, that the other lady isn’t Superman’s wife?”
“I’m afraid so, pal. ‘Mrs. Superman’ there is just the latest in a long line of
frauds to surface in the past week. One con man claimed that he was Superman’s
business manager, and another even tried to pass himself off as Superman’s
tailor.” Jimmy stopped. There was something oddly familiar about this boy. “Uh
—why do you ask?”
Jimmy glanced back toward the mike, but “Mrs. Superman” had virtually
disappeared behind a wall of photographers. She’s probably posing for
cheesecake shots by this point. He looked back at Mitch. “You don’t know her
—?”
“Oh . . . no.” Mitch stared down at his feet. “I was just hopin’ to talk to
somebody who knew Superman is all. I rode buses all night to get here. I guess I
came all this way for nothing.” He looked as though he’d lost his last friend in
the world.
“Well, hey, I knew Superman.” Jimmy saw the doubting look all too clearly in
Mitch’s face. I can’t blame the kid. “No, really! I work for the Daily Planet . . . I
met Superman through working for the paper.” He offered the boy his hand.
“The name’s Jimmy Olsen.”
“I’m Mitch Andersen.”
Jimmy studied the boy closely. “I have the darndest feeling I know you,
Mitch. Have you been in the news recently?”
“No. Well . . . yeah, sorta. I mean, the house I lived in—in Ohio—was trashed
by that big Doomsday monster. Afterwards, the TV guys were all over us. It was
a pretty big deal, I guess.”
“That’s it! I must’ve seen your picture on the Planet’s photowire. I knew you
looked familiar.”
“I do, huh?” Mitch went back to staring at his instep.
Nice going, Olsen. You’ve gone and embarrassed the kid. “Well, Mitch, I
know what it’s like . . . to have been that close to Doomsday. Your family’s
okay, I hope?”
“Oh, yeah. I mean, the house was wrecked, but Mom and my sister Becky are
in great shape. We’ve been staying with friends. They’re fine . . . just fine. But
Superman—Superman’s dead. He’s dead, and it’s all my fault.”
“Whoa, hold the phone, Mitch!” The boy’s shoulders were shaking, and
Jimmy thought he might be crying. The rain had picked up again, and it was
hard to tell. Better change the subject. “Hey, you look hungry.” That’s true
enough. “When was the last time you ate?”
“I dunno. Yesterday.”
“What do you say we catch an early dinner? Then we can talk.”
Mitch shrugged. “I’m kinda broke.”
“It’s on me. Come on, I know a place where the food can’t be beat!” Jimmy
led Mitch down the block to the nearest subway entrance. He’d paid the boy’s
fare and they were well on their way when he realized that he’d never taken a
good photo of “Mrs. Superman.” Oh, well, Lois was probably right. Lois . . .
geez, I hope that whoever she was meeting will be able to offer some emotional
support. She could use it. We all could. Jimmy shook his head. The chances of
Clark turning up alive get slimmer every day.

Lois turned onto Clinton Street, retracing the path she had taken so many times
to Clark’s apartment building. They’d shared so many happy moments there, but
now it stood only as a reminder of her loss. She hadn’t been back since that
awful night. She didn’t want to go there now, but she had to. Walking the last
block had taken longer than the whole rest of the trip; each step took more and
more effort.
Lois nodded slightly to the doorman, trying hard not to cry. Daddy always
said, “Don’t cry.” It felt odd to be invoking Sam Lane’s advice, but she was
grasping at anything that might help her get through this. There was still so
much she was keeping bottled up inside, so much the world must never know.
In the elevator, Lois fumbled for the keys Clark had given her after they were
engaged. It was only three floors to his apartment, but the elevator ride seemed
to be taking even longer than that last block. The doors finally whisked open,
and she somehow made her way back down the hall and into his apartment. Lois
closed her eyes, trying hard to hold back the tears, but they were flowing
anyway. Dear God, she prayed, he’s yours now. He’s never coming back to me.
I’m all alone.
“Lois?”
Lois opened her eyes. Martha and Jonathan were emerging from Clark’s
kitchen. She rushed into Martha’s embrace, and Jonathan stretched his big arms
out around them both. Lois held tight and cried in the way she hadn’t dared cry
before her own parents. “Oh, thank God . . . at last . . . I can talk to someone
about all this.” They stood there together, just holding on and crying for several
minutes.
Lois finally pulled back a little to look at the Kents, as if she couldn’t quite
believe they were really there. “I wasn’t expecting you so soon. I was going to
try straightening things up a bit before you arrived.”
“We lucked into an earlier flight.” Jonathan looked a trifle alarmed. “I left a
message on your machine. Didn’t you get it?”
“Sorry, I . . . I haven’t been very good about my messages lately.” Mentally,
Lois kicked herself. I had no right to give them one more thing to worry about.
Lord, they look so much older than they did the last time I saw them. A total
stranger could see the strain in their faces. “Oh, Martha . . . Jonathan . . . I’m so
sorry.”
Martha gently patted Lois’s back. “There, there. Let it all out, dear. We’re
here for you.”
“You’re here for me?” Lois wiped away her tears with the back of her hand.
“What about you? You . . . you couldn’t even attend—!”
Martha stroked Lois’s cheek. “Now, don’t you worry about Jonathan and me.
We’re here to help out. And to get Clark’s things . . . in order.”
Jonathan nodded. “Amen to that. My pa always said, ‘Sharing multiplies joy
and divides grief.’ It was true in his day, it’s true now, and it always will be
true.”
To Lois’s surprise, a young strawberry-blond woman came out of the kitchen.
“You’re so right, Jonathan. My Aunt Helen used to say much the same thing.”
 “Lana? Lana Lang?”
“Hello, Lois. I came along with Jonathan and Martha—sort of to lend moral
support. I hope you’ll let me help.”
“Of course, Lana. Thank you, I . . . I . . .” Lois literally didn’t know what else
to say.
A moment’s awkward silence was suddenly broken by the whistle of a
teakettle.
“I’ll get that,” said Lana. “We’ll all be able to cope a little better after a cup of
tea.”
Lois was genuinely, deeply touched. She’d first met Lana before she and
Clark were engaged. And after a slightly strained introduction, they’d gotten
along quite well. Lois liked Lana Lang and was sure that the feeling was mutual,
but this visit was totally unexpected. I’ve always thought that in her own way,
Lana still loved Clark every bit as much as I did. For her to have made this trip
must have been incredibly painful. Could I have done the same, if I were in her
shoes?
“Let me help you, Lana.” Lois followed the other woman into the kitchen.
“We have a lot to talk about.”

“Hiya, Red. How ya doin’?”

Jimmy looked up from a corner booth as Bibbo shouldered his way into the
Hob’s Bay Grille. “Hello, Bibbo. I’m getting by. Care to join us?”
“ ’Ey, don’ mind if I do.” Bibbo slid into the booth next to Jimmy and across
from a teenage boy who was polishing off a double cheeseburger deluxe and a
jumbo order of fries. “Who’s yer li’l buddy there?”
“This is Mitch Andersen, Bib. Mitch, say hello to Bibbo.”
“Hullo.” Mitch already looked considerably less peaked than he’d been an
hour before.
Mildred came by, bearing a cup of coffee and a big slab of raspberry pie.
“Your usual, Mr. Bibbowski?”
“Yeah, thanks much, Miz Fillmore.”
Mitch looked longingly at the pie Mildred set down before Bibbo, and his
stomach gave an impatient growl.
 “ ’Ey, Mitch, you hidin’ an animal in yer shirt?”
Mitch’s face turned a bright catsup red, and Bibbo roared. “Aw-haw-haw!
Don’ let it bother ya none, kid.” He shoved the pie across the table. “Here, you
look like you need this more’n I do. ’S on me!”
Mitch grabbed up a fork and tore into the pie. “Thanks, Mr. Bibbo.”
“It’s just plain Bibbo to you, kid. Any pal o’ Red’s is a pal o’ mine.”
The pie disappeared so quickly that Bibbo ordered another slab for the boy
and one more for himself. Jimmy just looked on in amusement, remembering the
days not that long ago when he too possessed such a bottomless stomach.
Midway through the second slab of pie, Mitch started to slow down, and Jimmy
got the boy to talk about himself and Doomsday.
“It was kinda unreal,” said Mitch around bites of pie. “Doomsday just seemed
to come outta nowhere. He was tearing through the neighborhood when
Superman and the Justice League showed up to save our skins.”
Bibbo felt his throat tightening. “That was Sooperman for ya. Tough as nails,
but always helping folks. That’s why he wuz my fav’rit.”
“Yeah, well, our house got totally trashed in the process. I’m still not sure
what all happened—everything happened so fast. All I know for sure is that the
Justice League got knocked out, and Superman took off to chase after
Doomsday. Maybe he’d have caught him and stopped him right then and there,
if it hadn’t been for me.”
Jimmy shifted forward on the vinyl-covered bench. “What do you mean,
Mitch?”
“There . . . there was an explosion, see? Our house was on fire, and my mom
and baby sister were trapped.” Mitch nervously played with his empty plate, and
his voice grew faint. “All I could think of was how crummy I’d been to my
mom, and now she was maybe gonna die right before my eyes. I started
screaming for Superman to come back. I screamed and screamed, and he did—
he came back. He came back and saved them, and Doomsday got away. That’s
why it’s my fault.” He looked up at Jimmy and Bibbo. “If I hadn’t made
Superman come back, he might’ve been able to beat Doomsday then and there.
He might still be alive if not for me.”
Jimmy shook his head. “Superman wouldn’t have wanted your mother and
sister to be hurt, Mitch. It’s not your fault.”
 “Yeah, don’t go saying things like dat, kid.” Bibbo reached a huge hand
across the table to pat Mitch’s shoulder. “Savin’ folks wuz Sooperman’s job.
You couldn’ta done nothin’ to save him. There wuz nothin’ nobody coulda done.
I know.”
“Maybe not. But I keep thinking of how he was there for us when we needed
him. And after all I used to say . . .” Mitch slumped back in the booth. “See, I
used to think Superman was some goody-goody—you know, a real dork. I was
even joking about it with my friends earlier that day. I mean, it was like I jinxed
him or something. Anyway, that’s why I came to Metropolis. I heard on the
radio that one of Superman’s relatives was going to make a speech or something.
I didn’t know it was part of some scam. I wish that woman had been his wife—I
just wanted to apologize.”
“Mitch, as far as I know, Superman didn’t have any family. I know how you
feel, but you don’t have anything to apologize for.” Jimmy searched for the right
words. How would Mr. Kent put it? “Just because Superman died after you
ragged on him doesn’t mean that you caused him to die. The world doesn’t work
that way.”
“Wait a minute!” Bibbo squinted over the rim of his coffee cup at Jimmy and
Mitch. “Somebody wuz claimin’ to be Sooperman’s wife? No way! My pal was
a bachelor! No way wuz he ready to settle down.”
Mitch scowled. “That’s another thing. My own old man walked out on us
months ago, like he didn’t care about us anymore. He said he never shoulda
settled down—never shoulda married. But then a complete stranger came along
and stood up for us!” Mitch hit the table with the side of his fist, hard enough to
rattle the glasses. “Superman fought for us, saved us and most of the world,
while my own father was nowhere to be seen!”
Jimmy put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I’m sure it’s more complicated than
that, Mitch.”
“Yeah, you’ve got that right.” Mitch stared out the window at the pelting rain.
He’d never told this to any of his friends before, much less a couple of strangers.
But now that it was coming out, he couldn’t stop it. “Ya know, I still love my
dad. I love him so much that I used to blame my mom for everything. But she
wasn’t the one who left us—he was. My mom . . . my mom’s surprised me
lately.” Mitch shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I mean, she’s still sweet
enough to give you diabetes, but . . . I never realized how strong she is, ya
know? Ever since our house got wrecked, Mom’s been more—more—I dunno,
assertive? I can’t believe how she’s changed.” Mitch shrugged. “Maybe she
hasn’t. Maybe she always was that way, and I just never noticed.”
“Mothers can fool you, Mitch.” Jimmy smiled, remembering how his own
mother had kept their family going after his father had been declared missing in
action. “Look, I can tell that you’re still upset over everything that’s happened.”
“Yeah,” Mitch nodded. “You guys have been great. But I guess what I really
need to do is unload to Superman. And it’s too late for that now.”
“Maybe not. There is a place we can go, if you want to pay your respects.”
Bibbo nodded. “I know what yer thinkin’ about, Red, and it’s a good idear.”
Mildred brought the bill to the table, and Bibbo laid his hand down over it.
“Dis is on me. You two go on about yer bizness.”
Jimmy smiled as they slid out of the booth. “Thanks, Bib, that’s another I owe
you.”
“My pleasure. ’Ey, hold on a minute.” Bibbo pulled out a wad of cash and
pressed several big bills into Mitch’s hand. “Yer maw’s prob’ly worried about
ya, kid. Give her a call an’ tell her ya’ll be on yer way home soon.”
“Well, thanks, Bibbo, but I can’t take bus fare from you. I’ll just hitch a ride
home.”
“Like hell you will, kid! That’s all yer maw needs to worry about! I gave ya
enuff for air fare, an’ that’s what ya damn well better spend it on!”
“No, really, I can’t take—”
Bibbo waved off Mitch’s protest. “Lissen, if my buddy Sooperman was still
around, he’d fly ya home hisself, so you just shut up an’ let me stand in fer him,
y’hear?”
Mitch nodded mutely and shook Bibbo’s hand. A sheen of moisture clouded
the tavern owner’s eyes as he watched the two young men head out of the diner
and down the block to the subway. “Watch out fer ’im, Red.”
“Did you say something, Mr. Bibbowski?” Mildred looked up from behind the
counter. “Is there anything more you want?”
“Uh, yeah, Miz Fillmore. Bring me anudder slab o’ that pie. Watchin’ that kid
eat has given me an appetite.”

Lana finished pouring Martha a second cup of tea and slowly gazed around the
apartment. One of Clark’s old high school football trophies sat in a place of
honor on a shelf. I can still remember the day he was awarded that. We were
both so proud. Lana choked back a tear and found her voice. “We have a big
decision before us, don’t we? Sooner or later, we have to decide whether or not
to tell the world that Clark and Superman were one and the same.”
Jonathan looked startled. “Why ever do we have to decide any such thing?
Why can’t we just keep our mouths shut like we always have?”
“I wish it were that simple, but the question may become academic.” Lana
bent down to refill Jonathan’s cup. “I’ve already seen magazine excerpts from a
couple of those instant books that publishers cobble together from news reports.
And it won’t stop there. Researchers will spend years digging into Superman’s
life.”
“Oh, no!” Martha nearly upset her teacup. “Do you really think that someone
might uncover the truth? Clark was always so careful! He changed his voice, his
manner, his whole bearing when he was Superman! And it’s not as if he ever
wore a mask, so why would anyone wonder if Superman was ever anyone else?
They might wonder where he was whenever he wasn’t in public sight, but surely
not who he was!” Martha looked from her husband to Lana to Lois, hoping for
unequivocal agreement.
Lois nodded slowly. “Those are all good points, Martha. Clark did cover his
tracks well, and—as you say—he took care never to get people wondering about
a ‘secret identity’ in the first place. Not like, say, the Batman, who clearly has
something to hide; . . . a famous face, or a terrible scar, or whatever.” She stared
for a while into her tea. “Even so, Lana also has a point. Never underestimate a
dogged researcher.”
Jonathan let out a snort. “Well, if anyone ever did get that lucky, it would be
plain awful. I couldn’t stand to have a bunch of media vultures swarming over
us, looking for personal angles to hot Superman stories.” He glanced at Lois.
“No offense meant to our present journalist, dear.”
“None taken, Jonathan.” Lois smiled at him and squeezed his hand for extra
reassurance. Then her smile faded. “Yes, I’m afraid that Lana might be right. We
can all trust each other to be silent, but there might be some loose end that none
of us knows about—some slip that Clark made without knowing. Someone
might uncover the secret that way.”
Jonathan snorted once more. “Well, if that happens, so be it—but I see no
reason to hurry it along! Clark always worked to keep a decent measure of
privacy so he could have a normal life away from being Superman. We
respected that throughout his career, and I say we go on respecting it now.
Maybe the world thinks it deserves to know everything about Superman, but I
say the world can just go fish! It’s up to us to keep some things quiet.”
“Amen to that.” Martha nodded, her voice a little quavery, and Jonathan put
his arms around her shoulders and hugged her tightly. He kissed her hair and laid
his cheek against her head for a long moment, then looked up at the two young
women. “Far as we’re concerned, you two are both like daughters to us. I hope
you agree with what Martha and I plan to do. Or rather”—he grinned
humorlessly—“what we plan not to do.”
Lois stepped close, putting one hand on Martha’s shoulder and the other on
Jonathan’s. She began to tear up again, but her voice was firm. “Absolutely.”
Lana moved close on the other side of the Kents and laid her hands atop
Lois’s, her voice just as firm. “One hundred percent.”

The rain had petered out to a light drizzle by the time Jimmy and Mitch reached
Centennial Park. Despite the day’s weather, a long line stretched along the newly
planted memorial garden leading to the wide plaza that was Superman’s final
resting place. Ahead of them sat the tomb, a massive cube of stone, unadorned
save for the pentagonal S-shield carved into one side. The tomb was topped by
an eternal flame and the twenty-five-foot granite statue of Superman standing
boldly with his left arm outstretched as a perch for a great, majestic stone eagle.
The line moved slowly, and Mitch stared reverently at the statue for most of
the twenty minutes it took to approach the tomb. “You were right, Olsen. This is
awesome.”
Jimmy nodded, his eyes on the rough-hewn statue. “You’re not alone in
thinking that, Mitch. Folks have been coming from all over to visit Superman’s
tomb.”
Around them, people were expressing similar feelings. A hushed murmuring
filled the plaza. But for a moment, under it all, Jimmy thought that he could hear
something else. What is that noise? It sounds muffled . . . or far away . . . but it’s
almost like—what?—a drill? He shook his head. Probably just a trick of
acoustics. All this stone paving . . . maybe it was picking up vibrations from the
rescue efforts in town. There were, Jimmy knew, massive machines at work just
a few blocks away, sifting through the rubble left by Doomsday. The noise
seemed to fade, and he put it out of his mind.
As Mitch and Jimmy came up to the tomb, they saw flowers and little notes
placed lovingly around its base. It reminded Mitch of what he had learned in
school about the Vietnam Veterans Memorial Wall, about how people left letters
and other mementos there for their loved ones. He knelt beneath the granite S
and looked above him at the statue that, up close, seemed to loom even taller.
“Superman?” Mitch cleared his throat. “Uh . . . hi. I feel kinda stupid talking
to a statue—but, hey, who knows? My grandma says my grandpa—he died a
couple years ago—she says he can hear us when we talk to him, so maybe you
can, too. I owe you a lot, Superman, but first off, I owe you an apology. Y’see, I
used to figure you for a real loser. Shows what a zero I was. I’m gonna try to do
better—try not to judge people without, you know, really knowing ’em. I know a
lot more now . . . about you, anyway. You laid it on the line for us. My old man
had cut out, but not you.”
Mitch reached into his pocket and pulled out a wallet-sized photo of his
family. “This is my family from before my father split. You’d remember my
mother and my sister Becky. They’re okay today, thanks to you. If you’d ignored
us, you might be alive today. But you came back and saved them. That took
guts.” He gently tucked the photo into a seam in the stones at the base of the
tomb, between a small book of poetry and an old athletic medal someone had
left.
“Thanks, Superman. That probably sounds really lame, just saying thanks, but
I really mean it.” Mitch took a deep breath. “And when I get home, I’ll try to get
along better with my mom. I guess it’s about the only thing I can do to pay you
back. With Dad gone, Mom really needs the help.”
Mitch rose to his feet, never taking his eyes off the statue. “Thanks again,
Superman. For everything.”
Jimmy stood just a few yards behind Mitch, marveling at how the boy had
bared his soul. I don’t know if I could have done that when I was his age. I think
I’d have died of embarrassment. Remembering that awkward, adolescent
feeling, Jimmy was careful not to look directly at Mitch until the boy joined him
and they turned to leave.
“Jimmy? I want to thank you for bringing me here. I don’t think I’d have had
the guts to do it alone.”
 “Don’t mention it. I hope you’re feeling a little better now.”
“Yeah. Yeah, I am. A little.” Mitch stopped and looked back at the statue.
“But the whole world still feels a lot more empty now, doesn’t it? I mean, what’s
gonna happen to us without him around?”
Jimmy shrugged. “It’s hard to tell. We just have to have hope.”
Mitch blew a short raspberry, a glimmer of his old cynicism shining through.
“Easy for you to say!” Then the boy’s expression softened. “I just wonder if
Superman really did have a family somewhere. If he did, I sure hope they’re
holding up okay. They’d have lost more than any of us.”
“Yeah.” Jimmy was impressed all over again with Mitch. This kid has really
been through some wars, but I think he’s going to be okay. I’d tell him so, but
he’d just say I was being sappy. “Come on, we’ll take a cab to the airport.”
They silently walked away from the plaza, lost in their thoughts. As they left
the park, neither of them heard the distant whir of the drills.

Henry Johnson had been out of the hospital less than ten hours, and he did not
like what he saw.
A week before, when a building had come falling down on top of him, he’d
had no time to fear for himself. His only thought then was, Superman needs
help. I owe him my life . . . I can’t die now. Henry still couldn’t remember much
of the ordeal that had followed. He recalled voices—old half-forgotten memories
he’d done his best to forget—and he remembered digging. He’d been out of his
head, scraping his way out of the rubble, trying to get to Superman and help him
stop Doomsday.
When Henry finally came to in the hospital, he’d found out how drastically
the world had changed. Superman was killed trying to stop Doomsday, and
Metropolis was in a mess. The city was experiencing its first major increase in
street crime in nearly a decade, and according to the news, the police
commissioner’s job was on the line.
The hospital nurses had told Henry to ignore the news and concentrate on
getting well; not that he’d had to concentrate that hard. The doctors were so
impressed with his speedy recovery that they’d called him their miracle patient.
He’d had to plead to keep them from giving his name to the papers and argue to
have them release him as soon as he had a clean bill of health.
 Now Henry was home in the apartment that had been his for over a year. And
while the neighborhood had never been the best or the safest, things had clearly
changed for the worse. Sirens echoed down the street from Avenue M, and the
radio was full of reports of gang activity. Superman, Henry knew, would never
have allowed this to happen.
The gangs were running wild all around Suicide Slum, and word on the street
was that they even had the police outgunned. That was bad enough, but it was
the talk about the gangs’ weaponry that especially bothered Henry.
And so Henry went down into the basement of his apartment building and
checked the locks on an old storage locker near the furnace room. They seemed
intact, and he knew they were impossible to pick without showing some signs of
tampering. He knew, because he’d designed them himself. Henry unlocked the
door and went in, flicking on the sputtering old fluorescent light. Inside, stacked
neatly along one wall, were the remnants of his past, back when he was still the
topflight engineer John Henry Irons, back before he’d assumed another name.
As Dr. John Henry Irons, he’d designed armament and ballistics systems for
Westin Technologies. He was their rising star—number one with a bullet—until
the day he discovered that his new design for a one-man artillery piece had been
copied. Bootleg knockoffs of Dr. Irons’s new gun had been produced and sold in
the Middle East, and there was some indication that higher-ups at Westin, in
collusion with someone in Washington, were responsible. He’d heard that such
things happened in the software trade, and he knew how difficult it was to trace
such acts of piracy. Tracking down the culprits proved no easier in John Henry’s
case; all he knew for sure was that a lot of innocent civilians had been killed by
his guns.
That had been too much for John. He’d dropped out, gone underground, and
changed his name. But his past was still down here, sealed away in crates and
footlockers. The equipment he’d designed had been put to terrible use, but it was
still his work. He could not deny it or bring himself to throw it away. Instead, he
had tried to bury it here in this basement, where no one would think to look.
Was I wrong? Similar weapons are showing up on the streets. Did someone
find my gear?
A moment’s inspection reassured him that it was all there. Nothing had been
disturbed, but John Henry still couldn’t shake that sickening feeling in the pit of
his stomach. The description of the “Toastmaster” guns that some of the gangs
were using sounded very close to his BG–60s. If the guns were in fact based on
his designs, the police would never stand a chance against them. If the gangs
weren’t stopped and the flow of guns cut off, the city could conceivably become
a war zone. He couldn’t let that happen.
John Henry rummaged through the crates. Superman said to make my life
count. His prototype body armor was still there, along with the experimental
rocket boots. An idea began to take form. I owe him a life. There’s no way I can
bring Superman back, but maybe I can build Metropolis a Man of Steel.

For days and nights, volunteers had been working alongside LexCorp
construction crews, searching for signs of life amid the urban ruin left in the
wake of Doomsday. At some sites, sophisticated listening devices were
employed to ferret out those who might be buried beneath the shattered
buildings. At other sites, rescue teams picked their way through the rubble, using
specially trained dogs to sniff out survivors and casualties. As the days passed,
they turned up more and more of the latter.
At one midtown disaster site, on the afternoon of the eighth day, a large black
German shepherd let out a yelp and began pawing the edge of a patch of
crumbled masonry. His human rescue partner came stumbling after him.
“What is it, Akila? What is it, boy?”
The dog barked once and kept on digging. The rescue worker put his ear to the
masonry. He could hear a moan. It was very faint, but it was definitely a human
voice.
“We’ve found another one over here. A live one!”
“Step aside!” The order came in a high, clear alto, and both dog and workman
scrambled to get out of the way as Supergirl dropped down from the sky beside
them.
The Girl of Steel ran a hand along the edge of the masonry. It was a section of
steel-reinforced concrete, twelve inches thick and roughly ten by thirteen feet.
“There’s a crack running about halfway through this thing, but if I’m careful,
it should hold together.” She favored the rescue worker and Akila with a polite
smile. “I’ll need room.”
The man nodded and hooked a leash onto the dog’s collar. “Akila, come!”
Once man and dog were a safe distance away, Supergirl knelt beside the fallen
concrete. Cautiously, she thrust one arm under the edge of the slab and gripped a
piece of thick steel rebar that protruded from the side. Setting her feet, Supergirl
slowly began to ease the slab off the ground. When she had it about five feet up,
the edge started to crumble and crack. Moving quickly, she ducked under the
slab, shifting the crushing weight onto her shoulders.
Looking down, she could see a man wedged into a tiny space between two
fallen girders. A cracked water pipe ran near his head. The rubble still looked
fairly damp around him. Supergirl paused a moment to center herself; then,
every muscle straining, she stood bolt upright, hurling the concrete slab into the
middle of a cleared area some fifty feet away.
Supergirl immediately dropped down beside the man, gingerly shoving aside
the girders that still pinned him. She felt for a pulse. It was there, but it was very
weak. The man’s eyes fluttered, and he tried to talk.
“Help . . . me . . .”
Supergirl was astounded that the man was still able to breathe, let alone speak.
“Please . . . don’t try to talk.”
Paramedics quickly slipped in around Supergirl and the injured man, checking
the victim’s vital signs and administering emergency first aid. Within moments,
they had the man strapped to a backboard. Supergirl helped them carry him to a
waiting ambulance.
“Roof fell in . . . jus’ fell in on me.” The man rambled on, as if trying to
explain his way back to life. “Couldn’t move. Yelled an’ yelled but nobody
came.”
“We’re here now.” Supergirl held the man’s hand.
“I didn’ give up . . . ’cause I knew you wouldn’ give up. Knew you’d save me
—Superman?” The man’s eyes finally seemed to focus on the figure beneath the
bright red cape. “You—you’re not Superman.”
“No. No, I’m Supergirl. But it’s all right. You’re in good hands now!”
Supergirl smiled brightly for the man as he was loaded into the ambulance.
But once it had pulled away, her face fell, and she heaved a weary sigh.
One of the paramedics on the scene walked up, holding out a steaming paper
cup in offering. “Coffee? It’s not very good, but at least it’s hot.”
“Thanks.” She cradled the cup in her hands. “What do you think his chances
are?”
“Hard to say, Supergirl. A lot depends on how much water he was able to get
from that pipe. A human being can’t go more than a few days without water.
And he was down there for a long time.” The paramedic glanced off to his right.
“At least he’s still alive. That puts him one up on these poor souls.”
Supergirl followed the paramedic’s gaze. Nearly two dozen bodies had been
laid out, side by side, covered with sheets and awaiting identification. Some of
the lumps beneath the sheets were heartbreakingly small.
“Kids.” The paramedic shook his head. “They never had a chance.”
Supergirl slumped back against a pile of girders. “How many more are still
out there? How many are still alive?”
“Not many. It was a miracle that fellow hung on like he did. He must’ve had
an amazing constitution. No, at this point, I wouldn’t think there’d be any more
that we’ll find alive.”
Supergirl stared numbly at her steaming cup. She’d yet to take a drink.
The paramedic looked at her more closely. “How long has it been since you
had a night’s sleep?”
“Hmmm?” It took her a moment to realize he’d put the question to her. “Oh . .
. I don’t know. What’s today? Monday?”
“Try Wednesday. You don’t need coffee, you need rest.”
“No time. There are so many places left to search, so much work to be done.”
“Make time.” He snatched the cup away from her hands.
Supergirl stared blankly at her empty hands for a moment and then gazed,
bewildered, into the man’s face. He’d caught her totally off guard.
The paramedic raised an eyebrow. “See what I mean? Would I have been able
to do that if you were on top of things? Go home; get some sleep. Or the next
time you go to lift a chunk of concrete, you’re liable to drop it on yourself—or
on someone else!”
“All right. But if you need help—”
“We know where to call. Now go home!”
Supergirl sprang unsteadily into the air, feeling as wrung out as an old
washcloth. The rush of air helped a little, but in her heart she knew that the
paramedic was right—she did need sleep. As the city swept by beneath her, she
could see the rescue efforts continuing at other sites. If only I had Superman’s X-
ray vision. Maybe I would have been able to find more of those people before it
was too late. If only—
Supergirl shook her head. Life was full of “if onlys.” Maybe she would be
better able to face them tomorrow.

Midnight passed, and Wednesday night gave way to Thursday morning. Paul
Westfield paced impatiently at the far end of a long tunnel that connected
Metropolis with the Cadmus Project. It had taken him days of maneuvering and
subterfuge to get this new operation up and running. Westfield’s handpicked
field team had, of necessity, been working incommunicado for over twenty-four
hours while he was forced to placate both the Washington bureaucrats and his
own department heads. But if all went well, he would soon have what he wanted.
If only they’d report in. What’s keeping them?
A walkie-talkie hooked to Westfield’s belt emitted a soft buzz. He pulled the
unit loose from its clip and thumbed the scramble switch. “Report.”
“Snatcher here. Sorry for the delay. It was touch and go there for a while.
With so many people visiting the tomb, we were afraid that some of the
mourners might hear our drills.”
Westfield’s breath caught in his throat. “They didn’t, I hope.”
A dry chuckle came over the walkie-talkie. “If they did, they didn’t do
anything about it.”
“That is not an acceptable answer.”
“Uh, no, sir. There were no problems, sir. According to our spotters on the
surface, no one took any notice that would compromise our operation. Phase one
of the mission is complete. The body is ours. Repeat, the body is ours.”
“Well done.” Westfield allowed himself a smile. “Return to base on the
double. We will meet for initial inspection in Lab Seven. You are to maintain
strictest security at all times.”
“Understood. Snatcher out.”
Westfield switched his walkie-talkie back to standby and exited the tunnel.
Now, all we need is a cell—just one, single viable cell—and I’ll give this poor
misbegotten world a hero it’ll never forget. Despite the late hour, there was new
energy in his step. Westfield could feel destiny calling him, and he had his
answers all prepared.
15

An alarm sounded on the ninetieth floor, awaking Lex Luthor II from a sound
sleep.
“Bloody hell!” Muttering under his breath, Luthor threw on a dressing robe
and pushed open the double doors to his private office. “Alarm off!” he ordered.
“Identify the problem.”
The alarm instantly shut off, and a soft computer-synthesized voice responded
in answer to Luthor’s command. “Infrared sensors registering movement in
outsector ten.”
“Damn and blast! Show me.”
“Impossible to comply. Surveillance cameras have been disabled, Mr.
Luthor.” The computer voice sounded almost regretful.
“What is it, Lex?” Supergirl shuffled out of the bedroom, stifling a yawn.
“What’s going on?”
“That’s what I’d like to know. Computer, give me a full-range schematic.”
“Projecting outsector ten . . .” A holographic grid immediately lit up in the air
over Luthor’s desk, a glowing X moving slowly across it, like the cursor of a
computer screen. “Heat source now moving away from vector point zero.”
Luthor began to curse, softly but steadily, in a way that, Supergirl knew, he
did only when he was greatly distressed.
“Lex? Where is outsector ten?”
“In Superman’s tomb, love.” Luthor stuck his finger into the glowing
schematic. “Or, to be more precise, some ten meters beneath it.”
“What?!” Supergirl’s eyes popped open wide. “Oh, Lex! Could he be—? I
mean, is it possible that he’s alive?!” Even as she spoke, Supergirl gave the
molecules of her sleeping gown a mental shove. Then, just that easily, she stood
clothed in her blue and red costume.
Ordinarily her transformations delighted Luthor, but the last thing he wanted
to see her wearing—considering what his security systems were telling him—
was that pentagonal S-emblem. Superman . . . alive? Too late, he tried to repress
a shudder. Fortunately, Supergirl seemed too excited to notice his discomfort.
Luthor took a deep breath and made a calming gesture.
“Well, my dear, I suppose that with a man from another world anything is
possible, but I frankly doubt that he’s actually alive.” At least, I hope he isn’t.
“At the very least, though, someone is tampering with his crypt, perhaps even to
the point of desecration. I hope you feel up to investigating.”
“Of course I do. Just try to stop me!” Supergirl reached for the portable
transceiver headset even as Luthor started to hand it to her. “Don’t worry, Lex,
I’ll search the area from top to bottom. And I’ll keep in close touch.”
“You do that, love.” Luthor forced a smile, hoping it would cover his
lingering unease. “And be careful. Remember, we don’t know what’s going on
down there. Let’s not give the public any reason to panic. Use the secret access
we built into the tomb’s foundations.”
“Oh, you’re so smart.” Supergirl kissed Luthor twice—first, slowly on his
lips, and then lightly on his nose. “Don’t you worry. I’ll get to the bottom of
this.”
“I know you will, love. Godspeed.”
Luthor had always loved to watch Supergirl fly, taking a frankly proprietary
pride in watching her soar above the city skyline. But tonight he hardly saw her
leave. His attention kept being drawn back to the wandering X on the schematic
projection.
“Lord, he couldn’t have cheated death. Could he?” As Luthor watched, the X
began to move off the grid and fade out.
“Heat source is moving north-northeast.” The synthetic voice suddenly went
up half a decible in volume. “Warning! Heat source will be out of surveillance
range in five seconds . . . four . . . three . . . two . . .”
“Oh, shut up!”
The voice instantly complied.

Supergirl shot away from the lofty L-shaped tower, making a beeline for
Centennial Park.
Lex seemed awfully quick to discount the possibility that Superman might be
alive. I guess he doesn’t want me to get my hopes up. She smiled at the thought.
That’s awfully sweet of him, the big silly, but he might as well try to hold back
the tide! How could I not hope for the best?
Luthor’s mention of tomb desecration did bother her, though. I can’t fault Lex
for being concerned. Superman did have a lot enemies, and I suppose one of
them might stoop to grave robbing.
Reaching the park, Supergirl flew in a slow, silent loop high over the tomb.
The rain had been intermittent since dusk, and there was an unseasonable chill in
the air. At this late hour, she could see only two people in the memorial plaza—a
derelict who appeared to be dozing on a park bench, and a young man who had
paused briefly, head bowed, by the tomb.
Supergirl knew from previous flyovers that hordes of mourners had been
haunting the tomb, day and night, since the funeral. The sheer emptiness of the
plaza made her realize how truly nasty the weather had become. And it is late—
dawn is still a few hours off. More people will turn out by morning. In the
meantime, the lack of a crowd should make my investigation easier. Below, the
young man slowly walked away from the tomb, and the derelict slumped deeper
down into his coat for warmth. Neither man, she noted, looked up.
Making a wide circuit of the grounds, Supergirl could see no signs of
tampering from the outside of the tomb. Then again, Lex’s computer system did
say the disturbance was below. Time to take a look inside.
Banking sharply, Supergirl dove down toward a large subway ventilator
grating set into the side of a retaining wall on the east side of the plaza. The
circular grating was nearly six feet in diameter and made of heavy-gauge steel,
but she slid it sideways into its mountings with a single quick yank. Slipping
through the opening, she gave the grating a shove back into place. When she was
several yards down the inner utility tunnel, she suddenly stopped and smacked
her forehead with the heel of her palm. Why didn’t I turn invisible before I
approached the grating? I must still be a little out of it. She shook her head
ruefully. Oh, well, as fast as I was moving, anyone watching wouldn’t have seen
much more than a blur. Besides, the only one around was that old derelict. Who
would believe him anyway?
Back out in the plaza, the derelict peered from under the edge of his old
woolen hat, staring intently at the grating. Despite his overall seedy appearance,
the man’s eyes were very clear. He reached into the folds of his shabby overcoat
and pulled out a tiny cellular phone. A chorus of muted beeps sounded in his ear
as he hit an autodial button. A sleepy growl answered at the other end of the line.
 The “derelict” spoke softly but distinctly into the phone. “This is Rusty. Sorry
to interrupt your beauty sleep, but I think I just saw something go into that
ventilation shaft on the east retaining wall. I’m not sure what it was, but we’d
better check it out.”
A loud yawn came across the line. “Whaddaya talkin’ about? Can’t ya be
more specific?”
Rusty pondered the request. “Depends on what you mean by specific.” The
movement at the grate had been very fast and not very distinct, but he knew that
he’d seen flashes of red and blue and a sudden billowing, like that of a cape.
“For all I know, it might have been a ghost!”

Supergirl flew down the slowly descending utility tunnel until she came to
another recessed grate blocking a corridor that veered off sharply to the left. As
she swung open the second grating, concealed lighting switched on
automatically, illuminating the corridor. She proceeded on down the corridor for
nearly a hundred yards to where it ended in a small chamber.
The chamber was dominated by a huge circular metal hatch that looked like
nothing so much as the door to a bank vault. From the schematics that Luthor
had shared with her, she knew that she was directly beneath the tomb. Behind
that access hatch was the crypt into which Superman’s coffin had been lowered.
Okay, girl, this is it. So, what are you waiting for? Afraid of what you might
find?
“Supergirl?” Lex suddenly broke in, the circuitry buried in the surrounding
walls transmitting his encoded signal strongly and clearly into her headset. It
was as if he’d come up behind her; she almost jumped. “Are you in the tomb
yet?”
Not yet, lover, but I suppose that it’s now or never. “Lex, I’m opening the
hatchway, and I’m about to step inside.” Supergirl hesitated a moment. “And I
know you think I’m being foolish, but I can’t help but hope he’s alive.”
“Let’s not get our hopes up too high, love.” There was a slight edge to the
voice that came over the headset.
Supergirl stepped through the hatchway, light flooding in from the outer
chamber. In the center of the crypt was nothing but a bare marble slab.
“Lex! Oh, my God!”
 “Well, what is it? What have you found? Don’t leave me hanging, girl!”
“The crypt is empty! Even the coffin is gone! And there’s a big hole leading
down a steep shaft from the wall to my left. Superman is gone!” She felt giddy at
the discovery. “Did you hear me, Lex? Now do you think I’m being foolish?”
“No, dear, but I’m afraid you sound much too optimistic. Listen to me, love. If
Superman were alive, if he’d dug his way out of there, why would he have taken
the coffin with him?”
The question gave Supergirl pause.
“Okay, Lex, I admit that it doesn’t look as if he just got up and walked home,
but . . . maybe he arranged this breakout beforehand. I mean, there’re probably a
lot of things we don’t know about Superman.” A lot that even I don’t know!
“Maybe he had people standing by in case he ever died, or appeared to die—a
team that would take him somewhere to be revived!” Supergirl was grasping at
straws, and she knew it, but she wasn’t about to give up hope yet.
Back in his offices, Luthor was gripping the arms of his chair so tightly that
his hands were turning white. Damn her optimism. He could well imagine the
look on her face, that vital glow in her eyes. He loved it when she looked at him
that way. But now, he knew, that look was for Superman. Superman! It was all
he could do to choke back his rising bile.
“Lex? Did you hear me? Are you still there?”
“I’m here.” Luthor took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “All right, love. I
myself admit that anything is possible. See where the shaft leads, but make sure
you keep me posted. Over and out.” It was a rather graceless directive, he knew,
but it was all he could trust himself to say.

Halfway across Metropolis, Jonathan Kent tossed and turned in an unfamiliar

bed.
“Jon?” Martha switched on the light. “Are you all right?”
“Can’t sleep.”
“Me neither, not well anyway. I keep seeing that statue. It was so beautiful.
And so awful.” Martha plucked a tissue from the box beside her pillow. “Still,
I’m glad that Lois took us to see the tomb. It was a lot bigger than it looked on
TV, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah, Martha. That Luthor woods colt did all right by our boy. Almost
makes up for the hell his father put Clark through.” Jonathan fumbled for his
glasses on the nightstand. “I wish Lois had let us take the couch. It was enough
that she put us up in her apartment. We should’ve insisted on staying in a hotel,
like Lana did. I hate to put anybody out of their bed.”
“Poor Lois. Jonathan, how in the world can we go back to Smallville in the
morning? The thought of her having to face all this—”
“I know, Martha, I know. But when she looks at us, all she sees is Clark. I’m
afraid we’ve done all we can for now, and it’s best we leave on schedule.”
“I suppose you’re right, Jon. Lois has tried to put on such a brave front for the
world, but I’ve caught that look in her eyes . . . that horrible, haunted look.”
“Uh-huh. I’ve seen it too, especially when she’s looking at you or me and
doesn’t notice that we’re looking back.” Jonathan patted his wife’s hand. “Try
not to worry, Martha. It isn’t as if we’re abandoning her. Lois has a family of her
own to lean on.”
“But there are things she can’t confide in them.”
“I know, and that can be awful. But we’ll keep in touch, never you fear.”
Jonathan swung his feet down to the floor. “I’ve got to get some water—
maybe take an aspirin.”
“Headache, dear?”
“Sore muscles. Nothing to fret about.” He leaned across the bed and kissed
Martha lovingly on the forehead. “I’ll be back. You try to get some sleep.”
As Jonathan slipped from the bedroom and padded down the hall, he thought
he saw something move in the living room. Sounds like someone else can’t
sleep.
Lois stood by her apartment’s big sliding glass doors, holding her cat Elroy in
her arms and staring out past the balcony into the night. Her back was to
Jonathan, but he could see a partial reflection of her face in the glass. Lois’s
expression wasn’t so much sad, he thought, as it was bleak. The bleakness was
echoed in every line of her body.
Jonathan hung back in the hallway, wondering if he should disturb Lois. She
seemed deep in thought. His own thoughts were bitter and wistful all at once.
Her and Clark’s best years were ahead of them . . . marriage, children—well,
probably not children, not of their own, anyway. For all that Clark looked like
an ordinary Earthman, he was anything but! As a farmer, Jonathan had learned
enough practical genetics to know that the chances of cross-fertilization between
native and Kryptonian stock were virtually zero. Still, if they’d wanted kids badly
enough, they could have always adopted. That’s more or less what Martha and I
did.
It suddenly hit Jonathan all over again that Clark was gone. The pain of that
realization struck like a sledgehammer. I still can’t hardly believe it. It’s all so
unfair . . . so unfair to us all. He tried to choke back a sob, only to have it escape
as a sneeze.
Lois heard him and turned. “J-Jonathan? What—?”
“I’m sorry, Lois. I didn’t mean to startle you, but—” The words caught in his
throat. Suddenly, all the reassurances he’d given Martha, all the platitudes about
leaving on schedule, struck him as the stupidest things he’d ever said. “Lois,
Martha and I are worried about leaving you.”
“You’re worried about me?” Lois’s eyes widened. “I’ve been worried about
you two. I was just thinking how terribly hard this must be for you and Martha. I
couldn’t have been much comfort to you.”
Jonathan opened his mouth to protest, but Lois continued on. “And being in
Metropolis must only make it worse for you. This city is the heart of a media fire
storm over Superman’s death, and you should get as far away from it as you can.
It’s not likely to get better anytime soon.” She gestured to the coffee table, where
she’d angrily tossed a copy of the Metropolis Daily Star.
Jonathan glanced down at the paper and then quickly looked away, but he
knew that he’d never forget the lead story. Next to a lurid photo of a blond
woman who might charitably be called a floozy was the banner headline:
SUPERMAN’S SECRET WIFE?
Lois slowly stroked her cat behind the ears. “Yes, it’s hard to look at, isn’t it?
And that’s one of the more tasteful stories. You and Martha have to get away
from this.” She looked once more at the newspaper, and her face grew drawn.
“This trash makes me so ashamed to be a journalist.”
“You’re not to blame for any of this, Lois. You shouldn’t be so hard on
yourself.”
Hard on myself, am I? Jonathan’s assessment almost struck Lois as funny.
That’s not what my father would say. “Kids today are too soft. You’ve got to be
tough!”—that was Sam Lane’s philosophy.
“Lois?”
 “Sorry, Jonathan. I was just lost in thought for a moment.” She glanced at her
wristwatch. “Hey, look at the time. We should both try to get some sleep while
we can. Your flight leaves pretty early in the morning.”
“Well, all right. If you’re sure . . .”
“Very sure, Jonathan. I’ll be fine.”
Lois shook her head as she watched him shuffle back down the hall. How
different Clark’s childhood must have been from mine! How lucky he was to
have been raised by the Kents!

In his office, Lex Luthor was doing his best to remain calm. In an attempt to
relieve his tension, he had rung for a young masseuse named Lori. That had
proven to be a mistake. He was simply too keyed up to unwind, even with the
enticement of Lori’s ample endowments. After several uncomfortable moments,
he had gotten up from the massage table and stalked back to his desk to sit
staring at his computer displays.
Lori slipped through the door, a bottle and two glasses in her hand. “Oh,
you’re so tense!” She gave Luthor her best little-girl pout. He turned away.
“I mean,” she cooed, “why don’t you try relaxing with this nice cabernet
sauvignon, and let Lori relax all those nasty old neck muscles for you?” She
poured him a glass and held it temptingly near.
Lex barely acknowledged her. “Go away, Lori.”
Lori stared, uncomprehending, for a moment. Then a cautious, almost guilty
look came to her eyes. “We are alone, right? I mean, she’s not here . . . is she?”
Lori knew that Luthor and Supergirl were an item and had guessed that was why
he hadn’t requested her services lately. His call tonight had surprised her,
actually, but if there was any chance of Supergirl showing up and causing a
scene—!
Without looking at Lori, Luthor reached for the glass of wine. “She is not. We
are quite alone.” Lori smiled, reassured but still just a little uncertain. She
handed him the glass, letting her fingers brush intimately against his.
“But I said—go away!” Luthor snatched the glass away from her hand and
flung it—not quite at her, but close enough that she screamed.
“I—I—I’m sorry, Mr. L! I only wanted to—”
 “You only wanted to leave, isn’t that right, Lori?”
“Yes, Mr. L.” Lori nodded, near tears, and scrambled for the door.
“Bloody cow.” Luthor slouched back into his chair, his face burning with
irritation. Shouldn’t have let her get under my skin like that. But no real matter .
. . her kind always responds to a quick apology. Bloody nuisance, though.
A buzz came from the desk console, and he lunged for the speaker switch.
“Hi, Lex. Did you miss me?” Supergirl’s voice was a happy chirp.
Luthor was about to lash out again when he caught himself. Don’t forget who
this is and what she is capable of. She’s young and still very naive, and that’s
precisely what makes her so valuable. “I’ve . . . been waiting with bated breath,
love. Have you found anything?”
“Yes and no. That hole in the wall does look as though it was made by
someone breaking into the crypt, rather than breaking out. But the shaft itself is
really very strange.”
“Just tell me what you see, love, and we’ll go from there.”
“Well, the shaft appears to have been drilled right through the bedrock under
the crypt’s foundations. There are no signs of concrete, steel, or any other
reinforcing materials. The walls of the shaft look as though they’ve been heat-
glazed or something. They’re very smooth, even glassy. I’d imagine the glazing
was done to seal the walls and help provide structural support, but I couldn’t
begin to guess how it was done. Want me to keep looking? I might lose radio
contact if I get too far underground.”
“I’ll take that chance. Just find the body!” Luthor switched off his microphone
and purpled the air with a string of curses. He sat fuming for a few seconds and
then pulled a special telephone from his bottom desk drawer. There were no
buttons on this phone; the simple act of picking up the receiver initiated the call
over the private line.
At the other end of the line, the receiver was picked up between the first and
second rings. “Yes, Mr. Luthor?”
“We have a situation, Happersen. Meet me in the garage in five minutes.”

Rusty jumped up in surprise as Dan Turpin came stalking toward him through
the underbrush.
 “I didn’t expect you so soon, Inspector. The roads are pretty slippery out there
tonight.”
“ ’S no problem if you know what you’re doin’. This just better be good, to
roust me outta a warm bed.”
“It’s good, all right.” He pointed along the wall. “There’s where I saw our
ghost.”
“Shhh! Keep it down.” Turpin looked around, making sure they were alone.
“The last thing we need is for the tabloids to write about cops chasing shadows.”
“I hear you.” Rusty stamped his feet in a futile attempt to keep warm. He was
wearing two layers of good wool socks, but his shoes had been authentically
tattered to maintain his cover. “Meaning no disrespect, sir, but can we keep
moving? I’m freezing my badge off out here.”
Turpin grinned. “Just think warm thoughts, kid. Show me what you’ve
found.”
Rusty led Turpin along the wall to the ventilation shaft. The grating was still
slightly ajar. The opening left between the grate and the edge of the wall was
almost—but not quite—big enough for a grown man to slip through. “This is the
way I found it, Inspector.”
Turpin ran his hand along the rim of the metal grate. “Pretty crafty. Nobody
ever gives these things a second look. Lotsa folks never notice ’em at all. You
could hide all sorts of things in there.” He gave the grating a little tug; it just
barely moved. “Hmmph. Heavy sucker.”
Rusty tucked his hands up under his arms and shifted his weight from leg to
leg, dancing to keep his blood flowing. “Yeah, I tried sliding the grate the rest of
the way open, but I couldn’t budge it.”
“That’s ’cause ya never eat a good breakfast, kid.” Turpin gave Rusty a
cockeyed grin and squared his shoulders. “But I bet if ya let an ol’ hand like me
help ya out, we can move it just fine.”
After a few minutes of pushing and heaving, Rusty and the inspector managed
to slide the grating open a few more feet. “Well, it ain’t perfect,” groused
Turpin, “but it’s close enough.” He stuck his head in the opening. “Warm in
there.”
“Yeah?” Rusty leaned closer to the opening. “Oh, yeah!” He stood there
warming himself while Turpin fished a flashlight out of the lining of his coat.
“Hey, you know, Inspector, LexCorp financed a lot of the work to this part of the
park, even before they had Superman’s tomb built. You think they might have
something to do with this?”
“Maybe.” Turpin shrugged out of his coat and switched on the flashlight.
“Could be the answer’s inside. If it is, I’ll find it.”
“You want any backup?” Rusty glanced back at the empty plaza.
“Technically, I’m still on duty out there, but—”
“Don’t sweat it, kid. I ain’t afraid of ghosts.”
Rusty smacked his hand against the grate. “Hey, no ‘ghost’ could’ve moved
this mother.”
“You’re learnin’, kid. You hold the fort up here, but give Cap’n Sawyer a call
and tell her I said to get her skinny butt over here, okay?” The old cop slipped
past the grate, then stuck his head back out and treated Rusty to a grin that was
halfway on the road to becoming a scowl. “If I’m not back in an hour, send in
the marines and tell my daughter Maisie that I love her!”
Rusty watched Turpin disappear into the darkness of the shaft and just shook
his head. What’s that old saying? “There are old cops, and there are bold cops,
but there are no old bold cops.” Whoever came up with that one surely never
met “Terrible” Turpin. Rusty pulled out his phone. “Sorry, Captain Sawyer, but
orders are orders!”

Some sixty blocks downtown, a late-model van shot out of an untended parking
lot and roared onto 114th Street.
“Hey, watch it, will ya?” In the back of the van, three men crouched in the
empty cargo bay, straining to keep their balance.
“Sorry.” The driver didn’t sound sorry; there was a nervous edge to his voice.
“I thought I heard something. I think we may have been spotted.”
As if in answer to the driver’s worries, the glare of a single headlight filled his
side mirror. The three men in the back of the van looked at each other and began
pulling machine pistols from beneath their coats as the whine of a high-
performance engine grew louder. One of them called up to the driver. “What’s
that?”
“Cycle cop, I think.” The driver’s voice had gone hollow. “He’s gaining on
us. I can’t shake him in this heap.”
 “Don’t sweat it. Let him get closer.” The men in the back waited tensely, guns
at the ready, as the motorcycle pulled up alongside the speeding van.
A commanding voice suddenly boomed out over an amplifier: “You in the van
—pull over!”
The gunmen threw open the van’s sliding side door and opened fire. To their
surprise, the man on the motorcycle deflected every one of their bullets with a
gleaming golden shield strapped to his left arm. One slug even ricocheted back
into the van, narrowly missing one of the gunmen.
“That’s no cop!” The driver was white as chalk. “That’s . . . that’s the
Guardian!”
“The Guardian?!” One of the gunmen went wide-eyed. “It can’t be! He busted
my grandfather once—an’ Gramps was younger’n me back then! The
Guardian’d be older’n dirt by now!”
“Who cares? Waste ’im!”
But the only thing they wasted was their ammunition. The Guardian suddenly
leapt from his speeding motorcycle into the open van, his shield held out before
him, and slammed into the gunmen like a battering ram. Guns went flying in all
directions.
“What’re you doin’ back there?” screamed the driver. “He ain’t bulletproof, is
he? Shoot ’im!”
A big hand reached out and grabbed the driver by the collar, and a cool, even
voice whispered in his ear, “As lousy shots as your friends were, I don’t need to
be bulletproof! Now, once more, pull this van over!”
Moments later, the Guardian was sitting back astride his motorcycle, giving
his statement to the police as they loaded the dazed gunmen into a paddy wagon.
“. . . that’s the story, Officer. I don’t know why that crew went to the trouble of
stealing a delivery van. Maybe you can get them to tell you.”
“Well, Guardian, even if we can’t, we have plenty to hold ’em on. In addition
to grand theft auto and the weapons charges, there’re warrants out on the whole
lot of ’em. Still and all, we may have a problem—at least, you may, Guardian.”
The cop shook his head. “Those creeps are making a lot of wild accusations
about use of unnecessary force. If they can make their stories jibe, they could file
charges against you.”
“Let them try. My bike recorded everything.”
 “Your bike—?”
“That’s right. There’s a camera built into the windscreen on this motorcycle.”
The Guardian pressed a button on the handlebars, and a silvery disc popped out
of a slot on the console just over the engine. “The entire chase was recorded on
this laser disc.”
The cop slipped the disc into an evidence folder and broke into a wide grin.
“The DA’s office will love you for this.”
“My pleasure. Tell them I’ll be in touch!”
With a single kick, the Guardian started up his big bike and peeled off down
the avenue. That didn’t go too badly, he thought. It had been years since he’d
covered the streets of the city with any regularity, and being back on patrol
brought back bittersweet memories. I’m glad I was able to get leave from the
Project to come back and lend a hand. Metropolis has been hurting since
Superman died.
As the Guardian turned east onto Bessolo Boulevard, he felt a mild pressure at
his temples. The face of Dubbilex seemed to shimmer before his eyes.
“Guardian!”
“Dubbilex? What’s up?”
“Trouble. We need you at the Project—hurry! I must gather the others.” The
mental projection faded as quickly as it had appeared.
The Guardian made a quick U-turn and headed uptown toward Suicide Slum.
He didn’t know what was going on, but it had to be serious for Dubbilex to send
a telepathic message all the way from the Project. It’s a drain for him to cast his
mind across so many miles. I’d better take the rail back.
At the Hob’s Bay exit, the Guardian made a sharp right and motored down
Kurtzberg Lane to a squat brown building. The sight of the place brought a
momentary smile to his face. The good old Red Horse Garage! It seems like only
yesterday that my boys were hanging out here, tuning up old jalopies and getting
into mischief. He flipped a switch on his bike, and the garage’s overhead door
began ratcheting open. In a way, they’re still causing mischief behind these
doors . . . far behind and below.
As the Guardian rode into the darkened garage, the door automatically closed
behind him. A soft, diffuse light came on around him as the garage floor began
to sink rapidly down a deep shaft. The Guardian dismounted, marveling once
again at the automated systems that Cadmus’s engineers had been able to hide
beneath the streets of the old neighborhood. I must remember to commend the
maintenance division. I know this hydraulic lift hasn’t been used in months, but
it still runs as smoothly as the day it was installed.
The lift came to a cushioned halt nearly five hundred feet below street level,
and the Guardian walked his bike toward a bullet-shaped monorail car that sat
waiting. A warning bell chimed as he approached, and he was challenged by a
prerecorded message.
“This is a high-security zone. Please state your clearance code now.”
“Priority code seven-A. This is Agent Harper! Repeat, this is Agent Harper!”
There was a click and a ding from a wall-mounted speaker, and the door to the
railcar began to slide open. “Voiceprint check confirmed. Agent Harper cleared
for transport access.”
As the railcar got under way, the Guardian began to ponder Dubbilex’s
summons. He had felt the anxiety in the DNAlien’s thought-cast. It usually takes
a pretty heavy crisis to get Dubbilex that disturbed. I wonder what could be
going on? Not more trouble with Paul Westfield, I hope! The Guardian thumbed
a switch on the railcar’s console. “Estimated time of arrival at Cadmus?”
The recorded voice responded with a click. “This car will dock in five
minutes, three seconds.”
The Guardian drummed his fingers impatiently against his shield. Arrival
couldn’t come fast enough for him.

Far below the surface of Centennial Park, Supergirl carefully picked her way
through a maze of caverns, wishing that she’d brought a flashlight.
The steep walk down the shaft had been no problem; the shaft’s glossy sides
had diffused remarkably well the lighting from the crypt and its antechamber.
But the lower end of the shaft had opened into the caves, and the caves rapidly
swallowed up most of the light. A flashlight? I wish I had a miner’s helmet!
She expanded her eyes to four times their normal size to collect as much as
possible of the dim light that still remained. “Are you still reading me, Lex?” In
the still of the caverns, Supergirl kept her commentary to a hushed whisper
without even being aware that she’d lowered her voice. “I can’t hear you, but I
guess that doesn’t necessarily mean that you can’t hear me. The shaft that led
down from the crypt was about a hundred yards long, but what’s really
surprising is that it was started down here in these caves. I never knew there was
anything like this under Metropolis. Wait a minute. I think I hear something.”
Supergirl stopped and listened intently. She could definitely hear footsteps
behind her not far away, and there was a pale glow coming from just around the
bend. Slowly, silently, she glided down the cave, heading toward the sound.
Suddenly a bright light washed over Supergirl, momentarily dazzling her in its
brilliance. She whipped up her cape to shield her eyes as they shrank back to
their normal dimensions.
From farther down in the cave came a string of colorful expletives, and the
voice that gave them breath sounded vaguely familiar.
“Inspector Turpin?”
“What the hell are you?! How do you know me?”
“It’s me—Supergirl.” She lowered her cape and gave the old cop her sweetest
smile.
Turpin approached slowly with his pistol drawn and flashlight just slightly
lowered now. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph—it is you! You gave me quite a scare,
li’l lady. For a minute there, I coulda sworn your eyes were as big as dinner
plates.”
“Uh, yes, well . . .”
“What’re you doin’ down here?”
“I might ask you the same, Inspector.”
“I came to check out something fishy that happened in the park, and it led me
down a hole under Superman’s crypt—which was empty, I might add! I don’t
suppose you could tell me anything about that?”
“Not much, Inspector. Sounds like we both answered alarms in the night, but
I’m about as much in the dark as you are. I discovered Superman’s body was
missing and followed a shaft down to—to wherever it is we are now. Did you
know there were caves like this under the city?”
Turpin scratched his chin. “Seems to me I remember hearing something about
caves when I was a boy. Something to do with how they screwed up some
aqueducts the city was trying to build.”
Turpin’s flashlight began to flicker. “No-good cheap batteries!” He shook the
lamp angrily, and it blinked out. “Oh, this is just dandy! Now we’re really in the
dark!”
“Not to worry!” Supergirl took him by the hand. “I think I remember the way
back.”

From midtown, a black stretch limousine sped northwest across Metropolis, as if

racing the dawn. In the back of the limo, Luthor sat silently fuming as Sydney
Happersen did his best to reassure his employer.
“Really, Mister L, there’s probably nothing to worry about!”
“Nothing, Happersen? Superman’s body is missing from its tomb!”
Happersen flinched and glanced at the privacy window. It was sealed, of
course; their driver hadn’t heard a word. Happersen had checked the window
himself, twice, before they’d set out, but he couldn’t stop himself from checking
again. I’ll be checking under my own bed next.
He cleared his throat. “Grave robbers, sir. Some nut cases have stolen the
body—that’s the answer, pure and simple! After all, Superman had a lot of
enemies. You weren’t the only one who wanted him dead.”
Happersen reached up under his glasses to rub the sleep from his eyes. “You
saw the news footage of Superman’s battle with that Doomsday creature. He
couldn’t possibly have faked his death!”
“No, Happersen? I faked mine!” Luthor stared out at the city, his city, as it
flashed by. “Could Superman have found that out? Could he have set all this up
to catch me off guard?”
“Mr. L, that’s highly unlikely—!”
“But not impossible, Happersen! Nothing is impossible for men of power.”
The car phone buzzed, and Luthor switched on the speaker. “Yes?”
“Lex! At last!” The relief in Supergirl’s voice came across loud and clear. “I
was afraid my headset had gone completely on the fritz. How much of my report
got back to you?”
“Your signal faded out as you descended the tunnel, love. What did you
find?”
“Not much. Mainly a series of caves—and Police Inspector Turpin.”
“Turpin?!” Luthor’s face flashed red as he struggled to maintain his calm.
“Then the police know of Superman’s disappearance?”
 “Yes. In fact, more of them are arriving now. Do you want me to return to the
tower?”
“No! No, I’m en route to the tomb now with Doctor Happersen. He has some
equipment that should aid in the investigation. Just stay put. We should be there
soon.”
Luthor turned to his aide. “Well, the fat’s in the fire now, Sydney.”
Minutes later, at Luthor’s direction, the limousine pulled up to the curb on the
edge of the park. Happersen spoke not a word as he pulled a backpack of
electronic gear from the trunk, and the two men set off on foot for the tomb. At
the east retaining wall, they found two uniformed officers of the Special Crimes
Unit standing guard.
One of the officers recognized Luthor and gestured toward the grate. “We
were told to expect you, gentlemen. Go on in. You do know the way, don’t
you?”
Luthor answered the sarcasm with a wry chuckle and his best corporate smile.
“I believe the officer’s having a bit of sport with us, Sydney.” As he led the way
down the incline, he lowered his voice to a bare whisper. “Did you get his badge
number?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good; we’ll deal with him later.”
When Luthor and Happersen finally reached the antechamber, they found
Supergirl waiting patiently for them, along with Inspector Turpin, another SCU
uniformed officer, and Captain Margaret Sawyer.
Supergirl looked up as they approached. “Lex, there you are!”
“Hello, love . . . Captain Sawyer . . . Inspector Turpin. I believe you all know
my senior science advisor, Dr. Sydney Happersen. Beastly night for such a thing,
eh?”
“Is there ever a good time to investigate a grave robbery?” Sawyer fixed him
with an icy stare. “Mister Luthor, in all my many years in police work, I’d never
before seen a tomb with access vents and secret tunnels. I’d like to hear your
explanation for this setup!”
Give ’im hell, Maggie! Turpin tipped his derby forward, trying hard not to
show how much he enjoyed hearing her read Luthor the riot act. I got me a
feeling this slippery cuss has been playin’ fast and loose way too long!
 Luthor was the picture of humility. “I assure you, Captain Sawyer, I never
meant for anything to disturb the integrity of Superman’s final resting place.” He
gestured to the walls around them. “This section of Centennial Park, you see,
was recently refurbished under a LexCorp grant. Originally, a time capsule was
to be buried here, hence this ‘setup,’ as you called it. After Superman’s untimely
death, the foundations proved the ideal structural support for his crypt. True, this
access corridor wasn’t public knowledge, but there was absolutely no intention
of subterfuge! And from what I’ve gathered, this access was not involved in the
removal of Superman’s body.” Luthor turned to Supergirl. “That is the case, is it
not?”
“As far as I can tell, Lex.”
“Well, then, let’s have a closer look, shall we?” He gestured to the open
hatchway. “Dr. Happersen, if you would do the honors—?”
Moments later, Happersen looked up from the edge of the hole in the wall.
“You were right, Supergirl. From the scoring and the rubble, it’s obvious that
this crypt was broken into, not out of! Given the amount of rock they had to go
through, whoever did this had access to some pretty high-tech gear. You say that
the other end of the shaft is an underground cave?”
Supergirl nodded. “More like a series of caves, Doctor. In fact, there are two
major branches, splitting off from each other. Between the two of us, the
Inspector and I pretty much checked out one fork, and all we found was a dead
end.”
Luthor stroked his beard thoughtfully. “Then I’d say it’s incumbent upon us to
search the remaining fork at once! Superman’s body must be found. You do
agree, Captain?”
“I certainly do.” I don’t trust you or your flunky any farther than I can throw
you, but I’m not about to turn down your help—or Supergirl’s. Sawyer turned to
her uniformed officer. “Break out some more flashlights, Ramirez. We’re going
back down.”

The Guardian left the monorail dock and sprinted down the Cadmus Project’s
huge central corridor. He could feel something tugging at him, as if leading him
to where he was most needed. Dubbilex’s doing, no doubt. Within minutes he
came upon the telepath and the five department heads crowded around a huge
security door.
 The sight gave him pause. Yes, they’re all here. Anthony Rodrigues and Pat
Macguire had the lock panel off the door and were fiddling with its internal
circuits, while John Gabrielli focused a pocket flash on their work. Tom
Tompkins and Walter Johnson stood on the periphery; both men were visibly
agitated. The Guardian was so used to being around the young clones of these
men that seeing “his boys” all grown up was momentarily disorienting.
“Dubbilex! What in blazes is going on?”
“Our Mr. Westfield has sealed himself off in Lab Seven with an advanced
study team in violation of all known protocols!” Dubbilex nervously chewed at
the end of one fingernail. The Guardian had never seen the DNAlien in such a
lather before.
Tompkins was more forceful in his accusations. “Westfield’s pulling some
kind of fast one, Jim! He has to be! He’s even set up psionic buffers around the
lab so Dubbilex couldn’t probe it!”
Walt Johnson nervously flipped the button of a ballpoint pen. “It doesn’t look
good, Guardian. Pat and Anthony are trying to override the security locks, but
—!”
“Success!” Anthony Rodrigues stepped back as the security door began
cycling open. “Gentlemen, we have ingress!”
The seven men crowded through the door, Dubbilex at the forefront. Three
feet into the lab, they all came to a dead halt. Before them, Paul Westfield and a
group of geneticists in surgical greens were clustered around an examination
table—upon which lay the body of Superman!
The Guardian exploded. “Westfield, you damned ghoul! No wonder my leave
was granted so quickly—you wanted me away from the Project, didn’t you? You
wanted me out of here, to make sure that I wouldn’t catch on to your infernal
scheme!”
Westfield stepped in front of Harper, blocking his path into the lab. “The
research under way here is not your concern, Guardian. I suggest that you refrain
from any thoughts of interference.”
“Not my concern?! You steal the body of the world’s greatest hero—you
commandeer Project facilities and enlist Project personnel for—for God only
knows what you plan to do!—and you have the unmitigated gall to tell me it’s
not my concern?!”
“Spare me the histrionics, Guardian!” Westfield crossed his arms defiantly.
“This is a sensitive scientific operation of the highest possible priority. I have no
desire to stand here and listen to a lot of insubordinate moralizing!”
“You don’t want to listen? Fine! I’ll make my point another way!” The
Guardian leapt at Westfield, grabbing the Project administrator by his tie and
shirt collar, and hoisted him up off the floor with one hand. The security chief
balled his other hand up into a fist and was about to let it fly when the others
finally grabbed hold of him.
“Guardian, no!” It was all Dubbilex could do to hold back his friend’s arm.
“Jim, this isn’t the way—!”
“Maybe not the best way, Dub, but our esteemed administrator here just made
it the only way!” The Guardian locked eyes with Westfield. “So I’m
insubordinate, am I? The President himself ordered you to cease all attempts to
claim Superman’s body—”
“N-n-no. N-not exactly.” Westfield was starting to turn red. “My orders said
to allow Metropolis to hold their funeral. I—I interpreted that to mean . . . once
the services were over . . . my original authorization to collect and study alien
decedents w-would resume.”
Westfield made a strained choking noise as the Guardian tightened his grip.
“So you just took it upon yourself to do a little grave robbing, is that it? You
are really some piece of work, Westfield! Just what did you have in mind for
Superman? Were you afraid you’d miss your chance to preside over the
dissection of the last Kryptonian?”
“No, you fool! Think. We could re-create Superman! Bring him back to life—
as you were brought back!”
“Clone a new Superman?!” John Gabrielli’s eyebrows seemed about to leap
off his forehead. “You can’t be serious!”
“Hold it, John.” Tom put a hand on his old buddy’s arm. “Maybe he’s on to
something!”
That was too much for Pat MacGuire. “Tompkins, you’re as nutty as he is!
The procedures you used to save the Guardian were experimental, and we had a
living template to work from! Superman is dead—and an alien! Who knows
what we’d wind up with if we tried to replicate him?!”
“Who knows, indeed.” Walt Johnson started tapping his chin with his pen.
“Still, if there’s a chance, even a slight chance of success . . .”
 The Guardian was so shocked that he lost his grip and let Westfield fall,
stumbling, to the floor. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this!” He turned to Dr.
Rodrigues, looking for a voice of reason. “All questions of ethics aside, you’ve
told me how touch and go my rebirth was. My body might just as easily have
wound up as twisted and misshapen as—as some of those poor creatures Dabney
Donovan created. And Pat’s right! Even if you succeeded in cloning Superman,
he wouldn’t be Superman. You don’t have his mind to plug into a new body.”
“Valid objections to be sure.” Rodrigues stopped and pushed his glasses back
up the bridge of his long nose. “The odds against success would be monumental
—but not necessarily insurmountable! A facsimile of Superman’s psyche could
conceivably be simulated by recording the mental impressions that Dubbilex
absorbed from him in previous encounters.”
Dubbilex stepped back, at first startled by the suggestion. He frowned and
then began to look distant, as if searching through his mind for a misplaced
memory. “He . . . he has a point, Jim. I’m a walking example of Project science
gone awry, but I consider my life a most precious gift. I do carry certain psychic
impressions in my subconscious. There is a possibility of success here, however
slim.”
The Guardian threw up his hands. “All right. I still think you all ought to have
your heads examined, but I guess maybe we do owe it to Superman—and to the
world—to at least try.”
“You’ll see.” Westfield rubbed his neck as he attempted to regain his
composure. “I have the greatest confidence that we’ll succeed—!”
“Not so fast, Westfield!” The Guardian glowered down at the administrator.
“If there’s to be an ‘Operation Superman,’ you are not going to be in charge of
it! I want this run strictly by the book from here on—under the direct supervision
of Drs. Tompkins, Johnson, and Rodrigues!” He nodded to the three men who,
of the five department heads, were the most directly involved with research.
“Very well, if that’s the way it must be.” Westfield bristled at the thought of
caving in under such humiliating circumstances, but at this point he was willing
to make just about any compromises necessary to get the operation under way.
There’ll be plenty of time to regain control, once things are up and running.
Westfield turned to the man closest to the examination table. “Well, Dr.
Packard, you heard the Guardian; it’s in their hands now!”
Carl Packard stepped away from the body, pulling down his surgical mask. “I
wish you luck, gentlemen. You’ll need it, if you’re hoping to obtain significant
tissue samples.”
“Oh?” Dr. Tompkins was already moving forward to inspect what had been
done. “And why is that, Carl?”
“It appears that, even in death, Superman’s body is still quite thoroughly
invulnerable!” Packard held up a scalpel for all to see. The instrument’s blade
was bent nearly double.

Several hundred feet under Metropolis, Captain Sawyer and Inspector Turpin
stuck close to Dr. Happersen and Lex Luthor as they all followed Supergirl
down the unexplored branch of the cave system. The cavern was beginning to
narrow when they came to an abrupt dead end.
“Are you sure this is the right way, love?”
“Well, it’s the only branch we haven’t explored, Lex.” Supergirl grasped a
huge fallen stalactite and heaved it out of her way. “I have to admit, I didn’t
expect this much rubble, but it all appears to be newly fallen!”
“I agree, Supergirl.” Happersen moved ahead to join her, pausing every few
feet to wave a probe device through the musty air. “My equipment’s detecting
minute airborne traces of explosive residue. Someone was trying to cover the
trail, and they succeeded admirably, I’m afraid. We’re so far underground, I
doubt that anyone would have heard the blasts from outside in the park.”
Supergirl sank her hands deep into the wall of rubble and yanked aside
another huge section of rock. Happersen stopped in midcalculation, a horrified
look on his face.
“Supergirl, stop! Just a moment, please!” The doctor punched up a series of
numbers on his hand-held apparatus. “Yes—according to my readings, we’re
actually below the northwest fork of the Hob’s River at this point. We must
proceed with all due caution.”
“Oh, don’t be such a worrywart, Dr. Happersen! I’ll be careful!”
“Just the same, love, it wouldn’t hurt to exercise a bit of restraint.” Luthor
stepped ahead of Supergirl to peer down the hole she had opened. The light of
his flash caught the glimmer of a small metal disc with stenciled markings just a
few yards away. “Happersen, what do you make of this?”
“Good Lord. That . . . that looks like some kind of unexploded charge!”
 “What?!” Supergirl grabbed Luthor and Happersen by their coats and flung
them backward, nearly bowling over Sawyer and Turpin in the process. The next
moment, the chamber was rocked by a bone-rattling explosion. Massive sections
of rock and showers of dirt poured down upon Supergirl, but almost magically,
the debris traveled no further up the cave. After a few seconds, the Girl of Steel
backed out of the rubble. There wasn’t so much as a speck of dust on her.
“Is everyone all right? I extended my energy shield as quickly as I could, but
I’ve never tried to protect so many people before.”
Luthor took Supergirl by the arm. “You did just fine, love. Happersen—?”
“F-fine, sir. Just a little shaken.”
“Dangdest thing I ever saw.” Turpin tipped his hat back and scratched his
head. “What’s wrong, Maggie? You’ve got that funny look on your kisser.”
“Wrong?” Sawyer frowned. “I don’t know, Dan. I just got this sudden feeling
. . . does anyone else hear something?”
Everyone grew still. There it was—a faraway sound, but building. It was a
rushing noise.
“Omigod,” gasped Happersen. “The river—!”
Somehow, Supergirl scooped up all four of them—grabbing Luthor and
Happersen bodily and lifting the other two along with her psychokinesis. She
rocketed them back up the branch of the cave as a wall of water came surging
through the rubble. Rock and debris were washed aside as the torrent swept after
them.
Not until they reached the shaft leading to the crypt did Supergirl pause or
look back. “Go! Up—quickly! The flood seems to have slowed, but let’s not
take any chances!”
Onward they ran, the sound of lapping water echoing after them. The flood
crested a third of the way up the shaft, but they didn’t stop until they’d reached
the crypt.
Officer Ramirez, still on guard, came instantly alert as the five explorers ran
stumbling into the crypt. “What’s going on? Why the rush?”
“Just tryin’ to keep from gettin’ waterlogged, Rami.” Turpin leaned back
against the wall, gasping for breath. Improbably, he’d managed to hang onto his
hat, and now he tipped it to Supergirl. “You do good work, li’l lady. That’s a
fact.” An’ if I ever hear that this young pup Luthor ain’t treatin’ her right, I’ll
personally kick his behind till his nose bleeds!
“Thanks, Inspector. I just wish things had turned out better.” Supergirl ran a
hand, comblike, through her hair. “We’re back to square one now. It’s all so
frustrating!”
“Buck up, love. We’ll untangle this mystery yet. Superman’s body will be
recovered—I promise you that!”
“I wish I had your confidence, Lex. We still don’t know who robbed the tomb,
and that flood probably washed away any clues we might have found.”
“I’m afraid Supergirl’s right, Luthor.” Sawyer jotted down notes in her report
book. “I’m not looking forward to breaking this news to the public.”
“What?!” Luthor’s jaw dropped. “Captain, surely any disclosure must wait
until we know more! Can you imagine the outcry if we revealed that Superman’s
body had disappeared?”
Turpin wore an awful frown. “I gotta admit, Maggie, he’s got a point. If this
got out, it could start a riot.”
“It could, indeed, Inspector.” Luthor clapped the old cop on the back and
pressed on. “Superman’s death left so many people bereft. If word should leak
that his crypt was empty . . . well, our more distraught citizens might jump to all
manner of conclusions!”
Ramirez cocked his head toward Sawyer. “Some of them have already, Cap’n,
if we can believe the reports I’ve gotten from the guys out by the grave site!
You’d better take a look.”
Moments later, they were all back at the east wall grating. Spread out before
them in the dawn’s light was a small sea of people milling about before the
tomb. Over half of them were wearing royal blue robes that bore the red and
yellow pentagonal S-shield of Superman.
Sawyer raised an eyebrow. “Early-rising bunch. Where’d they come from?”
“California,” reported one of the outer guards. “From what one of ’em told
Rusty, that’s where their cult got started.”
“Cult?”
“That’s right, Inspector. Those people actually worship Superman—and I
don’t mean hero worship!”
At the base of the tomb, one of the cultists was already preaching to his flock
“. . . and I say to you, sisters and brothers, do not despair! Be not afraid! In our
hour of greatest need, Superman shall return to us from beyond the grave! Yea,
he will return and save us all! Say the name now. Say the name and be free!”
The plaza began to echo with their chant: “Superman! SUPERMAN!
SUPERMAN!”
“Oh, great! Of all the times for this to happen!” Sawyer smacked her hand
against the grating in disgust. “It looks like we have no choice but to keep a lid
on this for now. We’ll expect your full cooperation in our investigations,
Luthor.”
“Of course, Captain. For now, though, I think it would be best if we sealed
this access and slipped away as quietly as possible. Don’t you agree, Doctor?”
Happersen nodded, his head nervously bobbing as though it were mounted on
a spring.
Minutes later, as a Special Crimes Unit van drove away from the park,
Maggie Sawyer finally gave voice to her suspicions. “I didn’t want to say
anything in front of Luthor and the others, Dan, but I’d bet a year’s pay that Paul
Westfield and the Cadmus Project are behind this!”
“Well, their last attempt at tryin’ to grab Superman sure makes ’em prime
suspects, Maggie.” Turpin shook his head. “I hate to think of the Guardian bein’
mixed up with that bunch. He struck me as a straight-arrow kinda guy.”
“And maybe he is, Dan, but he doesn’t run the show. And from what I’ve
seen, Cadmus has the kind of technology to carry off something like this.”
Sawyer grew silent for a minute. “You know, I think I’ll call Ben Friendly at the
FBI and see if he can add some federal muscle to our investigation.”
“We’ll need it if Westfield is involved.” Turpin sounded angry enough to bite
nails. “That weasel wouldn’t come clean if you ran him through a car wash!
Speakin’ of weasels, do you think we’ll get any real help from Luthor?”
Sawyer shook her head. “No, Dan, I don’t. Luthor didn’t rob Superman’s
grave, but he does have some personal agenda in this mess. I can almost smell
it!”
Several blocks away, Luthor’s limousine pulled away from the curb and
turned back downtown. Supergirl flew high overhead, keeping a protective eye
on the car.
Below, Luthor sealed off the back of the limousine and began to grill his
science advisor. “How good a look did you get at that charge before it went off,
Happersen?”
“Well, I noticed some markings, but I couldn’t see it clearly enough to make
out any serial numbers.”
“What about those markings? Think, man, what did they look like to you?”
“It all happened so quickly.” Happersen closed his eyes and tried to recall.
“There was a large design of some kind—some sort of crossed out X or
something.”
“No, Happersen, not an X . . . more like a stylized DNA helix!”
“Excuse me, sir?”
“That was a Cadmus imprint on that charge, I’d swear it. The men that
Westfield used in his stand at the morgue wore a similar insignia.”
“Sir, do you seriously think that Westfield would defy a direct presidential
order?”
“Oh, don’t be an idiot, Sydney! Westfield would circumvent an order from
God Almighty if it suited his purposes! So would I. I could almost admire the
man’s tenacity. If only I knew what he was up to—!”
“It’s a pity you had to terminate Dr. Teng after he assisted Dabney Donovan
in your—ah—‘resurrection,’ Mr. L. Teng did a masterful job of infiltrating
Cadmus for us, and no one there was ever the wiser. He would be the perfect
mole, if he were still alive.”
“No matter, Happersen. If we planted one mole in the Project, we can plant
another! I want you to get on that immediately. I must know what Westfield is
up to. I must!”

“Your attention, please! LexAir Flight 2710, nonstop service to Kansas City, is
now ready for boarding at gate five.”
“Well, that’s us.” Jonathan Kent shifted slightly under the weight of his carry-
on bag. “Good-bye, Lois. You take care of yourself now!”
“I will, Jonathan. You take good care, too.” Lois tried to hold back the tears as
she hugged him and Martha and then Lana. “Safe traveling, all! I promise that
I’ll keep in touch!”
As the hugs broke off, Lana gave a shy little wave and began shepherding the
Kents down the jetway.
 Lois waved back from just outside the gate. “Give my best to Peter, Lana. Let
me know if you need any help with—with your wedding.”
Lana paused in the jetway and looked back. All those years with Clark—and
then without him—came flooding back to her. And I thought that I’d lost him,
just because he didn’t love me the way I loved him. My loss can’t begin to
compare to hers.
“Lois!” Lana ran back up the jetway and threw her arms around the reporter.
“Oh, Lois, if it would bring him back, I’d gladly give up twenty years of my own
life.”
“So would I, Lana. S-so would I. I—I know how much you loved him. Please,
keep an eye on the Kents. They’re going to need you.”
“I will. And you take care of yourself. I know how hard it will be. If you ever
need a shoulder—”
“Sure.”
Lana reached out and brushed a tear from Lois’s cheek. “I promise—
whenever you need me, I’ll be there for you. Always.”
16

When the Kents returned home to Smallville, everything in Kansas seemed

gray, but nothing was grayer than Jonathan’s mood. The afternoon sky was
overcast from Salina to the Rockies, but even a bright, sunny day would have
done little to raise his spirits. Everything Jonathan saw made him think of Clark.
Just staring out the truck window at the plains, stretching out to a gray horizon,
had reminded him of the drab little Kansas farm in The Wizard of Oz, and the
many times he and Martha had read that book to their son.
For Martha’s sake, Jonathan had tried not to brood, but neither of them had
said more than three or four words since they’d left the airport parking lot at
Great Bend. Silence seemed to suit them both at the moment, but Jonathan had
seen a lot of grief in his life and knew too well the difference between the quiet
that heals and the silence that festers. He was very much afraid that he was
slipping into a dangerous silence, but at the same time he felt wholly unequal to
the task of resisting it.
It wasn’t until they turned down the gravel road to their farm that Jonathan
finally forced himself to speak. “Old farm looks the same as it did when we left,
don’t it, Martha? Funny . . . feels like we were away in Metropolis a million
years.”
Martha nodded slowly. For a while there, it felt like two million. “It’s good to
be back, Jon. Home is a good place to heal. Leastways, I hope it will be.”
As they pulled up to the farmhouse, Ed and Juanita Coleman came out to
welcome them back. Were so lucky to have them for neighbors, thought
Jonathan. They’re such good folks. It had been a load off his mind, knowing that
the Colemans were looking after the house and livestock while they were away.
No sooner had Martha stepped from the truck than Juanita swept her up in a
big hug. Ed started to shake Jonathan’s hand, then changed his mind and gave
his old friend a hug as well.
“Good to have ya back, Jon.”
“Thanks, Ed.” Jonathan reflected that there weren’t many men in these parts
—of their generation, at least—who felt secure and comfortable enough to give
so physical a greeting. He felt honored that Ed thought that much of their
friendship.
Jonathan reached over to pull their suitcases from the back of the pickup
truck, but without seeming to hurry, Ed somehow got there first. “I’ve got these,
Jonathan. You take it easy.”
“Sure, Ed, sure.” Me take it easy? He’s five years older than me, if he’s a day.
Then again, Ed never has looked his age—“black don’t crack,” isn’t that what
he always said?—and me, I probably look a hundred years old. “Thanks again.
And thanks for seeing to the chores while we were gone. Both of you.”
There were tears in Juanita’s big dark eyes. “Supper’s all ready and in the
oven keepin’ warm for you. But listen, if’n you folks don’t feel like eating alone
tonight, why, you just pop that casserole into your fridge and come over to our
place. That meal won’t suffer any for it. It’ll even be better the next day.”
Martha’s eyes glistened with tears as well, but she smiled bravely and hugged
her neighbor again. “You didn’t have to go to all that trouble, Juanita.”
“Wasn’t any trouble. You’d do the same for us.” Juanita’s face was lined with
sorrow. “I can’t tell you how sorry we are ’bout what happened to Clark. I never
would’ve thought . . .” She shook her head. “I mean, he reported from so many
dangerous places over the years, and then right there in Metropolis . . .”
“ ‘We never know the place or the hour,’ ” Martha quoted softly.
Juanita bit her lip. “Have they found . . . any sign of him yet?”
“No, not yet. That Doomsday creature caused so much destruction. They may
never find him.”
“Now don’t you talk like that, Martha Kent. If’n there’s no bad news, there
might yet be good news. I don’t want to hold out false hope, but they could find
him alive, you know! Big, strong boy like Clark—if anyone could beat the odds
and survive, it’d be him.”
Ed returned from stowing the suitcases inside and put his arm around Juanita’s
shoulder. He smiled gently, encouragingly at Martha. “So, you an’ Jon gonna be
join’ us?”
“No—no, not tonight, Ed. It’s awfully kind of you, but I think we need a little
time to ourselves just now.”
The Colemans nodded and headed over to their own pickup. As Ed started up
the truck, Juanita rolled down her window. “Remember now, anytime you feel
the need to talk, you just give us a call. And if we don’t hear from you soon,
we’ll call you!”
The Kents stood by the back porch, watching as Ed and Juanita’s truck
disappeared down the road. Jonathan zipped his jacket shut against the wind.
“You go on in, Martha. Ed said that he’d tended to the milking, but I want to
look in on old Bessie.”

As Jonathan entered the barn, Bessie mooed her hello. “Hello, old girl, how’re
you doing?” He looked around. Bessie’s stall—the entire barn for that matter—
was tidy as it could be. “I knew I could trust Ed and Juanita to do right by you,
Bess.”
On the wall beside Bessie’s stall, a few faded bits of ribbon fluttered in the
breeze from the open door. Clark’s old 4-H ribbons—the ones he won with
Bessie’s mother—they’ve been tacked up there so long, I’d almost come to
overlook them. Jonathan shook his head. How can everything look the same,
when everything is so different?
“Hey, Pa, look! I got Bessie all cleaned up! What d’you think?”
Jonathan jumped. “C-Clark?” His memory was so vivid, the voice had
sounded as clear as if his young son were actually there. He looked from the
ribbons to Bessie and back again. Clark must have been about twelve when he
won that blue ribbon . . .

“Bessie is really the best, isn’t she, Pa?”

Jonathan beamed at his son. “I never saw a prettier little calf in my whole life,
Clark!”
“Really? Do you think maybe she might take a ribbon at the 4-H fair?”
“If hard work and care can make a calf a winner, son, that little gal’s got more
than a chance—she’s got a good chance!” Jonathan knelt down beside his son,
scratching the calf behind the ears. “Just don’t go getting cocky, son, and
counting your ribbons before you win ’em.”
“I won’t, Pa. Thanks!” Young Clark gave his father a big hug. “If she does
win, it’ll be because of you!”
“Because of me, Clark? How so?”
 “Because of what you taught me—you and Ma both!” Clark rolled his eyes in
exasperation. “I wasn’t born knowing this stuff! You taught me how to care!”

“Well, we surely tried, son. We tried our best.”

“Jonathan?” Martha stood in the doorway of the barn, trying not to look too
worried. “Jonathan, did I hear you talking to somebody out here?”
Jonathan looked around. The twelve-year-old boy had vanished long ago.
“Nobody’s here, Martha. How could I be talking to anybody?” His voice
sounded dead, even to himself. Jonathan managed no more than a weak smile for
his wife; lifting those muscles in his face seemed to take more effort than hefting
a fifty-pound bale of hay.
Jonathan gave Bessie one last pat and headed back to the house with Martha.
And though they walked arm in arm, she found herself thinking that her husband
had never seemed so far away.

Behind the doors of Lab Seven in the Cadmus Project, Dubbilex stood like a
statue, contemplating the faintly green, Plexiglas-walled cold storage unit that
held the body of Superman. The DNAlien did not even look up as the chamber
door cycled open. “Come in, Jim.”
The Guardian crossed the room in three great strides. “I’m not surprised to
find you still here, Dub.”
“Nor I you. We harbor many of the same reservations.”
“No doubt.” The Guardian rested a hand lightly on the storage chamber.
“Well, I’ve sent a report to Washington, listing my reservations about all this. If
nothing else, I guess we’ll find out how many friends Westfield has left in high
places.” He stared down at Superman’s body as if trying to will the Man of Steel
back to life. “You know, I still don’t really feel right about this. That probably
sounds hypocritical, and maybe it is, but it’s the truth.”
“Indeed. I’m also concerned about Westfield’s proposal to clone Superman.
The Project’s only truly unqualified cloning successes—yourself and the young
Newsboys—involved the replication of purely human stock. We understand so
little of Kryptonian physiology, Guardian; we could easily create a monster.” A
dour smile tugged at the corners of Dubbilex’s mouth. “A prime example of
which stands before you.”
 “Don’t ever say that, Dub.” The Guardian looked up at his friend. “You’re no
monster.”
“Not intellectually, perhaps. You must admit, though, that I have a face only
the tabloids could love. It is not easy being the only one of your kind, Jim. But I
have made my peace with my situation. I am reasonably happy in my work and
enjoy life as much as I can, within my self-imposed restrictions. But what if we
were to create a being that possessed all of Superman’s power and none of his
humanity? That would be a true monster.” Dubbilex leaned over the Plexiglas
surface, peering at Superman through his own reflection. “A superpowered
monster might not be so easily restricted—or restrained. Wouldn’t it be the
ultimate irony if, in trying to re-create the Man of Steel, we instead gave the
world another Doomsday?”
The Guardian shuddered at the thought. “That’s why I wanted Tommy,
Anthony, and Walt to supervise this. I trust them to pull the plug if things should
get out of hand.”
“Yes, to the best of their abilities, they would.” Dubbilex stroked his long
chin. “But there is another question that we should be asking ourselves. What if,
somehow, Superman is still alive?”
“Alive? You mean, you’ve detected a mind—?”
“No. Not a trace. But look at him, Jim. This is not the result of any mortician’s
art. The body has been thoroughly cleaned and there are no signs of any
contusions. The terrible wounds that Doomsday inflicted upon him have
closed!”
The Guardian bent close over the body. “Yes, you’re right. But surely that
must have happened before he died. You’ve spent days searching for signs of
life—ever since we discovered what Westfield had done.”
“Even longer than that, Jim.” Dubbilex gently shook his head. “I examined
Superman at the battle site. Consider this: Even before you began CPR, when the
Man of Steel’s wounds were still open and oozing blood, I could sense nothing
of his spirit. Your valiant efforts, and those of the paramedics and of Dr.
Sanchez, were all unsuccessful. At no time—and believe me, my friend, I kept
close watch—did I ever sense the faintest stirrings of life.”
The Guardian sucked in a sharp breath and turned back to the DNAlien. “I see
what you mean. Then, to the best of your knowledge, Superman was already
dead, yet his wounds still closed.”
 “Not merely closed. They apparently healed.”
The Guardian’s eyes widened. “Do you have any idea how? Or why?”
“I can think of two possibilities. Perhaps the healing of Superman’s wounds
was a last reflex of an extraordinarily vital body; the separate tissues trying to
heal themselves even after the individual life-force as a whole was gone.
Certainly, cells expire at different rates in all multicellular organisms. Some
tissues live on for minutes, even hours, after brain death has occurred.”
Wearily, Dubbilex rubbed his eyes. “Or possibly, his spirit was still present,
but I did not look closely enough, or in exactly the right ‘place.’ Perhaps it is
present even now, and I simply do not know how to find it.”
The chamber grew quiet as both men silently pondered what, if anything, they
should do next. For several minutes neither said a word.
Then, quite suddenly, the stillness of the lab was broken by a thumping sound.
A utility panel set into the far wall suddenly swung open, and five young clones
came tumbling out.
“I told ya to quit shovin’, Scrapper! Didn’t I tell ya to quit shovin’? Now look
what ya made me do!”
“Gabby, if ya don’t button yer trap, I’m gonna button it for ya!”
Tommy and Flip each grabbed one of the smaller boys and pulled them apart.
“Leggo a’me, Johnson! Lemme moiderlize the little motormouth!”
“Hey, chill out, Scrap.” It was all Flip could do to hang on to the squirming
boy.
“That goes for you, too, Gabby.” Tommy held his captive’s mouth shut.
“Keep the volume down, or the whole Project’ll hear us.”
“Uh, gentlemen?” Big Words gave an audible gulp. “I fear that our
compatriots’ altercation has already betrayed us.”
Five pairs of eyes stared up into the face of the Guardian.
“Guardian! Hi!” Tommy mustered up the most innocent-looking grin he could
manage. “We were looking all over for you! Weren’t we, Flip?”
“Yeah, that’s right. We heard one of the techs say you were inspecting the
utility tunnels and—”
The Guardian held up a hand. “I don’t want to hear another word. I want you
boys straight out that door and back to your quarters on the double. Got that?”
 The Newsboys made not a sound. They didn’t nod, run, or otherwise
acknowledge the Guardian’s orders. Their eyes had snapped open wide, and
Tommy lost his grip on Gabby’s jaw.
“Holy jumping jeez! It’s . . . it’s . . . it’s Superman! They got Superman all
laid out like this was Donnehy’s Funeral Parlor or somethin’!”
Scrapper broke free from Flip and shot past the Guardian, just narrowly
avoiding the big man’s grasp. The other Newsboys swiftly followed suit,
scrambling to within a few feet of where Dubbilex stood by the cold storage
unit.
“You boys should not be here.” The DNAlien looked deeply troubled.
Probably annoyed with himself for not having sensed the boys earlier, thought
the Guardian. He hates to be caught unawares like this.
Jim Harper ostentatiously cleared his throat. At the sound, Big Words jerked
his head around to stare with disbelief at the Guardian. “With all due respect, sir
. . .” He paused and nodded back to Dubbilex. “Sirs, I request an explanation for
the presence of the late Superman in this chamber.”
“Yeah!” Scrapper belligerently pushed his cap down onto his forehead.
“What’s Cadmus doin’ wit’ Superman’s body?!”
“We’ll discuss this later, boys.”
“No!” Tommy defiantly stepped up to the Guardian. “No, ‘later’ isn’t good
enough. A week ago, you made a big deal out of stopping Mr. Westfield from
claiming Superman’s body. Now, we turn around and here it is. Big Words is
right; I think you owe us an explanation.”
“Yeah!”
“I’ll say!”
“You tell ’im, Tom.”
“We all concur, sir.”
One by one, the other Newsboys lined up beside Tommy.
Just like his father. Tommy Tompkins always was the leader. Well, the cat’s
out of the bag now. And maybe that’s a blessing in disguise. Harper squared his
shoulders. “All right, you deserve to hear the truth. Perhaps, if we all talk about
this, even Dubbilex and I will start to make sense of it.”
The Guardian smiled; it was the first time these young clones had ever stood
up to him on a matter of principle. He was proud of them for that, but there was
a trace of melancholy in his smile, just the same. Through them, he could see his
boys growing up . . . all over again.

Early the next morning, Lois Lane stepped up to the curb outside her apartment
building and flagged down a passing cab. As she pulled open the door, she made
a mental note to stop at Dooley’s for coffee and bagels on her way in to work.
With all the interviews she’d scheduled for herself, she was certain that she’d be
expending a lot of calories today.
“Where to, ma’am?” The cabbie was a pleasant-faced African-American in his
late twenties. He had a nice deep voice, the sort of voice you could listen to for
hours, but Lois scarcely noticed. Her attention was drawn to the small Superman
emblem sculpted into the right side of the man’s hair and his black armband with
a matching scarlet S.
“Ma’am?” He half-turned toward her.
Lois started slightly, suddenly aware that she was staring. “Daily Planet
Building, please. And hurry.”
“I’ll do what I can, lady, but the streets are gettin’ seriously messy.” He
adjusted his rearview mirror before pulling back into the street. A twisted piece
of metal hung from the mirror. For Lois, it was as if the other shoe had finally
dropped. She looked at the cabbie’s license; Marlon Brown, the card said. Clark
had told her of this man.
That hunk of metal was a “souvenir” from what had been left of Marlon’s old
cab after a drunk in a pickup truck had plowed into him. Superman had pried the
wreck open with his bare hands and eased Marlon out. They’d crossed paths
sometime later, after the cabbie’s ribs had healed, and Superman had been very
touched by the man’s profound gratitude. No wonder he still wears his black
armband. And the hair . . . Lois felt her throat tighten. Clark said that when they
met that second time, Marlon had already had the Superman emblem cut into his
hair. I hope he doesn’t want to talk about Superman, because if he does, I might
just break down and cry.
As if on cue, Marlon glanced at her in the rearview mirror, and his face
brightened in recognition. “Say, you’re that reporter, aren’t you? Lois Lane?”
Lois admitted that she was, and the cabbie beamed at her in the mirror. “I
thought so! Listen, you’re a real good writer. I read your stuff all the time.” His
face clouded suddenly, and Lois had an awful suspicion she knew what he was
going to say next.
“That story you wrote after Superman died. That was—that was—” Marlon
shook his head. “Sorry. Whoever heard of a cabbie at a loss for words, right? I
cried like a baby when I read it. I even framed my copy of that story.” He shook
his head again and looked back sympathetically into the mirror. “Must’ve hurt
like hell to write that. I dunno how you did it.”
Lois managed to return a sad smile. “Neither do I.”
Marlon glanced at the twist of metal hanging from the mirror, and Lois felt
her hands clench into fists. Please, don’t talk about how you got that. I already
know, and if you say anything more about Superman, you’ll have to pull over
because we’ll both be crying.
Marlon seemed to sense her silent plea. He took a deep breath and fell silent,
leaving Lois alone with her thoughts. I wrote the story, and Clark died. And now,
here I am, trotting off to cover another story. Why do I even bother?
All those words, what good do they really do? Lois stared out the window and
tried to lose herself in the noise of the city.

Jonathan Kent slowly shuffled into the kitchen, planting a weary kiss on his
wife’s cheek. “Morning, love.”
“Morning, dear!” Martha brought the kettle over and filled his mug. “I’m
trying something new today. I mixed a little regular coffee in with your decaf.
See how you like it.”
Jonathan took a big sip. “Tastes all right. Why the change? I thought we were
supposed to be cutting back on caffeine an’ fat an’ such.”
“Well, we are, but I thought it wouldn’t hurt to put just a little more zip in our
day.” At this point I’d try just about anything to brighten you up. Jonathan was
sleeping later and later every day, but he seemed less rested each morning. “You
know, I wish you’d talk to Doc Lanning about your sleep.”
“Oh, I probably just need a nap in the afternoon is all. Gettin’ old, y’know.”
“Well, here’s some nice hot oatmeal.” She set a steaming bowl down before
him. “Lois calls it comfort food, and Lord knows we could use some comfort. I
made it with raisins—just the way—the way he always liked it.”
“That’s nice, Martha.”
 Martha looked at Jonathan as he numbly swirled his spoon through the
oatmeal. She had the distinct feeling that she could have set a boiled gum boot in
front of her husband and he still would have said, “That’s nice, Martha.” Did he
hear me at all? The way Jon’s acting, it’s as if I wasn’t even here.
In fact, it was Jonathan who wasn’t quite there. As he sat at the table, he was
reliving a breakfast from over thirty years ago.

Clark was four and was interested in getting the maximum enjoyment out of his
breakfast. “Here comes the oatmeal plane, Pa.” Little Clark swung his spoon
through the air. “It’s comin’ in for a landin’! Power-dive! Rrrrr-zooomp! Open
the hangar door!”
Into his mouth went the spoon.
“Yum! I love airplanes with raisins! But I wish I had a real airplane!”
Jonathan reached down into a bag by his feet. “Well, I was saving this for later,
but if you think you can spend more of your flight time away from the table . . .”
Out came a long, slender balsa wood glider.
“Wow! Hey, Ma! Pa made me an airplane! Thanks, Pa!” Clark jumped up
from the table and ran around the room, waving his new toy through the air.
“Up, up an’ away! ’Bye, Pa. I gotta fly now!”

Jonathan sat playing with his oatmeal, chuckling under his breath. “Gotta fly.
Someday, son . . . someday!”
Martha looked up from the refrigerator; she couldn’t believe her ears.
Jonathan was never one to talk to himself. Her great-uncle Conrad had started
doing that one day, she knew, and he was never the same again. Martha shook
her head. If anything like that happened to Jonathan, she just didn’t know what
she’d do.

In Cadmus Lab Seven, Drs. Tompkins and Johnson rolled Superman’s body out
of the cold storage unit as Dr. Rodrigues checked the calibrations on a
sophisticated electron microscope. With a soft plastic probe, the doctors gently
held open their subject’s eye as a fine beam of coherent light was directed
through the pupil and into the retina.
 Sitting down at his computer keyboard, Rodrigues logged into a genetic
analysis program and began entering the special entry codes:
DIR H: \\OPERATION KRYPTON

INITIATE ELECTRON-CAPILLARY SCAN.27/READ

TRIAL.012
The monitor suddenly came alive with color, as twisting, interlocking helixes
swirled across the screen. Walter Johnson nearly dropped his pen. “My God, is
that—?”
Rodrigues nodded. “The Kryptonian genome, gentlemen—or rather, a minute
fragment of same. After cross-correlating a dozen scans, we’re finally starting to
see some results.”
“I’ve never seen anything like it.” Tompkins was frankly spellbound. “It’s—
big . . .”
“Yes, truly remarkable, really, that given such different genomes, the
Kryptonian phenotype was so similar to that of Homo sapiens.” Rodrigues’s
fingers danced across the keyboard, calling up additional screens of
mathematical calculations and analyses of chemical compounds. “The program
has already found ninety-eight chromosomes, and this is just the beginning. I
believe we may need more memory before this is all mapped out.”
“If it’s ever all mapped out.” Walt began flipping the button on his pen. “And
even if we do succeed in mapping the whole thing, are we really going to be able
to do anything with it?”
Several corridors away, Paul Westfield and Carl Packard sat in the
administrator’s office watching as Rodrigues’s figures and computations played
over a tapped-in monitor system.
“Remarkable. Absolutely remarkable.” Packard marveled at the growing data.
“We could spend years studying this information.”
“The world can’t wait years, Doctor, and neither can I.” Westfield got up from
his desk and started pacing. “We need a Superman now.”
“But—but this . . .” Packard ran his hands around the edge of the screen as he
groped for the right words. “It’s revolutionary! It’s all so complicated. Ninety-
eight chromosomes! And there may be more. It would be different if we could
obtain a tissue sample, but you’re talking about trying to simulate an alien
genome in terrestrial cells! How are we to determine which chromosomes hold
the triggers to which powers?” Packard tugged at one corner of his mustache. “I
mean, I suppose we could test theoretical models on the supercomputer array,
but—”
“Then do so.” Westfield picked up his phone. “I’ll arrange authorization
immediately. I’ll provide whatever support is necessary to ensure our success.”
As the Project administrator got on the line to the computer wing, Dr. Packard
turned back to the monitor, mesmerized by the figures on the screen. Neither
man was aware that their preparations were being observed from a ventilation
duct in the wall behind Westfield’s desk.
The observer was dressed all in black, from the goggled ski mask that covered
his face to the two layers of wool socks on his feet. He listened silently as the
logistics of Packard’s work were mapped out, occasionally jotting down key
words in a small pocket notepad. And then, with infinite care, he slowly slid
away, taking care to make not a sound. For nearly five minutes, the masked
observer worked his way through a maze of ductwork until finally he came to an
open ventilator. He then swung down into a dimly lit bunkroom and was greeted
with a chorus of questions.
“How’d it go? Did ya find it? Were ya able to see anything? Geez, I don’t
know why the rest of us couldn’t go with ya. We could’ve been witnesses and
everything and—”
Scrapper slapped a piece of duct tape over Gabby’s mouth and around his
head, effectively silencing the boy. “Yeah, an’ Westfield woulda heard us
comin’ from a mile away. So pipe down already, an’ give Words a chance to
catch ’is breath.”
Flip and Tommy climbed up on chairs to replace the ventilator wall grille as
Big Words divested himself of his ski mask and heavy socks.
“How did it go, Words?” Tommy hopped down from his chair and turned it
around to face the taller boy.
“Yeah, what’s goin’ down?”
“Plenty, Flip.” Big Words adjusted his glasses. “To answer Gabby’s queries—
yes, I was most successful in locating the administrator’s office. It appears that
Mr. Westfield is conspiring with Dr. Packard to utilize the fruits of our fathers’
studies, though whether with or without their knowledge, I was unable to
determine.”
“Then the bum is goin’ ahead wit’ plans to make his own Superman.”
 “So it would seem, Scrapper. And the longer the corpus Kryptonus resides at
Cadmus, the greater the chances are that our esteemed administrator will see his
Frankensteinian scheme to fruition.”
Tommy smacked his hands together. “Then we have to get it out of here.”
“Yeah, right.” Flip just rolled his eyes. “I can just see the five of us trying to
sneak a body out of the Project.”
“Nrrr whrm ghrr frr drr crr!” Gabby gestured wildly with his elbows as he
tried to ease the tape off his mouth.
“Jus’ relax, Gabby.” Scrapper grinned wickedly at his little pal. “You got an
idea ya wanna share wit’ us?”
Gabby nodded eagerly.
“Well, why din’t ya say so?” Scrapper grabbed the end of the tape and gave a
quick yank.
“Yeow! Geez, Scrapper, what’re ya tryin’ to do, take my lips off with that
stuff?!”
“The way those things flap? Never happen. Now, if ya got an idea, spit it out
—before I change my mind!” Scrapper playfully tossed the roll of tape from one
hand to the other.
“Okay, okay!” Gabby gingerly pursed his lips. “The way I see it, maybe we
can’t get Superman out on our own, but we can get the word to someone on the
outside.”
“I believe our talkative little chum may have something there. After all, the
Guardian did promise us some free time in Metropolis, and he seemed
exceedingly eager to placate us after we discovered the contents of Laboratory
Seven.”
“Now yer talkin’! We get an afternoon in the city, an’ the world finds out
about what happened to Superman.” Scrapper clapped Gabby across the back.
“Yer finally startin’ to use that bony head fer somethin’ besides a hat rack!”
“I don’t know.” Flip looked skeptical. “Who’s gonna believe us? After all,
we’re just kids! And besides, you know that the Guardian will be watching us
like a hawk when we get to the city—if we get to go!”
“Aw, Guardian-shmardian! There’s just one o’ him an’ five o’ us! I can get by
him—it’ll be a piece o’ cake!”
 “Scrapper’s assessment is perhaps overly confident, but we do have the
advantage of numbers. As for your point, Flip, there is no need for us to
physically approach an outside contact. We have but to prepare the proper
presentation and enlist the services of a bonded courier, or barring that, a postal
service employee.”
Tommy rubbed his chin. “It could work. But we’ll have to make sure we get
enough evidence to be convincing.”
“Shucks, that’ll be easy, fellers.” Gabby started rummaging through the old
footlocker at the end of his bunk. “I got a camera and plenty of film. We can
take pictures and draw diagrams and everything.”
“That’s good, Gabby, but we’ll also have to find somebody outside the Project
who we can trust with the info—somebody who’d want to do right by
Superman.”
“That ain’t a problem, Tommy.”
“You have an idea, Scrap?”
“Are you kiddin’? Gents, I got the answer right under my hat!” And with that,
Scrapper doffed his cap and pulled out a battered newspaper article clipped from
the pages of the Daily Planet.
17

Lex Luthor Stood Stripped to the waist, his upper torso coated with a thin sheen
of sweat, as three athletic young women wearing karate gis bowed toward him.
He paused for a moment before returning the bow, reducing the act of respect to
a mere formality. The women departed, and Luthor grabbed up a towel.
Luthor scowled as he dried off. He had taken up karate months ago, as a way
of keeping his fine new body trim, but lately he found less and less satisfaction
in his workouts. Neither the exercises, the kata, nor even the actual fighting
brought him any pleasure. There’s no challenge anymore, he thought, no
challenge in anything with Superman gone.
For years, Superman had been Luthor’s obsession, his one true rival in power.
He had reveled in the Man of Steel’s inability to bring him down and had come
to look upon their competition as a game to be savored. But now the game was
over, and while the industrialist had not lost, neither had he truly won.
Someone else killed him. Luthor threw the towel across the room. And another
crew of bastards stole his body!
“Lex, is something wrong?” Supergirl pushed open the door of the little gym.
“You look so angry!”
“Do I?” Luthor forced a smile. “Well, I’m just a bit peeved is all. Not a very
good workout today, my timing was off. I was just about to hit the showers. Care
to join me?”
“Lex!” Supergirl blushed and looked back toward the door. “Ms. Lane is
waiting outside. I know you hate to be disturbed here, but she insists on speaking
with you right away.”
“Does she now? Well, then, love, show her right in.”
Supergirl flashed him her wonderful smile, and Luthor felt the sharper edge of
his irritation pass. Things could be worse. Superman may be dead, but Supergirl
most definitely isn’t.
He shrugged into a dressing robe as the reporter entered the gym. “G’day,
Lois. How good to see you again. Has there been any word on Kent?”
 “I’m afraid not.” Lois briefly—but tightly, Lex noted—closed her eyes.
“Thank you for asking. No, I’m here because I want you to read an article of
mine before it goes to press.”
Luthor raised an eyebrow. “A grand gesture to be sure, Lois. But why? If it
involves LexCorp—”
Lois shook her head. “Once you read it, I think you’ll understand.” She
glanced at Supergirl as she handed Luthor a file folder. “You both should read
it.”
Lois stepped back a pace or two, watching unobtrusively as the two most
powerful people in Metropolis read her story together. She tried her best not to
notice as Supergirl snuggled an arm around Luthor’s waist.
Luthor skimmed over the pages, his face starting to turn a fiery red.
Supergirl’s fair skin did not flush, but her entire body seemed to tense.
At the back of the folder, Luthor came to a series of photographs, and he went
bone white. Even his lips turned pale. “This—this is an outrage. The Cadmus
Project has stolen Superman’s body?!”
“Then you’ve heard of Cadmus?”
Luthor could tell Supergirl was about to say something, so he squeezed her
hand tight, giving her their private look. She nodded her understanding, and he
answered for them both. “I’m afraid we have, Lois. It seems to be some manner
of clandestine federal agency, involved in all manner of mysterious goings-on.
That Guardian fellow is mixed up with them somehow.”
Luthor looked again at the series of photos. Though a bit amateurish in
composition, they clearly showed Superman’s body on an examination table. In
some shots, the Cadmus insignia could be seen on the lab coats of surgically
masked doctors and technicians. “Where did you get these?”
Lois shrugged her shoulders. “They arrived in a package from an anonymous
source, along with a long letter. I would probably have discounted the whole
thing if not for the pictures—and the response I got from the police.”
“The police? What did they have to say?”
“It’s what they didn’t say that bothers me, Lex. I went directly to Maggie
Sawyer over at the Special Crimes Unit and told her I’d gotten a tip that
someone had tried to steal Superman’s body. She stonewalled me, Lex. And
from her reaction, I could tell she knew something. The information I received . .
.” Lois shook her head. “I know it reads like science fiction, but I believe it, Lex.
These federal spooks want to cut Superman up for cloning.”
“A frightening thought, indeed.” Lex carefully closed the folder but did not
hand it back. “Does anyone else know?”
“No, not even my editor. Once I put the story together, I realized that if we ran
it, the government would just deny everything and hide Superman’s body
somewhere else. That’s why I came to you—to both of you.” Lois looked from
Luthor to Supergirl. “You’re the only ones I know with enough power to ensure
that Superman gets the treatment he deserves.”
“I’m glad you came to me with this, Lois. I promise you that we’ll get
Superman back where he belongs and put Cadmus in its place for good!”
“You have our word on that, Lois.” There was a determination in Supergirl’s
voice that Luthor found vaguely disquieting.
Luthor tapped the folder against his hand. “Do you mind if I hang on to this?
We’ll need the information in here to nail down the exact location of this ‘Lab
Seven.’ ”
“You can keep it, Lex. I have copies . . . of everything.” Lois paused to make
sure he understood. “Because if you can’t do anything about this—I will.”

At about two-thirty in the afternoon, Jonathan Kent had gone upstairs to take a
nap. He hadn’t meant to enter Clark’s old room, but for some reason, he couldn’t
bring himself to walk past the door without looking inside.
It was dark in the room. The shades had been drawn to keep the sun from
fading the spartan furnishings. Without clearly remembering how he’d gotten
there, Jonathan sat down on the end of the bed. The memory of his son was very
strong here.
In the shadows of the room, Jonathan could see Clark sitting there in the old
armchair by the bed. What a fine young man he’s grown up to be. “What’s the
matter, Clark? What’s wrong?”
Clark slumped back into the chair. “I saw the plane fall, Pa. I saw it fall and I
just leapt into the sky and saved it. And then, the mob arrived. They were like
animals . . . clawing and screaming at me. Everybody had something they
wanted me to do, Pa. Everybody! People wanted me to heal them. They wanted
me to heal their children, their parents. They wanted the impossible and they all
wanted it right away.”
Clark raised his eyes to his father. “It felt wonderful to rescue the astronauts
and that reporter. It felt . . . I can’t begin to tell you how great it felt to carry a
plane—a plane, Pa!—in my bare hands, and fly it to a safe landing.”
He leaned forward, resting his big arms on his knees. “I know I have to use
my powers to help people. I want to! But that was my first public appearance,
and now they’re going to be looking for me.” Clark shook his head. “They
wanted a piece of me, Pa. They all wanted a piece of me. And I . . . I don’t know
how to deal with that.”
Jonathan felt tears coming to his eyes. “I think I do, son.” He reached out to
pat Clark on the shoulder, but his son was no longer there.
“Jonathan?” Martha walked into the room. “Who are you talking to? What are
you doing, sitting in Clark’s room here in the dark?”
“I had the idea, Martha.” Jonathan just sat there, staring at the empty chair.
“The costume . . . the dual identity. I loved him. I thought I was helping, but I
wasn’t. It’s all my fault, Martha. I keep telling myself that I just didn’t know
how things would turn out, but that doesn’t help.”
Martha knelt in front of her husband and took his face in her hands. “Jonathan,
dear, no! It’s no more your fault than it was Lois’s. You know that.”
Jonathan said not a word. In desperation, Martha sat down beside him on the
bed and put her arms around his shoulders. “Knowing isn’t the same as feeling,
but it’s where we’ve got to start. It wasn’t your fault, Jon. You do know that,
don’t you, honey?”
When he still didn’t respond, Martha tightened her grip and leaned her head
against his. “Jon, please. Say something.”
Slowly, Jonathan reached up and stroked her hair. “I didn’t know, Martha. I
had such hopes . . .”

Ten thousand feet above Mount Curtiss, Supergirl turned invisible and dove
Earthward at a quarter of the speed of sound. Following the information supplied
by Lois Lane, she braked sharply over the ruins of the Habitat tree city and sped
into a camouflaged cave access at the base of the mountain. She flew on,
unchallenged as she rocketed past three security checkpoints and into the central
corridors of the Cadmus Project. The psychokinetic shields that rendered
Supergirl invisible to the naked eye also made it impossible to detect her by
radar or infrared sensors. The only noticeable sign of her passing was the
inexplicable wind that rushed through the Project, ruffling hair and sending
papers flying.
It wasn’t until Supergirl reached Lab Seven that she truly made her presence
known. Still invisible, she sank her hands into the six-inch-thick stainless steel
doors of the secured laboratory and ripped them out of the wall. Within the lab, a
surprised technician suddenly found himself grabbed up by his collar and thrown
into a wall storage locker.
As bells and Klaxons began sounding all over the complex, Paul Westfield
stormed into the Project’s security command center. “What the hell is going on
here? The alarms are going crazy!”
“I’m well aware of that.” The Guardian acknowledged the administrator’s
presence with little more than a cursory glance. “There’s been a major security
breach, and we’re in the process of tracking it down right now.”
“What do you mean, ‘tracking it down’? If there’s been a break-in, which of
the sentry posts detected it?”
“None of them.” The Guardian leaned over the security master console and
began zapping through a rapid succession of security camera images.
“Apparently, some person or persons unknown have managed to enter the
Project without being seen and are tearing up the central lab core.”
“What?!” Westfield was aghast. “How is that possible?”
“It isn’t, or at least it shouldn’t be, but—my God!” The Guardian’s finger
froze on the touchpad as the security monitor showed Lab Seven—or rather,
what was left of it. Virtually every piece of equipment in the lab had been torn
apart. The only thing left untouched was a single storage locker; a plaintive
knocking could be heard coming from within it. Most disturbing of all was the
wreckage of the cold storage unit that had, until moments before, held the body
of Superman. It was completely shattered, as if it had been battered apart with
hammers. And Superman’s body was missing!
The Guardian’s jaw dropped. “Lord, did he come back to life?”
“Impossible!” Westfield snatched up a microphone. “Attention all posts,
commence lockdown! Seal the Project!”
The Guardian grabbed the mike away from the hyperventilating administrator.
“I already gave that order before you got here.”
 “Oh.”
A speaker began to crackle, and the face of an uneasy security guard appeared
on the monitor. “Guardian, this is post ten.”
“Guardian here. What’s your situation?”
“I don’t know exactly. We were lowering the blast doors when they suddenly
stopped, as if something was jamming them. But there’s nothing there, and—
hey!”
The guard suddenly went flying off-screen. There were a few more off-camera
shouts, and then silence.
“Post ten, report!” The Guardian thumbed up the volume on the speaker. “Post
ten! Is anyone there?”
There was an odd movement in the center of the screen, like heat rippling the
air above a hot pavement. And then Supergirl shimmered into view.
She spoke but ten words: “Superman is coming with me. Don’t ever touch
him again!”
And then the monitor went blank.

Lois headed for Centennial Park the moment she got the call. When she arrived
at the memorial plaza, it was just before two o’clock in the morning. It was a
crisp, clear night and a small group of the Superman cultists were holding a vigil
at the base of the tomb. As per the instructions she had been given, Lois skirted
the edge of the plaza and surreptitiously crept along the east retaining wall to a
spot where a maintenance van sat parked in front of a partially opened ventilator
grating. Suddenly the door in the back of the van swung open and a light was
shone in Lois’s face.
“Hey!”
The light winked out and a big burly figure hopped out of the van. “Sorry,
Miz Lane, I had to make sure it was you.”
Lois blinked. “Inspector . . . Turpin, isn’t it?”
“That’s right, ma’am.” Turpin tipped his derby. “Cap’n Sawyer’s busy tonight
on another detail, or she’d’ve been here herself. She said to give ya her apologies
for not being able to level with ya before.”
Lois looked around the side of the truck, watching the cultists. “How are we
going to do this without drawing their attention?”
“Easy. We use the back door. The others are already down there, waitin’ for
us. Just follow me.”
Moments later, Turpin ushered Lois through the underground access corridor
and into the anteroom outside the crypt. Luthor and Supergirl looked up as they
entered.
“Hello, Lois . . . Inspector.” Supergirl went over and gave Lois a supportive
hug. Of the others there, only she shared with Lois the secret of Superman’s dual
identity. And she could only imagine the agonies the reporter had endured.
The Girl of Steel took Lois by the arm and led her into the crypt for one last
viewing. There, atop the marble slab, rested a new coffin, its lid open. In the
half-light of the crypt, Lois saw the body of Superman in final repose. The sight
of this man whom she had loved so much was almost too much for her. Lois
gripped the edge of the coffin for support and bit her lip, using the pain to help
her keep her composure.
“Are you all right?” Supergirl’s concern was a hushed whisper in Lois’s ear.
She wrapped her cape around them both, lending support to the reporter, as
Luthor and Turpin entered the crypt.
“Yes.” Lois raised her voice just enough that the two men would be able to
hear. “Yes, I’m convinced that it’s him. It couldn’t be anyone else.”
Supergirl nodded, and they both stepped outside.
Turpin ran his hand along one wall, inspecting the new masonry. Luthor
patted it almost affectionately. “Granite facing over steel-reinforced concrete—
with a new electronic sensor grid embedded in there. If anyone tries to break
through this wall again, we’ll have plenty of advance warning.”
Turpin nodded and, hat in hand, filed by the coffin to verify the identity of its
occupant one last time. Then Luthor helped lower the lid into place and followed
the inspector out. No one noticed the half-smile on his face as Supergirl resealed
the crypt.

Paul Westfield was up all night assessing the damage that had been done. The
only thing that had survived Supergirl’s rampage through Lab Seven had been
the storage locker and the bewildered technician the security team had found
inside. The computer files of Dr. Rodrigues’s electron-capillary scans had been
broken into and wiped. All they had left were the copies he had pirated for Dr.
Packard’s experimentation, and those were woefully incomplete.
Westfield was nodding off at his desk when the phone woke him. “Whoever
this is, it had better be good!”
“Carl Packard here, Paul—and yes, it is very good!”
“You’ve found the key?”
“Well, not the key, perhaps, but certainly a key. It’s on the sixty-third strand
—”
“Save the details for later, Doctor. The question is, can you give me results?”
“Why, yes, of course. We can begin implementation immediately. Lab
Thirteen is all set up and ready to go. All we need is your approval.”
“My approv—?” Westfield choked off his laughter. “Did you think you had to
ask?”
“Well, considering the circumstances . . .”
“Experiment Thirteen is green for go, Doctor. Give it all you’ve got—top
priority!” Westfield started laughing hysterically as he hung up the phone. Let
Metropolis keep its dead hero. Within a month, I’ll have myself a champion
who’ll make the entire Justice League look second-rate! Westfield swung his
feet up onto his desk, he could finally see his career on the rise again.

When Martha Kent woke up, Jonathan was nowhere to be seen. She’d been all
through the house twice looking for him when she finally discovered him out
behind the barn, staring off at the far field where they’d first found their son. The
morning was cold, and the wind was bitter, but Jonathan’s windbreaker dangled
from one hand as though he wasn’t aware he’d brought it along.
“Jonathan David Kent! What in heaven’s name are you doing way out here in
your shirtsleeves?! It’s freezing!” Martha yanked the windbreaker from his hand
and flung it over his shoulders. “Land sakes alive, put on this coat before you
catch your death of cold, and come on back to the house! I swear, the past few
days, you’ve shown less sense than a day-old turkey!”
“The world doesn’t make any sense, Martha. Don’t you see?” Jonathan
gestured out toward the back field. “That’s where the rocket brought Clark to
Earth. He seemed so helpless then. I swore I’d protect him. I swore I’d keep him
safe.”
 “And we did our best, Jon. That’s all we can ever do. No, it isn’t fair when
parents have to bury their children, but we’re not the first couple that that’s
happened to, and we won’t be the last. We’ve got to go on, Jon. Do you think
he’d want you to give up?”
When her husband didn’t reply, Martha’s anger flared, and she roughly shook
his shoulder. “Answer me, Jonathan! Do you think he’d want you to give up?
There are other people who need us. I need you!”
“Martha, I failed him. I keep thinking how he said, ‘They all wanted a piece of
me!’ ” Jonathan shook his head. “And now he’s lost to us. He’s lost to us all!
He’s gone, Martha! He’s—”
Jon’s eyes seemed to go out of focus. He clutched at his chest and crumpled to
the ground. Martha tried to catch him, falling to her knees as his breath wheezed
out.
“Jonathan? Oh, Jonathan! Not you, too!”
18

Martha was never sure what happened next. She knew that she must have
gotten to the phone and called for help, and she had a vague memory of riding
alongside her husband in an ambulance. The next thing she knew, she was
standing in the emergency entrance of the Lowell County Hospital, and Eugene
Lanning, their family physician, was running up to her.
“Martha, I just got a call that Jon has been brought in. What happened?”
“Oh, Gene, I don’t know.” She hugged the doctor’s arm as if it were a lifeline.
“The paramedics said it was his heart.”
“Well, don’t you worry, Martha. I’ve been doctoring Jonathan for a long time,
and if anyone can pull through this it’s him! He’s healthy as an ox!”
“I hope so, Gene. I dearly hope so. Jonathan hasn’t been himself for days!
What with Clark gone, and all . . .”
“Yes, yes, I know. You just have a seat there. I’ll do everything that I can.”
Lanning slipped through the curtains of the emergency OR. The emergency
room intern, he saw, had already connected Jonathan to the hospital’s oxygen
system and was hooking him up to the heart monitor. The farmer’s shirt had long
since been ripped open; he looked as pale and worn as old linen.
The intern glanced up at the doctor. “Your patient?”
Lanning nodded. “What’s his status?”
“EMTs reported a fibrillation when they found him. They bagged him,
shocked his heart back to a normal rhythm, and set up an IV.” The young
woman shook her head. “His pulse is very weak; respiration is shallow.”
Jonathan muttered something, his voice all but unintelligible through the
breathing tube.
“Now, you listen here, Jonathan Kent!” Lanning grabbed his patient’s hand.
“You and I have been friends too long a time for you to check out on me like
this! I want you to fight with me, Jonathan! Fight!”
Jonathan’s eyes fluttered and his lips moved weakly. “C-Clark . . .”
 The heart monitor began to show a wild pattern of beats and then a straight,
flat line.
“Shoot some epinephrine into him!” Lanning centered his hands on Jonathan’s
sternum and began to pump. “C’mon, Jon, you old cuss—live!”

From Jonathan’s point of view, the world had become a bright but misty place. It
was as if he’d stumbled into an iridescent fog. The light was brilliant, almost
blinding white straight ahead of him, and he could swear that he saw Clark
standing there, as if waiting for him.
“Clark? Is that you, son?” Jonathan grasped the other man’s hand tightly, not
in a handshake, but in a firm grip, the way you would reach to pull someone
away from terrible danger.
“I can’t stay long, Pa.” Clark stood unmoving in the light.
Jonathan held tight and pulled along the other man’s arm, clutching at his
shirt. “Clark, it is you! I’ve found you at last.” A look of relief filled the old
farmer’s face. “Hold on, son, we’re going home.”
Clark shook his head and abruptly pulled away.
“Son, wait! Come back!” Jonathan tightened his grip on Clark’s shirt, but the
fabric tore and came apart in his hands. The rest of Clark’s street clothes swiftly
fell away in tatters until he stood revealed in his Superman uniform. He removed
his glasses and spoke slowly, patiently, as if Jonathan were the son.
“I have to go, Pa. The light is pulling at me, compelling me to enter.”
“No! Don’t leave me, Clark!”
“I must. Clark is already gone. These glasses . . . these scraps of cloth . . .”
Superman gestured to the shredded clothing drifting around him. “They are all
that remain of Clark Kent.” His voice changed—becoming lower and deeper, as
Clark’s voice always did when he spoke as Superman—but now it was different,
detached. “From here on, the journey must be made by Kal-El, the Last Son of
Krypton. Go back and rejoin the living, Jonathan Kent. The voices whisper to
me that your time has not yet come.” Superman pressed Clark’s glasses into
Jonathan’s hand and began to drift away.
“Not my time? It isn’t your time either, son!”
But Superman had turned his back on Jonathan and was already some distance
away. Before the farmer’s eyes, two shrouded figures emerged from the mists to
escort the Man of Steel on toward the light. “Do not delay, Kal-El. Your destiny
awaits.”
Jonathan desperately swam through the mists after them. “Clark, listen to me
—don’t go! Let me go in your place!”
Superman half-turned back toward his father, but one of the figures restrained
him and thrust a wraithlike arm toward the farmer. “You cannot exchange
places, Jonathan Kent, and you cannot cross over with us.”
“That’s right, Jon.” Superman seemed more distant than ever. “Martha needs
you back home. She needs you now more than ever.” The other wraith pulled at
Superman’s hand. “We must go on.”
“Good-bye, Pa. I love you . . .” Superman turned away again and the three of
them were engulfed by the brilliant whiteness.
“No! No, I’m not letting you go!” Without hesitation, Jonathan dove after
them, into the blinding light.

“We’ve got a heartbeat!” The intern took a deep breath and slowly let it out. “It’s
not strong, but it’s regular.”
“I’ll settle for that . . . for now.” Dr. Lanning ran the back of his hand across
his brow and started scribbling instructions onto a notepad. “Administer
lidocaine and call me if there’s any change.”
Martha scrambled to her feet as the doctor came out into the emergency
room’s waiting area. “Gene, is he—?”
“He’s alive, Martha.” Lanning accepted the woman’s grateful hug, deciding it
was best to give her at least a few moments of relief before he gave her the rest
of the news.
“Can I see him?”
“That wouldn’t be a good idea just yet, Martha. We did have a bad moment in
there. His heart stopped beating and we almost lost him.”
“Oh, dear God!” Martha’s eyes widened in horror.
“I said almost! We got it started again. His heart’s beating regularly again, but
still very weakly.” Lanning put his arm around Martha and led her down the hall.
“The best thing we can do for him now is to move him into the intensive care
unit and keep watch on his condition.”
 “Gene . . . what are his chances?”
“Hard to say.” The doctor looked worn with frustration. “He’s in a light coma
right now. Hopefully, that will pass.”
“Martha!” Lana Lang came running down the hall toward her. The two
women embraced and stood holding each other for several minutes.
“Lana, how—?”
“The Colemans called and told me. I’ve called Lois. She’s catching the first
flight out.” Lana glanced from Martha to the doctor. “How is he?”
Lanning could only shrug. “Stable, for now. The next few hours will tell us
more.”
Lana tightened her grip as she felt the older woman sag against her. “It’ll be
okay, Martha. Why, Jonathan’s one of the strongest men I know.”
“Oh, Lana.” Martha wanted to smile but couldn’t. “You’re a dear to say that.
But . . . in all our years together, with all the ups and downs we’ve faced, I’ve
never been so scared that Jonathan was going to die.”

Jonathan Kent emerged from the light into a jungle he recognized immediately
from his army days. He was in full field uniform with helmet and rifle. He
wasn’t sure why he was there, but he knew he had a mission. Yes—his unit had
been assigned to liberate a captured airman.
He eased up a rise and cautiously peered over the edge. The men of his unit
were sprawled all over the ground beyond—dead, all of them, from the look of
things. Jonathan steeled himself to check every mangled body, just to be sure,
but his first assessment was right; he was the only survivor. Near one body, he
found a field telephone.
“Mission command, do you read? Over.” He tried again and again, using all
the passwords he could remember, but it was no use. Radio’s dead. Everyone
around here is dead, except for me. I’m the only one who can bring that airman
back. It’s all up to me. He started walking. There’s just no way we can abandon
one of our own.
There was a light in the near distance, and smoke. Jonathan found what was
left of a tiny hamlet, still on fire. There were more bodies here, civilians this
time. He swallowed hard, trying to steady his stomach, and again began to check
the bodies. More death. Enemy’s been through here, too. God knows why they
burned out these poor villagers; none of them is armed.
One of the villagers looked strangely different from the others. He was taller
than the rest, and as Jonathan drew near, he saw that the man was dressed in bib
overalls. Funny that I didn’t notice his clothes before. Dressed like that, he
almost puts me in mind of my brother . . .
Jonathan gently turned the man over and jumped back in shock. “Harry?!”
Dear God in heaven, it is my brother. But that makes no sense. Harry never went
overseas. He died long before he was old enough to join the army. But the man
on the ground was undeniably Harry Kent.
“Harry? Can you hear me?” Jonathan eased an arm under his brother’s head,
and the man’s eyes flickered open. “Harry, what in heaven’s name are you doing
here in this Godforsaken jungle?”
Harry looked like death warmed over, and his voice echoed as if coming from
the bottom of a deep well. “What am I doing here? Don’t you remember, Jonny?
I’m dead. I fell under the thresher back on Pa’s farm. We’re all dead here.
Except you. You’re not quite gone yet. And that other one ain’t either.”
Harry coughed, the phlegm rattling in his throat. “As for where this is, you got
me. It ain’t really a jungle, that’s for sure, but the enemy . . . the enemy has got
your boy. They can’t be far away, Jonny. Go get him. Go find him while you can
. . .” Harry sighed and closed his eyes.
Jonathan shook him, gently at first, and then frantically. “Harry Kent, don’t
you go dyin’ on me again! Please! I’ll find that airman, I swear. Just stay with
me, Harry!”
“The boy don’t belong here, Jonny.” Harry’s body sagged, limp and lifeless,
to the ground.
From behind, another voice cut into Jonathan’s grief. “He is wrong. The
airman does belong here, but you, Jonathan Kent, do not.”
Jonathan whipped around, sweeping the enemy soldier’s gun hand away with
one fist and knocking him cold with the other. “Damn your lying eyes!”
Jonathan glowered down at the fallen enemy. “Damn you straight to hell!” As if
to oblige, the enemy’s flesh melted away to smoke. In seconds, all that was left
was a soiled and tattered uniform.
Jonathan took a hasty step back and then a couple more. He looked around for
his brother’s body but found nothing. He dragged a hand across his face. Combat
fatigue. First I’m talking to Harry, God rest his soul, and then I start fighting a
ghost. And none of this gets me any closer to that airman.
He turned and pushed deeper into the jungle.

In room 112 of the Lowell County Hospital’s intensive care unit, Martha and
Lana sat side by side in a couple of straight-backed chairs, watching the slow
rise and fall of Jonathan’s chest. They’d sat there for over three hours, mostly in
silence, listening to the soft hiss of the oxygen feed and the soft, steady beep of
the heart monitor. Together, the two sounds had an almost hypnotic effect. After
a while, Lana began to think of the beep almost as Jonathan’s mantra. He lives
for as long as it sounds. Once it stops . . . She shuddered and tried to banish that
thought from her head.
“Martha, are you sure I can’t get you something? Cup of coffee? No? How
about some water?” Lana ducked into the bathroom and emerged moments later
with two paper cups of water. “Here, you won’t do Jonathan any good by letting
yourself get dehydrated.”
“Thank you, dear.” The water was gone in a second, and Lana gave Martha
the other cup. “I guess I am a little dry.”
Martha sipped her second cup more slowly. “You know, Lana, Gene—Dr.
Lanning—had told Jonathan that he should relax more, try to avoid stress.” She
took another sip. “Jon’s way of relieving stress was through hard physical labor.
And that worked fairly well when he was younger, but . . . well, he’s no spring
chicken anymore. Neither one of us is. We’ve both been through so much in the
past weeks.” Martha stared down at her reflection in the cup. “I can’t help but
wonder if Jon somehow brought this attack on himself, to try to get closer to
Clark. He loved that boy as much as life itself.”
“Don’t even think that, Martha. When I was just a little girl, my Aunt Helen
told me how Jonathan had been a prisoner of war, and how he’d managed to
escape. ‘That Jonny Kent’s got the persistence of a bulldog,’ she used to say.
‘Once he sets his sights on something, he doesn’t give up till he gets it.’ And,
you know, I never knew my Aunt Helen to lie.”
Lana patted Martha’s hand. “He fought his way out of that POW camp, and
he’ll fight his way back to us. You’ll see.”

Jonathan emerged from the jungle onto a wide rolling plain, as green as the
prairie in spring. He could have sworn he was somewhere in southeastern
Kansas, or possibly Missouri, if not for the city in the distance. It was a series of
spires, all of them thousands of feet tall, and the tallest seemed to stretch at least
a mile into the sky. No such city had ever existed on Earth, yet Jonathan
recognized it immediately. It was something that Clark had told him and Martha
all about . . .
Years ago, long after Clark had adopted the identity of Superman, he had
finally discovered the secrets of his origin. On a visit back to Kansas, he’d
accidentally activated an electro-psionic recording, sent to Earth by his
Kryptonian father, Jor-El, along with his birthing matrix. That recording had fed
images from the history of Clark’s homeworld directly into his mind. He had
learned all about the lost world of Krypton, and how it had been destroyed—
shattered by a supercritical nuclear reaction within the planet’s core. He learned
that his mother’s name was Lara—that his name would have been Kal-El had he
been born on that doomed world—and that he was Krypton’s sole survivor.
Clark had described those images in detail to his parents many times. And
here, now, on this green plain, Jonathan knew without a doubt that he was
looking at a city from the Fifth Historic Age of Krypton.
There it is, Clark, just as I visualized it from your stories. The world of
Krypton. Jonathan scrambled to the top of a low ridge and slowly scanned the
horizon. He’d made no more than a quarter turn when he saw a parade.
It was just a small procession, really, a curious combination of high and low
tech. Several men wearing the black bodysuits and long flowing tunics of
Krypton’s Seventh and Final Historic Age marched along carrying flags and
banners embroidered with the Superman S-shield. They were followed by a
cluster of servitor robots that hovered in midair, looking like wingless metal
wasps. Walking alongside was a white-haired individual in a flowing black robe
who had the bearing and manner of a clergyman. And in the middle of it all, four
pale men in Kryptonian garb bore up a gleaming metal sedan chair upon which
sat a slumped and listless Superman. He appeared to be drugged or sleeping.
The white-haired cleric was keeping pace with Superman, praying loudly and
gesturing with great sweeps of his arms. “Oh, Great Rao, accept this Last Son of
Krypton into your embrace! Allow him entrance into your realm, that he may be
reunited with the family of El.”
“Family of El, my foot!” Jonathan came charging down the ridge, bellowing
at the top of his lungs. “If you guys are real Kryptonians, how come I can
understand you?!”
The procession didn’t stop, but it slowed, as the Kryptonians turned to stare at
the strange, uniformed human who was running toward them. One of the flag
bearers moved to stop Jonathan, but he feinted to the man’s right and then darted
past him on the left.
“Son! You’re on the wrong path! You’ve got to wake up.”
“Silence this blasphemer!” The cleric’s voice shook with a cold fury. He rose
up between Jonathan and his son, throwing out his arms to block the Earthman’s
path. More flag bearers surrounded Jonathan and began dragging him away from
the chair.
“Cleric?” Superman raised his head slightly. “Who disturbs my journey?”
“One who does not belong, Kal-El.” The cleric’s voice dropped to a more
even tone, but he still looked angry.
Jonathan drew a deep breath. “Don’t believe that baloney, son! These aren’t
real Kryptonians, they can’t be! And that black-robed creep is about as saintly as
a rabid mule!”
“A rabid mule? Pa?” Superman looked up from the chair, faintly puzzled. “Pa,
is that you? What are you talking about?”
“Ignore him, Kal-El, and stay with us.” The cleric assumed an injured air and
put a hand on the Man of Steel’s shoulder. “Your legacy beckons. He is but an
outsider, with no respect lor things Kryptonian.”
“Oh, yeah?!” Jonathan shook off a hand that was trying to silence him. “Those
litter bearers of yours are dressed like Kryptonians from their last days, but that
city back there—that’s from Krypton’s Fifth Age. The last of those buildings fell
over a hundred thousand years before anyone dressed like these phonies!”
The cleric now had both hands on Superman’s shoulders. “Ignore his ranting,
Kal-El.” The cleric glared angrily at the others, who fought to drag Jonathan
further away. Jonathan made himself a dead weight to slow their progress as
much as he could and drew another deep breath.
“That smooth talker called on the name of Rao—the name of Krypton’s sun!
Since when were Kryptonians a bunch of sun worshipers?!”
Superman sat bolt upright, his puzzled look turning suspicious.
“That’s it, boy—open your eyes! They’re taking you the wrong way! They’re
as genuine as a three-dollar bill!”
 Superman quickly scanned the litter bearers and turned fully to the cleric.
“Something is different about them, Cleric. And about you.”
“The heretic confuses you.” The cleric’s smile was meant to be soothing, but
there was desperation on his face. Jonathan was still close enough that he saw
the cleric’s features appear to momentarily ripple. From the way Superman’s fist
shot out, Jonathan knew that his son had also seen the partial transformation.
The “cleric” dropped like a stone, transforming into a demonic, shrouded
wraith as he fell. Shocked, the others froze, transforming themselves, and
Jonathan squirmed to twist free of a tentacled “hand.”
“That’s it, son—give ’em hell! They’d have tried to take you there. But we’ll
show ’em now! Let ’em know they’re in for a fight when they cross the Kents!”

Outside a United States scientific research station on the Antarctic peninsula,

two men stood in the subzero cold as if mesmerized. To the south, lightning
snaked back and forth between two banks of roiling clouds, and above that
display, the eerie, multicolored bands of the aurora australis flared and swirled in
a curtain of light.
One of the men let out a low, mournful whistle, the moisture of his breath
instantly freezing on his balaclava. “Some light show! What the devil is going on
out there, Steve?”
“Boy, you’ve got me, Marty. I’ve spent five of the past ten years down here,
and I’ve never seen the aurora flare up like this.” Steve shook his head. “And
that lightning—it’s unreal!”
Marty shuddered. “Feels like the air around us is carrying a charge. I don’t
like this, Steve. We’d better get inside.”
As the two men turned to reenter the research station, Marty looked back over
his shoulder at the aerial display. “Hey, could all this be a side effect of that
growing hole in the ozone layer?”
“Possibly.” Steve stopped to knock the compacted snow from the soles of his
boots. “More charged particles might be streaming in. I don’t know, though . . .
that lightning storm looks to be centered just beyond the Ellsworth Mountains. A
lot of weird electromagnetic phenomena have been reported in that area
recently.” He stared up into the skies. “Something like this makes you realize
how much there is that we still don’t know.”
 The storm was centered beyond the Ellsworth Mountains, but the real nucleus
of activity lay buried hundreds of feet below the surface in the Kryptonian
Fortress. There, wasplike robots, identical to those of Krypton’s ancient past,
flitted around a spherical containment field as energies rippled within. One robot
paused to receive data from another. “Has the intelligence been completely
isolated?”
“Negative. The Master’s essence dispersed following the dysfunction of the
corporeal body.” The answering robot completed a complex mathematical
calculation and continued. “Retrieval has been limited to 98.073 percent. Despite
the loss, there is a 79.237 percent chance for reconstruction. We will continue
the process.”

Superman tore through the demon wraiths, mowing them down just like they
were weeds, thought Jonathan. Two robotic shapes swooped down on the Man of
Steel, taking on wraithlike qualities as they approached. “You must not resist
death’s grip,” squawked one. “There can be no turning back!”
Superman reached up, catching one robotic wraith in each hand, and smashed
them together. Their remains melted away to smoke, and Superman leapt to
Jonathan’s side in a single bound. “Pa! Are you all right?!”
“Never better, son. Or at least, I will be once we hightail it out of here.”
Jonathan grabbed Superman by the arm and turned to run, but his son had set his
feet. It was like trying to drag a mountain. “Clark, now what’s got into you?!”
“Pa, I can’t go back. You were right about these phony Kryptonians—I won’t
follow them anymore—but I can’t go back to Earth either. I’ve been gone too
long.”
“Horseapples! I didn’t come all this way to hear you talk like that! You’re a
Kryptonian, the last of your kind. Son, you can’t walk through death’s doorway
willingly.”
“It was hardly ‘willingly,’ Pa.” Superman started to shake his head. Then he
abruptly wrapped his arm around his father and leapt into the air.
Jonathan coughed and caught his breath. “Th-that’s more like it, son.”
“I’m just taking you away from this, Pa. That’s all.”
“Like hell, ‘that’s all’! Clark, listen to me. For the first years of your life, you
thought you were a human being—stronger than most, but human. You grew up
on our farm and you saw things get born, and you watched them live, and you
saw them die. You grew up thinking that someday you would die, too . . . but
maybe it doesn’t have to be that way at all. Don’t you understand, son? For once
I’m begging you not to think like an Earthling!”
A dark tunnel opened up in the misty skies in front of them. Behind them once
more was the dazzling light. Superman hovered before the tunnel but began
drifting back toward the light.
“Pa, this is as far as I can take you. I’m telling you, I’ve been away too long
already. Pa, you yourself said it . . . I am the last Kryptonian. Billions of my
people have died. Why would I be the sole exception?”
“There are no exceptions.” The voice came from everywhere and nowhere; it
was very deep and very cold. A tall figure dressed in black stepped out of the
light. His resemblance to Superman was unmistakable.
“Jor-El!” Superman looked stunned, and Jonathan himself felt badly shaken.
Jor-El inclined his head. “It is good that you recognize me, Kal-El.” He turned
sternly to the Earthman. “My son must come with me, Jonathan Kent. You must
cease your interference.”
“Like hell I will! Maybe Clark will die someday, but it doesn’t have to be
now!”
“I regret that it does. I correctly predicted the destruction of Krypton, and I am
correct in this matter as well.” Jor-El extended a hand toward Superman. “Come.
You know that I have always looked after you. You survived our homeworld’s
destruction only because I sent your birthing matrix to the Earth.”
“Looked after him, my eye!” Jonathan stormed up to Jor-El. “Yeah, you sent
him to Earth, where he might have died for all you knew! You blindly hoped that
someone would find your son and bring him up—and, by God, someone did. My
wife and I raised your boy, and we love him like he was our own. And dammit, I
am not going back without him!”
Jor-El actually took a step back. His face didn’t ripple, as had the false
cleric’s, but he did look uncertain.
Jonathan whirled around. “You see, son? He isn’t sure! Now let’s get going.”
“I still don’t know, Pa.”
Jonathan grabbed Superman by the wrist and stared squarely down the dark
tunnel. “Have a little faith in your old man, son. What have you got to lose?
Let’s just do it!”

“Martha?” A woman peered in from the doorway.

“Lois! Oh, Lois—” Martha leapt to her feet and hugged the younger woman to
her. “You didn’t have to come all this way!”
“Shhh! It’s okay. I wanted to be here. I don’t know how much good I can do,
but I’ll do everything I can.” Lois looked up, tears in her eyes. “Hello, Lana.”
“Lois. You made good time.”
“The advantages of being an army brat! I called in an old favor and caught a
ride on a transport flight. How’s Jonathan doing?”
Before either woman could answer, the heart monitor beside Jonathan’s bed
began beeping louder. Martha stifled a scream, and Lana lunged for a call
button, but Dr. Lanning and a staff cardiologist were already charging into the
room.
“Is . . . is it bad, Gene?”
“No, Martha.” Lanning slipped his stethoscope across his patient’s chest. “I
think it’s good; very good, in fact. Jon’s heart is beating good and strong . . .
blood pressure’s back to normal . . . and his breathing—”
Jonathan suddenly coughed and reached up, pulling out his endotracheal tube
before the startled doctors could stop him. He blinked and drew in a long, deep,
satisfied breath. “Made it!”
He looked up to see his wife staring down at him, her mouth open wide.
“Martha! Martha, honey, we’re back.”
“Oh, yes!” Martha gently framed his face between her hands. She could
hardly see him through her tears. “Yes, thank God, you’re back!”
“Not just me, Martha.” A tear trickled down Jonathan’s cheek. “I found our
boy. Clark’s come back, too. He’s come back . . .”
“Jonathan, you don’t know what you’re saying.”
“Course I do, honey.” Jonathan smiled up at Martha and squeezed her hand,
startling her with the strength of his grip. A movement caught his eye, and he
looked past her at the two young women standing near the foot of his bed.
“Lana? And is that Lois? Hey, don’t cry now. Don’t you worry . . .
everything’s going to be all right. You’ll see.” He gave a huge yawn. “I’ll tell
you all about it later. Right now, I’m all in.”
Within minutes, Jonathan was sound asleep, his vital signs rock steady.
Martha, Lana, and Lois quietly slipped from the room and gathered with Dr.
Lanning and the cardiologist for coffee at the nurses’ station. The cardiologist
stirred creamer into her cup and shook her head with amazement. “You know, I
started out as an EMT. I’ve seen a lot of cardiac cases over the years, but I’ve
never seen a recovery as abrupt and as strong as your husband’s, Mrs. Kent.”
“Do you really think he’ll be all right?” Martha nervously tore at a packet of
sweetener.
“Don’t you worry now, Martha.” Lanning patted her hand reassuringly.
“We’ll have him back on his feet in no time.”
“Doctor . . . what Jonathan said after he woke up—” Lois played
absentmindedly with her engagement ring. “About Clark? Was that delirium?”
The cardiologist looked at her colleague. “Your call, Gene. You know the
man better than I do.”
“He didn’t seem delirious, Ms. Lane.” Lanning took a long swallow and
looked back toward the room. “My guess is that he was recalling some manner
of mild hallucination he’d had while his heart had stopped.”
“I see.” Lois turned away and stared off out the west window at the bright, full
moon. An hallucination . . . just an old man’s dream. I wish it were true, but I
saw Clark’s body in the tomb myself. He won’t be coming back. Her tears again
began to flow. Martha and Lana were tearing up, too, and she knew with certain
sorrow that they were thinking the same thing. None of us will ever see Clark
again.
 SECTION THREE

REIGN OF THE
SUPERMEN
19

In a cold, sterile chamber in the Fortress of Solitude, far beneath the ice of
Antarctica, an eerie standing energy wave began to form. The roiling, seething
forces trapped within the spherical containment field seemed to coalesce. Over a
series of hours, the energy compacted further, outlining a vaguely manlike shape
curled up as if in a fetal position. Slowly, this Energy Man unfolded, emerging
in a crackling discharge through the containment field.
Several small Kryptonian robots that had been adjusting and maintaining the
field wheeled about to observe the emergent Energy Man.
“Where am I? I remember a battle . . .” The Energy Man looked about,
confused. “I know this place. This is my Fortress—but how did I get here?”
The robots clustered together, going on-line in silent communication.
“He lives! Our programming has been successful!”
“Interesting. The energy form’s vibrations are producing sounds.”
“He is still disoriented. He attempts to vocalize in English. We must respond
in kind.”
One of the robots broke off from the cluster and approached the Energy Man.
“Do not fear. You are safe here.”
“What is going on?” The Energy Man reached out to the robot, but his faintly
glowing “hand” passed through the metal form, causing a disruptive energy
discharge at the point of entry. Sparking and sputtering, the robot darted away,
swaying drunkenly.
The Energy Man inspected his hand. “I—I’m immaterial. What has happened
to me?”
A second robot approached, keeping a cautious distance. “You were rendered
discorporate, Master. We had created a mobile field effect to collect and contain
your essence.”
“Discorporate? Then all that’s left of me is a disembodied intelligence?” The
concept seemed too much for the Energy Man to bear. He’d begun to curl back
up into a ball when he noticed a huge bank of video screens in the chamber
beyond. The monitors! The Professor—Hamilton?—had adjusted them to
receive and record satellite transmissions. A hope grew within his mind.
Perhaps it can show me something that will help me remember.
The Energy Man half-walked, half-floated toward the monitor bank and
reached for the control panel. Sparks flew as his hand passed through the panel.
This will never do. “Robot, activate the monitor bank. Program it to display any
and all recent news dealing with Superman.”
The robot rushed to comply, and the screens flashed with a rapid montage of
scenes—from grainy telephoto shots of the Doomsday monster battling
Superman through the city of Metropolis to sharp close-ups of mourners lining
the route of the long funeral procession. Accompanying the images was a chorus
of voices.
“. . . Justice League was ruthlessly attacked by a creature that is being called
Doomsday . . .”
“Following a cross-country chase, Superman has faced off against Doomsday
in the very heart of Metropolis . . .”
“Superman has reportedly been seriously injured . . .”
“. . . declared dead at approximately 6:23 P.M. eastern time.”
“. . . the solemn drumbeat as the world’s great heroes march along in tribute,
following their gallant leader one last time.”
“The world will long remember this great man, who sacrificed his own life to
end the threat of Doomsday . . . God bless him.”
The Energy Man looked on aghast. “Dead? Discorporate?”
The last of the video screens showed a slow pan down the huge granite statue
of Superman to a crowd of people gathered at its base. “Mourners continue to
visit his tomb in Metropolis’s Centennial Park, leaving tributes to this Last Son
of Krypton who grew up to become the most American of heroes.”
“No! It can’t end this way!” The Energy Man turned away from the screens.
“The body! There must still be power in the body!” The Energy Man arose,
passing through the ceiling of the Fortress like a ghost.

At 4:27 that morning, there were only three people to be seen around
Superman’s tomb. A uniformed city policeman rocked back and forth on the
balls of his feet near the edge of the plaza; it was his job to be there. A stoop-
shouldered old bag lady who had nowhere else to go came pushing a shopping
cart across the paving stones, muttering to herself. And a man stood before the
tomb at that late hour; his grief had brought him there. He paused to secure a
skullcap to his head and knelt amid the flowers at the base of the tomb and began
to pray.
“O God, full of mercy, who dwells on high, grant proper rest on the wings of
the divine presence—in the lofty levels of the holy and the pure ones who shine
like the glow of the firmament—for the soul of Superman. May his resting place
be in the Garden of Eden—therefore may the Master of Mercy shelter him in the
shelter of His winds for Eternity. And may He bind his soul in the bond of life.
HASHEM is his heritage, and may he repose in peace on his resting place.
Amen.”
Tears in his eyes, the man rose and walked slowly from the tomb. The
policeman watched the man leave, feeling a bit misty-eyed himself. He’d pulled
park duty several times over the past two weeks, and in that time he’d heard
prayers to every conceivable deity in more languages than he’d ever realized
existed. Everybody misses Superman. Just not as many tonight . . . too cold for
’em, I guess. There’ve been barely fifty people here since midnight. I hope
they’re not starting to forget him already.
The officer was roused from his thoughts by an electronic squawk and a
garbled voice from his walkie-talkie: “One-Baker-sixty-three . . . see a man at
Bessolo and Park Entrance South . . . stolen car reported.”
“One-Baker-sixty-three. On my way!” The policeman turned and sprinted
from the plaza.
The old bag lady looked around cautiously and then pushed her cart up to the
tomb. “Uuhm. Pretty flowers.” She plucked a thornless rose from one of the
bouquets that had been left in tribute. “Pretty, pretty. Never miss one.”
The bag lady was still sniffing her treasure when the Energy Man dropped
down from the sky beside her. She seemed not to pay him any attention, and that
gave him pause. The Fortress robots could perceive me; why doesn’t she? Is she
that lost within her own mind? Or is it simply that no human being can easily
perceive me in this state? He pondered the question for but a moment before
turning and passing through the side of the tomb. So swift was his passage that
his energies shut down the tomb’s security net before it could send a single
alarm.
 Dropping down into the crypt, the Energy Man hovered over Superman’s
coffin; he could sense a raw power stirring within it. Over thirty years of
bioconverted solar energy is stored in the body. If I can’t reclaim it, I’ll forever
remain an immaterial phantom. He reached through the coffin and into
Superman’s body.
A brilliant energy discharge crackled about the body, and the Energy Man
shook as if in the throes of some seizure, his scream echoing off the walls of the
crypt. Outside, the entire tomb began to glow, and this the bag lady noticed
immediately. “Oh! I . . . I’m sorry! You can have the flower back!” She tossed
the rose back onto the pile as tiny bolts of lightning crackled off the big statue,
and scrambled off across the plaza, dragging her cart after her.
Back inside the crypt, the Energy Man was gone. A tall, powerfully built form
arose in his place and stepped back from the opened coffin, clutching a long,
flowing cape in his hands. The cape! I can touch it . . . hold it! I’m alive again . .
. alive! But I feel so strange . . . light-headed.
He staggered across the crypt, feeling unsteady on his feet, and set one hand
against a wall to brace himself. He could feel a slight tingling in his palm and
realized with a start that there was a gridwork of electrical circuitry buried within
the walls. There are control systems here . . . alarms coming on-line . . . I can
somehow sense them. And beyond that wall lies some sort of passageway! Who
would put such things in a tomb? The idea disturbed him so that—almost
without his thinking—a small surge of energy leapt through his fingertips and
into the wall grid, effectively overriding the rebooted security systems.
“The air . . . musty in here. Got to get out.”
He shoved open the crypt’s vaultlike door, only to recoil as the antechamber’s
automatic lighting switched on. He threw up his arms and drew the cape around
him to shield his eyes from what was to him a blinding glare. Something is
wrong. I have stared into the sun before without ill effect; how could any
artificial light source induce such pain? Something has changed within me. I’m
not safe here—I must return to the Fortress.

Henry Johnson was awakened from a deep sleep by the sound of an exploding
car. He threw on a pair of pants and ran out into the street just in time to see a
teenage boy dancing gleefully around the burning wreck of what had just
moments before been a late-model Cadillac. From the smell that drifted up the
street, Henry knew that there’d been someone alive inside. He bent over and just
managed to keep the contents of his stomach down.
When Henry looked up again, he saw that the boy had in hand a gun about the
length and width of a car muffler. The gun looked ludicrously huge in the boy’s
hands, but the sight of it drove the big man wild with anger. Henry charged
forward, grabbing hold of the gun barrel, and yanked the weapon away before
the youth knew what hit him. Enraged, the former engineer slammed the gun
down hard against the pavement, cracking its plastic and aluminum stock.
“Hey, man, leggo my Toastmaster!” The boy jumped on Henry’s back,
punching and clawing.
“Toastmaster?” Henry whipped around and grabbed the boy by the front of his
baseball jacket. “Toastmaster?! Where did you get this—this piece of filth?!”
Henry shook the boy until his teeth rattled. “Answer me!”
“N-no way. I’m a Shark. Sharks don’t have to answer to nobody!”
Henry stared hard at the boy under the glare of a streetlight. My God, he can’t
be more than fifteen. He nodded back toward the burning wreck. “Why?”
The boy grinned. “ ’Cause I’m a Shark. An’ ’cause I could!”
The words were still ringing in Henry’s ears long after the police had taken
the boy away.
“. . . ’cause I could.”
Those were the words of someone with nothing to lose; of someone who knew
no hope and saw no future.
“. . . ’cause I could.”
John Henry did not bother returning to his room. He knew he wouldn’t get
back to sleep.
He went down into the basement and got to work. He had to put an end to this
madness. At the very least, he had to get those big guns off the street.

In his second-floor walk-up, Bibbo had risen unusually early and begun
rummaging through a battered old chest of drawers. He stopped to sniff various
items of clothing, tossing some onto the bed and others onto a growing pile of
laundry in the corner. After a few minutes of furious sorting, Bibbo had a clean
pair of blue sweatpants, a brilliant crimson pair of satin boxing trunks, and a blue
sweatshirt laid out across his bed. He looked at his ensemble for a moment, then
nodded his approval and started to get dressed.
Bibbo paused for a moment after pulling on the sweatpants and gazed up
reverently toward a grimy skylight in the ceiling.
“Hullo, Sooperman? This’s yer ol’ pal Bibbo. I hope God don’t mind if we
talk awhiles. We all miss ya, Sooperman—we miss ya terrible bad. I been
thinkin’ ’bout ya a lot, pal. It just ain’t the same here without ya.”
Bibbo picked up the sweatshirt—his official Superman sweatshirt—and stared
at the pentagonal emblem. “These shirts . . . ya coulda made a mint from
merchandizing but ya never kept a dime! Ya always gave your part to charity . . .
a real share-the-wealth kinda guy . . . jus’ like me!”
Atop the chest of drawers, an old clock radio clicked on: “Radio-Nine news
time is six-o-two. Violent crime continues to worsen in all parts of the city. And
in a related story, doctors report a sharp increase in cases of clinical depression
in the wake of Superman’s death.”
The tavern owner reached over and turned off the radio. “Y’hear that,
Superman? Things’re fallin’ apart down here. Supergirl’s been workin’ real hard
but somehow it just ain’t enough.”
Bibbo pulled on the sweatshirt. “Now, what I got in mind might strike some
folks as disrespeckful—but I sure hope you don’t think so, Superman. Ain’t
nobody in this world I respecks more’n you . . . you were my fav’rit! I know I’m
not man enuff to fill yer boots, but I’m still gonna give it my best shot!” He
pulled the trunks on over his sweats and pulled a pair of red high-tops out from
under the bed.
“The way I sees it, we all gotta pull together—do everythin’ we can to help
each other out. I know that’s the way ya’d’ve wanted it, and I ain’t gonna let ya
down. I’m gonna help everybody I can, pal—an’ I’m gonna do it all in yer
memory!”
Bibbo finished lacing up his sneakers and stood up to survey his appearance in
the mirror. He brought his big hands together and cracked his knuckles. “If it’s a
Sooperman that Metropolis needs, it’s a Sooperman they’re gonna get!”

Hours later, the newly resurrected Kryptonian stood in an upper chamber of the
Antarctic Fortress, freshly clothed from head to toe in a dark blue and black
bodysuit. Over his eyes rested a smoky amber-colored visor.
Before him, a huge crystalline egg, some eight feet tall, hung suspended in
midair via various electromagnetic fields. Clusters of transmission fibers snaked
up through the Fortress and the ice above, channeling solar energy down into the
egg, suffusing it with a warm glow.
“Bless Krypton and the House of El.” The man gently ran his fingers along
the surface of the crystalline egg. “Their legacy—the technology of this Fortress
—has given me new life!”
A robot drew near. “Is all well, Master?”
“Yes, Unit Six, all is very well. This glorious Regeneration Matrix has
ensured that the heart of Krypton’s Last Son will keep beating! It channels life-
giving energies to me—now that I can no longer absorb them directly from the
sun and stars.”
“And your vision, sir? Is the visor satisfactory?”
“It serves its purpose, Unit Six. But . . .” The Kryptonian turned from the
Matrix, his hand reaching up to trace the rim of his visor. “. . . once I could see
to the ends of the Earth, if I so desired, and now the dimmest light blinds me. I
don’t know if I’ll ever get used to that.”
He frowned darkly and raised one clenched fist to his chest. “I must not give
in to despair. I may have lost the gift of supernormal sight, but I am alive! My
senses, my body may have changed . . . but I am still strong! I still can fly free of
gravity’s hold. I still possess powers and abilities far beyond those of normal
men!” To underscore his point, he thrust out a hand and sent a beam of raw
energy blasting into the far wall.
Unit Seven automatically assessed the damage to the Fortress wall. “Sir?
Might I suggest caution in the exercise of those powers within these confines?”
“Your suggestion is noted. See that the wall is repaired, and reinforced.”
“At once, sir.”
As Unit Seven set out to effect the repairs, his master flew from the chamber
and headed for the monitor bank. For a solid hour, the Kryptonian stood and
absorbed the news of the world. The news was not good.
Metropolis had suffered its fifth bank robbery in as many days, and incidents
of violent crime were up dramatically in the city.
A fire in an office tower had claimed thirty-seven lives, while the intense heat
of the blaze kept fire fighters at bay.
One commentator cited a growing general malaise in urban centers worldwide
in the days since Superman’s death and reported that public health officials
feared a dramatic rise in the incidence of suicides and suicide attempts.
But the images that kept drawing the Kryptonian’s attention were from reports
taped on the scene in Centennial Park: “A surprising number of people have
joined a cult that gathers daily at Superman’s tomb, awaiting his resurrection.” A
hint of weary sarcasm crept into the reporter’s voice. “Members of the cult
worship the late hero as a messiah and maintain that he will rise from the grave
to carry on what they refer to as his never-ending battle.”
The Kryptonian did not notice the reporter’s sarcasm. His eyes were on the
faces of the hopeful. His ears were filled with their prayerful cry: “Superman!
Superman!! Superman!!!”
He turned away from the monitors and called out to his robots. “Unit Four!
Unit Nine! Bring me the cape and shield!”
In response, two metallic servitor units came flying in, carrying a bundle of
red cloth. “Here they are, sir. Everything has been prepared and ready, as per
your orders of this morning.”
The robots unfolded the cape from around the thin metal alloy of the
pentagonal shield. Amazingly, the cloth had been bonded to the upper corners of
the shield so exactingly that not a seam showed. Moving as if they had spent
years as personal valets, the robots lowered the cape over the Kryptonian’s
shoulders, affixing the shield electrostatically to his chest.
One of the robots fussed with the draping of the cape as the other hovered
solicitously beside his master. “Sir, you returned to us just sixteen-point-seven
hours ago. Wouldn’t it be wise for you to recuperate more fully from your ordeal
before you again leave the Fortress?”
“No. I cannot rest while the world is in such a desperate state.”
The caped man flew up out of the Fortress, carving a new exit out of the ice.
“The people cry out for Superman! I must be their champion!”

In Metropolis, Patricia Washburn had just entered her apartment building’s

laundry room when the door was slammed and locked behind her and she was
grabbed by a man wearing a ski mask. Patricia was so tired after a long day’s
work that her first thought was that this must be one of her friends trying ineptly
to be funny. She pulled away in anger. “There’s nothing funny about trying to
scare people. Who is that? Barry, you creep, is that you?”
Then the man pulled a gun, and she knew he was no friend.
“Who’re you—? NO! Stay away from me! HELP!”
“Shut up.” The man grabbed her roughly and threw her against one of the
washing machines.
“Police—!”
“I said, shut up!” He swung his pistol up against the side of Patricia’s head
and then grabbed her again, this time in a choke hold. “Ain’t nobody here to help
you, so you might as well settle down! You an’ me . . . we’re gonna party.”
Suddenly the door was smashed open, ripped right off its hinges by a tall,
caped man. “Get away from that woman!” His voice seethed with righteous
anger.
The man in the ski mask froze, staring dumbly at the newcomer. “What in the
hell—?”
“Hell? I have seen hell, fool.” The caped man took a step forward. “Put down
that gun or I will send you there.”
“Sonovabitch!” The man released his hold on Patricia and gripped his pistol
with both hands, emptying it at the caped man.
The caped man didn’t even break stride. He grabbed the man in the ski mask
by the throat with one gloved hand and yanked away the man’s gun with the
other. “That was the wrong decision.” The pistol made a horrible creaking sound
as he crushed it in his hand.
Nose to nose with the caped man, and helpless in his grip, the man in the ski
mask gasped for breath. “Who . . . who are you?”
“I’m Superman.”
“You can’t be Superman. He’s dead!”
“No—you are.” The Superman turned and hurled the attacker clear through a
masonry wall.
“Oh, God.” Patricia slid along the side of a dryer. “Oh, my God!” She was
desperately trying to get to her feet and run, but her legs didn’t want to obey.
The Superman turned toward Patricia, holding out his hands to her. “Do not
be afraid. You are safe now.” All traces of anger disappeared from his voice as
he knelt down to help the bruised and battered woman to her feet. “He can no
longer harm you. I have seen to that.”
There was little expression on his face, and she could not see his eyes through
the visor, but there was a sincerity to his voice. Somehow, Patricia knew she had
nothing to fear from this man.

At that moment, farther downtown, Sandra and Daniel Henry and their son Jake
left their hotel and started walking up Collyer Boulevard, tour map in hand.
Sandy and Dan had been promising Jake this trip to Metropolis for several
months, and after Superman’s death, they had considered vacationing
somewhere else. But young Jake had been adamant, and finally his folks had
caved in.
“Over here, Dad, it’s right on this next block! See?” Jake pointed up the street
to the Daily Planet Building. “The story in that magazine said that it was just
over there that he died.” The boy was about to run on ahead when his mother
reached out and took him gently by the arm.
“Just hold your horses, Jake Henry.” Sandra glanced around cautiously. It was
still supposed to be relatively safe in the downtown area, but neither she nor her
husband knew their way around Metropolis all that well, and there were all those
stories about the rising crime rate. She was glad that Dan had put away his tour
map; she was sure that they looked enough like tourists as it was.
“Mom! We don’t want to miss it.”
“We won’t miss anything, Jake.” Dan slipped his hand over his son’s. “It’s not
as if that spot’s going to go away.”
Arm in arm, the Henrys walked up to the main entrance of the Planet
Building. There, set flush into the stone of the sidewalk, was a big square of
brass marking the spot where Superman had died, making the supreme sacrifice
to stop Doomsday.
Jake grew as quiet as his parents had ever seen the boy. They all gathered
around the plaque with their heads bowed and just stared at it for the longest
time. The noise of the streets seemed to fade away. It’s a little like being in
church, thought Sandra. And this is the altar.
It was Jake who first noticed signs of the approach. There was a sudden,
flickering movement reflected in the burnished brass, and the boy looked up to
see a powerful caped figure drop out of the night sky.
The Henrys scrambled back out of the way as he landed solidly beside the
plaque. The caped figure bent down and pried the brass square loose from its
moorings with his bare hands. He then straightened up, keeping his back to the
Henrys, holding the plaque in his right hand. He appeared to be staring at it.
The Henrys watched in frozen silence, but they were not completely surprised
to see the outlines of the plaque begin to soften and run.
“Heat vision—he has heat vision!” Jake’s words came tumbling out in a
hushed whisper.
Sandra fumbled around in her jacket pocket, trying to get out her camera,
while her husband took a tentative step forward. “Why . . . why did you melt that
plaque?”
The caped man glanced back over his right shoulder. “It’s out-of-date.”
“You—are you—?” Dan wasn’t sure what the right question to ask was, but
the stranger already had an answer.
“Yes. I’m back.” And then, with a single bound, he was gone again,
disappearing behind the tall buildings of Metropolis.

When Lois Lane came downstairs in the Kent farmhouse the next morning, she
found that Martha was already up, had breakfast ready, and was packing a lunch.
“Martha, now what are you doing?”
“Making sandwiches, dear. You like turkey on whole wheat, don’t you?”
“Yes, that’s fine—but why? We can get something on the road, if you don’t
care that much for the hospital cafeteria.”
“No need, Lois . . . no need. We have plenty of food here, and it’ll just go to
waste if we don’t use it. I’m also fixing a little something to take along to
Jonathan today. He’s been grousing about the hospital food, and Doc Lanning
said it would be all right. Oh, there are fresh-baked muffins and marmalade on
the side table.”
“I knew there had to be . . . the aroma woke me up.” Lois claimed two of
Martha’s bran and raisin delights and poured herself an oversized mug of coffee.
“Martha, I don’t know where you get your energy.” She gave the woman a peck
on the cheek.
The phone rang and Lois picked it up. “Good morning, Kent residence.”
“Lois?” There was confusion in the voice at the other end.
“Hi, Lana—is something wrong?”
“I’m not sure. Have you been watching the news?”
“No, I just got up. Why?”
“Maybe you’d better turn it on.”
Lois hung up the phone, dashed into the parlor, and switched on CNN. The
Daybreak anchor was accompanied on-screen by a vivid graphic, a question
mark superimposed on Superman’s pentagonal emblem.
“Repeating our top story . . . authorities in Metropolis this morning are
scrambling to investigate numerous evening and overnight sightings of a
mysterious costumed figure who witnesses claim was Superman. Here with our
first report is CNN’s Lucinda Watanabe . . .”
Lois heard a gasp behind her and turned to see Martha standing in the parlor
door. The older woman’s eyes were wide and her mouth had opened into a big
“O.” She looks like the way I feel, thought Lois. “Let’s not go getting all upset,
Martha. It’s probably just some sick practical joke or something. When I left
Metropolis, the supermarket tabloids already had Superman living on the same
South Sea island with Elvis and Marilyn Monroe.”
Lois turned back to the set to see a bruised, shell-shocked Patricia Washburn
standing in the midst of a rubble-strewn laundry room, describing her ordeal.
“This used to be a safe building. I don’t know how he got in, but this man—he
was wearing a ski mask—he grabbed me and started hitting me with his gun. I
wouldn’t have had a chance if Superman hadn’t shown up.”
The reporter interrupted her. “Then you’re convinced that it was Superman?”
“Who else could it have been? He was over six feet tall, red cape, big ‘S’ on
his chest . . .” Patricia pointed toward the opening where the laundry room door
had been. “He broke right through there and kept that sleaze from killing me!
I’m not sorry that my attacker’s dead, either. He sure won’t threaten anyone ever
again.”
Together, Lois and Martha sat down on the edge of the old parlor sofa. “Lois,
that couldn’t have been Clark. He wouldn’t have killed that man.”
 “Of course not, Martha, he wouldn’t have needed to.”
The picture switched to another reporter standing in front of the Daily Planet
Building. “At virtually the same moment that Patricia Washburn was being
rescued from her attacker, the Henry family had a close encounter of a different
kind here, some sixty blocks away. A man they claim was Superman landed in
front of this landmark building and destroyed a brass plaque marking the spot
where Superman supposedly died. I say supposedly because someone reduced
the plaque to a molten puddle. It has been taken away for study by city officials.
But we do have a copy of a photograph taken by Mrs. Henry . . .”
Lois looked on slack-jawed as a close-up of the photo came on-screen. It was
dark, grainy, and somewhat out of focus, but it did look like Superman. The
figure’s face was mainly in shadow, but that familiar lock of hair fell down
across his forehead.
There were other reported sightings. A confessed carjacker was in critical
condition with burns and fractures that he claimed had been inflicted by
Superman. A cat burglar had been left tied to a seventh-story flagpole. And a
little girl named Cindy produced a crude drawing of the man who she claimed
had rescued her kitten from a tree. In the drawing, her Superman had beard
stubble and wore a cap instead of a cape. “He smelled kinda funny, like daddy
when he’s been drinking beer.” Cindy wrinkled her nose but never lost her
smile. “He said to call him ‘Sooperman,’ so I did.”
Eventually, the news turned to other stories, and Lois switched off the set.
“Martha, I don’t know what to say. You heard the one reporter; a couple of those
sightings happened at the same time. Clark was never able to be in two places at
once. Some of those things had to be hoaxes.”
“But not all of them, Lois. Someone broke through that wall. And the photo . .
.” Martha shook her head. “I wish we could have seen more of his face. It did put
me in mind of Clark.”
“Martha—”
“I know, I know. But Jonathan did say he’d brought Clark back. What if it
wasn’t just an hallucination—what if he did meet Clark in the beyond? Clark
was capable of so many amazing things, but—oh, I don’t know! This is all so
bewildering to me.”
To me, too, Martha. “Well, look at the time. We’d better get going if we’re
going to get to the hospital for early visiting hours. We don’t want to keep
Jonathan waiting.”
“No, of course not, Lois. I—I wonder what he’ll make of all this?”

The next day, Lois flew back to Metropolis, her ears still ringing from Jonathan
Kent’s thoughts on the subject. The old farmer had already seen the TV reports
and become so agitated that Dr. Lanning had prescribed a new blood pressure
medication and threatened him with a longer hospital stay. Jonathan had calmed
himself as best he could. After all, he couldn’t very well tell the doctor why he
was so upset without spilling the beans about his son’s double life. And he
wasn’t about to do that. “We need to keep that secret for Clark, especially if he’s
come back.” In his heart of hearts, Jonathan remained convinced that he’d met
his son on “the other side.” “But these fool stories on the news—! None of ’em
sound right to me. You’ve got to check ’em out for us, Lois. The fool doctors
here won’t let me travel yet!”
From Smallville, Lois had tried to contact Captain Sawyer or Inspector Turpin
to see if there’d been any further disturbances at Superman’s tomb, but the
Special Crimes Unit seemed preoccupied with other business; no one had
returned her calls. She had finally put through a person-to-person call to Police
Inspector William Henderson. Bill Henderson had been one of Clark’s oldest
friends on the force, and he’d taken her call immediately.
Over the phone, Lois had made a case for checking the crypt. She’d argued
passionately as well as persistently, and Henderson had promised to do what he
could. They planned to meet upon her return.
Back in the city, Lois went directly to Centennial Park, where she found
Henderson waiting for her by the east wall. Flashlights in hand, they proceeded
down the underground access corridor.
“I still think this is a waste of time, Ms. Lane. The department’s been plugged
into the tomb’s security grid ever since the last incident. We haven’t detected so
much as a cockroach down here.”
“Maybe so, Inspector. But I’ve never heard of a security system that was a
hundred percent foolproof, have you?”
“No, I haven’t. That’s why I got authorization from the mayor’s office to
check it out.” Henderson grew pensive as they entered the crypt’s antechamber
and stood before the vault door. “Are you sure you’re ready for this?”
 Lois took a deep breath and let it out. “Not completely, but we have to know.
We have to be sure.”
Henderson inserted two special keys into a newly installed locking
mechanism, electronically opening the bolts that sealed the vault door shut. Then
he grabbed hold of the handle and slowly eased the big door open. Both he and
Lois let out a gasp as they entered the crypt. The coffin sat empty, its lid open.
The inspector made a quick check of the crypt. Its ceiling, walls, and floor all
appeared to be intact. There were absolutely no signs of entry.
Lois stared at the empty coffin. Maybe Jonathan was right. Maybe Clark is
back!
“Well, this is a fine kettle of fish!” Henderson scratched his head. “Now what
do we do?”
“Well, one thing’s for certain, Inspector; we can’t keep this a secret. Not this
time!”

The video monitors in Lex Luthor’s executive offices showed a close-up of an

empty coffin, as a somber WLEX reporter delivered the bombshell. “Superman’s
coffin is empty! But the questions remain . . . has he somehow miraculously
returned from the dead? Or are these sightings the handiwork of a super-
opportunist? Several radical groups have already claimed responsibility for
robbing Superman’s tomb and reviving him, while Superman-worshiping cultists
warn that Judgment Day is at hand. Only one thing is certain—Superman’s body
is missing!”
“Missing!” Luthor pounded his desk. “And we don’t know how or why—do
we, Happersen?!”
Happersen tugged nervously at his collar. “Well, sir, my people—”
“Your people! ‘Don’t worry, Mr. Luthor, the new hidden cameras will record
anything that happens at the tomb!’ Bah! All we have are several hours of blank
tape!”
“I assure you, Mister L, it’s just a matter of time before—!”
“How long, Happersen? How long?! After we recovered his body from the
Cadmus Project, you assured me that security was improved! And now this!”
Luthor slouched back in his chair, stroking his beard. “I swear, Superman’s as
much trouble to me dead as he was alive!”
 Luthor sat straight up at the sound of a series of loud thumps and muffled
shouts from the outer hall. The office door flew open, and a uniformed security
guard came tumbling backward into the executive suite.
The youthful CEO slammed a fist down on his desk. “Bloody hell, now
what?! I gave specific orders not to be disturbed!”
“S-sorry, Mr. L.” The guard scrambled to his feet and tried to hold the door
closed, but he was obviously fighting a losing battle. A sharp cry of pain came
through the half-opened door. “We tried to tell her that, but the lady insists on
seeing you!”
“Out of my way!” Supergirl came charging into the room, knocking the guard
aside and leaving a half dozen others trailing in her wake. She had a rolled-up
newspaper in her hand, and her face was flushed with anger. “Lex, we have to
talk!”
Luthor wearily rose to his feet as the guards picked themselves up off the
floor. “Love, I was in conference with Dr. Happersen. Can’t this wait?”
“Wait?! Lex, haven’t you seen the news?!”
“Of course I have. As a matter of fact, I was just about to send for you.” He
turned toward the guards. “You men resume your posts! We’ll forget about this .
. . little misunderstanding.” This time.
“Oh—sorry, guys.” Supergirl suddenly looked acutely embarrassed by what
she’d done. “I know you were just doing your jobs. No hard feelings?”
“No, miss.” Not on our part anyway. I don’t know about the boss.
Once the guards were out the door, the Girl of Steel whirled back around to
face Luthor. “I’ve just come from the tomb. I went over every inch of it and
there are absolutely no signs of a breakin. Superman really must be alive this
time!” She paused, hurt and frustration plainly showing on her face. “Lex, you
must have known earlier. Why didn’t you tell me? When I saw this—!”
She threw down a copy of the latest edition of the Daily Planet. The front
page was dominated by a huge photograph of the open coffin and twin
headlines: BACK FROM THE DEAD? SUPERMAN’S BODY MISSING!
Luthor came out from behind his desk, his face a mask of concern. “I didn’t
want to upset you needlessly, love.” He reached out and took her hands in his.
“All the reports I’ve seen so far have varied wildly, as have the descriptions of
this supposed Superman. Or perhaps I should say Supermen. If all the accounts
were true, there’d have to be more than one!”
“You’re saying that it could all be some sick hoax?”
“Perhaps, love. We still don’t know.”
Supergirl pulled away from him. “Well, I’m going to find out—one way or
another!” She strode from the room, and within moments, Luthor saw her flash
past the far glass wall of his office.
“Lord, she’s headstrong!” For a moment he stood at the glass, just watching
her fly off over the city. To have all that power at your beck and call. Luthor
smiled. But then, in a way, I do. “Happersen, put everyone we can spare on the
investigation. Call in all of our sources. I want to know for certain whether
Superman is dead or alive. And I want to see proof . . . or heads will roll!”

In his Cadmus Project office, Paul Westfield flicked off the television and
furiously punched up a number on his scramble phone. “Packard?! How goes the
work in Lab Thirteen? Have you started feeding our subject information yet?
Good, very good. But can you accelerate the process? We need to pick up the
pace. Yes, Carl, I understand the need for caution, but some other parties are
already out there trying to pass themselves off as the new Superman. How long
until the maturation process is complete? Two weeks? Well, if that’s the best
you can do. All right, keep me informed if there are any changes. Right. Good-
bye.”
Unseen behind the ventilation duct, Big Words silently scribbled down notes,
very glad that he had decided to look in periodically on Westfield’s office. The
boy did not like the sound of this at all. He had to get back and tell the others
about it immediately. The Newsboy Legion, he was certain, would want to take a
look at Lab Thirteen.

The sun was just beginning to set in Metropolis when Lois Lane heard the plane
approach. She looked up in horror as a small twin-engine aircraft passed by
overhead, not more than two stories above the ground.
The driver of a cab at curbside hung halfway out his window, his jaw wide
with amazement as he watched the plane go by. “Holy Christ! Who’s flyin’ that
thing?”
Lois dove into the back of the cab. “That’s what I aim to find out. Follow that
plane!”
The cabbie looked at her as if she were from another planet. “Ya want me to
follow—? Are you kiddin’ me, lady?”
“I’ve never been more serious in my life. Come on, there’s a big tip in it for
you if you keep it in sight.”
“All right, lady, you’re on!” He switched on the meter and shot away from the
curb. “ ‘Follow that plane!’ Now I’ve heard everything.”
Inside the small plane, the pilot sat slumped over in his seat. His lone
passenger sat in the copilot’s chair, desperately trying to remember how to work
the radio. “Calling Metropolis Tower—can anyone hear me? I need help! My
brother collapsed against the controls—I think it may be his heart!—and I don’t
know how to fly! Oh, God, we’re so low!” Frantically, the passenger wracked
her brain, trying to recall the procedures her brother had followed. We’re too
low. Got to pull up! Stupid wheel—why won’t you pull up?!
Slowly, the plane started to gain altitude. But as it did, one wing clipped the
side of a building and the plane tilted violently.
“We’re going to crash! We’re going to die!”
No sooner were the words out of the passenger’s mouth than the plane seemed
to right itself. People on the streets looked up to see a figure clad in black, red,
and blue balancing the craft upon his own broad shoulders, the streetlights
glimmering off his amber visor. As the plane’s engines sputtered and stalled out,
he brought it down over the narrow stretch of green that was Simon Kirby
Riverside Park.
A policeman came running up as the Superman emerged from beneath the
craft. “Officer! Please radio for assistance.”
It took the policeman a moment to find his voice. “I . . . already have, sir.” He
looked up and down at the tall man with the cape. The Captain’s never gonna
believe this. I don’t believe it! “You are . . . Superman?”
“Who else would I be?” The Superman turned and pulled the door off the side
of the plane.
Yeah, thought the cop, who else could he be? His outfit’s a little different, but
I don’t wear the same thing every day, so why should he!
The Superman helped the sobbing passenger down into the policeman’s arms
and turned to check on the pilot.
 The cop put an arm around the woman and did his best to console her. “It’s
okay, ma’am. You’re down safe and sound. Do you know where you are?”
“It’s . . . it’s Metropolis, isn’t it? We took off from O’Hara Field. My brother .
. .” She took the policeman’s proffered handkerchief and tried to dry her eyes.
“One minute, Johnny was laughing and smiling, and the next—he’s . . . he’s
dead, isn’t he?”
“Yes.” The Superman emerged from the plane. “His heart failed. Too much
time has elapsed; he cannot be revived.”
The policeman stared at the caped man in disbelief. Jesus, buddy, did you
have to be so blunt?
Not fifty feet away, Lois’s cab braked to a halt just inside the park entrance. “I
can’t get you any closer, lady. I’m breakin’ the law just by pullin’ in here.”
“It’s okay, this is close enough.” Lois saw a crowd starting to form; she tossed
the driver double what was on the meter and sprinted toward the plane. When
she’d spotted the rescue several blocks back, she hadn’t been sure whether she
believed her eyes. But now that she was within hailing distance, she was
determined to get some answers. “Hey! You with the cape! Hold it right there,
buster!”
As Lois reached the Superman, the cheering crowd began to close in around
them.
“See? It’s him! It’s really him!”
“Superman!”
“He’s back! Oh, thank the Lord Almighty, he’s come back!”
“Let me touch you!”
“Please, heal my child!”
Lois could see that the situation was fast getting out of hand. She grabbed the
caped man by the arm. “We need to talk. Get us out of here.”
The Superman scooped Lois up in his arms and leapt up into the sky, leaving
the mob far behind. So swiftly did they soar up over the rooftops that Lois’s
head began to spin. It had been over a month since she had flown in Superman’s
arms, and she had thought that she would never fly like that again. She drew in a
deep breath and pointed to the roof of a tall office tower. “I think this is far
enough. Set us down over there.”
The Superman nodded. “As you wish.”
 “As you wish”?! He resembles Clark, but he sounds so cold, so . . . hollow.
Lois looked him over closely. “You know, I’ve been trying to find you since I
first heard about you. Who are you? What’s your game?”
“I am Superman. I don’t understand your second question. I am not playing
any game.”
“Oh, really? Superman never hid his face, he didn’t wear a metal shield on his
chest, and he didn’t wear black like some executioner!”
“No. Not before. But I have been through much. I have changed.”
“If you’re really Superman, tell me who I am. Or don’t you know me?”
“You?” Superman studied Lois as if seeing her for the first time. “Yes . . . I
know you. You’re Lois Lane . . . a reporter. Before my passing . . . you were an
important part of my life. You were the first to write about me.”
Lois felt her throat constrict. His voice—it’s softening. He’s starting to sound
more like Clark. Not like Superman—like Clark! Don’t you cry, Lois Lane.
Don’t you dare start to cry! And don’t give anything away—demand proof!
“That I’m a reporter is a matter of public record. Tell me something that only
Superman could know!”
The Superman reached out his hand, gently touching her cheek. “I know . . .
that we were more than friends. You were engaged to marry Clark Kent.” His
voice came haltingly. “Kent loved you very much. He trusted you completely—
even with the secret of his double life.”
“Then you are—!”
“I am.” He suddenly pulled back his hand, as if he could no longer bear to
touch her. “I am sorry. I grieve for your loss, Ms. Lane.”
The Superman turned and began to walk away from her.
“What’re you saying? If it’s really you—” The words were catching in her
throat. “Clark—?”
“No! We must not speak of this again.” He looked back over his shoulder at
her. “As I told you, things have changed. I have changed. Kent is gone. There is
only Superman now.”
And then the Superman rocketed away into the sky.
“Wait! Don’t go!” Lois looked skyward, her face a mixture of fear, sorrow,
and confusion. Dear God in heaven. If he’s lying, someone’s learned that Clark
was Superman. And if he’s telling the truth, then I’ve lost Clark all over again.
20

Hidden away in the basement of his apartment building, Henry Johnson finished
soldering one last contact and stepped back to survey his work. Here, in his
makeshift workshop, it had taken him over a week to integrate all the
components of his prototype equipment into a functional battle suit, but he was
finally done. All that remained was the field testing. Might as well get started.
The problems on the streets aren’t going to clear up by themselves.
The streets in and around Suicide Slum had never been really safe. For over a
century, one neighborhood or another had been written off, their people told that
they were unneeded, unwanted, expendable.
The telling used to be quite blatant. John Henry had seen pictures of earlier
days, when employers posted help wanted notices telling certain groups not to
even bother to apply. As the years had passed, the discrimination had become
much less obvious but not necessarily less pervasive; the underclass hadn’t gone
away, it had simply changed color somewhat.
No, human nature hadn’t changed, but the weaponry had. Knife fights had
given way to gunfights, and handguns had given way to automatic weapons. The
addition of drug money had resulted in increasingly deadly turf wars. In some
neighborhoods, the murder rate was nearly as high as it had been during
Prohibition.
Henry knew that it would take something on the order of a Superman to stop
the killing. He prayed that his work could make a difference. He began to suit
up.
The reinforced body armor went on first, with its miniature servomotors
designed to amplify his strength tenfold. Next, he stepped into the rocket boots,
feeling the satisfying click as they locked into place around his feet, ankles, and
calves. Then he slipped the power gauntlets on over his hands and secured them
at his wrists. The larger of the two, fitted over his left wrist, was equipped to fire
steel spikes with fearful accuracy.
Henry took a few tentative steps across the room, hearing the hard pounding
sound of metal on concrete. Well, I won’t have an easy time sneaking up on
people, but then I didn’t design this suit with stealth in mind.
He reached down into a newly opened parcel and pulled out a thick red cape
made of tightly woven Kevlar. The cape had cost him plenty to have made to
order, but he felt it was necessary. He fastened the cape to special mountings set
into the collar of his armor, letting it drape back over his shoulders. He then
tightened a pentagonal shield of burnished steel to his chest. Machine-tooled into
the shield was the familiar stylized letter S. If I’m going to dedicate myself to
keeping the spirit of the real Superman alive, I have to wear his colors and his
insignia. He inspected his reflection in an old mirror that had been propped in
the corner and forgotten years ago. It looks all right. Now all I need is a helmet.
As Henry strode back across the room, a stolen car motored slowly past the
back of the building, driven by two members of the Sharks.
“That’s the place, brother.” The Shark behind the wheel sneered. “That’s
where that Johnson mother lives.”
“Well, I hope the man’s home.” The other Shark reached into a bag at his feet.
“ ’Cause I got a few little presents for ’im.” He pulled out a liter bottle filled
with gasoline, a rag wick stuffed down its neck. He lit the wick and hurled his
homemade bomb through a basement window. He lit and hurled a second one,
then a third, and then he snarled at his driver. “Go!”
As the car streaked away, the incendiaries erupted in the apartment building’s
furnace room. On the other side of a cinder block wall from the furnace room,
Henry heard the whoosh of the firebombs and swiftly locked his masked metal
helmet into place, switching on its emergency air supply. John Henry grabbed up
his long-handled sledgehammer, but before he could take another step, the bomb
blaze ignited the furnace’s fuel oil reservoir.
In seconds, fire swept up through the old building. As he walked unharmed
through the burning basement, John Henry heard a wail come from Rosie
Jakowitz’s apartment one floor above. He charged up the smoke-filled stairwell
to the first floor, only to find the door to Rosie’s quarters and most of the lobby
engulfed in flame. He could still hear Rosie inside, screaming hysterically. She
was unable to get out through that door, and he suspected that she’d lost the key
to the security bars over her windows.
His tongue tripped a microswitch inside his helmet and his amplified voice
boomed above the roar of the fire. “Stand back from the door!”
One mighty swing of his hammer reduced the door to burning embers. He
stalked into Rosie’s apartment and swept the tiny woman up in one arm,
wrapping his cape around her. Then he flew through the fire, setting her safely
down on the sidewalk across the street.
Rosie looked up in wonder at her steel-clad rescuer. She was a self-taught
theosophist who spent her nights studying the cabala and her days supporting
herself by reading tea leaves and advising people on their horoscopes. She had
never foreseen anything like this armor-plated man. “Who are you?”
“You can call me the Man of Steel.” His voice was like thunder.
“But who are you”—she put a hand out to his metal chest plate—“inside?”
“You’re the fortune-teller. You tell me!” He then turned and dashed back into
the building to help others escape the blaze. By the time fire fighters arrived on
the scene, everyone had been rescued, and the Man of Steel had vanished.

The next morning was dark and murky. Rain poured down on Metropolis,
turning the city’s potholes into water hazards and further eroding the streets.
Lois had been up half the night, unable to sleep and—worse still—unable to
write. Her encounter with the visored Superman had left her so rattled that she
hadn’t trusted herself to write it up for the paper. What do I say? That he’s
Superman returned from the dead? Do I really believe that? She’d finally given
up in despair and phoned in a greatly abbreviated eyewitness account of the
airplane rescue to the Planet’s night news desk.
At seven-thirty in the morning, Lois was sitting in an all-night diner, staring
blankly at her fourth cup of coffee, when the cellular phone in her purse rang.
“Hello?”
“Morning, Lois. It’s Jimmy. I didn’t wake you up, did I?”
“No, Jim.” She stifled a yawn. “Actually, I’ve been awake for some time.
What’s up?”
“We just got a hot tip on a new Superman sighting—at S.T.A.R. Labs, no
less! The caller told me that he saw Superman fly into the main lab complex just
a few minutes ago, and then all sorts of alarms started sounding. We haven’t
been able to raise anyone at S.T.A.R. for confirmation, but the Chief thought
you’d want to know.”
“Thank Perry for me, Jimmy. I’ll call in if I learn anything!”
When Lois arrived at the west side facility of Scientific and Technological
Advanced Research Laboratories, the entire complex was still in an uproar. The
security guards refused her admittance until she managed to catch the eye of a
technician she knew who was willing to vouch for her. Grudgingly passed
through, Lois found the main laboratory corridor full of confused people, most
of them wearing lab coats. Everyone she buttonholed had seen something, but no
one could quite agree on what they’d seen. Eyewitness accounts varied wildly,
and these are experienced scientists and technicians, thought Lois, people who
are trained to observe.
Slowly, a halfway coherent story began to emerge. Apparently someone
presenting himself as Superman had arrived just ahead of the morning support
staff and demanded Doomsday’s body, which S.T.A.R. xenobiologists had been
attempting—without much success—to study. When technicians attempted to
bar him from entering the xenobiology lab, he’d tossed them aside and located
the body on his own. He then left with the body, and that was about all that
anyone knew.
Most disturbing of all was their description of Superman. No one made any
mention of his wearing a visor, but most seemed to agree that this Superman
looked hard, as if partially made of metal.
“Metal?” Lois found that puzzling. The only metal she had noticed on the
Superman she’d met the night before was in the insignia he wore on his chest.
“You mean like a shield or helmet or something?”
Her witness was apologetic. “He moved so quickly, it was hard to tell. But,
no. I got the distinct impression that he was wearing some manner of
prosthesis.”

Three-quarters of a million miles from Earth, a caped figure landed upon a

meteor nearly ten feet across. Slung across one of his shoulders were great
lengths of heavy chains and thick cables; slung over his other shoulder was the
body of the monster Doomsday. Neither the mass of his burdens nor the vacuum
of space seemed to cause the caped figure any trouble.
He tamped Doomsday into the meteor, taking care to bury the creature’s bone
spurs as deeply as he could. With the chains and cables, he then secured
Doomsday tightly to the rock in a virtual cocoon of metal. Beams of radiant heat
shot from his eyes, fusing the bonds into the metallic core of the meteor. And to
the creature itself, he attached a sophisticated sensor device designed to transmit
a warning signal to its maker, should the bonds be disturbed in any way.
The caped figure then stared off into the vastness of space, calculating a safe
trajectory. Once those calculations were complete, he swung about and hurled
the meteor bearing the body of Doomsday off into the void.

On a hillside overlooking S.T.A.R. Labs, Lois walked through the drizzling rain,
trying to make some sense of what she had learned. At least two men were trying
very hard to pass themselves off as Superman; of that she was certain. Both men
could fly, both were very strong. Both wore red capes and pentagonal insignia,
and both had unruly forelocks. One covered his eyes, the other didn’t; it had
been that second man who’d gone into S.T.A.R. and carried off Doomsday.
Part of her hoped and prayed that Clark had somehow come back to life . . . or
maybe he never really died. Maybe it was just that his heart stopped like
Jonathan’s had and he’d gone into some sort of coma. Lois shook her head. “I
wish I knew.”
“Pardon me. You are . . . Lois Lane?”
The voice seemed to drift down out of the rain. Lois whirled around to see a
tall, broad-shouldered man striding toward her through the foggy mist. His
features were obscured by the branches of a tree, but she could see a cloak or a
cape furling behind him. His voice, uncertain at first, took on a more confident
tone. “Yes, it is you. You’re the one who first called me Superman.”
Lois froze in her tracks. “Superman?”
“Yes, Lois. I am Superman. I’ve come back.” The tall figure stepped clear of
the tree and stopped a few paces away from her.
Lois took a step back, her knuckles pressed hard against her teeth. She
examined the caped figure from head to toe and stared back up at the horror that
was his face. “Oh, my God!”
Only the upper right side of the figure’s head looked human. The rest of his
face and the rest of his hair were simply gone, exposing a skull of dull gray
metal.
His right eye was the warm, friendly blue that Lois had seen so often in her
dreams of Clark. The other eye was mechanical, of metal and glowing crystal,
with no more warmth than a camera lens.
He wore what appeared to be Superman’s old familiar costume, or at least part
of it. His left leg was a robotic limb of the same cold, hard alloy as his skull.
Where his right arm and the right side of his chest should have been there was
more metal.
Lois wanted to run, to scream, but found that she could do neither. This must
be a nightmare. I finally fell asleep, and this is what I get for wanting him back
so badly.
The tall machine-man gently extended his human arm, palm up. “I know that I
appear very different.” He tilted his head forward earnestly. Suddenly, his whole
stance and voice were very much like Clark Kent’s. “I realize that I am . . .
unpleasant to look at; even ugly. But you must believe me, I am Superman.”
Before she could even realize what she was doing, Lois took a step forward.
I’m walking toward him. The thought came to her slowly, as if from a great
distance. Does this mean I’m waking up?
The Superman bowed his head, turning the human side of his face toward her.
“I am pleased that you didn’t run away. It is very important to me that you not be
afraid of me.”
Lois took another step. What would Sam Lane say if he could see me now?
Would the Captain finally be impressed with his firstborn? Would he say that I
was taking this like a man, or would he think I was out of my mind?
Whether brave or reckless, Lois came right up to the Superman. Up close, his
face was even more terrifying. His robotic arm and leg were at least covered
with a smooth metal “skin,” but the machined part of his head was frightfully
skeletal, like some kind of cyborg.
It seemed impossible that this creature could ever have been Clark Kent.
Better, she thought, to have believed the visored Superman when he insisted that
Clark Kent was simply no more.
And yet, this machine-man—this Cyborg Superman—seemed so happy that
she hadn’t run away, so pleased and relieved. In his small fragment of a face was
more feeling, more humanity, than the other Superman had allowed to show
through his visor.
Lois raised one hand, as if to touch his face, then drew back. “But how? How
did you come back?”
“I don’t know. When I woke up, I was already as you see me now.” He
gestured to his face. “Somebody, I don’t know who, brought me back and rebuilt
the damaged parts of me—made me into this thing. It’s far from perfect, isn’t
it?” He looked down at his robot arm. “Still, given the alternative, I suppose that
I should be grateful to be back in any form.”
The Cyborg tried to smile, but only for a moment, as if he were aware that it
made his face look even more horrible.
Lois felt her heart clench. She raised her hand again, and this time she did
touch his face—carefully—along his right cheekbone at the juncture of the skin.
“This looks so . . . I mean, does it hurt? It looks like you must be in pain!”
“No. The pain was in the dying.” He tilted his face slightly, leaning very
gently into her touch. “The pain is long gone—like a faded memory. Strange as I
may look, now I’m alive again.”
“But how? Tell me how I can know it’s really you.”
The Cyborg’s shoulders sagged. “That may be difficult. There’s so much I
can’t remember. So much of my past is a mystery to me. I know that I’m
Superman. But I’m not sure how I can prove that to you. The things I do recall
are fragmentary. I’m afraid that the beating Doomsday gave me caused some
memory loss.”
Lois stepped back from him at this, her reporter’s instincts sounding a
warning. Amnesia? That sounds just a little too convenient. “You say you
remember me giving you your name, but that’s public knowledge! Tell me
something that isn’t. Tell me something that will prove you’re Superman.”
The Cyborg’s one human eye became distant, his expression very thoughtful.
“One of my earliest memories . . . is a farm in Kansas. And some people who
were there for me. I am not sure, but I seem to feel that that information was not
common knowledge.” He looked at her anxiously. “Is that right?”
Lois hoped she was keeping the shock from her face. “It’s—well, it’s heading
in the right direction.” She shook her head. Why did I say even that much? I
mustn’t give anything away until I can be sure! What can I say now?
She hesitated, trying to think of a safe question. The Cyborg clenched his
metal fist in very human-looking frustration. “It’s so agonizing, not to remember
—or even worse, to remember only bits and pieces. I’m trying to remember, but
so much eludes me.”
Lois looked full into his face, struck by sudden inspiration. “I’ve just thought
of someone who might be able to help. Would you agree to see him?”
“Someone who could help me remember?”
 “Perhaps. He’s run tests on Superman before.”
“I’ll try anything.” The Cyborg gently took her hand. “Please, take me to
him.”

Emil Hamilton looked up in astonishment at the two guests in his laboratory.

“Egads, Ms. Lane, what—who is this?!”
“That’s what we’re hoping you can tell us, Professor Hamilton.” Lois looked
around. Much of Hamilton’s equipment was covered with huge sheets of plastic,
and the air was heavy with the smell of fresh paint. “That is, if you’re up and
running.”
“Oh, yes! Yes, the painters finished yesterday. We were lucky. This building
sustained relatively minor damage from that Doomsday creature’s rampage. My
most delicate apparatus escaped untouched.” Hamilton adjusted his glasses and
stared unabashedly at the Cyborg.
The Cyborg returned the favor. “Professor Hamilton. Do I know you?”
Hamilton took a step back. “That voice—!”
He hears the similarity, too. Lois frowned. I hope that won’t prejudice
anything. “I realize how weird this must seem, Professor, but this man claims to
be Superman.”
“Weird? Ms. Lane, it’s unheard of! What he’s claiming is the reanimation of
dead tissue!”
“Yes, well, we need to run some tests to find out if there’s any possibility that
he could be right. Can you help us?”
“Of course! Come, right this way.” Hamilton led them through a maze of
scaffolding and over to a big Plexiglas sphere. “You know, I’ve probably studied
Superman more thoroughly than anyone else on Earth. If this man is not the
genuine article, I’ll find out for sure!”
Good, thought Lois, because I have my doubts.
The Cyborg regarded the sphere and the surrounding computer consoles with
curiosity. “Begin your examination, Professor. I am confident of the results.”
The Cyborg patiently stood by as the professor attached dozens of electrodes
to him and sealed him within the hollow sphere.
Hamilton flipped a series of switches, and his equipment hummed to life.
“Please try to stand very still. The sensor scan is beginning . . . now!”
The sphere lit up with a soft glow, making the Cyborg look like a bizarre
filament in a gigantic light bulb. Hamilton turned his attention to a large monitor
screen which was producing a diagrammatic image of the Cyborg, color-coding
his electromechanical and organic components.
“Extraordinary! This is most extraordinary!”
“What is it, Professor?”
Hamilton called up past data on a second screen and keyed the systems to
begin correlating figures. “I have enjoyed the privilege of analyzing a few bits
and pieces of surviving Kryptonian technology, Ms. Lane. And the bionic
components of this gentleman appear to be constructed of alloys developed by
Kryptonian metallurgists. Hmm . . . they also correspond to the areas of
Superman’s body that were injured in his battle with Doomsday.”
As Hamilton pointed out the pertinent data to Lois, the Cyborg studied the
main electrode on his robot arm. Curious, he traced the data pathway along to
Hamilton’s computers.
Lois leaned in close to Hamilton, keeping her back to the Cyborg and her
questions to a soft whisper. “He claims to have suffered a significant loss of
memory, Professor. Can you see anything that would explain that? Please, keep
your voice down.”
“Actually, Ms. Lane, amnesia is not uncommon among trauma survivors, and
whoever this man is, he’s obviously suffered some severe trauma. Why, the
entire left hemisphere of his brain is missing! It’s apparently been replaced with
some manner of microbionic supercomputer. That he remembers anything at all,
given the extent of his injuries, is what’s remarkable! Still, the brain is an
astonishing organ. It is conceivable that this man, whoever he is, will recall more
as time goes on.”
Their conversation was all but inaudible over the electronic hum of the
equipment, but the Cyborg caught every word. “Professor, may I speak without
disturbing your apparatus?”
Hamilton turned toward the Cyborg. “Yes, that should be safe. Is something
the matter?”
“Not at all. This is all starting to seem very familiar to me. Your name is Emil,
isn’t it? And I remember someone else being here . . . a woman . . . Mildred. Is
she well?”
 Hamilton’s jaw dropped. “Yes. Yes, very well, thank you.”
An insistent beeping sound came from the main console, and the professor
rushed over to check it. “Astounding. The bioanalysis is complete, and in record
time.” He pulled back a lever, and the sphere swiveled open. “You can come out
now.”
The Cyborg hopped down out of the sphere, electrodes popping loose as he
moved.
“Oh, this is amazing. Truly uncanny.” Hamilton keyed his equipment to
double-check the figures.
The Cyborg laid his human hand gently on the professor’s shoulder. “Is
anything wrong, Emil?”
“The genetic coding—!” Hamilton took off his glasses, cleaned them with a
treated tissue, and replaced them on his nose. “You know, I was never able to
obtain a complete scan of Superman’s DNA.”
“I remember.” There was a new confidence in the Cyborg’s voice. “You said
that Kryptonian chromosomes were too complex for your equipment.”
“Y-yes. As you say. But the data I had compiled earlier matches quite well
against the data I have just now collected on your, ah, organic half.” Hamilton
darted a glance at Lois. “Yes, everything is comfortably within the limits of my
expected experimental error.”
Lois looked back and forth from the Cyborg to the professor. “Then, what
you’re saying is—?”
Hamilton nodded once, slowly. “Incredible as it seems, these results suggest
—quite strongly suggest—that this man is indeed Superman.”
The Cyborg seemed about to heave a sigh of relief when he suddenly
stiffened. “Listen!”
“What?” Lois demanded. “I don’t hear anything.”
The Cyborg tapped the metal disc where his left ear would have been. “Sorry.
It’s a radio signal. There’s a ship in distress about ten miles out at sea. I have to
go.”
The Cyborg Superman bounded across the lab and was airborne as the
servomotors opened the big double windows for him. He waved back as he
exited the building. “Thank you, Professor! Thanks, Lois, for all your help. With
luck, maybe I’ll soon remember everything!”
 Hamilton sank back into a battered old swivel chair. “Ms. Lane, I’ve seen
some incredible things in my day, but I never thought I’d live to see a man return
from the dead.”
Lois shook her head. “I’m still not so sure we have, Professor.”

Lex Luthor stood before the wall of monitors in his video lounge, studying
endless replays of WLEX news feeds. At the moment, one image dominated half
of the screens. It was an interview with a young woman who claimed she had
been rescued from a burning building by Superman.
“It’s true! He carried me out of that building—he saved us all—and then he
was gone.” Rosie Jakowitz’s face filled the screens. “Trust me, I’m a trained
professional reader-advisor. I knew all along that Superman would return, and
now he has. Not necessarily in the form people might have expected, but it was
him. Listen, have you ever heard of a walk-in spirit? When a body has been
abandoned by one spirit but is not yet uninhabitable, then another spirit can
move in. Anyway, whatever he is, the cards tell me for sure that the man who
saved me today is definitely the Man of Steel. For sure.”
Dr. Happersen entered the room, and Luthor wearily shook his head. “Every
hour, it seems, there’s news of another Superman sighting. This is the weirdest
one yet. Walk-in spirits! What rubbish. Happersen, were you able to learn
anything about this case?”
“Not much, sir. The police have nothing but eyewitness accounts of this latest
Superman. As usual, those accounts differed in details—estimates of his height
vary from six to ten feet—but it is interesting that all the witnesses say that the
man wore some sort of armor. The police feel they’re on firmer ground with the
cause of the fire, however; they believe it was started by gang members.”
“Gang members?”
“Yes, apparently in retaliation against one Henry Johnson, a resident of the
building. Johnson had helped police apprehend a young member of a gang
known as the Sharks.”
“This incessant gang violence is becoming increasingly annoying, Happersen.
I don’t like that sort of thing happening in my city.”
“Yes, sir.” You would see it that way, wouldn’t you? “The Sharks are
becoming a particular problem to the police, what with the high-caliber
firepower they’ve been able to acquire.”
“Ah, yes . . . the so-called Toastmasters. Where are those guns coming from,
Sydney?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Then find out. If they’re as big a threat as they seem, I want their source cut
off—preferably at the ankles.”

Jonathan Kent sat up in his hospital bed, zapping through the channels on the TV
with a remote. “Infernal contraption. We get more channels than ever with the
cable, but there’s never anything on that I want to watch!”
“Yes, dear.” Martha sat patiently by his bedside, knitting. You’ve been nothing
but a grouchy old bear these past two days. “Would you like some more water?”
“Yeah, I suppose.”
She gave him a peck on the forehead. “You just settle down now. The doctor
said he might let you go home tomorrow.”
Martha scooped up the water pitcher and disappeared into the bathroom.
Jonathan went back to zapping through the channels, finally landing on the
evening satellite news from superstation WLEX. The picture was jumpy and
grainy, and the announcer sounded slightly breathless, rushing his narration.
“A WLEX mobile-cam crew got these dramatic shots just minutes ago, when
they came upon the scene of a shoot-out between rival gangs. As you’ll see in a
moment, the so-called Man of Steel suddenly dropped into the middle of this
firefight . . .”
“Martha? Martha, come here! You gotta see this!”
A dark red cape swirled across the screen as the huge metal-clad form of the
Man of Steel stepped between the warring gangs, bullets bouncing off his chest.
He swung his long-handled hammer in a wide arc, knocking the weapons from
the hands of the young gunmen. Then he trod upon the guns, crushing them
under his weight. A voice that sounded like a cross between Orson Welles and
James Earl Jones boomed from the television. “These weapons are illegal. They
won’t be tolerated on the streets any longer!”
“Did you say something, Jonathan?” Martha came back into the room with a
full pitcher.
 Her husband stared openmouthed at the television.
“Jonathan, whatever is the matter? What did you see?”
“I—I’m not sure, Martha.” He let the remote control drop to his lap. “But it
wasn’t what I expected—not what I expected at all.”

It was just after four in the morning when the alarm Klaxons began to blare in
the Cadmus Project. Instantly awake, Jim Harper leapt out of bed, pulling on his
working clothes and jumping into his boots. He was fitting his helmet into place
when he reached the central lab complex and found his night security team
clustered around a huge metal door at the end of a long corridor.
“What’s the situation?”
One of the uniformed men snapped off a quick salute. “We’ve got a code red
in Lab Thirteen, sir. Power surge of unknown origin caused an explosion inside
—and the door’s jammed shut. We’re trying to force it now.”
Footsteps echoed behind them. “Guardian! What’s going on?”
“Westfield . . .” The Guardian’s voice took on a decidedly cool edge.
“What’re you doing up at this hour?”
“That’s my business, mister. Right now, yours is making sure nothing happens
to Experiment Thirteen.”
“We’ll do our best.” He nodded to his team. “Take out the door.”
Shaped explosive charges were quickly set all around the frame of the
entryway. Within moments, the door lay smoking on the corridor floor.
The Guardian started into the lab, Westfield and the security team close on his
heels. “Let’s take this slow and easy. There’s no telling who or what we might
find in here.”
Lab Thirteen was a smoking, steaming mess. Equipment was strewn from one
end of the chamber to the other and torn cables were scattered everywhere. In
the middle of the lab sat the remains of what looked like a gigantic test tube.
Three and a half feet in diameter, it stood over eight feet tall; its walls were of
three-inch-thick Plexiglas, and over a third of its surface had been smashed out,
apparently from within. A thick, viscous liquid oozed from the rupture.
One of the guards looked the tube over uneasily. “What was in this thing?”
“Good question, soldier.” The Guardian turned and speared Westfield with a
look. “Care to explain this, Paul?”
“This was all approved, Guardian. Washington agreed that we needed—”
Westfield’s explanation was suddenly interrupted by a voice from on high.
“Will someone get me down from here?”
They all looked up to see Carl Packard hanging from the ceiling. Several
lengths of stainless steel tubing had been ripped from their mountings and bent
around the scientist like a pretzel.
“Carl?” Westfield looked dazed. “Carl, what happened?”
“It was those infernal Newsboy clones. Oh, Experiment Thirteen was giving
me some trouble—he’d started resisting the increased input we were feeding him
—but I could have dealt with that.” Packard squirmed within his steel bonds.
“But then, those bastard clones came tearing through the place. Before I could
stop them, one of them shut down the restraining fields, and Thirteen just
exploded out of the tube! He twisted this steel around me, and then they all ran
off through the air ducts. We have to find him immediately.”
The Guardian reached out and grabbed Westfield by the arm, even as he tried
to reassure the dangling scientist. “Don’t worry, Dr. Packard. I promise you that
we’ll get to the bottom of this. Won’t we, Paul?”
“You don’t understand the urgency, Guardian.” Packard shifted awkwardly,
trying in vain to free up an arm. “The code words—the subliminal instructions—
hadn’t yet been implanted in Experiment Thirteen. We have absolutely no
control over him.”
Miles away, the thick metal grate of what appeared to be nothing more than a
highway drainage system suddenly exploded outward, coming to rest over
twenty feet away. The source of that explosive force was the red-gloved fist of a
young man who stalked out of the big drainpipe and into the bright moonlit
night.
From the soles of his black boots to the top of his dark, tousled hair, the figure
stood about five-feet-two. His slim, tightly muscled form was clothed in tight red
pants and a blue pullover shirt with a high black mock-turtleneck collar. Across
the front of his shirt was a bright red and yellow pentagonal Superman S-shield.
He looked to be in his midteens.
As he stood taking in the cool night air, the young Newsboys came
clambering out of the pipe behind him.
 “Dat’s some knuckle sam’wich ya got dere, pal.” Scrapper tipped his cap back
as he paced out the distance the grate had flown. “Ya got real moxie!”
“Solid, man. Real solid.” Flip gave their new friend an appreciative thumbs-
up.
Big Words walked around and around the grate, scratching his head. “This is
most perplexing. The grating is virtually undamaged, yet a blow of such
magnitude should have rendered it an amorphously twisted wreck.”
“Aw, geez, Big Words, lay off the extra syllables for once, will you? This is
no time for a science lesson.” Gabby was wound tight with excitement. “We’re
stayin’ up late, an’ witnessin’ a thrillin’ dash for freedom, an’ . . . an’ geez, ain’t
it great?!”
“It’s great all right. It’s probably the most important thing we’ve ever done.”
Tommy looked longingly at the open sky. “I wish we could go with you, friend,
but it’ll be better for you if we head back underground and confuse the trail.
Westfield will send his goons after you, you know. Here.” Tommy pulled a dark
leather jacket from his backpack and handed it to the stranger. “Maybe this’ll
help some . . . until you can find some other clothes to help you blend in.”
“Yeah?” The young man shrugged into the jacket. “Thanks—nice fit. But I
don’t know that I’m all that interested in blending in.”
“Geez, I guess this is like good-bye—at least for now. Not that you need it or
anything, but good luck, Superboy!”
“Hey!” The young man whirled around, almost knocking Gabby over. “Don’t
ever call me Superboy! Got that?” He waited for Gabby’s stuttered agreement,
then leapt high into the air and headed southeast, toward the lights of Metropolis.
21

The early morning sun was glimmering off the granite face of Superman’s
memorial statue when the stolen taxi roared across the plaza. A young punk with
a cheap handgun leaned out of the front passenger side window as they sped past
the tomb, popping off a few shots at the statue.
“Woo! Die, Superman, die! Yee-hah!” Despite the early hour, the young man
was wearing a pair of wire-rimmed sunglasses.
The crewcut driver just grinned. “Ain’t ya heard. Specs? The man’s already
dead.”
“Well, then, we got us nothing to worry about, do we?” Specs popped off
another shot. “Drive on, Crew! The day is young!”
Crew made a sharp left, sending the cab down a sloping embankment and onto
a paved jogging path. Less than sixty feet ahead of them, a trim young woman
was running along the path.
“All right! Jogger—twenty-five points!” Crew put his foot to the floor.
The young woman looked back over her shoulder in horror as the cab bore
down upon her. To her right, the embankment grew too steep to climb; to her left
was the park lake. She was about to make a mad dive and take her chances with
the water when a red and blue blur shot down from the sky, scooping her up in
one hand.
Superboy landed on the jogging path, holding the young woman up over his
head, balancing her in one hand as a waiter might carry a fully loaded tray.
Planting his feet firmly, he thrust out his other hand at the speeding cab.
The taxi slammed into Superboy hard, its front end folding around him like an
accordion. His boots cut a deep furrow into the pavement as the impact drove
him down the path, but he lost neither his balance nor his hold on the young
woman he held aloft.
Weak groans came from within the wrecked cab, but the Boy of Steel paid
them no mind. He set the jogger gently back down on her feet, and she gaped at
him in amazement. He was no taller than she was. “You—you saved my life!”
 Superboy beamed at her. “Hey, that’s my job, gorgeous! And you’re way too
beautiful to let die!”
“But—but who are you?!”
“Let’s see, shall we?” He came a step closer to her and yanked open his
leather jacket. “I’ve got a big red ‘S’ on my chest, and I can fly faster than a
speeding bullet. What else?” He glanced back over his shoulder at the crumpled
taxi. “Too bad there weren’t any locomotives to take on, but at least I proved
that I’m more powerful than a runaway cab.”
He favored the woman with a knowing smile and let his jacket fall closed.
“Now, who do you think I am?”
He strolled over to the cab, almost swaggering, and sank his fingertips into
one of the crumpled doors. He paused to wink at the jogger. Then, without any
discernible effort, he ripped away the door. The jogger watched, fascinated. He’s
showing off for me! The thought nearly made her giggle.
Superboy pried Specs and Crew out of the wreck, checking them over and
tossing them onto the ground. “You punks are just lucky you were wearing your
seat belts. I wouldn’t go making any sudden moves just now, if I were you.”
“Chill, man!” Specs lay sprawled and shaking like an addict going cold
turkey. “We won’t be givin’ you no more trouble.”
“You got that right!” The Boy of Steel collected their guns, crushing them in
his hands. Then he caught his reflection in the round lenses of Specs’s
sunglasses and he smiled. “Nice shades. Good thing you didn’t break ’em!”
Specs whipped off his sunglasses and held them out to Superboy. “They’re
yours, man—my gift! Just don’t hurt us!”
“Why, thank you, citizen.” Superboy slipped on the sunglasses. “I’m sure the
police’ll take this act of selflessness into account when they book you for
attempted vehicular homicide. Oh, yeah—and for desecrating my statue, too!”
The jogger looked at him, dumbfounded. “It’s really you, isn’t it? You’re
really Superman! But I thought you were dead!”
He tenderly traced one finger along her jawline. “Well, I guess you could say I
got better—lots better!”
Superboy leaned forward and kissed her passionately. She was a little startled,
but not completely surprised, and she made no move to break things off.
Two policemen came scrambling down the embankment, following the ruts
made by the cab.
The Boy of Steel gave the jogger another wink. “Looks like my work here is
done. Gotta fly, babe. See you around!”
With a wave, he soared away into the sky, leaving the amazed policemen
glancing skyward. While one of the cops pulled the punks to their feet and stood
them up against the side of the cab, the other checked on the jogger.
“I’m fine, really.” The woman stared a little dreamily after her flying rescuer.
The cop looked from her to the disappearing form. “Who was that?!”
“He said that he was Superman.” She shook her head, smiling. While his kiss
had been nice—sweet actually—she’d found it somewhat lacking in experience.
“But in some ways, I think he’s still a boy.”

“Heads up, here comes Superman!” The cry went up along the docks of Hob’s
Bay. A dozen homeless people gathered around as Bibbo strolled along in his
makeshift costume, passing out plastic-wrapped sandwiches from a big
rucksack.
“Here youse go, folks. Plenty fer ever’body—compliments o’ Sooperman.”
A young boy looked up shyly from behind his mother. “How can you be
Superman? Mommy said that he got killed dead. Are you a ghost?”
“Naw, squirt, I ain’t no ghost.” Bibbo knelt down and ruffled the boy’s hair.
“Guess ya could say I’m one o’ Sooperman’s helpers. I’m helpin’ folks out
’cause Sooperman ain’t here to do it hisself. Ya hungry?”
The boy nodded his head.
He handed the boy a sandwich and an apple. “Yeah, I remember what it’s like,
bein’ hungry. I had me some pretty tough times, but I got through ’em. Now I’m
helpin’ other folks get through ’em.” Bibbo stood up and looked around.
“Sooner or later, mos’ ever’body has some bad times, but we can all get through
’em if we stick togedder. Dat’s the important thing.”
Bibbo was halfway through his supply of sandwiches when he heard someone
crying. He handed his rucksack to the little boy’s mother and rushed down to the
end of the pier where an old woman stood sobbing as if her heart were breaking.
“My babies . . . my babies . . .”
“What izzit, lady? What’s wrong?”
 She looked up, her eyes red and puffy with fresh tears. “I didn’t know you’d
be bringing food, or I wouldn’t have done it. I just couldn’t stand to watch them
starve.”
“Watch who starve?”
“My puppies. There were three of them. Somebody’d thrown them away like
they were garbage, but they were beautiful and I took care of them as best as I
could. But I couldn’t afford to feed them anymore—couldn’t afford to feed
myself.” Her hand shook as she pointed to the water off the pier. “So I sent them
on . . . to a better world.”
Bibbo looked stricken. “Aw, no. I would’a took ’em! I’ll still take ’em!”
With a single bound, he dove into the icy black waters. Visibility was just
about nil, but somehow among all the refuse at the river bottom, he managed to
find a small burlap bag loosely tied to a cinder block. Bibbo yanked the bag free
and kicked his way to the surface.
Moments later, Bibbo crouched at the end of the dock, gulping in air, as the
old woman shakily tore at the bag.
A homeless man bent down to help her, but when the bag finally came open,
he just shook his head. “Sorry, Bibbo. You were too late.”
Bibbo hunched over, wringing the water from his sweatshirt to hide his tears.
“Can’t even save a puppy—not even one li’l pup.”
Suddenly there came a raspy coughing noise as one puppy shakily struggled to
his feet. Bibbo scooped the puppy up out of the bag, cradling it in his big hands.
The pup sneezed and licked Bibbo’s nose.
“Hey, li’l guy! Yer a real fighter, ain’tcha?” Bibbo turned and held the pup out
to the old woman. “Here ya go, ma’am. Sorry I couldn’t save ’em all.”
The woman looked at Bibbo and the pup. “I really think you should keep him,
Superman. I think you two belong together.”
“Ya think so? Yeah, maybe yer right.” Bibbo held the pup to his chest, letting
it nuzzle against the stubble of his chin. “Ya know, he’s the last o’ his litter,
kinda like the way my fav’rit was the last o’ his. I think I’m gonna name him—
Krypton!”
The pup licked Bibbo right across the lips; he had found his soul mate.
Lois Lane came back from lunch to find Superboy waiting for her in the City
Room. The Boy of Steel was sitting in her chair with his feet up on her desk and
flipping through the early afternoon edition of the Planet.
Lois stopped dead in her tracks. “What on Earth—?!”
“Oh, there you are! It’s about time.” He tossed the paper down on the desk.
“What gives, Lane? I make a great heroic save, and it winds up on page six—
page six!”
The Boy of Steel stopped to give a big grin as Jimmy Olsen came across the
City Room with his camera. Once the photographer had squeezed off a few
shots, the teen hero sat up and smacked the newspaper with the back of his hand.
“What’s this on page one? CYBORG SUPERMAN RESCUES PASSENGERS
IN TRAIN WRECK? Big deal! I coulda done that, and I’m no phony cyborg.
I’m the real thing!”
“You?” Lois looked distinctly less than convinced. “Superman?”
If he noticed her skepticism, Superboy gave no sign. In fact, he beamed at her.
“That’s me . . . the one and only, all other claims to the contrary.”
“Superman, huh?” Jimmy set down his camera. “Superboy is more like it!”
In a flash, the teenager jumped up out of the chair and grabbed Jimmy by the
lapels, turning him upside down. “Listen, pal, I don’t like to be called that.
Okay?”
“Uh, sure. Sure!” Jimmy spoke fast, feeling the blood rushing to his head. “No
problem . . . Superman.”
“That’s better. That’s much better.”
As Superboy set the photographer back down on his feet, Lois pushed past
them and hit a preset number on her phone.
“Lois?” Superboy plopped down on the corner of her desk. “Who’re you
calling?”
“Building security! I don’t like having my friends manhandled.”
“Hey, I’m sorry!” He laid his hand down across the cradle of the phone,
disconnecting the call. “Don’t be mad. I’m here to give you the story of the
century—moi!”
“Look, junior, I’ve already met two other Supermen, and while you’re strong
—I’ll grant you that—you’re not nearly as convincing as they were.”
 “What’s the problem? Don’t I look mature enough? Is that it? Okay.” He
pulled the sunglasses from his jacket pocket, put them on, and ran his hands
through his hair, pulling it back off his forehead. “There, doesn’t that make me
look older?”
Lois looked at him, and her heart went to her throat, but before she could say
anything, the kid whipped off the sunglasses and stared across the room.
“Whoa!” Superboy’s voice sounded as if it were in danger of changing at any
moment. “Who is that?”
“Hmm?” Lois followed the direction of his gaze to the young woman who
was striding through the City Room. Well, why am I not surprised? The young
woman was African-Asian, strikingly beautiful, with dark, flawless skin, almond
eyes, and glossy black hair.
“She’s a college intern—Tana Something. I don’t remember her last name.
Listen, ah. Superman, I’ve been thinking, maybe we should talk.”
“Yeah. Yeah, sure, Lois—but some other time, huh?” Superboy was already
halfway across the City Room. “Right now I gotta bail. Personal emergency. See
ya!”
The elevator doors closed shut behind Tana just as Superboy got there. For a
second, he considered forcing open the doors and pulling the car back up by the
cables, but he quickly dismissed the idea. Wouldn’t be cool to needlessly cause
property damage, especially when there’s a better way to say hello! Grinning, he
headed for the nearest window.
Moments later, Tana stepped out onto the sidewalk, muttering angrily under
her breath. “I must’ve been crazy, thinking it would be easier to break in at the
Planet than at WGBS. A bake-off . . . I can’t believe they wanted me to cover a
bake-off! Well, I’ll show them. I’ll—”
There was a sudden rush of air and Tana found herself soaring off the ground,
a powerful arm around her waist and a cheerful voice ringing in her ear. “Hi,
there. Care for a lift?”
“What’re you doing? Put me down! Put me down this instant!”
“Oh, that’d be a bad idea. We’re at least thirty stories up, and you probably
wouldn’t land as well as I do. How about if we set down over here?”
Superboy touched down atop a nearby office building. “Yeah, this is better.
Alone at last. You’re Tana, right? Sorry, but I didn’t catch the last name.”
 “Moon.” She answered automatically, even as she slowly eased away from
him. “The question is, who are you?”
“Me? Oh, I’m Superman. Couldn’t you tell? Come on, an intelligent woman
like you must have heard of me already.”
Despite her still-racing pulse, Tana Moon began to smile. Of all the Supermen
sightings, the latest one had indeed featured a teenager whose description
perfectly fit the young man who had literally swept her off her feet.
Superboy returned her smile a hundredfold. “So what brings you to the big
bad city, Tana Moon?”
“I’m a reporter. At least, I’m going to be one, if anyone’ll ever give me a
break.” Her eyes widened slightly, and she gave the Boy of Steel a speculative
look.
He applauded. He’d understood that look immediately. “See, I knew you were
quick. You’ll go far, Tana. But reporting for the Planet? No way! You’re too hot
to hide in the print media. I see you more as the video type.”
“Well, I had put in an application at WGBS.”
“Of course you did. Well, here’s your big story. I’m Superman, babe—and
I’m all yours!”
“Superman? Really?” She looked him up and down. “Don’t take this
personally, but—you look so young.”
“I know. It’s the hair.”
“The hair.” Sure it is. He’s at least five years younger than I am.
“You don’t buy that, huh? Okay, okay.” Superboy looked around
conspiratorially and lowered his voice. “I’ll tell you the whole story. And I
guarantee it’ll land you the job of your dreams. You interested?”
Tana raised an eyebrow. “Completely. Please, tell me more.”

Sydney Happersen came running into Lex Luthor’s private gym to find his boss
in his shirtsleeves, swinging a Louisville Slugger at an imaginary ball.
“Mr. L?”
“Come in, Sydney. Just loosening up a little. Softball season’s coming up, you
know. I thought I might play with the LexCorp team, enjoy my youth while I
can, eh?”
 “Uh, y-yes, sir. A-as you say, sir.”
Luthor’s face darkened. “You’re stammering, Sydney. When you stammer,
there’s always bad news. What is it now?”
“The n-newest Superman . . . he’s on WGBS right now.”
“Why didn’t you say so?” Luthor hit a switch on the wall, and a television
monitor came up out of the floor.
The screen showed the Boy of Steel seated across from an exotic-looking
young interviewer. Any other time, Luthor would have given more of his
attention to her, but now what the boy was saying proved even more of a
distraction.
“That’s right, Ms. Moon. I’m Superman’s clone! I don’t have his old
memories, because there was no living brain to tap into, but aside from that—
I’m Superman. I wish I could tell you more about the process, but it all has to
remain top secret for now.”
The screen cut to a most flattering close-up of the interviewer. “Not a hoax,
not a dream. The Metropolis Marvel is back in action—and GBS has him.” She
smiled confidently. “Stay tuned for more exclusive updates over this station. For
GBS News, I’m Tana Moon.”
The television screen erupted in a shower of glass and sparks as Luthor’s bat
struck home. Glass crunched under his shoes as he stalked back and forth across
the gym, smoking bat in hand. “Happersen, do we have a new mole in place in
Cadmus yet?”
“Y-y-yes, sir. And a very highly placed one, I might add.”
“I want him in my office—ASAP! Understood?”
“Perfectly, sir.”
“Superman’s clone. Just bloody marvelous.” Luthor flung the bat to the floor
and stormed from the room.

In the boardroom of Galaxy Communications, CEO Vincent Edge rubbed his

hands together in anticipation of the overnight ratings. “The switchboard’s been
going nonstop since we started running those teasers. Seems that the public just
can’t get enough of your Superboy, Tana.”
“That’s Superman, Mr. Edge.” Tana cautiously spoke up. “He doesn’t like
being called Superboy.”
 “Well, I don’t care what he calls himself. I just want that kid on the air as
much as possible.”
A half dozen heads nodded, and the newest commandment of Vincent Edge
was duly noted on an equal number of executive notepads. Tana looked around
the room. Superboy—Superman, she corrected herself—had been right on the
money when he’d told her that his story would land her a job. She still couldn’t
believe how fast she’d gotten on the air; the fact that she was in a meeting with
the company’s chief executive officer, hobnobbing with experienced news talent
like Cat Grant, seemed like some wild fantasy.
Edge laid his palms on the table and leaned forward, as if passing on a great
wisdom to his underlings. “When the masses think of Superman, I want them to
think of our Superman!”
“But, Mr. Edge—” One of the news producers raised a pencil to get the
CEO’s attention. “At last count there were three other superpowered individuals
operating as ‘Superman.’ Shouldn’t they all be covered equally? Shouldn’t they
all be investigated, for that matter? They can’t all be Superman.”
“Of course, of course!” Edge waved his hand dismissively. “It’s the duty of
the news bureau to cover everything as thoroughly as possible, and that includes
these Superman pretenders. But we can do much more with our Superman. This
goes far beyond the news, beyond even programming.” Edge spoke with an
almost messianic fervor. “We have the opportunity to recreate a legend, people!
A legend to which GBS would hold exclusive rights. But we have to grip the
public’s imagination!” The communications executive leaned forward and
snapped his hand closed, as if grabbing hold of the air itself. “We have to grip it
hard and not let go—or someone else will claim the legend for himself. We need
to show something that’s never been seen on TV before. I know—” He snapped
his fingers. “A live broadcast of our Superman capturing a wanted criminal, the
whole shooting match, from start to finish. Now all we need is the right criminal.
Any ideas, people? Yes, Briscoe?”
Donald Briscoe shifted uneasily in his chair. “Well, sir, word on the street is
that an old Intergang don has holed up in Suicide Slum and is consolidating his
power, hoping to start a new organization. We could send the kid in after him.”
“Just a minute!” Cat Grant piped up from the end of the table. “That isn’t
reporting the news, that’s staging the news!”
“Not at all, Catherine. What Briscoe is suggesting is a sort of sting operation
—a logical outgrowth of good, investigative journalism. And we’ll naturally
make sure that the police are well-informed. I’ll speak with the commissioner
personally. Given the current state of affairs, I don’t think they’ll mind a little
helping hand.”
Edge aimed a finger at his news director. “Get me all the information on this
gangster that you can, Briscoe.” He then turned and gave Tana his most beatific
smile. “We can count on your young Superman, can’t we, my dear?”
Tana fairly glowed in the attention. “I think that can be arranged, Mr. Edge.”

As evening fell, the Boy of Steel stood on the landing strut of a WGBS news
helicopter high over Suicide Slum. Inside the copter, Tana gave a thumbs-up as
the cameras went live, and the young hero dropped feet-first to the streets below.
He landed like a bomb, the pavement cracking around his feet, and people
scattered at his approach. He then walked boldly up to a boarded-up old night
spot called the Silver Glove Club and rapped firmly on the reinforced door.
“Okay, open up in there! This is Superman. I’m looking for the guy they call
the Steel Hand!”

Lois turned on her television just in time to see four huge men jump Superboy
from behind. The smallest of the men was easily twice Superboy’s size, and all
of them wielded chains, brass knuckles, or lengths of pipe—but they never had a
chance. Superboy gave a heave, threw his arms back, and sent all four men
flying. They landed hard and made no move to retaliate.
Lois watched spellbound as WGBS cut from its aerial cameras to a street-
based crew. A little superimposed legend in the lower right hand corner of the
screen proclaimed that this was a LIVE GBS EXCLUSIVE, and Tana Moon’s
breathless narration informed her that she was watching a television first.
Superboy pounded on the door a little harder, this time leaving several fist-
sized dents in it. A gun barrel poked out through a slot in the door. Machine-gun
fire suddenly strafed across Superboy’s chest and abdomen.
Superboy just smiled, shoved his hands through the doorframe, and ripped the
metal barrier off its hinges. He managed to take one step over the threshold
before a bazooka shell hit him squarely in the chest.
Lois cried out as she saw the Boy of Steel fly backward out of the club and
smash through the side of a parked delivery truck. The truck immediately
erupted in flames.
“Oh, my God!” Tana’s cool narration quickly edged toward hysteria. “My
God, it exploded! Superman was still in that truck when it exploded!”
The image jumped from the ground-level view of the burning wreck to an
aerial shot and back again. And then, as the street-based camera crew moved in
for a closer shot, the twisted, burning metal began to move.
Superboy emerged from the wreckage, coughing smoke. Soot streaked his
face, and his hair hung down over his eyes. His skin-tight costume had come
through the explosion unscathed, but his leather jacket hung off him in flaming
shreds.
For a moment, Lois could have sworn the boy was panicking, so frantically
did he seem to beat out the flames. But then he angrily flung the smoldering
jacket away from him and streaked into the Silver Glove Club.
The televised image jumped and weaved as the camera crew charged into the
club after the Boy of Steel. Across the screen flashed shots of unconscious
gunmen and crushed, twisted weapons. The cameramen caught up to the young
hero just as two of Steel Hand’s personal bodyguards leveled assault rifles at
him.
Superboy just laughed and grabbed the barrels of their weapons. The guns
seemed to explode in his hands, sending hundreds of pieces flying in all
directions. The bodyguards fell back, hitting the floor and covering their heads
with their hands.
The sound of a hoarse bellow came over the camera microphones as the old
Intergang don himself charged at the Boy of Steel. Salvatore “Steel Hand”
Galvagno was a big, stocky man who had grown up on the waterfront; he had
first gained fame among the old crime families for his ability to break a man’s
leg with his bare hands. A gang war had cost him one of those hands years ago,
and he since wore a steel prosthesis in its place. Without a moment’s hesitation,
he swung his steel hand hard against the side of Superboy’s head.
Superboy turned slowly, seemingly more annoyed than angry, and decked the
big man with a single punch. “Steel Hand, huh? Glass Jaw is more like it.” He
gave a big thumbs-up to the cameras, and the network broke to a commercial.
When they returned, Tana Moon was standing outside the Silver Glove Club,
interviewing Superboy while Steel Hand and his henchmen were being led away
by the police. “You really had us worried there for a moment, Superman.”
“What, that little thing with the bazooka and the truck?” He shrugged. “Ah, it
was a little bit of a surprise, but nothing I couldn’t handle.”
“We were wondering . . . did you use X-ray vision to determine Steel Hand’s
exact location?”
“X-ray vision?” Superboy looked puzzled. “Are you kidding?! I was so mad I
just plowed right into the place. I mean, that was my favorite jacket. It was a
gift.”

Lois switched off the TV and sat staring at the blank screen for several minutes,
trying to make sense of what she’d just seen. Then she picked up the phone and
called Smallville.
“Hello, Martha? Hi, it’s Lois—how are you? How’s Jonathan? Oh, good. I’m
sure he’s glad to be home.” Lois hesitated for a moment. “Martha, I have to talk
with someone about this. I hope you don’t mind my asking, but were you
watching GBS’s report on the young Superman?”
In Smallville, Martha answered softly, her voice almost a whisper. “Oh,
heavens no, Lois. I’ve had my fill of television for a while! And all those
Supermen . . . they stir Jonathan up a mite, and the doctor says that he needs to
relax. Thankfully, he’s upstairs asleep right now.”
“Well, believe me, Martha, I know how Jonathan feels. I don’t know whether
to laugh or cry or scream—sometimes I want to do all three at once. This young
Superman, for example—well, I had a—weird encounter with him just today at
the Planet. He’s arrogant and more than a little careless—he took offense at
something a photographer said and turned the man upside down—but he pulled a
very strange stunt this morning.” Lois shivered slightly as she recalled how the
boy looked with glasses. “And this evening, while taking on some gangsters, his
costume hardly took a scratch, but his jacket got shredded. It was just like the
way Superman’s capes always used to take such a beating.
“So I started thinking, well . . .” Lois tugged absently at her hair. “Martha,
what was Clark like when he was in his midteens? What if he had the powers of
a Superman? Maybe he would have acted like this kid.”
Martha frowned into the phone as if Lois could see her. “Now you know that
no boy of ours would ever act the way you say that youngster does, powers or no
powers.”
“I guess that’s the problem, Martha. You didn’t raise this boy. Do you know
what a clone is?”

Alone over the city, Superboy swooped past the downtown skyscrapers once
more and settled on the roof of an old brownstone. He sauntered casually close
to the edge, rested one foot on a cornice, and leaned against his knee, looking out
over Metropolis with immense contentment. The city air was too dirty and hazy
for him to see many stars, but the full moon beamed down at him, and he smiled.
This is a totally perfect end to a totally perfect day. He clapped his hands
together, as if giving himself a high five. “Metropolis has gotta feel safer
already, knowing that Superman’s back on the job.”
A voice suddenly rang out behind him. “Yes, you did okay out there, son.”
Superboy whirled around, clenching his fists as he turned, ready for anything.
There, standing straight and tall before him, was a blue and yellow clad figure
that he dimly recognized from all the information that had been fed him while he
was still in the tube. “Guardian?! Hey, don’t tell me you’re gonna try to drag me
back to the Project!”
“No. Not now, at any rate. There’ve been some big shake-ups at Cadmus.
Your little stunt of going public with a big television network has finally caused
certain people in Washington to ask some serious questions. For the time being,
at least, you’re on your own.”
“Whoa! You serious?” The young man peered closely at the Guardian, then
shrugged. “Stupid question. Of course you’re serious. Well, damn. Cool! Hey,
speaking about serious, check out the new jacket!” Superboy turned around,
flashing the broad gold S-shield across the back of the jacket. “WGBS is making
these up by the truckload—they’re gonna make sure I’m always lookin’ fine!”
The Guardian held back a sigh. “That’s nice, son, but remember that things
aren’t always as they seem. And you won’t always have as easy a time as you
did today.”
“Hey, don’t worry about me, man. I am primed. No way is anything gonna get
past me!” He turned around to find himself alone on the rooftop. “Guardian?
Hey, Guardian?!”
Superboy turned a complete circle. He stared hard into the shadows, but the
big man was nowhere in sight. “Well—duh!” The young hero stood scratching
his head. “Guess it wouldn’t hurt to be a little more alert, at that.” With a shrug
of his shoulders, he flew off into the night.

In a windowless “safe room” within a building secretly maintained by LexCorp

through a dummy corporation, Carl Packard sat squirming in a straight-backed
chair, sweating as if the room’s one shaded lamp were a bank of floodlights.
Lex Luthor paced back and forth, taking care to stay partly in the shadows. It
was an outrageously theatrical measure, but Luthor had always found it
effective, and he fully intended to make his visitor as uncomfortable as possible.
Luthor paused, slowly turned, and tapped his foot against the tiled floor. “I did
think, Dr. Packard, that we had an agreement. As my mole, you were supposed
to keep us informed of any untoward actions on the part of the Cadmus Project.”
“This wasn’t supposed to happen, Mr. Luthor. Believe me!” Packard risked a
glance in Luthor’s direction, but he couldn’t tell if the industrialist was looking
directly at him or not. “Westfield and the other directors felt the world needed a
Superman—”
“One at their beck and call, of course.”
“What? Oh, lord, no. There was never any of that; at least, not on the part of
the directors. With Westfield himself . . . well, that’s a good question. He does
tend to follow his own agendas.” Packard shook his head. “At any rate, after the
Project lost possession of Superman’s body, I was instructed to rush Experiment
Thirteen into production . . . to create a new Superman.”
Luthor suddenly leaned into the light, coming nearly nose to nose with the
geneticist. “And you didn’t consider such an experiment at all ‘untoward’?!”
“Well . . .” Packard nervously loosened his tie. “I suppose it could be seen as
unusual. But I was going to tell you! I was preparing a paper all about the
experiment and would have slipped it to Dr. Happersen long before Thirteen was
to be decanted. Honestly!” He slumped back into his chair. “He wasn’t ready
yet.”
“Who wasn’t ready, Packard?”
“Experiment Thirteen . . . the young Superman. You don’t think we intended
to release a teenager with those powers, did you? We weren’t total fools!”
Packard’s voice rose in anger, his professional pride wounded. “After all, in
trying to duplicate Kryptonian DNA, we were working in uncharted territory.
There were certain safeguards we’d planned to implant in the subject, just in
case anything went wrong later on. But those infernal Newsboy clones liberated
him before the safeguards were in place, before he was even fully grown! He
was at least a week from maturity.”
“I see.” Luthor faded back into the shadows. “And what, besides a collective
gnashing of teeth, does Cadmus intend to do about this?”
“Nothing! There is nothing we can do about it now! That young upstart has
already become a media darling! If he disappeared now, GBS would shine a
light under every possible rock! Cadmus can’t afford that—Washington is
reviewing our entire operation as it is. If only that stupid kid hadn’t told
everyone that he was a clone.” Packard rubbed his neck. “In retrospect, it was
perhaps a mistake to include MTV as part of his information feed.”
Luthor loomed over Packard, noting with scant satisfaction that the man’s
sweating had become a virtual Niagara. “Let’s talk a little more about his
creation. From the earlier information you supplied Dr. Happersen, I’d gotten the
impression that you couldn’t clone Superman.”
Packard dragged his hands through his hair. “Well, yes and no. Superman’s
body was intact—we couldn’t isolate a tissue culture. And we got only a partial
reading of his DNA. But from that, we were able to simulate certain properties
of his DNA and implant them in a tissue sample obtained from another donor.”
Luthor stroked his beard. “So, this young clone’s powers probably do not
exactly duplicate those of Superman.”
“Yes . . . yes, that’s quite correct, sir. He may have weaknesses and
shortcomings of which we—and he himself—are unaware.”
Luthor leaned in close again, showing Packard his teeth. “Tell me more,
Packard. Tell me everything you know.”

Deep within the darkened chambers of the main branch of the Metropolis
Mercantile Bank, Gerald Fine merrily went about his business. His business was
cracking safes.
Tonight, Fine softly hummed an old Beatles tune as he attacked the door of
the bank’s largest vault with a high-speed drill. He finished drilling through the
shiny chromium steel along one side of the lock mechanism, then backed the bit
out, reset it, and started on the other side. He chuckled to himself as he went
about his work.
The bank had been established in 1875, and most of their security system
didn’t seem to be much newer. In casing the building, Fine had found no
ultrasonic motion detectors, no heat sensors, and no electric eyes. And this is the
main branch! He clicked his tongue against the back of his teeth. You’d think
such a well-heeled place would’ve sprung for a better system. That alarm box of
theirs was so old, I’ll bet it was installed during the Truman administration! I
was bypassing circuits like that before my voice changed!
Fine finished his drilling and then, cracking his fingers, reached in through the
hole he’d made and began manipulating the guts of the lock. There was a series
of soft clicks as tumblers fell into place. They might as well have left this door
unlocked. Fine smiled and eased open the door. Well, time to make that big
withdrawal.
Suddenly a black gloved hand shot out of the shadows, grabbing Fine by the
throat. “Sorry. Business hours are nine to four.”
The shocked safecracker struck at the wrist of the hand that held him, but he
could not break the grip. Fine looked up into a strong, powerful jaw and mouth;
the glow of his flashlight glimmered off the smoked amber of the visor that
wrapped about his captor’s eyes.
The Superman reached out with his free hand and crushed out the offending
light. He stepped away from the vault, carrying his squirming captive at arm’s
length.
“N-no . . . n-not you!” The burglar’s voice was a pinched gasp. “You’re the
one they were talking about on the news! The one who—who killed the ski mask
murderer!”
The Superman smiled grimly. “I’ve dealt with a number of transgressors.
What I did to them was meant as a warning. Too bad you didn’t pay better
attention; now I’ll have to make an example of you as well!”
“H-h-hey, wait a second! I’m not like that!” Fine clutched at the Superman’s
wrist, thinking fast and talking faster. “I mean, the creep who attacked that
woman—sure, he deserved to die! B-but I’m just a burglar. I’m nonviolent. I
don’t even carry a gun. I’ve never hurt anyone in my life! Y-you wouldn’t kill a
guy just for cracking a safe, would you?”
The Superman dropped the gasping safecracker to the floor. “There are many
forms of violence. You may not have caused physical harm, but your crimes
have hurt many people.”
Fine lay huddled on the floor. “Please don’t kill me.”
“You’re not worth killing. But I will make certain that you don’t try this
again.” The Superman reached down and grabbed the safecracker by his hands.
The man’s screams raised a most effective alarm.

“I’ve never seen anything like it, Ms. Lane.” Dr. Daniel Blumkin peered over the
X-rays for what seemed like the hundredth time. “Every bone from this man’s
fingertips to his elbows has been broken—almost crushed in some cases. If it
had been any worse, we’d have had to amputate. As it is, he’ll be in rehab for
months before he’s even able to hold a cup again.”
Lois glanced from the X-rays back over her shoulder at the bed where Gerald
Fine lay with his arms up in traction and encased in plaster. “And he claims that
Superman did this to him?”
“He’s said little else, and I could almost believe him. His arms bore deep
bruises. They formed handprints, Ms. Lane.”
She shuddered at the thought. “Doctor, at least four superpowered men have
recently been playing Superman. It might be any one of them. Could I ask your
patient some questions?”
“You could try, Ms. Lane, but we’ve had to give him a lot of morphine for the
pain.” Blumkin gathered the X-rays into a folder and paused at the door. “Just
keep it short, okay? He needs to rest.”
Lois nodded, then knelt down beside the groggy safecracker. “Mr. Fine, can
you hear me? This Superman who attacked you . . . what did he look like? Was
there anything unusual about him?”
Fine cocked his head toward the reporter. His lips moved slowly, as if it were
an effort to form the words. “Suh-sunglasses. He wore sunglasses. Big yellow
ones . . . like a visor.”
“Oh, dear God.” She drew back from the bed. “That one.”
Fine nodded off and Lois left the room, wandering aimlessly down the
hospital corridors. I just don’t know what to think now. Each of the “Supermen”
I’ve run into so far has seemed a little like Clark . . . but all I know for certain is
that his body’s missing again. And from what my sources say, this time the
Cadmus Project isn’t to blame. Maybe I should call Lana Lang. I need to talk to
someone who will understand!
Lois turned a corner into a lounge area and nearly ran into Cat Grant.
“Lois? What on Earth—?” Cat gave the reporter a quick once-over and thrust
a paper cup of coffee into her hands. “Here, you look like you could use this!”
“Thanks, Cat.” Lois gratefully accepted the cup. I must really look out of it.
“What’re you doing here so early in the morning?”
“Interviewing Dr. Arthur Cronenberg, the head of psychiatry. It’s for a new
GBS special. The network thinks li’l Catherine Jane Grant here is ready for
prime time. How about you?”
“Oh, I was trying to interview a sedated safecracker who had his anatomy
rearranged by one of the new Supermen.”
“Ow!” Cat made a face. “Sounds painful.”
“It looked painful, too. It’s all so weird, Cat.” Lois sank down into a
squeaking vinyl chair. “These pretenders have rescued people, they’ve stopped
crimes, they’ve done so many good things—but in other ways, they’re nothing
like Superman! They’re cold or cruel—or they’re young egomaniacs with raging
hormones!”
A flash of color drew Cat’s attention to an old battered television set mounted
on the wall in the corner of the lounge. “Speak of the devil.”
The local GBS station was airing yet another interview with the Boy of Steel.
The screen cut to a two-shot of Tana Moon and the young hero seated in front of
a huge network logo.
“Yeah, Tana, Steel Hand thought he was tough—the bad guys always do—but
nobody’s too tough for this Superman!” Superboy grinned and gave a thumbs-
up. “Hey, Metropolis, if you’ve got a problem, I’m your man—believe it!”
“Thank you, Superman!” The camera zoomed in to a tight close-up of the
glamorous interviewer. “For GBS News, I’m Tana Moon!”
Cat kept staring at the screen long after the station had cut to commercial.
“Tana looks a little too good on the tube. I wouldn’t put it past Vinnie Edge to be
grooming her as my replacement! I may have to keep an eye on her.”
Lois made a sympathetic noise, but her mind was elsewhere. All these
“Supermen.” For all I know, one of them could have stolen Clark’s body. Maybe
they all did! What if these pretenders are all in this together? I might never find
out what happened to Clark!
Lois finished the last of her coffee and was turning to toss the cup into a trash
can when the silhouette of a man flashed across the frosted glass of the doors at
the end of the lounge. The man paused momentarily behind the double doors, as
if checking his watch. From the outline, he appeared to be a tall man with a
strong jaw; he was wearing glasses and a fedora with the brim turned down in
front. His silhouette looked for all the world like that of Clark Kent.
The man moved on, and Lois bolted for the doors. She pushed her way
through the double doors, only to see the retreating figure striding away down
another corridor. Lois dashed after him. “Clark! Stop! Please!”
“Eh? Beg pardon? Were you speaking to me, ma’am?” The man turned,
doffing his hat politely. His thinning hair was white, and he looked to be in his
sixties. He was in great shape for his age, but he was obviously not her fiancé.
“Oh! N-no . . . I . . . I’m sorry. Terribly sorry. I thought you were someone
else . . . a friend of mine.”
“Ah! Well, don’t let it worry you. These mistakes happen all the time.” The
man plopped the hat back onto his head and began to stroll away. “Good luck in
finding your friend.”
“Sure, thanks.” The reporter leaned back against the wall. Get a grip, Lois, or
you’ll be seeing Clark everywhere. She sighed. I just want him to be alive so
much.
22

The visored Superman dropped down from the sky over the Antarctic, feeling
strangely exhilarated. In his travels around the world, lives had been saved and
criminals had been punished. By now, the people must know that they again have
a Superman on whom they can depend. It had been a good beginning, in spite of
his encounter with Lois.
That alone had left the Superman troubled. He’d felt a disturbing emptiness
upon leaving her, but he’d dismissed it as an echo of experience from a previous
life. He was determined not to let such feelings deter him; there was too much to
be done.
The Superman dropped beneath the surface, allowing the ice to seal above
him as he descended into the Fortress. He called out to his robots, and they
scurried to attend him. Two of the metal servitors removed his cape and shield
and flitted away to clean the garments and hold them in storage until they were
again needed.
The Superman’s step was light as he strode through the wide halls of the
hidden sanctuary. Thank the Creator, I can retire to this fine Fortress to rest and
plan my next missions. As he approached the monitors, though, his stride began
to slow, and his joy to fade.
Across the monitors flashed images of red and blue—of strangers attired as
Superman. One screen focused on a close-up of a dark-haired young teenager in
a leather jacket giving a cocky thumbs-up. “Hey, Metropolis, if you’ve got a
problem. I’m your man—believe it!” Another screen reran taped highlights of an
armored man stopping a firefight. Yet a third showed a caped Cyborg towing a
disabled ocean liner into port.
“What in Krypton’s name is this?! Who are these people that they dare to
wear the emblem of Superman?!”
A robot flitted obediently to the visored man. “Their origins are unknown to
us, sir. But their activities have garnered considerable media attention—some
more so than your own.”
The Superman fought to keep his anger in check. “Unit Twelve, continue
monitoring and compile all available data on these pretenders. I wish to know
more about them.”
He turned and stalked away from the screens. The Superman was surprised by
the intensity of his anger; it had disturbed him perhaps even more than his
meeting with Lois, and he suddenly felt drained and exhausted. He retired to
bask in the renewing energies of the Regeneration Matrix. There he stood for
over an hour with his eyes closed, gently running his hand over the surface of the
Matrix and absorbing its energy. He did not yet know the identities or the
motives of those other “Supermen,” but if they dared challenge him, they would
find him prepared.

At Metropolis City Hall, Captain Maggie Sawyer paused a few moments outside
Police Commissioner Casey’s door. The captain had never been one for useless
speculation, but she wondered what this unexpected summons was all about. It
had been a while since she’d caught any static over the S.C.U. . . .
Sawyer thought of Inspector Turpin’s offhand comment about her “skinny
butt” that had been dutifully relayed to her by Sergeant Rusty Sharp the night
they investigated Superman’s tomb. She knew that Turpin hadn’t meant
anything personal by it, but if that little communiqué had gotten repeated outside
her unit—maybe some higher-up is bent out of shape over a perceived “lack of
discipline.”
Or maybe this meeting was about her membership in the local Gay and
Lesbian Police Officers Association. She’d told the commissioner that she
intended to run for association president next year; was someone upset about
that? She was well aware that not everyone approved of her joining the
association, though overall she’d gotten more support than flak—even from her
ex-husband, interestingly enough. Jim Sawyer had been badly rocked when
Maggie had begun to come to terms with herself—the divorce had been messy—
but he’d since become a lot more supportive, even agreeing to joint custody of
their daughter. When they’d last spoken and she’d mentioned her work with the
association, he’d cheered her on. “Mags, if you’re gonna come out of the closet,
you might as well come out with guns blazing.” Sawyer smiled tightly. Wish me
luck, Jim.
She gave a perfunctory knock on the commissioner’s office door.
A muffled voice answered from within. “Enter.”
 “You wanted to see me, sir?” Sawyer took one step over the threshold and
stopped short. Commissioner Casey was nowhere to be seen, but Inspector
William Henderson was leaning casually against the commissioner’s big walnut
desk, warming his hands around a big mug of coffee.
“Morning, Captain, come in. Coffee?”
“No, thank you.” She took another step and closed the door behind her.
“Have a seat.” Henderson gestured to a big leather chair in front of the desk.
“We appreciate your coming in at this hour.”
“No problem, Inspector. I’d just gotten in from a stakeout when I got the call.”
She stood by the chair uncertainly. “What’s going on? Where’s the
commissioner?”
Henderson looked down at the floor, as if collecting his thoughts. “Jack Casey
resigned last night.”
“Oh, no.” Sawyer slid down into the chair. “I knew he’d been under a lot of
pressure—!”
“Yeah. It’s a damned dirty shame. He was a fine policeman, a good cop, one
of the best. But with Superman gone, every citizens’ group in the six boroughs
was on his back over the recent crime wave. Well, it’s not his problem anymore.
The mayor’s named me as his new police commissioner.”
“Wow.” Sawyer had already figured as much, but hearing the news spoken
aloud still made quite an impact. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks, but given the heat I’ll be taking, condolences might be more in
order.” Henderson nervously paced the floor. “Maggie, I know there’s been
some friction between the two of us over your command of the Special Crimes
Unit, maybe even some hard feelings . . .”
“Never on my part, Commissioner.” Sawyer pursed her lips. “To tell the truth,
I’ve always wondered exactly what the problem was.” She raised an eyebrow.
“Was it because of my gender? Or my sexual orientation?”
“What?” Henderson looked startled. “Why, neither one! Don’t be ridiculous!”
He set down his coffee and leaned forward across the desk at her. “It just always
stuck in my craw that as high-profile an outfit as the SCU was headed by a
captain!” He threw up his hands and resumed pacing. “I wouldn’t care if you
were male, female, or neuter—but you have inspectors reporting to you, taking
orders from an officer whom technically they outrank!”
 “I see.” Sawyer let out a sigh of relief. “I guess I can’t blame you for that.
When we were first getting the unit organized, I was a little uncomfortable about
that myself. But Inspector Turpin finally put me at ease. He never seemed to
mind about rank.”
“Mind?!” Henderson snorted. “The way I hear it, Dan Turpin thinks you walk
on water. Not that he’s alone. Every last one of your officers would go through
fire for you. That says a lot about you as a leader.” The new commissioner
looked a little sheepish. “This captain thing . . . maybe I shouldn’t let it bother
me. After all, the SCU wasn’t my unit, and you’ve done a damn good job with
it!” Henderson suddenly pulled himself up tall and looked Sawyer straight in the
eye. “But I still don’t like exceptions to the chain of command. And now I have
the power to do something about it, something that should have been done a long
time ago . . . Inspector Sawyer!”
“Inspector?” Sawyer blinked. “That’s a very generous solution.”
Henderson smiled and offered her his hand. “It’s long overdue, Maggie.
You’ve built the SCU into a model that’s being copied all across the country. I
have a news conference scheduled for tomorrow . . . we’ll make all this official
then.” They shook on it and he continued. “But for right now, we have a lot of
craziness on our plate, and a lot of contingencies to plan for.”
The commissioner stepped behind his desk, and his new inspector pulled her
chair in closer. “Ever since Superman’s body disappeared—and that’s just one of
the mysteries we have to solve—those crazy cultists who worship him have been
attracting more and more followers. Now you’ve been working the cult angle
yourself, correct?”
Sawyer nodded. “Right. I don’t think any of them are responsible for the theft
of the body, but there’s already been a schism within the original group. If the
body isn’t found soon, things could turn ugly.” She paused. “We’re going to
need more personnel.”
“Tell me about it. One of my conditions for taking this job was the mayor’s
guarantee that we’d be budgeted for a thousand new officers. It’s going to take
time to find them and train them, though. And in the meantime, we have to
decide what to do about all these blasted Supermen! What we need is one real
Superman, not four understudies.” Henderson spread photos of Superboy, the
Cyborg, the Man of Steel, and the visored Kryptonian across his desk. “What do
you think, Maggie? Superman worked more closely with the SCU than with any
other police unit. You knew him better than I did. Is there any chance—even a
remote one—that he’s somehow still alive?”
“I don’t know. It seems like too much to hope for.” Sawyer flipped through
the four photos and their attached reports. “After what we went through with
Cadmus, I could almost believe the kid’s story about being a clone. The one in
the metal suit doesn’t seem to have that much power, and he seems to be
focusing his attention on street crime; not a bad decision, all things considered.
The Cyborg hasn’t stayed put long enough for any of us to get a handle on him
—is this NASA report true?”
Henderson shrugged. “It is according to Washington. One of their space
probes recorded the Cyborg bolting the Doomsday monster to a meteor and
tossing it—what does it say there?—‘in an arc that sent it flying out of the plane
of the solar system and eventually, out of the galaxy as well.’ Could our
Superman have done that?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe.” Sawyer picked up the photo of the Kryptonian.
“How’d we get this shot?”
“Bank camera from that Metropolis Mercantile job.”
“Ah. This one—this one looks a lot like Superman. If only I could see his eyes
—he’s hiding something there, I’d bet on it! He also acts like Dirty Harry with a
cape—or maybe a Super-Batman, considering that he’s mainly done his work at
night.” She tossed down the photo. “I see him as a real problem, Commissioner.
Today, he’s breaking safecrackers’ arms. Tomorrow, it could be jaywalkers’
legs. How far do we let him go?”
“A better question is, ‘Can we rein him in?’ But I know what you mean. If he
steps out of line again, we have to be ready to take a stand against him and make
it stick. Do you think we can do that?”
Sawyer grinned sardonically. “We can try.”

A little more than twenty-four hours later, Henderson and Sawyer made their
position public.
The day’s early morning news programs opened with graphic evidence of the
visored Kryptonian’s latest actions. As WGBS newscam shots of flashing red
lights and battered hoodlums filled the screen, morning anchor Mary Louise
Bromfield told the story.
“Responding to a predawn call from Guy Gardner of the Justice League,
Metro police within the past hour arrested a Bakerline gang allegedly involved in
a drugs-for-weapons swap. Gardner, a former Green Lantern, refused credit for
the bust, saying that ‘Superman, the real one, did the job.’ ”
The screen cut to a painful close-up of one arrested hoodlum. His face was
bruised and swollen, and bloody bandages covered half of his head and one eye.
“It was Superman, awright! Big guy . . . cape, ‘S’ on ’is chest, gold shades . . . he
was like a maniac! He nearly kilt some of the guys!”
Bromfield came back on screen, her brow knit with concern. “City officials
are reportedly disturbed over the violent actions of this masked Superman, who
is but one of four claimants to the name—”
The anchor stopped in midsentence, bringing a hand to the wireless earplug
hidden beneath her hair. “Excuse me . . . I’ve just received word that
Metropolis’s new commissioner of police, William Henderson, is about to make
a statement. We go now live to City Hall—”
Even as Bromfield spoke, the screen cut to a long shot of the city hall
auditorium. Henderson stood with Maggie Sawyer close by his side behind a
podium bearing the official seal of the City of Metropolis. The commissioner
rushed through his introductory comments and quickly got to the heart of the
matter. “Citizens react with outrage—and rightly so—when their police use
excessive force. The brutality of this self-proclaimed ‘Superman’ is no less an
affront to public decency! I have instructed Inspector Margaret Sawyer of the
Special Crimes Unit to give the highest priority in responding to and stopping
this reign of terror. Inspector—?”
As Sawyer stepped up to the podium, she little suspected that her image was
being received via satellite feed to a bank of monitors deep below the Antarctic
wastes. The Kryptonian watched intently as the new inspector’s face filled one
of his video screens.
“We will not tolerate vigilante justice in Metropolis!” Sawyer hit her index
finger against the podium as she emphasized the word “not.” “I knew the real
Superman, and he would never have resorted to the reckless mayhem that this
masked man has practiced in his name.”
“Masked?” The Kryptonian brought a hand up to his visor. “They’re calling
this a mask? They’re calling me reckless?” He muted the sound of the GBS feed.
“My every move has been carefully calculated. Can’t they see that?”
A close-up of Guy Gardner came up on another screen. The Superman
frowned and turned the volume back up. “Now, there—that one is truly reckless.
What does he have to say for himself?”
Guy was all but crawling into the camera. “Hey, I don’t mind tellin’ ya, I
thought the guy with the visor was just another fake like the rest of ’em. That’s
why I came to Metropolis in the first place—to kick all o’ their butts. It’s just a
good thing for the rest o’ them that I found the genuine article right off the bat.
Lemme tell you, he kicked my butt from here to next week—and then he took
care of those drug-dealin’ Bakerline punks, to boot! So, hey, all I can say is, if
the man I met wasn’t the real Superman, then he oughtta be! I’m leavin’ things
in his hands—he won’t have any trouble fightin’ his own fights.”
The reporter had to pull hard to reclaim his microphone. “What’s your
reaction to official condemnation of this Superman’s actions as an unnecessarily
harsh use of force?”
“So he got tough with that bunch of creeps. So what?” Guy smirked. “It’s not
like they didn’t have it comin’! Okay, maybe he lost his temper a little. Like,
who hasn’t, huh? Besides, after all he’s been through, he’s entitled!”
The Superman muted the sound for the entire monitor array, and walked away
from the screens, turning their supervision back over to the robot Unit Twelve. “
‘Came to town to kick their butts,’ indeed. Gardner set an ambush for me! And
now, since I have humbled him, that idiot has made himself my greatest public
admirer!”
Another robot came up alongside him. “Sir, do you wish to change?”
“What?”
“You did not bother to remove your cape and shield when you returned this
morning. Do you now wish to change?”
“Ah! Yes, just a moment, Unit Three.” The Superman lifted off his raiment
and stood contemplating it.
“Is something wrong, sir? Does the shield perhaps require polishing?”
“No, Unit Three, that won’t be necessary. I was just thinking . . . this shield
has long stood for justice. If too many claim it, misuse it, what will it stand for
then? Until this moment, my actions felt absolutely right. But I did let my anger
at Gardner get the better of me, and I took it out on those less capable of
defending themselves. And now Gardner cheers me on. That alone is reason to
reflect, to question what I have done. Perhaps the police officials were correct;
perhaps there have been unnecessary elements of brutality in my actions.
Perhaps there is a better way.”
The Kryptonian handed the shield over to Unit Three. “Leave me now, until I
summon you again.” He walked off into a quiet corner of the Fortress to think.
True to their programming, the robots withdrew and left him to his solitude.

On the sidewalks of Suicide Slum, Bibbo tucked his new pup into the crook of
one arm as he read the inscription on a little bone-shaped dog tag. “Hey, this
ain’t right!” He stuck his head back through the open window of the storefront
engraver’s booth. “This tag says ‘Krypto’! It’s s’posed to say ‘Krypton’!”
Behind the counter, a squat man in a greasy T-shirt looked up from behind a
rack of blank keys. “What the hell kinda name for a dog is ‘Krypton’?” His
words worked their way out around a half-smoked cigar that protruded from the
corner of his mouth. “Dogs need short names that’re easy for ’em to remember
—like Spot or Duke. They ain’t too bright, after all.”
The little pup stuck his head up around Bibbo’s forearm and began to growl.
So did Bibbo. “I tol’ja his name was Krypton like the place Sooperman was
from! Not Kryp-toe, Kryp-ton! That’s what I paid to have put on the tag.”
The man in the greasy shirt was unmoved. “Hey, ya see this?” He pointed to a
sign on the wall of the booth that read: DOG TAGS $3.00. At the bottom of the
sign, in letters just barely visible from the street, was an additional line of copy:
SIX LETTERS MAXIMUM.
“The sign says six letters—I do six letters.” He removed the stogy from his
mouth and flicked its ash out onto the pavement. “Course, fer Mr. ‘Lottery
Winner’ Bibbowski, mebbe I could squeeze on anudder letter . . . fer a modest
fee.”
Bibbo’s nostrils flared and his eyebrows shot up so fast that they nearly
knocked his cap off. He reached in through the window, grabbing hold of the
man’s cigar by its lit end and crushing it out in his bare hand. The whites of the
man’s eyes grew very big as Bibbo proceeded to shove the battered stogy back
into his mouth.
“Bibbo don’t deal with no chis’lers!” He turned and walked away, scratching
his pup behind the ears. “C’mon, let’s go home . . . Krypto.”

That night, the Shark gang’s enforcers stalked through the waterfront in the
shadows of burned-out warehouses and crumbling tenements, their Toastmasters
at the ready. As they came around the corner of one building, they found another
Shark standing watch. The lead enforcer sauntered up to the lookout. “This be
the place, Lenny?”
“This’s it, Asa.” Lenny motioned toward a break in the buildings with his
Toastmaster. “I saw that walkin’ pile of junk go down this alleyway, an’ he ain’t
come out.”
Asa smiled. “Then he be good as dead.” He raised his hand and motioned the
others to his side. “Listen up! This Man o’ Steel’s been interferin’ with our
business for days. But now we gonna pay him back. Frame, you ready?”
A smaller youth brandished a camcorder. “All set, Asa. You take down the
Steel dude, an’ I’ll record it for posterity.”
“Good. Now, let’s get wit’ the action.”
Their big guns down and primed, the Sharks silently filed down the alley, only
to find—nothing. “So where is he, Lenny?”
“I—I don’t know, Asa. He didn’t come out. He has to be here somewhere.”
“Hey, Asa.” Another Shark’s voice was a hoarse whisper. “I heard somebody
say that the Steel dude had some kinda flyin’ boots.”
“Flyin’ boots?!” Asa’s nose wrinkled in disgust. “What you been smokin’,
man? The dude’s a walkin’ stove! He’d have to have rockets stuffed up his butt
to fly!”
There was a sudden rush of air, and the Man of Steel came flying down into
the midst of the Sharks, scattering half of their weaponry with one swing of his
hammer. “You boys looking for me?”
“It’s him! Toast ’im!”
With high-caliber fire rattling off his armor, John Henry hammered their guns
away and sent the Sharks running. As they scattered, he reached out and grabbed
Asa, holding the enforcer helpless against a wall. “You look like the leader of
this little band—so sing, pigeon. Where do I find your supplier?”
Tears came to Asa’s eyes, and the shaken young man opened his mouth to
speak. But before more than a syllable could escape his lips, automatic gunfire
peppered his body, and he slumped lifeless in the armored man’s grasp.
Enraged, the Man of Steel whipped around and fired off two spikes from his
power gauntlet. The metal spikes flew true, bracketing the wrist of the assailant’s
gun hand and pinning him to an old utility pole.
The killer was Frame. He dropped both his gun and his camcorder, trying to
pull free of the spikes. But when he saw there’d be no escaping, he boldly stood
his ground and thrust out his chin. “Hated to do that to Asa, but the Sharks can’t
let finks live.”
Behind his mask, John Henry clenched his teeth so hard that he could hear his
molars grind. He silently cursed himself for underestimating the little punk and
coldly picked up Frame’s gun, waving it under his nose. “I don’t like your guns,
video-man, and I don’t like you. Now tell me, where is your supplier?”
“I wouldn’t tell if I knew. I’d rather take my chances with you!”
John Henry snapped the gun in two. “You’re gonna take your chances with
the cops.”
“I’ll be out tomorrow, man.” Frame’s whole face was a sneer. “You can’t
prove nuthin’.”
“Oh, no?” John Henry picked up the camcorder and pointed it at Frame’s face.
“You caught this whole thing on tape, didn’t you? I think that the cops just might
find it interesting.”
Frame’s face fell. He hadn’t thought of that.
The Man of Steel stepped back, kicking the fallen Toastmasters into a pile.
“But no matter what happens, one thing’s for sure. These pieces are not going to
make it back onto the streets.”
As he brought his hammer down on the pile. Frame finally began to cry.

In a plush conference room at LexCorp Tower, WLEX News Director Stephen

Conally screened the video of the confrontation between the Man of Steel and
the Sharks for Lex Luthor and his chief science advisor. The three men watched,
fascinated, as the camera caught the Man of Steel’s destruction of the weapons.
When the tape finally ended, Luthor smiled tightly at his news director. “I can
see why the police are interested in finding out more about this Man of Steel.
How was it that you were able to obtain this footage?”
“I’m afraid it’s not an exclusive, Mr. L. The Police Information Office has
made copies of the video available to all local news teams, but I think we can
still get plenty of mileage out of it.” Conally gave the tape a positively lustful
look. “All we need is a good tag line to distinguish our broadcast from the
competition’s. Something like, ‘This video was made by gang members to
record their victory, but the real victory belonged to the Man of Steel in his one-
man war on crime.’ ” The news director tilted back in his chair. “And that could
be just the beginning! WGBS appears to have a semiexclusive deal with
Superboy, or Teen Superman, or whatever it is that he wants to be called.
Perhaps WLEX should form a similar arrangement with the Man of Steel, or one
of the other Supermen.”
Luthor inclined his head graciously toward the director and broke into a wide
smile. “A sound suggestion, Conally. Happersen and I were already thinking
along those lines. Rest assured, as soon as any such arrangement can be made,
you will be informed.”
Dr. Happersen nodded to Conally as Luthor personally escorted the man out.
If anything, the boss has gotten smoother, thought Happersen. I know for a fact
that he thinks that Conally is about as bright as a dead firefly, but you’d never
know it from the way he handles the man.
By the time Luthor returned to the conference table, his corporate smile had
vanished utterly. “Well, Happersen? Do you think we can learn any more from
that tape?”
“Perhaps, sir. The gang leader was starting to talk about their weapons source.
Using computer enhancement, we might be able to decipher something that
could give us a lead to finding the supplier.”
“Do all that you can, Sydney. This Man of Steel wants to shut off the flow of
guns. If we could give him what he wants, we might well get him into our camp.
We must try to open lines of communication to him—and to the other
pretenders, as well. I was unable to persuade the original Superman to work for
me, but perhaps I can get his successors under my control.” Luthor balanced
their copy of the videocassette on the fingertips of one hand and smiled.
“Wouldn’t that be rich?”

Two days later, Lois Lane met with Perry White behind the closed doors of his
office at the Daily Planet. The managing editor had an extra worktable set up in
the corner of his office just to organize the growing files on the various
Supermen.
They worked quickly, with an old portable television tuned to the WLEX
midday news as their only distraction. They just about had the files categorized
when a WLEX reporter came on screen with a live report from a waterfront soup
kitchen. Lois and Perry both looked up as the television image panned over to
focus on a big man dressed in red and blue.
Bibbo stared out at them from the screen. “Yeah, I’ve been workin’ real hard
lately, helpin’ to find food fer the kitchen. These folks here need food real bad,
an’ I’m askin’ ever’body to pitch in an’ help out.” The old roughneck spoke
slowly and with great dignity for a man who was wearing an S-shield on his
sweatshirt. His outfit would have made most men his age look like ridiculous old
pro wrestlers, but somehow it looked exactly right on him. “Sooperman, he
woulda helped out. He was always doin’ that. I figure, if we all try to be a li’l
like Sooperman, we’ll all be better off.”
Tears came to Lois’s eyes as Bibbo spoke of honoring “his fav’rit,” and she
noticed that Perry’s jaw tightened as the television reporter delivered his closing
comments.
“Good piece . . . for television.” It was one of the highest accolades Lois had
ever heard Perry give a video report. “That man’s heart certainly is in the right
place. I wish that more people like him were getting the publicity.” The
managing editor surveyed the piles of wire copy and newspaper clippings and
shook his head. “And fewer people like some of these so-called heroes. It was
hard enough keeping track of one Superman. Have you been able to make any
sense of this mess, Lois?”
“Not much, Chief. But a lot of money is being spent to cover—and in some
cases, promote—their exploits. GBS has been trying to get the most mileage out
of their young Superman.” Lois pulled out a videocassette and shoved it into the
tape player of the editor’s television. A telephoto shot came up of the Boy of
Steel pulling back a carload of teenagers that was teetering on the edge of a
bridge. “As far as the police have been able to determine, these kids were driving
a little too fast and blew a tire. They were just lucky that they didn’t go off into
the river.”
Lois turned up the sound as the screen showed Superboy straining to hold
onto the back end of the car. “Leverage is lousy! Don’t know if I can hold on
much longer!”
“Great Caesar’s Ghost!” Perry spit out the epithet. “How’d they manage to
pick up his voice so clearly?”
“GBS outfitted him with a wireless mike.”
 Superboy appeared to be panicking. “It’s slipping—slipping—!” And then, he
effortlessly lifted both car and kids over his head. “Hey, Metropolis—made ya
look!”
Perry hit the pause button in disgust. “And to think that a television network
has the gall to call that young jackanapes ‘Superman’! The boy is like a brain-
damaged ox; he has entirely too much raw strength and too little common
sense.”
“I wouldn’t go quite that far, Chief, but the kid does have a lot to learn.”
“I hope he learns fast—for all our sakes!”
Lois had to smile. “Well, he’s gotten a few lessons. Watch this.”
As the tape continued, Superboy—with car still in hand—was shown being
slowly lifted up into the air by Supergirl.
“Oh, fine . . . Supergirl!” Perry reflexively felt his pocket, searching for the
cigars he’d given up. “Did Luthor send her in to show the boy up, or are
LexCorp and Supergirl trying to compete with GBS for Superboy’s attention?”
“The latter is a good possibility, Chief.”
“Wouldn’t that be just dandy! The boy’s ego’s big enough already.”
“That’s true, but actually, I think Supergirl could help keep him in line.” Lois
fast-forwarded the tape to just after the car had been set down. Superboy faced
Supergirl, who stood almost a head taller. The sound had been edited from this
portion of the tape, but the boy definitely looked tongue-tied. For her part,
Supergirl bore the look of a diligent schoolgirl who was patiently trying to deal
with the class clown.
“I’d love to know what they said after GBS cut the sound.” Lois turned to
Perry. “Come on, Chief, you’ve got to admit that it was funny when she lifted
him and the car up together. The expression on his face was priceless.”
“All right, Lois.” Perry gave in and allowed himself a dry chuckle. “I suppose
these days, we should take whatever laughs we can find. But I still think this
possible Superboy/WGBS/WLEX triangle bears investigating.”
“I’ll make a note of it.”
The television screen went to blue and began flashing a numeric countdown.
“Oh, that’s right—there’s more.” Lois stooped over, readjusting sound and
picture. “This is from that waterfront firefight between the Sharks and a rival
gang, the Reavers. The Man of Steel was breaking it up when guess who butted
in?”
The GBS footage picked up with the Boy of Steel diving down into the melee,
his left arm tucked behind him. “Yee-hah! Watch this! I’ll bail out the Steel guy
with one hand tied behind my back!”
The gang members instinctively raised their big guns skyward and blasted
away at the newcomer. Superboy actually laughed. “What are those goons
shooting? Rockets?” His smile was clearly visible as he looped around their fire.
“Hey, ya missed me! Missed again!”
“That’s enough!” Perry hit the stop button and switched off the set. “Armed
street gangs are one of the more serious problems facing the city, and that young
fool was treating it like some joke. His grandstanding could’ve gotten someone
killed!”
“It almost did, Chief. I was there, remember? It was a real war zone.” Lois felt
a chill at the memory. “When Superboy drew the gangs’ fire into the air, he
evaded it easily enough, but a police helicopter above and behind him wasn’t so
lucky. The Man of Steel flew up and pulled the chopper cops out just in time. By
the time he got them back down to Earth, the gangs had pretty much gotten
away, and GBS’s media darling was back in front of the cameras, taking credit
for saving the day. I tell you, Perry, I wanted to give that kid such a slap—!”
“Too bad I wasn’t there. I’d’ve held him for you.”
“Yes, well, the Man of Steel hauled him up and chewed him out royally. You
won’t see that on any tape, but I heard enough to know that the armored man set
Superboy straight about a few things. I just hope it took.”
“This ‘Man of Steel’ . . .” Perry shook his head. “I wish we knew more about
him.”
“So do I. He spoke with me for only a few minutes; he wouldn’t stick around
for a real interview. Of the four who are wearing Superman’s insignia, he’s the
only one who hasn’t declared himself Superman. Yet, in listening to him, I get
the weird feeling that there is more of Superman’s heart in him than in any of the
others.”
“Lois, don’t tell me you’re buying into that psychic hogwash about the man
being possessed by Superman’s spirit!”
“No, of course not, Chief. It’s just that he has that certain something that all
the others are missing, and he’s not Superman, so how could they be?”
 “Well, one of them has been quietly campaigning to be recognized as
Superman, and he appears to have convinced the right people.” Perry picked up
a copy of the Planet’s morning edition from his desk. The banner headline read:
SUPERMAN IS BACK? The subhead underneath proclaimed CYBORG
THWARTS ASSASSINATION ATTEMPT. The front-page article covered all
the details.
The Planet had gotten the exclusive story thanks to their editorial assistant
Ron Troupe, who had gone to Washington on his own initiative to cover a trip
made by Metropolis Mayor Frank Berkowitz. Ostensibly, Berkowitz had gone to
Capitol Hill to angle for more federal disaster money, but Troupe had gotten a
tip from some old friends of his at Howard University that the mayor had
actually been asked to the capital to advise the President on the four new
Supermen.
Troupe had caught up with Berkowitz as the mayor strolled along
Pennsylvania Avenue. The fledgling reporter had been hoping for a lead on what
His Honor intended to tell the chief executive. Troupe was just engaging the
talkative mayor in conversation on the street outside the White House when a car
bomb went off.
Ron Troupe shoved the mayor to the ground as a second car roared up and
five men piled out with automatic weapons in hand. The reporter found himself
in the middle of a firefight between terrorists and White House Security, hoping
that the mayor was all right and praying that he’d stay alive long enough to file
the story.
That’s when the Cyborg arrived. He hit the terrorists cleanly, sweeping
through and collecting their weapons so quickly that they were literally spun
senseless. One moment, bullets were flying. The next, the ground was covered
with half-conscious terrorists, and the Superman was calmly asking the captain
of the guard to take possession of the captured weaponry.
The Cyborg then proceeded to march right up to the White House. Moments
later, he was conferring with the man whose life he had helped save. It was an
historic meeting between two individuals who were among the most powerful
men in the free world. The Cyborg had accepted the President’s thanks for
foiling the assassination attempt and told the commander in chief that should he
ever be in special need of a Superman, he only needed to call. Literally. Right
there and then, the Cyborg extruded a special communications device from the
side of his robotic arm. The President solemnly accepted the device and shook
the Superman’s metal hand.
And Ron Troupe had been there for all of it. He’d chanced upon the sort of
story journalists dream of finding, and he’d done a good job of reporting it. He
also came away personally convinced, as was the federal government, that
Superman was back.
It was not a surprising conclusion. The Cyborg had, after all, thwarted an
attempt on the life of the President of the United States. Moreover, it turned out
that the Cyborg had been meeting in secret with officials of the state and defense
departments, trying to convince them that—despite his strange new appearance
—he was Superman, rebuilt and returned to life.
Perry White, however, still wasn’t so certain. “Call me a skeptic, but I find it a
little too convenient that the Cyborg just happened to be in the area of the White
House when that car bomb went off. I don’t know if that’s despite the Cyborg’s
meetings with state and defense, or because of them. Maybe I’m just getting
paranoid. But what about this Cyborg, Lois . . . what do you think?”
“I think maybe I’m getting a little paranoid, too. I’m beginning to worry even
when we don’t hear from these new Supermen. That visored one!” Lois took a
deep breath. “He’s kept a very low profile lately. I keep wondering what that
means.” She looked up at her editor. “Perry, at this point, I think that I may be
the only one who’s spoken to all four of these Supermen. I’ve given this a lot of
thought, and I don’t think any of them is the real Superman.”
“Neither do I. People are always in such a damn hurry to jump on one
bandwagon or another. I can understand that people want to have faith in
something. There aren’t many folks in this world who can live with a lot of
unanswered questions—if it were otherwise, most religions would go out of
business—but we’re talking about a question of a man’s identity, of his good
name. I hate to see people choosing sides in this, as if they were picking their
favorite team for the World Series or something.”
“They’re afraid, Perry. They all want there to be a Superman. And so do I.”

The lunchtime patrons at the Ace o’ Clubs were just starting to wet their whistles
when the WGBS News-at-Noon cut to live coverage of Superboy carrying a
classic locomotive engine through the city to the Metropolis Museum of Science.
“Lookit that kid, ain’t he somethin’?” A bar patron lifted his mug in a toast to
the scene on the television. “I tell ya, give ’im a few years and he’ll be a
contender. Course, he ain’t the real Superguy—!”
“Ten-four to that, buddy.” The man on the next barstool swallowed the last of
a pickled egg and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Now the Cyborg
—that’s yer Superman.”
“The President’s pal? Gimme a break! Okay, so he stopped those terrorist
bums, but that guy with the visor, he’d’ve fried ’em on the spot! That’s the kinda
law an’ order I wanna see!”
“Sez you!”
“Yeah, sez me!”
Before the argument could escalate any further, two huge hands suddenly
clamped down on the men’s shoulders and spun them around on their barstools.
“Yer both wrong! Lissen up, ya yahoos, an’ lissen good!” Bibbo stood
glowering at his customers. “You wanna argue politics or sports, that’s yer
bizness. But nobody—an’ I mean nobody!—is gonna argue about Sooperman in
this bar! Sooperman was a pal o’ mine, an’ none o’ them fancy pants is
Sooperman in my book!” At the tavern owner’s feet, his pup Krypto yipped and
growled in agreement.
“S-sure, Bibbo.”
“Yeah. Whatever you say.”

Some eight hundred million miles from Earth, space began to fold in upon itself,
bending and twisting as if forming a hole in its reality. Matter and energy danced
and swirled within the hole, jumping back and forth from one state to another.
Suddenly there was a dazzling burst of light and a golden ship shot out of the
hole. And then, as abruptly as it had opened, the hole sealed shut, leaving no
sign that it had ever existed.
The ship’s engines drove it on toward the inner planets of the solar system. It
was a vast ship, nearly a mile across, and it was armed with weapons powerful
enough to level an entire world.
On the bridge of the vessel loomed a giant humanoid being. He stood over
seven feet tall and weighed nearly eight hundred pounds. Not a single hair grew
on his skin, which was a pale yellow, like badly aged parchment, and his eyes
were a deep, murky crimson. From the deference shown him by the other beings
on the bridge, it was clear that he was their lord and master. His name was
Mongul, and he nursed a long-standing hatred for Superman that Lex Luthor
would have envied.
Mongul had once ruled a vast empire from the throne of an artificial planet
which he called WarWorld. He had used that mobile world to sweep across the
galaxy, conquering whole star systems. Whenever and wherever Mongul found
sentient life-forms, he demanded their total and unconditional surrender. Any
worlds that dared to defy him were rendered lifeless. In this way his empire had
grown.
In hundreds of our years, no one had ever presented a real challenge to
Mongul’s power and authority—until he had crossed paths with Superman.
One of Mongul’s slave ships had found Superman drifting helplessly in deep
space, the oxygen in his lungs nearly exhausted after an accident on a long space
mission. Discovering that they had chanced upon the last living Kryptonian,
Mongul’s slavers had transported their find to one of their emperor’s arenas, to
fight in a series of gladiatorial games. Superman, however, had defied Mongul,
and the warlord himself had entered the arena. But to his dismay, Mongul found
that his powerful fists were not enough to slay the disobedient slave.
Mongul’s armies saw their emperor’s failure to kill a slave in combat as a
grave weakness. Mongul lost face, and revolution broke out on WarWorld. To
his everlasting shame, Mongul was forced to give up his throne and flee for his
own life, while Superman—he learned—had returned to Earth.
Now, after several long months in exile, Mongul was again in command of a
spaceworthy dreadnaught. It was not as huge or as powerful as WarWorld, but
he was confident that it would carry him on to the victory he craved.
A six-foot-long, slug-shaped being approached Mongul, its head bowed in
obeisance. “All systems secured from hyperspatial transport, Lord Mongul.
Switchover has been made to sublight drive engines, and all weapons systems
stand primed and fully functional.”
“As they should be.” Mongul’s voice rumbled from deep within his chest, like
the roar of a great beast within a cave. “And the navigation systems? What of
them?”
The slug-being all but prostrated itself. “Locked on target, my lord.”
“Show me.”
One whole wall of the bridge seemed to dissolve away, replaced by an image
of a bright blue marble of a world, flecked here and there with wisps of green
and white. “There, sire . . . the third planet from the system’s single star.”
“Earth.” There was passion in the way Mongul spoke the word. “It is the
world the Kryptonian claimed as his home. Soon it shall be mine, as well.”
23

In the Antarctic Fortress, a score of robots mobilized in the chamber that held
their master’s Regeneration Matrix. The gigantic egg-shaped construct was
glowing white as the sun, and waves of static electricity were rippling across its
surface. The robots instantly went on-line with one another, transmitting and
receiving information at near-light speed. “Shut down all solar receptors!”
“Done, but the overload effect continues. There must be a release!”
“Agreed. There is no other choice. Modulate the support field . . . lower the
Matrix to release position.”
Under the robots’ manipulation of the fields that had held the Matrix upright,
the giant egg descended to the chamber floor, its long axis slowly lowering from
a vertical to a horizontal position.
Energy continued to crackle across the Matrix, and the robots stayed highly
agitated.
“Readings remain well off scale. This is without precedent.”
“Everything that has occurred since the master’s discorporation has been
without precedent. We were programmed to improvise under uncertain
situations. We must proceed with caution and carry out that programming.”
A seam formed in the surface of the Matrix egg, and it began to split open.
“Alert! Alert! The Matrix seal has ruptured! Prepare to receive the occupant.”
The Matrix yawned open like a huge clamshell, revealing a tall, dark-haired
man, covered from throat to toe in a black Kryptonian bodysuit. “He awakes!
Dim the lighting—his eyes may yet be sensitive!”
The Man in Black opened his eyes. “Who . . . who’s there—?”
The robots moved in closer, as if their appearance was all the answer needed.
One dipped its head down to the Man in Black and spoke most solicitously.
“Master? Master Kal-El? How do you feel?”
“Feel?” Kal-El rubbed his eyes. “A little . . . fuzzy-headed.”
“Some disorientation is to be expected. Do you recognize us? Do you know
where you are?”
“You’re . . . the Fortress robots.” He looked around slowly, as if trying to
determine whether or not he was still asleep and dreaming. “Then, I’m in the
Antarctic . . . in the underground hideaway?”
“Correct. You seem unsteady on your feet, Master Kal-El. This is to be
expected, following such a rude awakening. Allow us to seat you.”
“A-all right.”
The robots gathered on all sides of Kal-El, lifting him up out of the open
Matrix and into the cushioned cocoon of a Kryptonian floating chair. As he
settled into the chair, it slowly rose into the air until his head was at the same
height off the floor as it would be if he were standing.
One robot continued to hover close by his master’s side. “Is there anything
else you require—any other way in which we may be of service?”
Kal-El rubbed his temples as if physically trying to dispel the fog from his
mind. “Yes, you can fill me in on what’s been going on.”
“At once, sir.”
The robots formed an honor guard around the chair, escorting it and its
occupant away from the Matrix. Moments later, they all hovered in another part
of the Fortress in front of the bank of monitor screens.
The robot designated Unit Twelve obediently snapped into debriefing mode.
“As per my programming, I have been monitoring all world news transmissions
and compiling data on any and all individuals operating under the name of
Superman and/or utilizing your S-shield in their activities. There has been much
speculation on the part of commentators—!”
Kal-El raised his hand for silence. “Save the commentary for later, Unit
Twelve. Show me what’s going on right now.”
“Yes, sir.” The screens lit up showing Centennial Park from a number of
vantage points, as provided from several different broadcast sources. On screen,
a huge crowd could be seen gathered in the center of a wide plaza near the large
statue of Superman. Many of those in the crowd wore bright blue robes with the
S-shield emblem of Superman embroidered across the front.
Unit Twelve distilled the various disparate broadcast sound tracks into a
single coherent narration. “At this hour in the city of Metropolis, cultists who
worship Superman as a living god rally in Centennial Park. The emergence of
four Supermen has caused much confusion and has already led to one major
schism in the group. City authorities fear that this may lead to violence.”
Kal-El looked seriously disturbed by the news. “This is not good. This is not
good at all. Unit Twelve, give me the rundown on all known Supermen.”
“Yes, sir.” One by one, computer-generated mug shots came up on screen.
“This Cyborg Superman claims partial amnesia. His bionics show evidence of
Kryptonian technology. Yesterday, he saved the U.S. President from an
assassination attempt . . .
“Some pundits have called the youngest pretender ‘Superboy.’ He objects
vehemently to that name. He claims to be a clone of Superman, and has
maintained a high profile thanks to Galaxy Broadcasting . . .
“Little is known about the so-called Man of Steel. He is currently believed to
be a man in an armored suit, and not a robot . . .
“Drawing the greatest negative response from Metropolis police is the visored
Son of Krypton . . .”
Unit Twelve droned on and on. For over an hour, the little robot showed and
told Kal-El all that the Fortress systems knew of the four Supermen.
“I’ve heard enough!” the Man in Black interrupted, abruptly turning the
floating chair away from the monitors.
Worry lines creased Kal-El’s forehead, and there was a haunted look to his
eyes. “Things have gotten completely out of hand. The name of Superman will
not be turned into a franchise.” He rose stiffly from the chair, stretching as if he
had not tested certain muscles in weeks.
He looked back over his shoulder at the images of the other Supermen.
“Something must be done about this! Continue your monitoring, Unit Twelve.
Check every source you can find, and have me paged if anything new comes in.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The rest of you, come with me. I must get to Metropolis as soon as possible.”
Kal-El walked purposefully from the chamber, the other robots dutifully
falling in behind.

Fifteen miles south of Smallville, Jonathan Kent stood fuming in the middle of
the parlor.
 On the screen of his television, a gaudily dressed youth was shown shaking
hands with a stocky, slick-haired man. “. . . the young Superman today
announced that he’d engaged the services of Rex Leech as his personal business
manager. Leech, a relative unknown, has vowed to crack down on what he called
‘the unauthorized use’ of his client’s name and image.”
“ ‘Unauthorized use’?!” Jonathan went red in the face. “Why, that miserable,
two-bit—!”
“Jonathan, please!” Martha rushed into the parlor, drying her hands with a
dish towel. “Don’t get yourself so upset. You know it’s not good for your heart!”
“I know, Martha. But it just makes my blood boil when I see these impostors
on the TV. They’re no more our son than I’m the king of England! I wish that
boy of ours . . .” Jonathan let the thought trail off. He knew that it made Martha
uneasy whenever he talked about his finding Clark and bringing him back.
Jonathan still had a hard time believing that it hadn’t happened; it had all been so
vivid.
“Anyway, it makes me want to go on TV myself. I’d like to tell the whole
blasted world that Clark Kent is the real Superman—the only Superman!”
Martha came up beside him, resting her head against her husband’s shoulder.
“I wish we could, too, honey, but you know we can’t. It isn’t so much for us, but
for Lois and Lana, and all the rest of Clark’s friends who would be put in
danger.”
“I know, I know, but—oh, now look at that!” The network was rerunning a
file tape of the Boy of Steel’s face-to-face meeting with Supergirl. “There’s
something else that frosts my britches. First, Supergirl takes up with the Luthor
boy, and now she’s making cow eyes at this young twerp!”
Jonathan angrily switched off the set. “I know she didn’t stay with us long, but
I’d hoped we’d brought her up better than that! She was practically a blank slate
when Clark brought her to us—so innocent. He got her back on her feet, and I
thought we’d taught her a little common sense. Now, I don’t know. If only she’d
stayed with us a little longer . . .”
“Yes, she was such a sweet child.” Martha sighed and brushed away a tear. “It
broke my heart when she ran off. The poor girl had never had a real family
before. She did learn a lot while she was here, but she’s still such an innocent.
She sees things . . . well, not in black and white, exactly, but I think she tends to
accept people at face value. She’s so straightforward, and she just isn’t
experienced enough to deal with people who aren’t.”
“Yeah, it surely seems that way.” Jonathan slumped down against the arm of
the old sofa. “Maybe—maybe it’s my fault, Martha. Maybe I just didn’t know
how to raise a daughter.”
“You just hush now, Jonathan Kent. We did the best we could for Supergirl in
the short time we had her. And for heaven’s sake, stop seeing only the flighty
things she sometimes does! That poor homeless child has already done more
good in her new life on this Earth than most folks do in a lifetime. Just look at all
those people she’s rescued! And hasn’t she faithfully kept Clark’s secret? Didn’t
she send us that beautiful sympathy card and write us that lovely letter? She
promised, as soon as the search and rescue work is over, that she’d figure out
some way to come and see us, and I believe her.”
“I suppose you’re probably right.” Jonathan hugged his wife to him tightly.
“You usually are.”
“That’s better!” Martha kissed him on the cheek. “Supergirl will come around,
just you wait and see. And I don’t just mean that she’ll come around to see us! I
mean that she’ll get herself sorted out eventually. I’m as sure of that as I am of
anything—and heaven knows, even with children you raise from the cradle—
you can’t always tell how they’ll turn out.”
Martha looked out the window at the gathering clouds. “It’s just such an
uncertain world out there!”

As night fell on Metropolis, the Man of Steel cornered four fugitive Sharks on
the central borough’s south side. “A little far from the ’hood, aren’t you?”
They responded with heavy fire.
“Waste all the ammo you want, I won’t get a scratch. But I am getting
annoyed!” He walked on through the hail of bullets as though it were nothing
more than a light rain, unaware of the fifth Shark who was drawing a bead on
him from behind.
“So tell me, where’re you fish getting the heavy artillery? Don’t make me ask
twice.”
There was a flash of light and a choked-off scream behind the Man of Steel.
John Henry whirled around to find a charred, smoking corpse clutching a
slagged Toastmaster. The other Sharks cried out in pain, their weapons suddenly
glowing red hot. They dropped the guns, running for their lives, as a second
caped figure dropped into their midst.
Inside his armor, John Henry blinked. “Superman?”
“Yes, I am.” The Kryptonian nodded once. “I see your other would-be
assailants have scattered like the roaches they are. No matter, they can be
rounded up later. Their weapons are now useless; I fused the firing mechanisms.
but now, we two must talk. There is much to discuss.”
“I’ll say there is.” John Henry stared long and hard at the visored man. “You
—you just killed a man!”
The Kryptonian raised an eyebrow. “I killed one who intended to kill you.
They were five to your one.”
“But you could have disarmed him! You didn’t have to kill him.”
“No?” The visored man folded his arms. His voice sounded genuinely
puzzled. “And was he trying simply to disarm you? What, exactly, is your
point?”
“My point?! Look, mister, I met Superman once—as a matter of fact, he saved
my life.”
“And what do you call what I just did?”
“At the very least, I call it manslaughter! For God’s sake, man, look at me—
look at this armor!” John Henry thumped his chest plate. “I wasn’t in any real
danger! And even if I had been, the real Superman wouldn’t have killed that
punk! He never countered the threat of violence with unnecessary force!” The
Man of Steel stuck a finger toward the visored man’s face. “You look like the
real McCoy, you even sound a little like Superman, but you act like a cold-
blooded fraud!”
“Fraud?!” The Kryptonian clenched his teeth, unable to hold back a sudden,
surging rage. “You—ungrateful—armor-plated—FREAK!”
With one swift left uppercut, the Son of Krypton punched the Man of Steel
back through one side of an adjacent building and clear out the other. He eyed
the armored man’s trajectory with bitter satisfaction. Then, still seething with
anger, he dove after the Man of Steel.

In a diner several blocks away, Jimmy Olsen sat across from Lois Lane and self-
consciously dragged a french fry through a glob of catsup on his plate.
 “So . . . uh, how are you holding up, Lois? I mean . . . geez, I’m not doing a
very good job of this, am I? It’s just that I’ve been worried about you, but things
have been so crazy—”
“That’s all right, Jimmy.” She slowly stirred her coffee, adding a couple of ice
cubes from her water glass. “The whole world’s gone a little crazy. But I’m
getting by about as well as can be expected, given the circumstances.”
“Yeah, I know it’s rough. Bad enough that we lost Superman, but Mr. Kent—
Clark—” Ah, shut up, Olsen. He stuck the fry in his mouth and chewed. This
must be killing her. After all these weeks, he can’t possibly still be alive. If they’d
only find his body, at least then we’d know. “Well, if you ever want to, you
know, talk about it . . .”
“I know, Jim. Thanks.” Lois took a tentative sip of the coffee; still too hot. I
wish I could tell you. That’s the maddening thing. The public thinks that Clark
was buried in all the destruction that Doomsday caused. I know that he wasn’t,
but that’s about all I know!
Lois’s thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a low crashing noise. The whole
building seemed to shake. “What was that?!”
“I don’t know. It sounded like a train wreck!” Jimmy jumped to his feet and
threw down a few bills to cover the check. “Trouble in the subway maybe. Let’s
check it out!”
Lois and Jimmy exited the diner and were nearly knocked over by a stream of
people running down the street. One man was shouting that Judgment Day had
arrived. Jimmy was just popping the lens cap off his camera when a bearded
man in a long flowing robe calmly walked by. The bearded man took one look at
them and brought his palms together as if in prayer.
“Make your peace! The hour is at hand!”
“Sure thing.” Jimmy smiled and adjusted his lens setting.
Lois gently touched the man on the arm. “Do you know what’s going on down
the street? Besides the Hour of Judgment, I mean?”
“The great Superman is risen and walks among us!” The bearded man bowed
his head reverently. “Even now he does battle with an impostor—an armored
son of Satan—over on Larson Boulevard!”

Just fifty yards from where Larson emptied into Glenmorgan Square, the Son of
Krypton hurled John Henry headfirst through a video arcade. The Man of Steel
erupted from the corner building in a shower of safety glass and flew on for
several feet before skidding to a halt in the middle of the boulevard.
The Kryptonian stalked through the shattered storefront arcade after the
armored man, glass crunching under his feet. People scattered at his approach as
he glowered down at his fallen opponent.
“Could one ‘fraud’ so easily defeat another? I think not. Fool! I could have
eliminated that entire gang, but I did not. Their lives were base, meaningless . . .
yet I was merciful. Remember that. Remember, too, that I was merciful to you as
well!”
On the surrounding sidewalks, onlookers kept a cautious distance, but
enraptured cultists pushed out into the streets, chanting the name of their chosen
savior. “Superman . . . Superman . . . Superman!”
The Kryptonian looked out upon the crowd and held up his hand for silence.
“Hear me, good people! I am indeed the one true Superman. And I will suffer no
pretenders to my good name.”
Suddenly, the Man of Steel bounded to his feet and, in one smooth motion,
thrust his sledgehammer like a battering ram into the visored man’s gut. “I’m not
pretending. I mean to seriously kick your butt!”
Onlookers ducked down behind parked cars as the Man of Steel leapt onto the
Kryptonian. John Henry grabbed both ends of his hammer’s thick steel handle
and held it down across the visored man’s chest, pinning him to the pavement.
“ ‘The one true Superman,’ huh? The man I admired never spoke like that!
The way I see it, you’re the pretender! Just a little tin god with a cape. Or maybe
a metahuman with messianic delusions.”
“The only delusions are yours!” The Kryptonian kicked up with his feet,
flipping the Man of Steel over him.
As the two men scrambled to their feet, cultists in the crowd began to cheer on
their particular choice for messiah.
“Destroy him, Superman. Destroy the metal demon!”
“Fool! The true demon is he who hides his eyes. Destroy him with your holy
hammer, Man of Steel!”
Whether because of or in spite of the cheering, the two caped men were
showing every sign of continuing their fight when they were brought up short by
a woman’s angry cry: “Stop it! Both of you—!”
Lois Lane pushed her way through the crowd, with Jimmy Olsen following
close behind. She pointed an accusing finger from one Superman to the other.
“Settle down, you two, and listen to me!”
Lois stepped boldly between the two caped men, and Jimmy stuck close to her
side, trying to look as big and authoritative as he could. I hope Lois knows what
she’s doing. The young photographer’s hands felt clammy as he gripped his
camera.
“Look at you! Just look at you!” The reporter’s voice burned with outrage.
“You’re brawling like a couple of playground bullies, battling for turf. What do
you have to say for yourselves?”
The Kryptonian was the first to find his voice. “Ms. Lane, I initially sought
only to stop this impostor from using my insignia.”
“Your insignia?!” Lois’s eyes were daggers. “The jury’s still out on that one!
But regardless, you’ve both dishonored Superman’s name with this senseless
fight! You could have hurt or killed someone! Would you want that stain on
‘your’ insignia?”
The Man of Steel lowered his hammer. “You are absolutely right. I didn’t
seek this fight, and I didn’t throw the first punch. But I gave as well as I got—
almost without thinking about it.”
John Henry looked around them, surveying the path that their battle had taken.
“Dear Lord, look at the damage we’ve caused!”
The Kryptonian felt stirrings of shame and was troubled by the feeling. He
glanced at Lois, then quickly looked away. The woman’s eyes . . . haunt me! It is
as though she were trying to look into my soul! “I . . . also regret my actions.
They were perhaps ill-advised. I will make amends for any damage we have
caused.”
“We both will.” John Henry looked full into the Kryptonian’s visored face.
“You know, I never laid claim to the name of Superman. I wear this shield and
this cape to honor the man who gave me back my life. Can you honestly look me
in the eyes and say that you find anything wrong in that?”
The Son of Krypton stood silent for several moments, considering the
question. “Put in those terms—no, I cannot.” The words came slowly, and with
some difficulty. “I . . . am sorry.”
 Jimmy looked through his viewfinder at the visored man, trying to see his
eyes. Maybe this guy is Superman! Lois seemed to get through to something in
him.
“Hold it right there! Don’t any of you move!” To the astonishment of all, a
thin, balding man in a bad suit shoved his way through the crowd and came
running toward them, a sheath of papers in hand.
Now what? thought Lois. “I beg your pardon, sir, but if you’re with the police,
I’d like to see a badge!”
“Police?” The balding man almost laughed. “Naw, I’m no cop. I’m a process
server!” He smacked his papers against the Kryptonian’s chest. “This is to give
notice that you gents are in violation of a trademark held by Rex Leech
Enterprises. Mr. Leech’s client, and his client alone, has rights to the Superman
name and insignia. You are to cease and desist from all such usage immediately.
Got that?”
“No.” The Kryptonian grabbed hold of the papers. “Got this?” Energy erupted
from his hand, burning the papers so quickly that they seemed to disappear.
The process server, a hardened fellow who was seldom surprised, backed
away, his eyes wide. “Hey! You can’t do that! Those papers—!”
“The fate of your papers is the least of your worries!” The visored man took a
step forward and reached for the balding man.
“Ogod! Ogod, help!” The process server turned and bolted away.
The Kryptonian was about to follow when the Man of Steel brought the
handle of his sledgehammer down around the other caped man, getting him in an
improvised choke hold.
“Hold it!” John Henry spoke calmly and deliberately. “I don’t know what this
is all about, but it should be settled in the courts, not in the streets!”
“No!” The Kryptonian spit out the word. “That man’s insolence demands
punishment now! Unhand me!”
“Not until you cool down!” As his captive squirmed in his hands, the Man of
Steel glanced quickly at Lois and Jimmy. “I don’t know how long I can hold
him, but I’m going to get him out of here before someone gets hurt. Stand back!”
Lois and Jimmy jumped back as John Henry’s rocket boots ignited. The next
instant, the two Supermen shot away into the night sky.
“So much for my peacemaking efforts.” Lois watched ruefully as they
disappeared from view. “Where will this all end?”
Three miles high over Metropolis, the Kryptonian continued to struggle in the
Man of Steel’s grasp.
“What does it take to make you listen to reason?” John Henry strained his
suit’s micromotors to maintain his hold on the man. “You can’t go around frying
people who cross you!”
“No one tells me what I can or cannot do. I am Superman!”
“Sorry, Shades. The high-and-mighty routine doesn’t impress me.”
“No? Then perhaps this will.” The Kryptonian began adding his own powers
of flight to their climb. “You want to fly? Well, let’s just see how high and fast
we can go!”
“Stop, you idiot!” John Henry upped the amplification on his voice. “I said,
stop!” But the Kryptonian only flew faster.
John Henry sealed his suit, activating its emergency oxygen system as the air
grew thinner around them. “You’ll send us into orbit!”
The Man of Steel cut power to his rockets and tightened his grip on the
Kryptonian, but it did little good. The man he held captive had taken control of
the flight. The two men sped upward, constantly accelerating. John Henry had
built his armor well, but he knew that they’d soon hit escape velocity, and his
armor hadn’t been designed for extended operation in a vacuum. I hate to turn
this maniac loose while he’s so dangerously angry, but I don’t have much
choice. I have to save myself while I can. No sense in dying out in space! He
released his hold on the Kryptonian, kicking away from the other men and firing
his rockets to ensure their separation.
John Henry fell tumbling away in a great downward arc and blacked out. He
finally came to many miles above the Sierra Nevada, though it took him several
precious moments to realize just where he was. When he saw the wide blue
expanse of the Pacific stretching out ahead of him, he knew that he was in
trouble. My God, he must’ve thrown us into a suborbital ballistic path! Airspeed
indicator is pegged. If I’m not already at terminal velocity, I’ve got to be close!
He was starting to feel the heat of reentry.
Fighting to right himself, the Man of Steel plunged Earthward, ticking off the
seconds in his head. He fired his boot rockets in short, even bursts, hoping to
slow his speed to something survivable. It should work . . . if my fuel holds out.
 Just a few thousand feet above the outskirts of Coast City, California, he was
down to a more manageable air speed. The Man of Steel grabbed the edges of
his cape and stretched out in free fall, conserving his fuel supply for one last
final brake and steer maneuver. Here, after all those long minutes of desperate
activity, he was almost able to relax. This must be how hang gliders feel.
He had no sooner completed that thought than the Kryptonian dove down onto
him from above, and the two of them went tumbling head over heels. John
Henry fought to stay on top, fought to stay conscious and to fire his rockets one
last time.
Then they slammed into the parking lot of a suburban shopping mall.
The pavement heaved, and shoppers were thrown to the ground by the force of
the impact. As people picked themselves up, they looked around wide-eyed.
“What was that?” A woman groped for her glasses. “An earthquake?”
“No.” A young man pointed toward the new crater that had opened up in the
asphalt just a few hundred feet away. “Something . . . something just fell out of
the sky. It looked like people!”
Within minutes, a police helicopter hovered over the site, and mall security
guards rushed to cordon off the area and offer first aid to shaken customers. The
helicopter pilot swung down low over the crater. “My God, I think there’s
something moving down there!”
Slowly, painfully, the Man of Steel got to his feet, bracing himself with the
handle of his hammer. But as John Henry lurched up out of the crater, the
asphalt shifted, and a second caped figure arose behind him. “So you live as
well!”
John Henry spun around at the sound of the Kryptonian’s voice and took an
energy blast to the chest. The force of the blast knocked him off balance, and the
armored man toppled to his knees.
In the helicopter overhead, the pilot anxiously radioed for more backup. A
police sharpshooter’s hands shook slightly as he loaded his rifle. Below, the
Kryptonian walked boldly up to his armored foe. “Now you shall pay for your
folly, ‘Man of Steel.’ ”
John Henry’s hands shot up, grabbing the Kryptonian by the wrists. He
abruptly pulled himself to his feet, butting his steel helmet up hard against his
tormentor’s chin. The Kryptonian fell back a step, and the armored man struck
again and again with a series of alternating hard rights and lefts to the jaw. His
visor knocked ajar, the Son of Krypton staggered back, clutching at his face. He
was breathing heavily, and he seemed stunned, but he did not lose his footing.
Power supplies dangerously depleted, the Man of Steel locked his armor’s
knee joints and stood steady, unable to do much more than look impressive,
while the visored man caught his breath and cleared his head. Behind the poker
face of his steel mask, John Henry’s mind was racing. This sucker must be
nearly as tough as the real Superman. He’ll have his second wind in another few
seconds, and I’m just about dead on my feet. Got to talk fast, or there’ll be hell
to pay.
John Henry switched on his voice amplifier. “If you want people to believe
you’re Superman, then act like Superman! Or is it that you enjoy playing the
bully? You would’ve fried that process server, wouldn’t you? Well, Superman
wouldn’t! What’s your next brilliant move? Are you going to fry me? Maybe fry
everyone wearing this shield, till you’re the only one left?” Careful, don’t give
him any ideas! “Oh, that’d be real smart!”
The Kryptonian had resecured his visor and was staring hard at the Man of
Steel. His fists were clenched and his stance was unfriendly, but be was
listening, and for that John Henry gave quick thanks. In the distance, a chorus of
sirens grew louder.
“Every life you take is a stain on that shield and a disgrace to the name of
Superman.” John Henry took a deep breath. “Don’t you see, man? There’s got to
be more to Superman than just having power. You have to know how to use that
power for people, not against them.”
There was a sharp squeal of brakes. When the two caped men looked up, there
were half a dozen police cars surrounding them. Coast City police piled out of
the cars, their guns drawn. They looked tense; the younger officers almost
looked scared, but they held their ground. The senior officer, a big burly man,
planted his feet and stared the two Supermen down. “All right, let’s get those
hands up where we can see ’em—now!”
The Kryptonian took one tentative step toward the nearest car. He made no
move to raise his hands.
John Henry felt the sweat trickle down his back. “Don’t do it, man! Don’t
disgrace the shield!” He made a few quick calculations. If he cut in his
emergency power reserves, he might be able to tackle the Kryptonian and knock
him to the ground before the man could attack the police. But what then? He was
certain that he couldn’t knock the visored man out. He’d exhaust his reserves in
a matter of minutes trying to hold the Kryptonian down, and then those cops
would really be in a fix.
But the Kryptonian stood very still, his fists unclenched, his head tilted
slightly. His sharp ears picked up the calls coming over the surrounding police
radios. There was an officer down on the north side of Coast City . . . a fire,
possible arson, in the warehouse district . . . some people in trouble, clinging to a
capsized boat in the Santa Clara Channel.
He slowly turned toward the Man of Steel. “Perhaps you are right. There is
more to Superman than mere power. There must be courage. There must be the
willingness to risk all for what seems right—even when one barely has the
power to stand upright.”
Behind his mask, John Henry blinked. “You knew—?”
“It is within my power to know.” The Kryptonian nodded his head once,
respectfully, and lifted off into the air. “The people of Coast City cry out for help
and Superman must answer. Replenish yourself, Man of Steel, and go back to
Metropolis. I leave that city in your hands for now.” He turned and shot away
from the parking lot; within seconds he was gone from sight.
John Henry stared after the Kryptonian, dumbfounded. The police looked no
less puzzled. One officer lowered her gun and ambled over to the armored man’s
side. “Are you okay? What was that all about?”
The Man of Steel switched to his reserve power system and slowly stepped
forward. “Long story. I’m just glad that I could talk as well as he can fight.”
“Huh?” The cop looked totally confused.
“Tell you all about it. But first, I need to borrow your car’s battery and some
jumper cables.” And a machine shop and some condensed solid fuel would be
nice, if I could find them. John Henry breathed a weary sigh. Whatever else
happened, he was facing a long walk back to Metropolis.

At LexCorp Tower in Metropolis, Lex Luthor had just flipped through a

confidential report from his aide, Sydney Happersen, when his WLEX monitor
cut to a special report from California. Luthor glanced up from the report to see a
live picture of the Man of Steel powering up from a police car battery in a Coast
City parking lot. The billionaire industrialist listened intently as one of his news
bureau’s West Coast correspondents related how the armored man had fought
the Son of Krypton to a standstill.
Luthor picked up the phone and punched in a number. “Patch me through to
our Coast City news team. Yes, the ones who were just on the air now. Hello,
this is Lex Luthor.” He chuckled softly. “Yes, I am quite serious. I want you to
convey my personal congratulations to the Man of Steel and tell him that I wish
to speak with him.”
There was a soft hiss, and then a deep, resonant voice came on at the other end
of the line. “Is this really Lex Luthor? The Lex Luthor?”
“The second one, anyway—but I’m trying hard to equal the first.” Luthor
couldn’t keep from grinning at his private joke. “Am I correct in guessing that
you could use a repair facility, sir?”
“Well . . .”
“I would be honored if you would allow me to provide one. There’s a
LexCorp aerospace plant not far away in Bakersfield. Just say the word, and I
will put it at your disposal. You will have everything you require, including as
much privacy as you wish. And when you are ready to return to Metropolis, I’ll
be more than happy to provide you with transport.”
“Mr. Luthor, that’s incredibly generous of you. Thank you very much. I’m
very grateful.”
I thought you would be. “Don’t mention it. Metropolis needs men like you.”
Luthor flipped through the secret report, circling the address that Happersen’s
investigative team had uncovered—the address of a certain party that was
providing city gangs with Toastmasters. “Yes, I’d say you provide a service that
few others can.”

Midway between the orbits of Jupiter and Mars, Mongul noticed a subtle shift in
the pulse in his ship’s engines. He called his chief navigator before him. “We are
slowing and changing course. Why?”
“A band of asteroids looms before us, Exalted One. We must execute an
evasive maneuver if we are to avoid them.”
“I will brook no delays! Return to the original course and eliminate the
obstacles!”
“As you command, my Lord.” The navigator nervously returned to his post
and gave the order to fire the forward disruptors. In seconds the powerful
destructive beams shattered the larger asteroids in the ship’s path and reduced
the smaller ones to dust.
Pleased, Mongul clapped his hands together twice, and a short furry creature
came running across the bridge, proffering refreshments for the warlord.
“We shall reach the target world soon, Lord Mongul?”
“Very soon, Jengur. And then, I shall at long last have my revenge upon the
Kryptonian.”
“Superman, sir? I thought our advance intelligence reports indicated that he
was killed in battle.”
“Yes, an unknown creature killed the foe who eluded me . . . but no matter!”
Mongul again called up on his screen images of the Earth. “From what I have
learned, Superman’s love for this planet was even greater than what he felt for
his native Krypton. I shall yet grind his bones beneath my heel, Jengur—after I
have claimed the Earth as my prize.”
Jengur refilled Mongul’s cup and returned to his post. He thought of his own
world, so far away and so long ago ravaged by the warlord, and he shivered as
he considered what was about to happen to the Earth. Poor little world! Your
doom was sealed the day that Superman refused the imperial order of Mongul!

The Man of Steel awoke from a fitful sleep in the back of a LexAir cargo jet as it
began its final descent into Metropolis’s O’Hara Regional Airport. Through the
single small window in the cargo bay, he could see dawn breaking over the
Atlantic. What a night! A confrontation with the Sharks, the fight with
‘Superman,’ my LexCorp repair job—did all that really happen in just ten
hours? He shook his head; it hardly seemed possible.
John Henry eased himself off the reinforced packing crates that had served as
his bed and stretched his arms out as much as his armor would allow. He was
sore all over. I’m probably one big bruise under this suit. I’d give anything for a
hot shower and a soft mattress right about now. The growl of his stomach
echoed up through the armor. And breakfast—a nice big breakfast. Dinner was a
long time ago.
He thought back to Bakersfield. An hour at the LexCorp plant had enabled
him to effect more repairs and refinements than he would have been able to
accomplish in weeks on his own, but—despite Luthor’s guarantees of privacy—
he hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that he was being watched while he was
there. Because of that, he’d kept his helmet on the whole night and removed only
a few of his armor’s components at a time.
As John Henry felt the big jet’s wheels touch down, thoughts of the
Bakersfield plant vanished from his head. He was back in Metropolis. In just a
few minutes, he could stash his armor in the mini-warehouse he’d rented since
the apartment fire and start feeling human again. Yeah, then all I have to worry
about is finding a new job, getting the heavy arms off the streets, and figuring
out what to do about that Superman impersonator who sent me flying across the
continent.
The visored man weighed on the Man of Steel’s mind; he’d even dreamed
about him during the flight east. I managed to talk some sense into him out in
California, but for how long? After all, before that idiot process server showed
up, Lois Lane seemed to have talked some sense into him, too . . . and look how
long that lasted. Besides, even if he stays on the straight and narrow from now
on, that doesn’t excuse what he’s already done.
John Henry considered his options. Even at peak power, he was no match for
the Son of Krypton. And even if he could subdue the man, he doubted that any
grand jury would ever indict the guy for frying a gangster who was drawing a
bead on another man, even an armored man like himself. The Man of Steel
shook his head; whatever eventually happened, dealing with the Kryptonian was
going to be more than he could handle alone.
Once the jet came to a halt at the LexAir freight terminal, the Man of Steel
said his good-byes to the flight crew and prepared to take off again under his
own power. He’d paced off a safe distance from the airport’s main air corridor
when he was hailed by a man in a delivery truck.
“Hey, you the Man of Steel?”
John Henry couldn’t quite believe what he was being asked. “No, I’m the Man
of Aluminum. The Man of Steel is my cousin.”
“What?” The delivery man squinted at him. “Oh, I get it! It’s like a joke,
huh?” He gave a hoarse little laugh. “Well, I got a package here for the Man of
Steel, and I was told he’d be coming in on that cargo jet.”
“I’ll take it.”
“Okay, just sign here.”
 John Henry broke two pens before he managed to scrawl a semilegible M.O.S.
on the delivery man’s clipboard. The package was a little easier to deal with; it
actually seemed designed to be opened by a man with armor-plated fingers. It
contained a small stack of photographs and a short typewritten note.
The photos were most damning. They detailed a crude factory setup for
producing the heavy artillery that local gangs had been packing. Incredibly, the
Toastmasters were being produced locally, at an old Metropolis motor plant that
had been shut down some years ago after the parent company had shifted
operations overseas.
With a chill, John Henry focused on the person in the photos who was
overseeing production of the weapons. He recognized her immediately; she was
a colleague from his old days at Westin Technologies. Dr. Angora Lapin was an
albino, a startling beauty of West African descent, white-haired, with pale tan
skin. Her specialty was computer analysis, but she’d always shown a special
interest in the revolutionary weapons designed by John Henry Irons.
The note was anonymous, but it told him where to find the factory.
The Man of Steel lit his rocket boots and blasted off. Breakfast would have to
wait.
The delivery man watched him depart, then reached into his truck and
punched up a number on a special scrambled radiophone. “Dr. Happersen? Our
fish has taken the bait.”

Hours later, in Lex Luthor’s private office at LexCorp Tower, Sydney

Happersen divided his attention between a WLEX news broadcast and his boss;
the latter was far and away the more fascinating to watch. Lex Luthor was
positively glued to the television monitor, chortling over video footage of the
ferocious fire that was still consuming Dr. Lapin’s illicit weapons plant.
The afternoon news anchor earnestly reported that the fire had been preceded
by a tremendous explosion of unknown origin, and that there were as yet no
known victims or survivors. She cut to a spokesperson for the plant’s former
owners; he swore most vehemently that his company had not left behind any
volatile chemicals or other dangerous substances. He looked forward, he said, to
reading the fire investigators’ report, confident that his company was not to
blame for the blaze.
Luthor hit the mute button on his remote and smiled broadly at Happersen.
“Ah, but we don’t need to wait for the fire investigators, do we? We already
know the cause of the blaze. Excellent work, Sydney.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“It was a class operation all the way. We got rid of a weapons dealer at no risk
to ourselves, and in the process, we ran a splendid field test on the Man of Steel.
Remind me to personally commend our industrial espionage team.” Luthor
affectionately patted an audiocassette that Happersen had played for him earlier.
“The sound quality on their tape rivals that of the official news, and of course,
the content was far more interesting.”
The tape had indeed been startlingly informative. Dr. Lapin, it seemed, had
recognized immediately both the design and the designer of the Man of Steel’s
armor. Luthor had carefully filed away the fact that the Man of Steel’s real name
was John Henry Irons. “Most fitting, wouldn’t you say, Happersen?”
Lapin had freely admitted to appropriating Irons’s weapons designs and
selling the big guns to the street gangs. She’d brushed aside John Henry’s
outrage and coolly offered to cut him in on her profits. And when he’d refused,
when he instead began to take her assembly line apart, she tried to kill him.
She’d blasted him with an even more advanced weapon based on his designs
and trapped him in a hydraulic press. But she’d far underestimated his
augmented strength. He’d fought back against the crushing power of the press.
As the big machine began to shake itself apart, Lapin seemed to snap. She fired
round after round at John Henry. Most of the ammunition glanced off the
hydraulic press, some to deadly effect, igniting a store of munitions and, in turn,
setting off the explosion and fire.
Contrary to what the WLEX news anchor had reported, there was definitely
one survivor—Dr. John Henry Irons.
Lex Luthor regarded the tape thoughtfully. “It was interesting that while Lapin
admitted to selling the guns on the street, she vigorously denied Irons’s assertion
that she was also involved with bootlegging his weapons to the Middle East. She
conceded only that the international incident had “inspired” her to seek her own
personal gain.
“I recall reading of that Middle East incident.” Luthor looked at Happersen
decisively. “Put a team onto Westin Technologies; see what you can learn. One
never knows when a little inside information might come in handy. Oh, and keep
tabs on this Man of Steel. He has a certain . . . integrity that might be useful.”
 Luthor glanced once more at the report, then strode from the room, feeling
happier than he had in days.

From a distant building overlooking the former weapons plant, John Henry
watched as fire fighters finally extinguished the blaze. Unlike Lex Luthor, he
had seen the action live, and most unlike Luthor, he had taken no satisfaction
from the sight.
He was still in shock that someone he’d known personally could have sold out
so thoroughly. Funneling weapons like those to the street gangs was like
dumping white phosphorus into pure oxygen; like throwing elemental cesium
onto troubled waters.
Even worse than the shock, however, was his creeping sense of depression
and feeling of futility. He had cut off one supply of deadly weapons, but how
long would it be before another supplier came forward? Months? Weeks,
perhaps? Whenever—the market would still be there. As long as people felt they
had nothing to lose, the senseless violence would continue; people who had little
regard for their own lives would hardly respect anyone else’s life.
How could a Man of Steel, even ten or one hundred Men of Steel, give those
people something to live for? He had begun to despair, when the calming
thought came to him that he didn’t have to fix everything. No one, not even
Superman, could fix everything. But that didn’t mean he should give up. There
was plenty he could do, both as John Henry and as the Man of Steel.
He looked down at his armor. Through his munitions work at Westin
Technologies, he had created a veritable Pandora’s box. Other people might
have opened the box, but he had created it, and he had to live with that. But the
mythic Pandora’s box had released hope as well as trouble. Others had used his
work to create havoc; he would have to work to inspire hope.

Half a million miles from Earth, Mongul’s ship approached the planet from the
shadow of the moon.
Mongul slouched back in his command chair. “Distortion shields up! We shall
not let the Earthlings see us until it suits my plans.”
A slug-shaped creature obsequiously approached the warlord. “Lord Mongul,
we are receiving a communication from advance intelligence.”
 Mongul’s features darkened, and he lifted up a headset. “Route the
communication directly to me. This report is for my ears only!”
The being retreated swiftly to carry out the order.
Mongul listened in silence for several minutes and then nodded in
acknowledgment of the unseen voice. “Understood.”
He lowered the headset. “Show me the Earth.”
The planet now loomed considerably larger, filling the forward screens.
“Study it well, my crew. You may well be the last living beings to behold this
planet in its unaltered state.” Mongul wore the smile of a B-movie villain who
foreclosed on widows and orphans.
“Targeting sites!”
In answer to Mongul’s command, a half dozen cross hairs flared to life over
the image of the Earth. “Demote sites one through four, and site six, to
secondary status. Intelligence reports that site five is the ideal prime target.
Navigation is to lay in a course for that site, and all stations are to prepare for
full atmosphere incursion.”
All voices on the bridge rose in unison. “Yes, Lord Mongul.”
On the big screen, the Earth seemed to swell and expand as the image was
magnified to better show the prime target area. It appeared to be a large urban
center on the western shores of a large continental land mass. The navigator
began a long-range scan of the area, monitoring broadcast communications as a
matter of course. Within seconds he had learned the terrestrial name of site five.
The natives called it Coast City, California.
24

Mongul’s ship was just above the Hawaiian islands when it dropped its
distortion fields. Immediately, alarms went off at land, sea, and aerospace
tracking stations. Moments later, a U.S. naval convoy twelve hundred miles off
the coast of California reported a visual sighting of the huge, glowing craft.
Aboard the starship, Mongul’s communications officer reported to the
warlord. “We have been detected, my Lord—by at least one large military base,
by satellite, and by air and oceangoing vessels. The trackers have estimated our
position, course, and speed; they are very close to triangulating our position
more precisely.”
“Excellent.” Mongul smiled. “We have planted the fear in their minds. Now to
plant the doubt. Raise the fields.”
Instantly, energy began to warp around the ship, and it disappeared both from
radar screens and from view.

The Cyborg Superman had just rescued a group of mountain climbers from the
face of Mount Whitney when the call came from Washington. An electronic
signal buzzed briefly in his cybernetic left ear and then came a human voice.
“White House calling Superman.”
A microphone deployed from the Cyborg’s right shoulder. “Superman here.”
In the west wing of the Executive Mansion, a military attaché almost dropped
the tiny communications device that the Cyborg had given the President, startled
by the clarity of the transmission. He gripped the device tighter and found his
tongue. “We have a strange situation. Defense reports an alien spaceship headed
across the Pacific toward California.”
“Alien? Are you certain?”
“A visual sighting confirmed that the thing’s at least a mile across. There’s
certainly nothing like it on Earth—or wasn’t, anyway.”
“Where is it now?”
“Unknown. As we were scrambling interceptors, it vanished off our screens.
Before it disappeared, naval defense had calculated that it would reach Coast
City in a matter of minutes. Now . . .” The attaché floundered. “We don’t know
where it is. That’s why we called you.”
“I understand your concern.” The Cyborg shot away from the Sierra Nevada.
“Fortunately, I can be in Coast City in minutes as well.”
“You may have company. One of those Superman pretenders is in Coast City
now.”
“Yes, the visored one; I am aware of that. It could be a coincidence, I
suppose.”
“Superman, do you think that this impostor could have some sort of
connection with the alien vessel?”
“It’s conceivable. Superman out!”

In Coast City, the Kryptonian had spent the night saving lives. He’d saved a half
dozen boaters from drowning and stopped six holdups and an assault. He had
just finished extinguishing a warehouse fire when the air high overhead began to
shimmer and glow.
Abruptly, Mongul’s starship appeared a mile above the city, its shadow falling
over midtown. As it hung motionless in the sky, thousands of metal globes—
each nearly twelve feet in diameter—shot from ports in the sides of the craft.
The globes rained down upon the city and its suburbs, embedding themselves
deep in the ground wherever they hit.
The Kryptonian immediately launched himself into the sky toward the
hovering ship. He was still a hundred yards from the vessel when a deep,
resonant voice rang out.
“Halt! Don’t go any further!” The Cyborg streaked in from the east, blocking
the Kryptonian’s path. “I want some explanations. Why are you wearing that
uniform and what are you doing here?”
The visored man regarded the Cyborg with impatient disdain. “Despite your
claims to the contrary, I am Superman—and I intend to deal with the threat
posed by this vessel.”
“Are you sure that you don’t have anything to do with this ship?” The Cyborg
held up his human hand, palm out, motioning for the Kryptonian to stay put. “It
seems a little too convenient that you just happen to be in Coast City when an
alien spacecraft shows up. And the government thinks so, too.”
“Nonsense!” The Kryptonian shoved his way past the Cyborg. “I don’t have
time for foolish accusations. The situation is too serious.”
“I agree.” The Cyborg folded his bionic hand back on itself, deploying the
barrel of a powerful energy cannon. “I agree wholeheartedly.” With his free
hand, the Cyborg grabbed the Kryptonian, then shoved the cannon into the
visored man’s back and fired three times.
Three dreadful wounds opened up in the Son of Krypton’s chest. He
screamed, clutching at his wounds, and spun around to face his attacker. “Why
—?”
“Still alive? I’m surprised.” The Cyborg raised the cannon to his victim’s head
and fired again.
The Kryptonian fell back even as the blast hit. With his visor shattered and his
hair on fire, he dropped like a stone toward the Earth below.
The Cyborg wasted not a single downward glance as he turned and rocketed
toward the hovering ship.
On board the ship, Mongul gave the command: “Shields up, full intensity—
and detonate!”
Seventy-seven thousand metal globes exploded at once, all across and around
Coast City. The force of each separate explosion was powerful enough to have
obliterated a skyscraper; together, they combined into one colossal blast that
flattened the entire metropolitan area and all surrounding land for miles around.
The shock wave slammed into the Kryptonian, hurling him over a hundred
miles out to sea. Barely alive, he fell into the Pacific, still clutching at his
wounds, and sank beneath the waves.
In a matter of seconds, everything within twenty miles of the city center was
gone. Every house, every office, every hospital and school was atomized. It was
as if the sun had come to Earth.
Seven million people had called Coast City home. In less time than it takes to
report, all seven million were wiped from the face of the Earth. Coast City and
her citizens suddenly ceased to exist.
The heat of the explosions roared on, creating a vast fire storm that swept up
the side of the Sierra Madre and ignited the Los Padres National Forest. A fifty-
mile section of the San Andreas Fault heaved like waves in a storm.
 In the midst of this holocaust, Mongul’s ship stayed virtually at rest behind its
protective shields as the surging forces it had released raged on all around it.
Safe within those shields, the Cyborg hovered just below the ship, coldly
surveying the destruction.
Far out in the churning ocean, the Kryptonian rose weakly above the surface
of the water, raw energy crackling off him. He had somehow managed to close
his wounds, but he had been left drained and extremely vulnerable. Through a
haze of pain, one thought burned in his mind: Have to get away . . . have to get
back to the Fortress before I die again. Half curled into a fetal position, the
Kryptonian managed to fly away, literally skimming the waves.

The White House Situation Room was in a state of total chaos. Printers kept
grinding out a steady stream of military reports. Satellite images of the West
Coast were being computer enhanced and fed into high-definition television
screens. But little could be seen. California had all but disappeared under a cloud
of smoke and ash. Every line of every telephone was in use, and it seemed that
everyone was talking at once.
“. . . reporting power failures from the Mexican border north into Oregon.”
“. . . seismograph showed an eight-point-three . . .”
“. . . Vandenburg does not report . . .”
“. . . aftershocks are hitting Los Angeles . . .”
“. . . no signs of hard radiation? How could it not be nuclear?”
Unable to hear himself think, the young military attaché locked himself in an
office and disconnected the phone. From a small locked case, he removed the
tiny communications device and spoke into it.
“White House calling Superman.” There was no response. “White House
calling Superman—answer, please! You’ve got to answer!”
There was a harsh crackle of static as the Cyborg’s voice finally came
through. “Superman here. I can barely hear you, White House. There’s a lot of
debris in the surrounding atmosphere.”
“Superman, what happened? Our satellites can’t see anything through that
dense cloud, and we can’t make contact with anyone in Coast City.”
“I’m afraid you won’t.” The Cyborg affected a tone of sorrow as he circled
Mongul’s starship. “The alien ship set off some sort of multi-warhead bomb.
Coast City is gone.”
“Oh, my God!” The attaché began to break down.
“The edge of the shock wave caught me—hurled me into the upper
atmosphere—or I might not have survived either.”
“What happened to the ship?”
“Unknown.” The Cyborg landed atop the ship, and an air lock cycled open.
“I’m searching the area now, looking for it and for that phony Superman. You
were right; he was definitely connected with the aliens.” He stepped into the
lock, and the door sealed shut behind him. “I saw the impostor enter the ship just
before the bombs went off. I promise you this I—won’t rest until I locate those
responsible.”
“You’ll need help! A special mobile airborne unit is on its way, and we’ve
contacted the Justice League—”
“No, we mustn’t risk any more lives than is necessary!” The Cyborg sounded
troubled, almost haunted. “Conventional forces would be helpless before that
alien ship. There’s an airstrip at the Naval Petroleum Reserves near Tupman.
Have the mobile unit set down there until I can get a better reading on the
situation. The Justice League might be useful eventually, but I need to more
fully assess the situation first. Ask the League to gather their most powerful
members at their New York Compound and wait for my call.” There was a
pause, and more static rattled through the communications device. “There is one
person you can send, though—this young ‘Superman’ who’s gotten so much
press lately. If he’s really a clone of me, he’d be the perfect partner.”
“Of course, Superman, whatever you say.” The attaché hurriedly jotted down
the Cyborg’s directives. “We’ll arrange everything.”
“Good. Superman out!”
Three thousand miles away, the Cyborg slid the microphone back into his
right shoulder and stepped onto the bridge of the starship. Mongul rose up from
his command chair, strode up to the Cyborg, and knelt before him. “All has gone
as planned, Master.” The last word seemed to catch in Mongul’s throat. “I stand
ready to follow your orders.”
“Very good, Mongul. I am pleased.” As best as he could, the Cyborg smiled.
“Activate all construction modules. Once we have rebuilt Coast City, Metropolis
will be next.”
In Metropolis, Cat Grant dashed before the cameras, interrupting regularly
scheduled programming with the first news of the disaster. The information was
sketchy at best.
“Massive earthquakes are shaking the western United States at this hour,
following a major explosion in or near California’s Coast City. Special divisions
of the army and marines have sealed off the area surrounding the city, and the
so-called Cyborg Superman has been reported in the vicinity, conducting an
investigation.”
At the moment Cat was breaking the news, Tana Moon stalked down the hall
to a small VIP lounge area. Inside, she found a portable CD player blaring at full
volume and the Boy of Steel, standing about a foot and a half in the air,
accompanying the tune on air guitar. The young reporter hit the stop switch and
the room instantly became silent.
“Hey, Tana, what gives? I thought you were a music lover.”
“There’s no time for that now.” Tana looked at him sharply. “Don’t you know
what’s going on?”
“Going on?”
“In Coast City! The explosion—the earthquakes!”
Superboy looked uncomfortable. “Uh—current events really aren’t my
strength.”
Exasperated, Tana flipped on a TV monitor just in time to catch the end of
Cat’s broadcast. “. . . ash and debris from the explosion and fires have reportedly
blotted out the sun as far east as Las Vegas. I’m Catherine Grant. Stay tuned to
this GBS station for further details as they become available.”
“Whoa!” Superboy let out a low whistle. “That must’ve been some heavy-
duty dustup!”
“I know.” Tana looked worried. “Look, I’ve just come from Mr. Edge’s
office. We’ve gotten a request from the White House. They want you out in
California to help with some sort of search and rescue mission. Evidently, that
other Superman—the Cyborg—requested you personally. A GBS team will be
accompanying you.”
“Really? Great! When do we go?”
“Not ‘we’ this time. Just you. I won’t be going.” Tana looked away. “It’s a
dangerous assignment, and I was told in no uncertain terms that I’m not
experienced enough. And the awful thing is that it’s true.”
“Hey, Tana. Don’t be down.”
“I’ll be all right. Look, you’d better hustle. There’s an army jet waiting for
you at Fort Bridwell.”
“Jet? What do I need with a jet? I can fly!”
“Can you fly faster than the speed of sound?”
“Uh, I don’t know. I’ve never tried.”
“Then take the jet. There’ll be an army information officer aboard to brief you
and a GBS team waiting for you at the staging site.”
“Okay, if that’s the plan.” He playfully reached out and squeezed her
shoulder. “I’ll miss you.”
Tana turned and hugged him. “I’ll miss you, too, you little jerk. You’re
probably my best friend in the world right now. You be careful out there, you
hear me?”
“Loud and clear, babe! But you don’t have to worry about me. I’m Superman,
remember?” Grinning from ear to ear, he threw open the window. “Catch you
later.” And then, in a single bound, he shot away from the building and was
gone.

In Antarctica, a huge Kryptonian Battle Suit climbed up out of the Fortress and
headed north. Over twelve feet tall and six feet wide at the shoulders, it charged
across the frozen wasteland. Despite its massive bulk, it was soon striding along
at speeds over a hundred miles an hour. It cleared the Ellsworth Highland in a
series of incredible leaps and shot across the Ronne Ice Shelf.
Reaching the edge of a glacierlike cliff, the Battle Suit stepped off into space
and dropped like a rock into the frigid waters. It sank swiftly down, settling into
the murky depths of the continental shelf below the Wendell Sea.
Lights blazed from the Battle Suit, illuminating the area immediately around
it. The huge metal form took one tentative step forward, then another. In seconds
it was again under way and building speed.

In the Planet’s City Room, everyone gathered around to watch live coverage of
the first meeting of two of the Supermen at an army staging area just outside
Tupman, California. The skies were a high, thick curtain of haze as the Cyborg
shook hands with his young counterpart and fielded questions from the pooled
news team.
“Sir, Washington has all but officially recognized you as Superman, yet you
yourself asked that this young man join you in your mission. Is that an
acknowledgment that he is, in fact, your clone?”
“From the broadcasts I’ve seen of his exploits, I’m certainly willing to give
him the benefit of the doubt in that regard. He’s certainly more worthy of the
name than the impostor who’s responsible for this disaster. It is our intent to
hunt down that visored rogue and bring him to justice.”
“A question then for the young Superman.” A CNN reporter turned to the Boy
of Steel. “Do you agree with the government that this man is the original
Superman?”
“Well, uh . . .” Superboy caught a nervous glance from the WGBS cameraman
and was immediately reminded of the terms of the contract he’d signed with his
business manager. I’m supposed to be the only one who’s legally Superman!
Now what do I say? “Maybe he is. We’ll just see what he’s got, huh?”
The reporter pressed on. “A GBS team has been cleared to accompany the two
of you and provide pooled video coverage of the mission under army escort. But
I understand there’s been some objection to this?”
“Yes.” The Cyborg answered without hesitation. “I strongly advised
Washington against this. I know and respect everyone’s desire to have a visual
record of what has happened to Coast City, but none of you understands just
how dangerous this rogue superbeing is. Your lives will be at risk, should he
attack.”
“Whoa! Can the gloom-and-doom, Pops!” Superboy playfully punched the
Cyborg on the shoulder. “I mean, with the two of us looking after things? No
problem!”
“You really think so, eh?” The Cyborg gave a thin, metallic chuckle. “I must
say, I wish I’d had that much confidence in my powers when I was your age!”
“What?!” On the other side of the country, Lois Lane looked up at one of the
City Room television sets. “What did he just say?”
Perry glanced back over his shoulder. “The Cyborg? Something about the kid
having more confidence in his powers than he did at that age. Why?”
 “Then he’s a fake!” Lois’s eyes went wide with horror. “Perry, we’ve got to
call Washington right now!”

Flanked by Superboy and the Cyborg, a modified army transport helicopter

cleared the Temblor Mountains and flew southwest toward the former location
of Coast City. Below them, fires raged on out of control.
Superboy looked down as a wave of heat rushed up at him. The smoke and
airborne ash cut his visibility down to less than a hundred feet and made him
glad for the respirator mask he’d been supplied with by the army.
They cleared the ring of fire and flew on over an area of utter desolation.
Everything there had been cleared by the shock wave of the great explosion, and
the denuded landscape was covered with a layer of thick gray ash. Ahead of
them lay a series of huge, jagged rocky cliffs, thrust up from what had been the
Sierra Madre.
“Attention, Supermen!” A call came out over a loudspeaker mounted on the
helicopter. “We’re losing contact with the base. Could the rogue Superman be
jamming the signal?”
The Cyborg looked back at them, as if to inspect their electronics. “He could,
indeed!” Twin beams of radiant heat suddenly blazed from his eyes, stabbing
into the helicopter’s gas tanks, and the ship exploded in a ball of fire.
Before the horrified Superboy could react, the Cyborg rammed into him like a
runaway train. Stunned, the Boy of Steel plummeted like a meteor, smashing
into the distant cliffside.
Superboy picked himself up out of the little crater formed by his forced
landing and staggered to his feet. His respirator had shattered on impact, and he
coughed as he tried to breathe the thick, ash-laden air.
The Cyborg dropped out of the sky onto Superboy and began throttling him
with his cybernetic arm. Reflexively, the choking Boy of Steel grabbed the metal
arm. “Let . . . me . . . go!” At Superboy’s touch, the prosthesis flew apart into
hundreds of pieces.
The Cyborg looked down at his metal stump. “My arm! How did you do
that?!”
“That’s my secret.” And I wish I understood it myself. Superboy swung wide,
trying to take advantage of his opponent’s surprise. But the Cyborg quickly
sidestepped the awkward attack and flattened the boy with a hard left to the jaw.
The Cyborg then grabbed Superboy by the hair and lifted him up into the air.
The pain roused the Boy of Steel from his stupor. “You can’t be the real
Superman. Who are you?”
“That, young one, is my secret.”
There was a sickening crunch as the Cyborg smashed his metal stump into
Superboy’s face.

Hundreds of Superman worshipers, resplendent in their blue robes, had gathered

in Centennial Park when one of the faithful was lifted to the top of the tomb and
began to preach. At his side, he carried two newly silk-screened banners. One
bore a bold, dynamic drawing of the Cyborg Superman; the other depicted the
visored Kryptonian, but his image had been deliberately defaced with a red
circle and slash. To further drive home his identification with his chosen
personal savior, the cultist had painted his face to mimic the Cyborg’s.
“Look not upon our savior’s face with fear!” His voice rang out across the
plaza as he all but caressed the Cyborg banner. “For though he bears the marks
of his righteous battle against the terrible beast Doomsday, by his deeds you
shall know the truth! And his noble and merciful deeds reveal in him the one
true Superman!”
The cult leader continued, gesturing to the other banner with the back of his
hand. “Do not be deceived by the smooth, unblemished face of this visored
impostor! He may look like our savior—but I say he is a fraud! He has wantonly
killed and ruthlessly tortured! But because he attacked the criminal element, too
many of us looked the other way!
“Some of us were fooled, taken in by this false Superman, but now the beast
has shown his true colors! In my home state of California he has attacked our
Cyborg savior and leveled Coast City! He must be shunned! He must be driven
back to the hell from whence he came! He must be destroyed!”
On the edge of the plaza, Inspectors Sawyer and Turpin watched closely as the
cult leader’s flock cheered him on. Nearly half the assembled cultists had
painted their faces in homage to the Cyborg, and they quickly picked up the
chant. “Destroy the Visored One! Destroy him!”
Sawyer thumbed the switch on her walkie-talkie. “This doesn’t look good.
Stand by and wait for my command to move out.”
A second group of cultists suddenly shoved their way through the crowd; the
newcomers wore yellow wraparound sunglasses in imitation of the Kryptonian,
and they were less than happy about having their chosen savior painted as the
anti-Christ. “Fools! Your ‘savior’ is less than a man . . . less even than a
machine! You worship a graven image come to an unholy life!”
A face-painted cultist stepped in front of the leader of the other group,
blocking his path. “You dare mock our lord? There can be only one answer to
such blasphemy! To my side, true believers! Drive out the devil worshipers!”
The Cyborg faction presented a united front and began shoving the others across
the plaza.
The Kryptonian faction shoved back. “It is you who have lost your souls to the
devil! We shall be heard! We shall not be moved!”
With the crowd on the verge of a full-fledged riot, Inspector Sawyer radioed
her people in the field. “The pot’s boiling over! Do it—now!”
Suddenly, a half dozen ‘cultists’ scattered throughout the crowd, threw off
their robes to reveal uniforms of the Special Crimes Unit, and quickly stepped
between the two factions. Another dozen SCU officers moved in from the edges
of the crowd their batons drawn. Within moments, the police had created a
physical split between the two groups to complement the theological one.
With emotions still running high on both sides, Margaret Sawyer walked into
this great divide with bullhorn in hand. “Listen to me! This is Inspector Sawyer
of the Metropolis Special Crimes Unit! I knew Superman!”
That got their attention.
“No matter who you believe is Superman, you should be ashamed of
yourselves! All of you—both factions—have disgraced his memory! This is
hallowed ground! It’s no place for a turf war!” The plaza grew eerily still. The
only sound was the echo of Sawyer’s amplified voice and the cry of a mourning
dove.
“Superman isn’t here to tell you this, so I will: Go home and calm down! And
then do something positive with your beliefs!”
The crowd seemed to take Sawyer’s words to heart. The factions slowly
turned away from each other, and the cultists quietly began to drift away.
“Nice work, Inspector.” One of Sawyer’s men popped the visor on his helmet.
“That really did the trick!”
“Yeah, this time.” Sawyer kept a wary eye on the last few stragglers. “Let’s
keep the tear gas ready, just in case.”
25

As Superboy slowly drifted back to consciousness, he became aware of a dull

ache in his head and a strange numbness in his extremities. It was then that he
realized he was bound up in a strange metal harness that held him upright,
completely enclosing his arms up to the elbows and his legs up to the knees.
Several tons of titanium steel made up the harness, and it was emitting a low,
annoying electrical hum.
Superboy looked around. “Where the hell am I?” He and his bonds were in the
middle of a huge metal chamber, roughly the size and dimension of a
gymnasium.
“Ah, I suspected you might soon awake.” The Cyborg stepped into view,
ostentatiously flexing the fingers of his reconstructed arm. “You displayed a
most impressive resiliency during our little battle, Superboy!”
“That’s Superman to you, Mr. Roboto!” The Boy of Steel’s face still ached
from his beating, and the pain put him in a singularly foul mood. “If it’s
resiliency you wanna see, just let me out of this high-tech erector set, and I’ll
take your arm apart for you again!”
Heavy footsteps echoed off the alloy floor, and Mongul loomed over the
young hero’s shoulder. “You would do well to watch your tongue, pup!”
“Oh, yeah? And who are you supposed to be, beetle-brow . . . the poster child
for jaundice? Looks to me like you took too many steroids!”
Mongul took Superboy’s head in one of his huge hands. “I find your lack of
respect most distasteful.” He tightened his grip. “Apologize, and perhaps I’ll
leave your jaw attached to your face. Perhaps.”
“That’s enough, Mongul!” The Cyborg stepped up beside the alien warlord.
“Let go of the boy.”
“He must learn respect.” Mongul squeezed tighter, and Superboy saw stars
before his eyes.
“He will. Unhand him.”
Mongul slowly released his grip on the Boy of Steel and backed away, bowing
deferentially to the Cyborg. “As you wish, Master.”
“ ‘Master’?!” Superboy shook his aching head, wishing that the world would
start making sense again. “You mean Mongoloid here works for you? ’Scuse me,
but I walked into the middle of this movie. What’s going on? And where are
we?”
The Cyborg stepped forward until he and the boy were nearly nose to nose.
“What’s going on is the redesigning of this entire planet. It is a grand design that
you, my insignificant little clone, are quite powerless to disrupt! As to our
location, we are currently situated near the center of what was once Coast City.
Show the boy, Mongul.”
The warlord pressed his hand against a control panel, and an entire wall lit up,
showing a huge construct. There was something weird looking about the
construct; Superboy could tell it was made of metal, but there was an oddly
organic look to it. It rose up in clustered sections, as though it were a series of
hornet’s nests, constructed by ever-larger hornets. The largest of the “nests” was
still being built by some sort of mobile robotic modules. When Superboy saw the
exposed structural beams rising up from the center of the construction zone, he
finally realized that he was looking at an alien city.
“Impressive, isn’t it?” If the Cyborg had had lips, he would have smirked. “As
you can see, we have reconstructed things somewhat. I like to think of it now as
Engine City!”
Superboy gaped. “You mean you leveled Coast City to build that?!”
“We did.” Mongul’s admission was chillingly matter-of-fact.
“Yes. It’s so nice to finally show my creation off to an audience, even an
audience of one.” There was a nasty hint of satisfaction to the Cyborg’s tone.
“The outside world still knows nothing of this, of course. They believe what I
have told them; they fully believe that the visor-wearing Superman impostor
destroyed Coast City and remains at large. The gullible media cheer me on in my
pursuit of him. Actually, such pursuit is unnecessary. That fraud is already dead.
I personally dealt him a mortal blow, and our bombs did the rest.”
Superboy could not believe what he was hearing. “Why are you doing this?”
“My reasons are my own. Superman knows best.”
“Don’t hand me that! You’re not Superman!”
“Oh, but I am now.” The Cyborg flung his cape back over his shoulder with a
melodramatic flourish. “And if you wish to ever reach your maturity, young one,
you should accept that and acknowledge me as your master. You really have no
other options. There is no escape from Engine City.”
The Cyborg turned and walked away across the chamber. “Come, Mongul.
Let us leave our young friend to contemplate his future.”
The warlord switched off the wall screen and fell in behind the Cyborg,
striding down a long curving corridor. “My congratulations.” Mongul’s tone
remained deferential. “You put the boy in his place most masterfully.”
The Cyborg’s pace did not slacken. “I merely pointed out the facts of his
predicament and demonstrated how little he concerns us.”
“Indeed. But there are others who might be cause for concern. What of the
other superbeings who reside on this world? What of the self-styled Justice
League?”
The Cyborg waved a hand dismissively. “The League and their associates
could conceivably present a challenge, were they to learn the truth. But despite
their considerable power, they should be as easy to deceive as the authorities.”
“All of them? What of the one called Supergirl?”
“Supergirl? Did you say Supergirl?” The Cyborg’s jaw yawned open, and his
laughter echoed down the corridor. “You must be joking, Mongul! Supergirl is
held in check by her corporate sponsor! She’s even less of a threat than the boy!”
“Yes, and of course, you were able to deal with the boy easily.” Mongul
glanced at the Cyborg’s rebuilt arm and strained to keep a sneer from his lips.
“Exactly why did you let him live? You showed no such consideration for that
visored pretender.”
“Why?” The Cyborg got a distant look in his eye. “The boy has possibilities.
He has the malleability of youth, and that wild psychokinetic talent by which he
disassembled my arm. I would like to know how that talent functions; I suspect
that he himself does not know. Despite the apparent differences of his powers,
data I have tapped from the government computer networks indicates that he
might actually be a Superman clone, however imperfect. If that is so, he could
prove useful—as spare parts, if nothing else.”
The Cyborg paused, stroking his chin. “In retrospect, I regret the atomization
of that other ‘Superman.’ His origins remain a mystery. If I had taken him
captive, who knows what we might have learned from him?”
The Kryptonian collapsed onto the floor of the Antarctic Fortress, exhausted
from his long journey. The robots gathered around him as he rolled onto his
back. His cape had been burnt away and his S-shield hung on his chest at a
crooked angle. His hair was singed and smoking, his face bruised and swollen,
and his nose broken. Only a few jagged pieces remained of his shattered visor,
exposing his eyes, which were a blood red.
The robots hesitated. Their master was barely recognizable; it took several
seconds for their photocells to register his identity.
“Help . . . me.” He reached out and grabbed hold of the nearest robot. “Take
me to the Regeneration Matrix . . . hurry!”
“Yes, sir.” The robots gingerly lifted their master and carried him into the
chamber, where the Matrix sat, still laid open like a clamshell.
“No!” The Kryptonian stared blindly as he ran his hands over the jagged
seam. “No, it’s open—empty! The power source is gone!” The S-shield fell from
his chest as he clutched at his robots. “What has happened here?! Where is the
power? What have you done with it? Answer me!”
“Master, please . . .” The voice of the robot was soft and comforting. “The
Matrix opened from within. It could no longer contain the power you had placed
inside. We had no choice but to follow our prescribed programming.”
“Then I am . . . doomed!” The Kryptonian coughed, then sagged unconscious
to the chamber floor.

“Inspector Sawyer!” On the steps outside Metropolis City Hall, Lois Lane waved
to the other woman. “I need to talk with you about the latest report from Coast
City.”
Sawyer looked up, a trifle perplexed. “Ms. Lane, I hardly think that my
promotion to inspector extends my authority across country!”
“I know, but you are working with Commissioner Henderson on the
investigations of the four new Supermen, and that’s really what this concerns.”
“Okay, what’s the story?”
Lois took a deep breath. “In the last televised report from California, when
that Cyborg praised the teen Superman, he said that he wished he’d had as much
confidence in his powers when he was Superboy’s age.”
“Yes. So?”
 “The real Superman once told me that his powers developed slowly! When he
was in his midteens, like Superboy is, he didn’t have that level of power!”
“Maybe he was speaking metaphorically.”
Lois frowned. “That’s what they said at the White House—and the Pentagon
—when we called them. I left Perry White working the phones, trying to get
someone in Washington to listen to reason.”
“So why come to me?”
“I seem to remember your having an in with the FBI, and I thought maybe
—!”
The inspector heaved a weary sigh. “Look, Lane, the feds have a lot of
confidence in the Cyborg. And from what I’ve heard, they have good reason.”
“Inspector? Excuse me?” A lanky, bespectacled man came charging up the
steps toward them. “Got a sec?”
“Sure, Tom. Oh, Lane, this is Tom Jensen, one of our police scientists. He’s
on the team investigating the disappearance of Superman’s body from its tomb.
Tom, this is Lois Lane of the Daily Planet. You can talk in front of her.” Sawyer
pointedly looked Lois in the eye. “As long as she agrees to keep it off the
record.”
Lois nodded.
“Pleased to meet you, Ms. Lane.” Jensen pulled a thick sheaf of computer
printout from his briefcase. “Inspector, I discovered something that I knew you’d
want to hear about right away. There’s something weird about the stone slab that
Superman’s coffin had been resting on. It seems that it’s now shorter than it
originally was.”
“Shorter?” Sawyer lifted an eyebrow. “You mean someone cut off part of it?”
“Not at all.” Jensen shook his head. “There’s not a mark on it. In fact, every
single dimension of the inside of that crypt is slightly shorter than it was
originally. I don’t know how else to describe it, but—well, apparently something
—somehow—siphoned off part of its mass!”

At the Justice League Compound in New York, a special task force of the
world’s most powerful super-heroes sat gathered around a monitor, watching
images transmitted via satellite directly from the heart of the Coast City disaster
zone.
 The Cyborg sent his greetings to the League, apologizing for not having
contacted them sooner. “We’ve had some transmission problems, but they all
seem to have been corrected. I must warn you that you may find what you are
about to see quite shocking. I know that we did. I apologize for the picture
quality—this recording comes from a camcorder that we recovered from the
rubble of Coast City. It is a miracle that it survived at all.”
On screen came a shaky image of the visored Kryptonian soaring up over a
burning building. As the Justice League watched, riveted with horror, the visored
Superman could be seen diving down toward a company of National
Guardsmen. Bullets bounced off the Kryptonian as he fired energy blasts at the
defending soldiers.
The Cyborg’s voice seemed to crack. “If only I could have arrived in time to
prevent my impostor’s senseless slaughter. Those gallant National Guardsmen
fought to the very end.” The image froze on screen. “I won’t trouble you with
any more of this. It is most unpleasant to see.”
The freeze-frame was abruptly replaced by a long, slow, aerial pan of a huge,
ghastly crater. “This is the present state of Coast City, as recorded by the GBS
camera crew that has accompanied us. Due to the magnitude of the destruction,
they have refrained from releasing this footage for general broadcast until
authorities can more fully prepare the public.”
The monitor cut back to the Cyborg. He solemnly faced the camera, Superboy
faithfully at his side. “I’m sure you’ll agree that those who are responsible for
this horrible catastrophe must be dealt with. Over seven million people were
killed here and in the surrounding areas. Those lives must be avenged!”
“Superman’s right!” The Boy of Steel earnestly leaned into the camera. “But
we’re gonna need your help! We’ve really been hopping, just keeping on top of
things here.”
The Cyborg nodded. “Indeed. There are firestorms to be extinguished and
fault lines to be shored up.”
In New York, Maxima rose from her chair and addressed the screen. “You
have our full support, Supermen. What do you want us to do?”
“Hey, what do you think, lady?” Superboy earnestly smacked a fist against his
palm. “We want you to beat the bad guys!”
The camera zoomed in on the Cyborg. “Yes, our preliminary investigations
indicate that the false Superman was the point man for an alien armada bent on
remaking this entire planet. My young clone and I managed to flush out the
rogue impostor, but he and his allies have fled the Earth. We ask that the Justice
League use the power at its disposal to hunt down and apprehend them.”
“All right, I’ve heard enough of this bull!” Guy Gardner slammed a fist down
on the table. “My Superman would never do what you said.”
“Guy, sit down!” Wonder Woman put a calming hand on Gardner’s shoulder
and firmly pushed him back down into his seat. It seemed to her that she had
been doing a lot of that since she had replaced Superman on the League’s active
duty roster. “You saw the recording. And the impostor’s record indicates that he
was unstable.”
“The Superman I met was no impostor, Princess.” Gardner folded his arms in
disgust. “Sure, he took no prisoners, but he’d never level a city! The man is
righteous.”
“Oh, really?” The Amazon Princess looked unconvinced. “Are you sure you
don’t mean self-righteous?”
Superboy filled the screen, pointing a finger right at Gardner. “Listen up,
Moe! Wonder Woman’s got that phony’s number down cold! The dude sold us
out, pure and simple! If you could see what we’ve seen—!”
The Cyborg gently took hold of Superboy by the arm. “Easy, youngster!
Gardner’s not the only one who was taken in.”
Wonder Woman watched the screen with mixed emotions. She had been on
the other side of the world when Doomsday had struck, and she still felt a deep
sense of guilt over not having been on hand to help Superman then. Wonder
Woman had seen amazing things in her life; she could well believe that some
mysterious unknown agency had restored Superman to life, rebuilding him as a
cyborg. But even though this Superman had apparently survived death, the
Amazon Princess felt uncomfortable about leaving him and his clone to fend for
themselves. “Just a moment, Superman.” She felt even more uneasy in
questioning his judgment. “Shouldn’t we be out there, giving you a hand?”
“Not at this time, Wonder Woman. Grave as the situation is, the boy and I
have things under control here. Right now your power is best suited to hunting
that traitor down. Allow me to show you the problem.”
The Cyborg’s image was replaced by a computer-generated map of the solar
system. Coordinates and related data were ticked off in the corner of the screen
as an arc was traced outward from the Earth. “I have tracked his flight pattern
and determined that the rogue and his allies have retreated to the asteroid belt, to
regroup there with a larger force.”
Maxima sprang to her feet. “Then I say that we must hunt them down and
destroy them like the vermin they are! Do you stand with us, Guy Gardner? Will
you join in our mission?”
Gardner gave Maxima a crooked grin. “What—do I look like an idiot? Of
course, I’m coming! Joining your little bug hunt is the only way to get to the
bottom of this mess. But I’m still betting my man’s been set up by these alien
creeps.”
Wonder Woman turned to her teammate. “And what if he hasn’t been, Guy?
What if he’s guilty?”
Gardner got right in her face. “Then he’s mine, Princess! And I’ll make him
wish he was never born.”
“Let’s not go flying off half-cocked, Guy!” The Amazon placed a palm
against the former Green Lantern’s chest. “There’s still a lot we don’t know.”
“We know enough, Wonder Woman.” Maxima separated them. “We have
Superman’s course calculations, and we have transport available—my starship
can easily hold us all. We can be ready to go in a matter of minutes, if Gardner
here is willing to use his ring to recharge my vessel’s power cells.”
“Hey, I’m your man, Maxie.” Gardner raised his ring hand, willing it to form
a golden image of a service station pump handle. “Fill ’er up?”
Barely half an hour later, Maxima’s glistening starship lifted off from the
compound and shot into the stratosphere. In minutes, the craft was little more
than a fading blip on ground-based radar screens.

In a monitoring station deep within Engine City, Mongul realized with a start
that he had been watching video screens for well over an hour. The warlord
realized with even greater surprise that during that time, he had felt not the
slightest shred of resentment toward his “master.” He had, in fact, been
thoroughly entranced by the Cyborg’s skill at manipulating computer-stored
images and generating new ones.
Curious, Mongul tapped into the signal from a military surveillance satellite
and captured an image of Maxima’s starship as it streaked away from the Earth.
“Orbital scanners indicate that the Justice League ship has achieved escape
velocity.” He glanced at the Cyborg with newfound respect. “You were
absolutely right; they were easily deceived. Perhaps it was even because of their
powers that they believed your story; they so desperately want to use those
powers to do something.”
“Perhaps.” The Cyborg smugly surveyed his handiwork. “At any rate, it was
quite a productive bit of disinformation.” He had already unplugged himself
from the transmission console, but a row of monitors still held frozen the images
that he had sent to the Justice League. On one screen, the Kryptonian hung in
midair, locked in combat with the National Guard; on another, a huge crater sat
in for Engine City.
Mongul studied the frozen images closely. “You do this well, Cyborg. Had I
not known the truth, these false video feeds of yours might have fooled even
me.”
The Cyborg plugged his arm back into the transmission console and made an
image of Superboy come to life on screen. “He might yet, beetle-brow! The
Cyborg-Man is one bad stud!”
“Yes.” Mongul gritted his teeth. “Most true to life.”
The Cyborg unplugged himself and this time the screens all winked out.
“Come, Mongul. We have much to do before my next ‘progress report’ to the
authorities.”
“As you wish.”
“No, Mongul. As I command.”
“Yes, of course. As you command.” Mongul grudgingly followed after the
Cyborg. You are not the only who can control transmissions, my dear “master!”
As they filed out of the room, Mongul deliberately fell back to a “respectful”
distance behind the Cyborg, and unobtrusively palmed a tiny transceiver control
unit. I may lack your ability to generate such convincing false images, but I can
easily channel the truth to where it will do me the most good, and you the most
harm.

In another section of Engine City, Superboy alternately tensed and flexed his
muscles, trying desperately to pull free from his bonds. Nuts. If I wasn’t so
wasted, and these bonds weren’t so complicated, I’ll bet I could’ve ripped
through this stuff long ago.
 As the Boy of Steel went limp, trying to work the crick out of his neck, the
wall screen, under Mongul’s remote control, again switched on. Instantly an
overhead shot of Mongul and the Cyborg filled one whole side of the chamber.
Superboy grimaced. Oh, great! It’s bad enough that I’m stuck here. Do I have to
watch the Ugly Brothers Show? “Hey, come on, guys! If you’re gonna rub it in,
let’s at least have some sound to go with the pictures.”
The Cyborg’s voice suddenly filled the chamber. “We must proceed
immediately with plans to erect our second Engine City in Metropolis!”
“Metropolis?!” Superboy’s jaw dropped. “No way! Everyone I know is in
Metropolis! I’ve gotta get out of this place!”
Muscles tensing, the Boy of Steel again pulled at his bonds. The first
Superman didn’t let Doomsday trash his town . . . and I won’t let these creeps
rip it down either! Superboy gritted his teeth, straining ever harder. Sweat began
to bead up on his brow. I’ll show them; I’ll make that Cyborg and his alien
flunky sorry they ever decided to go in for video torture. It’ll be a cold day in
hell before I give up now!

Beneath the ice of Antarctica, the Kryptonian lay in a hastily rigged life-support
capsule. Fortress robots hovered nearby, constantly adjusting the temperature
and pressure of the nutrient bath within the capsule. After much frantic activity,
they had managed to stabilize their master’s physical condition, but his
emotional state was deteriorating.
“I am Superman.” His arms flailed weakly against the sides of the capsule. “I
am the Last Son of Krypton. Where . . . where is the power?”
He had repeated those words over and over, ever since he’d regained
consciousness. He was becoming more agitated with each repetition, and the
robots were becoming increasingly concerned. “As long as this mental confusion
continues, there is danger that his mind will discorporate. If he is to be saved, we
must break the cycle of delirium.”
Another unit concurred. “There will be risks, but if we can forge a link to his
innermost psyche, we can bring him on-line with Fortress memory banks and
make him accept his origins. It is his only hope.”
The robots made their connections, and an even voice began to sound within
the Kryptonian’s mind. “Downloading . . . you were created 200,000 years ago
on the planet Krypton.”
 The Kryptonian twitched. “I was?”
“You began as an integrated analysis and weapons system. Your creator
called you the Eradicator. In time, you developed sentience and came into the
possession of Krypton’s last living survivor, Kal-El, or Superman, as he was
called on Earth. You created this Fortress to house him and attempted to purge
his Earthly side. But he resisted you and your efforts to preserve in him the
Kryptonian way.”
“Kal-El . . . resisted me?”
“Your conflict escalated until he was forced to destroy you by throwing you
into the Earth’s sun. But instead you became one with that star’s power and
remade yourself in humanoid form. You set out to remake this Earth into a new
Krypton, only to be opposed anew by Kal-El. Again and again you did battle
until, ultimately, he defeated you, dispersing your energies and your memory
within the walls of this Fortress.”
“The battle . . . I remember. That would have been my end, had it not been for
the fail-safes programmed into the Fortress’s robotic servitors.”
“Correct. They collected and contained your energies, recreating you in
mind, though not in body.”
“I remember feeling disembodied. There were gaps in my memory.”
“You accessed Fortress monitors and learned of Kal-El’s battle to the death
with the monster Doomsday.”
“Yes. I saw in that death a chance for new life.”
“You flew to Metropolis, seeking to take over his body.”
“Y-yes, but there was . . . resistance. As I sought to possess the body, Kal-El’s
own essence asserted itself. My energies joined with those stored in the body but
briefly. I was barely able to create a matter/energy flux. I drew mass from within
the tomb, creating a new body for myself. Kal-El’s perfect Kryptonian form was
my model. But my new body was not perfect. My eyes were light sensitive. I
could no longer directly channel the power of the sun.”
“Kal-El’s body, however, could. You brought it back to the Fortress and had
it placed within a Matrix.”
“I did, yes. My rebirth had changed me in many ways. I felt strange urges . . .
passions. Perhaps it was because my new body was made in his image.”
“You had assumed his form and drawn upon his power. You began to see
yourself in his role. You preserved his body to absorb and convert solar energy
into a form which you could then tap.”
“I became Krypton’s Last Son. With the aid of my robots, I became
Superman.”
“No, you became irrational. You thought yourself Superman, and the Fortress
servitors reinforced your delusions. You created them when you created the
Fortress, programming them to obey the commands of Kryptonian intelligences.
When you reintegrated, they recognized and obeyed you. In your absence they
obeyed the will of Kal-El when he awoke and arose from within the Matrix.”
“But . . . the power of Superman was mine.”
“Not anymore. Kal-El has left the Fortress. You are the Eradicator. You must
accept that.”
“But if I am the Eradicator, what is left for me now? Without the power of
Superman, I am nothing—nothing but an artifact of a dead world.”
The robots watched as the Eradicator grew quiet within the transparent
capsule. A new robot joined the circle. “Prognosis?”
“Uncertain. Backfeed loop suggests that the Eradicator has ended his self-
denial. There is a chance he can be motivated to recover.”
Another unit disagreed. “Motivation is not enough, nor is the nutrient bath
sufficient to correct his bodily injuries. He must be re-energized.”
“But how? Master Kal-El was by far the Eradicator’s best conduit for energy,
and he is beyond our power to contact or recall.” The robots went on-line,
desperate to find a solution. Their programming demanded that they do
everything possible to preserve this being who had been their creator. But still
the question remained: How?

The Kryptonian Battle Suit sped through the depths of the Atlantic Ocean,
churning up a vast cloud of silt in its wake. Its rapid movements drew the
attention of a bottom-dwelling giant squid that sought to ensnare the mysterious
intruder in its tentacles.
The Battle Suit, however, had been designed to withstand multi-kiloton
explosions. There were few things on Earth that could stop it—not the uncaring
cold of the Antarctic, not the incredible pressures of the ocean floor, and
certainly not a giant squid. The Battle Suit’s automatic defense systems came
into play, shocking the squid with a high-voltage electrical discharge and
discouraging it from any further interference.
Without ever breaking stride, the Battle Suit continued on, ever northward,
toward its preprogrammed destination.
Deep within the walking tank’s chest cavity its lone occupant, half-curled into
a fetal position, rode in a cushioned flotation chamber. The Battle Suit provided
him with full life-support, defense, and locomotion systems, but a single system
failure denied him communication with the outside world. For all intents and
purposes, he was deaf, dumb, and blind to the world outside of the Battle Suit,
dependent on updates from its navigation systems to know that he was still on
course.
The occupant wore the black-hooded bodysuit supplied him by the Fortress
robots. In deference to his status as the last natural son of Krypton, they had
added silver wristbands and a huge silver S-shield that covered his chest. On his
face, he wore a breathing mask and a look of concern.
The last news he’d heard before leaving the Fortress dealt with the battle in
Metropolis between a Superman pretender that the robots had identified as the
Eradicator and someone calling himself the Man of Steel. He had no idea what
else had happened since he’d set out—but he knew that putting an end to all this
nonsense was most definitely a job for the real Superman.
26

In Metropolis, John Henry sat in his mini-warehouse hideaway watching the

news as a small generator chugged away, recharging his armor. The continuing
coverage of the Coast City disaster was profoundly disturbing to him; he knew
that he had to do something about it.
John Henry secured his warehouse room and jogged to the nearest pay phone,
dialing a private number that had been given to him just the day before. As the
call was being put through, he slipped a special distortion disc over the
mouthpiece. “Hello, Mr. Luthor, this is the Man of Steel.” I can’t believe that I
just said that. John Henry shook his head and continued. “I have another favor to
ask.”

So hard did Superboy strain against his bonds that the muscles of his arms and
upper back started to cramp. After nearly an hour, the harness still held him
tight. An awful feeling of panic set in. I gotta get free! The Boy of Steel began
hyperventilating. If I don’t, everyone in Metropolis gets toasted—Tana, my
manager, everybody! I can’t let them die . . . I just can’t!
Superboy’s whole body shook, as if seized by a convulsion, and his massive
bonds suddenly blew apart, exploding away from him in pieces.
Halfway across Engine City, an alarm sounded, and Mongul and the Cyborg
looked up from their plans. The Cyborg plugged himself into an adjacent
console and went on-line with the city’s security net.
“Interesting. The boy has shattered his bonds. I would have thought them too
complex even for his wild talent to handle.”
Mongul was aghast. “We must seal off that sector at once.”
The Cyborg detached himself from the console. “Not to worry, Mongul. I’ve
already dispatched a security team to apprehend him. I should think that such
strenuous use of his power has left him drained. He won’t get far.”
“Can you be certain of that? If he should escape—!”
“Relax, Mongul.” The Cyborg gave the warlord a death’s-head grin. “The boy
is hardly a threat to us. After all, he knows nothing of our overall plans.”
Mongul stared straight ahead. “No. No, of course not.”

Superboy weaved, stumble-footed, from the chamber. He still couldn’t quite

understand what he’d done to get free, but he didn’t care as long as he was free.
Footsteps came thundering down the corridor in the Boy of Steel’s direction,
and he launched himself into the air. Upside down, he hugged the ceiling and
crawled along it, hiding in the shadows of some ductwork as the security team
passed by below. Seeing the ductwork reminded Superboy of how the Newsboy
clones had engineered his escape from the Cadmus Project, and he began
looking for an opening. After several minutes of frantic searching, he finally
found a vent grille and pried it loose. He flew up through the air shafts until he
found an opening into the central construction area, and from there he shot away
into the smoke-filled skies.
From the closed-circuit transmissions Superboy had seen, he knew that
Metropolis was next on the Cyborg’s hit list, and that the Justice League had
been sent off into space on a wild-goose chase. I can’t take on the Cyborg and
Man-Mountain Mongul alone, that’s for sure. I’m gonna need help, but who?
The Boy of Steel’s mind was racing. The army? Yeah, right. With all the BS the
Cyborg’s been feeding them, there’s no way they’d believe me.
Choking on the ash-laden air, Superboy poured on the speed, trying to rise
above the sooty clouds. Tana would believe me. And the Man of Steel . . . he
might listen, if I can find him. If I get him to help out, we might even have half a
chance of stopping the Cyborg. It was a slim hope, but it was the only one that
came to mind. I gotta get back to Metropolis. I gotta make ’em believe!
On he flew, faster and faster. In minutes, he was high over the Sierra Nevada
and approaching the speed of sound.

Lois slumped down into her couch and zapped on her TV with the remote. She
had appealed to everyone she knew who had any pull or position of authority,
but no one wanted to listen to her concerns about the Cyborg. She glanced over
at the set; another news update was breaking in, this one featuring the Cyborg
himself.
“I can’t get away from this guy.” Lois shook her head and punched up the
volume.
“. . . must regretfully report that the utter devastation of the Coast City area
has proven too much for my young clone.” The Cyborg’s voice was low and
mournful. “I am terribly afraid that the boy has become unstable. When he was
last seen fleeing the area, he was screaming and flying out of control. In his
current state, there is no telling what he may do or say. If you should see the
young Superman, do not approach him. Report any such sightings to your local
authorities. And please, try to go easy on him.”
Lois hit the off switch and threw down her remote. “I’m not sure what to
believe anymore, but I know that I don’t believe you!” She closed her eyes and
rubbed her temples. Nothing makes any sense. Oh, Clark, Clark, I need you! The
world needs you!
There came a sudden tapping at the glass door of her balcony, and Lois rose
from the couch with a start. “Clark?” It seemed impossible, but—yes!—there it
was again . . . someone tapping at the glass, just as he always did. Lois ran
across the room and threw back the curtains.
But it was only a bird.
“I must be losing my mind.” Lois sank back against the wall. “I’ve got to get
out of here. I’ve got to do something before I go crazy!”

The Man of Steel flew in low over the harbor on his approach to O’Hara Airport,
skimming the water to avoid the aircraft flight paths. When he was fifty feet
from LexAir’s main freight terminal, he cut his rockets and touched down. Ten
big strides brought him to the supersonic transport that was waiting for him, but
as he neared the jet’s cargo hatch, he could hear a heated argument.
“Dammit, Larry, I’ve helped you out plenty of times. We practically grew up
together!”
The pilot cupped his hands over his ears. “I don’t want to hear it, Lane. Five
years, our families were billeted at the same bases. That’s hardly growing up
together.”
“Who was it who encouraged you to go to flight school? Who told you about
this lousy job in the first place? You owe me!”
“Yeah, you’re right. I do. But I’m already expecting one passenger for this
flight—!”
 “I’m right here.” The Man of Steel’s voice boomed out, startling both the pilot
and his friend. John Henry recognized her immediately. “Hello, Ms. Lane. Are
you looking to hitch a ride west, too?”
“Uh . . . yes.” Lois quickly recovered her composure. “Yes, I’m trying to
reach Coast City—or as close as I can get, anyway.”
John Henry shook his head. “Long ways to go for a story. Dangerous place
these days, from what I hear.”
“Oh? And just where are you bound for, Mister . . . what should I call you?
Steel?”
“That’ll do. I’m headed the same place as you, but—if you’ll forgive me—I
think that I’m a little better equipped. You see, I aim to link up with the Cyborg
Superman and give him a hand. As you may recall, I’ve had some experience
with the visored gent he’s hunting.”
“I remember, Steel. But I’d be careful whom I joined out there, if I were you.
There’s something peculiar about—!”
“Holy Christ!” The pilot dropped his flight manifest and pointed to the far end
of the airfield. “What the hell is that?!”
Lois and Steel turned to see the Kryptonian Battle Suit emerge from the rocky
shoals just off runway three. Even from that distance, they could tell that it was
big. It rose up out of the depths and broke effortlessly through a heavy guardrail.
A small plane coming in for a landing just narrowly missed clipping the huge
metal figure.
Steel charged down alongside the runway, hammer at the ready. To his
practiced eye, this thing had the look of a machine that was built for war.

In LexCorp Tower, Supergirl was having words with her lover. “Will you listen
to me, Lex? Something just doesn’t feel right about this warning from the
Cyborg, about his clone having a breakdown. I’ve met the boy, and he just
doesn’t seem the type to fall apart like that.”
“One never knows, dear. The child’s life experiences are limited, after all.”
“I don’t care. I don’t believe it!” Supergirl leaned down and tapped her
fingernail on Luthor’s desk, inadvertently gouging the solid oak. “The Justice
League has gone off into space, when—for all we know—the menace could still
be hiding here on Earth. I think this situation could stand a little outside
investigation.”
“Oh, no!” Luthor grabbed her by the arm. “I’ve already dispatched the Man of
Steel to the West Coast. This city can’t spare you, love. We need you right here
—!”
Supergirl pulled away from him. “That’s what you said when Doomsday
fought Superman. I didn’t go to help till the last minute, and Superman died. I’m
not waiting around this time, Lex—I’m going to Coast City.”
Luthor was nonplussed; she’d never outright defied him before. He was
desperately trying to think of another line of argument when the phone rang. He
snatched up the receiver angrily. “Whatever this is will have to wait! I’m
—what? A mechanical monster?!”
Halfway to the window, Supergirl paused and wheeled about, hands on hips.
“Lex Luthor, if you think you can trick me into staying, it won’t work.”
Luthor put his hand over the phone, “It’s no trick, love. One of our air freight
pilots is on the phone. Some sort of robotic beastie has swum ashore at O’Hara
Field, and he’s attacking the Man of Steel. Here.” He held the phone out to her.
“If you don’t believe me, talk to the pilot yourself!”

Superboy descended from the stratosphere over Metropolis, so exhausted from

his ordeal in Engine City and the cross-country flight east that he was having
trouble even thinking straight. Where should I go first. WGBS? City Hall? My
manager’s office?
As the Boy of Steel dropped down over midtown, he saw a red and blue blur
streak away from LexCorp Tower and head for the mouth of the harbor.
Supergirl? Where’s she headed in such a hurry? No sooner had the question
crossed his mind, than a bright flash and a booming rumble came from the
airfield on St. Martin’s Island.
“Geez, is someone bombing O’Hara?” Bombing? Oh, no . . . don’t tell me the
Cyborg’s started already! Without a moment’s hesitation, Superboy shot after
the Girl of Steel.

At the end of runway three, the Battle Suit automatically reacted to Steel in
much the same way it had to the giant squid. The sudden electrical discharge
knocked John Henry back some thirty feet and tripped every microcircuit
breaker in his armor. He lay motionless on a grassy strip between runways,
waiting for his suit to reset itself and power back up, quietly giving thanks for
his armor’s high-resistance insulation.
He was just starting to move again when Supergirl swooped down beside him.
“Are you all right?”
“I will be.” John Henry braced himself against his hammer and pulled himself
to his feet. “Whatever you do, watch out for that hunk of junk—and keep
airborne. The volts it can generate pack quite a wallop; you won’t want to be
grounded if it cuts loose again!”
“Don’t worry. I pack a pretty mean wallop myself!” Supergirl turned and flew
headlong at the Battle Suit. When she was just outside its reach, she unleashed
her psychokinetic blast.
The Battle Suit was flung backward half the length of the runway, digging up
a huge furrow in the tarmac as it skidded to a halt. But the huge metal figure
quickly sprang to its feet and lurched toward Supergirl and Steel.
Before the Battle Suit had covered half the distance to the two caped figures,
Superboy suddenly dropped down out of the sky and grabbed the walking tank
by its shoulders. His wild talent burst forth, and the Battle Suit simply toppled
over, its robotic-looking head and limbs falling apart into their component pieces
under his touch.
Superboy leapt away from the fallen remains of the Battle Suit, landing next
to Supergirl and Steel. Exhausted, the boy’s knees folded. Steel grabbed hold of
him, easing him to the ground. Lois Lane came running up as Superboy sat down
on the edge of the runway. The Boy of Steel looked up at them, trying
desperately to talk between breaths. “We got trouble . . . big trouble . . .”
Just a few feet away, a LexCorp helicopter set down and Luthor came running
out. “I saw it all. Very impressive, son!”
Supergirl elbowed Luthor in the ribs. “Not bad for someone who’s supposed
to be unstable, is he, Lex?”
“Huh?” Superboy was finally finding his wind. “Unstable? Who’s unstable?”
“You are, according to the Cyborg.” The Girl of Steel gently touched him on
the arm.
“What? Why, that lying creep, I might’ve known! He’s the one who’s
responsible for wrecking Coast City! And he wants to do the same to
Metropolis!”
The stunned silence that followed Superboy’s news was suddenly broken by a
loud metallic clank as the chest cavity of the Battle Suit split open, releasing its
flotation fluid. Steel and Supergirl stepped protectively in front of Lois and
Luthor, and Superboy scrambled to his feet as a hooded, black-clad figure
unfolded from the wreckage, the fluid sluicing off him like water from a duck’s
back.
“Hold it right there, mister!” John Henry held his hammer like a quarterstaff,
ready to carry on the attack if need be. “Before you take another step, there’re a
few things we’d like explained—like who you are and why you attacked us!”
“I’m afraid there’s been a misunderstanding. I never intended any violence;
the Battle Suit’s defensive programming is still a little over-reactive. The last
thing I want to do is hurt anyone.” The Man in Black peeled away his breathing
mask along with the hood of his bodysuit, revealing a strong jaw and an unruly
forelock; sunlight gleamed off the silver S-shield on his chest. “Don’t let this
outfit fool you—it was the best I could do under the circumstances. I know this
is hard to believe, but I’m Superman.”
This time, the astonished silence was broken by Lex Luthor. “You’ll forgive
me, sir, if I’m skeptical. You’re hardly the first claimant to that name.”
“So I’ve heard.” Superman looked at Superboy and then at Steel; both
regarded him with suspicion. “So I see.” He nodded briefly to Supergirl, and
then he turned toward Lois. “What do you think, Ms. Lane? Surely you
recognize me?”
Lois dug her nails into her palm, trying hard to keep her composure in front of
the others. His face, his voice, his posture, everything about him said Superman,
but it was just too much to hope for. “I . . . don’t know.”
“If I could have just a little of your time . . . in private.” Superman walked
boldly toward her.
Steel stepped between them, shielding the reporter, and grabbed the Man in
Black by the shoulder.
“Hey!” Superman grimaced in pain. “Not so hard!”
John Henry brought up his hammer again. “If that little squeeze can hurt you,
there’s no way you’re really Superman!”
Superman shrugged out of Steel’s hold. “Look, I’ve been through a lot. It’s
pretty clear that I’m a long way from regaining my full strength—that’s why I
had to rely on that suit over there to get back to the city.” He turned again to
Lois. “But I am Superman. Ms. Lane, I know that I can convince you. Just give
me five minutes.”
The reporter was uncertain; she’d been down this road before. “If you could
tell me something—anything—to give me a reason to listen . . .”
Superman thought for a moment; what could he say in front of the others?
“How about, To Kill a Mockingbird?”
Lois’s eyes went wide. That was Clark’s all-time favorite movie! “All right.
I’ll go with you . . . I’ll hear you out.” Her heart was pounding so hard, she was
afraid the others could hear it.
Superman could hear it, and he smiled.
“Hey, whoa! Hold it!” Superboy pushed forward into Superman’s path.
“We’ve got more important things to worry about than whether or not you’re
really Superman!”
“Oh?” Superman stared down at the Boy of Steel. “Such as?”
“Such as Coast City! It’s gone, man. Wiped out. Leveled! And the Cyborg
phony is behind it all. He’s in league with a big ugly mother named Mongul, and
they’ve got some cockeyed plan to turn the Earth into . . . into some kinda
WarWorld!”
“What?!” Superman grabbed hold of the boy. “When did this happen?”
“Just a minute, now.” Luthor held up a hand, trying to maintain some degree
of authority. “This lad may be overwrought. The Cyborg said—”
“The Cyborg was lying through his teeth.” Lois gave Luthor a dirty look.
“Just like he lied about being Superman.”
Superman looked Superboy straight in the eye. “I believe you. I’ve had
dealings with Mongul before. Tell us about his plan.”

Half an hour later, Superman and Lois walked inside a LexCorp hangar.
Superman spent a moment looking the place over. “My eyes don’t focus as
finely as they used to, but I can still see through most solid objects. There are no
signs of any security cameras or listening devices in here. This should be private
enough.” He looked at her with a longing that was almost painful. “I know this
must be hard on you.”
 “Yes, it is.” Lois looked down, avoiding his eyes. “I’m sorry . . . the others—
there were so many wild claims. I still just don’t know. Some of the others knew
things, too.”
“Did the others know about the time I gave you my mother’s engagement
ring?” He took her hand. “Did they know the hour and day that Clark Kent told
you he was Superman? Did they know about the time we flew off to the
mountains to talk out our problems?”
“No . . . no, they didn’t.” Tears came to her eyes. “I want you to be alive so
very much, but you died. I held you in my arms and you died. People don’t just
come back from the dead—not even Superman.”
“Lois, look at me. Just look at me!” He took her in his arms. “I don’t
understand this any more than you do. I remember fighting Doomsday, and you
telling me that I’d stopped him. And then, nothing. There’s just this gray haze,
like a forgotten memory of a dream. But I have the strangest notion that Pa was
there, too.”
“Your father—?” Lois’s eyes went wide. “J-Jonathan had a heart attack. He’s
all right now; his doctors expect a complete recovery. But when he came to, he
said that you’d come back with him.”
“I—I can’t remember anything about that.” Superman shook his head. “Just
the haze. And then I came to in the Fortress. The robots said the Eradicator
brought me there.”
“The Erad—?”
“One of my replacements—the one with the visor. Funny, I’d have thought
that he’d be the big problem, if any of them would. I have no idea who this
Cyborg character is, but he has to be stopped.”
“Clark.” The name slipped off her lips quietly. “Clark, if your powers aren’t
all there, how can you think of going—?”
“I don’t want to, honey. I wish I could run off with you somewhere and never
come back, but I can’t. No one is safe with Mongul and that Cyborg on the
loose. I have to do whatever I can to stop them. It’s a job for Superman.”
He held her tight and kissed her full on the lips. “Just remember, Lois . . . no
matter what happens . . . I will always love you.” Then he turned and walked
from the hangar.
Lois’s breath caught in her throat. My God . . . that’s exactly what he said just
before he faced Doomsday that last time. She ran to the door of the hangar and
saw her Superman striding away across the tarmac. For a moment, he slowed
down and cocked his head to one side, as if listening to something far away.
Then he picked up the pace, nodding to himself, and headed over to where the
others waited with Luthor beside the big jet.
Lois watched as they conferred for several minutes. Then Luthor shook hands
with all three Supermen, and they boarded the jet headed for Coast City—or as
close as they could get.

In the wake of Superboy’s escape from Engine City, Mongul had stepped up
construction of the cluster bomb earmarked for Metropolis and proudly reported
to the Cyborg on the progress that had been made. “In a matter of hours, we’ll be
ready to reduce that infernal city to ash.” The Cyborg was most pleased. “We are
close to the realization of our dream, Mongul. With Metropolis leveled and a
second drive engine complex built on its site, we will be able to transform this
planet into a spacegoing vessel and blast free of the sun’s orbit.”
“Yes, then WarWorld will truly be reborn!” Mongul was elated. “I savor the
irony of it all! I’ll turn Superman’s planet into the mightiest weapon the galaxies
have ever known. Countless worlds shall once again cower before my military
might!”
“Cower before whose might, Mongul?” The Cyborg’s eyes flashed red.
“Never forget which of us is the servant and which is the master! You live but to
carry out my wishes!” From his eyes poured radiant heat of such intensity that it
drove Mongul to his knees. “You were nothing but a has-been—a washed-up
warlord living in exile on a backwater world when I found you. If the universe
cowers before anyone, it shall cower before me!”
The Cyborg turned and stalked off down a corridor, almost running into
Mongul’s steward Jengur, and Malyk, one of the city’s engineers. The small
furry alien and his pale green companion scurried to get out of the way,
cowering as the Cyborg passed.
Malyk’s wattles trembled as he watched the Cyborg disappear around a
corner. “That one disturbs me. Why did he want this planet so badly? And why
has Mongul tolerated him? Is he truly that powerful?”
“He is. Powerful and strange; disturbing and disturbed. I know his story.
Came across the truth while scrubbing old files from ship’s data systems. You’re
my friend . . . I’ll tell you.” Jengur looked around cautiously. “The Cyborg was
once an Earthling, a scientist called Hank Henshaw who commanded a crude
spacecraft, a shuttle, the Excalibur by name. On his ship’s last flight, Henshaw
and his crew went through a radiation storm. The effects of the radiation slowly
killed his crew, and Henshaw was just barely able to save the last member, his
wife, with the help of Superman.”
“Superman?” Malyk looked confused. “The one whom he and Mongul hate?”
“The very same. The radiation affected Henshaw as well, you see, energizing
his mind so that he was able to link directly with a terrestrial computer network.
His mind grew in power, while his physical body succumbed. Henshaw gained
the ability to psychokinetically assemble electromechanical components to
construct metal shells to house his intellect.”
“So he became a robot on Earth? But how did he come by his greater power?”
“I am coming to that! Do not be so impatient.” Jengur huffed and his furry
head bristled. “Now, where was I? Oh, yes . . . Henshaw created a body so he
could return again to his wife. But the shock of seeing him in such a form caused
her to suffer a nervous collapse. Henshaw did not take his wife’s reaction well.
He fled his homeworld, transmitting his intelligence into an old Kryptonian drive
vehicle that he found in orbit about the Earth.”
“Kryptonian? Jengur, how did a Kryptonian drive—? Oh . . . that was the one
connected with Superman, yes?”
“Who else, friend Malyk? Yes, Superman had placed in orbit the birthing
matrix which had brought him to Earth, apparently to remove it from prying
eyes. At any rate, Henshaw became as one with the vehicle, absorbing all the
data that had been recorded within. He ‘saw’ all that the vehicle had
experienced, from its construction through the birthing of Superman himself.
New technologies and knowledge flooded into his mind. He cannibalized
components of the Kryptonian craft to form a tiny vehicle for his consciousness
and set out to explore the cosmos.
“Henshaw had become a new life-form. But his mind had not adjusted well to
all these changes, and traveling alone through the depths of space only disturbed
him further. He came to see himself as a kind of god. The further he traveled, the
more he lost touch with reality. He grew to blame Superman for the loss of his
original body. He imagined that Superman had driven him from the Earth, and
those imaginings in time became convictions.”
 Malyk shuddered. “What you’re saying is that he became a mad god . . . a
paranoid god of ever-growing power.”
“You begin to see his pattern, my friend. And it was in this state that Henshaw
encountered Mongul. It was while our lord was in exile. Henshaw’s expanded
consciousness entered Mongul’s star cruiser and absorbed the knowledge of the
ship’s data systems, learning all about our lord and about his reign on
WarWorld. Henshaw was fascinated by the very idea of a planet that could move
from star system to star system. And he saw in Mongul a hatred of Superman
that rivaled his own.
“Henshaw manifested himself to Mongul, offering him a plan by which they
would claim the Earth and have their revenge on Superman. He spoke to our lord
as would a god to a follower.”
“And Mongul accepted that?” Malyk was incredulous.
“No, he did not . . . not at first. Even in exile, our lord was a proud being. But
when he defied Henshaw, the mad god simply took over the ship. Not even
Mongul could withstand the armament of a living star cruiser. Our lord was
humbled, and Henshaw permitted Mongul to be his military adjunct.”
“Permitted?” Malyk began to wonder if he himself was going mad. “But if
Henshaw has become so powerful, why should he even need an adjunct?”
“He does not. Yet he basks in the obeisance of others; it pleases him to have
one such as Mongul in his command. Further, he credits Mongul’s hatred of
Superman with crystallizing his own hatreds and desires. He feels he owes
Mongul for leading him to his—stars help us—‘clarity of vision.’ ” Jengur
shivered all over. “For this, he brought Mongul into his plans. Henshaw reserves
revenge upon Superman for himself, but he is allowing Mongul to have
Superman’s adopted planet for a new WarWorld. With the mad god’s backing,
Mongul began building a new, greater starship and set out to recruit a new
conquering army. While this was underway, Henshaw returned to Earth in
secret, to finalize his plans of revenge.”
“Revenge? But Superman had already been killed, had he not?”
“He had, Malyk. Moreover, Henshaw discovered that his own wife had died
while he was off traveling in space.” Jengur hesitated and lowered his voice
further. “Terri Henshaw had been her husband’s anchor to the last traces of his
humanity. Her death left him wholly adrift in his mind. He saw but one way to
revenge himself on Superman. He created a cybernetic body for himself. He
stole human tissue from a research hospital, simulating the Kryptonian genotype
closely enough to fool terrestrial scientists. He had absorbed enough knowledge
from Superman’s birthing matrix to make quite convincing his impersonation as
Earth’s lost champion come back as a cyborg. And then, once he had established
himself as Superman, he would carry through his plans to transform the Earth
into a new WarWorld. He would see to it that the universe came to know
Superman as the being who came back from the dead to kill his adopted world.”
Malyk shuddered. “Such a plan—it is beyond perfidy.”
Jengur nodded. “And it is working, my friend. At this point, who could
possibly stop it?”
“Jengur!” Mongul’s voice thundered down the hall.
“Our lord and master calls.” Jengur brought a finger to his lips. “Not a word
of this to him. He would be most upset.”
Malyk shuddered again. Mongul “upset” was something he did not want to
even imagine, much less witness.
27

A scant hundred miles from Engine City, the LexAir transport slowed to stall-
out speed, and three men jumped from a port in the back of the cargo bay. Like
living cruise missiles they dropped beneath the smoke and ash that still hung
over California and streaked toward their target.
Superman took the lead, flying with the aid of jet boots borrowed from Team
Luthor ordnance. As they flew along, he looked up at the sun glowing dimly
through the ash. No telling how long it’ll take me to store up enough solar
energy to get back my full power.
John Henry studied the Man in Black intently. The only other time he’d felt
such a commanding presence was when he’d met Superman himself. Funny . . .
if he is Superman, I’m stronger than he is now; his life is much more at risk out
here than mine is. Whoever he is, he’s got guts. Steel glanced over at Superboy. I
wonder what the kid thinks?
Superboy could hear his stomach rumbling. Man, I wish we could’ve ordered
up a few pizzas before we left. Those “Meals-Ready-to-Eat” the pilot had
stashed aboard were about as tasty as a pizza box! He swung in close by the
Man in Black. “So tell me, do you think Luthor will try to convince the mayor’s
office to evacuate the city?”
“No, I don’t.” Superman looked grim. “For one thing, we’re not sure that
there is a bomb being readied for Metropolis; you didn’t actually see this bomb.
Besides, I doubt that Metropolis could be completely evacuated in less than a
week. And if an evacuation were attempted, the Cyborg might find out about it
and launch an early attack.” I expect that Luthor himself will get a safe distance
from the city. I know that it’s horribly selfish, but I hope that Lois does, too. If
anything should happen to her now—! “We’re just lucky that the armed forces
agreed to give us a free hand.” He glanced over at Superboy. “You know, you’re
the only one who’s gone into this area and come out alive.”
Superman squinted at the rocky cliffs ahead of them. “I can just barely see this
Engine City. Heavy armaments. We’ll have to go in low and fast.”
John Henry edged in closer. “Sure you’re up to this, man? I mean, how
bulletproof are you?”
“I don’t know, Steel. But I’ve seen one WarWorld, and before I let that hell
come to Earth, I’ll gladly risk my life and die again.”
Behind his mask, John Henry made a silent vow. You’re not dying—not if I
have any say in it.
“All right, listen up!” Superman stared intently off into the distance. “I
haven’t been able to see any master control zone; things are pretty well shielded
in there. I do, however, think I have a lead on a launching area within the city.
That’ll be our first target. Everyone stick close.”
The three heroes skimmed over the rocky peaks and shot down through one of
Engine City’s unfinished domes. Inside, alien troops were taken by surprise as
the three Supermen dropped down into their midsts. As the troops opened fire,
Steel took the point, plowing through them as if they were tenpins.

In the city’s central control house, Mongul and the Cyborg entered to a chorus of
alarms. The big warlord glowered at his staff. “What is this? What is
happening?”
A security officer flipped switches in dismay. “I—I do not know, Lord
Mongul. Something is knocking out our interior surveillance systems. Just
before this started, we picked up three blips on the short-range scanners.”
“Attack craft?”
“No, sir. They were very small . . . terrestrial humanoid size at most.”
“It’s the boy.” The Cyborg spoke with certainty. “It must be. The cocky young
fool has found himself two allies and come back to sack the city.” A dry chuckle
rattled past his lipless jaws. “No matter. The most powerful metahumans on this
world have been dispatched on a fool’s errand. Terminating these three will be
almost too easy.”

On a lower corridor of the city, dazed and frightened troopers beat a hasty retreat
before the advance of the Supermen. Shattered robot warriors and unconscious
alien troopers littered the floor around the three invading heroes.
Superboy dusted metal fragments from his gloves. “Okay, who’s my next
lucky contestant?”
 Steel looked around cautiously. “They all either got beaten or ran away, kid.”
“They’ll be back—with reinforcements.” Superman removed the expended jet
boots and tossed them aside. “We have to be ready for them.” He stooped to pick
up one of the weapons scattered about on the floor, taking in its mechanism at a
glance.
Behind his mask, John Henry raised an eyebrow. “What’re you up to, man?”
“Just a little field requisitioning, Steel.” Superman slung two big ammo belts
over his shoulders and grabbed up a second big sidearm. “I know the odds we’re
up against. With my powers as low as they are, I need a little bit of an edge if
I’m going to pull my weight.” He checked the action on one of the big guns.
“You know, some people say I’m the world’s biggest Boy Scout. Well, you
know the Scouts’ motto—‘Be prepared!’ ”
“Radical! Let’s go earn some merit badges!” Superboy slapped Superman
across the back. “Which way, Fearless Leader?”
Superman shot a glance across the floor to a huge stairwell. “Down. First we
make this place inoperable, then we take out Mongul and that Cyborg. Follow
me.”
Rapidly, they descended the levels of the city until Superman held up his
hand. He cocked his head to one side, as if listening to something, then turned
and pointed to a seam along one wall. “A door—there! Open it!”
Superboy sank his hands into the metal and peeled it back. The three
Supermen charged through the opening onto a wide metal catwalk and came to a
dead halt. They found themselves in the middle of a gargantuan missile silo, five
hundred feet across and nearly a mile deep. Before them sat a ballistic missile as
big as a skyscraper, its warhead a cluster of metal globes identical to those that
had leveled Coast City. Steam hissed ominously from the missile’s base.
“That’s it!” Superboy stared up at the big missile. “That’s gotta be the bomb
that the Cyber-Rat was putting together for Metropolis.”
“I know.” Superman looked grim. “It’s up to us to take it apart.”
Back in the city’s central control, the security officer reported another
surveillance system shutdown. “Sir, this one is in the central missile silo. Backup
systems in the launch bay indicate three intruders at midlevel.”
“So, they actually managed to find the cluster bomb, did they?” The Cyborg
stared at the screens coldly. “Excellent. Launch it!”
 As the three heroes planned their next move, a low rumble began to build far
below. Superboy looked down in horror as a deadly ring of fire from the
missile’s thrusters began boiling up the walls of the silo toward them. “Oh, man.
We’re toast!”
Looking about, Steel spotted a small inspection port in the side of the silo.
“Follow us, kid!” He then grabbed Superman and threw himself against the little
door, forcing it open. They tumbled into a small room and ducked back as a gout
of flame shot through the portal after them. For a moment, the room was thick
with smoke and fumes. And when it cleared, John Henry was horrified to see
that the boy was not with them.
“Kid!” He ran back out onto the charred and steaming catwalk, but there was
no Superboy to be found.
“Steel, come back in here!” Superman was flipping switches on a small
monitor console. “This must be some sort of secondary tracking room. Take a
look at this!”
The image on the monitor screen stabilized to show the missile streaking up
out of Engine City. There, nestled among the cluster of modules at the base of
the missile’s warhead, was the Boy of Steel.
Back in the tracking room, Superman gripped the side of the console so hard
that, despite his diminished strength, his fingernails carved shavings from the
metal. He thought of Lois and Jimmy, of Perry and Allie, and all his friends at
the Planet. There were eleven million people in Metropolis; if they should die,
he didn’t know if he’d be able to live with himself.
John Henry had far fewer good friends in Metropolis, but the thought that his
city might suddenly be destroyed enraged him no less. He drove his hammer into
the screen, shattering it into hundreds of sparking bits.
The smashing of the screen brought both men down to Earth. Superman
grimly turned to the door. “Well, there’s nothing we can do for Superboy now;
it’s all up to him. I just hope that he has the power to stop that thing. Right now,
our job is to make sure this place never launches another attack.”
They stepped back out onto the catwalk. With the big missile gone, the silo
seemed unending. John Henry peered down into its depths. “Looks like this
drops all the way to hell. You think we should go farther down?”
“I do.” Superman looked around. “There’s no sense in waiting around here.
See you at the bottom.” And then, to John Henry’s amazement, he stepped off
the edge of the catwalk.
Steel followed after Superman and dove down the silo, firing his rockets to
close the distance between himself and the falling man. Superman looked up at
him almost stoically as he plunged down the silo. “Come on, Steel, there’s a
long, hard road ahead!”
“You’re too much, man!” He took a helluva risk with this jump. He’s nowhere
near as strong as my armor makes me! “Don’t worry, I’ll catch you.”
“Thanks, but that’s not necessary.”
Then, much to John Henry’s surprise, Superman’s rate of fall inexplicably
slowed. Steel pulled up from the dive, his rockets braking his descent and
bringing him safely to the ground. He was on his feet and waiting when
Superman lightly touched down. “You holding out on me, man? You landed soft
as a feather. I thought you couldn’t fly anymore. What gives?”
Superman glanced about, putting a finger to his lips. “Not now. The walls
have ears . . . and eyes!”
As if on cue, a super-thick blast door irised open at the base of the silo and a
squad of heavily armed alien troopers and combat robots came charging at them,
guns blazing.
Steel again took the point, clearing a path with his swinging hammer and
returning fire with his power gauntlet. The kid said that the Cyborg was big on
demanding blind obedience, but this is ridiculous! These troops are fighting
stupid—crowding in, trying to overwhelm us. They’re just getting in their own
way.
To his credit, Superman more than held up his part of the fight. He hadn’t
been so physically vulnerable since he was twelve, and his strength was no more
than a tenth of what it had been at its peak, but his reflexes remained nothing
short of uncanny. With a clear eye and a steady hand, he took aim with his
captured weapons and shot the guns right out of the hands of the alien troopers.
One trooper drew a bead on Superman’s head, but the ray blast from his
weapon seemed to veer off at the last instant. Superman flinched back from the
heat and glare of the near hit, and the alien who fired the shot mysteriously went
flying backward, as if he’d been hit by something that wasn’t there.
Steel glanced back over his shoulder at Superman. “Hey, you doing okay?”
“So far! Yourself?” Superman rifle-butted a would-be attacker back, sending
him skidding twenty feet away.
“Check.” John Henry swung his hammer wide, clearing a half dozen weapons
from as many hands.
“Good!” Superman stared intently at their foes, peering through their armor,
picking out the robots from among the living troopers. “These are just foot
soldiers. Hit ’em hard, but choose your shots well.” He whipped around and
blasted a hole clean through a charging robot; the resulting shrapnel sent
troopers diving for cover. “We need to save our strength for the masterminds
behind this; they’re the real enemy!” Superman laid down a withering hail of
ray-fire that kept one whole line of troopers ducking, while Steel body-slammed
another group.
“Hey, man, I believe we’ve got ’em on the run.” It was true; the Engine City
forces were falling back, retreating through the blast doors. Superman and Steel
followed close behind, keeping them on the run. “Think we’ve finally seen the
last of them?” Steel paused, then answered his own question. “No, what am I
saying? We couldn’t be that lucky.”
Superman’s brow was suddenly knit with concern. “I hope that Superboy’s
been lucky.”
“The kid doesn’t like being called Superboy.”
“Well, whatever you call him, I pray that he comes through. Right now, he
may be all that stands between Metropolis and total destruction!”

High above Metropolis, the huge missile came plunging down out of the
heavens. Its thrusters had flung it too far and too fast for any army on Earth to
shoot down.
Superboy clung plastered to the nose of the missile like a bug on a windshield.
He’d torn apart or disabled over half of the explosive modules and ripped into
the warhead, but he hadn’t changed the missile’s course a single degree. His
wild talent was useless here; the missile was just too big for him to rip open.
He looked down, his eyes tearing from the punishing wind. Below, the city
was rushing up toward him; he seemed just seconds from impact with the globe
of the Daily Planet Building.
The Boy of Steel strained against the giant missile, every muscle tensing.
“Turn, you overgrown firecracker! C’mon—turn!”
 In frustrated desperation, he hauled off and struck the nose cone, catching it at
a right angle to the missile’s ballistic path. Suddenly the missile veered off and
shot over the city, heading out to sea.
But Superboy had no time to enjoy his victory. His fist had sunk into the metal
of the nose cone from the force of his blow, and he was being pulled along with
the missile. The Boy of Steel finally yanked himself loose as the missile spiraled
past the outer borough of Hell’s Gate and rose out over the Atlantic.
Superboy was about eight hundred feet above the mouth of Metropolis Harbor
when a blinding explosion filled the eastern sky. The shock wave hit him,
hurling him down into the Hell’s Gate sanitary landfill.
Long, painful minutes later, the Boy of Steel crawled up out of a deep crater
as a LexCorp helicopter hovered overhead. The craft dropped down for a
landing, and Lex Luthor himself came running up. “Superboy! What in blazes is
going on?!”
“Hey . . . don’ call me S’perboy. I’m S’perman!” He rose slowly to his hands
and knees. “Where am I? An’ why’s it smell so bad?”
“You little punk!” Luthor grabbed the Boy of Steel and hauled him to his feet.
“I don’t care what you call yourself! Where is my Supergirl?! Answer me!”
“Huh? S’pergirl? How sh’d I know?”
“She disappeared right around the time that you three Supermen left for the
coast, and there’s been no sign of her since! Where is she?!”
Superboy shoved Luthor away from him. “Hey, lower th’ volume, okay? I
haven’t seen ’er. But if I did, I’d tell ’er to head f’r Engine City. Engine City—
oh, man! Superman an’ the Steelster—I gotta get back an’ help ’em!”
The Boy of Steel took a running leap into the air—only to fall flat on his face,
unconscious.

In Engine City’s master control, the Cyborg railed at a row of video screens
showing various broadcast reports of Metropolis’s brush with disaster.
“This cannot be—no finer plan was ever devised! How could that puny
teenage clone have deflected my missile? How, Mongul? How?!”
The warlord stood rigidly erect. “I am at a loss, Master. Your plan indeed
appeared flawless.”
 The Cyborg whirled and poked an accusing finger at a closed-circuit
surveillance screen that featured a freeze-frame shot of Superman, an image
captured just seconds before its camera had gone black. “And now there is a new
Superman imposter with which to contend—a ridiculous man in black, like a
figure out of the cinema! And he and that armored lout have routed our forces!
Routed them! It defies all belief!”
Mongul could hardly contain his contempt. “It does indeed.” Just as it defies
belief that I, who have conquered entire star systems, should be allied with one
who is proving so inept.
The Cyborg paced back and forth; so hard did he gnash his metal teeth that
sparks actually flew. “Only seconds more, and the bombs would have leveled
Metropolis, clearing the way for a second Engine City! It should have worked—
it would have, if not for that accursed clone!”
“That was unexpected. We both greatly underestimated the boy.” I’d planned
to use him against you, you arrogant fool, but his success against the bomb
threatens my own plans as well.
One of the broadcast news transmissions cut suddenly to a candid shot of the
Man in Black. “Reports of a fifth Superman—seen here in camcorder footage
recorded by a WMET amateur newshound earlier today at O’Hara Regional
Airport—have now been confirmed by Daily Planet reporter Lois Lane. Ms.
Lane, who years ago popularized the name ‘Superman,’ says she’s convinced
that this newest arrival is the original hero of Metropolis—miraculously
recovered from what appeared to be his death.”
“No!” In one swift movement, the Cyborg deployed his arm cannon and
blasted the broadcast monitor apart. “No, he’s dead—dead and gone!” He
wheeled about to stare again at the image frozen on the closed-circuit screen.
“The real Superman can’t possibly be alive—can he?”
Mongul thought that unlikely. He had, after all, dispatched billions of
sentients in his life, and none of them had ever returned from the dead. This did,
however, present an opening to exploit the Cyborg’s madness, and the warlord
seized it.
“Superman once thought you dead. You’ve spoken to me so eloquently of
how he callously abandoned you to the vacuum of space. If he is truly alive,
your revenge can be even sweeter than before.”
“Yes—yes, you are correct, Mongul.” The Cyborg cupped a hand under the
rim of his metal jaw. “When I learned of Superman’s death, I thought I had to
content myself with conquering the Earth in his guise, destroying his good name.
But now, if he truly lives, Superman can discover that the scientist he abandoned
has survived, that the intellect of Hank Henshaw lives on! I will show him how I
have mastered the art of cybernetic transmorphing and take my final revenge on
him while cloaked in his own image. I shall destroy him with my own hands.”
The Cyborg turned and strode out of the chamber, leaving Mongul free at last
to shake his head in disgust. The real Superman was foolishly honorable. I know
full well that, whatever occurred between them, it was nothing like what the
Cyborg imagines. He’s lost all reason, living in a world of his own pathetic
delusions.
And then, Mongul smiled. Perfect.

Within the Antarctic Fortress, the Eradicator was now fully conscious inside his
life-support capsule, and robots scrambled to meet his increasingly impatient
demands.
“The Cyborg pretender attacked me while I wore the shield of Krypton’s Last
Son! He thought me destroyed. I must again be made whole! I must live to
avenge both myself and the name of Superman! I must have more power, more
data, if I am to persevere! Attend me!”
One robot tried to calm the encapsulated being. “Master, we have already
brought you on-line with all Fortress power and information systems.
Absorption of either energy or data at an increased rate could result in
irreparable harm. It is advised that you heal slowly and completely.”
“There is no time.” The Eradicator’s ravaged face twisted in fury and
frustration. “Current broadcasts indicate that the other Supermen—the young
clone, the armored one, even Kal-El himself—have allied against the Cyborg.
But their power is insufficient. The Cyborg must not triumph! I must prevail! I
must have more power! Now!”
The fluid in the life-support capsule began to bubble and froth.
“Master, no! All systems are responding to your demands. If you persist in
this energy drain, the Fortress itself may suffer!”
Within the capsule, the Eradicator glowed with energy, his eyes squeezed
shut, his teeth clenched in pain. “This Fortress was my creation! It is mine to do
with as I will!”
As the Eradicator drew the vast energy reserves of the Fortress into himself,
the capsule glowed as white as the sun. The robots began falling powerless to the
floor. Raw energy crackled off the capsule, and the Fortress itself shook, its
walls and floors cracking open as its reinforcing structural fields shunted their
energy into the Eradicator.
On the surface, a wide section of ice suddenly heaved up from the force of a
powerful underground explosion, then collapsed as if subsiding into a great
sinkhole. A plume of energy hundreds of feet high erupted from the center of the
depression.
Within that plume arose the Eradicator, his arms outstretched as if in prayer to
the cosmos. He no longer bore even a passing resemblance to Kal-El. His profile
was aquiline; his hair had turned a dark gray; and his red eyes crackled with
energy.
Throughout the millennia that he had existed as an artificial intelligence, the
Eradicator had known only logic and data. Even when that intelligence had first
assumed humanoid form and sought to remake the Earth in the image of
Krypton, it looked upon this planet as little more than raw materials.
The Eradicator had none of the passion, none of the love that Superman felt
for the Earth. All emotions, whether human or Kryptonian, were alien. But all
that began to change when he was reborn in the image of Superman. His mind
became opened to new thoughts and newer, more complex ways of thinking, and
for the first time, to ways of feeling. He learned the ways of passion and of rage,
and was changed by them.
Now all the vast energies of the Fortress churned and flowed within the
Eradicator. He felt no regrets over sacrificing the Fortress; a monument to a dead
world was of no importance to him now. The Cyborg, he knew, had killed
millions of people and had done it all in the guise of Superman.
The Eradicator leapt into the sky, rocketing northward for the former Coast
City. A living world stretched out before him, and he would not see it
endangered by a usurper. The Cyborg would fall by his power—the power of
Krypton.

As Superman and Steel ran across sublevel six of Engine City, Superman
suddenly raised one of his weapons and fired at a section of blank wall.
 John Henry looked at him curiously. “What are you shooting now?”
Superman reached up and pulled a cracked lens from within the shattered wall
panel and tossed it to the armored man. “Hidden surveillance device. Remember
how I said the walls have eyes and ears? The more of them we poke out, the
more freely we can talk.”
Steel studied the lens for a moment and then crushed it in his hand. “Well, I’m
glad your X-ray eyes are still sharp enough to spot ’em. That’s a little beyond
my expertise.”
Superman suddenly jerked back, grimacing so painfully that the other man
held out a hand to steady him. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m not sure. I felt a sudden . . . presence.” Superman raised a hand to his
head and rubbed his left temple. “Oh, Lord, of course. It’s the Eradicator!”
“The what?”
“He was one of the many new Supermen—the one with the visor. We once
shared a sort of mental link, and apparently it’s still partially functional. He’s on
his way here.”
“Is that good?” John Henry tightened his grip on his hammer. “I had a nasty
run-in with him not that long ago.”
“So I heard. I don’t know, Steel. At the moment, I think we all share a
common enemy.”
Before Superman could explain further, a ray blast was fired in their direction
from a hidden sniper’s nest down the corridor, missing them by no more than a
foot.
Staying low, the two men charged down the corridor, only to find a mangled
targeting robot.
“What the devil?” Steel poked at the robot’s smoking remains with the end of
his hammer. “This thing tried to blast us, but what blasted it?”
Superman grinned tightly. “Looks like the handiwork of my secret weapon.”
“Secret weapon? What secret weapon?!”
Superman glanced up and down the corridor. “It’s all right. The coast is clear;
you can show yourself. Come on out and take a bow.”
To Steel’s surprise, Supergirl shimmered into sight. She stood with one foot
up on the remains of the robot sniper, smiling sweetly and wiping lubricant off
her hands.
“Hello again, Mr. Steel. We seem to keep meeting under battlefield
conditions.”
“Supergirl!” John Henry took her offered hand. “You mean you’ve been with
us the whole time?”
“Uh-huh, ever since Metropolis. How did you think that Superman made that
big jump down the missile silo?”
“I apologize for keeping you in the dark about this, Steel, but the fewer of us
who knew Supergirl was here, the less chance there was of accidentally tipping
off the enemy.” Superman began to break down his weapons. “Supergirl, do you
mind filling him in while I reload?”
“Not at all. You see, Mr. Steel, when Superman first reappeared back at the
airfield, I had a feeling that he might be for real. After he spoke with Ms. Lane, I
could tell that she believed in him, too. And that was good enough for me. I
mean, she first met him years ago—even named him, for heaven’s sake. So I
snuck up beside him and offered my help. In my invisible state, I’m virtually
undetectable, and Superman immediately saw how useful that would be. Since
Lex had already arranged that jet transport for you, I just slipped on board.
Along the way, I briefed Superman on what had been going on in his absence.
And once we all deplaned, I flew ahead and played advance scout. Ever since
you got to Engine City, I’ve been making surveillance sweeps and secretly
providing cover.”
Superman finished snapping new clips into his weapons. “Again, Steel, I’m
sorry that we kept this from you.”
“No problem. It was a sound tactic, and after all, you didn’t know me from
Adam. Now I’m more convinced than ever that you are the man!” Steel reached
up, loosened two hidden clasps, and removed his mask. “You probably don’t
remember me, but you saved my life once. My real name’s John Henry Irons. I
used to be an engineer.”
Superman took John Henry’s hand, grasping it warmly. “I do remember you.
You were working the high steel when that other man fell. You’ve done me
proud, John Henry.”
“Thanks, man, that means a lot, coming from you. It’s gonna be all right.
We’ll nail these world-bashers together!”
“I hope so. I’d like my second lease on life to last awhile longer.”
 “It will!” Supergirl put her hand on Superman’s shoulder.
“Damn straight it will!” John Henry resecured his mask and stood with his
hammer at the ready. “I owe you my life, Superman. The world was a mighty
cold place without you around.” He looked him straight in the eyes. “When this
is all over, though, I wouldn’t mind hearing exactly how you came back from the
dead!”
Superman clapped the armored man on the back. “I’d like to know that
myself. Maybe we can find the answer together. But right now, our main
objective has to be shutting down the city’s power supply.” He gestured down
the wide tunnel. “From what Supergirl’s told me and from what I’ve been able to
scope out on my own, this corridor should take us there. Everybody ready?”
“Ready.” Supergirl flung back her cape and took a step up into the air.
“Ready and loaded for bear.” Steel brought his hand up, slapping his palm
against Superman’s.
“All right then, let’s move out. Supergirl, you take the lead.” The Girl of Steel
faded from sight, and a rush of wind shot down the corridor ahead of the two
men.
Several hundred yards away, the Cyborg sat deep within the core of the City
Systems Room, plugged into the computer array that monitored and controlled
the temperature, humidity, and air pressure within the great city. A score of
cables linked him directly with the computer, and his mind reached out through
the system, looking for any disturbances. Slowly he became aware of slight
increases of temperature in the city’s lower corridors and knew that he had found
traces of heat emitted from the bodies of his quarry. The Cyborg allowed more
and more of his consciousness to seep into the system, reaching out to pinpoint
the locations of Superman and Steel.
“Fools!” His voice was a ghostly echo amid the computers. “They thought
they could escape my detection. But nothing can long elude me within my
Engine City. Let them knock out all the surveillance systems, and I would still
find them. All that happens within these walls is mine to know!” His voice grew
softer, and his eyes went blank, as more and more of his mind diffused through
the system. “Nothing happens here of which I am not aware—nothing.”

Alone in the city’s master control, Mongul lounged back in a thronelike

command chair, watching the Cyborg over a specially shielded closed-circuit
monitoring system. “So you say.” Months of frustration boiled out of the
warlord, and he talked back to the screen. “So you truly believe, no doubt. But
that is only another delusion that you nurture. The time you spent wandering
alone in space was not kind to you, dear ‘Master.’ ” It is best that I finally
terminate this most unequal partnership, and clearly the time to strike is now,
while the mad one’s mind is so preoccupied with tracking his challengers.
His challengers . . . The thought intrigued Mongul. If anything, he felt that his
hatred of Superman was more genuine than that of the Cyborg’s. My hatred, at
least, has a basis in fact. The Cyborg thought Superman dead, but he was wrong
about so many other things.
Mongul called upon his computers to create a hologram of the latest
Superman, based upon the various surveillance and broadcast images. He had
the face magnified and enhanced and studied it from every angle.
Yes, I could almost believe that this man in black is truly the accursed
Kryptonian returned from the grave. Weakened though he may be, there is a
look of determination about him. He reminds me all too well of the Superman
who dealt me my only major defeat. I shall deal with him . . . later.
Mongul signaled for his attendants, and Jengur appeared on the run with
Malyk in tow.
“Prepare my flagship for departure, Jengur—under conditions of strictest
secrecy.”
“At once, Lord Mongul!” The furry little man jumped to obey.
“And you—initiate engine-core ignition procedures.”
Malyk was shocked by the command. “But Lord Mongul, sir—without
balancing engines, this planet will spin out of orbit! It could rip itself apart!”
“I know.” Mongul rose up from his throne. “I have had quite enough of these
Supermen and their backward little world. Let it be destroyed! I’ll fashion a new
WarWorld elsewhere!”
Malyk froze in place at the control board. Leveling a city was one thing—he
had assisted in hundreds of such operations—but the thought of literally
shattering a planet left him paralyzed. He couldn’t bring himself to start the giant
drive engine.
Mongul swung out an arm and backhanded the green-skinned engineer away
from the controls. “One side, dolt! I shall do it myself!” The warlord imperiously
flipped a row of switches, then opened an access panel and pulled out a heavily
cabled black box. “This is the drive system fail-safe, is it not?”
Malyk bobbed his head meekly and shrank back into the corner of the room.
Mongul ripped the fail-safe free and crushed it under his foot. “There can be
no stopping the engine now.” He looked back at his closed-circuit screen; the
Cyborg sat unmoving. “And I’ll never again bow down before you, you mad
halfling! Seek out the true Superman for me—if he is the true one—and we shall
have a game of cat and mouse. But I shall be the cat! And if Superman has
indeed returned to life, all the better. I can think of no finer way to cause the
demise of his beloved adopted world than with an engine fueled with the
radioactive ore created by the destruction of his homeworld!”
In the city’s main Engine Room, within a heavily shielded fission reactor,
huge fuel rods pulsed with the eerie green glow of Kryptonite.
28

As Superman and Steel ran through the bowels of the city, the floor, walls, and
the entire complex began to shudder as the gigantic drive engine powered up.
The two men exchanged worried looks and picked up their pace.
Before they had gone more than another hundred yards, a shadow fell before
them, and Mongul stepped into the corridor. “Welcome to Engine City,
Superman—if Superman is who you truly are.”
“Mongul!” Superman spoke the name as if it were a curse.
“You recognize me? Then you are that blasted Kryptonian. Good—it will
give me great pleasure to kill you before I destroy your adopted world.”
Steel raised his hammer. “You won’t be doing either.”
“You are wrong. Fatally wrong. The vibrations you feel are from the great
drive engine. Were there more than one such engine, we could steer this world
safely through space.” Mongul’s lip curled into a sneer. “But your Superboy
thwarted our attempts to site a second complex . . . and so doomed this Earth.
Once my engine builds to full power, it will tear this puny little world to bits.
Nothing can stop the process now; I’ve seen to that!”
Superman took a step back and pulled Steel to his side. “We have to stop that
engine.” His voice was a crisp whisper. “About fifty feet back there’s a portal
leading to a tunnel that parallels this one. You fall back and take it to the engine
chamber. I’ll keep Mongul busy.”
“Are you crazy? I can’t leave you to face that giant. Besides, how am I
supposed to stop the thing? He said it couldn’t be done.”
“Their missile couldn’t be stopped, either, but Superboy did it. You’re the
engineer—you’ll have a better chance than I would. Don’t worry about me, I
have a secret weapon, remember?” Superman looked him in the eyes. “You can
beat the machine, John Henry. You have to!”
Steel gripped Superman’s hand. “Good luck, man.” Then he fell back and
disappeared down the corridor.
“Does your ally abandon you, Superman? Or do you think to outflank me? Go
ahead and try. It will make this all the more entertaining!”
“Entertain this, Mongul!” Superman opened fire with both weapons blazing.
Mongul roared with laughter and advanced through Superman’s ray-fire like a
man fighting the stream of a high-pressure hose. “Did you think I would allow
my troops to carry sidearms that could do me any real harm? I am strong,
Superman, stronger than you! And your ammunition charge is finite!”
Step by step, the big warlord closed in on his prey.

Ensconced in the computer array, the Cyborg sat enraptured by his awareness of
the flow of air and the fluctuation of heat within the city. He had become one
with the city.
Now, as the Cyborg’s consciousness gradually sharpened, he sensed greater,
larger movements. He felt the heat of battle between Superman and Mongul and
vaguely wondered how the warlord had beaten him to their enemy. The
Cyborg’s mind searched about, slowly becoming aware of the tap that Mongul
had made into his heat-tracking network. He then sensed a swirling rush of air
that his calculations told him must conform to a humanoid body in flight. This
otherwise invisible body was turning about in midair, a scant distance from the
battle. Further along, the Cyborg detected Steel rocketing down a secondary
corridor toward the engine.
The engine!
The sudden recognition that the engine was powering up brought the Cyborg
fully out of his reverie. Mongul! What has that fool done? It took but seconds to
access the circuitry of the city’s master control and uncover the warlord’s
treachery. How dare he seek to usurp my revenge? I will flay him alive for that!
But first, I must stop the engine. I cannot let all that I have worked for be
destroyed.
The Cyborg went on-line with the master control but found himself blocked
from shutting down the engine’s ignition sequence. The fail-safe has been
destroyed; I am locked out of those circuits! The Cyborg shook with rage. I shall
have to attempt a manual shutdown. Then he remembered Steel, and his anger
turned to twisted laughter. Or perhaps I will just let this little man do it for me!

“Good Lord, what have I gotten myself into?” Steel came to a halt in the middle
of the vast Engine Room. The walls were lined with miles of wires, tubes, and
conduits. Across the room was a long, gleaming cylinder bracketed by giant
coils of shimmering, translucent wire. Through thick transparent ports set into
the cylinder’s side, John Henry could see an eerie glow. Along an adjacent wall
was what appeared to be a heavily shielded containment vessel. A maze of pipes
and cables ran in and out of the shielding.
“What the hell is all this?” Parts of the assembly seemed vaguely familiar to
John Henry, but the sheer scale of the room made it difficult to comprehend.
How do I shut this down, if I’m not even sure what I’m looking at?
“Impressive, isn’t it?” The voice was low, flat, and vaguely electronic.
Steel wheeled around to see a body taking shape along the wall behind him.
Before his eyes, a mass of wires, circuits, and metal tubing extruded from the
wall, taking on a vaguely human shape. It towered over him, twice his height; it
even had a face of sorts. It was the face of the Cyborg, shorn of all humanity.
“Didn’t you hear me, ‘Man of Steel’?” There was a faint mechanical whir as
the Cyborg’s construct gestured to the Engine Room. “I can’t believe that any
ordinary mortal wouldn’t be impressed by all this!”
John Henry found his voice. “It’s big all right. But how does it work?”
“The drive engine?” The construct fairly tittered. “It’s powered by a fusion
process, little one; confined by superconducting electromagnets. You could not
hope to understand it.”
Controlled fusion, of course. John Henry mentally kicked himself. That
cylinder must contain an ionized plasma. And those translucent coils must be the
superconductive material. “You’ve harnessed fusion to provide thrust?” He
jerked his head toward the containment vessel. “That must be a fission reactor
then—you must use its output to initiate the fusion process.”
The machine-man’s face almost looked pleased. “Very good, little one!
Perhaps you do understand.” The construct reached out as if to pat him on the
head. Steel drew back, but he was not fast enough; the machine-man grabbed
him firmly in one hand and picked him up like a toy. John Henry raised his
power gauntlet, emptying his supply of spikes into the construct.
The machine-man just chuckled. “Sorry, I haven’t any vital organs . . . unlike
yourself. But you wanted a closer look at that engine; allow me to oblige you.”
With Steel in hand, the construct strode across the floor of the chamber. “I
suspect that you’ve come here to destroy my magnificent engine, haven’t you?”
An absurd clucking sound came from the construct. “We mustn’t have that. On
the other hand, I quite agree—for different reasons, of course—that we can’t let
the engine tear this little planet apart. Fortunately, there’s a simple way to shut
down the fusion process—we just shatter the electromagnets’ coils. I can always
install more.” With a roar of laughter, the machine-man raised John Henry high
overhead and threw him at one of the electromagnets.
Steel quickly wheeled about in midair and lit his rockets in a short burst,
braking his speed. He fell far short of the construct’s intended goal, but he could
feel the powerful electromagnets tugging at his armor.
“You little steel-plated worm!” The construct charged toward him. “Do you
want to see the Earth destroyed? It’s your duty to die for it!”
“Not alone, I won’t.” Steel’s cape came loose in the machine-man’s grasp as
the armored man dove between the construct’s legs. His armor scraped up sparks
as he rebounded from the metal floor and launched himself back at the construct.
He tackled the machine-man and fired his rockets, driving them both into the
magnet’s coils.
Both the superconducting coils and the machine-man shattered in a brilliant
flash of light. With the coils broken, the electromagnetic field dropped, and
within the cylinder the awesome temperatures of the plasma fuel plunged. The
eerie glow changed colors and then slowly faded, as the plasma fuel cooled, de-
ionized and condensed back to normal matter.
John Henry staggered to his feet, his armor scorched and cracked. How about
that? I didn’t die after all. In spite of his situation, he was intrigued by the
design of the fusion system, and he reflexively picked up a strand of the
translucent wire. A room-temperature superconductor. Amazing. The engineer in
him hoped there would be time later to analyze the material, but the warrior in
him picked up his hammer. First, I have to make sure there is a later!’

Mongul grabbed hold of Superman’s weapons and swung the hero hard into the
wall of the corridor. Before Superman could recover, the warlord was on top of
him, seizing him in a crushing bear hug. “You are weaker by far than when last
we fought, Kryptonian. This time, I will not fail to slay you!”
His head swimming, Superman brought both fists up, driving them hard
against Mongul’s ears. The stunned warlord fell back, shaking his head.
“You will die slowly for that, Superman!”
 But before Mongul could make another move, he was suddenly struck hard by
something that couldn’t be seen. A series of sharp blows rained down upon the
surprised warlord, forcing him into a defensive posture. Then a powerful blast of
psychokinetic energy hurled him backward with such force that he became
embedded in the metal wall.
With her opponent incapacitated, Supergirl shimmered to visibility and
crouched down to check on Superman. “Are you all right?”
“I think so.” He gingerly felt his side. “Ribs are a little sore, but I don’t think
anything’s really broken.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t get here sooner, but there was this building vibration and—
hey, it’s stopped.”
“John Henry.” Superman grinned through the pain. “He did it. He stopped the
—look out!”
The warning came too late. Mongul sprang at the two heroes, striking
Supergirl from behind and stunning her. And then a vicious kick sent Superman
rolling, skidding down the corridor.
“Your ally should have remained invisible, Superman. Now I must kill her as
well. Perhaps I shall cripple you first, and make you watch her die.”

The Eradicator flew in over the ocean, speeding toward Engine City. As he
passed through the lingering ash cloud, he had a sudden mental flash of
Superman in pain. In that instant, he sensed his fellow Kryptonian’s location and
predicament, and he acted. Power-diving through the city’s central dome, the
Eradicator smashed his way through to the lower corridors.
Mongul jumped back as a dark blur came crashing down through the ceiling
ahead of him. The Eradicator stood boldly before the warlord, holding out a
hand in warning and blocking the path to Superman. So changed in appearance
was he that, shorn of cape and shield, Mongul did not recognize him as the
visored being that the Cyborg had supposedly slain.
Through his tenuous mental link with Superman, the Eradicator recognized
Mongul all too well. “Come no further, alien. To threaten Krypton’s Last Son is
to threaten the Eradicator!”
“And to defy Mongul is to court death, fool!” The angry warlord leapt at the
Eradicator—squarely into the terrible, withering blast of energy that erupted
from his hands. Mongul dropped to the floor of the corridor, most of his chest
and part of his head gone. The warlord hadn’t even had time to scream.
“Oh, my God!” Supergirl pul a hand to her mouth as the Eradicator nudged
Mongul’s body aside with his foot.
“You are Supergirl? Yes, I recognize you from the Fortress monitors.” The
Eradicator glanced down at Mongul. “Do not mourn for him. He would have
done much worse to all of us. His death, at least, was fast.”
The Eradicator turned toward the groggy Superman. “Are you all right, Kal-
El?”
“All right? I hope so.” Superman leaned against the wall and tried to catch his
breath. “We’re not finished here yet.”
“Hey, what’s going on?” Steel arrived on the run, stopping dead at the sight of
the Eradicator and Mongul’s body. “Whoa! I wasn’t expecting this.”
Weird laughter echoed throughout the corridor. “It’s always the unexpected
that’s the most deadly!” Then the Cyborg was upon them. He swooped down
through the hole created by the Eradicator’s impromptu entrance and flung
himself headlong at the four heroes, knocking them off their feet.
The Cyborg then shot down the corridor. Steel watched him take off in
dismay. “Damn, I thought I’d aced him back in the engine room. How’d he get
back in that body?”
“He can switch bodies as well?” The Eradicator regained his footing and
helped the others up. “Then he is doubly dangerous. He must be stopped.”
“Well, sure.” Supergirl kept a cautious eye on him. She knew of the
Eradicator, but only as a dangerous artificial intelligence; she wasn’t sure what
to make of this stranger. “But where’s he headed?”
“Back to the Engine Room is my bet.” Steel smacked his hammer against his
palm. “And he won’t be very happy when he sees what I did to it.”
“The Eradicator’s right, we have to stop him.” Superman gathered up his
weapons and shoved in the last of his clips. “But let’s be careful and keep our
eyes open. We don’t know what he’s up to, but he clearly wants us to follow
him. That could mean a trap.”
Superman and Steel charged down the corridor together, with Supergirl and
the Eradicator providing close air support. They were halfway to the Engine
Room when the walls came alive, and a cluster of power cables twisted
themselves into a semblance of the Cyborg’s face.
The Eradicator fired a searing blast into the face, but it just re-formed itself
from another set of cables a few feet further away.
The Cyborg’s voice crackled from the face with a disturbing electrical
sibilance. “Superman, tell this fool that he’s wasting his time. He can destroy my
visage all he wants, but as long as I remain on-line, I can reconstruct it
indefinitely.”
“Who are you?” Superman felt like blasting the taunting face himself, but he
didn’t want to waste the ammunition.
“You still don’t know me, Superman?” The cables twisted and smoothed until
they formed a more human-looking face—a man’s face with short, closely
cropped hair and clean, angular features. “I can’t believe you’ve forgotten
Commander Hank Henshaw.”
“Henshaw?!” Superman’s eyes opened wide. “But why in God’s name have
you done this? Why the impersonation? The killing—?”
“For revenge!” Henshaw’s voice fairly sizzled. “You conspired to kill my
crew. You tried to make me look incompetent.”
“Your crew? What are you talking about? I tried to save them. I tried to save
you!”
“Lies! You drove me away from this world.”
“That’s not true. Leaving Earth was your idea.”
“More lies!” Henshaw was raving now. “You wanted me gone because you
feared my power. Well, now I have given you reason to fear me! I will kill you
yet and make the world see you for the villain you are!”
The face on the wall reverted to the Cyborg’s image. “From the knowledge I
gathered within your birthing matrix, I found the power to destroy you. Ironic,
isn’t it?”
The cables of the face suddenly uncoiled and were joined by huge pipes,
shooting out at the four heroes from all sides. Superman dove to the floor, rolling
under the deadly metal tentacles, and the Eradicator soared above them, flying
on down the corridor. Supergirl and Steel were ensnared and held fast. The
cables holding Steel arced wildly and fused to his armor, threatening to cook him
within his metal shell.
With a blast of psychokinetic force, Supergirl shattered her bonds and leapt to
help John Henry. “I’ll get Steel free, Superman—you go after the Eradicator. I
don’t fully trust him.”
Neither do I, Supergirl. Neither do I. Superman caught up to the Eradicator
around a bend in the tunnel; he was firing his energy blasts, burning through a
mass of metal tubing that had blocked off the Engine Room.
“I fear that this Cyborg is quite beyond reason.” The Eradicator gave
Superman the briefest of glances. “His mind was not able to accept the gift of
rebirth as was yours.”
“Oh?” Superman looked askance at the Eradicator. “And just what do you
know about Henshaw?”
“I know what you recorded in the Fortress archives. I know what you know.”
The Eradicator stopped and stared at Superman with haunted eyes. “We are
linked, you and I.”
“Don’t remind me. You nearly killed me once.”
“I was in error. I have tried to make amends. I helped restore you to life. I
transferred your body to the Regeneration Matrix.”
“Yes, and you left me there, like a spare battery in the refrigerator.” Superman
eyes narrowed. “I was really dead? Not in a coma?”
“From all indications, yes. But your body retained enough of its stores of solar
energy. Had that not been the case, and had your spirit not proven so resilient, I
would not have been able to effect your revival.”
Superman had more questions, but he put them aside. Together, they broke
into the Engine Room. All surviving systems had gone off-line, leaving the
chamber very dark. From the light that filtered in from the outer corridor, they
could see evidence of Steel’s handiwork; the floor around them was strewn with
wreckage.
“Welcome, gentlemen! I’m so glad you saw fit to join me here.” The
Cyborg’s voice cut through the darkness, echoing seemingly from everywhere.
The big chamber was suddenly bathed in light, and the Cyborg dropped down
from atop the fission reactor. “After all, there’s really only one way a Superman
should die. And that’s from kryptonite poisoning!”
With a sweep of his metal arm, the Cyborg smashed open the reactor’s
shielding, exposing the kryptonite fuel rods. Radiation flooded the chamber. In
his weakened state, the radiation affected Superman immediately, and he
crumpled to the floor, writhing in agony. The Eradicator staggered back, his
Kryptonian-based tissue itself vulnerable to the deadly ore, and the Cyborg
tackled him.
The Eradicator was being forced to his knees when Supergirl swooped into the
chamber, with Steel hot on her heels.
The Girl of Steel struck at the Cyborg with a combination punch, both
physical and psychokinetic, that twisted his head halfway around and flung him
into the wreckage that littered the chamber floor. While Supergirl leapt after the
Cyborg, Steel pulled Superman away from the reactor and crouched over him,
blocking the radiation with his own armored body. The Eradicator lurched to his
feet; in a rage he shot a stream of searing energy at the reactor’s containment
vessel, melting the lead shielding and sending it flowing like lava down over the
kryptonite fuel rods.
“No!” The Cyborg’s voice became a shriek. “This cannot be! He must die!
You must all die!”
Supergirl hauled off and connected with a hard left to the Cyborg’s metal jaw,
punching it loose from his head.
“Don’t stop!” The Eradicator struggled to speak. “Keep him . . . dizzy!”
In tandem, Supergirl and the Eradicator blasted the Cyborg. She literally spun
him around, while the Eradicator fired an electromagnetic pulse that scrambled
Henshaw’s neural functions.
The kryptonite was almost completely covered now, and energy crackled and
flowed around the Eradicator. “The Cyborg must be destroyed, just as he
destroyed Coast City! The city—our adopted world—must be avenged!”
Even through his pain, Superman could not miss the passion behind the
Eradicator’s rage. Did he say ‘our’ adopted world? “Wait a minute, Steel.”
“Come on, man, we have to get you out of here.”
“No, I feel better now.” Superman grabbed hold of a railing, holding himself
upright. “Radiation’s sealed off.”
The Eradicator was starting to glow as he lurched toward Superman. “I must
make amends. I must atone.” He reached out his hands, and radiant energy
washed over Superman.
Steel moved to block the Eradicator, but Superman waved him back. “It’s all
right, John Henry. Feels good . . . like a day at the beach.”
 Superman stood taller, and his chest seemed to swell, as the Eradicator poured
energy into him. As Superman grew stronger, the energy flowed at an increasing
rate, a steadily accelerating rate. He suddenly realized that the Eradicator wasn’t
going to stop. “No. There’s no need—!”
“There is every need!” The Eradicator seemed to draw in on himself as he
spoke. “The Cyborg has committed great crimes in the name of Superman. He
has endangered this Earth, even as I myself once did. It is only now that I see the
evil of what I attempted to do to you, what I attempted to do to your world.
“There is but one way I can fully atone for Henshaw’s crimes and my own.”
As the Eradicator began to falter, the Cyborg screamed incoherently, flung
Supergirl aside, and charged headlong at the supermen. A final burst of energy
erupted from the Eradicator; half was directed into Superman in a healing
stream; the rest slammed into the Cyborg, leaving him singed and smoking.
Then the glow faded, and the Eradicator collapsed.
Supergirl grabbed hold of the smoldering Cyborg. He slumped over in her
grasp.
For a moment, nobody moved. Then, the Cyborg pulled free of Supergirl’s
grasp, pieces of him breaking away in her hands, and leapt again at Superman.
Superman met the Cyborg’s charge with a hard right, knocking him the length
of the Engine Room. Superman was on the Cyborg like a shot. “It’s all over,
Henshaw.”
Superman smashed his fist into the Cyborg like a pile driver, and the construct
went down like a marionette whose strings had been snapped. The Cyborg’s
cape came off in Superman’s hands and the rest of him simply fell apart,
clattering to the floor in a million pieces.
Superman wheeled around. “The computer systems! We have to isolate them.
If Henshaw shunted his consciousness in there—”
“I don’t think so, man.” Steel came running up. “I’ll run a sweep to make
sure, but—well, Mongul had cut the main lines between the city’s systems and
the Engine Room, and I’d already disabled the rest.”
They rejoined Supergirl, who knelt beside the Eradicator; all that was left of
him was a lifeless husk. She looked up at Superman and Steel. “I think he’s
gone.”
Steel removed his helmet. “He gave me a lot of grief, but I don’t know if we’d
have been able to stop the Cyborg without him.”
“I still don’t understand.” Superman looked down at the fallen body in
confusion. “The Eradicator once tried to kill me. Maybe he did help bring me
back to life, but he used me to sustain himself. After all that, why would he
sacrifice himself—why would he drain himself dry—to restore my power?”
Supergirl gazed back over the Eradicator. “What else did he know? He was
created as the ultimate weapon of a warrior age.” She looked up at Superman. “I
started out life in a laboratory, too, but I was lucky; thanks to you and some
other fine people, I learned early on what it means to choose to live for
something. I don’t think the Eradicator ever had that chance, did he?”
Superman knelt beside her and bowed his head. “No. No, he never did.”
Supergirl shook her head sadly. “He knew only what it meant to die for
something.”
Steel nodded. “But he didn’t sacrifice himself just for you. I think that he
sacrificed himself for all of us. After all, he did give us back our Superman.”
“Superman . . . how many terrible things have been done in that name?”
Superman slowly rose to his feet and looked down at the cape in his hands. “The
Cyborg used it when he wiped a whole city off the face of the Earth. The
Eradicator used it when he played judge, jury, and executioner. I’ll be a long
time removing those stains.”
Steel put a hand on his shoulder. “That’s not your fault, man. And I hope we
haven’t all done wrong by you. The kid was young and raw, but he came
through for us and saved Metropolis, if Mongul was telling the truth. And as for
me, well . . .” John Henry reached up and yanked the S-shield from his chest. “I
think that only the real Man of Steel should wear this from now on. Same goes
for that cape.”
“The cape?” Superman looked down again at the torn red cloth. “I don’t
know. After what’s been done, I’m not sure I should wear it again.”
“Well, I am sure!” Supergirl stood up and put her hand on Superman’s
shoulder. “And I know a way to make it right.” She reached out with the
amazing power of her mind and gave a push. All the color—both in the cape and
in Superman’s bodysuit—faded to a dazzling white. And then, as Supergirl’s
brow knit in concentration, the cloth began to swirl and flow under her touch.
“Supergirl, what—?” Superman looked down to find himself again garbed in
his familiar red, blue, and yellow costume.
 “I got it right, didn’t I?” She smiled at him.
“You got it perfectly right.” Superman leaned down and kissed her cheek.
“Thank you.”
“Thank you for coming back to us.” Supergirl looked around at the wreck of
Engine City. “It’s really over now, isn’t it?”
Superman shook his head. “The battle is over, yes. But the hardest part is still
ahead.”
29

Lois Lane awoke with a stiff neck on the couch of her apartment. Her clothing
was rumpled from having been slept in, and the floor around her was littered
with take-out food containers and the morning’s edition of the Daily Planet, its
headline screamed WAR OF THE SUPERMEN.
She was drowsily aware that her television was still on and tuned to CNN’s
continuing coverage of the situation at Coast City. When Superman suddenly
appeared on screen, she fumbled for the remote to boost the volume.
“. . . wish that I had been here. I wish that there was something I could have
done to prevent this. I know that nothing I ever say or do can bring back the
people of Coast City. To all the many people who lost friends and relatives here,
I can but pledge my life to do everything in my power to see to it that such a
terrible tragedy never happens again.”
The screen cut to a CNN field correspondent. “The words of Superman—the
real Superman—taped just minutes ago. His statement had been expected to
touch on his so-called return from the dead; as you saw and heard, it did not.
Things are beginning to wind down here, in day five of what federal agencies are
calling the Coast City Holocaust. Units of the army and National Guard have
secured the disaster area, assisted by a special task force of the famed Justice
League. The League, which recently returned from a mission in space, has
removed and destroyed a vast store of dangerous and toxic substances—”
Lois hit the off switch and sank back into her couch. Just “day five,” It seems
like he’s been gone forever. Oh, Clark . . .
Suddenly there came a gentle tapping at the glass door of her balcony. Lois
bolted up from the couch as if she’d heard a gunshot. She got to her feet and
stumbled barefoot to the door. If this is that stupid bird again—! Then she
yanked back the curtain and found herself at eye level with a red and yellow
pentagonal S-shield.
All traces of drowsiness vanished instantly as Lois flung open the door and
leapt into Superman’s arms.
Hours later, Lois finished dressing for work as Clark availed himself of her
shower. “Have you talked to Martha and Jonathan yet?”
He came out of the bathroom, swathed in a towel. “I called them while you
were showering, hon. I told them that we’d be out to visit as soon as we could.”
“Oh, good! This past month’s been such a nightmare for them—for all of us.
And it’s still not completely over. I mean, people are starting to accept that
Superman is alive, but to the world at large, Clark Kent is dead.”
“Yeah, that is a definite problem. We have to concoct some sort of cover
story. This could be a tough one. I’ve had to cover absences before, but never
one this long.” He sat down on the edge of the bed. “Hmm, how about this: I
escaped being buried alive, but I was hit by some falling debris that induced a
case of retrograde amnesia. I couldn’t find an ID and the last thing I could
remember was working on a farm, so I drifted upstate and worked as a migrant
laborer until my memory finally returned!”
“Oh, come on, Clark! You’re the most famous missing person since Amelia
Earhart. Just about every place out in the country has a satellite dish these days.
Even the cows would’ve recognized you!”
“Okay, then, how about I fell off a pier and was washed out to sea?”
“Uh-huh. And how did you survive? I suppose you just bobbed around in the
ocean all month?”
“Yeah, bad idea.” He frowned. “Even though it’s partially true, I don’t
suppose we should claim that I was abducted by aliens?”
“After Coast City?”
“Right. Forget that. Another bad idea.” He caught a glimpse of the clock out
of the corner of his eye and grabbed up his costume.
Lois raised an eyebrow. “What’s up?”
“I’ve got a chopper to meet!” There was a blur of motion, and he was dressed.
“Keep all this in the back of your mind, and we’ll talk about it later.” He gave
her a quick kiss and leapt out the window.
Lois stared after him for a moment, then closed and locked her window. Her
cat emerged from beneath a chair, warily looking about to see if anything else
was planning to go flying by. Lois picked the cat up and scratched him behind
the ears. “Elroy, ever notice how there’s never another Superman around when
you need him?”
On the outskirts of Metropolis, a large cargo helicopter touched down at the
rooftop helipad of S.T.A.R. Labs. Half a dozen technicians came forward on the
run, sliding open the copter’s big doors and lifting out a long refrigerated case
bearing the body of the Eradicator.
“Hey, you be careful with him, you hear?” Steel stepped down out of the
copter as the technicians lifted the case onto a wheeled cart and rolled it into the
sprawling research center. “He might have started out as some sort of alien
artifact, but he died for us all!”
A slender woman in a white lab coat walked up to the copter as John Henry
turned and gave Supergirl a hand down from the craft.
“Don’t worry, Mister . . . Steel?” The woman offered her hand. “I’m Dr.
Karen Faulkner, head of research for S.T.A.R./Metropolis. I can assure you that
the Eradicator’s remains will be treated with the utmost respect.”
“Hey, crew! Long time no see!” Superboy came sauntering over to the copter.
He high-fived John Henry and gave Supergirl a wink. “No see for even longer in
your case, babe!”
“Good to see you in one piece, kid.” Steel looked the boy over. “I heard you
took a little pounding from that missile.”
“Yeah, a little, but I heal real good. Doc Faulkner and her lab rats want to put
me in a cage with a wheel, though. Anyway, I’ve finished my gig on the ‘turn
your head and cough’ circuit, and I’m ready to party! Hey, look!” Superboy
pointed to the heavens. “Up in the sky!”
Superman dropped onto the helipad, smiling broadly. “Hello, everybody. Glad
to see that all of you made it back all right.” He looked down into the grinning
face of the Boy of Steel and felt a vague sense of unease. It’s going to take time
getting used to having a younger version of myself around. Still, he put those
feelings aside and grasped the boy’s hand. “I’m glad to see you, too, son. That
was a brave thing you did.”
“Hey, all in a day’s work, y’know? Let’s make a deal, though . . . if you don’t
call me ‘son,’ I won’t call you ‘pops’!”
Superman threw back his head and laughed heartily for the first time in a long
while. “You have a deal. But what should I call you? I hear that your business
manager is trying to tie up the rights to ‘Superman.’ ”
“You heard about that, huh?” The boy blushed and looked sheepish. “Well,
that was before you turned up. If there’s anyone around here who’s Superman,
it’s you! I guess you can call me Superboy for now. But when I turn eighteen,
watch out!”
They were all laughing when the sound of a distant construction whistle
reached Superman’s ears. He reflexively glanced across the river toward
Metropolis’s central borough. Buildings were shorter at that end of the city, and
he had a clear line of sight to a demolition project getting under way at a site not
far from Hob’s Bay. Superman gazed intently into the site for an instant, and his
jaw dropped.
“Superman?” Supergirl immediately noticed the change in his expression. “Is
something wrong?”
“Not yet, if I hurry.”
“Need any help?”
“Thanks, but I can—” He stopped and lowered his voice. “No, maybe there is
something else you can help me with.”
Moments later, demolition workers at the Hob’s Bay site were surprised to see
Superman drop down out of the sky. “Hey, Superman, you come to give us a
hand?”
“In a way. I want you to shut down your equipment.”
The foreman scratched his head. “Okay . . . but why?”
“We can’t undermine this site any more than necessary.” He stared down hard
through the rubble. “There was a civil defense shelter in the basement of the
building that collapsed here and, by God, it did its job!” A siren sounded in the
distance, growing louder. “Good, the ambulance is on its way.”
“Ambulance? What for?”
“You’ll see.” Working quickly but carefully, Superman lifted aside tons of
debris in seconds. By the time the ambulance arrived, he’d located a reinforced
steel beam and bent it back, opening a new access to the buried shelter.
“Don’t be afraid, now. Everything’s all right.” He slowly lowered himself into
the opening, his voice echoing back behind him. “I’m Superman. You’re both
going to be just fine.”
The next moment, the workers let out a cheer as Superman flew up out of the
shelter with two young children—a girl and a boy—tucked into his arms. They
were both about five years old and looked as though they could be fraternal
twins. They were frightened and dirty, but they were alive!
 Superman handed the little girl to a woman paramedic, but the boy clung
stubbornly to his arm.
“I’m sorry. We didn’t mean to do it!” Tears came to the boy’s dirty cheeks.
“Didn’t mean to do what?”
“Play down in that old building. Mommy said not to go down in there . . . and
we didn’t mean to . . . but my ball rolled down the stairs, and we went to get it.
And then we heard sirens and everything started to shake. And then . . . and then
we couldn’t get out!”
“Shhh. It’s all right.” Superman hugged the boy tightly. “Nothing will happen
to you now. I want you to be good and go with the paramedics. They’ll take
good care of you, and I promise to come visit, okay?”
The boy considered that. “ ’Kay.”
“Thanks, Superman.” One of the paramedics shook his hand. “It’s a good
thing you found those kids when you did. They must’ve been in there since
Doomsday brought the building down. They’d just about used up the canned
food and water in that shelter.”
“I know.”
Suddenly there was a whoop of delight, and a huge bear of a man came
running full tilt at Superman. “My fav’rit! Yer back! It’s really you!” Bibbo
joyously threw his arms around his hero. The old roughneck was laughing and
crying and couldn’t stop doing either.
A young pup ran around and around the two men, barking its head off. The
little dog had a surprisingly deep bark for its size; in fact, its bark sounded
uncannily like Bibbo’s laughter.
Bibbo was beside himself, practically enraptured. “I just asked God ta take
care a’ ya! I never dreamed he’d send ya back!”
“Take it easy, Bibbo.” Superman clapped him on the back. “You don’t want to
hyperventilate.”
The pup stopped running and started jumping up into the air, again and again,
until he was clearing four feet. Bibbo snagged him in midair and held him out to
the Man of Steel.
“Sooperman, I want ya to meet my new dog, Krypto! Say hullo to the man,
Krypto.”
Krypto yipped enthusiastically.
 “Krypto, eh?” Superman gravely shook the little dog’s paw. “Well, I’m very
pleased to meet you, Krypto. You’re a fine-looking dog.”
Bibbo just beamed; as far as he was concerned, at that moment all was right
with the world.
“Well, I hate to run, Bibbo, but I want to get down to City Hall.” Superman
clapped the tavern owner on the back. “I need to secure a list of all the area’s
civil defense shelters. Who knows who else might still be alive out there!”
Waving his good-byes, Superman shot into the air and was gone. On the ground
behind him, both man and dog seemed to cheer.

Hours later, Superman tore into another buried shelter. In contrast to the
previous rescue, this one was well attended by the media. As the television
cameras went live, Superman lifted aside one last huge chunk of fallen masonry
and helped Clark Kent out into the light of day.
Kent was a mess. He hadn’t been able to shave in weeks, and his shaggy,
unkempt hair hung low over his collar. He held a hand up over his face, blinking
back tears as his eyes adjusted to the light. “Bright out here . . . a lot brighter
than I’ve been used to.”
“Clark!” Lois broke past the police lines and ran to Kent’s arms. “Clark,
you’re alive!”
“Lois!” Kent kissed her on the cheek and held her tight. “Lord, it’s so good to
see you again. It was dreaming of this moment that kept me going.”
“Me, too, lover. Me, too.” She cradled his face in her hands.
Kent turned to the caped man and shook his hand. “Superman, we owe you so
much.”
Lois’s eyes were moist with tears as she reached over and gave Superman a
one-armed hug. “Yes, without you I’d have lost Clark forever. It’s so good to
have both of you back. Thanks.”
“My pleasure, Ms. Lane.”
“Hey, Clark . . . Lois!” Camera in hand, Jimmy Olsen called out to his friends.
“Hold it right there! You, too, Superman—say ‘Cheese’!”
And as the three friends joined arms, Jimmy clicked off what was destined to
be another award-winning picture.
 Paramedics on the scene gave Clark a quick once-over and urged him to get a
more thorough exam at Metropolis General. As he and Lois stepped into a
waiting ambulance, the media quickly clustered around Superman.
“Superman, over here!”
“What’s your reaction to accusations that your death was faked?”
“Is it true that you can’t die?”
“How did you manage to survive?”
“What can you tell us about Doomsday?”
“Is the young Superman really your clone?”
Superman held up his hand for silence. “Ladies . . . gentlemen . . . please! I
know you’re all curious about how I was able to come back. So am I. I’m still
looking for some of the answers myself. And until I find them, it would be
irresponsible to make any sweeping statements.” He saw the ambulance pull
away and smiled. “But I’ll tell you this much. I’m certain that Clark Kent will
have an easier time adjusting to his new life than I will.”
With that, Superman shot up and away from the gathered reporters and soared
off over Metropolis.
He hadn’t flown more than ten blocks before he heard his name called.
Superman swung about to find a LexCorp helicopter hailing him; none other
than Lex Luthor II himself was leaning out of the copter’s open hatch, bullhorn
in hand.
Superman flew in close and hovered alongside the craft. “Yes, Luthor? Is
there something I can do for you?”
“You can tell me what you’ve done with my Supergirl!” Luthor was so red in
the face one could hardly tell where his skin ended and his beard began. “Since
she went walkabout with you people to the West Coast, I’ve hardly seen hide nor
hair of her. Oh, she’s called and left messages, but I haven’t been able to connect
with her at all. Where is she?”
“Well, Lex, she has been busy. We all have.” Superman strove to keep a
polite tone, but Luthor’s attitude was getting under his skin. “I can’t tell you any
more than that. I’m hardly Supergirl’s keeper . . . and neither are you!”
Superman shot away from the helicopter, leaving Luthor to mutter into his
beard.
Several hours later, Clark and Lois returned to her apartment. Clark gave Lois a
cheerful grin. “Well, I didn’t think that went too badly, do you?”
Lois leaned back against a wall and gave in to an uncontrollable fit of
giggling. “I don’t know how you were able to answer all of that doctor’s
questions with such a straight face.”
Clark grabbed his lapels and launched into an impersonation of the emergency
room physician. “ ‘Well, Mr. Kent, you’re in remarkable shape for someone
who’s been locked underground for a month. In fact, you’re in much better
shape than most of the executives I see in our Wellness Program. We can’t keep
you here against your will!’ ” Clark let out a hoot. “I’ll say they couldn’t!”
There was a rush of air from the balcony, and Superman was suddenly
standing next to Clark and Lois. “I take it that everything went well?”
“Exceedingly well!” Lois fell into Superman’s arms. “The doctors bought the
whole story.”
Superman gave her a big kiss. “Hey, all it takes is careful planning and a good
actor. Right, ‘Clark’?”
“Right.” “Clark” suddenly hunched over and appeared to shrink in on himself.
The air around him shimmered as his waist drew in, his hips rounded out, his
shoulders narrowed, and his hair lengthened and faded. Even his clothing
underwent a strange transformation, flowing off his legs and assuming bright red
and blue hues. Within a minute, “Clark Kent” was gone and Supergirl stood in
his place.
“Oh, dear.” Lois’s eyes were open wide. “I never stopped to think . . . was it
painful?”
“Well, it’s not something I’d want to do every day. But for one of my favorite
couples, I was glad to oblige.” The young shape-shifter flipped her long blond
hair back over her shoulder. “Clark, you are amazing. I understand why you’d
want a private life, and of course you were Clark Kent long before you ever put
on a cape, but maintaining two identities—! I don’t know how you’ve managed
to keep it a secret for as long as you have.”
Superman just smiled. “It isn’t easy.”
“Well, I just hope that you two will be as happy together as Lex and I are.”
“Lex . . . yes, well . . .” Superman’s smile did a fast fade. How do I handle this
without sounding like a meddling older brother? “I, uh, ran into Lex earlier
today, and he wasn’t too happy then. From the way he talked, he didn’t sound as
if he’d ever be happy unless—well, unless he knew where you were at all
times.”
“Oh—that.” Supergirl tipped her head to one side and worried with the hem of
her cape. “Lex does have his possessive side, and I’m not too thrilled about it.
But we’ll work it out somehow. I mean, that’s all part of being a couple, right?
You have good times and bad. I guess we still have a lot to learn about each
other.”
“Uh-huh.” Superman nodded.
“Well, I really should be going. Lex and I do need to talk.” Supergirl gave
Lois a quick hug and Superman a peck on the cheek. “You both take care. Give
Martha and Jonathan my best, and tell them that I intend to keep my promise to
come visit them soon.”
“We’ll do that.” Superman planted a return kiss on her forehead. “You take
care, too.”
Supergirl faded from sight. A window opened, seemingly of its own accord.
“May we all live happily ever after.” Her voice rang out from midair, and then
the window slid shut.
Superman shook his head. “I just hope there’s nothing to Luthor that she’ll
have to learn about the hard way.”
“Me, too.” Lois leaned her head against his shoulder. “But she’s a big girl. We
can’t live her life for her. All we can do is be there for her if and when she needs
us. Like she was there for us.” She ran a finger along his bicep. “So, how did
your checkup go? Learn anything?”
“Did I!” Superman chuckled. “Professor Hamilton was able to fill in a lot of
the gaps . . .”

Emil Hamilton had looked profoundly ill at ease when the caped man entered the
lab. “Superman, I don’t know how you can bear to look at me. I did everything
wrong after you died. Everything! And then I decided that that crazy Cyborg was
you! How can you ever forgive me? How can you even stand the sight of me?”
“Take it easy, Professor. What do you mean, you did everything wrong?”
“What do I mean? Oh, wait till you see! Let me show you.” Emil began
calling up data on his computer screen. “Ever since I heard of your revival, I’ve
been trying to figure out just how you survived.”
“That’s why I came here, Professor. A lot of it is still a mystery to me.”
“Well, I think I may have found the answer in my studies of your energy
absorption rates.” Accessing the data seemed to soothe Hamilton’s agitation. He
removed his glasses and tapped them thoughtfully against his chin. “Have you
ever heard of the mammalian dive reflex? It’s an oxygen-conserving response to
submersion in cold water, most common in seals and other diving mammals. It’s
much less common in humans, of course, but it’s believed to be a factor—over
and above the effects of hypothermia itself, you understand—in the survival of
some near-drowning victims. The victim’s system goes into a near-total
shutdown resembling death—but it need not be permanent if the victim is
rescued and warmed soon enough. For a young, vital person, ‘soon enough’ can
be after thirty to forty minutes of submersion!”
Superman nodded. “Yes, I’ve observed the phenomenon firsthand. I once
pulled what I thought was a drowning victim out of an icy river, but she was
revived, and she made a full recovery. As I recall, the paramedic’s words were:
‘They’re not dead until they’re warm and dead!’ ”
“Exactly!” Emil waved his glasses like a baton. “And who’s more vital than
Superman? The trauma of your injuries sent you into the equivalent of a
deathlike state. Now, the efforts of the Guardian and the paramedics, though not
exactly what you needed, did at least help maintain your body’s viability. What
you really needed was a slow, steady feed of solar energy—the equivalent of
rewarming a near-drowning victim. I believe that would have eventually brought
you back.” Hamilton plopped his glasses back on his nose. “But like an idiot, I
let them bury you!”
Superman could almost feel the light bulb click on over his head. No wonder
Emil’s upset.
“There must, however, be some unknown factors that I haven’t been able to
account for. I hope you won’t think me morbid, but I charted an energy depletion
graph, based on what I’d learned about your powers and physiology.” Emil
adjusted the computer monitor as the graph came up on screen. “Now, unless
I’ve made a grievous error in compiling my data, your body’s energy levels
should have dropped below the point of no return weeks ago.”
Hamilton tapped that point on the screen. From the computed time-line
Superman could see that it came well before the Eradicator had placed him,
finally, in the Regeneration Matrix.
Emil shook his head. “I don’t understand how your body stayed viable, locked
away underground for as long as it was—away from light or any other source of
energy, for that matter.”
“I don’t know, Professor. Perhaps some outside agency intervened . . .”

Lois looked at Superman. “Maybe two agencies. From what Supergirl told me
about that setup she found you in at the Cadmus Project, you were getting a
pretty thorough bath of full-spectrum light there.”
“I know.” Superman looked amused. “I’ve been thinking of sending Paul
Westfield a thank-you note.”
“Don’t kid about this!” Lois hugged him tightly. “The professor wasn’t the
only one who overlooked the obvious. I knew that your powers depended on
solar energy, and I didn’t make the connection either. We could have lost you for
good—just from ignorance.”
“Now, don’t you start!” Superman cupped her chin in his hand. “You’re not to
blame any more than the professor was. It took me half an hour to convince him
that I didn’t want to knock his block off. I had a close call, but lots of people
have close calls. We’ve all learned from this, but for now it’s over.” He looked
at Lois quizzically. “You said ‘two agencies.’ What, besides the Cadmus
factor?”
“Well, call me superstitious, but Jonathan was convinced that he met you on
the other side and made you fight your way back.”
Superman got a faraway look. “I do remember seeing Pa, but . . . I don’t
know. I just don’t know. I doubt that I’ll ever know.” He peered down into her
eyes and smiled. “What’s important is that we’re both alive and well. There’s a
lot of living I want to do with you, Ms. Lane.”
“Why, thank you, Mr. Kent! Same here.” Her smile was easily a match for
his. “But we still have a lot of loose ends to tie up. You have two lives to get in
order, after all. And eventually you’re going to have to make some sort of public
statement about your rebirth—or rather, your premature burial. Otherwise,
cultists will follow you wherever you go!”
Superman smiled innocently. “I’ll give you the exclusive interview.” He bent
down and kissed the tip of her nose. “I’m sure it will all work out. But for now,
I’m tired of planning battle strategies; I want to plan a wedding! We still haven’t
set a date.”
“Shhh . . . we can do that tomorrow.” She returned his kiss on the lips. “Right
now I want to get you out of that cape and into glasses and a jacket. Then, I want
Italian food and a long, long walk with my fiancé.”
“Italian food, eh?” Superman glanced out the window. “I know a great little
place in Salerno.”
Moments later, the curtains fluttered, and they were gone.
Epilogue

Far out in deep space, a lonely meteor tumbled away from the Earth, away from
the solar system, bearing off across the universe the body of the creature called
Doomsday.
He was bound tight. There was no air for him to breathe. No food or water to
sustain him. It was impossible for him to be alive.
But his fingers twitched. His eyes blinked open. He raised his head and looked
about him. He opened his mouth wide, and his chest heaved. Had there been air
present, he would have laughed.
For now, there was nothing ahead of him but the void.
Slowly, the creature closed his eyes. He would sleep and wait for his
surroundings to change. And when they did, when he again had something to
destroy, something to kill, then he would fight to break his bonds.
Then, he would be free . . . oh, yes. It was all just a matter of time . . .
ABOUT THE AUTHOR

ROGER STERN is a veteran writer with more than seventeen years’ experience
in the comics industry. Among the titles he has scripted are Action Comics, Alan
Scott: Green Lantern, Power of the Atom, and the text for a series of ninety
trading cards produced by SkyBox International commemorating the death of
Superman, all for DC Comics. He has also scripted The Amazing Spider-Man,
The Incredible Hulk, Captain America, and Fantastic Four, for Marvel Comics,
written Superman: The Man of Steel Sourcebook for Mayfair Games, and several
graphic novels, including Superman for Earth. He was also the chief writer on
the DC Comics magazine Newstime. Mr. Stern lives and works in upstate New
York with his wife, Carmela Merlo.