Cat and Lois climbed into Cat’s Porsche and pointed it toward the EPRAD maintenance facilities. Ever since the shuttle had caught fire and burned on the launch pad five days earlier during an engine test, Lois had insisted that the slightly crazy Samuel Platt was more right than anyone would admit. Cat wasn’t as certain, but she did agree that there was probably a real story there somewhere. Just what it was, though, was drifting out of reach in the fuzzy fog of speculation.
Cat expertly spun the steering wheel and accelerated down the interstate. “Tell me again what Captain Letterman told you about Platt’s warning.”
“Hasn’t changed in the last week.”
“Please, refresh my memory. I don’t want to ask any stupid questions if I can avoid them.”
Lois sighed. “Fine. Letterman said that Platt came to him about five AM the morning of the engine test and warned him that the shuttle would catch fire at about thirty percent power. Letterman told him that the coolant bands wouldn’t let that happen, that it would take a static application of over seventy percent power to generate that much heat. Platt insisted that the shuttle was a deathtrap because the coolant bands weren’t installed correctly, that they’d retain the engine heat instead of conducting it away from the fuel tanks. Letterman sent Platt on his way, but got cold feet about being in the shuttle during the test and convinced the crew to stay on the ground with him while they ran the test using the remote controls. They did, the shuttle burned, and Platt gave me a copy of his notes to back up his story.”
“Which you can’t read because they’re basically gibberish.”
“The data is in those notes, Cat. I know it is. I had Jimmy take copies of them to a buddy of his at STAR Labs. They’ll back us up.”
Cat took the exit next to the EPRAD base and frowned. “I sure hope so. Assuming they can make some sense out of them.”
“I bet we get something from the project director. His name is Anthony Baines, isn’t it?”
“He’s not a he, he’s a she, and her name is Antoinette. Supposed to be a tough nut to crack.”
“I know I can—”
“No, Lois, you let me do the talking. She responds well to men or friendly women.”
“I can be friendly!”
“Only with a live grenade in your hand. See the sign? Government facility, no weapons allowed. You’ll have to deposit your firearm with the security officers at the entrance.”
Lois crossed her arms and huffed. “I won’t give it to them.”
Cat slowly reduced their speed as they approached the plant entrance. “I’m pretty sure they have your picture on the wall of the front gate shack from the last time you were armed and tried to enter the facility. They won’t let you in if you’re carrying your Beretta. Now be a good civilian and surrender your weapon. You’ll get it back when we leave.”
“I’m not carrying the Beretta.”
“Whatever weapon you have with you, then. I’m sure there aren’t any snipers on the grounds anywhere.”
“I sure hope not.”
“I doubt that we have any real cause to worry.” Cat pulled into a parking space and turned off the engine. “And if we hit a brick wall with Baines, I’ll let you take a crack at her. I’m pretty certain you could take her bare-handed.”
*****
The gorilla at the front gate reluctantly handed Cat and Lois over to EPRAD senior director Toni Baines just inside the fence line. The blonde with the plastic smile led the reporters to a small interview room beside her office and seated the two women. “Are either of you ladies thirsty? We have a plentiful assortment of carbonated beverages, or I can have some ice water brought in for you.”
Cat and Lois exchanged a glance, then Cat replied, “No, we’re both good, Dr. Baines. We’d just like to get this interview over with. We know you’re quite busy.”
The doctor’s return smile encompassed both women but focused on Cat. “In that case, ladies, let’s begin.”
Cat led out in the interview. “Dr. Baines, is it true that Captain Letterman was threatened with termination from the shuttle team and expulsion from the space program for refusing to board the shuttle for that last test?”
Baines’ smile made Lois want to drop her pen and notebook so she could reach for her weapon – which she had been forced to check at the main gate. “Ms. Grant, even if you were later justified by your actions, would your boss not be upset at you if you refused an assignment?”
“Are you admitting that Captain Letterman was disciplined for his actions?”
Baines’ smile dimmed slightly. “I am admitting nothing because there’s nothing to admit. Captain Neil Letterman was not fired, suspended, grounded, or reassigned. He will pilot the colonists’ transport when it launches for rendezvous with the space station next week.”
“Is there a similar danger of fire in the transport?”
“No, there’s no danger.”
“Don’t the shuttle and the transport use the same engine design, which would include the same engine flaw or flaws which caused the shuttle fire?”
The blonde’s smile vanished, then was obviously forced to return to her face. “That’s why we have the backup shuttle and its booster engines in our hanger, undergoing a full and complete inspection. The next time the shuttle launches – and when the transport launches – there will be no danger of fire, either on the launch pad or during the flight.”
“So what you’re saying now is that you did a static engine test on a flawed shuttle which you knew carried a dangerous fire risk?”
“No! I’m not saying anything like that!” Baines visibly forced herself to relax. “Please don’t put words in my mouth and then accuse me of being negligent.”
“Actually,” Lois said, “my associate was asking whether you were deliberately sabotaging the project or just criminally incompetent.”
Baines leaped to her feet and snarled, “This interview is over! I’ll have security escort you out. Ms. – Lane, is it?” Lois nodded silently. “Your weapon – which you do not need and will never need while at any EPRAD facility – will be returned to you outside the grounds. And the next time you come here, I strongly suggest that you leave your insinuations and slanders in your own office!”
They stood to follow Baines out the door. As they approached the hallway, Lois pulled her hair back above her ear on one side and tapped her earlobe to indicate that there might be a listening device in the car or on one of them. Cat saw it and licked her lips, which was their silent code for “message received.”
The stern-faced guard took back their visitors’ passes, gave Lois her weapon, and opened the gate for them. They were in the parking lot, about halfway to Cat’s Porsche, when Lois asked, “You want to go to lunch now or after the helicopter ride over the facility?”
Cat cut her eyes Lois’ way. They certainly did not have a copter ride planned, so Lois was still concerned about listening ears. “Let’s have an early lunch,” she said. “I can tolerate those low passes better when there’s something in my tummy.”
“Okay.” She hefted her weapon – which was her backup pistol, a .40-cal Glock Model 23 – and frowned at it. Cat tilted her head in a silent query, but Lois gave her back a tiny shake which meant that they’d talk about it later.
Lois climbed into the passenger seat and laid the weapon in her lap. Cat fired up the engine and put some rubber on the asphalt as they left.
Over the engine and wind noise, Lois shouted, “I think I need to go to the range and run a box of ammo through this weapon. You want to come with?”
Cat grinned back. “Sure. How about this evening after work? I’m free.”
“You’re free? You, the social butterfly?” She dropped the magazine into her hand and worked the slide to release the round in the chamber.
“Tuesday is not usually a great date night.”
Lois’s left hand pushed the cartridges from the fifteen-round magazine into her lap. “True. You want to rent a Colt Model 29 revolver like you did last time?”
“Ha! No way. That forty-four Magnum nearly broke my wrist and dislocated my shoulder. I’ll stick to my Smith & Wesson nine millimeter, if you please.”
“Yeah, that .44 Mag is a whale of a cartridge.”
“You told me you can stop a car with it and I believe it.”
Lois moved one cartridge to her pocket and began loading the rest back into the magazine. “You can, but if the guys inside are armed or if the car’s full of C4 or Semtex, you want your sniper with the .50-caliber Barrett to hit it from a thousand yards away. You can’t shoot C4 and blow it up, but you can shoot the detonator and trigger it indirectly. A car full of explosives and ball bearings is like a really big shotgun, or a Civil War-era muzzle loading cannon firing grapeshot. It vaporizes people.”
“Yech. Lois, can we talk about something more pleasant? Like Ralph?”
They laughed together as they pulled into the nearest Denny’s parking lot.
*****
Baines frowned at the technician, whose name she didn’t know or care to remember. “You mean they’re just talking about target shooting?”
The man shook his head and pulled his headphones back from his ears. “Shooting guns at a range and going to lunch. Not even gossiping about men.”
“What about the helicopter they mentioned?”
The man frowned. “I can’t be sure, of course, but I think they know we’re listening to them. The chopper probably doesn’t exist. And if they fire the round with the transmitter inside, it’ll disintegrate on impact. All we’d need to do then is send someone to retrieve the relay from under the car and no one will ever know about it.”
Baines crossed her arms and walked slowly around the room, thinking hard. She didn’t like the solution – mainly because they’d gained no real advantage by risking use of this new technology – but she also couldn’t see the downside of doing as the man suggested.
She turned to see him watching her. She nodded at him and said, “Shut down the bug and retrieve the relay. Make it happen.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
*****
At lunch, Lois held the round from her weapon up for Cat to see, then said, “Did you know that British scientist Michael Faraday is partly responsible for the invention of the solid-body electric guitar?”
More misdirection. Cat wanted the whole story now, not just little dribs and drabs delivered between the cracks of their cover discussion. But she still shook her head and asked, “How is that possible? I thought he lived in the early nineteenth century.”
“He did. But he theorized – and then proved – that if you passed a metal wire through a magnetic field and vibrated it, the changing magnetic field would produce a low-level electric current. That’s how guitar pickups work. The magnetic field from the pickup generates a low-level signal when the string is vibrated—” without stopping her narrative, she reached out and dropped the round into her glass of water “—and that should take care of that quite effectively.”
“Okay to talk?” Cat whispered.
“Sure. Our bug is drowning as we speak.”
“Finally. First of all, how do you know which bullet held the bug?”
“Well, first, the brass was a little too shiny for the make of ammo I use. And the round itself wasn’t balanced like the real ones. Plus there’s less powder in it. If I had fired it, it probably would have sounded and acted like a partial misfire or a slow detonation. And the projectile, which is where the mini transmitter is, would be destroyed. The big clue is that the weapon is a .40-cal and the cartridge is a nine-millimeter. If I had tried to fire it, best case is that the weapon wouldn’t have discharged. The cartridge wouldn’t quite fit in the breech.” She lifted her glass and swirled the round at the bottom. “I’ll help Jimmy disassemble it and let him try to track down the manufacturer, but I suspect it’s either a custom job or something someone very technical built just for this kind of thing.” She lifted her tea spoon and fished the cartridge out.
Cat frowned, thinking. “There can’t be that many places where you could get the parts for one of those. I mean, it’s not going to be hanging from a wall peg at Spies ‘R’ Us.”
“No. There’s LuthorTech, STAR Labs, the NSA, and maybe EPRAD.”
“What about that place where Jimmy’s dad works?”
“Oh, yeah, I forgot about the NIA. I’ll see if Jimmy has any contacts there. You know he doesn’t get along with his dad all that well.”
Cat grinned. “Why not have Jimmy pitch it to his dad as the beginning of a beautiful friendship?”
Lois grinned back. “That just might work. You know, you’re pretty good with the people stuff. Lots better than I am.”
Cat picked up her tea and held it in front of her. “And you’re really good with the hardware I don’t know much about. I didn’t even think about the possibility of a bug in your weapon until you pulled the magazine.”
Lois lifted her tea and reached to tap Cat’s glass. “To a continuingly productive symbiotic relationship.”
“Hear, hear.”
*****
Jimmy checked his camera and decided he had enough shots for Perry to choose from. He turned and saw the new guy flipping through his notebook, apparently making the same decision. He’d done a good job covering the opening of the new shopping mall.
“Mr. Kent?” Jimmy called out. “You about ready to go?”
“Sure, Jim,” the new guy answered. “Just some last-minute checking. I want to make sure I have everything I need.”
“You got today’s date, of course.”
“Of course.”
“The number of stores already moved in and the names of the major ones?”
“Check and check.”
“The date the parking structure is supposed to be open for business?”
“Contractor says next Tuesday. We’ll see.”
“Quotes from store managers and excited customers?”
“Five of the first, eleven of the second.”
Jimmy nodded. “Sounds to me like you have it surrounded, Mr. Kent. You just need to write it up and hand it in.”
“Thanks. Hey, you know, I think our relationship would work more smoothly if we were both on a first-name basis, not just me.”
Jimmy smiled. “Sounds fine to me. Mind if I call you CK instead of Clark?”
“Why CK?”
“Because those are your initials and because if someone leaves a note for CK on your desk you’ll know it was me. Besides, ‘Clark’ sounds a little bit dorky, and if anyone’s a dork, it’s not you.”
CK smiled back. “That sounds like a plan to me, Jim. Hey, is Jim okay or do you prefer JO?”
“Just ‘Jimmy’ if you don’t mind. Call me JO and it sounds like you’re spelling—”
“Help! Help us, somebody!”
The cry cut across the chaos on the ground floor. Both men snapped their eyes around to find the source of the cry, but by the time Jimmy lifted his camera to take the shot, CK was up on the mezzanine level holding to the leg of one boy of about ten and leaning out across the bannister to grab the other boy’s arm. They seemed to be about the same age, so their parents were probably nearby. Jimmy lowered his lens and took six quick crowd shots, then returned his and his camera’s focus to the panicked boys above him, still marveling at how quickly his new friend had moved.
He was surprised to see Clark leaning further out than Jimmy would have believed possible, one hand locked on each boy. Then he realized that two other men were holding CK still, one on his leg and one with a death grip on his suit coat. Together they rolled Clark back over the bannister, pulling the two boys with him. When the boys were both safe and wrapped up in what he assumed were their mothers’ embraces, Jimmy took three more crowd shots of the applause on the lower floor and emptied his film roll with five more of the two men holding CK’s hands with one arm each and hugging their families with the other. Clark seemed almost embarrassed by the attention, especially when one woman shoved the boy she was holding into the closest man’s arms and reached up to hug Clark.
As quickly as he could, Jimmy dropped in a fresh roll of film and took several more shots of the crowd above and below applauding Clark enthusiastically. Then he bounded up the escalator as quickly as the people-traffic jam would allow.
When he got within earshot of the kids and the adults he assumed were their parents, he heard one man say, “Sir, that was fantastic! You saved my son’s life. Let me do something for you.”
“Oh, no, that’s not necessary.”
“But it is! Here.” He fished a business card out of his shirt pocket and handed it to Clark. “I hope you can use this.”
The other man grinned and said, “Free advertising, Wally?”
The first man reached up and put his arm around Clark’s shoulders. “A ‘thank-you’ for a job well done, Press. He deserves it.”
Clark read the card and burst into laughter. “Thank you! Our newsroom practically runs on coffee and doughnuts, so someone will definitely be in contact with you soon.”
Press tilted his head to one side. “You’re a reporter?”
Clark nodded. “My photographer and I were here to cover the mall opening, and I’m glad we were.” He reached out and tousled both boys’ hair. “Now they’ll have a chance to find some other place to risk getting hurt.”
Wally’s boy ducked behind his mother, but Press’ son shook his head. “No, sir. No more stupid bets for us.”
Press dropped his left hand to his son’s shoulder. “We’ll have a long talk with each of them, just to make sure.” He lifted his right hand to Clark. “At least let me shake your hand, sir.”
“Of course. And the name is Clark Kent of the Daily Planet.”
Wally waited until Press released Clark’s hand, then shook it himself. “Will this be in the paper, Mr. Kent?”
“Well, it is news, and everything happened in public, so, yes. But unless you give us explicit permission to print your names and likenesses, no one who wasn’t here will know who you are from what we use.” He looked up and pointed at Jimmy. “Isn’t that so, Jim?”
Jimmy had a choice to make. This was a public event, so it was fair game for any news outlet, including any photos where these people appeared. But Clark had just said that they wouldn’t identify them without the subject’s permission, a guarantee that Perry would not like but would stand behind.
He hesitated, then said, “That’s right. Just what CK said.”
At the puzzled expressions of the two families, Clark explained, “He calls me CK. They’re my initials, and he’s still into making up cool nicknames for people.”
Everyone but Press grinned. He laughed aloud. “Well, Mr. CK, do you want to interview us now?”
Clark smiled and nodded. “If I have everyone’s permission, yes.” He turned to the mothers. “Ladies?”
Both women smiled at him. Wally’s wife said, “You just saved my son’s life. You can ask me whatever you want to ask.”
The other woman lifted an index finger. “About this incident, mind you. I’m not discussing my sex life with you.”
Press’ son turned beet-red. “Mom! Please, not in public!”
Wally’s son shook his head and gave his own mother an exasperated huff. “How about not anywhere I can hear about it?”
*****
Clark was a bit surprised at Jimmy’s silence during the cab ride back to the Planet. After trying to start conversations about their adventure that day and getting shut down three times, he finally asked, “What’s the matter, Jimmy? Did I do something wrong?”
Jimmy crossed his arms. “I don’t know how the chief is going to react to this.”
“To what? Me rescuing a couple of ten-year-olds?”
“The fact that you did it is fine. I mean, you couldn’t let those kids fall all that way if you could stop it. They could have been killed and you saved them. It’s just – look, reporters are supposed to report the news, not make the news. You made news today.”
Clark’s voice hardened. “There’s no way I could have done anything else. If I’m ever in that situation again or one like it, I’ll act.”
“I know, I know! And Perry won’t get mad about that – I don’t think. I don’t see how he could, anyway. But he might get mad about that promise you made not to use those folks’ names in the story.”
“I believe it should be their choice to have their names printed.”
“Yeah, well, we’re lucky they didn’t mind. Next time, though, you need to print their names unless they specifically state that they don’t want what they say on the record without you asking about it. There’s no law that says they have to tell you who they are, but what happened today is news, and the law doesn’t prevent us from printing the names of people who make the news.”
Clark sighed. “I guess it’s different in the big city.” He held up his notebook. “But won’t Perry be happy with what I write and what you photographed?”
“I’m pretty sure he’ll be thrilled. But you got lucky today. Everything worked out for the best. If something had gone wrong, though, like if one of those kids had panicked and fallen after you got there, the paper could be sued for all kinds of things. Just keep that in mind when Perry congratulates you about the story and then rips you a new one for letting your mouth write checks your job title can’t cash.”
*****
After Perry’s quite thorough gluteus maximus-chewing, Clark sat at his desk to type up the story. The first pass was just a basic outline, and it gave him a chance to mull over what had happened and how it made him feel.
He’d saved two pre-teen boys from serious injury or possibly even death. He’d prevented their parents from agonizing over their injuries and blaming themselves. That was all to the good.
He’d also risked exposing his differences and special skills, the ones he labored to keep under wraps. He’d hazarded his job at the Planet by becoming the news instead of reporting the news. He’d put any possibility of establishing a home with close friends and a long-term place to lay his head in jeopardy. That was all to the bad.
Given the same set of circumstances, though, he knew he’d choose to save people over protecting himself. He’d done it before. Of course, that’s why he’d left Borneo and the Ukraine and Bangladesh and South Africa. People had begun to look at him as if he were some other species of life-form, something that wasn’t human, something to be feared or, in one case among the Aborigines of central Australia, something to be worshipped.
The choice to leave those places had been forced on him.
And he didn’t want that to happen in Metropolis. He’d finally found a city he could call home, a place where he could put down roots and grow.
It was a place where he could actually belong.
The allusion to his parents’ farm didn’t escape him. Not only had they put down deep roots, they grew crops with deep roots that anchored them to the soil and nurtured them. Clark had never felt the love of the land that his parents knew, but he understood what it was and how much he yearned for it.
The thought both comforted him and pulled at him. How could he do both? How could he be both deeply rooted and an alien in the midst of humanity? It was almost as if he was being split in two.
Split in two—
Now that was something to consider.
The concept bounced around in his brain long enough to take root. He’d have to think about it more deeply, discuss it with his parents, and try to resolve the dilemma upon whose horns he was currently impaled.
His thoughts also distracted him from the story he was trying to write. It wasn’t until his computer flashed on the screen saver that he realized how long he’d sat there with a dopey expression on his face.
His attack on the article took form quickly and was executed efficiently. Some twelve minutes later, he saved the file and sent it to the editor. Twenty-three minutes later, Perry walked out of his office wearing a satisfied smile and gave Clark a thumbs-up.
His feature had passed the editor test. Now he had time to think about the stern brunette – Lois Lane – and wonder why she’d had such an impact on him.
