Lauren looked at her story, posted as the lead on the Tribune's web page. It was good to take a few moments to savor the event. A few seconds later, she made herself turn elsewhere, and got back to work.
“Lauren! He was at the airliner!”
She looked up at Emily, and shook her head. “What airliner?”
“The airliner that made the miraculous emergency landing two hours ago, near Boston. It was headed in to Logan Airport when the right wing fell off.”
“The right wing fell off?”
“Yeah. And they landed. No fatalities.”
“That's impo—” Lauren took a breath. “Right. Did you talk to the passengers?”
“They're still being held at the airfield. I couldn't get the head investigator, one Michael O'Malley, but I did get one of his assistant investigators, Aaron Richberg, who admitted that a lot of the passengers are claiming that Superman pulled the plane out of the dive.”
“What time was the airliner accident?”
Emily looked down at her notes. “4:42 PM Eastern.”
Lauren looked at her own notes. “The ER visit in Boston was at 4:49 PM Eastern, according to the nurse. The New York sightings were scattered over the next hour. Then here. What was he doing before that?” she wondered aloud.
“Hey, look!” Emily pointed at one of the news monitors. “CNN is picking up the story!”
⛉ s ⛉
After the car crash came a holdup at a convenience store; after the store, a mugging. Clark left a would-be rapist entangled in a fire escape's iron bars, then embarrassed himself mightily by intruding on what he thought was another rape in progress; it took a minute to work out that the woman was willing. Clark didn't know the relevant local statutes and didn't want to know, either; blushing, he took his leave. For a while he flew slowly, looking at litter, graffiti, and abandoned trash.
This town is…dirtier than the Metropolis I know. Clark pondered. How different is this world? No WatchTower. My powers are different. No Wayne Industries, no LuthorCorp. Something happened differently during the Great Depression. What? How does everyone know who I am? Could I really be merely a story here?
Maybe…maybe a seer looked from this world into mine, saw events in my world, and wrote it down as a story. That would make sense. I should look up when my “story” was first created, and by whom. Maybe that would give me a lead on some magicians.
Clark debated heading back to Boston. He still didn't know whether the old man had survived. It was probably time for Clark Kent to put in an appearance.
⛉ s ⛉
There was still the matter of getting clothes. For that, he needed local currency. Clark changed course towards the waterfront.
After a few minutes of searching, he found no coal bins at all, so he settled for a few chunks of graphite, then flew off to experiment. He didn't know how things worked around here, and thought it better to practice in private.
It turned out that he did have trouble. The graphite did not turn easily into diamond; in fact, several minutes of squeezing as hard as he could only managed to crystallize about five percent of it, as far as X-ray vision could determine. He tried to supplement the pressure with heat, but once again his eyes experienced searing pain and he felt momentarily weak.
Right. No using the heat vision until I figure out what's wrong.
Clark contemplated his options. He had already figured out that his senses, while still powerful, were not as sharp as they were back home. There seemed to be a limit to his hearing range: he couldn't pick out a conversation at much over half a mile, even if he concentrated. There was a sort of background hiss when he tried to hear softer sounds. Something about the air here? He'd have to ask a local scientist. More relevant to his current predicament, his X-ray vision seemed to be stopped by appreciable rock just as well as by lead, which meant he couldn't prospect for precious metals and dig them out for quick money.
Unless…
Clark smiled, and dove into Lake Michigan, scanning the bottom for shipwrecks.
⛉ s ⛉
Michael O'Malley hung up the phone, having chewed out and threatened the Air Force spokesman to such an extent that news of his demands should spread far and wide through the military rumor mill. He was sending those clowns a message, and they'd damned well better receive it: Michael O'Malley was not going to be stopped from investigating any secret Air Force jetpack project without direct instructions from his lawful superiors. He would take a cryptic answer, but by God, he would get an answer.
Aaron came in. “Are we through with the passengers?” Michael nodded, and Aaron looked much relieved. “Great. I'll tell them they can go. The base commander wants a word with you—something about not allowing trucks and buses on base. I think he's offering military transport if he can just get the civilians off his base ASAP. Understandable, I guess.”
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
“I'm glad something is,” Michael answered him.
⛉ s ⛉
Clark knew how to get information; a few casual questions about the store rent, and the cost of a meal at the nearest burger joint, was enough to help him figure out the value of a dollar in this world. A few gold coins at the dealer's was plenty to get him clothing inconspicuous enough to enable him to earn money for ordinary work. Still in costume, he flew to an alley next to the Salvation Army, then simply walked out and entered on foot. If they thought he was just a story, he could take advantage of that fact.
A few minutes later, he was dressed in cheap clothing over his costume, having taken some good-natured teasing. A walk of several blocks brought him to a department store, where he bought a gray business suit, proper shoes, and a hat; he changed clothes again in an alley, caught a bus, and donated the old clothes back to the Salvation Army. A stop in a costume store got him a pair of zero-prescription glasses, and he began to feel almost normal. The main strangeness was not being able to use the name “Clark Kent.”
After a moment's thought, he decided upon “Calvin Ellis.”
The public library wasn't all that different from the one back home; a bit underfunded, perhaps. Reference texts at the ready, Clark settled down with a copy of that day's Chicago Tribune.
A few minutes later, Clark was speed-reading the past two weeks of news in growing alarm. Shortly after that, he was hunting up “The Year in Review” digests. Then it was history texts: as Lauren had surmised, the history seemed to match just fine up until the Great Depression. A flip through some science magazines showed startling progress in some areas and surprising gaps in others. This world was frankly a mess, politically and environmentally. In his reading, one point stood out clearly.
No superheroes.
No time machines, no parallel dimensions—no contact with aliens of any kind, Kryptonian or otherwise. The phone book listed startlingly few scientists and magicians, though there seemed to be plenty of psychics. He would have to consult one soon; they would probably smell the magic coming off of him. If he tried one at random, they might not be talented enough to help him, however.
Clark nodded to himself. He knew which magician he needed to consult. It was time to find out whether that was still possible. He stood, and carefully replaced all of the library materials, and straightened the chairs at his table, then walked over to the librarian, hat held over his chest. “Thank you very much, ma'am, for your kind assistance.”
“Did you find everything you were looking for?”
“No, ma'am, but that in itself was very informative. Good day.”
Out in the alley, Clark scanned quickly with X-ray vision to be sure no one was looking his way, then—
Rip!
Clark stopped abruptly, staring in surprise at the remains of his hat. The sleeve seemed to have survived, fortunately. Poor construction? Upon examination, that was part of the problem, but only part. More of the local strangeness. Slowly, Clark took off his suit and folded it carefully. Would it fit flat into his cape pouch, as he sometimes did back home? The cloth seemed to be okay, but the shoes and glasses were crushed into uselessness when the cape snapped shut.
Well, he had the entire flight to Boston to think up an excuse for why he had no shoes.
⛉ s ⛉
“What's the latest?” Lauren asked, having been summoned to Philip's desk.
“News on the street says our Boy in Blue has been getting around.” Philip consulted his notes. “An alleged rapist was found tied up with iron from a fire escape. They're using blowtorches to get him out. A quick sighting at the hospital—car accident victim. My informant wanted to know if this is a clever police gimmick, something to scare the more gullible criminals in town into taking a day off.”
“That would be clever,” Lauren conceded.
“A lot of people are taking a wait-and-see attitude. They know something's up, but they're not willing to believe the Man of Steel is roaming around Chicago. I can't say I blame them.”
“Me, either. Did anything come of the department store idea?”
“Nope. No Superman sightings in men's clothing. Maybe he just went whoosh, and grabbed what he needed without being seen.”
“What else does he need? What would Superman do, stranded in a strange world with no home?”
Philip shrugged. “Fly north and build a big Kryptonian igloo?”
⛉ s ⛉
The Salvation Army clerk looked at his business suit and stockinged feet and raised an eyebrow. Clark gave a self-deprecating smile. “Ever get your shoes stolen while trying out rollerblades?” he asked wryly. “I just need something to wear out of here.”
“In the back.”
A couple of stores later, “Calvin Ellis” was back in business, complete with a small black suitcase. Clark changed back into costume, and headed for the hospital after memorizing a street map. On arrival, the only place he could change back that was free from observation was the roof. He made his way down into the areas open to the public with a minimum of fuss: his breath was still good for creating diversions, at least.
He bought a local paper in the gift shop before approaching the Information Desk. “Hello.”
“May I help you?”
“Yes, I was hoping to find out the condition of one of your patients.”
“Name?”
“He's a John Doe, I believe. The one Superman brought in a few hours ago.”
The woman looked at him suspiciously, and frowned.
“I mean a man dressed up as Superman. He carried the old man into the ER, and I was hoping for a report on his condition.”
“And you are?”
“Calvin Ellis; I'm with the Boston Globe.” Technically true: he'd chosen the name, and there was a copy of the Globe under his arm.
“You'll need to ask at the nurse's station.” She gave him directions, and a map with the destination circled; it was a very sensible arrangement for a large place full of potentially very upset and distracted people. Clark thanked her and made his way down the hall.
At the nurse's station, Clark asked after the old man. The nurse on duty stared at him and started blushing; Clark smiled at her. She looked down, biting her lip. “The one brought in by, uh, the man dressed up as Superman, you said?”
“That's right.”
“I'm afraid we haven't been able to contact the next of kin yet, so we can't give out any information on his condition.”
“But he's alive?”
“Yes. He was resuscitated successfully.”
Clark let out a sigh of relief. “Glad to hear it. But if he's a John Doe, how will you find the next of kin?”
“Oh, he's not a John Doe. He had identification on him, just not Emergency contact information.”
“I see. Well, when he wakes, if you could tell him that—” Clark started to reach into his inner pocket for a business card before he remembered where he was. He didn't have any contact information! He needed a telephone. “That a friend would like to visit with him at his earliest convenience.”
“Do you want to leave a number?”
“I just realized that I don't have one in this city yet. I'll have to check back.”
“Please do,” the nurse replied in a quiet voice.
Clark smiled and left. His next stop would be the old man's apartment; it was time to give his point of origin a more thorough inspection.