Sarah Goldberg climbed onto the bus with a final glance back at the airplane. She was torn between wondering at the miracle of her survival, and mundane concerns about how long it would take to get her luggage back. Dad probably still had lots of her old stuff in storage; she just needed to stop by the drugstore for half a dozen things. It was too bad she hadn't been able to reach him by phone; he was probably worried sick.
⛉ s ⛉
Clark stood on a rooftop, looking over the neighborhood. The window was still open, but it wasn't accessible by fire escape. He debated the merits of a low profile versus having to break in past the door. He decided to risk being spotted; he might need to be on this magician's good side later on. He flew over and ducked inside quickly, closing the window behind him and pulling the shade.
The room was as he remembered it, but darker. Clark changed, then switched on a light. A television was running, showing some channel called “CNN.” There were a couple of easy chairs, one covered in books; a low table, spread with papers and notebooks; walls lined with books on floor-to-ceiling shelves. Clark looked for ritual equipment, candles, diagrams, or magical paraphernalia. Nothing seemed out and ready to use.
Clark roamed the apartment. One bedroom for the man, simple, almost spartan, bed made half-heartedly. Another bedroom for a young woman, only half-decorated, tidy but somewhat dusty. A small kitchen, ordinary bathroom, entrance hall with a coat rack holding a single coat. A small office, which looked promising.
The office had hand-drawn posters on the walls: one depicting a pentagram, another the Cabalistic Tree of Life, another some complicated drawing that looked vaguely like a circuit diagram labeled in Latin. More books nearly filled the room aside from a central desk large enough to draw on with poster-sized paper.
He scanned the shelves. Lots of occult titles. A few science books on quantum mechanics. A great many philosophy texts. Books on numerology mixed with books on mathematics, of the sort a person might use to teach themselves more math than they had received in school. And there were many notebooks.
Clark found that the notebooks were dated, and went back decades. Each handwritten, they seemed full of philosophical musings and strange diagrams. They were mostly in chronological order, filling more than a shelf, but several were missing. The whole place had a level of disarray consistent with regular use; volumes were pulled out, leaving gaps, stacked into short piles, a few laid atop the shelf where they belonged, as if the owner had not quite had enough energy to spare to put the book away properly but wanted to be able to find it again.
Clark looked for correspondence; it would be helpful to contact some of this man's colleagues. While he found a number of bills addressed to Murray Goldberg, and a few advertisements for Sarah Goldberg, there didn't seem to be anything of a personal nature. A few pictures on the wall told a simple story: old pictures of the man and a woman of about the same age, pictures of them with a small girl all dimples and raven curls, then more recent pictures of the dark-haired girl dressed for a prom.
Then he spotted a computer in the corner: while most of it was dusty, the keyboard was not. Aha. He had been misled by all the handwritten material. He started up the machine. It took a surprisingly long time to start, and presented him with a password prompt. Clark frowned. It would be hard to guess without knowing more about the man. He shut the machine back down, and tried to figure out what materials had been used most recently. In particular, he wanted to find the last notebook.
⛉ s ⛉
Isn't there anything from Skywatch?” Listening to the denial over the phone, Doug rubbed his forehead. Three hours of exciting mystery were starting to take a toll. He took another sip of tepid coffee and grimaced. “Well, get back to me the minute you find anything, please. Thanks.” He hung up.
The Midwest detector was going nuts with neutrinos. Japan was reporting strong signals, but at roughly a percent the strength found in Michigan. The European instruments had an intermediate signal. That alone made no sense. Detector efficiency should not vary over two orders of magnitude; the technology was too similar.
The gravitational radiation data were nearly useless. After an initial spike on all the detectors, the signal was gradually sinking back into noise. There was no way to get a direction in the sky; gravitational radiation detector technology simply was not up to the task. The GR wave detector data amounted to, “Something! Yes, something!” being shouted at the world's physicists.
It made no sense. Why wasn't anything in the sky lighting up like a flare?
⛉ s ⛉
Clark settled into the chair, hearing it creak slightly as it took his full weight. The most recent notebook lay open in his lap. He was puzzled. Murray Goldberg made no mention of summoning him, or even planning to or considering it. He kept referring to “the light”—a phrase that could and did mean almost anything in occult philosophy. However, the long speculations seemed interspersed with terse entries that sounded more…applied.
Moved the light in slow circles, lost it after several minutes. Very tiring, read one of the last entries. An earlier entry stated, Today I was able to move the light. There was a tangible resistance of some kind. Clark flipped back several pages. Photographic evidence. Useless to convince anyone else; they'll call it fakery. But it tells me at least that I'm not imagining all this.
Clark tried to read the long intervening essays, but they made no sense to him: Due to the darkness of the number twelve in conjunction with the weave of the Spider, the feelings are orange—and may be green as well… He simply didn't have the context, or know the code.
He leaned back and closed his eyes, trying to organize his own thoughts. I need to find out why I'm here. I need to figure out more about “here”, this world, and how I…exist here. And I need to figure out how to get home. Metropolis can get by without me for a little while, but eventually, there will be trouble. Criminals will realize their opportunity sooner or later.
Automatically, forgetting where he was, Clark opened his ears and listened for trouble, as he was wont to do periodically. The television program was perfectly audible to him, even muted, due to residual voltages in the circuits. A wash of sound poured over him, conversations from all over this part of Boston: college students arguing in dorm rooms, waiters taking orders in restaurants, drivers cursing in traffic, Perry telling Lois, “He's probably looking into the Carshen Fund paper trail.”
Clark sat bolt upright, straining to hear; the sound vanished. He tried again listening to everything, then more carefully picked the sound of Lois' voice out of the sonic maelstrom: I've got to meet with Mickey the Book, Chief; he says he's got something for me. The sound faded in and out. More strangely, he couldn't tell where it was coming from. He moved his head, and his sense of the direction whirled. As if it were a dozen yards away, yet at the same time only a few feet in front of his nose.
Clark stood slowly, and paced the room, following the sound of the heartwarmingly familiar bustle in the Daily Planet newsroom. It was as if a tiny microphone were carrying the sound to him, located…right…there.
Clark stood in the middle of the room, in almost exactly the spot where he had first appeared, and stared with microscopic vision at a minuscule speck hanging in midair. His scrutiny revealed a white pinpoint shining in every color Clark could see, a flickering random riot that defied the mind to make sense of it.
Like Alice in Wonderland, Clark had found an impossibly tiny doorway leading to where he wanted to be.
⛉ s ⛉
Lauren contemplated going up to the roof and yelling, “Superman, Help! I have a deadline!” That didn't seem to be quite the way things worked for Lois Lane. How did she get him to appear? Oh, right; she mentioned to Clark Kent that she wished Superman would show up. So, if Lauren could just find Clark Kent…
There had been no Superman sightings reported in the past hour. Maybe that meant that he was walking around as Clark Kent. She'd warned him about his identity not being secret, though. So what would he do, change his name?
David came over to her desk, watched her brood for a moment. “You know what we need?” he offered. “We need a giant robot to attack the city. That would flush him out.” Lauren glowered at his grin.
“You might try thinking up what he is actually doing now.”
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“Any brilliant insights on your end, then?”
Lauren scowled. “He's walking around dressed as Clark Kent. He's incredibly handsome and well-mannered. He wants to get oriented, get settled, so where does he go? A bookstore? A library? Does he—?” Lauren's eyes widened. “No. He wouldn't dare.”
“What?”
“What's the number for Personnel?”
“Why?”
“I want to see whether ‘Ken Clark’ submitted a job application today.”
A few minutes later, she had confirmed that no, he had not. It was a long shot, but she had to check. If there was one thing Lauren was determined about, it was that she was not going to be blind to Superman walking around right under her nose.
She would never live it down.
⛉ s ⛉
Clark finished taking notes on Murray Goldberg. He would find the local library, and investigate the man. Perhaps he was known in academic circles. Perhaps he had colleagues. Clark frowned. He also needed to research his own…status…in this world, which he had been postponing. And he needed to get a telephone somewhere, so that Goldberg could contact him when he was willing to have visitors.
Abruptly, the CNN broadcast caught his eye. A scene of massive flooding was being shown; Clark listened in to the faintly vibrating speaker: This latest hurricane has left thousands more homeless in Port Au Prince, and Gonaives remains heavily flooded. Hundreds are feared dead in the wake of the storm…
Research would have to wait. Quickly, but not too quickly, he changed back into costume, then looked at his suitcase speculatively. The man lived alone, and was currently in the hospital. Clark wouldn't be gone more than a few hours at most. And he really didn't know anything about the city out there; it was probably best to be as discreet as possible. The suitcase was less likely to be disturbed here than on a randomly chosen rooftop.
He set the suitcase down, walked to the window, and opened it. He flew out, rattling windows as he rose into the sky, took a deep breath, and headed to Haiti, by way of space.
⛉ s ⛉
Sarah finally managed to let herself in, grumbling to herself that Dad didn't hit the buzzer, but relieved that she still had her keys in the bottom of her handbag.
“Dad! I'm home!”
No answer. He was probably deep in a book again.
Sarah walked into the office, into the bedrooms. He wasn't home. Maybe he heard the news about the flight, and decided to go charging off to the airport after all. She checked her cell phone for messages, but found nothing. He was probably worried sick, pacing at Logan Airport. She wished he had a cell phone so she could tell him where she was. She looked around for notes.
There was a suitcase on the floor that she didn't recognize. Sarah glanced at it curiously, then took another look around. The television was still on. Some of Dad's notebooks were left out—one was left open. That was very strange; Dad was almost paranoid about closing those notebooks. She was forbidden to read them. Of course, that meant that she had snuck a peek years ago—but it was just gibberish. Still, he wouldn't have left the notebook open like that.
A cold breeze led her to the window, which was left wide open, sending the curtains fluttering. That was also very strange. Sarah frowned, and put her bags away. She would wait for Dad to call.
For now.
⛉ s ⛉
Clark fished more survivors out of the water and deposited them on accessible rooftops or ferried them to higher ground. When that was done, he pounded an incipient mudslide into solid submission. Then he surveyed the huge amount of water filling the lowland city. Normally, he would consider forming a waterspout—but that was tricky to control well even when his powers were working properly. He had to find a channel to the ocean that he could clear.
Two accidental tidal waves later, Clark finished cleaning up the new mess he'd made and hovered over the floodwaters, rubbing his chin and considering. After a moment, he spotted some people watching him, and flew over.
“I'm trying to drain the water. Do you have any suggestions?” he asked in Creole.
Most of them simply stared at him, but one older gentleman answered, “Have you cleared the runoff channels there and there?” He pointed. Clark nodded. “Then it will drain. It takes time for the water to move.”
“I thought it would be faster.”
“It is not like magic—not like you, Superman.” The man gave an uncertain smile. “If you would care for another suggestion, Superman…” Clark nodded. “We need doctors here, but they do not come because they do not feel safe. If you could bring them, and guarantee their safety…”
Clark looked around. This was always the plight. He often thought that if he took any village as his home, he could improve its quality of life dramatically—and a city would spring up around him, bringing a host of new problems that he would not be able to solve. They had to do it themselves, and find their own way. He couldn't let himself get roped into commitments; he had to stay flexible enough to be able to go wherever he was needed most.
But at the moment, he was needed here. “For three hours,” he told the old man. “I will bring more doctors, and guarantee their safety for three hours, then return them. Then I must leave.”
The old man smiled at him sadly, and nodded. “Of course. Even miracles have their limits.”
⛉ s ⛉
“You're watching CNN. Our latest story: Several doctors at a hospital in Miami vanished half an hour ago. The doctors were apparently just showing up to begin the evening shift when they disappeared from the hospital grounds. Strangely, there were no witnesses to the apparent abductions. No vehicles were reported fleeing the scene. We do not yet have a precise count of the missing doctors, although at least four have been identified…
⛉ s ⛉
Sarah set down the phone, and went back to pacing. Maybe he would call her once he heard the page she had sent out at the airport. She'd wait a while longer. Her eye fell on the suitcase again, and the small notebook perched atop it, so different from the ones her father was wont to use. Giving in to curiosity, she picked it up and opened it. Her eyes widened as she realized what she was reading.
⛉ s ⛉
“It's got to be directly behind the sun or the moon. An eclipse is the only explanation for why we haven't found the supernova candidate.” Doug listened for a moment to the voice at the other end of the line. “I know the odds are low, but they've searched the entire sky by now. What else could it be?”
⛉ s ⛉
Sarah started to call the police, but stopped herself. She knew what they would ask, and what her answer would have to be: she'd spoken with her father early this morning, telling him what time she would be in and not to bother meeting her at the airport. It hadn't been twenty-four hours yet, so the police would be useless…unless something had already happened…She tried to banish the thought.
Well, the hospitals wouldn't have such a waiting period. She picked up the phone again and began to dial.
⛉ s ⛉
Clark fetched and carried for the doctors. One of the them spent all his time frantically operating a camera until Clark had a private word with him and pointed out some waiting patients, at which point, the man belatedly switched into “doctor” mode. They needed a place to work, so Clark pounded some dirt into the consistency of concrete, and whipped up some walls out of the surrounding mud the same way. He wished for his heat vision, but made do with pressure. It meant that he couldn't sterilize the place effectively, which was a real drawback. An abandoned car's headlights served for temporary illumination, and Clark idly spun the alternator by hand to charge the battery between tasks, while talking to the locals and figuring out what needed doing next.
“Superman! Can you sterilize this, please?”
Clark came over. “Actually, Doctor Harper, I can't, at the moment. I'd like to talk to you about that when you're free.”
“Well, I've got a few minutes now. What's up?”
Clark walked the doctor a short distance away for privacy. “Ever since I…appeared…in Boston this afternoon, things have been a little…off.” With some prodding from Dr. Harper, Clark related the problems he'd been having with his powers. When he finished explaining, the doctor asked a number of questions about how his powers normally worked, really getting into details. It almost felt like a discussion with Dr. Hamilton back in Metropolis.
The doctor pulled out a small bright light and held it up to Clark's face. “Okay, Superman, keep looking at the far wall.” He did so, and the doctor moved the light around. “Uh huh. Okay, now look over there, please.” Clark obeyed. More flashing. The doctor paused. “Now I want you to focus on…” He looked around, spotted a small sign at great distance. “Read that sign slowly, if you would.”
He peered into Clark's eyes as he did so. “Whoa!” The physician flinched backwards, aghast. A moment later, he swallowed. “My apologies. I've just…never…seen… eyes… do that, before.” He seemed to gather himself. “Again, please.”
The microscopic vision was next, followed by X-rays, which baffled the physician entirely. “I really have no idea how you're doing that, Superman, but yes, I did break my fourth rib—in high school football. You don't even seem to be using the same optics for that.” He grunted with effort as he set down the heavy brick he had been using to block parts of Clark's field of view.
“I'm a little scared to try looking into your eyes while you attempt heat vision. Maybe we could risk David's camera…”
The experiment revealed nothing, and Dr. Harper looked chagrined. “I'm sorry, Superman. I honestly have no idea how your eyes could emit beams of infrared radiation under any circumstances. You seem to be focusing your eyes as if to aim; and if your retina could somehow generate converging waves of infrared, your ocular systems would focus it where you are staring, but I don't see how that could be possible. It's been a while since physics class, but I thought converging waves like that didn't occur in nature.”
“So, you're saying that in this place, this world, my heat vision is impossible?”
“Superman, I honestly don't know. I'm guessing. You've obviously got more than just rods and cones in there. The fact that it's not working, and that you're feeling pain and weakness when you try, suggests to me that your body is somehow using an energy source—which I can't begin to understand, by the way—to generate the heat, but something is going wrong and you're unable to transmit it, so you're effectively burning yourself. I'd advise you not to try it too often; you may injure yourself. All I can do is fall back on the basics, Superman—pain usually means you're doing something you shouldn't. Respect the signals your body is sending you. To be perfectly frank, Superman, I think maybe you ought to speak to a physicist.”
“Is that a referral to a specialist?” Clark asked with a grin.
“If you like. I'm sorry I couldn't whip up an instant explanation like you're used to, Superman, but this isn't a comic book and I'm not the world's greatest physician.”
Clark grimaced. “Does everybody know about that?”
The doctor looked sympathetic. “Does everybody in your world know about Santa Claus?”
“That bad, huh?” The doctor nodded. Clark sighed. “I've been avoiding it, but I suppose I ought to look myself up in the library.”
The doctor pursed his lips. “Well, actually…You probably want a comic book store.”