Here is another take on what H.G. Wells meant when he said, “Nothing is impossible”.
Major thanks go to many people who have helped along the way, Anti-Kryptonite, Andreia, KenJ, HappyGirl, and MikeM without their ‘gentle’ pointing of the editor’s sharp blue stick this fic would never have seen the light of day. Additional thanks to DebbieG, who due to heavy family obligations had to step away, but her help was very much appreciated.
The action takes place in the alt-Universe of
Tempus Anyone? The story starts only a few moments after the ending of Lois and Clarks. Alt-Clark and H.G. Wells are on the trail of alt-Lois in his world before she boards the plane to the Congo. But now that Lois is safe what happens afterwards? Read on gentle being, read on.
Legal Disclaimer: This is a story based on the television series Lois and Clark: The New Adventures of Superman. As always I have no claim on these characters, nor will I receive any cash. Nonetheless the story is mine.
***
Prologue
It was a dark, snowy night. A terrible night for travel whether via train, plane or automobile.
Huge flakes of innocuous fluffy white snow drifted down and blanketed the entire Metropolis area. Vehicles windshield wipers were clogged with the white substance making it almost impossible to see. Erratic lines of automobile traffic were beginning to snarl, meandering sluggishly through icy streets. A few timorous or perhaps wiser souls pulled over and stopped, hoping a passing Metro police cruiser would pick them up and provide a warm and safe ride home.
An old and slightly battered yellow and red Metrocab, slick with a layer of snow hugging its pitted and dented curves, lumbered to the departure lane of Zurich Air and cautiously eased to a stop. An anxious young woman gingerly emerged. Her long brown hair quickly became blanketed with thick, wet snowflakes.
“Hey, can you pop the trunk and help me get my stuff out?” The brunette asked.
“Opening the trunk is fine, but youse gotta get ya own bags,” the cabbie answered, he was ready to go home, in fact, and the ‘Off Duty’ sign had just flashed on.
The young woman - she could have been no more than twenty-two - tossed back her thick mane of dark hair, squared her shoulders and snapped.
“Excuse me? Your company has a contract with the Daily Planet – ‘A *full* Service Car Service’.”
“Take it up with my supervisor, sweetie,” he growled.
The heavyset cabbie then heaved his considerable bulk out of his seat, tentatively walked through the sloppy snow and after pounding his meaty fists on the hood to break the ice, quickly opened the trunk. He stood back, forcing his fare to remove her unwieldy old backpack and dirty green canvas bag from its cavernous depths. She held her breath while doing so. The fumes which rushed up to meet her nose smelled suspiciously like an ancient gym locker.
Once that was done, he slammed the trunk lid down hard, shattering the remaining ice and hurried back into the warmth of the cab. His fare looked after him for a moment, shaking her head. She picked up the canvas bag and with a grunt, threw the clumsy backpack over her slender shoulder. She ran towards the swinging glass doors.
Rolling down the passenger side window, the disgruntled cabbie roared, “Where’s my tip?”
“Take it up with my supervisor!” The brunette yelled back.
His colorful comment was lost in the noise of the icy wind as the glass doors swung closed behind her.
After the biting cold of the outside, the terminal’s heat hit her body like a crashing wave against a tropical island, at once comforting and yet shocking. She shook the snowflakes from her damp hair and brushed the remaining flakes from the quilted red merino wool jacket. It was perfect for traveling in the Congo, but not for today’s chilling temperatures. Inquisitive brown eyes studied the terminal’s information board. She found Zurich Air’s check-in location and marched purposely towards it, only to discover at least ten other passengers stood in line ahead of her. Realizing it was going to be some time before her turn, she deposited the two heavy bags on the glossy floor and waited.
After twenty minutes, she was finally first in line at the check-in desk. “Lois Lane,” she sighed, “I’m supposed to be on Zurich Air Flight 1278 to Kinshasa connecting through Munich.”
The exhausted male ground attendant rubbed his hand through a thatch of blonde hair and somehow managed to smile graciously, “I am sorry, Miss Lane, but there has been a thirty-minute delay while the wings are being de-iced. Please make yourself comfortable in the passenger lounge.” He pointed to a cordoned off area with decidedly *uncomfortable* plastic chairs. “Please listen for the PA notification when the de-icing procedure is complete.”
The young woman groaned aloud saying, “Terrific – a fast plane to nowhere!” She picked up her bags and walked desultorily to the passenger lounge where she quickly found a hard orange plastic chair to sit in.
<Blast the weather! I have *got* to reach Kinshasa in the Congo. There’s an article out there with my byline on it! Perry has reluctantly trusted me to bring in an article about gunrunners in the Congo and *nothing* - not even a snowstorm - is going to stop me from bagging the story!>
She sighed; the new Managing Editor of the Daily Planet had every reason to be reluctant. He had been promoted to his position by the suits upstairs after Vernon ‘Old Man’ Krebs had been forced into an early retirement when he foolishly approved an article about the Sanitation Department’s illegal practice of dumping garbage into Hobbs Bay.
The story, written by reporter Ralph Lombard, was completely false.
The Sanitation Department heads were screaming and sued the paper.
The Daily Planet had to settle out of court. Ever since then Perry was extremely careful about making sure all his reporters had cold hard facts and evidence to back up their articles. Lois spent a lot of time in Constance Hunter’s legal office going over some of her investigative stories even before e-mailing them to Perry.
Frustrated, Lois sat down, fished in the green canvas bag, pulled out a small blue spiral notebook and began outlining an action plan upon her arrival in Kinshasa. An impatient person by nature, doing something like this focused her thoughts and helped to pass the time. She was deep in the midst of going over from which angle to write the gunrunner story, when an elderly gentleman sat down next to her. Surreptitiously Lois cast her eyes slowly over to him in wonder. Why is he wearing a bowler hat and a black frock coat? Maybe the poor old fellow must think he’s on his way to a costume ball. She thought. The last time she had seen one of those outfits was in an old English film.
<Maybe a party was taking place on one of the private jets and he’s one of the participants? Lex Luthor and Gotham City’s own billionaire - Bruce Wayne – had been known for throwing parties on their private planes. But if that was the case, what was ‘Bowler Hat’ doing here in the common passenger lounge?>
The Daily Planet’s gossip columnist, Catherine Grant, had written about some such shindig a few weeks back. Once upon a time, Lois never took much stock in anything the bookish woman wrote about. With her tired brown suits and thick eyeglasses, Catherine did not look like the type to write about wild celebrity gatherings, much less attend one. It never ceased to amaze her that someone with a degree in finance from a prestigious institution like the Wharton Business School could end up as a gossip columnist. However, after painful a experience, she had learned it was sensible to listen on the rare occasions the older woman had offered advice.
Abruptly, her thoughts were interrupted by a cacophony of sound and movement at the far end of the terminal. A swarm of paparazzi was aggressively moving around an impeccably dressed couple. The man was tall with black curly hair and smoking a cigar, smelling of avarice and arrogance. He brazenly ignored the No Smoking signs posted everywhere. The tense, heavily made up woman by his side, held onto his arm tightly, as if fearing should she release him, he would be gone forever.
“Mr. and Mrs. Luthor! Please look this way!” One of the swarm shouted. “Is it true you are donating part of the proceeds from the sale of your magnificent Picasso and Degas collection to help the homeless children of Metropolis?”
The elegant couple graciously halted their stride, pretending to notice them for the first time. Looking at her husband as if waiting for a cue, Mrs. Arianna Carlin-Luthor smiled brilliantly and with a cultured British accent stated that although they had no official announcement at the moment, many of New Troy’s orphanages would be cleaner and have better facilities in the very near future. With a dismissive wave of her perfectly manicured hand, the jet set duo walked into the private VIP lounge, leaving the lesser members of the fourth estate outside.
<Look at them,> Lois mused in annoyance, <Mr. and Mrs. Fabulously Wealthy! This is probably the closest those third-rate stringers would ever get to either one of them! When – not if – I bag an interview with the Luthors it will be in a place of *my* choosing. Maybe we’ll all sit around a table, sipping cocktails at their newly renovated villa in Capri during the summer? In their natural surroundings, they’ll be comfortable and perhaps willing to converse about anything. What a story that’ll make!>
After the tumult of the Luthors’ presence had died down, Lois began working on her story, by the time the notebook was stowed in her bag, she had a framework, for the gun runners article and once she arrived in the Congo the rest would build from there. As she tried to relax, her thoughts began to drift to the Daily Planet. The past year rolled through her mind, populated by events both great and small.
***
Lois had come a long way since being called, ‘The best intern I ever saw’ - Perry White’s words, not her own. After graduation from Metro U, he hired her as a cub reporter, having her cover everything from international dog shows to society garden parties. But despite the articles unimportance, she treated each story as if it were going to win the Pulitzer Prize.
The Managing Editor noticed and appreciated her determination. Gradually he doled out tougher assignments. After three months she learned about a carjacking ring operating in Suicide Slum. She had to beg and plead to cover the story, beating out seasoned reporters with her determination and tenacity. But somehow she got the goods, busted the ring and won praise… and another dog show story.
Why?
Because she didn’t have enough facts to help the police make the arrests stick. Most of the gang was back on the street within two days of her breaking the story. She received a stern talking to from Perry and got off on the wrong foot with one of the Inspectors at the 12th Precinct, Bill Henderson.
It was a valuable lesson, one she never forgot.
A miserable three months of writing puff pieces for the Planet’s Weekend Section went by before she got another assignment worthy of her emerging investigative talents. This time it was an art dealer scam in the swank NoHo neighborhood. Assisted by a newly hired office boy with dreams of becoming a photojournalist named Jack Bartholomew, she had been able to solve the case – and this time made sure all the evidence was there so the arrests could not be overturned.
Her front page headlines brought respect from some reporters and unwelcome attention from others.
Claude Debarre was one of the ones she desperately *wanted* attention from.
Catherine Grant had warned her not to associate with the flashy Frenchman, but Lois turned a deaf ear to any of her maudlin advice. He was tall, blond with laughing gray eyes and a wickedly seductive French accent. He was thrilling and dangerous, deliciously draped in an elegantly tailored European package. He could teach her so much about journalism.
Instead he taught her how to be heartbroken.
Over the course of several dates, Claude earned her trust. She took him into her confidence and talked about her stories. One in particular she had been working on regarding credit cards and other perks being given to star high school football players if they signed with New Troy University. As Lois dug further, she found greater involvement of several school officials and coaches. The complexities and long-range repercussions of such a high-level scandal were enormous.
Basking in the afterglow of his attention and praise, she kept him informed of every stage of the investigation. The more she revealed the more intensely Claude pursued her. He painted grandiose pictures of their partnership being to newspapers what the old TV newscasters Chet Huntley and David Brinkley had been to television. His polished words framed in that amazing accent appealed to her innocence and affectionate heart. She imagined herself a young woman falling deeply in love.
The day she had completed the article, Claude had suggested they have an intimate supper at her place to celebrate. Rather than have Lois cook, he brought Italian food and even a bottle of very expensive chilled white wine. They talked, laughed and even danced to strains of the romantic song, Fly Me to the Moon. Claude whispered words of love and even hinted he was looking for a very special ring. Lois, young and innocent, allowed herself to be inveigled into making love with him. After a wildly passionate night, Lois had awoken to cold sheets and an empty bed - Claude was gone. She noticed her computer was on and the file drawer had been forced open. In a rush of abysmal fear and deep hurt, she realized that he had stolen all her notes and evidence on the college case. He was even so thorough as to erase all the files regarding the story on the computer’s hard drive.
By the time she had reached the newsroom, her story was being printed under his byline. There was nothing she could do; all her proof and dreams had vanished like sea foam crashing on the shore. His smile was just dazzling while he told Perry how he painstakingly pieced together the evidence so it could hold up in court. Also, how dear, sweet Lois had provided the proper ‘input’ to make the story sing.
How she hated him.
The anger and humiliation were at times more than she could bear. Whenever Claude smiled at her, the pit of her stomach tied into malevolent knots. She knew quiet, ugly rumors about them swirled around the bullpen. Catherine Grant never spoke to her about the incident, but the older woman could tell from Lois’ body language around Claude that something decidedly unpleasant had happened between them.
The rumors and spiteful innuendos cut deep, yet Lois Lane had *never* walked away from a challenge. The thought of leaving the Planet and starting someplace new wasn’t even considered. For now, the only course was to keep her distance from him and forge ahead with her career. But she promised herself that *someday* there would be a reckoning.
To help soothe her wounded pride and nourish her flagging self-confidence, she depended on other things to provide a sense of satisfaction and accomplishment. She moved out of the cramped studio apartment where Claude had seduced her, it was too full of bad memories and relocated back with her parents. In six months, after saving up every spare penny, she moved into a new, comfortable apartment in a good neighborhood, and carefully decorated it with relaxed furniture and plenty of colorful plants.
Bored with takeout and eating on paper plates, she took cooking lessons from her Aunt Rita. The dishes were not gourmet, but at least she could invite friends over and not be afraid of poisoning them. It was Rita who suggested buying proper cookware, colorful plates and better-than-average flatware. No matter how grand or simple the meal, it should always be served with style!
Her parents were delighted their daughter was making a name for herself within the world of newspaper journalism. They mentioned her many newspaper articles while celebrating their thirty-first wedding anniversary with family and friends. Younger sister Lucy was always bragging to her medical school chums about her sister, the investigative reporter.
There was the allure of winning either a Kerth or Merriweather award, but she wanted to obtain the most prestigious of journalist honors: a Pulitzer. Three important things were attached to that word: a certificate stating that a story or series of stories was the best in her chosen field. Prize money, twenty thousand dollars and three words forever more after her name: Lois Lane, Pulitzer Prize winner.
But the accolades, both personal and professional, were not enough. Like a raw ache, the twin goals of establishing herself as a respected journalist and getting even with Claude pushed her to take on the most dangerous of assignments.
***
“Lois, this is an impressive piece of investigative journalism. Still it was a wise move to come to the Legal Department before sending it over to Perry. An article of such caliber usually triggers a tidal wave reaction, one of global significance.”
The young woman blinked in surprise. “Gregory Daae’s media empire holds sway over communications from London to Bangkok and everywhere in between. News about him is reported daily….”
Constance Hunter neatly replaced the papers and computer diskette into a blue folder, leaned back in her chair and took a contemplative pose. <How do I impress upon this young firebrand what kind of man Daae is without dampening her enthusiasm *or* scaring her witless?>
“Press releases, carefully scripted interviews and photos shot with a long-range lens are not *news*. Just fluff for the general public’s consumption. But what I’m reading here is completely different. Something of this nature can have a nasty domino effect on companies which contract business with the Daae Media Group. We don’t know how this bomb shell will affect how news is reported.” Constance said, tapping the folder. “There’s something else to consider, actually in my mind it’s more important. How will this story affect the Daily Planet? We could be in for a truckload of lawsuits.”
“Maybe so, but it’s the truth! My research bears this out! DMG has been manufacturing and/or creating stories for their TV news channel.” Lois came around the desk, opened the thick folder and rifled through the papers until she reached a particular page. “Look at this one example; last year there were reports of the salmon fisheries in Nova Scotia being contaminated. The fisheries were owned by Sir Lewis Cavendish, one time friend of Daae’s. Apparently they used to play chess for cash. Sir Cavendish lost a wad of money – something like fifty thousand dollars to Daae and he refused to pay up. Two weeks later these contamination ‘stories’ began to surface about the fisheries. They were later proven to be false, but by then the damage was done. Sir Cavendish’s company had to close. The town the fishery was located still hasn’t recovered economically from the shutdown. Of course Daae’s cable network covered the whole debacle giving them a nice ratings boost.”
“Okay.” Constance said dubiously.
Lois pulled out more papers. “Look, I have statements from a number of experts swearing the waters surrounding the fishery were kept clean...”
The lawyer held up her hand to halt the onslaught of words. “Look, I’m not arguing with you. Unfortunately, all of these statements come from people who had a vested interest in keeping the company open. If you are going after a man of Daae’s stature with accusations like this, the lawyers – like me – need to talk with people who are within DMG itself – whistleblowers – willing to tell the truth about this man. The Daily Planet simply cannot risk printing such a story without firm evidence. Men like Gregory Daae *and* Lex Luthor have deep pockets and unscrupulous lawyers; we are in short supply of one and thankfully without the latter.”
“Luthor, he and Arianna are just as bad as or worse than Daae.” Lois muttered.
“Lois, this is a business matter, all I can do is provide legal advice. It’s Perry and the suits upstairs responsibility to make this decision. But from my experience working with Perry he’s going to say, ‘Convince someone high up within Daae’s organization to go on the record to corroborate this material. Otherwise we can’t print a solitary word’.” Constance said with finality.
“Fine! I’ll get the proof on Daae and not just a subordinate, but someone *within* his inner circle. Otherwise Daae can always say the person was creating these stories without his knowledge.”
“Here, take the file and put it someplace safe, no reason for all this research to go to waste. It might come in handy for another story about him.” Constance noted the younger woman’s head bow and how her long dark hair hung limply between her slumped shoulders. <Uh, oh. It was time for the legal counsel to perform damage control.> “Lois, I meant what I said earlier, this *is* impressive work for a rookie. Still, you’ve got to be patient - Gregory Daae will not escape your considerable investigative skills forever.”
Lois nodded, took the heavy folder and departed from Constance’s office. It was Friday night and she had promised to visit Aunt Rita and Uncle Mike at Café Americana. Having dinner with them would be a pleasant change from the weekly grind.
She placed the thick blue folder into her desk’s lower left hand drawer and locked it.
***
Less than thirty minutes later she was seated at her favorite table soaking up the warm atmosphere of the best restaurant in town: her uncle and aunt’s Café Americana.
A petite middle-aged woman with dark red hair who could only be described as ‘pixie like’ came over to Lois’ table. “So, what will my favorite niece have on a Friday night after a long week at work?” Rita Lane smiled down at the young woman.
“Anything… just so long as it’s…”
“Chocolate?”
“Exactly!”
Rita cocked her eyebrow and said, “Nothing doing! First, you need some protein. Can’t take those Tae Kwon Do classes without some muscle and proper food inside your stomach. Now, what’ll you have?”
Hearing her aunt’s remark, Lois responded more out of frustration then anger. “For pity’s sake Aunt Rita, I’m over twenty years old! When are you guys going to stop treating me like I’m a kid?”
Rita’s sharp green eyes examined her niece’s face, noting the dark smudges of exhaustion under her eyes. That comment did not sit well with her at all. Instead of answering her niece, she pulled out a chair, sat down and laid a work-roughened hand over the younger one.
“That latest case you’ve be working on…the media guy…Daae? It’s got you beat.” Rita stated flatly.
Her niece nodded slowly, pushing her long hair back from her face.
“No, not exactly - more like backed into a corner. The Daily Planet’s legal advisor says I need insider information, which is not going to be easy. It’s time to start digging around in the group’s inner circle – get some credible leads.”
“Sounds like a tough road ahead. Well, to climb a mountain or break a story you still need food. How does salmon steak with lemon sauce and ginger and garlic string beans sound?”
“Perfect.” Lois’ lips formed a wan smile and said sheepishly. “Uh, sorry about snapping earlier.”
Rita Lane stood up, patted her on the back and said in an uncharacteristically soft voice. “One of these days you and I are going to have a long talk about all manner of investigations; both domestic and foreign.” Her voice returned to its normal tone and she said, “Be back in a jiffy with your order. Gotta light a fire under that husband of mine, can’t let a good, regular customer go hungry!”
Lois watched her aunt move around the tables and past customers, she was really a spitfire. Lois mused over her aunt’s parting words. <All manner of investigations both domestic and foreign? What’s that about?>
Suddenly a tall, nervous looking man wearing old jeans, green t-shirt and a grey jacket sat down next to Lois. “Excuse me!” she snapped,
“this is a *private* table.”
“Hey, Miss Lane. How are ya doing? You’re gonna love Mike’s salmon, personally he puts too many capers in da lemon sauce.” He stuck a bony hand out to shake hers and said, “Name’s Bigmouth, but ya can call me Bobby. Your stories are good and they’ll get better …if ya leave Gregory Daae and his media whatever alone.”
Lois looked at the thin man and hissed. “I’m going to call a waiter!”
Bobby waved his hands anxiously, “Hey, don’t do that! Mike, Rita and even No Knees Nolan will vouch for me. I just want ta warn ya. Tangling with that guy is bad news! Ah, pardon the pun.” Pointing at the breadbasket with a long bony finger he asked, “Are ya gonna eat those rolls?”
Before Lois could speak, the warm, fluffy Parker house rolls Rita had placed on the table vanished into Bobby’s pockets. The lone survivor was hastily buttered and unceremoniously stuffed into his mouth. The man had mentioned her relatives and best source. Pushing her long hair away from her face again she leaned forward and said. “Okay *Bobby*, you have my attention. This had *better* be good.”
“It is.” He said, nodding his head. “Well for starters, the investigation is worthless. All the evidence ya gathered has been swept under da rug. Those folks around the fishery? Who wanted to talk? Well, they ain’t talkin’ now!”
“That’s impossible! I protect all my sources. What about their sworn statements?”
Bobby shook his head as if he were speaking to a particularly obstinate child. “Miss Lane, those car thieves and phony art dealers’ articles were small potatoes. This is da big leagues. Guys like Daae have paid ears in every major newspaper, especially, when it comes to keepin’ an eye on hungry investigative reporters.”
“Oh, like me?” she said acidly.
He shrugged, pulled another roll out of his pocket, buttered it, took a vicious bite and then continued. “Whatever ya got on him ain’t gonna be enough. Not nearly enough to bring down somebody like Daae. It’s gonna take years of gathering information on the sly. *Everybody* leaves a paper trail – hardcopy or electronic. That’ll stand up in the court of public opinion and the legal system. Oh yeah, there’s one other thing you’ll need.” He took another bite and the roll vanished. “Mind if I tell ya?”
“Oh sure, go ahead, you’re doing just fine.” Lois said sarcastically.
“Ya gotta have a decent partner. One who will stick with ya through a firestorm and that’s what it’ll be tangling with Daae. That Debarre guy ya was workin’ with before is a first class scum sucker.”
“I work alone.” Lois snarled back, her voice dangerously low.
“Yeah, well start looking for one just the same. Ya know, Woodward had Bernstein and Huntley had Brinkley. It helps when somebody’s got your back.”
Lois shook her head and shot back. “Enough! Who are you and how am I supposed to believe *any* of this nonsense?”
“Like I said, ask your uncle and aunt. Ask Nolan. Better yet, call those folks up at the fishery. If any of them are still there. See if they take ya call. Listen, I’m sticking my neck in a noose just talkin’ to ya. Do me a favor Miss Lane, leave Daae alone for now. I’m not saying give up the story altogether, just ease off a little bit until things die down. This article has Pulitzer written all over it. But it’s gonna take a few years to pull everything together. Look, I gotta go. Remember what I said.” With those words, the thin man stood up and with long loping strides walked out of the restaurant.
***
When Lois arrived home she barely took her coat off before dialing Mahon Port in Nova Scotia where Lord Cavendish had his former fishery plant. Every single person she had spoken to the month before had either moved away or quickly hung up as soon as they heard her name.
She sat down in defeat mulling over a bowl of strawberry chocolate ice cream. <First Constance tells me I need evidence from within the Daae Media Group to corroborate my witnesses stories, then this Bobby person tells me to get a partner, but in the meantime drop the story until the heat dies down. Now I can’t locate my witnesses.> She threw her hands up in frustration. Once again, a fantastic story had eluded her.
Bobby suggested she get a partner to back her up. Partner. That word had a different meaning for her. It meant traitor.
***
That Monday she returned to the newsroom to see Claude in Perry’s office. Of late, his productivity had not been up to the Daily Planet’s standards and the Managing Editor had made a few disparaging remarks. But here they were emerging from Perry’s office. The older man’s voice was effusive with praise; he even slapped Claude on the back while saying. “It’s a good solid story. But without additional collaboration we can’t print it. But hey, I’m glad to see such first-rate work coming from you again.”
“Thank you Perry. Having your confidence is all that’s needed.” Claude responded with proper humility.
“No problem. As far as I’m concerned the Arthur Chow interview is yours. Any man who can write an exposé story on Gregory Daae deserves a first class assignment. Miss Grant can interview someone else. The second richest man in the world needs to be handled by a first-rate journalist.”
Even across the newsroom Lois could sense Catherine Grant’s anger and bitter disappointment. The bookish woman had been working diligently to leave the hollow world of entertainment reporting behind and get into real journalism especially in the area of international finance. With Perry handing him the Chow interview, Claude had just stolen her passport.
Catherine stood, pushed back her chair and walked confidently towards the two men. “Mr. White. That was supposed to be *my* interview. I have a degree in Political Science slated towards international finance. Mr. Debarre does not know the difference between a Daily Reset Paper and Daily Reset List and which applies to the UK or the US.” Her voice was as soft as a rose petal, but the tone was covered in ice. The voices in the newsroom died down a little as many turned to watch Catherine.
The tension in the room ratcheted up a few notches further when Lois called out, “Gregory *Daae*? That wouldn’t be the account about his news division manufacturing stories?”
Perry looked from Catherine to Lois, “Huh, yes, Lois, it would.”
“That is *my* story. Claude *stole* it.” Lois spoke, her voice carrying loud and clear across the bullpen.
Typing stopped. Conversations were halted mid-sentence. Steve from sports continued pouring his coffee to listen, but then quickly felt the hot brew scald his hand as it overflowed the stout mug. No one noticed as he yelped and then quickly retrieved a paper towel to wipe up the mess. With the exception of the television monitors droning in the background, the Daily Planet newsroom had fallen into a tomblike silence.
Nothing was more damning to a reporter’s reputation then the tainting accusation of outright plagiarism.
While everyone else was watching in stunned silence, Claude’s response was as smooth and even as glass. His accented words were perfectly pitched to appease and beguile. “Oh, Perry, please forgive my memory lapse. Lois *did* assist with a little research, just as before during the college bribery scandal. There is more than enough material for her to contribute a sidebar or two.” He smiled beatifically down on her with perfect white teeth. “Not bad for a tyro reporter.”
Lois pointed an angry finger in his face and growled, “Tyro? You’re calling *me* an absolute beginner, by throwing around ten cent words? Why you self serving cheap hustler. I showed that file to Constance in legal …”
Perry growled, his face taking on the shade of beet red, definitely not good for a man with his high blood pressure. “Hey, hey, hey! Catherine, Lois and Claude git yourselves into my office pronto!” He turned to the newsroom and bellowed. “The rest of you, get back to work! This is a newspaper. We’re reporters, let’s act like it!”
Perry swiftly ushered the trio into his office; he closed the door and for added measure, lowered the blinds.
Outside, the newsroom bumped back into life, staffers got on the phones and the copyboy ran over to the interns’ cubicle. News of Catherine’s anger and Lois’ accusation against Claude spread faster than light speed throughout the building.
When word reached Jack Bartholomew in his tiny researcher’s cubicle, he immediately made his way to the elevator. <Since Constance Hunter is supposed to have seen this story of Miss Lane’s I better let her know what’s goin’ down.>
***
Each person moved to different spots in the large office, which now suddenly seemed tight and hot. Catherine sat gracefully on the old plaid couch, her green eyes never leaving Claude who casually parked himself in Perry’s leather visitor’s chair. Lois stood with her back to the window, the perfect vantage point to keep an eye on everyone.
Perry eased himself into his chair, it creaked with comfortable familiarity. The Managing Editor sat down and began the meeting like an old backwoods lawyer ready to settle an important case. “Well, now, let’s get down to brass tacks. Lois, Claude came in here this morning, with a big story regarding Gregory Daae. He’s got names, dates, sworn affidavits and a carload of other evidence to prove Daae’s news network has been manufacturing stories…”
“…in order to garner ratings for his news channel. I know every inch of his research, Perry, because those are*my* files.”
Claude shook his head as if he were trying to shake the accusation away. “This is terrible waste of time Perry mon aimee. I wrote this article and since there is not enough evidence to publish, the Chow interview is mine. These *women* are the ones trying to steal my story.”
“I’m not trying to steal anything!” Catherine said. “That interview with Arthur Chow was promised to me. Now the interview is rewarded to a man whose productivity has been questionable of late?” She calmed herself and continued, “Simply because he brings in an incredible story that can’t even be printed? At the risk of sounding childish Perry, that’s plain unfair.”
“One thing at a time Ms. Grant,” turning to Lois he said, “Lois, accusing a fellow journalist of plagiarism is extremely serious. Do you have any proof this is your article?”
All eyes shifted to Lois who painfully remembered what happened the last time Claude stole her story.
She felt terribly uncomfortable, like a troop of mad spiders were racing up and down her spine in search of a large tasty fly.
“I…I. Let me check my drawer and computer.”
“You see!” He crowed, “Mademoiselle Lane lies to buy time!”
Lois felt her throat go dry. She *was* buying time! If Claude was remaining true to form, he had stolen all her files from the desk drawer and erased everything from her hard drive. Even if they brought Constance into the conversation it would be their word against his. She stood straight from leaning against the window and with shaking legs walked towards the door. With each step, her career hopes of being an award winning journalist for the Daily Planet grew dimmer. It seemed so unfair that a cheap two-bit chiseler like Claude would be the one to end her career before it truly began. Sadly, she pulled open the door and walked straight into Constance Hunter.
“Oh! Excuse me!” The legal counsel said, as she adjusted her large framed glasses. “Someone told me my name was mentioned regarding a plagiarism accusation. I just wanted to come downstairs and see if I could be of service.”
Lois never thought she could be more grateful to see anyone in her life. She grabbed Constance by the arm and dragged her into the office.
“Come in, Constance tell Perry what you told me about the Daae story last Friday. Not enough evidence from within Daae’s inner circle…”
Claude jumped from his chair by Perry’s desk, “More lies? Has the entire female staff of this great paper gone insane?”
“Apparently, only where you’re concerned, Monsieur Debarre.” Catherine stated.
“Ha! I am surrounded by assassins!” Claude shouted as he pounded the wall so hard, Elvis’s autographed picture taken at his farewell concert at the Grand Ole Opry fell off the wall it made a sharp cracking sound as it hit the floor.
Perry’s eyebrows just about flew into his hairline when the King’s picture hit the floor. He got up, bent down to pick up the treasured photograph and tenderly placed it on his desk. When he spoke all was quiet in the room. “Claude, sit down.”
The Frenchman did as he was bid, cutting cruel gray eyes first at Lois and then Constance.
Constance calmly assessed the situation, rubbed her hand under her chin and spoke, “Perry, Lois *did* speak to me on Friday afternoon about an article on Gregory Daae’s Media empire. I told her in order for the Daily Planet to protect itself; she needs to have someone within the DMG to be a ‘whistleblower’. Otherwise, the week after we print that story, the Daily Planet will cease to exist – buried under a mountain of lawsuits.”
All eyes in the room shifted to Claude, who swore venomously in French. His face was so hard and taut it could have been used to strike a match. He spoke, all vestiges of culture and charm in his voice had vanished. “A ‘supposed’ conversation between two women; one who cannot write a decent story without someone to show her the way and another who failed so spectacularly as a trial lawyer she needs to hire out her meager services as an in-house counsel.”
It was quiet again and then Perry spoke up. “You owe these ladies an apology.”
Claude threw his hands in the air, grunted and sunk further into Perry’s thick leather visitor’s chair saying nothing.
The lawyer stared at the man as if he were a particularly nasty bug. She reached into her old-fashioned tan blazer pocket and spoke with a gleam in her eye. “Mr. DeBarre will apologize to all of us, Perry. You see, when Lois had her meeting with me on Friday, I forgot to return this.” Constance Hunter removed a small black diskette from her pocket.
Claude took one look at the diskette and realized his gambit had blown up in his face. But he tried one last attempt to save his career. “There are no markings identifying the owner.”
Handing the diskette to Lois, Constance said, “Oh, no worries. I asked young Jack to do a little forensic work on both your computer and Ms. Lane’s. If everything is as you say, your computer will have a data stream of material and Lois’ will not.”
The atmosphere in Perry’s office had gone deathly silent. Four questioning set of eyes watched Claude DeBarre as his guilt became painfully evident by the way his body seemed to collapse upon itself.
Lois broke the silence by asking a question. “How did you steal my story …this time? I had it under lock and key.”
He snorted and said, “Those locks? A child could open them with their fingernail. The computer only took a little more work. Never use your birthday as a password. So stupid!”
Perry barked, “Hey, watch your mouth!”
He turned and said to his boss, “Mon dieu…Perry, mon aimee. I needed a story…a great story.”
The Managing Editor turned away from him, looking at the cracked picture of Elvis on his desk. “When I go outside to the bullpen in ten minutes your desk had better be cleared. Oh yeah, leave every scrap of material you stole from Lois or so help me, I will have you up on criminal charges.”
Once the door closed behind Claude, oxygen seemed to flow effortlessly back into the room.
Lois handed the diskette back to Constance and said, “I clearly remember having only one diskette and I tucked that into my desk drawer along with everything else.”
“Oh, this?” Constance grinned, as she put the diskette in her pocket and patted it securely. “It’s the spreadsheet for the Legal Department’s vacation schedule!”
Perry shook his head fighting to keep a grin from spreading across his face, “So much for Claude thinking less of you.”
Catherine spoke up, “So Mr. White, does this mean Lois gets the Arthur Chow interview and I continue working on mindless gossip articles?”
“Nope,” Lois said with a smile. “Go ahead; take on the world’s second richest man. I’ll go after the definitive Lex and Arianna Luthor interview.”
***
As expected, the Gregory Daae article had to be shelved for lack of evidence.
Bobby Bigmouth became her best source for information. Lois had written a couple of outstanding stories which stemmed from material he provided. Both of which netted her a Kerth award.
In the back of her mind, she considered several times his suggestion about getting a partner, someone she could depend on in a crisis. Someone who would come through and deliver the goods much as Constance had done that day in Perry’s office.
Still she wanted – no, needed - to erase the stain of Claude’s actions. Show Perry she was the better reporter and in the process gain the respect of everyone in the newsroom. Hence her determination to visit Kinshasa and find out more about the gunrunners who were supplying arms to both sides of the Congo conflict.
***
Her mind came back to the present. Claude was now a part of the past, he was no longer a problem. She understood since Perry had refused to provide him with a reference he could not get a job in print journalism, but had landed a position as a researcher in LNN. These days she had to deal with the rivalry between herself and Linda King.
Once her best friend in college, Linda had stolen a boy Lois cared a great deal for. It seemed that ever since, she had been playing catch up with the hussy. It was rumored Linda was dating Preston Carpenter, the new owner of The Metropolis Star. It would certainly account for the fact that she now had a column dealing with international issues. <Well, this story would put their rivalry on even footing.>
Lois’ thoughts were interrupted by the PA announcement:
“Attention passengers for Zurich Air Flight 1278 to Kinshasa. The flight has been delayed another thirty minutes, due to de-icing of the wings. You will be called when it is time to board.”
The ground attendant repeated this twice, then shut off the overhead speaker.
Lois made a loud rude noise in her throat and growled aloud. “Taking *this* flight is the next step in my career as a newspaper reporter! Somehow *this* stupid plane needs to get it wings de-iced so I can get on with cracking *this* story!” She sat back in the uncomfortable chair and was giving serious contemplation to using her press pass to enter the VIP lounge and get a brief interview with the Luthors. *Anything* was better than just sitting here watching the snow fall.
The oddly dressed older gentleman next to her smiled pleasantly and said in a charming British accent, “Yes, this wretched delay is rather disturbing. Here, read my newspaper, it should help to pass the time.”
Lois graciously accepted, not wanting to offend the old gentleman, although reading The Metropolis Star was not her idea of a newspaper, more like something to wrap fish in. Upon unfolding the paper she was stunned to read the headline:
Gun Smuggling Ring Busted in the Congo!
By International Correspondent, Linda KingShe could barely speak and when her vocal cords did start to function, only a few words pushed their way out.
“How. Dare. She! This was *my* story! That woman hasn’t even gotten on a plane! Where did she get her information? All my plans have crashed and burned! How am I going to face Perry at the office? Now I have to cancel my ticket for this flight.”
At that moment, the PA system blared, “Lois Lane, please pick up the nearest red courtesy phone. Lois Lane, please pick up the nearest red courtesy phone.”
With an act of will, Lois took a deep breath, then stood and walked over to the red courtesy phone stand and yanked the receiver off its cradle. “Yes! Who is this?” she snarled.
A voice, dripping in honey and sarcasm came over the line. {Ah, Lois, so glad I caught you. Remember me? This is Linda King. I called over to the Daily Planet, but they told me you had just left, on your way to the Congo. Your editor – Perry something or other – was screaming about Elvis. He wanted to catch you before the plane took off. Well, I’m so glad I caught you first. Now there’s no reason for you to go, since *I* broke the gunrunner story.}
A curtain of deep red loomed before her eyes and surrounded her senses. Not trusting herself to speak, she ever so gently replaced the receiver and stormed away from the courtesy desk.
“Not only don’t I get the story, unless by some miracle the airline cancels this flight. I’m on the hook to the Planet’s travel department for my plane ticket!” she muttered aloud.
The young woman walked towards the Zurich Air desk in an attempt to recoup her plane ticket. She was infuriated, yet despite her anger, she noticed a very handsome man sporting circular wire rim glasses, dark hair, wearing light gray pants and a dark gray shirt walking towards the elderly gentleman who had given her the newspaper. For some reason he gazed at her with a curiously joyful expression on his face.
Lois tried to ignore the man. He looks like he just fell off a turnip truck, Mr. Greenjeans, no matter how gorgeous he is didn’t matter and I’ve got bigger problems. Linda King had won this round. But she knew a really big story was out there. She needed to make a few phone calls, after she talked to the young man on the reservations desk.
***
The older gentleman who had so graciously given her the newspaper stood up, looked at his gold pocket watch and met the young man.
His companion stood watching Lois walk away, “Wow, she’s really steamed! I’m going to have quite a fireball on my hands. When you brought me here from Lois and Clark’s home in their universe and said ‘nothing was impossible’, I did not realize it was to rescue her!”
H.G. Wells also looked after the determined young woman as she walked down the hallway towards a bank of payphones. “Yes, well, I suspect the Miss Lane of this dimension – ahem - *your* Miss Lane was meant to be stopped from going to the Congo, but something happened to prevent it.”
Clark asked, “Do you think it was that phone call?”
H.G. Wells looked at a small hand held device and nodded, “Entirely possible. You see, she never boarded the Zurich Air flight. According to my records she departed with the Luthors who were on their way to Italy, they dropped her off in Rome and from there she caught a flight to Kinshasa and that is the last anyone heard of her.”
“Thank goodness! Maybe it was you giving her the newspaper which slowed her up long enough to get that phone call.” The younger man said.
“Precisely. Now she can move forward with her life and you will meet her under entirely different circumstances. This is a great victory, one to be savored Clark. For this is the time pivot which forced your life on a different trajectory, now we need to return you to two years prior to Tempus’ appearance in Metropolis so we can fix this wretched situation he threw you into.”
“Herb, do you really think it’s possible? What about my past self? We will exist at the same time.”
The little man bounced on his toes, apparently wanting to say something, but was reluctant to do so. “No. That will not happen. Please, please trust me; everything will be taken care of, all in due time.”
Clark whispered softly, almost reverently, “
My Lois and I will have a life … together.”
“Exactly! My boy, both of you will enjoy many adventures together and will be very happy…”
“But I won’t have a secret identity. How could an intensely private woman like Lois Lane deal with the paparazzi? You saw how that crowd of photographers chased Luthor and his wife.”
“Clark, let me assure you, Lois in this or any universe can handle those ruffians quite easily. Remember this is Lois of five years ago. Currently, she is a relatively unpolished gem who has not won her first Kerth award. But by the time Tempus shows up, she *and* her counterpart will find a way to not only get you into the suit, but prevent your secret from being discovered.”
Clark smiled, no longer dejected and fearful of a solitary and lonely existence, walked away with Herb, with a new confidence and a new sense of purpose.
Meanwhile outside, the worst blizzard to hit Metropolis in living memory continued building into a raging, arctic fury.
