* * *
As he predicted, Lois awoke the next morning without the emotional hangover or
burning confusion that most anyone else would have. She was serious, yes, and even a
little driven, in a skip-the-fluff mood. Clark carefully asked her about it, trying to
phrase and pitch it in a way that said 'I don't mean to intrude, but could you give me a
peek behind the . . .mask?'
"Let me guess--you don't want to intrude, but you want a peek behind my mask.
Is that it?" She gave him a rueful smile, and he nodded, startled, wondering for the
umpteenth time if this woman could read his mind.
She sighed, pausing a moment in the midst of hunting down her note pad. "I've
just got to lock it away for now. I don't want to let this " she hesitated, clearly wanting
to use a darker word and then deciding against it, "--this city beat me. I'll think about it
later, believe me--oh, crud." She let out a forceful sigh, looking around helplessly. "I
think my notebook and recorder are still in the Bonneville."
"The one you were driving that night?" he asked, moving to the phone.
"Yeah. I wonder if it's still there? Nah . . ."
Luck smiled on them this time, at least. The company had recovered the car with
all contents intact, even her purse. They picked everything up at the garage outlet, then
Clark dropped her off at the Gotham Institute for Education building, on her way to see
Aditu Mohs. It was when he was leaving the private lot for the building that he got his
first wave of panic. He actually pulled the car over to think.
He was about to tango with one of the most powerful people in the city, not to
mention Gotham's Big Black Nerve. Bruce Wayne wasn't a completely unknown
quantity to Clark--most everyone knew the name, knew generally who he was, knew he
was wealthy, probably the biggest name in business. Aside from reading the
impressions from a few interviewers and flipping through the folder the PR department
had mailed them, though, he had very nearly no idea what this guy was like personally,
much less what he could or would do if approached about this particular subject. Maybe
he would deny it, maybe he would come at him with hell in his eyes, at which point he'd
be forced into revealing what he would rather not--effortless physical power. Not to
mention hurting someone he really didn't want to hurt. For that matter, he wanted to
be certain he did nothing to intimidate or show up this man. He wanted to talk to him,
not rearrange his synapses. Superman had told Lois Lane that he had talked to him,
which technically was true, in a sense--just not in the same way that he had intimated.
The more he thought about it, the more he knew he had to do this. This guy knew what
Clark could hide beneath a suit and a comparatively quiet reporter's career. There was
no way Clark could blithely traipse out of Gotham, get on a plane in four days without
checking this out. And besides, he might know where the kryptonite went. Heck, maybe he's got it . . .
On sudden impulse, he looked at it from Bruce Wayne's perspective, and got a
sinking feeling. Pulling out the cellular, he networked over to the hotel room phone, and
sure enough, someone named Margaret had called from Wayne Enterprises, informing
him with sincere apologies that Mr. Wayne thought it wise to cancel the interview, on
the assumption that Mr. Kent probably needed to attend to more personal matters
based on the fact that he had been one of the hostages last night.
Like hell, Clark thought firmly. He's got to know that's a weak move. I'm gonna show my face at Wayne Enterprises, and then at his home. And if that doesn't work, I'll flipping well crank up that signal spotlight tonight.
Clark pulled out of the lot and found his way to the highway. Along the route, he
passed within a mile of the collapsed building. The crane was there, just moving a huge
slab of steel and concrete as he passed by. He turned on the radio and found a news
station, listening until he heard them talk about Lex Luthor. The heat seekers had done
their job, locating . . . well, they said "Luthor's body", but from what Clark suspected,
that was a rather optimistic term. He shook his head and turned off the radio.
And that's another thing. What went on in that building, after he went back in
and before it collapsed?
Two hundred and forty-six questions, and every single one of them demanded an
answer. It certainly gave him the right to check this out.
It was just before nine o'clock, and the traffic was still thick. Gotham was older
than Metropolis, but no one had accused it of aging gracefully, and the roads were
sometimes confusing. More than once he seriously considered pulling over and taking
the direct route, but decided against it. Anyone else would have gotten hopelessly
turned around without a map in a city this big, but Clark had a rough idea where he was
going, and that was all he needed. It was only when he got there, though, that he
realized it wasn't far from the hostage site--about three or four blocks, but the roads
were more than a little twisted. Too many one way signs. The roads in the immediate
vicinity of the building were fairly clear, though, and he found a spot in the generously
large visitor's lot.
The architecture was considerably calmer, more straightforward compared to
what most major corporations in Gotham looked like. The only personalization he saw,
in fact, was a stylized 'W' on a round shield over the main doors. It was like the
company had no desire to drop into competition with its neighbors, and in a backward
sort of way, Clark liked that. Barely concealed, petty one-upmanship never appealed to
him, but apparently it did to the rest of Gotham.
He'd hit the main doors when panic number two came on. Another are you sure you want to do this? But he couldn't not do it. He could practically feel the brain waves
bouncing off each other. Okay, pal, you got me, but I want you to know that I know you're as scared as I am . . .
Alright, so they were probably frightened of each other. Sort of like mutually
assured destruction between two nuclear countries. But Wayne should have known
trying to cancel the interview was something bordering on a "come hither" look. It also
worked as an additional confirmation for Clark's logistics on Batman's identity. Did he
honestly think Clark was just going to drop this? Fat chance, buddy. Ready or not, here I come . . .
All of this buzzed through Clark's mind in a blink, and no one would have seen a
slight hesitation in the breeze-way of the main doors. He slowly paced his way through a
large revolving door and found himself in a big, beautiful lobby, a glass-enclosed atrium
that reached up in a semi-circle six stories overhead. The middle of the open space was
dominated by a suspended glass sculpture, unmistakably the work of Dale Chihuly. It
occurred to him that he wasn't just here to see the company president--it was also an
opportunity to see the headquarters of a very large, successful, international corporation
based in Gotham. There was moderate traffic in the lobby, mostly professionals and
foreign visitors. There were three or four Japanese visitors talking to someone up by
the front desk, and Clark kicked up his hearing just enough to recognize that the
conversation on both sides was being conducted in Japanese.
He had brought his old, brown leather portfolio, with a small digital recorder
tucked inside. He was grateful of his more anonymous choice in this. His newer black
one had the Daily Planet logo stamped on it in gold, and the odds of wandering around
without someone spotting that was somewhat less. With the interview officially called
off, he guessed his odds of getting a pass weren't good, so he did his darnedest to blend
into a small crowd and made it past the front desk without anyone flagging him down.
Before he had a good chance to safely separate from that group, he found himself in a
wide hallway that seemed to lead to some laboratories. It didn't look like the place a
head executive would nest, so he backtracked enough to find what looked like a main
hallway, with dark wood paneling, carpeting, chandelier lighting, and lined with
elevators, not to mention full of quite a bit of traffic. He timed it perfectly with the
arrival of an elevator on its way up, and hit the button for the twenty-seventh floor,
declining for the moment to go to the thirtieth floor. He wanted the opportunity to do a
little exploring. There would be time enough to go to the top floor and hunt for the
company president.
On arriving at the twenty-seventh floor, though, he realized he had probably
misjudged the building's general layout. The cherry wood, granite, and marble that
greeted his eyes on leaving the elevator seemed like senior vice-president territory,
nothing much that he could explore. But then again, this wasn't a factory. It was the
corporate headquarters of a parent company that ran worldwide. He knew the company
had started out as a medical think tank, having been started by one of the top heart
surgeons in the nation, but they had branched out considerably since then. Alongside
such medical achievements as the stent, "open" magnetic resonance imaging scanners,
and positron emission tomography imaging was work in fields such as chemical
engineering, superconductors, and nuclear research, most of it centered on dealing with
waste. They did R and D for NASA as well. Clark knew that none of it was intentionally
slanted toward the military, and it didn't really surprise him. Looking at the company
president, it was entirely expected.
He checked his watch, seeing that he had a good half hour before he could even
think of showing up for an interview that had technically been cancelled, and decided to
stay on the floor and see what he could. Most of that floor seemed to be offices and a few
conference rooms, but there were opportunities to watch the people. He passed by
some open doors and caught snatches of conversations. One conference room looked
like it had been vacated momentarily in the middle of a meeting, with portfolios, legal
pads, and a few coffee cups scattered on the heavy, ornately carved wood table. The
only people in the room at the moment were two women having an intense discussion
over the model of a molecule that was still displayed on some kind of plasma screen at
the head of the room. He heard talk of a hot date as he passed by one office, and it made
him smile. One conversation that passed him in a wide hallway was of such a rapid pace,
it took him a few moments to even discern what language it was. The two Vietnamese
were dissecting the business section of one of the dailies in their native tongue, one
holding the section open as he walked and the other energetically pointing into it.
Overall his impression was that the age range was wide and the people were diverse.
He neared another open area with a few elevators, the outer doors of which were
decorated with brass, hammered in an ornate pattern. Once again he checked his watch,
seeing quarter to ten. He realized he was nervous. It wasn't just because he was
attempting contact with what he had seen last night. For just a moment he caught
himself boggling over the notion that this almost intimidatingly affluent environment
with every convenience one had never imagined was the day side of the reckless shade
that had saved his life last night. He almost started to doubt his reasoning. Rothschild
and Romanee Conti wines, privately owned Lear jets, and casual talk of multi-million-
dollar mergers were what one expected from a top listing in Fortune. Instead Clark was
seeing someone braving .44-caliber slugs, ticking explosives, and mob families. Either
side would key up the ordinary person, but the man who he assumed was three floors
above him right now was both of these sides doubled over.
The thought crossed Clark's mind that his own life wasn't exactly
straightforward, either. The earlier mental image of two countries evenly matched
came back to him, and in this he gained back some confidence. This is Batman? Well, hello. I'm Superman. He resolutely crossed to the elevator and hit the call button.
They had information on each other, vital information that they should verify with each
other, and it was not quite ten minutes to ten. He would prowl the thirtieth floor until he
came up with something.
An elevator arrived, and he waited while the three people, one in a wheelchair,
exited, then he got in and hit the thirtieth floor. The three-floor ascent took only a
moment. The doors opened, and he took a deep breath and stepped out.
Somewhat to his surprise, it didn't look much different from the floor he had just
left. He looked around almost cautiously and then set off down the wide, carpeted
corridor. There was minimal traffic. Up ahead, though, a conference room was
emptying out, and something subtle about them made Clark think they were top
executives. Lois would have been pleased to see it was fairly evenly split between men
and women, but that wasn't why Clark sharpened his focus on them. Where there were
senior executives, there was a president, and he watched and listened carefully as the
two dozen or so left the room in small clusters, talking among themselves.
" . . . there's a merry-go-round with that LexCorp development . . ."
" . . .can't see why our team was shoved into the hard end of the shuttle air
system . . ."
"Tough gamble, but Wyzerman's got his project up for review . . ."
"That bitches the NCP project."
"What do you suggest?"
"Try Catherine MacMillan. I think she's got a mind for this."
Clark focused on the last three exchanges at first only because they were in low
voices, and then something else clicked in his mind. He focused back in rapidly, hard to
do because the two were still in the room.
" can't begin to imagine the hold-up they've dealt us!"
"I know, Tom. We can feed this back into R and D. The cold fission theories are
solid, and NASA will have no trouble seeing that."
"But but LexCorp is suggesting a fusion system--"
"I know what they're suggesting, Tom," came the calm, gentle interruption.
"Once they see liquid plastics won't solve their problem, we've got NASA back on our
doorstep."
"But can R and D handle this?"
"They've got it handled already."
Clark didn't even notice the other man. As far as he was concerned, there was
one person leaving the room, talking to himself. Immediately every sense zeroed in on
the somewhat conservative charcoal Armani suit leaving the room. For skeletal, there
was the same structure and proportion. Same height. The musculature showed raw
physical strength was there, but the lung capacity spoke of endurance training as well.
The voice was slightly different, but he could see altering it to further hide himself. If
Clark concentrated, he could zero in on the heartbeat, and there was even the same
slight heart murmur. And, yes, on the right leg he could detect a light-weight, slim, high
tech support brace, made of polymers that wouldn't set off metal detectors. Wayne was
doing a masterful job of hiding a limp.
Clark felt his inner ego clench its fist and hiss a self-satisfied "yes!". He hesitated
for just a moment, unsure of how he wanted to proceed, then started after the man. He
followed them at a short distance, out into a large, open office area. It seemed like the
walls oozed aides and project directors upon sensing Wayne's presence, and for a few
minutes he dealt with them. Clark took the opportunity to observe him from a more
subjective viewpoint.
If Lois didn't know he was a billionaire, she might have considered him attractive.
His thick brown hair was brushed back neatly, and he had a good looking face, steady
green-hazel eyes, and full lips. For Clark, it was a kick to see the man wore glasses, but
it was hard to tell if he wore them for the same reason Clark wore them. The first
overall impression that he had, though, was "unhurried". The way he talked and moved
indicated someone who marched to his own easy pace. Not slow-witted, or lazy, or
ignorant, though. He seemed more like a brake to the frantically racing engines around
him. He had his own steady, measured, thoughtful pace, and Clark could see a confused,
hurried employee dashing up, hanging a sign on him that said "Anyone who isn't
panicking doesn't fully understand the situation!" and scurrying away. But from what
Clark had been able to read on him, it seemed Wayne was more the type who believed
that over-steering the ship would undoubtedly result in a crash. He wasn't capable of a
knee-jerk, reflex reaction, and that spread over to emotions as well. He could be made
to concentrate, to think, but not to burst out with rage or joy.
Clark found himself shaking his head slowly, a strange smile on his face. From
watching Bruce Wayne, no one could know anything unusual had happened the night
before. Clark did it all the time, on shorter notice with more incredible circumstances,
but still, seeing someone else do the same thing was . . .well, eerie, but at the same time
Clark found himself holding back a delighted laugh. The man had swiped ten hostages
out from under Lex Luthor's nose, flushed out all of Luthor's thugs alive, and been
buried under fifteen stories' worth of concrete, brick, and steel. And here he was the
next morning, on time, calmly dealing with an overzealous aide who wanted to know if
the Japanese delegation could get a run through the ceramics developments.
The crowd of a dozen or so that had clustered around Wayne and the other man
was gradually disappearing, and Clark eased a little closer, listening to the exchange.
" . . . both contracts were dropped by Star Chemical, Mr. Loessing, and we can
pick up the slack in engineering," one project head was saying.
"Which will pump it right back into the Pentagon, Mr. Hackman," Tom Loessing
said, shaking his blond head.
"But sir, those two contracts are for two hundred million dollars! And only one of
them is for the Pentagon."
"And it's a double or nothing deal," Wayne slipped in, his tone of voice again
easing off the man's nervous energy. "The U.S. Government knows it doesn't look to
Wayne Enterprises for military contracts."
"Well, maybe we could get them to reconsider splitting the contracts."
"Then we'll be close to eating out of the government's hand, Mr. Hackman." He
paused. "Let someone else have them."
Clark had been focused on the exchange, not yet having figured out how he
wanted to play it, when he suddenly found himself alone with the two men. They were
just starting to head off when Wayne instinctively glanced his way. His eyes slid away at
first, but then his gaze came back with a crack that Clark almost felt. And just as quickly
it was wrenched away again, afraid to make prolonged contact. The beginning edges of
startled panic started to shine in his eyes.
"Excuse me, sir, do you have a visitor's pass?" Loessing was saying, his tone
courteous but his eyes narrowing suspiciously.
"I--uh . . . no . . . um . . ." Clark stumbled, third panic flashing through him as he
realized he was right on top of it with no plan of action. But then an idea hit him. Why
hide it? He couldn't help but hear Wayne's heartbeat suddenly kicking into a gallop, and
his eyes were glued to some spot about two feet off the floor. It didn't take brilliance to
see he was panicked. But Clark wasn't far behind him just then when it came to nerves.
So they were both frightened! If nothing else, that put them on equal footing.
So Clark made no effort to hide the nervousness in his quick smile, actually
fumbling his portfolio momentarily as he held out a hand. "I'm Clark Kent, from the
Daily Planet in Metropolis. I . . .um, seemed to have slipped up on something . . ." The
words flooded out of his mouth before he could analyze them. "I got here before I
thought to check my voice mail at the Radisson, and . . . kind of got the message a little
late . . ."
He was mildly surprised to see Bruce Wayne had the presence of mind to take his
hand, and his grip was firm. But Clark could feel his nervousness telegraphed like a
Morse code through his hand. Probably he would have introduced himself, but their
eyes finally locked, and Clark had a weird flashback to the night before, when their gazes
had matched. He couldn't say how long the contact lasted, but suddenly two or three
other people were there, at least one of whom wanted the attention of the company
president.
"Sir, I don't mean to interrupt, but engineering has run into some hold-ups with
the injector tests for this afternoon. They anticipate a one day delay."
Just that quickly the contact between them was broken. There was a massive
gear switch as Wayne turned to the dark skinned woman in conservative gray.
"Alright, thanks, Margaret. Was it the NASA fuel problem?"
"That seems to be it, according to Catherine MacMillan. The Sony delegation
would also like to meet with you this afternoon, sir. I've pencilled them in at four p.m."
"That'll do for now." He paused again. "What does the rest of the day look like,
again?"
It was like someone had flicked to another track on the DVD, it was such a
dramatic shift. Clark had always assumed he had the lock on gear shifts, but here was a
challenger. This man wore a mask by day almost as surely as he wore one by night.
The woman, Margaret, had run down the schedule, and Clark found Bruce
Wayne's gaze on him again. "Why don't you wait in my office, alright?" he said,
indicating the general direction with a nod. "I'll be there in about five minutes." If he
was still startled, his facial expression and voice gave no indication now.
Clark could only nod thanks and back off, as the two other people managed to
catch Wayne's attention. They broke off mid-sentence, though, as two men who Clark
immediately identified as security were approaching at a fast walk, looking more than a
little concerned. One of them ended a short, cryptic exchange on a walkie talkie and
hooked it back on his belt. "Sorry about this, Mr. Wayne. Is everything all right?" The
other man started to approach Clark in a circuitous manner. Caught unawares, Wayne
only stared at him a moment, then glanced to Clark again.
"A couple of people on the twenty-seventh floor saw someone of your description
without a visitor's pass," the first one explained, looking at Clark. "The lobby people
hadn't spotted you entering the building. We just wanted to know if everything was all
right."
All of them were staring at Clark, as a matter of fact, and it made him feel
exposed. He hoped the look he returned to Wayne didn't look too desperate. For a
moment he got a deer-in-headlights expression in return and he held his breath.
Wayne turned deliberately to his left, breaking the contact again, hesitated, then
said, "Margaret."
"Yes, sir?" Margaret stepped forward and looked at him expectantly, raising a
wry eyebrow when she didn't even get eye contact, let alone a verbal response at first.
Another few moments of dead silence during which it seemed like someone had
hit Wayne's pause button, then he finally spoke. "Could you put Mr. Kent back into the
computer, please?"
"I can," Margaret answered, sounding wary. "Back into your schedule? It would
make this afternoon tricky." He looked at her questioningly. "Over-booked," she
answered flatly, sounding very unamused.
There was another pause-button moment, and then Wayne smiled ingratiatingly
at her. "We'll manage," he said. Margaret couldn't hold a straight face anymore and
rolled her eyes, a smile breaking through her disapproving manner. It seemed like the
temperature returned to normal again with the exchange, and the security relaxed
visibly, shifting their weight. "Have them fax a pass up here and I'll sign it," Wayne
added, glancing meaningfully at Clark again. "Everything's all right, yes," he said to the
security people. "Thank you."
"Wait a minute," the first security man said then, studying Clark curiously.
"Correct me if I'm wrong. Clark Kent?"
Clark nodded.
"The reporter?"
"Daily Planet of Metro," Clark returned.
The security man stared. "You were a hostage last night!"
Clark carefully avoided even seeing Wayne, let alone meeting his gaze. He
shrugged uneasily. "I was. I wasn't there as long as some of the others--"
"That's why you cancelled," the security man said, looking at Wayne. "And
you're here on the job the next day." He shook his head admiringly. "Tough cookie."
The other security man let out a low whistle. Loessing had crossed his arms and was
looking Clark up and down carefully. Once again Clark found everyone, save Wayne,
staring at him curiously. For a moment he wondered if he was expected to put on some
kind of performance, but then the first security man pulled out a cell phone. "If it's all
right with you, I'd like to let medical know. No big deal, just to let them know at least
what quadrant of what floor you're on."
"Uh--medical?" As if he didn't feel keyed up already, Clark almost started to
sweat. If medical people did much more than the paramedics had last night, they might
find some decidedly unusual results.
Apparently misinterpreting Clark's reluctance, the man returned with some
confusion, "This is Wayne Enterprises," as though that observation made it all patently
obvious. "You got a headache, you got six M.D.s on top of you. They're consulting all
the time--it's just a precaution."
Not wanting to draw any more attention to himself than he already had, Clark
tried to let it off the hook with humor. "I guess. Just tell them I'm chicken about
needles."
The man let out a breath of laughter, backing away. "Deal! No blood draws or
anything, anyway. Thanks, we'll let them know." He nodded, satisfied with the
situation, and he and his partner left the group. Clark still avoided making eye contact
with Wayne as the gathering started to break up. The crazy idea occurred to him that
after that last exchange, he wasn't certain if he could keep a straight face, despite the
near miss.
"Mr. Kent, have you won a Pulitzer yet?" Margaret asked with droll humor as
she turned to follow her boss.
"Uh, not yet," Clark returned gamely.
"Coming right up," she tossed over her shoulder, sounding admiring. "Why don't
you come with me, and I'll get you that pass." Dazed for a moment, Clark suddenly saw
Margaret had stopped and was looking back at him expectantly. He shook himself out of
his momentary fog, sure that he was blushing, called a quick "Sorry!" to her, and got
moving. He thought back to his earlier vow to not intimidate Wayne, and wondered if a
few idle comments really would have been uncalled for.
She split off from the others and went down another hallway, passing through a
station with a couple of desks and entering an office just as formally impressive as any
he had managed to see so far. The name plate on the desk said "Margaret K.
Hendricks". He was in the office of Bruce Wayne's secretary, and mentally tallying up
the fact that the personalized leather chair alone probably cost more than his computer,
fax machine, desk, and chair at the Daily Planet combined. As she spoke with someone
on the phone, he discreetly touched a spot on his chest, feeling the faint curving seam
line of the letter "S" through his dark blue dress shirt.
Margaret finished her quick exchange with someone named Chidori, and almost
at the same time that she set the phone down, the fax machine on one end of the
curving, modular-style desk came to life. When the sheet emerged, she picked it up,
found a pen, and added her signature to the sheet. She studied the sheet critically for a
moment, then presented it to him. "My signature should be enough to clear you with
any security between here and Mr. Wayne's office, just in case any more show up. It's
probably quicker for you to get his signature when you talk to him, rather than me
trying to chase him down through the hallways," she added with more wry humor,
walking with him to the door of the office. "If anyone gives you any trouble, present that
and then send them to me."
"Thanks, I appreciate this," he finally managed, following her back out of the
office.
"It wouldn't be fair for you to leave without getting your interview," she
commented in return. "If you're here after what happened last night, you're one brave
man. It must have been a horrible experience."
"Well, it helped to be unconscious through most of it," he tried, searching for a
way to avoid in-depth conversation about last night. "We're spotlighting major cities
around the country, looking at past founders and present-day shapers," he said, trying
to shift the subject. "Can't really do a story like that on Gotham without talking to Bruce
Wayne."
"Well, that may be," she allowed as they reached the wide corridor where they
had split off from the other group earlier. She gestured to the other end of the hallway,
where there was a set of tall double doors. "That's where you're headed," she said,
turning to face him. "He doesn't often do interviews, you know," she added, studying
him.
"Shy?"
"No," she said thoughtfully. "Private."
You have no idea, Clark thought to himself. "I'll do my best," he said aloud as
she turned to leave. "Thanks for the help."
"Oh, one other thing," she added, turning back to him. "He said five minutes?"
Clark nodded. She hesitated a moment, choosing her words. "He will get to you," she
assured him almost apologetically, smiling.
"Right. Thanks."
He blew out a breath, looked at the piece of paper in his hands, and then over at
the end of the hallway. He opened his portfolio and slipped the pass in. On carefully
focusing his hearing, he found nothing. The office ahead of him was empty yet. He saw
the beams of the motion sensors placed in advance of the doors, realizing that by the
pattern they were set in, they detected momentum and intent, not random wandering.
The doors looked less like a barrier between hall and room and more like some kind of
portal between dimensions. They were of solid steel construction, tall and minimally
ornamented, with an electronic lock that looked to be voice activated.
When this guy says he doesn't want to be disturbed, he means it.
The doors swung silently inward at his approach. Clark had not seen very many
billionaire executive offices, but he supposed this one looked like any of them, spacious,
with a sparse, modernist elegance in the design. A few antique furnishings and the
requisite large bookshelves on the far left wall gave a feeling of history and tradition, but
the shelves flanked a closed cabinet with another large plasma screen. In front of him,
full-length windows gave a nice view of the bay. All in all, a place designed to look
formally impressive for someone who probably did not spend much time there. On
impulse, Clark gave the place a quick scan. Nothing that he could spot out of the
ordinary--the windows were bullet-proof glass, and he could see the faint lines of
infrared surveillance, appearing to his vision more as a thin line of displaced space rather
than a visible color. He surveyed the bookshelf again, more in depth this time, and then
the desk. He had begun a close look at the wall structure before he stopped, smiling to
himself, shaking his head. He knew what he had been instinctively looking for--evidence.
In just slightly longer than the average human blink, his appearance could change from
Clark Kent to Superman. How long did it take the average human to become relatively
bullet-proof, anonymous, and startling? Clark decided that if he couldn't hide whatever
it was he needed beneath a business suit, there must be other methods, perhaps stashes
here and there in key places. What were the methods and time frame? Where was the
equipment? It must be one knock-out of a set-up--
Approaching voices outside the door made him quickly assume what he hoped
was a suitably innocent spot several steps away from the doors. The voices halted just
outside for a moment, and then the other person left and the doors swung inward.
