Clark nodded, trying to shackle his impatience. If this whole implausible fairy-tale were possible, he wanted Lois alive. Now. "I don't care where I am," he said. "I don't care which time I'm in. I just want Lois to be all right. Whatever you need to do to get my wife back, do it."
Wells took a flat, rectangular contraption from his pocket. "One final thing, Mr Kent," he said.
"Yes?"
"Tempus always travels with kryptonite."
Wells punched a few numbers into his device.
Blackness surrounded Clark. Forces jostled at his body, inducing a feeling of movement as if he were being sucked through a tunnel. He clung to Lois and waited.
Part 2
When the darkness cleared, Clark found himself on the sidewalk of a busy street. Lois lay unmoving in his arms, still wrapped in the hospital sheet. He lifted her mouth to his ear.
He heard it.
And felt it - her breath billowing across his cheek.
Lois was breathing!
Clark focussed his hearing, and the dah-dub of her heart flooded him with joy.
Lois was alive!
His tears rose again to bathe his chafed eyes as he clutched her warm body and eagerly drank in the precious sounds of life.
She felt almost weightless in his arms. Had something happened to make her so light?
Alarmed, Clark traced her leg, her hip, and her shoulder through the sheet. She didn't feel significantly smaller. Then he realised. He was strong again. The dragging ache he experienced following exposure to kryptonite had gone. He deliberately relaxed his arms and held her easily across his chest.
Lois was alive.
"Lois," he murmured. "Lois. My love."
She didn't respond, but already a dusting of pink colour had infused her cheeks.
Clark dragged his eyes from Lois and surveyed his surroundings. The day was cool and overcast, typical for October. Everything else, however, felt oddly disjointed - the vehicles, the clothes, the snatches of conversation from passers-by, even the billboards.
Had the world really changed that much in eight years?
Or had Wells miscalculated and sent him further back into the past?
Did it matter? Lois was alive.
Clark dropped his head against hers, kissed her hair, and muttered his thankfulness that he had been given another chance. Another chance to protect her, to keep her safe, to stop whoever was trying to hurt her.
"Is everything all right?"
Clark looked up into the concerned face of an elderly woman. "Yes," he said. "Thank you."
"Perhaps you need to sit down," she said, taking possession of his arm. "You don't look too good."
Remembering what Wells had said about the need for obscurity, Clark looked around. Across the road was an old building - its faded paintwork providing a feeble, almost apologetic, introduction. "That's where we're staying," he said with a nod to the North-Western Hotel. "We'll go there. Thank you for your concern."
"She needs to see a doctor."
Clark pulled the sheet further over Lois's head and smiled with a lot more confidence than he felt. "She just needs to rest," he said as he stepped away and onto the road. "She's going to be fine."
Until now, Clark hadn't given one thought to what he would do once they arrived in 1985.
But he was carrying an unconscious woman. People were going to remember that. He needed to take Lois somewhere private. And he needed to do it before she awakened - particularly if she had no memories of him.
With purposeful steps, he entered the North-Western Hotel. In the rather drab lobby, he approached the bored-looking, twenties-something woman behind the counter and asked if they had a vacancy. A spark of interest flickered through her expression as she eyed Lois.
"She's my wife," Clark explained quickly.
"What's wrong with her?"
"She's been ill. Our insurance company won't cover her hospital fees any longer, so we had to leave."
"Is she gonna die? Tony -"
"No, she's definitely not going to die," Clark said quickly. "She needs to rest; she's too weak to drive home yet. We just need a few days."
"You don't have any luggage," the woman noted.
"I ... I have to go back and get it," Clark said. "I couldn't carry -"
"You'll have to pay in advance."
Clark pulled the wad of bills from his shirt pocket. "I'll pay for three nights and give you one hundred dollars towards room service."
"Do you want a balcony room?"
*That* could be useful. "Ah, yes, please."
"Two hundred, fifty dollars."
Clark fumbled through the bills and handed the correct amount to the woman.
She examined them closely and, seemingly satisfied, put them in the cash register and picked up a pen. "Names?"
"Robert James. This is my wife, Mary."
The receptionist wrote the names in the large book. "From?"
"Tulsa, Oklahoma." Well, they'd booked their honeymoon there.
"You've come a long way."
If only she knew. "That's why my wife needs to rest before we begin the road trip home."
"Room 518." The receptionist gave him a key. "Fifth floor. There's no elevator."
"Thank you." Clark sedately climbed the stairs until the bend took him out of sight. Then he whizzed the rest of the way and quickly located their room, relieved to have arrived without meeting anyone else who might feel compelled to ask questions about Lois.
He closed the door to the outside world and leant against it, pausing for a moment to grasp for something concrete in the surreal haze of his mind.
In less than an hour, he had watched his wife die, met a dead author, been told an extraordinary tale of cross-time assassination, travelled back eight years, and witnessed the return of life to Lois's body.
She was alive!
Keeping her close against his chest, Clark used one hand to pull back the covers from the double bed. He gently positioned Lois's inert body on the cool sheet, put her bag within easy reach, brought the blankets to her shoulder, and bent low to kiss her cheek.
She hadn't moved – but her breathing was steady and unlaboured, and her heartbeat was strong and regular.
A wave of relief crashed over him.
Lois was alive.
After three days of gut-knotting fear and heart-crushing grief, she was alive.
Not out of danger, but alive.
And, assuming Wells' implausible assertions were accurate, Clark would now be able to do a lot more than sit at her bedside and helplessly watch her die.
He had to find Tempus.
He had to discover how Tempus intended to kill Lois.
He had to prevent it from happening.
He had to ensure that Tempus could never endanger Lois again.
He was in a world he'd never experienced, among people he didn't know.
He was stuck with eighties technology. He would have no internet. No computer. No cell phone.
Obtaining information was going to require leaving the hotel room.
But carrying an unconscious woman with him definitely didn't fit with the directive to remain inconspicuous.
Clark sat on the bed and gently sandwiched Lois's hand between his palms. "Someone is trying to take you away from me," he said. "But we're not going to let that happen."
He waited, but she didn't respond.
Clark forced himself to smile, hoping it would sound in his voice. "We have a case to solve, honey," he said. "More than ever before, we need to stop the bad guy. I need my partner. You're going to have to help me here."
Still, there was no response.
"What should we do first?" Clark asked.
Her voice rose from his imagination. Start with what we have.
"Good idea." He stood and systematically checked his superpowers. Despite his recent - eight years into the future - exposure to kryptonite in the hospital, which had closely followed the weeks of vulnerability that had resulted from being imprisoned in Trask's warehouse, he was fully 'super'. Speed, flight, strength, hearing, vision - all working just fine.
That was going to help a lot.
The memories of being powerless were still sharp; feeling whole and normal again filled Clark with new hope and confidence.
No one - in this time or any other - was going to hurt any version of Lois Lane.
"All of my powers are back," he whispered as he sat beside Lois again. "What now?"
Assess what we know.
In October 1985, Lois had been a freshman at Metropolis State University. Her ambition had been to become the best reporter at the finest newspaper in the country.
That gave him a starting point.
Clark kissed his wife's forehead. "I have to go out," he said, "but I'll be back very soon." He fixed his hearing onto Lois's heartbeat, locked the hotel room door, and slipped down the stairs.
"How's your wife?" the receptionist asked as Clark passed through the lobby.
"Resting comfortably," Clark said, realising with a sinking feeling that a man dressed in rumpled clothes and carrying an unconscious woman into a seedy-looking hotel was going to elicit some interest.
"Are you sure she'll be OK?"
"Yes." Clark walked to the door, hoping she would discern his reluctance to talk.
"Because if she's not going to be OK, there will be trouble with Tony."
Clark paused at the door. "Who's Tony?"
"The owner. And manager. And boss. If he finds out she's sick ..." The receptionist slowly shook her head. "He's paranoid about even the smallest sniff of scandal tainting the reputation of his hotel. If someone died here, he would implode."
Clark smiled, hoping it would somehow alleviate her worries. "My wife isn't going to die," he said firmly. "So there's nothing to tell Tony." He smiled again, added a friendly gesture of farewell, and then hurried through the door.
He needed to get back to Lois quickly. If she woke up ... If the receptionist decided she was duty-bound report the presence of a sick woman ...
Clark scanned the nearby streets, looking through buildings as necessary, and located a newsstand and a second-hand store.
He walked briskly, feeling even more 'alien' than usual. The discrepancies bombarded his senses. Had some people really begun *every* sentence with 'like'? And 'sick' was good; 'bad' was awesome. But it was more than the scraps of conversation flying around him. Three times, he had to dodge skateboards carrying teenage boys dressed in tight acid-wash jeans. And the music - screaming from ghetto blasters attached to shoulders like oversized metallic badges of belonging.
All this was only eight years ago?
Had he grown up? Or grown old?
When he reached the newsstand, he checked the date on the front page of the nearest newspaper - Friday, October 18, 1985.
So HG Wells had told the truth. He could move through time.
Clark bought copies of the Daily Planet, the Metropolis Star, and the Statement - the newspaper of Met State - all while tracking Lois's heartbeat and breathing.
In the second-hand store, he found a battered suitcase and bought it for five dollars. They were going to need other things - Lois was wearing only a hospital gown - but Clark's eagerness to be with her overrode every other consideration.
He was back in the hotel room less than ten minutes after he'd left. He dropped the suitcase to the floor and the papers onto the tiny table as he hurried over to check on Lois. She hadn't moved.
Kneeling beside the bed, Clark took her hand, and slid his fingertips across her knuckles. "I love you, Lois," he said softly. "You're going to wake up soon, and we'll be together. You'll smile your incredible smile ... and you'll laugh ... and you'll wrap your arms around my neck ... and you'll tease me, and Tempus won't stand a chance against the team of Lane and Kent."
When would she wake up?
And when she did, would she remember him?
Would she remember they were married?
She *had* to. They had come through so much together; nothing could erase that. Not even death.
His inclination was to celebrate each breath and marvel at each heartbeat, but conscious of the restraints of time, he resolutely gathered up the newspapers and pulled the chair close to the bed. He began with the Statement.
The editor-in-chief was Paul Bender. Clark found a small story by Lois Lane – on page eight – about rehearsals beginning for a new musical production.
He couldn't suppress his wistful smile.
The Lois he knew did *not* write stories about rehearsals.
But she was a freshman, just a few weeks into college. Getting any story printed was an achievement.
What was she like? Young Lois?
How had Tempus wormed his way into her life?
Did she know him?
Was she suspicious that someone was trying to hurt her?
Had he begun already?
Was she feeling ill? Scared? Anxious? Threatened?
That thought spurred Clark to action, and he speed-read every page of the three papers. They rekindled further memories of the world of 1985, but gave him nothing useful regarding Tempus or his plans for Lois.
Clark folded the newspapers and placed them on the floor.
What was the best way to find one man - probably disguised - from the midst of millions in Metropolis?
Tempus was here because of young Lois.
Should he try to find her?
Wells had emphasised the importance of Clark slipping into her life, securing her safety, and slipping out again without causing any ripples that could swell to tsunamis with the passage of time.
A man of Clark's age showing any unwarranted interest in a female college student had the potential to be memorable for all the wrong reasons.
Perhaps he should check out Paul Bender. As Lois's editor, he would be a significant person in her life.
But if Tempus had thought that, he could be watching Paul Bender. Or he could be impersonating the editor.
"Aw, Lois," Clark said, lifting her hand and resting it against his cheek. "I need you. I always need you, but right now, your inside knowledge would be invaluable. And I sure could use your ability to slice right to the crux and pinpoint all the important bits." He lightly ran the back of his finger down her cheek. She didn't move. "I hate the thought of leaving you, Lois," he said. "But I have to find out what I can about the people who were in your life eight years ago." He kissed her hand and gently placed it on her abdomen. "I'll be listening to every beat of your heart. If you want me, you just have to say my name, and I'll be here for you."
Assuming she remembered his name.
He stood, and as he locked his hearing onto her heartbeat, another thought occurred to him.
Would he be able to distinguish young Lois's heartbeat from among thousands? If he went to Met State, found the School of Journalism, and listened, would he detect a recognisable version of the heart he loved?
And if did, what should he do? Use that knowledge to avoid her? Or boldly confront her?
She didn't know Clark Kent, so there was no danger of her recognising him. The possible dangers from such an encounter stretched into the future.
His eyes settled on his wife, and Clark gave a soft chuckle. "Yes," he said. "I know what you'd do, but if we want our lives back, we have to tread carefully here."
His wisp of humour died, overpowered by his yearning to be with Lois again. Really with her. Talking together. Laughing. Sharing.
If Lois were awake, this would be so much easier.
But for now, he had to work alone.
After a final lingering glance at his wife, Clark left the hotel room via the balcony.
He had to find Tempus, remove him from this world, and ensure young Lois was safe to get on with the life that would, eventually, lead her to the Daily Planet, a weekend in Smallville, and the adoring arms of Clark Kent.
+-+-+-+
Lois Lane waited outside Paul's office with barely contained impatience. Her editor had sent a messenger to relay that he had been unavoidably detained and would therefore be late for lunch, but that didn't mean she enjoyed waiting.
Paul.
Lois sighed.
Paul Bender.
She sighed again.
Editor-in-Chief of the Statement, the finest college newspaper in the United States.
Paul Bender.
Handsome, suave, confident, mature, intelligent, charming; a man who knew that success was his destiny.
Lois was in love with him.
She wanted to share everything with him. Her hopes. Her dreams. Her successes.
Her life.
But although they met together in the sanctuary of Paul's office three days a week, he had given no tangible indication of having noticed her.
Not above his other two protégés – Linda King and Barry Russo. The four of them had lunch every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Paul brought the food and drinks. They ate while they discussed everything - the paper, the stories, the people, the happenings around the college, and the wider issues such as AIDS, the Soviet Union under Gorbachev's leadership, and the lurking dangers of contaminants in the environment.
It made Lois feel part of the elite, the select group of Young People Going Somewhere. The World Changers.
But she wanted far more from Paul than his interest in her career.
She wanted his respect as a fellow reporter. She wanted his admiration as a writer.
Most of all she wanted his heart. She wanted him to be as completely in love with her as she was with him.
What she needed - really needed - was The Breakthrough Story. Something so brilliant, so cutting-edge, so significant that it elevated her above Linda and Barry in Paul's estimation.
The story that made him love her.
Lois yawned. She had been so tired lately. Hunting down leads and wading through endless research in the all-consuming pursuit of that elusive story was exhausting. And she had to write the mundane stories Paul assigned her for the Statement. And she had to keep up her grades. And she had to work three shifts a week at the hotel.
Lois would never have admitted it to anyone, but the load was taking a toll.
On her health.
On her energy.
On her mood.
On her patience.
On her composure.
She stifled another yawn and allowed her tired mind to wander to her favourite, oft-visited daydream.
The dream that fuelled her relentless pursuit of all her ambitions.
The dream where she, Lois Lane, future Pulitzer winner, meets a stranger.
A stranger, tall and dark and cloaked in mystery. A man with secrets. A man desperately driven to keep those secrets concealed.
She conducts a brilliant investigation, based on inspired intuition and watertight research, and writes a breath-takingly perceptive exposé.
Her Breakthrough Story.
Lois smiled, imagining Paul's lavish praise. His appreciation when her story reflects so well on the Statement and his editorship. The accolades he receives for having chosen his protégée with such discernment.
He would want to be with her. He would seek out her company. He would -
"Excuse me."
A deep male voice broke into her reverie.
Lois looked around and gasped. The man who had spoken was tall and dark. And a stranger.
Could this be him? Could this be the story she had been waiting for?
Could fate have finally stepped in to give her a helping hand?
Scurries of excitement danced up Lois's spine as she ran a critical eye over him. There was definitely *something* about him. She could feel it.
Her 'story' had brown eyes, black hair, and was probably nearly thirty - old enough to have squirreled away an entire cache of fascinating secrets.
Lois surreptitiously glanced to his left hand. He was married. Did that bode well? Did his wife know the truth about him? Or had she been fooled by his squeaky-clean Boy Scout image?
He was staring at her - almost as if he thought *she* was a story. As if he had questions he would like to ask her. A biting retort sprang to Lois's lips, but then she remembered he was waiting for her to respond. "Yes?"
"I ... I'm looking for Paul Bender," he said.
Aren't we all? "He isn't here."
"Do you know him?"
"Of course I know him," Lois replied, wondering what business this stranger had with Paul. In the unlikely event he had come with a lead, she added, "I am one of the senior reporters. Paul and I work closely together."
The stranger had the temerity to smile, almost as if he knew she wasn't being completely accurate. "Do you know when he will be back?"
Annoyed by the smile, Lois snapped, "I am not Mr Bender's secretary."
"But you said you work closely with him."
The amusement glimmering in the stranger's brown eyes made her want to slap him. "I know he has a very important meeting all afternoon," she said. "And not with you."
The stranger didn't flinch at her tone. "I would like to speak to Mr Bender personally," he said. "Do you know when he will be available?"
His calm persistence ignited her reporter's instinct and fired her imagination. What if this man were planning to kidnap Paul? To murder him? It wasn't unheard of for psychopaths to target newspaper editors. What if Lois's investigative skills not only landed her an exclusive, but actually saved Paul's life?
Now *that* would get Paul Bender's attention.
Lois needed to keep the men apart until she knew more - although at this stage, she wasn't sure whether the need was primarily to protect Paul or to protect her story. "You can't see Mr Bender today," she said decisively. "But come back tomorrow afternoon at four o'clock."
"It's very important that I see him as soon as possible."
"Four o'clock tomorrow," Lois said. "Take it or leave it."
"He'll be here then?"
Not a chance. Not on a Saturday. "I'll notify him that you wish to meet with him."
The stranger smiled with a graciousness that was oddly irritating. "Thank you." He began to walk away.
"Ah, Mr ..." Lois called after him.
He turned back to her.
"What's your name?"
"Robert James."
Lois stared at him. Had there been the slightest hesitation before he'd given his name? Why? Was he using an alias? Was his name on a 'Most Wanted List' somewhere? Had he already committed a crime? Murdered? Stolen? Embezzled? "Was there a specific story you wished to discuss with Mr Bender?"
"No."
"Does he know you?"
"No."
In the distance, Lois saw Linda and Barry round the corner and continue strolling towards Paul's office. Shelving the rest of her questions for now, she said, "I'll tell Mr Bender you were here."
Thankfully, Robert James understood that their conversation had reached its conclusion. With a small wave that was probably meant to convey his thanks, he strode away. Lois turned to the approach of Linda and Barry. Linda was laughing at something Barry had said. Lois breathed a little easier when neither showed any sign of having noticed the tall, dark stranger.
"Hi, Lois," Linda said. She turned back to Barry. "Are you sure about that? Was the story supported with real facts?"
"Hi, Lois," Barry said. "Sorry to keep you waiting."
Lois shrugged. "Paul isn't here yet. I'm waiting for him."
"Are you sure?" Linda persisted. "It sounds rather alarmist to me."
"Linda!" Barry's swift exclamation was driven by obvious frustration. "Surely you can see that if we keep on pumping pollutants into the ocean, we ..."
Lois tuned out. She had more important things to occupy her mind than another of Barry's environmental lectures. Tomorrow, her shift finished at three. By four, she would be here. Safely out of sight. When Mr Robert James realised he'd been stood up, she would track him.
At the very least, she should discover where he lived. Which hopefully would lead to a clue about why he wanted to speak with Paul.
It was unfortunate that she couldn't follow him now. But that would mean missing Friday lunch with Paul - leaving him alone with Linda and Barry and giving them the chance to press for an advantage in the relentless contest for the editor's approval.
And that was something Lois just wasn't prepared to do.
Not even for her Breakthrough Story.
