The blow was severe enough to bring on a concussion, and Batman staggered about blindly, barely able to focus on shapes around him. His grip on consciousness waning, he sought out temporary sanctuary. He began pulling every door handle he passed, finally finding a large trailer that was unlocked. He hauled himself inside and found it empty.
Seconds later, he was jolted back to alertness by a fist rapping on the door. He had slumped into a chair, and had to remember how he came to be in the trailer.
“Hey, they’re ready for you!” a voice called.
Batman said nothing, smelling a trap by his enemies.
After another knock, the door opened and man stepped in the trailer. The woozy Batman sat up straight to present a clear view of his imposing figure. The brawny man showed no surprise at finding Batman there.
“Let’s go, Adam.” He stood there, waiting for Batman to move.
‘He thinks I’m someone else in the Bat-costume,’ Batman realized, amused that for once Bruce Wayne wasn’t being suspected.
“Are you okay?” the man asked.
“Sure, just hit my head,” Batman mumbled. “Can you give me a hand?”
“Did you get cut? Let me see.” The man reached for his cowl. Batman jerked his head back.
“I can’t let you do that. It would severely impair my . . . .” Batman stopped before he completely blew his cover.
“I already know what you look like. Boy, you’re really groggy, aren’t you? Do you even recognize me?”
Batman thought fast for an answer. “Didn’t you say they’re waiting for me? I’d better get going.”
“Do you even remember what you’re late for?”
“Of course,” Batman insisted as the man helped him step outside. Looming before them was a huge building. Painted on a sliding door was:
Stage 15
“Daniel, something’s wrong with Adam!” his handler called out to a second man.
“Don’t tell me you two were getting drunk in there, Hy!” Daniel said, rushing over to smell their breath. “We’re behind schedule already!”
“No, we’re not drunk. Go get the doctor. Adam hit his head.”
Batman had heard enough to satisfy himself that these two were merely street-level con men. He stepped back and pointed an accusing finger.
“Let’s just lay our cards out on the table, shall we? You two are obviously stalling for the miscreant I was pursuing – whoever that was.” He scratched his aching head as he tried to remember his quarry’s identity.
“Why were you chasing a ‘miscreant’ during the middle of the shoot?” Daniel asked.
Batman shook a finger. “I’m through with this foolishness. You can either tell me where he is, or we can go down to Police Headquarters and you can explain it to Commissioner Gordon!”
Daniel and Hy’s jaws dropped and they exchanged a look.
A mustached man in an expensive suit emerged from the hangar-like dwelling. “What’s the hold-up, guys? The Publicity Tonight crew is setting up.”
Hy and Daniel left Batman and raced to meet the man. “Fred, we’ve got a problem! Adam hit his head and now he thinks he’s really Batman!”
“We’ve got to get rid of that lady from Publicity Tonight,” Daniel said.
Fred glared. “Are you nuts? We’d never get them back before this airs! We’ve got to create some hype over this two-parter or we’re going to get clobbered in the overnights by The Munsters!”
Daniel shook his hands. “But he might be permanently damaged! How can I even finish shooting this episode? He could be like this for the rest of the season!”
“Not that you mention it,” said Hy, “if he talks like this all season, I wouldn’t even have to write any dialogue for him. We could just have the other actors improvise off him.”
“We’ve got to make him understand he’s an actor,” said Daniel. “What if we . . . .”
“There’s no time! Maybe there’s a silver lining in all this.” Fred rubbed his chin. “It’s a comedy, right? What if we just tell Publicity Tonight it’d be fun to play the piece like she’s talking to the real Batman? They were worried Adam wouldn’t interview with the cowl on, so they’d probably go for it!”
Pretending to be distracted by a passing flock of birds, Batman listened in on the three men discussing their dilemma. He was confounded by whatever trickery they were hatching. ‘Have to be on my guard,’ he warned himself. He whirled as the mustached man walked right up to him.
“Batman, it’s a great pleasure to meet you. I’m Fred Foster. This is the renowned director, Daniel Roberts, and our writer, Hiram Sea.”
“Mr. Foster,” Batman shook his hand. “Perhaps you can explain . . . ?”
“All completely legitimate, I assure you,” he chuckled. “I’m a television producer, and we’re being paid a visit by the syndicated infotainment program, Publicity Tonight. Perhaps you’ve seen it?”
“There’s not much time for television in the war on crime, I’m afraid.”
Fred laughed. “Of course not. How silly of me.” Batman noted that Fred laughed a little too easily for his liking.
“If you’ll come this way, I’ll introduce you to the reporter and you can judge for yourself.” Foster led Batman over to the door and slid it open. Just before it closed behind him, Batman glanced back to see Daniel waving his arms at Hy, who was crossing out lines in a script.
Inside were several detailed sets, situated one next to the other. Foster led Batman past several until they rounded a corner to find a small film crew waiting in a hallway.
A blond woman with a microphone approached and stuck out her hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. We–”
“Actually,” Fred interrupted. “Since I see your people all ready to shoot, I was wondering how you’d like to interview Batman himself! He’s heard of our little program about his adventures and come down to see what it’s all about.”
The woman’s eyes lit up. “Oh, that’s awesome! You bet! Okay, let’s do this!” She looked back at her cameraman, who switched on his bulky camera and gave her the thumbs up.
The woman faced the camera and lifted her microphone. “We’re here today with none other than the Caped Crusader himself, on the set of the show Batman,” she informed her audience. “Thank you for taking time out of your hectic schedule to be with us!” She held the microphone up to Batman and grinned as if expecting a punch line.
‘Poor, naive woman,’ Batman thought. ‘She doesn’t believe she’s talking to the real Batman.’
Vowing to maintain a polite demeanor and indulge the confused newscaster, Batman smiled. “The pleasure is mine. A free press is the cornerstone of our democracy.”
The blonde stifled a chuckle. “What brings you here? Are you pursuing a super-villain?”
“Nothing about which to be alarmed,” Batman said, waving off assistance. “I have the matter well in hand.”
“Was it Harley Quinn?” Fred said, grinning broadly. “You can see her hideout is right over here!” He led the group over to one of the sets. “She’s the villain this week. Naturally, we have the cameras tilted at an angle, seeing how crooked that little jester is.”
Batman perused the colorful set, which was occupied by a man wearing a “Goon” sweatshirt and sipping on a soda.
‘No great feat, that,’ Batman thought. ‘It could be any villain’s hideout.’
The blonde continued. “Thirteen seasons of climbing the sides of buildings and getting gassed in the face - quite a crime-busting track record,” she said into the camera. “Benefitting from a shrewd marketing campaign, Batman first debuted to stupendous ratings. The show was not only a hit, it was a national fad.
“The craze was, however, too much to last. By the end of the first season, ratings were already starting to slide. Ratings were so low by the end of season three, the network decided to cancel the show . . . but at the eleventh hour, as the costly sets were about to be demolished, the show was granted a reprieve. A rival network decided to pick up the show. Surprisingly, Batman was moved to a ten p.m. timeslot. Also, the serial device of cliffhangers was brought back, so much so that, at times, the deathtraps seemed to substitute for an actual plot.”
She turned to Batman. “How do you feel about the controversial turn your adventures have taken since Mr. Foster assumed the helm?”
“I wasn’t aware of any controversy. I shouldn’t wish to be the cause of disputation.”
Fred leaned in towards the mike. “Our sponsors let us know in no uncertain terms we needed to deliver a more mature demographic. We decided to take a chance in order to cultivate the more sophisticated elements of our audience. The later timeslot was unheard for a super-hero show and caused a brief uproar.”
“Had the show been getting a little too childish to survive?” the woman asked.
“That was a concern,” Fred agreed. “Of course, we have nothing but the greatest respect for the show’s initial creative team – despite the things they said about us.”
She turned back to the camera. “Over the years, new characters have been added to spark renewed interest: Batgirl in season three, Batwoman and Flamebird in season five.” She shoved her microphone towards Batman. “Some say the introduction of the last two began a trend that has seen you relegated to a supporting role on your own show, Batman. Do you agree?”
Batman racked his brain for an appropriate answer.
Fred came to his rescue. “And here’s the Commissioner’s office set, complete with the beloved hotline phone.” He gestured at a wood-veneered set.
Batman noted the production had done a detailed job of mimicking Gordon’s office, right down to the knickknacks on his desk. ‘Still, this required no inside knowledge. There are photos of this office all over the internet.’
“And over here we have Barbara Gordon’s apartment,” Foster continued.
Batman looked over to see a recreation of Barbara’s one-bedroom. They hadn’t quite managed to capture the unorthodox wonkiness of the real dwelling’s layout, but the precise detail with which Foster had managed to recreate the room was impressive.
His head still reeling, Batman managed to mumble words of encouragement. He was surprised the television show would go to such pains in their facsimile. He remembered stopping in to see Barbara occasionally relating to cases, but the notion such a minor character’s apartment warranted inclusion in a show about him was difficult to fathom.
“If only these walls could talk, eh, Batman?” The reporter winked and thrust the microphone towards him.
Ignoring the apparent jibe at Barbara’s personal life, Batman looked the reporter in the eye. “I imagine the walls would say Ms. Gordon is a model of decorum and poise, and they feel fortunate to be able to verbalize their admiration.”
This was too much for the cameraman. Despite stifling his laughter, he was unable to prevent his convulsions from shaking the camera shot.
Noticing the technical difficulty, the reporter wrapped things up. “We must be keeping you from your unending battle against evil, Batman, so thank you for your valuable time. Meeting you was truly unforgettable.”
“It was my pleasure . . . and I’d just like to remind your viewers it’s National Safety Month, so buckle up for Batman.”
The reporter made a cutting motion with her hand to the chortling cameraman and then coiled up her microphone cord. “I’ve met method actors before, but I have to say you take the term to new heights, Adam.”
The film crew departed from the stage, glancing back frequently at the Caped Crusader.
Hy and Daniel came rushing up to join Fred, who was mopping his brow. “Sheesh! That was close.”
Batman saw the three men studying him, pondering their next move.
“She called you an actor,” Fred said gently. “Does that ring any bells for you?”
Daniel gestured at the sets around him. “See, Batman isn’t a real individual. He’s just an actor in a costume, standing on a set, speaking lines written for him.”
“Look,” said Hy. “Here is this week’s script.” He handed Batman a script which was already opened and folded down the middle.
Batman read from it aloud, but without intonation. “‘Harley: Well, it sure knocked Batgirl for a loop.’ ‘Batgirl: Yes, it did. Thank you, Harley. I might never have seen Edmond in quite that way, otherwise. He’s special to me, now.’” He looked up from the page.
“Escapist drivel,” he declared, tossing the script to the ground.
Hy Sea held up a finger. “Do you remember that episode – uh, the adventure when Robin said it felt as if someone was writing the impossible dilemmas you would get in and out of?”
Batman thought hard. “Certainly. So . . . you’re saying you wrote those situations into existence?”
“Well, not that particular one. I think Stanley wrote that episode . . . but it came from a script! All your adventures came from the mind of some scriptwriter.”
“Unless they’re written by a comic book author,” Fred said, producing a rolled up comic book from his back pocket. The cover depicted a scene of Batman watching in dismay as Batgirl and a nerd exchanged wedding vows.
“And this is only the tip of the iceberg,” Foster continued. “You’re a multimedia phenomenon. There’s books, radio, a website!”
Batman shook his head. “I congratulate you on this complex hoax you’re attempting to foist upon me.”
“But your adventures are intentionally ridiculous!” Daniel exploded. “You use shark repellant! The thought of someone marketing something called ‘shark repellant’ is silly! It’s supposed to be funny.”
“I am here talking to you, while the shark you speak of is dead, Mr. Roberts. What more need I say?”
“Look, you’re an actor! Why would Batman have stage makeup on his face?” He reached for Batman’s cowl. “See for yourself.”
Batman easily avoided his grasp and slapped away the hand. “Perhaps later . . . in the company of those already privy to my secret identity.”
Sea put his heads in his hands and shook his head. “No, listen! How often do you catch a villain right away? Never! You – and/or Robin and/or Batgirl – always get stuck in some complicated deathtrap. I’m sure you agree you’d be unlikely to experience such an unnecessary device once, but you and your colleagues found yourself trapped in one at the midway point of every single case! What do you suppose the odds are of that?”
Batman’s eyes narrowed, suspicious over the string of coincidences he hadn’t previously considered.
Fred stepped into the argument. “Or what about this: when the U.S. fought the Axis in World War II, Robin the Boy Wonder was school age. Decades later, when man first landed on the moon, Robin the Boy Wonder is still in school. The internet comes along and – until just recently – Robin’s still in school! What is he, an idiot?”
“Or is he some company’s fictional creation?” Daniel chimed in.
Batman frowned. “I’m afraid you’ve unwittingly raised an ugly specter from our past there. I have not discussed it publicly before, but if it will put to rest this preposterous theory, I will share what really happened.”
The three regarded him skeptically.
Batman continued. “Not long after the end of World War II, Robin and I were introduced to a villain called the Wizard. A wily foe, his arsenal included invisibility and a device that allowed him to control machines from a distance. We had beaten him at every turn, and were closing in fast, when we received word of the arrival of a deadly object in our midst, an object whose very existence threatened world peace. It was rumored to be none other than the brain of Adolf Hitler, intact and preserved.”
“They saved Hitler’s brain?”
“Yes. They did. Robin and I traced it’s location to the old Doctor Daka hideout at the Gotham Fairgrounds. We arrived in time to witness the unnatural body part in question, but were struck by a weapon that rooted us in our tracks before we could destroy it . . . And there we stayed, petrified, hidden from the rest of the world in a tunnel beneath the ground. One full decade elapsed, as well as half of another, before an electrical fire finally awakened us from our state of extended hibernation. Although years had passed by the calendar, by all appearances we had not aged a day.
“Of course, this incident hardly compared to the ‘deep freeze’ that hit Gotham City shortly after the brain was stolen from the embassy in Londinium.”
“Ehh, which embassy was that again?”
Batman waved off the question. “My point is . . . while the after-effects of that mishap are well documented, the incident in the tunnel stayed out of the newspapers and the newsreels. You are the first strangers I have ever told of the matter.”
The trio digested this revelation for a moment. Fred took Batman by the arm and patted him reassuringly. “Would you be willing to repeat that tale to a doctor friend of mine? I think he’d be very interested in it.”
“Take your hands off me. I will not allow my war on crime to be impeded.” He pulled away from Fred.
With a departing cry of, “there is evil afoot,” the cowled man with a concussion charged from the soundstage and bolted out the door.
The trio just looked at each other for a long moment.
“Would you call that a success or a failure?” asked Daniel.
“His cowl never came off. It was a failure,” shrugged Hy.
A pair of high heels clicked behind them. “We don’t know his secret identity, but we learned something just as valuable.” The female voice had a decidedly British accent. They turned to see the blonde Publicity Tonight reporter smiling at them. “Just think of what we could do with the fabled brain of Adolph Hitler in our possession!”
“Okay . . . what?”
“Don’t be so bloody thick,” she said, smacking Hy in the forehead. “It’s Hitler’s brain! It doesn’t get much more bloomin’ evil than that, does it? And our gullible friend told us just where to find it.”
“Sure, where it was the better part of a century ago!”
She smiled. Turning to Fred Foster (not his real name), she said, “What did he say to you when you first showed him the Barbara Gordon set – his exact words?”
“He said ‘a good likeness.’”
“That’s all?” She tapped her lips, talking to herself. “Maybe . . . he doesn’t know.”
“Doesn’t know what?” asked Daniel.
“Nothing. The Batman is either a lot more clever or a lot more ignorant than I gave him credit.” Doctor Liz Shaw took a look around at the set she’d had constructed. The work was done under the assumption Batman knew Batgirl’s secret identity. She’d just assumed if she’d figured out Barbara Gordon’s secret, Batman must have also.
She laughed and shook her head in disbelief. “If we hadn’t learned of the brain, this all would have been a very considerable waste of money.”
Daniel was reading from the discarded film script they’d shown to Batman. “Say, this isn’t a bad script! How’d you come up with it?”
“Never you mind,” Liz said, snatching it out of his hands before he could finish the passage.
“So, what’s our next move?”
“We go back in time to the post-World War II era, go to this Gotham Fairgrounds, and get that brain!”
“How are you going to get Clock King to let you borrow the time machine?” Although the men were directly employed by Doctor Shaw at P.R.O.B.E., they knew full well Clock King was often the one calling the shots.
“I won’t need his permission. My superior will be otherwise occupied. He’s spending all his time working on his auto and barely uses the machine these days. He’ll never know it was missing.”
“What about Batman?” said Daniel. “Do you think he fell for it?”
“Oh, we certainly raised doubts in his mind,” said Fred, “and with his concussion, he may have forgotten the whole thing in an hour.”
“Remember - forget – it doesn’t matter,” said Liz. “He’s too late to stop us – a half century too late. Come on.”
The blonde Brit led the trio towards a machine hidden in the back of the hangar they’d rented. Blue and box-like in appearance, the device was the time machine Clock King used to gallivant around the cosmos. The four stepped inside.
Doctor Shaw spun several dials on an intricate control panel display.
“This will be like taking candy from a baby,” Daniel said. “Batman and Robin frozen stiff for years - we can just show up anytime during that span and walk off with the brain.”
“Not any time,” said Liz. “It could be Hitler’s brain was frozen in place along with the Caped Crusaders. If so, we’ll want to arrive slightly before this showdown takes place. Knowledge of Batman’s impending immobilization will be to our advantage in timing our getaway.”
“Who says we want to let Batman off that easy?” said Daniel. “I say we cut off the electricity to the place. That way, the electrical fire that eventually releases them will never happen.”
“I say,” suggested Hy, “we take the brain and leave ‘em with a bomb.”
“We’re getting ahead of ourselves, I think,” Liz said, pushing a series of colored buttons.
Moments later, the machine groaned and winked out of sight.
**********
Batman was relieved to find Wayne Manor where he expected it to be and that it containing an actual Batcave in its basement.
“Weird they were so interested in what happened with the brain,” Dick Grayson said. He helped Bruce Wayne off with his cowl and applied an ice pack to the side of his mentor’s head. “You’d think they’d never heard of people being frozen in place before.”
“Believe it or not,” said Bruce, “statistics should the majority of Americans are fortunate enough to avoid being frozen in stasis. It’s actually somewhat unusual for it to happen to a person multiple times.”
“Not for us!” Dick scanned his partner’s unmasked face. “Gosh, Bruce, I don’t see traces of stage make-up on you anywhere.”
“Just as I surmised,” Bruce said. “It was all some elaborate contrivance . . . but to what end?”
“I have just a few more questions,” Vicki Vale said. She paused to check the remaining time on her digital recorder. “Lately, there’s been understandable interest in the Joker’s movements during your first year as a crimefighter. What can you tell me about his activities that year?”
Batgirl leaned back on top of Commissioner Gordon’s desk. “I can’t really add anything to what I’ve read in your magazine, Vicki. The Joker was out of prison for fifteen days during the period when he was obsessed with improving his surfing abilities. He was returned to prison and stayed there a month and a half before he was released for good behavior, partly because he tipped the warden off to King Tut’s escape plan.
“He promptly fell in with Catwoman upon his release, but within two weeks, their crime spree had run its course. That collaboration concluded with the pair being tried before a rigged jury. They were to be re-tried a couple months later, but the Joker used the occasion to make his escape, and then set about building a flying saucer.”
“Let me interrupt you,” said Vicki. “There’s been speculation he utilized the flying saucer to collect his insidious devices from around the globe. What do you know about that?”
Batgirl shook her head. “I was with him the entire time during the saucer’s only flight, and it never actually touched down anywhere outside of Gotham City. All told, only a week elapsed before we had him back behind bars. He escaped just three days later, in the massive prison break engineered by Doctor Cassandra, but he was only at large for a matter of hours.”
The Commissioner entered the office. “I don’t care if it is empty now,” he said to a policeman tagging along behind. “If Batman says it was full of movie sets, I believe him. I want everyone connected to Stage Fifteen questioned.” Seeing Vicki, he cleared his throat and checked his watch.
Vicki got the hint. “Okay, thanks for the interview, Batgirl.”
“Always a pleasure, Vicki.” She watched Vale head for the door as the reporter followed the policeman from the office.
“And thanks for loaning me your office for the interview, Daddy,” she said softly to the Commissioner.
“How could I refuse my favorite daughter?” he replied, his eyes twinkling.
“I’m your only daughter; your only child, for that matter” she said, patting his shoulder. “Mom was right: you spent too much time at the office.”
“I’ll thank you to save theories like that for your parrot,” the Commissioner said in mock indignation.
Batgirl kissed him on the cheek and headed for the exit. She was calculating how much time remained before the end of her lunch hour, when a strange being appeared suddenly before her in a flash of light!
“Batgirl! I summon your assistance!” The creature was a beautiful, large-eyed woman. Her hair was green, and the briefest of miniskirts showcased her long legs. In her hand, she clutched a golden staff.
Batgirl’s jaw dropped at the sight of the apparition. “Wh . . . who are you?”
“I have several names, but you may call me Pluto,” said the woman. “I have appeared to let you know this reality is in great peril.”
Batgirl looked around, wishing she had some witnesses - any witness - to this conversation. “This . . . reality? What do you mean?”
“A group of soulless creatures from your time period have managed to travel back to the past. As we speak, they are on the verge of upsetting history and permanently altering the timeline. I call upon your assistance!” Pluto gestured dramatically with the staff.
“You want to take me back in time with you?” she asked.
“Sadly, that will not be possible. I could go back and repair the damage myself, if not for you. You have not only previously traveled back in time, you have occupied multiple time periods at once. That potentially renders all of your existence impervious to my alterations.”
“Well, as they say, it couldn’t hurt to try.”
“Actually, it could rend apart the fabric of time and space itself to try! Perhaps one of your contemporaries–”
“Hold on, hold on,” Batgirl said, holding up her hands. “I’d like to help you, but I’m afraid neither my colleagues nor I have a time machine.”
Pluto regarded her sadly. “I cannot change your past, nor can I extract you from any point in your timeline. I can only offer guidance – and a time and place for you to seek. You will have to provide your own transportation there.”
“Say, I know,” said Batgirl. “Since you seem to have some magical abilities, why don’t you contact me in the future? Maybe by then I will have a time machine.”
Making no response, Pluto disappeared in another blinding flash of light.
********
Barbara Gordon groaned as she stretched, feeling every one of her sixty-seven years. She reached over from her vertically-inclined bed and slapped off the alarm clock. Stumbling out of bed, she headed stiffly towards the shower. Waking up seemed very tough these days, now that dear Edmond was no longer around to lift her spirits.
As was often the case, her momentary enjoyment of the shower spray against her skin was interrupted by thoughts of the terrible incident from years before. She had been getting the grime of battle washed off, having just fought - to conclusion, she’d thought - a clash with her oldest foe. Even as she scrubbed herself under the hot water that night, however, her foe was creeping out from the shadows of her bedroom. As she’d bent over to retrieve the soap, she heard a familiar squawk, and caught a glimpse of an umbrella behind her. After that, everything went black.
When she awoke, she was in the hospital, with her husband Edmond by her bed. The Penguin had extracted a very heavy toll in his revenge. Although she recovered the use of all of her faculties, she was never again able to sit down. She could lie flat, but bending gave her problems. Of course, the incident had finished her super-heroine days, although not her crimefighting career. Upon the retirement of Chief O’Hara, Barbara applied for the position. She was proud her selection for the job had not been influenced by her father.
Donning her overcoat over her unflattering police outfit, she headed out the door. The air was cool out today as she walked down Fitzsimmons Drive. She noticed leaves falling on the Bat-Mite statue. Several wreaths of flowers lay against the base of the statue, although it was a over a year since Old Gotham’s diminutive savior had gone to meet his maker.
Barbara made her way to her subway stop and took her usual spot on the 7:20 commuter to downtown. For what seemed like the hundredth day in a row, a young man offered her his seat on the train and she declined.
She perused the video headlines on the wall. It looked like Sweet Tooth was up to his usual tricks again, evading her police force thus far in his tireless campaign to promote tooth decay in Old Gotham. She was not exactly “counting the days”, but this morning marked the six month mark before she would hit mandatory retirement age with the force. She ran down the list of things she wanted to accomplish in her remaining time on the job.
She held her breath as the train pulled in at Kane Circle, dreading what type of riffraff was going to get on there. Sure enough, a loud group of teenagers in ratty tuxedos jumped on board.
‘Why did it have to be the Penguinz today?’ Barbara thought. The train had barely pulled away before the motley group was shouting and intimidating the rush hour commuters.
One man tried to stand up to the gang, and Barbara knew from experience trouble would rapidly escalate. She quickly thumbed an alert containing her location into her handheld, and just as she was hitting “send,” saw an umbrella blade flash.
She stepped forward, and opened her overcoat to reveal her police uniform. "Alto! Policia!"
The Penguinz gang froze for a moment, but were not fazed. "Vuelve al asilo, vieja!" said a tall, blond punk with a ring in his nose.
Ignoring the old woman crack, Barbara warily approached the group.
The boy with the umbrella didn’t back down, and instead began slashing it through the air as she neared. The train pulled into another stop, but no one in the car showed any signs of budging from their spot (the commuters being all too scared to move).
“The thread of crime yields crooked stitching!” called out an authoritative female voice.
The punks spun to find a young, masked woman entering the car behind them. Her blue costume revealed a lean, taut midriff.
“La costurera?” The gang members looked at each other in dismay.
“La costurera?”
“The Seamstress?” Barbara asked in astonishment.
The Seamstress hurled a dartlike needle, which trailed a fine cord in its wake. Sensing its targets’ locations, the needle peeled off to one side of the ruffians, reversed course, and made another pass around their opposite side. The thin cord was wrapped around the gang, and with each successive circle, drew them closer together. The umbrella-wielder tried cutting through the cord, which proved futile. The toe of the Seamstress’s boot caught him under the chin, snapping his head up.
With their movement restricted, the Penguinz were ill-equipped to handle the simultaneous assault from Barbara Gordon and the Seamstress. Roundhouse punches, karate chops, and high kicks rained down upon the unfortunate delinquents. Barbara hadn’t been in a fistfight in ages, and it felt guiltily rewarding to pummel young men about the ears. Within seconds, all four were beaten into submission.
“Gracias – I appreciate the assist, Seamstress,” Barbara said, extending her hand.
“Always happy to take a snip out of crime, Chief.” The raven-haired young woman gripped Barbara’s hand firmly. With the train pulling into Gotham Central Station, the Seamstress saluted to the applauding commuters.
As the doors opened, she leapt from the train. She exited with a farewell for the vanquished evildoers.
“Sew long, suckers!”
In her wake, a uniformed police officer rushed into the car, surprised to find the Penguinz senseless.
Barbara saw from the clock on her handheld she would still make it to work on time. “Bundle these hoods up and read them their rights,” she said to the officer as she passed.
The officer caught her arm. “Barbara Gordon, I summon your assistance!”
The phrase seemed faintly familiar to Barbara. “Excuse me? What’s your name, officer?”
The officer removed her hat to reveal flowing, green hair and unusually large eyes. A tiara with a ruby in the center encircled her head. “I have several names, but you may call me Pluto.”
“I . . . ran into you many years ago. Didn’t you have some kind of staff?”
Pluto nodded. “Your memory is as keen as ever. Hear my words. The timeline has been damaged. You must help me repair it.”
*********
This was supposed to be his breakout year, with Japan vanquished and Europe divvied up among the Allies. The returning troops were supposed to have provided a superior pool of violent henchmen, but so far, his successes were intermittent at best.
It was all the Caped Crusaders’ fault. No matter how many times you hit them on the head, they kept coming back.
His concentration was broken by his second-in-command, Neal, entering the cave hideout. Neal was the replacement for a henchman that kept fumbling Batman’s execution, but there were plenty of reasons Neal hadn’t been chosen in the first place.
Neal removed his hat. “Say, I hear that guy at the old Daka hideout found some British scientist to help him with his experiment, so maybe he’ll quit bugging us now.”
The Wizard didn’t bother to look up from the coils he was tightening. “Really. Who’s the Brit?”
“Dunno. For some reason, they think he’ll be able to help get Hitler’s brain functioning again.”
The Wizard’s head jerked up. “What? They saved Hitler’s brain?!”
“Yes, they did, boss. Didn’t you read the letter?”
The Wizard flung his screwdriver at Neal, but missed. “That’s what I have you for!”
He snatched a pair of black gloves off the workbench and slid them on. “I’ve got to get over there and see whether this is for real!”
“I thought you wanted me to help you with overheating issue,” Neal said.
“Not now! I want you to go find any leads you can about this Hitler brain.”
“But what do you need Hitler’s brain for when you’ve got me?”
The Wizard swore under his breath as he stomped out of the cave.
*******
Commissioner Montoya considered her options before replying. "Si, necesitamos actuar rapidamente. Veamoslo."
Pleased with her marching orders, Barbara immediately picked up her handheld and dialed a number.
“Wayne Enterprises. This is Grayson,” said a familiar voice.
“Dick, this is Barbara. I need to speak to Bruce.”
The former Boy Wonder had abandoned his crime-fighting name several decades ago. “He’s not taking business calls these days, Barbara. Can you tell me what’s up?”
“Commissioner Montoya has authorized me to request the use of the Wayne Industries Time Machine.”
“Holy Chronology!” Although nearing the upper limits of middle age, Grayson was still prone to excitability. “Are you serious?”
“I’m afraid so. I’m authorized to commandeer it, if necessary.”
“I’ll notify the Orator. When can you come over?”
Since advancing age often confined him to a gyro chair, on the rare occasions where his deductive abilities were called upon, the former Batman now preferred the codename “Orator.”
*****************
“That must be what passes for the fairgrounds.” Doctor Liz Shaw gestured at two large buildings where the street dead-ended. “Now, remember, you mustn’t take Batman for granted. This won’t be a disconcerted fellow with a concussion, like we left behind.”
“Okay, who’s got the gun?” asked Daniel.
“Why on earth did you bring a gun?” demanded Liz. “We can’t kill the Dynamic Duo. We can’t do anything that’s going to drastically alter history.”
“Sure, sure, nothing intentional,” said Fred. “But accidents do happen, don’t they?”
“Not in this instance,” she said, glaring at him. “You’re to leave the Caped Crusaders in precisely the same condition you found them. Is that clear?”
“Understood,” Fred nodded.
“Now,” said Liz, pacing as she ticked off objectives on her fingers. “Any hour now, our foes will manage to get themselves frozen stiff. We will postpone any action until that’s about to happen, and then swoop in for the snatch.”
The moment she turned her back, Fred turned and exchanged an evil grin with Daniel. Neither maintaining the timeline, nor keeping Batman healthy, would be their top concern.
“Now fan out and find me that brain!” Liz concluded.
The trio obediently wandered off in different directions.
Fred and Hy returned five minutes later.
“We’re not finding anything,” said Fred. “There’s a bunch of abandoned offices and amusement attractions. Do you have any other details about where this Daka hid out?”
“In or around the ‘Cave of Horrors.’ Keep looking!” Shaw ordered.
“What if we still can’t find it?”
“Then we’ll have to try to figure out which embassy in Londinium winds up with the brain two decades from now.”
They saw Daniel emerging empty-handed from a side street.
Thinking he heard someone footsteps behind him, Daniel turned around, but only saw some trash cans. He kicked aside some pieces of pipe and peered behind the bins to make sure no one was hiding there.
One end of a pipe raised off the pavement, as if checking to see if Roberts was watching. Then it leapt up and clobbered him in the back.
>WHAM!<
Daniel bellowed and whirled around, only to have the pipe bash him on the forehead.
>BUNNNG!<
He swung wildly at it and missed. The pipe slammed him fiercely in the side of his knee.
“Owww!! Why you!” he yelled.
His cries were overheard by some men playing a game of dice in the auto body shop down the block.
Liz Shaw looked over to see Daniel staggering around, swearing at a section of pipe. She and her henchmen ran over to the beleaguered thug.
“Something isn’t right! This place is haunted!” Daniel said. His cohorts had just reached him when they heard a shout.
“Hey, look!”
Five men from the body shop were standing at the opposite end of the street. They gazed in fear and distrust at the time machine.
“It’s a Jap pagoda!”
“Must be the advance team for a new invasion - Pearl Harbor all over!”
“Let’s give ‘em a proper welcome!” yelled a man in a zoot suit, wielding a tire iron.
The gang spread out across the street.
“Uh-oh. The natives are getting restless,” Hy observed.
“We need to head back to the time machine,” said Fred. “Nice and easy.”
The four time travelers tried to seem calm as they walked towards their transportation. The mechanics gang approached the machine from the opposite direction. One began slowly swinging a chain.
Hy started to pull a .38 revolver from his jacket.
Liz pointed at it. “Don’t kill anyone; Clock King will have both our heads!”
“Then what do you suggest we do about the bigot brigade?” Hy asked.
“We need something to slow them down,” Liz said. She pulled out her cell phone.
“Fred, I’m calling you on your cell phone. Throw it as far from you as possible.”
Fred wrapped his cell phone in his handkerchief for protection, then hurled it towards a dirt alley that lay between the mob and the time machine. Moments after bouncing to a stop, its ringer went off, beeping out the catchy theme to American Idol.
The gang of Gothamites pulled up short as the odd, unearthly sounds wafted out of the alley. They stared in puzzlement in the direction of the eery noise. They hesitated, torn over what to investigate first.
Fred gestured for his cohorts to hurry, and the four broke into a sprint. They reached the time machine, piled in and locked the door behind them.
Two of their pursuers milled around the perimeter of the machine, baffled how four people could have fit inside. The other three explored the alley for the source of the strange sound. One gangly man came across the cell phone in the handkerchief, and picked it up. He looked it over for a moment, and decided he had made quite a find.
“What’ve you got there, Eustus?” his chum asked.
“Nuthin’ much,” Eustus Verizon said quickly, slipping the object in his back pocket.
Inside the phone-boothed shaped structure, Liz Shaw’s hands again danced across the control console, tapping out a concert of temporal distortion.
Fred gestured towards the doorway they’d come through. “Say, what about that phone? Isn’t that a pretty advanced piece of technology to be leaving with Jed Clampett back there?”
Shaw didn’t bother looking up. “Relax. Even if he figures how to turn it on, he’ll soon find the battery worn down and inoperable without a recharge. All he’ll be left with is some man-made seashell.”
She twirled a colorful dial and gripped a large lever in her hand.
“‘Jap pagoda,’” she muttered, shaking her head. “Of all the dimwitted . . . . At least the populace in swinging Londinium should know what this is supposed to resemble.”
The time machine hummed and blinked out of existence before the mechanics’ eyes.
All five men were too astonished by the abrupt disappearance to notice a black silhouette shimmering in to being down the street. The mysteriously animated pipe no longer appeared to float in mid-air; it now sat in the grip of a gloved left hand. The gloved right hand released an amulet hanging around the neck of a bizarre, cloaked figure – the Wizard! It was the amulet that allowed him to regulate his invisibility.
He stroked his hooded chin as the visitors’ words played through his mind. “That was . . . interesting.”
Pleased that he had been able to chase off these strange competitors for Hitler’s brain, the Wizard set the pipe down. He turned and proceeded towards the amusement park and, in doing so, unwittingly resumed his date with destiny.
****************
Bruce Wayne ran a wrinkled hand through his graying hair. “Permanently alter the timeline? Did this woman say how?”
Barbara Gordon spread her palms. “No. We’ve no idea exactly what is being . . . was . . . has been altered. This Pluto just said the time travelers are so reckless they’re almost certain to get stranded in that period and unable to return to their proper time . . .”
Bruce nodded in understanding. “. . . virtually ensuring they’ll wreak havoc with history.”
“Besides that, all we’ve got to go by are a date and location,” said Barbara.
Dick Grayson scrolled through periodical archives on his handheld. “This date the woman gave – it’s the week we first arrived in Londinium to battle Lord Ffogg! Only . . .”
Bruce’s bushy eyebrows narrowed. “Only what?”
“We weren’t quite in Londinium by this date. It’s five days before our arrival.”
“We had just left Gotham City the night before on the steamer at that point,” Barbara said, tapping a finger against her lip. “I don’t know about you, but I found the cruise much preferable to the case itself. I thought that one would never end.”
“No, let’s show Barbara that the Orator can still walk. I know I rely on you to handle heavy responsibilities already, but would my right-hand man allow me to lean on his ample frame?”
“Sturdy frame,” Dick said, smiling as he leaned over. “The word is sturdy.”
Barbara watched Grayson assist the elderly man from his chair. She let the duo slowly lead the way down the hall.
The Wayne Industries Time Machine was kept in a large vault in an otherwise white room. Awaiting the elderly trio’s arrival were two equally elderly scientists.
Bruce gestured to the wild-haired gentleman on the left. “Police Chief Gordon, I’d like you to meet Professor Nichols. He’s in charge of our time travel program here.”
“An honor, Ms. Gordon”, Nichols said, bowing.
Bruce turned to watch Barbara’s expression during the next introduction. “You are already acquainted with Professor Nichol’s assistant: Professor William Omaha Mackelroy.”
“Professor William Oma– you mean King Tut?” Barbara stared at the round-faced man before her. Although he was still on the heavy side, he had lost the majority of the body mass he supported in the days when they were enemies.
Mackelroy smiled sadly. “My dear, Ms. Gordon, I can assure you you’re not going to say anything I haven’t heard already. When you consider who my employer is, I trust you’ll realize that I have to be not only the most qualified person for the job, but far and away the best to be put on the Wayne Industries payroll.”
“I certainly hope so,” Barbara said, stealing a sidelong glance at Bruce. “Mr. Wayne has a peculiar tendency to extend a helping hand to those who’ve committed the worst deeds imaginable.”
“He’s cured, Barbara,” Bruce said. “He’s been reformed for almost forty years.”
“Gentlemen, lady . . . I suggest we proceed,” Professor Nichols said, rubbing his hands. “If what you say is true, we run the risk of our reality being erased from existence at any moment!”
“I see . . . .” Bruce looked at Dick. “Condition Yellow.”
“No, Orange at least” said Dick. “This is big; bigger than the Legion of Faceless Men; bigger than the Gorilla Boss of Gotham City!”
“But bigger than Mystery Seeds from Space? I think not,” said the Orator. “Or what about the Pee-Wee People of Tiny Town? Do you remember that one?”
“Do I? I’ve been careful where I sit ever since!”
“If I may interrupt, gentlemen,” said Professor Mackelroy. “We’ll need to calibrate the machine’s settings for the height and weight of the brave soul undertaking this assignment. Have you selected someone as our temporal explorer?”
Bruce leaned back in his chair to gesture at a shapely figure in the doorway. “Allow me to introduce . . . the Seamstress.”
The Seamstress strolled in confidently and came to a stop in front of the vault. She placed her hands on her hips and sized it up.
“Okay, Mister Wayne, let’s have a look at this time machine.”
*********
“Do you think this chamber of horrors is supposed to be a warning to prospective partners?” Neal wondered aloud.
“I don’t know, but I for one don’t care for his idea of a red carpet,” the Wizard said beside him. “This better be on the level.”
Their ride paused before a wax display that differed from the previous ones. Instead of depicting a scene from the war in the Pacific, it presented a scene out of Paleolithic times: a caveman hunting amidst boulders.
The pair exited the cart and walked up to the wall. The thin outline of a large door was evident in the rock surface. They couldn’t find any kind of doorbell, so they finally just knocked. They had to wait several minutes before a voice crackled through a speaker.
“What do you want?”
The cloaked villain stepped closer to the wall. “Tell your boss the Wizard is here.”
They waited another minute before the wall began to move. As they walked through the doorway, the “wax” caveman behind them exhaled and lowered his club. He’d been sure those two were going to need a good braining.
A neat, but dusty, interior greeted the Wizard inside.
Neal gave a low whistle. “So this is where old Doc Daka based his operations.” He jumped at the sound of a voice unexpectedly close by.
“Greetings, Mister Wizard,” said a foreign accent from behind a curtain.
“Oh, great. A ratzi,” Neal whispered.
The Wizard cut him off with a sharp elbow to the ribs.
“You wouldn’t mind telling me who I have the pleasure of addressing?” the Wizard called out.
“Doctor Otold Shivel, at your service,” the man said with a thin smile.
“Never heard of you,” said the Wizard.
“Say, we didn’t come down here to re-fight the war with you,” the Wizard said.
“Calm yourself,” said Shivel. “The tenets of the Third Reich are not necessarily my own; but enough of me. You are ze scientist of which the local newspapers speak; the Wizard - also known as Carter, the butler.”
The Wizard betrayed no reaction, but Neal spilled the beans by gasping audibly, shock etched all over his features.
Ignoring Shivel’s smug expression, the Wizard said, “I understand you’ve been seeking my help on a project. You were getting desperate enough to settle for some carpet-bagging Englishman.”
“The man of which you speak has already arrived, but you may yet be of service.”
“I’d like to see more before I devote my considerable resources to this project.”
“But of course. Zis way, please . . . .”
A garden-variety henchman appeared and escorted them down a narrow stairway to a large, cavernous room. The room was unlit, but they could make out a series of cages along the wall.
“Why is it so dark? Turn on some lights,” Neal said, glancing around.
“Ah! My little friends will turn on ze lights.” Shivel shined a flashlight along one wall. It was lined with at least thirty oversized light bulbs, containing electric wires which connected them to thirty cages situated on a long shelf. Each cage contained one hamster and one hamster wheel.
“My rodents love nothing more than to run on their little wheels, vich in turn generate electricity. Observe.”
He threw a switch and four of the large bulbs instantly lit up under the power generated by furiously-churning hamster legs. Seconds later, a fifth and sixth bulb lit up as well.
The opposite wall was lined with another thirty light bulbs. The wires from all thirty, however, ran to a single jar. Therein they witnessed a human brain, floating in a clear fluid.
“I give you the brain of der Fuhrer!” Shivel said, beaming.
Neal wasn’t impressed. “But what can it do? It’s just a brain.”
Shivel’s bushy eyebrows rose. “Chust a brain, you say? Zis brain is evil in its purest form. You see the box above the jar? I call it the Cranial Capacitor. As I flip this switch, it channels the brain’s terrible energy. Compare the results.”
Although the hamsters had now collectively lit a total of nine giant bulbs, the room suddenly brightened as illumination spread with the speed of a gasoline fire down the opposite wall. The sinister brain seemed to float peacefully in its fluid home, but above it, bulb after bulb flashed to life until all thirty were lit.
Then, as the onlookers watched in astonishment, an unlit bulb at the far end of the hamsters’ row unexpectedly flashed on. Then, the one next to it, and on down the line, until that entire wall too blazed with light. So much light beamed from the walls that Neal lifted his hands to shield his eyes.
Sparks began to fly from the wires connecting the bulbs to the hamster cages. All the hamster wheels began spinning faster and faster, beyond the hamsters’ ability to keep up. The poor, dumb animals were hurled from the madly-rotating wheels.
Shivel lifted an arm dramatically “Behold! I present to you the power of der Fuhrer’s evil!”
“Excuse me, sir,” said the Englishman. Could you direct me to Doctor Shivel? I believe I’m expected.”
“Expected?” The barker said, looking perplexed. “And you are?”
The man smiled and removed his hat with a flourish. “Marmaduke Ffogg, at your service.”
“Sorry, mister. You must have the wrong chamber of horrors.”
Ffogg and his assistant exchanged a puzzled look.
“I’m quite sure I’m expected,” Ffogg persisted. “I’m a scientist.”
“Look, I sell tickets to a ride, mister. If that’s not what you’re looking for, I’ll have to ask you move along.”
Ffogg and the tall assistant reluctantly got out of line and pondered their next move. The barker resumed selling tickets to the chamber of horrors ride. They waited for him to realize his error, but he didn’t spare them another glance.
“I really don’t see the use of continuing this charade,” he muttered to Vicki Vale.
Vicki fought to maintain her calm demeanor. Alfred wasn’t making it easy for her. She was decked out in white medical outfit that only partially concealed her curvaceous figure. “Just keep arranging your utensils, ‘Mr. Fogg.’”
“You think we’d have been better off if we said ‘no, we’re standing outside your hidden doorway because we’re sticking our noses in your business?’ You’re the one who said I shouldn’t go alone and you had ‘innate deductive abilities’ that would come in handy.”
“Did I?”
“Yes! You said it was too dangerous and you were the perfect man to accompany me!”
“A mistake I shan’t repeat, I assure you.”
“A gent claiming to be Marmaduke Fogg was just here,” he reported.
“Huh?” a gravelly voice responded. “If you was just talking to Fogg, then who’s that limey in the back?”
“What limey?”
“That tall distinguished guy with the pretty assistant,” said the voice from the speaker.
“My Fogg had an assistant, but he wasn’t pretty. It looks like there’s imposters about,” said the barker.
“But we left the first two alone with the gear to work on the brain!”
“You’d better figure out what’s going on and quick!”
**************
Wayne’s knobby fingers typed some data into his desktop computer. He stopped and leaned back in his leather chair.
“There’s simply too many possibilities. There’s no indication what will fling the timeline awry.”
Professor Mackelroy’s jowly features appeared grim. “Almost any type of change in history could cause irreparable damage.”
“I’ve only been able to find one detail that supports this Sailor Pluto’s story at all,” pronounced the Orator, holding up a printout . “I came across an old report about a car accident between a jalopy and a manure truck – an event that, as of yesterday, was not contained in documented history.”
“Keep monitoring the past,” suggested Professor Nichols. “You may be able to detect historical changes that are slight enough not to erase our present. History likes to repeat itself, so not every change will irrevocably alter history’s course.”
Bruce nodded. “I’ll download one history of Londinium now, and another in half an hour. If we’re lucky, I’ll detect some minute change that will help pinpoint who is changing the timeline.”
“How can you detect these changes?” the Seamstress asked. “I mean, wouldn’t your downloads and memories change, too?”
“A very good question, young lady,” Professor Nichols replied. “Fortunately, we’ve discovered that being in close proximity to our time machine cancels out such effects . . . at least for a little while.”
"Also," Mackelroy added, "Mr. Wayne's computer has a triple-protection Tempor-proof hard drive."
“I see," the Seamstress said, although she really didn't. "Any leads on what these time-hopping hopheads are after?”
“You would think it would be something of immense value,” said Professor Mackelroy.
“Jolly old Londinium was filled with things of immense value,” said Bruce.
“Did any of them change hands or go missing around the time of our first visit there?” asked Dick Grayson.
“Lord Ffogg temporarily absconded with the queen’s snuffboxes, a count’s coin collection, a duchess’ diamonds and a lady's jeweled Easter eggs,” said Bruce, resting his chin on the back of his hands. “Although undoubtedly rare, they still probably weren’t priceless enough to justify decades of time travel. Anyone with such capability could have picked a better prize.”
“There were no other notable thefts in the area?” asked Barbara.
“Nothing except the usual pickpockets.”
“Somewhere in Londinium was something so valuable it was worth leaping half a century for,” said the Seamstress.
“Jumpin’ Jillikers!” said a young voice behind them. “What a mission control center!”
Everyone turned to see a teenaged lad standing in the doorway. Garbed in a garish red and black costume, he stood half a foot shorter than Barbara.
“Holy Smokes, Seamstress!” Dick Grayson exclaimed. “You went and got a sidekick?”
The Seamstress nodded. “I’ve only been training him a few weeks. With me leaving town – for who knows how long - someone’s got to keep Old Gotham’s criminal activities sewed up tight.”
As she continued, the lad executed a backwards somersault. “Everybody, say hello to the Miracle Minor…Robin Beyond!”
Barbara gazed at the latest addition to the super-hero corps. Stocky and cocky seemed his most prominent attributes. ‘A good candidate to carry on the Robin name,’ she thought.
**************
“You think those fellows would have been happy to find out we weren’t who they were expecting?” Vicki asked.
“If you’ll pardon my candor, Ms. Vale, your track record is sadly consistent. Hasn’t a history of failed subterfuges, along with the subsequent, inevitable captures, taught you anything?”
They cut their dispute short as two weird-looking thugs entered the room carrying a large glass jar. Inside the jar floated the brain of Adolf Hitler.
“Here it is,” said the first thug. “Go ahead and get to work. Doctor Shivel will check on your progress shortly.”
The thugs left the intrepid pair alone with the brain.
“Quit gawking,” Vicki said to Alfred. “We’ve got to incapacitate this thing.”
“Aha!”
She and Alfred whirled to find a man wearing a neatly pressed Nazi uniform, a monocle gleaming from his eye.
“You two are not Marmaduke Fogg and his assistant,” he said, clasping his hands behind his back and rocking on his heels. “Thus, I must determine who you really are.”
“I’m afraid you’re confused.” Vicki shrugged innocently and sidled over towards the brain.
He waved his palm. “No, no, please. It is no use. I see through your lies . . . but I needn’t converse with you to discover who you are. Nothing escapes the Iron Eagle. Though a mere woman, you are the leader of this duo, which suggests you hold a position of…
“Her name is Vicki Vale.” The Wizard had just emerged from an opposite doorway with Neal and Doctor Shivel.
“Ach!!” The monocled Nazi snapped his fingers. “I was just about to say that! Why did you interrupt?”
Vicki saw that she and Alfred were surrounded. She tried to reach the brain, but the Wizard interceded and grabbed her by the shoulders.
“Mein Gott!” exclaimed Doctor Shivel as he saw Vicki. “Beautiful this one is . . . but if she is not a research assistant, then who is she?”
“I don’t know the tall fellow, but this pretty thing’s a magazine photographer,” said the Wizard. He shook Vicki vigorously. “What are you up to here? Talk!”
“That’s enough!” echoed a voice from the tunnel outside the room. The monocled Nazi drew a Luger from his belt and started to turn around.
>THWOCK!<
The Nazi lurched forward and dropped face first to the ground. At that moment, Shivel caught a glimpse of a bat-shaped boomerang whisking back into the darkness of the tunnel.
Seconds later, he witnessed an astounding pair come bounding into the room. The taller of the two was clad in a flowing black cape and a horned black cowl. The black outline of a bat was sewed into the gray material of his suit. His youthful charge was bare-legged and wearing a red tunic.
“The Batman!” Neal cried out.
Batman pointed a stern finger at the Wizard. “You’ll promptly unhand that girl or I’ll know the reason why!”
“With pleasure, Batman,” the Wizard said. He heaved Vale over in the direction of Alfred. The move took the butler by surprise, sending him stumbling as he tried to cushion Vicki’s fall.
“Männer, benötige ich sie schnell!” called out Doctor Shivel.
“How did you find us?” asked the Wizard.
“A friend was kind enough to leave a note,” Batman said, suppressing an urge to look over at Alfred.
Two junior officers in German uniforms came running into the room.
“Destroy them!” he commanded, pointing at the Dynamic Duo.
Fists clenched, the Caped Crusaders eagerly moved to meet the henchmen. Robin immediately went for the Wizard and popped him one in the nose.
“That’s for that crack on the noggin last month!” he said, adding an uppercut to the jaw for good measure.
A right cross from Neal sent the Boy Wonder spinning. Batman flipped one of the charging thugs, directing his foe’s fall so the man crashed into Neal.
Batman and Robin plowed into the roomful of hoodlums, dispensing two-fisted justice as they went. One tawdry publication (Vicki’s) had recently dubbed their fighting technique as “swing wild, swing often.”
It would still be several years before the Dynamic Duo had trained themselves to deliver punches so precisely the blows sounded exactly like words: “pow,” “splatt” or - should they deem it necessary - “zzzzzwap!” Truth be told, at this early stage in their careers, they still lost as many fistfights as they won.
The battle quickly degenerated into a big, disorganized brawl. A lamp was kicked over, a chair overturned, a water pitcher toppled off a table as Batman was pushed back into it. He seized Shivel’s two thugs by the hair and knocked their heads together.
Neal was scrambling for the fallen Luger when Batman kicked it under a cabinet. The Dark Knight then kicked Neal on the jaw.
The Wizard had sought out the English imposter upon whom to vent his rage, but he was unpleasantly surprised to learn Vicki Vale and Alfred Pennyworth together were capable of defending themselves. First Vicki, then Alfred, landed punches to his head.
Doctor Shivel unlatched a long, narrow box lying against the wall. Inside lay a contraption vaguely resembling a narrow rifle. “I did not wish to test the applicator yet,” he muttered, “but no choice I have now.”
He found himself unceremoniously dragged back from the device by the collar and thrown over a gurney. “Any more shenanigans and it’ll be lights out for you, Fritz!” said Robin.
Back in the corner, however, the monocled Nazi officer had regained his senses. Latching on to a nearby tool box, he rose to his feet. Seeing an opportunity to shift the tide of battle, Colonel Klink raised the tool box over his head and brought it down on the unsuspecting Robin’s head.
**************
‘Think, Orator, think,’ Bruce thought. “There’s got to be some sign of the temporal disturbance hidden in the annals of history . . . but where?’
He verified his data for Lord Ffogg matched exactly the Londinium history he had seen half an hour earlier. Then he decided to check for other Bat-villains in that vicinity and time. He stopped scrolling as he came across a name he knew.
He glanced down at his computer to confirm the correct time:
2:10 p.m., June 11th, 2010.
Suddenly, a garotte slipped around his neck from behind. He instinctively jerked his hands up, but not swiftly enough to intercept the cord. He felt the thin band tighten around his throat. It dug deep into the skin of his neck, throttling his shout of pain.
He reached back for the figure behind him, but was no longer flexible enough to grab more than the edge of a sleeve. He thrashed back and forth, unable to free himself.
“At least we won’t have trouble pinpointing the time of your death,” a familiar voice hissed in his ear.
“I think it’s time we paid a visit to a certain time machine,” Bruce said, motioning to the portly Grayson.
“Would you like the gyro-chair to get there?” Dick asked.
The man stepped from behind the curtain and underneath a dimmed light fixture. Light glistened off his bald pate. The manner in which he wore his Nazi uniform indicated a distracted nature, a trait common among mad scientists.
“Until recently, I was a faceless scientist toiling away in the service of the Fatherland. My research into extending man’s longevity through refrigeration was pioneering, but without attention or fanfare. That is, until the Allied invasion reached Berlin, and the fateful day in the bunker, when our beloved leader took his own life.”
The Englishman and his assistant looked around nervously as they approached the carnival barker to the chamber of horrors ride.
Alfred the butler gazed in bewilderment at a tray full of medical implements. He hadn’t enjoyed the ride out to this seedy section of town, hadn’t enjoyed the grotesque wax depictions, hadn’t enjoyed bluffing his way into this secret lair . . . and now he stood in a drafty room in a subterranean chamber, garbed in a white surgical gown.
“They’re going to know I’m not this Ffogg character the instant I pick up a scalpel. Why did you claim we were the people expected to work on this brain?”
A short time later, overhead on the surface, Ffogg gave up waiting and left with his assistant in tow. As soon as they departed, the carnival barker picked up a radio receiver and pushed a button.
Hundreds of feet beneath the streets of Gotham, Alfred and Vicki were still bickering.
“Great…Scott!” he said aloud. “What’s he doing in Londinium? I’ve got to tell Dick and Barbara!”
Something caught his eye in the reflection of the giant window pane of the Stopwatch Belfy. When he looked straight at the pane for activity behind him, he saw no one, but something still seemed amiss. Then he noticed the giant minute hand poised outside his window seemed to be slightly off.
IN WHAT A FIX OUR OLD FRIEND FINDS HIMSELF!
CAN THERE BE ANY WAY OUT?
AND HOW CAN BRUCE WAYNE BE 77 YEARS OLD IN 2010?!
THE ANSWERS WILL ASTOUND AND ALARM!
SO DON'T NEGLECT TO BE IN ATTENDANCE FOR OUR NEXT THRILL-PACKED EPISODE!
SAME BAT-TIME
SAME BAT-WEBSITE!