Now, although she’d seen Bruce within the last hour, she was very concerned for his safety. Since they’d learned history was being changed, every minute they delayed dispatching someone into the past was critical. Bruce's stated plan was to monitor downloads of history for one half hour and then report on his findings. An eleven minute delay at this stage was unthinkable.

The lights were out in Bruce Wayne’s suite, but the door was open a crack. Barbara could make out a silhouette of someone seated in front of the computer. The only available light was the moonlight shining through the gaps in the massive clock gears outside the window.

Placing a hand on the figure’s shoulder raised no response. A thin, steel cord hung limply around the neck. Several tense seconds of investigation revealed the figure was not breathing.

Bruce Wayne was dead.

While exiting through the gates of the estate, the Batmobile passed a shiny lorry. Labeled “Ye Olde Bookemobile,” it sat parked at the side of the street. It pulled tentatively into the road behind them and began following.

Hunched behind the wheel of the lorry sat Bookworm. As he trailed the Batmobile out of the city, he reviewed how his first days of freedom had come to this. When the Joker had offered to hire him to recover a vial and a key, he’d casually tossed out a steep price he assumed the Joker would be unwilling to meet. He was more than a little disappointed when the Joker accepted his offer (paying him on the spot in cash) and then proceeded to recite numerous steps he expected Bookworm to undertake the moment his jet set down in Londinium.

Bookworm was jolted from his reverie when the Batmobile slowed ahead of him and came to a stop. Curious, Bookworm pulled off the road under an overhanging tree and stepped quietly from the vehicle. He could hear English voices ahead. It sounded like they were exchanging threats with Batman and Robin. Bookworm heard what sounded like a “Whack!” followed by an unmistakable “Ka-plow!”

Craning his neck, he ventured out to get a look at the altercation. He’d taken three steps when Marilyn Munster’s wobbly bicycle raced up from behind and ran him over.

Bookworm emitted a short cry of alarm that was muffled as his face met the dirt path. Someone fell on top of him. He sat up, groggy and half blind, expecting to be dragged off to a paddy wagon, even though he had yet to do anything wrong.

“I’m so sorry!” Marilyn blubbered. “Are you okay?”

“I can’t see,” said Bookworm, groping for his glasses. “Please help me back to my truck.”

>BIFF!<      >BAM!<

In rapid succession, Batman landed two punches to as many faces. The pair of goons folded like accordions.

Batgirl caught up to the battle at the impromptu road block. Seeing Batman and Robin were outnumbered by Lord Ffogg’s men, she pushed aside a dense grove of weeds and leaped into the fray. She picked up a broken section of the wooden barricade and started swinging.

>WHACK!<      >BAM!<

She nailed two of the thugs with the two-by-four. She spun, her leg whipping around to boot another ne’er-do-well under the chin.

>ZAP!

She clasped hands with Robin, who twirled her into just the right spot to execute another near-decapitating kick.

>SMACK!

As she whirled and pirouetted through the melee, Batgirl caught sight of someone watching them from the concealment of tall weeds. What appeared to be Bat-cowl ears peeked up above the foliage . . . only these horns were red rather than black. As she moved closer, she could make out the outline of the cowl through the brush. As quickly as the horned head appeared, however, it was gone.

Batgirl looked around and affirmed the last remaining thugs were too woozy to present a problem for the Dynamic Duo. When no one was watching, she slipped back into the foliage. She caught a glimpse of bare legs running off through the brush and set off in pursuit of the figure.

With a grunt, Marilyn hauled Bookworm into the cramped interior of his Bookmobile.

“Are your glasses all right?” she asked.

“No, they aren’t all right, you idiot!” Bookworm wanted to be rid of this twit quickly and get back to his assignment.

Marilyn hovered over him. “I’m just a visiting American high school student, and I’m not blending in very well! Gosh, at the rate I’m going, they’re never going to allow Munsters in the region again! Is there anything I can do to pay you back?”

A lightbulb seemed to go off over Bookworm’s head. ‘What better lure for the Boy Wonder?’ On the spot, his superior intellect birthed a completely-formed plan.

“Actually, there is something with which I might request your assistance.”

“Anything!” said the poor, unwitting teen.

Robin Beyond trotted through the woods and slowly came to a stop. Ahead, the concealment provided by overheard branches yielded to a large, open area. While pondering which direction to take, it dawned on him, contrary to Professor Nichol’s advice, he was still clad in his crimefighting gear. He pulled out the colorful wad of clothing provided for him and tried to figure how it was meant to be worn.

He jumped as a twig snapped nearby, immediately followed by a gloved hand seizing his arm.

“Why were you watching me?” Batgirl demanded. Robin Beyond was astonished she’d been able sneak up on him undetected.

“I just wanted to get a look at you in your prime, that’s all . . . honest.” He tried to pull his arm free, but this answer only made her grip him tighter.

“What makes you think this is my ‘prime?’”

“You won’t believe me if I tell you.” She started to twist his arm. “But! If you really want to know, the deal is . . . I’ve come back from what you’d call the future. I’m supposed to keep history from being changed.”

Batgirl blinked. “No, I don’t believe you. Why would the future send some teenager?”

“Not ‘they.’ You sent me yourself. That’s the other reason to find you. Because I knew I could get you to trust me.”

“Don’t be too sure, buster!”

“You – the future you - said the first time you were kissed by a boy was at the age of eight. Skip Parker kissed you without permission in the big pipe at the construction site.”

Batgirl’s face flushed. “You could have heard that from Skip.”

“Oh, yeah? Does he know Batgirl’s Barbara Gordon?”

All color drained from Batgirl’s face. She was so surprised the boy knew about her first kiss, she had forgotten she was in her Batgirl persona.

“And then there’s this.” Robin Beyond pulled a faded, old photo from his satchel and handed it to her.

Batgirl’s jaw dropped. It was the photo of her mother Barbara always carried. The “real” one was sitting in her purse, hidden not too far away. Her own copy of the photo wasn’t, though, nearly this weather-beaten. She flipped it over and saw an inscription identical to the one on the back of the picture in her purse:

“Make me proud. Your mother loves you very much.”

Batgirl rubbed her forehead and wished for someplace to sit down. “I . . . can’t understand why badgering me would be necessary to save the future.”

“Because I need your help. I’m . . . kind of new at this . . . and you’re the only crimefighter I know I can convince . . . and trust.”

Batgirl sighed. “Okay, let’s head over towards that thicket. I have a feeling this will take more explaining and I’d rather not be seen out in the open.”

He dutifully fell in behind her.

“Wow, you’re a lot better-looking than I was expecting . . . er . . . ma’am,” he quickly added as she turned to glare.

Her eyes detected movement in the woods indicating approaching people. She grabbed Robin Beyond and pulled him into the concealment of some trees. She motioned for him to be silent. They watched as a middle-aged Englishman carrying a walking stick emerged from the bushes. He was accompanied by an exotic brunette.

“Yes, indeed. Your references all checked out,” Squire Moresby was saying.

“Then you’ll join our venture?” Florence of Arabia asked.

“Wouldn’t miss it! Sounds like a splendid investment!” Moresby said. “Though it still seems incredible they would allow even partial private ownership of the Tower of Londinium.”

“But its foundation is just in terrible shape! The city fathers are embarrassed they let it fall apart, so they’re willing to use any solution that keeps the news out of the papers.”

“Jolly good luck I happened to run into you; else, I would have been completely oblivious to the whole thing,” Moresby said.

‘You’re completely oblivious, all right,’ thought Florence of Arabia. This guy was exactly the type of blowhard King Tut had suggested she pursue.

“I’m not one to brag,” the Squire continued, “but this will be quite the auspicious week for the Moresbys. The son is about to drive the family race car to victory and reclaim the Shroudshire cup, while the father is poised to become part-owner of the Tower!”

Florence smiled. She had her pigeon now, and with him, the funds for King Tut to become an absentee participant in Lord Ffogg’s auction.

Batgirl and Robin Beyond watched the mismatched pair stroll out of sight.

“I don’t think he’s right,” whispered the Miracle Minor. “The Tower of Londinium is still standing in 2010 and I read it never needed retrofitting.”

Batgirl stared at him. “2010? Did you say two-oh-one-oh?”

“Sure. That’s where - when I live.” They resumed their march towards the bush where Barbara Gordon’s belongings were hidden.

Batgirl realized she didn’t know what to call him. “What’s your name?”

“Robin Beyond.”

“Beyond . . . what?”

“Just Robin Beyond.”

“But beyond what?”

“Robin Beyond is my whole name.”

“I’m sorry, but that doesn’t make any sense.”

He said nothing. They walked in silence for several seconds.

Batgirl couldn’t resist pressing further. “You see, even if your name ends with ‘beyond,’ it’s just implied it means ‘beyond something.’”

“Can we change the subject?”

Ffogg Place was unusually crowded, even for a place billing itself as a girl’s finishing school. Doctor Elizabeth Shaw took one look at the crowd of villains and saw her chances of obtaining Hitler’s brain swirling down the loo. The room was filled with bizarre helmets and pencil-thin mustaches. Counting herself, she estimated there were enough eccentric doctors in the room to find a cure for cancer.

Each person in the long line was met first by Lord Ffogg’s butler, who jotted down the individual’s name and claim to notoriety. Next, they were greeted by a smiling, seated, Lady Penelope, who offered tea and crumpets. Finally, they were introduced to Lord Ffogg himself.

“Very pleased to meet you,” Ffogg said for the eleventh time. “Mr . . . ?”

“Freeze.”

The guest had bushy eyebrows and blue-tinged skin. The nozzles built into his metal collar pointed upwards at his head. The resemblance to the man once known as Doctor Shivel still remained, but the accident suffered years before had triggered a startling transformation. The chemicals dumped on him had permanently altered his body chemistry. “Enough pleasantries. Vhere is my brain?”

“In your skull?” Ffogg replied, displaying his dry English wit.

“Zis brain was authorized to my care by the German High Command itself. I cared for, nurtured ze brain for months before it was stolen during an industrial accident.”

“No offense, old boy, but I seriously doubt any court would recognize ownership of a living . . . er . . . breathing brain.”

“I must have it! Years I have waited!”

Lord Ffogg snapped his fingers and two of his goons stepped forward.

“I’m afraid I must insist on proper protocol. The nature and size of this event doesn’t lend itself to disorder.”

Doctor Shivel zipped his lip and squared his shoulders. He couldn’t risk getting ejected before the auction even began. “I did not mean to suggest zat I object to you coming into possession. It is thanks to your ingenuity zat I now haff the opportunity to recover it.” He bowed formally.

“So nice to have you here,” said Ffogg, all charm again. “Please have a seat.” He looked to the next man in line, who was wearing stylish, new clothing.

“Allow me to introduce myself. I am the Bookworm. No doubt you’ve heard of me.”

The slender, fedora-wearing villain wasn’t sure if the Joker would appreciate him pursuing a side venture while on retainer, but didn’t care. The Robin matter was far too mundane to keep his mind occupied. The mishap with Marilyn Munster had totaled his spectacles, so he was forced to pretend his prescription sun glasses were a fashion statement.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Ffogg beamed. “I’ve heard great things. Always glad to see a local boy made good. Welcome, welcome.”

Next in line was a figure clad in a grey auto racing outfit. The addition of a large racing helmet and gloves concealed every inch of skin.

Ffogg smiled. “You’ll forgive me if I can’t place the face, Mr . . . ?”

“Name’s the Griffin, guv’nor, but there’s no ‘mister’ about it.” The accent from within the helmet was unmistakably feminine and working class.

Ffogg’s eyes lit up. “The Griffin! Yes, I have heard of you. You’ve a counterfeiting ring operating just outside of Londinium. A thousand pardons, madam.”

Lady Peasoup regarded the Griffin from head to toe. “If you don’t mind my asking, why the racing togs? Do you counterfeit from a moving vehicle?”

The Griffin laughed. “Oh, blimey, no! The Shroudshire Road Race is coming up an’ I aims to win it.”

Ffogg’s smile disappeared as he saw that next in line was Doctor Shaw. He glanced over at his butler, who shook his head to indicate he’d obtained no information on the woman.

“I believe we have met before, Miss . . . ?”

Shaw had already given her men strict instructions not to introduce themselves to anyone in this time period. “I’m sure you can appreciate my desire for anonymity, Lord Ffogg.”

Ffogg sighed. “Madam, you seem unwilling to honour any sort of request . . . and I’m told you raised a fuss at the door over the house rule that bars henchmen from the proceedings.”

“Well, after all, she was admitted.” Liz pointed over at Florence of Arabia, who was mingling with Calendar Man at the bar.

“Miss Arabia is King Tut’s designated proxy and came with an affidavit designating her as such. She also had enough common sense to avoid making thinly-veiled threats against her hosts.”

“Surely, my Lord, you can make allowances for an English lass trying to compete with these big shots.”

“Don’t be too sure. I’m afraid the impression you’ve made on your second introduction is no improvement on your first.”

Shaw’s mouth opened several seconds before any words came forth. “Do you mean to tell me I’ve languished in this godforsaken setting for two entire weeks and only now you’ve decided to tell me I’m not allowed to bid? Why, you stodgy old coot!”

“Actually, I hadn’t quite come to that conclusion, but I can see you’re too unstable to be allowed to remain. I will bid you farewell,” Ffogg gestured to his two underlings. “Please give this person a quick tour of the back exit.”

Shaw was yanked out of line and pulled from the room. She didn’t go graciously.

“I should have had my man chop you into gobbits with that axe collection we caught you stealing two weeks ago! And don’t think it’s too bloody late for me to change my mind!”

“My word, she could use some finishing lessons,” said Lady Peasoup as the last echoes of Shaw’s threats died out. “What do you suppose she meant by that comment – ‘changing her mind two weeks ago?’”

“No idea,” said Ffogg. “She doesn’t appear to be in complete control of her faculties.”

“But mightn’t she go to the authorities?”

“I highly doubt it. I’ll wager she has more skeletons in her closet than you and I combined.”

“I’d be happy to keep an eye on her for you,” said the next person in line. The hopeful bidder stuck out a gloved hand.

“The Wizard, at your service." Although years had passed since the lightbulb/hamster-wheel demonstration, the Wizard’s interest in Hitler’s brain had not diminished.

Ffogg glanced over the Wizard’s shoulder and got a thumbs-up sign from the butler before accepting the handshake. “You apparently have appropriately vile credentials . . . and we’re already in your debt for warning us about that woman two weeks ago.”

“We’d be ever so grateful if you would keep a check on the poor dear,” Lady Peasoup said, clicking her tongue over what had become of English manners today.

“It will be a pleasure,” growled the Wizard.

Lady Peasoup turned and walked to the middle of the room. She held up her hands for silence and addressed the assemblage.

“Ladies and gentleman, what a delight it is too see you heah tonight! Your enthusiasm for this rare object has exceeded even our wildest expectations. So it is with a certain amount of regret I must announce a change to the proceedings. We have concluded that the extraohdinary imbalance between supply and demand for Mister Hitler’s brain matter dictates we impose an entry fee of five hundred pounds – payable in cash only.”

There were angry groans heard all around the room.

“Roight! Who said that?” demanded the butler.

No one responded, their desire for Hitler’s brain outweighing their outrage.

Lady Peasoup smiled and continued. “Since you could not have been reasonably expected to anticipate this, we have decided to postpone the auction itself until tomorrow afternoon. We will reconvene then at thirteen hundred – that’s one p.m. for you colonials. Good day.”

Liz stood outside on the lawn, listening to her men grumble.

“Two weeks we’ve just been sitting here,” said Hy, “and now we can’t even get in to bid.”

“Two weeks of just two television channels to choose from!” said Daniel, “and no video games!”

The pitch of Shaw’s voice rose. “Do you think I’m happy about this? We’ll just have to think of something, won’t we?”

“Hey, wait a minute,” said Hy, stubbing out his cigarette. “They’re letting everybody out already.”

“They can’t have held the auction yet,” said Daniel. “They must’ve postponed it!”

“No doubt Lady Peasoup thought she could squeeze a few more pounds out of everybody,” said Liz. “This is our chance.”

“Why?” asked Fred.

Liz pointed a figure exiting through the lit doorway. “There. The bloke in the cloak. You remember him, Hy?”

“Do I? We could have bought the brain for a song if he hadn’t interfered - I’d like to break his freakin’ neck!”

“Well, don’t go quite that far, but if you come back with his costume, that will give us way to sneak you into the auction . . . and, Fred, see that one in the racing gear? That’s a girl – talks like a working class barmaid.”

Fred grinned. “So . . . I nab her and you can take her place in there under the helmet and racing outfit!”

“What happened to preserving the timeline?” asked Daniel.

“That’s still of concern, but I’ve a feeling there was no packed auction in the original timeline. We’ll have to sort that out later. Just worry about getting me those costumes.”

Saturday the 2nd
In a hotel room at the outskirts of Londinium, Florence of Arabia flipped through a manual entitled “You and Your Landmine.” She interrupted her reading every few seconds to peer out the window. A shovel with moist, English clay glistening on its blade, sat in the corner. The phone rang. Florence tromped over to pluck the receiver from a wall-mounted phone.

“It’s me!” she said in greeting.

“Robin, the Boy Wonder - have you seen him? Or Bookworm?”

“Who?”

“Bookworm: spindly fellow, glasses, cowhide suit.”

“No, I mean, who are you?”

“Hoo hoo! Merely a playful associate of your employer. Now, Miss Arabia, if you run into either individual, you’re to–”

“Give me that phone!” demanded a husky voice on the other end of the line. There followed sounds of a short struggle for possession of the phone.

“Florence?” The latter voice had won possession. “It is I – your patriarch!”

“Mister Tut?”

“Not mister! King! Master of the Mideast! Ruler of Arabia! Lord of the Sand Dunes!”

“Sorry Your Highness.” She had to stretch the phone cord completely taut to backtrack to her spot at the window. “Were you released from the pen already?”

“Liberated, to be more accurate! Just in the last hour, the Joker and I staged a jailbreak. That was him acting as Royal Phone Dialer. I’m in a phone booth.” His voice dropped for a moment. “You wouldn’t believe how many gumball machines you have to knock over to pay for a call to Londinium.”

She heard the Joker in the background. “Come, come, let’s speed this up. You shouldn’t need instruction in giving orders.”

Tut ignored his heckler. “Tell me, my dear, how did we do in the explosives department?”

“No problems there. I located a guy in town with some landmines to part with.” She nestled the receiver between her chin and shoulder, freeing her hands to pick up a grey boxlike unit. Several detonator switches dotted its sleek surface.

“Are we able to anticipate the Dynamic Duo’s movements?”

“Lord Ffogg mentioned he was mailing a clue to Ireland Yard that will point them straight to the Three Bells Tavern. That’ll take ‘em right past here.”

“You led Ffogg to understand he may soon be rid of the Caped Crusaders?”

“Yes, sir. I told him when they get blown to bits, he’ll have you to thank. He said if you pull that off, you can have the brain!”

“Magnificennnnt,” the rotund patriarch purred. “We’ll just bypass this whole, messy, little auction.”

Florence started as she heard screeching tires, but realized the sound was coming from the phone.

“Pardon me. My chariot has just arrived,” said Tut.

While Tut conferred in muffled tones with his driver, Florence divided her attention between the grey box, the manual and the empty dirt road out her window. She was pleased the undisturbed appearance in which she’d left the road made it difficult to spot the mines’ exact locations.

Her employer returned to the phone. “Mister Joker would like to know if you happen to have a road map of Gotham City.”

“Uh, I’ve still got the one I bought when I blew into Gotham.” Florence hustled over to her suitcase and flipped it open. In the same hand that held the manual, she fished a map from the pile of silky clothing. She replayed the tug of war with the phone to return to the window. She flipped, shook and waved the map open. “Okay, where are you looking for?”

“We’re at Padlock Junction and we want to get to Route 66. What path do we desire?”

She tilted her head to examine the map, which allowed the phone to pop free from her shoulder and catapult across the room. She managed to field it as it bounced off the wall and pinned it there with her body. She held up the map in her right hand and tilted it in front of her eyes.

“You want to take a right on Racing Furiously Lane, which you will be hitting soon if you head north!” she bellowed down into her cleavage.

She couldn’t make out her employer’s reply, since her bosom was pressed against the receiver. She dropped the map and wriggled her torso to get the phone close enough to grab with spare fingers. Carefully, she again backpedaled to the window. A sleek black vehicle was zooming down the road just as she peered out.

“Aack!” she yelped, dropping everything but the grey box. The map, the manual and phone bounced off the floor. Florence flipped detonator switches madly.

>KABOOM!<      >KABOOM!<

The floor shook as multiple explosions erupted out in the roadway. In the Batmobile, Robin made a loud exclamation beginning with the letter, “H.” Batman restricted his remarks to, “Landmine.”

None of the explosions were close enough to chip the paint on the Batmobile, let alone cripple it. The Caped Crusaders continued on their journey in silence. Neither saw any point in commenting further on their latest brush with combustion.

Florence wearily walked over to where the phone lay and picked it up to explain the mission’s failure.

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. Florence thought she heard teeth grinding.

Tut exhaled sharply before replying. “Well, don’t blame yourself, Florence. It was my fault to leave such matters to a flighty girl.”

“No, you don’t understand–”

Through the receiver came the sound of a car engine revving loudly, then departing.

“Joker! Wait! Where are you going?” King Tut yelled.

Florence could hear the distant sound of sirens on the other end of the line.

“Befoulment! I must go!” Tut said, his voice rising. The call terminated abruptly.

The Griffin (Millie the barmaid, in her secret identity) drove through the front gates of Ffogg Place. Although she intended to make off with a Ferrari to compete in the race later, at the moment she was driving a Volkswagon bug. She parked in the gravel lot and opened her door.

She adjusted her helmet and took a long look at her surroundings before moving to unlock the small trunk. Inside lay a suitcase filled with English pounds. As she leaned forward to grip its handle, two hands shoved her hard from behind. She toppled forward. Before she could recover, the lid of the trunk slammed down on her back, pinning her in place.

“Bloody ‘ell!” she cried out, squirming in discomfort. A thin needle pierced her racing outfit and imbedded itself in her posterior.

She struggled mightily for several seconds before the drug took effect. Within moments, she had succumbed to unconsciousness.

Fred smiled as the woman slumped in his grasp. He hauled her from the boot and lowered her to the ground, then retrieved the suitcase of money as well. Hefting the figure under one arm, he staggered off towards a dark alcove.

The Batmobile proceeded to the Three Bells Tavern in the Londinium docks area without further incident. Too young to gain admittance to the notorious pub, Robin was left outside with the Batmobile, while Batman ventured inside.

From farther down the docks, Bookworm watched the Boy Wonder. “Thank you, Lord Ffogg,” he muttered. “You’re a wealth of useful tips with a few drinks under your belt . . . and speaking of belts . . . .” He squinted at the tiny compartments circling the Boy Wonder’s waist.

“Did you say something?” Marilyn Munster asked, peering over his shoulder. “Oh, my gosh! Isn’t that Robin, the Boy Wonder?”

“Why, of course. Didn’t I tell you he’s a good friend of mine?”

While Marilyn gazed in awe at Gotham’s legendary crimefighter, Bookworm evaluated his position. ‘Conventional wisdom would suggest that vial and key are long removed from Robin’s person,’ he thought. ‘I’m not about to risk further incarceration without first determining whether the items are in his possession.’

He laid a fatherly hand on Marilyn’s shoulder. “Now, here’s where you come in, my dear. I know this is a strange request, but – confound it – my circle of friends is so small, there’s no way I could pull this prank without the help of a newcomer.” Bookworm indicated the young American hero with a wave of his hand. “I told you he’s a huge practical joker, didn’t I?”

“Robin? Gosh, he always seems so earnest on TV,” Marilyn said.

“Oh, no, quite the contrary. He’s incorrigible. Now, my prank happens to involve some mischievous reading material . . .”

He glanced around to make sure no one was listening, then leaned over to whisper in the teenager’s ear.

Robin gazed longingly at the tavern door, cursing the misfortune of his youth. He knew the pub must be crawling with dishonest scum and here he was, outside, itching for action.

Marilyn Munster tentatively approached the legendary Boy Wonder. Unbeknownst to her, the Boy Wonder was lately becoming accustomed to being treated like he was the last male on the planet by every girl he met.

Smiling confidently, he held up a hand. “Look, Miss, I know you can’t contain yourself - being in my presence and so forth - but I’m very busy right now.”

‘I didn’t even get a chance to start!’ Marilyn thought.

“I understand how thrilling this must be for you,” Robin continued, “but I’m on a very important case, so I’m going to have to ask you to resist the temptation to throw yourself in my arms.”

“Huh? Uh . . . I won’t,” she stammered. She glanced over at Bookworm, who motioned frantically for her to stick to the script.

She turned back to Robin. “I’ve been looking for you because . . . I’m . . . from the future.”

“Holy Tempor–” Robin stopped in mid-exclamation. “Wait. Anyone can say they’re from the future. Can you prove it, Miss?”

“Easily,” Marilyn replied, reciting lines Bookworm had fed her. “This day will forever be remembered as your most famous adventure. I should know - it was the subject of my thesis at Tomorrowland University last semester.”

The Boy Wonder cocked his head, intrigued, but didn’t interrupt.

“History records that today, in addition to your usual crimefighting equipment, you also secretly carried with you a vial and a key.”

Robin’s eyes grew wide as saucers. “Holy Déjà Vu! You’re right! I’d completely forgotten about those . . . again.”

The Bookworm’s brilliant mind had surmised that, in light of events at the recent surf-off, Robin would be highly susceptible to tales of time travelers. Bookworm watched intently as the Boy Wonder looked down at his belt. Sure enough, the lad removed a key from it momentarily, before returning it to its compartment.

“Now I’ve proven from whence I came, please listen carefully,” Marilyn continued. “I brought a book from the future and you are the only person I can trust with it. Were it to fall into the wrong hands, history from this moment forward could be altered. It contains the final score from every game played in America’s premier football league.”

“Holy Hashmarks!”

“It’s entitled American Football League Almanac, 1960 - 2000.” (The Bookworm’s superior mind had concluded the AFL would soon prevail over the tired, old NFL.)

Getting into her role, Marilyn made a show of wringing her hands. “I’m very worried unscrupulous men will use it to wager on sporting events.”

“Gambling.” Robin licked his lips as if he’d swallowed castor oil. “Boy, there’s a foul proclivity.”

Robin was obviously falling for the ruse. The Bookworm twirled his finger at Miss Munster, urging her to wrap things up.

“If you’re willing to take possession of this book, meet me tomorrow at midnight in the alley behind 1425 Barnaby Street.”

Bookworm smiled. He’d made an arrangement with a local woman named the Griffin for some manpower to help extract the valuables from the plucky boy. Those men would be made available later that day, at the conclusion of some local road race.

Marilyn turned and rushed off before the Boy Wonder could ask any further questions.

Robin leaned back against the Batmobile and pondered what to do next. Normally, he would relay the news to Batman . . . but if history revealed today was his defining moment, maybe he was supposed to step out of his mentor’s shadow, which suggested not sharing the information.

Just then he heard some giggling and looked over to see Lady Peasoup and her Mistress of Crime students observing him behind the corner of a building. He instantly connected their presence to the docked barge nearby. The barge was loaded with high-end fabrics.

Bookworm greeted the return of his unwitting protégée. “Absolutely brilliant performance, my dear” he said, clasping his hands around Marilyn’s shoulders. “You exceeded all expectations!”

“So . . . are we going to tell him it’s a joke now?” Marilyn asked, still confused about the whole affair.

“Oh, we’re going to tell him, but not ‘til tomorrow night; I don’t want to spill the beans just yet.”

“Are those girls in on the prank?” When Bookworm looked around in confusion, she clarified her question. “Those girls attacking Robin.”

Reluctant to commit physical violence against any female, Robin was allowing Lady Peasoup’s girls to hoist him off his feet and haul him away.

“They’re carrying off your friend. Shouldn’t we do something?” Marilyn wondered aloud.

Bookworm shook his head, not believing his eyes. ‘This is my chance!’ He tipped his hat to Miss Munster. “Ehh . . . talk to you later.”

He sprinted over to the squirming Boy Wonder. “Unhand him, ladies!” he cried. The four girls paused, looking to each other for direction.

Robin lifted his partially-inverted head up to see his rescuer. Bookworm unloaded on the Boy Wonder with his most devastating punch - >Pow< - which further confused the English girls. With Robin now groggy and splayed out helplessly, Bookworm opened every compartment in view on the boy’s utility belt.

“Only be a moment, ladies – then you’re welcome to your prize here,” he muttered.

He snatched the vial and key from the utility belt, then raced off, leaving poor Robin at the mercy of the naughty schoolgirls.

The Bookworm was once again forced to admit his genius. “Mission accomplished! I . . . am . . . incredible!”

He checked the time. ‘The Joker had better hope this doesn’t cost me the opportunity to make the auction…or he’ll be paying more than he anticipated for these things!’

The dungeon of Ffogg Place was filled to capacity. Lord Ffogg swaggered to the front of the seated audience.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he beamed, “now the entry fees are out of the way, it gives me great pleasure to introduce you to the sole item you will be bidding on today. I present to you . . . the one and only . . . Adolf Hitler brain!”

With a flourish, Lady Peasoup whipped a purple cloth from a pedestal, revealing the highly-sought object beneath. She had decided beforehand to adorn the brain’s oval case with a WWII-era Nazi helmet. Tipped at a jaunty angle, the shiny, spiked helmet almost completely obscured the brain itself.

“Not only is it capable of simultaneously calculating a hundred variables, it functions with equal ease as an evil amplifier,” said Lord Ffogg. “It will magnify the effects of almost any nefarious deed tenfold.”

Around the room, chairs creaked as their occupants leaned forward for a better view.

Lady Peasoup smiled at the reaction. “We will start the bidding at eighteen thousand pounds.”

Up shot Mister Freeze’s gloved hand.

A set of shackles clattered to the floor, causing everyone to peer back up the stairs. The Bookworm had arrived, but in such haste he was knocking things from the wall.

“So terribly sorry,” he said. “Do continue.” He started down the steps, but stopped when he saw there were no seats available.

“We’ve already begun,” called Lord Ffogg. “Can’t allow latecomers, I’m afraid.”

Bookworm started to protest, but the butler appeared at his side to show him back out the door. Feeling thoroughly humiliated in front of his special-guest-villain peers, he slunk back up the stairs.

“Please forgive the distraction. Do I hear nineteen thousand pounds?” Peasoup looked around the dungeon.

Florence of Arabia waved her hand.

“The bid stands at nineteen thousand. Do I hear twenty?”

Concealed in the heavy racing suit of the Griffin, Doctor Elizabeth Shaw calmly raised a glove. The back of the glove bore the sinister crest of the griffin.

TALK ABOUT A NO-WIN SCENARIO!

NO MATTER WHO PREVAILS, LAW-ABIDING SOCIETY LOSES!

Robin Beyond pulled the tie-dye shirt over his head. “Where’s this go?”

“That’s a headband, so it’s supposed to circle your forehead,” Batgirl explained. “Okay, let’s have a look at you.”

All traces of his Bat-persona eradicated, Marty McGuiness stepped back a few steps in his new regalia. He and Batgirl evaluated the period clothes Professor Nichols had provided: flip-flops for his feet, torn jeans on his legs, a peace medallion around his neck.

“Who are you supposed to be?” asked Batgirl.

“What do you mean?” Marty replied, bothered she would ask. “I’m supposed to look like every other teenager of this era!”

“Ookayy,” said Batgirl, which didn’t make him feel any better.

“I look like an idiot, don’t I?” he asked.

Batgirl was saved from having to answer by a flash of light that startled both of them.

The mysterious, staff-carrying woman in the mini-skirt was back.

“Who are you?” Sailor Pluto heard Batgirl ask again. This could be forgiven; the first time the question was asked was still years in this Batgirl’s future.

“You may call me Sailor Pluto,” she responded.

“Shades of Bat-Mite!” exclaimed Robin Beyond. “Sailor Pluto is the woman who appeared to you in my time period, Batgirl. She can help us!”

“The fate of the planet hangs in the balance and I’m sent two novices, one with even less experience than the other!” the woman exclaimed, waving her staff for emphasis. “Why do I even bother trying to help?”

“Wait a sec!” blurted Robin Beyond. “I’ve already tracked down this era’s Batgirl and together we’ll locate those renegade time travelers!”

“I see,” Pluto responded coolly. “Did it never occur to you the time travelers would make an effort to avoid Batgirl, and shadowing her virtually guarantees you’ll never cross paths with your quarry?”

“Hmmf! The least you can do is give us a chance,” Batgirl said.

“I suppose there is no other choice,” Pluto admitted. “I see you will accomplish little without additional information. The biggest timeline disruption currently before us relates to ownership of Munster Hall. The Hall is destined to be donated by Herman Munster to the local community, where it becomes the town’s civic events center. Years from now, the Moldavia/Nimpah Treaty will be signed at the Hall.”

“The Moldavia/Nimpah Treaty? They say that’s what got Ambassador Linseed elected to the Oval Office!” Robin Beyond said, his eyes lighting up.

Pluto ignored the interruption. “Munster’s donation of the Hall was an occurrence stemming from the arrest of other, less-benign Munsters, who should be rounded up at the Shroudshire Road Race today. The time travelers, however, have thrown a wrench into the natural course of events. They have subdued the Griffin, who was to play a major part in the race. Ironically, although the Griffin intended to finish off Herman Munster, removing her from the race also removes Munster’s chance to defeat his enemies. This leaves him open to future assassination attempts (one of which will soon succeed). Without the Griffin’s presence, the nefarious Munster faction will not be exposed and Munster Hall will undergo no change in ownership.”

Robin Beyond rubbed his head. “Okay, is there any way we can just skip to the part about what I’m supposed to do?”

“You must rescue the Griffin and ensure she completes her part in today’s race.”

“Can you give any hints as to where she can be found?” Batgirl asked.

Pluto sighed. “Do not fear. I have no intention of straying far until this matter is corrected. The Griffin was ambushed as she arrived for an auction. It is vital you recover the object of this auction – Adolf Hitler’s brain.”

“They saved Hitler’s brain?!” Robin Beyond asked.

“Yes. Now you must save it from falling into the wrong hands. The auction – and the Griffin – can be found at Lord Ffogg’s estate.”

Batgirl nodded. “I’m familiar with it. That’s where I was intending to go anyway.”

“It is not far from here, but you must hurry!”

From the forest lining the rear of Ffogg Place, Doctor Shaw’s henchmen sat waiting for word of the auction’s outcome. Millie the barmaid lay in an unconscious heap at their feet.

They looked up as the silhouette of “the Griffin” emerged from the brick building. Instant elation swept the group as they saw she carried with her a large box. Worry suddenly crossed their faces as another jumpsuited figure moved up behind her.

"Pardon, dame Griffin,” Mister Freeze said, trying to sound conversational. “I would like to offer my congratulations on your winning bid.”

The disguised Liz Shaw gave him a nod, but didn’t stop walking.

“I vunder if we might come to some arrangement for mutual utilization of the Fuhrer's brain.” Freeze’s gloves made circular motions, as if describing a perfect, harmonious universe. “Well compensated you would be, naturally. You’ll find I can provide you with more detailed information about this brain zan anyone on the continent. I have a long history with–”

The helmeted Shaw put on a cockney accent. "Sure, sure, sounds great, luv. I'm a wee bit late right now, but drop me a line tomorrow and we'll sort something out."

"I am . . . not sure I know how to contact you. I am not from around–"

Shaw made reassuring hand gestures. "Oh, just ask anyone here. They awwl know me! Ta-ta."

Freeze pulled up short and glared after his competitor. He contemplated fetching the latest version of his freeze gun, but decided against it. He headed back to question others about this woman who had so much money at her fingertips. He had already advised Ffogg to make sure the winning bid wasn’t just counterfeit currency. Now, he decided he would ask the question again, just to be sure.

Doctor Shaw rounded a corner and looked back to see if she was still being followed. ‘ Let that kraut in the space suit spend a week looking around for the Griffin. By the time he finds the real one, I’ll be long gone from this era.’

Although she had left Freeze behind, her detour took her right into view of a window out of which Florence of Arabia was forlornly gazing. Grabbing her coat, Florence raced for the nearest exit out of the Ffogg Place, sensing a chance to discover what the mysterious “Griffin” had in mind.

Shaw returned to the clearing concealing her henchmen. She allowed herself a happy gasp as she removed the bulky race helmet. She stood proudly before them, her prize propped against her hip.

“Gentlemen, you'll be glad to know we are now the proud owners of one slightly-used . . . but exceedingly evil . . . brain!”

The henchmen pumped their fists in the air in celebration. “Finally!” said Fred.

“You did it, boss! I don’t hardly believe it after all the roadblocks we hit!” added Hy.

Doctor Shaw’s smile was short-lived. “What happened? You were supposed to replace the Wizard.”

“I know, I know. I followed the Wizard through the city until I was positive he was alone in a dead-end alley. I waited for him to come out, but nothing was happening, so I finally walked over and saw the alley was empty. No way for him to get out, but then I see a door to a cutlery shop – by itself, mind you - swing open and then close, as if someone just walked inside.”

“He made himself invisible?” Daniel guessed.

Hy held up his arms. “Exactly! So, I can protect myself, but . . . y’know, thanks all the same, I'm not walking into a cutlery shop with no invisible man."

“Was the Wizard at the auction?” Daniel asked.

“Yes,” answered Elizabeth. “I saw the Wizard costume seated down the aisle, and almost went over to review the game plan with him. I was pretty sure it wasn't you once he started bidding against me."

Fred motioned at the slumbering barmaid. “What do we do with her?”

Shaw sniffed. “Leave her. Now we have what we came for, we can head back to the time machine and be rid of this time period.”

By the time Batgirl and Robin Beyond came across Millie’s unconscious form, Shaw’s group had long departed with their prize.

“Praise Bat-Mite!” said the Miracle Minor. “I was starting to think we’d be out here all day.”

“We have forty minutes until the start of the race. Let’s get her out of here.”

“Wait,” said Robin Beyond, looking back and forth. “Didn’t Pluto specify the Griffin is supposed to be disguised in racing gear? And where’s that brain she was bidding on?”

Precious minutes ticked by as they renewed their search. They were on the verge of giving up, when they came across the abandoned racing outfit in a clearing thirty meters away.

“We’re under half an hour before they wave the green flag at the race,” said Batgirl. “I can return here afterwards and search Lord Ffogg’s Cricket Pavilion. He’s very secretive about what’s in there. If he still has the brain, my bet would be it’s in there.”

With at least driver and driving uniform now in hand, the Divergent Duo hailed a passing taxi cab, which was under the stewardship of Alfred the butler.

Alfred kept looking over his shoulder at the strange-looking hippie and the sleeping floozy in the back seat. Decorum kept him from asking Batgirl any pointed questions. Alfred took note of the fact Batgirl had apparently now taken a fancy to hippies, even short ones.

‘Fiddlesticks, I could look just like that,’ he thought. He decided he would at his first opportunity. If he could someday manage to rescue Batgirl while dressed like that, she was sure to fall head-over-heels for him.

As Robin Beyond tried to revive Millie with a cold compress and some smelling salts Alfred had provided, Batgirl squeezed the dishonest barmaid back into her racing togs.

The Shroudshire Road Race was the township’s event of the season. The stands were packed and everywhere Batgirl looked, there were people milling. Alfred dropped his passengers off behind the grandstand and drove over to where the taxi would best block view of their activities.

Robin Beyond softly slapped the Griffin’s face. They were so intent on their dozing damsel, they failed to spot a figure walking up behind them.

The two youthful crimefighters jumped in surprise as Sailor Pluto began speaking. “The race is about to start. The Griffin’s men have just disabled the junior Moresby driver. His car now sits idling in the pit area, waiting for the Griffin to take control.”

Robin Beyond shook Millie hard. “Wake . . . up!” he pleaded with the dozing lass.

“Quickly,” insisted Pluto. “The race will begin in less than three minutes. Since she does not awaken, one of you must take her place.”

“What?!” cried Robin Beyond. “What good’ll that do? We don’t know anything about this race!”

Batgirl had already unzipped the back of Millie’s racing outfit and now began vigorously yanking it off the unconscious woman.

“Take this.” Pluto handed Robin Beyond an unfamiliar object. “This is a period device called a ‘walkie-talkie,’” she informed him. “Through it, I will communicate the sequence of driving maneuvers the Griffin should make.”

“The odds of either of us exactly duplicating the Griffin’s every turn are a million to one,” Batgirl said as she pulled the jumpsuit free of Millie.

“Simply do your best,” Pluto said. “History tends to have a forgiving nature. A sequence of events already exists for it to use as a road map. It is simpler for time to repeat the same path, just as a flood of water chooses to follow the trail of the dried creek bed rather than create a new one.”

Both Robin Beyond and Batgirl made a grab for the jumpsuit.

“My mission . . . my responsibility,” Robin Beyond said, pulling insistently.

Batgirl resolved the dispute by booting him onto his butt.

“You probably can’t even drive a car.” Batgirl snatched away the walkie-talkie. “Just get Millie revived!” she called over her shoulder.

She headed for pit row, tripping and stumbling every few steps as she pulled on the uniform. “Gentlemen . . . start your motors!” a voice called over the loudspeaker.

Batgirl zipped up the suit and slammed the helmet over her head just as her footsteps brought her in view of the bleachers. Dust was flying as engines revved on the track.

She had no trouble spotting the vacated red Ferrari. It sat idling alone in the pits, while its counterparts roared at the starting line.

She quickened her pace, breaking into a sprint as a referee bearing a green flag took his place at the center of the track. She passed a large green-skinned driver sitting upright in a car that had been jury-rigged from a coffin. His mouth hung open stupidly as she raced by him.

She was now only thirty yards from the Ferrari, twenty yards, ten–

“And they’re off!” yelled the announcer over the intercom.

Ignoring the deafening noise, she hurdled into the vacant cockpit, jammed the vehicle into gear and stomped on the gas pedal. The car took off like a shot, slamming her back against the cushioned seat.

The red Ferrari weaved about worrisomely before straightening out and racing after the departed pack. As her initial surge of adrenaline died away, Batgirl took notice of the walkie-talkie lying beside her. She reached down and turned it on, but had already missed the first twenty seconds of Pluto’s directions.

“No, to the right of the white car.” Through the clouds of dust, Batgirl could make out a white car at the rear of the pack and proceeded to close the gap between them.

“Now, in fifteen seconds, you must force Lord Munster’s car off the track.”

“Lord Munster – that’s the car that says ‘Dragula?’”

“Correct. Crowd it to the edge of the track and then cut it off in eleven, ten . . . .”

Batgirl started to protest she wasn’t going to reach Munster in time, but instead vented her anger on the gas pedal. She caught up to two cars at the rear of the pack and passed them.

“Seven, six, five . . . .”

She aimed the nose of Ferrari at the coffin dragster ahead and urged more speed out of her vehicle. She was closing on the Dragula, inch by inch.

“Three, two, one . . . .” Pluto’s countdown ended and her voice trailed off expectantly.

It took what seemed an eternity (but was actually fourteen additional seconds) until Batgirl managed to draw even with Dragula. She had little experience in bumping moving race cars off a road, but had no intention of being bashful about it. She looked to make sure Munster had nothing but green pasture off to his right and prayed she wasn’t about to blow up the both of them.

She turned the steering wheel slowly, but deliberately, to the right. To her relief, Munster reacted by doing the same. The Dragula car clung to the edge of the roadway for a moment, gravel spitting up in its wake, before peeling off into the field and out of sight.

Batgirl sighed. “I warned you this wouldn’t run like clockwork,” she said into the walkie-talkie.

“This was not a defining moment in the race,” Pluto said. “Munster simply needed to be forced to the rear of the pack before he will switch on the afterburners, thus your timing was close enough.”

“Is Robin Beyond having any luck with Millie?”

The Miracle Minor’s persistence finally paid off. Millie’s eyelids fluttered open.

“She’s awake!” he turned to announce, just as Millie’s eyes closed and her head lolled to the side.

“Come on!” he urged the barmaid/supervillain. “We’ll walk this off together.”

He placed her arm around his shoulder, pulled her into a standing position and tried to get her to walk with him. She started to show signs of reviving.

Batgirl could see the bleachers and grandstand approaching in the distance and realized they’d almost completed a full lap. Batgirl was surprised to see Herman Munster’s car come charging up beside her, a loud roaring coming from its engines.

“The Griffin is beginning to awaken,” Pluto informed Batgirl. “Now, listen carefully. You will need to keep even with Lord Munster’s car until you reach the grandstand. You must then force him into the fence that separates the track from the bleachers.”

“That could kill someone!”

“It did not in the original timeline.”

“We’re not in the orig – oh, never mind.” Batgirl gave up, needing all her energy focused on the race.

“Keep him parallel with your vehicle, so he strikes the fence head-on.” Pluto lowered her walkie talkie to check on Millie’s progress.

The counterfeiting barmaid was woozily listening to Robin Beyond. “You’re real lucky you woke up in time. If Munster had won this race, you’d be in big trouble.”

“Lord Effigy isn’t sure you can still get the job done, Millie,” Pluto added.

The lie had the desired effect on Millie. “’Ere, don’t you blame this on me, mum! I was oownconscious, wasn’t I?”

Robin Beyond made a show of rubbing his chin. “Wellll, if we were to risk switching drivers mid-race, do you think you could still accomplish your mission?”

“Look ‘ere, mate. You give me a chance to clear me head, find me a motorcar to drive, and I will deliver Loahd Munster to you in pieces!”

Batgirl found herself tested to the limit; keeping just even with Dragula was almost impossible at this speed. The bleachers loomed ahead on the right, rushing up faster than she could prepare. She got a brief glimpse of a white fence post before they were already racing past. Batgirl hastily veered her car into Herman Munster’s lane.

>BR-RLAAAADGGGGG!!!<

There was a deafening racket and Batgirl expected to see a Dragula fireball pinwheeling into the stands. Munster’s vehicle, though, somehow remained intact. The painted white posts, on the other hand, were rapidly being unearthed and sent flying. Like some line of dominos in zero gravity, they rocketed upwards.

In the bleachers, Squire Moresby and Marilyn Munster lifted their arms to ward off two white posts that dropped out of the sky on them. Marilyn was astonished to see the Ferrari had dug up the entire length of the fence without killing anyone.

Squire Moresby was still laboring under the illusion his son was driving the red Ferrari. “Roger must have had steering wheel trouble!”

“Steering wheel nothing!” shot back young Eddie Munster. “He’s trying to wreck my Pop!”

“Oh, Roger! How could you?” cried Marilyn.

While this was occurring, Batgirl was grabbing her walkie talkie and mashing the call button. “I’m coming up on the pits! Is Millie ready to go?”

“If she had to, she might be able to drive,” responded Pluto, “however, history does not show the Griffin losing ground to–”

The red Ferrari veered off into the pit area at an inadvisable speed. The sports car came screeching to a halt just in front of Sailor Pluto.

Pluto waved away the dust to see the helmeted Batgirl climbing from the vehicle. “I was about to say the Griffin needs to keep pace with Munster,” Pluto continued, “and there is point much later in the race where it is appropriate for the Griffin to stop.”

“I’m sure you’ll think of something,” Batgirl said as she stomped past, grabbing the confused Millie by the sleeve. “Okay, Griffin, you’re on in five.”

The foursome ducked under the tarpaulin strung along the perimeter of the pit area. Once out of public view, Batgirl started stripping off the racing suit.

“Crikey! Why is Batgirl driving the car?” Millie asked, immensely confused.

“That’s just another disguise to throw off suspicion – like yours,” said Robin Beyond.

Sailor Pluto held up her arms. “We have no time for a change in attire.”

With the racing outfit perched around her hips, Batgirl nodded and jammed the racing helmet down on Millie’s head. “Sorry, but the helmet will have to do. Now, I want you to go out there and drive like you were in that seat from the start.”

“Don’t you worry, mum. Munster’s as good as dead!”

She ducked back under the tarpaulin, sans racing uniform, and settled into the cockpit. Batgirl watched as the Ferrari jolted forward out of the pit area and roared back onto the track.

“Not a bad choice for a driver,” she said, looking at Robin Beyond.

“Attention, Griffin,” Pluto said into the walkie-talkie. “Be ready to veer to avoid a hay wagon in your path.”

“Right-o!” came the response.

“And if you fail to win the race, remember there may be an opportunity to run Lord Munster over at the finish line.”

Sure enough, several laps later, the Dragula, with Herman Munster behind the wheel, slid over the finish line, backwards, but in first place. True to the annals of recorded history, Millie came roaring along in the Ferrari thirty seconds later.

As Herman Munster climbed out of his car and waved to the crowd, the Griffin floored the gas pedal and ran the Ferrari into him. Batgirl winced, thinking she’d been tricked into assisting to kill the poor, slow-witted giant.

Herman Munster, though, proved to be made of stronger stuff than Batgirl imagined. The front end of the Ferrari crumpled and the back end lifted high off the ground. Millie was launched from her seat, sent spiraling skyward and came down on a refreshment stand. She, too, avoided serious injury . . . but not arrest for attempted murder.

Once her helmet was removed and the Griffin’s true identity exposed, one after another of the native English Munster clan was revealed as culprits in the plot. Batgirl and friends sat back and watched as the police marched the whole lot off to a paddywagon.

“Okay, so did the race wind up jibing with history?” Robin Beyond asked Pluto.

“Events fell into place closely enough.”

“We’ll still need to apprehend this group of unlawful time meddlers of whom you spoke,” said Batgirl.

Pluto tilted her head as if striving to overhear some distant conversation. “Those who created the initial disturbance are, at this moment, programming their machine to return to their own time period.”

“Praise Bat-Mite!” said Robin Beyond. “I am so ready to dump these clothes.” He gestured at his tie-dye shirt.

“Unfortunately, the location of Hitler’s brain is now a mystery.” Pluto pressed her fingers against her forehead. Anxious seconds ticked by in silence.

Finally, the tiara-toting head looked up. “I’ve discovered another divergence in the timeline. Even as we speak, months in the future, Robin the Boy Wonder is being placed in a deathtrap. There may be no escape.”

“Ohhh!” Now Batgirl’s hand was rubbing her temple. “You’re sure there’s no way this would have happened in the natural scheme of things?”

“Although the villain responsible is destined to clash with Batman and Robin, he is not meant to capture them. Ownership of the brain may have impacted the timeline.”

“Perhaps if I keep a close eye on the Boy Wonder over the coming months – or just warn him – maybe this deathtrap can be avoided altogether,” Batgirl offered.

“No,” replied the long-legged woman. “In doing so, you would completely alter your routine and his, which would change several months’ worth of history to the same extent.”

“Well . . . what if I jump forward in time and rescue Robin? Will that set everything back on track?” asked the Miracle Minor.

“Possibly, but with the fate of the brain in question, I cannot say. Unlike Batgirl, however, it is safe to inform you of the deathtrap’s time and place.”

Robin Beyond clenched his fist. “This better not turn into one of those ‘horsefly’ deals where I have to run around correcting a thousand events just because a time traveler sneezed the wrong way.”

“You mean,” Pluto asked, “the ‘butterfly effect,’ where the most miniscule change to history leads to a great divergence from the original chronology?”

>BLAWWW!<

The cruise liner’s mighty horn blared into the night skies over Gotham City. The King Mary, largest vessel of the Royal Cruise Line, was setting sail for Londinium. Below decks, a happy couple navigated the cramped passageway with their bags.

“Here, let me get that for you.” The Joker helpfully held a door open for a shapely woman wearing a glittery evening gown.

“Ah, Queenie,” he said to the blonde bombshell. “I can’t fathom how I survived these months without you.”

“Oh, you would have been overjoyed with anyone willing to book a stateroom in their name for you.”

“You wound me! If only you know how I’ve missed you.”

“Really? I heard through the grapevine you’ve declared Undine your henchgirl for life.”

“That cow?! Ridiculous! You are the only person with whom I could picture sharing a romantic sea cruise.”

“Speaking of which, I barely gave enough notice to cancel the second stateroom. What happened to King Tut?”

The Joker gave a broad, dismissive wave. “Ha! That flabby pharaoh was a liability from the moment we escaped. Unless those porky legs move faster than I think, he’s already been recaptured . . . but they probably sent him back to Mount Ararat Hospital, which he prefers to the state pen, anyway. So, it’s a happy ending for everyone! Whoo! Ha, ha, ha!”

“Assuming Bookworm is still waiting with your doohickies when we make shore in Londinium.”

An unpleasant worry crossed the Joker’s mind, which he quickly banished. “Queenie, may I give you a hand with that luggage?”

“Well, now that you mention–”

“Oh, there’s our stateroom,” he said, pointing ahead and then clapping. “Oh, this is exciting! Hoo hoo!”

Queenie gamely dragged the heavy bags along down the passageway.

Late that night, Batgirl and Robin Beyond met at the Londinium docks area near the Three Bells Tavern.

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” Batgirl asked as the Miracle Minor fiddled with his hoverboard.

He walked to the edge of the dock and climbed onto a wooden ladder leading down into the chilly waters. “Yep. Are you going to remember me if you see me in Gotham months from now?”

“I certainly will. Take care of yourself,” she called down as he disappeared into the foggy darkness.

“You, too, . . . partner.” He reached the bottom rung of the ladder and set the board into the water. It supported his weight without sinking. He nudged the hoverboard’s temporal drive with his toe. The short board propelled him forward across the water.

Batgirl was able to barely make out his dark outline against the reflection of the water. The crouching surfer gained speed, moving faster and faster across the horizon, until he winked out of sight.

MEANWHILE, TWO MONTHS LATER . . .

Robin Beyond was lucky enough to re-materialize over water and spare himself another crash landing. He recognized his surroundings: Gotham Point, where Batman had won the surfing championship months earlier. He had timed his arrival for sunrise: just enough light by which to navigate, but before anyone was likely to be up and about. To his surprise, a high school girl could be seen strolling along the beach. Accompanying Mary McGuiness was Calendar Man, but to Robin Beyond the two were specks in the distance.

‘What are they discussing at this hour?’ he wondered. He crouched down and took a roundabout approach to the shoreline, keeping some distance from the 20th century teenager who happened to share his last name.

He surfed up to the beach, the hoverboard slowing as he neared shore. While placing the board back in his backpack, he removed his handheld. He punched in a series of keys, and the palm-sized device fed him sufficient information to track down Batgirl. He hoped she wouldn’t mind if he paid a visit to her secret identity.

Robin the Boy Wonder was dragged, kicking and swinging, into King Tut’s hideout. “Take your dirty mits off me, you mugs!” he demanded. The brawny Tutlings struggled to keep hold of the lad hoisted between them.

King Tut yawned. “Do we have to listen to this all day?”

>FUMP!<

One of the Tutlings smashed a fist into Robin’s midsection, knocking the wind out of him.

“This sure is a lot of sand you hauled in, boopsie,” Florence of Arabia said, looking around at what had become of her once-immaculate belly dancing school. Sand was scattered all over the structure’s interior.

“Your ruler deemed it necessary, my dear. Robin was a persistent foe. His death must be nothing short of excruciating.” Tut pointed to the corner of the room. “Bind him to the pole! and, Flo, do us a little dance, will 'ya?”

Florence complied as the Tutlings dragged the valiant youth over to a massive sand box that consumed one quarter of the room. Within the box, a long pole lay suspended horizontally between two sizable sand dunes. The twin piles of sand were separated by a small pond, fed by moats which were pumped around each miniature dune. Two men held Robin aloft, while the third tied him to the pole with straps. The henchmen wore galoshes, at Florence’s insistence.

“They’d better not track that damp mush everywhere,” Florence said in mid-wiggle.

"Hold it there a minute, m'dear." Tut extended the palm to Florence, silently requesting assistance.

Florence stopped dancing and winced inwardly as she took his meaty hand in both her hands and tugged. After several seconds of straining, she managed to pull her employer up off his vast posterior. King Tut waddled over to the makeshift sand dunes. Cinched securely to the pole, Robin looked glumly down at the pond.

“You must be wondering what is going to happen to you,” Tut suggested. “You presently hang well above the water’s surface, but that will be changing. Due to a natural phenomenon as old as the towers of ancient Babylon, a process called erosion, the grains of sand will slip away. The two piles will slowly degrade, lowering you gradually to a watery grave!”

Robin glared defiantly at him. Tut returned a hateful grin. “Surrounded by the trappings of a desert, yet you meet your demise by drowning! What could be more ironic?”

“What could be more moronic?” Florence whispered to Tut’s assistant, Suleiman the Great. “I won’t get this mess cleaned up for weeks!”

Tut looked around in mock fear. “Oooh! Where is Batman? Surely he must be behind that door!” Tut tiptoed melodramatically over to the door and swung it open to reveal an empty closet. The sudden draft caused a small trickle from one of the sand piles.

Tut clutched his chest. “No one there! What could be keeping him?” He walked back to the Boy Wonder and crouched close.

“What’s the matter, Robin? Is your confidence starting to erode?” Tut threw back his head and laughed until his sides hurt.

Robin struggled against the straps, feeling a rising sense of panic. More trickles of sand rolled down the sand dunes.

Tut gestured at the three-foot deep wading pool. “This river has been reconstructed to exact 1/500th scale.”

A placard bore the name he had given the tiny body of water. “You are wise to worry,” Tut said. “You’ll find the DeNial River to be an unforgiving mistress!”