dochermes

"Refugees of the Group Mind"

7/13/1981

I.

He walked to forget. For half his life, since he was barely out of his teens, Gitano had been wandering without a destination, putting one foot in front of the other to keep his mind distant while his body moved.

On an July morning already too warm for comfort, he strode steadily past Forsythe Park with its playground and a tiny zoo with the most prominent specimen a black bear. Gitano wore sturdy hiking shoes, jeans and a dark blue flannel shirt with a well-worn denim jacket over it. A nearly empty knapsack strapped to his back held some socks, a plain white T-shirt, scissors and comb, a washcloth and towel. In his pockets were a folding knife, handkerchief, two cigarette lighters and eleven dollar in singles. No wallet, no ID, no keys. All he owned in the world, this was more than he usually possessed.

Gitano walked on, seemingly tireless as ever. He was not remarkable looking. An inch under six feet tall, wiry, he had a thick black hair and a short beard. His most striking feature was the mismatched nature of his hands. The left was long-fingered and artistic, the right was broad and sinewy with thick nails that curled like claws. Once people noticed those hands, they could not help staring.

As he headed up the gentle incline of the street, Gitano began to remember a little about this city. Kingston, first capital of New York State, for some reason was a nexus for Midnight War activity. Many eerie and unexplainable events had taken place here that the general public never heard about. Some of the old buildings of cobble stone had been built by the Dutch and were said to be haunted for three hundred years. In his foggy memory, he realized he had not been in Kingston for years. Why? Who could say? Certainly he didn't know.

Wrapped in his timeless limbo of thought, the wanderer observed the neat, impeccably maintained houses with their lawns manicured as if about to be inspected. One of the better neighborhoods. Here were doctors, lawyers, minor politicians. And here he hoped to find Garrison Nebel before it was too late.

Traffic was sparse. He crossed over onto Plymouth Avenue, read the numbers on the houses and located number 92. This was a one-story white frame building like a shingled roof and a tiny round garden encircled by black stones. He had forgotten Nebel's number long ago, or he would have phoned as he had passed the Trailways station.

A short path of flat shale stones led from the sidewalk to the front door. As soon as he set a foot on the first stone, the insolid attenae of his senses screamed a warning. Gitano's dark eyes narrowed. He held up his brutal right hand, gnarled fingers clenching and unclenching in readiness as he stepped up and pressed the doorbell.

No answer came. He tried again, glanced up and down the street but saw no one watching. The feeling of imminent danger was overwhelming. Gitano pressed his right hand against the door and the lock snapped cleanly even though he had not applied any pressure. The wanderer moved quickly inside, closing the door behind him, his right hand swinging from side to side as if it were a weapon in itself.

Gitano stalked through unoccuopied rooms, not calling Nebel's name, tense and jumpy. No one was here. The double bed was neatly made, the kitchen was tidy. there were no signs of any violence nor of Nebel having left hurriedly or against his will. Reluctantly, the wander lowered his shoulders and stood frowning in the living room while he thought.

He had only one other possible lead to follow. A year earlier, Nebel had given him an address and phone number where he might possibly be reached in a crisis. The number was long forgotten but the address had stuck in his mind because it was unusual. 7766 Browning Terrace. Not only did Gitano have more gaps in his memories than actual memories, he wasn't even aware of it. Any time his thoughts tried to dig into the past, his mind recoiled violently.

Back outside, he took off at a trot just shy of breaking into a full run. Yes. He remembered Browning Terrace, only a few blocks away from Nebel's house. Here was a four story brick apartment building, with its own parking area. The ground floor apartments had small front yards no more than five feet to a side, the top floor apartments each boasted a standing platform outside the sliding windows. These were barely wide enough to qualify as balconies.

Inside the lobby was a bank of name tags next to white buttons. What the hell was the name again? Gilliard, yes. He pressed the button next to GILLIARD, M/DEWITT, J and a buzzer sounded as the inner door unlocked. From a speaker atop the tags came a young woman's voice, "Finally! Come on up."

Gitano swung open the inner door and rushed up the staircase beyond with such frantic haste that he was unaware of a hand catching that door before it could close and lock again.

( the rest of the story )

"The Crown of Boundless Knowledge"

8/22/1981

I.


Jeremy Bane parked his dark green Ford Mustang by the side of the country back road and hopped out. At twenty-four, the Dire Wolf was at a physical peak and burning with excess nervous energy he needed to vent. Almost exactly six feet tall and weighing one hundred and seventy pounds, he looked slim and athletic without being obviously muscular. He was built like a runner rather than a weight lifter. The black slacks, turtleneck and sports jacket gave him a sinister appearance which was accented by the pale grey eyes under dark feral brows. Those eyes never stopped moving, analyzing, accusing.

He was gazing at a yard about fifty feet to each side, with tall dry grass which had not been mowed in some time. A one-story white house with a slate roof, no more than five rooms, stood at the rear of the yard up against the birch and elms which marked the forest. The hard-packed gravel driveway held a beat-up Dodge Ram with considerable rust around the rear wheels, and two old tires were stacked with other debris next to the pick-up. As Bane closed his car door, a redheaded man in blue jeans and faded work shirt stood up from where he had been kneeling by his garden.

The Dire Wolf strode quickly toward the man without a greeting. He had read all the KDF files on him but wanted to add up his own impressions. William Scott Delaney was forty-five. Standing an inch over six feet tall, he would weigh about two hundred and twenty pounds. The man was obviously in great shape, with wide shoulders and a narrow waist, hard biceps stretching the sleeves of his shirt. Delaney had dark brown hair and eyes in a lined, weathered face. The deepset eyes, long straight nose and lantern jaw gave him a mournful Puritanical look.

Just the easy way he rose from a kneeling position without having to use his hands for balance or to push himself up showed he was fit. "What do you want?"

"My name is Bane. Jeremy Bane, from the Kenneth Dred Foundation," the Dire Wolf replied. He stopped while well out of reach, standing with feet apart in a ready stance.

"Oh, the great Dire Wolf!" Delaney scoffed. "Yeah, I've heard lots of wild stories about you. I repeat, what do you want?"

"We need your help, Mr Delaney. You may be the only one who can help us keep powerful talismans out of the hands of a dangerous sorcerer."

"None of my business," Delaney snapped. "The world leaves me alone and I leave it alone, we're both better off that way. Get out of here."

Bane frowned more than usual. This was not going at all as he expected. "I've heard about you, too. The Kumundu Kid. Back in the early '60s, you were quite a hero. You were the best knight Tel Shai had, and the youngest if I remember right. Nineteen when you started."

"That was the wrong thing to say! Goddam it, you have got some nerve bringing up Tel Shai to me!"

"I know you were expelled from the Order--" Bane began but he was cut off by furious swearing from the man.

"Expelled! That's a nice way to put it. After all I did, all the monsters I tracked down and the maniacs I captured, after six years of risking my life time after time, the Teachers threw me out like a used rag. And do you know why?"

The Dire Wolf had not reacted to the anger, his voice remained quiet and controlled. The pale eyes were fixed on the man he had driven all day to see. "No. I don't."

"Because I tried to save my sister. Alicia was fourteen. She was in horrible pain, dying of kidney disease, the doctors said there was nothing they could do. So I shared what Tagra I had with her. She started getting better and then the Teachers summoned me to Tel Shai. That high-and-mighty bitch Anulka had seen in my mind what I had intended. You can't hide anything from telepaths for long. I had to stand before all eight Teachers and take their sermons without flinching. Then, just like that, they disowned me."

Bane had moved closer, still with his hands down by his sides, not assuming any threatening pose. "What happened to her?"

"She died, what do you think? The light of my life. My baby sister. It wasn't luck until I ran out of the Tagra leaves and there was nothing I could do for her." Delaney folded his arms across his broad chest and took a breath. "Go away. Get out of here."

"I don't always agree with the policies the Teachers have established," Bane told him. "They're wise and a hundred years old and all that, but they are not perfect. No one is. They've set rules I think are wrong. But being a knight means access to all the training that helps me carry out my mission in life, so I go along with it. It's compromise."

"Well, aren't you the little diplomat? I told you to get lost once, I'm going to throw you off my property in a second."

Again, Bane did not respond to his hostility. He pointed at the rectangle of soil lined with plants that Delaney had been tending. "Those purple leaves look awful familiar. Arrowhead-shaped, growing on short stalks that way, I'd say those are Tagra plants."

"I smuggled a handful of seeds back to this world before the Teachers threw me out," Delaney said. "It's not easy growing these plants, they're delicate and they need constant care. And they didn't start sprouting until long after my Alicia was gone."

"There's nothing we can do about the past," Bane said. "I'm asking you to step up now and do the right thing. Feeling sorry for yourself won't save all the other Alicias out there."

Delaney raised his hands and curled them into knobby fist. "That's enough! I know about you, Bane. I'm not intimidated. I have been trained in Kumundu too, I have been living on massive amounts of Tagra tea and most important, I really want to beat you into a bloody mess that can't even beg me to stop. Let's go."

( the rest of the story )

"Cold Dark Waters"

3/11-/14/1981

I.

He came up out of the ocean, lurching from the surface into the moonlight and stumbling onto the shore. Two unsteady steps he took, before dropping to his knees and sagging to lie face down onto the cold sand. He was a tall man, slim but fit, dressed in a tight suit of a rough grey material that covered him from collar to foot. The man tried to rise again, but failed and lay panting before passing out completely. Across his back was a flat sheath of carved ivory which held a long stabbing knife of sharpened bone. The man's short bristly hair looked white under the moon. As he sprawled unmoving on the beach, two short fleshy horns could be seen on at his temples, giving him a demonic aspect.

It was just after midnight when a white Mercury Marquis slowed on the beach road and pulled over. The driver got out, peering down at the prone figure before getting a flashlight from the trunk and making his way down to get a better look. Jim Schoeber was sixty-one and overweight, and it took him a few minutes to get to the downed man. The bizarre outfit and weapons, the fleshy horns on the man's head, all fascinated him. The skintight suit had small triangular scales that meant it was made of sharkhide. The stranger groaned and stirred. Schoeber took a pulse and found it strong and steady. He rushed back up to his car and went along the beach road to where a phone booth stood near the exit to the highway. Schoeber called the number of a building on East 38th Street.


Legally, he should have called the police or at least an ambulance. But Schoeber was one of a hundred people in the New York area who owed a debt and who paid it back by reporting anything weird or inexplicable. Two years earlier, his daughter had been abducted by a maniac named Samhain. While the police did their best, it had been a man named Jeremy Bane who had located Samhain, pushed the psychotic killer off a roof and brought Schoeber's daughter back home. Bane had refused a reward. All he wanted was for Schoeber to let him know if he ever spotted anything supernatural or occult. Now was his chance to repay Bane.


After speaking into the phone for a few minutes, Jim Schoeber got back in his car and made a U-turn to head back to where he had spotted the strange man. Just retired after thirty years on the job, Schoeber was enjoying staying out late and not having to get up at five-thirty every morning, which is why he had been driving around aimlessly by Long Island Sound. Parking the big Mercury in the same spot, getting the flashlight out again, he trudged down toward where the man in the sharkhide outfit was still lying. The light from a street lamp just reached the man.

Schoeber paused as a powerful wind sprang up and whipped the freezing winter air in his face. A huge dark shape passed overhead in complete silence. His heart skipped a beat and he gaped as he saw a black helicopter with no lights or identifying logos descend and settle on the beach not twenty yards away from him. The four rotors slowed and stopped. Schoeber stared in fascination as the hatches opened with a hiss of pressurized air being released and two men emerged.

One saw him and waved for Schoeber to join them. Heart pounding with excitement, the retired machinist made his way down the beach and recognized the famous Michael Hawk from his pictures in the newspapers. The wide weathered face with the drooping mustache, the shaggy brown hair heavily sprinkled with grey... it was a familiar face to the public. Hawk had captured enough serial killers and kidnappers and escaped convicts over the decades of his career as a manhunter. He was wearing a brown coat with a fur-lined collar and a Stetson, but he would have looked like a cowboy in any clothing.

Emerging with Hawk was a slightly taller man, with short black hair and an expressionless face. This one was wearing a black jumpsuit fitted with many pouches and pockets. He knelt by the prone figure and seemed to be examining him as a paramedic would.

As they drew near, Hawk addressed him in a Montana accent. "Jim Schoeber, right? I spoke to you a few minutes ago?"

"Yes, sir. I don't know if you know who I am. I owe Jeremy Bane my daughter's life."

"I heard about that. Samhain. Bane asked you to report anything bizarre you saw instead of paying him a reward, right?" Hawk snorted in amusement. "It's a good idea. You've done something important tonight by bringing this man to our attention. Come on over."


They approached where the other man was trying to revive the stranger from the ocean. Hawk said, "What's the lowdown, Len?"

Leonard Slade did not look up. He was taking readings on a small electronic device. "He is alive and will recover shortly. Exhaustion is the main problem." The man glanced up to turn probing dark eyes at them. "Jim Schoeber. Thank you for calling us. Jeremy will be pleased with you."

"Who is this guy?" the retired machinist blurted. "What's he doing on the beach in the middle of night in early March? It's freezing out here."



Hawk answered slowly. "You might call this fellow an illegal alien. He has no business coming up on our shores. We're going to turn him over to his own people." The manhunter gestured for Schoeber to go back up to his car. "I'd suggest you go home and not mention this to anyone. Bane will visit you in a day or two and explain as much as he can."



Leonard Slade had opened the back hatch of the helicopter and carried the limp man over to it as if lifting a bundle of empty clothing. He strapped the unconscious stranger in the back, sealed the hatch and then went around to the pilot seat. The overhead rotors began to slowly turn. As Schoeber reluctantly backed away, Michael Hawk went to get in the co-pilot seat. "Thanks again!" he called. "You did the right thing."



The CORBY lifted straight up, but there was little backwash. Somehow the craft seemed to be moving faster and more smoothly than it should have. In a second, the black helicopter was lost in the overcast winter night. It swung around, heading northwest and skimmed silently high overhead.



Within the CORBY, the only illumination came from the subdued blue and red lights on the instrument panel. Strapped in the co-pilot seat, Michael Hawk checked all the status dials and gauges. Everything seemed fine. "So, Len. What's the story on our guest back there?"



"I identified him at once," the Trom Monitor said in his usual even tones. "Atron Ke, the Gelydra. His detailed description is in our files from when Jeremy fought him twice before."



Hawk scoffed. "Those Gelydrim. I never really believed they were real. Men who lived at the bottom of the ocean.. it just seems impossible."



"They are a variant of Human, modified by Darthan sorcery ages ago. I am gratified to have an opportunity to examine one. Atron is a male mammal, with some cartilage substitute where bone would be in a Human. He has functional lungs as well as gill slits on the sides of the throat, and I believe he can switch back and forth as needed. My projection is that he is much stronger than a typical Human, more resistant to extremes. I want to run some tests on his eyes and his cardiac systems."



"Fine with me," Hawk said. He glanced behind him where the Gelydra slumped on the back bench. "What the heck are those things on his head? They look like horns."



"Sensory organs. They emit sonic pulses which echo back for Atron to interpret. I interpet their function as used in dark or murky waters."



"Like dolphins and whales, hey?" Hawk said. "Sounds logical. He's a right interesting fella."



"Coming in on headquarters," Slade told him. "I am going to decelerate sharply."



Hawk was already strapped in but he held onto the curved bar of the hatch to steady himself. The CORBY came to a sudden stop and dropped straight down so abruptly it seemed to be falling but it landed lightly inside a hangar. In those few seconds, the copter had sped over midtown Manhattan, cut its speed to zero and descended neatly through the opening in the roof of the ten story building on 38th Street. As soon as the landing gear touched down on pressure plates in the floor, the huge overhead panel slid shut again to cut off the night sky.



They were in a high-ceiling, brightly-lit chamber. The walls were lined with metal cabinets and workbenches and supplies. One corner held a table with a few folding chairs but most of the floor space was kept open. As the CORBY settled and the rotors stopped, a man in black stepped through the door into the hangar.



At only twenty-five, Jeremy Bane carried himself with an intensity that gave him the authority of a much older man. Six feet tall and gaunt, he was wearing his usual black outfit of slacks, long-sleeved turtleneck and sport jacket. The pale grey eyes were alert. He stepped forward as the hatches of the CORBY hissed open. "What have you got for us?" he asked.



Stepping out, Slade replied casually, "Atron."



"Really!" Bane said. "I wasn't expecting to meet him again. Atron the Destroyer. Is he okay?"



The Trom reached into the back compartment and picked the heavy Gelydra up in his arms as if it was no effort. "I observe over-exertion with no permanent damage but a full exam is indicated." With that, Slade carried his burden through the open doorway to where the elevator was located.



Bane turned to where Michael Hawk was just climbing out of the copter. "So, that WAS Jim Schoeber who phoned us? I thought so."



The manhunter unzipped his jacket and draped it over one of the folding chairs, with his Stetson on top of it. "Yep. One of your army of observers came through."



The Dire Wolf gave the faintest of smiles. People had to know him a long time to realize he was not completely deadpan. "The elevator is coming back up. Let's join Len in the medical ward and see what he comes up with." They stepped through the door leaving the hangar and had to go down a flight of stairs to reach the elevator. The hangar had originally been the roof of the building until Bane had ordered it enclosed. Descending to the ground floor, the two KDF members walked down the front hall. Ahead of them was the small foyer, to their right was the reception room. To their left, the door was open and light spilled out into the hall.



II.



This emergency ward held two regulation hospital beds, able to be raised or lowered or tilted as necessary. The lights were very bright, and the air cool and dry. Every inch of the walls was taken up with gleaming electronic equipment designed by Slade himself. It took a few minutes of study to identify the purpose of some of the devices. A sink with a paper towel dispenser was the only apparatus instantly recognizable. Just inside the door were mounted boxes of latex gloves and cotton face masks, but they did not need them in this case.



Slade had Atron stretched out on one of the beds, and was unfastening the hide cords which held the sharkhide outfit on. Under the glare, it could be seen more clearly the Geldyra's stiff bristly hair and bony face were not quite Human. "He is breathing normally," the Trom said.



Stepping up, the Dire Wolf attached a clear bag of saline solution to a hanger and stuck a needle in the back of Atron's hand to attach it. "I'm starting an IV. He's amphibious, so he gets dehydrated faster than we do." Satisfied with that, Bane swung a vitals monitor over to stand by Atron's head. "We don't need to attach leads with him this close," he said. "Let me calibrate. There we go."



Watching from a few feet back, Michael Hawk slid the bone knife from its ivory scabbard. The edge was sharp enough to shave with he decided, a two foot length that came to an angled point. The grip was wrapped with sharkhide as well. The Manhunter placed the weapon out in the hall on a bench, out of reach just in case. Atron wore a cuff of carved walrus ivory on his left forearm but Hawk left that.



"Readings are up," Bane said. "Let's see. 129 beats per minute, blood pressure 160 over 123, temperature inside mouth 83 degrees."



"All normal for one of his Race," Slade observed.



"I guess. I'd hate to have readings like that." Bane picked up one of the restraint cuffs that hung down over the side of the bed. "No. I don't think strapping him down is a good idea, do you?"



"We would just have to replace the straps after he broke free," the Trom observed humourlessly. "I think we have some time before he regains consciousness. Thirty to forty minutes."



The Dire Wolf headed for the door. "All right. Let's assemble over in the reception room where we can hear if he starts acting up." Bane walked across the wide front hall and opened the door to a room where visitors were shown. Against the right hand wall was an oak desk, sitting under a huge hand-painted world map from 1937. The wall facing them as they entered had two curtained windows, and a long leather couch, with a low coffee table scattered with newspapers. Against the far wall were waist-high shelves containing reference books, and on top of that case was an illuminated fish tank.



Six comfortable leatherbound chairs were scattered about. Bane pulled one over by the couch and seated himself. He used the desk for his detective agency but didn't sit behind it for KDF meetings because he felt it would mean treating his teammates as clients. Michael Hawk went over and started a coffee pot, while Slade lowered himself to the couch. A second later, a little blonde woman hustled through the doorway.



Cindy Brunner was just over five feet tall and just over one hundred pounds, a slim young woman with dark blonde hair pulled back in a thick ponytail. She was wearing snug white jeans and a red corded sweater she was still adjusting as she hurried over to take a seat. Cindy had been asleep when the call from Jim Schoeber had come in, while Bane had been still up and reading in the conference room. It was the activity of the various minds that had stirred her to wake. Her telepathy picked up on her teammates' thoughts as if overhearing snatches of conversation. "So! Atron again, eh?"



Bane said, "Yep. Talk about trouble. Everytime he shows up, it means bad news. Mike, I don't know if you've read all our files yet. One of my earliest cases for Mr Dred was acting as bodyguard when Atron came to the surface world. Mr Dred tried to interview him for a book he was researching, but Atron went berserk and beat the tar out of me before he was persuaded to leave."



"What?" said Hawk. "Atron beat you up? I wouldn't have thought anyone could do that. Not easily, anyway."



"Oh that. I was young and had no training. I hadn't even started Kumundu then. Today would be a different story. Anyway, last year just around this time, I was fighting an Ulgoran warlock named Li Tung. He got me in a tank filled with water and released a Malak. You haven't met them, they're basically a tiger shark with arms and legs." Bane leaned back and frowned. "I was keeping the damn thing back with my daggers but I admit it was going to be tricky to kill something like that. Atron burst in. He had been tracking Li Tung on his own, they had a vendetta going on. Between us, we killed the Malak and got out. Li Tung had escaped in the meantime and Atron said he would come back some day to resolve our mutual debt. Maybe that's why he's here."



Cindy glanced at the doorway. "Brainwave surge," she said. "He's waking up."



As the KDF members watched, the tall thin form of Atron Ke appeared in that doorway, fastening the thongs to close his outfit. He carried the sheathed horn knife in one hand. The Ulgoran still had the needle taped to the back of his wrist but he had unhooked the IV. "Greetings!" he called out in a bizarre accent that sounded vaguely Hungarian. "I see you have brought me here and treated me well, and for that I thank you."



The Dire Wolf came over to offer a hand and led the Gelydra to a spot on the couch. "You look better than you did a few minutes ago. Your Race bounces back fast."



Atron turned his pale blue eyes on Bane. Their expression was hard to read at best. "It is not easy for me to come here seeking help, Dire Wolf. Proud I am, too proud for my own best interests perhaps."



"You can talk freely here," Bane said. "Just tell us what the situation is."



"Perhaps some of you do not know of Ulgor, 'the Mountain Under the Sea,' which is my home. At the end of the Darthan Age, Jordyn sundered the world and splintered off the adjacent realms, each behind its own barrier. Ulgor is one of those realms. We were placed deep beneath the ocean of our realm, with our City transported there bodily. The Darthim had changed us from so-called 'normal' Humans. We have gills as well as lungs, we are adapted to crushing water pressure and cold depths. Each of us is born at the same time a shark hatches, we have the spirit of the shark within us."



Cindy moved her chair a little closer, skimming the surface of Atron's mind without probing deep enough to get his attention. He glanced over at her movement and she smiled sweetly.



"For ages, little changed. Time seems to move more slowly in the adjacent realms than here. Have you noticed that? We had our civil strife and our battles with the creatures of the deep. Two hundred years ago, a Sulla Chun stirred beneath our City, we had not known such a horror was buried there. A generation of monsters and madmen ran amok, but in time they died out and calm returned. Then there was the invasion from Androval and the occupation for a decade. The Melgarin will pay for that yet. During that occupation, I was born as the Sulla Chun convulsed beneath the city. Its fell energy swept through me even as my father lifted me overhead to proclaim my name. Both my parents died at that moment, but I survived and thrived. Perhaps it was that exposure which made me stronger and hardier than other Gelydrim! Certainly I suspect it was the exposure which tainted me with fits." Those opaque blue eyes glowered. "For know that all my life I have been prone to attacks of berserker rage..."



Not unkindly, Michael Hawk asked, "What brings you here now, though?"



Atron's head snapped up. "Quickly then. Let me explain. Some four hundred of my folk broke off from our city. They were tired of the oppressive rule of Gimkul San. The heavy taxes, the constant labor at monuments to vanity, the public lashings. Our group went a day's swim away and established a fresh start. New Ulgor! With herding of fish and cultivation of edible seaweed and time for crafts and art. I went with them. I was weary of the duels and feuds which took so much of my time. I abdicated the rank of Warlord and was happy to be just Citizen. But Li Tung would not have it so."

"Li Tung being the warlock we fought together," said Bane. "What about him?"



"He has gathered an army of subhuman creatures. Shapeless blobs within suits of false-flesh. The Other-Men. Somehow he is breeding them faster than they can be slain. With Demrak Sum as their general, the Other-Men are wearing down our defenses. And our leader, Geruw Cas, has been captured by them. Courage is not enough, skill at arms is not enough to triumph. I knew I must go to those who know many forbidden secrets of the Midnight War, and hope that you might aid us."



Jeremy Bane stood up and came to stand next to the distraught Gelydra. "So this is not a civil war, your people fighting among themselves? This is a sorceror attempting to conquer a colony to which he has no right."



"Yes! That is exactly right! And I have tarried here too long!" Atron leaped up with such tigerish quickness that everyone gave a start. "I must return, now, this very moment!"



The Dire Wolf laid a restraining hand on Atron's arm, disregarding the outraged glare. "Hey. Take a second. We can bring you home in our CORBY much faster than you possibly swim, right? Right?"



"Yes," Atron admitted. "That is just good sense. But we must leave now."



"One thing first. We fought these Other-Men ourselves, here on land. They're golems of false-flesh. The only alchemist I know who can craft them was named Lee Hutchins. I suspect he's supplying these monsters to Li Tung in exchange for something. You following? You will return to New Ulgor, Len there will pilot the CORBY. But some of us here will track down Lee Hutchins and stop his little game."



"... and by doing so, halt the flow of Other-Men attacking my colony. Yes! Very good! You are no fool, Dire Wolf."



"I like to think so." Bane faced his team. "Steve is on his way. He was up in Westchester. I think logically Len and Steve should be the team to accompany Atron home. You both can fly, which underwater will translate into swimming faster than the enemy. Mike, Cindy and I will remain up here to locate Lee Hutchins and stop his golem factory. That guy! He's always trouble."



"Where's Khang? Or Larry?" asked Cindy.



"Your guess is as good as mine. The last I heard, Larry was out west. They haven't answered the Blue Alert, and I don't think a full Red Alert is called for. Ted is on overnight duty at Temper Memorial Hospital. If they turn up, they can pitch in, of course." He turned to Atron. "I remember you ate regular Human food without trouble. You came a long way here without stopping, so maybe you'd want to get some food and drink inside you before we get going."



"The kitchen's at the end of the hall," Cindy told him. "Come on, I'll show you. We've got lots of macaroni salad with chicken I made myself..."



The Dire Wolf turned to find Hawk shaking his head with a grin. "That gal..."



"She knows how to calm down even someone like him," Bane agreed. "I'm going to get in the field suit. As soon as Steve arrives, we can launch." The Dire Wolf spun and trotted up two flights of stairs to his private room on the third floor.



III.



Ten minutes later, Black Angel came down lightly on the roof. With his artificial wings spread, he lowered his legs and alighted easily without a stumble. The streamlined black jumpsuit with red trim had been designed by the USAF and it was not clear how Weaver had managed to retain use of it after his discharge. He never explained the circumstances. As he straightened up, the wings folded flat to his back with a faint hum of the tiny motors mounted between his shoulders.



As he approached one corner of the roof, a metal panel slid back to reveal an opening with a set of concrete stairs leading down a short well to a door. Weaver moved down these steps, through the door and into the hangar where the CORBY sat. He always caught his breath at the sight. He had been a helicopter pilot for nine years and the sight of the advanced Trom jetcopter still fascinated him. He had worked with Leonard Slade on a few of the modifications but he freely admitted most of what made the CORBY work was beyond him.



Steven Weaver unlocked his fibreglass helmet with the long rearward crest and tucked it under one arm. He was a lanky American black man with a thick mustache and a face that seemed friendly and accessible until you caught the thoughtfulness in the deepset eyes. Weaver entered the elevator and descended to the ground floor, emerging just as Bane was coming down the staircase.



"Evening or morning, whichever," Weaver said.



"Good to see you, Steve." The Dire Wolf was now wearing the black outfit of boots, pants and waist-length jacket, with its own inner layer of Trom armor. He was carrying his own helmet, with a retractible visor, and an airgun was holstered at his left hip. "We've got something interesting going on..." He filled Weaver in on the situation as they walked over to the reception room. Leonard Slade and Michael Hawk on the couch, relaxed and ready. Cindy had changed into her own tailored field suit identical to Bane's. And Atron stood tense in the center of the room, visibly eager to get moving.



"Atron, Len and Steve here will return with you to New Ulgor. The plan is for them to find where Geruw Cas is being held and free him. With him as a visible inspiration, the Gelydra should feel renewed spirit." Bane then gestured to himself. "Meanwhile, Mike and Cindy and I will locate Lee Hutchins and bust up his golem assembly line. Without the constant reinforcements, the enemy will not be able to outnumber you so easily."



The Gelydra was fidgeting, eager to get going. "We should go now. Right now. Who knows how the fighting is going?"



"All right," Bane said. He handed Weaver a short metal baton and a leather bag. "Steve, here's one of the boomsticks we talked about. Twenty-five resonance caps. Escort Atron to the hangar. Len is already warming the CORBY up. We'll be leaving in a car. Good luck!"



weaver went with the Gelydra into the elevator and rode to the top floor. They emerged and went up one short step of stairs into the hangar. The CORBY's rotors were turning slowly, and Slade could be seen in the pilot seat checking the systems. Weaver thumbed the keypad to open the co-pilot hatch and ushered Atron into it. "You sit up here," he said. "With those wings, I need more room. I'm going on the bench in the back compartment. As everyone was strapped in, Leonard Slade raised the CORBY to knee level and retracted the landing gear. "Stand by," he said.



The Trom slid open a panel by his head to reveal a pale blue gem in an incongruous silver setting. He pressed a hand to it and exerted his formidable concentration. Blue light filled the hangar, swirling silently, and when it faded, the CORBY was gone.


Hawk did not wear one of the field suits, and Bane did not press him. The manhunter did put on the flexible Trom armor under his regular clothing, though, and he stowed various KDF gadgets in his pockets. Following Bane and Cindy, they went through the back panel of a walk-in closet by the front door and down steep concrete steps to a narrow walkway between the arsenal and the vault. At the end of the walkway was a plain wooden door. Bane opened it, flicked on the lights and stepped into the underground garage. It was big enough to hold two cars, and there was a workbench with tools.



"What do you think?" he asked. "The Buick Regal or the Mustang?"



"Hell, the Buick. More room," said Hawk.



Cindy Brunner snatched a set of keys from a hook on the wall. "I call driver. I never get to drive." She slid behind the wheel of the dark grey Buick and started it up. Hawk got in the back and Bane took the front passenger seat, holding his helmet in his lap. Cindy started up the concrete ramp with its sharp turn to emerge through a sliding metal door onto Lexington Avenue.



( the rest of the story )