The Further Adventures of Batman (13 page)

“I never thought Batman’s humor was ‘supressed,’ ” I replied, just as cooly. Then, fearing that I was revealing too much, added quickly: “It seems odd that he would turn prankster so shortly after suffering a tragic loss . . .”

“The normal mourning period passed some time ago,” Dr. Lace said. “This may simply be Batman’s way of expressing his renewed zest for life, by playing games with his identity.”

“That’s exactly what worries me—Mr. Wayne, I mean. The game seems so pointless! Fatman! Hatman! Who knows what’s next?”

I was soon to find out. The telephone on Dr. Lace’s desk chirped quietly, and she picked it up. Her lovely face darkened as she heard Mrs. Bonny’s voice. When she hung up, she said: “I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me. I have a patient in trouble.”

It was only after I left Dr. Lace’s office that I learned that patient was Batman himself. Fortunately, I passed a blaring car radio on the street, and heard the news bulletin. Batman had been spotted perched on a thirty-story ledge of Gotham City Towers, and police and fire brigades had been dispatched with ladders and nets in case of a suicide attempt.

I was horrified, of course. Batman was frequently referred to as a superhero, and many myths circulated about his superhuman powers. Whatever supreme qualities he possessed, he had earned by rigorous training of his body and mind. He had already demonstrated that that mind was all too vulnerable, but so was his body. I sped to the site of Gotham City Towers.

Speed was impossible, however. Every street within a twenty-block radius of the skyscraper was clotted with people and vehicles. It was an irresistible attraction: not just a potential jumper, but a jumper who was surely the most famous individual in Gotham City. Perhaps now they would learn if their “superhero,” like Superman, could fly; or perhaps their thirst for gore would be satisfied by the sight of Batman’s crushed and bleeding body. As you can see, I entertained the most morbid thoughts as I finally came within viewing distance of Gotham City Towers. There, as promised, was Batman, sitting nonchalantly on the ledge, holding a white object in his blue-gauntleted hand.

I didn’t know what the object was until Batman, apparently satisfied with the size of his audience, got to his feet and lifted it to his lips. Then his voice boomed out through the bullhorn, chilling me to the very marrow.

“Ladies and gentlemen! Introducing . . .
Splatman
!”

I knew what was going to happen next, but my mind refused to believe it. Batman stood on his toes, fanned out his batwing cape and dove gracefully into the air. For a single breathtaking moment he was poised in midair, almost as if he really could fly like the nocturnal creature he emulated—but gravity won the contest. A collective scream of horror and dismay rose from the crowd as Batman plunged toward them from that great height. The police and fire squads, their rescue equipment still aboard their respective vehicles, looked on helplessly. As for myself, I could only close my eyes and pray for my master’s immortal soul.

Suddenly, time seemed to stop!

I didn’t realize what had happened until another astonished cry from the spectators caused me to open my eyes and see Batman suspended above the ground as if caught by a stop-motion camera. His precipitous flight to oblivion had been halted abruptly. The almost invisible batwire tied to his leg had stopped him less than six feet from the pavement; a man of lesser strength would have had that leg torn from its socket by the sudden impact. Batman merely laughed at the “success” of his practical joke, and leaped lightly to the ground. Then, with a farewell wave to the stunned crowd, he hurried to the waiting batmobile and was soon tearing down the street, his wild laughter fading with the roar of the engine.

There was a videotape of the event on the six o’clock news that night, and the facetious commentary by the newscasters indicated that they shared the same opinion as the rest of the world: Batman was certifiable.

It wasn’t the only item on the telecast. There was also a related story on the upsurge in crime in Gotham City, and a taped interview with Mayor Donovan, who stated flatly that he still had complete confidence in Commissioner Gordon; there would be no request for his resignation. Even though I was relieved for the Commissioner’s sake, there was still something about the development that troubled me.

That night, I decided that I would risk my entire relationship with Batman by breaking a sacred rule. I was going to ask Mr. Wayne a direct question about the situation.

I couldn’t sleep that night. I was sure sleep would never come until I had unburdened myself. I tossed aside the bedclothes, slipped on a robe, and went to Mr. Wayne’s door. I didn’t bother to knock; I simply walked into the room. It was in darkness, illuminated only by the pale moonlight that fell across his sleeping figure. He stirred slightly as I approached, and for a moment, I almost lost my nerve. Then I spoke softly.

“Mr. Wayne?”

There was no answer, but my determination was so great I decided to waken him at all costs. I touched his shoulder lightly and realized . . .
I wasn’t touching flesh!

Swiftly, I drew back the covers and saw that I had been deceived by a cleverly constructed dummy, an artificial man so lifelike that it even contained a breathing mechanism. Then I recalled the time when Batman, threatened with disclosure of his dual identity, had created a “Bruce Wayne” robot to take his place while Batman performed his deeds. Now, Mr. Wayne was using the dummy to fool me, the one person in the world entrusted with his most important secret! I was so baffled that I spoke the word aloud to the darkness:

“Why?”

Of course, madness was the Great Explainer of all mysteries, but the least satisfying. Even madness has method in it, and what lunatic reasoning could Batman have for this deception of his loyal servant? Irrational as it sounds, I felt a tinge of anger, and that emboldened me to make still another clandestine trip to the cave beneath Wayne Manor.

I detected nothing out of the ordinary—if “ordinary” can describe the Batcave, a combination of computer room, laboratory, museum, and central headquarters. I understood enough of Batman’s methods to know that his starting point is often at his liquid-cooled Cray computer console. Its workings were a mystery, but on one occasion Batman, in another location, had needed some stored data in a hurry, and had instructed me in the technique of “booting” the device. I did so now, and I was in luck. There was a program still in memory, and it asked:

Do you wish to see list again?

I hesitated, then punched the Return key. There on the screen, appeared the following:

PENTOTHYL DIAZINE
CHLOROPAM E.
ALPRAPROXIDE
TRITOPHENOZENE

I was unfamiliar with the names, but they sounded like pharmaceuticals, perhaps prescribed by Dr. Lace? Surely Batman couldn’t take them all, although that might explain his erratic behavior. I had little time for speculation, because I heard the distinct whine of the Batcave elevator and realized that Batman was coming down!

I confess to a moment of sheer panic. Batman never denied me free access to the Batcave, but I would be hard pressed to explain why I was tampering with his computer. I decided to hide. The first place of concealment that met my eye: the back seat of the Batmobile.

It was not the most fortuitous choice because Batman went straight to the Batmobile and climbed into the driver’s seat. A touch on the dashboard, and the camouflaged door of the Batcave opened, the Batmobile engine growled, and with a burst of speed that made my ears ring, we roared off into the night.

You can imagine the trepidation I felt, clad in robe and pajamas, at the mercy of a man who was almost certainly mentally unsound. After the department store break down, the emergence of Fatman, Batman, and Splatman, I could no longer deny that “Batty Batman” was the correct appellation for the former superhero of Gotham City. Who knew what lunatic visions were driving him now, or me, for that matter?

The ride lasted no more than twenty minutes, but it seemed an eternity until the powerful vehicle slowed to a purring halt and grew silent. It was only when Batman left the Batmobile that I ventured to steal a glance at my surroundings. We were in the suburbs, in a parking lot behind a looming square structure with only one or two lighted windows.

Finally, I made out a sign that read:

PINE-WHATNEY CLINIC
Physician Parking Only
Violators will be prosecuted

That sign was innocuous beside the one I discerned on the tall wire fence surrounding the building.

WARNING!
ELECTRIFIED FENCE
DO NOT TOUCH

Then, as if once again demonstrating the loss of his reasoning powers, I saw that Batman was preparing to scale that very fence!

As I watched in horrified fascination, he removed an instrument from his belt that appeared to be a small snubnosed revolver. He aimed it at the roof of the building and fired a tiny grappling hook attached to a length of batwire. It draped right across that electrified fence, evoking a shower of sparks, but Batman began his climb just the same.

To my great relief, nothing happened, It took me a moment to realize that Batman’s rubberized boots and gloves were acting as insulation.

Then Batman disappeared into the darkness above the roof of the Clinic, and I was left alone to ponder the mystery.

Why did Batman return to the Pine-Whatney, the clinic he had once called “that antiseptic prison?” Was there some sub-conscious desire to seek help for his pathetic mental state? Why was he using stealth? Most of all, was there any rational explanation for his behavior?

I decided that my best course of action was to leave the Batmobile and make my way back home. It was probably the worst decision of my life. When I unfolded my frame from the back seat, a space never intended for passengers of my size, I lost my balance and fell forward toward the dashboard. I reached out to steady myself and my hand slammed into the Batmobile horn!

That sound, in the stillness of the night, was as penetrating as the wail of an air-raid siren and caused as much alarm among the residents of the building. I heard shouts that rose to a chorus so cacophonous that I felt sure it came from the throats of the inmates. Then some of the voices became discernible, and what they were saying was alarming indeed.

“We got him! We got Batman!”

I didn’t know who was celebrating this victory; I hoped it was merely some hospital authority, but there was something distinctively malevolent about the tone. When I saw the two white-coated figures emerging from a back door, my instincts sent me back to my hiding place in the rear of the Batmobile.

Once again, I found myself an involuntary passenger. The two men chortled over finding the Batmobile, but their delight was tempered when they discovered they couldn’t start the motor. No one but Batman could, of course; its ignition would respond only to the palmprint of Batman at the wheel. But that didn’t prevent them from pushing the vehicle down a ramp and into a garage beneath the hospital. Then they took the stairway to the upper floor, leaving me to my anxiety and indecision.

My indecision didn’t last long. I couldn’t leave under the circumstances; I simply had to know what had become of Batman. I tried to tell myself that he was in compassionate custody; that this was a hospital, a place of healing, and the people who “got” him had acted out of humanitarian motives. Still, I couldn’t shake a feeling of dread. I left the Batmobile and followed the route of the two attendants to the upper floor.

I climbed eight flights in all, pausing at each landing to open the door barely a crack, looking for a scene of activity.

It was on the topmost floor, when I was almost entirely breathless from fatigue and apprehension, that I heard the raised voices. I entered a dimly lit corridor and made my way to the source of the sound. It was apparently some kind of medical conference room, and judging from the medley I heard, there were at least a dozen men in heated discussion. The thought of eavesdropping was frightening, but, as my old grandfather used to say, in for a penny, in for a pound. I put my ears to the white door and listened.

“You’re sure he can’t use any of his tricks on us?” a grating voice asked. “He’s smarter than a dozen foxes, you know.”

“Don’t worry about it,” another man replied. “We’ve got him in our camisole. He’s helpless as a baby.”

It took me a moment to deduce that a “camisole” was what they used to call a “straitjacket.”

“All right, then,” the first man said. “Bring him in and let’s find out how much he knows.”

There was the sound of half a dozen chairs being scraped back on a hard wooden floor, and then an excited murmur that must have been produced by Batman’s entry I could no longer resist the opportunity of peering into that room. With agonizing slowness, I turned the knob and opened the door a fraction of an inch, enough to catch sight of my poor master strapped into a white restraining garment, being unceremoniously shoved to the head of a long conference table around which sat what appeared to be a strange convocation of doctors in their hospital whites and patients in their robes and pajamas.

“Go on, Batman,” the grating voice said, its owner not in my line of sight. “Tell us how you got here.”

“Maybe he missed the place,” another voice said, and there was a rumble of unpleasant laughter.

“I didn’t want to miss this meeting,” Batman said, in a clear, steady voice. “There hasn’t been a conference like this since Appalachin.”

The reference meant nothing to me, but it caused a stir among the seated figures.

“We all know you’ve got bats in that belfry of yours, Batman,” another voice said. “This is a hospital, remember? We’re doctors.”

“And patients, I see,” Batman said dryly, confirming my own suspicion. “Do you let the inmates run this asylum, too?”

“Why are we listening to this maniac?” someone else said. “Let’s give him a healthy dose of Alpaproxide and throw him into a rubber room.”

“No,” the grating voice said loudly. “Let’s hear what he has to say. Go on, Batman. What’s all this crap about Appalachin? That’s in the mountains, ain’t it?”