The Further Adventures of Batman (21 page)

“We tranquilized the beast, my love . . . and we removed the porcupine’s quills.” The Joker displayed Batman’s utility belt, lifting it from the desktop. “But even weaponless, he’s troublesome—he won’t remain groggy long.”

Camilla stared at her present, which seemed to be coming around slowly.

“So, my precious . . . help me choose an artistic, a colorful means of demise for my love offering.”

While the Joker gloated within his crumbling castle, Robin prowled the back streets of Gotham in the Batmobile, watching the dashboard computer screen on which a street map glowed and a dot blipped.

As long as they haven’t tossed out Batman’s utility belt,
the youth thought,
I can track the signal.

Within minutes Robin was stepping out of the Batmobile, facing the entrance of the tumbledown building that had once housed the Jester Novelty Company.

Inside, the Joker held up a small gas canister with an oxygen mask attached; his two stooges smiled their approval. Batman himself, fully awake now, wore a faint, wry smile. The disturbed, frightened Mime wore an exaggerated expression of dismay.

“Might I suggest, my sweetness,” the Joker said, “a lethal dose of my laughing gas?”

The Mime blinked.

“I think the Joker likes you, Camilla,” Batman said.

The Joker, unable to contain his excitement, painted the air with his hands, while Batman listened, unimpressed, smirking.

“Imagine it, my love—the bat boob is convulsed with gales of laughter . . . laughing till his heart bursts—his face frozen in a grotesque, eternal grin!”

At this the Mime recoiled.

But the Joker, caught up in himself, in his love for the Mime and his hatred for Batman, failed to notice. He approached the Mime, touching her shoulder tenderly.

“And all for you, my dear—for your
love.”

The Mime screamed silently, but the Joker did not hear, or see, for that matter.

“For my . . . dare I say it . . . future
bride
.”

The Mime slapped the Joker.

Hard.

The sound rang out like a rifle shot.

The Joker touched his face with splayed fingers and, with the expression of a child who has suddenly had a nagging question answered, said, “The sound of one hand clapping!”

The Mime sat on the floor, huddling, despair-ridden. The Joker hovered over her, trying to keep his distance at the same time. He was crushed, truly dumbfounded by her rejection. He did not notice, behind him, that Batman had struggled to his feet, despite being tied in the chair.

“I don’t understand,” the Joker said pleadingly. “I gave you a present! Why, I’d have shared it all with you—made you my queen!”

With those words the king of comedy was crowned, as Batman, still tied to the chair, bent forward forcefully and conked the clown with the upper portion of the high-backed throne, hitting the Joker hard on the top of his head with his own grinning image.

The Joker, stunned and sitting on the floor with his knobby knees pointing north and south, respectively, winced as Batman, bound in the chair but on his feet, sneered down at him.

“Oww!” the Joker said, rubbing his head.

“You’re no king,” Batman said. “Just the court fool.”

The mad jester’s nostrils flared and his eyes filled with rage as he pointed a long purple finger up at Batman.

“Get him!” the Joker cried.

But the Joker’s two stooges were busy.

Robin had come up behind them, tapping them on the shoulder to ask, “Excuse me—shouldn’t you get
me
first?”

For a moment, they looked stupidly, blankly back at him.

The Joker was on his feet again, fiercely commanding his boys, “Get the brat! I can handle that caped clod with—”

“Both hands tied behind my back,” Batman sneered, just waiting for the Joker, chair or no chair. The Mime, standing once more, took all of this in, not quite sure what to make of it.

Robin ran down the hallway where the gallery of framed comedians hung off-kilter. He smiled, the two stooges in close pursuit.

“You guys are really wearing me out,” he said over his shoulder.

Robin dropped to the floor, saying, “Mind if I stop for a rest?” while Kennison and Bobcat tried to put on the brakes. Both of them tripped over Robin and hit the floor hard, with twin WHUMPS! Robin, resting on his stomach, stifled a yawn.

Then the Boy Wonder stood over the pair of dopes, his arms folded, and said, “Gee—I guess you hoodlums are a little worn out yourselves. Take five, why don’t you—
years
.”

In the main chamber, the Joker stood before Batman, his purple fists pumping the air before him, ready to defend the honor of his ladylove.

Batman conked him with the chair again.

The Mime stifled a smile as the groggy Joker staggered, regrouping to try again. Purple fists pumping.

Only to be conked once more.

Knocked goofy, the Joker sat on the floor, counting the planets and stars that revolved before his vision.

And the Mime broke her silence with laughter worthy of the Joker himself: “HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! HA!”

“I think she liked that,” Robin smiled, as he untied Batman.

Tears streaked the white makeup off her face as she roared with glee, her laughter echoing through the old factory.

“Yes,” Batman said, rubbing his arms where the ropes had been, “but I know something she
won’t
like.”

“What’s that?”

“Her new home.”

The next morning, within the sprawling, stern gothic structure of Arkham Asylum, a guard escorted a wide-eyed, shell-shocked Camilla Cameo—once again stripped of her mime’s makeup—down the asylum hall. Walking along beside her was a frequent resident of the facility, a man whose whiteface could not be washed off.

“You’ll like it here,” the Joker was assuring her. “I’ll put in a good word for you with my
therapist
, you’ll make friends . . . there’s plenty to do . . .”

Camilla said nothing.

But she wore a big, wide smile, not unlike the Joker’s.

Only Camilla’s seemed rather glazed.

Neutral
Ground

Mike Resnick

K
ittlemeier’s shop was in a poverty-stricken area of town. To say that it was unimpressive would be an understatement. Its windows were patched with plywood, and its door handle was so rusty it almost posed a physical threat.

The shop was not listed in any telephone book. Its door bore no street number. No sign proclaimed what it sold. Those who peered into it from the doorway saw only a dimly lit room with an ancient counter, an old-fashioned cash register, an out-of-date calendar from the local service station, and a curtained doorway leading to another room that opened onto the alley.

One would think, to look at it, that Kittlemeier’s shop could not possibly attract any customers, and in truth it did not attract many. But those who needed Kittlemeier’s particular services always seemed to know where to find him.

It was five o’clock in the afternoon when an elegant black limousine pulled up in front of Kittlemeier’s shop and a tall, well-dressed man emerged from the backseat. Lithe as a jungle panther—his custom-made suit barely concealing his heavily muscled frame—he walked the five steps to Kittlemeier’s door, paused for just a moment, and then entered the shop.

A bell tinkled gently and old Kittlemeier, a measuring tape slung over his shoulder, a pencil tucked behind his ear, pushed past the curtain and greeted his customer.

“You are late,” he said.

The tall man shrugged. “It was unavoidable,” he said, and Kittlemeier noticed that the knuckles of his right hand were badly swollen.

“We must hurry,” said Kittlemeier. “I have another appointment in fifteen minutes.”

The tall man’s interest was aroused, but he refrained from asking any questions. That was Kittlemeier’s rule, and he honored it.

Kittlemeier reached below the counter and withdrew a yellow belt that was lined with exterior pouches.

“You see,” he said, displaying it to the tall man, “I had to eliminate the container for the explosives in order to make room for the modified gas mask you will be using. You are quite sure of its dimensions?”

The tall man nodded.

“I took the liberty of making another slight change,” continued Kittlemeier, showing him a different section of the belt. “The miniaturized winch for your silken cord was wearing against the leather here, and so I reversed the inset angle.”

“I approve,” said the tall man.

“A tungsten cord would be just as strong and take up less room,” suggested Kittlemeier.

The tall man shook his head. “I prefer silk. It causes less damage to the hands.”

Kittlemeier shrugged. “You might think about it in the future. You could add an extra twenty yards to its length, and I could always reinforce your gauntlets.”

“Perhaps in the future, when the need for a longer cord arises,” said the tall man. “You have something else for me?”

Old Kittlemeier nodded and reached beneath the counter again, this time withdrawing two long, dark blue gauntlets.

“Where is the power source?” asked the tall man.

“A lithium battery, sewn into the lining of each.”

“And these will insulate against a temperature of a hundred degrees below zero Fahrenheit?”

“At least,” said Kittlemeier.

“Good. I will be needing them to—”

“I don’t want to know,” interrupted Kittlemeier, holding up a hand. “What you do when you leave my premises is not my concern.”

The tall man nodded, and for a moment he was aware of a clock ticking in the dusty stillness.

“I’ll take these with me,” he said at last, indicating the gauntlets.

“Have you considered the boots?”

“Yes. I very much like your suggestion.”

“Good,” said Kittlemeier. “Of course, I will need molds of your feet before I can equip them with springs enabling you to leap the required distance. Shall we make an appointment for, say, two o’clock on Thursday?”

“Why not now?” asked the tall man.

Kittlemeier shook his head. “I have another appointment. You must leave before my next client arrives. You know the rules.”

“As you wish,” said the tall man indifferently.