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Authors: Martin H. Greenberg

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BOOK: The Further Adventures of Batman
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“Couple of the boys think it was flying saucers,” Connell said. “But that’s crazy. I really don’t know what it was, sir.”

“Does the perimeter fence show any signs of breaching?”

Connell shook his head. “Integrity intact.”

“I guess we won’t worry too much about it,” Murphy said. “Good night, Blaise.”

When his guard captain had departed, Red Murphy went to the sideboard and poured himself a drink. He’d been going to the bottle a little too much recently. He knew that, but he was under heavy stress. The worst of it was having to keep it all to himself. At least he could share it with his bottle, even if that was not such a great idea.

The apartment was furnished plainly in a typical Western motif. Piebald cowhides covered the chairs. The couches and tables were simple but well made. There were two original Remington oil paintings on the wall, the only touch of ostentation in the room. Aside from them, everything was plain and serviceable, even though the suite was larger than usual. Red Murphy was a man who didn’t like to feel hemmed in. The Remingtons, with their sense of wide spaces and western subjects, helped him forget the reinforced concrete on all sides.

He held the shotglass up to the light and squinted at it. He had a tough square face, tanned to the color of saddle leather and seamed by many hours in the fierce sun and driving wind. Murphy was short, and so big in the chest and shoulders that he looked almost misshapen. He had done all the oil field jobs—roustabout, gantry walker, puddler, valve wiper. For years his hobby had been riding around the scrub country west of Ogdensville in his battered old land rover. Folks thought he was a touch loco, spending all those hours just aimlessly riding around the desolate land. They thought he was crazy for sure when he put up every cent of his earnings to take out a drilling lease on the old Double “O” Field. It had gone dry ten years before, and even though new deposits had been suspected in the area, not a drop had been taken out of it.

Red Murphy got up the money to hire an oil rig. He surprised everybody by first bulldozing the shack and corrals that had marked the headquarters building of the Double “O” Enterprise. Then he’d sunk his bits into a point not more than ten feet off the center of what had been the living room.

The ensuing guster was a beauty.

He’d found the basin. Just as his studies of the surrounding countryside, carried out during those so-called idle trips in the land rover, had predicted. The oil was there, in sufficient quantity to let him begin to build a fortune that was soon to be legendary even in this country of big men with big bankrolls.

When the bottom dropped out of the oil business in Texas, he anticipated it by almost six months. He got his money out and bought the ailing ARDC corporation.

ARDC had a list of bad debts as long as a polecat’s shadow on Sadie Hawkins’ Day, as the wits at Bernigan’s Saloon and Pool Hall in Ogdensville used to say. Its machinery was out of date and mostly falling apart, and its senior personnel had given up on the company long ago, keeping their jobs for the paychecks, but looking around for something more interesting to switch into.

Against all these liabilities, the company had only two assets: a potentially lucrative assortment of defense contracts, and a team of the country’s best weapons systems engineers.

Murphy thought he could parlay those into something interesting. He rebuilt the factory, replaced the worn-out machinery, fired the time-servers and gave wage increases and incentive bonuses to the ones he kept. When he hired new men, he hired the best.

Soon, ARDC, under its dynamic new management, was turning out some of the best weapons systems in the world. Their small arms division attracted the attention of the British and French secret services, who were eager to buy some of the products. And the Department of Defense was very interested indeed. As were the police chiefs of America, who saw in ARDC one of their best hopes in the endless war against crime.

Red Murphy was liked and respected in business groups all over the country. He was welcome in high circles in Washington. He used to attend Washington’s special functions frequently.

But for the past months he had not been seen in his usual haunts. He had begun staying in the factory suite, talking to business associates, friends and relatives by telephone. Only Blaise Connell the security chief saw him. People wondered about it, but eccentricity is part of the Texas tradition. As long as a man doesn’t hurt people or walk around naked, he can act as weird as he pleases. Nobody’s going to pay any attention.

Practically nobody.

Murphy finished his drink and quickly poured another. He held up the shotglass and looked at the room through its amber transparency. The room looked distorted. Murphy laughed and tossed down half the drink.

Then he heard a sound behind him and stiffened.

There was nothing there but the big double closet where he stored his hat collection and his golf clubs.

“Somebody in there?” he said aloud.

There was no reply.

Murphy put down the shot glass. He reached to his back and took out, from beneath his flowing Hawaiian shirt, a chromed .44 Magnum automatic with rosewood handles. He cocked it and walked toward the closet.

“Come on out,” he said. “This is the only time I’ll say it.”

No reply.

He leveled the big gun and pulled the trigger. Slugs blasted apart the light wooden closet door. A pile of hats tumbled out, some of them ragged from being shot through the headbands.

Murphy cursed softly when he saw what he’d done.

He was even angrier when he saw that he’d put a slug through his Ben Hogan Memorial Classic sets of woods.

“Damnation!” he said.

“Don’t worry,” a voice said behind him. “You only punctured the bag.”

The sparse hair on Murphy’s big skull lifted as he heard a voice from where no man could be. A tremor of fear swept over him. He forced himself to turn and wasn’t surprised when the automatic was plucked out of his hand.

His second shock came when he faced the owner of the voice. He was looking at a tall man dressed entirely in black and gray. A wide cloak with many points flowed from the man’s broad shoulders. The man wore a cowl and a half mask. On top of the cowl-like covering, there were small pointed ears.

“Batman!” Murphy cried, clutching at his chest. The pain had just hit him, the almost-forgotten pain in his chest and neck that he used to get before the triple bypass; the sudden attack brought on by the shock of seeing the legendary figure here, in the midst of his fortifications; the pain brought on by long anxiety and a guilty conscience.

Murphy collapsed suddenly, and wasn’t aware that blue-gauntleted arms caught him before he hit the floor.

Murphy’s eyes fluttered, then opened wide. “You still here?” he asked.

He was stretched out on the bed. His tie had been loosened and his shoes taken off. The tall figure of Batman stood near the bedside.

“Yes, I’m still here,” Batman said. “How are you feeling?”

“Not bad, for a man who didn’t expect to open his eyes this side of the Jordon. What’d you do?”

“I gave you an injection of hectomorphinate. It’s one of the antidotes I carry in my utility belt. I couldn’t be sure, but it seemed that you were having a heart attack.”

“And what does this hecto whatever-you-call-it do?”

“It acts on the blood vessel walls, taking them out of the fatal spasms that presage death.”

“My doctor never mentioned this stuff to me.”

“He will. It will be coming on the market in the fall.”

Murphy sat up cautiously. “I guess I don’t have to ask who you are. I’ve heard about you for years, but never thought I’d meet you. I did meet Superman once, at a fund raising for crippled children in Washington. Seemed like a nice fellow.”

“Superman’s OK,” Batman said. “But I didn’t come here to discuss superheroes with you.”

“I didn’t think so. Do you think I can walk all right? No, don’t help me. If I can’t make it to the liquor cabinet myself, I’m washed up anyway.”

He moved in a slightly creaky fashion to the liquor cabinet and poured himself a double shot of bourbon. It steadied him so nicely that he immediately poured another.

“Hitting that stuff a little hard, aren’t you?” Batman said.

“So what are you? Murphy said belligerently. “An advanceman for the WCTU or something?”

“Just a concerned bystander,” Batman said. “I need an explanation from you, Mr. Murphy.”

“About what?”

“This.” Batman produced the two halves of the little hemisphere with which Ilona had tried to gas him.

Murphy examined it. “Yeah, that’s our trademark. Where’d you get this?”

“Somebody tried to use it on me.”

“So? Is Colt responsible for every revolver that gets used on somebody?”

“That’s beside the point,” Batman said. “I know you know something about this because other weapons like this have been turning up. They’ve been traced to your factory.”

“You can’t prove a thing,” Murphy said.

“Maybe I can’t,” Batman said. “Not yet. But I will.”

“Go ahead and try,” Murphy said, and put away half the shot, looking up startled when Batman slapped the glass out of his hand.

“What’s the big idea?”

“Get hold of yourself, Murphy,” Batman said. “You’ve got quite a reputation in this country. People consider you a brilliant operator and a straight shooter. You’ve always had a reputation for being forthright, accessible. Now suddenly you’re hiding inside your own factory, you’ve got the place guarded like it was Hitler’s hideout, and you’re drinking heavily. You’ve got troubles, Murphy; something’s turned your life around, and I want you to tell me about it.”

“Why should I?”

“Because you’ve got to tell somebody, otherwise you’ll explode. And why not me? If you can’t tell your troubles to a superhero, whom can you tell them to?”

Murphy stared at him, open mouthed.

“And anyhow, Red,” Batman said, “maybe I can help. I’d like to try.”

Murphy continued to stare at him. Suddenly there were tears in his eyes.

He said, “When I was a kid, I loved the superheroes and wanted more than anything to be like them. Tarzan was the first for me, and then there were a lot after that. You were always special for me, Batman. I liked you because you were more human than most of them. For a while I tried to be like you . . . Funny, isn’t it? You ought to get a good laugh out of this.”

“I’m not laughing,” Batman said. “And I don’t look down on you. Talk to me, Red. Tell me what’s going on.”

Murphy looked uncertain. “I could get killed for talking to you.”

“You’re killing yourself by not talking to me.”

“I guess that’s so,” Murphy said. “Yes, I’m in trouble, Batman. It all started about a year ago . . .”

Murphy told about how, a year ago, when ARDC went public for the first time, Teufel Corporation, a big Swiss-based corporation, made hidden purchases all over the world through designated nominees and acquired a controlling share of ARDC’s outstanding stocks. Teufel had taken over ARDC, and they had the right to retire Red Murphy if they so desired. Murphy didn’t figure out for a long time how it had happened. It all took place so rapidly that he was shocked and apathetic at a time when all his senses should have been on alert. The new owners never appeared. Operating behind on screen of lawyers, they proposed to allow Murphy to continue running ARDC. They even promised him a chance to buy back a majority interest in the stock, and so reacquire his own company. But first, for a while, he had to do things their way.

“Several of my people warned me about them,” Murphy said. “I should have listened. Especially when they started screwing up the research and production divisions. But I thought that playing along would get me back in control faster. I figured that with their sloppy methods and inadequate quality control they’d fail, you see. I didn’t know then what they were really up to.”

He reached for the bourbon bottle. Batman pushed it gently out of his reach.

“Might as well give it up now, Red. You can’t keep on hiding here forever and drinking. You’ll never find a better chance to quit than now.”

Murphy looked at Batman and knew that the masked man spoke the truth; you don’t get a superhero telling you to quit the booze every day.

Murphy reached out and grabbed the bottle. He threw it against the wall as hard as he could. It made a satisfying sound as it shattered.

Soon after that his telephone rang. Murphy answered it. “Blaise? Yes, I’m fine. Yeah, that was me firing the .44 earlier. And breaking the bottle now. I was having a little celebration. Yeah, sure, all by myself. Me and my bats. The bats in my belfry, I mean. Sure, I’m fine, see you in the morning.”

He hung up the phone and said to Batman, “Suppose I make us some coffee. We’ve got a lot of talking to do, and not much time to do it in.”

“What do you mean?” Batman asked.

“The Joint Chiefs are about to sign a contract with ARDC for a new computerized weapons system.”

“What’s so bad about that?” Batman asked.

“Let’s get that coffee and I’ll tell you.”

BOOK: The Further Adventures of Batman
6.71Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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