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DC Comics Presents
Superman & the Human Target
Target: Clark Kentby HarveyKent
Part 1
"The usual, Mr. Kent?" Paul, the counter man at the WGBS cafeteria, asked with a smile.
"You bet, Paul," Clark Kent smiled back. Paul liked Mr. Kent; of all the people who worked for Galaxy Communications, Mr. Kent never forgot to be nice to the little guys. And Mr. Kent was one of the very big guys indeed, the star anchor of the WGBS news. Many were the rumors of his being offered jobs at CNN and 60 Minutes. Still, he always had a smile for the janitor, the candy clerk, and the cafeteria worker. "Chicken salad and bacon on whole wheat--"
"Lots of mayo," Paul finished. "Coming right up, Mr. K."
"Clark, if I live to be a hundred, I'll never know how you choke that stuff down," Jimmy Olsen said good-naturedly.
"What'll it be for you, Mr. Olsen?" Paul asked.
"Oh, something light today; Italian hoagie with a side of barbecue chips, please."
"Say, Jimmy," Clark said, "I'm working on a crossword puzzle. Do you know a five-letter word for 'incongruity'?"
"Huh? I think that's 'irony' -- oh, very funny, Clark."
The two longtime friends carried their lunch to a table and sat down. Jimmy was discussing a story idea with Clark, bouncing ideas off him. Clark listened intently; so intently that he was halfway through his sandwich before he noticed the taste.
Poison.
Part 2
Immediately, Clark feigned illness. His hand went to his forehead, his eyes glazed over, and his perfect control over his bodily functions made him sweat profusely.
"Something wrong, Clark?" Jimmy asked. "You don't look so good."
"I-I don't feel so good, Jimmy," Clark said. "Will you excuse me for a moment?"
"Sure, Clark. I knew the sandwiches would catch up with you eventually."
Clark got up and walked on unsure feet to the men's room. Once inside a stall he gave up any pretense of illness. He waited a few minutes for appearances' sake, flushed the toilet, and left to rejoin Jimmy.
"Feeling better, Clark?" Jimmy asked.
"A bit, yes," Clark said. "I think I may have a stomach bug or something. Don't think I'll finish my sandwich."
"Yech. Just don't offer it to me, is all."
Clark swiftly examined the remains of the sandwich with his microscopic vision. As he suspected, strychnine. A very deadly poison that kills in a decidedly painful way. Clark could not believe that Paul knew anything about this, but he knew a way to find out without alerting suspicion.
"Say, Paul," Clark said on his way out of the cafeteria. "Just wanted to compliment you on today's lunch! You surpassed even your usual high standards!"
Paul smiled sheepishly. "Aw, thanks, Mr. Kent, but I'm afraid I can't take credit for it!"
Clark's left eyebrow raised in Leonard Nimoy fashion. "Oh?"
"Yeah. We had a new guy start this morning. He told me what a big fan of yours he is, and asked me if he could make your sandwich this time. I told him just how you like it; must be a quick study!"
"Indeed. Think you could find him for me, Paul? I'd like to say thanks, and greet such a big fan."
"Sure thing, Mr. K!" But a search of the kitchen area turned up no sign of the new worker. His time card could not even be located, until they checked the ashes in the bottom of the oven.
Part 3
"Bruce, it's Clark," the voice came over the telephone wire.
"Clark, hi!" Bruce answered. "What's up? Still planning to show up for Jason's birthday next month?"
"God willing, yes," Clark said. "I need your help, Bruce. I'm afraid someone is trying to kill me."
"Isn't someone always?"
"No, not me -- Superman. Me -- Clark Kent."
Interest registered in Bruce Wayne's voice. "That is something new. Any ideas?"
"None concrete. I'm going to track down a few leads, but I'm worried about the assailant trying again."
"I see what you mean," Bruce said. "Wouldn't do to have Clark Kent take a bullet in the back or walk into an exploding elevator, and miraculously survive."
"Especially if the killer tries something while I'm on live TV. I hate to impose, Bruce, and I wouldn't ask it of anyone else..."
"But you want me to impersonate you."
"Just for a few days, until I find the killer. You've done it before, I know you can fool everyone."
"I'd love to help, Clark, but you caught me at a bad time. I'm leaving for Japan in the morning; important conference for Wayne Enterprises. My presence is crucial; it could mean the difference between hundreds of people keeping their jobs."
"I see," Clark said gravely. "Yes, go, of course, that's too important. I'll think of another way out of this."
"If I can suggest something," Bruce said, "I know someone who might be able to help you."
Part 4
"So you say the sandwich was poisoned, Mr. Kent?" the suave-looking man in Clark's apartment asked.
"Yes. Fortunately I only ate a little bit of it before it made me sick and I -- ahem -- expunged it. The sandwich was made by a new cafeteria worker who insisted on making my lunch. He hasn't been seen since."
"And you'd like me to take your place for awhile, until the would-be killer is found."
"Yes. You come highly recommended, Mr. Chance. I'd appreciate your assistance."
"Call me Christopher," the man known as the Human Target said. "Very well, Mr. Kent. Starting tomorrow, I shall become you."
"Good morning, Mr. Kent," the security officer at the main lobby of the WGBS Building said with a smile. "Good weather for the time of year, isn't it?"
"Um, sure is," Christopher Chance smiled back. He could tell that Kent was on friendly terms with this man, but did not know his name. "Supposed to rain tomorrow, I hear."
Chance made his way up in the elevator with no incident. His disguise was flawless; he had observed Kent for a day, watching his mannerisms. He had Kent's walk down perfectly as he knocked on Lois Lane's office door.
"Morning, Clark," Lois said. "All set for this morning's story conference?"
"All set, Lois," Chance said, aping Clark's voice and inflections perfectly. "I want to discuss your idea for the story on Superman's old enemies, the where-are-they-now piece..."
"Excuse me, Lois?" a deep voice boomed from right outside the window. Lois and Chance turned, to see Superman hovering outside the window.
"Sorry to interrupt, Lois, but I wanted to check and see if you were feeling any lingering effects from that zap you took from the Prankster's neuro-ray last week."
"The one that made me laugh my head off on live TV?" Lois asked. "No, everything's fine, Superman. Thanks so much for checking!"
"Certainly, Lois. Hello, Clark, didn't mean to interrupt a meeting."
"Oh, that's all right, Superman. I appreciate your concern." Kent had filled Chance in on Superman's close friendship with Kent, Lane, and others of WGBS' staff, so Chance was not surprised.
"I'll let you get back to what you were doing. See you both later!" With a smile and a wave, Superman flew off.
The Man of Steel smiled to himself as he flew. That should give Lois' suspicious mind something to work on!
Part 5
Superman's elation was short-lived. There was still the problem of who wanted Clark Kent dead. One small consolation: whoever it was obviously didn't know Clark was Superman.
Clark had wracked his super-brain, trying to think of the enemies he had made as Clark Kent. The list had diminished since his becoming a TV anchorman, but there were still plenty of inmates at Metropolis Prison who were put there by a story Clark Kent had written for the Daily Planet. Superman had checked with Warden Larson at the prison, and learned that three such inmates had been released in the past two weeks. Superman was now on his way to check out the first.
Abel Dean was a small-time confidence man, whose schemes had been exposed by Kent's articles. According to Warden Larson, Dean had learned electronics in prison and was now working at Picture Perfect TV Repair in the Hob's End district. Superman flew above that establishment now, and peered through the roof. He had to be careful; his X-ray vision could upset the delicate electronics within. He had no desire to ruin anyone's cable converter. Using the barest portion of his X-ray vision, Superman spotted his quarry. Dean, a wiry little man with large eyes, was at a work station laboring on a circuit board. After a few minutes he looked at his watch, covered the circuit board with a cloth, and left the work station. Superman watched him look furtively around him as he headed for a door with a crude hand-lettered sign on it, reading KEEP OUT.
That was enough for the Man of Steel. Superman flew down to investigate further.
"Hello, Dean," Superman's booming voice echoed through the small back room. Dean nearly jumped out of his skin.
"S-Superman! What are you doing here?" the timid little man stammered.
"I'm just checking up on you, making sure you're not violating your parole. Someone's got a grudge against Clark Kent; I wanted to make sure it wasn't you."
"Me? You've got me wrong, Superman! Sure, at my trial I was pretty mad at Kent, but I'm over that now!"
"Really? So what are you sneaking around back here for? And what's behind that door?"
Dean moved his tiny body between Superman and the door. "N-nothin'! I swear, nothin'!"
"Well, just let me see for myself, okay?" Superman asked, politely but with an undertone that Dean wouldn't dare refuse. Trembling, Dean stepped aside.
Superman opened the door, and could not believe what he saw.
A personal computer and monitor stood on a workbench. Next to the keyboard were sheets and sheets of lined paper with figures and symbols written all over them. On the monitor screen, computerized figures showed a young woman running down what appeared to be a stone passageway. Every now and then a mummy would jump out in her path, or a bat would fly down. She would invariably shoot these intruders with a pistol.
Superman turned to Dean. "What in the world is this?"
"It's my invention, Superman," Dean explained. "I've been working on it on my lunch hours. I learned electronics and basic computer science in prison, see. There was a Pac-Man machine in the prison rec room, and I watched guys lined up to play it for hours. I figured there was a gold mine to be made there! So I decided to make my own video game!"
Superman watched the screen again. It appeared to be a simplified version of the film Raiders of the Lost Ark, only with a scantily-clad female as the hero.
"It's not ready for distribution yet. Please don't tell anyone, Superman!"
The Man of Steel chuckled to himself. "I'll keep it under my hat, Dean. Just keep your nose clean."
"I will, Superman, thanks! By the way, I'm trying to come up with a name for the game. How do you like 'Grave Robber'?"
Superman wrinkled his nose. "Keep working on it." In a blur, the Metropolis Marvel was gone.
Part 6
"Mr. Edge really went for your idea about Superman's past foes, Lois," Christopher Chance, in his disguise of Clark Kent, said to Lois Lane as they walked down the carpeted hall.
"And why not? This town is Superman-crazy, and justifiably so," Lois said, still holding the can of soda she had been drinking during the meeting. "Okay, we'd better split up the list to cover it faster. Do you want to interview Elton Craig or the Purple Piledriver?"
"Well, that depends--" Chance began, and stopped. They were a few steps from Kent's office door, and Chance's hand was moving for the knob. He smelled something, though. Something that didn't belong. A sharp tang of ozone, the kind of smell you only got around live electricity.
Chance faked a coughing fit; brought his fist to his mouth and coughed vigorously into it.
"Clark, are you okay?" Lois asked with concern.
"Fine, Lois," Chance said around coughs. "Just suddenly got... dry tickle in my throat."
"Here, drink some of this," Lois said, passing him the can of soda. Chance coughed out a thanks and reached for the can. A particularly violent coughing spasm shook him as he took the can, and he spilled it on the office doorknob. A shower of sparks shot up from it, accompanied by a loud sizzle.
"Clark!" Lois gasped, eyes gaping wide. "Your doorknob -- it's electrified!"
"Great Scott, Lois!" Chance gasped, aping Kent's mannerisms perfectly. "I-I could have been killed!"
"Keep calm, Clark. I'll call building security!" Chance watched Lois dash down the hall to her own office, half-wondering how she could run so fast on such high heels. He was earning his pay from Kent, all right; where would the killer strike next?
Part 7
Superman flew into one of the seedier sections of downtown Metropolis. The next name on his list was Alan Kirkwood. He had once been a minor employee of S.T.A.R. Labs, until Kent's investigative reporting exposed his activities selling important technology to such criminal organizations as The 100 and Skull. Superman had arrived at the address Kirkwood had given the parole board, in time to see him hail a taxi. The taxi had dropped Kirkwood off at a bar called Green K; to call it a "dive" would be to give it a good review.
Boldly, Superman pushed open the doors of the bar. All sounds of talk and laughter stopped instantly; a man shooting pool froze with the stick halfway to the cueball.
"Good afternoon, gentlemen," Superman said to the crowd at large. "I hope I'm not interrupting the happy hour."
"What you doing here, Red-S?" the bartender demanded. "Even if you are some kind of deputy cop officially, you can't come in here without a warrant!"
"This is a public establishment," Superman said evenly. "I can come here any time I want, if all I want is some conversation with a friend. Isn't that right, Mr. Kirkwood?"
Superman had spotted the techno in an instant; his suit, while not as upscale as his pre-prison days, was very out of place in this bar. "Wh-what do you mean, Superman?" Kirkwood stuttered.
"I just wanted to ask you some questions," Superman said. "How's life treating you, do you think the Phillies have a chance at the pennant this year -- where you were yesterday between 11:00 AM and noon?"
"Aw, spit!" one of the larger thugs in the bar ejaculated. "He knows! Get 'im, everyone!"
As one, the bar's denizens rushed at Superman. Some brandished impromptu weapons like pool cues and beer mugs; others pulled out lengths of chain or zip-guns. All in all there were over two dozen of them.
Five seconds later, Superman and Kirkwood were the only ones standing.
"Want to come quietly, Kirkwood?" Superman asked. "Just being here is a violation of your parole."
"Not yet I won't!" the scientist said, whipping a small device out of his pocket. The thing was no larger than a television remote-control. A pencil-thin beam of white light edged with light blue stabbed out of it and struck Superman in the chest. It felt cold, very cold; almost as cold as the deep reaches of space itself. Superman waded through the beam, snatched the device from Kirkwood, and crumpled it in his fist.
At that, Kirkwood sagged like a marionette with clipped strings. He knew when he was beaten. "You win, Superman. I'll come quietly." Kirkwood pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. "The stuff is in the back room, in crates marked 'cocktail peanuts'."
Superman raised an eyebrow. "Stuff? What stuff?"
"Oh, come on," Kirkwood said in exasperation. "You know I and these ruffians robbed a shipment of electronic parts from a ship in Metropolis Port yesterday morning. That's why you're here, isn't it?"
"Well, actually, it's not," Superman smiled. "It'll do, though. You have the right to remain silent..."
Part 8
Galaxy security had been unable to find the man who had wired Clark Kent's office doorknob. Several people had reported seeing an electrician, or at least a man wearing the coveralls and cap of a staff electrician, on the floor that morning. None could give a description of the man; it said something about the white-collar mentality that most of them regarded the blue-collars as invisible.
Morgan Edge had insisted Clark take the rest of the day off. He didn't want anything to happen to his star anchorman. Chance, in his guise of Kent, had just as firmly insisted that he continue.
About three o'clock that afternoon, a office assistant knocked on Kent's office door. Chance bid the young man come in. "Here's the video tape you requested from the archives, Mr. Kent," the young man smiled. He dropped the thick envelope in Kent's in-box and left.
Chance tensed immediately. He had ordered no tape. It was possible the real Kent had, the day before, but still...
In an instant, Chance had the window up and the package hurled out into the afternoon sky. It exploded in mid-air.
Chance was grim-faced. Whoever wanted Kent, wanted him badly, and no mistake.
Part 9
The last stop on Superman's list was a large home in Swancourt, a rich suburb of Metropolis. This was the home of Charles Tare, once a state senator representing the people of Metropolis. Kent's articles had exposed the senator's illegal activities, resulting in him being removed from office and serving eighteen months in prison. If anyone resented Clark Kent enough to kill him, it was this man, who had lived high on betraying the people who elected him and was brought low by Kent.
Superman rang the bell of the Tare home. It was opened by a young woman in a nurse's uniform. She looked at Superman with surprise. "Why, Superman! What brings you here?"
"I'd like to see Mr. Tare, if he is in," Superman said simply. The question seemed to bring confusion to the nurse's face. She beckoned for Superman to follow.
The nurse led Superman into the master bedroom, where the middle-aged Tare lay in a large bed. He was hooked up to a machine that monitored his body functions and vital signs. A wheelchair was parked next to the bed.
Tare raised his head slightly as Superman came in. "Well, I never expected to receive such a distinguished visitor. Hello, Superman."
"Mr. Tare," Superman began. "I have to admit I find your condition something of a surprise."
"You hadn't heard?" Tare asked. "It happened last week, just two days after I was released from prison. Struck by a car while crossing the street."
"I'm sorry. What do the doctors say?"
"That I'll probably never get out of this bed." The former senator laughed a short, mirthless laugh. "Just as well. While I was in prison I had time to think, and here I have more time. You read those things Clark Kent wrote about me?"
Superman nodded.
"They're true. All of them. You know, when I started out as a young politician, my head was full of dreams. I was going to make the world a better place. But I found my ideas stalled or defeated by old-time politicians, riding the gravy train of incumbency and not wanting to let a young idealist rock the boat. And somewhere, in twenty years of being offered bribes and considerations to sign my name to this, or vote against that, I eventually became one of those old-time politicians. Kent's articles made me examine what I had wanted to be, and what I had become. I deserved the time in prison. Maybe I deserve this, too."
Superman smiled slightly. "I don't think so, Mr. Tare. I don't think so at all." Superman realized it was not impossible for a man in Tare's condition to hire someone to do his dirty work; but listening to the man's words, and the rhythm of his heartbeat as he spoke them, he seriously doubted that he had.
Three possible killers, and three negative results. Superman was no closer to finding Clark Kent's assailant than when he started.
Part 10
"I don't know how you do it, Mr. Kent!" the pretty young blonde fussing over Chance's hair gushed. "All the hard work you do, chasing down leads and getting stories and all, and you never have a hair out of place!"
"Just lucky, I guess, Candy," Chance said, as he sat uneasily in the makeup chair. He had been worried that the makeup artist would notice that he was already wearing makeup, and in fact was not Clark Kent, but he had dodged a bullet. This silly girl was so empty-headed she never noticed; just chatted away and put the TV makeup on right over his own.
"It's so exciting doing your makeup every day, Mr. Kent," she droned on. "I mean, you always look so handsome on TV, seeing you in real life is just thrilling!"
"Well, if I look good on TV, it's a tribute to your own skills, Candy," Chance smiled.
"Aw, you're gonna make me blush, Mr. Kent," Candy giggled. "You're so handsome already, there's never much for me to do!"
Chance groaned inwardly. "Well, you've done your usual great job anyway, Candy. I'd better get going; wanted to do a run-through before the broadcast tonight. Make sure I pronounced 'Azerbaijan' correctly."
"Buh-bye, Mr. Kent!" Candy giggled, waggling her fingers at the departing Chance.
Oh, brother, Chance thought to himself. Does Kent go through that every day? If I were him I might welcome being assassinated!
Chance strolled down the hall to the main studio. He felt an unexpected pang of nervousness in his stomach. Funny; he got shot at for a living, but the idea of going on live television gave him butterflies!
"Christopher Chance," a small voice said at his ear. He stopped and looked around. No one was there! Where was the voice coming from?
"Christopher Chance," the voice went on, "I know who you are. Meet me in Clark Kent's office in two minutes."
That was all the voice said. Chance glanced around, but could find no source of the voice. Steeling himself, he went quickly to Kent's office.
Part 11
Chance opened the door to Kent's office, bracing himself for whatever awaited him inside. Nothing he could have done, however, prepared him for the sight that met him there.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Chance," the man seated behind Kent's desk said. "Please close the door; I don't want us to be overheard."
Chance closed the door. "What are you doing here, Superman?" he asked. "And how did you know who I was?"
"Clark Kent told me," Superman said. "We're kind of close, as he told you. He's asked me to check some leads, try to find out who's trying to kill him."
"I see. Any luck?"
"Sadly, none. All three leads turned out to be blind alleys. How about you?"
"Someone tried to kill me -- or rather, Kent -- twice. As you can see, they were unsuccessful. But I'm no closer to finding out who."
Superman frowned. "That's bad. Since I came up dry, I was hoping you might have more luck."
"Not so far," Chance said. "I'm due to go on the air in a couple minutes. Maybe we'll get lucky and Mr. X will strike while I'm on the air."
"It's possible," Superman said. "I'll stick around, out of sight but close by. If he does make a play, we'll get him."
"You know," Chance said, scrutinizing Superman with his eye for facial features, "I'm surprised Kent didn't ask you to impersonate him. If you put on these glasses, and combed your hair differently..."
"Hey, look at the time," Superman said. "Don't want to miss your broadcast!"
Part 12
"Ten seconds to air time, Mr. Kent," the stage manager told Chance.
"Roger that," Chance replied. "I'm ready when you are." Chance glanced at the teleprompter. This shouldn't be too hard, he thought, just read the words off the screen. Try to forget that I'm being seen by everyone in Metropolis. Eight million people...
Chance shifted uneasily in the comfortable chair. As he did so, he felt something. A very minute disturbance, something almost no one else would notice. A faint, barely discernable humming, like a battery-operated clock. Trying not to be noticed, Chance felt beneath his seat. His fingers came on something he recognized by the touch. A time bomb. Most likely plastic explosive.
Part 13
"And we're on the air," the stage manager announced. Chance smiled as he listened to the voice-over announcing the Six O'Clock News with Clark Kent.
"Good evening, Metropolis," Chance said into the camera, aping the way he had seen Kent do it on videotapes he had studied. As he began to read the copy off the teleprompter, he tapped on the desk with a pencil. The stage manager was puzzled. What was he doing that for? Was he nervous? Nah, not Clark Kent!
Superman, watching from his hiding-place with his X-ray vision, noticed the tapping too. That was very out of character, and according to Bruce, Chance mimicked a person's mannerisms perfectly. So could he be trying to send a message? Superman had told Chance that he would be nearby. He tuned in on the pencil taps with his super-hearing. Yes! It was Morse code. Bomb... under... chair. Great Scott!
The camera-man barely noticed a blue blur moving behind Clark's chair. It was there and gone in an eyeblink, so he chalked it up to a trick of the lighting.
Part 14
Chance felt a slight breeze behind him, and mentally let out a deep breath. He looked out on the stage crew as he continued to read the news. He saw a young man in stagehand's coveralls, looking around nervously as he made his way to the exit. Jackpot.
"And we'll be right back after this word from Merlin Toys," Chance said, as the stage manager readied to cut to commercial. Everyone watched as "Kent" inexplicably rose from his desk. The nervous stage hand bolted for the door; Chance ran after him, and caught him with a flying tackle.
Superman flew into the studio to see Chance dragging the stagehand to his feet, his arms locked in a wrestling hold. The stagehand was struggling madly.
"Here's our boy, Superman," Chance said. "He was trying to put some air between himself and the studio, like he knew something was going to happen."
"Let me go!" the young man demanded. "There's a bomb gonna go off any second! Lemme outta here!"
"Relax, son, the bomb is gone," Superman said. "Now, who are you? Why did you try to kill Clark Kent?"
The young man's fear turned to defiant rage. "So, you're the one who's been savin' him, huh? I should'a known! All the free press he gives you! Well, my name is Carl Pluzczek!"
Superman shook his head. "I've never heard of you."
"No, of course not!" Pluzczek ranted. "I'm not a famous TV star like pretty-boy here! But Candy Westphall was my girlfriend!
Chance and Superman watched each other do double-takes. "Candy, the makeup girl?" Chance asked.
"You know it, Kent," Pluzczek growled. "We were in love, we had somethin' goin'! Then she got a look at you, and you smiled at her, and her heart went pitty-pat! Now she won't gimme the time of day! I had to get rid of you so I could get her back!"
Superman and the Human Target looked at each other.
Building security arrived just then. Chance turned the complaining Pluzczek over to them, and he and Superman walked back to the desk.
"Amazing," Superman said, shaking his head. "I can't wait to tell Clark!"
"Well, Pluzczek may get the last laugh after all," Chance said.
"How so?"
"Well, he's going to be in the news now," Chance said. "Making it, rather than reporting it. If my first impression of Miss Westphall was correct, she just may give him another chance, now."
A silent beat passed, and both men broke out laughing.