October 25, 1948. Metropolis
Lucy, Jimmy, and Clara were laughing after eating together at a diner on West 90th Street.
"Remember when Steve Lombard accidentally broke Katz's nose with a baseball?"
"How mean you are, Lucy," Clara laughed.
"Oh, please, Clara, you'd be the first one to break Katz's nose," Jimmy joked.
"Katz is too close to Louis," Lucy said mischievously.
"You're the Wicked Witch of the West today, Lucy."
"We're not in Kansas anymore!"
Clara smiled as she looked at her two friends. She was happy to work and spend time with them. And it was true that she didn't like Katz. He was a very disrespectful man, and she had once even heard him make obscene comments about her. In revenge, Clara had boiled his coffee with her heat vision until she heard him scream from a very slight burn.
They had spent the morning in court. Clara hated court reporting, but Cat Grant, taking advantage of Louis's absence, had sent her to interview judges and prosecutors who were up for re-election. Jimmy and Lucy had spent the night working as crime photographers, taking pictures of their friend as Superwoman while she stopped criminals and prevented accidents. Clara looked at them with amusement. The two photographers were exhausted and had crossed paths with Clara half a dozen times during the night, but they were unaware of it.
"Clara, darling, you hardly ever look tired."
"I'm one of the lightest but most efficient sleepers in the world," the journalist boasted. "That's one privilege I have as a farm girl!"
Jimmy tapped the table.
"Well, who are you finally voting for?"
"You know perfectly well: Truman. The economy is good, he doesn't want a war with the USSR like many of Dewey's allies do, and he's managed to tame the Southern Democrats and push for civil rights," Lucy replied.
"You're not thinking of voting for Wallace?" Jimmy asked.
"Jimmy, for the umpteenth time, I'm not a communist, and I don't hate Superwoman."
Jimmy snorted.
"He's not a communist."
"I don't care. Communists will vote for him. And he does hate Superwoman."
"Yeah, I'm undecided. I'd vote for Wallace if it weren't for the Superwoman issue," Jimmy countered in a funny voice.
"Clara, you're not voting for Dewey, are you?"
"Maybe she is. Clara spends her days with Dewey's clone," Jimmy said naughtily.
"Louis is better looking," Lucy added.
Clara smiled at them.
"I'm voting for Truman for the same reasons Lucy gave. Dewey's all right, but I don't like the leading lights of the Republican Party… and civil rights and labor rights matter too much to me."
"I can't say I'm losing any sleep over this election," Lucy put in.
Clara tried to be gentle about it.
"Some people want a change. My mother's voting for Dewey. Louis is voting for Dewey. Cat Grant, Lombard, Katz, Mailer... As for me, I'd sooner vote Liberal or American Labor for mayor than for either of the old parties."
Lucy had grown tired of the subject.
"There's not much more to say. We work for a paper with a definite editorial line. Even my father, and he's an old liberal, is voting for Dewey. He's got his heart in this election… though if Dewey loses, I don't suppose he'll take it half as hard as when Willkie lost in '40."
Jimmy burst out laughing.
"I'm having trouble picturing Louis and Cat voting the same ticket as Perry."
"Wasn't Louis sore about your vote, Clara?" Lucy asked with a mischievous smile.
Clara answered with a certain nervousness.
"Louis isn't as partisan as all that. Besides, he more or less saw it coming. I think the poor man has me down as something just shy of a socialist. In any case, Louis's candidate is General MacArthur, who, I'm afraid, is the most dangerous man in America."
Lucy nodded. Clara went on:
"Still, Louis isn't so conservative as people think. You already know he's the one who pushed the Daily Planet's 'Equal Opportunity' campaign back in '39, and the one who got Ronald Troupe hired. He does have a real feeling for civil rights."
Jimmy pulled a face.
"Ronald Troupe is the best writer on the paper after Cat Grant, and it's not even close. It's pretty discouraging that a man like that had to be hired as part of a civil rights campaign."
"Change takes time," Clara said timidly, "however radical we'd like it to be."
"I don't see what's so radical about certain changes, or why we have to be gradualists about them. Now that the war's over, the watchword seems to be: sit tight and wait for everything to work itself out through people's good will."
Clara felt the remark land on her. Was she doing enough? Was she too cautious? That eternal doubt gnawed at her.
"Whoever wins, there'll be progress on that front," Clara said hopefully.
"All right, Clara, we get the picture. Louis is to the right of most of the Republican Party, but he's still a good deal to the left of Generalissimo Franco or Colonel Somoza," Jimmy cracked, with a wicked grin.
They kept the conversation going as they enjoyed berry cake for dessert. Afterwards, Clara and Lucy excused themselves to freshen up their makeup in the restroom. Both of them typically wore very little makeup: Clara for practical reasons, since her superheroine duties and high-speed flights meant any makeup would quickly vanish, while Lucy simply preferred a more natural look.
Gazing at her reflection, Clara thought she had been looking quite attractive lately, especially now that she had begun choosing more fashionable and elegant outfits. She applied her lipstick with a playful touch.
Lucy looked at her admiringly. "Clara, lately you're almost always wearing pink or light-colored suits."
"I need a season of color," the journalist said, winking at her friend…
Help! The fire's closing in on the cars! We need dynamite. If we blow the bridge and that grove of trees, maybe we can make a firebreak... Oh my God, those poor people... Help!
A torrent of desperate voices and anguished souls shook Clara's entire body. There was a fire in Oregon, and it had surrounded a small town.
"Are you all right, Clara?"
"Yes. I just remembered I have a 2:30 interview in Brooklyn Heights. I have to leave at once."
"You're not going to make it."
"No, I'm already late, but I have to go now."
Clara left the restaurant after barely saying goodbye to Lucy, and without saying goodbye to Jimmy at all. She immediately went around the block and slipped into an alley at super-speed. In a fraction of a second, she took off her glasses, loosened her elegant bun, and let her wavy hair fall free, with a curl dropping across her forehead. She removed her pink knit jacket and opened her white silk blouse, revealing the blue suit beneath it and the red-and-gold crest of the House of El. As she pulled off her skirt and stockings, her long, bright red cape unfurled behind her.
The superheroine known as Superwoman shot into the sky at full speed.
The Maid of Might reached the fire-ringed valley in barely a minute and a half. She hovered in the air, taking in the scene.
Dear God, help me.
A caravan of a hundred cars and hundreds of people wrapped in wet blankets were turning back toward the town. The road ahead had been cut off by the fire. Superwoman saw other people wading into the river. Then her super-hearing caught the cries of a father and son. Flying at full speed, she found them in the middle of the road, surrounded by flames. Superwoman landed and rushed toward them.
"Are you all right? Don't worry, I'm going to get you out of here right now. Tell me, are you alone?"
"Yes, it's just the two of us. We had to leave the car over there."
Clara could see wonder and hope in the eyes of both the father and the child.
"Please, come under my cape."
Superwoman spread her cape over them, shielding the father and son, then wrapped her arms around them.
"Hold on tight... Up, up, and away!"
Superwoman flew over the fire and smoke and set them down safely in the center of town. She saw police officers and firefighters among the crowd and rushed toward them.
"Superwoman! Thank God you're here!"
"Hurrah!"
"Thank you, Superwoman!"
Superwoman waved shyly.
"We're surrounded by fire," one of the firefighters said breathlessly. "It was coming from the west, pushed by the wind, but the wind has shifted. Now it's closing in on us from every side."
"Are there any injuries?" Superwoman asked.
"At the moment, several cases of smoke inhalation."
"What's the nearest hospital?"
"St. Charles, about thirty miles away."
"I'll get them there as soon as I have the fire under control. I have an idea."
Superwoman soared into the sky, cautious as she hovered above the blaze. The heat rose toward her in violent waves, carrying sparks, ash, and burning leaves that swirled against her cape. Below, the flames crawled over the hillsides and along the road, bright orange lines tightening around the town like a noose.
I have to be careful.
If she used her super-breath too recklessly, she might feed the flames, drive the fire into the town, or send burning debris flying into the people below. But relying only on her cooling breath would take too long, and the smoke was already choking the valley.
She glided just above the fire lines nearest the road and the town. Drawing in a deep breath, she released a controlled stream of freezing air over the edge of the flames. The fire hissed and shrank beneath her. She swept back and forth over the most dangerous stretches, cooling the ground, damping the brush, and forcing the flames to lose height.
The fire still encircled the town, but now it had been pushed back to a safer distance.
Stay calm, Clara. Do what you did two weeks ago.
Superwoman flew toward what she guessed was the heart of the blaze. She rose a few hundred feet, then stopped in midair, suspended above the burning forest. For one brief second she looked down at the red chaos beneath her. Then she began to spin.
At first she turned slowly, her cape twisting around her like a banner in a storm. Then faster, and faster still, until she became a red-and-blue blur. The air around her gathered force. Smoke, sparks, and flame began to bend inward toward her spinning form. Within moments a powerful funnel of wind formed around her, pulling the fire into itself and dragging it upward into a blazing spiral.
From the town, the people watched in stunned silence as a fiery whirlwind rose over the valley. It looked almost like a burning tower, terrible and magnificent, but Superwoman held it in place, guiding the pressure of the wind with small changes in speed and direction. The flames were caught inside the cyclone, starved, scattered, and smothered. She tightened the spiral, then drove it upward, away from the trees and houses, until the fire within it broke apart into smoke, sparks, and steam.
You're mastering this! She encouraged herself
She repeated the maneuver across the other fire fronts. Again and again, she flew low over the treetops, cooled the most dangerous lines, then rose and spun until the flames were caught and extinguished. She could hear the firefighters shouting instructions below, the engines straining, the townspeople coughing and praying, the frightened animals crashing through the underbrush.
Midway through one pass, her super-hearing caught animals crying in the trees. She darted through the smoke, found several deer and two fawns trapped near a burning slope, and swept them gently over the flames to safety near the edge of town. Then she returned to the fire.
Before long, the worst of the blaze was out. What had been a wall of flame was now a blackened ring of steaming earth and smoldering trees. Only a heavy circle of smoke remained hanging over the town, trapping the heat and choking the air.
No fire, no smoke. Back to work.Superwoman rose once more. This time she circled above the town itself, slowly at first, drawing the smoke upward. Then she climbed higher, spinning again, but more gently than before.
The smoke began to coil around her in thick gray ribbons. Higher and higher she climbed, carrying the great dark column into the open sky until the wind finally tore it apart and scattered it into the atmosphere. When she descended again, the sky above the town was clearer. The sun, pale and late, shone through the thinning haze.
Everyone in the town watched in amazement. Some prayed. Some clapped. Some simply stood in silence, unable to understand what they had just seen. The marvelous lady in the red cape came down from the sky and was greeted by a huge round of applause.
Superwoman landed softly and greeted the crowd with shyness, but also with a broad, relieved smile.
I made it. Now I must help the wounded!
October 25, 1948, Area 51
President Truman was surrounded by the Army commanders, scientists, and Rand Corporation executives. Luthor sat smiling next to General LeMay, who, despite his warmongering impulses, was loyal to Truman and hostile to Maxwell Lord. General Hardy sat in the second row. Lord with some discomfort and Hardy with an expression of utter gloom.
The lights went out and a movie began to be shown from a small window in the obsidian wall of the sub-surface room where they were sitting. First, it showed how very sharp metallic tools made of Kryptonite, handled by scientists wearing scuba gear, slowly amputated a foot and a hand from the body of ICARUS, the intact corpse of a Kryptonian from the 1946 invasion. They then poured the thick black liquid found at Roswell, which they called the Pathogen, over the amputated foot of ICARUS. The foot began to swell, blacken, and deform. The toes of the foot became elongated and swollen and turned into tentacles. The foot, turned into a blackened cylinder with tentacles, began to move at full speed and beat onto the glass window room in which it was enclosed. Then the scientists spat out a thinner black liquid, the same Pathogen but refined with arsenic, liquid hydrogen, and a load of terrestrial germs. The small tentacled creature began to wobble and shrivel, dark liquid began to ooze from its pores, the creature collapsed and began to rot relatively quickly. A voiceover concluded:
The original Pathogen regenerated the tissues of Kryptonian corpses, creating monstrosities like the one you have seen... The Pathogen refined by our scientists destroys the revived tissues again, and not only that, but it also destroys dead Kryptonian tissues that were not altered by the original Pathogen.
The footage went on to show the refined Pathogen acting on ICARUS' amputated hand, which had not been bathed in the original Pathogen. The hand swelled, shrank, and eventually rotted.
"What does the refined Pathogen do to humans?" asked President Truman.
"It has a very similar effect to the original Pathogen, destroying tissue and killing and rotting the person, but more slowly. We have a detailed explanation in the report," a scientist replied.
"I have already read the report, but I want you to confirm it loud and clear, just as the report says," the President answered with a mocking tone.
A faint laugh of discomfort floated through the room.
Truman insisted. "Is it impossible to know what the two Pathogens can do to a living Kryptonian?"
A scientist answered wearily. "We don't have complete certainty, and therefore the risk is not acceptable given the dangers...We are almost certain that the original Pathogen would cause mutations and that the refined Pathogen would intoxicate and damage tissues, but we are not sure to what extent or with what consequences."
"Yes. I've seen the calculations." The President sounded tired and unimpressed.
"Mr. President..."
The President raised his hand and started to talk with a voice mixture of solemnity and weariness. "You're performing excellently in managing the debris and analyzing alien technology. The discovery and refinement of this Pathogen into a potential weapon is remarkable. This achievement marks the completion of Contingency Plan I. We must ensure that all the original Pathogen is either destroyed or converted into this refined version. It's crucial that not even a single pint of the substance capable of producing alien creatures remains. Let's maintain a substantial stockpile of the refined Pathogen for any unforeseen events involving extraterrestrial visitors and keep up with the alien technology research. As you're aware, we politicians are currently navigating the challenging period of the election campaign. You are fully briefed on the ongoing changes. After the election, whether I win or my rival does, you can be assured that our commitment to advancing this work will remain unchanged.
There was a small round of applause, and the President and his escort and military staff began to leave the room. Luthor looked at Hardy and Lord, both of whom had been disgraced. The military chiefs and the President had purged them when their decision to delay reporting the discovery of the capsule buried on Death Island was discovered. Lord would lose his security clearance on January 1, 1949, and Hardy had been transferred to the reserves. Luthor had protected Lord and maintained their business relationship. Although Lord was now out of the Rand Corporation and no longer involved in the research at Area 51, he would continue to invest and reap the profits. One never knew when he might exploit the television business and whether Lord would regain his security clearance if Dewey won the election.
Baroness Paula Von Gunther emerged from the crowd. Luthor looked at her condescendingly. She was a woman of elegant and aristocratic bearing, and a great scientist. Luthor despised her now that he knew the details of her actions during the war, but she was also of great use to him.
"Mr. Luthor."
"Baroness."
"Congratulations on your work with the Pathogen."
"We expect great things from your work here as well."
The Baroness slipped two small items into Luthor's jacket pocket and leaned close to his ear.
"Keep your promises or we'll both go down."
***
Back in Metropolis, in the solitude of his office, Luthor revealed the microfilms Baroness Von Gunther had given him. They contained a handwritten letter, accompanied by a series of directions for a sea route, photographs, and a plan of a makeshift battery. Luthor sighed with a mixture of hope and giddiness.
It had all happened relatively quickly. A few weeks earlier, Luthor had attended the opening of the capsule buried in the dried-up lake on Death Island. It was some kind of massive diamond-shaped thing made of a very dark unknown metal, but with a high Kryptonite content. Luthor sweated and felt genuine panic at what might be inside. There was no sound from within and no sign of life beyond the faint beeping. What looked like a hatch was found, but it was sealed and would only open slightly after the use of several very powerful explosives. Using hooks and chains pulled by oil engines, they were able to force it open.
The whole excavation was covered with a tent to avoid Soviet espionage, but thanks to Luthor, the Russians knew exactly what was there. Meanwhile, thousands of miles away, Mercy Graves was waiting for a call from Luthor. He had ordered her that if he called from the island, even just to tell her a series of banal things, she was to immediately call, from a phone booth, a flower shop in San Francisco and say a series of meaningless phrases: "Cobalt blue to match the satin," "Bloody red on top for the hat," "Delivery with maximum urgency." She did not know that they were messages requesting a Soviet nuclear bombing of Death Island.
To Luthor's good fortune, no army of Kryptonians emerged from the capsule, only a terrifying silence and the beeping of gauges indicating that the ship's atmosphere was unbreathable and contained some radiation. A team of soldiers and scientists entered the ship wearing scuba gear and carrying oxygen tanks. They claimed to have found nothing but alien machinery and several Kryptonian corpses, indistinguishable from humans but mummified or decomposed. The discovery was wildly celebrated: a complete alien ship at last! Even though it was only a safety capsule from a larger ship that had been destroyed.
The celebration was short-lived. As soon as Luthor left the island, he discreetly leaked the discovery to the President through a third party, blaming Lord and General Hardy for withholding the information. A special Army division took control of the discovery, and the Rand Corporation was allowed only to examine the ship's engines.
Luthor then used Baroness Von Gunther. Karla and the Soviets had already given him the information. Baroness Von Gunther had collaborated with the Nazi war effort. That was common knowledge, and so her position at the Rand Corporation and other research groups in America was extraordinarily discreet. The OSS had fabricated a biography for her as an Austrian monarchist and passive Nazi resister, in case the scientist ever achieved a certain level of publicity. But the Soviets gave Luthor a series of pieces of information that exposed her not only as a committed Nazi, but as a delusional esotericist who had worked closely with the SS and even collaborated in the Holocaust and in experiments on Jews and other minorities.
Luthor felt disgust for the Austrian aristocrat, but this information could put an end to her quiet life in the U.S. In addition, the Soviets informed him that they were holding the Baroness's only brother, a less than brilliant SS agent. He was Paula Von Gunther's weak point, the one person she adored. It was easy for Luthor to blackmail her. He had to use her closeness to Hardy and especially to Maxwell Lord, with whom she had an occasional intimate relationship and a certain political affinity.
The Baroness proved to be a very unresisting woman, much to Luthor's delight. In recent weeks, after the fiasco of the Gotham Harbor operation, she had confessed to him in detail all the activities that Lord, Hardy, and a small group of scientists, including herself, had been engaged in outside the official activities of the Rand Corporation. The Nazis had discovered remnants of prehistoric antediluvian civilizations, as well as remnants of Kryptonians and their technology, all over the world, and had used them in their war effort, with little success. Almost all the scientists and archaeologists in charge of the project had either died or been imprisoned by the Soviets, as had her brother. She had worked to provide General Hardy and Lord with as much information as possible from these efforts. Luthor was disappointed that the Soviets already had this information and had not shared it with him.
Luthor continued to press her until she confessed that General Hardy and Lord did have a plan, despite their dismissal from the Rand Corporation. There were more than bodies on the Death Island ship. They had found a pod with an intact, living Kryptonian in cryostasis, which they had not dared to open. They had named the Kryptonian CRONOS. The pod had remained operational because it was the closest one to the Kryptonian ship's emergency power generator and to the system that emitted the distress signal. Apparently, the pod was powered wirelessly. All the others had opened over time, and their occupants had starved to death or suffocated inside the ship, buried under mud and water. The ship had no way to take off under such great weight. Only one had survived.
Lord and Hardy had discreetly removed the pod from the ship and placed it next to an electrical generator on a ship that would carry excavating machinery, soldiers, and workers back to Alaska. They had disguised it as machinery. Their plan was to keep the Kryptonian alive in cryostasis and find a way to experiment on him. They called it "Contingency II." They had the support of underground sectors of the Navy and Air Force and were operating completely behind the government's back.
The ship had not yet sailed. It would be escorted to Alaska by a pocket submarine. Luthor was elated. At last, a living, unconscious Kryptonian! The gateway to the latest experiments to find a way to defeat Superwoman! Kryptonite was not enough. If a Kryptonite bullet were fired at Superwoman, her powers would always give her the time and ability to dodge it. If Superwoman were to fight a robot or a human in Kryptonite armor, as Luthor had tried with Metallo, even if the superheroine was injured or weakened, she would never be sufficiently exposed. The atomic bomb was not an option at the moment. Luthor had found no way to deliver one, and Superwoman would always have time to escape the blast wave, as the Soviet experiment at Novosibirsk had proven. But with a live Kryptonian and the refined pathogen, perhaps fire could be fought with fire.
Luthor requested that the Soviet authorities allow him to exert influence on Hardy and Lord, warning the military officer and the wealthy businessman that he would disclose their schemes to the President unless they included him in Contingency II and granted him authority over the body. He anticipated that the Soviets would reject his proposal and instead enlist his assistance in hijacking the Kryptonian's body and transporting it to Russia. However, Luthor was taken aback when, after conveying the details to Karla, his handler delivered Moscow's directives to him only seventy-two hours later.
The directives required assisting the Soviets in securing the body and the vessel, followed by the body's covert transportation to Metropolis by a circuitous route involving other ships disguised for the mission. Luthor was tasked with conducting experiments on the body and delivering updates on his progress twice daily. This arrangement suggested that the Soviets either lacked the necessary capabilities or preferred to outsource the risk to Luthor. In the event of a disaster, they deemed it preferable for the people of Metropolis to bear the brunt rather than their own citizens. Luthor embraced this responsibility with excitement. He saw it as his chance to definitively defeat Superwoman. He held the key to tipping the strategic balance between the USSR and the U.S., the gateway to peace. Everything rested in his hands.
Luthor carefully copied the route the ship and the pocket submarine would take from Death Island to Anchorage, as well as the dates and weather forecasts. There would be a storm. A Soviet team would take control of the ship, execute the crew, destroy the pocket submarine, and take the cargo to Kamchatka. A Chinese-flagged ship would take the capsule with the body and the generator to Malaysia, from where they would transfer them to a Mexican-flagged ship that would cross the ocean to Panama. They would cross the canal, and an American ship would take the capsule and generator to Metropolis, disguised as agricultural machinery.
Luthor closed his eyes. In a few hours, the information would be in San Francisco with Karla, his Soviet controller, and in another few hours it would be in Moscow. There was very little time. What about Superwoman? What to do with her? What if she intervened? He pulled out another folder of photographs and notes. Despite the uncanny physical resemblance and several suspicious points in her biography, he refused to believe that the sprightly but mild-mannered reporter Clara Kent was Superwoman. But during their brief encounter at the Tesla Foundation party, it had occurred to him that they were undeniably the same woman. He would send his report on Louis Lane and Superwoman's possible secret identity to Moscow, though he would keep some information to himself. The Soviet Union, even if it won, was an annoying, authoritarian master, and they did not trust him enough. And only Luthor could finally put an end to this flying alien who, in the long run, meant the demise of mankind.
November 3, 1948, Daily Planet offices.
As usual, after a night spent saving lives around the world, Superwoman was late for work at the Daily Planet. She flew in through the window of her own office, which she shared with Louis Lane, and within seconds reappeared in the doorway as Clara Kent.
A contrite Ronald Troupe was typing furiously.
"For the afternoon edition, Ronny?"
"Hi, Clara. I didn't see you come in… Well… what do you think?"
"Ah, well, you know… People don't want to break with the current model, and Dewey failed to mobilize his base," Clara said, trying to hide a grin.
Ronald looked at her with a certain sympathy.
"I know you're happy about Truman's victory, don't worry. I wanted change, but it was a bad campaign… It needed more work on the Jewish vote and the Catholic vote. It needed more risk-taking and a lot more talk about civil rights. Dewey shouldn't have taken such a hard line on Superwoman, not after supporting her so strongly as governor, and not after Superwoman helped break the Berlin blockade peacefully. Anyway…"
Lucy Weiss appeared, smiling, and took Clara by the arm.
"Dad is very upset, but less so than he was after the '40 election. He wrote the editorial in his own hand, and I find it quite moderate and constructive."
"Where are Cat, Louis, and Mailer?" Clara asked.
"I imagine they must have committed ritual suicide," Lucy replied with delight.
Ronald interrupted her.
"Cat is in her office. She hasn't taken off her coat or her sunglasses. I don't know if she's sober. She's dictating a column calling for MacArthur to go into politics. She says we're a broken society because people have become addicted to government intervention and welfare. Mailer came in, wrote his chronicle of Dewey's disappointment, and left. He brought Louis's article with him, which is basically a eulogy for Dewey and a criticism of the Republican Party for being divided and having no machine."
Lucy laughed in amusement.
"Louis must be hiding on a freighter right now, fleeing to South America. He was absolutely convinced they had won."
Ronald snorted.
"It was a very, very close thing."
Clara returned to her office. She concentrated on locating the sound of Louis's heart. She had memorized the rhythm of his heartbeat as carefully as her mother's, so she could make sure they were both safe and know where to find them. Louis seemed to be close to the city, and he was fine. She decided to call his home. A very familiar female voice answered.
"Yes?"
"Mrs. Lane… This is Clara Kent from the Daily Planet."
"We've met before, Clara. There's no need to introduce yourself for the umpteenth time."
"Sorry. I'm calling to ask how Louis is and whether he's coming into the office today."
"Mr. Lane is not at home. He hasn't shown his face all night. Usually, if I don't know where he is, I assume you do. If you see him, remind him that he has a daughter and that he might consider stopping by his own house," Pat Lane replied gruffly, then hung up.
Clara sighed. Katz came into the office and asked her to write a summary of the state legislative results. Clara wrote it at super speed and left it on her desk. Katz would come in and pick it up. She changed into Superwoman and flew out the window to help anyone in distress.
She cared about the election, of course. She did not like Truman personally, but she supported the government, even knowing that many people within it wanted her powerless, or even dead. Dewey's victory would not have changed that. She had great respect for Dewey, even if she disliked his party, but all the things that called her to action would still be there every day, no matter who had won. For Louis, the election was something enormous and deafening, almost existential. She did not quite understand why. As she flew at super-speed toward China, racing to help a group of refugee boats in distress, she wondered whether the outcome of that election would change the lives of those people at all.
After noon, she stopped by her apartment, picked up Krypto, and took the dog for a long walk, accompanied by Vinnie and Linda, the children of her neighbor, Charlotte. The children asked her several questions about Krypto and her job, which Clara happily answered.
I hope someday I'll be a mother, even a foster mother.
Clara lived in a tenement building near Washington Playground on 102nd Street. As she took the children and the dog for a walk in Central Park, she sharpened her super-hearing again, searching for Louis. His heartbeat sounded very close, somewhere inside the park.
Clara entered with the children and soon found Louis, dressed in an elegant suit as always, but completely disheveled, walking as if half-asleep or half-drunk.
"Well, Louis, what a surprise…"
Clara's voice startled the journalist, who immediately stirred and sat up, adjusting his tie.
"Clara!"
She looked sternly at Louis, who was staring sleepily and confusedly at the children. Krypto jumped up and began licking him.
"Kids, this is Mr. Lane, my boss at the paper. He looks tired because he's been up all night researching, like a good reporter."
"Hello, Mr. Lane."
Louis nodded.
"I'll get you some ice cream."
Clara interrupted him.
"It's November and it's cold. No ice cream for anyone."
The journalist stepped closer to Clara timidly. Louis rarely looked so defeated.
"It was a terrible night, at least for me, as you can imagine." He was trying to explain himself.
"Your wife is asking for you, Mr. Lane," Clara whispered, not bothering to hide her anger.
"Well, you should be happy today, Clara."
"Whatever. But I don't like seeing you drunk in public. It's embarrassing," she whispered.
"I'm not drunk. I'm exhausted."
Clara snorted at the obvious lie. Louis smelled of whisky from miles away. She did not quite understand why, but she wanted to slap him.
"Louis, even the day after an election is a working day, and you should be at the paper."
Louis bit his lip.
"It's been a very long night. My notebook is full of interviews. One of the biggest electoral upsets in history."
"Yes, indeed." Clara put on a grim face.
"You know Pat's a Democrat. She hates Truman, but she simply cannot imagine voting for anything else. My mother is also a bloody Democrat, even more than you and the devil herself; by the devil, I mean Mrs. Roosevelt, of course."
Clara ignored Louis and turned away to continue walking with the children and the dog.
Louis straightened his hat and put it on. Then he leaned close to Clara's ear.
"Do you remember the 'walk and talk' we had planned, Clara? I'd like to go to Innsmouth this weekend, if that's possible."
"Tomorrow. We'll talk about it tomorrow, Louis. Please go."
What a man. Damn politics, and damn alcohol. Sometimes he is unbearable.
"Well, children, a pleasure."
"Bye, Mr. Lane."
Clara, the children, and Krypto continued strolling through the park, but Vinnie stopped and asked her a question.
"Miss Kent, is Mr. Lane your boyfriend? He always picks you up at home."
Clara blushed.
"No. He's just a friend."
South Gulf of Alaska, November 4, 1948
The USS Aludra, a Navy auxiliary freighter, sailed slowly, struggling against the swell. She had lost contact with her escort, a pocket submarine, half an hour earlier.
Captain Auckland watched the waves through his binoculars. He had thirty tribesmen and forty other soldiers and officers aboard and was on his way back to Anchorage. He did not understand what the hell the Army and Navy were doing on this island they called Death Island. Drilling for oil, he had been told. Since when did the Army drill for oil? In the Aleutians? Were they mining for uranium? In theory, he was taking mining equipment back to Anchorage, but the Navy had ordered him not to begin unloading the ship until he contacted a colonel, Hank Henshaw of the Army, who was supposed to unload the equipment. Anyway, he had to follow orders and keep quiet.
One of the officers spoke in a tense voice.
"I thought I saw a light on the port side and a U-boat turret on the starboard side at the same time."
"The light must be your imagination. The turret must be ours, the pocket submarine."
"I don't understand why we don't have radar installed."
"We are not at war. Calm down. They must be our people. Worst case, they're fishermen from Anchorage."
Then the swell revealed a destroyer coming at them at full speed. It had appeared out of nowhere.
"Who the hell are they?"
"It doesn't look like one of ours!"
"It's Russian, damn it!"
"They're coming straight at us!"
"They're trying to contact us by radio, telling us to cut the engines and stop the ship immediately!"
"Under no circumstances. Send a distress signal to the Navy immediately…"
He could not finish the sentence because a shell fired by the destroyer shattered the bridge and the radio antenna. No one was able to raise the alarm. Fighting against the swell, three gunboats filled with soldiers and carrying rocket launchers approached the freighter, while the crew and soldiers aboard struggled through the confusion.
***
Superwoman was flying the injured victims of a car accident to the hospital when, to her horror, she heard cries of fear and distress coming from three different places at once: Seattle, Los Angeles, and Pittsburgh. It was terrifying when several things happened at the same time.
Pittsburgh was the closest, so she dropped the injured off at the hospital and took off at super-speed. She arrived in less than a minute.
A nightclub troupe was huddled against the wall while three men with machine guns aimed at them. There were already dead and wounded on the floor. The men began firing. Superwoman intercepted the bullets at super-speed, disintegrating or melting them with her hands and heat vision. The bullets that struck her tights bounced off without leaving a mark on the fabric or on her muscles, but she was surrounded by people, and ricochets from her body could injure the hostages.
Enough, Clara.
The three men kept firing their machine guns, trying to hit the crowd pressed against the wall.
Why do they keep trying? Why do they want to kill these people?
In just a few seconds, Superwoman tore the machine guns from their hands, crushed them with her super-strength, hurled the three men to the ground, and tied them up. But then she noticed that all three were convulsing and vomiting. Within seconds, they were dead.
Superwoman could not understand it. The men had been carrying poison suicide capsules in their mouths.
Who are they? Why have they done this?
At super-speed, Superwoman searched the pockets of the three men's suits and found nothing but earphones and a pocket transistor. She decided to focus on the wounded and fly them to the hospital.
Her next stop was Los Angeles. Barely five minutes had passed since Superwoman had first heard the cries for help. The Flash had already acted to stop the shooting. Something very similar had happened there: three men with machine guns had entered a nightclub and opened fire. The Flash had managed to stop them, but just as in Pittsburgh, the men had poison capsules in their mouths and were now dead.
Earphones again...
"Flash, what's going on? The same thing just happened in Pittsburgh. Three men opened fire on a crowd and then swallowed suicide capsules!" Superwoman shouted, anguished.
"What do you mean, the same thing happened? I don't understand."
Clara looked around in disbelief and lifted a wounded man into her arms.
"Help me get them to the nearest hospital. I need to reach Seattle as soon as possible."
At super-speed, the Flash and the superheroine carried a dozen wounded people to the hospital.
Soon Clara arrived in Seattle, but she was too late. The police were already there. There were a dozen wounded and seven dead, three of them once again the suicide gunmen.
Clara was startled to discover that, everywhere she looked, the dead gunmen were wearing military-style earphones connected to small pocket transistors tucked inside their trench coats. All of them seemed to have the same almost fully dilated, bloodshot pupils. It reminded her of something she had seen in Gotham some time ago.
Could it be?
Superwoman fell to her knees among the wounded and the dead, tears in her eyes. It was unbearable that she had not arrived in time. Would those people still be alive if she had gone to Seattle first instead of Los Angeles?
A policeman approached her and touched her shoulder.
"We can't be everywhere, Mrs. Superwoman. Not even you."
Superwoman lifted one of the wounded and rose into the night sky.
But the three inexplicable suicide shootings, and the cries of the wounded, had kept Superwoman from hearing the explosion of a Soviet torpedo against the pocket submarine escorting the USS Aludra… and the gunfire inside the freighter as the Soviets seized control of the ship and its cargo.
***
Luthor spent the morning locked in his soundproof room with the secure-line telephone, waiting for a call. He did not know whether the operation had gone well. He sat in the dark. Hours passed. Finally, the telephone rang as the indicator light turned green, signaling an unintercepted call.
"Good morning," a familiar voice began.
"Good morning," Luthor answered, trying to hide his unease.
"How are you? Did you get to bed early?"
"I did not sleep particularly well."
"Our friends went fishing and came back late."
"Did they catch anything?"
"Just some salmon, but they're very happy. They'll send you a steak to try."
"And the cousin?"
"The cousin didn't come fishing with them. We sent some other friends of ours, with the scarecrow magic tricks you taught us about, to entertain her. She's very poor fishing company. Our friends did excellent work, so we made sure she was distracted by other things."
"And now?"
"I don't know. You tell us."
He heard Karla hang up at the other end of the line.
Soon two more calls came in, one intercepted and one not. The first was from General LeMay, informing him that a freighter and a pocket submarine belonging to the Death Island Project had disappeared in a storm on their way back to Anchorage. Perhaps it really had been the storm. But if it had been the Russians, everyone was in very deep trouble. The alert level was high, and the President was monitoring the situation.
Luthor smiled to himself, imagining the absolute panic and stupefaction Maxwell Lord and General Hardy must be feeling.
The next call came from a private detective in Kansas. On February 27 and 28, 1918, an unusual meteor shower had been reported, along with small meteor impacts and fires in Nemaha, Jackson, Smallville, and Pottawatomie counties.
Luthor returned to his office and reviewed his reports on Clara Kent. In his hands he held a copy of her enlistment record as a nurse, dated January 1942.
Date of birth: February 28, 1918.
Place of birth: Smallville, Kansas.
He checked another document. She had served as a nurse aboard the USS Shuster, the hospital ship torpedoed in the Philippines that had miraculously managed to beach itself, thanks to what the military had called at the time "an engineering miracle and a fortunate strong current".
He collapsed into his chair, overwhelmed.
I understand... But how is it possible? How can the most powerful being on Earth come from a farm and live as a second-rate reporter?
Stunned as he was, he could not fool himself. Those fierce blue eyes, even behind the glasses that distorted her appearance, had given him the same hostile look he knew so well from Superwoman. Her voice was different: more feminine, sweeter, more regional, and more awkward than Superwoman's. But if a woman could fly, she could also be a good actress. And the athletic voluptuousness of her figure was unmistakable.
She was Superwoman. Clara Kent was Superwoman.
Why had she exposed herself?
November 6, 1948, Innsmouth
Clara and Louis were walking on the beach, both wearing beige raincoats, hats, and boots. Clara's boots were, ironically, red. Louis wore a tweed suit and struggled to light a pipe as the waves soaked their feet. They did not walk in step; Clara was slightly ahead.
They had arrived the day before. The car ride had been silent and almost uncomfortable. Louis had persisted in talking about trivialities and the internal dynamics of the paper. At least he was no longer talking about the campaign. Dewey's defeat had hit him hard, and Louis wanted to forget it as soon as possible.
They had gone to bed early in separate rooms. Before she quietly slipped out to fly off on her missions as Superwoman, she could see him, through her x-ray vision, pacing nervously around his room.
Clara and Louis had spent the morning talking about their childhood. Clara found the conversation meaningful and enjoyable, but soon she began to feel frustrated. They had yet to discuss their future or their feelings. Sneaking out to act as Superwoman was proving difficult, but Clara had managed to do it all night while Louis slept, and a few times in the morning, pretending she needed to change clothes or call the neighbors who were looking after Krypto.
"You won't get that pipe lit. Besides, you're not supposed to smoke anymore," Clara shouted, trying to raise her voice above the waves.
"When I'm by the sea, I like to smoke," Louis said in a presumptuous voice.
"Why? Is it healthier?"
"Why do you care?"
"I care, Louis. It's no joke. I've been a nurse, and I've seen what a blackened lung looks like," Clara said, struggling to keep the wind from blowing off her glasses and hat.
"My lungs are perfect," Louis said, his voice almost swallowed by the wind and surf.
"That's not true, my love," Clara muttered to herself, using her x-ray vision to check Louis's lungs, which were beginning to show slight signs of tobacco abuse.
"Louis, we've been here for several hours, and you haven't told me anything about your future."
"There's not much to tell. I'm staying at the paper. At least for two years."
"And in two years, what will you do?"
"I'll think about it again. Maybe I'll teach at the university, or take a diplomatic post."
"A diplomatic post would mean going abroad."
"Not necessarily. Only for short periods."
"And what about your daughter?"
"That's the main reason I have doubts."
"Will you send her to boarding school when she's older?"
"That's what they did to me and my wife. And I don't think it would work. I wouldn't like it. She should be raised by her parents. There are good private day schools in Metropolis. I don't want her going to a girls' boarding school."
"What about me?"
"What about you?"
"What am I supposed to do when you leave the paper?"
Louis reached over and took her arm lovingly.
"You are one of the best reporters at the paper. Everyone knows that. You're no longer an assistant reporter. Frankly, you should accept a senior reporter position and stand on equal footing with me."
"And if you leave, I'll have to report directly to Cat Grant? No, thank you. As your assistant reporter, I have a great deal of freedom to write about whatever I want, whenever I want."
"What if that starts to be frowned upon? And whose assistant reporter would you be if I left? You've grown as a reporter, and you must accept that."
"Don't you want to work with me?"
"How can you think that, Clara?"
Louis was very close, and Clara took his hand and leaned against his chest. She was tired of insinuations, misunderstandings, circumlocutions, metaphors, and plain, straightforward lies. She wanted to smash through that wall between them with a single punch or at least break part of it down.
"What does your wife think about us being here? Or haven't you told her you're with me?"
"She knows, and it doesn't matter anymore."
Clara's heart began to pound hard and fast, and she could feel Louis's heart racing as well.
"She already knows our marriage is over. And she has known for a long time that I'm in love with you," Louis said sharply, almost dryly.
"I'm in love with you."
Clara wondered several times in the space of a few seconds whether she had really just heard that.
Finally.
Tears filled her eyes, and she looked into Louis's dark eyes.
"What did you say?"
"That my wife already knows our separation is inevitable, and that I'm in love with you."
Clara could not control herself and kissed Louis. And it was not like the last time Superwoman had tried to kiss Louis after saving him from Metallo and Luthor. Louis returned the kiss and held her close as he stroked her hair. Clara lost track of time. They kissed for a long while, whipped by sand and spray thrown up by the waves.
Clara pulled away. The lenses of her glasses were fogged, but tears were rolling down her cheeks. Louis was visibly moved as well.
"Why did it take you so long to tell me?" Clara's voice sounded somewhere between ecstatic, excited, and furious.
"I'm not very clever, my dear. Besides, I thought you already knew. First I had to settle my marital situation… No. I needed to do things as decently as possible, given the circumstances. I'm sorry for making you wait and hurting you."
"You idiot… I love you, Louis. I adore you. Since the first day I saw you with your crutches, grumbling in the office, even if I find you unbearable… I…"
Louis silenced Clara with a kiss, took her in his arms, and lifted her up.
It can't be. I've finally got it. Finally.
***
Louis and Clara sat together in a small café by the sea. The storm had grown stronger, and it was already getting dark. Their hands were intertwined.
Clara's thoughts drifted to the first time she had laid eyes on Louis. Was it September 3 or 4, 1945? More than three years had passed, yet it felt more like two decades. They had both been dressed in their respective military uniforms: he in his infantry major's uniform, she in her Navy nurse's uniform. Back then, Clara had not yet made a habit of wearing her Superwoman suit and cape beneath her office clothes. Louis, with his handsome features and the elegance he maintained despite his crutches, had inexplicably captivated her. Rumors of his wartime heroism had reached her, adding to his allure. Yet his behavior had irritated her. Beneath Louis's veneer of bonhomie and patronizing civility lay a not-so-subtle disdain. He had even presumptuously remarked that her interview was merely a formality, since she was Perry Weiss's chosen candidate.
Louis was a stark contrast to Pete Ross. Clara had found herself torn between a desire for his approval and an urge to confront his arrogance. Now, looking back, she could scarcely recognize herself in the uncertain, frightened woman on the verge of becoming Superwoman, nor could she see Louis in the distant, sharp-tongued man who had initially mistaken her for a secretary rather than an assistant reporter.
"What are we going to do now, Louis?" she asked nervously.
She was not afraid of scandal or outside opinion, but she knew Louis's situation was not easy.
"I can't get a divorce. It's absolutely impossible for me. Pat knows that, and she feels the same way. She threatened me with hell if I forced her into divorce proceedings. But she has been very reasonable. She understands that she has had another life outside our marriage, and that I am in love with another woman. The priority for both of us now is our daughter."
"And what will you do?"
"Her parents live very close by, and Pat's two older sisters and their children live there too. Emily will be told that her mother needs to live with her parents, and that she will live with her mother, grandparents, and cousins at least half the time. The house is all theirs, and they'll spoil Emily terribly. The rest of the time she'll stay with me. I may do the same and live with my parents, at least during the weeks Emily stays with me. She'll be spoiled by her mother, her father, her grandparents, her cousins... Eventually we'll explain to her that her parents are no longer together."
"And trying for an annulment?" The annulment or the divorce made little real difference to Clara, but she was far too anxious.
"Pat refused for now. She asked for a year to see how Emily adjusts to the situation, and what I do with my life. At first, she rejected the idea of separation altogether. She was willing to continue living together as before and wanted me to make you my lover, as she had done with others in the past. I refused. We formalized the separation before the priest who has been counseling us, but for the moment we remain husband and wife. In a year, once my personal position is clear and firm, and once Emily has adjusted, we will begin the annulment process together. The vicar of our parish knows that we fully meet the grounds for annulment, and her parents have good connections."
Clara understood how important his religion was to Louis and how much he had suffered, but she was also a Christian, and she did not understand how the very words of the same God could make life so difficult for him.
"I'll stand by your side. I just want to know whether I'm going to be your discreet... you know, or whether we can be together in the light of day."
"The second, discreetly at first. Then it won't matter. And after the annulment, we shall get…"
Clara placed her index finger on Louis's lips and looked at him lovingly.
"Don't worry, darling. It's all right. We'll see. It's too soon. We have plenty of time."
"I don't want a situation like this to drag on too long."
"I don't mind. Though of course I'd be happier as your wife," Clara said, surprising herself with her own boldness. How could she even imagine marrying Louis? Rushing desires and fears engulfed her in the midst of an immense happiness.
Louis hugged her tightly.
"Clara Kent-Lane or Lane-Kent?"
"I prefer my own name first."
Louis laughed.
Then Clara remembered that she was still Superwoman, that she was wearing her blue tights and red cape beneath her clothes, and that Louis hated Superwoman and would not accept her. Did she have to tell him now? If not now, when? Would she go on lying to him, now that he had finally left his wife and opened his heart to her? Or would she tell him the truth now, so that he could grow angry and run away?
Doubt gnawed at Clara. All the happiness of the day was crumbling away. Louis noticed the sadness in her face.
"What is it, my love?"
"Nothing, Louis. It's been too much news and too many emotions for one day. I'm overwhelmed."
Clara gently took hold of Louis and drew him toward her.
There are days when I hate being Superwoman. Today is one of those days. We could fly anywhere we wanted tonight, and every day, if only he understood who I am and why I do this...
***
They ate in relative silence.
"You don't know how happy I am that you haven't mentioned the campaign," Clara said, trying to joke.
"I see. That's your way of saying vae victis, woe to the vanquished."
"You're a sore loser, my dear."
"I hope you haven't only just figured that out."
They walked up the stairs of the small hotel in silence and stopped outside Clara's door. Louis gave her a quick, chaste kiss on the lips.
Oh no. Not this time, my dear.
Clara opened the door and waved Louis in. She could feel him torn between desire and scruple, while she was simply burning. Clara walked all the way into the room without turning on the light, leaving the door open. She sat on the bed. Louis finally entered.
The blue and pink neon lights from another hotel across the street filtered through the window. They looked into each other's eyes with a strange expression.
I waited a long time for you, Louis.
Clara gave Louis a strange smile, then turned and went into the bathroom while he sat in the dark in the armchair. In the bathroom, she took off her clothes, then her Superwoman outfit, the blue tights and the long bright red cape, carefully folding it and hiding it beneath some towels.
She looked at herself in the mirror. Her hair was down now, and she was not wearing glasses. It was impossible for him not to recognize her. It was madness that he didn't. She decided to pin up her hair and put on a nightgown and a silk robe. Shyly, she walked out of the bathroom. Love and desire had fully overcome her doubts, and she could sense the same thing had happened to Louis.
Louis sprang up as soon as he saw her come out. Clara looked beautiful in the silk robe. Without her glasses, her look and expression had changed.
It can't be. She's identical. I've never seen her look so much like her. No, it isn't. It's crazy. Forget it, please. You're finally here with her. Forget those crazy ideas.
The faint neon light shifted color, transforming the image of the two of them. Clara came closer, burning with love and lust, and threw herself into Louis's arms.
Louis kissed her intensely, accepting Clara's surprising strength as they both fell onto the neon-lit bed.
Tonight, I won't be Superwoman.
**
At the same time, not that far away, Luthor was preparing his final memorandum for Karla. He drafted two short personality and proximity notes: one on Louis Lane, one on Clara Kent. The language was deliberately dry. Karla's people disliked ornament. Moscow disliked guesses that sounded like guesses.
He began with Lane.
LOUIS JACOB LANE.
Born 1912. American journalist, political commentator, and former Army officer. Born into a prominent nouveau riche East Coast family. Eldest son of Admiral Samuel Lane, an industrialist and naval figure of Jewish origin whose background remains obscure. Raised Catholic through his mother's family and education. Maintains close ties to Catholic and Republican circles in Metropolis and Gotham. Educated at Arkham University; degree in history, with a particular interest in classical antiquity.
Pulitzer Prize, 1941, for investigative reporting connected to the prosecution of the criminal syndicate commonly referred to in the press as "Intergang." Before the war, Lane was already regarded as one of the more influential younger men at the Daily Planet: aggressive, well-connected, personally brave, and difficult to intimidate.
Military service: commissioned in the Army infantry. Served in North Africa, Italy, France, and Germany. Rank on discharge: Major. Recruited in 1944 for intelligence-related work through OSS channels, apparently by James J. Angleton or persons close to him. Duties seem to have included interrogation, analysis of captured enemy personnel, and liaison work. Discharged in 1945. Official record indicates honorable service and decorations. Unofficial accounts suggest disciplinary proceedings or a serious internal dispute shortly before discharge. The most persistent version claims Lane shot a captured Nazi intelligence officer who was being considered as an American asset. This cannot be confirmed, but is consistent with Lane's known temperament and his sensitivity to anti-Semitism, despite his otherwise conservative social and political views.
Political profile: Republican, despite coming from a Democratic family; anti-communist and imperial-minded. Has contacts among military officers and conservative reform Republicans. Close to General MacArthur. Publicly presents himself as a constitutionalist and realist. Privately described as proud, combative, sentimental, and more impulsive than his published work suggests. Possible alcohol problem.
Connection to Superwoman: significant and longstanding. Lane was rescued by Superwoman during her first public appearance in Metropolis and later obtained the first extended interview with her. Since then, she has rescued him on several occasions, including during the 1946 Kryptonian incident, when the Army used Lane in a negotiation or liaison capacity. Lane has written and spoken critically of Superwoman in print and on radio, warning against the political and military implications of such power operating without formal accountability. However, his personal access to her appears greater than his public hostility would suggest.
Assessment: Lane may be useful as an indirect point of pressure, observation, or influence. His criticism of Superwoman should not be taken entirely at face value. It may reflect genuine ideological hostility, but it may also preserve his credibility while allowing private contact. Elements of the American government may have used him as an informal intermediary with Superwoman. No evidence confirms that he acts as her handler, but his repeated proximity to her is unlikely to be accidental.
Luthor reread the paragraph and removed two adjectives. Better. Karla would understand the implication without being handed the conclusion. Then he opened the thinner file on Clara Kent.
CLARA JOSEPHINE KENT.
American journalist. Born and raised near Smallville, Kansas. Farm family. Records indicate birth on February 28, 1918. The date coincides with reports of unusual meteor activity in several Kansas counties, including Nemaha, Jackson, Pottawatomie, and the area surrounding Smallville. Local press archives mention small fires, alleged meteor fragments, and several exaggerated rural accounts. No official federal investigation has yet been located.
Kent's family background appears ordinary. Adoptive status not established in public records; however, gaps and irregularities in early documentation warrant further inquiry. No university degree. Worked as an elementary schoolteacher before the war. Enlisted or was taken on as a Navy nurse in 1942. Served in the Pacific theater, including Guadalcanal, New Guinea, and the Philippines. Wartime references describe her as capable, unusually calm under bombardment, physically strong, and popular among wounded personnel. Several concurrent anecdotal accounts mention rapid cauterization of wounds, improbable recoveries, or unexplained movement of heavy debris during emergencies. These accounts may be exaggerations common among combat survivors.
Kent was aboard the hospital ship USS Shuster when it was torpedoed in the Philippines. The vessel survived under circumstances later described by naval personnel as improbable but not officially supernatural. Kent disappeared from ordinary records for several months after the incident and then reappeared in civilian life. She joined the Daily Planet in 1945, initially under Louis Lane as assistant reporter. Her advancement since then has been rapid but understated. She produces strong copy, especially on crime, human-interest subjects, industrial affairs, displaced persons, labor conditions, and civil rights matters, but appears to avoid public prominence where possible.
Political and social profile: generally liberal, humanitarian, pro-civil rights, sympathetic to European refugees and minority communities. Religious habits irregular. Has been seen in Quaker and reformist Protestant circles, though no firm denominational identification is established. Personally modest, private, and cautious. Described by colleagues as kind, stubborn, occasionally awkward, and unusually resistant to hierarchy.
Connection to Louis Lane: close professional and personal association. They are frequently seen lunching, walking, traveling, and working together. Kent has remained formally subordinate to Lane longer than would be expected given the quality of her work. This may indicate professional dependence, personal attachment, or an arrangement advantageous to both.
Connection to Superwoman: indirect but noteworthy. Kent has not written major signed articles on Superwoman despite working at the newspaper with the greatest access to her. She has rarely, if ever, been photographed in the same frame as Superwoman. This may be coincidence, editorial assignment, personal disinterest, or deliberate avoidance. Her known absences from the office sometimes coincide with Superwoman activity, though available data remain incomplete.
Assessment: Kent should be treated as a potentially important person in Lane's circle and possibly in Superwoman's civilian network. Further investigation recommended, especially into her Kansas birth records, wartime service, disappearance after the USS Shuster incident, and current movements.
Beside the typed profile lay the material Luthor had not included: photographs, height comparisons, facial overlays, testimony from Smallville, medical impossibilities from the Pacific, and the enlistment form dated January 1942. Clara Kent in thick glasses, with her hair pinned severely back, standing half-turned outside the Daily Planet. Superwoman in flight, chin lifted, eyes fixed on something beyond the camera. The same cheekbones. The same mouth. The same blue eyes, even distorted by glass and posture and performance.
The report said "potentially important person." It did not say what Luthor now knew.
He turned over one photograph, then another. The conclusion was no longer avoidable.
Clara Kent was Superwoman.
Or, more precisely, Superwoman had chosen to live as Clara Kent: farm girl, nurse, reporter, assistant to Louis Lane, tenant in an unremarkable Metropolis apartment, owner of a troublesome dog, wearer of ugly glasses and modest suits.
That was the obscene part. Not the flying. Not the strength. Not even the deception. The obscenity was scale. The most powerful being on Earth had hidden herself inside the smallest possible life.
Luthor sat very still. If Moscow learned this, they would act. Not intelligently, not patiently, not beautifully. They would panic, improvise, abduct a cousin, threaten a mother, poison a dog, send some provincial execution squad with clever radios and bad shoes. They would force the issue before he had shaped the battlefield. They would turn the greatest secret in the world into a police operation.
No.
Karla would receive the Lane memorandum only. Not the Kent note, the photographs, not the overlays, not the Smallville meteor file, and certainly not the conclusion.
For the moment, Moscow did not need to know that Clara Kent was Superwoman. And Luthor had no intention of sharing a weapon before he had learned how to fire it.