The Last Daughter of Krypton

Green Chapter 5

The Foundation Compound's campground on the old Davis farm was all but deserted by midmorning on Saturday. Many of the campers had vacated the sight overnight. Only a few faithful volunteers remained, trying to maintain a semblance of security and dealing with confused new arrivals who hadn't yet heard the news.

A pair of Lowell County sheriff's deputies remained on the site through midday, questioning the volunteers. A forensics team from the Kansas State Police confiscated the laser projector, the control board, and Dr. Jacobi's meteorite for further study.

All of the lectures and seminars that had been planned for the weekend were canceled. There was no notice posted on the Foundation's BBS as to when they might be rescheduled.

Donald Jacobi spent most of the day in something akin to a state of shock. He answered questions --- when he could --- like an automaton. At one point during his questioning, a large tray had been knocked over --- falling to the floor with a hellacious crash --- just a few feet away from him, and he hadn't even blinked. His condition so alarmed one investigator that she summoned a paramedic and insisted that the doctor be checked thoroughly. By evening, he was resting in an upstairs bedroom in the farmhouse, under light sedation.

That left James Wolfe to deal with the authorities, the media, and the volunteers on his own. Late Saturday evening, he slipped into town, found a liquor store, and returned with a bottle of his own preferred form of sedative.

It wasn't until Sunday morning that Jacobi finally became coherent enough to open up to his partner.

"I was so close, Jimmy. I had that kid in the palm of my hand." He smacked his left fist into the palm of his right hand. "The crowd was mine. If only you hadn't switched on that damned laser ---!" His fist smacked into his hand again.

"Let it go, willya? How many times do I have to tell you --- it was an accident! The controls shorted out! The sheriff believed me, why won't you?"

Jacobi didn't answer. He just sat there at the kitchen table, snapping and unsnapping the lid on his empty meteorite case.

"Wake up and smell the roses, Don. It's time to cut our losses. We need to pack up and get out of here." Wolfe pulled a flask from his hip pocket, took a deep swig, and passed it to his partner. "I don't think there'll be any criminal charges --- we'd have been booked by now. But it's just a matter of time before that kid's father wakes up and slaps us with a civil suit."

"I didn't mean to hurt him." Jacobi stared at his unshaven reflection in the metal flask. "I never hurt anybody before ---"

"You've hurt plenty of people, Don. The only difference is that this time you're still around to deal with the consequences."

"Consequences..." Jacobi said the word slowly, each syllable lingering on his tongue. "So many consequences."

"That's right. There are. And they're all going to come raining down on our furry little heads, if we don't bug out of here. And soon!"

Jacobi got up and walked over to the kitchen sink. He splashed a couple of handfuls of cold water on his face and took a deep breath. Through the window he could see some of the Foundation's more devoted members policing the grounds. "Look at them, Jimmy. It doesn't matter how screwed up things get. There are always a few who will stand by you... always a loyal few." He ran wet fingers through his hair.

"Yeah, that's very touching, but all the loyalty in the world won't save us from a civil suit. And that kind of litigation could unravel everything." Wolfe grabbed his partner by the shoulder and spun him around. "Will you listen to me? If we leave right now, we can be in Mexico before nightfall. Tomorrow is Monday. With a little luck, we should be able to close out most of our East Coast accounts electronically and transfer the funds to a little bank I know in Mexico, all before anyone's the wiser."

"What'll that do to the Foundation, to the newsletter, the BBS ---?"

"Forget about the Foundation! That Harrison kid has a better life expectancy!" Wolfe started pacing. "We won't be able to get all the money out. Maybe only seventy-five, eighty percent. But that should be enough to keep us comfortable until this all blows over. Later, maybe we can start over somewhere else ---!"

Wolfe's plans were interrupted by the insistent ring of the wall telephone. Numbly, Jacobi crossed the room to pick it up.

"Hello?" Jacobi stiffened. "Oh... Hello, Mr. Harrison."

It's over. In his mind Wolfe could picture a stream of lawyers lined up outside the door. I should have dragged him away from here last night.

"What's that? I don't understand...!" Jacobi's eyes opened wide. "Yes. Yes. I see. Of course, right away."

As Jacobi hung up, Wolfe picked up his flask and slumped against the counter. "How bad is it?"

"Bad? Nothing's bad, Jimmy. Nothing's bad at all. Put that rotgut away!" Jacobi crouched down beside a cabinet. He opened the door and removed a bottle of champagne and two glasses. "I'd hidden this away, saving it for a special occasion, and this certainly qualifies!" He smiled enigmatically.

Wolfe rubbed his eyes and stared at his partner. Jacobi stood tall and confident, his eyes sparkled. "Don, what did Harrison say? What the devil is going on?"

"Calm yourself, Jimmy. There's absolutely nothing to worry about." Jacobi popped the cork and his smile widened. "In fact, I'd say the Foundation just gained a new lease on life!"

Just a few minutes past two that afternoon, Dr. William Manning glanced up at his visitor, then squinted to peer back through the blinds of a consultation room window in the intensive care unit of the Lowell County Medical Center. "I've been practicing medicine for nearly thirty years, and I have never had a case quite like this one," he admitted. In a private room on the other side of the glass, his patient was sitting up in bed, happily drinking cranberry juice and using a remote to switch the channels of a wall-mounted television. "This turnaround happened so fast, we never even had to transfer him to Wichita."

Manning closed the blinds and pulled a chart from a hook on the wall. "When that boy was brought in here two nights ago, he was pale, lethargic, and febrile... his temperature peaked at one-hundred-six degrees." He read over the chart again, as if doubting his own knowledge. "Given all that he's been through these past few years --- the surgery, radiation, chemotherapy --- I wouldn't have given odds that he'd live to see another dawn. But then his temperature started to fall. In less than half an hour, it was down to ninety-nine." Manning glanced up at the clock on the wall. "Now, here it is, barely forty-two hours later, and his temperature's ninety-eight-point-eight --- almost back to normal. Heart rate is strong and steady at sixty-two beats per minute. His color is the best I've seen in months. And I'd almost swear his scars have started to improve."

The doctor's visitor crossed the room to get a better look through the blinds. Stuart Harrison's channel surfing had finally found a cartoon. He started laughing as Daffy Duck erupted from a sylvan pond to honk Elmer Fudd's nose. Against the stark white of the pillow, Stuart's head seemed somehow rounder, smoother. The pucker of his scars was less visible through his closely cropped hair.

"Yes, I see what you mean. He looks more like a kid with a buzz cut than a cancer patient. And you say the tumors in his brain are actually shrinking?"

"So it seems." Manning bent down to enter his password on a desktop computer. "After his fever dropped and his other vitals stabilized, I ordered an MRI to see if any further damage had been done." He swiveled the monitor around so his visitor could see the screen. "Here was the image we got a little over two weeks ago. There on the left-hand side of the screen, you can clearly see the tumors."

Manning caught a whiff of a subtle, delicate scent as his visitor leaned over to look at the screen and then nodded. Several large masses were clearly visible in the cross-sectional image of the skull. Even to a layman, it was obvious that those masses were bad news.

"And here's the MRI we took Friday night." Manning tapped out a brief sequence of keys.

The image that flowed down the right side of the screen might have come from a different patient. Masses were still present, to be sure, but they were noticeably smaller. The largest was only half the size of its counterpart in the first image.

"Remarkable."

"That doesn't begin to describe it." Manning removed his glasses and tapped them against his palm. "The change was so dramatic, I first thought there must have been a scanning error. So I ordered additional sets." Another sequence of key presses reduced the first two images in size and added a third, and then a fourth. The tumor masses were smaller and fewer in number in each successive image. "It's as if the damn things were shrinking before our eyes." Manning rubbed the bridge of his nose and put his glasses back on. "If they keep up at this rate, they'll soon be... well, they'll be gone!"

"What do you think caused the shrinkage?" the visitor asked, without looking up from the screen.

"Well, I doubt that my treatment had anything to do with it, much as I'd love to take credit for this. At Stuart's request, I'd provided little more than palliative care since these recent tumors were found." Manning scratched at an earlobe as he collected his thoughts. "I suppose his fever might have triggered some sort of biochemical change, but I can't even tell you with any certainty what caused the fever."

"Could anything at the lecture have brought it on?"

"You mean the 'great experiment'?" Manning scoffed. "I wasn't there, but from what I was told, it sounds as if it was nothing more than relaxation therapy augmented with sideshow lights and mirrors. The police tested the meteorite and haven't found any signs of contamination. There was nothing more remarkable about it than any other space rock in this county. Stuart's parents, of course, are of a different opinion. His father's calling the whole thing a bloody miracle."

"And what would you call it?" his visitor asked, stepping away from the computer, putting her hands on her hips and bending back as if to ease a crick in her back. She then looked over Manning's head, as if she was looking through the closed blinds at the patient in the next room.

Manning had turned his head as she moved away and now looked up at her. Not in one of her usual tailored business suits, she was dressed for the weekend in slacks and a simple tank top that did little to disguise her figure. And she still managed to create the illusion of someone who was used to being in control. As she was controlling this conversation.

"It's some sort of spontaneous regression," Manning began, forcing himself to look at her face. "It's extremely rare, but it does happen. I myself saw such a case when I was an intern. An end-stage liver cancer. After deteriorating for months, liver function plateaued, then began to improve. Five weeks later, the patient was completely cancer-free." He toyed with the end of his stethoscope. "But this regression has been far more rapid. It's wonderful for the boy, of course, but it mystifies me. I've never been a big believer in miracles, but I can't give you any more of an explanation than that."

She considered that for a moment. "I guess that'll just have to do for now," she finally said. "You will keep me posted if there's any change?"

"I suppose that I could." Manning glanced back at the glass separating him from his patient. "It's not that I don't appreciate the concern you've expressed for Stuart and his family, but... frankly, Ms. Luthor, I'm not even sure I should have told you as much as I have."

Lex Luthor smiled. "I certainly wouldn't expect you to do anything that would violate your Hippocratic Oath, Doctor. I just want to do all I can to ensure that Stuart has the best medical care available." She stepped forward and offered Manning her hand. "You'll help me with that, won't you?"

Manning hesitated but only for a second before taking the offered hand.

Monday afternoon, Charlie Sullivan got his usual pass to leave the study hall and headed for the Torch office. Once there, he immediately booted up the old reliable desktop computer and checked his electronic mail. Waiting for him was a string of messages, all from the same address...

Charlie scrolled down the list. "Oh... my... God." There had been three additional messages from CosmicLadder when he signed on. Now there were four.

He quickly read through the messages. They were being posted about once an hour. These guys could give the National Weather Service a run for their money, he admitted with grudging respect. He opened a new file and archived the letters. Then he logged in to an on-line database and resumed a search he'd started over the weekend.

Charlie was so intent on his screen that he never even heard the next bell ring.

Tuesday afternoon, Claire Kent rushed home from school and raced through her chores. After dinner, she retreated to her private sanctuary in the barn's hayloft for some quiet time.

Rumors about Stuart Harrison's condition, fueled by the electronic mail Charlie Sullivan had been receiving, had been flying all over school for the past day and a half, each one wilder than the last. If even half of them were to be believed, the senior's chances for survival had dramatically improved since Friday night.

Claire punched the POWER button on her battered old boom box and played with the tuner. Reception was spotty, punctuated by the static of a distant storm. She finally settled for the signal from a distant AM station and plopped down on the swayback couch. Her impact with the cushions started a chain reaction in the springs that sent a scarred old basketball tumbling off the couch. She scooped up the ball and bounced it a few times against the plank floor. She tossed it up against the rafters across from her, catching it on the rebound, and tossed it back again. Claire continued the game of toss and catch for nearly ten minutes, sinking into a kind of Zen state. After a while, the rhythm of toss, bounce, and catch began to fall in time with the beat of the music on the radio.

The ball had just fallen back into Claire's hands when the opening notes of "Sweet Georgia Brown" began to whistle from the speakers. Breaking into a broad grin as she remembered the time her parents had taken her to Kansas City to see the Harlem Globetrotters, she tossed the ball high and wide. As it left her hands, she was already up off the couch and across the loft. There, the ball all but fell into her hands.

"Okay, Kent, wanna try a little one-on-one?" Claire tossed the ball and dashed back to her original spot. She moved so quickly that --- to her --- the ball seemed to freeze in midair.

Claire caught the ball she'd thrown to herself, flipped it into the air, and spun it on the tip of her right index finger. "This is too easy. How 'bout shirts against skins?" Tossing the ball up, she unbuttoned her shirt and removed it, leaving her undershirt on. Then catching the ball, she tossed it back across the loft. Running across the loft and catching the ball, she tossed it back, ran across the loft, and put her shirt back on before tossing the ball back. Back and forth she dashed, playing against herself. So quickly did she move that there seemed to be two Claires playing ball, one in just her undershirt.

"Claire!" Her mother's voice called up from the yard below. "You have a visitor!"

"Wha ---?" Partway through buttoning her shirt, Claire stopped dead in her tracks. The ball ricocheted off the side of her head, struck a high rafter, and dropped down the stairs.

"Whoa!" Charlie Sullivan grabbed hold of the railing and ducked to the side as the ball thunked past him.

"Sorry." Claire reached over and shut off the radio. "Guess I... messed up that free throw."

"What were you doing up here?" Charlie looked around, puzzled. Dust was settling all along the old plank flooring. "From downstairs it sounded like horses tap-dancing!"

Claire reached up and brushed the hair back from her face. "Just shooting a few hoops."

"Really? You going to try out for the team next year?" Unlike their friend Petra Ross, who seemingly tried out for every sport at school, Claire had yet to try out for a single one. There was a good reason for that, of course, one that only her family knew.

"Nah... just practicing."

"And why are you half naked? Not that I mind, but ---"

"Unh... I guess it just came undone." Claire quickly buttoned up her shirt and stuffed the tail into her jeans.

Averting his eyes in what he hoped was a gentlemanly manner, Charlie looked around the big open loft. "Okay, so where's the hoop?"

Claire pointed to a section of rafter about twelve feet overhead. "I imagine it to be right about there. Picturing a hoop in a constant position helps combine mental and physical exercise at the same time. It's sort of... virtual basketball."

"All right."

"So, what brings you over here this time of evening? Starting an exposé on clandestine sports activity?"

"Hardly." He sat down on a straw bale. "I was looking for someone who would listen. I need to vent a little... hope you don't mind."

"I'm all ears. I've hardly seen you the past couple of days. What's up? Does this have anything to do with Stuart?"

"More with Jacobi. Actually, the word on Stuart keeps getting better and better. The last I heard, not only is his temperature holding at normal, but the last of the cancer has vanished. Oh, and he's eating everything in sight. Rumor has it he may even go home soon."

"Really? Wow! If it's true, that's great!"

"Tell me about it. If I could get through the school year without having to write another obit, that would be fine by me."

"That's about the best news we could get." Claire sat down on the couch opposite him. "So, why the long face?"

"Because I think that Donald Jacobi is a con artist, and I'm furious that I ever let myself get taken in by him. I can't believe I was so naïve"

"Hey, you can't be a crusading journalist twenty-four/seven. You'd burn out."

"Fair enough. But you'd think I could've maintained some objective distance. But when I met Dr. Jacobi, it was as if everything I'd ever learned, read, or heard about reporting flew right out the window. His theories and mine?" He held her first two fingers together tight. "Just like that. Claire, he even knew my name! Here was a scientist who acknowledged my work --- all the stuff that's gotten me on Principal Reynold's bad side. Jacobi was going to get to the bottom of the meteorite weirdness, and tell the world about it. He was going to make people listen." His voice grew very small. "I thought it was going to be so great. He told me what I wanted to hear, and I lapped it up like a hungry kitten." Leaning forward, he looked deep into Claire's eyes, his face a mix of anger and frustration. "Even on Friday night, when he breezed though all those case histories without mentioning me or the Torch, I continued to believe him. Okay, some of his presentation was a little over the top, but I kept telling myself he had to do that to get people's attention." He frowned at the memory. "I should have known better, especially after seeing all that New Agey cosmic ca-ca on his BBS. It wasn't until the members of his 'flock' started rising and the ushers began passing the plate that the penny finally dropped for me! Claire, it was nothing more than a big phony revival meeting. He just tarted it up with flashing lights to make the whole thing look like science! I think he was exploiting the meteorites to make money. In another town, he'd probably use something else. I think the only purpose of the Ascendance Foundation is to make money. I just can't prove it yet." He shook his head. "I started off balance, and then other things kept me off balance. I wanted to start investigating as soon as Stuart collapsed, but I had to help his mother. Don't get me wrong, I was happy to help ---"

"I'm glad to hear that."

"--- but what I really wanted to do was run backstage and start asking the tough questions. I caught a glimpse of James Wolfe as we were exiting the tent. He looked shell-shocked, but he was starting to look angry, too. All I could think of was the Man Behind the Curtain from The Wizard of Oz."

"Charlie!"

"I know, I know. That doesn't prove anything. But it was one more reason to look for proof." Charlie pushed himself up off the bale and started pacing. "I've spent the past few days trying to dig up background on Jacobi, his buddy Wolfe, and their Foundation. I tracked down every paper that Jacobi has written --- not that there were many --- and, at best, they're reviews of other people's work." He kicked the bale. "He hasn't done any original research on DNA. He hasn't done any research on the eradication of disease. He hasn't done any research on the extension of life. He hasn't done any original research on anything! I don't think that man has ever set foot in a laboratory even once in his entire life!"

"Charlie, chill! It's going to be okay. You saw through him."

"But did anybody else? After Stuart collapsed on the stage, I thought that Jacobi was finished, at least in this town. But now the faithful are returning."

"What do you mean?"

"Remember how I told you that Jacobi had put me on the Foundation's e-mail list? Well, in the past day and a half, they've been posting progress reports on the Foundation as well as on Stuart's condition. They reported a slow stream of cars back to their campground, so I went out this afternoon to check on it myself --- and it's true. Evidently, some of the out-of-towners who bailed on them Friday night got the word and have come back to ask for forgiveness. By this weekend, Jacobi will probably have all of them back. And now they'll be convinced he can work miracles."

Claire leaned back on the couch. "Well, it's tempting to believe in miracles. What do you believe? Does Jacobi have anything to do with Stuart getting better?"

"Jacobi? No. His meteorite? Yes. Something definitely happened when that rock got zapped."

"Charlie, Stuart had seizures before."

"None that were followed by a complete recovery from cancer! Claire, most of the strange things that happen around here turn out to have some connection to those green glow-in-the-dark meteorite crystals. I can't believe that this is just a coincidence. Jacobi is a fake, but the weirdness effect is real. That's why I say he's just exploiting the meteorites."

"Hey, don't take it so hard. It's not as if this is your fault."

"No!" Charlie gave a sardonic laugh. "Would Jacobi have come here in the first place if he hadn't seen the Torch?"

"Who knows?" Claire threw up her hands. "He already had a space rock that came from Lowell County, so he must have known something about the area. He probably would have shown up around here sooner or later."

"Well, yeah ---"

"And if Jacobi hadn't shown up, then maybe Stuart Harrison wouldn't be getting better right now. Look, let's assume that Stuart's recovery is an example of the weirdness effect. Without Jacobi, what are the odds that Stu would have encountered a meteorite and a malfunctioning laser?"

Charlie brightened a bit. "Probably zero. I hadn't thought of that, Claire, that's an excellent point." Then he scowled. "But that still doesn't let Jacobi off the hook. This whole Foundation business still smells. I hate it that they're using the local weirdness to soak people for a lot of money. I feel exploited."

"I hear that. But if Jacobi and his Foundation are really as slimy as you think, chances are you're not the only one who noticed. Sooner or later, they're going to slip up."

"I hope so."

"C'mon, cheer up. You know they will." Charlie started to smile, and Claire rose to put a hand on his arm. "And when they do, I'm sure you'll have an exposé ready!"

Charlie gazed dreamily into her face. "You really think so?"

"Uh... sure." Suddenly aware of her hand, Claire eased it off and away from his arm. "We've been friends since --- what? middle school?"

"Right, middle school." Charlie glanced away momentarily.

"Charlie, in all that time, I've never once known you to give up on anything."

"No, I guess I never have." He patted Claire's arm, and they exchanged grins. "And if I'm going to have that exposé ready, I'd better start digging deeper."

"Just don't dig yourself in too deep."

"What, me worry?" Charlie's grin twisted a little at one end. "If I find myself getting in a hole, I know you'll be around to throw me a rope." He paused at the top of the stairs. "Thanks, Claire. Thanks for listening."

"Anytime."

She stood at the top of the stairs, watching him go. Claire liked Charlie, she really did, but she felt he sometimes took this reporter business a little too seriously. He was always prying into things like some small-town Woodward or Bernstein. Charlie probably wouldn't be satisfied until he lands a job with a major newspaper. Claire shook her head. She admired his drive, and she enjoyed occasionally helping him chase down stories, but she just couldn't understand why he would want to make a career of it.

Claire smiled and crossed the barn's upper level to the open loft door. For several minutes, she just stared out at the stars. Astrophysics, now that would be an awesome career. The night sky had always intrigued Claire, and learning that she had come from somewhere out there had only increased the fascination. She was swiveling her telescope around, to check out a star in Ursa Minor, when she caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of her eye. Looking down, she saw her mother waving at her from a window, and Claire waved back. Thanks for the fast heads-up on Charlie, Ma! I'd have had a hard time explaining how I could play basketball with myself! Behind her, a creaking step sounded in the stillness of the loft.

Claire turned around, smiling. "You forget something ---?"

She froze with her mouth open.

The figure on the stairs wasn't Charlie Sullivan.

Landon Lang looked up at her in surprise. "I don't think I've ever left anything here. Have I?"

"Uh, no... not you... uh ---"

"Were you expecting someone else?"

"Yes. No! I mean ---" Claire thought fast. She couldn't say that she'd just been talking with Charlie. "My mom had called up from below a few minutes ago. I thought that maybe she had come looking for something. But it wasn't her... it's you!"

"Ah!" Landon nodded his acceptance. Still, he seemed uncertain as he mounted the final steps. "I haven't come at a bad time, have I?" He looked around, as if to ensure that he hadn't interrupted something.

"Not at all." Claire realized that she was staring at him and broke it off, afraid that she was making him uncomfortable. "What brings you out tonight? Something on your mind?"

"Definitely." Landon exhaled the word, the relief in his voice overcoming the uncertainty. "I was out riding, and I saw your light on up here, and I thought ---!"

"Sure. Here, have a seat." Claire hadn't even heard Landon's horse. "Take a load off and tell me what's wrong." She spread an old horse blanket over the worn cushions of the couch.

Landon settled back and started over. "It's sort of complicated. Everything has been so crazy since last Friday."

"For just about everybody."

Landon nodded. "Aunt Nell is in such a state! She was all gaga over that Dr. Jacobi until Friday night's performance. That really shook her up. But now that Stuart's condition is improving, she's getting all schoolgirly again." If he realized that he was talking to a schoolgirl and that he was the object of her affection, he gave no sign of it. "It's much worse this time. She spent all day yesterday volunteering at the Foundation Compound. And this afternoon, I caught her sending Jacobi flowers and a little note." A shiver ran across his shoulders.

"Are you getting cold, Landon? I think there's another blanket here somewhere."

"Hmmm? Oh, no. It's just that for a second there, I imagined Jacobi becoming my new 'uncle'." He managed to repress a second shiver. "Nell is spending so much time at the Compound. And she's given Jacobi so much money! Money that should be going back into her flower shop, or into the Crow's Nest. It's all so weird. It's as if our rôles have suddenly reversed. I'm really getting worried about her, but if I try to say anything, she insists that I just don't understand. She gets very defensive about Jacobi. It's almost as if he's put a spell on her."

Landon fell silent, staring out the loft door at the night sky. Claire remembered what Charlie had said about the returning faithful, and felt uneasy. Landon's worries about Nell Potter put more of a human face on the problem. I'm beginning to understand why Charlie got so worked up.

"Landon, for what it's worth, not everyone is entranced by Donald Jacobi." She briefly summarized her conversation with Charlie, not mentioning how recently it had occurred or where. "It's like I told Charlie --- if he's seen through Jacobi, other people will, too."

"I hope so. Maybe I should talk with Charlie myself, share what I know."

"Maybe. I just wish I could do more to help you."

"Well, if you think of some magical way to bring Nell to her senses, let me be the first to know. Seriously, Claire, you've already been a big help. At least you didn't tell me to just ignore Nell."

"Who would tell you that?"

"Oh... Britney." He shook his head. "She thinks I'm getting upset over nothing. She keeps telling me that I should just block Nell out and go on with my own life. That's easy for her to say. But she didn't block things out when her father's health got so bad --- she obsessed over it. What Britney blocked out were her friends. At first, she wouldn't talk about it at all... not even to me!"

"I remember. She gave all of us the silent treatment." Until I called her on it.

Britney had been uncommonly withdrawn, not wanting to discuss her father's health problem with anyone. The cheerleader had indeed shut it all in, and shut everyone else out. She'd so alienated Landon that he'd started paying more attention to Claire. But then I found out about her dad's heart condition. I couldn't take advantage of that. I kept thinking how I'd feel if my dad became seriously ill.

Claire would have rather discussed anything other than Britney Fordman, but it was obvious how much this had upset Landon. And she couldn't stand to see him that way.

"Britney's still pretty worried about her father, Landon. You can't expect her to think straight about other people's problem with their parents. They must all seem pretty minor to her, at least, compared with what she's facing. When Britney tells you to just ignore Nell's... interest in Dr. Jacobi, maybe it's because she can see her mom being widowed soon... and marrying again. I can't imagine she likes to think about that too much."

"I suppose you're right." Landon tilted his head to look at Claire. "In fact, I'm sure you are. How did you get to be so perceptive, anyway?"

"I don't think I'm all that perceptive."

"I do. How do you do it? What's your secret?"

I've had to practice studying "normal" people. I only look normal. I'm not even human, I'm just passing. She wasn't ready to tell him that. "Maybe it has to do with my being an only child."

"I'm an only child, too, but I feel so clueless sometimes."

"Doesn't everybody?" Claire scratched her head. "Being perceptive? I don't know, maybe it has to with the way my folks brought me up. We've always been close. In a way, I feel almost as much a part of their generation as I do of ours. It gives you a different view of things."

"I have to admit, you do have two of the coolest parents."

"Yeah, I really lucked out." She smiled. "I've learned a lot just being around them, working alongside them."

"Oh? Like what?"

"I'm not sure where to start." Claire sat down on the bale of straw. "They've shown me how to anticipate things... and how to cooperate. You have to when you're living and working on a farm." She plucked a few straws loose and rubbed them between her fingers. "This stuff didn't bale itself, you know."

"No, I suppose not." There was a grave tone to Landon's voice, but a sly smile on his lips. "Then it's more of a farm perspective?"

"I never thought of it that way, but --- yeah. You have to stay aware of what's happening around you. You have to know when to rotate your crops and replenish the soil --- just wishing the minerals back won't cut it. You really learn a lot about cause and effect."

Outside a cow mooed plaintively, and Claire had to laugh. "There's another example. Even if you've chosen good bloodlines, you still have to watch after that newborn calf like a hawk if you want to raise a real blue-ribbon winner. And even then there's no guarantee."

"The farm as an allegory for life...!" Landon leaned forward, resting his forearms across his knees. "It seems so obvious once you mention it."

"Yeah, it does --- doesn't it?" Claire looked intrigued by her own train of thought. "You have to work hard, but that's not enough by itself. You have to work smart, too. And sometimes, despite all your planning, and all your hard work, things still go wrong. It doesn't rain. Or it rains too much. Or you get exactly the right amount --- but instead of rain, it falls as hail or snow and wipes out the crops you just planted."

"That sounds so frustrating. It must feel like the whole universe is out to get you."

"Oh, sure. But you can't let yourself dwell on that, because it isn't. Out to get you, I mean. If there's one thing I've learned from Ma and Pa, it's that the universe doesn't really care, one way or the other. It's just the way things turn out sometimes." Claire pushed herself up from the bale. "It might be your responsibility to help out afterwards, but it's nobody's fault that it happened."

"No. Because sometimes, things simply go wrong." Landon nodded slowly, more seriously now. "Sometimes people get very ill for no good reason. Even good people, like Stuart Harrison." He slid forward to the edge of the couch, clasping his hands together, almost as if in prayer. "And sometimes... sometimes people are just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Like my parents were."

"Landon..."

"It's okay." He glanced down at the floor briefly to compose himself. "You know, I've often fantasized about what kind of life I would have had, if they hadn't died. That we would have lived in a fabulous town house in Metropolis, or traveled the world." There was a sparkle in his eyes as he turned to face Claire. "But then I stop and think... no. They owned acres and acres of fine, fertile land in the middle of Kansas. I would have grown up a farmer's son... and that would have been just fine." He rose from the couch and walked toward Claire. "When I hear you talk about farm life, it gives me just the tiniest hint of what my life might really have been like."

"I'm sorry if I ---!"

"No." He put a finger to her lips. "Don't be. It's a nice fantasy. I like imagining myself living on a farm."

"I've never had to imagine that. It's been all around me for as long as I can remember. My fantasy was always to go out into the world. But maybe you're on to something. Maybe everything we need is right here..."

Landon stood very close to Claire now, gazing down into her eyes. The loft grew quiet. He slowly leaned forward. Claire's eyes started to close.

And the silence was suddenly split by Martha Kent's voice. "Claire!"

"Ohhh!" Claire angrily went to the loft door and looked down. "Up here, Ma!"

"Nell Potter's on the phone," Martha Kent said, leaning out the kitchen window. "She wants to know if we've seen Landon tonight."

Landon moved up beside Claire. "I'm here, Mrs. Kent."

Martha's head briefly disappeared inside, then reappeared. "I told her you were here. She was getting worried." Her head disappeared again.

"The farm grapevine!" There was exasperation in Landon's voice. "I didn't think she'd even notice I wasn't home."

"That's... all right," Claire lied.

"I should probably be going."

A million words flew through Claire's brain. She tried desperately to find the ones that would persuade Landon to stay there with her, even if for just a few minutes longer.

But what she said was, "Sure."

Claire followed after him to the top of the stairs. "I'm sorry I wasn't much help in solving your problems."

"I didn't really expect to find a solution... just a sympathetic ear." Landon smiled softly, and her heart melted. "I always feel better, talking these things out loud. Thanks, Claire. You're a good friend."

"Any time, Landon."

Claire leaned over the rail, watching him descend the stairs, much like a drowning man watches a ship disappear over the horizon. She resisted the temptation to stare through the loft floor after him. She turned and mentally cursed herself in every way she could think of, for not being more helpful, more charming... for failing to make him forget about Britney Fordman. If she could just do that...

In a heartbeat, Claire could see it all: She and Landon could get married and help the folks with the farm. Eventually, they could buy part of the acreage and expand onto adjoining property. Maybe buy some of Nell Potter's land. Eventually, her parents would retire and she and Landon would take over their farm completely. Their future together unfolded before her eyes, and it looked just perfect to her.

Caught up in her thoughts, she missed the sound of footsteps behind her.

"Ahem."

Claire spun around, to find her mother standing at the top of the stairs. "Ma? What...?"

"I just thought I'd see if I could interest you in joining your father and me for a movie and some popcorn. Or are you planning on entertaining some more gentlemen callers tonight?"

"Unh, no." Claire looked around. "No, I doubt it."

Martha raised an eyebrow. "Something wrong, sweetie?"

"I was just... daydreaming. You've heard of people having a mental flashback?"

"Yes...?"

"I think I may have just had a flash-forward."

Late Wednesday afternoon, a white van bearing a blue-and-red WMET News logo pulled into the main drive of the Lowell County Medical Center. It progressed no more than thirty feet before it was met by a Lowell County deputy sheriff, one hand upraised.

The van's driver rolled down his window as the deputy approached, clipboard in hand. "There a problem, Officer?"

"No problem." The deputy added the van's license number to the list on his clipboard. "Just trying to make sure the emergency lanes stay clear. You're from where?"

"Metropolis. Ted Dawson, WMET."

From the passenger's seat, a smartly dressed woman leaned across, favoring the deputy with her best on-air smile. "Hello, I'm Kellie McDonald. We're running a little behind. We're here to cover ---"

"I know why you're here." The deputy finished annotating his list and used his pen to point out a side road. "Bear left there and keep going till you reach a stand of trees. The north lot is just beyond it. You'll see the staging area when you get there."

Dawson followed the deputy's instructions, and soon came upon the wooded area. Just past the trees, he braked the van to a stop, his eyes blinking in amazement. "Looks like we've got ourselves a little competition, Kellie."

A line of vehicles stretched out before them, each bearing the log of a radio or television station from a different city. Kellie read them off as they drove past the occupied spaces. "Dallas... Amarillo... Wichita... Denver... Chicago? They must've driven all day. Look, Ed --- CNN is here!"

Dawson shook his head as he eased the van into an empty slot. "I'll bet there haven't been this many reporters in these parts since '77."

"Tell me about it." Kellie flipped open a mirror and checked her teeth for errant bits of food. "This may be a bigger story than we thought. Come on, we'd better hurry."

Dawson shouldered his camcorder, tossed Kellie a microphone, and the two of them rushed to join a throng of newspeople clustered in front of the hospital's main entrance.

"Hey, Kellie!" A lean, sinewy form fell in alongside her. "Here to interview the Miracle Boy?"

Any lingering remnant of Kellie's on-air smile dissolved. "Hello, Nixon. I never expected to see you out in the hinterland. I would have thought this story was too wholesome for the Inquisitor."

"You wound me, Kellie."

"Don't make me wish for things I can't have, Nixon."

Roger Nixon gave a sharp, barking laugh. "This story is right up my alley. Terminal kid goes to a tent meeting, gets cured --- that's page one for sure! Yeah, you'd be surprised at some of the stories I've dug up around here."

"Heads up!" Dawson swung his camcorder around. "Here they come."

Glass double doors slid open with a soft pneumatic whisper, and a small group emerged from the hospital. Flanked by his parents, Stuart Harrison strode up the concrete walk toward the gauntlet of microphones and camera lenses.

"Stuart!"

"Over here, son!"

"How's it feel to have a new lease on life?"

"What are your plans ---?"

"To what do you attribute ---?"

"QUIET!"

Ray Harrison thrust out a big, beefy hand. His unexpected bellow momentarily silenced the reporters. "That's better! Now, if you'll all just hold your horses, my son has something he'd like to say. Stu...?"

"Hi, folks." Stuart took a step forward, raising his hand in a shy, casual wave. "I wasn't sure I wanted a big send-off like this, but...well, when you get the kind of lucky break I did, I guess it's important that everybody hear about it. So that, maybe, other people might have a chance to share in that luck. But first off, I'd like to thank Dr. Manning and everybody at the hospital. They've always been super to me... even if they did want me to spend a couple of more days here."

Stuart grinned at his mother. She smiled back at him through teary eyes.

Kellie McDonald jumped into the lull. "So you're going home early?"

"Doesn't seem too early for me!" Stuart's honest retort raised a few hearty laughs from the reporters. "I feel healthy, and all the tests say that I'm healthy. Once my temperature dropped to normal, they couldn't give me any reason why I should stay. No good reason, anyway."

"Then it's true that your tumors are no longer considered life-threatening?"

"They're gone!" Stuart patted the top of his head. "It's just like they were never there. And I owe it all to this man back here. Dr. Jacobi ---?"

As Stuart called his name, Donald Jacobi stepped forward. He had been standing just behind the Harrisons, all but unnoticed by the reporters until now. Stuart shook Jacobi's hand.

"Doc, I owe you the world's biggest apology. Last Friday night, I think I was angrier than I've ever been. Dad just about dragged Mom and me to your lecture. I didn't want to go. I thought you were a big phony, and I still felt that way when I went up onstage. I figured that, even if it was the last thing I'd ever do, I'd show you up." Stuart's eyes started to tear up. "But I was wrong. You cured me! I'm here to tell the world that you saved my life! Thank you... thank you!"

Camera shutters clicked like hyperactive crickets as Stuart hugged Jacobi to him and Ray Harrison embraced his wife, both of them weeping freely, joyously. Many of the reporters and camera operators began to blink back tears.

"No, Stuart. I didn't save your life. I merely supplied the means, the opportunity." Jacobi continued to look at Stuart, but projected his voice so that the waiting microphones picked up every word. "But I didn't know if it would work. That's why I called it an experiment."

Jacobi turned and gazed out into the sea of cameras. "Any reputable scientist will tell you that most experiments end in failure. My initial tests with a meteor fragment ---from this very area --- had indicated that it produced subtle energies which could provide health benefits."

He put his arm around Stuart's shoulders and turned him so they both faced the cameras. "This brave young man's condition was so grave, so serious, that I decided to take a chance. Admittedly, it was a spur-of-the-moment decision. At best, I hoped that I might alleviate some of the terrible stress on his system, give his body a chance to fight back against his disease."

The lens of a CNN camera moved in close, and Jacobi addressed it directly. "What we got was a breakthrough greater than any I have experienced in any laboratory. It was a wonderful, magnificent accident --- a true 'Eureka Moment'!"

Jacobi turned back to Stuart. "My boy, you thanked me --- but I'm the one who should be thanking you. I've been working for years to find away to unlock the energies bound up in that meteorite. Friday night, we found it together! We didn't just destroy your tumors, we've found the next rung of the great cosmic ladder that will lift humanity to a higher level. Now I at last know how to proceed with the work of the Foundation. We stand on the threshold of a new golden age, all thanks to you!"

Stuart smiled. "It's like you said, Doc, we never know what we can accomplish until we try."

Dawn was especially clear Thursday morning over Metropolis. A gentle west wind had blown away the usual morning haze, and the sunlight glistened off the giant globe atop the Daily Planet Building, turning it into a golden beacon. In the offices below, night watchmen punched out, turning their keys and their monitor stations over to the morning crew. Garbage trucks rumbled through the streets at a tortoiselike pace, scooping up the refuse of the previous day, trying to complete their rounds before the worst of the rush hour traffic arrived.

As the city awoke, a long black limousine sped down Bessolo Boulevard. It braked briefly for a red light at Clinton Street before turning right. Three blocks down, a step van tossed off bundles of the Daily Planet's early edition in front of Shayne's News-of-the-World. And as he had for over half a century, Old Pop Shayne grabbed the papers and hauled them over to his newsstand. He was just snipping the wire from the first bundle when the limo glided to a halt at the curb and flashed its lights.

"Awright, awready, I'm comin'."

Pop fished a fresh, wrinkle-free copy of the morning's Planet from the middle of the bundle, as per his customer's preferences, and shuffled over to the curb. The tinted glass rolled down with a barely audible whir, and a well-manicured hand thrust out a crisp new twenty-dollar bill. Pop exchanged the newspaper for the twenty and began to rummage through the pouch pockets of the old canvas apron at his waist. The hand waited patiently as Shayne counted out his change.

"Five... and ten makes twenty. Here ya go ---!"

The hand withdrew, the window slid shut, and the limo pulled away from the curb. Pop watched it go for a bit, then spat in its general direction.

"And a good mornin' to ya too, Mr. Luthor!"

A man wearing a hard hat looked up from the stand's display of sports magazines and shook his head. "Rich guy like that, you'd think he could at least leave you a tip."

"Lionel Luthor? He does tip. Always pays me double to get an unwrinkled paper. But that ain't the point." Pop started moving the rest of Planets onto the shelf. "He could still spare the time to say 'Good mornin'."

"Well, sure. Why not?" Hard Hat scooped up a paper and handed Shayne a dollar. "That don't cost anything."

Pop took one last glance in the direction of the departed limo. "Yawouldn't think so, would ya?"

In the back of the limousine, Lionel Luthor flipped through the paper, barely glancing at the front page, searching for one particular story.

"So... it made the national news once again." There was bile in his voice as he folded the pages back to display a three-column wire service photo of Stuart Harrison and Donald Jacobi. "Nearly half a page in the Planet. And I can just imagine how the Inquisitor is handling it." Lionel skimmed over the text. "It probably would have rated even more space here if Congress wasn't in full dudgeon over the new finance bill. Do you see that final paragraph, Damien?"

"Yes, Mr. L." Damien Marco perched uncomfortably on a jump seat, facing his boss.

"Read it." Lionel smacked the paper against his aide's chest. "Aloud."

Damien cleared his throat. He hated to read aloud. He'd hated it ever since stumbling through recitation in Sister Mary Katherine's second-grade class, and he knew that he wasn't going to like it any more today. "Jacobi also announced that the Ascendance Foundation would embark immediately on a major fund-raising drive. 'We intend to purchase land in Lowell County for the construction of an Institute for Advanced Meteorite Research. We will be collecting ---' "

"That's far enough, Damien." Lionel sat back and steepled his fingers under his bearded chin. "Do you know what land he plans to buy?"

Damien knew the answer all too well. "The Davis property, Mr. L."

"Yes, the Davis property! Jacobi and Wolfe already have a lease with an option to buy. They're going to buy the property their Foundation has already occupied. The property I wanted. That I still want."

"Mr. L, I've been working night and day to dig up dirt on Jacobi, but he's like Teflon. And his partner's practically a cipher. I can't find anything that would ---!"

Lionel grabbed the knot of Damien's tie, twisted it, and pulled him closer. "Everyone has a past, Damien. You can't tell me that these sideshow charlatans don't have some dirt in theirs." He shoved the man back against the left rear door of the limo. "Get out."

"Sir?"

The limo came to a stop. "Jacobi and his Foundation are an intolerable problem. I don't want to see you again until that problem is solved." Lionel pressed a button on the console at his side. The left rear door powered open and Damien tumbled out onto the pavement. As he scrambled to his feet, he could see Lionel Luthor staring out at him."

"Do not fail me again."

"The door swung shut, and the limo moved on, leaving Damien Marco alone and shaking in the middle of the street.

The woman had just come inside from changing a fan belt on the truck when the phone started ringing. Hurriedly wiping her hands on a paper towel, she snapped up the handset on the third ring.

"Hello?"

There came the sound of papers rattling at the other end of the line. "Mrs., uh... Kent?"

"Yes?" Martha Kent stretched the word out an extra syllable. The hesitation in her caller's voice had her instantly suspicious.

"My name is Andy March. How are you today?"

"Fine. If this is about ---"

"I'm a member of the Ascendance Foundation. As you may know, we're trying to increase our store of meteorite fragments for the ---"

"Stop right there!" Martha could feel what her grandmother would have called her Irish rising. She took a quick breath and went on. "I'm sorry, but I can't help you. We don't have any meteorites here."

"Probably none that you're aware of, I'm sure. But I understand that your land covers quite a few acres. There could be fragments buried all over."

"I doubt that. This is a working farm, and our plows would have dug them up long ago."

"Well, some might have escaped your notice, you know. I'd like to come out and go over your ---"

"No, Mr. March." There was flint in Martha's voice. "Our property is clearly posted --- no trespassing is, or will be, allowed. Please make a note of that. This is the third call from your group that I've answered today, and I don't care to get any more."

"Uh ---"

Martha clicked off the phone and just stopped herself from slamming it down. Her mother had always been a stickler on phone etiquette, and Martha usually felt a slight twinge of guilt whenever she hung up on someone. But not this time. She took another deep breath and counted to ten before she trusted herself to place the handset back in its cradle. She turned and stalked out the back door, pausing only long enough to pull a pair of old boots on over her dress.

Jonathan Kent was out behind the barn, hitching a manure spreader to the tractor when he spied his wife headed his way. "Martha...?" He knew something was up from the force of her step. As she drew nearer, he could see that the red of her face was halfway to matching that of her hair. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"It's those Foundation idiots! They keep calling and calling, wanting to hunt for meteorites on our farm! And we're not alone. They've been calling every farm in the area, as far as I can tell! The Roudebushes, the Tuckers..."

Jonathan didn't say a word. His wife didn't show her temper often, and never without good cause. He'd learned long ago that, on those rare occasions, it was best to let her get it out of her system.

"... the Mosbaughs, the Wilsons. Oh, the Wilsons!" Martha's eyes flashed. "Most of our neighbors have had the good sense to turn them down, but not the Wilsons! They offered to let the meteorite hunters on their land for ten dollars a person and twenty-five for each rock they find. I swear, if I live to be a hundred, I will never talk to that Frieda Wilson again!"

Well then, at least some good will come out of this. Jonathan stood in awe, recognizing in his wife's tirade the same fierceness that a mother bear would display in defense of her cubs.

"I can't believe the greed of some people --- the sheer, unthinking greed! They don't care who they hurt. Just one of those damned rocks can make Claire sick. Too many might kill her!"

"They don't know that, Martha." Jonathan drew her into his arms and held her tight. "We didn't know until just a few years ago. And we don't dare tell anybody."

"It's all so frustrating. Isn't there anything we can do to stop this?"

"Not that I can think of. The EPA declared the meteorites harmless years ago, so no one's afraid of them. And now, Jacobi's beating the drum to convince people that they're good for you. I don't know how we'll ever convince people otherwise. Not without drawing a lot of unwanted attention to Claire."

Martha sank into her husband's embrace. "I wish we could gather up all of those rocks and send them back where they came from."

"Me too, hon. Me too. Still, if Jacobi's stooges can find most of the meteorites and consolidate them all in one place, it might make them easier for Claire to avoid." Jonathan held out his palms as his wife gave him a frown that would curdle milk. "Just looking for the silver lining, hon."

"Well, they'd just better keep their meteor rocks far away from our daughter." Martha folded her arms. "And I swear, if they call me one more time, I'm going to reach through that phone and yank out their tonsils!"

Jonathan Kent just nodded gravely. Whatever you say, Momma Bear. Whatever you say.

" 'The Institute for Advanced Meteorite Research'! Well, that's just marvelous!" Dr. Steven Hamilton crumpled the newspaper clipping into a ball and tossed it in the general direction of an overflowing wastebasket.

Lex Luthor retrieved the wad of paper as it tumbled from the refuse pile. "I thought you'd want to keep on top of what the competition is doing."

"Competition?" Hamilton grimaced as he repeated the word. It seemed to leave a bad taste in his mouth. "I suppose that's what it is now. Unfortunately, splashy fringe types like Jacobi often make it harder for unconventional topics to get serious study and funding. Few scientists have wealthy patrons these days, and I can't do all the work myself."

"You sound as though you're convinced there's a lot more to investigate here." Lex smoothed the crumpled paper over a corner of a lab table. "Do you think it's possible that the meteorites could have major beneficial effects?"

"Possible? Yes. But almost certainly not at the grandiose levels that Jacobi claims. The problem is, that's what people respond to. It's an age-old scenario: Snake-oil salesman comes to town, cures sick boy, gets his name in all the papers, then sits back to bask in the glory and rake in the cash."

"Funny, I never took you for a man who was all that interested in glory." Lex cocked an eyebrow at Hamilton. "And the first time I offered you money, you showed me the door."

" 'Glory'?" Hamilton waved a hand dismissively. "I had a small taste of fame once upon a time. Nice, but not very filling. And, of course, it didn't last. It rarely does." He plucked a pair of safety glasses from a rack above a cluttered lab table. "In the past half-century, Jonas Salk probably saved more lives than any other man then alive. Today, his is just the name on a vaccine that too many people take for granted, if they think of it at all. No, the world can keep its fame."

"And money?"

"Ah, yes. Money. That other great intoxicant." Hamilton set the safety glasses on the bridge of his nose. "I can't imagine what it must have been like for you, Ms. Luthor, growing up the daughter of a billionaire. All that money... I wonder how you would fare without it?"

"No doubt a question my father has pondered many times."

Hamilton glared at her through the safety glasses, but Lex wore a perfect poker face. The scientist shrugged his shoulders and went on. "I myself grew to adulthood with relatively simple tastes. During my career in academia, I enjoyed several flush years, but I never lived above my means. As a result, when all the grant money evaporated, I was able to afford this modest facility." He gestured to the barn around them. "Hardly state-of-the-art, but it allowed me to continue my work after a fashion. No, Ms. Luthor, money is merely another tool to me --- a means, not an end."

"An admirable philosophy, Doctor. Tell me, why did you finally change your mind about the... quality of the tool I offered you?"

"Don't play coy, Ms. Luthor. You know damn well why! Your spies dug up dirt on my past indiscretions. You could have made life in this small town very difficult for me. Instead, you offered funding and autonomy, and I needed both to begin the next step in my research."

Something in the scientist's tone caught Lex's attention. "You've found something?"

"Perhaps. Consider: The meteorites have been linked to unexpected --- sometimes bizarre --- changes in several individuals. As even 'Doctor' Jacobi pointed out, most people have not been affected at all. This suggests something subtle. Each change was unique, which clearly states that other factors, different for each person, were involved." Maybe even effluent from the LuthorCorp fertilizer plant. "But it also suggests that some odd new factor, something not previously part of the human equation, is at work. And I think I might have discovered that factor."

Lex frowned. "You've found out how the meteorites affect human beings?"

"No, no. Working out the exact mechanism is a long ways off. But I think I know why the occasional odd effect is so very odd. Look at this." Hamilton tapped the keys of his computer, and a long list of elements appeared on his monitor screen, each name accompanied by a set of graphics.

"Very colorful, Doctor, but it just looks like several rows of broken rainbows to me. What does it mean?"

"This is a spectrographic analysis of one of the meteorites I've been studying." Hamilton mouse-clicked on the top two rows listed items, highlighting and enlarging that section of the display. "These first two show the presence of the usual suspects --- iron and nickel, quite common in meteorites." He scrolled down the screen. "Here are some traces of copper, zinc, carbon. Now, these lines down here are interesting." He indicated a graph just below the listing for carbon. "They indicate unusually high levels of krypton."

"Krypton?"

"An inert gas. It's used commercially in fluorescent lamps, flash tubes, and some thermopane windows."

"I know what it is, Doctor. Why is it there in such quantities?"

"There must have been large concentrations of the gas where the meteorites were formed. At any rate, these are all indications of known elements, commonly found on Earth. Ah, but this one." Hamilton scrolled to the bottom of the listing. "This is something else altogether." Another click enlarged the final listing, the spectrograph of UNKNOWN.

"It's still just lines to me. Now they're bigger lines. What does it mean?"

Hamilton looked at Lex pensively. "It could indicate contamination, or perhaps a mixture that didn't completely separate out. But if I'm very, very lucky, it could mean that I have discovered a new element."

"A new element?" Lex glanced from the computer screen to a huge poster of the periodic table that was tacked up to a partition wall. "As in 'hydrogen, helium, and lithium'?"

"Precisely. We may have to set a new place at the Table."

Lex groaned.

"Seriously, I'll want to repeat the experiment --- and I'll need to run additional tests before I can be certain --- but if it is a new element as I suspect, I would peg its atomic number at one-twenty-six."

"One ---?" Lex's eyes widened. "One-hundred-twenty-six? I thought that naturally occurring elements went up to only about ninety."

"Ninety-two, actually. That's uranium. We've created over a dozen heavier elements in the lab, all of them radioactive, and most of them highly unstable. But this... this goes far beyond them. If it truly exists, this particular one would be classified as a super-actinide. Radioactive, of course, but with a relatively long half-life." Hamilton tapped the screen and seemed almost about to smile. "It's long been theorized that certain superheavy transuranic elements could exist. Elements where the atoms had a so-called magic number of protons in the nucleus." Now Hamilton did smile. "One-twenty-six is one of those magic numbers."

"I'll take your word for that, Doctor. But if you're right, why hasn't this been discovered before? I've read the reports issued by the Environmental Protection Agency and the National Science Foundation, and neither mentioned any significant radiation."

"I believe the exact wording was 'no significant increase over background radiation.' And that's absolutely correct, actually, but it's of no particular consequence here. Finding evidence of an entirely new element is another matter altogether from measuring overall radiation. Why didn't anyone else discover this? I honestly don't know." Hamilton looked contemplative. "Some very accomplished scientists took part in the initial studies. It's possible that their samples contained isotopes of this element that were more unstable. If that was the case, those isotopes might have broken down into other elements before they could be detected."

Lex thought about that. "So you're saying that they might simply have been unlucky?"

"It happens. Bad luck is annoyingly common in the sciences. When 'Doctor' Jacobi told the media that most experiments end in failure, he was --- for once --- speaking the plain, unvarnished truth. If I have indeed found a new element, it has come only after years of study. And, of course, the new equipment was a huge help." Hamilton gestured toward the burnished metal case of an apparatus mounted on a nearby metal test stand. "It's ironic. The Smallville meteor shower prompted a flood of new research dollars, but only a trickle of that money has gone toward the actual study of the recovered fragments. Most of the funding has been routed to finding ways to prevent future impacts." He held up one hand. "Don't get me wrong. Impact prevention studies are long overdue. Even now, we remain vulnerable to meteor and asteroid strikes... as vulnerable as the dinosaurs were. All my work --- all of everyone's work --- could be wiped out in a single strike."

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that." Lex looked back at the screen. "At any rate, I'm glad that I was able to add to the 'trickle.' What's next?"

"As I said, repeating my experiments and running additional tests. I must be certain of my results. Some years ago, a research team thought that they had found a new superheavy element in a meteor, but their original results couldn't be duplicated." Hamilton stroked his chin. "And I should try to refine a purer form of the element from the raw ore. But to do that, I'm going to need more meteorites. And that is where I now face unwanted competition." He paused to light a Bunsen burner. "Jacobi has his addle-brained followers scouring the countryside for any rock that even looks like it might have fallen from the sky."

"Yes." Lex looked again at the newspaper clipping. "This does come at a bad time."

"That is what galls me the most. It took me years to get to this point, and now ---!" Hamilton scowled. "Jacobi is a fraud. He doesn't have a clue as to what he's really playing with, but that doesn't make him any less of a threat. If he continues to pursue this 'Institute' of his, he could set my work back years!"

"Don't worry. I have people looking into Jacobi's operation, and I suspect that I'm not the only one. You just continue with your research, and let me handle this." Lex handed the clipping back to Hamilton, and turned to go. At the door, she looked back. "By the way, Doctor, you're right about Jacobi. He has no idea what he's playing with."

Hamilton watched in silence as Lex exited the laboratory. He weighed the tattered newspaper clipping in his hand.

And then, holding it by one corner, he fed it to his Bunsen burner.

Next