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#7
MAR 11 |
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“If You Could Read My Mind!”
November 13, 1971. Saturday morning
The aboveground entrance to a secret lair
Electro was, surprisingly, not necessarily the most gaudily-dressed man to show up in the closed pawnshop. Though Electro wore a form-fitting green bodysuit with yellow lightning bolts running up and down it and a large yellow mask that looked like a mass of sparks, the Melter had shown up right after him wearing a dark blue helmet with large flared ear flaps, a blue and green tight bodysuit, a full cape that matched his helmet, and some sort of mechanical apparatus slung over his chest that connected down to what looked like an over-sized metal girdle.
Tame by comparison, Stiltman had shown up next wearing a gray metal, stiff-looking battlesuit with a tall metal cowl behind his masked head. Tamer still was the next man, a scruffy-looking fellow with bushy hair in normal street clothes clutching what looked like a trumpet case under his arm. Everyone looked him up and down dismissively, which made him clutch his case more securely and move to the corner of the room to wait.
The fifth man to arrive in the increasingly crowded pawnshop wore a suit of green-painted chainmail armor and a matching gas mask.
“Who are you supposed to be?” Electro asked.
“Chemistopheles,” the man in green replied, after which he coughed into his gas mask.
At 9:59 am an old man with thin white hair wearing a business suit walked in the front door. He looked around the room without alarm at the five occupants. In his hand he held a 3 x 5-inch laminated card. “I trust,” the old man said coolly, “that all of you received these same invitations?”
“I did,” Stiltman replied. “Said if I wanted to get rich to come here before 10 am this morning, only through the front door, and wait until 10 with five others before opening the door at the back of the room.”
“Has anyone checked out the door to see if this is a trap?” the old man asked.
“About a half-hour ago, Gramps,” Electro replied. “It looks to be conventionally locked, but I bet it’s booby-trapped.”
“I tried to melt the lock,” Melter said, “but it’s chemically treated to resist my melting ray.”
“Well, gentlemen, since it is now 10 am,” the man said, glancing at his wristwatch, “I suggest we give the door another try.”
Stiltman tried the door handle and found that, this time, the door opened easily. Behind the door was nothing but the inside of what looked like a freight elevator.
“After you, Gramps,” Electro said, “unless elevators might give you a heart attack.”
“Young man,” the old man said calmly, “I’ve been face-to-face with Thor. You couldn’t give me a heart attack if you sprouted three heads and started breathing fire.
The six men crowded into the elevator, their mounting curiosity overriding common sense.
On the level below them, the man known as the Mad Thinker monitored the results from the scanning devices hidden in the elevator. Saved on his computer was now all the information he could ever want on these six men and how their assorted paraphernalia worked. He wrung his hands with excitement as he read through some of the results.
Mr. Kline stood in the far corner of the spacious laboratory. He coughed to get the Mad Thinker’s attention before saying, “They are almost here. Don’t get so caught up in your precious data that you forget the mission.”
The Mad Thinker turned to look at Mr. Kline and gave him an evil grin. “Of course not, Mr. Kline,” he said. Then the Thinker stood up and turned to face the elevator just as its doors opened. “Gentlemen, welcome! Please, file in and I will explain why I have summoned you all here. As you may or may not know, I was once one of the most powerful independent gang leaders in the country until my first defeat at the hands of the Fantastic Four. Each of you is a rising star in this same territory.”
“Professor Zaxton, a geneticist with a reputation for ‘mad science’ to rival my own, faked his own death to evade capture by Thor and has been quietly building his own gang ever since. Chemistopheles, previously known as the Asbestos Man, returned to crime after a long sabbatical for health reasons. Liso Trago, the ‘Man with the Magic Trumpet’, through means even I cannot identify the songs he plays can mesmerize entire audiences and, doing so, has built for himself the largest gang in Connecticut. And the last three need less introduction since they have committed more public crime waves: Stiltman, Melter and Electro. I believe Electro has the largest gang of any of you, though it has stayed strictly penny-ante to remain under the radar of the superheroes.”
“We know who we are,” Melter said. “Get to the point of what you want us for.”
“Of course,” the Thinker said with the same evil grin. “I am offering each of you the chance to be a lieutenant in my new organization. In exchange for your allegiance, I offer you protection from the ‘superhero’ community.”
“And how are you going to do that when the Fantastic Four alone can give you so much trouble?” Stiltman asked.
“Allow me to show you how,” the Thinker said, as he pushed a button on the control panel near him and a section of wall in the lab began to rotate. Concealed behind the other side of it was a hairless giant 12 feet tall with red skin and horizontal lines across its body, as if it were segmented. It wore what appeared to be black rubber trousers and boots.
“What is this?” Electro asked as sparks fell from his fingers. “Target practice?”
“This is an android,” the Thinker explained, “and not one of my design either, but one made years ago by a rival of mine called Egghead. It cannot be traced back to me by any means, which is important because in a few hours it is going to kill the Black Widow.”
Chemistopheles had begun coughing again but held it back long enough to ask, “How does killing an Avenger benefit us?”
“Think, gentlemen. Most of the ‘superheroes’ active today have been so for six to eight years now. Though still active vigilantes, most of them are also settling down and starting families, as you will have observed with the Fantastic Four. The Black Widow is, herself, married and planning to start a family. The ‘superhero’ community has already had a demoralizing blow with the death of Daredevil; think how further demoralizing it will be for the ‘superheroes’ when a wife and expectant mother from their ranks is killed. I predict a majority of ‘superheroes’ will scale back to safer vigilante work after this. This would jeopardize your currently small operations, but banded together we will form an organization too dangerous for the ‘superheroes’ to touch.”
“I suppose that sounds reasonable to presume,” Prof. Zaxton said. “What involvement are we to have in this unfortunate woman’s death?”
“Nothing but to stay here and observe,” the Thinker responded. “A protest rally is building in numbers right now in Central Park. In…” the Thinker paused to check a timer on a nearby monitor, “two hours and five minutes, the Black Widow will pass by the protestors. At that moment, the android will attack the rally. The predictable altruism of the ‘superheroes’ will kick in and she will choose to risk her life against the android, even though she will be hopelessly outclassed by it…and three minutes later, the Black Widow will be dead. If all these things come to pass as I’ve predicted, then you will join me. If I have failed, you may all go your separate ways.”
November 13, 1971. Late Saturday morning
Tom’s Diner, Columbus Ave., Manhattan
Natasha had long imagined how great it would be to bear a child into the world, even though she was not sure how she would ever fit it into her adventurous lifestyle. Now, in the twenty-eighth week of her pregnancy and the start of the third trimester, she would settle for being able to fit her stomach into her pants again. The baby’s heart beating inside her, ready to be born soon, might have been a miracle but she never felt more disgusting. The former ballerina had been reduced to what often seemed like the mobility of an elderly walrus, her once lovely skin today sweaty and itchy, and her perfect physical conditioning and muscularity melting away not unlike the two hot fudge sundaes that sat on the table in front of her.
Needing to get off her feet on a Manhattan shopping trip, she had ducked into a little New York diner and purchased the double order of desserts without so much as a shred of guilt. On the contrary, Natasha felt she was due to treating herself to whatever she wanted, and when she was done devouring the chocolate sundaes she might just get another two; butterscotch and strawberry, or maybe a banana split, she thought with due consideration, knowing she would then be pleasuring her taste buds at the same time she was nourishing the baby with a healthy dose of potassium.
“Would that make you happy, you little brat?” Natasha whispered to her stomach. “Will a banana split get you to move off my bladder?”
“Soon as I finish my coffee I’ll be heading right over,” spoke a nearby customer rather loudly, interrupting her one-sided dialog with her stomach’s occupant.
Natasha turned to see a longhaired man in a tie-dye shirt and brown bellbottom pants at the neighboring table, the man pointing to the black and white television behind the counter showing news coverage of the rally.
“For Pete’s sake,” he said animatedly to the waitress. “It’s almost 1972. So what are we still doing there?”
By there, Natasha knew of course he meant Vietnam.
“Ike got us involved there more ‘en ten years ago, and I figured Tricky Dick Nixon would be in no hurry getting us out, so’s why I an’ everyone I know voted for Humphrey. We elected him to end this war! But he hasn’t done it, has he?”
“No, not yet,” answered the waitress who, to Natasha’s eyes, looked like she was hiding her impatience with the man who was supposed to be paying his bill.
“I’ll say one thing for Ike,” said the protester, wrapping up his impassioned tirade, “he did warn us about the military industrial complex. Ike said they had too much power an’ Anthony Stark is a card carryin’ member. The war suits his pocket book. That must be why the Avengers don’t just swoop in an’ put a stop to it.”
Natasha had to force herself to hold her tongue. She would never get her sundaes eaten if she found herself in a shouting match with every young man or woman who objected to the Vietnam War.
“Some heroes,” scoffed the young man in disgust. “The Avengers should be ashamed o’ themselves.” He slammed his empty coffee cup down on the table with one hand and slapped some dollars and change on the table with his other hand. Then, as bad luck would have it, his gaze happened to pass over Natasha. Natasha had figured she looked so fat and horrible now that she did not even bother with a disguise today. As the young man slowed his pace to the exit and kept staring at her, she knew she had been recognized already and the man was just deciding if he should say anything to her.
“Well, well, well,” said the man. He sauntered over to her table with a defiant swagger that only annoyed Natasha more. “You’re the Black Widow, aren’t you? I’ve seen your face before on TV! What’re you doin’ here? Come to help with the protest?”
Natasha shrugged, not willing to confirm or deny anything he said in the hope that he would go away.
The man smiled, clearly pleased with himself that he had found her out. “Nice disguise,” he said. “Dressin’ up like you’re fat.”
Natasha’s green eyes flashed at this and she glared up at the man with a mixture of anger and bemusement. He thought this was a disguise? Before she could put him straight, he brazenly sat down at her table to treat her to a piece of his dope-fried mind.
“Listen here, sister,” the man said, getting bolder, “I and the free thinking American youth want to know just why you and the rest of your super friends are letting the war go on in Vietnam. You cats could end the whole thing anytime you want!”
Natasha groaned inwardly. “It’s not that simple…”
“Sure it is! Heck, you can just send Thor over to have a little chat with Ho Chi Minh and that there would probably do the trick!”
“Well, it certainly would cure him of his atheism,” she said, slightly amused by the thought.
The man scowled. “You joke and sit here stuffing your face when Humphrey’s still got 130,000 troops over there fighting!”
“Yes, but –”
“An’ have the Avengers even been over there yet?”
Yes, they had, Natasha knew, but it had been three years since the Avengers had been asked to leave. In exchange for the superhero community staying out of Viet Nam, the Chinese agreed to no longer send troops into Viet Nam through Cambodia and Laos, something that would end the war so much sooner. Not that she could tell this jerk that, as that was of course highly classified. Nor would it do any good to mention that the war in Viet Nam was actually small potatoes compared to the coming war with the Kree Galactic Empire. “We’re right not to get involved,” she told him, not free to say anything else.
“Right by Stark, you mean,” the man said in barely restrained anger.
Sighing, Natasha rose, hefting her body out of the chair and, after paying, got up and left. She continued down 77th Street, past the American Museum of Natural History, pausing at Central Park West to rest her legs and momentarily sit down her shopping bags. Her motorcycle was just a block away, but from here she could hear a voice on a bullhorn from inside Central Park and knew the protest was forming. There were two news vans parked on the curb across the street, their occupants no doubt covering the rally as it got started. And Natasha had to admit to herself that she was both curious and concerned about this event. She had thought she had seen the last of the war protests a year ago, but she had also hoped the war would be over by now a year ago. Maybe there was some justification left in the righteous anger of that young man in the diner that so evil a thing could continue in a world with superheroes.
Perhaps, Natasha mused, she could stop this whole thing by going up in front of the rally and telling everyone about the far larger, threatening war approaching from the depths of space that threatened all of humanity. Yes, there might be mass panic, but perhaps it would also bring people together in common purpose. The Kree scouting parties the Avengers had found and captured claimed the main armada was coming in just a few more months and the Avengers still did not know how they would turn it back.
Sudden screams woke Natasha from her thoughts as people started to flee from the interior of the park, heading for the street. Natasha dropped her bags, checked the street for traffic, and started to run across it towards the fleeing people. She only halted as she saw the source of the commotion and her breath caught in her throat. Was it a Kree sentry?
But no – upon close scrutiny she saw the twelve-foot giant was not the product of a distant, star-faring empire, but probably some more mundane threat. It waded into the gathering of protesters and started swinging its arms through them, knocking a few men and women into the air with each swing. Why was it attacking the protesters? No matter, she had to stop it before it could hurt anyone. Natasha pulled her widow’s sting device out of her purse and began to strap it in place on her arm. As she moved closer and observed the slowly advancing giant longer, she guessed from its appearance and movement that it was mechanical in nature – some sort of giant robot after all. She was not sure how much good her sting would do against that robot, but if she could strike it in the right spot, scramble its operating memory or disrupt its power system before it could land a blow against her, she might…
Natasha flinched as if she had just received a blow. It was a minor, very soft one from within her…a kick from her baby. She clutched her stomach in sudden, stark realization.
The giant or robot or whatever lumbered on, almost as if it were coming for her. It trampled some people in its way, while others ran, jumped clear, or those who had been knocked down by the fleeing crowd rolled out of its way. Those who jumped or rolled made Natasha wonder if she was even that agile or capable of moving that fast now. She chided herself at her foolishness, to think of charging into battle in her condition and with the tiny life inside she would be so terribly endangering. She held onto her stomach with both hands and backed away.
Watching the chaotic scene a moment longer as the robot continued its rampage, Natasha finally turned and joined the rest of the fleeing crowd. It went against her hero’s instinct, but followed a much stronger one. A mother’s.
November 13, 1971. Early Saturday afternoon
The Mad Thinker’s lair
The assembled criminals all watched the proceedings on a closed-circuit television screen. There had been some chuckles of amusement at first when the android attacked the crowd but they had since trailed off to awkward silence as more time passed and the Black Widow never appeared on the screen. It was not until they saw S.H.I.E.L.D flying cars swoop down into the park and uniformed agents swarm out to attack the android that someone finally spoke up.
“I guess that ain't part of your plan?” Electro asked sarcastically.
The Mad Thinker shot him an angry glare. “No, I had factored in a 74.3-percent chance of some form of back-up arriving to aid the Black Widow before she died, but all my simulations still showed that she would be killed in the battle.”
“Only, there's no Black Widow,” Melter said.
“I-I can't understand,” the Mad Thinker said, his eyes going back and forth between the television screen and the nearest computer monitor. “I considered every variable and there was never less than a 96.9-percent chance of her entering the park.”
“You considered every variable...in a pregnant woman?” Prof. Zaxton asked. “Tell me, Thinker, have you known many pregnant women?”
The Mad Thinker was too busy to notice the hint of sarcasm in Zaxton's question until Stiltman snickered. Then the Thinker spun around and looked from face to face, fully cognizant from his own projections that there was a 60-percent chance they would all leave if the Black Widow did not die as he had predicted.
“Man...” Trago said, shaking his head. He turned his back on the Thinker and headed back to the elevator.
“I'm with Trumpet Boy,” Electro announced as he turned and left.
Chemistopheles and Melter turned to leave at the same time. “Say, you wouldn't happen to be interested in helping me reform the Frightful Four, would you?” Chemistopheles asked Melter.
Stiltman and Prof. Zaxton stayed the longest to watch as the android was defeated by about two dozen S.H.I.E.L.D agents, with no sign of the Black Widow ever showing. After they were gone, the Mad Thinker looked to the corner of the room, where Mr. Kline had gone unnoticed by the others all along.
“I'm very disappointed in you, Thinker,” Mr. Kline said. “I suppose I will have to deal with this on my own.”
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To Be Continued...
Next: In Black Widow #8: It's time for Natasha's baby shower at Avengers Mansion. A happy, joyous occasion, right? Not in the same month that Avengers #94 came out! See you in 4 weeks for “Behold the Mandroids – at My Baby Shower!”
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