Connections: An Alternate Story
by Carol Malo <Ccmalo@aol.com>
Rated PG-13
Submitted May 2000
_____________

note:  Thanks to Labrat for her initial encouragement & to Amber for 
her Spanish translation as well as those on the fanfic list who 
offered encouragement and suggestions, and especially to Jenni & 
Wendy who showed great forbearance in beta reading this, and to 
Laurie for editing it. :)

*---* denotes emphasis

Comments are very welcome to <Ccmalo@aol.com>


CONNECTIONS: AN ALTERNATE STORY

It's tough finding a good place to hide -- especially one from where 
you can watch, plan, wait for an opportunity to strike.  To make 
things right... to get even.  Justice and revenge.

It's even harder when you don't have any resources, any contacts, 
money, a home.  When you're not sure if you're being watched as you 
scramble in the chaos to escape a city ripped apart by corruption and 
civil war.  The only contacts she'd had were also her partner's, and 
she wasn't sure if she could trust him not to betray her once again. 
Finally, long after he'd made his own comfortable departure, she too 
had got out.

Then the earth had exploded in front of the van in which she'd fled, 
and she and the boy were alone.  Was there any hope of rescue? 
Wouldn't her disappearance be big news?  At least for a few days, 
until the next big scandal or crisis?

As she had twisted out from the jagged wreckage of the van, willing 
all her reserve strength to drive her body through sharp, twisted 
metal and the shattered shards of the rear passenger window, she 
hadn't thought of any of that.  She'd just wanted to survive.  A 
quick glance at the van's interior, at the blood and the gaping 
flesh, told her that her companions had not been as lucky.  Except 
the boy.  Reaching in, she struggled to pull him to safety, smelling 
the fumes as she did, aware of the danger of the gas tank blowing. 
Instinctively they'd both started to run, racing against the 
brilliant flash of fire which engulfed the wreckage as the van blew 
up.  Horrified and gasping for air, they stood silently watching the 
flame, hypnotized by its ferocity.

They waited there until nearly sunset, hoping that someone would have 
seen the flames or that another vehicle might come.  Maybe a truck 
transporting lumber or minerals.  Maybe a U.N. vehicle on patrol as 
peacekeepers tried, against incredible odds, to build a semblance of 
peace in a lawless land torn apart by age old feuds.  This was 
dangerous territory, controlled by gangs of bandit-terrorists. 
Capture would mean being held hostage -- if they were lucky.

Slowly, on the horizon, a battered jeep carrying one too many men 
lumbered and wheezed over the small rise in the rutted road.  It 
stopped several yards from the smoking wreck and, in a lithe, 
graceful motion, one of its passengers swung out of the vehicle. 
Grabbing a rifle from the back seat, he jogged the few yards to the 
wreckage, followed by one of his companions.

Both the woman and the boy recognized the symbolic scarf which marked 
these men as members of a renegade band of government militia.  The 
boy did not belong to their tribe; he would be mutilated and killed. 
She would be raped.

Without speaking, they both sank low to the ground, trying not to 
move, not to breathe, while the occupants of the jeep circled the 
skeletal remains of the charred van.  Realizing there was nothing 
there for them, the men walked back to their vehicle and took off 
down the dusty road, disappearing as it twisted into the lush green 
jungle beyond which lay the village from which the woman and the boy 
and their companions had just come.

The boy tugged on the woman's arm.  "We must go.  Through the jungle."

She knew he was right. It was their only chance.

*****

Somehow they had survived.  She knew she wouldn't have made it 
without the boy.  Raised in a small village on the edge of the 
jungle, Nkwame knew it well, at least well enough to keep them this 
side of death as they travelled one step ahead of the renegade troops 
who swarmed through the equatorial forest, burning and terrorizing 
villages as they seized control of the countryside.  Sometimes, the 
two were lucky and found a brief refuge in a safe village for a few 
days.  More often they slept on the jungle floor.

At first, jumbled thoughts of betrayal and revenge had dominated her 
as she struggled through the dense undergrowth, haunted by those few 
wonderful days with her partner, their feelings newly awakened.  Her 
feelings, not his.  Then the dark bitterness of knowing he'd made a 
fool of her would surface, pushing her as she fought her way across 
the damp earth of the rain forest, trying to avoid the dangers 
lurking in its unknown environment.  But as their flight continued 
and she became increasingly drained, she'd begun to turn to dreams of 
escape, escape from everything.

So, two months later, when they reached a market town at the elbow of 
a muddy river swollen by spring floods, she decided to take advantage 
of her disappearance and discovered how tempting it was to stay 
missing, seduced by the chance to avoid responsibility, to slip into 
wanderlust and fly away.

And she'd flown so far away.  Fleeing from the pain of a lover who 
had used her, of a family who'd pushed her away, fleeing from the 
pressure of being the best -- the best at school, the best at her 
job, the best at everything.  Fleeing from the anger that she should 
have to be the best.

*****

That had been either the end or the beginning, depending on how you 
looked at it.  As soon as he felt strong enough to tackle the next 
part of his search,  Nkwame had left her there on the edge of the 
jungle, going to search for his family whom he hoped had stayed safe 
through the nightmare of this last year.  She never saw him again.

Exhausted and emaciated after her experience, Lois Lane, nevertheless 
was exhilarated too.  She had survived.  She had been given a second 
chance.  And she knew that she was not going back.  This was her 
chance to escape, to find out everything she could about the world, 
to be free.

It had begun in the refugee camp, run by a few Catholic priests from 
Belgium, on the outskirts of the town where she and Nkwame had found 
their way.  Although Nkwame had left, she had stayed longer, at first 
dwelling too much on thoughts of getting even with her former partner 
and lover.  But as she slowly rebuilt her strength, she found 
satisfaction in assisting the priests and in regaining her awareness 
of the beauty of the lush landscape.  And finally she had buried her 
need to get revenge.  Still, for some reason which she only dimly 
understood, she had not told the priests her real name and she had 
also been very careful to conceal the passport which she always 
carried in an inner pocket of her jacket.  Part of her escape.

After that, she had worked her way to the coast, finding temporary 
jobs with businesses, staying long enough to save the money to move 
on to the next place.  Sometimes even saving enough to finance a 
rough trip to some long lost ruin or remote destination she'd read 
about, seen documentaries on, dreamed of.  And lost herself in the 
wonder of what man had constructed, and awe at the way time and 
nature had begun the relentless process of reclaiming those 
structures.  Or sadness at the way in which man had destroyed them.

She had seen and done so much in those years, driven by a restless 
curiosity across three continents.  Gone hungry in Karachi, bathed 
naked under a silver sliver of a waterfall in Nepal, chauffeured a 
Bentley for a Hong Kong millionaire.

It had been a rough time and she had thrived, except of course, for a 
couple of inevitable, wrenching bouts of food poisoning.  Those 
adolescent fantasies she'd had of exploring her spiritual self and 
finding the true meaning of life in some remote temple had turned out 
to be an illusion.  Those isolated communities clinging to the peaks 
of remote cliffs were just the spiritual versions of old boys' clubs: 
the support staff were women -- cooks, cleaners, laundresses, mothers 
of children.  Ah well.  Enlightenment was probably over rated.  She'd 
pulled on her hard earned backpack and headed east again -- always 
east, away from Metropolis.

This time south, across the Pacific on a freighter carrying cheap 
electronics to Ecuador.  And this time, she let herself be seduced 
once again by a city. Quito was much smaller than Metropolis but 
blended its urban sophistication with a polyglot of peoples, music, 
buildings -- the grace of Spanish colonial townhouses and old, 
decaying administrative offices nestling in harmony with the elegant 
simplicity of small scale modern architecture.  Yet Quito was still 
something of a frontier town, where guerrilla leaders and drug lords 
rubbed shoulders with men in tuxedos roaring into town in open jeeps 
from the oil fields to spend an evening at a casino or club.

She'd allowed herself to be seduced by one or two of them, enjoying 
the game, telling herself that intimacy was a fantasy.  After all, 
what intimacy had there really been with Claude Kendall?  She'd 
fallen hard for him.  He had made her feel so special and she had 
been spellbound by his physical charm, the suppleness of his slender, 
athletic body as he moved, and those blue eyes that sparkled whenever 
he looked at her.  Yeah.  If she'd been a little more observant, she 
would have noticed that they sparkled for others, too, but never so 
brightly as when he saw the chance of something that was good for his 
career.  She'd felt dead inside when she'd learned the truth.  Never 
again.

But the guys in Quito were different.  No promises, no lies.  She 
wasn't looking for anything long term and neither were they.  She 
never would again.  Fun.  She ventured to places she'd never been 
before and, at night, slid into her one and only black dress to slink 
with new friends at the casinos.  Slot machines and the silliness of 
carrying a carton of coins around.  In Quito, she was frivolous and 
for a brief moment she wondered if maybe Cat Grant didn't have the 
right approach to life after all.

While she had been travelling, she'd avoided, as much as possible, 
'The News'.  Too much a reminder of her old life.  The real 'News' 
was any information which would get her the next job or a lift to her 
next destination.  'The News' had been easy to avoid, too.  English 
language media were not readily available in the streets of most of 
the places she had been.  She would have had to actively seek those 
sources out.  But in Quito, it was harder to avoid the news because 
of the simple fact that she knew some Spanish and the longer she 
stayed in Ecuador, the more fluent she became.  It became harder to 
block out the rest of the world.

She wasn't sure when she'd first started to think about home. 
Probably it was the sisters.  The longer she travelled, the more she 
started noticing people, watching them as she pulled into a train 
station or sat in an outdoor cafe.  She especially noticed women 
together; 'sisters' she began labelling them in her mind.

The first time, she had been sitting in a tiny outdoor cafe on a 
dusty street in Nairobi when a small girl had raced across the road 
in pursuit of a puppy on a leash which had just escaped her clutch. 
An older girl ran after her, giggling as the two tried to grab the 
leash which was always just a little too short.  It didn't matter; 
the girls were having so much fun chasing it.  When the puppy 
gamboled her way, Lois had quickly reached for it, rising to walk 
across to where the girls were standing, watching her.  She handed 
the leash back to them, the older one thanked her with a shy smile, 
and then off they raced again.

Sometimes it was older women, meeting at a bus station or a train 
station -- their family resemblance visible as they hugged and then 
shared the burden of luggage to be carried to some waiting vehicle. 
Once it had been at the site of a car crash where one young woman was 
sobbing, "My sister, my sister."  Lois had helped the woman rescue 
her sister and then watched as the two embraced, tears streaming down 
the face of the one who had so nearly lost the other.  And Lois had 
cried, too.

That had been a couple of days ago.  Lois had lost Lucy in an 
acrimonious quarrel over Lucy's fiance.  This guy had made a pass at 
Lois which she'd deflected and then told her sister to dump him. 
Lucy didn't want to be told that, especially by her older sister. 
The worst fight they'd ever had in their lives ended with Lucy 
screaming that Lois was jealous, had led Ted on, and that she was 
going ahead with the wedding, and she never wanted to see Lois again. 
Never!  Fine.

But it wasn't fine.  Lois missed Lucy and, besides, she thought, the 
marriage had probably turned out to be a disaster and her sister 
would need her.  It was time to go home.

The first thing she did the next morning was to check her resources. 
Minimal.  How easy would it be to get her old job back?  Although she 
knew Perry White, the editor of the Daily Planet, had thought highly 
of her work, she also knew she'd only had a few years experience when 
she and Claude had flown to the Congo on that gunrunning story.  At 
that time, she'd definitely been considered the junior partner and it 
was Claude who had delivered the story in the end, using her research 
and even some of her prose, while she'd slept in his bed at the Hotel 
du Sud.  Everyone at the Planet knew of her relationship with Claude. 
Now she looked like a gullible fool.  What little reputation she'd 
managed to build had been shot down like a clay pigeon by an expert 
marksman.

Still, Perry had taken her under his wing when she had first started 
at the Planet.  Maybe he would give her a second chance, she thought, 
as she prepared a light breakfast in the tiny one room flat she 
rented in Quito.  She didn't yet have enough money for the flight 
back to Metropolis.  She had no credit cards, never having stayed 
long enough in one place to establish a billing address.  Besides, 
she'd lived so close to the margin, that any cash she had went on the 
basics.  No way she could pay off credit debt.  So she'd have to work 
for a few months to save enough to get home unless she could somehow 
get back by different means.  After all, she'd come this far.

Once she got downtown, she stopped in the lobby of the Quito 
Continental and did something she hadn't done since she'd left the 
Congo.  She bought an English language newspaper, *the* newspaper -- 
the Daily Planet, took it to a large comfortable chair in the lobby, 
and examined the front page.  The paper had changed its format.  The 
headlines were in larger print and there was a quarter page color 
photograph of a WWF wrestler on the front page.  Oh, god, she 
thought, the paper's been bought by Rupert Murdoch.  Without wasting 
any more time looking at the front page, she flipped to the editorial 
page, to the top left corner, looking for the masthead.

Nowhere did she see Perry White's name.  The publisher, and that 
meant owner, was one James Olson.  She noticed that he was also the 
editor-in-chief of the paper.  What had happened?

She closed the newspaper, rolled it up and jammed it into her bag. 
Later today, after work, she would do a little research in the 
National Library and find out what had happened.  And also figure out 
how to get back to the States.

*****

After Lois finished her research, she pushed back her chair and tried 
to work out what was going on.  Her beloved Metropolis sounded like a 
different city.  When she had left, the city had been in the midst of 
a surging crime wave -- more drugs especially.  More violence.  She'd 
never been able to get a good feel for whoever was behind the 
increase in crime.  Each time she'd got close, the story dried up, or 
stayed small time.  Or a distraction had appeared like the gunrunning 
story which had sent her to the Congo.  Now, it looked like the city 
was constantly battling crime of some sort.  Perry White who, 
incredibly, had become mayor of Metropolis had, so far, been unable 
to stem the rising corruption plaguing the city.

She was also dismayed by what she'd found out about the Daily 
Planet's new owner, James Olsen.  About five years younger than she, 
he had made astronomical piles of money designing and marketing 
computer software and then had decided to cash in some of his chips 
and play boy editor with *her* newspaper.  No wonder its format had 
changed!  Still, she had to admit, its music coverage had improved.

But the thing that clinched in her mind that The Planet had ceased to 
be a serious newspaper was the front page wrestler.  What was he, 
some kind of stunt that the Planet was using to sell newspapers?  She 
looked at the picture more carefully, this time not distracted by the 
red cape.  Although his posture was that of a wrestler entering the 
ring, arms crossed, legs planted firmly apart, and the too serious 
facial composure, his body was not.  It was -- less.  Not as much 
bulk; he'd be tossed out of the ring pretty quickly.  And she didn't 
like his hair, slicked back like he lived his life with permanent hat 
hair.

She read the story which accompanied the picture.  Incredible.  She 
didn't believe any of it.  Tabloid stuff.  Cape Guy could fly and he 
was apparently so strong he could lift a sinking ship out of the 
water.  Uh huh.  James Olsen must've read one too many comic books. 
*Superman*, for heaven's sake.  Didn't anyone read Nietzsche anymore? 
Well, she could only hope this red caped mascot had boosted the 
Planet's circulation.

She read the rest of the paper now, pleased to find the other 
articles were still up to the standard of the Planet she remembered. 
Okay, so maybe James Olsen was nine parts serious about the paper. 
She spotted some familiar names, but more changes.  Claude Kendall 
was no longer on staff, nor was Cat Grant.  Rather than writing the 
social column, Cat was, that day, one of its stories.  Alongside the 
short article, a photograph showed Cat, who had acquired a new last 
name, presenting a small trophy to Metropolis billionaire 
businessman, Lex Luthor, immaculately attired for a polo match.  He 
had, apparently, just played against the Prince of Wales.  Lois 
rolled her eyes as she read the caption.  Claude Kendall had made the 
column, too, photographed with a beautiful woman clinging to his arm. 
The caption below did not say who she was but identified him as 
Pulitzer award winning newsanchor, Claude Kendall.  Lois felt her 
blood pressure increase.

There was a new guy, Clark Kent, on staff.  She read his article, a 
column on the heroism of paramedics.  Not bad, she thought.  Lacked a 
little edge, but not bad.

Okay, now to see if anything else was out there about the Caped 
Wonder.  There was.  Amazing information.  If these stories could be 
believed, he really could fly.  Surely that wasn't possible?  There 
had to be some kind of small, hidden device behind the cape.  An 
anti-gravitational gizmo or maybe something with miniature jets. 
More incredibly, this superman was Clark Kent.  Maybe it was part of 
a hoax then.  To sell newspapers, or maybe to distract people in 
Metropolis from the real cause of crime in the city.  Lois wondered 
how this Clark Kent was able to pull it off.

She'd only managed to find a few pictures of Clark Kent as she'd 
surfed the various American newspaper websites and checked their back 
articles.  Kent's hair was longer, he wore glasses and somehow his 
facial features seemed less chiseled, less angular than Superman's, 
his eyes less narrow.  The resemblance seemed superficial but the 
pictures had been badly focused so it was hard to see what Kent 
really looked like.  James Olsen needed to hire a better 
photographer.

*****

The next evening, as she was sipping coffee at a cafe with a group of 
friends, just acquaintances really, Lois had a bit of luck in her 
plans for returning home.  One of the people to join their table 
during the ebb and flow of the evening was a Brit flight attendant on 
layover.  He knew a guy who piloted cargo planes out of Quito who 
might be able to do her a favor.

Three days later, Lois Lane was in San Francisco, determined to 
return to her home town, to rebuild her reputation, and to expose the 
hoax that was Superman.

*****

Clark Kent slipped in at the latest possible moment, furtively 
entering through the basement door which had been left unlocked for 
him.  In a blur, he ran up the narrow stairway that opened into a 
tiny office in the east transept of the huge cathedral, Metropolis's 
oldest.  Fervently he prayed that he had avoided the paparazzi who 
had dogged his moves for the last year.  Today, especially, he hoped 
for privacy.  This day belonged to the bride.

One of the deacons met him and escorted him to the front of the 
church; he'd made it with a minute to spare.  As he took up his 
position, he heard the strains of Mendelssohn's Wedding March and 
smiled.  Lana had opted for the whole traditional show.  Then he 
caught sight of her as she entered on her father's arm, as beautiful 
as he'd ever seen her, her blonde hair bright in the sunlight which 
streamed through the high clerestory windows.  The radiance of her 
smile lit her eyes as she looked up and caught her first sight of her 
future husband.

Clark smiled, feeling his spirits lift out of the darkness of the 
last few  months.  Lana's happiness touched him and for a moment he 
forgot Lois Lane.  He watched as she walked slowly up the aisle, 
turning at times to smile at a friend or relative in the dark oak 
pews which lined the aisle.  He turned to look at Pete Ross, waiting, 
looking awestruck in front of the altar as he watched his bride's 
progression.  Then the two were standing beside each other, and Clark 
knew, as Lana looked at Pete in a way that she had never looked at 
him, that this marriage was right.

Subconsciously, he had always known that he and Lana had never really 
belonged together; but, somehow, they had drifted into an engagement 
which had never seemed to bring either of them the happiness which he 
thought couples were supposed to feel.  Half in love, they'd tried 
desperately to convince
themselves that they were right for each other.  He couldn't even 
remember proposing; he wasn't sure he had.  They'd attended a couple 
of weddings in the year and a half since he'd met up with her again 
and, somehow, they seemed to be engaged shortly afterwards.

Lana had come to Metropolis when the corporation for which she worked 
had offered her a promotion and job transfer.  Her engagement to 
Pete, her high school and college sweetheart, had just ended and 
she'd jumped at the offer for change.

Clark had been part of the change; on standby, as he'd often been 
when they were in high school.  He'd been glad to see her again, the 
one person who knew about his unusual abilities and whom he knew he 
could trust to keep them a secret.  And he'd been grateful for the 
way she helped him keep the powers hidden, discouraging their use, 
reminding him of the threat if he should be discovered, holding him 
back from the edge of public exposure.  She protected him; but at 
some point, he wasn't sure when, she started to control him, too, 
trying to make him something he wasn't.  In spite of Lana's 
determination and his longing, he wasn't, never would be, normal.

Lois Lane, at least the other world's Lois Lane, had made him, forced 
him, freed him to be who he really was.  And he had felt exhilarated, 
free to soar without fear of being seen, and most of all, free to 
help when people needed him, free to make a difference.  Furious, 
Lana had issued her ultimatum -- her or Superman.  Superman.  He 
hadn't hesitated, not really believing Lana meant it, half hoping she 
did.  She did.  Later that day, Lois Lane, too, had left him;  he was 
alone, trying to figure out how to make it all work.

For the first few months after their engagement ended, he and Lana 
had avoided each other.  Then he'd accidently run into her with Pete 
at a movie.  Clark had been alone and they'd asked him to come with 
them for dessert and coffee.  He'd been just scruffy enough to not be 
recognized and he'd enjoyed the evening with them.  It was clear they 
were crazy about each other and they told him, finishing each other's 
sentences as they spoke, the whole story.  Their big fight, the 
broken engagement, the false pride, the 'thing' with Clark.  At this 
point, Pete stopped the story and glared at Clark who had raised his 
eyebrows at his and Lana's engagement being relegated to a 'thing'. 
Or did Pete mean, Clark wondered, his and Lana's sex life?

At any rate, Clark had felt a little uncomfortable -- after all he 
and Lana had been engaged, it was only natural for engaged couples... 
Maybe he should mention that he'd never felt the earth move for 
either of them.  No, that wasn't very gallant.  Instead, he 
diplomatically changed the topic and inquired about Pete's business 
in Kansas.  Pete beamed, apparently forgiving Clark, and, with Lana's 
help, told Clark all about Ross Inc.  Two months later, Pete and Lana 
were engaged.

Later, at the wedding reception, which was held at Metropolis' newest 
luxury hotel, the Lexor, Lana managed to convince Clark that it was 
his duty to dance with the bride.  After a few moments, he looked 
down into her laughing eyes and said, "What?"

"You.  You haven't danced with any of the single women here.  Clark, 
there are a couple of girls here tonight who could be right for you. 
I'll introduce you."

"Don't try to organize me, Lana," Clark laughed.  "I'm doing just 
fine, thank you."

"So why are you only dancing with really safe, unavailable women?"

"Lana, look at the people here.  That guy back in the corner, the one 
who took our picture a minute ago.  Is he one of your guests?"  He 
knew the answer before he asked the question.

Lana looked over at the slight, well dressed man.  "No, I don't know him."

"I do.  He works for the National Whisper.  Wanna bet what the 
caption is for the picture he just took?"

"Clark, that's awful.  How'd he get past Gary and Alan?"  She broke 
away from him, rushing over to one of her cousins, the big one who 
played tackle for his college team.  Two minutes later, Clark watched 
contentedly as the cousin and a friend grabbed the guy's camera and 
hustled him outside.

Lana returned to his side, a triumphant look on her face.  "Okay, now 
will you let me introduce you to Janine?  You haven't exactly been 
dating this past year, have you?"

Clark shrugged his shoulders.  "Not exactly."

Lana patted his arm.  "Janine's the tall redhead dancing with Uncle 
Jim over there.  She's a model, Clark."

"Ah."  Why not, he thought.  Maybe he should start dating.  The love 
of his life, or was she a substitute for the love of his life, was 
alive and well and living in a different universe.  The love of his 
life was dead, a ghost who haunted his nights.

"Come on."  Lana pulled his hand as the music finished, leading him 
across the floor to where Janine was now sitting, chatting with an 
equally beautiful friend.

"Lana, come say good-bye to Grandpa."  Pete intercepted them and took 
his bride's hand.  "He's getting tired and he'd like to go home."

"Of course, darling."  Lana turned to Clark.  "Don't *you* go way." 
Clearly, Lana still expected Clark to do as he was told.

Clark watched them go, bemused by Lana's docility, at least where 
Pete was concerned.  Then he looked across at Janine and her friend. 
Aware they'd glanced a couple of times in his direction, he wondered 
what they were saying.  Briefly rationalizing that eavesdropping was 
okay if you were the topic of conversation, he listened in on their 
conversation, focusing his super hearing on the pitch of their 
voices.

"But he's not bad looking."

"Imagine the press coverage if you dated Superman.  Think of what 
it'd do for your career."

"Hmm.  And imagine what he would do for you if you were his 
girlfriend.  Think about the contacts he must have.  You could meet 
anyone you wanted."

"Yeah.  Plus, you could *have* anything you wanted.  Imagine the 
jewelry he could give you."

"Diamonds."  A sigh and a pause.  "And he must have a hideaway 
somewhere.  A tropical island with a great beach."

Clark stopped listening.  He gazed across the room at laughing 
couples flirting and dancing, at older couples, their affection 
glowing after a night of celebration, at children playing among the 
tables with cousins and family.  He was an outsider here.  He would 
always be an outsider.  Turning, he slipped quietly out of the room.

*****

The toughest thing that Clark Kent did every day was to enter the 
newsroom of the Daily Planet.  Two years ago, it had been the thing 
that gave him the most pleasure.  The job still did bring him great 
satisfaction -- in a way more than what he did as Superman.  This job 
was what he was all about.  He was determined not to lose it or to 
lose the comradeship that he'd found here.  The first day after 
Superman appeared in Metropolis, Clark had shown up for work as 
usual.  As he emerged out of the elevator, he heard the silence: the 
newsroom was so quiet he suspected that no one was breathing.  He 
hadn't expected that.  He tossed out his usual morning greeting, the 
one that everyone started the day with, in hopes of breaking the 
stillness.  It didn't and he'd felt his gut lurch.  Then everyone 
started talking at once, but not to him.

Since then, he'd tried one day at a time, to reclaim his life as 
Clark Kent, reporter.  He hadn't succeeded.  The friends he thought 
he'd had dropped away, either in awe of, or uncomfortable with, a 
superhero.  A couple of them had tried to capitalize on the 
relationship.  He'd accidentally overhead two guys in the washroom 
talking about the "alien threat" and the other one replying, "At 
least he's not green," adding, "Do you think he morphs into other 
creatures?"  And the two had laughed.

That night he reread "Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde".  The following night 
he rented "The Wolfman."  Fortunately, the third night, he helped 
lessen the impact of a hurricane off the east coast.  Easy.

Now, at least, the staff took his presence in the newsroom for 
granted, slipping back into the old workplace relationship.  Never 
crossing it.  Except for James Olsen.  Lately, the two men had become 
closer.  Boy genius whiz kid is not too far removed from superhero. 
And since Clark Kent's personal life was as exciting as reruns of an 
ABC sitcom, the tabloids had called off most of their bottom feeders. 
Superman's feats were bigger news.

The morning after Lana's wedding, as Clark went about his routine at 
the Daily Planet, he was unaware that he was being watched by a woman 
about his own age, whose prettiness was obscured by the sensible 
skirt and sweater which hung loosely enough to render her voluptuous 
body respectable.  Her green eyes watched him speculatively as he 
reached across his desk for a sheaf of pictures which a staff 
photographer had just brought.  Waiting for him to finish his 
conversation with the photographer, she hung back.  When, Clark was 
free, she approached him, carrying a legal-sized file folder in her 
hand.

"Here's that research on the subway project you wanted, Clark."  She 
extended the folder, meeting his eyes as she did, wondering as she 
had for the last month why he was content to be here.  It was so 
trivial, beneath his rank, not worthy of his destiny.

Clark smiled at the Planet's newest research assistant as she handed 
him the folder.  "That was quick."  She impressed him; she always 
delivered her stuff before anyone expected it; and, although she was 
always deferential to him, she never appeared to be in awe of him.  A 
couple of times he'd had the strange thought she was waiting for him 
to do something.  "Thanks, Sara."

She smiled in return, turning as someone called her name.  They'd 
been here long enough.  It was time to see if Kal El was suitable. 
She would talk to Ching tonight.

*****

As Zara was leaving work late that afternoon, she was surprised to 
spot Ching striding purposefully across the main lobby of the Daily 
Planet, his confident step that of a man used to command.  Her eyes 
lit up with that secret pleasure she felt whenever he was near, but 
her words were formal.  "Ching, why have you come?"

"Zara, you've decided it's time."  His voice was eager as he came to 
a halt in front of her.

She smiled at him, welcoming the proper pronunciation of her name. 
'Sara' had such a soft sound to it, compliant, as though anyone with 
that name was meant to serve.  She didn't like it.  But it was the 
closest American variation on her own name and so she had accepted it 
as a small but necessary part of her camouflage.  As someone used to 
both status and a position of authority, she had found it difficult 
to live for eight hours every day as a foot soldier at the Daily 
Planet; however, she also knew that her personal feelings were 
unimportant compared to the desperation of their mission here.

"Yes.  So far Kal El has proved himself worthy, Ching."  Her voice 
let him know her optimism as she continued.  "We know of his great 
courage from our research;  he has repeatedly demonstrated his 
willingness to make sacrifices for the good of society."  They walked 
together toward the revolving doors of the Planet's front entrance, 
Ching falling slightly behind her to permit her to go through the 
door first.

His tone was derisive as they stepped onto the pavement.  "He takes 
no risk, given how this planet's sun has magnified his natural 
abilities to such an extraordinary degree.  He's impulsive; he takes 
off at a moment's notice.  When he returns to New Krypton, he won't 
have that luxury."

Zara sighed.  They'd argued around these points so often in the month 
they had been on earth observing Kal El.  "But he must come back, 
Ching.  The spirit of our people must be renewed.  If they see Kal 
El, son of Jor El, great-grandson of Zon El, returning as their 
leader, I know they will find the courage to defeat Nor."

"Remember, Zara, not all heirs are as strong as their forefathers. 
Nor's grandfather was a great and honorable commander.  It was his 
and Zon El's vision and drive that created New Krypton out of a 
barren asteroid."  He glanced at her briefly, his face grim as he 
continued.  "Tomorrow, we'll find out if Kal El merits the leadership 
of New Krypton."

"He will, Ching.  He's an honorable man.  Don't you see?  It would 
have been so easy for him to succumb to all the pleasures that this 
planet offers, yet he hasn't done so.  He's a true Kryptonian; he has 
self-discipline and a sense of duty."

Abruptly, their discussion was interrupted by a small group of joking 
teenagers pushing and jostling each other as they argued about the 
merits of a couple of obscure bands.  The domino effect of their 
enthusiasm sent one of them spilling into Zara, pushing her 
momentarily off balance.

Oblivious of her, the boys continued on their way, leaving a scowling 
Ching muttering about the lack of social order and respect on this 
forsaken planet.  He lifted his hand in a sweeping arc which took in 
the grimy streets of the city, the rundown buildings they now were 
passing, and the small businesses with metal security grills across 
their windows.  His hand came to rest at his side, accidentally 
pointing at an abandoned syringe on the sidewalk.  He seemed almost 
pleased.  "Kal El has had absolutely no impact on this city.  If he 
is to be any help to us in our struggle to defeat Nor, I fear he will 
have to be firmly guided."

"Ching, if that's necessary we can do it."  She looked sideways at 
her tall companion as they turned the corner leading to the tiny 
basement apartment which was her residence in Metropolis.  She had 
needed an address and this one was located in an obscure enough part 
of the city that any strange happenings connected with it wouldn't be 
noticed by her few neighbors, most of whom were fighting bigger 
demons than the aliens next door.  "We need his stature and the aura 
of his heredity.  We," she emphasized, "haven't been able to defeat 
Nor."  She unlocked the apartment door.

Ching's voice was cold, betraying his anger.  "I know that.  If Trey 
and the others weren't so indecisive; if they had just a minimal 
understanding of strategy... But they'll accept Kal El -- the long 
lost son of Krypton," he added with a trace of sarcasm.

He touched a small transparent cube hanging on a silver chain around 
his neck.  For a moment, there was an energy surge, followed by 
shimmering waves of light, like a mirage coming into focus, and then 
suddenly the room was larger, stretching into inky shadows which 
reached beyond the limits of the tiny apartment and then vanished. 
Ching stood still, concentrating his thoughts, and then, there in the 
somber blue haze of this room, two chairs materialized, followed by a 
small round table on which rested two glasses filled with a thick 
fluorescent blue liquid.

Both Ching and Zara were now dressed in black -- sleek uniforms which 
were a reminder of their homeland.  Over her uniform, Zara wore a 
flowing knee length coat, its lapels dark red, while on her right 
shoulder, beneath her collarbone, was a small gold insignia, symbol 
of the aristocratic house of Ra of which she was her generation's 
only descendant.  Two green bands around the wrists of Ching's 
uniform marked him as a lieutenant in the Kryptonian military, his 
rank a reflection of the lesser nobility from whom he was descended.

The two sat sipping the blue liquid in silence, both reflecting on 
what they would do tomorrow.  Just recently, both Zara and Ching had 
discovered that they too had acquired powers, the Earth's sun having 
gradually enhanced their abilities as it had Kal El's.  These they 
had been careful to use sparingly, not wanting to attract any 
attention.  Ching had, however, on several occasions tracked 
Superman, observing him as he flew to assist in some natural or man 
made disaster, watching him carefully to see if what the man was 
doing required anything much more than the application of those 
amazing powers.  They had not, as far as Ching could see.  Kal El's 
actions were always a quick response to physical danger, with no 
attempt to change the underlying conditions which had caused those 
problems.  Why didn't he take control of this miserable city, this 
chaotic planet, and bring order to it?

That question bothered him more than he had admitted to Zara, 
deliberately blocking his thought waves from her whenever this 
concern crossed his mind.  Ching was a man of action.  But he also 
deplored wasted action when some solid planning would get everyone 
much further.  He was worried that Kal El had become too human, 
conditioned by his upbringing to give in to impulsive behaviour and 
to allow the emotional side of his nature to dominate as did most of 
these Earthmen.  Although Kryptonian culture acknowledged this 
emotional side of behavior and provided the necessary safety valves, 
reason always triumphed.  After all, that was part of what this 
struggle with Nor was about.  Nor wanted power for the sake of power, 
and what it could give him -- wealth and the gratification of all his 
pleasures.  If Nor won, Krypton would become even worse than 
Metropolis.  Kal El's failure to take leadership here worried Ching 
deeply.

As soon as possible, he and Zara would contrive a crisis to see how 
Kal El would respond, to see if he was more than just a man with 
super strength.

******

Three thousand miles away, the day before Lana Lang's wedding, Lois 
Lane was speaking eagerly into the mouthpiece of a phone in the lobby 
of the third rate hotel in which she had spent her first night in San 
Francisco.  She had arrived after midnight, clearing customs pretty 
quickly thanks to the pilot's charm and the young clerk's late night 
fatigue.  Fortunately, Lois still had a year to run on her passport, 
and after the obligatory search for any drugs she might have been 
smuggling, she was on the home side of customs.  The pilot of the 
cargo plane in which she'd been lucky enough to get a lift had 
offered to let her spend the night at his place but Lois was wary. 
No strings, he'd said, but then he'd followed that by proposing some 
take out and some good wine he'd been saving.  At two o'clock in the 
morning!  He was a decent guy, so Lois grinned at him, patted his 
arm, said thanks, and booked herself into a small motel in the city.

She didn't have a lot of money and it would take some time to get a 
credit card.  She knew a few people in San Francisco, but not really 
well.  Anyway, she hesitated to call them before she got in touch 
with her mother and sister, and, she admitted to herself, she was a 
little reluctant to phone them.  It would be so much easier to 
reappear in person, rather than as a disembodied voice over wire. 
Anyway, she wasn't certain where they lived now or what their phone 
numbers were.  She could call her father...  No.  Besides, she wasn't 
really sure how her disappearance had been explained.  Was she 
"officially missing"?  Probably.

Then she remembered Jessica.  They'd been roommates their first year 
in college before Jess had switched majors and transferred to a 
different school, got into software design, and then followed the Web 
to California.  They'd kept in sporadic touch up until Lois's 
disappearance.  They weren't the closest of friends, but at the 
moment, there was no one else.  Besides, Jess could be relied on not 
to alert the whole world that Lois Lane was back in town.  For some 
reason she couldn't quite put her finger on, Lois wanted to return 
without being noticed, as an observer, until she could get her 
bearings in a Metropolis which appeared to have changed substantially 
since she had left four years ago.

But first she had to get there.  She had cash enough for about two 
days expenses but not quite enough for a bus trip to Metropolis. 
Maybe Jess could help.  Reaching for the phone book chained to the 
small shelf beneath the phone in the motel lobby, she found her 
friend's name.  Different address than she remembered, though.

"Jess.  Hi!  It's Lois."  A very long pause.  "Jessica?"

"Lois Lane?"  The voice on the other end of the line was shaky, 
higher pitched than normal.

"Yeah.  Look, I'm in San Francisco and I was wondering if we could 
get together."

"Omigawd!  Lois, they said you were dead.  That car crash...  Lois... "

"I'm not dead, Jess.  But I need a place to stay for a couple of days 
until I can get back to Metropolis."

"I can't believe it!  Lois!  You're okay?  You're really here? 
Lois... you have to come over here.  Where are you?  Look, I've 
moved.  I'll come and get you.  Where are you?"

Lois broke into her friend's tumble of words. "I'm at a motel 
downtown -- the Carlington.  I can get a bus to your place."

"No, no.  That'll take forever.  I'll come get you.  Just don't move! 
I'll be there in twenty minutes."

*****

Lois dropped her shabby backpack on the satin smooth hardwood floor 
of her friend's loft and looked around her in surprise.  Tall windows 
which framed San Francisco's grey sky dominated one wall, letting the 
vista of city and ocean fill the room.  Floor to ceiling shelves 
laden with electronic components, books stored at haphazard angles, 
and miscellaneous clutter lined one wall in front of which stood a 
thick mahogany slab mounted on iron construction supports to form a 
desk.  On it was the latest, or what Lois thought might be the 
latest, in computer equipment.  The far end of the room sheltered a 
baby grand piano while a large and very good abstract painting 
slashed the wall behind it with vivid color.  The room was like Jess, 
both simple and cluttered.  What was new was the level of affluence 
suggested by it all.

Lois grinned at her friend.  "So what lottery did you win, Jess?"

"The great internet sweepstakes, Lois.  I registered a few web 
domains which turned out to be worth big bucks and then my stock 
options in Optera Graphics shot up.  I sold out, and here I am, a 
millionaire at thirty."  Jess smiled as she gestured toward the wall 
of electronics.  "So now I play."

Impressed, Lois eyed the huge mahogany desk which supported Jess's 
computer.  "Looks like NASA control centre."

"Beautiful, isn't it."  Jess sighed with satisfaction as she picked 
up Lois's backpack and the duffel bag which she had also brought, and 
carried them toward a door across the room.  As she deposited them on 
a low bench by the side of the bed in the small guest room she said, 
"So where's the rest of your stuff?"

"This is it, Jess."  Lois' eyes lit with mischief.  "Here I am, broke 
at thirty."

The smile vanished from Jess's face and she hugged her friend.  "I'm 
so glad you're alive, Lois.  So glad."

"Me, too, Jess.  It was time to come home."

As the two women separated, it was Jess who spoke first.  "Okay, now 
I want to know everything.  And most of all I want to know why you 
didn't come back.  Why, Lois?"  She searched her friend's face 
curiously.  "The last note I got from you, I got the feeling that 
things were pretty okay."

Lois sank into the chair in the corner of the spartan room while Jess 
dropped onto the bed, sitting crosslegged watching her friend as she 
waited for an answer.  "I'm not sure I can really explain it.  A lot 
of things, I guess."  Lois shrugged her shoulders.  "There just 
wasn't anything much to come home to and all at once it seemed such a 
relief not to have to come home."

"What about Claude?"

"Yeah, Claude," Lois paused before continuing, "I sure can pick 'em."

"And your mom and Lucy?"

Lois sighed and lowered her eyes, gazing at the fingers of her hands 
which she had spread open.  "I need to see them again," she said 
slowly.

The room was silent for a moment as Lois was reluctant to continue 
and Jess was unwilling to push her friend.  Unwinding her legs, she 
rose from the bed and walked to the doorway.  "How about I make us 
some lunch and you can give me all the details.  What happened in the 
Congo for a start."

*****

Early the next evening, Jess and Lois swapped a quick hug at the 
airport and then Lois was on her way back to Metropolis, wedged into 
an economy seat of Fly By Night Airways beside a guy who was at least 
six feet four and built like a tackle for the Buffalo Bills. 
Carefully, she sipped some juice as she attempted to browse the 
latest edition of the Daily Planet without knocking over Joe Tackle's 
coffee.  Giving up, she refolded the paper and limited herself to the 
front page.

Again, one of the questions which had been on her mind since her 
decision to come home, resurfaced.  How difficult would it be to get 
her old job back?  If she approached the new owner with a good solid 
story, she should have a chance.  And she had already decided what 
that story would be.  She shuffled the Planet under the copy of the 
Star which she had also picked up before disembarking.  Thoughtfully, 
she looked at a picture of Superman splashed across its front page. 
Okay, find the story there.  What was the real story behind the 
Superman facade?

Last night, Jess had given her more to think about as their 
conversation had shifted onto the topic of Superman.  Lois had always 
regarded anyone who believed in UFOs as one step removed from those 
people who dropped out and emptied their brains, only to refill them 
with the mystical babble of some fuzzy cult leader.  Jess had always 
been on the other end of that scale, always the skeptic.  The basis 
of their friendship, in fact, Lois thought with a smile.

But Jess had become interested in UFO sightings, most of which she 
had rejected as either hoaxes or delusions.  What intrigued her were 
the few she couldn't explain, and she wondered how Superman might fit 
into all this.  And she had no doubt that he could fly.

Still, Lois was more doubtful.  Maybe this guy was not an alien but 
perhaps he was not fully human either, maybe the product of some 
bioengineering lab.  Private corporation or government, she'd 
wondered.  Jess agreed Lois could have a point -- for a so called 
open society, the government did seem to have a lot of secrets.

Given that Clark Kent was Superman, maybe it wouldn't be such a good 
idea to try to get her old job back at the Planet immediately, Lois 
thought as she gazed out at the clouds through which the plane was 
climbing.  What she would like to do was to thoroughly check out 
Kent's background, watch him for a few days from a distance.  Tail 
him.  See what that told her about *him*.  She'd always hated it when 
she'd been fooled by anyone.  And she hated it when anyone tried to 
pull that kind of stunt on others.  But what if she did prove that 
"S" was really just a high tech marketing ploy?  Maybe, in fact, an 
android?  After all, James Olson had made his fortune in computers. 
The "S" idea was probably his.  So why would Olsen give her back her 
old job if her plan was to expose his mascot?  It would be like 
unmasking the guy who played Mickey at Disney World in front of a 
street full of kids.  Not too bright.  But what if James Olsen was 
not the mastermind, but a dupe?  Then it was absolutely her duty to 
defrock this caped guy.

Above all, Lois was convinced that this story was important, no 
matter what she did find out.  More important than getting her job 
back at the Planet.  And she had loved working at the Planet, loved 
what the paper stood for.  Truth.  She had always believed it and 
Perry White had drilled her in it, putting her through a journalist's 
basic training.  If only Perry were still editor of the Planet. 
Well, she would contact him when she got back.

Okay.  First thing, she had to get a job, whether at the Planet or 
not.  She'd borrowed money from Jess whom she wanted to repay as soon 
as possible.  She began thinking about her former financial life. 
Did she still have a bank account?  Not that there had been much 
money in it.  Credit cards?  As the plane gained altitude and settled 
into its course, she found herself succumbing to drowsiness.  She and 
Jess had stayed up late, talking well past midnight.  She could use 
some sleep.

*****

The next morning Lois Lane swung her backpack off the bus she'd taken 
from the airport and hit the streets of Metropolis.  She grinned; she 
was home and it felt right.  She looked around for a phone booth to 
make that first call which would reintegrate her into her old life.

She should have known it wouldn't be that easy.  No Lucy Lane was 
listed in the Metropolis phone book.  That didn't surprise Lois too 
much, given Lucy's marriage plans.  No listing under her fiance's -- 
that is, her husband's, Lois mentally corrected herself -- surname 
either.  Maybe Lucy had an unlisted number.  Lois tried calling her 
mother's number, but it was no longer in service and she was not 
listed in the directory either.  Lois felt a surge of disappointment, 
then bit the bullet and tried her father's number.  That one she 
didn't know by heart but had to look up.

She got his answering machine and she left her message.  "Hi, Daddy. 
It's me, Lois."  She paused, trying to figure out what to say next to 
a man who'd had little time for her, whom she'd tried so very hard to 
please, and then finally stopped trying to please.  "I've been away 
for awhile and I just got back in town.  I'll call tonight."

Shivering, Lois stepped away from the phone kiosk, buttoning her thin 
jacket against the biting January wind.  Her walk to the Daily Planet 
took her through a grimy back street, past a couple of porn shops, a 
boarded up business with its windows broken and hateful obscenities 
scrawled in blood-red letters across its facade, and then across a 
street with enough potholes to challenge the best of drivers.  Next, 
she crossed into a wider main street, noting with dismay more 
homeless huddled into door frames than when she had left.  The 
greyness of the day did little to relieve her impression that the 
deterioration of her city had accelerated over the last few years. 
She hoped Perry's incumbency as mayor would change things but clearly 
he hadn't held office long enough to make a difference.  As this 
thought crossed through her mind, she instinctively ducked around two 
angry men who were yelling at each other, concerned their rage was 
about to erupt into violence at any moment.  It did.

The streets didn't change much in appearance as she continued her 
walk.  As she got closer to the Planet, she thought the businesses 
seemed more respectable until she looked in the window of one up 
scale shop and noted the tasteful display of designer guns.  As she 
peered through the glass, she caught sight of a salesman reaching for 
a tiny revolver and then holding it up so the light caught its 
enamelled handle while a sleekly groomed woman inspected it.  Turning 
away, Lois continued her journey, noting as she passed by a 
construction site, that at least here, the streets were getting some 
attention.  So was she -- two of the workers took the time to offer 
to improve her sex life for her.  Well, some things hadn't changed.

Chilled from the cold, she was grateful when she reached the Planet. 
For the second time since getting off the plane at Metropolis 
International Airport, she felt she was home.  She grinned at her 
reflection in the glass door as she pushed her way into the front 
lobby.  Next stop, the personnel office of the Daily Planet.  Eagerly 
pressing the button for the seventh floor of the Planet building, she 
felt the excitement mount in her stomach.  It was great to be back. 
This was were she belonged.  The  elevator doors opened way too 
slowly for her state of mind and she had to hold herself in check for 
a moment.  Then she was in the hall of the seventh floor, striding 
towards the door marked 'PERSONNEL'.

Once inside, she looked around, noting that there were fewer staff 
than four years ago.  Computers, she supposed.  No one there she 
recognized.  Three women, all younger than she was.  How did that 
happen?  The first one looked at her politely and then gave her the 
once over.  For the first time, Lois was aware that she had rushed 
here in such enthusiasm that she had forgotten about how she looked. 
Jeans, an old jacket, and a nondescript backpack didn't cut it when 
you were looking for a job.  Neat and clean made less than a bottom 
line statement.

Ah well, her name should make a difference.  It didn't.  The very 
pretty and obsessively groomed woman to whom she'd been talking 
smiled at her and said that she was sorry but she'd never heard of 
Lois Lane.  Quickly her fingers tapped Lois's name onto her keyboard 
but no information came up on her screen.

"We have no record of your being on the Planet's staff, Ms. Lane. 
Which department did you say you were in?  I'll try again."

"News!  I was... am a reporter.  Perry White was my editor."

The young woman smiled kindly.  "Mr. White's the Mayor of Metropolis."

"I know."  She waited while the personnel officer finished inputting 
her name and department, watching in dismay as the screen again 
flashed no information.  Lois' voice now was tinged with a little 
impatience.  "Look, your records are wrong."

The woman bristled.  "Our records were updated and reorganized two 
years ago when Mr. Olsen took over.  They are not wrong.  I oversaw 
the procedure myself," she said with some pride.  "Look, what are you 
trying to pull?"

The rising tone of her voice triggered the attention of one of the 
other women who rose and walked briskly to her colleague's desk.  "Is 
there a problem here?"

"This person claims she used to work for the Planet but her name's 
not in my data bank."

"My name is Lois Lane.  I worked for the Planet four years ago."

The second woman smiled politely.  "I see.  I don't recognize your 
name but, of course, I never read the Planet before I came here from 
Los Angeles.  I guess you were just starting out then.  If you're 
looking for a statement of your employment at the Planet, go down to 
Records.  We only keep data for a three year period before 
outsourcing it."  She smiled helpfully at Lois Lane, former star 
reporter of the Daily Planet.

The younger of the two women's eyes lit up.  "Hey, you must have 
known Claude Kendall when he was here.  What's he like?"

"Claude Kendall!"  Lois mentally counted to ten as she pulled her 
frayed composure back into line.  "Look, I'd like to work again for 
the Planet."

"Oh, you want a job.  Why didn't you say so?  Let me have your resume 
and I'll send it across to Allison."  She gestured in the direction 
of the third occupant of the office, a well dressed woman absorbed in 
a phone conversation at the far end of the office.  Lois wondered 
briefly why there were so many desks in the room if only three people 
worked here.  Maybe everyone was on a coffee break.

Resume?  "I, uh, don't have it with me.  Look, could I speak to Mrs. Franconi?"

"Who?"

"Linda Franconi.  Your manager."

"Oh, yeah, she retired just before we reorganized the department."

Lois sighed impatiently. "Well could I speak to the new manager, please?"

"You are speaking to her," the second women said coldly.  "Ms. Lane, 
I suggest that if you're serious about being rehired by the Planet 
you submit your resume.  Now, if you'll excuse us..."  She turned and 
walked back to her desk.

The younger woman said, "I'm sorry, Ms. Lane.  We get a lot of 
applicants for jobs here and they're not doing much hiring right now. 
Budget.  You know.  Anyway, good luck."  She swiveled in her chair to 
face her computer screen.

Lois turned on her heel, annoyed and angry, regretting her decision 
not to go to the newsroom first.  Just because I didn't recognize any 
names on the masthead, that doesn't mean there's no one there who 
knows me, she thought as she quickly clattered down the back stairs 
to the newsroom a couple of floors beneath her.

A few minutes later, she entered the newsroom, slipping in by a door 
off to the side, wanting first to see who was there, who she knew. 
No one.  There was no one there she knew!  Trying to reassure 
herself, she recalled that many of the staff would be elsewhere, 
anyway, covering stories, doing interviews, or meeting sources.  Her 
eyes swept the room appraisingly, taking in the changes made during 
her absence.  It all seemed more high tech, with utilitarian 
furniture which looked like it had been bought from a Scandinavian 
fast furniture outlet -- sleek, laminated and replaceable.  But the 
layout was much the same and so were the dark tones of the wood 
panelling.  Her eyes came to rest at what had been her old desk.  At 
least the desk was still there.  That was a good sign.

The door to Perry White's office opened and an expensively tailored 
man of about twenty-five stepped into the newsroom, his pleasant good 
looks exuding confidence and efficiency.  James Olsen, she thought. 
Then she noticed the man behind him.  Taller, glasses which he was 
adjusting on the bridge of his nose, dark haired.  He was well 
dressed, too.  Must have established a dress code while I was gone, 
Lois thought.  Her heart accelerated for a few seconds as she 
realized that she was looking at Clark Kent.  Instinctively, she 
stepped back into the shadows cast by the broad leaves of the tall 
plants which demarcated the staff lounge area from the front lines. 
She wanted to watch, undetected, to see *him*, how he acted.

He looked liked a man -- all the parts of a man; although it was hard 
to tell for sure, given the sculpted tailoring of his suit.  Suits 
could hide a lot and make a man look either more or less than he 
really was.  She liked the way he moved, with an easy, natural grace. 
Couldn't be an android.  Were they that good?  Nice shoulders.  He 
had reached her old desk and he sat down.  My desk!  He's taken my 
desk!  Her adrenaline level shot up for an instant.  Then he removed 
his suit jacket, slinging it over the back of his chair and she was 
distracted again.  Ah, nice waist, too, and... the android theory was 
losing credibility.  Surely an android wouldn't move that smoothly, 
she thought as she watched him stretch for a pencil on the far side 
of the desk, noting with surprise that he pulled it from a very 
familiar mug, the one she'd been given in Ireland as an exchange 
student, the one she kept her random, mostly borrowed, pen collection 
in.  He's stolen my mug!  The android theory resurfaced.  The man has 
no personality; he can't even select his own pencil mug.  They can do 
the body but not the soul, she thought smugly.

Abruptly, he turned and looked her way and she panicked.  I don't 
want him to see me, not until I figure him out more, she thought. 
His right hand touched the frame of his glasses, pulling them down 
along the bridge of his nose and then he stopped.  A woman with long 
brown hair had approached his desk and Clark swiveled to give her his 
attention, smiling at her and accepting a file from her.  "Thanks, 
Sara," she heard him say.

Lois took advantage of the moment to make good her escape.  Had he 
somehow sensed that she had been watching him?  How could he do that? 
Preoccupied by that thought, she didn't notice the brawny man in his 
late thirties whom she bumped into in the hall.  This man, too, had 
been watching the newsroom.

****

When Sara left, Clark turned around to stare again at the staff 
lounge, at the spot which had somehow alerted his senses.  He had 
felt like he was being watched, not in the usual way of being 
noticed, but watched, observed.  Somehow, people have a sixth sense 
about that sort of thing; at least, he had it now.  And somehow he 
was sure he'd detected a range of emotions coming from that 
direction.  That's what he'd picked up on, the emotions.  He'd been 
about to use his X-ray vision when Sara had interrupted him.  He 
didn't know if he was glad or sorry; he made a point of never using 
his unusual abilities when there was no emergency to deal with, so 
that the people he lived with -- make that worked with -- he thought 
wryly, would stop thinking of him as being "different".  Still, he 
was positive there had been someone there, he thought, as he walked 
over to check out the lounge area.  No one.  Must have imagined it. 
But he had felt the presence of whomever had been there so strongly. 
Ya gotta get a life, Kent, he chided himself...

****

"Sorry."  Lois's response was automatic as she stepped back quickly 
from the thick set man with whom she'd just collided in the hall 
outside the newsroom.

"I noticed you standing there.  You were watching him, weren't you?" 
the man asked bluntly.

"What?"  Lois looked at him more carefully, taking in his ill fitting 
suit as well as the sturdiness of his body.  He looked like a 
nightclub bouncer.

"You were watching the alien.  Why?"

"The alien?"  Lois's eyes flashed in surprise then narrowed.  "Why is 
it any of your business *what* I was doing?"

He reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a 
leather wallet.  Flicking it open, he raised it so she could take a 
good look.

"Jason Trask," she read aloud.  "Special agent, Bureau 39, FBI."  She 
lifted her eyes to search his face.  What she saw were small eyes, 
set impassively above broad cheekbones.  Something about his demeanor 
suggested he had a sense of humor deficit.  And for some reason she 
distrusted him.  "Why are you interested?" she asked.

"Let's just say the Government is interested, ma'am."

"Why?" she repeated her question.  So the government didn't trust 
this "superman".  That was interesting.  Perhaps Trask could be 
useful to her.  She wondered what he knew.  "My name is Lois Lane; I 
used to work here.  I've been away for a few years."  She noted the 
brief flicker in his eyes.  Did he recognize her name?  For the first 
time that day she felt as though she hadn't imagined her whole past 
life.  All of a sudden, she decided she could like this man.  Well, 
nearly like him.

"How about a coffee, Ms. Lane?"  He smiled at her.  "Maybe we could 
talk about the alien."

That suited her fine.  She followed him down the stairwell to the 
next floor where they picked up the elevator to the main lobby. 
Moments later they were in a small fast food court drinking coffee 
and munching donuts.

"You going back to work at the Planet?"

"I don't think so."  Lois tucked a dark strand of loose hair behind 
her ear and avoided his eyes.  "There've been a lot of changes since 
I've been gone."

"So they wouldn't give you your old job back?" he guessed.

"It doesn't look like it."

"That surprises me.  You were a pretty good investigative reporter." 
He concentrated on biting into his jelly filled doughnut.

"I thought so."  She wondered where he was going with all this.

"Why the interest in the alien?"

"Why do you call him an alien?" she countered, still surprised at a 
grown man's acceptance of what she had always regarded as lunatic 
fringe hoaxes.

He grinned at her, humouring her.  "Ms. Lane.  Lois.  The government 
doesn't know much about him, except he's not human.  That little fact 
interests us a great deal.  We want to know what he's doing here. 
And if he's alone."

"Maybe he's not an alien.  Maybe he's just one of James Olsen's ideas 
-- you know, a publicity stunt."

"No.  That doesn't fit our profile on Olsen.  Besides the alien 
really does that stuff you see on the news.  He can fly and he's got 
super strength."

"How come you're so sure he's an alien?"  Whenever she heard him use 
the term, Lois felt he was speaking in bold type and headline caps.

"We're sure, Ms. Lane."  Trask's voice was firm.  "What I want to 
know is why you were watching him.  What makes *you* suspicious of 
him?"

Lois raised her coffee mug to her mouth and took a slow sip.  "I'm 
just an interested bystander, Mr. Trask.  I'd just like my old job 
back."

Trask paused for a moment, as though he was trying to figure 
something out.   "What happened to you, Ms. Lane?  The reports said 
you were dead."

Lois shrugged.  "As they say, reports of my death are greatly 
exaggerated.  I travelled for a few years, lost touch with 
Metropolis."

"You could be useful to us, Lois."  He leaned forward across the 
table.  "I remember you were a top investigative reporter.  Keep an 
eye on Clark Kent for us."

"You mean work for the FBI?"  Lois raised her eyebrows in surprise. 
Never in a million years would she ever have seen herself as a 
government agent.

"Pay's not bad, and you look like you could use some money."

A persuasive argument, she had to admit.  And working for Bureau 39 
fit in with her plan to expose Superman anyway; it just wasn't how 
she'd expected to achieve her goal.  Plus, if she could find out 
something about Bureau 39's alien file that would be a bonus. 
Besides, she was broke, unemployed, and had no idea where she was 
going to stay tonight.  She raised her eyes to his.  "Okay, you're 
on.  What do I do?"

"Keep an eye on Kent, stick with him but don't get too close.  We 
don't want him to think he's got a tail, and you look a whole lot 
less like one than I do.  It's important he doesn't see you."

"So you guys really do think he's some kind of threat?" she asked thoughtfully.

"Probably.  You ever hear of outsiders visiting a different 
civilization and not trying to take it over?  Think about history, 
Ms. Lane -- the Chinese and the Koreans, the Greeks and the Slavs, 
the Europeans and the Africans.  Why should this guy be any 
different?"

Caught by his intensity, Lois said, "Okay, Mr. Trask, I'll work for you."

Maybe they would give her a dark suit and sunglasses.  She could use 
a new outfit.

******

Clark slipped into his Clinton Street apartment late that night.  Or 
was it early the next day, he wondered, as he took a quick look at 
the clock by his kitchen counter.  The next day.

He was tired for which he was grateful.  The last twenty-four hours 
had been demanding as he'd battled the relentless winds and 
torrential rains slashing through the Caribbean.  A freak hurricane 
had ripped apart the homes of thousands of people.  He'd done 
everything he could to rescue those who had stayed too long in 
ramshackle homes, raced like a dervish to snatch fishermen caught at 
sea, and finally sped against swollen waters to sandbag small towns 
built too close to a merciless sea.  He hadn't triumphed completely 
-- even a superman couldn't defeat the forces of nature on a rampage, 
but he felt he'd made a difference.

Nevertheless, he couldn't escape from the fact that there were people 
still reported as missing.  He knew what that meant.  It meant he 
hadn't been fast enough.  Like he hadn't been fast enough or strong 
enough to save his parents that night on the icy road home so long 
ago.  He looked around the darkness of his empty apartment searching 
for something, he wasn't sure what.

Opening the door of his fridge, he pulled out a bottle of orange 
juice and chugged about half of it.  Carrying the juice, he made his 
way to the area  where he slept, just off his kitchen; it wasn't 
really a separate bedroom.  He sank onto the bed, leaning back 
against the pillows.  His eyes came to rest on the picture of his 
parents, lost to him when he was ten, killed in that car accident 
which he had been powerless to stop.  He'd been in the car, the only 
survivor, his life shattered by the random violence of a drunk driver 
on a treacherous road.  He'd saved the picture, even looked at it a 
few times over the years, but he had never kept it displayed, visible 
to his daily view, a constant reminder of what he'd lost that day. 
Now he did.

Since his visit to the other Metropolis two months ago and his brief 
time with the Martha and Jonathan Kent of that world, he had found 
himself going back, remembering what it had been like to be part of a 
family.  When Martha Kent, in that other universe, had enfolded him 
in her hug, he'd gasped with both the emotional pain and comfort 
which he had felt.  The last time he'd experienced that had been the 
day before the accident on that slippery road, two county roads over 
from the farm.  He'd been in their old farmhouse kitchen, fooling 
around, laughing with his mom about the weekend away they were 
planning next month to celebrate his eleventh birthday.  He'd said 
something, he couldn't remember what, and she'd laughed, impulsively 
hugging him as she said, "Oh, Honey!"  And for a moment, in that 
other world, in that other Lois's living room, he'd had it back 
again, the feeling that he belonged, that he was connected with 
people whom he loved and who loved him.

He took another swallow of orange juice and got up from his bed, 
walking restlessly over to his phone.  His number was unlisted, a 
measure he had turned to after he became "Superman" to give him some 
privacy.  He'd debated about moving but could never figure out where. 
This place had been besieged by reporters and the curious for a month 
or so after his big news was out but gradually they had stopped 
coming.  After the first week, he'd refused to talk with any of them. 
His comings and goings were unremarkable --- Clark Kent going to 
work; Superman, taking off; Clark Kent coming back from work. 
Sometimes nothing at all.  Harder had been his decision to turn a 
deaf ear to the pleas of people to solve some personal problem.  At 
first he had listened: Can you lend me some money?  Will you endorse 
my product?  Can you find me a job?  Can you cure my child?   No, he 
either wouldn't or couldn't.  But he stuck to his guns; he would not 
be pushed out of his home.

Home, he thought, as he listened to the voice on his machine tell him 
he had no messages.  Well, I live here.  That makes it home.  And the 
people who lived in this run down and dangerous neighborhood had come 
to accept him once again as Clark Kent or to ignore him as they had 
done before.  Mostly they ignored him.  The tenants in the building 
seemed to move frequently anyway, so that there were really only two 
or three people who seemed as though they lived there permanently. 
He was pretty isolated here.

He suspected one of his neighbors was a petty thief but he wasn't 
sure.  If he was, it took some nerve to live in the same building as 
Superman.  Then the thought had struck him that that's what he had 
become -- a flesh and blood robocop who moonlighted as a one man 
emergency unit.

He was very tired tonight, but sleep wouldn't come.  He felt 
desolate, overwhelmed by the emptiness of his apartment.  And he felt 
unsettled.  Why?  He should feel good after the work he had done 
tonight.  There was always that sense of exhilaration he experienced 
after saving someone's life, the awareness that he could make a 
difference which alone made what he was doing worthwhile.  But then 
he came home and there was no one there.

Still, it hadn't been better when he was with Lana.  Always feeling 
the frustration of hiding what he was and watching when disaster hit, 
believing he could help.  The awkwardness and discomfort he felt when 
he did use his powers but hid it from her, the feeling that he was 
sneaking around.  Increasingly, the guilt at his inaction had mounted 
and he knew he had directed some of his frustration at Lana for 
holding him back.

He remembered his father's words to him when he had been so upset 
after a close friend had lost the lower part of his leg in a horrific 
farm accident.  Clark had moped around, both listless and angry at 
what had happened.  His dad had finally taken him aside and said, "Son, 
you can't change what's happened.  But you can always do something 
besides watch."  He'd asked what, and his dad had touched his 
shoulder.  "That I don't know, son.  Only you know what you can do. 
But what you do will make a  difference."  His dad had been right. 
Clark had got involved in Josh's rehabilitation, going first to the 
hospital and then to his home every day as his friend learned once 
more to walk.

But in Metropolis he'd allowed himself to become mostly a watcher 
again.  Hoping that he could build a life with Lana.

No, this was better, but not a whole lot more.  He lay back on his 
bed and stared at the ceiling, watching the slow progress of a spider 
above him, his spirits finally lifting when the high pitched scream 
of a siren called him away.

*******

Lois Lane began her investigation and surveillance of Clark Kent in 
earnest the next day, in between checking ads for apartments.  They 
all wanted a two month deposit which was beyond her reach at the 
moment and there was no one in Metropolis she felt she could crash 
with until her first paycheck came through.  At least Trask had 
advanced her some expense money.

She still hadn't been able to get in touch with her father and she 
balked at going over to his office personally.  Anyway, he probably 
wasn't working at the same place as he was four years ago.  Maybe 
there were other ways of getting Lucy's new address.  Why didn't 
people just stay put, she thought grumpily.  At least stay in the 
same city or be listed in the phone book.  She called the Mayor's 
office, too, hoping to talk to Perry White but she missed him by 
hours.  He and Mrs. White were off to Mexico City for a one week 
conference on "The City-State in the Next Millennium".  He should 
stay home and work on *this* city, she thought as she looked at the 
vandalized phone booth next to hers, the phone's receiverless cord 
dangling limply beneath its dial pad.

She'd toyed briefly with the idea of showing up on the famous Claude 
Kendall's doorstep and saying he owed her but that could wait.  Wait 
until she had her big story and was once again a star reporter for 
the Planet, not someone needing a favour.  Success would be the best 
revenge.  Besides, she wasn't obsessed with Claude the way she had 
been as she'd fought her way out of the jungle.  In fact, she 
probably owed him her life (him and Nkwame, she thought wistfully). 
Every day during that struggle, she'd thought of Claude and that 
thought had always been accompanied by "I will survive."  Although 
sometimes it had been, "I'll get you for this, Claude Kendall."

So she'd spent last night in a cheap hotel which she realized, after 
she'd checked in, was one which rented rooms by the hour to women who 
had quick business to conduct.  Noisy business with sometimes brutal 
men in rooms with thin walls.

The next morning, she again made use of the public library system to 
do as much digging as she could on Superman.  That he'd only been 
"operable" for slightly over a year  -- she still hadn't abandoned 
her android theory which she found a whole lot more believable than 
Trask's spooky alien theory -- made it less time consuming. 
Nevertheless, she liked her "Superman is a marketing device" thesis, 
too.  All those Superman exclusives Clark Kent produced for the 
Planet backed that up.  After all, "exclusive" was just a euphemism 
for "uncorroborated".

There was quite a lot of information on Clark Kent -- where he lived 
(surely he'd moved after all this, probably a penthouse high above 
Metropolis, she thought), his early life on a Kansas farm (on a 
Kansas farm???  How believable was that??), the death of his parents 
when he was ten (no surviving relatives, either, which was 
convenient), his semi-distinguished life at college where he played 
football (of course, he played football), his world travels, (he'd 
worked briefly at the Borneo Gazette -- hmm, so had she but no one 
there had ever mentioned Clark Kent), the job at the Daily Planet 
(*her* job at the Daily Planet), and his engagement to Lana Lang, 
hometown girl (pretty but blonde).  Other than that,not much.  Clark 
Kent didn't appear to have much of a life -- even his engagement to 
the bland blonde was off.  Maybe the engagement had been part of the 
hoax, too, arranged to make him appear more sympathetic.  She should 
talk to Lana Lang.  So, who are you, Clark Kent? she wondered.

She read again the story of his first official appearance in 
Metropolis.  It was accompanied by a picture of him, collapsed on the 
floor, with a woman who was bending over him.  She was thin, too 
thin, Lois thought as she looked carefully at the picture, dark 
haired, wearing a white suit or was it a light grey?  Her face was 
not visible, only the back of her head.  Who was she?  Lois read the 
article again but there was no mention of the woman's name.  Is she 
his handler? Lois wondered.  Did something go wrong with the 
experiment and he "wound down" so to speak?  The woman must have some 
clout if she was able to keep her name out of the paper.  She added 
"Unidentified Woman" to her notes.  She would have to find her. 
Maybe Trask had some idea of who this woman was -- no sense in 
wasting time.  But she would find that woman.

Lois logged off and pushed her chair back.  Before standing up, she 
flipped back to the first page of her notebook to check again the 
address of a one room apartment available on the east side of 
Metropolis.  She had called earlier but the manager had been on his 
way out.  By now, he should be back.  She consulted the city map 
she'd picked up in the reference section, checked the address and 
smiled.  Two blocks east of Clinton Street.  Clearly this was a sign 
-- she was meant to find the real Clark Kent.

A half hour later she was standing before a rundown building not far 
from Clinton Street.  It didn't look good; in fact it looked seedy, 
exuding a grey grunginess, but she also didn't have a whole lot of 
choice at this point -- an apartment hotel would at least give her a 
place to stay until she got herself established.  Things were looking 
up, she thought with a grin as she gazed at its sign -- The Apollo 
Hotel.

*******

Zara picked up the sound of Kal El's footsteps as he walked across 
the newsroom floor to his own desk.  She raised her head to watch 
him, trying to calculate how he would react to the test which she and 
Ching had devised last night.  Then, if Kal El handled the test 
successfully, they would inform him of his origins, of his duty to 
return forever to New Krypton, and of his destiny to assume the 
mantle of his father's house.  After that they would return home and 
finally defeat Nor.  Rising from her chair, she approached his desk.

"Hi, Clark.  Did you get a chance to look at that material on Lex 
Luthor's proposal for the West River housing project?"

"Yes."  He smiled at her. "Great detail, Sara," he added, nodding 
towards his computer screen.  "I appreciate the notations, too.  I 
couldn't have produced this article without your work."

"Is there anything else you'd like me to work on?"  Her voice was 
friendly as she asked the question.

Clark paused for a moment.  "Yeah.  I need more information on those 
Hobbs Canal murders.  There's something I'm not quite getting -- 
something I can't put my finger on.  How would you like to go over 
there with me and take a look around?  I could use a fresh 
perspective."

An eager smile lit Zara's face .  "I'm ready right now.  I'll just 
grab my sack."

"Sack?"  Bewilderment flickered in Clark's eyes a second.

"Um... pouch, er purse," she muttered, leaving his side briefly to 
grab the item with the elusive name.  Why did Earth women carry these 
things, anyway? It was so much less efficient than the way in which 
Kryptonian clothing was designed to store any necessary peripherals 
within the garments themselves.  She picked up her purse and returned 
to his side, smiling brightly.  "Let's go."

Lois Lane spotted them as they were leaving the main lobby of the 
Daily Planet.  Now determined not to be recognized as Lois Lane, 
which, she thought, based on her recent experience was probably not 
much of a problem anyway, she'd tried to change her looks.  She had 
died her shoulder length hair auburn and picked up a pair of black 
framed glasses.  She was wearing her usual jeans and her one and only 
jacket, no makeup.  She hoped she faded into the woodwork.

She managed to overhear some fragments of their conversation as they 
stood on the curb waiting for a taxi.  The woman's name was Sara and 
it sounded like she, too, was a reporter at the Planet.  After the 
two of them had got into the taxi, Lois thought for a moment that 
Kent looked back in her direction but she wasn't sure.  Debating for 
a second whether to follow them to the Hobbs Canal, she vetoed the 
idea.  If he had any suspicion he was being tracked, he would be more 
likely to spot her there, in that rundown area of town, where even 
her nondescript appearance was a little too respectable.

Disgruntled, she sighed and decided, instead, to head for the 
Metropolis City Library.  More digging -- this time on James Olsen. 
She still was serious about her "marketing device" hypothesis.  And 
she also decided to read every article written by Clark Kent before 
he surfaced as the Caped Wonder.  She would find out if there really 
was a Clark Kent.  The true Clark Kent.  What he believed in, what he 
cared about.  Or whether he was just some hack from Nowheresville who 
stumbled into *her* job, and the boy genius in the head office 
decided to use him to build his own action hero.  She decided to 
check the last two years' circulation figures of the Daily Planet, 
too.  Do a before and after comparison.

This afternoon, she had a meeting with Trask and then she was going 
to stop at a hardware store to spend some of her very scarce 
resources on a cheap lampshade to mask the minimalist statement made 
by the naked light bulb that dangled above the narrow bed in her room.

And maybe call her father again.

****

Clark turned away from Sara to look out the window of the taxi as it 
manoeuvred to rejoin the stream of traffic in front of the Daily 
Planet.  He'd had that same feeling again that he was being watched. 
Looking back at the crowded sidewalk he scanned the people there, but 
they all seemed to be on their way to somewhere, not watching him.

A boy in his late teens, scowling as he trudged along the sidewalk, 
his shoulders hunched; an old woman, brisk in her stride, muttering 
to herself; a couple of people he knew entering the Planet building; 
two women carrying shopping bags, chatting as they walked; a young 
auburn haired woman in black rimmed glasses and an old jacket and 
jeans, adjusting a small tattered backpack which was slung across her 
shoulders as she walked away.  He smiled at her retreating figure, 
briefly admiring the swing of her shoulder-length hair, feeling a 
connection with her for a moment, thinking that could have been him 
three years ago when he returned from his travels, seeking a job at 
the Planet.  Silently he wished her luck.  But no sign of a potential 
paparazzi.  He was getting paranoid.

Bemused, he shook his head slightly and turned back to Sara.  "Here's 
the problem with those bodies that've shown up by the canal over the 
last year -- Henderson's guys say we're looking at three completely 
unrelated crimes. They've only got a clear I.D. on one of the victims 
but no clue as to how he came to be in the area in the first place. 
Maybe if you take a look at the site, you'll bring a different slant 
to it.  Spot something I've missed."

Zara was pleased that Kal El had decided she could be useful on this 
story.  These murders were a trivial distraction right now, but they 
did give her a good excuse to get closer to him than she had been 
able to do so far.

******

Lois spotted Trask immediately as he entered the Library.  The 
strength and energy of his sturdy body seemed to be constrained by 
the quietness of the room in which she had been working, by the air 
of reflection suggested by the banks of bookshelves which dominated 
the space.  He looked out of place -- a gunslinger in the front 
parlor.

Efficiently, she pulled her notes together, slipped on her jacket, 
and rose to meet him.

"Nearly missed you -- was looking for a brunette," he grinned at her, 
the first time she'd seen him smile.  "Find anything?" he asked. 
"We've poured over all those Superman stories, too.  Nothing useful."

"What would be useful?"

"Evidence he's not on his own.  Something that clues us in about his purpose."

"Have you ever thought that he just might not be an alien?  Maybe he 
could be the product of some government experiment?  I mean, you guys 
don't always do a lot of interdepartmental sharing from what I've 
heard.  And Bureau 39 was downsized, gutted in fact, five years ago."

Trask's tone was tight-lipped, sarcastic.  "You *have* been busy, Ms. Lane."

"Just want to know who I'm working for and if I'm going to get paid," 
she replied lightly.  "So where are we going?" she asked as they 
trotted down the front steps to the pavement.

"Not too far from here.  My car's over there."

Fifteen minutes later they were sitting in front of a large 
television in a small room in a rundown building which, judging by 
the faded letters painted on the building's grimy brick facade, had 
once housed a distillery.  Trask  pressed the remote control and Lois 
watched as images of Superman in action played out before her.

"Some of this we got from LNN News; some of it our guys shot.  We've 
been over it with a fine tooth comb, enhancing the images, looking 
for anything we could find that might indicate what the creature is. 
Nothing leads us to think he's robotic -- no evidence of internal 
electronics -- we did a couple of scans with an infrared camera. 
Even got some satellite footage which clearly differentiates 
biological, electronic, chemical data.  Both Superman and Kent.  He's 
biological.  Show you that after this tape finishes."

Lois watched, astonished in spite of herself by the phenomenon of 
someone who could fly.  She'd read about Superman's heroics but those 
stories hadn't been helpful -- mostly golly-gee-whiz, able to leap 
tall buildings in a single bound, bend steel in his bare hands stuff 
that read like the copy of an adolescent writing for his high school 
paper.  The feats were impressive; there was no question about that.

"He's saved a lot of people's lives," Lois commented to Trask as she 
continued to watch the tapes.  "I don't get why he should worry you."

Trask's voice was patient as though he were speaking to a child. 
"It's all just a cover to soften people up.  He's the PR, the advance 
man for the invasion... Okay, here come the interviews."

Lois watched and listened as the first interview with Superman came 
up, a press conference held when he'd first "arrived" in Metropolis.

"Replay that bit for me, will you?"

"Sure. Why?"

"Notice how his eyes shift right there, shortly after he starts his 
speech.  He's looking beyond the crowd, as though he's searching for 
something or someone on his left.  There, his eyes have stopped; it 
looks as though he found who he was looking for.  Now his eyes have 
shifted back to the crowd and his expression has changed.  He's very 
formal, proper."  Her voice was soft, thoughtful as she spoke. "Do 
you have a crowd shot?"

"That's good, Lois.  We hadn't picked up on that.  I'll check.  If 
we've got anything I'll get it to you as soon as I can."

"Thanks," she flashed him a quick smile.  "Okay, let's see the rest."

She listened carefully as Superman spoke.  He never seemed quite real 
and that bothered her.  His words were just a little bit more formal 
than those an ordinary person would use, making him sound at times 
like the leader of a Boy Scout troop or her old high school 
principal.  There was never any sign of the personal man -- but only 
earnestness instead of passion, good manners unleavened by a sense of 
humor, and always that rigid body posture as though he were playing a 
part.  She'd spent the morning reading Clark Kent's articles, her 
mind skeptical and critical to start with, but she'd finished with a 
grudging respect for the man.  He could write, his work was always 
well researched, but more than that, she'd come away with a feeling 
that he was a deeply compassionate man to whom truth and justice mattered. 
She would like to know Clark Kent.

Trask turned off the TV.  "Seen enough?"

"Yeah, thanks."  No, she hadn't seen enough.  After this morning, she 
was more confused than ever about this Superman story.  "Still not 
sure I buy your alien theory, though," she said casually.

"There's one more thing you should see.  In the back."  He stood up, 
assuming she would follow him into the outer room where a small staff 
was busy working at whatever it is that people work at in government 
offices.  Trask stopped for a moment in front of one desk and 
introduced Lois Lane, explaining that she should give the woman her 
address and a few other bits of information they needed in order to 
get Lois on the payroll.  This seemed to Lois to be a task of major 
significance and she gave the woman her full and best behaved 
attention.  Never mess with the people who keep your records.  She'd 
learned that yesterday morning.

Then she followed Trask through a narrow corridor painted some 
obscure dark colour, probably during the Nixon administration, just 
before they'd started electing celebrities like Presley and Heston to 
the Presidency.  The hall led back into a large storeroom which now 
housed tall narrow rows of metal filing cabinets.  Everything was 
covered in a thick layer of dust and the air was musty.

"Through here," Trask said as he turned left at an intersection of 
drab green filing cabinets.

She felt like she was in a poorly lit maze.  "Not a lot of visitors 
here, I guess."

"Not in a few years.  Now our funding's back, we'll soon have this 
place in shape.  Over here."  He walked across the grey concrete 
floor to a stack of large wooden crates and a cluster of odd canvas 
shrouded objects.  He approached one of these and pulled back its 
cover.

"What is it?"  Lois' eyes widened as she looked at a grey metallic 
object, shaped like an elongated egg with a frieze of incised 
characters along one side of its smooth surface.  At its nose was the 
same shield-like emblem which Superman wore.  Slowly she began to 
move her hand over its surface until it came to rest in a small 
groove, a little bigger than her thumb.  She gave a surprised gasp as 
the hood of the capsule flew open.

Trask grinned like a boy showing off his favourite toy.  "Neat, isn't 
it?  We found it near Smallville, buried in a field not far from the 
Kent farm.  We dug it up last year, just after Superman showed up. 
We're less sure about how long it was there and how it got there."

Fascinated, Lois looked at the sleek interior.  "What do you know 
about this -- how it works?"

"Not much yet.  We haven't had it that long; but, it was this little 
baby," Trask patted the capsule affectionately, "that got us our 
funding back.  The techies are slated to start work on it next week, 
once we get security clearance on them."

"Did you find anything else in Smallville?"

"I'll get the file -- we've kept our field notes and photographs back 
here."  He headed off to the right, again assuming she would follow 
but this time she didn't.

Instead, she continued examining the interior of the capsule, wishing 
for the first time in her life that she had a degree in engineering. 
Her hand moved over an instrument panel, or what she assumed was one, 
touching small black indentions as she did.  The interior was very 
compact.  Had it housed an infant, or something else?  A parasitic 
pod that sprang to life two years ago and took over the body of Clark 
Kent?  As her hand continued its random exploration, her slender 
fingers poking around and below everything she could reach, a short, 
low frequency beep sounded and suddenly a sphere, about the size of 
an oversized softball sprang from a cavity below the panel.  She 
touched it with care and it wobbled, suggesting that it would release 
easily.  Plucking it out, she regarded it briefly; then, hearing the 
distant squeak of Trask's footsteps, she quickly popped the sphere 
into her backpack and bent over the capsule, continuing her tactile 
investigation.

"Find anything?" Trask asked as he came to stand beside her.

"Nothing that makes any sense to me."  Lois straightened up and 
stretched out her hand for the folder which Trask held.  Flipping 
through it quickly, she examined its contents while Trask 
repositioned the hood on the capsule.

"Mind if I borrow this?" Lois asked.

"As a matter of fact, yes.  It's classified information but you can 
look through it here, in the main office."  After taking possession 
of the file again, he led the way back to the main office where he 
escorted Lois to an empty desk.  He pulled back a chair for her and 
then grabbed another one from an unoccupied desk nearby.  "Let me 
know if you got questions," he said as he straddled the chair, 
leaning his forearms along its back.

Great, she thought, nothing like having teacher hovering over me. 
"Mind if I make a few notes?"

"Go ahead, Ms. Lane."

That was the last thing he said until she closed the file.  What 
she'd read had been descriptions of the Kent farmhouse, interviews 
with several townspeople, neighboring farmers, former classmates of 
Clark Kent -- every one of them indicating an incredibly normal 
family shattered by tragedy when Clark Kent was ten years old, but 
nothing more.  No suggestion of a link to Superman at all. 
Photographs of the field where the capsule had been found were 
equally uninformative.

Lois rose slowly and then turned to look at Trask.  "I'd like to go 
to Smallville."

"A wild goose chase, Ms. Lane."

"Maybe, but I'll bring a new perspective to it.  There's a lot 
missing from these files."

"And you think you can fill in the gaps?"

Lois grinned at him.  "Trask, you wouldn't have hired me if you 
didn't think I could.  So how about expense money for a three day 
trip to Kansas?"

Trask grinned back.  "Okay, Lane, but find something our guys missed."

*******

Not far away, Zara and Clark were standing on a rusty iron foot 
bridge which crossed the narrow, oily width of the canal which 
channelled some of the waters of the Hobbs River.

"What I can't figure, Sara, is what ties the victims to this area. 
Henderson's profilers say murder victims usually come from the area 
where their bodies were found and their killer usually comes from 
within a two mile radius.  But I don't get it here."  He turned to 
look at the woman standing beside him.  "So what am I missing?"

"I've read about these cases.  A woman in her late teens, a 
middle-aged man, and a man in his early twenties -- only the older 
man's identity confirmed, an accountant from across town."

"Henderson's found a bit more, but still no link.  The woman, girl, " 
he corrected himself, "was a prostitute, probably from this 
neighborhood; the guy he's still not sure about, looks like he was on 
the streets, a drug user.  But no last names for either of them."

"Clark, why don't we check around a bit -- maybe there's something 
the police have missed."

A small smile flitted across Clark's face as he replied.  "Between 
Henderson's expert team and my, uh, sight, I don't think we've missed 
a lot."

Zara began to walk the short distance to the end of the bridge. 
"Still, you can't tell.  We might..."

She was interrupted by the shrill wail of multiple sirens blaring 
from the centre of town.  Clark's head snapped up and he spoke 
quickly.  "Excuse me, Sara, gotta go."  The next second he was flying 
east.

Zara looked up and smiled.  She'd heard the sirens, too.  Looking 
around and noticing no one, she rose effortlessly in the air, gaining 
altitude, and then she shot towards the sound of the sirens.  This 
was Ching's test.  They would both watch with interest.

As Superman got closer to the source of the sirens, he spotted a 
school bus straddling precipitously across the steel and concrete 
railing of the long suspension bridge which arcs high across the 
mouth of Metropolis Harbor.  Far above the icy waters, the bus 
wobbled precariously, threatening to topple at any moment, plunging 
its frightened young passengers below the frigid surface.

Easy, Superman thought as he descended toward the bus.  Then he felt 
the first wave of weakness wash over his body.  He'd only felt it 
once before, but he recognized it immediately -- the green crystal 
which Tempus had used against him over a year ago.  Lois Lane had 
called it Kryptonite.  The closer he got to the bus the stronger its 
effects on his body.  As he felt himself losing altitude more rapidly 
than he could easily control, he knew he would be powerless to 
prevent the bus from slipping.  Those children would die.  He fell 
away, far enough to feel some of his strength returning.  Not much. 
Maybe enough.

He sped toward a huge sports dome set up in the centre of Metropolis 
Central Park, quickly circled it, removing the strong fiberglass 
tarpaulin which formed its roof.  Seconds later, carrying the fabric, 
he shot back to the teetering bus, giving it a wide birth as he swung 
far below it.  Still he was close enough to feel the effect from the 
Kryptonite, as it seeped into his muscles, weakening him.

He fought against the mounting pain as he pushed himself to stretch 
the fabric across the water, lashing it to the concrete footings of 
the bridge.  The canvas had been developed specially to withstand the 
forces of severe winter storms, its fabric reinforced with steel 
fibres.  It should withstand the weight of the bus, serving as a 
giant net to catch the falling bus.  It had to.  Grabbing the 
tarpaulin's two loose corners in each hand, Superman flew far enough 
out over the water to form a safety net.  The harbor police had 
diverted both road and water traffic from the vicinity of the bridge, 
anticipating the crash of the bus.  Ambulances and fire engines were 
roaring up to the scene, their sirens echoing the tension in 
Superman's gut.

Zara watched all this impassively.  Somehow she was sure that Ching 
would not let these children die just as she was also sure that Kal 
El would rescue them.  She watched as he worked at lashing the ends 
of the canvas and then, holding one corner, as he flew out to grab 
the remaining corner of his improvised net.  Her enhanced vision 
allowed her to see the physical strain that Kal El was under.  His 
face grimaced in pain and his movements were sluggish as he forced 
himself to complete his task.  Then she noticed a man in a dark 
leather jacket slip unobtrusively to the footing opposite where Kal 
El now hovered, just as the bus lost its balance and hurtled over the 
bridge.  The makeshift net held and the bus was safe, cradled in a 
giant hammock strung across the water.

Sweat beading on his brow, Superman watched, exhausted as the bus 
finally lost its equilibrium, pitching downward over the side of the 
bridge.  He exhaled in relief as he saw that the bus was secure, at 
least as long as he could withstand the waves of Kryptonite which 
were now much closer to him.  Where was it anyway?

Quickly scanning the bus, he noticed the green crystal encased in a 
small box on the front dashboard, just as his supervision began to 
fail.  He was getting weaker.  Raising his voice so that it would 
carry inside the bus, he shouted for the driver to throw the box as 
far as he could out the other side.  The driver did and Superman 
began to feel some of his strength return -- not much, but at least 
enough for him to hold up his end of the makeshift net until the fire 
department could lower its ladders and slings to slowly remove the 
bus's passengers.  It would be alright.  Feeling relieved he looked 
around and noticed the black-suited figure standing at one of the 
footings.  That was odd; he hadn't been there a few minutes ago. 
How'd he get there?

It took a while for the fire department to remove all the passengers 
and Superman had no choice but to wait it out.  The bus had landed on 
one side and at first it had proved awkward to get the children out. 
Attempts to negotiate a huge crane from a major construction company 
were going slowly; it managed to arrive just as the last handful of 
children were being hoisted to safety.  The bus driver was the last 
to be rescued.  The man in the black suit was gone; Clark had watched 
as he stepped behind the huge footing and then vanished.

Later, as he was talking to the bus driver, Superman could make no 
sense of how the accident had happened.  The driver was defensive in 
face of a series of hostile questions from the police who were in the 
process of testing his alcohol level, although it was obvious that he 
was sober.  The bus would be thoroughly inspected for mechanical 
failure although the bus driver was sure that hadn't been the 
problem.  He was perplexed and angry, still shaken by the experience. 
He had no idea why the accident had happened.

Much later that night, close to midnight, as Clark landed on the 
small balcony of the Clinton Street apartment, he was shocked to see 
Sara with the man in black whom he'd spotted that afternoon at the 
bridge, waiting for him.  Both were dressed in black uniforms and 
appeared oblivious to the freezing January temperature.  "What the??"

"Lord Kal El," Zara began, "I am Zara, kin to your mother Lara, both 
of us descended from the house of Ra.  We've come to take you home."

*****

Lois tried again to reach her father before she caught the plane to 
Kansas.  There was still no response so once again she left a 
message, this time letting him know she would be out of town for a 
few days.  She didn't tell him where she was going and she left no 
number where she could be reached since she had no phone and doubted 
if anyone would take a message for her at the Apollo.  She wasn't too 
surprised at her failure to get hold of Sam Lane; getting in touch 
with her father had always been an iffy thing, even when he and her 
mother had been married.  When she got back she would try a different 
way to get in touch with her sister and mother.  But she was 
disappointed; somehow she'd hoped that her father would be waiting 
for her, grateful that she was still alive.  Feeling very alone, she 
replaced the receiver as the PA announced her flight departure. 
Hoisting her backpack over her shoulders, she strode quickly to the 
departure gate.

*****

Clark listened in both wonder and disbelief as Zara and Ching talked 
to him in his small living room, providing him with answers to 
questions he'd had for so long.  Who he was and where he'd come from. 


At first, he'd been skeptical, not believing that he could possibly 
be from another planet, although Lois Lane had said that to him, 
mixed somewhere in her torrent of words as she'd cornered him in the 
newsroom of the Daily Planet when she'd come to this universe. 
Practically her first words.  In fact, one of the things about her 
which had made him think that she was just a little bit odd.  The 
idea of extraterrestial contact with Earth had been one that he'd 
always thought of as an unlikely or at best an outside possibility, 
like the existence of angels or sasquatch.  He'd always thought there 
should be a little tangible evidence before believing.  So he'd 
buried the idea, not really wanting to believe it.

But Zara's and Ching's ultimate proof, the fact that they too had 
powers like his, was pretty convincing.  So he listened to what they 
had to say, quelling the warring emotions which swept over him.  The 
planet Krypton had exploded, leaving no survivors.  They were New 
Kryptonians, citizens of what had once been a Kryptonian colony, 
founded by Kal El's great grandfather, Zon El.  At the time of 
Krypton's destruction, New Krypton had been engaged in bitter and 
often violent negotiations with the mother planet, seeking more power 
to make its own laws.

"So that's why I wasn't sent to New Krypton?" Clark asked.

"Probably.  At the time you were sent, New Krypton's senior military 
leader was Lord Nor the Elder.  He and your father were enemies and 
Jor El, I'm sure, did not trust him."

"But he must've trusted your father.  I mean, he and my mother were 
cousins you said."

"True, they were second cousins."  Zara met his eyes for a moment and 
then lowered them.  "But my father was not well and he feared he 
would not live much longer.  He made provision for my mother and me 
but he would probably not have been able to protect you."

"I don't get it -- why should a baby need protecting?"

"Kal," Zara noted the flicker of surprise that crossed his face when 
she used his proper name, "your grandfather was the ruler of Krypton 
and he was a great leader.  But Nor was his enemy and the El family 
knew he would not hesitate to kill you so that you could never become 
the focal point of rebellion."

"What about you?" Clark asked.  "How did you manage to escape from this Nor?"

Zara smiled for the first time since she had entered Clark's living 
room.   "Ching's family.  They have always served the Ras with honor. 
And they did so during my father's illness and later after his death. 
Lieutenant Ching has always been my protector."  She turned to look 
at the man beside her but his face remained impassive although he 
nodded his head slightly to acknowledge her comment.

"Why now?  Why come for me now -- why not thirty years ago or 
whenever it was that your troubles with this Nor family ended? 
Somebody just remember I existed?"

"Kal El," Zara's words were formal, a rebuke of the accusation in his 
tone, "we were not certain of your survival; in fact, given the level 
of our technology at the time, it seemed unlikely.  But we have come 
now.  New Krypton needs you, Jor El's heir, to lead us in the crisis 
we now face.  This is what you are destined to do."

"What?"  Clark stood and ran a hand through his black hair, looking 
at them both as though they were crazy.  "Why should I want to go 
there?"

"Because they are your people, my lord," Ching said, speaking for the 
first time since they had entered Clark's living room.  "It is your 
duty.  We have observed you for over a month now.  Today we saw that 
you are capable of leading us."

"You made that bus go off the bridge."  The anger in Clark's voice 
was clear.  "You could have killed those kids!"

"Highly unlikely," Ching said calmly.  "I would have intervened."

"Oh, Kryptonite doesn't affect you?"  Clark's voice was sarcastic as 
he glared at both Zara and Ching.

"Kryptonite?  Is that what you call it here?  How odd.  Interesting 
how this planet intensifies its toxicity.  For some reason it has 
become radioactive.  We've found it can be countered with lead, 
however."  Ching's voice was cool as he continued.  "The *Kryptonite* 
was housed in a box which could be automatically opened and closed by 
remote control.  One of our people, posing as a mechanic, placed the 
box in the bus before it started its route this afternoon.  If you 
had failed, I would have closed the container and you would have been 
able to use your regular super strength to complete your task."

Clark caught the slight trace of sarcasm in Ching's words but made no 
comment on it.  "One of your people?  Just how many people are here?"

"Only a few.  Our mission is only to contact you."

"Look, Earth is my home..." Clark started.

Zara's voice was soft as she interrupted him. "No, Kal.  How can it 
be -- you're so different from these people.  What is there here for 
you?  You belong with us.  There must be a great emptiness inside 
you, an emptiness which only your Kryptonian heritage can fill.  You 
must be curious to know what your home is like, to live among your 
own people.  New Krypton is where you belong."

"My lord, it is your duty," Ching added.  "Besides, Metropolis is so 
inferior to Krypton.  Its technology is primitive; its people are not 
your people."

Clark spoke slowly, thinking about what they had said, and also about 
what had not been said.  "I'm not so sure about that.  I need time to 
think about what you've told me."

"There is no time."  Ching's voice was impatient.  "We've been here 
too long already."

"Kal, New Krypton once again faces a threat from the Nor family. 
They will destroy what we are if they succeed.  Our people need you."

"Why me?"

"You are the descendant of the great Zon El, his heir.  Only you can 
lead New Krypton."  Zara's voice was urgent she spoke.

"And then I return here?"

"Yes," Zara didn't flinch as she spoke.

Clark's tone was equally emphatic as he repeated his earlier words. 
"I need time to think."

*****

After they'd left, Clark sat down again, his mind racing over all 
that Zara and Ching had told him.  Partly, he was elated.  Part of 
him could hardly wait to go with them, eager to see New Krypton, to 
travel to a distant universe, something that scientists on Earth 
still only dreamed of or played academic games about at university 
conferences.  Even his extraordinary powers would not allow anything 
that astonishing.  He'd tried once to reach the moon but had fallen 
back, unable to do without oxygen for the time required to get there. 
But the stars had always fascinated him, their bright solitude 
succoring him in his loneliness as, sometimes, late at night he flew 
high above the clouds.

And now he knew he did belong somewhere.  He was Kryptonian.  He had 
family --- distant, admittedly, but real family.  And there was a 
people of whom he was a part.  He was not the last one.  He was not 
alone.  There was a whole culture on that distant planet, with 
beliefs and values and customs that he wanted desperately to know 
about. That he'd dreamed about knowing ever since he'd began to 
develop his powers and realized that he was different, really 
different from those around him.  And, over and over, had wondered 
why.  From that time forward, he'd always taken great care to hide 
what his body could do, afraid of what would happen if he were found 
out.

He'd been frightened, too, of the power of these new abilities as 
they developed throughout his adolescence.  At times he'd overused 
them, applying a bit too much force to push a car out of a snow bank 
or to tackle someone in a high school football game.  After that 
particular incident, his participation in sports became a question of 
finely tuning his skills, enough to be part of the team, but not 
quite enough to be its star.  For him, the joy of sports became the 
team work required to assist a fellow player score a touchdown or a 
basket.

One summer, he'd helped repair a dock at a local marina, lifting 
rocks which no one else could manage, when he was suddenly aware of 
the stares from the two guys with whom he was working.  Then he'd 
realized the problem: he shouldn't have been able to lift those 
rocks.  So he covered up, claiming he'd been overextending himself; 
it was the adrenaline which had given him the extra strength, but 
man, he sure was beat now.  Maybe he'd sit it out for a bit.  His 
companions had laughed, kidding him about showing off and left him to 
sit in the shade.

That wasn't the only incident.  He'd accidentally started a fire in 
the storage shed behind the bleachers on the Smallville High football 
field when he'd looked over there quickly to see if the team's 
missing equipment had been left there by mistake.  No one thought, of 
course, to ascribe the fire to the heat rays he had accidentally 
activated as he had tried to use his x-ray vision to scan the area 
behind the bleachers.  Instead, there was much talk of spontaneous 
combustion, especially by him, as he and two of his friends raced to 
the storage shed to douse the flames.

After that, he resorted to solitary walks in the woods where he could 
find somewhere to be alone and try out his new powers.  Lifting, 
pulling, throwing.  Finding out how fast he could run.  Learning to 
control his x-ray vision. Using his breath to create whirlpools of 
dry autumn leaves -- even doing that a few times to the wheat in 
farmers' fields.  A few years ago he'd been embarrassed to learn of 
the crop circles in Kansas fields which experts were busy 
investigating.  Still, they'd been fun to make.  He'd made them 
shortly after he realized he could fly, when he was eighteen.  At 
night, he would swoop down low over the fields, thrilling to the 
whoosh of rustling wheat as he flew above it.  That's when he'd made 
the circles, patterns of rings scattered across the fields.

The first time he'd saved someone's life had been an accident.  He 
was eighteen and he'd been walking along a busy street in Mexico City 
when a heavy stone balustrade on an old colonial building had 
suddenly broken away, hurtling downward.  Instinctively he'd thrown 
up his hands and stopped the falling object, deflecting it so that it 
fell away from the small group of people on the pavement.  Then he 
got out of there real quick.  But it had felt good to know that he 
had prevented someone from being hurt.  Just so long as he could pull 
it off without anyone noticing.

It was Lana who had finally noticed.  Shortly after they had 
graduated from high school, she'd accidentally discovered him 
"pulling one of his stunts" as she started to call it, and, to put it 
mildly, she had freaked.  Then she had calmed down, read him the riot 
act, and kept her eye on him.  He'd figured he'd been lucky -- he'd 
always thought that sooner or later he was going to get caught and he 
was lucky it had been by Lana.  So he grew even more cautious.  But 
he'd never been happy about it, although later he felt grateful to 
Lana that she was still willing to marry him even though he was so 
different.  The deal would be that he wouldn't use the powers.

Ironically, now he was faced with losing his powers again, this time 
really losing them.  On New Krypton, his powers would probably 
disappear.  Zara and Ching had told him that they had just recently 
begun to develop abilities similar to his which they had concluded 
were the consequence of living under a yellow sun rather than 
Krypton's red sun.  Their powers were still weak -- they could only 
fly short distances, for example.

Clark tried to decide whether this mattered to him or not.  At first 
he had resented the powers but now he wondered if they had partly 
shaped who he was. Although he'd always been stronger and faster than 
his friends, he'd spent nearly eleven years of his life as a pretty 
normal kid and it had been the happiest time of his life.  The powers 
had isolated him, made him cautious although there had been wild 
moments of pure joy, too, as he soared and twisted and slid through 
clouds and then shot to the bottom of ocean floors, seeing wonders 
he'd never dreamed of.  The price for that had been high  -- the 
constant vigilance to keep his secret and to be less than he could 
be.  And the torment when he saw things happen that he knew he could 
prevent.

This last year had been different though.  If his life was still one 
of isolation, at least he'd found great satisfaction in the role he'd 
played as Superman.  It had felt good.  He smiled as he recalled 
saying that to Lois Lane when she had hurtled into his universe and 
made him realize that it was the right thing to use his powers to 
help others.

Thinking about her made him restless.  Slipping out his back door 
without bothering to change into the Superman costume, he lifted 
slowly into the dark night sky, gliding low until he came to stand in 
a cemetery in the heart of the city, in front of the grave of a woman 
he'd never met.  Lois Lane, 1967 -1993.  She would have been 
twenty-six when she'd died in the Congo.  He still found it hard to 
accept.  He'd searched everywhere for her after the other Lois Lane 
had vanished back into her own universe after the most incredible 
forty-eight hours of his life.  He'd felt things for her in that 
short time that he'd never felt for anyone.  But his search had led 
nowhere.  Then, last November, when he'd returned from the other 
universe's Metropolis, he'd started his search all over again, buoyed 
by H.G.Wells' statement that Lois was where he would least expect it.

Eagerly, he'd once again flown around the planet, carefully using his 
x-ray vision as he'd swept low over the world's megacities, positive 
he'd find her.  Once more, he'd dug through the Planet's archives, 
reading between the lines of the stories filed from the Congo, even 
the last one which had only Claude Kendall's byline, although Clark 
thought he detected Lois Lane's writing style in parts of that 
article.  But there were no clues about Lois's fate lurking in the 
spaces between the words on those printed pages.  Still, he'd 
followed the paper trail, combing the streets of every town and 
village in the Congo only to stand once again, alone, on that dusty 
road where the van carrying Lois Lane had exploded.  He'd failed to 
find her; old H.G. wasn't infallible, he'd thought with some 
bitterness.

When he'd returned from the other Metropolis a couple of months ago, 
he'd finally understood that the attraction which he felt for that 
Lois Lane was in some sense not real.  He'd realized that as he'd 
watched when the Clark Kent of that world had finally returned home 
safely and embraced his wife.  Strangely, Clark had felt no jealousy, 
just a sadness that his counterpart had found the love of his life 
while he had not.  And, as he had watched, he'd felt it was right 
that those two were together and that it would have been wrong if 
Lois had stayed with him as he'd asked her to when she had come to 
his world.  At least the trip to the other Metropolis had given him 
that awareness and that consolation.

Now he touched the head stone which marked the grave in front of him. 
He should accept that it was Lois Lane who was really buried here. 
Give her up.  Perhaps his mind could, but he wondered if his heart 
ever could.  How could he have this feeling for a woman he'd never 
met?  One more reason why he should go to New Krypton, to accept the 
finality of what had happened to Lois Lane.  She was a past he'd 
never had.  New Krypton was his future.

Soaring into the sky he flew back to Clinton street, once more 
entering his apartment and gazing around it. So he was Kal El, not 
Clark Kent.  As soon as that thought passed through his mind, he 
rejected it, memories of the warmth, of the love, and the strength 
he'd found in a Kansas farmhouse flooding his mind.  All of a sudden 
he needed to see that farmhouse again, just as he had needed to see 
Lois's grave a few minutes ago.  Once again he soared into the sky, 
this time starting to fly southwest toward Kansas only to be diverted 
by yet another emergency -- this time, a riot at New Troy State 
Penitentiary.

It would take him most of the day to help negotiate a deal between 
the angry prisoners and the state authorities.  He'd never been 
called on to do that before -- to act as a peacemaker.  Maybe it was 
a sign.  Maybe he did have something to offer Zara and Ching.

*****

Lois Lane wasted no time once her plane landed at Wichita Airport. 
Skirting the passengers rushing to the luggage carousels, she 
strapped her backpack on and strode over to the car rental kiosks 
where she picked up the bottom of the line special -- small, no guts, 
but it would get her to Smallville in more style than she'd been 
accustomed to in the last four years.

Early the next morning in Smallville, Lois began her search, for what 
she wasn't quite sure.  Clark Kent?  Superman?  The truth?  After 
finishing a quick breakfast in Smallville's only motel, she hit the 
pavement, stopping in local shops and Maisie's diner, asking about 
the Kent family.

Not much to be found out that she hadn't already learned from her 
research, except here she got a sense of the closeness of a community 
where families had a long history.  People held good memories of 
Jonathan and Martha Kent, although the town was reticent on the 
subject of their son, whom the older residents recalled as just one 
of the kids.  Most of Clark Kent's peers had left Smallville, in 
search of careers elsewhere, but a few had stayed and they, too, 
spoke fondly of Clark Kent who had been one of them, not particularly 
outstanding, but one of them.

At the hardware, feed and seed store, Lois asked about the Kent 
farmhouse and found that it had been up for sale since last spring. 
Times were not good for farmers and when Tom Jackson, who had bought 
the farm after the Kents died, had himself passed on, his widow had 
rented out the fields to neighbors, put the property up for sale, and 
moved into a small frame house in Smallville.  She was Lois' next 
stop.

Anita Jackson, a spare grey-haired woman, welcomed her visitor, 
inviting her into her small living room for some tea and muffins. 
Thanking her, Lois followed her into the room, charmed by its 
coziness.  As they talked, it became clear that Anita didn't have 
much to add to what Lois had already discovered.  She remembered 
Clark Kent and how she'd felt sorry for the young boy who had been 
orphaned and taken away from his home to nearby Lawrence where he had 
lived with his grandmother for two years until her death.  After 
that, she'd heard he went into a succession of foster homes until he 
was old enough to go to college.  She wasn't sure though.  Then she 
smiled at Lois and said she had something that she'd brought from the 
Smallville farmhouse.

Mrs. Jackson left the room for a few minutes and came back with an 
old cardboard box containing a couple of old photograph albums as 
well as many loose, unmounted pictures.  "I found these in a closet 
after we first moved in.  We bought the house furnished.  What use 
would a young boy have for furniture?  I meant to take these to the 
boy's grandmother but somehow I never did.  Raising six kids and 
running a farm keeps you busy."   She looked apologetically at Lois 
and then sighed, leaning back in her chair.  "Then I heard his 
grandmother had died and I didn't know where he was.  Now he's 
Superman, with important things to do, and probably forgotten all 
about these."

Eagerly, Lois leaned forward.  "Could I see them?" she asked.

"Of course."  Anita handed her the box.  "Are you a friend of his? 
Do you think you could give these to him?  I'd be grateful.  It's 
something I should have done years ago."

Lois looked at her, surprised.  "I'd be pleased to do that, Mrs. 
Jackson.  I don't know when I'll see him but I promise you he'll get 
them."  She placed the lid back on the box and rose to leave, again 
thanking the woman for her help, not believing her luck in getting 
the photographs.

Outside Lois looked around her, basking for a moment in the winter 
sun which somehow had not managed to shine in Metropolis since her 
return.  Then she unlocked the trunk of her car, carefully placed the 
box beside her backpack, closed the trunk, and then walked the few 
paces to the driver's side of the car.  She had just enough time to 
look at Clark Kent's boyhood home before sunset.

Forty minutes later, she pulled up in front of a frame farmhouse, its 
front facade bordered by a porch which seemed to Lois like a perfect 
spot to spend a summer evening.  Had the Kents done that, sipping 
lemonade as they talked about the day's events?  She shook her head, 
laughing at herself.  That must be a scene from an old movie she'd 
seen; certainly it wasn't anything she knew from her own childhood. 
She mounted the steps of the porch, observing that the place needed a 
fresh coat of paint.  Peering first in the window to see if anyone 
one was there, she knocked on the door.  No answer, which pleased 
her. Reaching into her purse, she pulled out her Swiss army knife and 
adroitly picked the lock.

She found nothing much inside.  Mrs. Jackson had removed all the 
furniture and so it was very unlikely that Lois would discover 
anything that told her about Clark Kent in these empty, dusty rooms. 
After a quick tour of inspection upstairs she returned to the front 
room, thinking she had probably wasted her time in coming.  Trask was 
right.  The answer to whatever was going on with Clark Kent was in 
Metropolis.

She stepped back out onto the verandah.  It was getting late and 
within the hour the place would be in total darkness.  Her hand 
touched one of the roof's supporting posts and she looked at it for a 
minute, noticing the initials, still visible through the layers of 
white paint, carved just above where her hand rested.  C.K.  She 
smiled, remembering how she too had once carved her own initials on 
the sill of her bedroom window, thrilled with a penknife given to her 
by her cousin.  Then she stepped lightly down from the porch onto the 
stone path which curved out of the front yard toward the barn, 
smiling at her sentimentality, tucking it back into some obscure 
corner of her mind.

The barn was easier to get into than the house had been.  Once 
inside, she looked around, not really knowing what she was seeing. 
It looked kind of rustic was about all she could think.  There was 
still the slight smell of farm animal about it but mostly it looked 
empty.  She walked over to a few bins that she supposed were animal 
stalls.  Hard to imagine a space alien here.

Approaching the centre of the barn, she gazed around, her eye caught 
by the thick rough hewn timber which supported the centre beam of the 
barn.  Again she noticed the nicks in the wood and she looked closely 
at them, looking for the same initials she'd seen before, pleased 
when she found them. In fact, there were a series of slashes cut into 
the wood; one at about six feet and beside it, the initials, J.K. 
Jonathan Kent, she thought.  Then lower, much lower, starting at her 
knee level, were a series of straight horizontal lines, each one 
dated, with the initials C.K. beside it.  A young boy measuring 
himself against his father.  And then the initials stopped, just when 
he was a about five feet tall.  Lois touched the last cut, feeling a 
sadness for this boy who had lost so much.  Once again, the words 
echoed in her mind.  Who are you, Clark Kent?  And now the question, 
are you Superman?  Or is he you?

Turning she left the barn, deciding to take a final tour around the 
property before she left.

*****

The thought of paying a final visit to Kansas had never really left 
Clark's mind the whole time he'd been arbitrating between the head of 
the prisoner's committee, the warden, and the Governor of New Troy. 
As soon as he felt confident that a settlement seemed in sight, he 
took off, once more flying southwest.  As the sun blazed low in the 
afternoon sky, he landed in front of the small farmhouse which had 
been his boyhood home.

He hadn't been at the farm in a very long time, not since he'd 
finished college and that had been the only time he'd returned since 
his parents' death.  It had been too painful, conjuring memories 
which were too happy and hurt too much.  He'd left without having the 
courage to knock on the door to even introduce himself.

Now he needed to be here, to remember his childhood.  If he was to 
leave Earth for New Krypton, he knew he first had to return to this 
farm.  Gazing at the front porch for a moment he could almost see his 
mother there, sitting in the swing his dad had hung from the porch 
rafters as a special present for her.  She had loved that swing and 
so had he.  Now it was gone.  Stepping lightly up to the front door, 
he was surprised to find it unlocked.  The real estate agent sure was 
doing a lousy job of keeping an eye on the property, he thought.  He 
hoped he wouldn't find it vandalized.  He opened the front door and 
was relieved to find no signs of damage.

Although the house was empty, he still could see it as it had been in 
his childhood -- the fieldstone fireplace in front of which his 
mother used to sit as she read to him in the evening, the kitchen 
where he and his mom and dad had played all sorts of games as he was 
growing up, the weird tiles that his mom had made at a ceramics