by Len Wein
“Welcome,” the electronically-altered voice began. “I am pleased you could all come. I trust those reports I sent you were sufficiently convincing?”
John Daniels erupted from his high-backed chair. “Don’t play games with us, you . . . you . . . whatever you are. You don’t honestly believe you can blackmail us, do you? It’s unheard of. We won’t stand for it!”
The voice droned on, ignoring Daniels’ outburst. “You eight are the presidents of this nation’s most powerful oil companies. From left to right: you, William Griffith, control Travel Oil, Incorporated: assets of nineteen billion dollars.” Griffith sat stoically, unimpressed. His company records were open to public inspection; any interested party could have learned the gross income. At Griffith’s side, stacked neatly on the long table, was a three-inch pile of notes. Griffith was waiting to unleash them on the mysterious voice that had called him three weeks previously with a bizarre, unbelievable proposition that Griffith had, naturally, turned down.
“To Mr. Griffith’s right is Philip Carmel, president of General Petroleum. When I spoke with you, Mr. Carmel, you seemed anxious to cooperate. I sincerely hope you have not changed your mind now.” Carmel glanced nervously at the other seven men, forced a sheepish grin, then turned his attention once more to the pencil he strummed against his knee. Please, he thought fearfully, go on to the next one. Just leave me alone.
“Next we have Mr. James Knotts, who controls Agate Petroleum. You were quite upset when I spoke to you, Mr. Knotts. I hope that your blood pressure has returned to normal by now.” Knotts looked up and glowered at the viewscreen for a moment, then returned his gaze to the tabletop.
“Abraham Grey, when I spoke to you last week, you said you were uncertain as to how your many stockholders would receive my proposition. To that, I’d like to offer a suggestion if I might. Since I intend to control your Canadian Petroleum Corporation for less than a year, your stockholders need know nothing of our little arrangement, if you so desire. I certainly don’t wish to make your life more difficult than necessary.” Grey squirmed uncomfortably in his seat.
“Andrew Cobb, you rejected my proposition, and yet you came to hear me out anyway. Quite interesting.” Cobb smiled as he rose lazily from the soft-cushioned chair.
“Ain’t really all that interesting, friend. The way I see it, you got us all by the short hairs. Least I can do is listen a bit. Pappy always said it’s only polite to hear a man out—especially when he’s got himself a gun pointed at your head.” Cobb eased himself back into his seat, smiling at John Daniels, who glowered at him scornfully. There was too great a difference in their personal styles for him and Cobb to agree on anything, and now was certainly not the time to start.
“John Daniels, you discussed my proposition with your executive vice-president, despite my admonitions to remain completely silent on this matter. I am, you will learn, a man of my word, Mr. Daniels. You will be attending Vernon Johnson’s funeral next Thursday.”
Furiously, Daniels shot up from his chair, a signal for the towering, grim-faced guard at the door to move threateningly toward him. Realizing his danger, Daniels choked back his next words. Swallowing his pride with his speech, he slumped back into his seat, in tears. It had been a long time since he had last cried in public.
“Madison Bell, you are chairman of the board of Roxxon, the first company to receive my little calls. I am honored that a man in your delicate physical condition saw fit to attend our meeting personally.” Bell squinted as he looked up from his wheelchair toward the viewscreen. He tapped the hearing aid in his right ear, then cocked his head questioningly. “Enough with the introductions, mister. We all know who we are. Now who the hell are you?”
“That is something you will learn soon enough, Mr. Bell, Last, but certainly not least, we have Mr. Arthur Norman, president of Metco Oil. Please sit up straight, Mr. Norman. I promise you, you will soon feel right at home.” Arthur Norman, a rather nondescript gentleman, sat heavily back in his chair, his gray suit and gray tie blending almost perfectly with his decor. He adjusted his glasses clumsily, coughed a small, nervous cough, then waited for the mysterious voice to continue.
“Gentlemen, by now all of your research scientists will have proven my initial claims to be absolutely true. Through a process known only to myself, your current supplies of oil have been dangerously irradiated with nuclear wastes. They are useless to you, and they will remain useless for a period of not more than one year.
“By all rights, this effectively puts you out of business. For, once the government learns of your unfortunate predicament, you will be unable to prevent extensive research into various alternative energy sources less expensive than your own. At the moment, your lobbies in Washington have effected a virtual stranglehold on most other research, but, the law of supply and demand being what it is, this will not long continue to be the case.
“Unless, of course, gentlemen, you buy your oil from me.”
The eight men listened incredulously, but only James J. Knotts found voice enough to speak. “What the hell are you talking about? If our oil is contaminated, where on this earth could you possibly find sufficient other sources to supply the needs of all of us?”
The emotionless voice droned on. “That, gentlemen, is my concern. Your concern is whether or not you will pay the rather exorbitant fees I intend to charge you for the use of my precious oil supplies.”
“And what if we decide not to pay?” Griffith asked.
“That, of course, is your decision, but you might consider it a simple matter of economics. You can either pay me what I ask for the next twelve months and accept your temporary losses, or you can defy me and be bankrupt at year’s end.
“It’s only a year, gentlemen, twelve short months. After which, your resources will no longer be contaminated and you can resume your own oil production. Now is that too much to ask?”
With that, Spider-Man turned and slithered back up the airduct. The oil situation was interesting, but it did not really concern him. Peter Parker, after all, didn’t even own a car. So who really cared what happened to the coffers of an industry that was probably ripping off the public to some degree anyway? Turnabout is fair play, right?
Silently, the Wall-crawler made his way through the first passage, then moved down the second tunnel to the vertical shaft. From here, he had only to head directly up to the roof once more, then out into the street—and he was home free.
Spider-Man paused for a moment to check the mini-camera in his belt. Three shots. Not much, but they were all he could risk without possibly giving away his hiding place. He put the camera away, then cautiously began his ascent to the roof.
In moments, the iron grating covering the air-shaft opening was before him. With deceptive ease, he slipped the grating out of place and stepped carefully from the duct to the roof.
At which point, his spider-sense began to hammer at his head like a pile-driver gone berserk.
Spider-Man whirled to find three armed guards moving quickly across the rooftop toward him, weapons already in hand.
An instant later, a bullet whizzed by the Web-slinger’s head, and Spider-Man dove back into the airduct. He was well aware that the guards in the building would be notified of his presence within moments. He was trapped and there were seventy-six stories between himself and safety.
Beneath his mask, Peter Parker took a long, anxious breath. For a moment he savored it, but then he scurried on, knowing full well that it might be the last breath he’d ever take.
Six
During the one-point-three-second interval between gunshots, three separate thoughts raced through Spider-Man’s mind. First, naturally: escape. Whatever was happening here, it had no real bearing on the Wall-crawler’s personal life. Let the government worry about this impending oil crisis. That was what they were paid for. Second: escape safely. It would be extremely difficult for Peter Parker to explain any gunshot wounds . . . assuming, of course, he survived them. And having his head bl
own off in the course of the escape would accomplish nothing. Third: hunger. Hunger? Yep, the Web-slinger suddenly realized he hadn’t yet eaten anything today, and it was way past two in the afternoon. Heckuva thing, having to fight on an empty stomach.
Desperately, Spider-Man scurried through the airduct as his spider-sense began to tingle once more. Behind him, a precariously balanced guard held a pistol in both hands, firing haphazardly.
Instantly, Spider-Man flattened himself against the airduct’s ceiling, a bullet striking the ceiling less than three inches from his head, then splaying off a corner of the metal duct several feet away. The echo of the gunshots was deafening, but still Spidey pressed on.
The first turnoff was to the left. Should he take it? No, it was likely they’d be waiting there. He’d better go on. As he passed the vent he’d rejected as an exit, his spider-sense tingled threateningly. He’d been right: they were there, guns drawn and waiting. Well, let them keep waiting, preferably forever. Got to get home. Have to call Aunt May. If she hasn’t heard from me by three in the afternoon, that dear, sweet, old lady worries her heart out. Spider-Man winced, recalling the minor heart attacks his aunt had already suffered.
Lord, what have I gotten myself into? If I’m killed, I’ll have killed Aunt May as well. Ever since Uncle Ben died, she’s devoted her whole life to me, worrying about me when I’m sick, caring for me when I’m well. How could I think of risking her life along with mine? Am I out of my mind? I haven’t got the right!
By now, the Web-slinger had reached the forty-fifth floor, and his spider-sense told him the corridor was empty. He decided to make his exit here. Except for the paint job, the corridors resembled those on every other floor. The Emerson Building was another of New York City’s monuments to modern banality, a mechanically constructed office building. Each floor lacked a personality of its own, being crammed instead with modern plastic furniture, creating modern plastic office workers. Boredom, after all, breeds boredom.
But to Spider-Man, the decor was perfect: an entire floor decorated in Early Uninhabited. Just an empty hallway painted in a dingy battleship gray, gold-plated plaques upon the doors like garish miniature billboards. New York Steel. Walters, Gregory, and Stone, Accountants. J. Harold Sadetsky, Designs. Company after company, and not one the Wall-crawler had ever heard of.
At the hallway’s end, a red, flashing exit sign pointed the way to freedom, and Spider-Man raced for it confidently.
Once again, his remarkable sixth sense began to tingle.
Spider-Man whirled, as the elevator behind him chimed. A moment later, the elevator door slid open, expelling several guards. Oboy. Here we go again.
By the time the first shot rang out, the Wall-crawler was already ricocheting from wall to wall, until a final flip propelled him to the ceiling. With spiderlike tenacity, his feet clung to the ceilingboard, and he began to race away from his pursuers, upside down.
To Frank Zakro, the scurrying figure seemed a dark demon with blazing eyes. His orders were to shoot if necessary, but in six years as a private security officer, he had never been forced to draw his gun, let alone use it Fear squeezed his throat as his finger squeezed the trigger, but the bullet merely sponged off a lighting fixture several feet away from the Wall-crawler, who weaved across the ceiling in zigzag fashion, heading for the waiting staircase.
Moments before he reached it, the stairwell door flew open, and several more armed guards spilled into the corridor, dropping to one knee as they opened fire at the wildly weaving Web-slinger.
In mid-stride, Spider-Man changed direction, diving over the heads of two startled guards, away from the stairwell and toward the nearby elevator. Even as he landed, the net of uniformed men tightened around him. Cautiously, Spidey studied the grim, determined faces of the men pressing towards him. Most were professionals, a few were anxious amateurs, but all of them were nervous. None of them would hesitate to fire if need be.
Without pausing, Spider-Man triggered his web-shooters, spraying the men who surrounded him with a net that was uniquely his own. Desperately, the security men struggled to free themselves, most of them losing their weapons in the process.
“I hate to web and run, fellas, but I’m afraid you’ve left me no choice. This may not be much, but it’s the only skin I’ve got.
“You just try to be kind to one another, okay?”
With that, Spider-Man turned to the elevator doors themselves, forcing his grotesquely-gloved fingers into the slight crack between them. Muscles straining almost to the popping point, the Web-slinger pried the heavy metal doors slowly but certainly apart, until they hung twisted in their well-greased grooves.
For one final moment, Spider-Man turned to check on the web-snarled security men, only to find himself bowled over by two who had managed to free themselves.
Instantly, the Web-slinger’s foot lashed out, smashing one of the guards squarely into the other and stunning both of them. But, by now, several of the other guards were free as well.
Whirling on the ball of his foot, Spider-Man, virtually in mid-leap, caught the shirtfronts of two of the astonished guards. With one quick motion, the Wall-crawler had hurled them into the opposite wall, where they crumbled in an awkward heap. Beneath his mask, Peter Parker was sweating furiously.
Now, he no longer waited for the guards to make the first move. His powerful legs propelled him into the desperate cluster of men, his steel-hard fists flailing about him, until only three of the guards remained standing between Spider-Man and the open elevator shaft.
“No chance of you just letting me past without any hassle, is there?”
The response was nervous silence.
“No, somehow I didn’t expect so. Too bad, really, ’cause this is gonna hurt me almost as it does you, guys!”
And, teeth clenched, Spider-Man hurled himself through the thick of them, then plunged headlong down the waiting empty shaft.
Frank Zakro fumbled for one of the guns that had fallen to the floor, then stumbled over to the open elevator shaft. The blue-and-red-clad figure was nowhere to be seen. Zakro breathed a long, heartfelt sigh of relief. Thank God. Now I . . . I don’t have to be responsible for . . . for . . .
Frantically, Frank Zakro scrambled toward the nearest bathroom, and was quietly sick to his stomach.
Clinging to the wall of the elevator shaft several stories below, Spider-Man’s only thought was: there must be easier ways to earn a living.
With expert precision, the powerful figure leaped from the wall, wrapping his arms and legs around the elevator cable. Then, swiftly, Spider-Man began to lower himself toward the street. For several stories, his passage went deceptively smoothly, then the cable suddenly lurched, and the entire shaft echoed with a loud, mechanical whirr. On its way up, speeding right at him, was the elevator car itself.
Looks like you’ve finally bought the farm, Web-slinger. This time you let everybody down. Your friends. Yourself. Aunt May . . . At the thought of the effect his death would have on his frail and sickly aunt, the youth suddenly found himself filled with new resolve. Peter Parker had to live—if for no other reason than to give up being Spider-Man, permanently. What the hell was it all really worth in the end, anyway? He was hounded, hated, and hungry. What few friends he had as Peter Parker all thought he was . . . to put it mildly, strange at the very least. He had no real life, no real love. No, Spider-Man was a disease he no longer had to live with, and once he cleared the Web-slinger’s name he would hang up his mask forever.
Beneath him, the elevator continued to rise, an unstoppable dreadnought. It would claim its victim within seconds, unless . . .
The elevator doors on the twenty-seventh floor loomed before him. Holding his breath, Spider-Man hurled himself from the cables, grasping the emergency door handles and forcing them open. He tumbled out into the corridor on the twenty-seventh floor just as the elevator car sped past.
Another second, Parker . . . just one more second, and it would have been the Big Casino.
Spider-Man kissed the linoleum flooring as he sucked in great lungfuls of breath. Then, his spider-sense tingling, he looked up—to find himself facing the entire secretarial pool of Arnold, Knopf, and Winter green, Inc.
In mute amazement, the girls stood staring at the blue-and-crimson creature sprawled on their brand-new orange carpet. A few of the braver ones started to move toward him, but Spider-Man staggered to his feet and the frightened women backed off.
Lord, more people frightened of me. When I designed this costume, I wanted it to inspire fear in the hearts of your average, everyday evildoer, not the man in the street. It seems like absolutely everybody hates Spider-Man. Well, not for much longer.
“Please, don’t be frightened. I promise I won’t hurt you.” Spider-Man’s voice was weak; he was still short of breath. But the women gave him a wide berth as he staggered toward the water cooler. He lifted the bottom of his mask, exposing his lips, and drank a paper cup of the cool, refreshing liquid. Man, I needed that.
One of the stenos, standing to the rear of the still-staring crowd, gasped audibly. She’d expected a cruel man, an evil man, but his chin . . . it was soft, rounded . . . almost boyish. What manner of monster was this Spider-Man?
The Web-Slinger’s breath returned even as he returned the steno pool’s stare. He hadn’t exactly made any friends here, but these days, that was to be expected. He was just thankful to be leaving with his hide intact.
At that moment, naturally, his spider-sense went wild once more. In a glass-partitioned room behind the steno pool, he spotted a man shouting frantically into a telephone. Cripes! He’s calling for help. The guards are gonna come running.
