by Len Wein
Atop the speeding train, Spider-Man pressed himself close to the roof of the contact man’s car. There had been only an eighteen-inch leeway between his back and the tunnel roof. If he had sneezed, if he had raised his masked head a fraction of an inch too high, it would be rolling somewhere along DeKalb Avenue right now.
Spap. A small damp spot suddenly appeared on the back of the Web-slinger’s crimson glove. Spap. A second bead of water struck him in the small of the back, and Spider-Man glanced up to see threatening black clouds rolling across the sky.
Swell. It’s gonna rain. You’re lying on top of a subway car and it’s going to rain and you’re not even wearing your galoshes. Just swell.
At which point, the clouds stopped threatening and the torrent began. Spider-Man shook his head in disbelief. This is all I needed right now. With my luck, getting soaked like this will give me terminal pneumonia, which in turn will kill me. I can just imagine the autopsy report. Cause of death: Chronic stupidity.
Where did I go so wrong with my life?
Miserably, the Web-slinger drew himself into a ball, hoping to give the pouring rain a somewhat smaller target to pelt. He remembered—yeah, he still remembered the day it had all begun. How could he ever forget it?
He’d been only a kid then, a thin, anemic teenager with poor vision and an uncertain complexion, an outsider who was more concerned with the chemical experiments he was conducting than with dating any of Midtown High’s cuddly coeds. Which was why he had turned down a chance to join his classmates at the movies. He wanted to attend a science exhibition on the properties of radiation instead.
The balding professor stood before two glowing scarlet globes attached to a bank of complex machinery. “And now for a demonstration of how we can control radioactive rays here in the laboratory,” he had said. A simple enough beginning.
But as the experiment commenced, no one noticed a tiny spider descending from the ceiling on an almost invisible strand of webbing. A spider whom fate had given a brief, but starring role to play in the drama of life. It slithered between the two glowing orbs just as the professor activated the delicate machinery. Accidentally absorbing a fantastic amount of radiation, the dying arachnid, in sudden shock, spun through the air, biting the nearest living thing in that split-instant before life ebbed from its radioactive body.
That nearest living thing had been a sickly science student named Peter Parker.
Suddenly, Parker had felt strange. His head began spinning. In search of some fresh air, Parker wandered out into the street, muttering, “What’s happening to me? I feel—different! It’s almost as though my entire body was suddenly charged with some sort of fantastic energy.” His voice trailed off as he grew lost in thought, but his reverie was abruptly shattered by the furious blaring of an automobile horn.
A dark blue sedan was bearing down on him, and almost unconsciously, Peter leaped out of its path to safety—but what a leap it had been! Parker found himself clinging to the side of a nearby building. And, more remarkably, he discovered he was able to scale the wall almost as easily as he could walk. Reaching the roof, Peter reached out for support, grabbing a nearby steel pipe. He crushed it as if it were paper.
“It’s the spider,” he thought. “Somehow, in some miraculous way, his bite has transferred his powers to me!”
Later, when the reality of the situation had finally sunk in, Peter saw a chance to test his newfound powers, and perhaps profit from them. Wearing a makeshift mask, he faced Crusher Hogan, a professional wrestler who offered one hundred dollars to anyone who could last three minutes in the ring with him. Parker not only survived the three minutes, he revelled in them. Here was a chance, he decided, to make big money, and maybe repay Aunt May and Uncle Ben for all they had done for him.
A television producer watched Parker in the ring and got him booking on a top variety show. Sensing an opportunity to play the showman, Peter designed a colorful costume for his TV debut—a costume that would spark public interest, something that might help to make him a household word. The blue-and-crimson garb he designed then was improved over the years, simplified and made stronger. But in essence the outfit young Peter Parker sewed together that night, from scraps and tatters of cloth, signalled the birth of the Amazing Spider-Man.
But Parker wasn’t through yet. If he could attract attention with a colorful costume, he would be a sensation with the right gimmick. Taxing his scientific ability to the limits, Peter created his unique web-shooters, making himself truly a human spider.
At last Spider-Man was ready to become television’s newest sensation. But the whims of fate are not always that cooperative. Oh, the Web-slinger’s appearance was a success, all right—frankly, it was a smash—but as the costumed Parker was preparing to leave the theater afterwards, a desperate figure raced along the corridor toward him, pursued by an aging security guard.
“Stop, thief! Stop him! If he makes it to the elevator, he’ll get away!” The security guard was wheezing heavily; he was an old man, almost ready for retirement. “Stop him,” he shouted, but Peter just stood there, allowing the thief to run past. After all, Spider-Man wasn’t a policeman. He wasn’t getting paid to play hero.
The elevator doors closed behind the thief, and his laughter faded into the darkness below. The security man turned to the Web-slinger furiously. “What’s with you, mister? All you had to do was trip him, or hold him for just a minute.”
“Sorry, pal,” Spider-Man responded, “that’s your job. I’m through being ordered around—by anyone! From now on, I’m only looking out for number one. And that means me!”
Turning on his heel, Spider-Man strode from the studio, out into the night. He had more important things to do than play Junior G-Man. He was going to become a television superstar. He was going to make millions. He was going to . . .
. . . He was going to do none of those things.
It was a cold, dark night, the kind you wouldn’t send a dog out into. Peter Parker had returned from another of Spider-Man’s personal appearances to find a police car parked in front of his Forest Hills home. A solemn-faced police officer stopped Peter before he could enter.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” Fear welled up in Parker’s throat. Something had happened, something terrible. But what?
The officer tried to be tactful, but there is no way to candy-coat death. “Bad news, son. Your Uncle Ben has been shot—murdered.”
Peter’s eyes glazed over with fury and his heart pounded against his chest. “Who did it? Tell me, man—who shot him?”
The officer struggled to maintain his calm. “It was a burglar. Your uncle surprised him. But don’t worry, lad. We’ve got him trapped! He’s in the old Acme Warehouse on the waterfront. We’ll get him.”
But Peter was no longer listening. Desperately, he raced to his room and stripped off his clothing. I know the old Acme Warehouse. Its been deserted for years. A killer could hold off an army in that gloomy old place.
But he won’t hold off Spider-Man!
Web-slinging with a speed he hardly knew he possessed, Spider-Man reached the warehouse within minutes and silently slithered in through a small opening in the roof. Outside, the police were still calling upon the killer to surrender. But there was no answer, nor would there ever be one.
The killer stood in the darkness, moonlight glinting from his gun barrel. A dark green cap was pulled low over his forehead; a scuffed leather jacket was pulled tight across his chest. The palms of his hands were damp with fear. Until tonight, he’d been only a thief, and a pretty good one. Now he was a murderer.
“All I gotta do is hold ’em off till the moon goes down. Then I ought to be able to slip away in the dark.” He kept repeating that to himself over and over, trying to convince himself his plan would work. But it wouldn’t work, not tonight, not ever.
Behind him, a muffled voice cried out with a vengeance. “You’ll never escape again, murderer!”
The killer turned to see a thing, a monstrous bl
ue-and-crimson manlike creature skittering down the wooden wall toward him. It was a creature out of a nightmare, a giant humanoid spider!
Screaming, the killer turned and ran, but there was no place to go. Spider-Man was faster, more agile. With a single bound, he overtook the fleeing killer, pulling his pistol from his hand with a strand of webbing. A single, powerful right cross sent the murderer sprawling back out of the shadows, into the light of a small hanging lamp.
For the first time, Spider-Man saw the killer’s features clearly. They were features he remembered, features that would haunt him for the rest of his life.
“That face! It’s—oh, no, it can’t be! It’s the fugitive who ran past me at the television studio. The one I didn’t stop when I had the chance.” Almost mindless with grief, Spider-Man webbed the killer into a ball and left him dangling for the police to find. Then the Web-slinger stumbled off into a darkness he wished would swallow him up forever.
“My fault. All my fault. If only I’d stopped him when I could have. But I didn’t, and because of my indifference my Uncle Ben is dead.”
All that night, Spider-Man stood by the docks, aware at last of one basic, abiding truth: with great power, there must also come great responsibility.
It was a lesson he would never forget.
The chill rain was letting up slowly, interrupting Spider-Man’s melancholy memories. Yeah, he’d learned a lesson that night, a lesson that had brought him to the edge of death more times than he cared to recall.
Sure, great responsibility came with great power, but Peter Parker’s first responsibility still had to be to himself and those he cared for. He couldn’t cause Aunt May any more worry, couldn’t keep alienating those who tried to befriend him. If great power demanded great responsibility, then he’d give up that power.
When the Master Planner had been brought to justice, when Spider-Man was finally cleared of all the charges against him, then it would be time for Peter Parker to finally start living his own life.
With renewed vigor, the amazing human arachnid gathered his strength and leaped from the train as it pulled from the station. The contact man had finally disembarked, and he was now heading up Neptune Avenue.
And wherever the contact man was, could the mysterious Master Planner be far behind?
Eleven
The contact man crossed Eighth Street, heading for the boardwalk. He ignored the silent amusement stands that were boarded up, waiting for the new summer season to begin. In a shadowed doorway here and there, tattered derelicts sprawled in alcoholic stupors, empty bottles lying close at hand. And yet, tourists flocked here year after year to loll on the oily sand and frolic in the dreadfully polluted ocean. In heaven’s name, why? Couldn’t they see how filthy it all was?
The Happy Daze Fun House stood alone on a slightly rotted pier, far closer to the sea than any of the other beachside attractions. The trench-coated figure made his way to the rear door, glanced nervously about him, then unlocked it and entered.
Bingo, thought Spider-Man as he glided across the pier, stealing up to the now-locked rear door. Cautiously, he strained against the lock with his spider-strength, and was quickly rewarded by a slight click as the lock gave way. The Web-slinger waited for a moment until his eyes adjusted to the darkness inside. Then he entered, closing the door behind him.
Instantly the fun house sprang to life. Gaily colored lights flared on, squeaking calliope music filled the air, and the maniacal sound of mechanical laughter echoed from wall to wall. Behind the wary Spider-Man, thick steel panels slid into place over the doors and windows, effectively sealing him in. The fun house was one big trap, but then the Web-slinger had half expected that.
Abruptly, the laughter faded, to be replaced by a far more frightening sound, the amplified voice of the mysterious Master Planner. “It’s about time you got here, Wall-crawler. I’ve been waiting for you for quite a while. I must admit I’m disappointed. I expected you to find your way here hours ago.”
Spider-Man glanced around, straining to discern where the voice was coming from, but it seemed to be diffused throughout the hall. “Okay, so I’m not exactly Sherlock Holmes. At least I got here, didn’t I? And the police are right behind me.”
The response was mocking laughter. “If they are on their way, my friend, it is only to arrest you for Allen Huddleston’s murder. Do you really think me so simple-minded that I would not know you came here alone?”
“If the shoe fits, sweetheart. Now what say you quit playing Phantom of the Fun House and talk to me face-to-face? I usually like to know just who I’m dealing with.”
A silent pause. “You mean you still don’t know who I am, Web-slinger? I’m astonished. You’re more ignorant than I ever would have thought possible. Who else could have lured you into such an obvious trap? Who else could have conceived such a delicately woven tapestry of intrigue and counter-intrigue? Who else but I?”
A sudden, slight hum to Spider-Man’s left, and the Web-slinger whirled as a steel panel slid up out of sight to reveal a frighteningly familiar figure standing behind it. The figure was stocky, powerfully built, with a soup-bowl haircut and hooded eyes that smoldered behind thick dark glasses. He wore an olive-green opera cloak over an emerald jumpsuit that was trimmed with an orange belt, boots and gloves. An impressive figure, certainly, made awesome by a single distinguishing feature: two extra sets of arms!
“You,” said Spider-Man, “I should have known.”
“Indeed you should have, Wall-crawler. Our paths have crossed often enough for you to recognize my style by now. Have I lost my touch since last we met, Spider-Man?”
“Not at all. You’re still the same old Doctor Octopus!”
In point of fact, the man’s name was Otto Octavius. He had once been one of this nation’s most prominent nuclear scientists, and the designer of a unique set of mechanical tentacles that were used to aid him in his experiments. These were two pairs of titanium-steel arms that could delicately deal with various radioactive isotopes, yet which were powerful enough to crush concrete and stone.
Octavius was on the verge of his greatest discovery on the fateful day one of his experiments finally went awry. The resultant explosion miraculously grafted his mechanical tentacles to his chest, making them virtually a part of him, responsive to his very thoughts.
Unfortunately, that same radioactive accident also drove Otto Octavius hopelessly insane.
Now he stood before Spider-Man, his face a maniacal mask of triumph, his hands arrogantly poised on his hips, almost as if he were daring the Web-slinger to make that first foolish move. “Actually, Wall-crawler, you’re wrong. I’m not the same Doctor Octopus at all. For when my master plan reaches fruition twenty-four short hours from now, I shall be what I was always meant to be—
“—The single most powerful man in the world!”
Beneath his mask, Spider-Man clenched his teeth. “You realize, of course, that I’m going to have to stop you?”
“You’re more than welcome to try, fool!” And Octopus vanished into the darkness.
The steel door started to close, but Spider-Man was already moving, diving through the narrow opening instants before it slammed shut like some grotesque guillotine.
Even as the Web-slinger landed, the floor beneath him dropped away, becoming a well-greased ramp that plunged him deeper into the darkness. Spider-Man landed on his shoulder and rolled instantly to his feet. He glanced around him; the blackness was almost overpowering.
Well, here’s another fine mess you’ve gotten yourself into, Webhead, but you’ll be fine so long as you keep your cool. It’s blacker than J. Jonah Jameson’s soul in here, but that’s a little problem I can solve with my trusty spider-signal.
Reaching into the belt he wore under his costume, Spider-Man swiftly extracted a small-but-powerful flashlight and switched it on. A pencil-thin beam stabbed through the shadows, spreading a scarlet circle of light. Within that circle, an abstract image of Spider-Man’s own hooded face painted
a bizarre calling card on a nearby wall. The spider-signal was designed more for effect than for function, but it was still bright enough to help the Wall-crawler sort out dark shapes in the distance.
Before him, he could discern three twisted forms: one incredibly tall, another short and menacing, the third insanely squat, its arms outstretched, groping. On all sides, more of the shadowy figures suddenly appeared, effectively surrounding the Web-slinger. They seemed to be closing in on him, and yet—My spider-sense isn’t tingling, which should mean I’m in no danger. But, considering the mob moving towards me, I find that pretty hard to believe.
Spider-Man moved forward, and the twisted figures echoed his move, drawing closer, closer. Suddenly, the Wall-crawler’s fist lashed out, delivering a brutal upper cut to the jaw of the tall, thin image before him.
The sound of shattering glass echoed and reechoed along the narrow corridor, and razor-sharp shards of a splintered mirror flew in all directions. Crumbs! Mirrors! They were all just distorted reflections of me in a bunch of cockamamie fun house mirrors! Man, I’m really slipping. Next, I’ll be picking fights with my own shadow. Score one for my good old spider-sense. The only thing I was threatened by just now was—myself!
A sudden sound in the darkness before him, and the spider-signal stabbed through the dark to pinpoint the figure of Doctor Octopus disappearing around a bend in the corridor. Once again the chase was on.
Around the bend, the corridor led to a large circular chamber. Spider-Man entered, and another steel panel slid down behind him, sealing him in. By now, the Web-slinger was used to it. What he wasn’t used to was the way the floor of the chamber suddenly began to revolve, bowling him right off his feet.
Peter Parker had experienced the sensation before, on a date with Mary Jane Watson. Then the fun house had seemed precisely that—fun, a pleasant way to pass an afternoon. Now, he had to get off this madly whirling whirligig before the centrifugal force pulped him against a wall and he simply passed away.
