by Len Wein
Here was Unde Ben all over again. If he didn’t stop those speeding cars, if that old man died, it would be because Spider-Man had once again failed to get involved and that was something the Web-slinger could not live with.
The yellow cab rocketed up the street, now less than a block away from the slow-moving old man. Spider-Man was never going to make it. There was just no way he could overtake that runaway taxi.
Have to do something, anything—can’t just let that man die! But if I can’t reach him, maybe—just maybe—my trusty webbing can!
In mid-swing, the Web-slinger suddenly flipped over, his right hand stretching out as far as it possibly could. A strong strand of webbing cracked whiplike through the air, running a desperate race with death.
The web-line whistled twice around the old man’s waist, and even as Spider-Man landed nimbly on the curb he snapped his wrist savagely, yanking the old man out of the way split-instants before the cab screamed across the spot where he had been standing. The old man arced through the air like a rag doll, to land surprisingly gently in Spider-Man’s outstretched arms.
“Wh-what’s happening to me? What’s going on? Someone, please tell me—what’s happening?” The old man’s face was contorted with fear; he was desperately in need of reassurance.
Realizing this, Spider-Man lifted the bottom of his mask to expose his mouth. He didn’t want to speak through the mask now, for its special cloth gave his voice a macabre filtered quality that many people found frightening. Instead, the Web-slinger spoke in the almost-falsetto tones of Peter Parker—soft, calm, reassuring.
“Easy, old-timer. Everything’s okay. You were crossing the street against the light, and a car almost ran you over. I just pulled you to safety. You just calm down a little, and you’ll be fine now. Really, you’ll be fine.”
The old man’s breathing grew calmer, and he wiped the back of his hand across his forehead. “Thank you, mister. Y-ya had me scared for a minute there. A man can’t be too careful these days, y’know. There’s all kinds’a crazies running around this town.”
“Yeah, I know, old-timer. Believe me, I know that all too well.”
Spider-Man patted the old man gently on the shoulder, handed him his ivory-tipped walking stick, and pointed him on his way once more. Then, furiously, he tore off after the runaway taxi. Whether he liked it or not, he was involved in this now—right up to his neck.
He covered the blocks that separated him from the rampaging taxi in a matter of seconds, swinging high over traffic that had impeded the progress of the racing cars. The cab turned up Forty-second Street, heading east, and the wailing police cars followed moments later, screaming madly around the corner, forcing harried pedestrians to flee for cover.
Inside the cab, one Louis B. Markham, known within his rather small circle of friends as “Louis the Torpedo” glanced back over his shoulder and pressed the accelerator pedal to the floor. The cops were still behind him, and closing. It was only a matter of time until they could throw up some sort of roadblock to bar the road ahead.
Why had he taken this stupid assignment anyway? he was furiously asking himself. It had smelled from the very beginning. Twelve years as a professional hit-man, and his whole career was about to go right down the tubes because the wife of his target had had a fight with her boyfriend and came home several hours earlier than usual. That he’d been able to heist this taxi while its driver was off relieving himself in an alley was miracle enough, but he couldn’t expect his luck to last forever.
Louis the Torpedo roared past Grand Central Station, heading for Third Avenue. If he could just get across the bridge at Fifty-ninth Street, he had a chance. Maybe then he could lose his pursuers in the crowded warehouse district of Long Island City. There were too many short, narrow, winding blocks in that area for them to ever hope to find him there. All he had to do was reach that lousy bridge.
It was just about then that the lights went out.
The windows of the speeding taxi suddenly turned pitch black, cutting off the glare of the streetlights that had been pouring in only moments before. Fearfully Markham slammed on the brakes, sending the taxi into a skid that sent it caroming off the curb and finally brought it to a stop. For a moment, Markham sat there, holding his pounding head to clear it. Then he opened the door.
Gun in hand, Louis the Torpedo stepped from the cab to find a thick coating of what looked like some sort of webbing over all his windows.
“Your taxi free, mister?”
A cold chill ran up Markham’s spine at the sound of that almost-inhuman voice. The gunman whirled, half knowing what he would find. Indeed, there was Spider-Man, dangling upside down from a nearby ledge on a strand of his blasted webbing. Though his face was completely covered, Markham had the sickening feeling that Spider-Man was grinning at him, gloating.
“You think this is funny, Wall-crawler?” Markham snarled.
“Not all of it, chuckles—just you!”
“Then why don’t you try laughing this off, hotshot?”
Markham’s gunhand came up in a blur of motion, but Spider-Man was already in action, triggering his web-shooters. He fired twin streams of webbing that completely enveloped Markham’s gunhand in an instant, making it impossible for him to let go of his weapon, let alone fire it. Two further web-shots quickly pinned Markham’s feet to the concrete. Markham strained desperately, but he could not move. He was on the verge of tears.
“Damn you, Web-slinger! I’ll get you for this! I swear I’ll get you!”
“Forgive me if I don’t hold my breath waiting, bright-eyes. And give my regards to the boys in blue when they finally show up, okay?”
“Aw, c’mon, Spidey, give a guy a break, will ya? What have I ever done to you that you’re doing this to me?”
“Just call it a small way of paying off a big, big debt,” Spider-Man said.
The sound of police sirens suddenly began to draw near. The Wall-crawler turned, and in an instant he was gone, leaving Louis the Torpedo Markham behind him, shouting obscenities at the sky.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome aboard the Checkerboard Line’s famous Moonlight Cruise. Just sit back, enjoy yourselves, and we promise you all an evening you’ll never forget.” The speaker put aside his microphone as the sprawling tour boat pulled away from the West Side dock to begin yet another interminable cruise. Man, he was sick of this, dragging around in bitter cold weather to satisfy the whims of a half-dozen goggle-eyed tourist-types, but the manager of the line had warned him to always smile as if it were summer and he had a full load. So Jack Sutherland smiled and pretended and endured. It wasn’t much, but it was a living.
Along the side of the ship, protected from the wet and the cold by the thin but powerful cocoon of webbing woven around him, Spider-Man sat and grumbled. Is this any way for a superstar to travel?
Time seemed to drag by—every second was a century, every minute a millennium. It felt like a few weeks shy of fifteen thousand years later when Spider-Man yawned, stretched, and the web cocoon was shredded by his suddenly out-thrust arm.
Up on the deck, Harry Marcus was feeling nauseous again. Harry always felt nauseous with anything less than good old terra firma beneath his feet, but Marcia Marcus was inordinately fond of ships and moonlight cruises, and whatever Marcia wanted, Marcia eventually got, even at the expense of poor Harry’s overpriced dinner.
So Harry Marcus was stretched out across the railing, his head lowered in hopes of a swift and painless death, when a crimson-clad arm almost hit him right across the chops. Now, Harry was ill, but to the best of his knowledge, he still wasn’t crazy. Very, very quietly, he located one of the cruise ship’s crew, explained what he had just seen, and, his duty done, fainted dead away.
The crewman glanced over the railing, saw Spider-Man staring straight back at him, and immediately came apart at the seams. “No! It’s not possible! We’re—we’re being invaded by Martians! Help! The Martians are here! Help!”
Geo
rge Jenkins, an appliance salesman from Cleveland, didn’t believe in flying saucers and Martians, but he was a firm believer in the great Communist Conspiracy threatening this country, and he always made it a point to carry a loaded revolver on his person lest he wake up some fine morning to find Leonid Brezhnev hiding under his bed.
When Jenkins spotted the red-masked Web-slinger clinging to the side of the ship, he was sure his long days of waiting were finally over. And to think the boys at the Lodge had laughed at him. He pulled his pistol from beneath his Glen Plaid sports jacket and fired, the bullet sizzling through the air better than a yard from Spider-Man’s head. George Jenkins was ready, more than willing, but he was hardly an able marksman. In point of fact, he would have had extreme difficulty hitting the broadside of the proverbial barn—from the inside—with a shotgun. Which, ultimately, is what made him even more dangerous.
“Are you out of what passes for your mind, mister? I’m just hitching a free ride here. That hardly qualifies as a shooting offense.” Spider-Man somersaulted up onto the deck just as lonesome George scratched his itchy trigger finger again, sending a second slug ricocheting all over the cruise ship’s small snack bar.
“Mister, you must be positively certifiable,” Spider-Man shouted as he whipped the gun from Jenkins’ trembling hand and flipped it overboard.
Marcia Marcus began to scream as she saw the demonic figure toss George Jenkins aside and start to move toward her. In desperation, she clutched at her now-conscious husband Harry, trying to use him as a human shield against the approaching creature. But Harry was no fool. He took one good long look at the blue-and-crimson figure, at its glowing, inhuman eyes, and fainted dead away again, leaving Marcia to fend for herself.
“You . . . you . . . you . . . you monster, you!” she shrieked, swinging her pocketbook savagely through the air, whomping the Web-slinger with the weight of lipsticks, compacts, hairbrushes, and the like. He felt like he’d been hit with a portable beauty salon.
“You have a way with words that is positively underwhelming, dear lady,” replied Spidey, ducking a second swipe. Unfortunately, he leaned right into Marcia’s backswing.
The impact drove him back against the railing for a second assault of the dreaded killer purse. Various and sundry psychotics and supervillains he could deal with, but it’s bad form to slug a tourist. It’s bad for both business and the Big Apple’s already-sagging public image, or so Mayor Koch had been saying for the past several months.
His hands hastily grabbing the railing at his back, Spider-Man flipped back over into the darkness, narrowly avoiding another swipe by Marcia Marcus’ lethal luggage. His feet made momentary contact with the side of the ship, then kicked off, straining to reach the safety of a long garbage scow that was passing nearby.
Hunkered down among the almost-mountainous piles of garbage that loomed around him, Spider-Man considered his predicament. Most heroes traveled around in a manner befitting their stature, in great golden chariots drawn by proud-stepping stallions, in open limousines with crowds of cheering spectators lining the streets. But Spider-Man rides garbage scows.
An old cliché occurred to him, something he himself had told Doctor Octopus only a day before. “If the shoe fits, sweetheart.”
He was sorely tempted to cry.
Fifteen
Project Recovery sat upon the rolling waves like some gleaming monument to mankind’s persistence. It was a twelve-story construction of iron and steel, designed to seek new sources of power for an energy-depleted nation. There was, they said, enough oil still hidden beneath the seas to light the world for centuries, though the problems inherent in tapping those submerged oil sources had often proved all but insurmountable in the past.
It was hoped that this multi-million-dollar structure, the first of a proposed series of super oil-drilling rigs, would soon start drawing the precious black gold from beneath the waters in sufficient quantity to warrant the construction of its companion platforms. With a series of fifty such rigs in operation over the next twenty-five years, the world would no longer be forced to concern itself with any energy crisis.
From the deck of a passing garbage scow, Spider-Man studied the oil platform carefully, marvelling at the massive steel structure. Painted a brilliant red to protect the metal from rust and corrosion, it seemed like a great towering flame, frozen in place, yet blazing with the hope of the future. Unfortunately, Spider-Man didn’t really have much of a future, unless he could track down Doctor Octopus and force him to confess to the murder of Allen Huddleston.
A thin stream of webbing suddenly spanned the distance from the garbage scow to the oil rig, and Spider-Man leaped into space, swinging gracefully to the towering platform’s side. Insectlike, he scurried up the steel girders, moving faster on all fours than any normal man could ever have moved on only two legs. He had almost reached the platform itself when he felt the buzzing. It was faint, barely noticeable, but still the Web-slinger recognized it, and he froze in mid-stride.
It was the signal from the spider-tracer he had hidden in J. Jonah Jameson’s pocket the day before.
Spidey paused for a moment and considered. The spider-tracer’s range was great, but not that great. He was too far out at sea to have picked up a transmission from shore, which meant Jameson had to-be aboard the platform somewhere, the signal muffled by heaven knows how many layers of steel. It was a realization that left the Wall-crawler with mixed emotions.
On the one hand, Jameson’s presence at this odd hour on a construction that was off-limits to the public all but confirmed that this rig was somehow involved with the oil squeeze, and thus with Doctor Octopus. On the other hand, if Octopus was lurking somewhere aboard the sprawling platform, Jameson was bound to get in the way if it came to a violent showdown.
Well, if it came to it, that was something that couldn’t be helped. All Spider-Man could do now was follow his spider-tracer signal to its source. And let the chips fall where they may.
The Web-slinger tracked the faint signal across the deck of the rig to a bolted steel hatchway. He reached for the latch, and the buzzing in his head suddenly became the urgent tingle of his spider-sense. Uh-oh. Something is definitely wrong here, I’d better take a closer look at this hatch before I blindly rush in where angels might fear to tread.
Cautiously, he examined the frame of the hatchway. He discovered two thin wires running alongside the hatch to a small metal box at its base. An alarm box. If the hatch had been opened, he’d have broken an electronic circuit, alerting the entire platform to his presence. But this hatch was still his best bet for following the signal to Jameson, so—
The box itself surrendered easily to Spider-Man’s superhuman grasp, which exposed the wires beneath. Carefully, he triggered his web-shooters, firing a thick glob of the sticky substance at the alarm terminus, clogging it completely, making it impossible for the circuits to respond to his intrusion. The persistent tingle of his spider-sense faded, assuring the Web-slinger it was now safe to enter. So he did.
Beyond the hatch, a steel ladder led down into the darkness. Spider-Man reached for the ladder, and once again, his spider-sense began tingling. Cute. This entire place seems to be booby-trapped. If Octopus is here, he’s taking no chances. So I’d better not take any either.
Ignoring the ladder, Spider-Man proceeded directly down the side of the wall, using his spider-sense as an built-in mine-detector of sorts, constantly alert for the telltale tingle that would warn him of danger ahead. Reaching the lower levels of the platform, he heard the heavy groan of machinery in the distance. More importantly, the buzzing in his head had grown louder. He was that much closer to Jameson now. Just what he’d always wanted.
With a pantherlike grace, he prowled the central corridor, clinging to the ceiling to avoid any weight-sensitive alarms that might be hidden in the floor. The tracer signal was coming from somewhere off to the right of him now, and a cross-corridor junction just ahead would allow him to come that much closer to his goal.
The buzzing became almost unbearable when Spider-Man rounded the corner. Jameson had to be hidden in a locked room halfway down the corridor on the left, but as the Wall-crawler moved toward it, his spider-sense began tingling to beat the proverbial band.
The metallic clang of footfalls echoed along the corridor, growing louder, coming closer. Someone was heading this way! With a single fluid motion, Spider-Man forced open the nearest door on his right, ducked through it, and shut it softly behind him.
His ear pressed against the cold metal of the door, the Web-slinger listened and waited. The sound of the footsteps drew closer, accompanied by a tuneless whistling. Reaching a crescendo as it passed the closed door, the sound finally faded off down the corridor.
His hand on the doorlatch, Spider-Man allowed himself a deep breath, then glanced over his shoulder at the room he was about to leave. His jaw hit the floor with a thud.
The room was extraordinary, decorated in plush velvets and rich brocades. A Louis XVI chair sat comfortably behind a handcarved oaken desk. Paintings by the great masters lined the walls. If Spider-Man had doubted Doctor Octopus’s presence here before, he did so no longer. This sort of gaudy extravagance had Otto Octavius’s signature all over it. When you’re planning to rule the world some day, you tend to live in the style to which you hope to become accustomed.
Webhead, it looks like little Lady Luck is grinning at you for a change. If this room is really Doc Ock’s headquarters, I may be able to find some sort of evidence here to clear me of Allen Huddleston’s murder. At the very worst, I’ll get some pointers on the fine art of Interior decorating.
Moving to the oaken desk, Spider-Man plopped himself down in the plush Louis XVI chair and started rifling through the drawers. A letter opener. Some stationery. Paper clips. A memo pad covered with doodles and some undecipherable scrawling. And a phone book containing the numbers of the eight major oil companies and several members of their various staffs. That was about all the Web-slinger found, until he tried the bottom drawer on the left side of the desk and found it locked.
