Spider Man The octopus agenda [158-011-3.0]

By: Diane Duane

Synopsis:

From the best-selling Diane Duane comes the new Spider-Man hardcover
novel--and this time, the entire world is at stake!

THE OCTOPUS AGENDA

An investigation into a simple cellular phone fraud leads both Peter
Parker and his alter-ego, the amazing Spider-Man, to a fiendish plot:
with unique counterfeiting equipment and a devastatingly large
stockpile of nuclear bombs, someone plans to destabilize the world's
economy and destroy several major cities.  The mysterious CCRC
corporation is involved in this plan-and it has caused trouble in the
past for Spider-Man and for the alien symbiote Venom, who has sworn to
kill Spidey.  Both hero and villain soon learn that the mastermind
behind that old trouble and the new danger is none other than Spider
Man most tenacious, most deadly enemy: Doctor Octopus.  Now Spider-Man
and Venom must put aside their differences and join forces to stop the
greater menace of Doctor Octopus, before the villain devastates the
planet!


Praise for Diane Duane's previous Spider-Man novels: "For a
Spidey-fan like yours truly, this book was like coming home again."
--Tony Isabella, Comics Buyer's Guide "A good story, with dead-on
characterization."  --Hero Illustrated "Duane does a marvelous job
fleshing out Spider-Man's world in prose form.  The story moves at a
furious pace, with the same humor and excitement that one expects from
a Spidey comic, and the added plus that Duane expertly makes full use
of the characterization and detail that can only be found in a novel." 
--Scarlet Street

SPIDER-MAN: THE VENOM FACTOR

by Diane Duane

THE ULTIMATE SPIDER-MAN

Stan Lee, Editor

IRON MAN: THE ARMOR TRAP

by Greg Cox

SPIDER-MAN: CARNAGE IN NEW YORK

by David Michelinie & Dean Wesley Smith

THE INCREDIBLE HULK: WHAT SAVAGE BEAST

by Peter David

SPIDER-MAN: THE LIZARD SANCTION

by Diane Duane

THE ULTIMATE SILVER SURFER

Stan Lee, Editor

FANTASTIC FOUR: TO FREE ATLANTIS

by Nancy A. Collins

DAREDEVIL: PREDATOR'S SMILE

by Christopher Golden

X-MEN: MUTANT EMPIRE Book 1: SIEGE

by Christopher Golden

THE ULTIMATE SUPER-VILLAINS

Stan Lee, Editor

SPIDER-MAN & THE INCREDIBLE HULK: RAMPAGE

by Danny Fingeroth & Eric Fern (Doom's Day Book 1)

SPIDER-MAN: GOBLIN'S REVENGE

by Dean Wesley Smith

THE ULTIMATE X-MEN

Stan Lee, Editor

X-MEN: MUTANT EMPIRE Book 2: SANCTUARY

by Christopher Golden

SPIDER-MAN: THE OCTOPUS AGENDA

by Diane Duane

COMING SOON:

IRON MAN: OPERATION AIM.

by Greg Cox

SPIDER-MAN & IRON MAN: SABOTAGE

by Pierce Askegren & Danny Fingeroth (Doom's Day Book 2)

X-MEN: MUTANT EMPIRE BOOK 3: SALVATION

by Christopher Golden

Octopus Agenda Spider man

BYRON PREISS MULTIMEDIA COMPANY, INC.

NEW YORK

A BOULEVARD PUTNAM BOOK

PUBLISHED BY

G. P. Putnam's Sons New York

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thanks once more to Keith of the adamantium hide for taking the flak
and staying with me down to the wire.

Thanks also, in extremis, to Peter.  If Guns & Ammo ever needs a demon
typist, I know where they can find him .... But/found you first.

 It was 2:30 in the morning near Dolgeville, New York--which meant it
was the middle of the night in the back end of nowhere, and Jim
Heffernan was deadly bored.

Jim Heffernan was forty-five years old, not a tall man, yet a fairly
cheerful one given the kind of life he'd lived so far.  Everyone told
him he looked like a pudgy version of Sam Neill, the actor.  That was
all very nice to hear, except that he would have much preferred to hear
that he had Sam Neill's bank balance, pudgy or otherwise.  He didn't
let the discrepancy in their earnings bother him too much, though; it
wouldn't really have helped if he did.

Jim had once been a miner.  Most of the people around here had once
been miners, or the wives and children of miners.  That was when Jim
was in his twenties, at a time when there had actually been another
small town near Dolgeville, called Welleston after some Welles or other
who had actually started up the coal mining industry.

That had been a long time ago, near the end of the last century.  The
town and the industry had been very successful, and for many years the
town's people had come to depend on "Welleston money" for their
livelihoods.  But things shifted.  Things always shifted.

And that was why Welleston spent thirty years as a crumbling ghost
town, and another thirty as the memory of a ghost town.  And why Jim
was now sitting in a tacky little box of a portable guardroom at 2:30
in the morning.  Once again he was blinking in the harsh, faintly
flickering glare of fluorescent light, trying to do a crossword puzzle
that didn't interest him, trying to stay

awake.  Trying to be a security guard for something which was no
longer a coal mine.

The room was just slightly larger than a walk-in closet.  It had walls
the color of adhesive tape, and no floor except the plain,
poured-concrete base that it had been plumped down on.  It was damp;
even on a hot summer's night it was damp, and the screens on the
window, though they looked effective, weren't quite fine-meshed enough,
or well enough fitted to the windows, to keep out the blackflies.  The
insects happily descended on Jim as a kind of movable feast, and left
itching red welts on any part of him that wasn't covered (as well as
some that were).  So, for most of the night, Jim tended to sit with the
light turned off, to avoid attracting them.  Should one or another of
his bosses turn up (one of the rarest of occurrences, particularly
after they had met the blackflies) his excuse came easily: having that
fluorescent tube turned off helped his night-vision, and made it easier
for him to see what was going on outside.  Not that anything much ever
did go on outside here, except for the sound of the occasional crazed
moose or deer crashing through the woodland surrounding the place.

The quiet was endemic in Dolgeville and its environs.  The township was
a remote place, buried well away from any really big town.  Nestled
deep in the foothills at the southern end of the Adirondacks, it sat in
an undulating landscape of granite- boned hills clothed in conifer and
hardwood forest.  Even when the coal mining had been at its height,
very few people had ever come there except on business.  Since that
business had mostly involved coal in one form or another, society had
been limited to those who dug the coal and their families, those who
main mined or replaced the machinery for those who dug the coal, and
those who came to truck the coal away.  There had been a constant
grubbiness about everything and everybody, a fine

black dust that got under your nails and into your pores and into the
grooves of your fingerprints.  In those days, the whole world had
looked the same: gray and dingy, with the exception of a brief period
in autumn when the trees flamed through the coal dust and then dropped
their leaves to stand bare and clean against a clear blue sky.

Now, at least, you were free of the coal dust, and you got to see the
occasional unfamiliar face, especially with the new industry coming in.
Jim Heffernan sighed.  It was always the way: some big company got you
and everybody in the area all excited, got the local government to put
up money to help them move in--and then when they did move in, they
always managed to claw back as much of that money as they could for
themselves.  But at least he had this job; better than nothing,
something to feed Flora and the kids, something to make him feel even a
little bit useful.  He was luckier than many who had been waiting for
jobs and never got them.

Even if this job was, in essence, no more than watch inga large hole in
the ground to make sure nobody ran off with it in the night.  Yeah, he
thought, and maybe someday I'll move up to watching the Brooklyn Bridge
in case one of these super-criminals from the papers tries to steal it.
Think In'g, fella.  He grunted with amusement at the thought, and
turned his attention back to the crossword puzzle.  Yet another
desperate attempt to keep himself awake.  He hated the night shift, but
the night shift was what they had been hiring for, and there wasn't
much he could do about it, not with the mortgage to take care of, and
the kids needing new clothes for school in the fall.  He stared at the
much corrected puzzle and tried to think.

Seven down, dockside security, six letters, ends wither

"Hawser," he muttered, not exactly sure what a hawser was, but knowing
it was something nautical.  Except that, like most

crossword answers, though the word fit seven down, it made nonsense of
nine across.  And, of course, he had left the crossword-puzzle
dictionary that Flora had given him on the kitchen table at home.

Then he heard a soft, quick shuffling right outside.  It was way too
loud for blackflies.

Jim Heffernan froze for an instant.  Then he quietly laid the puzzle
book aside, reached out to snap off the light, and even more quietly
undid the flap of his holster.  He hadn't been issued an automatic
pistol, but his big Ruger Security Six revolver held half a dozen very
good arguments against any casual intruder doing something stupid.  He
sat very still for a few seconds, letting his eyes grow accustomed to
the darkness and listening to a silence that wasn't so much a lack of
sound as someone--or something--carefully making no noise.

"It's okay, Jim," came a voice from outside.  "It's me."

Jim let out a breath he hadn't noticed he was holding, but didn't
bother turning the light back on again.  '"you shouldn't sneak up on a
guy like that, Harry!"  he said.  "What if I made a mistake one
night?"

"You?"  There was laughter like a rusty saw in a log as Jim stepped out
through the door.  In the light of a bright half moon he could see
where Harry Pulaski, the other guard on this shift, was leaning against
the wall of the guard hut.  He was grinning.  "We both know you'd
sooner pick your nose with that cannon than fire it at anybody."

"Yeah, well."  Jim hated guns.  According to his supervisor, that made
him one of the safest kinds of people to use them.  He wasn't too sure
about that.  Being safe around yourself and your coworkers was one
thing; being safe up against some young punk with state-of-the-art
firepower and no scruples about using it was something else.  "Quiet
round?"

"What else?"  Pulaski shrugged.  "Still, it's an ill wind, ya know? I'm
set to lose another two, three pounds this week walking around in this
heat, if it keeps up."

The site lay spread out before them, monochrome in the moonlight.  Not
that there was much color about it even in full daylight.  All but a
few of the security lights had been turned out this late at night. Only
the big floods around the graveled area where the heavy machinery was
parked were still on.

Forty years ago this had been the biggest of several strip mines in the
area, a huge concentric ulcer burrowing into the countryside,
surrounded by heaps of spoil.  Over the years since the supply of coal
ran out and the mining company went out of business, the local county
government had made several sporadic, halfhearted attempts to
re-landscape the place, but Nature had proven more effective.  Weeds
and scrub plants that didn't mind the local coal dust-laden soil had
moved in and made a great green terraced garden of it, where at least
the various wild grasses seemed to prosper.

Much of that green covering had been scraped away now as the digging
started again.  The site was easily half a mile from one rim of the
hole to the other, with the guard hut perched high up on one side.  Jim
often wondered how quick their reaction was supposed to be, if
something started happening clear across the crater.  All around the
edges of that crater were Detex watch clocks, and a rough, graveled
road that would have served a better security purpose if the guards had
some sort of vehicle.  As it was, once every hour one or the other of
them had to leave the relative comfort of the hut and walk around the
site, swiping his electronic key card at each of the clocks--and,
naturally, keeping an eye open for anything suspicious.

What they were watching most carefully was the wire fence around the
facility, which had been cut months ago.  Three

heavy trucks and two wheeled diggers had been stolen from the vehicle
park by the time the next guard made his round.  Jim was grateful it
had happened on his weekend off, because the guards on duty that night
had been fired at once.

Pulaski yawned, stretched, then leaned back against the wall of the
hut.  "Almost makes you wish for the good old days, when there was
nothing here but wilderness," he said.

"No jobs, either," said Jim sourly.  "I like it just the way it is,
thanks very much."

What had happened to the town was nearly miraculous.  A company that
specialized in manufacturingartificial composite "marble" and "granite"
had come to suYvey the old mine site.  They had been specifically
looking for quartz.  From what Jim could gather, they powdered it,
mixed it with resins, then turned it out as slabs of high-quality fake
Carrara marble for files and countertops.  They had found a rich seam
of the stuff running underneath the depleted coal veins, and it had
looked like this would provide the town with at least some jobs.  After
years when up to eighty percent of the population had been out of work,
it was better than nothing.

The company, Consolidated Quartzite, moved in, hired a couple of
hundred local people as both full-time and part-time labor, and began
clearing the site and sinking boreholes to find the bestmand most
economicalmway of extracting the quartz.  The process had gone on
without much fanfare for several months, and the town began to take on
a slight sparkle of life.  People started to eat out more than they had
for a long time, the bar began to fill up again in the evenings, they
even began talking cautiously about a return of the good times.  Or at
least, as good as times were likely to get these days.

And then it happened.  There was a morning when one of the Consolidated
site engineers came running from the site up

to the main office so fast that his helmet fell off halfway and he
didn't even stop to pick it up and put it back on.  And this was the
man who chewed out at least three workers a day for similar
infringements of the safety regulations.  He shot into the site office
like a rabbit down a burrow, dumped a pocketful of something
indeterminate all over the table, grabbed the phone, and began babbling
to someone at the head office in Nevada.

There were some abortive attempts to hush up what had happened, but in
a small town on a work site where everyone knew everyone else--and more
or less trusted everyone else as well-the truth came out fast enough.
They had struck gold.

All over the world, gold and quartz are often found together-but no one
had ever expected to find it here.  Consolidated's chief geologist flew
in from Nevada to look over the site for herself, and walked away
shaking her head and muttering, "Anomalous, very anomalous."

But she had been smiling.  Everyone was smiling.  There had been the
usual talk of how much fallout from this find nobody was calling it a
strike, at least not yet--would fall out onto the workers and the local
economy, and for a change the result was better than anyone expected.
To their credit, Consolidated took on as many more local employees to
run the extraction machinery as they could.  It was mostly heavy boring
and digging equipment for which people had to be trained, and since
they were paid while they were being trained, no one particularly
minded.  It was a skill that would be useful later.

In any case, by the time the quartz dust had settled, about a month
after the initial find, many more people were employed, and nearly
everyone was pleased.  Except for the ones who had to stay up until
3:30 in the morning, or five or six, walking around a great big hole in
the ground and hoping that no more machinery would go missing.
Especially on their shift.

"I suppose I shouldn't complain," Pulaski said.  "There's a lot of
worse things we could be doing."

Jim rubbed his eyes.  The brief adrenaline rush of Pulaski's arrival
had worn off, and the night shift was beginning to weigh heavily again.
His eyes felt grainy.  "Right now, I can't think what.  I'm going crazy
just trying to stay awake."  He knuckled his eyes again.  " "Dockside
security," six letters, ends in e-r," he muttered.

"Hawser," said Pulaski at once.

"Won't fit.  "Jim glanced at him.  'vVhat is a hawser, anyway?" 
"Dunno. Some sort of small boat, I think."  "Lot of help you are.  I'm
falling asleep here."

"You want to stay awake?  Just start your round early."

Jim shook his head.  "It'd show on the time clocks.  And you know how
they hate that.  I could use a snack, though.  Want a Three
Musketeers?"

"No.  I'm trying to knock the sweet stuff.  The wife says she likes how
I'm losing weight."

Jim laughed, barely more than an intake of breath.  He had been walking
around this site just as long as Pulaski, and was be ginning to doubt
he would ever lose weight by any means short of industrial-level
liposuction.  He gazed thoughtfully down to ward the center of the site
and the deepest of the boreholes sunk so far.  "I heard they got half a
ton of' reef out of that last week," he said.

"I heard it too."  Pulaski frowned slightly.  'thing is, the more of
the gold-bearing ore they pull out of there, the less they're talking
about how much it is, or how rich it is, or how much more might be
left.  Guys coming off the dig have to change their work clothes, get
searched as they come out.  It's getting to be like those big mines in
South Africa."

"I thought those were diamond mines," said Jim.

"Gold too.  I read all about them once.  All the ways you can sneak
gold out."

"I can guess--and no, I don't want to know.  But I wonder what else
they might turn up.  What else they're not expecting.  I mean, in all
the years of digging coal, nobody knew there was gold underneath it."

"Not diamonds.  It's the wrong sort of ground.  You need some sort of
blue clay for diamonds."

"Maybe in South Africa you need blue clay.  In upstate New York, "Jim
shrugged again, "who knows?"

They looked out across the silent site.  It was surrounded by forest,
pine, and mixed hardwoods, and somewhere off among the trees some night
bird was singing.  "I hear that every night,"

said Pulaski.  "Nhat is it?"

"Nightingale."

"Here?  I didn't know we had those here."  They fell silent again,
listening to the distant trickle of birdsong, sweet and faintly
mournful.

As if in answer came another sound, a quick, sharp crack as though
someone had stepped on a twig.  But much louder, and somehow more
metallic as well.  The two security guards looked at each other; the
most common source of that particular noise was a car engine cooling
after the long haul from town back up to the mine.  But neither of them
had been down to the all-night doughnut place tonight.

The sound had come from off to their left, behind the guard hut, and
Jim's right hand slipped inside the still-open flap of his holster.  He
didn't draw the heavy revolver, not yet, but even for a man who didn't
like guns, the cold wood and metal of the Ruger's grip was sometimes
very comforting.  Times like now.  Pula ski looked at him, then reached
for his own gun.

"Come on, "Jim said, and stepped softly around the corner.

Behind the guard hut, just at the edge of the site, was a little
parking lot.  During the day it was used by some of the site crews; at
night, it was mostly empty.  Jim's car was there; so was Pulaski's.

And a bunch of aliens were standing there as well.

All of them were dressed in close-fitting black, with heads too big for
their bodies and huge-lensed eyes that Jim hoped were just some sort of
goggles.  They looked like the meaner, bigger brothers of those skinny
little aliens that turned up on TV specials about government-concealed
UFO landings.

Pulaski brought up his gun at once, but before he could squeeze the
trigger, a black-clad arm chopped down on his wrist and the pistol
clattered onto the gravel.  There was another flurry of movement and
then a meaty thud as one of the aliens stepped forward and slammed a
gun butt hard against his head.  Pulaski grunted, slumped, and followed
his revolver to the ground.

Other dark hands seized Jim Heffernan, peeled his fingers from the un
drawn Ruger, and jerked it from the holster, then shoved him down onto
his knees.-Several weapons were already leveled at him, and he guessed
that whoever---or whatever--had grabbed him was already off to one side
to give a clear field of fire, if he gave them reason to shoot.  Jim
froze, and hoped that would be enough.

One of the creatures held something that might have been the source of
the crackling sound, it looked vaguely like a rifle or a submachine
gun, but there was a dully glowing strip down one side of its barrel,
which made a faint humming noise.  The noise was building.  Then he
heard the sharp metallic crack again, and a little line of fire flared
and died among the weeds at the edge of the parking lot.  It was
plainly meant as a warning, and Jim took note.

Yet when he whispered, "Harry?"  the next warning was both more direct
and far less unearthly: a boot rammed hard into his ribs.  More of the
dark shapes gathered around him as he bent over, wheezed, and sucked
for air.

Jim Heffernan had done his military service in Southeast Asia and West
Germany; even though he didn't like guns, he could recognize, or at
least guess at, most of them.  But some of the weapons these fellows
carried, like the one fired as a warning, were like nothing he had ever
seen before.

A vehicle came rolling into the parking lot.  There was no sound of an
engine; Jim only knew of its arrival from the sound of gravel crunching
beneath its tires.  It showed no lights, and even the moonlight
reflected only dimly from its black surface.  Approximately the size
and shape of a big three-axle truck, it had no windows, not even a
windshield.  The front was a smooth, unbroken surface, and there seemed
to be no doors, either, until it stopped and an oval section swung up
and away from the thing's dark hide.

Out of the darkness within the black truck stepped a shape that made
Jim Heffernan's stomach twist within him, a shape from a childhood
nightmare.

Years ago, when he was just a kid, he had been exploring through the
woods near his home and had found a dead squirrel.  He had known it was
dead from the smell, if nothing else.  But the squirrel had been
moving. When he looked closer, he found that its body was alive with
maggots, literally heaving with them.  The sight had made him throw up
his lunch, and ever afterward, something moving in a way that eyes and
sense and reason said was wrong had always produced the same gut-clench
reaction.

He felt that reaction now.

A man had climbed from the truck; a big man, broad across

the shoulders and heavy through the waist, looking not fat but
massive.  But something else came out with him.  At first it looked as
though he was carrying two armfuls of wide-bore tubing, but then, as
Jim watched with increasing horror, he realized that the tubes weren't
tubes at all.  They were arms.

No.  They were tentacles, and they writhed and squirmed as if each one
had a life all of its own, rearing into the air or coiling back down
again, like snakes, huge pythons like the ones Jim had once seen in the
zoo, unwilling to bite the person they were constricting.  Unlike the
dark metal of the truck and the black clothing of the alien figures,
these shone in the moonlight with the unmistakable gleam of polished
steel.

Jim stared, swallowing hard to prevent himself from throwing up again.
He had a feeling that retching would be regarded as an insult, and that
this weird, ominous creature was not one to take insults kindly. All he
could find to say was, "Please, Mister---don't hurt him.  He's got
kids."

The aliens moved away, and it was extraordinary how perceptions could
change in the space of a few seconds; now Jim saw that they were no
more than people in funny costumes, not frightening at all.  Not when
compared to something really frightening like the broad man-shape
stalking toward him, framed by the writhing silhouettes of its
tentacles.

"Ah, the human condition," it said in a deep, dark voice.  "Easily
remedied, fortunately.  "Jim gulped.  He didn't know what that meant,
just that he didn't like the sound of it.  "Secure him," said the dark
voice.  "And his friend with the children."

It was done quickly and effectively, not with ropes, but with the
plastic binders favored by many police departments instead of
handcuffs.

"Now tell me," said the man with the arms, lean inga little

closer, "that new borehole at the center of the site is recently dug,
is it not?"

'/essir,"Jim said.  "They sank it just two days ago."

"And what security arrangements are there for that hole?"  Jim blinked
and licked dry lips.  If he told what he knew, he would get fired.  But
if he didn't tell--he risked a glance at the slowly writhing
tentacles---his employment would be terminated in a far more permanent
way.  Getting fired was preferable.  He could always get another job.

"There's a team of two down there.  They make their rounds every half
hour."

"Correct," said the man with the arms, gazing down at Jim through a
pair of spectacles that were halfway between sunglasses and goggles.
"-Very wise of you not to attempt some sort of foolish deception. Alert
Team Two.  Have them secure the area."  One of the black-clad men
turned and darted off into the truck.

"And as for you," he continued to Jim.  'q'o ensure your continued
cooperation, you and your friend the family man will accompany us.
Bring them."

The black-clad men didn't use their truck to negotiate the network of
access roads that coiled and switch backed along the terraces of the
old strip mine.  Instead, the group standing around Jim--presumably
Team One--grabbed him and went scrambling on foot straight down the
walls of the crater.

If Jim had been scared of the unknown, in the shape of the stranger
with the tentacles, he was even more scared of something he knew all
too well.  Those terraces, sixty and even seventy degrees from the
horizontal, had been exposed and weathering for years.  The rock was
friable--crumbling like old, stale pound cake, likely to give underfoot
without warning and

send any careless climber down to the borehole at the bottom a good
deal faster than intended.

He had no choice in the matter.  He was grabbed by the arms and hustled
down between two of the men like no more than a piece of awkward
luggage.  For themselves, they moved with a sureness that suggested the
function of their bug-eyed goggles, able to see every stone and crevice
even with only moonlight and sky glow to work by.

By the time they were halfway down, Jim was past caring about who could
see what, and how well.  He could see just enough to know he didn't
want to see any more, and for the rest of the descent he kept his eyes
shut tight, not opening them until an end to the jolting meant an end
to the climb.

They had made it to the center borehole in a matter of minutes, but
Team Two had been there before them.  The other two security guards had
been dealt with as efficiently as Heffernan and Pulaski.  Even though
Hank Sullivan was unconscious, a lump the size of an egg plainly
visible above his left ear, both he and Tom Schultz were propped
against the wall of the lowest terrace with binders tight around their
wrists and ankles.  From the lack of gunshots, alarms, or even extra
lights, neither had been able to do anything about it.

One of the dark-clad men approached the bulky figure with the tentacles
and ducked his head in a little gesture that was half bow and half
salute.  "We're secure."

"Phone lines?"

"Cut, sir.  We took them out before moving in, and the Detex time
clocks are receivinga dummy signal from one of the portable
computers."

"Very well.  Let's get on.  I have no wish to be here all night."

Bound as he was, there was little Jim could do after that except sit
where he had been dropped like so much garbage, and

watch--without trying to look as if he was watching.  He was the only
one.  Pulaski and Sullivan were still out cold, and Schultz had slumped
forward, head leaning against his knees.  He looked like a man trying
to pretend all this wasn't happening, as if by ignoring what was going
on around him, it would all somehow go away.  Jim knew how he felt. But
when all this was over, and assuming they survived it, then the police
or even the FBI would want detailed explanations and accurate
descriptions.  He was going to do his best to provide whatever they
required.

Several of the black-clad men busied themselves around the drilling
machinery for the new borehole, with a speed and precision that spoke
either of considerable prior experience or equally considerable recent
training.  Firing up the big gasoline engine that powered its winch,
they began raising the drill up and out of the shaft until at last the
carborundum-diamond drill bit itself rose from the hole.  It was
unlatched and swung clear, the engine shut down again; and after that,
they waited.

A few minutes later another group came down the terraces, moving with
the same ease as the team that had carried Heffernan and Pulaski.  This
new group was carrying something else: a long metal cylinder, and for
all that it seemed both heavy and clumsy, the team moved in a perfect
unison that was almost graceful.  They too had evidently practiced
before going into action, so that now what they were doing looked
easy.

It couldn't have been as easy as all that.  When they finally came
level with the boring machinery, tilted the cylinder upright, and
lowered one end to the ground not too far from where Jim was sitting,
he could hear and feel the ponderous thud of something far more massive
than it looked.  The careful way they handled it suggested something
else as well: that it was dangerous in a way far beyond mere weight.

The man with the tentacles strode over to it and raised one of his
real arms to touch it in a strange gesture that was almost
affectionate, the way one might stroke a pet or pat the trunk of a
familiar tree.  One or two of the metal arms curved around to touch the
cylinder, as if recognizing some odd kinship.  Then the man said,
"Carry on."

The lifting gear that had withdrawn the bore and its bit was now
attached to linkages recessed into the shell of the cylinder; then the
engine coughed into life once more, taking up the slack, and the
cylinder was raised, swung into place, and slowly lowered into the
waiting borehole.  Jim still making sure that his watching wasn't
obvious, couldn't help but be impressed at how exactly the cylinder
fitted.  Someone knew exactly what equipment was being used here, even
down to the width of the bore sampler nand that could change from day
to day.

But what was that thing... ?

As the cylinder dropped out of sight, he was reminded of a huge
cartridge being loaded into a massive gun.  For a long time after it
vanished, the cables supporting it kept unrolling from their drums.  He
had known in a general way how deep this bore was.  Two miles, someone
had said once.  But until you actually watched how much cable two miles
really was, and how long it took to feed that huge length down into the
ground, the words had no real meaning.

The bits and the samplers were always hot when they came back up,
sometimes too hot to touch.  That was what one of the engineers had
told him.  The heat wasn't just from the friction of drilling, but from
the massive heat and pressure of the earth itself two-plus miles
down.

One of the pieces of machinery made an odd gulping sound, and Jim
looked up.  There was no reading of expressions

through their hoods and goggles, but there was suddenly an air of
expectation in the group.

"Nell?"  said the man with the tentacles.

"She's hit bottom," replied the team member who had been operating the
crane.

' Then check the transmitter."

Another one of the team took an object from his belt.  It was oblong,
with a short antenna at one end, and looked as much like a
walkie-talkie or even a cell phone as anything else.  He studied it,
adjusted a couple of controls, then nodded.  "We've got a good signal.
Five by five.  Heat's no problem."

'When our work here is done.  Drop as many cores as you can into the
shaft, and let's be away."

The group of black-clad men, no longer separate teams but a single unit
of about fifteen, swiftly set to work.  They gathered the thirty or so
drilled-out core samples that had been placed near the borehole and
began feeding them back down the shaft, one after another.  The first
half-dozen were reassembled into their original carriers and lowered
with almost as much care as the cylinder itself, but after that the
cores were simply rolled or carried to the top of the shaft and dropped
inside.

Even when every sample around the site had been disposed of, the shaft
was nowhere near filled to the top.  It would take a lot more than that
to completely fill a hole two miles deep.  But getting at the cylinder
was no longer a simple matter of reversing the winch and pulling it
out, not with the better part of two tons of rock plugging the exit.

The man with the tentacles clapped his real hands together, an
expression both of satisfaction and completion.  "Let's be away."

Most of his various teams faded at once into the shadows, but

a couple of them remained with their leader as he came over to Jim and
the others.  "You gentlemen will forgive me if I don't give you a
ride," he said.  "But we have miles to go before we sleep."

Jim was cold, he ached, and this guy, though still horribly
frightening, had proved himself human enough to get on his nerves. "Any
promises to keep?"  he asked.

The man with the tentacles smiled at him, a smile Jim Heffernan didn't
want to see again for the rest of his life, but he refused to flinch or
look away.  If this character was going to kill him, or have him
killed, then nothing he could say or do would prevent that.

"Some say humor is the greatest gift," the man said, mockery edging
that dark voice.  "I have little time for it myself, and even less
interest in gifts.  I am more concerned with what I can take.
Nonetheless, gallows humor can be appreciated.  If I were you, I would
not linger here."

He and his remaining followers vanished into the dark.  Jim waited a
long time before he dared to move, and then every movement was an agony
of cramp, or cold, or cut-off circulation from the tightness of the
binder on his wrists.  A voice in his brain yelled at him: Run from
here, run as far and as fast as you can.  A feeling of dread rose from
him like a fogmor like the wisp of smoke curling out of a gun barrel
from that dark and silent hole in the ground.  But he wasn't about to
leave his friends and watch mates behind.  No, not even if Hank
hadKrazy- Glued his lunch box shut last week .... But he still managed
to function.  He concentrated first on getting himself as loose as he
could.  The damn plastic binders were still very tight, but he
managedmwith some wriggling and a pain that made him think he'd
possibly dislocated his wrist or one of the little bones in the
hand--to get his crossed arms

under his butt, and then, more slowly, to fold his legs tight enough
to get them through the looped arms as well.  This involved much
squirming, pushing off one shoe so he could fit the foot through, and
bracing the other foot against Hank, who was convenient and (at the
moment) not terribly conscious.  After that, when he could get to his
feet again, it was just a matter of hopping around a little to get the
other shoe back on, and then finding something sharp.

Fortunately, sharp things were not in short supply around this
particular building site.  The men in black had left the
carborundum-tipped drill bit lying with its end accessible, shoved
against a wall, but not flush against it.  The disk-shaped digging end
of the bit had two sets of blades: the outer set consisting of small
plates of industrial diamond and carborundum set alternately in a
herringbone pattern right around the face of the bit.  Jim picked one
blade of the herringbone and started sawing away at the plastic
restrainer with it.

It took a long time.  Jim hated the sight of his own blood, but he saw
a fair amount of it before he was finished.  Fortunately he knew well
enough where the big veins and arteries were-the mandatory employees'
first-aid course had been pretty specific about that--and he was
careful to miss them.  But the palm and heel of his right hand would
probably bear the marks for a long time.  At first, his hands were so
numb from the constriction of the plastic restrainer that they couldn't
feel what was happening to them.  Unfortunately, a minute or three
after he got the binders off, they began shrieking at him that they
hadn't had enough blood or oxygen for a long time, and were now going
to repay him for the favor by letting him acutely feel every injury
that had ever happened to them, with special attention to the ones he
had just incurred.

Jim swore, and ignored the pain the best he could, and

clumsily used his hands to sit Harry up and shake him a little.  'ou
okay?  Say something!"

Harry said something, all right: words that would have made Flora
mutter something about being a bad example to the kids.  Then Harry
added, "I was feeling better until you started shaking my head back and
forth.  Cut it out!"

"All right.  Can you get up?  We've gotta get out of here.  I haven't
got my Swiss army knife with me.  Go on over to the bit and cut those
off you  Tom?"

Tom was still unconscious.  'We're gonna have to carry him out," Jim
said, "and I don't like the look of that head.  We're gonna have to be
real careful with him.  I wish we had a backboard or something."
"There's a piece of plywood over here," Harry said, sawing away at his
binders with the herringbone blade.  "I guess we could use that--"

"Okay.  Get it.  Hank--"

Hank sat there, shivering.  When Jim came to him, he said, ' -I'hey
said they were gonna burn me.  They said they were gonna burn me, I
couldn't do anything else!"

"Of course you couldn't do anything else, "Jim said, furious that
"they" should so casually reduce a nice, kind man to this trembling
shape. Bastards/ Let me catch you sometime without your fancy guns...
"Forget it, Hank.  Except for the boss, no one's going to talk to you
about thiswwe're gonna see to it.  All right?  Now get up and get over
there and get loose so you can help us with Tom."

Harry got himself cut free and went over to get the "backboard" while
Jim helped get Hank free.  Then carefully, the Way they had been
trained, they lifted Tom onto the piece of plywood.  "Pity we can't go
up as fast as they came down, "Jim muttered.

"No, thanks," Hank said.  "I saw you guys come down, after the first
batch jumped us.  Damn near gave me a heart attack."  "Nell, don't have
one now, for God's sake, "Jim said.  "What time is it?"

Harry looked at the sky.  "Near enough to dawn--" He glanced at his
watch.  "Damn thing's not going," he said.  "Yours going?"

Jim and Hank looked at their watches.  Both of them were stopped as
well.  "Like something out of a movie, "Jim said morosely.  "Guys
dressed like aliens Never mind, let's get going.

He needs a doctor."

They walked up the switchback road as fast as they dared.  It was not
fast enough for Jim.  He couldn't get rid of the idea that, down in the
crater, something very bad was going to happen.  And about halfway up
the road, halfway up the terraces, the feeling grew stronger than
before.  "C'mon," he said to the others, 'ac've gotta hurry, let's
hurry.t"

To his great relief, none of them asked, "Why?"  Hank and Harry saw him
look over his shoulder, and they looked too-and they hurried.  Tom,
lying on his back with their jackets wadded on either side of his head
to hold it still, never moved, only moaned a little every now and then.
Jim hoped he wouldn't wake up just now.  He was likely to slow them
down, and if there was one thing Jim was sure about right now, it was
that it would be very bad if they slowed down.

He could barely believe it when they actually came out at the top of
the switchback road onto the ring road that led around the site.

"They've killed the phones," said Jim, "but there's that cell phone in
the office.  I don't think they got that.  Come on."

As quickly as they dared, and making better speed now that they weren't
climbing, they made their way around the ring road

to the little security hut near where the chain-link fence and the
gate met the road.  There was no point trying to bring Tom into the
hut; he was just as well left outside.  Carefully, in the slowly
growing light, they put him down on the ground, and Jim ran in to get
the cell phone.

As he came out again he hurriedly dialed the emergency day or-night
number for the district Consolidated office in New York.  A somewhat
bored voice said "Consolidated security..."

'left'?.  It's Jim Heffernan.  Listen, there's been a break-in at the
site."  He looked out across the diggings in dawn's early light,
wondering at how peaceful it seemed now after all the madness of the
night.

"Break-in?  Who was it?"

"A bunch of guys dressed in black like commandos or ninjas or
something--and one guy who was really strange.  This is gonna need a
major debrief, Jeff, and we need a doctor right now for Tom.  One of
these guys hit him hard with a gun, and he's been unconscious for half
an hour at least.  These guys were fooling around with the new bore,
Jeff, the deep one."

"All right, all right, listen.  Let me get Ralph Molinari on the line,
he's the one you want to talk to about this kind of thing.

You tell him everything that's happened, and--"

Fizz.  And a dead phone.

Jim, looking out over the site, saw it happen: something he thought he
had seen films of, and more recently, videotape of, in the South
Pacific, when people who should have known better were playing with
their toys.  He felt it, too--the ground booming and jumping under his
feet as if a giant had kicked it, the ground rippling like a liquid
thing.  He saw the top of the wave, where it touched the surface of the
earth, radiate outward like the ripple from a stone chucked into a
pool, watched the ripple travel, the dust puffing up behind it.  And
then as the

 shock wave passed them by, making the ground right under them jump
again, he saw the whole site sag.  The crater subsided into itself as
if half the stone and gravel and dirt in it were suddenly pulverized
finer than they had been before, settling deeper, sagging down,
subsiding into a shallow, churned-up crater.  Dust arose and blew
gently off to one side.  Jim found himself desperately grateful that
the dust wasn't blowing toward them.

Jim shook the cell phone again, half hoping that it would come back to
life, but it wouldn't.  It was dead--and why wouldn't it be, this close
to an electromagnetic pulse?  He doubted it would ever work again.

"Not my hundred fifty bucks, anyway," he said softly and put it in his
pocket.  Then he went over to one of the logs that separated the
parking lot from the site proper and sat down on it.

Hank and Harry joined him.  They sat there quietly, the three of them,
for what seemed like a long while, none of them saying out loud what
they were thinking.  Jim thought he knew what those thoughts were.  If
that was what I think it was, were we far enough away ?  Are we going
to be alive in five years, or ten ?  I don't feel any burns--but then
early on, you wouldn't... It took about twenty minutes for the police
and the ambulance to get there, called by the New York office.  One of
the cops was Rod Cummings, who Jim knew fairly well.  They drank and
played pool together down at Bob's Bar in town.  Rod looked down at the
hole and said, "Dear God on a moped."

Weah," said Jim.

The ambulance people got busy with Tom.  As they carried him away, Rod
said very softly, "CalTech called the station and the state emergency
services.  Asked whether there had been an earthquake."

Nope, "Jim said.  "Nothing like that.  A disaster, though .... "

He couldn't get rid of the image of that stocky shape with the
metallic arms, looking down at Harry as if from a great distance, and
saying, "Ah, the human condition.  Easily remedied, fortunately."

Jim shook all over as he watched the paramedics put Tom into the
ambulance, on a real backboard this time.  "He'll be okay, won't he?"

"I think so.  The question is," and Rod looked down at the crater, from
which vague plumes of dust still very gently rose, 'rill we?"

" etey?"

"Hmmm?"

"Where's the hand cream?"

Peter Parker was in his apartment in New York.  It was one of many
things for which, at the moment, he gave thanks.  He was in the tub, up
to his nose in suds.  He lay there staring at the ceiling, and
considered briefly that it was going to need repaintingagain soon; the
dampness was making the paint over the tub bubble.

'vVhich hand cream specifically?"  Peter said after a moment.  Mary
Jane Watson-Parker, resplendent in a calico cotton bathrobe with a torn
pocket, put her head around the bathroom door, looking vaguely worried.
"It's the apple one, with the cuticle stuff."

"vVhat's the bottle look like?"

"It wasn't a bottle.  It was a kind of little bucket."

Peter sighed.  A week ago, he had been washing Everglades muck out of
his Spider-Man costume, thinking that if he could just get back to New
York, he'd never complain about anythingagain.  How quickly things can
change, he thought, and said aloud, "A little bucket..."

"It had a design on the top," MJ said.  "A little apple."  Peter closed
his eyes, thought for a moment.  The house had been filling with
peculiar cosmetics recently, but he really couldn't complain about
that, as it meant that his wife was working, rather than merely making
herself more attractive than she already was a tough job, if you asked
him.  "Bucket," he said, and opened his eyes.  "Kind of a little tub
thing?  Okay.  In the

kitchen, on the counter by the dishwasher, there are about six pots
and tubs and so forth there.  All the little short squat ones were
there."

"I looked," MJ said fretfully.  "It's not there."

Peter closed his eyes again, trying to see where he had last seen the
thing.  "Not there, huh?  Okay.  Try on top of the frigerator."

"The refrigerator?  Why would I put anything there?"

Peter restrained himself from suggesting numerous possibilities.  'Just
go look."

A brief silence ensued.  A moment later, MJ reappeared, smilinga little
sheepishly, with a pot of hand cream in one hand.  "It was behind the
Rice Krispies," she said.

"Yeah, I thought I saw you use it the first thing this morning," said
Peter.

He sank back into the bubbles, and MJ smiled at him, less sheepishly
this time.  "Zou're being awfully good about all this."  "It's money,"
he said, smiling back.  'vVhy not?"

She went off, probably to do something about her cuticles.  MJ's hands
had become more than usually useful in the week since they had come
home from Florida.  In a way, Peter regretted it.  He had half hoped
they would have at least a week or so to themselves to sit quietly, not
doing any more work than they had to, and trying to recover a little
from the rather frenetic period of heat, humidity, and super heroing
without skyscrapers.  But it seemed that fate had intended otherwise.

It had been a lively time.  Work had taken them down there initially.
First MJ's intention to hunt for more modeling work in the Miami area
with one of the new PR or modeling agencies relocating down that way,
and then, on Peter's end, when he was sent down by the Daily Bugle to
help investigate some strange goings-on at Cape Canaveral, things that
wound up involving

not only his old acquaintance the Lizard, but Venom as well.  That
business was now cleared up, or as much as it was going to be anytime
soon.  The Lizard had vanished again; Venom had taken himselfawaywith
what Peter knew he would consider "unfinished business"---namely the
killing of Spider-Manmstill incomplete.  But even Venom, Peter thought,
must want a few days off every now and then .... While Peter, as
Spider-Man, had been swinging all over the countryside--a matter not
made simpler by the generally low lying quality of Floridian flora, and
the fact that only in Miami proper were there skyscrapers worthy of the
name--MJ had been modeling away at her best speed.  She had been
working, among other things, on magazine shoots and some other light
photographic work.  She had also been indulging in her usual fairly
frenetic networking nit would not have been MJ's style to ignore the
possibility of future work, even though she was presently working her
butt off.  Between work sessions in a bar in South Beach, she had met,
completely by chance, another model who knew someone who knew someone
in New York who needed a hand model.

Peter had blinked at her when she told him about this the first time.
'"you mean to tell me," he'd said, "that there are actually people who
just show their hands and nothing else?"

"Sure," MJ said.  "You see them on TV.  I bet you've just never thought
about it before.  Commercials for jewelry and softer than-soft
dishwashing liquid and hand creams and rubber gloves--things like that.
It's all hand models."

They had been sitting in a restaurant at the time.  MJ had been
admiring her nails in a general sort of way.  "Mikey--he's the
underwear model I was telling you about--Mikey said that it's really
hard to find a hand model without any wrinkles or spots at my age, the
way the ozone layer's been changing

the past ten years.  It seems everyone suddenly has freckles and
stuff.  Whereas I"-and she glanced again at one hand in bemusement--"I
just don't seem to have had that problem."

"That," Peter said, "is because you always keep your hands in your
pockets.  Most unladylike."

'q(eah."  She giggled.  "That's what they all said when I was growing
up.  If I'd known then that I could get a thousand bucks a day for it,
I'd have ignored them even harder than I did."  "A thousands!  You
kidding, right?"

She shook her head.  "If you can find the work," MJ said.  "It's very
specialized, and there just aren't that many people who can do
it--whose hands still look perfect up close to the hot lights and the
big sensitive camera lenses.  Once you start doing it' she smiled; it
was a slightly feral look-"they tend to keep you on, and they tend to
give you as much more of that kind of work as you can take."

"A thousand bucks a day.  I think you can probably take a fair amount
of it."

Peter sighed at the memory and blew out so big a breath that bubbles
blew off the top layer of suds.  From the next room came the sound of a
cheerful woman la-laing to herself as she rubbed cream into her hands.
Peter had to be amused by it.  Normally MJ couldn't have cared less
about her hands, at least in terms of doing anything to them in the
course of a day.  But the photographer on the shoot she was presently
working had yelled at her that she needed to be "moister," and after
some confusion on all sides, it was discovered that he meant he wanted
her to use more moisturizer.  So she had begun doing so, and had
started meet inga couple of other hand models whom the director of the
present project suggested she have a chat with.  Suddenly, on their
advice, the house had begun filling up

with--Peter rolled his eyes a little, in amusementmtubs and pots and
bottles and heaven only knew what else.

Still, the timing suited him.  Peter had made a fair pile of money from
the pictures he took of Spider-Man in the attack on the Space Shuttle
at the Cape, and the resolution of that attack.  The picture that had
caught the bomb going off after it had been dropped into the
flame-suppression tank at the bottom of the Shuttle launch facility had
made the front page of the Bugle, much to his delight, and he had
picked up a bonus for it.  But that bonus and the money from the AP
wire, wouldn't last him forever.  MJ had satisfied herself that the
Miami modeling scene wasn't everything it was cracked up to be in terms
of steady work, so, happily enough, they had come home again when both
their assignments were donemonly to find that instead of having a few
days to call their own, MJ had to go straight out and spend ten to
twelve hours a day with her hands artistically decked in what the ad
described as "Ever-Loon' Bubbles."  It was just dishwashing detergent,
which Peter found it beyond his ability to love even temporarily, let
alone forever.  But at a thousand bucks a day .... He felt around under
the water for the soap.  Things could have been a lot worse.  They had
been a lot worse, but after this last stint of work, each of them had
managed to contribute enough money to the household kitty to get the
credit cards paid down--at least to the point where they could use them
and to put a small but reassuring lump into their joint savings
account.  It was a little bit weird, actually, to feel somewhat secure,
to feel that for the next little while, they didn't have to scramble
desperately just to keep groceries in the kitchen and the landlord
happy.

Peter looked forward to spending the next few weeks doing

assignment work at the Bugle again, and having the leisure, as
Spider-Man, to web-swing normally again, among proper tall buildings
placed close together, in a city where he knew his way around, and in a
place where you could be fairly sure that if you hit the ground
suddenly, you wouldn't be on top of an alligator.  He had found Florida
pleasant enough for a short visit, but it was a little too flat for his
taste, and there were things living in the wet part of the flatness
that considered human beings, Spider-Men and others, to be perfectly
acceptable hors d'oeuvres.

He heard the front door clunk and glanced up at the clock on the top
shelf above the towels.  Nine-thirty: MJ was going down to get the
mail.  Peter lay back in the tub again, gazed up at the ceiling, and
thought, We could try a new color in here next time.  That beige is
really beginning to look like masking tape.

After a few minutes the door went clunk again, and he heard the jingle
as MJ chucked her keys onto the telephone table.  "Anything
interesting" he said.

"Mmnh," she said, going through whatever she was carrying as she came
toward the bathroom.  'Junk mail, junk mail, restaurant menu..."

'%Vhich restaurant?"

"Uh."  A pause; she appeared in the bathroom door in jeans and T-shirt.
"The Blarney Rock."

"I'hat's a restaurant?  I thought it was a bar."

"The bar's opened a restaurant.  Real Irish food."

Peter made a bemused expression.  "Corned beef and cabbage?"

"Nope, it says specifically they don't do that.  "Boxty'--" She
furrowed her brow.  "What's that?  For that matter, what's 'champ'?  Or
'colcannon'?"

"You've got me.  Maybe they're taking big old guns away from
terrorists and cooking them?"

"Best use for them, maybe.  Don't think I need that much fiber in my
diet, though."  She put the menu aside for later perusal.  "Junk mail,
junk mail, you may already have won..."  "Oh, sure," said Peter.
"What's the prize in this one?"  "A trip to Miami, if you go see one of
their condos."

"Too humid this time of year," Peter said.  "Too many super villains

"Yeah."  MJ continued going through the pile.  'Junk mail, junk mail, I
can't believe trees are dying for this.  Oh--phone bill.  Two of
them."

"Two?  I thought we paid the phone bill last week."

"No, these are for the cell phones."  MJ smiled as she opened the first
one.  She had bought a matching set of cell phones for the pair of them
in Florida.  Each had approximately a hundred functions, only two or
three of which Peter understood.  He had found that his phone was one
of those instruments of the technological age that was actively
dangerous if you didn't know how to work it.  And he was embarrassed to
find that--while he could manipulate cameras and web shooters and
spider-tracers with the greatest of ease--he could not for the life of
him get the hang of the cell phone.  Once he had tried to use the
phone's "number scratch pad," and had wound up destroying its entire
"address book," which had taken him hours to install.  Since then,
Peter had resolutely refused to touch any buttons on the thing except
for the dial pad and the "accept" or "hang up" buttons.

MJ unfolded the first bill.  "I've used mine about five times this
month," she said, "and you've used yours maybe three times, if I'm any
judge."

"I called the weather once," Peter said, "and once I called for a
pizza.  Everything else was incoming."

She smiled, then took a look at the bill.  Her mouth actually fell
open, assuming the position at which Aunt May used to warn Peter,
"You'd better shut that or a fly will get in."

'What the heck--?"  She said it in a tone of voice that suggested that
"heck" was not the word she really wanted to use.  '%ghat's the
matter?"

"They've given us somebody else's bill," she said and walked over to
the tub, holding the bill between thumb and forefinger as if it were a
recently deceased rat.  "Look for yourself."

He looked.  The first thought Peter had about the bill was, That's a
bit long, zsn t zt.  There were several pages to it.  The second
thought he had was on looking at the total at the top of the first
page.  "BALCE "AVALE," it said.  "$4,689.72."

Four thousand... Peter looked at MJ in total bewilderment.  "I'hey've
made a mistake," he said.  "It can't be your bill.  What's the other
one say?"

"Hm--" She reached for the other envelope, which she had stuck up on
the towel shelf with everything but the junk mail she hadn't yet thrown
away.  She ripped it open, unfolded it.  "Twenty-three dollars and
eighty cents.  Twenty of that is just the rental for the numb erA

They both looked at the other bill.  "Four thousandA!  It's just a
mistake," MJ said, riffling through the six or seven attached pages,
all covered with very small print.  Cell Tech computer must have had a
fit or something, that's all.  They can't make me pay this.  I didn't
make any of these calls.  There's not a single number I recognize."

Peter twitched a little, under the suds.  "Some of these cell

phone companies," he said carefully, "can be a little sticky about
billing."

"Fhey can stick all they like," MJ said, laughing, "but I'm not paying
this.  I didn't make any of these calls."

"Better call their helpline and tell them that the computer's barfed
all over your bill," he said.  "If you like, I'll--"

"No, I can handle it myself, no problem," MJ said and headed out into
the kitchen.  "By the way, what do you want for breakfast?"

"Oh, just some toast.  I'll get some coffee later."

"Right."

Half an hour later, Peter was out of the tub, shaved, dried, and
getting dressed in their bedroom--and becoming more and more determined
to put off going into the kitchen for as long as he could.

MJ was still on the phone.  He had heard one loud cry of "What?"  and
another of, "But, you can't--that's--it's, it's not fair!"  and another
of, "But I didn't!  I've only had it--"

A long silence had followed that.  Then came a quieter tone of voice
that Peter knew, and didn't hear often: the sound of MJ being very
controlled, and probably politer than she needed to be.  It was a tone
of voice which suggested that the person on whom she was using it had
better never run into her at a social occasion or things would turn
quickly antisocial.

Finally, he heard her hang up, very softly.  To Peter's educated ear,
the quiet little click sounded like a bomb detonator going off.  Not
too quietly, and he hoped not too casually, he made his way into the
kitchen.

The toast had come up about ten minutes ago; it sat cold and forlorn in
the toaster.  It wasn't so dark that redoing it would

ruin it, so Peter pushed it down again and walked through to the
little table between the kitchen and the dining area where MJ was
sitting, the cell phone off to one side, and staring at the bill.

"So what did they say?"  he said.

She looked up at him bleakly.  "They say we have to pay it."  "But they
weren't your calls," Peter said.

"They weren't my calls," MJ said, "but it looks like I'm responsible
for them."

'vVhat do you mean?"

"According to the lady I talked to--she was really very nice, she was
good to me, but she couldn't help it--my phone was probably cloned."

"Cloned--someone stole the number, you mean."

She nodded, looking morose, and sat back in the chair.  'there are
people who wait near the ends of bridges and tunnels with scanners
because when you come out of there, when you lose the shielding effect,
the phone broadcasts its ID number to the system--its PIN number, more
or less.  Tells the cell phone network where it is.  That's an easy
time for them to steal your number.  People wait with their scanners
for cars to come out and record as many numbers as they can.  Then they
put them into 'blank' phones and start making free calls.  Free to
them, anyway."

MJ scowled at the table.  "I'm so angry, Peter.  It's not like I don't
know about this, like I haven't heard about it.  When I'm in a cab and
go into a bridge or a tunnel, I usually make sure the phone is off. I'm
pretty careful about it.  But just one time I must have been in a
hurry, on the way to a job or something, and I must have forgotten--"

Peter shook his head.  "Hon, you can't remember everything.  We've had
a fairly lively time of it these past few weeks.  It's

only natural, when you get home, you relax, you forget sometlaing--"
He sat down by her, took her hand.  "Don't look so tragic!"

She looked at him sidelong and gave him a lopsided smile.  "Thatever
you say," she said, 'just don't say "It's only money."

Think about it, Tiger.  What have we got in the bank?"

"I guess a little less than--"

"Five thousand dollars, yes.  That was going to last us a month or
two--maybe more if we stretched hard.  It was going to buy us some time
to get a little bit ahead.  You know how it is when you start a new
job--it takes a little while to get the accounting department
straightened out, they take a little while to get the check cut."  She
shrugged.  "Well--"

She looked at the bill.  "The due date on this is two weeks from
now."

"You don't think you could make that much money in two weeks, do
you?"

She looked at him.  "Not after taxes, no.  Probably not.  Hand work
tends to happen only a couple days at a time."

Peter shook his head.  "It's just wrong, though.  They shouldn't be
able to make you pay it.  They're not your calls!"

"Apparently they can," MJ said.  "The law in New York at the moment is
that there's a ten-day window during which you can inform them that
your number's been cloned: if you do it within ten days of the first
'spurious' call, then they won't charge you."  The grin she gave him
now was much more lopsided.  "The problem is, it's a catch-22--how do
you know your phone's been cloned until you see the bill?  If you're
lucky, and it happens at the bottom of a billing cycle, you'll do
better, but--" She shook her head.

"But there has to be some way that they can establish that these aren't
your calls."

"Not yet," MJ said sadly.  "Not for us.  We haven't had these phones
long enough to establish a billing pattern for either us.  The lady I
was talking to said that the only way not to be able for the cost of
the bill was to produce concrete proof that the phone had been cloned.
I don't know how we would do that.  The lady said that you would have
to have the phone's number turn up in an ongoing criminal
investigation. If they've caught some crook using it, and found your
number in phone, then naturally they'd let you off."

"Oh, jeez," Peter said.  The odds of this seemed poor.

In the kitchen, the toast popped up.  He ignored it.  sniffed.  "It's
burned."

"It's burned?  I'm burned!  I'm not going to give them four thousand
dollars of our money when we didn't use their service!"

"Tiger," MJ said, "unless we can find some way to prove the phone was
cloned, we're going to have to.  Otherwise this is going to trash our
credit rating.  We've got enough trouble keeping that straight as it
is, and without it, we're sunk.  We could take them to court, but who's
got the money?"

'Yeah," Peter said.

MJ reached out across the table, sighed deeply, and smiled at Peter
once more.  This time it was a much more normal smile, but there was a
sense of it being applied like makeup.  "I've got to start thinking
about going," she said.  "They're going to be ready to start shooting
in about half an hour, and I can't take the chance of getting caught in
traffic."

"What're we going to do?"  Peter said.

MJ shook her hair back and looked noble and brave.  "We're going to
stall," she said, "until I can find out whether we really have to pay
this thing.  If we have to pay it--" She shrugged.  "We've been worse
off before."

"I was hoping we wouldn't have to be worse off again," Peter said.
"There's nothing hot coming up at the Bugle that I know of---I'm not
going to be able to be of much help to you."

'Just knowing that you're thinking of ways to be of help to me, to us,"
MJ said, "makes me feel just fine.  Come on, Tiger.  Fresh toast for
you, and then I'm going to go."

She got up and made him fresh toast, and put on fresh coffee, and the
more she was kind to him, and thoughtful, the more Peter began to stew
and fret as well.  By the time she was ready to go out, still just in
her T-shirt and jeans, and (a new development) with her hands covered
with the kind of white cotton gloves that commuters used to read the
New York Times on the train, for his own part, Peter was so angry he
could hardly speak.

"You going to the Bugle later?"  MJ said.

"That's right."

"Okay, give 'em my best.  When'll you be back?"

"By evening, anyway," Peter said.  "Today is just a mooching around
day, to see what's going on, which editors need a photographer.  After
that, I might do a little night work."

She nodded, recognizing their code for web-swinging.  "Okay.  I won't
wait to eat dinner if you're not home when I get back."  She picked up
her cell phone, looked at it with an expression of tremendous
annoyance, and dropped it into her purse.  "You know the number," she
said.

Weah," Peter said, for a moment allowing the same annoyance to show.
"So does someone else.  Let me know if your schedule changes.  I'll
call if mine does."

"Gimme a kiss," MJ said.

Peter drew her close, and for several long warm moments, even the
thought of the phone company was drowned out.  When she let him go at
last, Peter said, "It's a waste, them only using your hands."

She waggled her eyebrows at him.  "I'hey have other she said, "as
you'll doubtless find out when we're both home again tonight.  "Bye,
Tiger."  And she was off down the hall.

He watched her for a moment, then shut the door quietly and began to
pace a little bit, looking across the room at where his own cell phone
sat.  It's not fair--not in the slightest.  There has to be something
we can do.  Something I can do--or that Spider-Man can do .... Peter
went over to the window that looked uptown and stood for a moment.
Spider-Man certainly had various friendly police contacts here and
there; it had often been his pleasure to one cop or another a good
turn, and they had done him some in the past as well.  Unfortunately,
there is a basic flaw in the logic

he thought.  Spider-Man's contacts weren't guaranteed to do

Peter Parker that much good, especially since to get this particular
problem solved would involve showing MJ's phone bills to the police.
That would raise just too many questions leading,

if he wasn't careful, to the question of his secret identity.  No,

Peter thought, that's not going to do it--at least not directly.

He looked out over the roofs of midtown.  A brief taste of freedom, of
something just a little like security, and now it was gone.  Ten
million people out there--certainly there couldn't be more

:' than a million of them who were crooks.  Probably a lot less.  It
just seemed

:! like a lot more.  Turn your back for a minute, and you found , them
in your soup.  What still staggered him was the injustice of

" it all--that the phone company could recognize theft as coming from
one specific direction, but hold you responsible for it in the next
breath, even if you weren't.  Though they would probably say that she
was careless.  She wasn't careless.

Peter stalked back and forth in front of the window, getting more
furious--and then sighed.  Standing here being angry did

no good, but there were things that would.  He'd go in to the Bugle,
see what work was around.  And then, later--well... He couldn't do
anything about the phone company, but the crooks--that was something
else.

Peter went to get his keys and got ready to head out.

ight fell and turned the city golden.

Spider-Man knew that light pollution was a problem.  He knew that the
sodium-vapor lamps that lit New York City streets made astronomers
crazy, blanking out the frequencies of light that they were most
interested in.  But when he stood in a high place, as he did right now,
and smelled the cold sweet air--well, sweeter than it was in the
daytime, when the sun baked the ozone stink into everything--and when
he looked down at those luminous golden pathways between the buildings,
all traced with ruby and diamond light, he loved the sight and he
wished the people at Hayden Planetarium could find something else to
complain about.

He stood at the corner of the roof of the Met Life building and looked
northeast.  It was a good vantage point, and a good place to jump off
from suddenly if you needed to.  Plent of skyscrapers as tall or taller
were just north of him: the heart of midtown, his favorite playground.
Just west was the unique design of the Flatiron Building; to the north,
the traffic lights of Park Avenue, all red and green down the central
mall.

Spider-Man stood on the gravel, looking down.  He had spent the early
part of the evening web-swinging.  It was amazing how much frustration
you could work off that way.  The wind in your face--well, against your
mask, anywaymas you snagged the corner of a building with webbing,
swung down, whipped around, got a grip on some wall of empty plate
glass, scurried up it, then launched yourself out into the void again.
Not even riding a line of webbing, just counting on the spider's leap
to take you across the gap to the next building.  It was exhilarating
and a great way

to keep an eye on things without being seen.  Only rarely did New
Yorkers look up, unless a helicopter crash or an alien invasion was
happening over their heads.  Mostly their attention was at their own
level, or below.  So was Spider-Man's, but different reasons.

He was watching pickup trucks, and had been for some days just before
he went off to Florida; It was a feature on the news that had started
him on this particular avenue of study, a story that made it plain how
hot "ram raiding" was becoming in New York.

It was uncertain where the art had originated.  Some said was first
practiced in the densely packed, small shopping malls of midlands
England.  Others said it had been invented in the Midwest, or among
corner minimalls of Los Angeles.  Wherever it originated, it was
entirely too attractive a method of crime for those who were properly
equipped.

The proper equipment tended to stand out: you needed a four-wheel-drive
vehicle, or a pickup, or a combination of both, some chains, and
several willing accomplices  The idea was that you rammed the back or
front of your truck, whichever was more convenient, into a store, and
then you jumped in and robbed the place, tossed your loot into the
truck, and drove away.  Other forms of ram raiding were slightly more
opportunistic.  Those with a tow point on the back of their truck and
enough chain would back their truck up to a store's security shutters,
or the post that anchored the shutters, fasten the chain to the shank
that secured the post, and drive away at top speed, usually taking the
post out.  The crooks would then quickly return, loot the store, and
flee.

Spider-Man stood there a moment more, breathing the mild summer night's
air, and then sprang over to the other side of the roof; there he
looked down toward Twenty-third Street,

shot a line of web across toward the Park Avenue South corner, and
swung out into the night, heading downtown.  Ram raiding, he reflected,
did have its dangers.  You might chain something to your fender and
drive away and have your fender come off.  This could be embarrassing,
especially if your license plate was still attached.  An NYPD detective
of his acquaintance had told him about how one group of ram raiders
decided to steal the cash machine from a bank.  They wrapped their
chains around the machine and pulled it out of the bank's wall, but the
bad guys had failed to notice that the back entrance to the Fourteenth
Precinct was directly across from that particular branch of Chase
Manhattan.  While the crooks got busy securing the cash machine to the
back of their pickup, some of the bemused cops who had been watching
the raid from inside their offices came strolling outside, crossed the
street, and arrested the guys--only to have one of the crooks explain
to them, absolutely straight-faced, that the object chained to the back
of their truck was in fact a washing machine.  One cop laughed so hard
that he tore a newly repaired hernia and had to go back three days
later for keyhole surgery.  Other cops, unchaining the machine, made
god-awful jokes about "money laundering" as they took the crooks and
the cash machine across the street.  Spidey considered this yet another
example of how absolutely anything can happen in New York, no matter
how absurd you think it is.

The nice thing about ram raiding, though, was that it was fairly
detectable.  The sound of such a large amount of glass breaking at
once, or of the clatter of metal shutters in the street, was much
louder than mere vandalism usually produced.  For a costumed hero with
sharp ears, a built-in ESP-like warning system that he called his
spider-sense, and an eye for trouble, it was a happy sound.

Spidey had an eye for trouble tonight.  It was difficult, if not

impossible, for even a super hero to punch out an entire company.  But
as surrogates for them, he would be more than glad to punch out any
crooks he ran across tonight.  It would be a small consolation, but
better than nothing.  Additionally, he had his little motion-controlled
camera with him; should any action occur, he would get pictures of it,
and tomorrow Peter Parker would take them in to the Bugle and see who
might be interested in them.  '

He swung on down Park Avenue South a ways, humming absently to himself
as he watched the traffic flow.  Ahead of him, under the sodium lights,
he could see several pickups of the kind favored for ram raiding, but
they seemed to be going about their business peaceably enough.
Nonetheless, he followed them for a while, watching the cross streets
as he passed them by.  It was pleasant to be doing a simple night's
work for a change.  The previous weeks' run-ins with Venom and the
repeated revelations of the underhanded dealings of the Russianbacked
import-export company CCRC had made life more complicated than he
liked.  Having Manhattan almost destroyed in a nuclear explosion a few
weeks prior to that hadn't done much for his composure, either.
"Super-villains," he muttered.  "Fooey.  Give me punks.  I'm ready for
punks."

He swung right down Park, practically to the Village, hung a right at
Fourteenth, and headed west, past dozens of little stores that sold
discount clothes, electrical equipment, and other odds and ends.  But
everything was surprisingly quiet; the city was well-behaved tonight.

Typical, he thought.  When you want a crook, you can never find them,
but when you don't want them, they're everywhere.

At Thirteenth and Sixth Avenue Spidey paused thoughtfully, looking down
at the Burger King there from the skyscraper where he clung.  One of
the problems with web-swinging in this

town was that cooking smoke and steam from restaurants and snack bars
rose upward in a great cloud, and he could always smell them on his
rounds.  If he hadn't eaten before he left, he soon wished he had, and
he almost always ate before he got home.  MJ's comment was that the
only creature in the city to which Spider-Man was not a hero was his
refrigerator, because he robbed it himself every night.

MJ..  He swung along up Sixth a ways, thinking of her patient look as
she sat at the kitchen table after that phone call.  How does she stay
so calm ?  It seemed to be a natural gift.  Her bubbly personality
didn't usually extend to noisy complaint, but she had confessed to him
what serious fun she had had pitch inga major fit one evening on this
Miami trip in the direction of a misbehaving directormand the
astonishment it provoked from the others in the area, especially those
who had known MJ for a little while and had never heard her make a loud
noise before.  There may be something to that approach, he thought.
Save it for later, and people pay more attention CRASH  Glass shattered
not too far from him.  Spidey paused in mid-swing, swung himself around
to the plate-glass front of a building at Twenty-fourth and Sixth, and
there held very still, listening above the soft roar of the city for
the rest of the crash and-tinkle.  It always took a little while to
settle down.

North, he thought, and west.  A block up.

He spider-scuttled around the face of the building from the Sixth
Avenue side to the side facing north, and there made a huge leap onto
the roof of a convenient warehouse that stood directly across the
street.  He came down fairly in the middle of the roof without too much
difficulty.  Streets were pretty easy to jump: avenues were trouble,
and he hadn't jumped one without webbing in a while.

He bounced across the building's roof to where it abutted

with another, slightly taller; leapt up to that one's roof, straight
across it to the Twenty-fifth Street side, paused, peered over the
square-cut, fake-castellated brick ram topped it out.

About halfway down the block between Sixth and on Twenty-fifth, a
metallic brown Dodge four-by-four had rammed the front of what looked
to be a small store, whose alarm was ringing forlornly.  The truck was
up on the sidewalk, nose well in through the dark window, dark figures
danced about the truck's hood, grabbing of the store, and stowing them
away in their coats.  Two figures held long objectsmassault rifles,
Spidey guessed.

"New York, New York," Spider-Man muttered under breath, smiling under
the mask as he got out the camera set it on the "rampart" on its little
tripod, switching it on.  camera went zzzt, turning its "head" toward
the action down in the street.

Spidey swung down.

He hit the first of the robbers with no warning whatsoeverN his
favorite way.  He simply took him feet first in the back, knocking the
gun the punk carried clear across the sidewalk and under a parked car.
It skittered along the concrete, spitting sparks as it went, and Spidey
had just enough time to recognize the shape.  Kalashnikov, he thought.
Very stylish--not!

The two crooks who had clambered in through the window and loaded
themselves with stuff from the counters inside now noticed him.  One of
them stuffed a last glittering necklace in side his jacket, pulled out
a pistol, and started emptying it at Spidey.

This, the crook shortly found, was a futile tactic.  Spider-Man bounced
around on the sidewalk, rather like a drop of water on

a hot griddle, keeping the truck between him and the other two crooks,
and waiting for the sound he wanted to hear:
bangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangclick.

"Aha," Spidey said cheerfully.  "That's a Glock, and you've had your
seventeen."  He jumped at the man, a big heavy guy with a five o'clock
shadow several time zones ahead of itself.  The crook was still
fumbling for the replacement cartridge when Spidey's fist caught him
just under the jaw, and set him and the gun flying, it one way, he
another.  As the man flopped out of the way, his coat fell open and
rained jewelry on the sidewalk.

From beyond the Dodge came more gunfire: some machinegun, some pistol.
Spidey ducked as the slugs whined and ricocheted around him on the
pavement.  "Impatient people," he muttered.  "You'd think they'd wait
and take better aim.  But never mind."  It was half a second's work to
web his first crook up against the light post against which he had
conveniently come to rest.  After that, Spidey crouched down again and
bounced toward the truck, ducking down behind it.

The guy with the Kalashnikov ran around one side, and the guy with the
pistol around the other.  It was as much as Spider Man could have hoped
for.  "Now, who says New Yorkers aren't considerate?"  Spidey said,
shooting out a line of webbing and neatly tripping the guy with the
pistol as he came around the corner of the Dodge.  The crook slammed
down onto the sidewalk; the pistol flew off to one side and embedded
itself in a big lump of a substance for which there was a $50 fine for
leaving it on the street.

"There's a message there somewhere," said Spidey--and then his
spider-sense stung him, and he jumped right over the truck.  Not a
moment too soon: a spray of bullets dug a little crater on the spot of
sidewalk where he had been crouching.

The crook ran for the driver's-side door of the Dodge yanked it open.
He had just gotten himself in behind when Spidey did the same with the
passenger-side door, up onto the cab step, and shot webbing all over
the driver, his gun, his legs, his arms, and anything else that Then
Spider-Man leaned in and pulled the keys out of the nit ion smiling at
the furious, struggling man.  "You should gotten out of Dodge while you
could," he said and jumped again.

Bullets rattled and whined off the truck's body.  looked toward the
jewelry store and saw the one crook, whom he'd briefly forgotten.
"Can't have you feelin out," he said as he rolled and bounced off the
sidewalk, again, and wound up clinging to one of the second-floor
windows of the building that had been rammed.

The last crook stared wildly around him, spraying the with bullets.
Spidey hugged the wall, only having to move a couple of times--the big
jutting brownstone windowsill him somewhat.  Then he heard the sound he
wanted to not so much a click, but a sort of mmf as the Kalashnikov out
of things to fire.

He jumped from the window and came right down on fourth man.  The gun
spun away.  The two of them rolled together briefly.  The gunman
struggled.  Spidey reared a fist back.  "Night night," he said, and
struck.

A couple of moments later he stood up, breathing hard and looking
around at the mess, then walked over to the truck, while hearing, in
the distance, the sound of sirens approaching.

The inside of the truck' scab was surprisingly clean.  It's either
brand new, Spidey thought, or I've come across a bunch of neat thugs.
The back of the flatbed was empty of everything but the boxes

and jewelry that the crooks had tossed into it.  But inside the cab,

on the little parcel shelf under the back window, he found a cardboard
box.  On the outside it said A&, 12 O'CLOCk On the inside were four
cell phones.

He reached in and looked at one.  Considering his current mood, Spidey
was tempted to chuck the thing across the road-but it was evidence. And
who knew what numbers might be inside it?

He carefully took the box out of the truck and put it on the hood.  Up
and down the block, as Spidey looked up at the windows, he could see a
venetian blind bend down, or a curtain twitch aside, as people looked
curiously out and decided that what they saw was nothing to do with
them.  Inside the mask, Spidey smiled gently.

The sirens got closer.  Spider-Man watched with some caution as the cop
cars came around the corner, into Twenty-fifth.  He was not universally
loved by the police.  Now two squad cars pulled up, and a third
"unmarked" car: five uniformed officers got out, and a sixth, in
shirtsleeves and dark pants and a tie thrown over his shoulder, a face
he knew.  He last saw it months ago at an NYPD safe house in the Bronx
one time when Venom was in town.

"Sergeant Drew," Spider-Man said as the cops came up.  Stephen Drew
nodded to him cordially enough, and said to one of his people, "See if
you can't shut that thing offmit's enough to wake the dead."  And for a
moment he said nothing more as he walked around the scene and looked
things over.

"Okay," he finally said to the others.  "Get the web off these guys'
hands, anyway, so we can cuff them and take them downtown.  You caught
them in the act, I take it," he said to Spider Man.

"I did.  Burglary anyway.  Maybe grand-theft auto as well."  "Could
be. Run the truck," he said over his shoulder, to of his officers. 
"Now, what have we here?"

"Four cell phones, at least.  There may be more hidden the truck---"

"Not that," Drew said.  "This."  He took out a wrapped it around one
hand, then bent over to pick up was half sticking out from one of the
parked cars nearby:

Kalashnikov machine gun.

"AK-47," said Spidey.

"Nope," said Drew, with odd relish.

Spider-Man blinked.  "Nope?  I thought I knew these pretty well."

"Wake another look at this one."  Drew held it out for to examine.
"Check the muzzle."

Spidey looked at it, shook his head.  "I'm not sure should be
seeing."

"Bigger caliber," said Drew.  l'his isn't just Russian, it's sian
military.  Andre" He turned the gun over, looked at stock for a moment,
then raised his eyebrows.  "Interesting.  doesn't even have the Russian
Army brands or reg on it."

"Is that good or bad?"

"I'd stick to 'interesting' for the moment," Drew said.  "But I doubt
this was bought on the street here--or, if it was, that it's been here
for long."

"Russian..."  Spidey said.

Drew turned the gun over again, looking at it.  cry shiny..  he said.
"Oh, Russian, yeah.  And not just in origin.  I expect or two of these
guys are Russian themselves."

Spidey nodded.  It was no news to him, or anyone else in New York, what
new influence had become something to be reckoned with in the New York
crime world.  When perestroika took hold and the old USSR fell, many
people who were not oppressed in the usual sense of the word suddenly
found themselves free to seek out the Land of the Free.  It wasn't
finding work they had in mind, though--again, not in the usual sense of
the word.  The USSR had always had an active network of criminal
organizations.  At the end of the Eighties, those organizations, as
individuals and groups, had actively begun colonizing the United
States, in force, either to exploit what they considered a profitable
new market for crime, or else to mine the U.S. for technology and new
scams, which they would then export to the growing consumer economies
in Russia and the former Eastern Bloc.

Drew took another look at the machine gun, unloaded it, cleared it, and
then peered down the barrel, squint inga little in the golden light.
"If I'm any judge of these things," he said, "this hasn't seen a whole
lot of use.  It's very new.  Must just have come in.  Possibly via Long
Island.  There have been reports of some odd movements among the
fishing fleet, last week."

"Drew," Spider-Man said, amused, "is there any gossip about shady stuff
in this town that you don't know about?"

Drew chuckled" glanced up.  "If there were, I'd hardly mention it.  I
have my rep to think of, after all.  Let's see those phones."

Spider-Man handed him the small box.  Drew had a look at them.  "Fop of
the line, these," he said.  "Expensive.  They may be from a legit
suppliermor they may have been traded as part of some money-laundering
scheme.  Either way, they'll have been cloning existing numbers into
these.  That way these guys can keep in touch with their bosses, while
they're doing their dirty little jobs, and no one can trace them.  They
just ditch the phones when they're done, and steal new ones."

"It's a subject," Spidey said, "which has been interesting lately."

"You onto something?"  said Drew, catching the intensity his voice.

"I don't know yet," Spider-Man said.  "I don't really kn which
questions to ask."

"Wellm" Drew looked briefly embarrassed.  "You did me mighty favor,
once upon a time.  Vance Hawkins wouldn't alive if it weren't for you.
Anybody does my partner that kind favor, I tend to remember it.
Look--':

The sound of more sirens was beginning to echo in background.  "I've
got to clean this scene up and get these out of here," Drew said.  "And
the town is hopping least the West Side is.  Got lot of stuff that' s
to going keep busy.  But if you'll give me a day, and then call me
here--"

reached into his pocket, pulled out his business card.  "If,

got some questions about 'cell crime," I've got somebody might be able
to give you some info that'd be useful to

Would that suit?"

"It'd suit very well.  Thanks, Drew."

"Hey, listen," Sergeant Drew said, as yet another squad car pulled up,
"like I said, favors are no good if you don't pass 'em back.  And now I
suggest you make yourself scarce.  I'll talk to you later in the
week."

"Right," Spidey said.

"Get outta here, bug," Drew growled, more (Spidey guessed) for the
benefit of his men than anything else.

In a much better humor than he had been, Spider-Man went straight up
the wall and headed for Twenty-sixth Street, and taller buildings that
would let him web quickly home.

Peter got up early the next morning, and spent a happy couple of hours
in the darkroom, developing the pictures from the previous night.  He
had been experimenting with a new low-light 1200 ASA film, which got
surprisingly good results under sodium-vapor lamps---even though, if
you were too close to the light source, the shots tended to get a bit
washed out.  Luckily, these weren't washed out at all: the contrast was
crisp and the color good, though flushed with the inevitable golden
tint of sodium lighting.

There was the front of the jewelry store, there were the spilled jewels
on the floor and the sidewalk, and there were the bad guys, also on the
floor though a lot less pretty to look at, webbed into tidy or untidy
packages as speed of capture had dictated.  It was all very
picturesque, and Peter went to his meeting with city editor Kathryn
Cushing with a high heart.

Kate went through the prints one after another, picked one--a
glittering strew of gemstones and jewelry catching the light, and for
contrast, the dull, oiled-metal gleam of the machine gun lying
alongside--and looked at it thoughtfully.

"Are these guys anybody in particular?"  she asked Peter.  'q'he cops
thought they may have been Russian."

"Really?"  She picked up a slick-surface pen and began making crop
marks on the paper.  "I like the color on this.  Almost sepia tone. You
do that on purpose, or is it just what the film produces under street
light?"

"A little of both."

"Do I hear the sound of a man protecting his secrets?  Well, never
mind.  It looks good.  That's what matters.  Russian, huh?  Mel Ahrens
would like this..."  She pushed the picture away and leaned back in her
office chair, steepling her fingers and staring at them for a moment.
"Never mind that right now.  You

did a super job on the Miami end of things, Peter.  A difficult
signment, but very good results.  I wasn't entirely sure you it in
you."  She grinned.  "I don't mind admitting to being So now I want to
start putting you on more high-profile and I think I have just the
thing."  She started rumm around in her file drawer.

Peter had long since learned that the safest to this kind of rather
mixed compliment was to smile and nothing.  But something was niggling
at the back of his mi "Forgive me for being nosy," he said, "but wh be
interested in these?"

"Huh?"  Kate looked up from the drawer for a moment.  He's been working
on a series of stories on the Russian tration of the New York crime
scene.  Well, that's not quite He's been working on a book, and the
paper's been extracts.  Very interesting stuff-maybe a little too
interestir She went back to rummaging in her drawer.  "Now where put
that Belgian stuff?.  Now listen, Peter.  Vreni Byrne very highly of
you in terms of--"

"Sorry," Peter said, "Wait a minute.  This is the guy that mobsters
keep trying to kill?"

Kate looked up, nodded.  "The names change from week week, but yes.
Mel's been lucky so far, and he's such an alert that I could see why
anyone who wanted him dead would to move pretty fast."

"Does he need a photographer?"

She paused a moment then, and blinked.  "Now that you mention it, over
the past few weeks he has dropped some hints that he might need a
photog to work with him occasionally.  You were busy then, so I tried a
couple of other people on him.  It didn't take.  He can be a hard man
to get along with."  Kate gave him a cockeyed look.  "Are you saying
you want to try?  Wouldn't

you rather go to Belgium and the South of France for a couple of
weeks?  I was thinking of sending you along with the stringer who's
going to the European Film Festival in Brussels."

"Uhhh..."  Peter stared at her.  Then he said, "Kate, I really like the
sound of this."

"Of what?  Being shot at by men with heavy accents?"

"Not that, specifically.  It's just that the Russian thing has
been---interesting me for a while."  A very little while, he thought.

Kate looked at him thoughtfully.  'You haven't actually met Mel,
then."

"No.  I've heard the usual newsroom stuff, though.  Isn't he one of the
guys who made such a stink when we went over to computers?"

Kate laughed quietly.  "That was diplomatically put.  You mean; the
only guy who made even more of a stink than I did."  She gave her own
desktop terminal a sidelong look.  '%reah, that's Mel.  Well, I guess
you might as well meet him.  Be warned, though--I said he's kind of a
hard man to work with.  That's not just where his partners or
assistants are concerned.  He's got this tendency to jump in with both
feet where--"

"Where angels fear to tread?"  Peter suggested.

"I was going to say, where walking softly would produce a better
effect.  Like not letting certain people know you're there at all.  If
this assignment works, then remember that he'll take you with him when
he jumps.  That could lead to trouble."

"I think I can cope."

"Good.  Come on; I'll perform the introductions."

Kate led Peter out to the City Room, right into the interdenominational
desert of desks called, appropriately enough, No Man's Land.  Most of
these desks were for temporary use by journalists on short-term
assignments, or by staffers in transition between one section of the
paper and another.  Robbie Robert son, the editor in chief, often
referred to them as the Dutchmen."

Kate and Peter made their way across to one desk in ular.  There was a
computer on it, and a great drift of and--set pointedly in front of the
computer mot hunchbacked bulk of a splendid old 1940s-period Smith
commercial typewriter.  Black, with gold lettering and gold lining
along what Peter could only think of as its work, the typewriter
gleamed with that deep patina that only have come from much polishing
throughout its life.

Vow," he said admiringly.  'fust look at this thing.  It "He's gonna
like you," Kate said with a certain air resignation.  "But then, he
likes anybody who doesn't call it:l piece of outdated junk."

"This isn't junk.  It's an antique.  No, it's more than antique
it's--"

"It's a work of art," said a sharp voice from behind them.  Peter
turned.  From the stories he had heard about Ahrens, and from the look
of the desk, he had been an older man.  But the guy with the shock of
blond hair who advancing on him, one hand already extended to couldn't
have been more than in his late twenties.

"Mel," Katherine said, "this is Peter Parker.  He's the tographer I
mentioned to you a couple of weeks ago."

"So you're the one who keeps pulling in those action of Spider-Man,"
said Ahrens.  "Good.  Very good.  Not like those other losers."  He
shot Kate a look.  "Here, pull up a chair."

As they appropriated the chairs from a nearby empty desk, Peter looked
around him at the other temporary desks.  have they stuck you over
here?"  he asked.  "I mean, you've been working with the paper for a
while now."

here, the feeling of uncertainty.  God knows, it's everywhere else in
my work.  At least this office gives me a background I'm fascinThey
did.

"That's a beautiful typewriter," said Peter.

"It's a noble instrument," said Ahrens, favoring Kate with another
dirty look, "and if there were any justice in an unjust world, I'd be
able to submit my stories typed on good heavy paper stock rather than
using that travesty."  He waved an accusing, dismissive hand toward the
terminal that squatted dark and silent at the corner of his desk.

"Why don't you at least leave it running?"  Kate said.  "We've got
perfectly good screen savers in the system."

"I have no desire to sit here and be irradiated by the thing," said
Ahrens, 'just for what someone else perceives to be my convenience.
Which it's not, particularly, but never mind.  I don't want to get into
that all over again."

He turned to Peter and, as he did so, gave the gleaming black bulk of
the typewriter an affectionate pat.  "I typed the first story I ever
sold on this machine," he said.  "It was my dad's.  And it will have to
be pried from my cold, dead fingers before I give it up."

Peter smiled inwardly.  If this was the notorious Ahrens eccentricity,
at least it seemed amiable enough, and the other things he had heard
about the man suggested that Mel could be granted the right to a little
bit of eccentric behavior.  He had heard a lot of people around the
Bugle refer to Ahrens as an oldfashioned newshound in a young body.
Very sharp, they said; a good writer who never missed a deadline, a man
with an eye for detail in both story and pictures, and a real gift for
helping his photographer to find just the right picture for a given
story.

"Has Kathryn told you what I'm working on?"  he asked Pel "In
general."

"I just brought him over so you could fill him in," said 'you mentioned
something about a photo opportunity up."

Ahrens laughed.  'Yeah, and I just bet the people in it think that as
well.  It's the night after next."

Kate raised one eyebrow.  "So soon?  Then I presume already put all
your affairs in order."

"If you mean, am I leaving you my porcelain collection the answer is
no.  You're greedy, you know that?"

"Where Meissen is concerned, I've known it for a long said Kate,
standing up.  "I'll leave you to your briefing."  nodded to Peter, then
headed back to the elevator.

The two of them sat back in their chairs and looked at other.  Peter
was very aware that Ahrens was studying him, ing him up, almost filing
him away in a mental card file.  smiled thinly and returned the favor
with a long, hard stare.

Mel Ahrens nodded at last, after a few seconds of scrutiny that had
seemed more like minutes.  "I saw the

Space Center pictures," he said.  "Those were pretty impressive. 
You've got something of a head for heights."

Peter grinned.  "A little.  They've never really bothered me."  "Well,
it's the depths we're heading for this time," Ahrens, reaching into his
desk drawer and coming up with a

Tootsie Roll.  "Want one?"

"No, thanks."

Ahrens chuckled and unwrapped the candy slowly, then swung his feet up
onto the desk, narrowly missing Peter as he did so.  "The Russians," he
said.  "This is going to sound funny, but they really have a gift for
organized crime.  And they're independent.  The American version of the
Mafia has always had

associations, however distant, with the old Cosa Nostra from Sicily
and Southern Italy.  Tradition and old habits, maybe.  But the
Russians, no.  When the reforms began, when glasnost and perestroika
set in for real and the Wall came down, they realized that the West was
the place to be.

"Whole families have been relocating in the U.S. for some years now,
including crime families.  One of the favorite cover stories," he
chuckled a little ruefully, "was religious persecution.  A very
sensitive subject, that, and a very powerful argument.  It would be a
very determined U.S. administration that would refuse.  A lot of them
claimed to be Jews, and some of them even are--but nothing like as many
carrying papers that say so.  That way they were able to gain direct
asylum in the States, or favored immigration status through Israel.  Or
Germany.  The Germans had very liberal asylum laws."

"And again," said Peter, "that claim of religious persecution was one
that Germany would be reluctant to ignore."

"Exactly," said Ahrens.  "But either way, the big gangs severed their
ties with the Mother Country and started moving here.  Needless to
say," he coughed, delicately, "certain, ah, concerns already well
entrenched here didn't take too kindly to the intrusion.  You get the
occasional turf war.  Well, more than occasional.  That sort of free
and frank exchange of views has been getting very active lately.  Last
night, apparently."

"These pictures," said Peter, pulling another sheaf of prints from
their envelope and handing them over.

'es, indeed," said Ahrens with great satisfaction.  He studied each
picture in turn, then looked intently at the close-up of the assault
rifle.  '"Well, well.  This is a Kalashnikov AK-74.  You can tell by
the shape of the muzzle brake.  Among other things."

"The policeman I spoke to at the scene said that this was an army-issue
weapon."

"A current army-issue weapon," Ahrens corrected.

body who thinks they know about military weapons in the of criminals
goes on at length about the AK-47."  Peter smile.  Ahrens might well
have said just that to Spider-Man night.  "After all, the old regime
handed them out to states and, ah, freedom fighters, rather like a
jolly uncle with box of candies.

"However," Ahrens tapped the photo, "this is another ter.  It's front
line equipment, and something the Soviets did was to give away or
export anything they were still themselves.  Tanks were stripped to the
basics, aircraft had ferior weapons and radar, that sort of thing. They
called 'monkey models."

The AK-74'rifle isn't quite state of the art, of least, not so far as
the West is concerned.  Guns & wouldn't be terribly excited about it.
No caseless no flechette projectiles, not even an impressive rate of
fire.  does its job quite adequately, however, and that's all the
military ever worried about.  Funny thing, though--"

"No issue numbers."

"Exactly.  This was never in service.  It came straight from factory
into the hands of whoever was using it last night--and notice they
weren't wearing Russian uniform.  Like manufacturer in the former
Soviet Union, the armaments dustry is desperate for hard currency now
that its major tomer has almost stopped buying.  My guess is that this
gun, the rest of whatever consignment it came from, was acquired
barter.  That method avoids leavinga trail, either paper or ironic."

'What about the end-user certificate scam?"  asked Peter.  "A legal
arms sale to a second party, who's already arranged to pass the goods
on down the line to a third.  After all, counterfeit end-user
certificates are supposed to be the third most popular forgery on the
planet, after money and passports."  Ahrens raised his eyebrows, and
Peter shrugged innocently.  "Hey, I'm a photojournalist," he said, then
grinned broadly.  "And I've been reading Frederick Forsyth for
years."

Ahrens's own smile was a good deal thinner.  He nodded, just once, and
continued to leaf through the photographs.

"Anyway," Peter continued more soberly, "I've been hearing about a lot
of Russian activity over the past few months.  That GCRC thing."

'%'es.  A nasty business.  The whole affair was a bucket of dirty water
so deep that I don't think the authorities have reached the bottom yet.
There were more scares and scandals being run out of that place
than--well, never mind.  And I have a feeling that what wasn't
discovered in time has already been hived off to other holding
companies."

"They would have to be, I guess.  The parent organization was supposed
to be shut down.  There's going to be some huge audit of it."

"The only way to audit a company like that is with a battering ram at
three in the morning," said Ahrens firmly.  "Anything that needed to be
shredded has been confetti for a long time now.  The government, the
authorities, even the IRS, are never going to find all the evidence
they need.  It's hopeless.  A waste of time and resources.  You can't
give people like CCRC time to cover their tracks.  And they're just one
aspect of what's been going on."

"So?  What else?"

Mel took a moment to munch on another Tootsie Roll.  "The mobs in New
York," he said, "Coney Island and Brooklyn, have really stepped up
their activities in the past few months.  By SOmething over a hundred
percent, according to one of my

better-informed sources."  Peter whistled through his tee1 "They've
been getting into new rackets.  Oriental, some Franchised from the
Triads, for all I know.  But it all evem turns into money laundering,
and there's been a lot done.  Massive amounts.  Do you know where the
biggest of U.S. bank notes is, outside of the continental United

Peter shook his head.  "Russia.  It's partly because they trust our
currency than they trust their own.  The government there still isn't,
pletely stable, at least not enough to be relied on when dealing with
sums of money the size of small national They tried to cut in on money
laundering at a national level few years ago by just abruptly
withdrawing all the currency issuinga new print--but it didn't work,
because nearly all laundering was already in dollars rather than rubles
"Laundering how, specifically?"

"Mr.  Forsyth hasn't gotten into this yet, eh?"  said with a little
flicker of dry amusement.  "All right, here's laundry works.  First
thing is to conceal who really owns money, and where it came from.
There's no point in ingat all if the origin is still known at the end
of the Next, you've got to change its shape, preferably by" the value
of each bill.  If you're starting out with ten million lars in
twenties, you don't want to finish up with the same

"Even if all the bills now have different serial numbers?"  "Not good
enough.  You want no leads.  Also, think logistics.  If you change to
higher-denomination bank notes, your ten rail at once becomes a much
smaller package.  That's why the Treasury took the thousand-dollar bill
out of circulation--"

"I never saw enough of them to notice," said Peter sourly, but Ahrens
didn't even notice the interruption.

"--so that now it takes ten times as much paper, ten times

as much bulk, to shift the same amount of cash from one place to
another.  It makes a transfer less convenient and more noticeable.
Useful for surveillance.

"So."  Ahrens held up one hand and started counting points off on his
fingers.  'You want the origin of the money hidden, and you want the
size of the bundle to shrink without reducing its value.  Then the
actual laundry trail itself has to be hidden.  Why go to all that
trouble if each step can be followed backwards?"

"I see your point."  Peter was beginning to understand why there had
been attempts on Ahrens's life.  He was hear inga lecture on theory,
but that theory was based on practical knowledge.  The quickest way to
get rid of what someone knew had always been to get rid of the
someone.

"But the last and I suppose the most important thing is that you, or
people you can trust implicitly, have to retain control of the money at
every step of the laundering process.  If the whole purpose of what
you're doing is to make sure that nobody can prove this money was yours
in the first place, then if it's stolen, you're in trouble.  If it's
dirty money, you can't exactly go to the police, and even if it's clean
money, the tax folks are going to take an unhealthy interest in why you
were laundering it in the first place.

"Let's try the double-invoice method.  One end of the laundry is, let's
say, a grocery store.  The other is a wholesaler who sells stuff to the
grocery store.  And you're both friendly.  The same nationality, the
same Family, whatever."  He pronounced the capital letter without
difficulty.  "One day you order fifty barrels of borscht from your
wholesaler."

"Does borscht come in barrels?"

"Who knows?  I'm not a beet fan.  Anyway, it might look like your
wholesaler isn't a fan, either, because he only sends you

forty barrels--but then the person 'doing the laundry' you cash to
make up the shortfall.  That money, dirty for ever reason, gets into
the system disguised as clean.  It looks to the bookkeepers, fine to
the tax people, and pretty soon that's doing well, you open another
grocery store and start de ring more borscht.  The more legal outlets
you have, the tighter it gets.

'vVell," Ahrens leaned back in his chair and looked at Pet "Brooklyn
and the Bronx, parts of Staten Island and Nasaw County, are all awash
in that sort of legal outlet, all busily voicing for less than they've
delivered, and like it's going out of style.  But that's just one of
the things Russian mobs are getting involved with.  They do the usual
ganized crime stuff: protection, numbers, gambling, all

But in the past few months, for some reason the volume money laundering
has skyrocketed.  At least, so my sources me, and I've no reason to
doubt the accuracy of their information.  But nobody knows whymor if
they do know, they're telling."

Ahrens reached into the drawer again for more To, Rolls.  "Sure you
don't want one?  Fine.  Anyway, something has been happening.  A lot of
the big bosses made very comfortable in New York.  They bought
themselves apartments, they brought their families over, they into the
city.  Like it or not, Russian organized crime was coming just one more
community--very clubby.  But now all a sudden several of them are
getting ready to leave town.  of them bought himself a little private
island down in the mans.  Another bought some place in the Bahamas that
Stark didn't need anymore.  A third now owns a chunk in the British
Virgin Islands, and he's having it covered with beautiful--and heavily
fortifiedmholiday mansion."

"Why all this sudden interest in the Caribbean?"  said Peter.  "More
money laundering?  I remember hearing that the Cayman Islands are
almost as good as Switzerland for private banking."

"Could be," said Ahrens.  "Certainly the BVI is a tax haven, and the
status of several other islands is still under negotiation.  They might
be owned by the Dutch, or they might be owned by the French, or they
might be completely independent--or they might be open for sale to the
right buyer.  One with enough money.  But the coincidence struck me as
odd.  It can't just be conspicuous consumption for its own sake. That's
not these people's style, or they'd have been doing it a long time
ago."

"Are they afraid that things might be getting too legally hot for them
in the States?"

"I don't think so.  They've been flouting various tax laws here, almost
like they're testing to see how far they can push.  And so far, they've
been getting away with it thanks to expert legal help.  Locally
sourced, of course.  As for the money laundering, their trails have
been professionally concealed.  So far there's no evidence stronger
than suspicion."

Ahrens shifted his legs, touched the gleaming typewriter slightly with
the edge of one shoe, and leaned forward at once to polish away a mark
Peter couldn't even see.

"Something is going on.  I don't know what it is, and that's what's
making me crazy.  Call it just basic nosiness, but there's a connection
somewhere, and I can't find out what."

That would drive him crazy, thought Peter.  And as for this man being
just "basically nosy," then water was just "basically wet."  "Even if
trying to find out might get you killed?"  he said.

"I don't think it'll do that.  I've got a fairly good rapport with Some
of these people, and enough college Russian to get though they seem to
prefer practicing English on me.  It's the Usual thing."  Ahrens
chuckled dryly.  "Whey want to become experts in the local language,
since it'll make exploiting so much easier.  And as for the others, the
real hard men, been able to stay out of their way."

Peter looked thoughtfully at the casual jacket Ahrens wearing.  The cut
was loose enough that a fairly big could be concealed beneath it.
Ahrens caught the look nodded.

"Zes," he said.  "Heckler and Koch VP-70Z, if you're ested.  The
civilian version, not the full-auto.  With a concealed-carry permit, of
course.  I've done the police merit a few good turns in the
past--strictly on the Q they've been more than happy to return the
favor.  But that'" the point at the moment.  Would you be willing to
work with on this for the next couple or few weeks?  As I said, things
heating up for some reason, and I--we--need to know can't call it any
more than a gut feeling, but that feeling me that something profoundly
threatening to this entire city i getting ready to happen.  If there's
something I can find then maybe it won't come as a complete
surprise."

"Maybe it can even be stopped dead," said Peter.

"Maybe."  Then Ahrens grinned at him.  "But like I said fore, I'm just
nosy.  I want to know what these people

Peter smiled back.  That kind of nosiness he was mi liar with.  It was
probably what prompted his next q

"How good a shot are you?"

"I'm okay.  I shoot twice a week at the range, and I can ally hit what
I'm aiming at  The rest of the time, I try not to about it.  The whole
point of a Veep-70 is that it's got lots of bullets; that helps keep
heads down while you vacate the premises.  But don't forget that among
these people, guns are a badge of rank as much as a weapon.  So I wear
the badge.  Without it, you might not even get past the front door of
some places.  That's

not to say they aren't something to be used.  At least it doesn't
happen as often as with--other import organizations."

"That sounds good enough for me," Peter said.  "When do you think
you'll need me?"

'q'omorrow night.  I've got an interview under slightly unusual
circumstances.  One of the local, I guess mafiosi is the best word for
them--"

"Or mafioski, maybe?"

"Very nice," said Ahrens, grinningagain as he scribbled the word onto a
pad.  "I like it.  Anyway, this character seems to have an ax to grind
regarding some of the competition.  If I'm reading him properly, he
might be willing to shed some light on the sudden increase in local
'business'; and what's going on with these kingpins who've suddenly all
decided to go ex-pat together.  So far as I can make out, they're all
rivals rather than allies; in a couple of cases it goes as far as
hatred.  So it's not a linkup or a business deal.  That could be done
as easily onsite.  Something else is going on."

"And you think this could have links to CCRC as well?"

"It might.  I'm putting out feelers in that direction, but it'll take a
couple of weeks before I get any feedback."

"Okay.  But in the meanwhile, you've got a photographer."  He stood up.
"Thanks for the background detail."

"The free lecture, you mean," said Ahrens, also rising.  "I charge for
the college-level one."  He put out his hand again, and they shook.
"Where shall we meet?"

"Here's good enough."

"Five o'clock Thursday, then."

"Five it is."

Peter flicked one hand to his brow in a casual hail-and farewell and
turned away.  As he did, the phone rang, and an expression of loathing
crossed Ahrens's face as various of its lights

began to flash.  "This thing has too many buttons," he said bing one
at random as he picked up the handset.  "Hello?"  was no reply from the
evidently wrong line, so there was a sequence of more buttons being
punched and a irritable repetition of "Hello's before he finally got it
right.

Peter walked away, smiling at the performance.  Then smile went a
little sour.  If that display of techno phobia was thing to go by, then
Ahrens would never have a cell a four-thousand-dollar bill generated by
someone else.

He shot a final glance over his shoulder as he made for stairwell
rather than the elevator.  Ahrens had reluctantly his beloved
Smith-Corona aside and switched on his monitor, but as the screen came
up he could see a saver program that' plainly one of Ahrens's own
devising.  The words crawled across the screen, black on white, as
close to type on paper the phosphors could create.

I Will Be Obsolete Some Day.

Peter went downstairs.  "CCRC," he muttered to

That corporation had been involved in so much recently he half expected
to find them under every stone.  stored toxic waste in New York City.
Then they had it covertly both cross-country and overseas for illegal
cessing, theft and money laundering of their owning It was a big,
tangled web, and now here was another of it, while he remained the same
small spider in the mi trying to make sense of the weave, trying to
unravel it, and the same time doing his best not to be strangled by it
in process.

He almost wished he could get in touch with Venom, to him some very
pointed questions about his own research CCRC.  That research had
brought Venom clear across the,

try, from--Peter assumed--somewhere near San Francisco straight to the
center of the CCRC-financed and managed smuggling operation in the
Florida Everglades.  Toxic waste again, for reprocessing.

But even if he knew where Venom had gone after suddenly removing
himself from the scene in Florida, Peter couldn't reo ally bring
himself to make the first move.  After all, Venom and spider-Man still
had some unfinished business.

Spider-Man was still alive.

No, he told himself.  Even if you knew his phone number, calling for
advice would not be a good idea.  And anyway, you might be finding out
a few things all by yourself in the next few days.  Wait and see.

Peter headed home.

bout 9:30 the next morning, Peter was sitting at the kitchen table
with the phone more or less glued to his ear.  That ear was beginning
to hurt, less from the pressure of the phone than from the sound of a
slightly deranged computer at the other end playing "Flir Elise" in a
horrible electronic harpsichord-tinkle.  And playing it, moreover, for
the eighteenth time.

A voice said, "Are you holding for someone?"

Peter looked at the sketch pad on the table in front of him.  It was
covered with curly lines and little arrows, scrawled in a helpless sort
of way while listening to the hold music ritually slaughtering Ludwig
van Beethoven.  In amongst the squiggles were several names, each one
crossed out by increasingly heavy layers of scribble.  "I'm waiting
for, uh, Mr.  Jaeger."

"He's on another line.  Will you hold?"

The temptation to shriek, Do I have a choice, since it took me the best
part o fan hour to get past your voice mail system was very strong, but
he restrained himself with a massive effort.  "Yes, I'll hold.  Thank
you."  The hold music, as remorseless as a Chinese water torture,
started playing "Flir Elise" again.

Peter tuned out its tinkly mutilation of melodymhe'd had plenty of
practice so far this morning--and stared out of the window, into the
bright day and the smog.  A butterfly went by.  It was a big monarch,
and it wasn't moving with the usual aimless flutter.  This particular
butterfly not only had places to go and people, or at least other
butterflies, to see, it was flying with the sort of purpose that
suggested a flight plan logged with La Guardia Control.

Peter desperately wished he could be out there with it stead of
trapped in the Seventh Circle of Hold Hell.  I this on myself, he
thought.  Earlier that morning, when MJ gotten up still thoroughly
depressed about the phone bill, had foolishly offered to give them a
call.

She had looked at him wistfully, then after a moment.

"I guess it couldn't hurt, really.  The world isn't entirely ated yet.
Maybe the sound of a guy's voice .... "

"All right," he had said.  'You go and get your hands re: for work, and
I'll give them a try."

With a sunny dawn ahead, and a satisfying night behind in which he had
not only pounded some bad guys, but also gained a lead that might help
with the phone bill, seemed no harm in trying.  After all, if it could
be resolved way, then he wouldn't have to bother Sergeant Drew's And so
he had innocently called Cell Tech and asked to s to someone in
customer service.

Or rather, he had tried to ask.  Cell Tech prided itself on sound
quality of its system, and several times Peter had talking to what he
had thought was a genuine human being.  only to find that the voice was
human only at one remove: recorded voice linked to a voice mail
computer possessed the literalness of the species.

question about routine billing, please press one.  If you are
interested in new services, please press two.  For all other inquiries:
please press three."

He had pressed three and had continued to press three early and often,
as each time the system made a polite electronic hiccup and said,
"Please enter your account number, followed by the number sign."

When he did so, there had been another hiccup.  "Please spell your
name using the alphabet keys on your phone and ending with the number
sign.  Please enter your last name first.  For Q or Z, please use the
number one."

If they already have my account number, why do they need my name as
well?  Peter had wondered as he started tapping at the keys.  And that
was when the problems began.  The phone's keypad was quite small, and
his fingers were quite large, and every time he hit the wrong key that
dulcet voice would say, "I'm sorry, the name you have entered does not
match any in our records.  Please try again."

By the fourth or fifth time, he simply wanted to punch the voice in
whatever passed for its face.  So he hung up, took a few deep breaths,
then dialed again and this time tried for a routine billing inquiry.

"If you want to verify your account balance, please press one.  If you
wish to add another user to your account, please press two.  If you
want..."  It then went on at some length, detail inga number of options
which he most definitely did not want, then finally said, "For all
other account inquiries, please press six."

Peter had mashed his index finger down on six with all the pent-up fury
of an exasperated world leader starting World War III.  The phone
hiccuped, and the voice told him what he should have been expecting all
along.

"I'm sorry, all our accounts personnel are busy.  Your call will be
answered by the next available operator.  Please hold."  And that was
when they began playing "Flir Elise" at him again.

The first real person he had spoken to had sounded seriously hungover,
and a veneer of businesslike briskness hadn't done much to conceal that
fact.  "CellTechCustomerServicesBrian here-how-may-I-help-you?"  was
all run together like the he;

warning at the end of a pharmaceutical commercial and tered a growl.

in hoarse

"I have a question about a very large bill," Peter began.  There was a
pause at the other end that suggested clearly than any words that the
very large bill was Peter's problem, and nobody else's.  "our account
number, please?"

Peter rattled off the number, deciding that he [ speaking it to typing
it out on the keypad.

Another pause.  "I'm sorry, but I'm not authorized to you any
information on that account."

'"6that?  Oh, because it's in a girl's name and I'm a That's all right.
I'm her husband.  Peter Parker.  She's Watson-Parker."

"I'm sorry, but I'm not authorized to give you any information on that
account."  The repetition was so exact that for a ond Peter thought he
was back with the voice mail system

This guy, he had thought, has been spending too much around his firm's
computers.  "Ms.  Watson-Parker will have call us herself and ask for
an authorization number.  If she,

that to you and you give it to us, then we can give you the count
information you require."

Peter raised his eyebrows a little, but the intention the request was
honest enough: protecting the customer.

will do.  Thanks."

He called MJ on her cell phone, and the first sound he heard was a
yawn.  At that point it was only about 8:30, and what with fretting
about the bill, MJ hadn't slept well.

"Hello?"

"Hi, hon, it's me.  Listen, the Cell Tech people won't talk to me until
you talk to them and tell them that it's all right for them to talk to
me."

"Uh, yeah.  I got that.  I think.  A pity they wouldn't let anyone
else use my phone number without asking me if it was all right."

"I know.  Look, can you call them?  Otherwise I'm not going to be able
to get anywhere with them."  He read her the number quickly.  'Just
beware of the demon voice mail  Hit one for routine billing, then go
for other options; that's, uh, six."  "Okay, Tiger.  I'm on it."

About ten minutes later the phone rang again, and he picked it up.
"Wow," said MJ's voice, "bureaucracy is not dead, is it?"

"Teah, I get that sense.  But did they give you a number?" 
"Eventually. Here, write it down."  She rattled off a number that had
no obvious connection to the account number.  "Got that?"

'eah."  He read it back, twice, to be sure.  "Great.  See what you can
do with them."  "And how are you doing?"  "Oh, fine."

"Still doing the suds?"

'"geah."  There was a snicker at the other end of the line.  "Petey, I
am never going to use this stuff."

"Why?  Do they give you tons of freebies after the commercial?  Does it
bother you?"

"Nomand if they did give me any, I'd chuck it out.  They've put a sort
of tea-rose scent in it, and, well..."  She chuckled again, very
softly, and the sound of her voice on the phone changed slightly as if
she had cupped her hand around her mouth to muffle what she was about
to say.  "Remember the roach powder we had to get one time?  It's
exactly like that..."

Peter made a face.  It had taken weeks to get the smell of the stuff
out of the kitchen; the stalest, most over sweet rose perfume

that anyone could ever have conceived.  It had smelled, pink.  "As bad
as that, huh?"

"Worse.  This is their new 'flower-fresh'

smothered a nasty laugh--"and if this is what they thinkers smell like
Anyway, look, they're about to start.  I'll you back.  Bye."

"Bye."

Peter dialed again, fought his way through the gauntlet the voice mail
system to where the live people had been and waited until finally a
familiar, still-hungover voice
"CellTechCustomerServicesBrianherehowmayIhel

"Hi, this is Peter Parker.  I spoke to you a few minutes about getting
an authorization code so that I can discuss wife's account.  I have
that number now."

"Thank you, sir.  What is it, please?"  Peter read it out, waited
through the inevitable pause.

"I'm sorry, sir; that number isn't showing on our system."  All the
phone calls my wife didn't make are sure as hell showing your system,
Peter wanted to say, but he didn't.  "Maybe cause she just got the
numoer, he suggested.  "The information number, I mean."

"That wouldn't normally be the case, sir--uh-oh."  This the pause was
far longer than usual.

"Uh-oh?"  Peter echoed mildly.  That was not a noise he hearing from
anybody who was so plainly dominated by the technology surrounding
him.

"I'm sorry, sir.  The system's gone down.  Can I get you to call us
back in, say, ten or fifteen minutes.

"Certainly," said Peter and hung up as gently as he could.  That
exchange set the tone for the next hour.  He called back three times to
find the system still down.  The fourth time, it was refreshing itself
and wouldn't be back online for another ten

minutes.  That response was the first sensible thing he had heard all
morning.  Refreshment.

Peter got up and made himself a cup of coffee, very strong,

with a lot of sugar.  Then he sat at the table again, and stared at the
phone, and drank his coffee very slowly, thinking that maybe Mel
Ahrens's attitude to modern technology wasn't quite so eccentric after
all.  He also couldn't help hoping, at least a little, for some kind of
emergency to crop up that required Spider.

Man's presence.  Web-swinging--not to mention hitting something very
hard--carried a certain amount of appeal just now.

Gamely, he dialed again, battled his way through the voice mail, and
this time, to his relief, failed to find
Hello-thisisBriannursinghis-hangover.
"CellTechCustomerServicesthisisAlanhowmayI-help you  Well, this one
sounded bright and eager to please.  It made a pleasant change.  He
greeted this-is-Alan courteously enough, gave him the authorization
code, and this time not only was it in the computer, but the computer
stayed up and running.  "So, how can I help you, Mr.  Parker?"

"I'm trying to work out what can be done about this particular phone
bill .... "

Slowly and patiently, Peter told the whole story, while Alan listened
and made encouraging noises.  But finally he said, "I'm sorry, there's
not a great deal I can do to help you.  Under the present regulations,
your wife remains responsible for the calls,

and when the bill comes due, she's going to have to pay it."  "That's
going to be a real problem."

"I understand it's going to be a problem for you, Mr.  Parker.  But
please bear in mind, this kind of thing is a problem for us as well. We
still have to pay the government a tariff on every minute of
telecommunications used by our service on the frequencies which they
lease to us, and this year already Cell Tech

has paid over two million dollars to cover what have be, ulent calls.
We have to recoup those funds somehow, and afraid that until the
regulatory structure changes, it has to co from our clients."

"But isn't there anything that can be done to establish wh the calls
came from, or who did this, or even just to prove they weren't made by
my wife or with her permission?"

They went back and forth over it, and Alan was un, standing, very
understanding indeed.  Professionally so, thought.  But it always came
back to the same response: was nothing that could be done.  Finally he
fell silent, and in t silence thought he sensed Alan twitch just a
little bit.

"Mr.  Parker," he said, "I'm sorry for your trouble.  I am."  There was
another silence.  "I can do this.  I can add--we' call it an adjustment
period--two weeks onto the due date your bill.  That way you won't have
to pay until August fifte Would that help you a little?"

"It's certainly better than nothing," Peter said.  "And it even give us
a chance to establish where those calls from."

"If you can get the police to help with that, it would be best bet,"
said Alan.  "I'm sorry I can't be more helpful, that's about all I can
do."

"Listen, I guess it's as much as we could have hoped for.  you have an
ID number or something, so that we can call back?"

"No, sir.  Just ask for Alan.  Alan Soames."

"Thanks again for your help, Alan.  I really appreciate it."

"Anytime, Mr.  Parker.  Thank you for calling Goodbye."

Peter hung up, feeling both disgusted and at the same

guilty about his disgust.  The guy had really been trying to help, and
had sounded genuinely sorry that he hadn't been able to do more.  Now
he was left with the same problem as before, except that the date of
execution had been postponed a little.

If we still have to pay this, he thought, then there goes our safety
net.

But if those extra couple of weeks gave either him or MJ or both of
them the chance to make some extra money, then it might not be so bad.
He stared at the coffee cup, still a quarter full of now-cold, sweet
coffee, then got up, went to the sink and emptied it out, then poured
himself another cupful and over sugared that, too.

No solution for this problem, not yet.  But boy, if l ever catch the
guy who cloned MJ's phone .... He shook his head at himself, and sat
down.  Murder was of course out of the question, but when the guy or
guys were turned in, and if Spider-Man was responsible for their
capture, then he intended to make sure they got a little wasted first.
For MJ's sake, as well as for his own.

The sound of keys in the lock brought his head up suddenly.  At least,
it sounded like keys.  Was someone trying to pick the lock?  The first
deadbolt was thrown, then the second; and the chance of anyone doing
that with a lock pick was pretty minuscule.

The door opened and MJ stalked in.  She looked around, saw him sitting
at the table, and threw him an expression of such

, 2

fury and sadness and upset that he stood up and went straight to her.

"M!

, what's the matter?"

"I cut my hand," she said and waved her bandaged left hand at him as if
it were something offensive.  "I cut my hand!"  This time it was more
of a wail.

Having received his share and then some of bruises and cuts

during his career as a super hero, Peter assumed the worst.  me see.
Is it bad?  Do you have to go to the hospital?  Will it stitches.

He took her hand gently between both of his, turned it ov and eased off
the bandage.  Then he let out a long sigh ofreli There was a gash
running across the first and second knuckl but it was thin and shallow,
already dry and clotted.  He ha chi known what to expect, but at least
this was no worse than kid might pick up after a fall in the
schoolyard.

'ant me to kiss it and make it better?"  he said.

She glared at him.  "Better not.  If you start it bleedingaga5 then I
might really lose my temper."  She flumped down into chair, looking
flushed and angry beyond all reason.

"You're back early," said Peter.

MJ snorted.  "You're damn right I'm back early.  I can't w, anymore
today.  God knows if I'm going to work anymore, ever

She reached for his coffee cup and eyed the contents.  "Sugarl "A
lot."

"Good."  She took a long swig.  "We were shooting,

were fine, until about half an hour in.  Just after we talked. 
somebody tripped over a lighting tripod behind me.  You the tall ones
with the spots on top?  They fell, the tripod over, and I tried to
catch it.  I should never have done never.  Always trying to be
helpful."  She took another gulp fee.  "One of those big knurled
locking nuts had a rough on it.  It caught the back of my hand as it
went over.  So out of work."

"What?  Did they fire you just because you cut your "Well, what else
could they do?  Anyway, they didn't fire They just--let me go until
this thing heals.  But they're on schedule.  They're not going to be
able to hold the shoot for me

and no one's going to use me for anything anyway until this is better.
And what if it scars?"

Her frustration was palpable.  Peter sat down with her, and took that
hand again, and held it.  "Have you ever scarred before?  I mean, you
must have cut your hands.  Lots of people do."

"I don't, usually.  At least, I don't think so."  She looked at both
hands.  "I can't even remember the last time I got a good cut.  But it
doesn't matter.  Scar or not, it's going to be weeks before this heals
so you can't see it anymore, and at least a week before they can even
think of covering it with makeup.  Anyway, even if they could use
makeup, it would have to be waterproof because of the suds and things,
and waterproof makeup far too thick for the sort of close-up shooting
that they need Oh,

Tiger."

She put her head down on her folded hands and let out a long breath.
"So much for a thousand bucks a day."

"Aren't they even going to pay you for what you did today?"  "I don't
know.  When I left, they were still discussing whether they could use
the footage they had, or scrap it and bring in another model.  I assume
that union rules mean I'll get paid for the couple of hours' work this
morning; but I doubt I'll get the whole day's worth."  She sighed. This
is so infuriating.  Never mind.  How did you do with the phone
company?"

"Better than I expected, but nothing like as well as I had hoped.  "As
he explained, her face fell further.  "They were pretty good about it,
but I've a feeling there's only so much slack they'll cut us.  We'll
have to cope.  But I did get one scrap of information last night that
might be of use."

"Teah, last night.  I was too dozy to pay much attention when you came
in."  "And I was too tired to tell you much, so you didn't miss a

thing."  He told her briefly about his meeting with Mel Ahrens When he
got the bit about the Russian Mafia, MJ started shake her head.

"Those are not nice people," she said.

"Well, I would have thought that came as part of the job script ion

"No, I mean... There's been so much about them in news lately.  And
they're not like the Italian gangsters--they ways seem to be more
careful about involving innocent standers.  But these guys--if they
even think you're any threat at all, they'll shoot you."

'You've been watching too many movies.  They're all they're all
dangerous, and they'll all involve as they need to get the job done.
Besides, I'm not that shoot.  Some of them found that out last
night."

He told her about the Kalashnikov-toting ram raiders.  tsked at
himhthen looked slyly at him from the corner of eye.  "All that
jewelry, and you didn't bring me any."

"Now, now.  Some of the police are uncertain enough Spider-Man as it
is. All it would take would be me seen one little stone, or one pretty
necklace, and that would be

Open season on web-slingers."

"I guess so."

"Hey, you've got a girl's best friend already.  You any more diamonds
than the one you've got on your finger now."

"I don't know about that You know what they say: you never be too thin,
too rich or have too many spark lies

"I don't think I've heard that last bit before."

"Maybe not.  But all the same, I like this diamond a lot.

I like you a lot."  Then she grinned.  "But you were talking about?"

Peter tapped Sergeant Drew's card, lying on the table among the other
paperwork left over from last night.  "It seems he has somebody
coaching him where cell phone fraud is concerned.  I'm supposed to give
him a call today or tomorrow, then go talk to his technical adviser.
Whoever he is."

"Or she," MJ put in.

"Okay.  Or they.  Drew was walk inga company line; the police are
always pretty closemouthed about 'private contractors."  "

"Do you think he-she-they can help us?"

"I don't know.  But it's worth investigating, anyway.  Even just for
the sake of general information."

MJ got up and went over to the coffeepot.  "So, what's the plan?"

"I'm going out with Ahrens tonight, to cover an interview with some
disgruntled Russian crook who might spill a few cans of beans on his
ex-comrades."

She looked over her shoulder at him, the sunlight from the kitchen
window catching in her hair and setting it ablaze.  "I really don't
like this, Peter," she said.  "It's bad enough that Spider Man has to
deal with crooks and gangsters, but if you're going as Peter
Parker--"

"Spider-Man comes too.  Even if he doesn't show.  You know that.  If I
have to move fast to get out of harm's way, then I'll move first and
look for explanations afterwards.  An adrenaline rush or something like
that.  Look, Ahrens was being cautious, but I didn't get any feeling
that he was worried about his safety."

"That's fine for him," said MJ.  "But it's your safety that I'm Worried
about."

"He wasn't concerned.  Not for his life, or mine either."  MJ poured
her cup of coffee, went to the fridge for milk,

then stirred fiercely.  "So he's always right about things like is
he?"

He shrugged.  'vVell, he's still alive."

MJ came back to the table.  "Did you say that he thought Russians were
connected with this CCRC organization?"

'q'here may be a connection.  We'll know better after the : terview.
The guy Ahrens is talking to didn't want to say a front."

"It couldn't be a trap, could it?"

"I don't think so.  If they wanted to shoot him, they'd shoot him. They
wouldn't invite him to their hideout and shoot him."

"Why not?  If you wanted to keep it private..."

"No.  At least, not if you ever wanted to use that place Killing people
in it would count as fouling the nest.  He says they're trusting him
not to have a tailmwhatever means in the circumstances.  Still, he's
never let his down before, so I suppose he's got a reputation to
maintain,

MJ stirred her coffee again, then looked up.  "Did you the news this
morning after I left?"

"No.  I was either in the shower or holding in cell hell."

"Then you didn't hear about the nuclear test?"  "What nuclear test?"
"In upstate New York."  "Vghat?"

MJ nodded, looking somber.  "It seems that somebody tona ted a small
nuke in a little town upstate."

"Dear God.  Was anybody hurt?"

"No.  It seems they did it underground, in some mining cility like the
French did last year in the South Pacific.

thing."  He told her briefly about his meeting with When he got the
bit about the Russian Mafia, MJ shake her head.

"Whose are not nice people," she said.

"WTell, I would have thought that came as part of the job scripfion."

"No, I mean There's been so much about them in news lately.  And
they're not like the Italian ways seem to be more careful about
involving innocent standers.  But these guys--if they even think you're
any threat at all, they'll shoot you."

"You've been watching too many movies.  They're all they're all
dangerous, and they'll all involve as many as they need to get the job
done.  Besides, I'm not that easy ,1 shoot.  Some of them found that
out last night."

He told her about the Kalashnikov-toting ram raiders.  tsked at
him--then looked slyly at him from the corner eye.  "All that jewelry,
and you didn't bring me any."

"Now, now.  Some of the police are uncertain enough Spider-Man as it
is.  All it would take would be me seen one little stone, or one pretty
necklace, and that would be

Open season on web-slingers."

"I guess so."

"Hey, you've got a girl's best friend already.  You don't any more
diamonds than the one you've got on your now."

"I don't know about that!  You know what they say: you never be too
thin, too rich---or have too many spark lies

"I don't think I've heard that last bit before."

"Maybe not.  But all the same, I like this diamond a lot.

I like you a lot."  Then she grinned.  "But what was this other you
were talking about?"

then stirred fiercely.  "So he's always right about things like that,
is he?"

He shrugged.  "Well, he's still alive."

MJ came back to the table.  "Did you say that he thought the Russians
were connected with this CCRC organization?"

"There may be a connection.  We'll know better after the interview. 
The guy Ahrens is talking to didn't want to say a lot up front."

"It couldn't be a trap, could it?"

"I don't think so.  If they wanted to shoot him, they'd just shoot him.
They wouldn't invite him to their hideout and then shoot him."

"Why not?  If you wanted to keep it private..."

"No.  At least, not if you ever wanted to use that place again. 
Killing people in it would count as fouling the nest.  He says that
they're trusting him not to have a tailmwhatever 'trusting' means in
the circumstances.  Still, he's never let his contacts down before, so
I suppose he's got a reputation to maintain."

MJ stirred her coffee again, then looked up.  "Did you catch the news
this morning after I left?"

"No.  I was either in the shower or holding in cell phone hell."

"Then you didn't hear about the nuclear test?"  "at nuclear test?"  "In
upstate New York."  "What?"

MJ nodded, looking somber.  "It seems that somebody detonated a small
nuke in a little town upstate."

"Dear God.  Was anybody hurt?"

"No.  It seems they did it underground, in some mining facility like
the French did last year in the South Pacific.  Mururoa

Atoll, wasn't it.?  And the authorities are 'refusing to comment'

on who they think might have been responsible."

"Meaning they haven't a clue."

"Or don't want to start a panic.  Either way, the AEC won't even say
how big the 'device' was."  She made quotes in the air with her
fingers.  "But Cal-Tech said that the shock wave they detected was
equivalent to a yield of about one kiloton."

"Sheesh," muttered Peter.  "That wouldn't have anything to do with your
Russians, would it?"  said MJ.

Peter shook his head and got up to see if there was enough coffee for a
refill.  "No way to tell at the moment.  Not until the authorities are
more inclined to talk about what they've found.  And they may not do
that for a while."

He leaned against the kitchen counter, remembering what Ahrens had said
about the Russian hunger for hard currency, about how an armaments
industry that had once been supported by one of the largest armies in
the world was feeling the pinch along with everyone else--and was very
reluctant to make that final connection even in the privacy of his own
head.

"Whoever exploded the bomb," said MJ, "was not very considerate."

That struck Peter as one of the great masterpieces of understatement.
"In what specific way was a nuclear explosion, ah, inconsiderate?"

"Well, the local community had just started some new commercial venture
up there.  Mining quartz or something like that.  And now all the rock
is radioactive.  Literally too hot to handle.  And it's going to be
that way for fifty, a hundred years.  So everyone's out of a job again.
 A whole little town with a new lease on

life, destroyed just like that.  Whoever could do something that is a
bad person."

Of course, thought Peter grimly, there's destroyed and then there'
destroyed.  Whoever fired off the device could as easily have done
above ground.  But he nodded in agreement.  "There's no who it could
have been," he said.  "But at least the last we caught messing with
nukes is still locked up safe in

Hobgoblin had made a determined attempt to blow up York City, or at
least most of Manhattan, and Spidey had been lucky enough--though with
Venom's often-reluctant stop him.  But just because one super-villain
had been locked it didn't necessarily mean that there weren't others
with ec grandiose schemes, i

MJ stared at her coffee cup.  "If I drink much more of this, stuff,"
she said, "I'm going to get so wired that I won't sleep a week.  And
it's just too early for me to be home."  She held up ' the injured hand
and wiggled her fingers, looking at the cut with much milder annoyance
than when she had first come storming through the door.  "I think,
given the state of this, that I might as well just go down to a couple
of the restaurants where the 'resting' models hang out, and pick up
some gossip about other work."

Peter looked at her affectionately.  '"you are just so persistent," he
said.  "How do you do it?"

"Right now?  Probably to keep from crying."  She wiggled the finger
again.  "The last time I ever came to another human being and bawled "I
cut my finger!"  like that, I can't have been much more than six.  It's
just too funny."

"I still think I should kiss it and make it better," said Peter.  "Or
at least, kiss something and make it better.

MJ reached out and touched his cheek, smiling.  "Your kisses

"I thought it was all my other sterling qualities; my wit, my savoir
faire--"

MJjust laughed, then got up and stretched.  "I'll go down to the Baja,"
she said, "and hang out there until after lunchtime, then pick up a few
things to bring home.  I take it you don't know what time you'll be in
tonight?"

"I have no idea what sort of business hours Russian gangsters keep, but
I think you can take it that I'll be late."

"Yhe burden of the hardworking super hero's wile; or in this case, the
investigative photographer's wife."

"Something you can actually talk about, for a change."  'Well, listen,
if you're not here when I get back, and if you're not going to be back
before you go to this interview with Ahrens and his Russian friend,"
she said as she took his head between her hands, "you be careful.  Be
nice to these people.  They have weird cultural differences."

"Ours are probably pretty weird to them, but yeah, I'll be nice."

She pulled his face close and kissed him, then picked up her keys and
headed out the door.

Peter listened to the sound of her footsteps going down the hall, then
slid down into a chair and stretched his legs out in front of him.  His
mind turned back to the Consolidated Chemical Research Corporation.
CCRC, he thought, had seemed quite innocent to start with.  Just one
more merchant bank and its associated business concerns among the horde
of them in New York.  But a series of accidents--includinga most
unusual one involving an alien creature that actually ate fissionable
material--had revealed that CCRC and the companies connected to it had
been storing barrels filled with toxic waste and around their buildings
in the city.

More investigation, including an early evening had spent going through
the files in their CEO's office,

shown that the company appeared to be involved in the transfer of
transuranic elements from the Eastern Bloc.  In years, East Germany had
been the usual doorway through

Iron Curtain, but later on, as walls came down and front opened, the
access routes moved slowly back into what once been Soviet-controlled
Eastern Europe.  It was that had originated in Russia; and the reason
why so much was being channeled into the States hadn't been imm
obvious, even from files far more detailed than they have been.

What was really disturbing was the casual way that areas had been
established in the center of one most densely populated cities, and the
equally casual transport from one point to another.  The drums were
relabeled as something innocuous with no the consequences of an
accident or leak.  :

And there was another person--or persons, really, if counted his
symbiotic "other'mwho was also very interested this transit of lethal
radioactives across the oceans of and up and down the roads of America
and Europe no more hazardous than sugar.

He--they--knew that no precautions were taken, because it would have
attracted too much too, that if anything had happened, it would have
been the no cents who suffered most.

The innocents.  They had always been Venom's great cern, or so he
constantly claimed.  But interference from quarter was one factor this
equation didn't need right

peter tore off the topmost sheet of the pad he had been scribbling on
while dealing with Cell Tech and started scribblingagain.

CCRC had come under investigation fairly quickly after the revelation
of toxic waste stored in its properties all over New York City.  After
a while, the DEA had become involved as well, though entering the
investigation from another angle entirely.  Questions were asked about
large amounts of money being channeled through CCRC's Miami branch.  At
first the suspicion had been that this was plain old garden-variety
drug money; but then a connection to some German banks was established.
A lot of Deutschmark transfers had been linked to the movement of
radioactive material inside and across Europe, and the investigation
had widened at an exponential rate.

Shortly afterward, the German banking consortium sold all their shares
in CCRC--or were told to sell them.  No one was clear on the details.
Spider-Man had been following up on the case during his Florida trip
and had been bemused to learn that, despite this massive vote of
no-confidence by their European stockholders, CCRC was still very much
a going concern.

He had thought that Hobgoblin had been mostly behind its operation, but
Hobby was now snug in the Vault after his failed attempt to blow New
York into the Atlantic.  Of course, it wouldn't be the first time that
a company kept going very-nicely thank-you while its boss cooled his
heels in prison, but it hadn't been Hobby behind it after all.  The
true mastermind remained obscure.

More investigation had suggested that CCRC was behind the biggest
shipment of nuclear waste that anyone had ever seen.  The stuff was
being shipped in under fake invoices from Eastern Europe to Brazil,
then north across the Caribbean--past Some of the most delicately
balanced island ecosystems in the

world--and into Florida.  There it was stored in great q secretly
refined, again mislabeled as who-knew-what, returned to Europe, where
someone was recovering amounts of unmarked and untraceable
weapons-grade plutonium without the knowledge of half a dozen national
Energy Commissions.  After that, who knew where it went?

CCRC had been making vast amounts of money--and possibilities as to
where they then channeled it were fairly rific.  Countries a little
east, a little south, who would be only glad to get their hands on
already-refined plutonium, ample.  Peter was sure that the bottom of
this particular hadn't been plumbed yet.  Perhaps this evening's with
Mel Ahrens's Russian contact might throw a little light on it.

And maybe the man could illuminate an even worse bility, one that even
now Peter was reluctant to consider: for all the shipping of nuclear
waste one way, and refined teri al the other, a lot of that refined
plutonium was staying here, in the continental U.S."  waiting to be
used for God knew what purpose.

Peter got up, switched on the TV, and turned to WNN, news channel.
After about ten minutes the headline around again, and he found himself
looking at a video taken from what he hoped was a safe distance of a
flat, low crater maybe half a mile across.  It was smooth-sided, as if
it had collapsed from the bottom instead of being dug from the top.
Peter had seen that shape of crater before, footage of underground
tests from the American West, more recently mainland China.

Government agencies had been queuing up to take apart; he knew that
much.  The corporation was under too scrutiny right now to even risk
playing with cherry bombs,

mind nukes.  So who was doing this?  Was there somebody, somewhere,
watching him tie himself in knots of wrong theory and mistaken
supposition while they quietly got on with their own agenda?

Peter didn't know; and like Mel Ahrens, knowing that he didn't know was
starting to drive him crazy.  He got up and set about getting ready to
go out to do a couple of errands.

Elsewhere in the city, someone else was busy with an errand of his
own.

The Corporate Registry Office of the New York State Bureau of Records
is a granite-fronted building.  One might call it plain, especially
when compared with the more classical architecture of the oldest parts
of New York.  Professional people, mostly lawyers and accountants, are
in and out of its doors all day, so nobody paid any attention to the
tall, harsh-faced man with the blond brush-cut hair and immaculate suit
and tie, carrying a briefcase so thin that he appeared to deal with
only the most important paperwork, summarized and refined for his
convenience by a legion of subordinates.

He paused for a second to study the front of the building, then walked
up the flight of ten steps into the bureau's front lobby.  If he looked
a bit more brutal than the normal run of professionals, well, the more
rarefied levels of corporate affairs had always been something of a
cutthroat business.

It was just that this man looked all too ready to take that part of it
quite literally.

He stepped up to the counter and handed a letter to one of the clerks.
They conversed pleasantly for a few minutes, then the clerk excused
himself and went off, returning shortly with a small printed map, a set
of file envelopes, and a card with a magnetic strip to allow the man to
operate the Xerox machines.  The

man in the dark suit thanked him, then walked up the stairs to the
right of the reception area, heading for the

These were not stacks such as might be found in a Instead, they
contained row upon row of filing cabinets, tall enough to need the
ladders that ran on rails across the of the stacked files.  The visitor
made his way to one of the ished wooden tables set in a double line
between the cabin, opened one of the file envelopes, and fanned its
contents'.  the surface of the table like a cardsharper playing with a
deck.

He opened the briefcase, removed several pencils, set them on top of
the papers, and then went across the files and began systematically
going through them.  movement was quick, economical, and without wasted
effort.  carried himself like someone who knew exactly where he going,
exactly what he was looking for, and exactly where stood in his
personal scheme of things: right at the center.

He was there for several hours, reading some files on spot, carrying
others to the table for closer scrutiny, taking others to the Xerox
machine and putting the copies into his briefcase.  None of the other
accountants or who were using the place paid him any heed, except in a
eral sort of way, admiring the expensive cut of his suit, de ring why
they hadn't seen him before, since he was evidently a high flier--or,
more straightforwardly, trying which legal firm had started insisting
that its partners spend much time in the gym.

None of them saw him go, because he was the last apart from the
staff--to leave the building.  He pac case, closed it, then strode down
to the reception desk returned the map, the file folders, and the Xerox
card.

his copy charges were totaled, he paid in cash, thanked the clerk, and
left.

The Wall Street area gets fairly quiet after business hours, but there
are still some good restaurants an easy walk away.  The dark-suited man
made his way to one of these on Duane Place and ate a leisurely supper
of veal saltimbocca with peppers, washed down with half a bottle
ofMontepulciano d'Abruzzo.  He considered the tiramisu, then declined
in favor of a double espresso-co rto paid again with cash, and finally
stepped out into the cool of the evening and the yellow glow of the
streetlights.

He looked up and down the street, then headed east and north.  Again,
his path was very direct and he seemed to know exactly where he was
going, even if that was right into one of the less savory parts of
town.  The streets where he walked now didn't have boutiques and shops
and restaurants in them, or even the heavier frontages of banks and
accountancy firms.  Instead they had shutters rolled down over
warehouse garage doors, boarded-up windows, garbage in the streets,
cracked curbstones, and broken streetlights.

A voice spoke to him from the shadows.  "Hey, Suit," it said.  The man
paused, half-turned, and stared into the darkness.

"Were you speaking to me," he said softly, "or to my clothing?"  Three
men materialized in the alleyway, emerging from the shadows or stepping
in from either end to block the exits.  One was short and dark, wearing
leather and an incongruous knitted hat with a bobble on top.  It might
have been funny, except that his face was not one that would take
kindly to jokes.

Another was tall, fair, and shaggy, in hole-riddled jeans; a younger
man than the others, with a face that looked oddly young and innocent
on someone carrying such a large knife.

The third was of medium height, very pallid, his hairstyle a

Medusa nightmare of dreadlocks so tangled that it was hard tell where
his hair started and his head left off.  He was we denims and a pair of
the trendy sneakers that lit up with step.

The man with the knitted hat wasn't wearing shoes that up, but as he
stepped forward, he produced a large, shiny automatic pistol with the
same self-satisfied air of a cheap juror perform inga cheaper trick.

"Desert Eagle," said the man in the dark suit.  He sound amused instead
of frightened.  "My, what a great big gun for such a little punk.  You
know, if you had bought cheaper gun, you could afford some better
clothesmand get rid of that stupid hat."

"You got a smart mouth, Suit," snarled Hat.  "Maybe you another mouth."
He gestured vaguely with the gun barrel.  'bout behind your belt
buckle."

"Maybe I like the mouth I've got."

" "Nough talk," said Dreadlocks.  "Briefcase is worth five hundred.
Just take the bag and waste him."

The blond youngster with the knife swallowed hard, Adam's apple
bouncing in his throat, and the man with the watched it move up and
down with the same sort press ion he had earlier given to the
salfimbocca as it arrived his table in the restaurant.  "If you want
some advice," he said gently, "I don't think' should do that."  "Don't
remember asking' for any," said Dre "C'monmlet's see if his fancy
suit'll stop a Teflon tip.  I him, man!"

Even though Hat was standing no more he went through an elaborate
performance of taking aim before he squeezed the trigger.  The boom of
his gun'!

heavy Magnum load was deafening in the confined space of the alley,
its muzzle blast a stab of yellow-white flame almost a yard long.  In
the clanging silence that followed the shot, all of them heard the tiny
tinkle of the spent cartridge-case hitting the street.  But none of
them really noticed.

Because this suit, at least, did stop Teflon tips.

Hat and Dreadlocks stood with their mouths hanging open, but the blond
man with the knife took a step backward, and then another to where his
companions couldn't see.

'"yes," said the man in the dark suit, watching him.  "You were
beginning to suspect as much, weren't you?  And so only you alone shall
come away alive to tell the tale.  Watch, now."

The suit stopped being a suit.  It boiled away from its wearer's
powerful body in a whirlwind of strand and threads and ribbons that
flashed and hissed as they cut through the air.  Then they contracted
again, snuggling close, weaving and knitting until the harsh face and
the cropped hair and any semblance of a welldressed corporate lawyer
had completely disappeared, and nothing showed but the jagged, angular
design of a stylized white spider across his massive chest.

Two huge pallid eyes studied them, while an impossibly wide mouth
crammed with jagged fangs gaped wide, and a tongue the size of a boa
constrictor came drooling and coiling out at them from between the
picket fence of teeth.

"Mouth..."  said Hat.

"Mouth," said the dark shape, taking a step forward.  '"yes, indeed.
And as you can see, we don't need another.  We already have one."  It
grinned, and the fangs dripped slime as the grin went right around, and
no matter how broad the grin became, there were always more teeth
behind it.

Ribbons of ferocious darkness came swirling like tentacles from the
black costume that the man was wearing, and grabbed

Hat around the chest and neck, lifting him up without the est trace of
effort until his feet dangled clear of the ground.  more tentacle
reached out playfully to pull off the knitted then flicked it away.
Under it, on Hat's shaven skull, was an possibly elaborate tattoo, all
Celtic knot work and tangled mals.

Dreadlocks tried to run, but another half-dozen ten lashed out at his
legs, wrenching them from under that he came splat ting down
full-length on the filthy [ The tentacles wrapped around Dreadlocks's
legs tig dragging him closer, and then lifted him clear of the dangle
beside Hat.  "You didn't ask for any advice before Venom, "but we'll
give you a little more.  No charge.  Just member, next time, not to
attack an attorney going about legal occasions.  Everybody knows how
nasty lawyers can there's always the chance they might be someone even
Like us."

The blond man with the knife knew that he could run should run but he
didn't dare to move.  Instead he just stood stared, too frightened to
even drop the knife in case its on the ground attracted Venom's
attention.

"My word," said Venom, lifting Hat even higher and then ing him
upside-down to look at the tattoo, "that must have Not, however, as
much as this."

The next few minutes were noisy and unpleasant , all concerned, a
nightmare blur of tentacles and that was far worse for being mostly
lost in shadow.  Finally Venom raised the two limp, barely breathing
bodies even higher, dropped them like so much garbage into the gutter
at the side of the alley.

"These streets haven't been kept too clean recently,

will change," he said.  "Don't forget what we told you."  Then

turned to the blond youngster.  -I'hey roped you into this, didn't
they?"

The blond nodded his head, a tiny movement that looked more like a
tremor, and let the knife slide at last from between his fingers.

"So we thought.  Well, we have other business this evening, so you just
run along and tell your other friends that we're back in town.  Tell
them that we're after one of our own this time.  There's a
super-villain busy in town and we want him.  If someone helps us, then
we'll help them.  And in the meantime, those of you who prey on others
should stop.  Take our advice.  No charge."

That terrible grin spread right around Venom's face again.  "Because
until we find the one we're looking for, we'll keep ourselves busy with
you.  And after we find that one, then there are other pleasures, long
deferred.  There'll be time to take care of it now.  So go on nowmand
spread the news."

The young man didn't run.  Instead his eyes rolled back in his head and
he slithered down the wall in a dead faint.  A pseudopod reached out
and delicately pulled one of the fluttering eyelids back.  "Well, we
suppose you've had a busy night," he said.  "Rest awhile."

Darkness shimmered around Venom, and a moment later he was dressed once
more in his dark suit, with the briefcase in his hand.  "No rest for
the wicked," he said.  "At least, not while we're around."

Then he walked off into the night.

lfl'

 Mary Jane Watson-Parker walked down the street in a foul mood.  She
had been walking for about an hour, trying to ditch the mood, so far to
no success.

She glanced at her watch.  It was pushing eleven-thirty, and she had
walked all the way down to Seventieth Street and all the way across to
First Avenue.  Now she paused at the corner of First and Seventieth,
looking down toward the newly constructed towers of Cornell and New
York Hospital Medical Center.  Over on York Avenue, a couple of blocks
down, was Baja, the restaurant that was a haven for models and the
occasional confused nurse who stumbled in.  She had been putting off
actually going into Baja, partly because it was still fairly early, and
also because she knew that the sight of other people in there with work
would annoy her.  All the same, she thought, it'll be a poor state of
affairs when you can't face down your own kind--even when they're
working and you "re not.

The tables turn fast enough in this town.

She walked on up to York, turned the corner, and headed back up to
Seventy-third.  Baja stood on the corner there, yet another
pseudo-Southwestern-chic restaurant with cloth cactuses in brass pots,
too much white stucco, and too much bleached oak, but fairly passable
Tex-Mex food, and a bar the size of the launch deck of an aircraft
carrier.  There the models perched on the stools, leaned their
sometimes fairly ample cleavages on the bar, and complained to each
other, male and female together.  MJ smiled slightly.  She was in the
right mood for the Complaining.

The outside sidewalk terrace was empty as yet--too much

sun.  It would start filling when the shadows swung around cover it.
MJ stepped in through the front door into the dark and looked around.

Sitting back there at the long polished bar were two mol she knew, one
male, one female.  The man was Ted Huron, of the tall-dark-and-handsome
school, with cheekbones 'could have been used to chop trees down, and
stunning eyes.  The other was a female model called Hendra, with mark
six-inch-long nails, and hair that was never the same twice.  It was
blue today, fading to white at the punkedou

"Hi, Hen, hi, Tom," she said, strolling up and sitting by Tom.  They
muttered at her cordially enough.  Their volubility was no surprise: it
was early yet, and when working, they were club people.  MJ was
surprised even to being them up and about before noon.

Bob the bartender came up.  "Hi, MJ.  Whatcha having?"  "Double kiwi,"
she said, "heavy on the lemon."

He went off to get her the juice.  She glanced at the "How're you two
doing?"

It was a noncommittal enough question.  If they were this time of day,
it might mean they weren't working; but again, she was here this time
of day.

"Resting," Tom said glumly.

Hendra rolled her eyes.  "I just finished a gig," she week in
Bavaria."

"Oh?  How was it?"

"Rained constantly."  Hendra pushed her orange-juice back toward Bob as
he approached with MJ's kiwi juice in a glass with a transparent
umbrella sticking out of it.  "You today?"

"I just blew a job off," MJ said.

"Oh?  What?"

She held out her injured hand.  Tom gazed at it for a moment, not
comprehending immediately.  "You need a thorn pulled out of your paw or
something?"

"No, dummy.  I was doing hand work."

"You won't be doing any for a couple of weeks," Hendra said
regretfully.  "You want to put some vitamin E on that, make sure it
heals right."

"Sure, why not?"

They gabbed for a little while, talking sports (the present
hopelessness of the Mets), art (Christo's intention to wrap the Statue
of Liberty), the utter uselessness of TV in the summer ("They're
showing reruns of Gilligan's Island again," Tom muttered), politics
(the recent coup d'etat in Atlantis and Reed Richards's dramatic, and
failed, plea to the UN for assistance).  All these things were
generally agreed by the three of them as signs of the imminent downfall
of civilization as they knew it.  After that, the subject turned
rapidly to the bashing of producers, directors, and shoot
administrators that they had known.  No more than ten or fifteen
minutes into the character assassination, the door swung open, and they
all looked over to see if it was someone they had been assassinating.

Lalande Joel came in.  Six feet three, weighing possibly a hundred and
sixty pounds, Lalande had long, raven-black hair that had caused her to
be cast in' a couple of commercials as a Morticia Addams clone, and
beautiful cerulean-blue eyes, blue as a Siamese cat's.  Lalande had a
reputation as a friendly if slightly loopy sort, and they all greeted
her cordially enough as she SWung up to sit by MJ.

"And how are you this fine day?"  Tom said.

"Very retrograde," Lalande said wearily.  "Hi, Bob.  Gimme a Coke?"

"Retrograde?"  MJ said.

"Well, not me.  Neptune."  "Oh."  MJ thought for a moment.  "Neptune's
a long way out.  Isn't it going to be retrograde for a long time?"  m

"Yes," Lalande said sadly.  "Forty-five years, I think."  H "By the
time that changes, you'll be doing senior citizens' insurance ads,"
said Hendra.  "If I were you, I'd stop worrying about it."  "Oh, I'm
not worrying, it's just--I'm conscious of it, that's all."  Her Coke
came and she took a sip.  "And I just blew off a job."  |

"Oh?  What?"  J

She presented her perfect face to them, and pointed at it ^ with an
expression of profound annoyance and regret.  "Look at that," she
said.

They all looked.  "I can't see anything," MJ said.  , "That's because
I've covered it up so that I can walk the streets without someone
walking in front of me ring inga little bell and saying "Unclean,
unclean," " Lalande said.  "It's a zit."

"It's a very flat zit," said Tom.

"It's not flat enough to be covered up by the amount of ; makeup
they'll let you use in a lipstick ad," said Lalande.  "And < see that?"
She pointed at the corner of her mouth.  "There's a -j cold sore coming
up right there.  It'll be the size of my head."  MJ raised her
eyebrows.  It was nowhere near the size of Lalande beautiful head yet,
but she understood the problem.  s:, "Yeah," she said, "welcome to the
T am scarred' club."  She held up the offending finger for examination.
Lalande looked at it, then looked at her face.  "But you're fine."

"Not for hand work, I'm not."  But Lalande was still examining her
face. "Have you ever done lipstick?"  she said.  \020"Well, I did
something for Max Factor a while ago.  Why?"  "Look," Lalande said,
"your face is in good shape.  And our lips are kind of the same shape. 
And you still have a SAG card.  Why don't you beat it over to the job I
just blew off? Maybe they'll hire you."  MJ stared at her.  "Lalande,"
she said, "that's very kind, but what makes you think they'd take me?" 
"It's like I said.  They're desperate, they're on a timetable, and they
have to get this thing finished by, what did they say, Wednesday,
Thursday? Anyway, they've got to get it moving.  And they're all just
standing around there right now, howling that they can't find another
model. But our mouths are really kind of close--you ought to try."

"My teeth aren't as good as yours, though," MJ said.  "I don't think
it's going to matter.  They were doing mostly closed-mouthed stuff with
me, except for one smile--but--I don't know.  MJ, go try!"

"Lalande, that's really nice of you."  "I might as well be nice,"
Lalande said, rolling her eyes expansively, "since I'm going to have to
go into a leper colony pretty soon, at this rate.  I look like the
poster child for Dr.Jenner's Smallpox Cure."  "Lsilaaaaaaande, "said MJ
and Hendra and Tom, more or less in exasperated unison.  And MJ added,
"It's not quite that bad, yet.  Where is this job, anyway?"  "Here."
She pulled out a business card, handed it to MJ.  She turned it over;
the address was just up Third Avenue, near Seventy-eighth.  "Go, just
go," Lalande said.  "They were ready to start about an hour ago, when I
had to walk in and show myself to them like this."

MJ finished her juice and stood up.  "Well, I'll give it a try."

"One thing," Lalande said as MJ slung her purse over shoulder.  "The
director."

MJ raised her eyebrows again.  "What about him?  Her?  ItS.  "It,"
Lalande said.  "No question.  Scuttlebutt has it that guy has dumped a
bunch of models over the past few wee Having worked with him for a
whole day, I suspect it may be other way around.  He may hire you, but
make sure you get name and yours on the dotted line, and the pay
amounts inke in and dry before you actually do any work.  He is"-she
glance up and around as if looking desperately for a cue card--"and,
scribable."

"Okay," MJ said.  "Lalande--do I really want this job?"

"I don't know," Lalande said.  "I really wanted it, until turned into
Pockmarked Grandmother Ma.  But the pay's n bad.  They were going to
give me fifteen hundred."

they wind up giving you?"

did

"Seven.  But then they shot with me yesterday, and the] couldn't use me
today."

"Small world," MJ said.  "Okay."

"Let me know how it comes out," Lalande said, taking other drink of her
Coke.  "And I hope you bite the bastard me."

MJ heard that, though she wondered whether she'd meant to.  Yet another
interesting director.  Well, we'll see... She headed out and looked
around for a cab so as not to sweaty on the way over.  She had had her
share directors in her time, including the unforgettable Maurice, this
last shoot in Miami: a master of the crazed waffle, didn't know what he
wanted whether he saw it or not.  If he see it, he usually danced
around it for an hour or so before ring down to it.  Now, as MJ climbed
into her cab, she whether she was about to be saddled with something
similar.

least, she thought, I probably won't find this guy standing on the
beach, signaling to drug runners with a flashlight.

When she got to the address on Third Avenue, she was surprised to see
that it was a side building of Auve, one of the new European cosmetic
houses that had established itself in New York over the past year, and
was busy making inroads into Elizabeth Arden's and Helena Rubenstein's
business.  It was all plate glass on the outside, and trees and green
marble on the inside.  She walked in the front door, paused at the
front door, and mentioned--she consulted the card--Delano Rodriguez's
shoot.

"Oh yes," said the young blond receptionist, with a look that suggested
that MJ had asked to do a commercial shoot with Jeffrey Dahmer. "Second
floor, photo studio B."  MJ nodded and headed for the elevator. She
spent the next few seconds admiring the spotless white carpet on its
floor, and the shining stainless-steel walls.  How do they keep this
clean ?  she wondered as the bell dinged and the doors opened for her
to step out.  If we had any carpet like this in my house, Peter would
drop a pizza on it, facedown, within the first week.

She headed for the studio to which she'd been directed.  Down yet
another white-carpeted hall with brushed-aluminum walls and a softly
glowing ceiling.  A pair of brushed-aluminum doors finally said sauD1o
B. She pushed one of them open and went in.

The soundproofing was very good here.  She actually had to get the door
right open before she heard the voice screaming, "How the hell am I
supposed to make this commercial without a warm body to put the
lipstick on?"

The place was chaos, the usual large number of bright lights trained on
a very small space, the usual small and very uncomfortable stool on
which the working cosmetic model got to

perch while thousand-watt lights were positioned three " from her
perfect skin.  Three of the movie cameras used for this kind of work
sat idle around chair.  People rushed around in all directions.  And
back and forth across the room, like a beast in a cage, was director.

ADs, assistants, script people, sound people, who else, ran all over,
and Delano the director was banging in the midst of them, aimless and
screaming.  A few quiet people stood around on the sidelines looking
like they going insane, but also looking like they didn't work for this
rector.  The room, taken as a whole, looked like a for Brownian
motion.

MJ had seen shoots like this before, and they had long ceased to raze
her.  She strolled slowly into the maelstrom, eventually the director's
eye lit on her as he careened forth.  He more or less screamed, 'o let
you in here?"

"Lalande Joel suggested that I come over," she said and held out the
business card she had been given.  "I stand you need some lips."

There might have been a better way to put this, since the rector was
the thinnest-lipped, thinnest-faced, palest, little man she had ever
seen; he looked like a life-form trying out the third dimension, and
not he shouldn't just take it back to the shop.  But he seemed notice
the verbal misstep, came over to MJ, and stared at mouth as if it were
the first one he'd ever seen.

He'll ask to see my teeth next, MJ thought.  "Open, please," lano
Rodriguez said, and MJ did.

"Hmm," he said.  "Not bad.  It's not a speaking part.  hundred."

"Fifteen," MJ said, wondering what kind of brain this

had.  Didn't he realize Lalande would have told her how much she had
been getting?

"Not for half a day."

'es," MJ said, amazed at her own temerity, "for half a day."  He's got
all these people waiting around here, and the dollars are just burning
away .... "All right, get over there."

"Not until we get a contract signed."

The director shrieked some more at that, but she stood her ground, and
after a few minutes a shoot manager materialized and handed her a
template contract.  There were no unexpected waiver clauses; MJ made
sure the amounts were filled in correctly, and signed it after the
director did.  It called for "one business day," which in the business
meant nine to five, or a fraction thereof.

The next eight hours weremwell, indescribable.  Lalande had been right
about that.  One thing it took MJ a little time to get used to again:
the makeup going on and coming off, going on and coming off, time after
time, a hundred times.  Then a layer of moisturizer and a break so that
the lips could recover a littlemand then the whole process started
again.

All through this, Delano the director went plunging around endlessly
yelling.  MJ hadn't thought that anyone could yell so interminably.  He
yelled at the lighting technicians, the camera operators, at the ADs
and the script girls, and the DGA trainee, and most of all, he yelled
at MJ and the makeup artists.  The lip liner was too broad, too thin,
the lighting wasn't right, the lipstick shade needed to be corrected,
the skin tone was bad.  And this accusation he lodged against MJ as if
there were something she could do about it.  Her pores were too big,
she couldn't hold still, she didn't look moist enough, her tongue was
too red .... For a very long while, MJ asked herself the question that
La lande had asked her: Do I want this job ?  Then she thought a bill
for $4,689.72 and decided that yes, she did want it.  So sat still, and
opened and closed her mouth a hundred times order, while the lipstick
was put on and taken off and place began to smell entirely too much
like skin and lotion and moisturizer and lipstick melting under the
heat of' lights.  And the powder made her sneeze.

The hours dragged by, accompanied by the sounding  MJ began to wonder
whether her ears might actually damaged by this constant noise.
Certainly other people spend any time nearer it than they could: the
parts of the not actively shooting seemed to spend most of their " the
room, leaving MJ and the poor long-suffering script to take most of the
abuse.  Honestly, now, she said to around four-thirty, this is bad--but
it's not as bad as to your apartment and finding Venom waiting for you.
Now, bad.

The screaming continued while she was filmed with an seen hand"
applying lipstick to her somewhat lower lip.  MJ held quite still
through that, momentarily fixed by the vision of Venom meeting the
director, or the way around.  You want to scream ?  she imagined
herself Here.  Here's something to scream about .... "Are you listening
to me ?"Delano screeched,

ear.  "Don't you pay attention ?  If you don't at least get conscious,
going to throw you the hell out of here.t"

MJ opened one thoughtful eye and looked at Delano the corner of it.
Some of the makeup crew near her tion.  One of them froze where he
stood, watching.  You sound good, she thought.  But for the moment she
and her eye slid to the big clock across the room.

It was two minutes of five.

Delano ranted in her face.  She shut the sound out, catching only
occasional excerpts.

A minute forty, she thought.  "Useless, redheaded bimbo--" A minute and
twenty.  "--brains of a duck--" Forty-five seconds.

"---dragged in off the street like

Thirty.

"--waste of my valuable time--"

Eleven.  Ten.  Nine.

"--don't know why I don't just go down to Bloomingdale's and hire a
dummy--"

Three.  Two.  One.

As the second hand hit the twelve, MJ shot straight up out of the
cramped little chair, almost into Delano's face.  He staggered a step
backward, banging into a light; it swayed, and for one naughty moment
MJ prayed that it might fall.  But it steadied itself.

"You silly little man," she said sweetly.  "You distasteful, arrogant,
stupid man.  You don't have enough talent to grow grass on a lawn.
You've got about as much brain as a retarded billiard ball.  If you had
another brain, you'd still have just one.  And

W '

hat s more, you're cheap---I bet you'd walk miles in the snow for the
chance to cheat an orphan out of a nickel."  She was scaling up now.
"You're a legend in your own mind, Delano.  I bet you speak very highly
of yourself.  What makes you think you have the right to abuse these
nice people the way you do?  You're a heel.  You're a lowlife.  You
barely know which end of the camera to look into.  iF i saw you being
mugged in the street, I'd offer to hold the muggers' coats and cheer.
If I saw you drowning, I'd throw you a boat anchor."  MJ noticed, in a
clinical sort of

way, how Delano's mouth was working open and shul looked like a
flounder.  'You look like a flounder," she at the top of her lungs,
unwilling to let the chance go.  Then she paused.  "Did I call you a
fish-faced moron?"  Delano, his mouth still working, said, "No."

"Well, I meant to.  I quit."  She stalked past him as if he a recently
anointed fire hydrant, marched over to shoot manager was standing with
his clipboard, and said,

me my money!"  . "Uh--"

"Cash, right this minute," she said, "or I'm going rap sheet there, the
one with the overinflated budget on it up very tight and small, and
shove it in the first orifice presents itself!"

The shoot manager's eyes went appreciatively wide.  He, up with an
envelope and handed it to MJ.

Steaming happily, she opened it and counted the cash lano was muttering
again, something about a lawsuit.  no red him, waved good-bye to the
crew, and headed for I door.

One last scream, of pure wordless fury, came echoin behind her.  She
smiled.  "Last refuge of the illiterate," she

A couple of men stood near the door, smiling softly.

As MJ approached, one of them opened the door for her, reverently.  The
other, a small cheerful-looking man with hair, dressed in casual
clothes, spoke.  "Excuse me," he "but I couldn't help overhearing--"

MJ chuckled.  "I'hey probably overheard me in Nyack."  "Yes, well."  He
handed her a business card.  "Would you me a call tomorrow, if you have
the time?  I'd appreciate chance to talk to you."

She glanced at the card.  It had a yellow, smiling-sun logo, and said
SUNDOG PRODUCTIONS and under that, a name.  JYMN

MAGON.

"Well, certainly, Mr.  Magon," she said.  "Glad to.  Please forgive me,
though.  I have to go off and spend my ill-gotten gains."  "Right. 
I'll look forward to hearing from you."  Outside, MJ hailed a cab,
climbed in, and as it drove off, immediately began to blush and
practically to vibrate with embarrassment.  She hated temper tantrums. 
She valued the ability to talk your way through a problem almost more
than anything else.  Nonetheless, sometimes it felt really good to blow
up--and this was the second time in a month that she'd done it.  I
wonder if I'm coming down with something, MJ thought.  But then again,
there were extenuating circumstances.  She sat back in the cab.  And
now I've got all this money, too.  Maybe I should lose my temper more
ojgn.

She looked at the card again.  Sundog Productions--some kind of film or
TV production group, maybe?  It had been a long time since Secret
Hospital, the soap opera on which she had a recurring role for a time,
and the luxury of a steady paycheck.  This could be very interesting.

She decided to stop in the store on the corner and pick up some things
for dinner, and make herself a snack.  She hoped Peter would be back
from the mafiosi in good time--but she didn't know what kind of hours
mafiosi kept.  Probably better not to wait up.  Meanwhile, she thought
happily about all the money.  Money always gave her a good appetite.

And with this kind of money, I could eat a horse,t

The long dark limo with the blacked-out windows met them at the Bugleat
about seven.  Peter and Mel climbed in, and Mel said amiably to the
driver, "Hi there."

He started to drive, fast the Midtown Tunnel.

"I don't suppose it would be wise to ask where we're

Peter said.

Mel shrugged.  "Brooklyn, somewhere," he said.  "Zou and I know that
the greater part of the Russian-language munity is down there in
Bensonhurst and Coney Island

Brighton Beach.  I won't be looking closely at any street and I don't
recommend that you do so, either."  He the windows.  "But I don't think
we'll be able to see any."

He was right; the glass was blacked out on both the in and the outside,
an interesting effect that left them with ing much to do but sit back
and enjoy the ride.  Itwas car, a stretch Mercedes limo with all the
extras: champagne bucket, television, phone.  "I'd suspect this thing
of pool," Peter said.

"His other one does, I hear."

"His other one?"

"Yeah.  Just the Russian love for hot water, I guess.  But

Dmitri is a little, well, flamboyant.  That's why you're along.

likes publicitymwithin reason--and he'll find the presence a
photographer nice.  He'll feel more like we take him ously."

"Oh.  And don't we take him seriously?"

"Absolutely.  But a little coddling never hurts when there's an ego
involved.  Which there is.  Try to avoid his spot."

Peter chuckled.

After about forty minutes, the car began making a lot

turns.  "Oh," Peter said, "this is the part where we get
disoriented."

Mel laughed.  "I was disoriented the minute we went through the Battery
Tunnel."

"It wasn't the Battery.  Had to be the Midtown."

"See?  What'd I tell you?"

Outside, the car engine noise seemed to change--got closer, more
immediate--then a lot more echo-y.  Ve're inside," Peter said.

Mel nodded.  The car stopped, then both the doors opened from the
outside.

Peter and Mel looked at each other.  Then carefully, keeping his hands
in view, Mel got out.  Peter did the same on his side.

They were in a parking garage, no telling on what level.  There was
nothing to see but unbroken concrete walls in all directions.  All
around the car stood a group of big, serious-looking men, some dressed
more like bouncers than anything else, some dressed fashionabl), enough
in dark pants and windbreakers or casual jackets.  All had lumps here
and there under their jackets, and all were holding guns, too, some of
the biggest ones Peter had ever seen.

Mel turned to one of the men, who reached inside his jacket and removed
his gun.  There were a few grunts of admiration before the gun
vanished.  Then the men looked at Peter.

He held out his camera to the nearest of the large men.  The man took
it from him, examined it closel)" and gave it back with utter
unconcern.  Then all of them turned toward one of the nearby doors in
the concrete wall, and some of them began to head that way,.  Peter and
Mel followed them.

They went up several flights of stairs, their man), footsteps echoing
together.  They came to the door.  One of the suited

 men pushed it open, and Peter and Mel went in after

They came out in a long hallway of what looked like apartment building.
The hallway had no windows, only and all of them shut.  The leading
bodyguards led them to the last door in the hallway and opened it.

Peter and Mel went in, looked around.  It was an apart men and a
beautiful one: high ceilinged and very modern, with windows, except
that all the big windows had their venesion blinds down and shut.
Tasteful lamps were on here and sitting on handsome antique tables and
among old furniture.  The room was eclectic without looking designed.
way they were kept, the things in it obviously belonged to one who
liked them and took care of them.  And sitting on of the overstuffed
couches was a little man in a light shirt dark twill trousers, reading
a copy of the German newsl Welt.

Peter looked at the man, and thought that he anyone who looked so much
like a weasel.  It was partly shape of his skull, partly his odd kind
of widow's hairline, partly the reddish cast of his hair.  The rest of
the feet was produced by little, bright, close-set eyes and icate
mouth.  A bit of a surprise, that--Peter bigger, somehow.  The overall
effect was of being looked at someone who lived entirely by
calculation, wits, wiles, and ting.

As he saw them come, he tossed his newspaper aside held out a hand for
them to shake, Mel first.  "Dmitri," said little man, "Dmitri
Elyonets."  His voice was a light, tenor, not heavily accented at
all.

Peter stuck his hand out.  "Peter Parker."

"Welcome.  Please sit down."

Peter looked around.  "Before we get started," he said, "I'

like to know what the ground rules are.  Am I allowed to take pictures
in here?"

"In here, yes.  One warning: of me, take the back of my head only."

That's going to make it interesting trying to avoid the bald spot,
Peter thought, but this kind of challenge was what made photography
interesting, especially with vain, image-conscious celebrities.
"One-third profile from behind?"  Peter suggested.  Dmitri considered.
"Which side?"

Peter went around the back of him and had a look.  "Right, I think."

"Very well.  You're a smart young man, you handle it that way."

'What about your people?"  All the men who had accompanied them up from
the parking lot were now in the room with them.

Dmitri looked around and then waved some of them out.  "Anyone here,
them you may photograph."

Peter was glad of that.  If all he'd had to take pictures of was the
back of Dmitri's head and his furniture, it would have been a pretty
bleak and limited shoot, even seen as an ego exercise.  The bodyguards,
by and large, had interesting faces, and looked like the population of
a James Bond movie before the hero had shown up--a bunch of grim people
seemingly ready to produce flying bowler hats with a sharpened rim or
steel teeth at a moment's notice.

Peter began to move carefully around the room, taking pictures of the
contents and the men, trying to show, without emphasizing it, the
gangsterish look of them as they stood in classic bodyguard pose, hands
folded in front of them.  "So," Mel said.  'You called for this
meeting. I was glad to come.  I've known about you for a while."

Dmitri laughed.  "Yes, I know you have.  Sooner or later would have
had to meet.  I prefer it this way."

"I'd be curious," Mel said, "about exactly what the cause our meeting
is.  If rumor tells the truth, you're doing enough in business."

"More than well enough," Dmitri said.  "The usual thin demic to this
part of the world.  Gambling."  He shot a glance at Peter to let him
know he was included.  "A little shifting."

"You mean the laundry," said Mel.

Dmitri rolled his eyes a little.  "And some newer areas.  work--"

"Electronic fraud, you mean," Mel said.

Dmitri laughed again.  "Always the semantics, with you.  business has
been doing well enough.  But it never does as well as you'd like, so
one is always looking for new ways to pand, eh?"

"True enough," said Mel.  "But I get a feeling that found some people
involved in some kind of expansion makes you nervous."

Dmitri said nothing for a moment, simply gave Mel a cool thoughtful
look.  "There," he said at last, 'you would right."  He hunched over a
little, his hands clasped in him, and Peter got one of those "back of
the head" shots was still very eloquent of the man's personality: his
tension, liveliness of the man.

"There are people in my business," said Dmitri, "Who as cautious as I
am.  When you're here for a while, you learn any business, whether one
like mine or not, is a renewable source.  Yes?  You have to treat it
with respect, not stretch it far, not overextend it.  Push it too far,
it dies.  But don't push hard enough, it stagnates.  Always a question
of balance.

"But right now," Dmitri continued, "there are people out there who
only see the push.  And their dealings are somewhat--" Dmitri shook his
head.  "I'hey push, but they're not afraid.  They don't care about the
balance.  They don't look forward, not past tomorrow."

"Do you know who these people are, specifically?"

"Ah," Dmitri said, 'well.  You must be clear: my concern is not to go
straight."  He waved a hand dismissively.  "If I did straight business
in this town, I would have to work ten times as hhrd to make a third, a
quarter, of the money I make now.  I know what I like.  But I want
things stable."  He leaned over to thump the coffee table in front of
him.  "I want things to stay the way they are.  In the old days, on the
collective farm when I was a boy, the world itself would show you what
had to be done.  Milk the cow too hard, too often, its poor old udders
get sore, and the milk dries out.  Milk it much too hard, and it dies,
or someone takes it away from you.  I don't want that--dead cows, or
missing ones.  I want it to give milk for a long time yet.  But there
are people doing things that make that impossible.  So--" He threw his
arms wide, an expansive gesture.  "I come to you.  I come to the press.
Here freedom of the press is everything, and what the press says is
listened to.  I want people to know.  So I call you, and ask you to
come listen to me, while I tell you about the people who are going to
kill the cow."

"V-hat you're saying, if I understand the agricultural idiom
correctly," said Mel, "is that there are people becoming affiliated
with your--organization--who are pushing for such highprofile scams or
amounts of money being shifted, that they would be impossible to hide.
That they're likely to attract the attention of the really big
law-enforcement agencies down on you: the FBI, the CIA--"

"Oh, the CIA, they're here: we know them, they know us,"

Dmitri said.  Peter wondered briefly just what that meant.  people,
they aren't carefulmthey're going to make business bad for all of us.
They're greedy--or else something worse greedy, and I am not sure what
that might be.  But this I fe, of: something else is going on in some
of the other sections which I do not understand."

"Well," Mel said, pulling out his notebook and a pen, hold that for a
moment.  Let me be clear, too.  Some of these people are not friends of
yours--there are old feuds.  I am in particular of the orga.nizafional
head called Galya

Dmitri sat back on the couch again and rubbed his nose little.  "Well,
he is an enemy of mine, yes.  But that is not the son I want to stop
him.  I want to stop him, and his people, cause they are going to do
something bad to," he waved him, "this place.  Which is my home now,
which has been to me."  He shot a sidewise glance at Peter, who was
taking other picture.  "You'll think perhaps it's odd.  I am--you what
I am."  Dmitri shrugged.  "But still I want to be good to place that
was good to me.  I'll take what I need to live.  I'll money from the
fat banks and the big companies, and where it can't be found.  But past
that, people should live best they can."

Peter nodded, getting the feeling that here was a version of something
he had thought had died out in the middle Ages: a genuine robber baron,
who nonetheless had out as some kind of skewed gentleman.

"Now let me tell you what you ask," Dmitri said to "Galya, yes.  A
thorn in my side for a long time now.  He's dealing with somebody, not
one of us--not Russian or nian, not at all from the other community,
the Italians, or of the Chinese.  This person that Galya deals with--I
don't who he is or where he comes from.  Now, lately, my eyes

where--"my people tell me he's been bringing in a little hot stuff."

"Nuclear material," said Mel.  "From where?"

"I cannot say.  Not that I won't tell you--I don't know.  I have to
tell you, I have handled some of this myself, but not for here.  To
send away.  There are always buyers for that.  But the stuff that
Galya's handling is not going out of the country.  It's coming in, and
it stays.  Not just coming in and staying in one place, either, but
being shipped many places.  New York, Detroit, Chicago, Atlanta, Los
Angeles, Denver--all the big cities.  Everywhere, small shipments have
been moving around for the past couple of months.  The shipments,
they're labeled 'industrial waste' or something else--it doesn't
matter.  We know what they are.  When I started hearing about this, I
didn't know what Galya was shipping.  I found out eventually.  It's
hard to keep a secret in our business.

"Then, the other day, we hear that upstate, in the Adirondacks-here, in
our state, our home--someone has blown up an atomic bomb.  A little
one, but a bomb.  And I think about all those cans and packages of
'industrial waste," and I wonder, What does this mean?  For a while,
I'm not sure that this means anything.  Then, yesterday, I hear that
Galya, several days ago, had a big payment--b/g payment--so that he's
having to launder it all over the place.  And now I hear he's gone down
to the Caribbean, to Mauritius, I think it is, to see about the
finishing touches, the last work on his new house.  A big house, a lot
of money spent on it--like a little town.  You know what real estate
costs down there.  It must have cost a fortune, even by our
standards."

Dmitri leaned forward again.  "At first I thought he just wants a house
on a little island so he can run drugs easily.  Everyone

does it down there.  You rent a flying boat, it files some fake fligh
plans--it's easy.  But I just don't like it, don't like the way feels.
All these things, together, at once mI think Galya is volved in
something that's going to be bad for business, my people, bad for
people in this country, this good where we came to make a life for
ourselves, a living."

Peter raised an eyebrow and took another back-of-head "I want him to be
stopped.  I want to tell'D he almost on the wordm'the police what they
need to know to him."

Mel and Peter looked at each other, and Mel began neat small shorthand
notes.  "Names and dates?"  said Mel.  "Names and dates."  "Then let's
start."

It took a long time.  Dmitri was a tireless talker, who not let Mel
tape anything.  Shorthand was all right, though, for the next three
hours Mel wrote as tirelessly as Dmitri taking down names of nearly
every crook, major and minor, was working with his enemy Galya--phone
numbers, fax hers, details about what they were doing, numbers and
betting shops, legal betting shops that had been illegal "private
entrepreneur ships candy stores that were laundromats, supermarkets
that were too, several big banks "pliant" managers on the take, who
falsified the cash reports required by the IRS, or failed to file them
alto The recitation went on and on.

When Dmitri started talking about the businesses part of town, Peter's
eyes widened.  Many protection were in force: false invoicing was going
on at the grocer the corner where he liked to shop, the one with the
really cheese case, plus dry cleaners, drugstores... Peter shook his
head as he moved slowly around the

taking pictures of an old portrait here, a bodyguard there, half
dozing as he watched his boss, or the back of Dmitri's head again, as
he gestured earnestly.  It was amazing how much expression the back of
a head could have.  And on and on, until Peter found himself unable to
count how many businesses in his area were not on the take.  And Mel
just wrote it all down, nodding and ask inga question every now and
then.

Three hours.  Peter sat down, finally, unloaded his camera and reloaded
it with fresh film, but it was a token gesture.  There was simply
nothing left to take pictures of in the room.  A little while later,
Dmitri sat back and fell silent.

Mel sat back too, flipping through the pages of his notebook.  Then he
looked up.  "How's your security these days, Dmitri?"  he said.

Dmitri looked around him, waved confidently at the (admittedly,
somewhat sleepy-looking) men standing around him.  "I trust them with
my life."

"You're going to have to.  You know how news travels in this town. It's
going to be a matter of hours before Galya knows I've been here. He'll
know what we've been talking about.  After that--"

Dmitri shrugged.  "The Communists knew where I was, too," he said.  "I
survived them.  I'll survive this too.  This is important," he said,
leaning forward and tapping the coffee table again.  "This is business.
Galya is bad for business."

"He'll be bad for you now," Mel said.  "Even if he doesn't sneak up
behind you one dark night and do you in, he must have some of the same
kind of information about your doings that you have about his."

Dmitri laughed again.  "Not nearly so much.  He's not a subtle man, our
Galya: he doesn't look behind things.  I look to my future, and to the
inevitability of betrayal--and so I make it as

hard as I can.  But we shall see.  And you--what will you this?"

Mel looked at the notebook.  "Transcribe it first," he "Then start
fact-checking."

"You would check my facts?"

Now it was Mel's turn to shrug.  "Dmitri, freedom of press doesn't mean
we get to print just anything we like.  It nee to be true, in all minor
particulars as well as major ones.  We need to check.  Money laundering
is one thing: laundering is another."

"SNell, all right.  But," he checked his watch, "you should now, yes?
.... "I suppose we should.  I'll be in touch, Dmitri.

Mel stood up.  "If all this is as you think it is, you could be the
city, the state--maybe the country--a big favor."

"It did me a favor," Dmitri said.  "It gave me a place to and do
business."  The glint in his eye was cheerful, and and funny.  "I
scratch America's back: it scratches mine.  Da ?"  "Da, "Mel said.

"And you, young Pyotr," Dmitri said, turning to "Those pictures better
be good.  I have a reputation to tain."

"These'll be the best pictures of the back of your head that you've
ever seen," said Peter.

Dmitri roared with laughter.  "Too bad you can't do thing about the
bald spot.  Hey?"  He jabbed Peter in the cheerfully.  "Never mind.  A
long night, you did a goodj get in the car, they'll take you where you
want."

"I'll take the subway in," Mel said.  "If your guy just drops me near a
D or F train, I'll be fine."  .

Dmitri led them to the door, shaking his head and looking at them
strangely.  "Zou are a madman," he said.

Theywent back into the garage, got into the limo, drove around
Brooklyn for a bit, then stopped, presumably near a subway stop, and
Mel got out.

"All right," he said to Peter.  "You want to come back with me?  Safety
in numbers."

"Sure, why not," Peter said, and went, for he wanted to keep an eye on
Mel on the way home, unable to shake the notion that something untoward
might happen to him.

They went down the stairs into the subway station---then straight back
up the stairs on the far side of the station and across to where a
couple of gypsy cabs were waiting by an all-night grocery for late
fares.  "This'll do," said Ahrens, hopped into the first cab, and told
the driver, "First and Eighty-sixth, please."  They sped off.

"Mel, would you mind dropping me off along the way?"  said Peter.

"No problem.  Where?"

"Which bridge are you going to take back?"  he said to the cabbie.

The man scowled a bit at the odd question, then said, "Probably the
Williamsburg."

Peter thought for a moment.  "Grand Street and Union Avenue, then."

The cabbie glanced at him in the rearview mirror and raised his
eyebrows.  "Not a very safe area, this time of night."

"It's all right.  I'm meeting somebody."

Mel looked at Peter with a half-amused, half-disapproving expression.
"Does your wife know about this?"  "As a matter of fact, she does."
"Okay, then.  Suit yourself."

They got to Grand and Union, looking deserted and desolate under the
yellow sodium glow, and Peter got out.  M leaned forward to peer at him
out of the still-open door.  'you'

be in tomorrow with those photos?"

'eah.  About noontime."

"Great!  I'll see you, then.  Be careful."

"You're telling me to be careful!"  Peter laughed, closing cab door. It
headed away down the street and left him alone the curb.

Quickly and quietly he slipped behind a unit of stores on corner,
scanning the alleyway to make sure the alley as empty as it seemed.  It
was, and he got busy changing.

Half a minute later, a long, slender strand of webbing up to hit a
high-tension tower not too far away, and SI went scrambling after it,
swinging onto the next building heading after Mel's cab.  Just to be
sure, he thought.

The atmosphere of danger he had been feeling all had sharpened abruptly
when he came out.  It hadn't been spider-sense, but something else.
Probably just good fashioned worry.

The cab, well ahead of him by now, was indeed onto the Williamsburg
Bridge.  He went after it, sending in a long shot toward one of the
bridge superstructures, swung in a wide, fast arc out into the night.
They were rating, these big jumps.  Sometimes even working from scraper
to skyscraper down the concrete canyons of Manhattan could seem a
little constricting.  Swing too wide there, was always a vertical solid
surface sixty stories high in your way.  The feeling of openness as he
looped and between the structures of the bridge was like a breath of
fresh air.

And all the time, he watched the cab.  There wasn't much other traffic
on the bridge, except for a few cars heading

other way, toward Brooklyn.  Two-thirty in the morning, so I suppose,
His thought stopped at the roar of a fast-re wing engine below him.  He
looked down and saw a white minivan go tearing onto the bridge in what
had to be hot pursuit of Mel's cab.  Spidey swung lower as the van
poured on speed, its engine bellowing in protest through a muffler
whose packing had seen better days.  There was a brief tire squeal as
it changed lanes, then another burst of speed to bring it up alongside
the cab.  It changed lanes againn

--and this time sideswiped the cab hard into the railing.  Once, and
there was a screech of grinding metal.  A long tail of sparks went
stuttering across the tarmac surface before the cabbie recovered and
pulled away.

Twice, and something gave.  It was the railing, lengths of metal
popping free of their sockets like pins in wet clay and tumbling down
toward the waiting river.  Spidey swung down, shooting webbing from his
free hand at first one support, then another.  More webbing slapped
against the shattered railing as the cab slewed to a teetering stop
right on the edge, and as he hit the bridge and bounced, he sent a
final jet across all three strands to give them a common anchor, pulled
everything as tight as he could, and turned, gasping to see what would
happen.

The web stretched, and the cab tipped over sideways.  Then it stopped
stretching, and the cab caught.  The minivan, whose driver had slowed
to watch, gunned its engine and accelerated away on over the bridge.
Even though the web was holding for now, Spidey clambered hastily up
the bridge support and shot a couple more lines over the cab.

Okay, spider-strength do your stuff!

Then he heaved, and heaved again.  The cab shifted, bouncing in the
hammock of web strands that surrounded and ported it, then slowly
leaned back toward the bridge dropped with a crash onto all four wheels
again.  There was burst of noise from inside: two voices, one yelling,
the swearing.  Which was which, he couldn't tell.

Anyway, Spider-Man didn't have time to attend to them now.  But anyone
capable of that much foul language at volume couldn't be much hurt.  As
he webbed away down bridge in pursuit of the white minivan, he saw Mel
stagger of the cab, stare at the webbing, touch it, and then gape in
all directions but the right one in an attempt to happened.

At the other end of the bridge the minivan had gone ing of fat the
first exit, swinging around onto the so as to recross in the opposite
direction.  Spider-Man took self up one of the supports and out of
sight, watching in the side or rear door opened to reveal the muzzle of
a nikov.  If they did, he could web either or both doors shut fast for
a gunman to react.

Mel watched it approach and shook both his fists in a as it drew level,
then ducked as a hand came out of the window with a pistol in it.  The
gun barked a few times, a volley of badly aimed shots from the wildly
swaying spanged and ricocheted most impressively, but came near him.

The van had no plates, and there was no point in Mel ering with it any
further.  He turned back toward the cabbie began waving his fists at
him, instead.

Excess tension, Spidey thought.  Wonderful thing.  He the white van
roar away beneath him and back toward lyn.  Now then, he thought, and
went in pursuit.

It led him on a merry chase, all the more so because he

taking particular care not to be seen.  It was a bit of a trick as
they got off the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, but he managed it, and
followed the white van south.  After a mile or so the driver plainly
decided he was safe, because the van slowed right down, almost too much
in Spidey's opinion.  Any vehicle being driven that carefully was as
likely to rouse a traffic cop's suspicions as one being driven too
fast, particularly this late at night, and though they hadn't used an
AK-74 in the drive-by, that didn't mean there wasn't one inside.

At one point, near Flatbush Avenue and Church, it actually pulled off
into a side street while two men jumped out and used cordless
electronic screwdrivers--he could hear the thin whine--to bolt New York
plates back onto the front and rear of the van.  Spidey took a careful
mental note of the numbers; they probably belonged to another car,
stolen or otherwise, but then again they might prove to be some kind of
help.  The van started up again, and so did he.

At Foster Avenue the van veered sideways, then after a few long blocks
turned south onto Ocean Parkway.  Aha.t Spidey thought, for down at the
bottom of Ocean lay Bensonhurst, and after that Brighton Beach and
Coney Island.

Russian country.

He swung from building to building, keeping up the best speed he could
and grateful that, even at this hour of the morning, there was enough
traffic to keep the van from simply blasting out of sight and losing
him.  They headed into the depths of Bensonhurst, turned briefly toward
Ocean Avenue, then headed down a side street.  There the van pulled up
in front of a brownstone, turned its lights and engine off, and sat
quiet.  Hmm, thought Spidey.  Are we waiting for someone?

Farther down the street he could see an apartment building with an
underground parking lot, and suddenly he began to

wonder.  Hurriedly dropping from his vantage point on top

: of the brownstone, he landed on the roof of the van.  There muffled
exclamations from inside, but nothing that him particularly.

But instead of webbing the doors shut from the con ver

position of the roof, he jumped to the ground before his own brand of
external lock.  It was just as well.  Even the occupants realized that
they couldn't get out, some guy emptied half a clip of full-auto
through the roof, right tween where Spidey's feet had landed.

There were a couple of metallic squeaks and clatters as doors were
tried, then another three rapid shots turned the inated windshield into
a piece of sagging modern art.  It shoved from its frame, and people
started climbing through hole.

"Oh no," said Spidey in a disapproving voice, and webbing them as fast
as they got out.  Their gunfire was newscasters would usually call
sporadic; it made an noise but otherwise didn't do much good.  One
after

:' as though there were a stamping-press inside, the van big men in
dark clothing, and one after another, as emerged, Spider-Man hit each
one with a generous squirt of  fluid.

This resulted in the utterance of several words like and chyorthich
Spidey assumed to be some manner of sian swearword or other--as they
cut themselves on glass,

kicked each other in the soft parts before they realized there really
was only space for one to get out at a time, and swore even harder when
they found themselves by the lengths of webbing.

Four of them, finally.  It had seemed like more.  When

pie stopped climbing out of the van, Spidey carefully peered inside in
case anyone else had seen what was happening outside and decided to
stay under cover.  No; it was empty.

But on the back shelf of the van were four cell phones.

As he looked at them, and a grim smile spread across his face beneath
the mask, one of the phones began to ring.  The men lying webbed on the
ground all glared at him, and one of them growled something that
sounded like "proldeenyesh sookeensahn .  "

"Yeah, yeah, army boots to you too," Spidey said as he reached in and
picked up the phone.  He tapped the reply button, and a voice that
seemed too big for the little handset speaker started yelling at him in
Russian.  "I'm sorry," he said in a fair imitation of the annoying Cell
Tech voice mail, "but the party you are calling is all tied up right
now."

That's a joke so old it appears in cave paintings, he thought ruefully,
but what the hey ?  Besides---he glanced at the well-webbed Russian
hoods lying at his feet--how often is it true?

There was a long pause at the other end of the phone, and then
laughter.  It was a shrill, high-pitched, and unpleasant sound that
could never be a genuinely merry sound like Dmitri's guffaw.  "Who is
this?"  said the voice at last, speaking in good though accented
English.

"Spider-Man," said Spidey, just to see what the reaction would be.  It
was more laughter, even more shrill, even less pleasant, and on a hunch
he said, "Galya?"

"Oh, very smart, Mister Super Hero.  You have been talking to Dmitri
II'yevich, have you not?  That was a bad mistake.  And somebody else
has been talking to him.  That reporterm" '%ao your people just tried
to kill."

'es, well, if they missed him this time, they'll get him some

other day.  Or someone else will.  He doesn't make a friends, your
Mister Ahrens  He pronounced the name in'.  distinct syllables.  "Not
that he will matter in the long you."  There was more laughter.  "After
all, in a hundred who'll know the difference?"  He laughed harder.  "Or
in a dred days."

Then the line went dead, and a moment later was listening to a busy
signal.  He looked at the phone, about dumping it, then decided not to
and secured the in a pouch made of webbing--but only after using one to
call 911 and report automatic gunfire just

The lights of the first blue-and-white were already riding siren wail
toward him along Ocean Parkway as he webbed But he was unable to get
rid of the sound of that the sound of a man who didn't have a care in
the about being caught in the act of

Who didn't care about anything because he knew wouldn't matter in a
hundred days.

Whatever that meant.

Elsewhere in town, inside a huge apartment ma nearly furnished place
where the curtains were kept closed all shouldered, broad-bodied man
sat behind a large desk, through some paperwork.  In front of him on
the marble stood a slender red-haired man in a black jacket; not
standing at attention, but giving that impression anyhow.  "Report,"
said the man behind the desk.  "Operation Stifle is going along
nicely," said the man.  "The last few--sanctions--are being taken care
of.  one who knew about the Miami processing plant will be within two
days."

very good.  It's not just a matter of 'loose lips' and possible
betrayals.  Loose ends are so untidy .... "He turned over some of the
paperwork on the desk with one hand, leaning his chin on the other,
pausing for a moment to listen to the faint rumbling from outside.  "I
would do something about the soundproofing," he said absently, "except
that, in a little while, there won't be any point, will there?  How are
the container shipments going?"

"They've almost all reached their secondary destinations.  Our teams
will be breaking them down into their final sizes over the next two
days."

%rery well.  Keep an eye on the timing of this phase, the pickups and
so forth.  It would be very annoying if the authorities discovered one
of these shipments by mistake.  Or detonated it, for that matter."  The
big man smiled slightly, turned over another page.

"Oh, and the guest suite is ready, sir."

"Excellent.  I would hate to have Spider-Man miss this denouement; it
will be so delightful to watch him realize that, for once, for all his
meddling over all these years, there's genuinely nothing he can do to
stop the process.  "A metal tentacle arched slowly over the man's back,
bent down to tap, like someone's drumming fingers, on the table.
'%ge'll see if it's true what they say, that heroes break hardest when
they break.  Are we sure the sanction teams are properly equipped?"

"Zes, sir, and there are six of them.  We'll have no trouble bringing
him in for the big blow off

The big man chuckled.  "Blowoff.  Yes.  I do so love the vernacular.
Very well.  Anything else that needs my attention, Niner?"

"Not at present, sir."

Sitting back in his chair, the big man smiled.  "It's always
satisfying," he said, "to be in the last stages of a projecting all the
pieces come together.  You can go, Niner."

The redheaded man left quietly.  The four metal ten attached to the big
man's waist descended to curl and around him in a contemplative way as
he folded his han closed his eyes briefly.

Day Hundred is coming.

p

Peter woke up to the smell of coffee.  He had come to bed very quietly,
but MJ had been sprawled under the sheets, so fast asleep and looking
so wrung out that she probably wouldn't have noticed if he'd played
himself a lullaby on a tuba.  His last thought before closing his eyes
was that her day had apparently been pretty much like his.

Now, with the scent of fresh coffee filling the apartment, he rolled
over and yawned.  "Aha," came a voice from down the hall.  "I know that
sound."  MJ was already fully dressed and made up, and not just the
usual casual-but-pretty.  This was the full nine yards.

"Where are you going?"  he said, blinking the remains of sleep from his
eyes.

"WorkI"

"But I thought your hand"

"Not my hand.  My voice."

"Wait a minute.  Wasn't lipstick involved in this somehow?"  '/'es, it
was.  But that unhappy episode seems to have borne a different sort of
fruit.  Come on and have some breakfast, and I'll tell you all about
it.  But first, you'd better look at the news."

Peter yawned again and got out of bed, wrapping himself in his bathrobe
as he padded toward the kitchen.  "The way you say that, I'm getting
tempted to put an ax through the screen."  "Oh, I dunno.  It's not the
TV's fault."

He wandered in just as the morning news reader was repeating her
headline stories.  "muggers are now in hospital at Bellvue, suffering
from serious injuries" she was saying, but it

was the placard behind her head that caught his attention.

showed Venom's tongue-lolling, grin-distorted face.

"Oh, wonderful."

'eYes," said MJ, pouring him coffee.  "I don't like havin away from you
when he's around."

"It's not like we haven't tangled before, and I'm still, " "Okay," he
calls it," said MJ and snorted derisively.  your ribs broken and your
head bashed in half the time, lumps and bumps and bruises all over your
body, and cuts scrapes and scratches and dueling wounds, this is some
newt finition of 'okay' that I'm not familiar with."

Then she sighed and sat down, looking at her own cup.  "I don't like
it, Tiger.  What if he's come back to things?  He's had plenty of time
to recover after the last

"And so have I. But there's no way to tell with him.  And can't worry
about him right now; I've got other things on mind.  And you?  What was
your day like?"

"Oh, please."  She told him about meeting Lalande and others at Baja,
about the lipstick shoot, and finally about small, smiling man who had
come up to her and given her card.  She pushed it across the table to
him, and Peter

"Film and television?  Steady work, maybe?"

"I don't know yet.  I called him earlier this morning to set a meeting,
and it turns out he's a voice director for this They do animation, and
he wants to audition me, to smiled--"that should be, to hear, if I'll
be good for some that he's working on."

"It could be steady work, then.  How does voice pay?"

'vVell, I'm still a SAG member after Secret Hospital, so there'; no
problem at the union-card end.  If he wants to hire me, I start right
away."  MJ picked up the business card and again.  "And after
yesterday, it would be a real pleasure

at something that didn't involve bright lights, and people running
around screaming, and having to do the same shot over and over again
because last time it wasn't just quite right.  In fact, after yesterday
I'd seriously consider ditch-digging."

She finished her coffee and eyed him over the rim of the cup.  "Zou
were out late.  How did it go?"

"Yes, well..."  Peter gave her a much-edited version of the interview
with Dmitri, and its aftermath, then watched her nod dubiously.

"At least the shooting didn't break out while you were actually there,"
she said.  "But I don't like the idea that this guy immediately tried
to kill Mel.  What's to say he won't try to kill you, too?  After all,
you both heard the same things."

Peter raised his eyebrows.  "I'm not sure that his people even knew
that I was there.  But they sure knew that Mel was--and they knew he'd
taken a cab even after that little shuffle in the subway station.  He
was being watched, but I must have gone unnoticed.  Not important
enough, maybe."

"A backhanded compliment, if you like.  Let's keep it that way.  There
are some kinds of importance nobody needs."  She checked her watch.
"Gotta go, Tiger.  Where'll you be today?"

"I've got pictures to develop, and then I thought I might follow up on
the lead that Sergeant Drew gave me.  His source of cell phone
information.  After yesterday we're gonna need some other source of
help, because we're not gonna get it from Cell Tech

"Right," she said and kissed him.  "I'm off."

"Only a little, and it hardly shows."

Here eyes twinkled at him as she headed for the door.  'ge should try
to get you on Letterman sometime," she said and shut it behind her.

Peter chuckled.  He got up, washed, shaved, dressed, and did

some morning maintenance for Spider-Man, mostly refilling the
web-shooters.  Then he took out the cell from the van last night and
stared thoughtfully at them, cially the one on which the call from
Galya had come Just ordinary cell phones; brand difference.  model
differences, and otherwise no different from every cell phone in the
city.  Peter put on his Spider-Man mask to He his voice, picked up the
ordinary phone, and dialed Sergeant Drew.

The sergeant was up to his neck in work, as usual, and just on his way
out to a court appearance when Spidey through.  "Listen," he said,
'just call this number," and he fled off a seven-digit number.  "Got
it?"

"Got it.  That's a 212?"

"Yeah.  If there's a problem, say I cleared you.  Then And Drew hung
up.

Peter dialed the new number, and waited.  A moment a very soft feminine
voice said, "Doris Smyth."

"Uh, Ms.  Smyth, my name is Peter Parker, and I'm a of Spider-Man,
who--"

"Oh yes.  Sergeant Drew called me to say that might be in touch.  Or
have someone do so on his Peter noticed the phrasing, and was briefly,
cautiously trigued by it.  Did Drew suspect?  Or was he likely to,
after ing out just who Spider-Man had assigned to make the his place?
Well, there was nothing for it now but to press though not regardless.
Rather more cautiously than that.  Smyth continued, "The sergeant
didn't say much more that this involved a very interesting problem. 
Would you to come up to my place and discuss it?"  The voice was and
friendly.

"Certainly.  That is, if it's convenient."

"No problem at all."  And she supplied him with a posh East Side
address.

"Is there an apartment number?"

'fust forty-fifth floor.  You'll know it when you see it."  There was a
small chuckle.  "The building ends quite soon afterwards."  "I'll be
there in, uh, twenty minutes."

And in twenty minutes, Peter was looking up at a sleek and expensive
forty-five-floor apartment building and muttering "Good grief," under
his breath.  A sleek and expensive doorman opened the sleek and
expensive door for him, and Peter stepped inside.

As he passed, the doorman said, "Apartment?"

"Uh, I was only told the floor.  Forty-fifth."

"Ah, that would be Mrs.  Smyth.  Right this way, sir."  He directed
Peter to an elevatornas sleek and expensive as everything else he had
seen so farm then reached inside, punched 45, and smoothly withdrew
from between the smoothly closing doors.

When it stopped, and the doors opened smoothly, he was looking out into
a small private lobby with only one door leading off it.  Then the door
opened.

Peter wasn't quite sure what he had been expecting, but it certainly
wasn't this.  Standing in the doorway was a genteel little old lady,
with pale, fine skin that was barely wrinkled, except for the demure
pattern of smile and laughter lines around her eyes and mouth.  Wearing
a dressy little green tweed jacket-and skirt set, with a dark,
high-necked blouse and a discreet string of pearls, she looked as if
she were going out to take tea somewhere nice and swap gossip with a
couple of duchesses.

"Ms."  er, Smyth?"

"Mrs.," she said, "but call me Doris.  And you're Peter Parker?"

"That's right."  They shook hands, and she gestured him Peter walked
into one of the biggest and most beautiful apartments it had ever been
his pleasure to see, wonderfully furnished with antiques and expensive
porcelain: the that MJ lusted after, the Meissen that Kate Cushing
liked much, beautiful old couches upholstered in crimson and Regency
stripe, with wood that gleamed with the trous patina as Mel Ahrens's
old typewriter, polished fronts and bureaus, and behind all of these,
windows with a truly astonishing view.  It was not at all the sort of
place where he expected to be!p for his and MJ's cell phone problem. 
ii

"Forgive me," Peter said, "but--Well, I'm just blown

This view goes right 'round, doesn't it?"

"Oh yes.  I have the whole floor.  My late husband used to in shipping.
He was quite successful, but, well, George us anymore."  She cleared
her throat.  "Anyway.  Sit down have a cup of tea, and tell me what
your problem is."

They sat down at a handsome glass-topped table at one of the huge main
living room, and Peter explained what .: happened to MJ's phone.  "Yes
indeed," said Doris.  lot of that nonsense going around.  Very nasty.
And of course the phone companies aren't wildly eager to do it.  All
they want is to cover their assets, so to speak, and too, of course.
They'll happily take it out of their s pockets."

"I've noticed that," Peter said.

"Yes, quite.  So much easier than trying to find a way the problem. But
then, that might cost money.  You don't have: the phone with you at the
moment?"

"No, I don't.  My wife's got it, and she's out on business."  "All
right," Doris said.  'ellm"

"Forgive me," Peter interrupted, "but I'm not sure that youI

I mean, what do you do about this kind of thing?"

"Come back this way, Peter Parker, and I'll show you."

She led him out of the living room and across the kitchen, out the far
side, and into another room that was as big as both the first two
rolled into one.  Bookshelves were here, and more beautiful old
furniture, and a corridor that led along one side of the building,
walled with more floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the
cityscape below.

"I just can't get over the view," Peter said again.  It was true; he'd
been as high, or higher, when out web-slinging, but that had never been
an activity conducive to rubbernecking.

"George always said I should be comfortable in my old age, and I've
always liked to see what's going on around me.  This seemed to be the
best way to combine both wishes.  And here we are."  She opened up a
door on the left that might once have led into a guest bedroom.

Now the guests would have to be communications experts from the CIA. At
the very least.

What had once been a bedroom was now packed with more electronic
equipment than he had seen in one place since the last time he passed
through the Fantastic Four's Headquarters.  From floor to ceiling along
every wall, mounted in studio-quality instrument racks, were banks and
banks of scanners, fiberoptic phone connections in bundles as thick as
packs of spaghetti, ISDN linkages, phone-band radios, what seemed to be
short-, medium-, and long-wave radio receivers bristling with buttons.
Everything was black, very expensive, and very professional.

"George always said I should have a hobby," Doris said to Peter, "and I
never could get the hang of knitting.  And as for casting off, I must
have created the longest single sock in history.  But he left me quite
a bit of money--"

That's an unnecessary observation, Peter thought,

at the cool, dark racks of equipment and feeling them back at him with
tiny LED eyes.

"-and I always did like keeping in touch with listening to what was
going on.  And what comes through so much more interesting than most
talk shows, don't think?"

"But isn't it, er, sort of illegal to listen in on private
munications?"  he said, staring at yet another floor of equipment, this
time so complex that he couldn't even.  at what it was meant to do.

"Not if the government gives you everything they want to listen
with."

"Urn," said Peter.  There were some statements that went yond words.

"You know, I had one of the first cell phones sold in York City," Doris
said.  "And about ten others.  I got cloned, It made me cross."  She
said it quietly enough, but there something about the glint in her
blue-gray eyes that it wasn't a good idea to make Doris Smyth cross.

"I started doing some research into hacking, and and all the other ways
a phone company could be cheated.  got very interesting.  So I started
buying equipment to look the problem myself, and quite soon after that
I tracked the people who had cloned my own phone.  It was easier they
left a track through the ether half a mile wide.  Once I done that, I
contacted the phone company and passed the in, formation along.  They
were so impressed that," she smiled up at him, "they hired me.  I do
fairly well.  Something like a ten percent identification rate, which I
gather is pretty good.  The end result is that all three of the major
cell companies here including CellTechmuse me as a security
consultant.  I charge them what the market will bear, and in some cases
I do work pro bono.  That will be you, young man.  Or rather, your
wife.  They socked you for--how much was it?"

"Four thousand and change."

She tutted disapprovingly.  "A young couple like you can't be expected
to pay that kind of money.  We've got to do something about these
regulations.  They're hurting people.  It's not your fault that half
the criminals in New York are making cell phones work for them.  It's
only to be expected, though.  If something is worth money, then
someone, somewhere, will work out a way to steal it."  She led the way
out of the room, and closed its door behind her.

"Surely there have to be other consultants working on this kind of
thing," Peter said as they walked back up the glass-walled corridor.
"So how come you're doing so well?  It could just be natural talent, of
course."

Doris glanced up at him again, and smiled.  "Flatterer.  If your wife
finds that you're wasting perfectly good compliments on eighty-year-old
grannies, you're going to get in trouble!"  "Eighty?"

"But I don't look a year over sixty, right?"

"Really, you don't.  What's your secret?"

"Snoopiness, and having something to do.  Something really interesting.
Everyone should have something really interesting to do, even if they
have to keep it a secret.  Have you?"

"Er, I do a lot of freelance photography, for the Bugle and for"

"Oh?  Would I have seen any of your pictures?"

'"You would have seen some in the Bugle over the last week, yes."

"Then you're a celebrity!  Well, you have to come and down, finish
your tea, and tell me all about it."

"I'm not a celebrity, not really," Peter said.  "It's

But it was no use.  He got to sit down again with Doris, and her all
about his wife, and especially about MJ's stint in Secret.

pit aL

"She's in that!  Who is she?  The nurse?  Why, she's

And her phone was cloned.  The very idea!  Well, we're do something
about that."  Peter smiled slightly.  MJ was to love this.  "And you
tell her she has to come up and see

She has a fan.  Why, she must meet such interesting people,

do such interesting things."

Peter let her rattle on.  It was plain that one of the

Doris was so good at her job was that she loved gossip.  No of
information, not the most petty detail, was too insl for her
attention.

He sat with her for what must have been the better part the afternoon,
and after the rather dodgy ecompany

she was a pleasure.  But more to the point, the more he to her, the
more he realized that under her exterior she was a serious
professional, and a power to be with.  She told him about ways that
cell phones were being illegally used in the city that even he, with
his daily exposure criminal element, had ever dreamed of.  Not just
drugs gambling and money-laundering, but coordinating times burglaries,
bank robberies, and even simple street

One criminal gang had even been using them as detonators blow up the
gas stations they had just robbed.

"A lot of people just don't understand e said Doris, "much less what
the various frequencies can eyed Peter keenly over the rims of her
glasses.  "But some of us

do understand.  That's one of the reasons why I bought this place."

Peter glanced around him.  "Well, it's a really nice apartment," he
said, "and the view--"

"No, not that.  Come out this way."  They stepped out onto the terrace
together.  Doris's terrace went all the way around her penthouse, and
it had emitters, microwave receivers, and relays that made the setups
on the Empire State Buildingand the World Trade Center look seriously
inadequate.  Peter had never seen so many antennas together in one
place in his life.

"I've got line of sight into three states," she said, "and from here
I've also got line of sight down into three-fifths of the city's
streets.  That means a lot of the time I can do a direct
ambient-radiation trace on any cell phone in use.  It's really very
useful."

Peter was feeling much better, reassured as well as slightly awed after
seeing the quiet room that had looked so much like a starship's bridge.
He was still thinking about MJ's phone bill, but also about the other
phones that he had taken from the Russian thugs last night--and Galya's
bizarre, threatening laughter.  I wonder, is there any way to get her
to look at that one ?  he thought as they went back inside to sit at
the table again.  "More tea?"  said Doris, already reaching for the
pot. "Uh, thanks, Doris, but I really think I should be going." 
'vVell, bring that phone up for me--as soon as you can get it away from
your famous wife."  She smiled at him.  "I really would love to meet
her sometime."

"And I'm sure she'd love to meet you, too.  I'll get the phone just as
quick as I can.  By the way, there was a sort of crank call to it, just
last night.  Is there any way to find out where it came from?"

"That's fairly simple, as a rule.  Once I've got the self, I can look
into it."  She saw him to the door, shook hand, and told him to have a
nice day--then went back in to resume her secret identity as a
senior-citizen Spock.

Peter shook his head.  Little old ladies just weren't what used to
be.

Sundog Productions was a small, four-story brownstone in middle
Forties, near Third Avenue.  She buzzed the door, a voice said, '(eah?"
It sounded like Jymn Magon.

"It's Mary Jane Watson-Parker, forJymn Magon," she "Oh, hi there, Mary
Jane!  Come on up."  The lock buzz, then clicked, and MJ pushed the
heavy wooden door swung it shut behind her, then proceeded to climb
four of stairs straight up from the street.  There had been leading off
on each floor, but those were all boarded up.

The topmost door had another buzzer, and a glass overlooking the
reception area.  A friendly-looking waved at her through the window,
and buzzed the door as she approached.  MJ was fairly fit, but even so
she was inga little as she stepped inside.

"Some climb," she said.

"Zep," said the other.  "But it tires the burglars out as

Come on in.  I'm Harriet."

"Pleased to meet you."

The door of one of the inner offices opened, and

Magon came out.  "Hi, Mary Jane," he said.  "Come in,

"Call me MJ if you like."

"Glad to.  Now, if you, ll just step this way, into our corporate
lair." He led her through the reception area and out to the back of the
brownstone.  One side of the room had a spiral staircase

leading down from it into the areas beneath, and this upper floor had
been partitioned into offices.

"We keep the studios downstairs," said Magon.  "All the doors and
windows are sealed.  It's not just for security; we had to install a
lot of anechoic insulation for the voice recording, because of the
usual traffic noise--and because we're real close to Grand Central and
all five ga jillion trains that use it.  Even so, we've got some of the
quietest studios in the city here."

He ushered her into a comfortable office whose walls, where they
weren't covered with framed animation eels, were decorated with
children's drawings, and offered her a chair.  "Sit down, and tell me
what you've done."  Behind his own desk was a big poster entitled THE
SIX STAGES OF A PROJECT.  MJ glanced at it briefly, then gave him a
quick verbal resume of her work.

He was most impressed with the Secret Hospitalwork--less for the work
itself than because she had survived in one piece.  "I've heard what a
zoo that place was," he said, grinning.  "I hear about it every time I
meet someone who was ever on the show."  They also talked briefly about
yesterday's lipstick shoot, and about the "director of death."

"All right," saidJymn, "so the field has a tradition of eccentric,
egocentric directors.  But they're not all De Mine, and they certainly
don't all have his talent.  So they've earned the occasional
dressing-down by irate lipstick models."

MJ smiled modestly.

Jymn went on, "But, while everyone appreciated the words, I also
appreciated the voice that uttered them.  You've got really good
timbre.  When your voice drops, it gets very dry, and there's a strong
sound to it.  Too often, female talents think they need to shout when
they're voicinga strong character, and they end up sounding like early
Margaret Thatcher, all squeaky and nasal.

It took years to get her to drop her voice low enough to t men to
listen to her, apparently; and once she it right, got hated her twice
as much.  She was too good at making them what she wanted."

'vVhat exactly did you want to audition me for?"  MJ said.  WV ell
right now we're starting work on a new syndicated ries: sixty-five
episodes.  It's a super hero show called The Group."

MJ raised her eyebrows.  "I thought the super hero trem getting kind of
old."  With so many super heroes making lines and lead news stories,
people seemed to have grown of the fictional versions.

"No, the pendulum's swinging back again.  Go figure.

case, we've got a nice syndication deal, so someone thinks trend's not
dead-and insists on giving us their money as proof of confidence--and I
for one have no objection to ing out.  Right now it would be 'casual'
or 'fill-in' want you for: not running characters, but ones who appear
specific episodes as one-time characters, super-villains, thin like
that.  Do you think it's something you could do?"

"I could certainly audition for you, and we'll see how it out.  But,"
and she smiled, "I've always been kinda fond of super hero thing."

"Good.  Character identification already.  Come on stairs.  We'll do a
brief set of readings from some scripts that have either been shot, or
are about to be, and see how you sound.

Oh, and one last thing: your SAG membership is current?"  "Yes."

"One less thing to worry about, then.  Let's go."

She followed him down the spiral staircase and into the reception area
for the third floor, a central windowed area overlooking four separate
recording suites.  Two of them

already occupied: people were sitting inside manipulating soundboards,
and beyond, through yet another set of glass windows other people were
sitting in director's chairs with music stands in front of them,
microphones hanging from the ceiling, and intent expressions on their
faces.

"Some of our leads, in there," saidJymn, pointing to the suite on the
left.  "Mike Bright, Chris Clarens, and Orkney Hallard.  They're three
of our good guys.  The bad guys are out to lunch.  Anyway, come over
here into Four, we'll get you comfortable, and then you can read some
stuff for me."

MJ went along happily enough.  This was the least tense audition she
could remember having for a long time.  Jymn brought in a stack of
scripts and riffled through them, pulling pages out.

"Since we're working on such short notice," he said, "and you haven't
had a chance to read any of this material ahead of time, I'm not going
to give you anything too substantive.  I'm looking for emotion here,
the kind of crazy voice that you were doing yesterday when our friend
was yelling at you.  Big reactions, over the top; don't be afraid to
shriek."

She gave him a wry look.  'gould you believe that shrieking is the one
thing I've tried to avoid most in my entire life?"  she asked.

"Good.  Then you'll do it here, and get it out of your system-and if
this works out, you'll get paid for it."

Now there's an interesting concept.  MJ smiled.  She was liking this
better and better all the time.

"Most of these characters are bad guys, so don't be afraid to
'nyah-hah-ha' a little.  Unfortunately, our broader viewing public is
not yet au courant with the concept that bad guys don't necessarily
sound bad, but it's gotten into the culture and right now We're stuck
with it.  Please God, twenty years from now when

everyone's reading Tolstoy and Kiplingagain, all this will se very
silly.  Okay, I'm going to shut you in here for the sound.  you have
any problems with claustrophobia?"

"Not at all.  I live in a Manhattan apartment."

Jymn chuckled.  'Just thought I'd check."

MJ spent the next hour reading what seemed very mentary lines in
various funny voices: high, low, meaning scared, funny.  It was
surprisingly easy--or maybe it was that the director was surprisingly
good.  Jymn had a talent for ing out tones and colorations of voice
that you didn't know, had.  It helped that he had quite a talent in the
voice line serf.  If you couldn't actually understand the sound even
after five minutes of explanation that could vary earthy and graphic to
highly technical, he would make it at Then all you had to do was
imitate, and you were home free.

"Aha!"  MJ would cry, pronouncing it with more or less clamat ion marks
as required; and "Now I've got you!"  in shade of meaning, including
some that were highly priate to a children's animated show; but there
was something about the way she said, "Resistance is useless!"  that on
at one occasion'Jymn pitched face-forward onto the mixin and pounded it
with his fists.

"I'm sorry," she said.  "Should I read that one again?"  Jymn hit the
talk button that let him be heard inside the soundproofed studio, and
though more or less back under control, MJ could still hear tremors of
laughter running up down his voice like a piano hit with a brick.
'(es," he said.  "Oh yes.  The same way as last time, but louder!"

So it went, for a cheerful hour and more, untilJymn stopped, keyed his
talk button, and said, "Are you thirsty?  Can I get you an ice water or
something?"

The thought had occurred to her in mid cackle of some villainous laugh
or other, about ten minutes or so ago.  "Oh, yes, please," she said. 
"I'd love it."

"Sit tight," said Jymn.  "I'll be right with you."  He got up from the
mixing desk and vanished out through the sound room door.

Trapped, thought MJ.  I'm trapped.  Not so, of course.  The heavy
baffled door wasn't even locked, staying tight shut as much by its own
ponderous weight.  But the studio was so quiet, its anechoic filing
soaking up every sound.  She sat for a few minutes and just listened to
it.  New Yorkers forget, sometimes, just what real quiet is, and if
taken out into the country they lie awake at night, missing the distant
or nearby sounds of subway and traffic, and the endless subliminal roar
of ten million other human beings packed together into the confines of
the city who were just getting on with their lives.

In here, you could almost believe that human beings weren't outside
anymore.  Almost, but not quite: the listening ear could detect a truck
going by or the rumble of a deep train, even though it was a sensation
more felt than heard.  She put her hand on the tabletop nearby, but
there was nothing.  Complete stillness.  A total lack of noise.

I wonder, thought MJ with a grin, if we could get these people to
redecorate the apartment.  The grin went mischievous.  Or at least the
bedroom.

Jymn came back in, carry inga Coke for himself and a tall cup of ice
water for her, and brought them through to the studio.  "Listen," he
said, his voice oddly dull and lifeless as the files flattened all the
subtleties out of it, "we don't need to do any more today if you don't
want to."

"Okay.  Whatever you like."  She took a drink from the Styrofoam cup
and glanced at him over the rim.  "Sorry about these things," he said.
"Declass, I know, but

we haven't been able to get up to the Gristede's for the plastic
ones."  He sat down in another of the director's '"you're very
flexible," Jymn told her.  "You take direction liantlymand you're very
good-natured.  It surprised me day when I saw you in that madhouse.  I
was wondering someone so calm could be doing there."

' -toward the end of the day," said MJ, "I was beginning wonder
myself."

"Anyway, are you available?"  "How soon?"  "Tonight."

' -tonight?"  MJ blinked.  "So soon?  I presume you're not inga bout
dinner."

Jymn laughed.  "No.  We're tap inga Giga-Group tonight, and we lost a
couple of our voices.  Business, the usual annoyances.  I can use you
as an interim voice.  I'd to do that, and I'd also like to have you
work with our little bit, because I suspect we could use you as a
regular.  regular, at least.  Our main character voices are all spoken
but we've got some recurring villains, and one of them is male."

"Villains?  Hey, fun!"

"Yes, I thought I heard that when you were screeching fore.  You don't
get much chance to be baaad, do you?"

MJ chuckled, but couldn't really tellJymn why.  The thought i running
around in her head right at the moment was that, be inga super hero's
wife, you mostly concentrated on being goood, just as good as you could
be.  It meant maintaining your own career, while attempting to make
sure that a man largely unconscious of his own needsmand especially his
own stomach, even when it was growling the loudest got enough food,
enough rest, and enough love to make up for what he didn't get in the
violent dark world outside that he inhabited.

"No, and I don't see that tonight will be a problem."  "Okay.  As far
as I can tell right now, we'll be starting at the usual time.  That's
around eight; it gives the city a chance to get quiet.  I have to warn
you, these taping sessions do run late, usually eight to midnight or a
little over.  We contract in four-hour blocks, we pay Guild scale per
four hours, if we run past midnight, we pay Guild-and-a-half.  Does
that suit you?"

She did a brief bit of mental math and realized that at the moment,
Guild scale for four hours was about $500 per hour.  "That's fine," she
said.  "Do we need to sign the paperwork?"

"C'mon upstairs.  We'll cut it, get the signatures---do you work
through an agent?"

"Not for voice."

'You may want to look into that at a later date.  If you start working
with other companies"--he smiled slightly, as if remembering
something--'you'll find that some of their terms aren't as advantageous
as ours, and it could be in your own best interests to get an agent
with great big teeth and a loud voice to do the screaming on your
behalf.  We can recommend a couple if you like; otherwise talk to the
talent.  They'll be more than happy to tell you horror stories.  "Jymn
rolled his eyes.  "Endless horror stories.  Other than that, let's go
write you a contract and sign it.  Do you need an advance?"

She opened her mouth, closed it again, shrugged, and said, "Why not?"
Then added, carefully, "You're awfully, er, easygoing about this."

"Oh, absolutely.  We know where you live.  If it doesn't work
out--we'll sue your butt.  In the meantime, I've got work to do; I'm
clear that you like this work, and I know you're good at it.

 We'll see how you work with a group, but I'm confident enough to
advance you one night's salary.  We'll go down to the cash machine and
fish it out, give you a chance to do your shopping before we start
work."  He gave her a look.  "I know how awkward it is.  Arranging the
rest of your life gets rather interesting when you've neither days nor
evenings free."  "Well, thank you," said MJ.  "Thank you very much. Has
one ever told you that you're very, well, nice?"

He gave her a look that was appreciative of the comment but somehow
ironic.  "Not recently.  But then, after our friend yesterday, Attila
the Hun would look nice."

Chuckling, she agreed, and followed him out.

Elsewhere in the city, other people were also arranging their evening.
Eddie Brock had been a busy man since the previous night.  He was
staying in a small, quiet hotel on the Lower East Side and had spent
the better part of the afternoon going the paperwork and copies he had
brought back from the eau of Records.

Hunting down the actual ownership of a company can times be deadly dull
work; at other times it can be a good more exciting, especially when
the trail starts heating up.  are shells within shells, share
percentages, and beneficial and beneficiary owners in a paper trail
that can sometimes halfway around the world in twenty different
languages.  And if it should involve one of the countries that really
take their banking secrecy seriously, like Liechtenstein, then the
trail can run up against a wall that no amount of digging will ever
penetrate and the ownership of a given firm will never be truly known.
Ownership and control are only rarely the same.

Eddie Brock was nothing if not methodical.  His background as a re,
porter had tended to make him so until, late in that re':

porting career, issues had so blinded him to the truth of one business
he was investigating that he jumped the gun and printed material that
could be proved untrue.  The rebuttal... He shook his head, hating to
let the thoughts into his head again, but unable to keep them out.

Another authority had stood up in front of the world, embarrassed him,
called his integrity into question--a questioning that had been applied
retroactively to everything else he had ever written--and caused him to
be blackballed from the one profession he had ever really cared about.
But that other authority, and the person behind it, would be dealt with
soon enough.

But right now, he had other fish to fry.

CCRC was being audited by the government.  Everybody knew that.  The
IRS, the DEAmand for all he knew, the FBI, the CIA, and even the
FAAmwere all on its tail.  And Eddie Brock was still enough of an
investigative reporter to know that a company involved in the
laundering of millions, and perhaps billions, of dollars of illegal
funds is not just closed down like a bankrupt shop putting its shutters
up.  There is almost always warning that there's trouble in the wind
and, almost always, the money goes away.

Specificallyand it was practically the standard method other companies
would be purchased or established and clean money already laundered
through other sources would be channeled into them.  Any companies that
had previously been founded as intermediaries to service the laundering
pipelines would themselves be closed down.  In military terminology, it
was a 'arithdrawal to prepared positions."

Eddie sat now in his little hotel room working on a laptop computer
whose present program allowed you to construct complex graphical
expressions of relationships between completely

abstract factors.  Those could be anything you liked,

rate entities was what he was looking at right now.

The New York Securities and Exchange Commission and Bureau of Records
had begun to work very closely toI since the days when insider trading
first reared its head.  was now more information available about
companies in New York, the United States, and, though to a lesser ex
overseas than there ever had been before.

In particular, Eddie was looking into those overseas nections,
searching for large amounts of money that had be, moved out of CCRC or
its accounts--and especially had been removed from the United
States--during the immediately before the audit had been announced.

The period when Venom and Spider-Man had been tearin the place apart.

Compared with other countries, even those that an issue of it, banking
secrecy in the U.S. was little more than joke.  If you had friends in
the right places, say the IRS, the DEA, or even some local police
departments, and you the right phone numbers to call, then you could
access data;:i bases that would tell you far more than any private
citizen a right to know about the movement of funds in and out of the'
country.  Put that together with the SEC's register of newly formed
companies and corporations--onshore or off, it didn't matter--and you
had a powerful tool for levering corporate secrets.  Always assuming
you knew how to sort the data.

Fortunately, Venom knew how.  The copies he had made yesterday in the
Bureau of Records were all New York based.  Some of them were hard copy
because they were already too old to be worth keeping online.  Say,
three months old.  That was how fast corporate formation turned over in
New York State.  Not as

as in some offshore havens, certainly--where if you lingered too long
over lunch you could find your morning's harvest of information already
well on the way to obsolescence--but fast enough.

Venom was looking for corporate formations that were immediately
bolstered by large transfers of funds.  Certainly bank managers, and
banks in general, were required to report suspicious transfers of any
value, and all transfers above a certain threshold, to the government.
But if your bank manager was pliant, as it were, and kept that way by
regular applications of folding grease, then such reports would never
be made.  He would know you, would certainly know what you were capable
of doing if he let you down, and wouldn't be suspicious of your money
because he knew full well that it was dirty.

His search was for newly established companies without a track record,
whose names appeared in no previous register-but who suddenly sprouted
large bank balances that they promptly wire-transferred offshore.  New
York being what it is, he found plenty; the difficulty was in
determining which were more or less innocent, and which were the ones
he was after.

Almost all had addresses of record in lower Manhattan; hardly
surprising, since that was where almost all the really good corporate
formation attorneys had their offices.  By correlating the records of
the SEC and the IRS, an interesting picture was assembling itself.
Again and again he was turning up references to a company called
Rothschilds Bank Securities S.A. He knew immediately that it had been
purchased off the shelf and that the name was no accident.  Most shell
companies invoked the name of some encouragingly large and
well-established concern, trying to sound legit whether they were or
not, and whether their reasons were nefarious or just good business
sense.

Rothschilds had a brass-plate address which was the same as

that of a well-known lawyer in South Street, near the had opened for
business about three days after the break-in CCRC's New York
headquarters during which a life-form had killed two homeless people.
Even then,

or merely guessing at which way the wind might blow had them to jump.

Rothschilds was formed on a Tuesday.  By Friday of the week, it was
show inga deposit balance at Chase Manhattan

$180 million.  By the following Monday, that had dropped to $60
million, and the rest of that week saw deposits of $240 million come
and go.  Venom knew a when he saw one.

He also knew what most people did not, the actual of the company
directors.  The SEC required those on the istration documents, U.S.
banking policy being what it was.

noted their names and addresses, but paid most attention in particular,
a name that had also appeared far down the of CCRC's directors.

There may be others, he thought, but that one will do to start.

' ITime to go," he said aloud to the symbiote he wore as a ond skin,
and it responded at once.  The tank top and

wore changed shape, and blackness wrapped itself around Blackness with
fangs.

Twenty minutes later he was in lower Manhattan.

It was getting on toward dinnertime, and those offices already shut
were showing signs of doing so.  Venom, high above it all, was calmly
wall-walking up the side of another of Wall Street's latest crop of
steel-and-glass monstrosities.  He had never cared for the newer
schools of architecture.  Its soullessness palled him, and it probably
cost hundreds of thousands of doli lars each year just to keep those
acres of glass clean.  It did, though, make it easier for a
wall-climber with the proper

nique to go straight up the side of a building in a big hurry, pick a
window, and get inside unseen except by their potential victim.

In this case, Venom knew the window very well.  He had called earlier,
and the building's security people had been more helpful than they knew
about which floor and which office he was most interested in.  After
that it was just a matter of sticking his head quickly down from above
window level for a peek inside, to see who and what were in a given
office.  Now, in a southfacing corner suite with a nice view out over
the Battery, he was correctly positioned, and he was waiting.

A man came in and closed the door.

The office was a handsome chrome-and-steel affair, late Industrial
Modern.  Very sleek, very Memphis.  Venom had difficulty with the
Industrial style of interior design.  It looked, well, industrial, and
there was no point in saying that was the intention all along.  There
were other, subconscious intentions being pandered to, and as for the
people who willingly embraced it... He smiled, and the symbiote smiled
with him.  They were hardly people at all.

The man sat down at his desk, and there was a long moment of stillness
before Venom extruded several pseudo pods and punched the window in. 
He was careful to strike hard enough that all the glass went inward,
rather than falling on the innocent bystanders down below whose
business this wasn't.

The man sitting at the desk, who had just taken offhisjacket and tossed
it onto the couch, jerked around, mouth and eyes wide, his curly hair
practically standing on end.  He was a tall man, broad shouldered and
built big.

But not big enough.

Venom was on him in two pounces, and only a few seconds

after that the man was well-wrapped in alien tentacles, with se eral
others waving their razory tips in front of his face.

"We may as well call you Mr.  Rothschild," said Venom cot
versationally, "since that name is only slightly more fake the: your
own, and a good deal more pronounceable."

As Venom swung in the window, a second man was coming in through the
door.  He stopped in his tracks, staring.  The fireman looked at him,
then at Venom, and yelled "Bistra) Ookhadeetyeh!"

As this second man turned to run, "Rothschild" threw himself straight
at Venom's huge, dark figure, struggling.  Thi didn't discomfit Venom
in the slightest, though the collision c his heavily muscled body was
enough to stagger even him.  An, that stagger was enough for his flurry
of extra pseudo pods t miss the fugitive.  Not by much, but by enough
for him to g clean away.

There were, if that was possible, even more fangs and dro on show than
usual when Venom turned his attention back t "Rothschild."  "You seem
unusually eager to keep us from mee ing your friend," he said grimly.

"Innocent guy."  The English had only a faint hint of Ru', sian.
"Nothing to do with you."

"Innocent indeed?  You've been watching too much television, Mr.
Rothschild.  What makes you think that anything yo could say would make
us consider him--or you--innocen!  Now then.  You're evidently a
well-educated man with an exce lent command of language.  Do you
understand the meaning c the culinary term 'julienne'?"

There was a long silence, broken by gasps, whimpers, an.  the
occasional thin scream.

After a few minutes, Venom said, "Don't imagine that an' one is going
to call the police, or that even if they do, that Ne'

York's finest would be so foolish as to come in here.  We really think
not.  Now, let us tell you why we've made this little visit.  We want
to know--"

"CCRC," gasped the man.  He was bleeding from dozens of long, thin
cuts, and what remained of his shirt wasn't white anymore, but he was
still comparatively unharmed, and knew the reason for it only too well.
Venom was making him last.

"No, no, nonono," said Venom, shaking his head and spattering drool all
over the carpet.  "The answer we want is nothing so simple.  For
instance, we already know that you're involved with CCRC's, er,
reconstruction.  Perestroika, isn't it?  A shame to leave all that
perfectly good money in a country.  And we also know all about the
setting up of several new foundation trusts in Lichtenstein and
Switzerland.  And Hungary.  Interesting choice, Hungary.  The country
with the tightest banking laws in Europe at the moment.  The country
least likely to tell you where anything is.  They know what side their
bread's buttered on; they're looking to pick up where Switzerland now
leaves off.

"What said, there's other business of much more interest to us. Someone
has been moving large amounts of, let's call it 'cargo," but we both
know what it really is, don't we?  And it glows in the dark.  So this
'cargo' is transported from a processing plant in Florida, all the way
up to a location in upstate New York that's not too far from the
southern boundaries of the Adirondack State Park.  Details are hazy, as
the eight ball would have it, on where exactly that storage location
is.  But we're not going to ask again later.  We're asking you now. And
we want to know, or we will continue our investigation of cooking
terminology.  Julienne, until we're bored.  Then frappe.  Then puree,
or saute, or maybe just plain old shake and bake.  Your choice,
tovarish." There was more stubborn silence, and then another shriek. 
"Zes, we imagine that would have hurt," said Venom.  "But

then, you so obviously didn't hear us that it can't have working
properly anyway.  However, we think we should you, we really are
getting impatient.  Oh--we almost forgot.  sides everything else, we
also want the name and address your friend."

"Friend?"

"I'he fast-moving gentleman whose escape you were to cover just now.
Interesting, that you could protect him your life."

"But I--"

"Oh, but you are, you are," said Venom softly.  There was another
silence, punctuated by more and then a sobbing voice said, "558 First
Avenue.  1-D.  I know his name."

"Then his nickname will do.  He has to answer to we would think.  Or do
you just whistle?"

"He's--he's called Niner.  Niner."  The voice gasped, choked, and said
nothing more.  '

"My," said Venom.  "We didn't think it would spurt like

He spent a few minutes arranging the limp body against one of the
office, then picked up the phone, dialed 9, then spoke briefly to the
recording, and hung up.

Ignoring the sound of shallow breathing from the far of the room, Venom
stalked about, opening files and looking here and there.  The bottom
drawer of the big steel smoked-glass desk was the one that interested
him the he opened it, the lock gave way with a small metallic crunch
and he looked down at five cell phones.

"Well, now," he said.  "Let's pack these up and take away, shall we?"
The symbiote obligingly produced several pockets in its costume, and
only a few minutes later, a black shape slipped quietly out of the
broken window and was gone.

Later, in a quiet, shadowy place among the sewer tunnels under the
Union Square subway stations, Venom sat calmly going through the cell
phones.  He would key each one to bring up its home number, the little
screen would obediently display the dig its, and he would dial.  Every
time he did so, the reply was in Russian  It wasn't a language he had
ever studied in depth, but he didn't need to understand what was said
to understand well enough how these phones were being misused.  One by
one, he set them aside.  For later.

He repeated the same procedure for the fifth and last time: activate,
read, dial, listen.  But this time when he held the last phone to his
ear, it didn't speak to him in Russian.

Instead a cheerful voice said, "Hi there!  This is Mary Jane
Watson-Parker.  Either I'm out of cell right now, or the phone's
switched off, or it's throwing another hissy fit.  Don't ask me.  Just
leave a message after the beep, and I'll call you back as soon as I
can."

As the phone beeped at him, Venom pressed the hang-up button and
briefly stared into space with those huge pale eyes.  "Well," he said.
"Well, well, well."

His grin was ghastly.

A

bout an hour before, Peter walked out of the door of Doris Smyth's
apartment building.  He had dropped off the phone with her, and
promised to talk to his "famous wife," and even get an autograph for
her.

Just where is my famous wife right at the moment?  he wondered.  There
were other things to think about, though.  He badly needed to be up
among the tall buildings and about his business of taking care of the
city.  He ducked into an alleyway, changed, and went straight up the
face of a building not too far from Doris's place.

He swung a little way around the neighborhood just to loosen up, then
clung to a building just across.  from Doris's penthouse, hid inga
little around the corner to peer at her.  Through the floor-to-ceiling
windows she was quite easy to see.  The size of the apartment was still
quite startling, and right around from the living and dining area he
had already seen was a small office complex with a connecting door into
the electronic inner sanctum.

There, Doris hammered away on a PC, pausing now and then to stare
quizzically at the screen.  She was one of the fastest typists he had
ever seen.  God, could we use her in the newsroom, he thought.  She
might be eighty but, plainly, arthritis wasn't some thing that she
worried about too much.

Go get 'em, Doris.  Find out what you can.

He swung away, heading for midtown and parts south.

It was an excellent, bright, sunny day.  A breeze was blowing-down
among the trees he could hear the song of an occasional bird, and as he
swung around the corner of the

building he met yet another monarch butterfly, going about business
with great purpose thirty stories up.

'/-hat are you looking for  he said to it in passing another jet of
webbing at the next building along and paced!  "Girl butterflies?  Boy
butterflies?  A good pollen pizza, nectar, hold the anchovies?"

Apart from food and mating, he couldn't begin to what might be on a
butterfly's mind, especially when was hidden in a brain smaller than
the head of a pin.  Yet butterfly seemed to have an appointment, and
moreover running late.  Crash/

He hit something-or rather it hit him, something left him hanging from
the web, dazed and reeling.  Then he alized it was swinging back at
him, hard.  He clutched ing to keep from falling, slapped his hands and
feet walls, and saw what was heading for him again.

It was Venom, of coursemanyone or anything else have alerted his
spider-sense.  But, as a by-product of the time when Eddie Brock's
symbiote had bonded with Parker, Venom did not trigger the early
warning sense Spider-Man depended on.

Venom came at him, all claws and pseudo podia tongue teeth and dribble,
and that enormous mocking, hungry

"Okay, that does it, I'm losing my temper now!"  snarled.  He leapt
clear, no web of his own to hold him up, a superheated jet of his own
anger at this repetitive, stupid, inconclusive feuding.  It wasn't just
painful, it wasn't an interruption to a crime-fighting career that was
enough already, but it was also getting seriously tiresome.

Spidey slammed into Venom, wrapping himself around barrel-chested upper
body while the pseudo pods

themselves around him, and concentrated entirely on pummeling Venom's
head.

"I didn't start this!"  he yelled furiously into Venom's ear.  "I
didn't start this, and right now I don't need it!"

"What you need," said the dark voice, "and what we need, are two
entirely different things."  Pseudopodia wrapped around Spidey's
throat, and choking, he tore at them.  "And this is a need that has
remained unsatisfied for far too long!"

They slammed into the side of a building and glass shattered.  Even
through his daze, Spider-Man found time to wonder how the people inside
were going to explain that particular claim to their insurance company.
Fortunately the impact wasn't as destructive as he had fearedmthe
wrapping that the symbiote was trying to fling around him had acted as
a blunt-trauma pad all down his spine.

But the high-frequency crash as the massive sheet of plate glass gave
way was enough to make it shiver away from him a little.  Spidey took
the opportunity, thrusting out with all his limbs in an attempt to
shake it loose.  It let go of his legs and arms, but still clutched him
by the throat, and Venom's leering face wasn't far away either.

They dropped a dozen feet as Venom's own organic webbing stretched
under the double burden, and Spider-Man used the distracting jolt as
they stopped to add a little more distraction, by doubling up, arching
around, and doing his level best to kick Venom in the back of the head
with both feet.

One heel skidded off the rounded skull, but the other hit home square
and solid.  This time it was Venom's turn to reel and, as they swung
out and down in another descending arc they finished against yet
another window and another explosive crack of breaking glass.

'l'he insurance companies in this town are just going to

love us," Spidey said.  As the huge slabs of shattered and screeched,
the sound loosened the symbiote's grip still further.  He managed to
shake himself free of its grasp sideways onto the vertical surface of
the building.  "Would mind telling me what brought this on?"  he
demanded.

"You brought this on," rumbled Venom.  "All of it."

of darkness wreathed about him as the sound-shocked recovered what
passed for its equilibrium.

"You'll be claiming I bombed Pearl Harbor next," Spidey, scuttling
around the corner of the building black steam train, Venom came around
after him.  It was Spidey had been expecting, and he was ready.

A great wad of webbing from both web-shooters hit full in the face,
head, and upper body, and together he and symbiote went down, spinning
more webbing behind them break their fall.

Spidey followed, bounding down the glass wall.

these things never seemed to last.  Venom shot out stream of webbing
that anchored on the corner of the buildin he recovered, turned the
speed of his fall into a swinging and came back up and around fist
foremost.

It caught Spider-Man right in the pit of the stomach.  Noter how
good-looking, how well-defined, or how just plain the human abdominal
muscles might be, they remain only muscles.  Flesh, not armor plate.
Spidey folded over like a penknife, coughing and winded, and the next
blow took in the side of the head.

Only reflex took him out of harm's way, because he had idea how he had
wound up clinging to another building feet away.  Apparently his
autopilot must have cut in at the time.

Venom came at him again.  Spidey leapt to meet

wrapped his arms and legs around him, and sent them both tumbling out
and down toward the street.  They turned as they fell, web shooting out
from Venom to anchor on a building cornice as they plummeted past it.
The strand didn't just stop their fall, but snapped them back up
several stories as if they had been bungee-jumping.  They hung at the
end of the line, not even doing anything so structured as trading
punches but just flailing at each other.

Then another fist caught Spidey on the forehead.  'oujust don't get it,
do you?"  he shouted, shaking another incursion of stars away from his
vision.  "I don't want to fight with you."  He hammered each word home
with a quick left-right-left sequence into Venom's lantern jaw.

"You do a good imitation," Venom snarled, punching back.  They were
swinging to and fro by now, a great, thrashing, furious pendulum of
kicks and punches, the soggy sound of impact and the grunt of breath.
One massive punch hit Spidey in the side, and there was a single new
noise, a sharp, whiplash crack as one rib gave way.

That's the third time this year, said a surprisingly calm voice in the
back of his head.  The doctors at the University clinic are never gonna
believe this one.  What are you gonna say ?  "I walked into a door."
They're already sure that MJ beats me up!

Then spider-sense went sizzling along his already-outraged nerve
endings and made him flinch sideways--just before something that had
nothing to do with Venom or the symbiote whizzed past his ear.  Spidey
knew exactly what it was, because he had heard the same sound too many
times before: the tiny sonic boom of a high-velocity bullet, then a
perceptible instant later, the slam of the shot.

Already shooting webbing for his getaway, he glanced down and saw the
man with the gun.  Even at this distance its long,

curved magazine was unmistakable.  Another AK-74 Kalashnikov.  Another
puff of flame bloomed from its muzzle.  This time, a spout of dust and
fragments exploded from a little crater higher up the building, the
snap of the bullet's passage drowned out by a more Hollywood-authentic
whining ricochet.  ii3i Then even that was lost in the flat,
all-too-real hammer of automatic fire as the gunman lost whatever
passed for patience.  He flipped the Kalashnikov's selector to full
rock-and-roll and tried to use quantity where quality had failed.  The
bucking, juddering gun proved at once that it wasn't as easy as it
looked in the movies.  "Now what?"  Spidey panted bitterly as he swung
high and wide for a safe, solid corner.  A cluster of full-metal-jacket
slugs; chewed masonry in his wake and left a series of appropriately
spider webbed holes through yet another long-suffering win| dow.  ^ "It
would seem we have company," said Venom.  He was labor inga bit
himself, and his chest was heaving.  Spider-Man's last kick had caught
him squarely over the breastbone, and the symbiote's arms were boiling
around in a seethe of undirected fury.

"Anyone I know?"  "Russians," snapped Venom, trying to get his breath
back.

"CCRC."

"Oh really?"  The gunfire stopped briefly as a magazine was replaced,
then started up again.  It was back to single shots again, each one
probing and picking like a needle at possible hiding places.  "Truce?"
suggested Spidey.  "For now, anyway?"  18 "Not much choice," Venom
gasped, plainly reluctant as always to take the course of good sense.
"We'll continue this discussion later."  He looked down and pointed at
a man in a peculiar floppy dark hat with grommets in it.  "There.  We
need him.  His name is Niner."  \020"I'll do what I can," said Spidey.
The rib felt bad.  "You take the batch on the left, I'll take the batch
on the right?  Okay, then go!"  They leapt together and bullet strikes
spattered around them; but always above.  It's harder to shoot at a
falling object than one might think: it's a near ninety-degree
deflection, and the lead required keeps changing with the acceleration
of the fall.  And that's only with a steady thirty-meter per-second
squared descent.  These two targets kept splaying their limbs as air
brakes or balling up tight to drop faster.  Where other jumpers from
tall buildings only strike the pavement and splat, these two struck the
pavement and bounced.  Feet and fists lashed out, and the men on the
ground, who might have thought that safety lay in distance and
ballistics and weight of firepower, were rapidly taught that their only
true safety lay in distance alone.  The gunmen had all of their
Kalashnikovs on full automatic now, spraying bullets everywhere with a
complete disregard even for their own safety, never mind the locals who
were scattering in all directions.  The lack of blood in the street was
only due to the fact that most of the firing had been directed
upward.

"These people are going to get hurt!"  Spidey shouted at Venom.  "The
innocents, remember?  Save them!"  But the innocents were already doing
a good job of saving themselves.  They were New Yorkers, after all, and
not entirely unfamiliar with the sound of gunfire, though not with
gunfire that was rapidly approaching the noise level of a small war,
nor of battles involving super-powered beings on the street.  They knew
to get under cover when they heard it.  "Him!"  Venom shouted, pointing
at the man in the strange dark hat, and took off after him.  Niner
dashed into a building and was gone, with Venom in pursuit.  And that
left Spider-Man all alone, facing four or five gunmen, all of them
firing rather chaotically at him.  Or at least in his general
direction.  Being given a big, shiny assault rifle was one thing, but
possession didn't automatically grant mastery, and wherever these guys
had been recruited, it wasn't a marksmanship school.  Spidey gave
thanks for that--and also for the fact that the sight of Venom's fanged
maw and his cloud of whipping black pseudo pods would have been enough
to unsettle even the coolest, steadiest shot.  These characters were
like reeds in the as wind.  H He bounded toward the gunmen, never
moving in the same direction for more than a split second at a time,
leaping up the sides of neighboring buildings for the added advantage
that came when he jumped back down again.  Once again it proved true
that shooting at a rapidly moving, rapidly foreshortening target could
quickly ruin anyone's aim--though never so much or so fast as when that
same moving target finished its last leap with both feet full in your
chest.  Or your stomach.  Or the one man Spidey took out simply by
landing on, his head.  3 He hit the ground rolling, swung out one leg
at ankle level, and neatly chopped both of another Russian's own legs
right out from under him.  The man's AK-74 went one way, his legs went
another, and the mafioski's head hit the pavement with a satisfying, if
rather hollow, clonk.  Two others were running toward him, firing from
the hip in the best traditions of all those old newsreels from World
War II.  That was fine if the purpose of firing was to keep a lot of
enemy heads down; it was rather less effective when trying to hit a
bouncing, elusive, rubber ball of a super hero.  And whether running,
jumping, or standing still, using any gun on its full-auto setting
guzzles ammunition and empties one of those Jong banana magazines in
just three seconds.  (iA^ ; ^, That was something else films tended not
to bother with, except for dramatic effect.  Spider-Man had frequently
been grateful for the ignorance of crooks whose knowledge of firearms
came mostly from bad action movies.  As Spidey ducked behind a row of
parked cars, most of them already the likely subject of yet more
insurance claims, he could hear first one and then the other gun stop
firing.  Yet the footsteps kept on coming.  Either this pair were very
brave, or very stupid.  And he'd seen no sign of bravery so far today.
Or maybe they were being very crafty instead.  There was always the
chance that they had managed to pry their fingers from the triggers
before all their bullets ran out.  Or maybe they had reloads, though he
hadn't seen any extra magazines so far.  But like traffic, it's the one
you didn't see that gets you, and he wasn't about to take any chances.
Yet when the muzzle of one Kalashnikov came poking gingerly around the
end of the nearest car, it was too good an opportunity to miss.  Spidey
raised his arm and webbed the weapon all over its barrel, then gave the
length of webb inga good, hard yank.  The gun jerked from its owner's
hands and went spinning high into the air.  Spidey heard it come down
with a skidding clatter thirty or so yards away, and he also heard the
footsteps of the now ex gunman running away even faster than he had
approached.

That left one.  Spidey was glad he hadn't risked standing up too soon,
because there was a hollow metallic slap that he'd heard before: the
sound of a fresh magazine being smacked home.  An instant later there
were three quick, spaced shots, and three heavy bangs that rocked the
car on its springs.  Spider-Man hadn't thought the Kalashnikov could
put a bullet clear from one side of the vehicle to the other, except
through the windows, but the ragged, bright-edged holes that were
appearing on, his side changed his mind.  He moved along the row of
cars in a spider-scuttle far faster than the gunman could have been
expecting, letting the guy keep thinking he was still four cars from
his present position.  That suited Spidey.  He squeezed between a Lexus
and the 700series BMW beside it, thinking, Who teaches these people to
park so close?  and peered out from the shadow of a convenient whee
larch  Spidey then waited for this last one to follow his friend's lead
and come too close.  He didn't.  Instead he hunched down into a
position that, though it looked awkward, allowed him to see right
underneath each car.  If he looked underneath and saw no one hiding
beyond, then he slammed four bullets through the body work Two went
through the front door at seat and foot-well height, then two more
through the back.  Then he duck walked along to the next and did it all
over again.  Spider-Man didn't like the look of this one bit.  All the
others had been rock-and-roll players, subject to what some reporters
on the Bugle called "Beirut Syndrome": if it puts out enough noise and
enough bullets, then it must be doing some good.  But this guy was
good, and the parking row wasn't very long.  It wouldn't be more than a
minute before Spidey ran out of cars that weren't in the line of fire. 
But then, inside his mask, Spider Man smiled.  The solution, as usual,
was an obvious one.  H Totally focused on someone who had to be hiding
almost at ground level behind the cars, the gunman's attention couldn't
shift quite fast enough to realize that a sudden flicker of movement up
and over their roofline might be more than just a pigeon.  Pigeons
didn't jump like that, pigeons didn't bounce like that, and most of
all, pigeons didn't have fists like that.

Thud!  Spidey massaged his knuckles gently, spared just one glance for
the unconscious body that had skidded several feet away, then looked
about for Venom and the elusive Niner.  No chance;

they were gone.  He winced, and pressed one careful hand to his side
over the damaged rib.  Did he just crack it, maybe?  he wondered.  Yes,
no, or maybe, it didn't really matter.  There was no time for a checkup
or an X ray, or indeed anything much except to go back to the apartment
and strap himself up--a first-aid skill at which he had way too much
practice--then get back out and get busy.

Spider-Man headed for home.

That night, about eight, MJ headed off to Sundog to do her first
night's voice work.  It was a little strange, now, to feel the
nervousness that she hadn't felt during the audition.  I've never
really done this before, she thought as she got out of the cab.  What
if I screw up in some weird way?  I'd really like to do this work--oh,
please don't let me screw up.  She pushed the doorbell, and a friendly
voice said, "Hi, MJ!  Come on in!"  The door buzzed open.

"Hidden camera?"  she said to the voice from the little grille.  "Yup,"
said the voice.  "You wouldn't believe how many people I get to watch
standing there in the daytime, picking their noses."  ; She chuckled
and went up the stairs, a little more slowly than last time so that she
wouldn't arrive out of breath.  At the top of the stairs, the owner of
the friendly voice, Harriet the receptionist, was waiting for her with
the second door held open.  "You're working on The Giga-Group taping,
huh?"

"That's the one."  "Okay.  They're all down in Six: that's the biggest
room.  Two levels down from this one.  You want some coffee or
something?"

"I wouldn't mind a Coke."  "Caffeine by any other name," Harriet said,
with a lopsided grin, and went off to get it.  M MJ went carefully down
the spiral staircase, amazed at the complete difference of tone between
this job and her last one.  Maybe making cartoons sweetens your
disposition or something, she thought.  Certainly Jymn was nothing like
most of the directors she'd seen lately.  Two levels down, as Harriet
had said, she found Recording Room Six, which took up the whole floor.
The design was interesting: the inner recording room, where the cast
sat and worked, was a large U shape with a very thick bottom.  On the
)j nonmicrophoned side, in the middle of a huge semicircular mixing
board, were several seats for the mixer, voice director, and so forth.
When MJ came in, there was already somebody working at the board, a
chunky man with a graying ponytail and a beard; next to him Jymn Magon
sat, going over some pages and us inga scalding-pink highlighter on
them.  At the sound of the door opening, he turned.  "Oh, hi, MJ!  Any
first-night flutters?"  , wa

She laughed just a little.  "Now that you mention it--" tig^ "Don't
worry about it--none of us bite.  This is Paul, our sound man

"Hi," Paul said and turned his attention back to his board.  "He's
always very focused duringa session," Jymn said.  "Don't mind him.  He
loosens up afterward.  Come on and meet your fellow voice talent."
\020He pushed the studio door open for her.  "Guys?  Here's your new
coworker."  Three men and a woman looked back at her from the
director's chairs where they perched.  "Halsey Robins--he's several of
our good guys."  A middle-aged man with a shock of startling white hair
nodded to her, smiled.  "Marion Archangel."  She was a petite
middle-aged woman, pert and blond; MJ recognized her name as that of
someone who had done a lot of commercial work in the last few years, so
that there were some products, specifically a brand of margarine, that
MJ associated with her.  She smiled at MJ, gave her a little wave. 
"Doug Booth."  A slim handsome young blond man dressed all in black, he
waggled his eyebrows at her.  "And RoryArmistead."  The oldest of them,
a portly man possibly in his late sixties, he nodded gravely to MJ and
said, "Welcome."  "Thank you," MJ said.  "I hope you'll all bear with
me: I'm very new at this."  Marion chuckled.  "You've done live TV,
though.  You'll do fine--this is a lot easier."  "MJ auditioned
wonderfully, "Jymn said, "and she's going to be super, no pun intended.
Now listen, group, let's get our act together here.  MJ, you had enough
time to look over the script for tonight, and the other material?" 
"Sure.  "Jymn had given her several copies of scripts for GigaGroup,
and the series bible; she had read it avidly after getting home from
the food store.  Only Jymn's high good humor during the audition had
later kept her from wondering whether she was making some kind of awful
mistake, for as MJ read the bible, it became plain that Giga-Group was
probably the most politically correct super hero cartoon she had ever
seen--and she thought that because of this, the concept suffered
somewhat.  You could not have found a more, well, homogenized group of
super heroes anywhere: speaking racially, sexually, and culturally
alone, there was at least one hero in the group of every imaginable
kind.  They all had "sexy" names that were supposed to be evocative of
their individual super-powers: Hotshot, Tripwire, Roadblock, Wrecker,
on and on.  She privately wondered how (if such a group of characters
ever existed) they would keep each other's nicknames straight, let
alone their normal names.  There would have to be a point, she had
thought, where, when you're form inga new super hero group, everyone
has to wear name tags for a few weeks until they get each other sorted
out.  All the heroes also had (to judge by the bible) periodic
outbreaks of extreme angst, and appeared to be cursed by the show's
writers to speak almost entirely in cliches.  When she finished reading
through the first script she had been given, MJ was laughing so hard
she practically started wheezing--and not because it was supposed to be
funny.  "Well, you get the general idea,"Jymn said. "Ten super heroes,
battling more or less constantly against a rotating group of
super-villains who are either in jail, executing devilish schemes, or
sitting at home in their secret hideaways hatching devilish schemes." 
"They're not villains," Doug said, grinning.  "They're just ethically
challenged."  fli "Oy,"Jymn said.  "All right, it's true enough.  This
show is an ungodly hybrid between the caring-and-sharing shows of the
early Eighties, and the
irradiate-'emtilltheymutatethen-putcostumeson'emandlet'emallfightit-out
shows of the late Eighties.  That said, all we have to do is try to
make it sound

"Frankly, Jymn," said Marion, "we couldn't do that with a rewrite by
God, and the Archangel Michael running a digital mastering board.  As
it is, we have to make do with Paul--" Pauloutside the window, gave
them an enthusiastic raspberry.  "Okay, okay. Saint Paul

"Better," Paul said.

"Oh come on,"Jymn said, "this script isn't so bad."  "You mean, it
won't be when we're through with it," Halsey said in his soft drawly
voice: and MJ paused for a moment, recognizing it suddenly as the voice
of a famous cat in a cat food commercial.  "You people are going to
teach MJ bad habits," Jymn said, despairingly.  "At least she'll learn
them from professionals," Rory said.  "We haven't seen a good script
for this series yet.  But then it's just getting started, and that's
normal. Still, we'll know one when it comes along.  Meantime we'll make
them sound the best we can; that's what we're taking the King's
Shilling for.  Here, MJ, you come sit by me and look over my shoulder
while you work in."  MJ took the offer gladly, perching on the next
director's chair over, and putting the marked script for that evening's
work on the music stand beside it.  "Okay, people, "Jymn said.  "You
all have your parts marked.  MJ, I want you to read the part of
Tripwire, the one I marked for you this afternoon; she's one of the
villains.  And also there's a part for a cat.  Can you meow?"  MJ
laughed out loud, taken by surprise, and emitted her best imitation of
the loud cat that lived in the garden of a brownstone a few doors down
from their building.

"Not bad,"Jymn said.  "Paul, you get that level?"

"Yeah, it was good."

"Okay.  MJ, can you make it sound like it's talking?"

"Noooouuuuw."

"Hey, that's good," Rory said.  "We've got another Frank Welker on our
hands here."  "Always steady work for people who make animal noises,"
Marion said, smiling at MJ.  MJ smiled back.  "Okay, come on, people,"
Jymn said, "let's get settled.  From the top of Act One ..."  From that
affable start the evening got strange, and continued to become
stranger.  The script they were reading was really so bad that, at
first, during the read-through rehearsal, one or more of the actors was
likely to break up at any moment.  Rory seemed most affected by this
problem, which astounded MJ, since he seemed the oldest and most
experienced.  But when it came to actual recording, the guffaws were
nowhere to be found.  MJ found herself surrounded by people generating
the voices of super heroes, ringing voices full of commitment and
power.  She believed them when they spoke.  It astonished her.  She
tried to work to make her voice resonate that way.  "A little more of
that, MJ,"Jymn would say from outside the recording room, and she would
do it again, breathing deeply, as the other actors coached her, and
setting herself into the voice.  "Don't let it make you crazy, MJ,"
Marion said at one point.  "I've seen your commercial work.  If you can
act like you really believe a dishwashing detergent is going to be kind
to your hands, then this isn't that much of a jump."  And Marion was
right.  It got to the point where she could cry, for her
supervillainness character, "Resistance is useless!"--and believe that
it was useless--and no one laughed.  The others nodded and looked
serious, and got ready to read their own parts.  There were occasional
bouts of hilarity, primarily when MJ did the cat voice, and another one
when Doug, playing the villain called Optimum, suddenly seemed to get
his voice confused with a bad imitation of Charles Laughton doing the
Hunchback of Notre Dame, and half fell out of his chair to slouch and
stagger around the room shouting, "The bells!  The bells!"  These
things always seemed to happen when there was a little tension in the
room, MJ noticed.  Too many errors in a take, too many takes on a line,
then something would happen to let the tension loose, and the next take
would go all right.  A couple of times, MJ caught Jymn provoking one of
these releases; other times, the actors themselves would cause them. It
was the sign of a team that had worked together amicably for a long
time, on and off, and who trusted one another, and had fun together.
The session went by in a hurry, this way.  About halfway through the
evening, Jymn said, "Marion, I'd like Glaive's voice to be a little
more different from Lasso's.  Let's let MJ take her."  So MJ became,
however temporarily, the voice of a guest super heroine, Glaive, and
spent the rest of the evening enjoying learning how to produce on
demand what Jymn referred to as "the right hero-style delivery," and
claimed she had a naur al talent for.  For about the millionth time
that night, she bit back a reply about occupational hazards.  She was
almost sorry when, by midnight, they were almost through with the
script, except for some patching and re looping of lines that Paul
didn't like the sound of.  Finally even that was done, and at twenty
after twelve Jymn came into the studio and said, "That's it, crew. 
Next session's tomorrow night."  To MJ he said, "Nice work.  You'll be
back tomorrow?"

Truthfully she said, "I wouldn't miss it for anything."  "That's great.
A good first night, MJ!  Go home, get some sleep--we start a little
earlier tomorrow.  Six o'clock, everybody."  So they all departed, to a
line of cabs waiting outside the studio for them.  "MJ," said Marion,
"you're just down the block from me, aren't you?  Come on, we'll split
the fare."

They did, and MJ walked into the apartment, not too much

later, feeling utterly on top of the world.  Another couple of weeks
of work like this, and the phone bill could do what it liked.  "Peter?"
she said, heading for the bedroom.  "You up, honey?"  The bathroom
light was on.  He leaned out to look at her-and MJ gasped.  "Oh, jeez,
honey, what happened to you?  You're one big bruise!"  "Venom," he
said, sounding rather resigned.  |B She stared at the elastic bandage
wrapped around her husband's chest.  "Oh, no, he didn't break your rib
again, did he?"

"No, it's just sore.  But how was your evening?"  'm "Terrific.  I am a
happy, happy woman," she said, not sounding at all happy for looking at
her injured husband.  "But never mind that!  Come sit down and tell me
what happened."

"You won't like it."

And she didn't.

In the barren luxurious apartment, not too far from there, the
big-shouldered, broad-bodied man who was born with the name Otto
Octavius sat behind the desk again, going through some paperwork.  In
front of him on the marble floor, waiting, stood the red-haired man.
"So," said Doctor Octopus, the nom du guerre he preferred.  "How are
our various laundries doing, Niner?"  "We washed about eleven million
dollars last week alone," said the man in the black jacket.  "The
cell-model recruitment for laundries has worked out very well.  The
problem was always finding enough people to do the legwork.  That's
solved now."  "Good," said Octopus.  "We have a lot more to do yet over
the next couple of months.  I want to accelerate this process so that
it's finished well before Day Hundred.  Have Galya look into it--his
people seem to be acting like real go-getters at the moment.  What's
the status on the currency situation?"  \020"About four billion in
counterfeit is now in circulation in Europe," said Niner.  "The Union's
economies are going to have a nasty shock in about sixty days when
their governments notice the surplus."  "Just before the Dublin
summit," said Doctor Octopus.  "That's excellent.  The yearly G7
conference is barely a week later.  They'll be at each other's throats,
and whatever economic coalition remains between them and the Russians
will fall apart on the spot."  A long metallic tentacle came arching
over, seized one of the pieces of paper in delicate grippers, and
turned it over. "Our last shipment of 'emplacements'--" said Doctor
Octopus.  "They're ready to roll, sir.  If we ship them during the G7,
every one of them will be in place within two days.  That leaves nearly
thirty days of the Hundred to make the final settings."  Octopus
nodded, turning over the last piece of paper, and looking keenly at
Niner.  "And that last emplacement I entrusted to you," he said,
"that's been successfully completed?"  "Yes, sir.  It's right up there,
where they'll never look for it, and never find it until the sky lights
up."  "Excellent.  Go get in touch with Galya, Niner.  I want the rest
of that cash dealt with while cash still works."  Obedient, Niner went.
Doctor Octopus got up from behind the desk and slowly crossed the bare
room to where the curtains hung down.  One of his metal tentacles
reached out and twitched one of the curtains aside just wide enough to
let him look out.  Below him, Manhattan lay in the sun: shouting,
stinking, pulsating with noise and life.  "Not for much longer," he
said softly, to the stones of the city.  "A hundred days or so, that's
all.  Just be patient.  A hundred days."

The tentacle withdrew.  The curtain fell.

The next morning, Peter got up and tiptoed out of bed, leaving MJ
still snoozing there, to find an early call waiting on the answering
machine.  "This is a call for Peter Parker," said a soft woman's voice.
"It's Doris Smyth.  Would you be able to come see me sometime after ten
this morning?  No need to return the call unless you can't.  I'll be
home all day."  Has she found something already  he wondered. Wow/ As
quietly as he could, he washed and dressed and had a hurried breakfast,
left MJ a note to tell her where he was headed, and then left for
Doris's.  When she opened her apartment door for him, Doris looked up
at Peter with an expression that was slightly more muted than the sunny
smiles she had been giving him when they first met.  She was still
smiling, but the look had a slight edge of caution to it. "Peter!  Good
morning, come on in.  Would you like some tea?"

"Uh, yes, I'd love some, thanks."  She led him to the dining room
table, where a teapot, a cozy, and silver tea service were set out,
incongruously next to a partially disassembled cell phone, various
delicate tools, and a small black box with a liquid-crystal readout on
the top.  "Here, sit down.  Milk?  Sugar?"  "Sugar, please."  He
stirred it in and peered at the phone.  "That's our phone?"  "That's
the phone you brought me," Doris said mildly, sitting down herself and
takin ga sip of her own tea.  She reached out for the bottom half of
the phone's shell, the part with the most electronics in it, and
turned it over thoughtfully in her hands.  Then she glanced up at him. 
"I've been looking for this for a while, "she said.

"You've lost me."  Doris made a slightly regretful expression.  "Let me
be plainer.  This phone is one that both its home phone company,
Americell, and the police in several states have asked me to look out
for.  Its present calling records have been hacked several times, with
great virtuosity, by someone whom the police are most eager to find.
But more--look here."  She picked up one of the tools on the table, a
little slender metal rod with a hook at one end and a little slanted,
slotted screwdriver head at the other, and pointed into the body of the
phone with it.  "See that little chip there?"

"Uh, yes.  It's awfully small."  "True enough.  Here's another."  She
picked up from the table a twin to the first chip, a tiny wafer slice
of green-and gold patterned plastic no bigger than her smallest
fingernail, and with great care, using her own thumbnail, split it
apart.  Nestled inside it was an even smaller chip, about the size of
two pinheads.  Peter squinted at it.  "You are seeing," said Doris
softly, "one of the better-kept secrets of the telephone industry.  It
won't remain secret forever, but it's doing its job pretty well for us
at the moment.  This is a 'covert' chip, one that the phone companies
are increasingly having installed in their phones without even the
manufacturers being entirely sure what it does--or most of the people
at any given manufacturer, anyway.  The phone companies have been so
concerned about the rampant cloning of phones that they came up with a
microchip whose only purpose is to secretly record all the numbers
that have been programmed into a telephone as its 'own' number, for the
duration of its lifetime.  It doesn't take a lot of memory or power,
and when a professional gets their hands on a much-cloned phone, its
whole audit trail is laid out for you to see.  Very useful."  She put
the phone down, gazed at it for a moment in a slightly unfocused way.
"Very few phreaks or hackers know about the existence of the chip, and
even those who stumble across it aren't going to be able to reproduce
the algorithm that makes the chip dump its data, much less the one to
erase the data trail.  This one hasn't been tampered with, I'm certain,
and its trail indicates that over three hundred different numbers have
been cloned into it over the past year and a half."  Now she looked up
at Peter, and the expression was a little challenging.  "What I need
you to tell me now," she said, "is exactly where you got this phone in
the first place."  "Uh," Peter said.  Those gray-blue eyes looked at
him, and he said, "Uh, Spider-Man passed it on to me."  Doris looked at
him. Then he nodded.  "I thought so," she said and glanced over toward
one of the coffee tables across the room.  Peter followed the glance,
and saw, somewhat to his surprise, a copy of Webs, the coffee-table
book of Spider-Man pictures he had gotten published not too long ago. 
"Yes," she said, "I did just a little checking up on you.  I tend not
to take things at face value, in my line of work."  And she smiled
slightly: that sunny look again.  "Where did your web- slinging friend
find it?"

"At a crime scene of some kind.  A robbery, I think."  "Hmm.  Yes, that
would fit in."  She got up and went over to an escritoire by the
wall--yet another beautiful antique--and pulled its doors open.  A
computer and printer were hidden in.^

side, and by the printer was some stacked-up paperwork.  She brought it
over to the table.  "Here," she said, "is a list of all the phone
numbers that this phone has 'owned' in the last year and a half.  All
stolen from other, legally held phones belonging to the three New York
companies, and two of the Connecticut ones, and some from
Pennsylvania."  She turned back to the escritoire.  "And here," she
said, coming back to Peter with a ream package of paper and plumping it
down on the table in front of him, "is a list of all the numbers called
by this phone during that period."  He stared at the wrapped package.
"This is a list?"  "Four hundred and fifty-three pages," Doris said.
"The numbers are ranked most-used to least-used.  It's interesting
reading.  A lot of calls to betting shops, hundreds of calls to a
corner grocery not far from here."  She looked rueful.  "I used to shop
there all the time.  I've stopped now.  But almost all of them are
calls to places that are the subject of an ongoing police
investigation.  So if your friend Spider-Man is interested in this kind
of thing, you'd better pass this information on to him.  I hope he's a
fast reader." She thought a moment and added, "If he has a computer, I
can give you this data on disk.  It'll be easier to sort."

"Uh, he has access to one, yes."  ; She went to the escritoire again,
did something briefly at the computer's keyboard, then left it to its
own devices.  "That'll be ready shortly.  Now what I need you to do is
let me know where the phone that your famous wife was having trouble
with is.  Naughty of you to slip me this one without telling me.  If it
hadn't been for your wife, I would have called the FBI."  | Peter
gulped.  || "But then I found out about this other connection," Doris
said, glancing at the copy of Webs, "and after all, Stevie Drew said
you were all right to work with."  "Stevie"?  Never mind..  .. "Uh,"
Peter said, "thank you, Doris.

I should have told you, really, but--" "You were being circumspect for
reasons of your own," said Doris.  "I'm not going to pry.  Let's let it
pass.  But bring me your wife's phone, all right?  If your problem is
solvable, I want to see if I can solve it.  For one thing, if her phone
has the covert chip in place, we'll be able to see some other
data--time and location information, other things--which the phone
company's own records won't necessarily reflect.  There may even be
recordings of some voice material."  Peter's eyes opened wide at that.
"Recordings?  How?"  Doris smiled at him.  "Our snoopy government.
Peter, there are more intelligence-gathering bureaus running around in
this country doing their gathering than most of the government would
ever like you to know.  They'd quote you 'national security' as a
reason for it--and to some extent they might be right.  But the truth
is that governments are just naturally nosy, and big ones are much
nosier than others, and we have one of the biggest.  A lot of calls are
monitored, though everyone denies it.  There's no use in them denying
it, really.  The technology makes it easy now, especially since our
cell phone systems are still almost all analog, which any kid with a
scanner can listen in on.  And one of the most basic human vices is the
desire to look through the keyhole and see what the neighbors are
really doing.  When things go digital, the monitoring may lessen a
little.  The signal is harder to break, and consumers are getting more
sensitive to the issue.  Which is as it should be.  But governments
will still fight back, doing their best to fight tight voice-encryption
methods.  By their own lights, they're right to Doris I sighed a
little.  "The NSA in particular monitors a lot of calls all over the
country.  Computers do it for them, taking random samplings of band
width and searching for certain keywords in conversations--guns, bombs,
drugs, that kind of thing.  If something dangerous-sounding turns up, a
little bell goes off somewhere, and a live monitor quietly comes into
the circuit to determine whether the threat is real.  Other countries
do much the same.  In fact, the NSA learned the technique from the
British, a while after the troubles started in Northern Ireland.  As
far as I know,

every call from Britain to Ireland and vice versa is still routinely

'"S

computer-sampled for suspect content.  And I think they do the I same,
just for general interest--and again, with an eye to Are,.  , land, and
their own drug-smuggling problems, and so forth-- "i with everything
that comes in from the U.S. and Canada via the ;g transatlantic cable
and satellite downlink stations on the south coast of the U.K. GCHQ
passes on anything interesting that they 3 'hear' to the NSA, and the
NSA returns the favor at its end."  Peter shook his head in
astonishment.  "Is that legal?"

Doris gave him an excessively wry smile.  "It must be, dear. They're
the government, aren't they?"  "But what about freedom of speech?" 
'.dftaB "The Constitution guarantees you that, all right. But it
doesn't guarantee that no one will be on the other side of the j wall
with their ear pressed to it, does it?"  Peter opened his mouth and
closed it again.  ^ "As I said, when the USs cell phones go digital,
it'll be harder for the eavesdroppers, 'legal' or otherwise," Doris
said.  But I don't expect to see that before well into the next
century.  Assuming I am still around to see it.  All the phone
companies are arguing about what standard to use, and I think they will
be for years.  But for the meantime, when you're on a cell phone,
exactly as with a portable phone in your house, you need to assume that
what you're saying is being overheard and recorded by someone who means
to do you dirt.  "In any case, all this may work to your benefit.  It's
just possible that in the NSA tape archives there is some evidence
pertaining to calls made on your wife's phones.  I have access to those
archives on a need-to-know basis, and, well," and Doris smiled that
sunny smile again, "as regards this, I just need to know, that' sail
The glint of the gossip lover showed briefly in Doris's eyes, and Peter
laughed.  "Okay, I'll call her later and ask her to drop it off for
you.  You two can have a chat then, and you can crossexamine her about
Secret Hospital."  Doris nodded.  "More to the point, though," she
said, "if I can link that phone to police work presently ongoing, that
will get you off the hook with Cell Tech  She smiled, a slightly feral
look.  "They listen to me.  But then, they have to, considering what
they pay me on retainer.  So have your wife give me a call."  Peter
thanked Doris and headed out.  As he walked down the street, at one
point he paused and looked back at the top of her apartment building,
all discreetly crowned with antennas, and he found himself thinking. 
Did I ever say anything on that phone, anything, to MJ, that might
suggest to a casual listener that I was someone else besides just Peter
Parker?  And forget casual listeners--that might suggest it to a little
old lady who could probably make toast just by stick inga slice of
bread out her window?  He sighed.  There was no point in worrying about
it just now.  Meanwhile, he had places to be.  He headed for them.

Other people, also, much later that day, were going about the town on
their business.

The offices of Bothwell Industries, housed in a refurbished

office building downtown, had closed for the day a couple of hours
ago.  It was a small new company, still in the process of moving into
its premises: furniture was still shoved up against the bare walls in
its three rooms, and boxes were stacked everywhere in the
near-darkness.  Among the boxes, a lithe dark shape moved quietly,
reading labels with a tiny flashlight, and making sure that the light
was always shielded by his body.  A handy pseudopod cupped around it,
to make doubly sure.  g| Venom had been there for about an hour,
mentally sorting out the boxes into "check it now" and "don't bother"
categories.  The chaos in the place at the moment actually worked to
his benefit somewhat--it meant, among other things, that there had been
no time to lock files away securely.  That suited him very well indeed.
"VA He paused for a moment, glancing around him.  The symbiote sent out
a few questing streamers in the direction of boxes it obscurely knew he
was interested in.  "No, no," he said softly, "patience.  We'll do this
systematically.  We may not get another ;' .  "^.Ijj chance, and we
cannot afford to lose this one."  '" ' Venom went to the first of about
twenty cardboard file boxes in which he was interested, opened it, and
started going through the files inside.  Most of them were innocuous,
as he suspected they would be, but he was in no hurry at the moment.
Security in this building was on the lax side; he had been watching it
for the better part of the day to make sure, and not half an hour ago
he had seen the lone security guard for the place lock the back door
and head down the street to a local bar.  The laxity amused Venom, and
rather pleased him; he had no desire to slice up some poor hired lackey
while doing what he had to do tonight.  And by far the best thing that
could happen, as far as he was concerned, was that one of the company
directors might use his own building key, and come in alone.  Then he
and Venom would have a nice little chat.  Niner, he thought, going
through the files, seeing correspondence about some shipment of oranges
from Spain, passing it by.  Bothwell appeared to be an innocent enough
import-export firm, but the research he had done at the Bureau of
Records, cross-indexed with the SEC information, made it plain that
vast amounts of cash had been through Bothwell's accounts in the past
couple of weeks.  Now, there were legitimate firms for which this might
have been true, but also many illegitimate ones.  He had looked over a
number of them today, in a cursory fashion--either from the street, in
"civvies," or from the rooftops.  Heaven only knew what some of those
other firms were up to--where their money came from, what they were
doing with it.  But this firm had distinguished itself, in
midafternoon, when Venom had seen the man called Niner, the man who had
gotten away the other day, walk out its front door, dressed like a
businessman, with a briefcase full of what was doubtless fascinating
material.  Venom wanted to talk to that man.  The symbiote's tendrils
writhed a little with anticipation at the thought.  "Patience," Venom
said again.  "We'll have a chance to ask him our questions eventually.
But first I want to have a better idea of what questions to ask."  The
next hour or two were weary ones.  Eddie Brock had been more than
capable, as a reporter, of the long slog through reams of boring
information; this was very much the same.  Invoices, impenetrable bank
statements, letters in several different alphabets (many of them
Cyrillic)--none of them told him any of the specific things he wanted
to know about Bothwell.  \020The symbiote began to make little
movements that Venom had long since learned to translate as the alien
version of, "I'm bored, can we go now?"  .a He ignored it.  For the
time being, he had to.  He opened another box, and another, and
carefully and patiently went through them all.  The frustration of the
whole business was that vital evidence might be right under his nose
but in coded form, and he might not recognize it.  Many firms, even
now, used various commercial or industrial code books and software to
hide their immediate intentions.  There was no way to tell whether
"Your inquiry about the condition of the last shipment is being
investigated" actually meant "Tell the chief operative we want him back
in the main office, fast" or "That last deposit for twelve million has
gone through as promised."  All you could do was look.  He shut that
box, opened another one, went through it.  Nothing.  Shut that box,
opened another one.  Went through it---and suddenly found himself
looking at a letter regarding more oranges from Spain--with a
sticky-pad note attached to it saying, in a neat precise hand,
Crossrefwith tacticals/'delivery systems schedule for DO.  Venom looked
at it thoughtfully.  Whatever oranges might need for their safe
shipment, there would be nothing "tactical" about it--and the word
"tactical" linked with "delivery system" made his hair try to stand up
on end under the symbiote, and its tentacles wreathe and flutter.  He
put the letter aside, noted the date, and started digging through that
box with ever increasing interest.  Two files farther in, behind some
more back statements with entirely too many zeroes, he found a piece of
cream-colored letterhead that he lifted out of its file and held up to
the light to check the watermark.  Original.  At the top of it
appeared the letters

CCRC / INTERNAL.

Transfer instructions, the heading of the letter said.  Sensitive
materials--see tie 886, 887-He laughed out loud.  In the hurry of their
move, someone had put this file in the wrong box.  The box labeled soo
was across the room.  He went for it.  "Aha," Venom said softly, as he
opened the soo box.  There were several locked metal
security-deposit-type boxes in it, of a size to take files.  The
symbiote put out several willing tentacles and levered the steel box
open.  The lock gave with a tiny screech of metal and a loud snap.
Other pseudo podia came down, lifted the files out, opened them.
Delivery system disposition--Missile launchers have been positioned
near: Boca Raton, Winter Park, Miami; Atlanta, Peach tree, Mobile;

Solid emplacements: Chicago: Tower, El 1, El 2, O'Hare.  Venom began to
growl softly under his breath.  The symbiote shuddered with his
reflected, growing rage.  Fissionables transport.  Miami reprocessing
plant has been shut down, but Tuscaloosa remains operational and will
finish present inventory.  Shipments otherwise proceeding according to
schedule.  "Shut down," Venom said to the symbiote.  "We should say it
was.  You had fun that night, didn't you?  Well, it looks like more fun
is coming."  "Light bombs.  " ERWs are now 60% em placed for Day
Hundred. Previous difficulties with the timers have been worked out. 
Tests on the satellite detonation system have been abandoned as too
uncertain with so little time remaining in the program.  '

"So little time, "Venom thought.  What are they planning^

And then the last note, a sticky-pad note on the cover letter of
another report on "deliveries of inventory."  I am not entirely pleased
with the quality control on shipment 18: rad count is below optimum.
Have it recalled and replaced--we have more than enough fissiles to do
so within schedule.  Please remind all staff that there is no room for
error: the usual sanctions will apply.--00 Venom stopped growling--a
sound more frightening than the growl had been.

00.

Otto Octavius.  One of the world's leading experts on radiation and its
various and sundry applications.  He remembered the earlier reference
to "DO," which, Venom now realized, likely referred to the name under
which Octavius tended to operate since his metal tentacles were bonded
to him and he embarked on a villainous career:

Doctor Octopus.

Indeed.  Now it all begins to fall into place.  Eddie Brock was a
methodical man.  He went through all the other boxes he had deemed
pertinent before he left.  But his silence then, some two hours later,
was more profound and terrible than all the silences before it.  He
stood up, stretched-even a man with a symbiote to massage his tired
muscles gets stiff after a long time hunkered down among files--and
headed for the stairway to the roof, working hard to contain his fury.
He was going to have to be especially careful to keep the symbiote in
check.  There was someone he needed very much to kill but wanted more
to see.

MJ went back to Sundog that evening in a very cheerful mood.  She had
still been worried about Peter when she got up, but when he came in
carrying about a ream of paper, whistling, and told her why he was
feeling so cheerful, she felt much better too.  \020It was pleasant
not to have to get up too early, and she took her time about getting
ready for the day, while Peter pored over the stacks of paper he had
brought home.  She then went out with both her cell phone and Peter's,
and dropped hers off with Doris Smyth.  She was glad she had taken
Peter's phone with her; she and Doris got into one of those
like-at-first-sight conversations that people sometimes have, a
conversation that ranged over everything from personal philosophies to
sordid gossip from the Secret Hospital set, and they both drank enough
tea to float themselves away.  She and Doris were still talking when MJ
realized that it was five-thirty, and she had to go to work.  MJ
promised to come back another time and continue the conversation, then
she hurried downstairs and caught a cab over to Sundog.  She had just
enough time to call Peter and let her know what had happened to her. 
"It's okay," he'd said.  "I thought you might have done something like
that.  Listen, I've got to get out and do some night work."

"Okay, Tiger.  When do you think you'll be back?"

"Not too late.  Probably about one."

"Okay, see you then."  She bounced out of the cab in good spirits, and
headed in and up the studio stairs.  When she got down to studio Six,
the same crew from last night were mostly in their places when she got
there, laughing and chatting among themselves.  They welcomed her like
an old friend.  These are such nice people.  I hope this job lasts!
Jymn Magon came in and started trying to get everyone organized.  As MJ
was beginning to suspect was usual, it took a while.  Finally they
settled down to start the recording of the next Giga-Group script.
"This one has a little more stuff for Glaive in it, "Jymn told MJ, "and
her part is somewhat bigger than the last time--she's more important
to the plot.  So get in there and swagger a little.  Don't be afraid to
go too far over the top."  "Why should she be?"  said Doug Booth.  "Who
would notice?"  to Much laughter ensued, and they started.  MJ
swaggered it as best she knew how, thinking of the occasional
super-villains she'd run across in her career, and less heroic but
generally decent folk like the Black Cat.  The others cheered her on,
seemingly impressed, and MJ started just unashamedly enjoying the part
and the way she was playing it, bold and flamboyantly heroic.  It
seemed to work, at least forjymn, and even to MJ's untutored ear, the
more hackneyed lines in the script seemed somewhat improved when you
delivered them as if they were the>| truth that would save the world.
The night flew by, punctuated by one bout of laughter so severe that
she could scarcely breathe, when Rory play inga character who had for
some obscure reason been temporarily regressed into a Neanderthal)
suddenly started refusing to come out of character when taking |B
direction fromjymn.  "I need a little more weight on the The ;j
afraid--me not know what to do," "Jymn had said, casually^ || enough.
ButRory's reply was, in character, "Oh, okay, me screw |^ that up the
last time, me do it again," and he remained stubbornly Neanderthal for
the better part of an hour.  Later, in a cab on the way home, MJ
wondered whether it had really been all that funny.  It seemed so then.
But it didn't matter.  She felt wonderful.  She had come striding out
of Sundog, after a whole night of rampant heroism, feeling nine feet
tall, covered in adamantium, invincible and invulnerable, and feeling
pretty good about herself--especially at five hundred bucks an hour for
six hours.  She looked up at their apartment window as she got out of
the cab and paid the man.  The light in the third window over was on,
which was Peter's code meaning that he was still out web- swinging.
Well, he said he wouldn 't be late.  I'll fix something light for him
to eat when he gets in.  And boy, I could murder a sandwich, myself.

MJ headed upstairs, strode on down to their door, unlocked it, stepped
in, and locked up behind her.  There, for a moment, she paused.  She
felt a draft.  A window was open somewhere-not the bedroom one, not the
one Peter usually came in by after a night of spideringaround .. .
Someone cleared his throat.  MJ's head snapped around.  Her first
thought was Oh Lord, I've disturbed a burglar.

It was worse than that.  Over against the living room window, black
pseudo podia wreathing gently around him, stood Venom.  The blood
started rushing around inside MJ, but not to her fear-clenched stomach,
as she would normally have expected-instead, it went to her face with
anger. Hardly knowing what she was doing, she chucked her keys over
onto the telephone table and strode straight over to him.  "I'm sorry,"
she said, in ringing tones, "but I must have messed up my appointments
calendar again.  I wasn't expecting you.  Or did you.  call to make an
appointment first?"  That dreadful grin looked somewhat fixed at the
moment-as if by brief surprise.  "We did call," he said.  "Your cell
phone, we believe.  But we fear we did not leave a message."  "People
who hang up on answering services," MJ said, looking Venom up and down,
more with Glaive's scorn than her own, "are a symptom of the downfall
of civilization.  If you're rude to machines, you'll be rude to people,
too.  And breaking into people's homes is also fairly rude, by the way.
But now that you're here, won't you sit down?  And can I get you
something?"  Venom opened his mouth.  She didn't give him the chance.
\020"And no wisecracks about my husband, please, since that's
doubtless the cause of you giving me the pleasure of your company. 
Tea? Coffee?"  "Nothing right now," Venom said.  MJ looked pointedly,
as if expecting something.  Very slowly, the pseudo podia wreathing
around him, Venom added, "Thank you."  4|

He sat down.  :^ MJ turned her back on him, something she would never
have done--but Glaive would have.  She strode away from him into the
kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and got out the baloney and some
mustard.  "If you called my cell phone," MJ said, "I would guess it has
something to do with the fact that someone cloned the poor creature.
Ran up a four-thousand-dollar bill, too.  Did you have something to do
with that?"  She stared at him.  Venom opened his mouth, and MJ turned
away again, ignoring him.  "No," she said, getting out a knife for the
mustard, "even you wouldn't sink that low.  I apologize for suggesting
it.  Are you sure you won't have a sandwich?"  "What I would like,"
Venom growled, "is to see your husband."  Ai "He's not at home," MJ
said.  She composed her sandwich, put it on a plate, got herself a
Coke, took them both to the little dining-room table, put them down,
and sat down.  She did not eat.  Her mother had always told her it was
rude to eat in front of people who weren't also eating, unless they
were family.  She looked at Venom.

He actually twitched--he, not the symbiote.  The sound of a key in the
lock came from outside.  All the blood in MJ attempted to relocate
itself, again, in relief, but she refused to make any other sign,
except to lounge back in the chair a little.  The other key went into
the other lock.  The door opened, and Peter came in.  "Hey, MJ, did
you--" \020He stopped.  He saw his wife sitting at the table, with a
slight smile on her face, and Venom sitting on the couch.

Venom stood up.  "We have a guest," MJ said.  "Or guests."  Peter moved
slowly toward Venom, his face going dark with anger.  "What are you
doing here--" Venom stood up, seeing at last a reaction that he
understood, and headed toward Peter.  "Your wife's phone number," he
growled, "appears among numbers belonging to some Russian criminals who
are working in town at the moment.  They appear to be involved with the
covert restructuring of CCRC-and with Doctor Octopus."

Peter stopped, his mouth open.  "Ock--" "It is difficult to say," said
Venom, "but he may be one of the owners of CCRC.  Or the owner.
Unfortunately, much of the pertinent information is concealed by
Liechtenstein banking laws, and many shell companies."

"Lord," Peter said.  Venom's pale eyes turned in MJ's direction.  "Is
it true that your wife's phone was cloned--" "Ask me, "MJ said, the
Glaive voice again, and it was the character, not her, that made her
shake her hair back when Venom turned to her, and lift her head
defiantly.  "What makes you think I would bother lying to you?"  Venom
simply looked at her, then turned away.  "So--a false trail.  Well
enough.  We would personally much prefer the leisure to finally settle
up accounts with you here and now.  But there is other information much
more important to be discussed, and a much more important reason why
we've come here." He quickly told Peter about his evening's foraging in
the Bothwell offices possibly belonging to the man called Niner-or, on
the other hand, to Doctor Octopus.  MJ's eyes got wide as Venom told of
what sounded like extensive shipments of covert nuclear material
making their way around the country.  "Useless as they often are, this
must be dealt with by the authorities," Venom said.  "Spider-Man has
certain connections in the AEC offices in New York that we do not--and
we think he had better alert them, and seek their help."  Peter eyed
Venom suspiciously.  "You could call them yourself.  Why put me on the
spot?"

"As if they would listen to me," Venom said.  "While you--" "--are as
involved as you were with the near explosion of a nuclear device under
Manhattan, as far as they're concerned.  Why should they listen to me,
either?  There are still people in the office there who suspect I might
have been at the bottom of the whole thing."  Then Peter paused.
"Well," he said, "I suppose it's worth a try.  The stakes are too high
not to try, anyway.  And the worst that can happen is that they'll
chuck me out on my ear.  But Doc Ock--" He brooded a moment.  "If all
the events of the past few months are somehow traceable to him ..." 
"That will have to be looked into as well," Venom said, "but right now
the main priority is that all this atomic material be found and made
safe before millions of innocent people are caught in some kind of
disaster--accidentally, or on purpose."

"I'll call them first thing in the morning."  "Very good.  And we want
you to understand that that information had best be shared with us
promptly."  Venom turned a long look on MJ.  She returned it, with
interest, as coolly as she could.  She refused to look at Peter at the
moment, who was already do inga slow burn.  The last thing anyone
needed right now was for these two to go for each other's throats.
"Otherwise, we should dislike having to call on you at home again."

"The feeling's mutual," Peter said.  "We will call you in the morning,
then," said Venom.  He turned toward the window he had come in by, and
then left.  \020It was a few seconds before MJ could move; then
Peter's arms were around her.  She hugged him back, wordless, as Glaive
suddenly became just a character in a bad script again, and her stomach
clenched with sudden postponed fear, and her appetite left her with a
rush.  "Oh, Pete--!"

"It's all right," he said, hugging her.  "It's all right."  "No, it's
not," she said mournfully.  "My sandwich is getting all curly at the
edges."  Peter shot a glance at it.  "If you don't want it, I'll eat
it. Tell me about your day, which obviously was a doozy, and then let's
go to bed--'cause we're going to have a busy day tomorrow."  the next
morning, about ten, Spider-Man swung quietly down onto the roof of the
New York City offices of the AEC.  A small, stout man in a quiet
business suit was standing there, a little ruffled by the wind, waiting
for him.

Spidey walked over to him.  "Mr.  Laurentz?"  "That's right," said the
little man.  He looked at Spider-Man in a considering way, and Spidey
considered him back: bald, an olive cast to his complexion that
suggested the Mediterranean, bushy mustache.  "Please call me Rob.  Do
you want to come down to the offices?  Or would you rather talk up
here?"

"Which would be wiser?"  Spidey said.  Laurentz smiled suddenly, a
surprisingly loopy grin.  "It's a nice morning.  Let's sit up here."
Spidey looked around for chairs, saw none: but Laurentz had already
strolled over to the parapet that ran around the edge of the building,
and sat down on it, with considerable disregard for the effect of roof
dirt on such an expensive suit.  Spider-Man went after him and sat down
too.  "You'll understand, I guess," said Laurentz, "that there are
some--doubts about your bona fides here and there in the organization.
I'm not overly concerned, though.  I know enough about what happened
down in the tunnels not too long ago to make me glad to shake you by
the hand.  And if there's anything I can help you with, it's my
pleasure."  "That's a relief."  Spidey looked out across the city and
started to explain what was on his mind.  Laurentz sat quiet for a
while, letting Spider-Man expound, particularly regarding the large
amount of fissionable material that seemed to be running around loose.
"Well, you know," he said at one point, "there was always a lot more of
it than we're generally told about--or that the public is generally
told about--being shipped here and there.  All under tight government
control, of course.  The Commission is supposed to be informed about
them all, but, well, we're a civilian organization, and the military,
which handles its own shipping, doesn't always tell us everything.  One
of the aspects of this job that occasionally makes it a little
interesting."

"I just bet."  Laurentz sighed a little.  "We've been investigating
CCRC, of course--or what's left of it--ever since those first barrels
of toxic waste were found downtown.  To date we've found six other
stockpiles scattered here and there around Manhattan: smaller ones, but
significant enough.  And they weren't just of waste--they were enriched
uranium and processed transuranlcs-"

IM

"Bomb-grade transuranics?"  "Some refined plutonium, yes, but not a
whole lot.  Enough to cause a disaster if it got out into the
environment, though.  You couldn't make an H-bomb out of it all if you
tried."  Laurentz's brow furrowed.  "But light bombs, yes.  And if I
were a terrorist, that's what I would go for.  They're the wave of the
future.  "<

Spider-Man gulped.  "Excuse me--'light' bombs?"  I "Sounds like a
marketing ploy, doesn't it?"  Laurentz's smile was mirthless.  "I'd
love to kick the man or woman who came up with that asinine name.  For
awhile, the other name for them-not much better--was 'neutron bombs." "
"Oh," Spidey said softly.  "Why are these the preferred flavor all of a
sudden?"  } "Cheaper," Laurentz said.  "You need less trigger
material.  \020Just be sure you understand what we're talking about
here.  There was a lot of confusion about this end of weapons
technology--the idea that these weapons wouldn't destroy buildings,
only people."  He laughed, a bitter breath of non amusement  "The first
models of this bomb were designed as a tactical weapon, a battlefield
nuke.  The idea was this: If you're in the middle of a large armored
combat and you drop a conventional nuclear weapon over or on it,
obviously everything at ground zero is going to be destroyed.  But out
at sort of ground one-and-a-half, things won't be quite so grim, at
least for a while.  Soldiers in tanks are afforded some protection by
their tanks from the blast and heat of the direct explosion, and so
afterwards they're likely--so the generals would think--to just keep on
soldiering for a day or three longer until the symptoms of radiation
sickness start catching up with them.  Well, the generals didn't like
that idea much, so they got behind the idea of design inga bomb that
would release such a massive blast of neutrons that the tanks would be
no more protection than tissue paper, and the soldiers would die at
least within hours, if not right away."

"Nice people," Spider-Man murmured.  They sat quiet for a moment, watch
inga flight of ducks make its way up the East River in a vee. "Yes,"
said Laurentz.  "Well, anyway, as it always does, word got out. There
were some astonishingly mishandled press briefings about the 'neutron
bomb' in '78, followed by some astoundingly sensationalistic coverage
in the media.  Such a stink went up from the public that the research
was very quietly dropped in late '78, and for a long while nothing else
was heard about it."  Spidey nodded.  "I take it, though, that now, for
whatever reason, people are getting interested again." \020"Budget,"
said Laurentz, "what else?  And additionally, there have been enormous
leaps in technology since 1978, making the 'light bombs'--'tidies,"
they also call them--a lot more practical.  And the concrete technology
on which to base them is already everywhere, in the storehouses of
every atomic power.  NATO has a lot of artillery-fired atomic
projectiles--hundred pounders they call them.  They use pretty small
amounts of fissile material, and they're very flexible and easy to use.
They're not much bigger than a mortar shell.  You can shoot them or
just hide them with a timer, and when they go off, their normal output
of radiation is increased many times by the tamping and pumping
techniques that we've invented over the years to reduce the size of
much larger bombs."

"We're so inventive," Spidey said.  "We are," said Laurentz, "and it
gets worse.  It would be-well, not easy, but certainly feasible--to
build such bombs so that they were much more effective than the NATO
weapons.  Radiation 'tamp' hasn't been extended to anything like its
maximum efficiency as yet, and materials technology continues to
produce alloys and metals that are more and more effective for tamping.
You could boost one of those battlefield nukes to thousands of times
its present rad output--possibly tens of thousands of times.  Blow
something like that up in a large city, and you wouldn't notice any
more of a bang than you might get out of, say, a couple of tons of
chemical explosive.  A few buildings would be flattened, a lot of
windows blown out.  But a hundred pounder with a little imaginative
augmentation ..."  Laurentz looked off toward the river with a grim
expression on his face.  "Put something like that where we're sitting,
and you could leave half the population of Manhattan with LD50, the
lethal dose, in a flash.  Three days, they're dead.  Less, for most of
them."  \020"Do you really think that many terrorists have this kind
of weapon?"  "Have it?  Maybe.  But would they use it?"  Laurentz
shrugged. "I've had a little training in this--most of us at the
Commission have. Their feeling, and I share it, is that, at the moment,
I doubt most terrorist organizations--ones with a plan, that is, a goal
to achieve, I don't mean random crazies--I don't think they would dare.
I think most of them have the sense to know that the first person or
country to use nuclear weapons against a target is going to have the
entire rest of the world community--most especially including the
nuclear powers--come down on it like a rock.  That organization would
then have open season declared on it.  They'd be hunted down
mercilessly and wiped out-possibly their host country as well.  By and
large, I think terrorists want to inspire terror, not rage.  Rage makes
people fight back; terror is supposed to make them tired, to make them
say "Let's give up and go home."  At least, that's how I think the
logic would go. But all it takes is one person who doesn't understand
the logic, and--whoomf."

"It must be a constant worry."  "Oh yes.  And worse than ever, after
things broke loose in what was left of the USSR, and fissile material
started making its way out into the hands of people you really wish
didn't have it."  He smiled, just a little.  "Fortunately, the laws of
nature are working with us a little bit on this one.  Most people who
try to work with transuranics don't have the training.  They're working
on a shoestring, in secret.  Most of them are so lacking in expertise
that, very quickly, while taking apart a shell or trying to build a
bomb, they get contaminated by the fissile, and it kills them and
everyone around them fairly quickly, and very painfully.  It's
something of a deterrent."

Spidey gulped again.  "I just bet," he said softly.

A barge made its way down past the Delacorte Fountain's white plume of
water: they watched it go, hooting at an approaching tug.  "The point
at which you get into trouble," Laurentz said, "is when you have good
scientists working with the fissiles--people who won't have the good
grace to drop a canister and LD50 themselves.  People with access to
money, and to the expensive specialized equipment that you need to work
with fissiles safely.  This is why the U.S. has been trying to hire as
many former USSR scientists as it can, at the best rates, to keep them
away from other countries who might be interested in building a little
surprise for their neighbors."

Spidey nodded, saying nothing.  His mouth was dry.

Doctor Octopus, he thought.  Ock was one of the premier scientists in
the world, it had to be said, and radiation was his area of expertise.
There was no ignoring the man's genius.  He would not drop any
canisters, nor would he hire anyone who was likely to--or keep them on,
after they'd done it once.  His perfectionism would be offended, and
he'd have them taken out and "neutralized" on the spot.  And if there
was anything else that Ock did have, it was money.  Lots and lots of
money, some of it earned from his career as a scientist prior to the
accident that bonded him with his tentacles, most of it from the
countless thefts he'd masterminded in the years since.  He would have
more than enough to buy himself, openly or covertly, all the machinery
he could possibly need for this kind of work.  And all the helping
hands he'd need.  "^ "What kind of luck have you had tracing the
material that you know of being illegally shipped around the country?"
Spidey said.  Laurentz shook his head regretfully.  "Not a great deal.
Our normal sources have dried up rather dramatically over the past few
months, as if someone had put the fright on them pretty conclusively.
One piece of information did slip out: some fissile, which we're still
trying to locate and seize, was given to a couple of small midwestern
right-wing 'patriot' groups, for 'protection."  " That mirthless laugh
again.  "Some members of one group got curious, and peeked into
Pandora's box--tried to take one of the bombs apart.  Unfortunate. Only
for them, anyway; the thing didn't detonate."  "And that bomb upstate?"
Laurentz looked at him and shook his head.  "That, interestingly
enough, was a tamped device.  Very effectively tamped, too.  It
developed a lot of radiation and did little actual destruction--though
that's little consolation to the poor people in that tiny town. 
They're probably going to have to move now.  The thing has irradiated
the area's plants pretty conclusively, and the damage is going to make
its way into the food chain."  "Any indication, as yet, who was
responsible?"  "No.  No one's taken responsibility, anyway." Spidey
stood up and began to pace a little.  A few seagulls wafted by overhead
in the wind and the sunshine.  "One thing we have noticed over the past
few months," Laurentz said, "the last six months, anyway.  Our own
technology is improving too, as you might imagine, and we're getting
better at analyzing ambient and background radiation than we used to
be.  We've been noticing an increase in the city ambient.  Bear in
mind, Manhattan is founded on basalt and granite, which usually have
radon associated with them.  But we know what that ambient ought to be,
and the radiation we've been sensing lately is higher--as if Manhattan
was running a slight fever.  The only place you normally get readings
that high is over by Fourteenth Street, where the earthquake fault is."
\020"What??"  "The earthquake fault.  Didn't you know about it?  It's
only a longitudinal.  It's not all that geologically significant,
though every now and then it burps a little.  Cal-Tech keeps an eye on
it for us, because when it burps, sometimes it leaks a little radon, we
have to do street monitoring to make sure that people are

"Burps, huh?  How hard?"  ^^'^^ "Almost not worth speaking of.
One-point-two, one-point three Richter--you'd notice a heavy truck
going by sooner.  In fact, Cal-Tech sometimes has trouble reading it
because of the traffic vibration, but fortunately the transverse wave
is diagnostic."

I ^ .^

"The things you learn about this city," Spider-Man said.  ""' "There's
an underground river there, too.  Not naturally submerged, though--I
think they diverted it artificially in the 1800s.  At any rate, the
last analysis of the radiation figures seems strongly to suggest that
there's a stockpile we haven't located yet, somewhere in or on
Manhattan--more likely, in it--and it's beginning to affect the ambient
of the substrate around it."  ))b "Anyway to tell where?"  Spider-Man
said.  "Not specifically.  The equipment is kind of obvious looking,
and even in this town it's hard to walk around the city streets with it
and not be noticed."  Laurentz then added with a sad smile, "Not that
we have the money to do it.  Congress has cut our appropriation again
this year.  But there's something down there.  So far we haven't been
able to find anything, while investigating the CCRC records, that would
cast any light on the problem."  "Well," Spidey said, "let me cast a
little light of my own."  Briefly he told Laurentz about Venom's
certainty that Doctor Octopus was involved, and the extent of the
involvement. Laurentz looked thoughtful, then nodded.  "I think I
remember see inga couple reports from the FBI and Interpol," he said,
"possibly SHIELD as well, that he was connected to incidents in which
material was being smuggled in from other countries.  The problem's
been proof, until now. Octavius seems to have been fairly good about
keeping himself from being connected to whatever's going on."  Laurentz
looked at Spidey. "Are you going to be investigating this yourself?" 
"I don't see that I have much choice.  You guys can't do it-and if the
situation is getting sufficiently dangerous that someone's got to do
something."  "Heroism," Laurentz said, and gave Spider-Man another of
those thoughtful looks. "Well.  Maybe I can help.  We have some fairly
effective radiation sensors--sort of the great grandchildren of the
Geiger counter--though I have to admit that they're best at close
range."

"That's where we're likely to be," Spidey said.

" "We."  Two of them, you'd need?"

"Yes."  "You're in luck," said Laurentz, standing up, "because two of
them is all we have.  Just make sure you bring them back.  I can sign
them out for you, but if you lose them, I'm going to have to put off
getting married for about thirty years--that's how long it'd take me to
pay back what they're worth."

Spider-Man nodded.  "Sounds good," he said.  "Wait here," said Laurentz
and went off toward the building's roof door.  About twenty minutes
later he came back with a pair of harnesses, to which were attached
small "black boxes" with LCD readout panels.  Laurentz turned one of
them on and showed Spidey a surprisingly complex readout panel, with a
tie-in to a satellite navigation "finder" system.  "Here.  And here's
the manual."  He handed Spidey a small fat book about as thick as the
Yellow Pages, a

"I have to read all this?"  Laurentz grinned.  "Just the first couple
of chapters.  The rest is detail."

"Couldn't you just give me the Cliff Notes?"  "This is a government
document," Laurentz said dryly.  "Count yourself lucky that no one's
already arrested you."  "It's the story of my life," Spidey said.  "Mr.
Laurentz--thanks for your help.  And please get the government to pay
attention to what Ock's doing."  "It's always a struggle," Laurentz
said, "but I'll do my bestirs Good luck, Spider-Man."  "I'm going to
need it," he said as he webbed up the two harnesses and the instruction
manual, shot out a web line and swung away.

Spidey went home to change, sat down, and spent the rest of the
afternoon going through paperwork.  Doris's great sheaf of numbers
still needed his attention, and the manual would have to wait!) He
riffled through the pages for a couple of hours, until figures and
signal strengths were all blurring together in his eyes.  He had long
since given up looking at the "most frequently called" numbers, and was
now concentrating on the numbers least frequently called, and the
cloned numbers that had been least frequently used.  There were, in
particular, eighteen of these that were used only once.  Peter looked
carefully at all their associated readings--not able to make much of
them--but there was one set in particular that matched up, for each of
the cloned numbers.

He reached out for the phone and called Doris Smyth.

"Hello?"

"Doris, it's Peter Parker."

"Hello, dear!  I'm sorry I haven't had time to call you today; business
has been unusually frantic.  I don't have anything new on MJ's phone,
I'm afraid."  "That's okay, that's not what I'm calling about  I'm
looking through those printouts you gave me."

"Oh, dear," Doris said, "I hope you're not getting eyestrain."  "I am,
but it doesn't bother me.  Doris, what exactly is "Ssth' in this one
column?  The fifth column over?"  ;

"Signal strength."  "Hmm," Peter said.  "Am I imagining things, or do I
remember you telling me that sometimes you could get location
information from that little covert chip?"  There was a pause.
"Sometimes," Doris said, "yes.  If the signal strength is sufficient,
the covert will try to locate itself in terms of the nearest cell
emitters.  If you know the emitter locations, you can work out where
the phone was."

"Can you do that for a few of these?"  "I'll try for you.  It may take
a while.  What page of the readout?"

He told her, identifying the specific numbers.  "One more thing before
you go," he said.  "Am I wrong in thinking that it's hard to get a bad
cell phone signal in New York?"  Doris laughed at him.  "Dear, I'm
amazed we don't pick up conversations on our fillings.  There are
emitters every block and a half, it seems.  If you've got a bad signal,
it usually means that you're in a building with an unusually effective
Faraday cage, or one with a lot more girders than they usually use
these days, or you're down in the subway."  \020"Faraday cage?"  "It's
a network of wires or metal mesh that people use to protect computers
from ambient RF radiation that might hurt their data.  For example, I
know one shopping center that had to build a Faraday cage around its
two biggest department stores because they were close to a big radio
station, and every time the station came on in the morning, it would
wipe out all the data in their cash registers' computers.  You don't
get many buildings here that need to be purposely caged, though.  RF of
that kind is rare in the States--the store I was thinking of was in
Europe."

"Okay," Peter said.  "Doris--thanks lots."  "You're welcome.  I'll call
you back as soon as I have something.  Bye!"

She hung up.  Peter stared at the printout.

In an old building--or in a cage--or in the subway.

Underground.  Peter thought about Hobgoblin's hideaway, where the bomb
with which he intended to nuke New York had been kept.  I wonder--did
he build that?  Or was it just lent to him--or built for him ?

By Doc Ock, for example?  Peter wondered.  Before he started wearing
the Hobgoblin suit, Jason Macendale was a mercenary called Jack
O'Lantern. Macendale had always been willing to work for anyone if the
price was right.  No question but that Ock's price would likely have
been right, if he actually owned CCRC.

Underground.  He reached for the phone again, called the number that
Venom had left on his answering machine earlier that morning, and
talked into it rapidly for a few minutes, stating that he would leave
a web-wrapped package for Venom on the roof of his building, telling
him what it was, and where (in a general way) he intended to be.  Then
Peter hung up and started studying the manual, preparing for a night on
the town--or, rather, under it.

'teiife

famous architect once said, "New York is an iceberg."  He was not
talking about the friendliness, or lack of it, of the inhabitants or
about the climate in the winter.  He meant the infrastructure, in the
original form of the word: the structure below the city, under the
streets and the buildings.  At least as many "built things" lay below
the ground as above, and possibly more.  Between thirty and two hundred
feet below the streets of New York lies the biggest, most intensively
built infrastructure of any city in the world.  Miles of electric cable
and fiber, tons of steel and iron in the sewers old and new; water
mains, access tunnels, and conduits for steam and gas; and deepest of
all, the skyscraper foundations, reaching in some cases four to five
hundred feet into the bedrock.  There are cellars and subcellars,
passages between buildings, some used for years and forgotten, some
newly built; train tunnels still being used by the mainline stations,
and others long forgotten; the incredible tangle of subway stations,
reaching from one end of the island to the other;

and here and there, a secret that only two or three people knew.  Down
in the dark, in a subway access tunnel, Spider-Man was making his way
toward one of them, on a hunch that Doc Ock might be there--or better
still, that his stockpile of radioactives might be.  Spidey had
strapped one of the two AEC radiation sensors to him; his camera was in
its usual belt-buckle holder, and he was as ready as he was likely to
be to deal with Ock.  Whether he would be doing it alone or not, he had
no idea.  One possibility--that he might have Venom's help--was almost
as bad as the idea that he might have to take on Ock all by himself. 
But, he thought as he leaped and sprang through the darkness, this is
what heroes do.  MJ had said it to him, when she came home and
understood what he was going to do.  "Maybe I won't go in to work," she
said.  "No point in that," he'd said, holding her close.  "I don't even
know if I'm going to find anything tonight.  You go ahead and make
money--we've still got that phone bill to think about."  She rolled her
eyes.  "Well, if things keep going on this way, not much longer!  All
the same, just one night off--" "No.  They need you.  They like you. 
You told me so. And you like working with them, and it's good money, so
you go on and do it.  After the nightmare you had the other night, I
think you deserve a little enjoyment.  I'll call you if anything
exciting happens."  'ia "On what?  Doris still has my phone."  ^

"Oh."  "H She chuckled and kissed him.  "See how preoccupied you are.
Go on, my hero, and do what must be done."  She threw her head back,
looked at him levelly, and said it in her super heroine voice.  '9S| He
laughed.  "Hey, pretty good.  Just don't get bitten by any radioactive
bugs or anything now, okay?  One of us in the house is enough."  "If
you were in the house more often, I'd like it more," she muttered. 
"And not chasing around after-Well, it's not the chasing that bothers
me. It's the being chased.  Venom--" "Honey," he said, looking into her
eyes, "we can't do a thing about him.  He's here.  If he comes near me
with intent, I'll do everything I can to clean his clock, but worrying
about it just wastes energy.  Right now I've got other problems.  The
city's sitting on some kind of powder keg again--"

"And here you come with the matches."  \020"Not me," Spidey said.
"I've got the extinguisher.  I think."  "Go on, then," she said and
pushed him away gently.  "You and your gadget there.  Go do what you
have to--and don't be back late."  "Being late," he said, "in all
senses of the word, is the last thing on my mind."  It was still on his
mind, though not last, as he paused in the subway access tunnel and
looked out on the tracks of the Lexington Avenue local.  Far down in
the distance he could see the lights on the platform of the
Sixty-eighth Street station.  He was not headed that way, though. 
There was someplace odder he had to find again, and it had been a while
since he had been this way.  Doctor Octopus, over his long affiliation
with the city, had become as familiar with its buried side as most
people become with the parts of it that stick up in the sunlight and
air.  He had had several hideouts here and there, some of them obvious,
some of them less so.  Two of the more obvious ones, large subcellar
spaces found or built under old office buildings, Peter had already
checked.  They were, as he had suspected, empty.  Ock was too smart to
return to spots that were so easily accessible.  Spider-Man had wanted
to look at them anyway to see whether there were possibly any
radioactives stored there, as much to test his sensor as anything else.
So far it hadn't given so much as a peep.  Nor would it, at the
moment--Spidey had it set on silent running, so that it would vibrate
against him like a hypertrophied beeper set on quiet if it felt
anything.  But this left other opportunities to be investigated.  Ock
was an avid reader of history, a pastime that had led him to some
interesting discoveries, and the place to which Spidey was now heading
was one of them.  He looked both ways before crossing the tracks,
jumped them and the third rail, and made his way down to the next
access and maintenance tunnel leading away from them.  About half a
mile down this tunnel, he found what he was looking for: an old opening
with thick sheets of heavy metal, like the kind they put down on the
streets while doing repair work, riveted up over it into the masonry of
the walls.  The masonry here looked older than that elsewhere, and
there was a good reason for this.  I'll have to let someone know about
this, Spidey thought, and reached up to grab one edge of the metal
sheet.  He got a good grip, then slowly pulled.  The metal groaned and
began to bend, and masonry around it crumbled; screws and rivets popped
out of the steel sheet as the whole business leaned toward him.  Then
suddenly it gave way. Spidey leapt aside as it crashed to the floor of
the access tunnel and lay there, rocking and scraping against the wall.
Slowly and carefully he stepped in through the doorway he had revealed
and switched on his spider-signal to look around in the darkness.  It
was still pretty much as it had been: the matte-masked glitter of dusty
crystal reflected back filmed rainbows when hit with the red light of
his spider-signal. Spidey stepped into the oldest subway station in New
York City, and his footsteps echoed back from marble carvings and the
inlaid terrazzo of the floor.  He hadn't believed it when he saw it the
first time: a little station, with mosaics and beautifully carved
has-reliefs, and one track running away under the ground to a point
about three blocks away.  There was another little station, identical
to this one.  Both stations had crystal chandeliers and vases built
into the walls for flowers.  The other one had had a grand piano.

During the 1800s, there had been a very wealthy business man who had
the idea that New York should have a subway system.  He had taken this
idea to Tammany Hall, from which Boss Tweed effectively ran the city,
and set it out for the Boss himself.  The Boss had laughed and said a
crazy idea like this would never catch on--whoever heard of streetcars
underground?  And besides, the open-trench digging that would be needed
for such a project would disrupt everything for years.  The businessman
did not have open-trench digging in mind.  He proposed to tunnel
completely underground and remove the spoil gradually from one end of
the hole.  The wits at Tammany Hall laughed louder than ever at this
idea, and refused the businessman permission to even try.  Being,
however, a New Yorker of a particularly robust period, he acted
typically.  He went ahead and built the thing anyway secretly, and at
his own expense.  Two years later, he invited the dumbfounded Tammany
fat cats to come and see his subway.  They did, and they were (against
their will) impressed.  They were willing to start building more such
subways, but the rampant corruption of the Tweed administration had
used so much of the city's money that there was nothing to spend on
such a project, and soon enough the Tweed machine was out of office.
The new administration couldn't be bothered with subways, and the
businessman's little project was boarded up, shortly after his death,
and forgotten--except by one super-villain who read his history books
very closely.  Doc Ock found it, used it as a hideout for a time; and
in the middle of a particularly nasty and lively running battle,
Spider-Man had followed him there, and they had fought.  For a long
time after, Spidey had thought with affectionate regret about how, if
things had gone just a little differently, all New York subway stations
might have had chandeliers and grand pianos.  Now, though, the
chandelier was somewhat the worse for wear--as a result of that old
fight--and the dust lay thick.  No one had been here for a long time.
Something poked him gently in the ribs.  He whirled to see what it
was.

Zzt.

Huh?

Zzt.  "Oh," he said, and then almost laughed out loud, and stopped
himself.  It was the sensor, buzzing sporadically against him.  He took
a couple of experimental steps down toward the platform.  ,|

Zzzt.  Zzzzzzzzt.  Zzzzzzzz.  Spidey headed that way.  The buzzing got
stronger.  He headed farther on down, until he ran out of platform and
had to jump down onto the ancient track.  Zzzzzzzz.  It was getting
stronger, the buzzing, and more prolonged.  This was definitely not
background radiation; he had the sensor set well above that. Spider-Man
leaped on down the tracks, going as silently as he
couldZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.  When he got down to
the other end of the platform, the buzzing simply wouldn't stop.  He
stood still for a moment, looked around him cautiously with his spider
signal.

Nothing.  Bare walls, bare floors.

Marks in the dust on the terrazzo floor.  He went over to the marks,
bent to examine them more closely.  The strength of the buzz got as
high as it would go, and a soft light flashed on the sensor to indicate
that he needed to decrease the sensitivity setting somewhat if he
wanted the buzzer to work properly again.  He didn't move to do so,
still looking at the marks.  \020Little barrels.  Little drums, like
we found in the CCRC buildings.  And radioactive as heck, if I'm
getting this much reading just from the floor and the dust they were
standing on.  The thought was rather intimidating.  For the moment, he
tried not to breathe.  Gone, though, and no way to tell how long ago
that happened.  Though not a lot of dust has fallen in the scraped
places where they were moved.  So maybe it didn 't happen too long ago.
And they were taken out another way, otherwise I would have seen
markings down in the dust at the other end, not to mention picking up
the radioactivity.  He looked to see where the marks led.  Down toward
the farthest end of the platform.  There would have been a stairway
here, Spider-Man thought, when it was originally built.  Maybe there
had been; now there was just a wall that had been sealed up the same
way as the one he had come in through.  The buzzing continued here.  He
reached up to the riveted-on sheet of metal, pulled at it slowly.  It
gave way, very gradually--finally fell, clanging and echoing, on the
marble floor beside him.  Spider-Man looked through the doorway, into
the dark. Zzzzzzzzz, said the radiation sensor.

"All right," he said softly, "let's see where this leads."  It led a
long way into the dark.  The ceiling of the tunnel was low, and the
masonry was old at first, then newer.  Then the masonry stopped and
rock began: plain black basalt, the roots of the city.  And then the
tunnel sloped downward, often twisting and turning sharply as it went.
Spider-Man trailed a gloved hand along the wall for a short way.  The
wall was surprisingly smooth.  Laser drilling?  he wondered.  That kind
of thing was incredibly expensive.  It occurred to Spidey that there
were, once again, entrepreneurs in New York willing to spend a lot of
their own  money--well, somebody's money--on private construction
projects.  And the way the tunnel twisted, sometimes almost back on
itself, suggested that someone had been using satellite guidance, or
some other similar system, to avoid the foundations of other buildings,
entries to other, older tunnels, cable conduits etc.  Spider-Man went
on at the best speed he could, trusting his spider-sense to allow him
to maneuver safely in this darkness.  He had been making his way along
for about a mile, he thought, when the tunnel's downward slope
increased more acutely, and its run straightened out a good deal.  At
this point, Spider-Man stopped and listened very hard.  Nothing.  His
spider-sense had nothing to say to him, either.  : 'i4^^B It was
getting damp. Surprising how the summer humidity can make it even down
here.  There's just no escape, is there And it was cooler, too.  Slowly
Spider-Man started on down the tunnel again, going softly, listening. 
Sound began: water.  Far off, very soft, a tinkle and drip and splash
of water, like the sound you hear in subway stations in wet
weather--except that the subway stations, as far as Spidey could tell,
should be far above him at this point.  Zzzzzzzz^, the sensor sounded
against his chest.  It had been maintain inga fairly even tone all this
while, picking up the traces of where the barrels had passed though
this tunnel, here and there spikinga louder ZZZZwhen it passed a place
where some barrel might have banged against a wall.  The contamination,
Spider-Man thought, must have been horrendous.  -all the barrels were
leaking radioactivity like that... ^ He shuddered as he went along. 
Spidey had a healthy respect for radioactivity, both in its positive
and negative aspects.  The negative one was most on his mind at the
moment, though. It took only a speck of plutonium in your lungs to
kill you dead, and not even from radioactivity: the sheer toxicity of
the metal was more than sufficient.  Spider-Man went on, and the sound
of the water slowly grew and grew.  Then, ahead of him, away down the
tunnel, he saw the slightest glow of light: a pale greenish glow, as if
from fluorescent tubes.  Very quietly, he made for it.  The pale glow
slowly defined a doorway, quite literally a light at the end of the
tunnel.  He came to the end--and simply had to stop and stare.  Off to
his right, the pathway that flowed into the tunnel he had left
continued off around some outcroppings of rock, out of sight. 
Spider-Man stood at the edge of a wedge-shaped natural cavern nearly
three hundred feet across. From high up one of its walls, off to his
right, water poured down in a thin stream of waterfall, into a shallow
pool.  Water splashed up high from this, and flowed away off toward the
side of the cavern directly across from him, down and out of sight. 
The floor was a pincushion tumble of stalagmites, mingled with powdery
stuff that had probably fallen from the stalactites above; some of this
was a powdery fungus that glowed a faint golden-green.  Down the middle
of the cavern ran a deep fissure with many shattered stalagmites on
either side of it. Maybe not the fault itself, Spidey thought, but a
symptom of it.  The ceiling was not level; it arched up in a sort of
earth-Gothic style, hung with innumerable stalactites, some two hundred
feet sheer to a highest, narrowest point, and from that area, though he
couldn't see it directly, came just a spark of real light.  Some grille
on the sidewalk ?  Spidey thought.  This must be the river they
diverted.  He half wished he had a cell phone, so he could test the
cell.  I bet the signal would be pretty weak down here. 
Zzzzzzzzzzzzzz, said the sensor insistently.  It felt stronger than it
had since down in the almost-asubway-station.  \020Obediently he
turned to see in which direction the signal would increase.  Off to the
right, it got stronger, following the level path that had been cleared
through the stalagmites nearest the cavern wall.  He went cautiously
along the path, quietly listening.  The water made it hard to hear; the
echoes were confusing.  Now, though, they began to fade as the cleared
path led him through into another tunnel, this one much straighter than
the previous one.  It ran on straight for nearly a hundred yards and
there were lights in it, at intervals.."Bl Zzzzzzzzzz, said the sensor.
Zzzzzzzzzz.  ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ.  It vibrated so hard that it felt
slightly indecent, and Spidey stopped briefly to turn its sensitivity
down a good ways.  Then he went on, but the adjustment lasted only a
short time.

ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ, ZZZZZZZZZZZ/

He came to a door.  It was made of extremely heavy metal, like an
airlock door in a submarine, but the doorknob seemed simple enough.  He
turned the knob and pulled.  Very silently, on well-oiled hinges, the
door slowly leaned open.
ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ////bellowed the sensor, and
with good reason.  Spidey looked into a room nearly the size of the
cavern he had just left, all carved out of the living rock.  It was
piled high with metal drums.  Every one of them had a stenciled number
on it.  Some had old lettering as well: waste, chemical waste, toxic:
dispose of appropriately.  One, not too far from Spider Man said
cooking oil.  I don't care what it says, Spidey thought to himself
grimly, this am 't no Mazola!  He started to shut the door.  And then
his spider-sense screamed.

Spidey spun around, saw a bunch of black-clad people jump ingat him,
and knew perfectly well that there was no point in waiting to see if
they were going to be friendly.  He threw himself in a double-fisted
punch at the first one and decked him;

rolled, bounced, shot webbing at one of the others, missed;

bounced again, trying to get a count.  Six of them?  Seven?  There's no
fighting room here.  Let's make the odds a little more even.  He
bounced hurriedly back down the tunnel toward the cavern, made the
entrance, looked up, saw the stalactites.

It's worth a shot.  Gunfire sprayed behind him.  And me without my flak
jacket, he thought.  He looked up again, picked a stalactite, shot
webbing at it, felt it anchor.  Went up the web line and swung, while
bullets whined all around and spat glowing fungus and rock dust off the
surrounding stony icicles.  Footsteps, echoing, as the guards ran into
the cavern.  Spidey swung hard around the first stalactite, chose
another one, one of the biggest, shot webbing at it, anchored, pulled
himself free of the first-Suddenly, fire streaked past his ear and blew
the other stalactite to powder.  Spidey swung hurriedly around the
other one, looking to see what the heck that had been.  A single man
had come down the tunnel, the way the others had.  He was dressed in
jeans and a dark jacket, and he had an RPG launcher over his shoulder,
or something that looked very much like it.  He drew a bead on Spidey,
fired again.  Spidey launched himself out into the air--he had no
desire to be a guest at his own barbecue.  The second blast from the
RPG ruined the biggest stalactite as Spidey caromed into another one,
hung on for dear life, and prepared to move on again in a hurry.  That
one looks nice, he thought and shot webbing at it, felt it anchor. 
Better go- He swung from the web--and the stalactite detached itself
neatly from the ceiling.  For one bare moment Spider-Man understood, as
if from the inside, one of the principles of cartoon physics: you must
know you are about to fall before it can actually happen.  He seemed to
hover there for the split second until he knew--and then, flailing, he
went down.  Spidey had just enough time to glimpse the really large
stalagmite pointing toward where his back was about to land.  He
twisted spasmodically, just missed it, and crashed into two other
smaller, blunt ones.  One of them grazed his head.  He lolled back,
unable to move for a moment, literally seeing stars.  The black shapes,
he could see, were picking their way toward him---and then there was an
appalling sound: a scream.  Not me, he thought fuzzily for a moment.
Too deep.  He managed to lever himself up on one elbow, look around. 
The black shapes, at least three of them, were being waved around in
the air by long black pseudo podia attached to the usually least
welcome, but temporarily most welcome shape in the world.  Venom stood
there, arms folded as if in amusement over something odd on his
chest--Spidey squinted, abruptly recognizing the twin to his own
sensor.  With a quick, economical gesture, the pseudo podia chucked the
three men hard at the cavern wall.  They hit it hard and fell, none of
them in good shape at all.  Venom turned, reached out a very long set
of tentacles and snatched the RPG from the man who held it, then
snarled, "Niner!" and poured more tentacles at him.  "Niner'just
smiled, let the RPG go, stepped hurriedly back from the extra pseudo
podia and put his hand in his pocket.  Another appalling scream.  Not
me.  Too high.  No, it is me.  The sonic scream got inside his head and
blasted the world and the inside of his skull white with sound and
pain.  He just barely saw it starring to rain stalactites, saw the
pseudo podia writhing in agony, heard Venom's scream of sympathy and
his own scream of agony.  Then for a long time there was nothing left
but the screaming, and the pain, and after a while that went away as
well.

"--off them now and save yourself a lot of trouble, sir."  A voice,
just a voice in the darkness.  Unfamiliar.  "Oh, no, my faithful 'ninth
arm," you misunderstand my intent.  I don't want to save myself
trouble. After the Hundredth Day, things are going to be very quiet,
except for certain indulgences I permit myself.  Like these two. 
Almost too much to hope for, the second one.  I don't intend to throw
away such a piece of good luck.  Indeed not."  Familiar voice.  Too
familiar.  Can't move, can't do anything.  "You've had the guest suite
ready all this while. Well, we've got an extra guest, it may get a
little cramped in there--but we'll have plenty of time, all the time in
the world in fact, to make more room for our extra lodger.  Meantime,
put them in there together."  ;; || "Won't Venom-- ?"  ^ "He might. 
Wouldn't that be interesting to watch?  Still, I doubt he will for a
good while yet. I don't intend to waste their entertainment value so
quickly.  Not for a long time, certainly-maybe never.  We'll see. 
Anyway, we'll dose them at intervals with enough sonics to keep his
alien pet in order. Go on, Niner, put them in the suite.  We've got a
few other things to do this afternoon before we can enjoy ourselves." 
J yMake a note.  No more stalactites.  No more..  . sta .. . \020It
hurt.  Everything hurt.

Very slowly and carefully, not wanting to find out too quickly about
anything else that hurt, Spider-Man rolled over onto his face.  His
face hurt, but he had known about that already from the graze with the
stalactite.  His arms hurt, but not so badly that they didn't work.  A
good thing, that, since he found himself staring straight at a flaccid,
black, shining pseudopod between his face and the floor.  It twitched.
He boosted himself up and away from it in a hurry--then groaned as many
other parts of his body complained that they hurt, too, and what was he
going to do about it?  Spidey shook his head carefully, half afraid he
would hear something rattle, and boosted himself into some kind of limp
sitting position.  ;| He looked around.  They were in a three-walled
room about twenty feet by twenty; it appeared to have been carved out
of the same solid basalt as the hallway with the fissile storehouse in
it.  Floor, walls, and ceiling were all the same dull black.  Off to
one side was what looked like a black basalt toilet, no seat; in the
corner of the room was a little triangular pool of water, like a tiny
koi pond set into the floor.  The fourth wall fascinated Spidey.  It
shimmered--just a shimmering in the air, like heat haze, with no light,
nor a glow-but he was sure he knew what it was anyway.  It's a force
field, he thought, a genuine TV-silence-fiction force field.  He
suspected strongly that Doc Ockwas out there somewhere, waiting for him
to test it.  Well, he could wait.  Beyond the force field was a larger
room, barren, with various crates and boxes stacked up in it.  Some of
Doc Ock's people, some wearing the "goon uniform" that he first saw way
back when Ock was going by the immodest sobriquet of "the Master
Planner," others in more casual clothes.  They flitted to and fro,
bringing in more crates or taking them away.  It looked leisurely; no
one was in a rush.  Some of the henchpeople threw interested glances in
at Spidey, which he declined to return.  He turned his back on the
outside world and examined the cell once more.  It looked like it was
intended for very hard wear and very extended use.  Charming,
Spider-Man thought, and looked across at his prone cell mate.  Venom
lay there sprawled, having been hurt a lot worse by the sonics than
Spidey had: the symbiote lay strung out all around him in stricken rags
and tatters.

He disliked the idea of going near the thing, but there didn't seem any
point in letting Venom lie there and rest a perfectly good, if hostile,
set of brains while they could be useful in getting them both out of
there.  Spidey hunkered himself over closer to Venom, shook his
shoulder a little.  "Venom.  Come on, snap out of it, you big baby."
"Saa

No response.  Ai&ill "I should think he'd be out of it for a good
while," said the i familiar, rasping, gloating voice from behind him.
"You'll be wasting your time.  But you'll have lots of it to waste,
from now on."  Slowly, Spidey turned around.  There stood Doctor
Octopus, just outside the force field, looking at him through those
bloody sunglasses of his, and smiling.  He waved a hand at the field,
as if through air.  "Don't you want to try it?"  "Not in the
slightest," Spider-Man said, "since it'd probably kill me.  Or make me
wish I was dead.  I have this nasty feeling that killing me--us--is not
on the menu."  \020"Oh, no, not at all.  You two are a guilty
pleasure," said the Doc.  "Rather, you are: Venom was an unexpected
dividend.  But over the next couple of months I intend to spend a lot
of time enjoying your reactions to what you see going on around you. 
Helplessness: the most delicious of emotions which leads to all
others--rage, grief, resignation.  Though I doubt you'll come to that
too soon."  "I'll resign right now," Spider-Man said, "if you'll let me
out of here and give me a chance to pound you properly."  "Certainly
not."  Doc Ock put his hands behind his back, a little primly, and
smiled, while the god-awful metal tentacles wreathed and writhed around
like square-dancing snakes.  "And I intend to watch with enjoyment your
attempts to make me angry--what's the phrase?--'so that I'll make a
mistake."  I have been practicing not making mistakes for a long time
now."  "You've been practicing something, all right," Spidey said,
crossing his legs with a little hiss of pain, and making himself as
comfortable as he could.  "High finance, mostly.  I never thought of
you as a banker."  "You never thought, " Ock corrected him.  "That was
always your problem.  React first, think things through later.
Annoying, how your wretched half-baked thinking would sometimes serve
you well enough to interfere with my plans.  A long time now I've put
up with that kind of thing from you.  But no more.  I intend to
demonstrate to you, at leisure, what real thinking can do--and you'll
have leisure to appreciate it."

"Is this the part where you gloat over me?"  Spidey said.  "For years,"
said Ock, with a smile of pure pleasure.  "But, as an exercise for the
student, I'm delighted to give you a chance to tell me what's been
going on."

"You're destroying the world?"  Spidey said.  Doctor Octopus chuckled.
"What silliness.  When the building is burning, you don't pour on
gasoline.  You put the fire out."  "Oh," Spider-Man said.  "And with
terrorists and loonies all over the place trying to get their hands on
nuclear material, you're processing it and shipping it all over the
place, here and in Europe, and selling it to anyone who'll pay, and
this is how you put the fire out?  An interesting new definition of
'saving the world': I hadn't heard this one before."  "I am saving the
world," Doc Ock said calmly.  "From the irresponsible populations that
are destroying it.  When I'm finished, there will be a lot fewer of
those populations.  But more to the point, I'm gathering every useful
technology together into the hands of the people who will use them
wisely--"

"In other words, you."

"Perspicacious boy."

"Gee, you know big words, Doc."  "And what to do with them, insect.
"Just for a moment, a glitter of pure hate showed in Doc's eyes.  "In
the past twenty years, this world has changed tremendously in terms of
scientific advancement.  Machines that were unheard of as little as a
decade ago are now household appliances--and being misused as often as
used properly.  The time is ripe for one person to command all the
technology."  "Nice goal," Spider-Man said.  "The question is, will all
those other people let you?"  "There won't be that many of them to
argue the point," said Doc Ock, "in a very little while."

The chill got into Spidey's bones at the sound of that.  "See what's
happened in the world in those twenty years," Ock said.  "The age of
the superpower should have come to an end with the collapse of the
Soviet Union.  There should have been an astonishing leap forward in
terms of science and medicine and managing the world, with that shadow
lifted.  But still small nations squabble and kill each other's people
over wars that were fought and lost five hundred years ago.  All the
technology is here to make this world a paradise, but the nations of
the world just go on wasting their potential.  They'll waste it until
there's nothing left.  The time's now ripe for one person to command
the world's economy, one who'll use it to best advantage, in science's
service.  The greatest scientist ever to live."  Spidey cocked his head
just slightly sidewise, wondering whether Venom was conscious enough to
get any of this.  Can't be.  He'd be raving already "All it takes is
one man with a vision," Ock said, "and the world can be changed.  Is
being changed: the changes are already in progress.  A hundred days or
less, and no one will know this for the same planet."  A hundred
days--Spidey thought of that phone call from Galya.  "All this
money-laundering," he said casually.  "Whose economy are you messing
with?"  "Everyone's," said Doc delightedly.  "Why leave anyone out? 
And there are so many ways to do it.  Destabilize local currencies by
speculation in the local markets.  Deflate a country's cash reserves."
"Counterfeiting," Spidey said, suddenly remember inga little barrel of
ink that Venom had found along with other smuggled goods on a Florida
beach: the "color-changing" ink used on the new European Community bank
notes--called, simply, the Euro--impossible to duplicate, now the most
stolen and most expensive substance in the West.  "Yes indeed.  In
about a month, the Euro will suffer a most devastating drop in its
value when it's discovered how much of the currency is worthless,
unbacked by the member banks.  So will the dollar and the yen.  The
ruble, worth little enough as it is, will go into hyperinflation
within minutes.  The world's currencies will go into free fall." 
"Whole economies will crash," Spider-Man said softly, horrified.

"Yes.  It will start there.  Many wasteful industries will die in that
first shakeout--"

"First."  "Well," said Ock, the extra arms curling and wreathing gently
about him, "I always did favor the belt-and-suspenders route.  There
are simply too many people on this planet.  Resources are being wasted
faster than they can be replaced.  I had given some thought to smallpox
and anthrax," he said, tilting his head a little, as if considering it
again, "but they are unreliable agents, and difficult to control.  No,
the sweet compliance of the atom suits me better.  Plutonium doesn't
breed without help, and won't mutate into some unpredictable new form
without warning.  I have acquired a fair amount of it, and over time
I've distributed a great deal of it, here and there, where it'll do the
most good."

"All over the country, you mean!"  "Every major city.  City-dwelling
has not been good for our planet, by and large," Ock said judiciously.
"Now nearly half this world's swollen population lives in cities.  A
moment's surgery, in a hundred days, and," he made an airy gesture,
"the burden becomes much less.  I don't have a quarrel with simple
people who live on the land.  I'll rule them in their best interests,
and they'll provide food and the raw materials we'll need for the new
sciences.  At the same time, I don'twant to ruin the cities totally.
It's surgery--or rather, chemotherapy.  Kill the cancer, save the
body."  He smiled again.  "They'll thank me for a thousand years
after."  Spidey sat very still.  Then, slowly, he got up, and walked as
close to that force field as he dared.  \020"What gives you the right
to do this?"  he cried.  Ock only blinked.  "I'm the one best qualified
to bring this result about," he said simply, "and the time is right.
Wouldn't you say?"  Spider-Man stood there and just shook.  Doctor
Octopus peered past him at Venom, and tsked a little.  "I hope I didn't
give him too much," he said.  "Keep an eye on him.  This has been very
entertaining--I look forward to seeing how he reacts to it."  And Otto
Octavius walked away, actually whistling to himself.  Spidey sat down
next to Venom, still trembling with rage and fear.  For a long time he
was silent.  Then, so softly it was barely a breath of sound.  Venom
said, "And we thought we knew what madness was like."  Spidey, acutely
aware that they were probably being watched, pretended to lie back down
on his back, not too close to Venom but not too far away from him
either, and moaned a little.  The moan was genuine enough.  After a few
long breaths he whispered, "If you've got any thoughts on this, I
wouldn't mind hearing them."  There was a very soft hiss: after a
little while.  Venom said, "We should consider our available assets. 
We ourselves are not entirely out of commission, though holding the
symbiote in check is something of a strain at the moment."  "Yeah, I
know," Spidey said morosely, "it wants to eat my spleen or something."
"It wants to eat all of you," Venom said, "but at the moment we have no
intention of catering to its whims.  Later, when we are free, will be
another matter.  We decline, however, to be entertainment for that
crackpot."  Spidey paused a moment, thought about that.  "Okay," he
said.  "Let's fight."  \020"Your sense of humor is as impaired as
ever."  "No, I'm serious.  Venom, listen to me!  We didn't even have to
make him angry--he's already made his mistake."  ,1,"In what regard?" ,
r'if "How much of that did you hear?"  "' """ "To our intense regret,
all of it."  :^ "He said he built this place for me.  Not for you.
We've got so much history together, he knows my capabilities inside
out--but not yours.  There may be some weakness in this place that you
can i': "iA exploit that I can' t."  ;$|@ There was a long pause.  "It
is well reasoned," Venom said softly.  "We would suggest you wait an
hour or so.  The symbiote is indeed somewhat 'under the weather."  "
"You're on."  ,^ Mg Another pause.  "This is not to be taken as a
waiver' of my statutory right," said Venom, "to eat your spleen at a
later date."  Spidey snorted and disguised the sound more or less
successfully as a sneeze.  "As long as the world doesn't get blown up,"
he said softly, "that suits me fine."  |1| Silence.  a8 Spider-Man lay
back and took the single most unsuccessful one-hour nap of his life.
wy, Aaa

Slowly, over the next half hour or so, Venom's pseudo podia began
workingagain.  He pulled himself together over the course of a few
minutes: the symbiote knitted itself back into a costume, and then,
over another ten minutes or so, began putting new pseudo podia out and
making little grabs in Spider Man direction.  Spidey let this continue
for a little while, then "noticed" it, and withdrew to his own corner.
What Spidey desperately hoped had escaped the attention of whatever
surveillance was turned on them, was that while the pseudo podia were
snatching at him, one of them--fined down to a hair, and practically
invisible--had been investigating the force field.  He had no idea what
the results were, but Venom showed no sign of any ill effects, except
that the look he was giving Spidey was becoming more ferocious and
hungry by the minute.  Finally he spoke.  "This is an opportunity we
had not thought to have for a few days yet," he said.  "It seems a
shame to waste it--especially as it will be good practice for dealing
with that slide-rule pusher when he comes back."  Spidey glared at
Venom, stood up slowly.  "I wouldn't bet that it's going to go the way
you want," he said.  "It hasn't before."

"There's always a first time," Venom said.  And he leapt.  Pseudopodia
whirled out and wrapped around Spidey, and he grappled with it in a
very mixed state of mind: he did not want to hurt Venom because he was
going to need his help later, but he also did not want to be any closer
to the symbiote than he had to.  They reeled back and forth, they
bashed into the walls.  At one point, Venom picked Spidey up bodily and
dropped him headfirst on the floor, then leapt on him again.  They
grappled and rolled around the floor.  Those godawful fangs dripped
slime on Spider-Man and the tongue was everywhere at once.  Their faces
were close together.  The symbiote made a noisy wailing sound.  Eddie
Brock's proper human ^ voice whispered in Spidey's ear, "The force
field is permeable.  We had to narrow down to less than an angstrom
wide, but some got out.  With time--the controls--"

"We'll see where he keeps them," Spidey gasped.  Venom punched him.
Spidey, furious, punched him back, then scrambled to his feet, picked
Venom up, and threw him at the wall.  Unfortunately, there was very
little room to work in a space like this, and some disadvantages.  At
one point Venom held his head under water in the corner pool.  He
struggled for air, gasped and thrashed, and finally got free--only to
have the symbiote grab him to do it again.  It's getting too
enthusiastic, Spidey thought desperately.  Does it even understand the
concept that this is a put-on ?  And if it does, does it care?  The
pseudo podia shoved him under the water again.  Nope, Spidey thought,
and choked and gasped and came up coughing water, and grabbed Venom and
attempted to throw him straight across the horizon.  The room actually
shook a little when he hit the wall.  And outside the other wall, Doc
Ock was standing, looking pleased.  "Goodness," he said, "I hadn't
thought you'd have had it in you so soon."  He glanced over to one side
at something.  The controls for the force field, Spidey thought,
desperately hoping that Venom had seen it, willing him to have seen it.
Venom staggered to his feet.  "You utter madman," he growled, stalking
toward the force field, "we'll see shortly if legend is true, that you
gain intelligence by eating others' brains."  "Wouldn't recommend it,"
Spidey remarked from the other side of the room, getting ready to leap.
"Mad Octopus Disease is incurable."  '^ Venom jumped at him.  They
rolled and punched again-but Spidey noticed that Venom stayed near the
force field.  Pseudopodia blurred the air.  They rolled.  Spidey
screamed as Venom struck him in the bruised rib.  But through the pain
he felt the slightest flash of satisfaction.  He had seen the one
pseudopod that was thinned down to almost literally nothing.  On the
far side of the force field, he saw the same pseudopod, which had fed
through the field, an angstrom thick.  Buy it time, he thought.  Let
it get thick enough to do some good.  They fought.  Venom banged
Spidey's head against the floor.  They rolled, but not too far. 
Punches rained down, bruised the faces under the masks unmercifully. 
Spidey dragged Venom to his feet again, reared back for one last
enormous haymaker, the last blow he felt he would ever have in him.  A
soft sound, like a sigh. Spider-Man looked over Venom's shoulder and
saw the heat haze suddenly go away, and also saw Doc Ock's face
abruptly go blank with sheer surprise.  There was no need to say
anything; they both dived out the door as Ock dived for the control to
slap it back on.  He hit it too late--and pseudo podia whipped out and
wrapped around him like ribbons around a much-longed-for present. 
There was a shout from behind Ock as he struggled.  People streamed
into the area as if they'd been called. He had some kind of remote on
him, probably, Spidey thought: a panic button.  He had little time left
to think about it, as the people in black unholstered weapons and
started shooting at him.  He was running on autopilot at the moment. 
Spidey webbed guns out of hands, bounced across the room, kicked and
punched, and generally was a bad target. Most of his attention, though,
was on Venom and Ock, struggling and swaying together tentacles against
pseudo podia the fangs and the dread against the tremendous strength. 
This is not good, Spidey thought.  After I deal with these guys,
there's still going to be Ock. How many times have we fought?  And
let's say I do win: then what have I got?  Venom--and a very keyed-up
Venom, after the last couple of hours.

He swallowed.  When did I last update my will?

As he was bouncing away from one more felled guy in black,

Spider-Man heard an odd, inhaling sound.  His spider-sense stung him
like a wasp, and he jumped straight up.  The output from the
flamethrower went by right underneath him.  Spidey clung briefly to the
ceiling, gasping and choking with the rising gasoline fumes, as someone
he remembered seeing before, a guy in a floppy black hat with grommets,
chased him with the flames.  He scuttled along the ceiling.  "Just a
little fire for the bug," said the man cheerfully.  "Not like the fire
that's coming, though.  That'll be worth seeing-and nothing can stop it
now."  With a tremendous effort.  Venom lifted Doc Ock right off the
floor and flung him crashing off to one side.  Then he turned, murder
in his gaze.  "Niner," he said, and stepped toward him.  Niner turned
the flamethrower toward Venom, hitching his shoulders a little to
settle the fuel pack comfortably.  "Should be quite a sight," he said,
"all the fire, up there where the view and the food's so superior--but
I don't think you'll be around to see it.  You're just trouble.  Better
get rid of you now."

"This is Ock's sidekick?"  Spidey said.  "Niner," said Venom, circling
around toward him.  "Amusing to see plain old garden-variety jealousy
operating.  We had thought the style in sidekicks now was dogged
devotion."  He leapt.  Spidey, off to one side, could see Doc Ock
scrambling to his feet again.  "Oh dear," he said softly.  "My turn in
the barrel."  He jumped too--catching, as he did, just a glimpse of
Niner as Venom snatched the flamethrower out of his hands, ripped it
off at the hose, and then wrapped the pseudo podia around him in what
looked like an indissoluble embrace.  Niner was no longer a threat.

He had no more time to spend on that: suddenly there were

metal tentacles wrapped around him, and he was dealing with another
embrace of his own.  Ock was almost purple with rage: it was nearly
worth choking to death to see.  Nearly.  Spider-Man struggled to get
free, but as always, it was like struggling with angry adamantium
pythons.  Spider-strength sufficed him to get them off him.  He bounced
out of range for a moment, trying to get his wind, and didn't get it,
as one of those pythons reached up to the ceiling and snatched him down
again.  Not without cost.  Ock was still flesh and blood elsewhere, and
as he pulled Spidey in at full speed, he also caught, backed by his own
strength, Spidey's fist right in his face.  He reeled back.  Spider-Man
bounced away again.  Just for a breath..  . Then all four tentacles
caught him, lifted him high.  He shot webbing at them; they broke it,
and smashed him to the floor.  The world went white.  No question about
the rib this time.  No question about maybe three of them.  The legs
were refusing to work, too.  Broken back?  No, he wouldn't still be
able to feel the legs then.  He struggled to at least get halfway up.
Ock had turned his back on him, had stalked over to Venom and grabbed
him the same way.  They were struggling, but the contest couldn't be in
that much doubt, not really.  Neither of them was fresh.  The tentacles
held Venom high.  Pseudopodia wrapped around them, resisting.  There
was a moment's swaying back and forth as dark razory ribbons struck and
sliced at Doc's head, but not with the usual energy, a little feebly, i
"You want to hold on?"  Ock said.  "Fine."  And then the tentacles
simply bashed Venom against the wall.  Once--and the wall really did
shake this time.  Twice.  Again.  Again, like you would hit a fly you
really wanted to flatten.  Again.

The pseudo podia lost their grip.

Doc smashed Venom down on the floor.  He lay there, still.  The pseudo
podia didn't move.  Spidey looked at him, where Doc stood looking down
at Venom, only breath inga little fast.  He barely broke a sweat,
Spidey thought in thoroughgoing disLook what he did to Venom.  Venom!
I've never been able to do that.  And now he's going to do it to me,
again.  And then he's going to blow up the world, and my wife, and
everything!  No!  I won't let him win!  I didn 't let him beat me when
he dropped a ton of machinery on my back, and I won't let him beat me
now!

He threw himself at Doc Ock, webbing like crazy.  At least the fighting
started with webbing.  Where it went after that seemed oddly
predetermined to Spidey, as if he were doing some dance whose rules had
been established a long time ago.

You shoot webbing at him, he shreds it up.  You jump up on the ceiling
and come at him from that direction with webbing and then with feet and
fists.  He knocks you back.  You come at him again, hitting him like a
cannonball, because all you can see in your mind is the sight of
mushroom clouds everywhere, and your wife getting blown up--over and
over and over.  He hits you, but you always hit him back, because if
you don't, everything is going to die.

Everything.

Everything.  You hit, you kick.  You're so hurt, it feels like you're
kicking yourself.  It doesn't matter.  MJ wouldn't like it if you
stopped.  This," she would say, "is what heroes do."  ^" And when you
stop, finally, it's because the other party has stopped making the next
move, failed to keep up the dance.  You find yourself looking at a
collapsed figure on the ground, terribly bruised and battered, metal
arms lying helpless for the moment.  And you wonder, irrationally, what
you did wrong.  Now, and all the other times.

I did it.

How did I do that?  Spidey shook his head.  Ock lay still.  Off to one
side there was a faint beeping noise.  Venom lay not too far from it,
groaning."iWebbing, Spidey thought, and lots of it.  He webbed Ock's
arms behind him, and his legs, and the metal arms too, with special
attention to them so that they couldn't work free.  Then he staggered
over to Venom.  Venom was moaning softly.  It was a kind of piteous
sound, especially since Spidey would have liked to lie down and make it
himself.  "Come on," he said.  "Come on, Venom."  Wait a moment.  Why
am I trying to wake him up ?  I need to get out of here.  Then he heard
the little beeping noise again.  He looked for the source, and his eye
came to rest on a little silver thing, like a small cylinder.  It had
an LED display on the top, and a little button.

The LED display said 56:04.  Then, 56:03.  56:02.  56:01.  A chill
settled in the pit of Spider-Man's stomach.  He picked it up.

The way everyone came.  As if called.  He had this with him.

He let go of it.

Dead man's switch!

He went to Venom and actually lifted him, picked him up: he needed all
the help he could get.  "Come on, Venom.  Wake up!  He's going to blow
one of these things!"  '

"Wha--?"

"Come on!  We've got to find his computers."  Venom just sagged down
to the floor.  Spidey could only stand and stare at him for a moment.

Then he staggered off down the hall toward Ock's lair.  Nothing was
hidden there, which was fortunate as he had no time to search.  Laid
out neatly off to one side, in a sort of main control room, he found
the radiation sensors, and all the computers up and running.  The
control room was deserted.  Spidey suspected that a lot of Ock's people
had decided that not even the wages he paid were worth staying around
for at this point, with an angry super-villain and an angry super hero
on, the premises.  ' He looked at all the computer screens he could
find.  There were a lot of them.  One system, though, was running a
program called inventory.  There was a list on it.  It was a list of
hundreds of bombs, jig All of them said inactive.  Spidey grabbed the
computer's mouse, scrolled down it.  And scrolled.  And
scrolled-active, said one.  It had a number.  It had a location in
latitude and longitude.  Spidey double-clicked on the entry,

A map of the World Trade Center appeared.  : "

Oh, no, not again!  But it was the perfect place for an airburst.  The
closest you could come to one, without dropping it from an airplane.
Maximum coverage.

It's going to kill thousands of people.  Maybe hundreds ofthosands.
Spidey recovered his sensor, strapped it to himself again.  "Got to
warn them," he muttered.  "Where's a phone?"  He looked around
desperately, couldn't see one.  "Where's a phone?  It's been raining
phones for days, why can't I find one when I need one?"

He caught sight of one, finally, between computer consoles.

He grabbed it and punched numbers into it so fast he almost sprained a
finger, that being the only part of him that was not presently
sprained.  "Not the voice mail please not the voice mail  Thank God!
Drew!  Spider-Man!"  he shouted.  "Call the World Trade Center, tell
them to evacuate, now, there's a bomb!  Yes, another one!  Don't ask,
just hurry, hurry!"  He glanced at the dead man's switch.  "Fifty
minutes!  Just get them out, get everybody there as far away as you
can!"  He looked for somewhere to slam the phone down, couldn't find
anywhere, dropped it on the floor and ran out as best he could.

Ock's elevator took him up into one of the access tunnels below the
Union Square subway station.  He made his way up onto one of the
platforms and took the stairs at a run, causing some very surprised
looks among the commuters.  The sirens had already begun howling.
Spidey took to his web lines and swung like a mad thing across the
city. As he approached the twin towers, he could see people streaming
away from them.  That suited him.  And here I am, the only thing in the
city except for the bomb squad, going toward them.

It's all very strange.  The sensor wasn't giving him so much as a peep
as he landed on the roof of the South Tower and headed for the stairs.
"Come on, give me some help," he muttered.  But Laurentz had warned him
that the sensors were fairly short-range.

Airburst.  Top ten stories, certainly.  Of two towers.  Wonderful..  .
He took the elevator down to ninety and started quartering the
corridors of the floor, with the sensor turned up as high as it could
go.  Nothing.  It took him five minutes.  He ran up the stairs,
quartered the next floor.  Nothing.  \020Ninety-two.  Nothing.  He had
never been so aware of time as a liquid, like blood flowing, trickling
away.  Everything was going to trickle away.  There was no time to even
call MJ and tell her he loved her.  No time.

Ninety-three.  Ninety-four.  Ninety-five.  Nothing.

And on up to the roof.

What if he put it below ten floors down?  What if I miss it?  He ran
back up to the roof, shot a web line over to the North Tower, and swung
over, took the elevator down ten stories, while outside the sirens
howled, and did it again.

Ninety.  Nothing.  , '"

Ninety-one.  Nothing.

Ninety-two.  ; Damn them all, he found himself thinking as he raced
down one more set of empty corridors, and the sensor didn't say a thing
to him.  Ock, and his bloody Niner.  They always have to gloat.  Fire
in the sky--he knew about it all right.

Spidey stopped dead, panting.

He did know.

What was it he said?

"--up there where the view and the food's so superior--"

My God!  Spider-Man burst out laughing and ran up to the hundred
and-first floor.

Seven minutes left.  The place was empty.  He ran down the corridor to
where a beautiful wrought-iron grille stood, with a sign on it:
windows

ON THE WORLD.

He plunged on in.  No one was there; wineglasses sat abandoned on the
tables, some of the most expensive vintages in the world, he'd heard.
\020He stood very still, and turned the sensor up.

Zzzzt.  Not a very strong signal.  He took a few steps toward one bank
of windows.

ZZZzzzzzt.

No?  The other way.

ZzzzZZZZZT.  Right up against the window, between two tables, he stood.
ZZZZZZZZzzzzzt.

A fairly strong signal.  But nothing here to be making it.

Six minutes.

He moved away from the window.  '^ 7 .rs'; Zzzzzt.  '^

Weaker.  But it can't be outside.

Where the heck is it ?

He went back to the spot between the windows.  ;'(

ZZZZZZZZzzzzzzt.  iA:;.; All right, where is it?  Spider-Man looked
around him frantically.

And suddenly saw, in the corner, not too far away, the spiral
staircase, leading downward.  He leaped down it, and found himself
faced with a locked iron grille, with a beautiful little sign that
said, wine cellar.  Spidey laughed again.  "Sorry," he said to the
grille, and ripped it courteously off its hinges, setting it to one
side.  The wine cellar was immense.  Racks and racks and racks of wine,
names like Rothschild and Grand Cru and Zinfandel and God only knew
what else.  He turned the sensor up, and began working his way up and
down the racks. Three minutes left.

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

He paused.  Moved a little to one
side-ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ/

Two minutes.  Spider-Man looked at the wine rack--and, down in the
bottom, saw one of the bottles of Rothschild with an unusually thick
neck.  Very carefully, he knelt down beside it and eased it out. 
"About the size of a mortar shell," Laurentz had said.  More like a
champagne bottle, Spidey thought, but never mind that now.  There was a
very straightforward-looking switch on one side, and a little LED that
said 01:32.

He took a deep breath.

MJ, I do love you--and this is what heroes do.

Spidey threw the switch.

The LED went out.  Just to be sure, he sat there for much longer than a
minute and thirty-two seconds.  Nothing happened.  Outside, the sun
shone, and the wind blew.  Inside, Spider-Man breathed again.
Carefully, carrying the "wine bottle" under his arm, he went off to
call Sergeant Drew's office and MJ.  much later, Peter sat on the
living room couch with MJ and said sadly, "So only two more weeks of
this?"  "Yup," she said.  "Not as many stations picked it up as they'd
hoped, so they're limiting the series to twenty-two episodes.  They've
already got eighteen.  I'll be able to tape the next four, but that's
it."  "It's a shame."  He hugged her.  "But we're in pretty good shape
at the moment."  The phone rang.  MJ got up to get it.  "Hello?  Oh,
hi, Doris.  Sure, he's right here."  She handed Peter the phone.  "Hi,
Doris," he said.  "Two things," Doris said.  "One good, one maybe. Cell
Tech will not be charging you for that phone bill.  I've got eighteen
of those numbers involved in an investigation into, would you believe
it, cigarette smuggling."  "That's great!  Thank you, Doris." "Anytime.
My special service for famous people.  The other thing--you were
asking about location data on those calls?  The Union Square subway
station, apparently."  Peter chuckled.  "I'll tell Spider-Man." "Yes,"
she said, "and that's another thing.  When do I get to meet him?"  "Uh.
I'll work on it."  . "You do that.  Let me talk to MJ now. Bye!" 
"Yes, Doris," MJ said, taking the phone back.  "Yes.  Yes.  Lunch?
Sure.  Where?  You're on.  See you tomorrow."  She hung up.  \020"You
have a groupie," Peter said, amused, as she sat down again.  "I've had
a groupie for a long time," MJ said and hugged him.  They sat looking
idly at WNN, which was full of news about Doctor Octopus's arrest and
the unfolding of the nuclear and economic strands of his conspiracy.
Spidey had had a chance to very thoroughly debrief on the
subject--having been lectured on it by the perpetrator himself--and Ock
was presently in the Vault, being debriefed himself, a business that
would probably take some years.  Various world banks were scrutinizing
every piece of their currency.  The AEC was running all over the
American landscape, picking up and defusing small tactical nuclear
weapons and weapons-grade plutonium.

And in all this excitement, Venom had fallen right out of the news.  <
m

"I wonder where he went," MJ said softly.  Njj "He wasn't in the caves
at Ock's place when I got back there Peter said, "but according to
Ock's computer, somebody printed a list of all the sites Ock shipped
bomb material to.  I suspect that he'll be busy making sure the AEC
takes care of it--and stepping in if they don't.  I'm still surprised
he didn't stick around, though."

"Maybe he was embarrassed at Octopus beating him."  ,. "Or maybe he
just wasn't up for another fight.  I kind of suspect that he's not
going to forgive CCRC or its baby, Bothwell, either.  He may come back
to haunt them."  ^1 "Better them than you."  MJ pulled Peter close.
"What did Kate say about the pictures?"  ?i|;

"Oh, she loved them.  So, a little more money for the kitty,

no Venom, the phone bill is off our case, and Doctor Octopus is locked
up where he belongs."  Peter chuckled and leaned his head back on the
sofa, repeat inga line of Doc Ock's.  "Paradise on earth."

"It is, isn't it?"  MJ said and kissed him.