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The prop noise rose to a growl. The plane bumped forward.
The Captain peered out through the port, looking for Herb; but there was only the fog.
Good News
Falco, Reader and the two cops crammed into the rusty elevator cage. They avoided looking at each
other's eyes. In the cage's dim light Reader's bald head seemed smooth, almost faceless to Falco.
Falco looked into his heart.
He felt numb, his own emotions as hidden from him as were Martin Reader's. What the hell am I doing
here? He wished he was back in his office: with its banks of screens, wire feeds and online consoles,
with the news floor beyond his windows harshly lit and vibrant, with the ocean of events lapping around
him.
They reached the fifth floor. Falco led the party along the landing, to a heavy, scuffed door: it was
commonplace, one in a corridor of identical doors, in this nondescript brownstone.
The two cops glanced at each other, and took up positions to either side of the door. They were big
men, but they looked nervous; their black tunics were bulky, and Falco wondered if they were wearing
vests.
Falco raised his fist, and banged on the door.
He answered. Him. He was still in his blue work suit; it was a little after seven in the evening. He smiled
when he saw Falco, his eyes warm behind his thick glasses. But then he registered the cops, and Reader,
and the smile faded.
Reader spoke first. 'You know why we're here.' The man stepped forward, coming into the corridor's
dim light. His physical size became apparent. The cops flinched. The older of the cops was a sergeant,
around forty-five, going to paunch. He hissed to Falco, 'Are you sure it's him? I mean, this is a big guy.
But can it be him?'
Falco tried to keep his voice level. 'Yes. Yes, it's him. Son did you think you could keep your secret
from me?'
He was still watching Falco, with a face that had hardly changed since the day a boy from Kansas had
walked into Falco's office, nervous, clumsy, overgrown, asking for a job on his paper.
His eyes were empty.
No, Falco thought. Not empty. He understands. Falco was barely able to meet that gaze. Jesus.
Already he understands what's happening. And he forgives me.
Falco felt irritation: unexpected, unwelcome, savage, the first emotion to break through his numbness.
Maybe I don't want to be forgiven. 'God damn it, boy, let's get this over. Open your shirt.'
Falco watched those huge biceps bunch, under the scuffed suit. My God. If he really does blow his
top
But then, with a fast motion of one hand impossibly fast, too fast to follow he ripped open his shirt,
careless of torn fabric. It was like a snake shedding its skin. The colours of the costume he revealed, red
and blue and gold, were vivid in the dingy corridor.
The younger cop, staring, said: 'Well, I'll be it is him.' He sounds like a country boy, Falco thought.
Maybe he comes from Kansas too.
The sergeant read a statement of rights. At the end of it, he held out a pair of cuffs. 'No,' Falco said.
'That's not necessary. Cuffs couldn't restrain him anyway. And there are cameras outside, damn it; leave
him his dignity.'
'He's right,' the junior cop said. 'I guess if he doesn't want to come with us why, he could fly right out
the damn window it'd take a nuke to shoot him down...'
'Shut up, Clancy.'
But he was smiling at the sergeant, evidently forgiving him too. He held out his wrists. The cuffs snapped
on, the noise sharp in the enclosed corridor.
The cops led the way to the elevator; the man walked between them, calm, his head high, his cape
rustling over his shoulders. In Falco's eyes, made rheumy by too many years of blotchy type and vdu
screens, the bright colours of the costume melted and ran.
Reader took the stairs, with Falco. 'Well. It's over. He's submitting himself to the due process of law.'
'He doesn't have to.' Falco heard his own voice crack. 'That kid was right. He could bust out, be a
hundred miles away in a second.'
'Of course. But he won't, will he? Not him.' He patted Falco's shoulder, with a hand gloved in soft
leather. That's why we love him, I suppose.'
The word startled Falco. 'What?'
'Oh, you mustn't be ashamed. We all feel the same, about him!'
'He's never done us any harm, damn it.'
'He may have intended no harm.' Reader sighed, and Falco couldn't tell how sincere he was. 'That's
what makes this so painful.'
'What's in this for you, Reader?' Falco snarled. 'Why prosecute him? Why do you want to play Judas?'
For the first time there was a flicker of real emotion on the smooth face, a lift of an eyebrow, a flash of
irritation. 'Don't you understand anything? My role in this is quite different.' He stared at Falco, from
within glassy blue eyes. 'You figured out his secret identity; you led the police here. You're his editor,
damn it. You're the Judas.'
They emerged from the brownstone, into the glare of TV lights.
The charges were complex, brought by Readercorp at both state and federal levels. They concerned a
break-in at a lab belonging to Readergen, a subsidiary of Readercorp. The charges centred around wilful
damage to property, theft, industrial espionage, and restrictions of trade.
Justice Hynes, appointed to the case, decided that a Grand Jury hearing wouldn't be appropriate. Any
jurors couldn't help but be biased by the intensive media coverage. Instead there would be a pre-trial, in
open court. The purpose was to establish if the prosecuting attorney had enough evidence to take the
case to a higher court for full trial.
While the court assembled, Martin Reader's words and image filled newsprint, screens, the fizzing online
nets.
'What is a hero?
'Look: I'm chairman and CEO of Readercorp. A major industrial grouping. And so I have powers,
which I have to use with discretion. It's not always clear what's the right thing to do. And in some
situations there is no action without undesirable consequences... In a morally ambiguous world
like ours, how can heroes function?'
The pre-trial was televised.
The whole thing's a circus, Falco thought. Calvary on TV. Of course he watched it all, several
channels at once, on the bank of small screens in his office. And his own paper ran yards of reportage,
analysis and comment.
The court was small, modern, panelled with oak. A Stars and Stripes hung limp in one corner of the
room. The seats were of moulded plastic, and looked too small for him; but he sat patiently, his huge
shoulders hunched over, his hands still cuffed, his costume a splash of primary colour in the sombre tones
of the court. He submitted to everything he was asked to do, but he wouldn't say anything. Not a word.
His attorney even had to register his plea, of not guilty. Falco had the impression the decision on which
way to plead had come from the attorney, not the client.
Martin Reader whispered: 'Look: a superhero can avert a car crash. Fine; most people would
applaud that as "good". But what is his view of the motor industry, which sells us cars designed to
exceed sensible speed limits? What about wider dilemmas, for instance the conflict between the
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