Doctor Mid-Nite
Times Past, 1981
What’s My Motivation?
by HarveyKent
Part One
“Good morning, Michelle,” Dr. McNider said to the young secretary seated outside his office. “It feels like a nice morning, today.”
“Good morning, Dr. McNider!” The young woman smiled. “It certainly is; not a cloud in the sky! I put Dr. Green’s report on his head trauma case on your desk. Transcribed into Braille, as always.”
“Efficient as always, Michelle, thank you,” Dr. McNider smiled, his hand on the doorknob of his office. One of the hardest things about pretending to be a totally blind man had been learning Braille, and having his reports turned in in that form to maintain the charade. Recently he had been afraid he’d have to use it for real, as his bizarre “reverse vision” had been starting to fail him. But a special set of glasses devised by his late friend, Dr. Ogilvey, had solved that problem; and, by way of thanks, Dr. Mid-Nite had brought Ogilvey’s murderer to justice.
“Oh, and Dr. Pierce wants to see you right away,” Michelle added. “In his office.”
McNider stiffened. “Yes, thank you, Michelle. I’ll be right there.”
McNider turned and walked out of his office. It still rankled that Dr. Pierce was chief of staff of Stanasch Hospital. He had been an intern when McNider was chief resident. Of course, McNider had taken ten years off from his medical career, to write pulp magazine stories and fight crime as Dr. Mid-Nite. In 1951, when the JSA had been driven underground by Senator O’Fallon, McNider had returned to medicine. It had not been easy, while maintaining a charade as a blind man (something he had done, in case the need for Dr. Mid-Nite ever arose again). But he had done it, and by this time was one of the highest respected physicians in the hospital. But he still had to kowtow to Dr. Pierce, and the younger man knew it.
As he turned the corner heading for Pierce’s office, being careful to look like he was counting steps, McNider wondered what Pierce had in store for him now. He hoped it was nothing that would divert his attention, today of all days.
Not with the special patient in Room 101.
Part Two
Dr. McNider rapped on the rich wooden door with the shiny brass plate reading DR. B.F. PIERCE, CHIEF OF STAFF. He heard the doctor’s jovial voice from within calling, “Come in!” He did so. He saw another man in the room with Dr. Pierce, a tall, well-built man in his middle thirties. The man’s face looked vaguely familiar, but Dr. McNider couldn’t think where he had seen it before; and, of course, he couldn’t ask the man.
“Dr. McNider, come in,” Dr. Pierce said in his plummy voice. “Someone here I’d like you to meet.”
“This is the guy?” the other man asked Dr. Pierce, enthusiastically. He strode over to Dr. McNider, grasped his hand and pumped it enthusiastically. “Doc, it’s a pleasure to meet you! You and I are gonna be great friends, I know! Great friends!”
“Er, thank you, I’m sure,” McNider said. “I’m sorry, you have the advantage of me, Mr…”
The stranger goggled in surprise. “You mean, you don’t recognize me?” He said it as though this were a crime.
“Dr. McNider doesn’t get to the movies, much,” Dr. Pierce explained patiently.
Movies! That was where McNider had seen this man.
“Oh, sure, sure,” the man said, “but I figured my voice, maybe? From television?”
“I don’t own a television set,” Dr. McNider said, and this was true. “I prefer my phonograph.”
“Hey, sure, whatever you like,” the stranger said, undaunted.
“Dr. McNider, may I introduce Mr. Clint Reynolds,” Dr. Pierce said. “Perhaps you’ve heard of him. A movie star, and three-time Oscar nominee.”
“Four time,” Reynolds corrected. “Lost to DeNiro last time out, but there’s no shame in getting beat by the best, is there, doc?”
“I’ve never thought so,” Dr. McNider said. “It’s an honor, Mr. Reynolds. What can I, er, do for you?”
“Mr. Reynolds would like to spend the day with you, Doctor,” Dr. Pierce said, in an undertone that implied that refusal was not an option. “Observe you on rounds, with patients, consulting with other doctors, that sort of thing.”
“He does?” Dr. McNider asked; then, realizing that was rude, turned to Reynolds. “You do? Er…why?”
“Well, Doc, I’m a method actor,” Reynolds explained. “I like to get into a role I’m playing, actually live the part, you know? When I made Smoke Eaters, I rode with the boys of Engine 451 in St. Louis for a month. When I did Motion to Compel, I went around with an actual trial lawyer. Hell, I sat second chair on a murder trial! ‘Second chair’, that’s a legal term.”
“I’m familiar with it,” McNider said, afraid that he knew where this was going.
“My next picture,” Reynolds said proudly, “is called Up From Darkness. It’s about a young man who’s wanted to be a doctor all his life. He’s worked his way through med school, worked hard at it, and finally graduates with honors; but on the day he graduates, he’s in an accident and loses his sight.”
“Interesting,” McNider said.
“Dang right!” Reynolds cried. “This will get me my Oscar for sure! The blind guy, see, struggles to overcome overwhelming odds and practice medicine anyway, even though he can’t see! That’s my part, the blind doctor who becomes a medical genius in spite of his handicap! That’s the role I have to live!”
“And that’s where you come in, Doctor,” Pierce said, enjoying McNider’s obvious discomfort.
I was afraid it was, McNider thought to himself.
Part Three
“So the nurses, they translate the charts into Braille for you?” Reynolds asked.
“Not the nurses,” Dr. McNider said. “We have support staff that do that.” McNider lifted the chart from the foot of a patient’s bed, ran his fingertips slowly over the bumpy surface. He smiled slightly. “How are you feeling today, Mr. Giordano?”
“Stomach hurts, Doctor,” the middle-aged man in the bed muttered.
“I don’t wonder, with the ulcer you have,” Dr. McNider said. “We’ll get you fixed up, but you’re going to take it easy. No more spicy foods for you.”
“What, no marinara sauce? No garlic bread?” Giordano asked.
“I’m afraid not,” McNider said.
“Doc, didn’t you take an oath to end human suffering?” Giordano asked. Dr. McNider nodded. “Then don’t make me give up my wife’s cooking!”
Dr. McNider chuckled. “You’ll adjust, Mr. Giordano.”
As they walked away from the bed, Reynolds turned to McNider. “You’ve got a good way with the patients, Doc.”
“Thank you,” Dr. McNider said. “It’s something they can’t teach you in med school. It comes from the heart. Either you have it, or you don’t. A doctor without it is nothing but a mechanic.”
“Hey, that’s good!” Reynolds said, fumbling in his pocket. “Here, do you mind saying that again?” The actor held a miniature tape recorder up to McNider’s face. The doctor sighed, and repeated his statement word for word.
“Great, great stuff!” Reynolds said, very pleased. “I’ll leave this running, if you don’t mind. Don’t want to miss any more gems like that! Boy, this will get me that gold statue for sure!” Reynolds paused, unsure if he had said something tasteless. “You do know what I mean by ‘gold’, right, Doc?”
“I had my sight until I was twenty-six,” Dr. McNider said, patiently. “I remember ‘gold’.”
“Oh, right, right,” Reynolds said. “Twenty-six, hey? Dr. Pierce told me it happened to you like forty years ago.”
“That’s right, in 1941,” McNider said.
“Well, I gotta say, you’re lookin’ great for sixty-six!” Reynolds said admiringly. “How do you do it?”
“Clean living,” McNider said, earnestly.
“No, seriously, how?” Reynolds asked.
“I am serious,” McNider said. “If you live right, there’s no reason you shouldn’t be able to do everything at ninety that you could at nineteen.”
“For real?” Reynolds goggled.
“Of course,” McNider said. He enjoyed talking about physical health; it was one of his favorite subjects. “I have never drank alcohol, used tobacco in any form, or taken any kind of artificial drug. I eat meat only sparingly, perhaps once every month or two. I exercise regularly, I eat only natural foods, nothing artificial, never anything fried. And last month, I celebrated my sixty-sixth birthday.”
“Celebrated how?” Reynolds asked. Dr. McNider frowned, and pretended not to hear the chuckle of a passing intern.
Part Four
“Hey, Doc,” Reynolds said, as they continued their rounds, “what’s with all the cops? I mean, I know you can’t see them, but you know about them, right?” Dr. McNider and his unwelcome shadow were approaching a hall where armed police guards stood at either end, barring admittance. A sign on the wall read Rooms 101-107.
“I know about them,” McNider said. “We have a…celebrity in one of our treatment rooms.” McNider showed his hospital ID badge to one of the policemen, who grunted that he could pass. The doctor and the actor continued on.
“A celebrity? Yeah? Anyone I might have worked with?” Reynolds asked.
“I doubt it,” McNider said dryly, “unless you had some very interesting odd jobs before your acting career took off.” Dr. McNider and Reynolds approached Room 101, where three more armed police stood guard. Again the showing of ID, the grunted assent. Dr. McNider pushed open the door and entered. Reynolds followed and saw the single occupant of the room. A man of about McNider’s age, but showing it somewhat more, with an angular face, a long nose and chin and stark white hair that made him look almost elfin, but one look at his crystal blue eyes and the menace hidden within them dispelled the elfin analogy. His skinny left arm was manacled to the bed rail. Tubes went into his other arm, and electrodes connected his chest to an EKG machine that recorded his heartbeat with a steady beep…beep…beep. He grinned when he saw Dr. McNider.
“Afternoon, Doc,” the patient grinned. “Say, what’s a fellow have to do to get the air conditioning turned up around here? I’m roasting.” The patient noticed Reynolds for the first time. “Who’s this, Doc? A specialist?”
“In a way,” McNider acknowledged. “This is Clint Reynolds, the actor. I’m showing him how to be a blind doctor.”
“Is that so?” the patient chuckled. “Well, they came to the right person. Reynolds, sure. I’ve seen a couple of your movies. What was that one, where you were a super-soldier created in a government lab-?”
“Major USA,” Reynolds said. “Like it?”
“Pretty good,” the patient said. “I mean, the science was all wrong, but what else is new in Hollywood, huh? You were good in it, I thought. Good role for you.”
“Hey, thanks! Always glad to meet a fan!” Reynolds said enthusiastically. “Doc, aren’t you going to introduce me?”
“I was getting to that,” Dr. McNider said. “Let me present Dr. Joar Makent, better known to all as the Icicle.”
Reynolds gasped. Makent winked.
“Howja do, Clint,” he grinned.
Part Five
“The Icicle!” Reynolds cried, pointing a quivering finger at the frail-looking old man lying grinning in the hospital bed. “You’re the Icicle! Y-you’ve tried to kill Green Lantern, a-and the whole Justice Society! You even stole the Washington Monument, once! You’re a super-villain!”
“Why, thanks,” Makent grinned. “It’s always nice to meet a fan.”
“Doc, what’s he doing here?” Reynolds demanded. “A super-villain! Why wasn’t I told about this? I want to talk to my agent!”
“Relax, Mr. Reynolds,” Dr. McNider said, placatingly. “Dr. Makent is quite harmless, in his present state.”
“Sure of that, Doc?” Makent asked, impishly.
“Dr. Makent was shot by a bank guard,” Dr. McNider explained, unperturbed, “while in the act of robbing Foxgarden Savings Bank two days ago. A crime that, actually, seems somewhat beneath his usual standards.”
“Hey, even Matisse didn’t paint a masterpiece every time out,” Makent said with a slight shrug. “Besides, chemicals cost money.”
“The bullet punctured a lung,” McNider went on. “Dr. Makent was brought her for immediate treatment. Once he’s well enough to be moved, he’ll be transferred to the state correctional facility, to await trial.”
“Some trial,” Makent snorted. “I’ll probably just plead guilty this time and save the hassle. We all know the outcome already.”
“Doc, are you sure he’s harmless?” Reynolds demanded. “How do I know he’s not going to suddenly, I don’t know, freeze the hospital or something? And he knows I’m here now! He could try to kidnap me, ransom me to my studio! Good Lord, he–”
“Mr. Reynolds,” Dr. McNider said patiently, “I assure you, you’re in no danger from Dr. Makent. He is seriously injured, not even recovered enough to get out of bed by himself, even if he weren’t handcuffed to the bedrail.”
“About that, Doc,” Makent chimed in, “where do I register a complaint about the bedpans? Whose bright idea was it to keep them in the refrigerator?”
“I should think you’d be the last one to complain about that,” McNider said dryly. “Furthermore,” he continued, to Reynolds, “Dr. Makent is not truly a ‘super-villain’ in the first place. His is a scientific genius–”
“Thanks,” Makent piped up.
“Who perverts his knowledge to criminal purposes,” McNider went on acidly. “But without his weapons, he is as powerless as anyone else. There’s nothing he can do.”
“So why the armed guards, then?” Reynolds demanded. “I saw fewer goons at Fort Knox!”
“You were at Fort Knox?” Makent asked, interested.
“Sure, we filmed All That Glitters on location there,” Reynolds said.
“Interesting,” Makent said. “And they had fewer guards than this, you say? Tell me more.”
“Some other time, perhaps,” McNider said firmly. “Come on, Mr. Reynolds, I’m due in an M-and-M conference shortly. I’m sure you’ll find that fascinating.”
“See you later, Doc,” Makent called. “And I know you won’t see me first, huh?” The doctor and the actor left to the sound of the Icicle’s chilling laugh.
Dr. McNider frowned. Sure, Makent was helpless right now. But he had friends who were not.
Part Six
“Wait, say that again, slowly,” Reynolds said, holding up the tape recorder. “M and M stands for–?”
“Morbidity and mortality,” Dr. McNider said, enunciating carefully. “It’s a conference usually held when a patient dies under less than clear-cut circumstances, to determine if the hospital personnel did everything in their power efficiently and correctly.”
“I see. It’s a dressing-down, kind of thing?”
“Not at this stage, no,” Dr. McNider explained. “Merely a fact-finding mission. Of course, if it is discovered that the death resulted from any hint of negligence or incompetence, steps are taken.”
“What steps?” Reynolds asked.
“What they are, is confidential,” McNider explained. “Doesn’t the studio have writers and research staff that handle all this, anyway?”
“Oh, sure,” Reynolds said. “But I always like to put my own suggestions in, how to jazz up the script. They love it when the star takes an interest in the script.”
“I’m certain they do,” McNider said. “Do you mind if we stop by the cafeteria? We have time for a glass of juice before the conference, and I’m somewhat parched from talking.”
“Oh, sure, Doc, sure. Lead the way!”
As they walked, McNider wondered how he could lose this fool long enough to contact his fellow JSA members. It was true that the Icicle was powerless to escape the hospital on his own. It was also true that he was a longtime member of the Injustice Society, and they were sure to make a try at freeing their colleague. McNider had turned down Carter’s offer of a JSA guard, feeling certain that he could handle anything that occurred on his own. He hadn’t counted on being unable to assume his Dr. Mid-Nite identity.
“Excuse me, Mr. Reynolds?” a young woman in nurses’ uniform said nervously, stepping up to Reynolds as they stood in the cafeteria line.
“Yes, what can I do for you?” Reynolds asked, turning a dazzling smile on the young nurse.
“I hope you don’t mind, but–well, I’m a big fan, I’ve seen all your movies! I was wondering–would you–if you don’t mind–”
“Not at all, not at all,” Reynolds said, taking a handy pen from his jacket pocket. “How should I make it out?”
“Ohh! Oh, to Julie, please,” the young nurse gushed.
Dr. McNider fought to keep his expression calm, when all of a sudden a shrill metallic shriek pierced the normal din of the hospital.
The security alarm, Dr. McNider though grimly. It’s happening.
Part Seven
“What’s that?” Reynolds cried fearfully. “What’s that alarm? What’s going on?”
“I don’t know,” McNider said, tensely. “It could be any number of things. A fire alarm, a violent patient–”
“Run!” a young orderly cried, running hell-bent through the hall past the cafeteria. “The Injustice Society is attacking! Run for your lives!”
“Or that,” McNider said, dryly.
“Oh my God, I knew it!” Reynolds cried hysterically. “I’m going to die! I’m going to die!”
“Get a grip,” the autograph-seeking nurse said contemptuously, shocked at the action star’s obvious terror.
“Mr. Reynolds,” Dr. McNider said firmly, grasping the frightened actor by the shoulders firmly, “the security office is around the corner and down the hall, on your right. That’ll be the safest place for you right now. Get there as fast as you can, and don’t move until you hear it’s safe. All right?”
“O-OK,” Reynolds stammered, and took off like a shot.
Silently cursing the day Stanislavksy was born, Dr. McNider raced through the hospital corridors. Everyone was running and shouting in such a panic, no one bothered to notice the “blind” doctor maneuvering so well through the hospital. He came to a stop just around the corner from the hall where Joar Makent recuperated. He saw three costumed villains hugging the wall, heard the shouts of the police officers from around the corner. Two of the men were regular members of the Injustice Society, the Gambler and the Sportsmaster. A third was a villain Dr. McNider had not seen in many years. What was his name? Deadbolt?
“Some first assignment you guys thought up for me,” the green and purple clad villain snarled. “When I joined up with your outfit, I told you I needed money for John’s hospital bills! Where’s the money here?”
“I thought you’d appreciate the irony, Deathbolt,” Gambler said. “Attacking a hospital. Once we get the Icicle back, there’ll be plenty of lucrative opportunities. But if you’re going to be a member of the Society, learn now that we take care of our own.”
“Let’s wrap this up, already,” Sportsmaster growled, waving the Indian club in his hand menacingly. “Paula will kill me if I’m late for dinner tonight. We’re supposed to be playing bridge with the Cobblepotts.”
McNider frowned, and rushed back to his office, quickly shutting the door behind him.
Deathbolt, that was the man’s name. With his electrical powers, he was easily the most dangerous of the three. There was a lot more havoc he could cause in a hospital than just zapping people. He had to be stopped before he realized that. With great swiftness, Dr. McNider opened the closet in his office, pushed aside the false back, and took out the colorful costume of Dr. Mid-Nite.
“Doc!” Reynolds’ voice cried from the doorway. McNider started in alarm. In his haste, he had forgotten to lock the door! “Doc, are you in here? I–” The actor stopped, staring at the “blind” doctor he had come to learn how to imitate. “Doc–that costume! What are you doing?!?”
Part Eight
Dr. McNider stood frozen, like a deer in headlights, holding the costume of Dr. Mid-Nite in his hands as the astonished actor gaped at him. For a split second he had no idea what to do.
For a split second.
“Mr. Reynolds!” he cried. “Is that you? What are you doing here? Why aren’t you at the security office?”
“I-I came back for you,” Reynolds stammered. “Doc, that–that costume! It isn’t–you’re not–”
“It’s a masquerade costume,” McNider said. “I went to the hospital charity ball as Dr. Mid-Nite last year. I figured it was a good joke, a blind doctor playing a super-hero who can see in the dark.”
“B-but what are you doing with it now?” Reynolds demanded.
“Somebody has to stop those villains, before they hurt somebody,” McNider said bravely.
“What?!?” Reynolds gaped. “Doc, you’re not serious! Y-you can’t even see!”
“I’m hoping,” McNider said, “that I can bluff those villains into thinking I’m the real Dr. Mid-Nite, scare them off, or at least hold them off until the real JSA can get here,” McNider explained. “Now, you stay here. It’s too late to get to the security office, but maybe they won’t–”
“Doc, you’re not serious!” Reynolds declared. “Those villains will kill you! I can’t let you do it!”
“It’s my responsibility,” McNider said. “The safety of this hospital’s patients! I have to do it!”
There was a tense silence for a moment, and then Reynolds spoke. “Give me the costume, Doc.”
McNider did a double take. “What?”
“I said, gimme the costume,” Reynolds said forcefully. “I’ll do it! I’m an actor, I can make them believe I’m the real deal! Until the real heroes show up, like you said!”
McNider was truly amazed. “Mr. Reynolds, are you sure? I mean–”
“Doc, just give me the costume, before I think better of it!” Reynolds demanded.
With a newfound respect for the man, Dr. McNider handed over his costume. Fortunately the blackout bombs were still in the closet.
Minutes later, Clint Reynolds stood in Dr. McNider’s office, fully costumed as Dr. Mid-Nite.
“It’s a little snug across the chest,” he said. “And these goggles are weird! Makes everything look….red, and fuzzy.”
“Are you sure you want to do this?” McNider asked.
“No,” Reynolds admitted, and raced out the door.
Part Nine
“About time you guys showed up!” Makent complained, as his colleagues stepped over the unconscious police officers. “Hey, who’s the finhead?”
“Finhead?” Deathbolt snarled. “Why, you washed up ice-cream man, after all I went through–”
“This is Jake Simmons,” the Gambler interceded, “better known as Deathbolt. He worked with the Ultra-Humanite a few times, back during the war.”
“Oh, sure, now I remember,” Makent said. “Good to have you aboard.”
“Thanks,” Deathbolt muttered, grudgingly.
“Come on, let’s get Joar out of here, before more cops show up,” Sportsmaster suggested. “Or, God forbid, the JSA!”
“Married life has softened you up some, Crusher,” Joar laughed.
“Hold it right there, villains!” boomed an authoritative voice from the doorway. All heads turned to see, apparently, Dr. Mid-Nite standing there framed in the doorway, pointing a finger at them accusingly.
“Dr. Mid-Nite!” Sportsmaster cried.
“Correct,” Reynolds declared, in a very basso profundo voice. “Surrender, or feel the might of the Man of the Night!”
Gambler and Makent looked at each other, then back at Reynolds.
“Good grief, man, why the corny dialogue?” Gambler asked Reynolds. “Are we on Candid Camera, or something?”
“Will you surrender?” Reynolds continued, silently praying that they would buy it. “Or must the cloak of dark justice descend on your evil-”
“Oh, cram it,” Deathbolt snarled, flinging out his arm. An electric bolt leapt from his fingers toward Reynolds. The costumed actor screamed in terror and leapt aside, the bolt sizzling past him.
Part Ten
Just down the hall, Dr. McNider had opened the electrical service panel on the wall. With deft fingers he located the switch controlling the corridor in which Room 101 lay. As there were no patients relying on life-support machines in that corridor, McNider flipped the switch that killed the power. Instantly, the whole corridor went dark.
“The lights!” Sportsmaster cried out.
“He must’ve thrown a blackout bomb!” Makent snarled. “Fan out, don’t stay together or he’ll get you!”
In terror, Reynolds cowered in a dark corner. He didn’t wonder how the room had gone dark; he was too fearful for his life.
“Wait a minute, there was no bomb,” Deathbolt declared. “The lights just went out! I can fix that; I’ll feed power to ‘em!” Deathbolt raised his hands above his head and willed power to flow from his supercharged body into the light fixtures. Instantly the room was brilliantly lit again; and then, the light bulbs burst with loud pops.
“Simmons, you fed them too much power!” Gambler declared. “You blew ‘em out completely!” The room was now dark again.
Unseen by all, Dr. McNider crept silently into the room.
The three costumed villains stalked around the room, feeling their way in front of them, trying to find their unseen foe. The Gambler had his gas-firing Derringer out; Sportsmaster brandished the Indian club-like a sword.
McNider maneuvered around between the two. As their circuits of the room brought them close to each other, McNider reached out and tapped each man on the shoulder simultaneously.
“YAA!” Gambler screamed, and lashed out with his Derringer, firing its full load of gas.
“AHH!” Sportsmaster cried, swinging the Indian club in a wicked arc.
The club slammed into the side of the Gambler’s head, just as Sportsmaster got a face-full of gas. Both villains sank to the floor, unconscious.
“Gambler! Sportsmaster?” Deathbolt called. “Damn!” he cursed, when there was no reply.
“Mid-Nite already got two of you!” Makent snarled from the bed. “If only I had my cold-gun–”
“Shut up,” Deathbolt growled. “I just got an idea. Hey, Mid-Nite!” he called out. “Did you see what my powers did to the lights in here? Well, I’m gonna do that to the whole freakin’ hospital! Either you let me an’ the snowman walk out of here, or the whole building goes dead! That means life-support machines, lights in operatin’ rooms, everything! You got one minute to decide, hero! What’s it gonna be?”
Part Eleven
Reynolds, back flattened against the wall, strained to see. The strange goggles allowed him to see…something. Fuzzy red shapes in the darkness. But he couldn’t make them out. What was going on? Had the real Dr. Mid-Nite arrived?
“Thirty seconds left, Mid-Nite!” Deathbolt declared. “Better make up your mind!”
Behind him, McNider crept silently closer, holding up a rubber sheet from the supply closet.
“Fifteen sec–HEY!” Deathbolt cried, as the sheet was suddenly thrown over him. Dr. McNider’s powerful arms kept the writhing villain enclosed in the rubber sheet, until his mighty fists pummeled him into unconsciousness.
“Simmons!” Makent yelled from the bed. “What’s happening? Simmons!! SIMMONS!!”
Minutes later, the lights out in the hall came back on, sending a little light into the room with the ruined bulbs. Uniformed policemen arrived with guns drawn, to find three defeated super-villains lying on the floor, and Clint Reynolds standing with his back to the wall, leaning against it, totally befuddled.
Dr. McNider came into the room. “Mr. Reynolds!” he called out. “Are you all right? I heard what happened!”
Reynolds turned to Dr. McNider. “What happened? What—did happen?”
“Why, Dr. Mid-Nite arrived and saved the day,” McNider said. “But you did a wonderful job, holding them off until he could get here. You’re a hero!”
“I–I am?” Reynolds stammered. Then a grin spread across his face. “I am, aren’t I? I’m a hero!”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Makent scowled, “just take me to jail, will you please?”
Epilogue
Two months later, the telephone at Justice Society headquarters rang, and was answered by the member on monitor duty.
“Justice Society,” the hero said into the receiver. “No, this isn’t Dr. Mid-Nite. This is the Atom. Can I–you’re who? What? I see. Uh huh. Well, if you’ll hold on, I’ll ask him.” The Atom put the call on hold, and called the laboratory where Dr. Mid-Nite and Hourman were working. “Doc? There’s a guy on the phone, says he’s Clint Reynolds’ agent. Yeah. Seems he’s doing a movie about you! No, really! He says Reynolds wants to follow you around for awhile, get a feel for the role. He’s on–whoa! OK, OK, I’ll tell him!” A bewildered Atom broke the connection. “I’ve never heard Doc use that kind of language before,” Atom said to himself, as he moved to answer the agent’s call.
The End
