Alexei Luthor worked furiously in his lab. His enemy might find him at any point, and his work was vital. He watched as a huge projectile was fired with precise accuracy into the red skies above. (*) In the streets, the red-haired criminal scientist heard… Indians? The madness was closer. He hurried, and his sphere reached its zenith miles above in the space around the Earth. It drew cosmic energy inside its shell and miraculously returned at the call of its creator like a trained dog. Luthor laughed in glee as it slid into a huge container and released its space-borne energy under carefully controlled conditions. All was well.
[(*) Editor’s note: See “The Crisis Comes to 1942 (And Vice Versa),” All-Star Squadron #53 (February, 1986).]
Hearing noises, he turned to see a few costumed figures in the streets. Some he knew, while others were unknown even to him. He weighed his options and made a decision. This project could not be ruined through improper haste. No jail could truly hold him long. That was proven by history.
Luthor checked the large machines. All was well. He slipped on his coat and prepared to meet his fate, whatever form it would take, among the figures outside. He would leave his laboratory secured and his project in silent gestation. It was an odd word to use, but so fitting in this case. Luthor exited, and the lab hummed its lonely condition in even pitch.