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The Brave and the Bold
The Atom & Dr. Mid-Nite
Times Past, 1942
The Methuselah Menaceby HarveyKent
Part One
"I'm sure you understand this university's position, Mr. Pratt," Dean Chalmers said to the young man seated on the other side of his desk.
"I do, sir," Al Pratt said. "And I appreciate the flexibility you've shown me."
"Indeed," Dean Chalmers said. "Naturally we like to show every consideration for young men who go to serve their country in this time of war. Even though your tour of duty was cut short by your hitherto-undetected heart murmur, we are still proud and respectful of your desire to serve your country."
"Thank you, sir," Al said. "I appreciate that very much."
"However," the Dean went on, "what we cannot tolerate are your continued absences from your classes. Two weeks last fall, with no advance notice of any kind--"
"That was a family emergency, Dean Chalmers," Al said. "I had no more notice of it than the school."
"And an entire month, earlier this term," the Dean went on. "What was the excuse that time? Another family emergency, wasn't it?"
"I have a large family," Al said.
"Oh? One would think they would find someone else to call on in an emergency, then," Dean Chalmers said. Then, more kindly, "I certainly respect a man who puts family first, Mr. Pratt. However, I cannot continually make excuses for missed classes and an apparent cavalier attitude towards your studies. I am giving you another chance, because I see in you great potential. I'd hate to see you throw it all away."
"I won't, Dean Chalmers," Al said. "I promise you, I won't."
"See that you don't," the Dean said, and turned his attention to a stack of papers on his desk, by way of dismissing Al.
***
Al left the Dean's office with a sick feeling. If only he could tell him the truth! His tour of duty in the Army hadn't been cut short because of a heart murmur, but because he was the Atom, and the JSA members had been removed from active service to become the Justice Battalion. The "family emergencies" that had caused him to miss classes had been JSA missions. Those two weeks last April had been when Nazi agents had rocketed him to Mars; and the month during the summer term, when he had been in Holland delivering dehydrated food capsules to starving patriots. But of course he couldn't tell the Dean any of that; it had to appear that Al Pratt took a lax attitude toward his studies. At this rate, he wouldn't be graduating until 1950, if at all!
"Damn!" Al said suddenly, releasing the pent-up anger by punching the wooden wall of the hallway.
"Take it easy, youngster," an avuncular voice behind him suddenly spoke, startling him.
Part Two
Al spun on his heel at the familiar voice, and found himself staring up into a smiling face that was partially hidden by dark glasses.
"Doc!" Al cried joyfully at the sight of his friend and JSA teammate, Dr. Charles McNider.
"In the flesh," McNider said. "Speaking of which, let me take a look at those knuckles. Punching walls is a good way to fracture them."
"Aw, the wall's no harder than Deathbolt's jaw," Al joked. "What brings you to Calvin College, Doc?"
"I'm teaching Dr. Henshaw's classes for awhile," McNider explained. "He got called up; he'll be treating soldiers' dependents on the West Coast. He's an old friend of mine, so I'm filling in for him until a permanent replacement is found."
"Keen," Al said. "It'll be neat having someone on campus that I can talk to! You know, about -- stuff."
"I know," McNider nodded. "Anytime you want to chat, Al, the office door's open. By the way, as long as I'm here, I'd like to give you a full examination."
"What, the Cyclotron thing?" Al asked. "I feel fine, Doc. No after-effects at all."
"Still," McNider said, "radiation is a relatively new thing. So little is known about it, yet. I'd feel better if I could keep a medical eye on you."
"Please yourself," Al shrugged. "I have to admit it comes in handy, having a sawbones on the team."
"Each of us have unique contributions to make," McNider said. "By the way, Al, which way is the archaeology department?"
"Archaeology?" Al repeated. "I think that's in the Brendan Building, past the student center. Why?"
"Carter asked me to say hello to an old friend of his," McNider said. "A Professor Doyle. Do you know him?"
"Not to speak to," Al said. "I haven't taken any archaeology courses. Couple of my friends have, I think they've mentioned Professor Doyle." Al silently wondered why Carter Hall had never asked him to look up his old friend. But then, Carter was more likely to see McNider as a peer, wasn't he?
Part Three
"Want to come along, share the walk?" McNider said. "I am supposed to be completely blind; wouldn't look good for me to be able to find my way by myself."
"Sure, Doc," Al said. "Come on." The two friends left the administration building, and Al watched as his friend adopted that hesitant, uncertain walk he used in his secret identity of Dr. Charles McNider. He marveled at that, the way Doc became a completely different person to hide his identity of Dr. Mid-Nite. Together they reached the Brendan Building. In the lobby Al consulted a directory of offices, and he led the way to Professor Doyle's office. McNider knocked on the door, and it was opened by a middle-aged man with close-cropped gray hair. "Yes?" Professor Doyle said, a bit confused at the presence of a blind man knocking on his door.
"Can I help you, sir?"
"Professor Howard Doyle?" McNider asked. When Doyle answered in the affirmative, McNider stuck out his hand. "My name is Dr. Charles McNider. I believe we have a friend in common; Carter Hall."
"Hall?" Doyle asked. "Carter Hall! From New York? Of course! Met him at an archaeological symposium a couple of years ago; fascinating theories on the origins of the pyramids. You're a friend of his? Welcome, welcome!" Professor Doyle enthusiastically wrung McNider's hand. He looked past McNider, saw Al standing in the hallway. "And who's this?"
"Oh, this is a student who was kind enough to show me the way to your office," Dr. McNider said. "I'm sorry, son, I don't recall your name."
"Pratt, sir; Al Pratt," Al smiled, keeping up the pretense.
"Pratt? Pratt. I don't believe you're in any of my classes," Doyle said.
"No, sir. I'm a physics major, sir," Al said.
"Physics? Yes. Well. Important branch of the sciences, of course. Physics," Doyle said. He turned his attention back to McNider. "What brings you to Calvin, Dr. McNider?"
"Teaching," Dr. McNider explained. "I'm filling in for Dr. Henshaw."
"Oh, yes. Got called up, didn't he, Henshaw? Terrible business, this war. So many promising students interrupting their studies."
"And their lives," McNider added.
Part Four
"Professor Doyle, I -- oh! I'm sorry, sir. I didn't realize you had guests." This from a newcomer to the scene, a student about Al's age; a young man with curly black hair and a small beard. The young man wore a white lab coat, and carried a sheaf of papers.
"Yes, well, you have eyes, don't you, Turner?" Doyle said, impatiently. To McNider: "My apologies, Dr. McNider, for the interruption. Turner, here, is a graduate student and my assistant. Very bright, but too eager, sometimes. What is it, Turner?"
"I just wanted to ask permission to work after hours tonight," Turner said. "I think I'm very close to cracking the tablet!"
"Of course, of course," Doyle said, waving his hand dismissively. "Set up a cot in the laboratory if you want, work all night. Just remember that science can't be hurried. The answer will come when it will come."
"Of course, Professor Doyle. Thank you, sir!" Turner left, rounding the corner of the hallway.
"What tablet was he referring to?" McNider asked.
"A very ancient clay tablet, found amid the ruins of a pre-Colombian civilization in South America," Doyle explained. "Turner's been trying to translate it. Working very hard, very hard. It hasn't been easy; it's not a language we've ever come across before."
"Then how can he translate it," McNider asked, "without a frame of reference?"
"The language is similar to some ancient languages we have come to understand," Doyle explained. "They likely had a common root, as French and Spanish both evolved from Latin. But it is dissimilar enough from known ancient languages to be problematical. But we'll crack it, never fear!"
McNider smiled at Doyle's enthusiasm. "You sound just like Carter, when he's got a new find, a new puzzle to solve," he said.
"Well, all archaeologists sound like that, I suppose," Doyle chuckled. "Do you have an interest in archaeology, Dr. McNider?"
"Not very much, I admit," McNider said. "The medical is my field. But that's a lot like archaeology, in a lot of ways. We physicians are also puzzle solvers, a lot of the time."
"True, true," Doyle said. "So tell me, how do you know Hall?"
"Well--"
Before McNider could give the standard reply that he gave to that question when asked by people outside the loop, the conversation was interrupted by a scream.
"Good Lord!" Doyle shouted. "That came from the laboratory area!" The imposing professor took off at a run. Acting instinctively, Al followed him. McNider followed as well, without even thinking about maintaining his pose as a blind man.
"Good Lord!" Doyle shouted from the doorway of the laboratory. "I -- I don't -- Good Lord!" Al saw what made the professor stammer so, and he was stunned into silence.
A dead body was slumped across an examining table. The body was that of an elderly man, perhaps eighty or ninety years old. The old man was wearing young Turner's clothes, and a closer examination of his face showed it to be Turner's suddenly aged sixty years or more.
Part Five
"Good heavens!" McNider exclaimed, after Al had described to him what he wasn't supposed to be able to see. "What on Earth could have caused that?"
"It's incredible," Doyle stammered. "Absolutely incredible! In all my years as an archaeologist -- incredible!"
"I'm going to call campus security," Al said. "Not much they can do, but still--!"
"On your way, Mr. Pratt, would you mind guiding me back to the medical building?" McNider asked. "There's bound to be a crowd milling about here, and it's difficult enough for me to move about without that."
"Sure, Dr. McNider," Al said. "Follow me."
As they turned the corner, McNider and Al shared a knowing glance, that said all that needed to be said.
***
Fifteen minutes later, campus security had cordoned off the area with reflective tape. Dean Chalmers had arrived, and was in the laboratory with the security men. He stood over the old man's body, a look of disbelief on his face.
"This is impossible!" Chalmers said. He turned to Professor Doyle. "You're telling me that this octogenarian here was twenty-two year-old Nick Turner just ten minutes before you heard the scream?"
Doyle spread his hands wide. "If I could explain it, Alfred, I would," Doyle said. "It's beyond anything I've ever experienced."
"But perhaps not beyond our experiences," came an authoritative voice from the laboratory door. Chalmers and Doyle turned to see two costumed champions standing in the entrance.
"It's the Atom!" Chalmers exclaimed. "And Dr. Mid-Nite! Well! This is a surprise, or at least half of one."
"Half a surprise?" the Atom repeated.
"Well, yes, Atom," Chalmers said. "You've been on the scene when trouble occurred at Calvin before; I half expected you would show up for this. But Dr. Mid-Nite is completely unexpected. And welcome, very, very welcome."
"Come in, sir," a uniformed security guard said, pulling aside the tape. Dr. Mid-Nite strode into the room, followed by the Atom, who chose not to notice the singular form of the guard's respectful address. Mid-Nite walked right to the old man's body.
"Have the police been notified?" Mid-Nite asked the Dean.
"Yes," Chalmers said. "They're sending a couple of their forensics boys right over."
"If I heard you right just now," Mid-Nite said, "you believe this to be the body of a twenty-two year old man, suddenly aged rapidly to this state?"
"It seems to be," Doyle said. "Young Nick Turner, my assistant. He came in this room not ten minutes before we heard the scream, to work on a tablet he was translating. The body is wearing his clothes, and the face! It looks just like young Turner's face, aged overnight! It's uncanny!"
"This Turner was twenty-two, you say?" the Atom asked.
"Yes, and I know what your next question will be," Chalmers said. "He applied for, and received, conscientious objector status. He was a Quaker."
"Shameful, in a time like this, when everyone's needed," Atom said, shaking his head.
"Don't be intolerant, Atom," Mid-Nite said, not turning his eyes from the body. "Everyone's faith is their own business, and the state has no right to force them to act in opposition to it."
"I guess," Atom said, unconvincingly.
Mid-Nite turned from the body to the lab table at which it sat. He pointed to a clay tablet with figures and symbols carved into it. "Is this the tablet Turner was translating?" he asked.
"It is," Doyle said. "Why?"
Mid-Nite turned to the table. "Perhaps there's a clue there as to what happened." The goggled crimefighter picked up the top sheet from a sheaf of papers next to the tablet. He frowned at it, then turned it over to show Professor Doyle.
Turner had copied a row of the symbols carved on the tablet. Beneath them he had written, in block letters, their English equivalent. Some symbols had no English word under them, as yet untranslated. But one unbroken phrase stood out from the others.
BEWARE THE THIEF OF YEARS.
Part Six
"'Beware the Thief of Years'?" Lieutenant Irwin of the Calvin City Police said, reading the paper. He stood with Dr. Mid-Nite, the Atom, Dean Chalmers and Professor Doyle. Behind them, Irwin's men carried the body of Turner away on a stretcher. "What is this, the curse of the pharaohs?"
"Hardly that," Doyle corrected. "The tablet comes from South America, not Egypt."
"Well, wherever it comes from," Irwin said impatiently. "If you're trying to suggest that a twenty-two year old man died of old age as the result of a clay tablet's curse--!"
"Lieutenant, I'm not suggesting anything, at this early stage of the case," Dr. Mid-Nite said evenly. "However, I'm not eliminating any possibilities either."
"Possibilities?" Irwin repeated. "This isn't a possibility, it's a fantasy! It's a plot from a bad pulp magazine story!"
"So are a crimefighting ghost, a sorcerer who lives in an impenetrable tower, a reincarnated Egyptian prince, and a device the size and shape of a flashlight that draws power from the stars to work miracles," Atom pointed out. "And all of those are teammates of ours."
"The Atom makes a strong point," Doyle said. "What would have been dismissed as dime novel fantasy ten -- five! -- years ago, is everyday fact today."
"Even so," Irwin said, a little less strongly, "I'm not ready to accept a curse that ages people to death in seconds. I'll wait for the forensics report to come back on Turner."
"In the meantime," Dr. Mid-Nite said to Chalmers, "I'd suggest keeping a lid on this. As much as possible. Alarming the students and faculty isn't going to help the investigation any."
The Atom chuckled at that. "Forgive me, Doc, but I guess it's been awhile since you were on a college campus."
***
The Atom proved correct in his prediction. By the evening meal that day, the campus was buzzing with the news of the unexplained death of Nick Turner. Al Pratt ate with a group of friends in the campus dining hall; Dr. McNider was a guest of Professor Doyle in the faculty lounge. Turner's death was the hot topic of conversation in both areas.
***
At eleven-thirty that night, Atom and Dr. Mid-Nite met behind the campus library to compare notes.
"It's all the kids can talk about," Atom said. "You should hear some of the goofy names they're calling it, too. 'Father Time Murder,' 'Youth Killer,' 'Methuselah Menace'..."
"I kind of like that last one," Mid-Nite commented. "It's the chief topic among the faculty, too. Nobody knows what to make of it."
"Well, there's one common element among the students," Atom said. "Fear. Everybody's scared, terrified they might be next."
"Few things are more precious to the young than their youth," Mid-Nite nodded. "What's the prevailing theory among the students?"
"Like something out of a Gothic novel," Atom said. "That Turner disturbed the rest of some old spirit or whatever, and this is his punishment."
"Very Bram Stoker, all right," Mid-Nite nodded.
Atom did a double take. "I don't recall anything like that in 'Dracula.'"
"He also wrote 'Jewel of the Seven Stars,'" Mid-Nite said. "I'll lend you my copy, after all this is over."
"I think I'll wait for the movie," Atom said.
Part Seven
"So the general consensus among the students," Dr. Mid-Nite said, "is fear that they'll be next?"
"For the most part," Atom said. "A few cool heads among the kids said that, if this is some kind of curse, only the ones who actually touched the tablet should be affected. That would leave out just about everyone else but poor Turner, and Doyle."
"And did that work?" Mid-Nite asked. "Calm everyone down, I mean?"
"Not really," Atom said. "Most of the kids seem to think the spirit, or whatever it is, might take its mad out on the whole school, that anybody could be next."
"Hm. Well, we still don't know for sure what happened to Turner," Mid-Nite mused. "But that won't matter in light of the rumors."
"A lie can run around the world before the truth can get its track shoes on," Atom added. Just then, two campus security officers on bicycles whizzed past the library. They didn't notice the two JSA comrades in the shadows of the building, but the heroes saw them.
"Speaking of running--!" Atom cried, and took off after the bicycles.
Mid-Nite sprinted after the Atom; although the medical marvel was in excellent condition, it was all he could do to keep up with the young athlete. "Why are campus security on bicycles?" he asked.
"Gasoline rationing," Atom replied. Mid-Nite nodded; he should have thought of that.
The officers had stopped at the Banner Science Hall, and were just dismounting their bicycles when the Atom and Dr. Mid-Nite reached them.
"Charlie, look!" one of the officers said. The other officer turned to see the JSA champions.
"Atom! Dr. Mid-Nite! I'd heard you were on campus, investigating this Methuselah Menace thing!"
"We're not sure there is a 'thing' to it, yet," Dr. Mid-Nite pointed out. "One unexplained death--"
"You'd better have a look inside, sir," the first officer said. Silently, the four men entered the building. There they found a cleaning woman, a negro woman of late middle age, in a very flustered state.
"I saw him!" she shrieked. "I saw him an hour ago, workin' in Doc Martin's office! Workin' away, listenin' to the radio! He wished me good evenin'! Oh, Lord!"
"Calm down, ma'am," Charlie said. "You saw who?"
"Pete Lennon!" the cleaning woman cried. "Doc Martin's teachin' assistant! He worked late in the Doc's office a lot, gradin' papers and suchlike! And now -- now--" The woman burst into tears, and covered her face with her hands.
Charlie, the security officer, gently led her away. The other officer pointed at an office door that was halfway open. Mid-Nite and Atom read the name DR. DELL MARTIN on the frosted glass panel of the door. The sounds of music drifted out into the hallway from the office interior. Atom heard the lyrics: "You leave Pennsylvania Station 'bout a quarter to four, read a magazine and then you're in Baltimore..." Dr. Mid-Nite led the way, gently pushing the door all the way open. A human skeleton was seated at the desk, slumped forward over the papers. The skeleton was wearing tan slacks, a white shirt, and a sweater bearing the Calvin College athletic letter.
Part Eight
"Fan out!" Mid-Nite cried, galvanized into action. "Whoever did this may still be in the building! Move!" In seconds, Atom, Dr. Mid-Nite, and the two security guards were running off in different directions, fanning out to cover the entire science building. Atom, who had been in this building many times before as a student, found the stairs leading to the basement level. Figuring that to be a likely place for an assailant to hide, he bolted down the stairs.
"Halt!" an authoritative voice barked out. Atom skidded to a halt at the foot of the stairs, and found himself facing a uniformed Marine with a rifle.
"Whoa!" Atom cried, raising his hands. "Stand down, pal! I'm the Atom! Don't you recognize me? Never seen me on the newsreels?"
"Anyone can wear a costume," the Marine insisted, not lowering his rifle.
"I've got identification," the Atom insisted. "Inside my belt. Can I get it?"
"Slow and steady," the Marine said. Slowly, cautiously, Atom reached inside his belt, withdrew his All-Star Squadron identity card, and handed it to the Marine. The officer looked at it, nodded once, lowered his rifle, and handed the card back.
"Sorry about that," he said, all gruffness gone from his manner, "but we can't be too careful these days."
"I understand," Atom said, replacing his card. "What are you doing down here, anyway? What are you guarding, the boilers?"
The officer chuckled. "There's some top-secret government work being done here," he said. "I'm afraid I can't say more than that."
"I getcha," Atom said. "Has anyone else been down here tonight, who shouldn't be?"
"Nope," the Marine said. "You're the first one I've seen since I came on duty at six."
"Okay. Keep your eyes peeled, okay?"
"That's my job."
Atom ascended the stairs; he found Dr. Mid-Nite waiting for him.
"We found nothing," he said. "The security officers are calling Lieutenant Irwin. Anything in the basement?"
"Just a Marine who had me on the business end of a rifle," Atom said.
Dr. Mid-Nite did a double-take. "A Marine? What for?"
"Said he's guarding some top-secret government work. I didn't know anything about it, until now."
"Interesting," Mid-Nite said, rubbing his chin. "Why don't we make a phone call?"
***
Minutes later, Dr. Mid-Nite and the Atom were in the campus security office. The security chief had vacated the office, to give themselves privacy. Mid-Nite was on the phone to Washington, DC.
"Yes, this is Dr. Mid-Nite speaking," he said. "Code name: Apollo. I want to speak to someone about Calvin College."
Atom leaned on a desk, arms folded over his chest, listening. "Apollo" was a clever code-name for Dr. Mid-Nite. No enemy agent would expect a mystery-man who used darkness as a weapon to be code-named after the Greek god of the sun. Atom's code-name was "Goliath."
Mid-Nite covered the receiver with his hand and spoke to Atom. "They're connecting me with someone named General Klemper," he said. Suddenly, Mid-Nite took his hand away, spoke back into the receiver. "General Klemper? Dr. Mid-Nite here. Yes, of the Justice Battalion. I'm at Calvin College now -- yes, that's in Connecticut. Right. That Calvin College. I'm investigating some bizarre happenings here, and I just learned there's top secret government work being done here. That's right. Well, I don't know, as I said, I just learned of the government work. Well, it's possible. I wonder if you could give me some insight as to -- of course. Yes, I understand, General. Certainly, I'll keep in touch. Yes. Thank you. Goodbye."
Dr. Mid-Nite hung up the phone. "General Klemper is a bit of a talker," he said.
"What'd he say?" Atom asked.
"Well, he wouldn't tell me anything about the project here," Mid-Nite said. "He didn't say so, but I think he figures that, if I were cleared to know about it, I'd have known about it already."
"Beehive mentality," Atom said. "If you're on the outside, they fight like hell to keep you outside. If they find you inside, they figure you must have been cleared by management."
"Right," Mid-Nite said. "But before the General reached that conclusion, he did let a name slip out." Mid-Nite paused, perhaps for effect. "The Manhattan Project."
Part Nine
"The Manhattan Project?" Atom repeated. "What the heck's that?"
"I don't know," Dr. Mid-Nite replied, his brow furrowing with thought. "I'm guessing it's something big, though. So big that General Klemper didn't feel he could reveal it to us without proper clearance."
"But we have top clearance from FDR himself!" Atom protested.
"Exactly," Mid-Nite said. "That just shows how big this thing must be."
"I take your point," Atom said. "So you think this Methuselah Menace stuff is a hoax to get at the Project?"
"It could be," Mid-Nite said. "A plot to scare away the students and faculty, make the College an easier target."
"But how did they age Turner so fast?" Atom said. "Even Doyle said the body looked just like him, only old."
"I've got an angle I'm going to check on that," Mid-Nite said. "First thing tomorrow."
***
"No, we didn't check fingerprints," Irwin said, as Dr. Mid-Nite stood in his office the next morning. "We thought of that angle, too. But we found out that young Turner had never had his fingerprints taken, so we'd have nothing to compare them to if we did lift fingerprints from the body."
"I see," Dr. Mid-Nite said. "Has the autopsy been completed?"
"It has," Irwin said, reaching for a sheaf of papers. "Here's the report. Coroner finds that the patient died of heart failure, and the body showed all the signs of the normal aging process. Puts the age at between eighty and ninety."
"May I see the report, Lieutenant?" Mid-Nite asked.
"Certainly," Irwin said, handing the papers over. "Don't know what you think you'll find, but be my guest."
"Well, I hate to say anything as cliched as 'I'll know when I find it,'" Mid-Nite smiled as he took the report, "but I'll know when I find it."
Part Ten
Al Pratt stood in front of the bulletin board in the student center, reading the mimeographed noticed tacked up on the board.
ALL CLASSES CANCELED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE
He frowned; he knew what it meant. More than half the student body had announced intention to leave the campus until the "Methuselah Menace" was stopped. Many of them had left already. A lot of the professors, too. Mass hysteria had taken hold at Calvin. If Mid-Nite's theory about the eventual goal of the Methuselah Menace were correct, it was working.
On a sudden hunch, Al went back to the Brendan Building. He wanted a closer look at the laboratory where Turner's body had been found. The police had already been all over it, so there was no barrier to him. He stood in the lab alone, looking around him. He was sure there was something in there that wasn't right. But what? Where? He had never been much of a detective; in his exploits as the Atom he had preferred to let his fists do the work. But he was a student of science, he would be a scientist himself. Science was based on observation. He had to observe. He pushed all other thoughts out of his head, concentrated on the room. His eyes did a gradual sweep across the laboratory, from wall to wall.
There. What was that?
One wall of the laboratory, opposite the door, was taken up by a long worktable. The bottom of the table, nearest the floor, had sliding doors for storing chemicals and equipment. The laboratory had not been cleaned since the discovery of the body, so as not to disturb clues; but it was cleaned thoroughly every night before that. A clean environment was essential to the work done. So what was that smudge on the track of one of the sliding doors?
Al knelt in front of the door, slid it open. Empty. Nothing strange about that; in wartime, supplies were sometimes scarce. Al reached inside, felt around. He wasn't sure what he was looking for; like his friend and teammate, he was sure he'd know it when he found it.
Suddenly, he found it, and he knew it. A sly grin spread across his face.
Part Eleven
At noon that day, Al Pratt carried his lunch tray to a table in the cafeteria where a couple of his friends were sitting.
"Hi, Dick, Vince," Al said, sitting down. "Say, where's Tom?"
"Packing," Vince said. "He's pulling out. Can't say I blame him. I don't want to end up old before my time!"
"God, me neither!" Dick shuddered. "I don't want to be eligible for Social Security until 1987!"
"Well, I think the whole thing is a hoax," Al said. "Some kind of publicity stunt, maybe."
"Publicity stunt?" Dick repeated. "Al, this isn't Aimee Semple MacPherson we're talking about. Why am I telling you, you were there! You saw the body!"
"I saw a body," Al corrected.
Before Dick could reply, there was a sudden whine from the public address system.
"Students of Calvin College," Dean Chalmers' voice boomed through the speakers. "I ask for your attention. I realize many of you are considering leaving the college, until the recent unexplained phenomena have been settled."
"'Unexplained phenomena,'" Vince chuckled mirthlessly. "Easy for him to say, he's already old."
"I can't say I blame you for your uneasiness," Chalmers' voice continued. "However, I ask you to reconsider. Dr. Charles McNider, a new member of our faculty in the medical department, has discovered evidence that conclusively proves that the so-called 'Methuselah Menace' is nothing more than a hoax, a fabrication."
Dick and Vince glanced at Al in wide-eyed amazement. Al merely grinned.
"Dr. McNider," Chalmers' voice went on, "will be presenting his findings in an open meeting of the campus authorities tonight at seven o'clock. This meeting will be held in the Gilcaine Auditorium. All are welcome to attend, to learn for themselves what Dr. McNider has learned. As Dean of this fine institution, I urge everyone to postpone any plans of leaving Calvin College, at least until they have heard what Dr. McNider has to say." Another whine announced the end of the broadcast.
Dick and Vince gaped at Al; Al merely reached for his french fried potatoes.
"Vince, would you pass the salt?" he asked.
Part Twelve
Dr. McNider had, of course, been given Dr. Henshaw's office until a permanent replacement for Henshaw could be found. This office had a window overlooking the small courtyard behind the medical building. The window was directly behind the desk; when the office occupant sat at the desk, the window was behind his head.
It was coming up on six o'clock that evening. Darkness had fallen over the college. At the window looking into Dr. Henshaw's office, the top of a blond head could be seen over the back of the chair at the desk. It was at this head that a figure lurking in the darkened courtyard took careful aim with a hunting rifle. The sniper paused, lined up the blond head in his sights, and purposefully squeezed the trigger. The bullet crashed through the glass window, drilled straight and true into the blond head.
"I've seen enough," a commanding voice boomed out. The sniper whirled in the direction of the voice, and saw the powerful figure of Dr. Mid-Nite standing behind him. The masked gunman knew he wouldn't have time to cock the rifle for another shot, so he swung it like a club. Dr. Mid-Nite dodged the swing easily. The gunman threw the rifle away and took off running. He looked over his shoulder to see if Dr. Mid-Nite were pursuing; he was not, he was just standing there. The fleeing sniper didn't even see the powerful fist slam into his solar plexus; the force of his own forward run combined with the powerful arm behind the fist doubled him over and sent him sprawling along the grass.
"Good job, Atom," Dr. Mid-Nite said, coming up to his teammate. The Atom merely nodded.
"Let's see if my theory was right," he said, reaching down. The gunman was conscious but curled up into a ball, holding his stomach with agony. The Atom wrenched the mask from his head, revealing a pain-grimaced face. The face of Nick Turner.
***
"How did you figure it all out?" Lieutenant Irwin asked, ten minutes later, as Turner was handcuffed by the police.
"It was a sloppy job from the beginning," Mid-Nite said. "He must have known it wouldn't hold up long."
"Just long enough for the hysteria to set in, though," Atom said.
"I compared the autopsy on the body we found with the record of Turner's last physical examination at the College," Mid-Nite said. "Young Turner here had his appendix removed five years ago; he still has the scar. No such scar was on the old body."
"I looked around in the lab where the body was found," Atom added. "I found the back wall of a storage space cut out, leading into an empty supply closet next door. I figured Turner got the old body in, and himself out, that way."
"And the skeleton?" Irwin asked.
"Turner most likely kidnapped the Lennon boy and dressed the skeleton in his clothes, to fuel the hysteria," Mid-Nite said.
"Now I have just one more question," Atom said, turning to the prisoner. "Why? Why'd you do it, Turner?"
The young man straightened his back, standing up straight and tall, and looked down his nose at the young hero. "Because my family name is not Turner. It is Turgenev. The illiterate morons at Ellis Island shortened it to Turner when we came to this country."
Revelation beamed on Dr. Mid-Nite's face. "I'm guessing that would be around 1917 or so?"
"Precisely!" Turner snapped. "My grandfather was a nobleman, a favorite in the court of Nicholas! But the godless Marxists would have murdered him like an animal had he not fled! It broke his spirit; he was never the same again!"
"Your grandfather -- that would have been the body that was supposed to be yours?" Atom asked.
"He would have been proud," Turner said, "knowing he died for the cause. The noblest cause, to restore Mother Russia to her former glory!"
"Even if it means siding with the Nazis," Mid-Nite said, "to get the Communists out?"
"There is an old Russian saying," Turner said evenly. "The enemy of my enemy is my friend."
Lieutenant Irwin took Turner away, leaving Dr. Mid-Nite and the Atom in the courtyard.
"Remind me," Mid-Nite said, staring at the ruined window, "I owe the Red Cross training class a mannequin."
"Check," Atom said. "I wonder who Turner was working for? He can't have been acting independently. Most of the college didn't even know anything was going on the basement of the science building, let alone what was."
"The authorities will get that information from him, if he's wise enough to cooperate," Mid-Nite said. "But from what I've seen of his national pride, I wouldn't be surprised if he stayed in Leavenworth until he's really as old as he wanted us to believe a curse made him, rather than talk."
"Well," Atom shrugged. "At least the Manhattan Project is safe now."
"Whatever it is," Mid-Nite amended.
"Whatever it is," Atom agreed.
THE END