Always there have been the heroes.
Achilles single-handedly drove the army of Troy back behind their
walls under a sun that was carried across the sky in Apollo's chariot.
Young David killed the giant Goliath with the spin of a smooth rock in
a land where walls fell at the sound of trumpets and the Creator of
Heaven and Earth spoke through the mouths of men in rags whose eyes
burned with the lights of Eternity.
John Henry laid hundreds of miles of railroad tracks over trails
blazed by Davy Crockett, who could wring the tail off a comet by
smiling at it.
John Kennedy, with intellect and force of will, averted the
annihilation of a civilization whose athletes could run a mile in less
than four minutes, whose pilots could orbit the planet in less than an
hour and a half and whose humblest born could grow up to be president.
And Superman . . .
Real or imagined, the heroes lived; they lived in the world not as it
was, but as it should have been. Real or imagined, the heroes lived
under the responsibility that came with the good wishes of those who
aspired to what they stood for; lived in a realm decorated with
fancies not available to mortal men and women; lived with conceptions
of reality more idealistic than those that were practical for their
contemporaries; lived by values far beyond the reach of those who
walked with feet and lines of sight against the ground.
It was in a Universe where there was a right and a wrong and where that
distinction was not very difficult to make that Superman calmed a
tidal wave before it washed fury over the city of Metropolis.
It was a frigid day toward the beginning of February. About a week
ago there was a minor earthquake off the western coast of Greenland.
No one was hurt. In fact, no one particularly noticed it other than a
few seismologists who reported the event to whoever it is to whom
seismologists report such things. This information found its way from
whoever it is to the news media whose job it was to decide what was
important enough for the world to know about.
Clark Kent, the anchorman and associate producer of the WGBS Six
O'clock Evening News, reported the quake to his assigned portion of
the world in seventeen words during the seventh and next-to-last
segment of his daily report. The Daily Planet told its share
of the world about it in thirty lines on the left-hand column of
page sixty-four. The bulk of the world - those who did not watch
Clark Kent or read the Daily Planet - found out about the
quake similarly from various sources, and the world promptly forgot
it. It seemed a very forgettable occurance, although indirectly it
nearly destroyed Metropolis.
Most of Greenland, including the portion mildly shaken by the
earthquake, was covered by a glacier several kilometers thick. The
major effect of the earthquake was to prompt a fairly insignificant
mass of the western edge of this glacier to shatter into hundreds of
pieces, many of which were about the size of a sperm whale. The
whale-sized chunks of ice bobbed in the water a bit, then they floated
out to sea.
A hundred or so kilometers east of northern New England there was a
nuclear power plant. The plant contained a fission reactor which
supplied power to most of Maine, New Hampshire and Vermont. The plant
was originally built because of a political compromise. For several
years a group of concerned but politically naive people who called
themselves the Oysterbed Alliance - taking their name from the
town of Oysterbed, Maine, where their organization was born -
demonstrated against the proposed building of the reactor in a certain
coastal city. If not for the intransigence of the governor, the plant
would certainly have been moved to another site when surveyors
discovered that the proposed town was directly over a minor geological
fault. Instead, this basically swinish governor chose to take an
unshakable stand against the Oysterbed Alliance, making them a
scapegoat for all the ills of the state in his reelection campaign.
New Englanders tend to be uncommonly astute in detecting swinishness
among their political leaders. He was defeated for reelection by a
man who, as it turned out, did not want the reactor in his state at
all. Neither did the governors of the other two states whose power
companies would benefit by it. As a result, the plant was built on a
massive platform, floating on tremendous pontoons over the virgin sea.
Six months after the pontoon reactor began its operations, there was a
trmor in the town that had been its originally planned site.
Authorities called the tremor an icequake because it was caused
not by the fault in the ground, they said, but by a sudden thaw that
followed eighteen consecutive days of weather in which the temperature
did not rise above seven degress Fahrenheit. On the nineteenth day,
the ground shook suddenly and violently free of the ice.
The marine equivalent of an icequake happened when the icebergs that
were loosened by the Greenland quake floated a few kilometers
south. A reactor of this sort, it seems, wastes more heat than it
directs into electrical power. Hence, this reactor spread more energy
across its immediate area of no-longer virginal ocean than it generated
to provide power for the three northern New England states. So when a
few score icebergs, lately dismembered from the glacier, floated from
the frigid waters that dominated the North Atlantic, into the vicinity
of the white-hot breeder reactor and the nearly boiling seawater that
cooled it, the bergs hissed into water and steam within minutes.
Because of this the sea suffered a trauma, a physical concussion. The
sudden clash of radically differing temperatures in a fairly large
area caused the ocean to leap like a cat off a hot iron.
The ocean, as much as air, rivers and mountain ranges, has currents
and textures. One such current, part of the backwash of the Gulf
Stream, flows southwest from the vicinity of Greenland to the area of
Metropolis. Generally this current is rather insignificant and had
been unnoticed by mapmakers until 1976 or thereabouts. The advent of
the nuclear reactor in the path of this current, in fact, generally
had the effect of raising Metropolis's temperature by a degree or
two. This day, however, the frigid sea grew and hissed with an
unnatural terror. The water off the coast of New England was
expelling its shock southward through the current.
With no precedent and less apparent reason, a wall of water two
hundred meters high and twice as deep, rode the ocean surface to the
edge of Metropolis harbor.
Water of that mass and at that height would hit the ground and
buildings with the force of a monstrous sledgehammer wielded by an arm
as big as the city itself. Dockworkers, tourists, businessmen and
women crouching under biting wind on their ways back to work after a
late lunch looked up into the sky.
From the east came a looming elemental monster, a wave times a
thousand.
From the west, over the city, streaked a familiar red-and-blue figure,
grim, determined, dwarfed by the adversary that threatened to deal the
city a crushing blow.
They had no hope of survival, these people within sight of the great
wave, no hope other than this man who flew. Some of them saw the tiny
figure accelerate in the direction of the wave, heard the whistle of
his flight under the thunder of the oncoming juggernaut. They saw
him, if they saw him, for only a moment, because by the time he
reached the harbor he was flying faster than any mortal eye could
follow, into the cresting mountain of sea.
As Superman crossed the sound barrier, he lifted his eyes and mind
from the city he was determined to save, and he focused all his
considerable being on the sea-spawned monster before him. At a
velocity of three to four hundred meters per second he would reach the
wave within three quarters of a second; during this time he would be
able to shoot thirty or so blasts of heat vision at the wave's front,
steaming out holes half a meter in diameter and several meters deep.
By the time he reached the wave Superman was flying chest-first, his
body spread-eagled. The water's downward motion in order to fill the
holes burned out of the body of the wave had subtly slowed its
progress. Superman crashed his bulk through the face of the wave at a
speed of Mach one and, for an instant that was longer than the instant
it took for him to fly from shore to wave, there was a Superman-shaped
hole from the front to the back of the wave. A fraction of a second
later the sonic boom from Superman's flight hit the wave in the face.
The body of the wave was rippled with shock. It could not support its
own mass from the distance to the shore. It was less than three
seconds since people in the crowd near the piers had spotted Superman
streaking toward the harbor. They were still looking up at the point
in the sky where Superman flew by three seconds ago, and the hero's
job had just begun.
Instead of a mountain of water swatting down the financial district,
there would be a huge slab of water clapping down on the outer harbor,
sending hundreds of smaller angry chunks of water to slice apart the
coast.
Superman was underwater looking up. He saw the wave moving nowhere,
standing for an instant before it yielded to gravity, like a mortally
wounded dinosaur who did not yet realize that its next move was to
fall down.
Now Superman had to begin to move really quickly.
He circled underwater counterclockwise because if he went clockwise he
would very likely have created a waterspout. He circled slowly for
the first few milliseconds, nearly as slowly as sound travels. Then,
once he astablished his own internal rythm, he went faster. Then
faster. And faster.
In a circle whose diameter was that of the dying wave he spun faster.
Upward he moved in a corkscrew through the water. Faster.
As he cracked the surface, the harbor swelled around him. Faster.
The mountain of water flattened and spread into the shape of a dish.
Faster.
Its edges rose with his motion like clay spinning against the hands of
a potter. Faster, faster, faster.
By the time the faces of souls lately doomed to drown turned from the
fading form of their hero above to the looming force of doom from the
east, there was a giant swirling cylinder of water heading into the
sky over the harbor. And the sea was as crisp and calm as the sea
could properly be on a frigid February afternoon.
Up, up and away the last son of Krypton corkscrewed above the tallest
buildings, above the sparsest clouds, over the realms of the strongest
birds.
Then, suddenly, like a ski racer missing a gate, he spun out into the
open sky. He whirled his body back to face the dispersing mass of
seawater in the lower stratosphere, focused his narrowest line of
sight on the lower part of the mass, and a pair of optic nerves like
none described in any medical text on Earth kicked into operation to
reflect intense heat off the front of Superman's lenses, searing
straight through his indestructible corneas and out his eyes.
At the speed of light, twin beams of infrared radiation - pure
heat energy - bored out of the man's eyes at the falling mass
that, less than a minute ago, was a tidal wave born of glacial
earthquake and nuclear excess. In the time it took for the water to
drop through the radiant beams of heat vision, a great cloud of steam
swelled through the stratosphere above the city of Metropolis.
Sometime during the coming eighteen hours, that great steam cloud
would freeze and crystalize in the February air. Countless tiny
six-sided crystals of former tidal wave would ride the air and gravity
to the ground, and Metropolis would wake up the next morning swathed
in a blanket of snow sixteen inches thick.
Like matter and energy, forces of nature cannot be created or
destroyed, only transformed and diverted. A blizzard, the Man of
Steel had reasoned as he spun his circles, was something with which
the city was equipped to deal. A killer wave was not.
The streets were paved with slush. The bus he had to drive this
morning was twelve years old if it was a day. The guy getting on was
smiling and saying good morning as though he were someone running for
office; instantly the driver disliked him. Most people in this town
actually liked this man with the silly grin and the inoffensive good
looks who broadcast the news over WGBS every evening. As Clark Kent
gained his footing on the slippery floor of the crowded bus the driver
lurched the vehicle, hoping to trip and and embarrass the reporter
whose face unnerved him the way a peaceful afternoon bothers the
leader of a marching band. Instead of tripping Kent, the driver found
that his bus was stuck.
Clark folded himself over a seat and waited patiently for the bus
driver to conclude that he had another reason to be angry today.
There was another bus, of course, plowing through the snow a few
blocks behind. Nobody on this bus would mind transferring to that one
and the city looked rather attractive in white anyway.
Clark Kent would be a few minutes late for work today, but he didn't
think he'd mind that either.