We took seats at a small café table in front on the sidewalk. I set my I Ching on the table between us. Within moments, a waitress appeared with two coffees we hadn’t ordered. Mine was exactly the way a like it: two sugars and lots of cream. Preston paid the waitress with a ten and nodded to her to keep the change; she disappeared.
Preston pulled an eyeglass case from his back pocket and replaced his mirrored aviators with a pair of conventional wire-framed bifocals. His hazel eyes, while not exactly warm, at least weren’t as cold and eerie as seeing the reflection of myself.
“No doubt you’ve noticed some unusual activity around the neighborhood,” he said to me. “Obviously, we have an obligation to keep an eye on your Megahero housemates.”
“I don’t care about that,” I said. “I just don’t like the idea of my daddy working for you.”
“He seems to be enjoying himself,” said Preston, lighting one of his thin cigarettes. “He likes being involved in your well-being.”
“But ICHHL doesn’t have to co-opt him into one of its creepy secret agents,” I said. “Especially to spy on my friends.”
“He’s not spying for us,” said Preston. “He’s just doing routine maintenance and making some long-deferred improvements around the property. We haven’t been very good landlords, I’m afraid.”
“You mean ICHHL bought the house out from under us?” I asked. “When did that happen?”
“The Ivy-Covered Halls of Higher Learning has owned that house for a number of years,” said Preston. “We own quite a few properties around town. Not to mention under the town. But that’s classified.”
I was stunned. “Does Pammy know this? …Did she know it when she signed the lease?”
“No, Pammy doesn’t know,” said Preston. “Nor does Stella. And you’re not going to tell either of them. Because at this point, they don’t need to know. But it was no accident that they found such a good deal on Ann Street; that can be a pricey neighborhood.”
“You’re planning on reactivating Megaton Man again, aren’t you?” I said. “On a full-time basis this time, I suppose. Well, Trent’s not going to like it one bit.”
“We have no intention of reactivating Megaton Man at this time,” said Preston. “Trent’s been an uncooperative pain in the ass for years—the worst Megaton Man of all time, from what my colleagues tell me. So good riddance, as far as I’m concerned.”
“If you’re not interested in Megaton Man, then what are you after?” I asked. “I don’t see what use the See-Thru Girl would be to the federal government; besides, Stella is going to school full time and raising a kid.”
“You haven’t met Stella’s half-brother, have you?” asked Preston, inhaling thoughtfully on his cigarette. “Chuck Roast? The Human Meltdown?”
For all of the short time I had known Stella, her long-lost sibling had been somewhere over in Europe; he had run off with the Megatropolis Quartet’s fill-in eye-candy substitute for the See-Thru Girl: a young red-head named Felicia. Stella had never said much about Chuck, but I knew about the Human Meltdown from the newsweekly article I had read in my sister Avie’s room over Thanksgiving.
“No, of course not,” I said. “How could I meet him if he’s been in Paris or wherever all this time? What does Stella’s brother have to do with anything?”
“Stella’s half-brother,” said Preston. “Just like Avril is your half-sister.” Preston had never met Avie; it made me uncomfortable to hear him mention her name, not to mention our relationship. “Chuck and Stella had different Civilian mothers,” Preston continued, “but the same Megahero father—a complete reprobate named Trigger Flintlock. He was the second Meltdown—the son of the original Major Meltdown whose name escapes me; Mortal Meltdown or something or something like that—I always get those Meltdown names confused. The Megaton Man names are much easier: The Original Golden Age Megaton Man, the Silver Age Megaton Man, the Bronze Age Megaton Man.”
“I don’t understand,” I said. “The See-Thru Girl’s father was Meltdown Man or whatever. So what?”
“Mortal Meltdown, I think,” said Preston. “It means, simply, that Stella Starlight is a Meltdown, too.”
This made no sense. If Stella was a Meltdown, why wasn’t she the Molten Melton or something? Why was she the See-Thru Girl?
“Then why are her powers so different from her half-brother?” I asked. “The See-Thru Girl can turn naked with but a thought”—I knew that much, although I’d never seen it. “Her half-brother, Chuck Meltdown”—or whatever his name was—“supposedly, he can turn into molten globs of radioactive protoplasm or something.”
“Chuck Roast,” said Preston, correcting me. “The Human Meltdown.” He pulled a notebook from his shirt pocket. “Let’s see: Major Meltdown, Young Meltdown, Human Meltdown. That’s the order.” He put the notebook back in his pocket. “Sorry; I should have had that memorized by now.”
I don’t know why Preston bothered; I was going to forget his recitation of Meltdown Megaheroes in a minute. I had never met Stella’s brother—I mean half-brother—Chuck Roast, and I certainly never was going to meet their father, let alone their grandfather—neither of whom anybody had seen for years.
“Is there a point to all this?” I asked.
“The point is,” said Preston, “the See-Thru Girl is a Meltdown, too.”
“You said that already. But you didn’t answer my question: Why are her Megapowers so different from her half-brother’s? Why isn’t she melting down into globs of radioactive protoplasm?”
“I don’t know,” said Preston. “Maybe her self-control is much greater. She can repress a lot, if you haven’t noticed.” I certainly had. “In any case, Stella’s Megapowers aren’t important.”
I couldn’t argue with that; you already know what I think about turning naked with but a thought; why can’t a person just turn naked the old-fashioned way—by taking their clothes off?
“But you said that both Stella and her half-brother Chuck got their Megapowers from their father,” I said, “as if that were somehow significant.”
“It is significant, potentially,” said Preston. “Stella may not possess the Megapowers of a Major Meltdown, or a Mortal Meltdown, or even a Human Meltdown herself. But she could conceivably pass along those Meltdown Megapowers to her offspring.”
“Is that the way it happens?” I asked. Do Megapowers skip the women in the family? Maybe little baby Simon will only be able to turn naked with but a thought, like his mama. I had seen that—or at least I’d seen him get naked when he was having his diaper changed or when he was taking a bath.
“I’m not a chemist or a physicist,” said Preston. “I can’t explain how any of it works; none of our people can. We haven’t had enough experience with the transmission of Megapowers from one generation to the next. But Stella’s precise Megapowers are not the point. The point is that Meltdown Megapowers run in her family.”
“But I thought Dr. Quimby took care of Simon’s Megapowers,” I reminded him.
“Dr. Quimby treated the subject,” said Preston, “and the Megaton Megapowers seem to have gone into remission. For now. As for the Meltdown Megapowers, we can’t be so sure. Besides…”
“Besides what?”
“You’re a smart kid, Clarissa,” said Preston. “You’ve made the Dean’s List every semester. You should be able to put two and two together.”
I had no idea what he was talking about. Trent Phloog used to be Megaton Man; Stella Starlight used to be See-Thru Girl; and Stella was related to Somebody-or-Other Meltdown. So what? Both Megatons and Meltdowns were nuclear-powered Megaheroes, I know, but…
“Holy crap!” I almost doing a spit-take with my coffee. “Little baby Simon…he’s a Megaton-Meltdown.” I wiped my chin with a napkin. “But…what does that mean?”
“We don’t know,” said Preston. “It’s the reason ICHHL was created in the first place, decades ago. It was only a matter of time before all these Megaheroes started pairing up—it’s only natural; they’re on teams together, they’re in those skin-tight suits all day long, they team up, go On Patrol—sooner or later, they were going to reproduce.”
“But Megaheroes are people, right?” I asked. “They’re human, just like us.”
“Nobody’s saying they’re not,” said Preston. “When a Megahero reproduces with a Civilian—a non-Megapowered human—sometimes the offspring is a Civilian, sometimes it’s a Megahero. But we’ve never had two Megaheroes conceive before, and certainly never two nuclear-powered Megaheroes. We don’t know if this child will take after the father, the mother, both…or neither.”
“Simon took after the father, initially,” I reminded Preston. “You saw the baby fly around the hospital room; you brought him his own goggles and cape to wear. He looked every bit the Son of Megaton Man to me.”
“That was a gag gift, by the way,” said Preston, “just a humorous way to break the ice. We had no idea Stella’s progeny would have the ability to fly right off the bat.”
“But Dr. Quimby took care of that, right?” I asked. “He performed some process that took away Simon’s Megapowers.” Not unlike Trent losing his Megapowers, I thought. “Simon’s a normal baby now.”
“He certainly appears to be,” said Preston. “And that’s the hope. But frankly, we just don’t know how these things work—Megaheroes have only been around for three generations or so, and we don’t have much of a track record to go on. Are this child’s Megaton Megapowers in remission for good? Does it have Meltdown powers that will manifest later? Does it have some unique amalgam of Megaton-Meltdown Megapowers, as you say? Terrible powers that will only manifest later in childhood, adolescence, adulthood? We just don’t know.”
I tried to grasp the implications of what Preston was saying to me. What could baby Simon turn into? What was ICHHL so afraid of? I thought back to last fall, in the library, when I first saw that Stella was pregnant. I wondered then whether her kid might turn out to be a Martian or Baby Monster Thing or a God-knows-what. So far, Simon only seemed to be a quiet, delightful, absolutely adorable, fairly normal baby. But now Preston had me in a panic; maybe all of our fears had been dispelled too soon.
“If Simon is such a threat, why didn’t you kill him when you were babysitting him? Why didn’t Dr. Quimby?” I wasn’t recommending this, of course; I was just curious.
“We’re not savages,” said Preston. “Believe it or not, although we appear to be some nefarious, technocratic organization, we were originally founded by the scientists who created the first generation of Megaheroes, around World War II. The Ivy-Covered Halls of Higher Learning was created out a concern for the Megaheroes—a human concern. Of course, if he became dangerous, if the risk to society were to become too great…”
“You would kill Simon Phloog.”
“Mind you, we’re not anywhere close to that point, yet,” said Preston, although his words weren’t reassuring. “We don’t believe there’s any significant risk at the moment; it may never become an issue at all. But if something does develop, we want to know about it sooner rather than later.”
“You’re not in Ann Arbor to handle Megaton Man at all,” I said. “You never were.” I was realizing this as I was saying it. “You’re here to keep your eye on…a baby?”
“I have a number of responsibilities,” said Preston. “For the moment, mostly they’re in New York. But that’s why you’re seeing all the strange things around Ann Street. And it’s why I need to ask you to keep it cool.”
“You’re crazy,” I said. “Simon’s just a docile little baby.”
“You’re probably right,” said Preston. “But even if he turns out to be just a Civilian, he has the same genetic propensity as his forebears, which would make him a candidate, with the appropriate process, to become a future Megaton, or a Meltdown. Or, as you said: A Megaton-Meltdown. Whatever that is.”
“What makes you think I won’t go and tell Stella and Trent exactly what you’re up to? I don’t think they’re going to like raising a baby for you just on the off chance that baby might become America’s Next Nuclear-Powered Hero. And I don’t think they’ll sleep well knowing a bunch of creeps from ICHHL are on hair-trigger alert.”
“You won’t tell them,” said Preston, “for the same reason I won’t tell your mama and daddy in Detroit that you’re living in a house with Megaheroes. Because we’re all having too much friendly fun here in Ann Arbor.”
I set down my coffee cup, picked up my I Ching, and left the café.
As I walked back to Ann Street, I didn’t notice there weren’t any parked cars nor vans nor ICHHL trucks working on telephone poles. Maybe they had all turned invisible. Maybe they were all in my head. Maybe there was something in that coffee Preston bought for me.
It was subtle—and deft—how Secret Agent Preston Percy had maneuvered me, was manipulating me, into an untenable position. If I told Stella and Trent what Preston had told me, they were liable to think I was crazy. Or, they might flee—like Mary, Joseph, and baby Jesus—with Simon, to the land of Egypt in order to escape King Herod. Then I’d be homeless, and God knows what I fate would befall my family. But if I said nothing, I might wind up with blood on my hands—innocent blood.
When I walked in the house, Trent was feeding Simon with a bottle of milk on the sofa.
“Do you have three pennies?” I asked Trent.
“There’s some change in the jar on Pammy’s bookshelf,” he said.
“What for? A piece of bubblegum is five cents.”
I didn’t answer. I took three old, tarnished Lincoln pennies from the jar. All were wheatbacks, the oldest I could find. I took a pencil and a piece of scrap paper from Pammy’s desk and went out the back door. I sat down at the picnic table and set my I Ching in front of me, along with the paper and pencil. I cast the coins six times. Once, one of the wheatbacks rolled through the space between the planks of the table top and dropped to the newly-laid patio paving stone, so I had to crawl under the table and get it; I noted first that it was heads up. When I cast the coins six times and tabulated it all on paper, the resulting hexagram told me to read the number for thirty-five, the Chinese word chin, meaning progress. There were no moving lines.
Now, I’m no adept at interpreting the I Ching; I was only introduced to it at summer camp a few weeks before. Even before I cast the coins, I reread the part at the beginning of the book to make sure I was doing it right. Now, I read the indicated passage on chin or progress. To paraphrase, it described the sun his rising high in the sky, and clarity and understanding coming easily. Human nature in its original state, the oracle reminded me, was pure and good.
Well, this may have applied to baby Simon, but I was filled with dark thoughts and confusion.
I closed the book, picked up the coins, and went back in the house. In the living room, Trent was still cradling Simon in his arms. “Hey,” he said to me. “I was going to fire up the grill and make hamburgers for dinner. Would you like that?” I didn’t answer. I only looked at Trent holding Simon. “Would you like that, Simon? Woo?”
I tried to imagine Trent in an apartment filled with canaries, and Simon with Megaton-Meltdown powers. I couldn’t.
That’s just silly, I thought to myself.
I didn’t see anything at all suspicious on Ann Street for the rest of the summer and most of the fall. It was almost as if Preston Percy had shown me all those things—that ICHHL had been so obvious about its surveillance—to make a point. Or maybe the point now was to make me think it had all been in my head. True, I had spent the previous summer—the summer after my freshman year—at home with my family in Detroit, and hadn’t seen for myself how the campus of Arbor State University—except for athletic camps and a few scattered conferences, and the townies, of course—became a ghost town. In any case, things were now so quiet and so utterly normal it was absolutely eerie.
The next time I saw costumed characters on Ann Street, was when my sister Avie’s North Cass Agitprop Theatre Company troupe came out from Detroit for the big Arbor State Street Fair at the end of July. Although not an official event of the school, most of downtown Ann Arbor and much of the central campus had been completely taken over each summer since 1959 by artists, crafts people, food vendors, and performers of every kind in one of the first such street festivals in the country. Avie and four of her fellow actor-artists spent the night on Ann Street house—they brought along cots and mattresses and a big trunk of costumes and masks and props—and camped out in our basement. It just so happened that Stella had taken Simon to visit her parents for a few days, and Pammy was in New York to meet with her agent and several prospective publishers.
I hardly saw Trent at all—he made it clear he wanted to steer clear of Avie, and had to work the street booth that Border Worlds Used and Slightly New Bookstore set up for the fair besides. I assumed just assumed he hung out late with that crowd; in any case, I didn’t keep track of when he came or went. But Avie and I and her troupe had a blast—it was a belated Woodstock for us who born just slightly too late. They brought costumes that were a cross between Mardi Gras, the Bauhaus, and the Theater of the Absurd—and this time I know I was on something, because I smoked and swallowed everything the Merry Pranksters handed me. I got roped into performing on a stage with them at Main Street and South University Thursday night, and we had an impromptu parade back through all the booths on the Diag and back to Ann Street. We reveled in the backyard, grilling up stuff and having an impromptu picnic, and played the stereo loudly in the basement. And somehow, we managed not to destroy the house. Then the carnival left town.
Somehow, while they were here, the troupe had magically multiplied, absorbing a few mimes and jugglers; they couldn’t all fit into the Pacer, so they left their trunk and cots and mattress in our basement. Stella was not happy about that, but when Daddy later saw all that stuff stacked in the corner, it gave him the idea to turn that part of the basement into a rec room with some closet space and a small bathroom, partitioned off from the laundry area and furnace—more improvements to be subsidized by ICHHL.
After coming down from that psychedelic experience, August was even more quiet around Ann Arbor and Ann Street. I continued making money at the Drowned Mug—I soon got the training to be a waitress and started to sock away some real dough. I also got the jump on readings for the coming semester—whenever possible, I liked to get ahold of the textbooks and required reading list for my tougher classes, and there was a lot of philosophy and history stuff ahead of me.
Finally, school began. I resumed classes, my junior year; Stella began her sophomore year; and Pammy had new seminars to teach. She also landed a book contract, so was in the process of making revisions and proofreading galleys when not grading papers or preparing for lectures. Trent continued working at the bookstore, but gave up delivering pizzas when his Volkswagen broke down. He sold it to one of my daddy’s friends who worked on them; he got it running again and sold it to somebody else. But Trent was happy with the deal; he made a few bucks, and the bookstore was within easy walking distance.
Through it all, baby Simon just slept and ate and got changed on a regular basis, and I just fell in love with him over and over again. And the longer time went on, and the more normal things became, the more absurd seemed the weekend of his birth, and the less real seemed subsequent encounters with Preston Percy.
Next: Kozmik Kat’s Trick or Treat
I didn’t answer. I took three old, tarnished Lincoln pennies from the jar. All were wheatbacks, the oldest I could find. I took a pencil and a piece of scrap paper from Pammy’s desk and went out the back door. I sat down at the picnic table and set my I Ching in front of me, along with the paper and pencil. I cast the coins six times. Once, one of the wheatbacks rolled through the space between the planks of the table top and dropped to the newly-laid patio paving stone, so I had to crawl under the table and get it; I noted first that it was heads up. When I cast the coins six times and tabulated it all on paper, the resulting hexagram told me to read the number for thirty-five, the Chinese word chin, meaning progress. There were no moving lines.
Now, I’m no adept at interpreting the I Ching; I was only introduced to it at summer camp a few weeks before. Even before I cast the coins, I reread the part at the beginning of the book to make sure I was doing it right. Now, I read the indicated passage on chin or progress. To paraphrase, it described the sun his rising high in the sky, and clarity and understanding coming easily. Human nature in its original state, the oracle reminded me, was pure and good.
Well, this may have applied to baby Simon, but I was filled with dark thoughts and confusion.
I closed the book, picked up the coins, and went back in the house. In the living room, Trent was still cradling Simon in his arms. “Hey,” he said to me. “I was going to fire up the grill and make hamburgers for dinner. Would you like that?” I didn’t answer. I only looked at Trent holding Simon. “Would you like that, Simon? Woo?”
I tried to imagine Trent in an apartment filled with canaries, and Simon with Megaton-Meltdown powers. I couldn’t.
That’s just silly, I thought to myself.
I didn’t see anything at all suspicious on Ann Street for the rest of the summer and most of the fall. It was almost as if Preston Percy had shown me all those things—that ICHHL had been so obvious about its surveillance—to make a point. Or maybe the point now was to make me think it had all been in my head. True, I had spent the previous summer—the summer after my freshman year—at home with my family in Detroit, and hadn’t seen for myself how the campus of Arbor State University—except for athletic camps and a few scattered conferences, and the townies, of course—became a ghost town. In any case, things were now so quiet and so utterly normal it was absolutely eerie.
The next time I saw costumed characters on Ann Street, was when my sister Avie’s North Cass Agitprop Theatre Company troupe came out from Detroit for the big Arbor State Street Fair at the end of July. Although not an official event of the school, most of downtown Ann Arbor and much of the central campus had been completely taken over each summer since 1959 by artists, crafts people, food vendors, and performers of every kind in one of the first such street festivals in the country. Avie and four of her fellow actor-artists spent the night on Ann Street house—they brought along cots and mattresses and a big trunk of costumes and masks and props—and camped out in our basement. It just so happened that Stella had taken Simon to visit her parents for a few days, and Pammy was in New York to meet with her agent and several prospective publishers.
I hardly saw Trent at all—he made it clear he wanted to steer clear of Avie, and had to work the street booth that Border Worlds Used and Slightly New Bookstore set up for the fair besides. I assumed just assumed he hung out late with that crowd; in any case, I didn’t keep track of when he came or went. But Avie and I and her troupe had a blast—it was a belated Woodstock for us who born just slightly too late. They brought costumes that were a cross between Mardi Gras, the Bauhaus, and the Theater of the Absurd—and this time I know I was on something, because I smoked and swallowed everything the Merry Pranksters handed me. I got roped into performing on a stage with them at Main Street and South University Thursday night, and we had an impromptu parade back through all the booths on the Diag and back to Ann Street. We reveled in the backyard, grilling up stuff and having an impromptu picnic, and played the stereo loudly in the basement. And somehow, we managed not to destroy the house. Then the carnival left town.
Somehow, while they were here, the troupe had magically multiplied, absorbing a few mimes and jugglers; they couldn’t all fit into the Pacer, so they left their trunk and cots and mattress in our basement. Stella was not happy about that, but when Daddy later saw all that stuff stacked in the corner, it gave him the idea to turn that part of the basement into a rec room with some closet space and a small bathroom, partitioned off from the laundry area and furnace—more improvements to be subsidized by ICHHL.
After coming down from that psychedelic experience, August was even more quiet around Ann Arbor and Ann Street. I continued making money at the Drowned Mug—I soon got the training to be a waitress and started to sock away some real dough. I also got the jump on readings for the coming semester—whenever possible, I liked to get ahold of the textbooks and required reading list for my tougher classes, and there was a lot of philosophy and history stuff ahead of me.
Finally, school began. I resumed classes, my junior year; Stella began her sophomore year; and Pammy had new seminars to teach. She also landed a book contract, so was in the process of making revisions and proofreading galleys when not grading papers or preparing for lectures. Trent continued working at the bookstore, but gave up delivering pizzas when his Volkswagen broke down. He sold it to one of my daddy’s friends who worked on them; he got it running again and sold it to somebody else. But Trent was happy with the deal; he made a few bucks, and the bookstore was within easy walking distance.
Through it all, baby Simon just slept and ate and got changed on a regular basis, and I just fell in love with him over and over again. And the longer time went on, and the more normal things became, the more absurd seemed the weekend of his birth, and the less real seemed subsequent encounters with Preston Percy.
Next: Kozmik Kat’s Trick or Treat
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| Clyde Phloog, the Silver Age Megaton Man, from a 2018 drawing. |
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| The Fill-In See-Thru Girl: Felicia (with Chuck Roast) from Megaton Man #2 (Kitchen Sink Press, February 1985). |
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| Chuck and Felicia split for Paris in Megaton Man #2 (Kitchen Sink Press, February 1985). |
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| Felicia Fondue, in more recent art (circa 2015). |
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| Major Meltdown (identified here as the Human Meltdown, his grandson), in an unpublished drawing from 2016. |
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All characters, character names, likenesses, words and pictures on this page are ™ and © Don Simpson 2019, all rights reserved.
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