Chapter 18C

"I hope we're not getting here too late," I said as the chime above his shop door announced our arrival. Morton popped into view immediately, wearing his professional expression.

You've probably heard the expression, 'face lit up with a smile'. Let me tell you, Mr. Morton's face suddenly looked like sun rose inside his head. I could see every tooth in the man's mouth. I started to introduce my partner, but he recognized her immediately and even knew her nom de guerre.

"You've been watching TV, haven't you?" I asked him.

"Oh, yes!" he admitted, nodding jerkily. "Every second. You were wonderful! You were both wonderful! Please, come back to my office. I have something to show you."

Mr. Morton showed us back to his office and offered us coffee, which we declined, or a soft drink, which I accepted. As we sat down, Neeka handed him the garment bag with her jacket in it and asked if it would be possible to get a big ace of diamonds logo on the back.

"Not a problem," Morton said. "I do custom artwork all the time. I used to use a silkscreen for things like this, but now I have this very nice computerized airbrush system that can handle contoured images. Very handy thing it is."

"How many degrees of freedom does it have?" Neeka asked.

"Six," Morton said. And with that the two of them fell into a discussion that I followed for about five seconds before it got too techie for me, so I just sipped my drink and nodded like I knew what the heck a degree of freedom was. Eventually, Morton noticed that only one of us was actively participating in the conversation and he politely closed the subject.

"But I'm sure we will have plenty of time to get into that later," he said. "Now, let me show you some sketches."

He pulled a big pad out of a locked drawer in his desk and opened it on the table. The first drawing was of me, and a nice one, too. Morton had an artistic flair, but I supposed that went with the territory for custom clothing designers.

The drawing showed a costume with a panel of fabric running from my wrists down my sides all the way to my ankles. In the sketch, I had my arms up and out and the fabric was stretched taut, like a stubby wing. I thought it looked ridiculous and so did Neeka.

"Makes you look like a flying squirrel," she said, stifling a giggle.

I hadn't thought of that, but she was right. I covered my mouth so I wouldn't laugh right in Mr. Morton's face. Fortunately, he was used to rejection.

"That's all right," he said. "I guess it does at that. Oh, well. I thought of this after seeing you jump so far off the tank. It's clear that you can jump quite a ways. I thought that it might help you guide yourself in the air."

"Oooo, now that's a good idea," I said, regretting having laughed. "I've had problems with that. But my solution is to keep my feet on the ground as much as possible. And I think the flying squirrel thing has been done."

"Ah, quite so. Well, how about this — when I did the first suit, I wasn't aware that your, ah, chameleon-like ability extended to your whole body. We could take advantage of this by realigning the weave so that the optical property would operate through the fabric, rather than around the surface."

"You mean it would be like the Emperor's New Clothes?" Neeka asked. "The cloth would be invisible?"

"Effectively so," he said. "It would transmit the dragon design..." Morton paused to wave a finger in my direction.

I knew a cue when I heard one and lit up the full animated version. Morton paused and stared. When I turn it on, most people's eyes get big and they look either scared, sick, shocked or some combination of the three. Morton looked fascinated and more than a bit smug. I remembered that, for him, I was the embodiment of a life-long fantasy.

"... the, ah, design through the cloth. That really is amazing, you know. Making it move like that is really stunning. I'm sitting right in front of you and all I can see is Dragon. It's a truly visceral effect."

"So, it makes your guts crawl?"

"Yes, it certainly does! This is a wonderful design. And the archetypical symbolism is a simply ingenious choice."

I went back to being me again and Mr. Morton discovered that he was perspiring, even though the air in the office was on the cool side. He mopped his neck with his silk handkerchief.

"I don't know," I said. "I can do a skin effect quickly only after I've practiced it. I can't really be a chameleon and use it to blend in. And I tried using the full-body thing the other night. That didn't work out too well."

"The other night? Wednesday night? You were involved in the destruction of that drug factory?"

"Yes, that was me. It was a busy day."

"It certainly was. Did you see the story in the morning paper about that?"

I shook my head. Reading about my exploits seemed very narcissistic and I usually spent my spare time in the morning doing other things than reading newspapers.

"The police think that the gang was responsible for a large number of unsolved crimes ranging from fencing stolen property up to extortion, and even murder. They say they may have been behind as much as 30% of the drug trafficking in the area."

"That's not the whole story. They were into much nastier stuff than that. Believe me, you don't want to know."

"Remarkable! But what could be worse than murder?"

"Making a video of it for 'special customers'." I had warned him.

"Oh my God!" Morton turned green. I thought he might lose his lunch, but he got control before things got out of hand.

"I'm sorry," he said, swallowing firmly.

"That's one you don't see in the comics."

"No," he agreed. "Not even Miller or Moore has gone that far. Some of the stronger horror titles have themes along those lines, but no one confuses that with reality. They were actually making 'snuff films'?"

"Yes. They made one teensy mistake, though."

"Let me guess — they cast you in the lead role?"

Nothing slow about Morton. I began to suspect that he was the one who programmed all that computerized equipment he was so proud of.

"I was doing pretty good at acting, too! Then they tried to cancel my contract and things kind of went to heck."

"The paper said they found several bodies in the ashes."

I wondered if Morton was asking if I had killed them. I hadn't. But that didn't mean I wouldn't have, in self defense, or while protecting someone else. I thought maybe I should just clam up and let him think I was responsible, but I couldn't do it.

"If I could have saved them, I would have," I assured him. "They blew up the place by accident. I just barely got out myself."

"Oh! Was the suit I made adequate protection then?"

"Well, I didn't have it with me. It was in the wash. That's one of the reasons I wanted to talk to you. I think a second suit would be a good idea — if you have enough fabric to make one."

He chuckled, almost to himself. He looked down at the tabletop and didn't look up again for a few seconds. He must have been trying to decide what to tell me. While he thought about it, I remembered that I wasn't the only one with secrets.

Morton must have decided that since I had been honest with him, he would return the courtesy.

"That will not be a problem," he said. "I got that from a friend at a research lab who had tried to interest the military in it for battle dress uniforms. I believe I told you that they turned him down because it would have been too expensive to manufacture as military uniforms? Well, I emailed him a copy of the clip of you destroying the tank. He's going to go back and offer to make t-shirts of it using my process. He's going to show them the clip as part of the presentation. He's sure that having a successful field demonstration will get their attention."

"Oh, wow!" I was stunned that I had something to do with such an important thing.

"I hope you don't mind me sending the clip. It was on TV, so I didn't think I was violating a trust."

"No! That's great. I'm glad your friend is getting something for providing the fabric. I just hope he doesn't want a live demonstration."

Morton went quiet again and that answered my question.

"Actually," he said, "He asked that very thing. I told him I didn't think you would want to go quite that far, but he made me promise to ask."

I shook my head. "I don't think I should be using my abilities to directly promote someone's business. I mean, I'm very grateful, and I don't have a problem with him using me to field-test the fabric, but I think I should stop at that."

"I understand completely. He felt he had to ask. And now I have a favor to ask as well, mostly because I feel I have to ask it as well. You know I'm a Fan?"

"Yes. Mom explained it to me. Something about for some it's just a blankety-blank hobby and for others it's a way of life?"

"Yes. I used to be one of the 'Fandom Is A Way Of Life' crowd, but as I got older I became less dedicated. Now, it's just a hobby, but I think I may get more involved than I have been lately. You have made a big difference in that. You see, people get into Fandom for many reasons, but they all are strongly attracted to the idea that there are people whose abilities put them so far above the norm that they may as well be gods. From that perspective, Fandom is like a religion. I have had some arguments over this, but I think it's a valid point. Anyway, meeting you has completely removed the element of faith from the equation. You may not think of yourself as a goddess, but you qualify on most of the criteria. You certainly qualify as a superhero."

"Superheroine," I corrected.

"Even better," he said, smiling at my Politically Correct version. "There are women in Fandom, too. Not as many as the male contingent would like there to be, but some. Can you imagine the impact you would have on them? Can you imagine how meeting a real heroine would empower them?"

"You want me to go to a convention with you?" Now it was my turn to show some insight.

"Yes. There is a big one in Miami over the fourth of July weekend. I am on the committee and I am almost certain that I can get them to make you two the Guests of Honor. In addition to the Honor part, that means they pay for your room, meals, and travel expenses."

If I was ever going to go press-the-flesh in public as The Dragon, Morton's convention would almost certainly be the friendliest crowd I could appear before. Neeka agreed on that point, too. But July was several weeks off, and things had been moving so fast that I had no idea what might happen before then.

"I'll think about it," I told him, and shut up before he figured out that we had both decided to go if it was at all possible. Neeka was even more enthusiastic than I was, and I was already looking forward to it.

Morton nodded and smiled, accepting that as the best answer he could have hoped for.

"Thank you. If you come, you should be prepared to see other girls made up to look like you. Many Fans like to dress as their favorite character at Cons. You have the advantage of not being a work of fiction, so I expect there will be a number of girls who will go as you."

Morton smiled broadly as he though of something. He stifled a laugh and explained, "I was going to say that you might even be able to blend in to the point where no one would recognize you as the real thing, but then I realized how silly that is. You will stand out in any crowd. No one will be able to match either your make-up or your figure."

"Are you going to be making costumes for some of the Fans at the Con?" I asked, picking up the jargon.

"Why yes! I always have. It's how I got into the clothing business. You'd be surprised at the number of girls who want to dress up as Wonder Girl or Martian princesses and expect the costume to make their fantasy real. And I once did all the costumes for a group who wanted to be the cast of Rocky Horror.

"But don't worry. I won't dress someone up like you. That would be a conflict of interest. I won't let on about our relationship. I won't even be the one to introduce you. It will be enough for me to see the reaction of my friends at having the two of you there."

Now I really had to go to this convention. It looked like it would mean a lot to Mr. Morton to have me there, and Mr. Morton was my friend.

Neeka watched while Morton created the diamond design on his computer and applied it to the back of her jacket with his fancy automatic sprayer. They swapped techy jargon back and forth and pretty soon they were getting on like old friends. I amused myself by flipping through some of Morton's sketchbooks from a stack on a shelf in the corner of his workshop.

Every one of the drawings was as good or better than the ones he had done of me. They all showed women in gorgeous clothes — everything from stunning formal gowns to casual clothes to lingerie. The poses seemed a little strange to me, though. Not that I had seen enough designer's sketches to know, but these all looked like they were more flattering to the models than to the clothes. The poses seemed more sultry and seductive than was really necessary and the amount of detail in the faces made them appear more like portraits than clothing sketches. I had admired several pages, before I turned the page to the next one and saw Bambi wearing the Native American costume that she had let Lori Henderson wear the morning after our sleep-over party.

There was no doubt at all that it was Bambi. The fishnet top looked great on her and the location of the feathers was perfect. They framed her breasts without hiding them. The seductive look on her face told me that the outfit had been commissioned for her husband's benefit and maybe even at his suggestion. The art and the model and the clothes came together in a way that made the drawing just jump off the page. Morton not only had great designs, but he had a way of presenting them that could make you feel that not wearing one would be a crime. No wonder his customers were so loyal. One look at the sketch of yourself in one of his creations and you would be willing to pay anything on the chance that you would actually look that good wearing it.

I was fascinated by the sketchbooks and I went through them all very quickly, looking to see if there were any more of Bambi. There were several of her — all lovely outfits and beautiful works of art.

The last book in the stack was different from the rest. Where the others had been seductive and beautiful, the drawings in it were more blatantly erotic. The clothes were more impractical. The models on the whole were even more dramatically proportioned and in many the poses were more than slightly pornographic.

I turned the pages of this one more slowly than the others. Where some of the other books had some faces that were familiar, these women were all strangers. Their bodies seemed to radiate lust and their expressions told of a deep passion that no words could express. The paper itself felt warm with their silent heat.

"Ah, that one wasn't supposed to have been left out," Morton said, gently taking the book out of my hands.

My fingers were reluctant to let go and my hands brushed my rings as they rose up. The rings were standing out like semaphores, signaling my aroused condition. Trying to hide it would have just drawn more attention, so I didn't bother.

"You are a very good artist, sir," I told him. "I may have the distinction of being one of a very few clients who has declined one of your designs."

Morton smiled as he put the book away in a drawer of his desk and closed it.

"Thank you, your appreciation is noted."

He meant my physical reaction and I smiled at the diplomatic way he put it.

"I know about your other clients," I confessed.

His head came up and his mouth opened as if he wanted to ask me to keep it to myself. He closed it again as he realized that my knowing his secret merely bound us closer to each other.

"Have you done anything for Summer Winters? Her cousin is a friend of mine."

"No, I haven't had the pleasure. She must work for another studio. I don't advertise that side of things and I have only done work for a couple of the larger companies. The smaller ones aren't much for production values, I'm afraid. The costume budget is nearly zero for most films, anyway."

"As are the costumes. But nudity has a limited appeal. You need to spice it up to keep things fresh and interesting," I said, offering my insight into the purpose of clothing in a near-tropical climate.

"Exactly!" Mr. Morton said, his eyes lighting up. "Exactly what I try to do with my designs. You should enhance, not obscure. Elevate, not cover-up. The body of a beautiful woman is one of nature's greatest masterpieces. It should be framed and displayed, not bound and hidden." He seemed to have forgiven me for snooping where I shouldn't have.

"I see I need to reinforce some areas of your new suit," he said, changing the subject. Surely his attention wasn't merely drawn to me by the subject of the conversation. Even I wasn't egotistical enough to think of my body as a masterpiece.

"Yes, the rings normally lie flat enough to be inconspicuous. When I get turned on — which happens a lot, to be completely honest — my nipples get really hard and they try to stand up."

"There does seem to be a correlation between a woman's beauty and her sex drive," he observed. "Many of my clients — both types — buy clothes that have the life expectancy of a moth in a forest fire. I do a brisk business in mending ripped seams and re-attaching buttons; so much so that I have started using Velcro on the more, ah, 'commercial' items."

"Including the catalog merchandise?" I asked.

"You are well-informed. Yes, I take orders over the Internet, too. And here I thought I had secrets."

"Your secrets are safe with us. If I can, I will be happy to repay you the same way we are repaying your friend who provided this wonderful fabric."

"Thank you, but I have all the business I can handle. I am the most fortunate of fellows. I am doing exactly what I want and I am quite successful at it. And now, I have a confidant who has made one of my most cherished dreams a reality. You have done more for me than I could possibly ask.

"Speaking of your new suit," he said, before we both got too sentimental, "I had another idea."

He took out a shallow box and sat it on the table. Inside was another pair of the suit-gloves. I pulled them on and they fit as perfectly as the others. These seemed to have more layers of fabric, and they had stiffer overlapping segments over the knuckles.

"These have been reinforced with a special type of plastic," he explained.

"Something else from your friend at the research lab?"

"Well, he was so happy that you had saved his latest project that he tossed several other failed items into a box and shipped it overnight. I made these just this morning. The other things I'm still figuring out."

"What's special about the plastic?" I could move my hands with ease, and my dexterity was just as good as with the other gloves.

"It hardens instantly on impact. It was supposed to be used to make bulletproof vests that were lighter and more comfortable to wear than those with metal or ceramic inserts. Here, punch that column behind you."

I turned and walked to one of the steel supports for the building. The manufacturing area in the back of the shop had been left in Industrial Cheap décor and the stout columns were exposed, complete with cross-members and rivets. I made a fist and punched one of the columns gently, so as not to break my knuckles on the steel.

I felt only the shock of my arm coming to an abrupt halt when it hit. The entire surface of the back of the glove, all the way from the tips of the fingers across the back and around my wrist, had turned instantly rigid. The stiffness eased off gradually, but quickly, and I was able to flex my fingers again in seconds.

"Wow!" I said. "This is great! I can punch things without worrying about busted knuckles. This is perfect!"

I made a fist and hit the column again. This time my exuberance got the better of me and I hit it with a burst of Power behind it. There was a loud clang and the steel column buckled, bending at least four inches out of plumb. The three of us were showered with dust from the overhead beams and the ceiling.

"Sorry," I said, as apologetically as I could. "I need to work on pulling my punches."

"Not a problem," Morton said, chuckling as he brushed us off with a whisk-broom. "My fault completely. I saw you destroy a tank and still I cannot imagine the power that you must possess. My other clients tend to be a pampered lot. They think their beauty is as fragile as glass. Yours is stronger than steel."

I fixed his column as best I could, pulling on it and punching from the opposite side until it was mostly straight again. In the process, I again covered us all with insulation from the ceiling and we all laughed like loons while Morton brushed us off once more.

"That's fine," he said, when he though I might try to fine-tune my efforts. "At least I know the structure is sound. The damage can be explained as a fork-lift accident when moving the equipment. Some of these pieces are quite heavy."

He laughed again, "And this is even better than my paperweight."

Getting serious, he asked, "Do you know how strong you really are?"

"No. But the Power seems to be growing all the time. Hitting the tank with that driveshaft thing was the first time I ever intentionally tried to use it all. I was shocked when I saw it split open like that. Oh, and the suit did a good job of keeping the bits of metal from flying off and cutting me. I came away without a scratch."

"Good! How are the optical properties working out for you?"

"Did you see the interview with Deputy Murphy about the grocery store holdup?"

"Yes, I did. They ran that as a sidebar story during the coverage they gave you."

"Remember when he said I went into the front of the store and disappeared? I was too preoccupied to notice at the time, but I got down on the black and white tile floor to sneak up on the robbers and the suit blended in perfectly as I crawled across it."

"That's very good. The effect should logically be weakest in a brightly-lit, high-contrast environment. It should be at its best in a diffuse light with a homogenous background. You may be almost undetectable in that type environment."

Talking with my partner had brought out the techie side of Mr. Morton. I thought we had better get out of there before they started affecting me. I was already curious about what else might be in that bag of stuff Morton's friend had sent. I might have even given in, but we had a big date coming up and I wanted to have plenty of time to get ready. I cut off the discussion by presenting him with the first-ever Dragon and Ace 8 x 10 glossy photo.

Mr. Morton was delighted.

"This is marvelous!" he told us. "I'm going to have this framed and hang it in my office."

"Would you like a personal message on it?" I asked him, hoping it wouldn't be too specific about our relationship. That might make him a target.

"Just 'To Sylvester', please. And the date."

"Sylvester?"

"Yes, that's me. Sylvester Felix Morton."

I shut my mouth just in time to keep from asking if his parents had a thing for cartoon cats. While I was making teethmarks in my tongue, I wondered if Mom knew and if this was one of the reasons she liked him so much. Neither of them had been very fortunate in the name department.

Maybe I shouldn't judge. Samantha isn't that 'normal' a name. Nor is Sam. At least no one had ever mistaken me for a boy while I was growing up. Certainly no one would now.

Neeka did the honors, since her penmanship was much better than mine. A point that I had conceded willingly since it meant she would have to do all of the work autographing the photos.

Sylvester took the photo like the ink was still wet. I started to tell him it was OK, but I was getting better and holding my tongue, so I just watched him carefully lay it flat between two pages of a sketchbook and close the book on it so it wouldn't get damaged.

I wondered about him asking for the date as well, then I understood that it would be a much more desirable collector's piece if it could be fixed to an early date in our careers. Having it part of the autograph was as good as having it notarized. Sylvester was a very shrewd cat. He could now prove that he had the very first photo we had given out.

Neeka and I gathered up her jacket and my new gauntlets, said goodbye to Mr. Morton and headed back home again.

On the way, I thought of something I should have earlier.

"We should have asked if he could make something for you out of that fabric," I said.

"Don't worry. He will. He suggested that while he was showing me how his system worked. He's going to make me a bodysuit to wear under my jacket and replace the lining in it with the same stuff in your gloves to make it bulletproof and impact-resistant. He took my measurements for some slacks, too. I guess you were busy looking at the porn to notice."

"Yes, well, some of those sketches were very good."

"Good and hot. I thought we were going to have to mop up the seat of the chair you were sitting in."

"Oh, they were. Especially the one of Mom in her Pocahontas outfit."

"Ooooh!" she said, looking at my memory of the drawing. "She still has that one, doesn't she? I may ask her to model it for us."

"Good idea. I wish we had more time." I was thinking about the side-trip we had discussed before. The sooner we got moving on some of the PR stuff we had talked about, the better.

"We still have time," Neeka said. "We need the roll-out practice anyway. And you don't need that much time to get ready for tonight. You already know what you're going to wear and the only thing you have to fool with is your hair. You'll change your make-up three times during dinner."

Busted by a mind-reading partner — again. She also knew that I wanted time to fuss and fidget, and that would probably not lead to anything good.

"OK," I sighed. Let's pretend we have a call in that neighborhood with all the big trees. What was it, University Avenue?"

"Yeah. Someone lucked-out on the shade. Those oaks must have been planted during the Civil War."

"You mean 'The War of Northern Aggression'," I said in my best Southern Belle accent.

"That one," she laughed. It was something they made a point of telling us in History class; that the victors got to write the books and if the South had won, the books would be written very differently.

We drove right home, parked behind the workshop and, this time, out of the path of the bike when Neeka rocketed out of the double-doors with me hanging on behind her.

I had a real close look at the Ace of Diamonds logo on her jacket with my nose pressed against it. It was gorgeous. The shading from black to red made it look like it was floating above the surface of the leather. Morton had done his usual excellent job, even in the short time he had to work on it. I just hoped that the paint had dried; otherwise I was going to be Rudolph the red-nosed Dragon.

Neeka slowed to under Mach 5 going into the tree-shaded neighborhood with all the old houses, so I worked up the courage to peek over her shoulder, something I could do only because she drove in a racing crouch like she was afraid the wind would slow her down.

I knew the houses had to be old because they had nice porches in front and people were out sitting on them in wooden chairs and swings. They were also much larger than the ones in the new subdivisions on either side of the highway south of town and were farther from the street, giving them good-sized front yards where groups of kids ran around shrieking and squealing as they played. I felt a sharp pang of nostalgia for my own childhood, even if it was only a few years ago. I wanted to hop off and go join those kids.

Neeka throttled back on the bike to the point where window-glass wasn't endangered. She just goosed it often enough to keep us moving along. Even so, the growl of the big motor was attracting attention and I could see heads turning and people pointing as we rolled past. I searched their faces to try to spot someone who looked friendly, but all I could see was curiosity and concern.

We were about in the middle of the block when I felt Neeka's sudden stab of fear. It was so quick and unexpected than I reacted without thinking. She hit the brake hard, which made the bike nosedive. I shoved off the pegs and vaulted over her head and into a somersault, landing in a defensive crouch just in front of the bike as it came to a stop in the middle of the street.

I didn't have to scan the area to find what made Neeka react like that; it was standing right in front of me wearing a striped t-shirt, a crew-cut, and a big grin. He looked about seven years old and he must have run out into the street in front of the bike, scaring Neeka half to death.