Both Simon and I awoke early, not even daybreak, well before either Trent or Stella. We snuck down to the kitchen, me in my replacement civvies and Simon in his pajamas, clutching his stuffed dinosaur. I began to make us some pancakes. For a kid who’d nearly been blown to pieces by Arms of Krupp henchmen a mere twelve hours earlier, he hardly seemed traumatized at all—he seemed well-rested and cheerful, whereas I had hardly slept a wink. “I’m going to call her Dobie, Aunt Clarissa,” he said. “Dobie the Dinosword.”

“How do you know she’s a girl?” I asked. “On second thought, don’t answer that; I want to go on thinking of you as an innocent kid for as long as I can.”

We went over the proper pronunciation of “dinosaur” as I mixed the batter. This entailed explaining that you leave off the “d” sound, which involved explaining what the letter “d” was in the first place. Before long, Stella appeared in her bathrobe and slippers, puffy-eyed. “Oh, thank God,” I said. “I thought I was going to have teach your two-year-old the entire alphabet!”

“You didn’t have to do that,” said Stella, removing Simon’s dinosaur from the table.

“What, make pancakes before six in the morning?” I said, setting a plate of pancakes in front of Simon.

“That too,” said Stella. “But I mean bring Simon a gift. There’s no need to do that every time you visit—you’ll spoil him.”

I couldn’t remember ever bringing Simon a gift, but I certainly couldn’t tell Stella that ICHHL had brought the dinosaur, not me, so I didn’t correct her. I hoped Simon wouldn’t spill the beans; luckily, I’d timed the pancakes just right.

“Dobie mrph mrph Ickle,” Simon tried to say.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full, Simon,” said Stella. She turned to me. “You’re up awfully early, aren’t you? Oh, that’s right—you have that advising meeting today.” She took the ladle from me and took over the pancakes. “You better get dressed.”

I looked down at my T-shirt and jeans. “I am dressed,” I said. I looked at the clock on the wall. “That reminds me,” I said, wiping my hands on a tea towel. “I’ve got to run.” I kissed both Simon and Stella on the cheek and headed out the back door.

“You can’t be meeting with your advisor this early,” said Stella. “Nobody will be on the campus at this hour. Stay and have a cup of coffee.”

“No, but I have other errands to run,” I said. “I have some things I need to take care of before the meeting. Thanks again for letting me sleep over—it was memorable. See you guys again soon.” I grabbed my duffel bag and was out the door. I really wanted to stay and hear all about Stella’s prospective grad advisor, but I also had my own research to perform.

Stella was right—most of the campus was still asleep. As dawn broke, nothing was open along State Street or anywhere downtown except for a few coffee shops. I still planned to visit Border Worlds Used and Slightly New Bookstore, where Trent worked, but that wasn’t going to be open yet for several hours. But I knew I could always get into the twenty-four hour Arbor State libraries with my student ID, and that’s where I was headed.

Over the next several of hours I must have spooled through two dozen rolls of microfilm from a couple of now-defunct newspapers: The Daily Polis published in Megatropolis and The Empire State Pinnacle out of New York City. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, so I concentrated mainly on front pages from the late thirties and early forties. After 1940, I found a number of references to the exploits of the Original Golden Age Megaton Man, mostly about him and some of his fellow domestic megaheroes at ribbon-cutting ceremonies, or sometimes foiling rings of jewelry thieves and the like. These were only ever mentioned in The Daily Polis, and usually in discreet, demur little items with small photographs well below the fold. In The Empire State Pinnacle I found stories Major Meltdown and Magma dueling with an adversary called the Submersible Mer-Man; these were almost impossible to miss, since they were always plastered across the top half of the front page with three-inch-tall banner headlines accompanied by big, splashy photographs of bridges melting and tidal waves threatening Manhattan.

Curiously, or perhaps not so curiously, each megahero only ever appeared in one newspaper and never the other—the Original Golden Age Megaton Man in the Megatropolis Daily Polis and Major Meltdown and Magma The Empire State Pinnacle of New York City. It was like they lived in completely different universes—which indeed was the case. How in the world microfilm from both newspapers coexisted in the same library now was a mystery—yet more evidence that two separate dimensions were again one.

I couldn’t locate any reference to either megahero—or to Project Megaton or Project Meltdown—in either newspaper before 1940. Not that I exactly expected their origins to be discussed explicitly in the press. But I was hoping at least to come across some cryptic references to an “Atomic Soldier,” since the creation of such a being must have been a big part of the War Department’s effort to put America on a “war footing” in the run-up to the outbreak of World War II. Although I was disappointed, I wasn’t surprised, since Grandma Seedy had described her involvement in research to develop an Atomic Soldier as “Topmost Secret Priority.”

Operating on such little sleep and only adrenaline, I was starting to get a little groggy by mid-morning, and was about to call it quits when I spotted a write-up from 1940 in the Daily Polis. It was about a mysterious, hush-hush project codenamed “Burly Boy” and six prominent scientists from various universities who were reportedly meeting at an undisclosed location in New Jersey. They were:

Orson Mercury—Madsen University

Brenda Marlowe—Towerview University

Kendall Forrester—New England State College

Agnes Crafton-Ingram—Lakeshore University

Elias Levitch—University of Megatropolis

Winnifred Wertz—Freedman Bornstein Junior High School The first four names meant absolutely nothing to me, but Elias Levitch I knew was Dr. Joe Levitch’s father, well-known to the public as the creator of the Original Golden Age Megaton Man—his son Joe having created my father, the Silver Age Megaton Man as well as the Bronze Age Megaton Man, Trent Phloog. The last name on the list, Winifred Wertz, also rang a bell with me for some reason, although I wasn’t sure why. What was a girl from a junior high school doing on a list of distinguished professors? Maybe she won first prize at some science fair.

“These have to be the six scientists of Project Megaton,” I said out loud. I was used to having Kozmik Kat at my side to take notes when I was researching into megaheroic history, but of course when I looked around, he wasn’t there; in this case I had to make my own notes on a sheet of library scratch paper. “The undisclosed location in New Jersey can only be the Doomsday Factory!” That was where Avie and I had met the Doomsday Revengers—the Devengers—and saw my Grandma Seedy’s megahero uniform workshop.

I wondered how many of the other scientists were still alive, or whether they could still be reached at their respective institutions. Most were probably retired by now, like my grandma. But Winnifred Wertz, if she had been only a junior high school student, could still be teaching at some university somewhere—but where?

I tracked down another news item from a few months later. In this one, “Burly Boy” had been declared “successfully concluded” by the War Department. Although the exact nature of the project could not be revealed, a spokesman claimed it would have a “serious impact on the War Effort.” It announced the tragic death of Elias Levitch, who had suffered some kind of accident related to the project, but said the other scientists would be returning to their respective institutions, and Winnifred Wertz to Freedman Bornstein Junior High School. The item, naturally, only appeared in The Megatropolis Polis.

On a hunch, I switch spools and searched The Empire State Pinnacle for the corresponding dates as the two Daily Polis articles. Sure enough, on the first date, I came across an almost identical item about “Girly Man,” a War Department-funded scientific program involving a different set of six scientists. They were:

Delbart Goodman—Bay Area State University

Glenn Franklin Stephens—Fitzrandolph University

Hyacinth Anders Racine-Revell—Sanctuary College (London) and Norhaven University, Connecticut

Seymour Starlight—Arbor State University

Rex Rigid—Quakertown Polytechnic Junior High School

Mercedith Robeson-James—Cass State University “Grandma Seedy!” I exclaimed. The last name on the list was obviously my own grandmother; this was the first time I had ever come across her name in print. It was odd seeing her name linked with Rex Rigid, Stella’s ex-husband and later Liquid Man. Like Winnifred Wertz, Rex could only have been a kid—a child prodigy, a teenager at most. “Rex and Winnifred must have been the honorary wunderkinds of their respective projects,” I surmised. Seymour Starlight was another name I recognized. He would later adopt Stella; he was the only man she would ever call Father. These were the scientists who created Major Meltdown and Magma. “Naturally, the only African-American woman among them gets last billing.”

A second article quietly announced the end of the project, and the scientists were going home, although it wasn’t as clear that it had been as successful as its counterpart in the other dimension.

None of the sources mentioned either Project Megaton or Project Meltdown by name, let alone the Golden Age Megaton Man or Major Meltdown and Magma; Burly Boy and Girly Man, respectively, must have been codenames used by the War Department to conceal America’s race to build an Atomic Soldier as second World War loomed.

As I rolled up the reels of microfilm and returned them to the reference desk, it occurred to me that neither publication had mentioned a Thirteenth Scientist, the one my Grandma Seedy said had used the Mutanium Particle to split the universe in two to begin with.

I walked back up State Street from campus, wincing in the bright daylight; the shops were now open and the street was full of life. I still wanted to duck into the bookstore, but I was pulled in another direction, to a walk-up on the second floor of a building across the street. I followed a package deliveryman who was carting a couple boxes up the steps. I waited at the end of the hall as he knocked on a door. It opened and someone reached out to sign a clipboard and take the boxes. The delivery driver brushed past me and clattered down the stairs; before the door closed, I stuck my foot in.

“Sorry, we’re not open ‘til noon,” the nerdy clerk told me. “It’s new comics day; I have to sort these first. Come back in an hour.”

“I’m not interested in new releases,” I said. “I’m doing research—vintage collector’s items. Where are your Devengers back issues for the sixties?” I shoved my way in.

“I remember you,” said the clerk. “You were in here looking for reader’s copies of Off-Brand Yuck and coverless comics a couple semesters ago. You pretty much cleaned us out of the cheap stuff. We don’t get many girl customers in here; in fact, I think you were the last one we had.”

I eyed a giant poster on the wall of an impossibly big-titted barbarian wench wielding a battleax. “I’m not surprised,” I said. “In fact, I’m amazed you can recognize the real thing when you see it.”

“Don’t let anybody know I let you in here early,” said the clerk, ignoring my remark. “The owner will get mad.” He led me over to a folding table covered with white cardboard boxes of comics. “These are our back issues. We only have a handful of Devengers from that far back, collector’s items—they’d be a few bucks more than what you’re used to spending.”

“That’s me—a flat-chested cheapskate,” I said. He turned to go back to his boxes of new comics. “Hey, fanboy—maybe you can save me some time,” I said. “Does the name Winifred Wertz ring a bell? Was there ever a character named that? Maybe some kind of mad scientist or something?”

“Winnie Wertz, sure,” said the clerk. “Dr. Winnie—she was the resident genius of the Devengers, always making gizmos and contraptions to save the day.”

“Kind of like Rex Rigid in the Megatropolis Quartet,” I said.

He looked at me with new admiration. “Yeah, except Winnie could change size and shape—she’d become tall and skinny one issue, short and fat in another, flat as a board then big-bosomed”—he looked at my torso and suddenly blushed—“excuse me, Ma’am, but you know what I mean—differently proportioned. It was like she could never make up her mind.”

“Again, just like Rex Rigid,” I said. “She must have been a malleable.”

“Not at all,” the clerk corrected me. “She wasn’t all squishy or stretchy; she would modify her body temporarily, then stay that shape for the duration, until it wore off. She had at least half a dozen different personas—Jumbo Jill, Itty-Bitty Ira, Mountainous Mamie, Mademoiselle Mote. But her default identity, and most popular by far, was Gargantuella…”

“That’s it! Gargantuella,” I cried. “I knew that name was familiar. I always thought Gargantuella was really cool when I was a kid. What issue was she in?”

The clerk helped me pull out three non-sequential issues of The Devengers featuring Winnie Wertz—in one of her manifold body-image morphing personas—as the featured guest star. Only one featured Gargantuella; in the others, she was temporarily another persona whose real identity was mystery to the team. Also, in each issue, the Lens, Colonel Turtle, and the Angel of Death were up against a creepy, cackling old villain known as Dr. Braindead who was always coveting after the Cosmic Cue-Ball.

“That’s strange,” I said, looking over the plastic wrapped issues. “No Partyers from Mars.”

“No who?” asked the clerk.

“Never mind; I’ll take them.”

I paid the clerk some astronomical sum, which basically cleaned me out of what little cash I had on me. He told me if I ever wanted to sell them back, I was always welcome—I’m pretty sure he liked my butt—since these collectibles were sure to only further appreciate in value; only next time, wait for regular business hours.

I couldn’t have cared less. I had just enough money left for a cup of coffee at the Li’l Drown’d Mug Café around the corner, where I used to work. Luckily, all the employees were different this semester, so nobody recognized me—which was good, since I wasn’t in the mood to reminisce. Instead, I tore open the plastic sleeves holding the comics—I didn’t notice they were just taped in the back until it was too late—and began to read.

It appeared—at least in this comic book version of reality—that Winnie Wertz was a scientist, although no mention was made of her involvement in either Project Megaton or Burly Boy. Still, judging from her age—she seemed to be maybe in her thirties in these comics from the 1960s, which would have made her not even a teenager in 1940. According to her backstory, he had been a skinny child that had grown into a skinny woman; driven by a poor self-image—Winnie was a bespectacled spinster—she developed a formula whereby she could change into Gargantuella, a towering, voluptuous female with enormous strength and confidence. Or, depending on how her experiment went haywire at different times, as she tried to modify it, she became any number of megahero personas, as the clerk had enumerated. “No wonder I had trouble placing the name,” I said. “She hid behind so many identities—she was a one-woman study in self-loathing.”

But was Winnie Wertz also the malevolent Thirteenth Scientist? This seemed unlikely, since she was one of two sets of six scientists who had worked on the Atomic Soldier in one dimension or another. Dr. Braindead, on the other hand, struck me as more suspicious. A constant comic foil of the Devengers, he was depicted as bumbling and incompetent, yet astonishingly persistent. A nuisance more than anything, the Lens, Colonel Turtle, and the Angel of Death always easily defeated Dr. Braindead by letting him shoot himself in the foot one way or another—even without the help of characters like Gargantuella. Dr. Braindead was forever chasing after the Cosmic Cue-Ball, driven by some deep-seated regret. It seemed it was his personal Sisyphean curse, his Great White Whale. Was this the bozo that had split reality in two?

I finished my third cup of coffee and finally stopped in at Border Worlds Used and Slightly New Bookstore. The cashier made me leave my duffel bag at the cash-register, which I thought was a little racist, but I was in too much of a hurry to lodge a protest. Trent wasn’t working that morning, but I found Imelda stocking books in just the section I was looking for—physics. I was now cranked but still lacked sleep, and my back still ached from where I had been struck by that exploding projectile. I must have come across to Imelda like a raving lunatic, rattling off what I’d learned about the split universe, the Atomic Soldier, my own parentage, and a few other observations about life.

Listening very intently as she filled empty slots on the shelf, Imelda finally said, “I’m no scientist, but if two or more realities suddenly got jammed together—well, it would explain a lot of weird shit in the world today.”

“That’s exactly what I think,” I said. Then I realized I wasn’t sure if we were both referring to the same weird shit. “Can you elaborate?”

“Well, you don’t necessarily need multiple realities to explain it,” she said, “but it’s obvious we live in a moment with all kinds of incompatibilities—cultural, political, racial, religious, sexual. Why not have megaheroes from different realities while we’re at it?”

Imelda noted a few of the broad categories of crime fighter: megaheroes who were the result of some nuclear accident or other; aliens from outer space; mythological beings; jungle lords and princesses. undead monsters. And these were just a sampling from The Bizarre Files of John Bradford, a column that appeared regularly in The Detroit Day, that I knew from clipping them with Kozmik Kat—a talking funny animal. “Far more than just two realities could be colliding, even as we speak,” said Imelda, “judging from the evidence.”

“More than two? Good Lord!” I said. “Do you think the universe could build up to critical mass and explode, flying off into disparate realities once more?”

“Not necessarily,” said Imelda. “People can tolerate a lot of cognitive dissonance. They forget or willfully repress memories; look at all the cases of Alzheimer’s nowadays, a widespread form of amnesia if you will. To say nothing of mass psychosis, or just plain collective forgetting, like Germany after World War II. The question is, what do you do with the Remainders?”

“Remainders?” I asked.

“Remainders, like in the book trade,” Imelda explained. “A publisher’s leftovers—unsold stock. We’ve got a huge section over there.” She pointed to the bargain books—old cookbooks, outdated travel guides, yesterday’s bestsellers. “Only in this case, they would be reality’s leftovers—the leftovers from each reality. All the incompatibilities in the real world that would result after dimensions collide—architectural landmarks, institutions, or people that just didn’t belong together—they would have to be eliminated, either by attrition or other means. Even genocide.”

I thought about The Daily Polis and The Empire State Pinnacle—two newspapers that had roughly been the counterparts of one another in different dimensions; now, neither one existed, except on old microfilm.

Imelda excused herself and pushed her empty cart to the back room of the store. I was left alone for the moment, trying to absorb everything I had learned in the last twenty-four hours. It was then that I spotted a figure up by the newsstand magazines. It was a man—his back was turned to me—but he was strangely familiar.

As I approached him, I recalled a scene that had taken place little more than a year earlier, in an alley not far from the bookstore. A former assistant Dr. Joe Levitch’s had learned to cook up his own homemade batches of Megasoldier Syrup in his bathtub and sold doses to unsuspecting Arbor State students who became impossibly bulked up as a result. When I, Kozmik Kat, and Samson “Nuke” McSampson cornered this drug peddler in the alley, he injected himself with one of the doses, expecting to give himself temporary megapowers. Instead, he promptly swelled up like a big, blue zit and exploded, the bluish slime covering the alley walls quickly evaporating into a mist.

I tapped the man at the magazine rack on the shoulder. He turned around and looked at me. I could tell by his confused expression he didn’t recognize me, but I knew him; this was the same man I had seen explode in the alley.

“Mervyn Goldfarb,” I said. “You’re supposed to be dead!”