Freeze had told him. But what if he was lying?
Batman knew he couldn’t think that way. He had to do something before he lost his friend forever.
Whipping out his Bat-laser, he pointed it at the frozen reservoir and fired. The ice melted. It began to steam, to simmer.
Picking up Robin with the utmost care, the Dark Knight lowered the boy into the steaming liquid until he was completely immersed. But under the water, Robin’s face was terribly still.
Deathly still.
For a long, heart-wrenching moment, Batman thought the boy was a goner. Then Robin’s eyelids fluttered. A couple of bubbles broke the surface. There was movement, the sudden flapping of arms and legs.
Batman dragged the boy up until his head broke the surface. Robin coughed out water, took a wheezing, wet breath, and did it again. He looked weak, drained of energy.
But he was alive.
Then he clutched at Batman’s arm and asked him something. But he was still gasping too hard to be understood.
“Say again?” Batman asked.
Robin looked up at him. “Did we . . . get him?”
The older man scowled beneath his mask. He didn’t think his protégé was going to like the answer.
CHAPTER FOUR
H oping for a breeze to relieve the dense, humid heat, Pamela Isley opened the door to one of her tents—more a soiled, smelly flap of canvas, really—just in time to see a jagged spike of lightning spasm in the darkness. Thunder followed, a deep, tremulous rumble that could be felt in her bones as well as heard.
But the storm notwithstanding, Pamela didn’t find the breeze she’d hoped for. All she found was the same close, sweet-scented stillness, the same sticky, narcotizing stew she’d lived in for months now. The same monotonous drone of insect song.
In fact, the only change this night, besides the storm itself, was the number of vehicles braving the marshy road that wound its way through the rain forest—a road that ended in front of the half-ruined building against which her tent city was built.
What was the name of the place again? She could never remember, though she’d seen it every day. Oh yeah. Prison Morte. Prison of Death. Very colorful. Very funny. She was sure the inmates had laughed themselves silly.
The other thing it said on the building was “For Sale or Lease”—although she was pretty sure Dr. Woodrue wasn’t paying any rent for his pile of rocks. Maybe it was another joke, she realized. A regular riot, this place.
It wasn’t what she’d expected when she left Seattle, that was for darn sure. It wasn’t even close.
Wiping the sweat from her brow, Pamela sighed, let the flap fall back into place, and made her way back to her stool. In the amber light of a flickering Bunsen burner, she inspected a beaker full of chemicals—one of many scattered around the tent.
The beaker was bubbling merrily. At least something was merry around here. Certainly, it wasn’t her.
Pamela caught sight of herself in the metal of the burner, her precise features hidden by glasses and a frizz of bad hair, her shape obscured by her loosely fitting lab coat. Lovely, she thought sarcastically.
She had never been the cheerleader type. She’d accepted that long ago. But out here in the rain forest, her personal appearance was going from bad to absolutely terrible. Everywhere she looked, she had some kind of blemish, some interesting variety of rash.
Then again, what difference did it make? Who could she possibly impress? Dr. Woodrue? She chuckled despite herself. Yeah, right. She would sooner have swallowed a frog.
Assuming a more businesslike demeanor, she reached for her microrecorder, one of the few pieces of modern equipment Woodrue had allowed her. Clicking it on, she spoke into the metal cylinder.
“I still have high hopes for the animal-plant crossbreedings,” she noted. “Despite the setbacks.”
She surveyed two lab tables. One held a variety of plants she’d collected on her forays through the rain forest. The other was covered with
Batman knew he couldn’t think that way. He had to do something before he lost his friend forever.
Whipping out his Bat-laser, he pointed it at the frozen reservoir and fired. The ice melted. It began to steam, to simmer.
Picking up Robin with the utmost care, the Dark Knight lowered the boy into the steaming liquid until he was completely immersed. But under the water, Robin’s face was terribly still.
Deathly still.
For a long, heart-wrenching moment, Batman thought the boy was a goner. Then Robin’s eyelids fluttered. A couple of bubbles broke the surface. There was movement, the sudden flapping of arms and legs.
Batman dragged the boy up until his head broke the surface. Robin coughed out water, took a wheezing, wet breath, and did it again. He looked weak, drained of energy.
But he was alive.
Then he clutched at Batman’s arm and asked him something. But he was still gasping too hard to be understood.
“Say again?” Batman asked.
Robin looked up at him. “Did we . . . get him?”
The older man scowled beneath his mask. He didn’t think his protégé was going to like the answer.
CHAPTER FOUR
H oping for a breeze to relieve the dense, humid heat, Pamela Isley opened the door to one of her tents—more a soiled, smelly flap of canvas, really—just in time to see a jagged spike of lightning spasm in the darkness. Thunder followed, a deep, tremulous rumble that could be felt in her bones as well as heard.
But the storm notwithstanding, Pamela didn’t find the breeze she’d hoped for. All she found was the same close, sweet-scented stillness, the same sticky, narcotizing stew she’d lived in for months now. The same monotonous drone of insect song.
In fact, the only change this night, besides the storm itself, was the number of vehicles braving the marshy road that wound its way through the rain forest—a road that ended in front of the half-ruined building against which her tent city was built.
What was the name of the place again? She could never remember, though she’d seen it every day. Oh yeah. Prison Morte. Prison of Death. Very colorful. Very funny. She was sure the inmates had laughed themselves silly.
The other thing it said on the building was “For Sale or Lease”—although she was pretty sure Dr. Woodrue wasn’t paying any rent for his pile of rocks. Maybe it was another joke, she realized. A regular riot, this place.
It wasn’t what she’d expected when she left Seattle, that was for darn sure. It wasn’t even close.
Wiping the sweat from her brow, Pamela sighed, let the flap fall back into place, and made her way back to her stool. In the amber light of a flickering Bunsen burner, she inspected a beaker full of chemicals—one of many scattered around the tent.
The beaker was bubbling merrily. At least something was merry around here. Certainly, it wasn’t her.
Pamela caught sight of herself in the metal of the burner, her precise features hidden by glasses and a frizz of bad hair, her shape obscured by her loosely fitting lab coat. Lovely, she thought sarcastically.
She had never been the cheerleader type. She’d accepted that long ago. But out here in the rain forest, her personal appearance was going from bad to absolutely terrible. Everywhere she looked, she had some kind of blemish, some interesting variety of rash.
Then again, what difference did it make? Who could she possibly impress? Dr. Woodrue? She chuckled despite herself. Yeah, right. She would sooner have swallowed a frog.
Assuming a more businesslike demeanor, she reached for her microrecorder, one of the few pieces of modern equipment Woodrue had allowed her. Clicking it on, she spoke into the metal cylinder.
“I still have high hopes for the animal-plant crossbreedings,” she noted. “Despite the setbacks.”
She surveyed two lab tables. One held a variety of plants she’d collected on her forays through the rain forest. The other was covered with
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