time.
The first design was a complicated affair with ornate and virtually unreadable letters that spelled out the entire phrase “Wayne Enterprises—Hope for Gotham City and the World.” The next was a confusing amalgam of a missile, a medical caduceus, a sheaf of wheat, a lightning bolt, and a clockwork gear—which apparently symbolized the diversity of Wayne Enterprises. The other two designs were equally unimpressive and even less memorable.
Bruce frowned. “Do we want people to stare in confusion whenever they pick up one of our products? Our company logo should be an icon, something streamlined and memorable that people instantly associate with Wayne Enterprises. The choices you’ve given me are all muddled.”
“Simple, you say?” scoffed Paul Henning, the VP of manufacturing. “Would you prefer a big W perhaps?”
Bruce shook his head. Though this was purportedly the most prominent item on the agenda, he knew they had most likely concocted it only for the purpose of making him feel “useful” during his weekly appearance.
For the last several years, he had cultivated his public persona as a dashing playboy, the rich heir who loved cocktail parties, beautiful women, and the nightlife. Clark Kent’s recent profile in the Daily Planet had bolstered that perception. Bruce flaunted his riches, all the while being generous to the point of childlike innocence. Unfortunately, though the disguise successfully kept people from thinking of Bruce Wayne and Batman in the same sentence, it also gave him an air of incompetence. Though he was chairman of the board and the sole heir to his parents’ vast fortune, the ten directors had taken it upon themselves to “shelter” him from the day-to-day business.
At the end of each fiscal year, the corporate balance sheet was healthy, and thanks to the advent of the Cold War, many subsidiaries of Wayne Enterprises had landed government contracts to provide urgently needed military supplies, services, armor, and vehicles. Only LuthorCorp had a greater number of direct contracts with the U.S. military.
Paying little attention to the new logo designs, Bruce gazed around the table at these men. After the death of Thomas Wayne, the original set of directors had been excellent regents to watch over the company. Bruce’s father had been a well-known surgeon as well as an innovator and inventor. He had created a new type of iron lung that saved the lives of tens of thousands. The money from those patents had gone directly back into medical research.
Vivid in Bruce’s memory was the time when the head of one of Gotham City’s well-known crime families had been shot and severely wounded. Thugs in business suits had brought the bleeding man to Wayne Manor, pounding on the door late one night and pushing their way in when the door was answered. They didn’t want to be seen at a hospital.
Understanding the wounded man’s need, Thomas Wayne did not hesitate to operate, no matter who he was. Instead of viewing the men as criminals, instead of noticing the threatening bulge of handguns beneath the blood-smeared business suits, Thomas saw only an injured human being. He worked using the expensive dining room table as an operating surface and succeeded in saving the crime boss. He urged the thugs to take the man to a hospital for further treatment, but they had carried their boss away into the night with only grunts of thanks.
Some months later, an anonymous two-million-dollar donation had been made to the Wayne Foundation. Bruce remembered how upset his father had been, claiming the money was dirty, since he knew exactly who the donor had been. But as he wrestled with his conscience, Thomas had also realized how much good he could do with the untraceable money. Therefore, he built a new cancer wing at Gotham General Hospital. His father found it ironic and gratifying to think of how many lives the crime family was inadvertently saving. Once, when he didn’t know Bruce was
The first design was a complicated affair with ornate and virtually unreadable letters that spelled out the entire phrase “Wayne Enterprises—Hope for Gotham City and the World.” The next was a confusing amalgam of a missile, a medical caduceus, a sheaf of wheat, a lightning bolt, and a clockwork gear—which apparently symbolized the diversity of Wayne Enterprises. The other two designs were equally unimpressive and even less memorable.
Bruce frowned. “Do we want people to stare in confusion whenever they pick up one of our products? Our company logo should be an icon, something streamlined and memorable that people instantly associate with Wayne Enterprises. The choices you’ve given me are all muddled.”
“Simple, you say?” scoffed Paul Henning, the VP of manufacturing. “Would you prefer a big W perhaps?”
Bruce shook his head. Though this was purportedly the most prominent item on the agenda, he knew they had most likely concocted it only for the purpose of making him feel “useful” during his weekly appearance.
For the last several years, he had cultivated his public persona as a dashing playboy, the rich heir who loved cocktail parties, beautiful women, and the nightlife. Clark Kent’s recent profile in the Daily Planet had bolstered that perception. Bruce flaunted his riches, all the while being generous to the point of childlike innocence. Unfortunately, though the disguise successfully kept people from thinking of Bruce Wayne and Batman in the same sentence, it also gave him an air of incompetence. Though he was chairman of the board and the sole heir to his parents’ vast fortune, the ten directors had taken it upon themselves to “shelter” him from the day-to-day business.
At the end of each fiscal year, the corporate balance sheet was healthy, and thanks to the advent of the Cold War, many subsidiaries of Wayne Enterprises had landed government contracts to provide urgently needed military supplies, services, armor, and vehicles. Only LuthorCorp had a greater number of direct contracts with the U.S. military.
Paying little attention to the new logo designs, Bruce gazed around the table at these men. After the death of Thomas Wayne, the original set of directors had been excellent regents to watch over the company. Bruce’s father had been a well-known surgeon as well as an innovator and inventor. He had created a new type of iron lung that saved the lives of tens of thousands. The money from those patents had gone directly back into medical research.
Vivid in Bruce’s memory was the time when the head of one of Gotham City’s well-known crime families had been shot and severely wounded. Thugs in business suits had brought the bleeding man to Wayne Manor, pounding on the door late one night and pushing their way in when the door was answered. They didn’t want to be seen at a hospital.
Understanding the wounded man’s need, Thomas Wayne did not hesitate to operate, no matter who he was. Instead of viewing the men as criminals, instead of noticing the threatening bulge of handguns beneath the blood-smeared business suits, Thomas saw only an injured human being. He worked using the expensive dining room table as an operating surface and succeeded in saving the crime boss. He urged the thugs to take the man to a hospital for further treatment, but they had carried their boss away into the night with only grunts of thanks.
Some months later, an anonymous two-million-dollar donation had been made to the Wayne Foundation. Bruce remembered how upset his father had been, claiming the money was dirty, since he knew exactly who the donor had been. But as he wrestled with his conscience, Thomas had also realized how much good he could do with the untraceable money. Therefore, he built a new cancer wing at Gotham General Hospital. His father found it ironic and gratifying to think of how many lives the crime family was inadvertently saving. Once, when he didn’t know Bruce was
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