The Further Adventures of Batman by Martin H. Greenberg Page B

for the quick-release suction cups that he usually relied on.
    The laser glasscutters he had used so often to gain entry through the gigantic picture windows would do no good with windows shaped like slits and barred with wrought iron bars.
    He sighed. It was hard enough staying up with new technology without having to reinvent ways of scaling ancient buildings.
    He could try to get in through one of the entrances, of course. The thought was attractive, but impractical, he decided after giving it a moment’s thought. There was an unusual flurry of activity around the building tonight. The streets were full of police SWAT teams. There were also a lot of men lurking around in simple seersucker suits and rep ties with bulges in their jackets. These, Batman knew from previous experience, were apt to be Secret Service men.
    Had Murphy talked to the people who had such a hold over him? Had he given Batman away?
    Batman thought not. But they might have become curious about Murphy’s unusual actions of the night before, firing off his .44 Magnum and then, in the morning, driving out in his pickup. They would have to be extremely obtuse not to relate these discrepancies. Would they have time to do anything about them? He would have to wait and see.
    Batman had had a chance to study ARDC’s plans on the trip to Washington, concealing them within a newspaper so that the pilot, a cheerful Tennesssean named Cohen, would not get curious.
    Bruce Wayne had a fair technical background. He augmented it with a great deal of mathematical and scientific reading.
    He was able to supplement his insights now by using his laptop computer, built to his own specifications at high cost, but with the power of a third generation mainframe.
    The insights he had gained into the blueprints had been eye-opening, to say the least.
    If that contract were signed into law . . .
    He studied the building again. Getting into it was never going to get much easier than it was right now.
    He finished his meal at the chop house, paid his bill, went to the rest room, and slipped out the back way.
    He was in a noisome alley. Yowling cats slunk around overflowing garbage cans. The zebralike combination of strong lights and impenetrable shadows made the perfect milieu for a man on the run—or a bat in flight.

    Within the Gaudi building, on the fortieth floor, in a special amphitheater with recessed lighting, the Joint Chiefs were meeting to consider the ARDC contract proposals. Admiral William Fenton was chairman for tonight’s session. He was a squarefaced old seadog with iron gray hair and a bulldog mouth. General “Flying Phil” Kowalski, Commandant of the Air Force, sat at his right hand. Kowalski was tall and slim; his baby face, tousled blond hair, and easy laughter belied the fact that he had been an ace during the recent incident in the south Caribbean, piloting his own Thunderclap-class all-weather interceptor and shooting down four Trinidadian jets before it was discovered that the U.S. was not at war with Trinidad. Beside him was General Chuck Rohort of the army, his short, heavily built body displaying the concentrated attentiveness that a really good tank commander needs.
    “Well,” Admiral Fenton said, “we might as well call this meeting to order. I propose that we waive the reading of the minutes of the last meeting. There are entirely too many important decisions to make tonight without having to rehash any old ones. No objections? Good, let’s go on. I believe that General Kowalski has a somewhat unusual request to make.”
    Flying Phil stood up, grinning pleasantly, twirling his goldleaf encrusted hat in his hands in an awkward motion that he had studied with some care.
    “As I understand it, this meeting is to decide the issue of the ARDC contract, docket number 123341-A-2.”
    “That is correct,” Admiral Fenton said. “As you would know if you had attended yesterday’s meeting, those of us present weighed the pros and cons of the new