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Stan Lee Presents : The greatest heroes of the post World War II era...Captain America, Sentinel of Liberty...The Whizzer, Fastest Man Alive...Miss America, Strong and Beautiful Heroine...Sub-Mariner, Prince of Atlantis...and the Human Torch, the fiery android...they are The All-Winners Squad!
The physics of the multiverse are peculiar - even more so than our Earth's. In some dimensions light is a particle; in some dimensions light is a wave, and in some it's both and neither. Magic works in some places, following strict rules; in some universes magic is bound to the percentage of manna in the soil and in the air, so that when the manna is exhausted, the magic goes away. In some universes the square-cube law dictates that beings can grow only so high, and in those places insects rarely grow larger than a several inches tall. In other universes beings can grow hundreds of feet high. In all these universes sentients analyze their surroundings and delineate whatever rules their universe follows, for it is in the nature of sentient beings to explore and order their environments.
The timestream, sometimes called the chronoverse or the fourth (or fifth or sixth or seventh) dimension, has few native civilizations, and those sentients who are born to the timestream rarely spend the time and effort to completely comprehend their dimension. Life in the more limited universes, such as that of Earth-Marvel, is much more interesting. Something there is in sentients, regardless of universe or dimension, that prefers the struggles of mortals to the endless, effortless existence of the over-beings. So there are few to explore and order the chronoverse.
The truth is that the timestream is a wave and a particle and both and neither. The timestream is what you make of it; it forms itself to your preconceptions. Many see the timestream as a multi-coloured version of outer space - and so it is, for them. Others see it as a sea, or a castle, or a moebius strip of clear blue crystal. And that's what it is, for them.
The number of beings capable of traversing the timestream unaided are few. Whatever else it is, the timestream is not...hospitable...to those of only three dimensions. Most beings require mechanical or organic assistance for protection against the dangers of the timestream, such as the chronovores, which are capable of erasing one's existence.
So it is today. A giant sphere swims through the timestream. The sphere is sentient, a g'k'r'll from one of the galaxies beyond the Lesser Void; the light of the creation of the star which gave it birth will not reach Earth for several millennia. The g'k'r'll is slaved to a mind-spike and is literally incapable of resisting its new master, and so it forges ahead without resisting.
The g'k'r'll sees the timestreams as the convection zone of the sun which birthed it, and so for the g'k'r'll the timestream is a bright, unimaginably hot place. The g'k'r'll is evolved to withstand the stresses and dangers of the insides of suns and the event horizons of black holes, and so it feels the heat of the timestream as a soothing warmth. The g'k'r'll were originally designed by the Founders as potential guardians of the universe, equipped to patrol and ward and, if necessary, punish (this being before the Founders settled upon different guardians and before the Founders met their end), and so the g'k'r'll is avoided, for even the chronovores know not to commit suicide. The g'k'r'll was created by beings who thought large, and so the g'k'r'll is larger than most planets, and has its own gravity.
And today, spurred on by its master (whose anger is immense; he was headed for this time and place eventually, for all paths in the chronoverse seem to lead to this planet - but one of his conquests slipped away, and now he must traverse the timestream to retrieve him, and to conquer this planet before he is ready) the g'k'r'll heads for December 11th, 1945. To Earth.
On Thursday, October 25th, 1945, Bob Frank and Madeleine Joyce sat down to have a dinner of take-out Chinese in their new apartment in Jersey City. They'd just moved in on Tuesday, and were still unpacking the silverware. Bob had understood when Madeleine had declined to cook dinner - she'd smiled when she'd said that, though - she smiled a lot, around Bob - and told him to go get something. Bob, being a bachelor, didn't know how to cook much, and everything was packed away, besides, and so he had done what he usually did when away from Maddy - he'd gotten take-out. (He could have unpacked everything in a matter of a minute or so, but for some reason Maddy wanted him to do it with her)
The radio was playing "Moonlight Serenade" as they dug out the chopsticks (they'd learned how to use them while with the Liberators in China, back in 43). Bob paused between pot-stickers and said, "So, Maddy, what did your mother say about coming over for dinner Sunday night? I'd be willing to cook my lasagna, if that's what it will take."
She sighed and wiped her mouth and put her napkin in her lap. She looked down, and then up at him. She said, "I...uh...haven't told her yet, Bob."
He said, "What? But...what does she think--"
She shook her head. "Betty told her I went out of town for a week."
He reached across the table and took her hand. "Maddy...you can't keep lying to her forever."
She squeezed his hand and sighed heavily. "I know, Bob, it's just...you know how she is. She's a good Methodist, and if she hears you and I are living together, she'll..."
He grinned. "So she doesn't know you and I are getting horizontal together?"
She made a mock-offended face and lightly slapped his hand. "Bob Frank, where did you hear that phrase?"
He grinned. "Picked that one up from Captain Daring."
She let her voice drip partially-serious venom. "Oh. Him."
He said, "Aw, he's not so bad, Maddy."
She crossed her arms. "Do you know how many prostitutes he was with during the war?"
He said, "All of them?"
She said, "That's not funny, Bob."
He said, "Well, I thought it was funny."
She opened her mouth to reply when the phone's ringing interrupted her. Before she could begin to get out of her chair he was already across the room answering the phone.
"Hello?...Yes, this is he...oh, yes, sir. No, that's quite okay, we were just...yes, sir....what time would you....yes, sir. We'll be there." He hung up the phone and stood for a moment, hand still on the receiver, looking puzzled.
Maddy said, "Who was that?"
He said, "Ed Tamm - the assistant to J. Edgar Hoover. He says the Director wants to meet with us at the Remington tonight."
She said, "What, now? You and me?"
He shook his head. "No - the whole squad. And he wants us to be there in a half-hour."
She rose and walked to the bedroom. "We'd better get going, then. They won't want to be kept waiting."
He nodded. "I'm going to check up on the others - I'll see you there."
And before she could speak he was gone, leaving a trail of wind and scattered napkins and clothes behind him.
Across town, in the Bronx, William Nasland hung up the phone. He scratched his head for a moment, then began pulling on his Captain America uniform. When he'd moved into his new apartment, he'd taken his superhero duds with him - it wouldn't do to have to run across town to the All-Winners' headquarters just to get in uniform for a night's patrol. He was lucky that he was a newspaper reporter; it allowed him flexibility in his work hours, since if he was late to work or had to leave the office suddenly he could always say he was out doing some investigating.
When he was done dressing he looked at himself in the mirror. He flexed once and struck a heroic pose, then sighed and let his shoulders slump. He looked the part - he was sure of that much, at least. But filling the shoes of a man like Steve Rogers was difficult, to say the least. Nasland knew he looked like Steve Rogers America while wearing the uniform, and he knew he sounded like him...even acted like him, sometimes...but he knew, deep down, he could never be him. Following a hero...a man...like him...it was tough. William Nasland sighed again.
He heard a knocking on the door to his apartment. Removing his hood, he said, "Who is it?" He heard a familiar voice say, "It's me, Will." He ran to open the door. Standing in the hall outside were Fred Davis and Bob Frank, both in costume.
Nasland hurried them both inside his apartment and said, "What are you doing visiting me in costume?" He tried not to let his irritation show, but was only partially successful.
Bob smiled somewhat sheepishly. "Sorry, Will...I, uh, forgot. Sometimes it's hard to remember that not everyone can move like me."
Will waved his words away. "No harm done this time, Bob. Now," he said with a heartiness he did not feel, "What's this about? Did you get the phone call about--"
"Sure did. I wanted to check on you; Tamm said he'd call the others, but I wanted to make sure."
Bucky burst in, "Yeah! He got me, too - right out of the orphanage. Left a note on the headmaster's desk and everything!"
Nasland smiled. Fred's exuberance always picked him up. He made a mental note to see about those adoption papers; they shouldn't be taking this long. He said, "Bob, what about Namor? And the Torch? Did you check on them?"
The Whizzer nodded and said, "I ran by the harbor, but Subbie wasn't there. Same with Hothead's apartment."
Nasland nodded. "I guess they'll meet us there. Well, gentlemen, shall we?"
The Whizzer nodded and turned his back to Nasland. "Hop on."
A few minutes later a gust of wind blew by the four F.B.I. agents in the lobby of the Remington Hotel, flew up the four flights of stairs, and rushed down the hall and into Room 52. The four F.B.I. agents inside were still freeing their guns from their holsters when the Whizzer, Captain America, and Bucky were seating themselves.
The Whizzer said, "Sorry we're late, fellas - we saw a mugging in the Village and stopped to take care of it."
Bucky grinned hugely. "Yeah - that creep almost wet his pants when he saw the three of us!"
One of the agents, scowling, jerked a thump in the direction of the door to the inner room of the suite. "Through there. They're waiting for you."
The three heroes walked in and were met by the sight of several different expressions: the always-friendly smile of Miss America; the similarly welcoming grins of the Human Torch and Toro; the somewhat haughty scowl of Namor, the Sub-Mariner; the impassive faces of the two F.B.I. agents at the end of the table around which the All-Winners sat; and the bland expressions of Ed Tamm and J. Edgar Hoover.
Hoover was the first to speak. "Took your own sweet time getting here."
Captain America said, "Sorry, sir. We were--"
Assistant to the Director Tamm said, "The Director is short on time, gentlemen. Now that you're all here, we'll begin." He turned to Hoover, who straightened the papers in front of him and, ignoring Namor's glare, began speaking.
"You've all been reading the newspapers, I hope, so you're aware that, this past Tuesday, Branch Rickey signed a colored boy, Jackie Robinson, to a contract with his minor league team, the Montreal Royals."
The Human Torch, Toro and Bucky nodded. Captain America said, "Yeah, I saw that. Good for Rickey." The Whizzer and Miss America shrugged, the Whizzer saying, "Must have missed that - but I'm not really that much of a baseball fan."
J. Edgar Hoover continued. "Reaction to this has been very mixed. The coloured community has been very supportive of this, although there are many who feel that Robinson is not the best choice. Among whites the announcement was received similarly. Liberals and communists were of course in favor of this, but everyone else...well, they weren't. And Southerners were angered by this. Already there's talk of boycotting whatever games the boy plays in."
"The F.B.I. has received word that a group calling themselves the `Night Riders' is going to be attacking both Branch Rickey and Jackie Robinson tomorrow. We--"
The Human Torch leapt to his feet. "Why, those rats! Say no more, Mr. Hoover. We'd be glad to--"
"The F.B.I., Mr. Hammond, will handle it. I want you seven to stay out of it."
The Torch looked dumb-founded. "Stay out of it? But--"
J. Edgar Hoover glowered at the Torch. "You heard what I said. Stay out of it. The Bureau will handle this."
Captain America said, "But...why? Nothing against your agents, Director, but surely we're better suited to--"
Hoover slammed his fist down on the table, his face growing cholerically red. "TO DO NOTHING, Mr. Nasland - is that clear?"
Captain America, taken aback, nodded and looked, in confusion, at the other All-Winners, who were equally confused.
Hoover went on. "You `heroes' interfered during the Zoot Suit riots in 1943, when the greasers attacked white sailors in Los Angeles."
The Whizzer, his brow furrowing, said, "That's not what happened, Mr. Hoover! They--"
Assistant to the Director Tamm pointed a finger at the Whizzer. "The Director isn't finished talking, Mr. Frank."
Hoover said, "You `heroes' beat up innocent white men, and let the wetbacks go, and interfered with police officers trying to do their job, and then strolled away, and left the mess for the rest of us to clean up, as well as outraging law enforcement and ordinary citizens with your unconscionable acts. I will not have that happen again. Is that clear? If you interfere, I will have you arrested."
The Whizzer and Captain America, their faces grim, opened their mouths to speak, but Miss America interrupted them. "Yes, Director, it is. C'mon, boys. Let's go."
The All-Winners looked at her in some confusion, but she ignored their looks and walked out of the room. The Whizzer and Captain America and the Torch exchanged bewildered glances, then followed. Bucky and Toro were last, their faces twisted with hurt and confusion.
In the room outside the Whizzer caught up with Miss America. He said, "Maddy, what--" She looked at him, then glanced at the F.B.I. agents in the room, then made a shushing noise and continued walking.
In the hallway outside the room she said, "Meet me at our apartment" and flew off. The other All-Winners hurried to catch up.
By the time the Whizzer, burdened with Captain America and Bucky, and the other All-Winners reached Jersey City, Miss America was seated and digging in to the now-cold Chinese food. Captain America and Bucky pulled up chairs, took off their masks, and, after a nod of assent by the Whizzer, tucked in to the kung-pao chicken. The Torch and Toro sat themselves on the linoleum floor. Namor, arms crossed, remained standing. He scowled and finally said, "What is your explanation for your abrupt exit, Madeleine?"
She swallowed a mouthful of barbecued pork and said, "Namor, we weren't going to get anywhere with Hoover. I thought it best if we discussed this in private."
Toro said, "Um...what's there to talk about? I mean...we don't wanna be arrested, do we?"
Everyone looked at him. Captain America pointed a fork at him. "I don't think you really mean that, lad. We can't just sit back and let these `Night Riders' attack innocent men. That's not what heroes do."
Namor nodded. "It would not be honorable, Toro. You surface-men never fail to astound me. As if judging another being by the color of his skin makes any sense."
The Torch flushed and said, "C'mon, fishhead, aren't you doing that with us `surface-men'?"
Namor snorted and said, "That's different. You surface-men are all--"
Captain America said, "That's enough of that, you two. We've got important things to discuss."
The Whizzer nodded. "Button it, guys. Let's focus on the problem at hand."
Namor's face drew together into an angry glare. "`Button it'? You dare speak this way to a Prince of--"
Miss America said, "Namor, please - for me - let this go?"
Namor scowled at her, then angrily nodded. "For now."
Bucky said, "Gee, Cap...I mean, I know we can't let Rickey or that other guy get hurt, but...if the F.B.I. says they're gonna take care of it and stuff, maybe we should let them...?"
The Whizzer said, "I...huh. No, we can't let them. I don't want to lose my job at the hospital, but if we gotta break the law, we gotta. I just....darn. Me and Maddy, we were just getting settled..."
Miss America nodded, her face creased with unhappiness. "I guess I could touch up Uncle Jack for some money...and we've got some saved away...but..." She sighed. "I don't want to become a fugitive. What kind of example does that set for kids? They should look up to people who uphold the law, not people who break it."
Bucky and Toro looked at each other, both obviously confused. Bucky said, "Am I gonna get in trouble because of this?"
The Torch said, "I...guess I know somewhere we could--"
Captain America carefully put down his silverware and folded his napkin. He stood up and pulled on his hood. He slowly looked at each of them and said, "Two men's lives are in danger. If we can save them, I'll gladly go to jail."
He pulled on his shield and walked to the door. His hand on the doorknob, he turned and looked back at the others. "J. Edgar Hoover or no J. Edgar Hoover, we've got a job to do, All-Winners. We follow a moral law, and if the F.B.I. is against that, then we're against the F.B.I. I'm going to check some things out. I'll be back here, at 8 a.m. I hope - I know - that I'll see you all here."
With that he left the room. After his footsteps faded away the Torch turned to Bucky and said, "What was that you were saying about Will not being sure of himself?"
Bucky smiled and shrugged and said, "Sometimes he is. Then something like this happens, and it's like he doesn't worry about Steve Rogers any more."
The Whizzer looked at Miss America and then at the others and sighed and said, "I guess we know what Cap's position on this is. Question is, what are the rest of us going to do?"
Namor noisily snorted, climbed to his feet, and said, "I might have expected this from the firefly, but--"
The Torch said, "HEY!"
Namor went on as if the Torch hadn't opened his mouth, "But I'm disappointed in you, Bob, and you, Madeleine." He walked to the door of the apartment and paused before opening the door. "It may be that you are unsure of yourselves because you are only commoners. But I am a Prince, and to royalty the course of justice is always clear. I will be here when Captain America is here." And with that he left.
The Torch shook his head and looked and the others. "He really burns me, sometimes."
Toro said, "All that's easy for him to say. He's used to being an outlaw. What about the rest of us? I mean...yeah, saving those guys' lives is the right thing to do, but what happens after that? Do we go on the run? Where would we go?"
The Whizzer said, "I guess they're right. I don't wanna become a criminal, but..." He sighed.
Miss America reached across the table and held his hand. "No matter what happens, Bob, I'll be with you."
He smiled and squeezed her hand. "I know. Love you, Maddy."
Bucky and Toro made gagging sounds. The Torch said, "Knock it off, you two. Bob, Maddy, we're all in, I guess. But what are we going to do? How do we help Rickey and this other guy?"
The Whizzer said, "I have a few ideas, Jim."
On Friday, October 26th, at 4:45 in the afternoon, Jackie Robinson was in Harlem, in an alleyway near the corner of 5th Avenue and East 131st Street, playing stickball with a group of neighborhood kids. He was pitching, and the kids were hitting, and people from the neighborhood were watching, in a crowd at the mouth of the alley or sitting and standing on the fire escapes looking down into the alley.
Jackie's wife Rachel was standing in the crowd at the end of alley, cheering Jackie and the kids on. Jackie had been there for a couple of hours, talking with people, signing autographs, smiling and laughing with everyone, and playing with the kids. The crowd had gathered quickly, once word got out that the Jackie Robinson, the first Negro to sign with a white baseball team, was in Harlem. The mood was good, despite the presence of many out-of-work men; most of the adults present knew that jobs were coming, just around the corner, even, and that the strikes that were rumored to be happening soon would only help the man in the street.
Jackie was about to pitch to one of the kids when he heard a commotion behind him. He turned and saw the crowd at the mouth of the alleyway parting to let through four New York policemen. A quiet, watchful stillness came over the crowd, the chatter ceased, smiles were replaced by carefully composed, blank faces, and some of the adult men on the periphery of the crowd began to oh-so-casually drift away.
The four cops walked up to Jackie Robinson and stood around him. Two were twirling their nightsticks and one had his hand on his revolver. The four glared at the people around them, then turned to Robinson and said, "You Jackie Robinson?"
Robinson's face took on a sort of resigned expression, and he said, "Yes, I am."
The policeman who'd spoken placed his hands on his hips and, his expression darkening, said, "You the boy what thinks he can play in the-uh maj-uh leagues?"
Robinson's eyebrows came together, and a very brief expression of anger flitted across his face, before he gritted his teeth and, with a visible tremor, calmed himself. He dropped the baseball he'd been holding and held his arms at his sides and said, "Yes, I am."
The policeman crossed his arms and said, "And you-ah think you-ah're gonna live to see the big leagues?" The policemen stopped twirling their nightsticks, grasped them by the hafts, and held them by their sides, in the ready position; the other policeman drew his revolver. The crowd at the end of the alley was whispering angrily among themselves, and Rachel Robinson had her hand over her mouth, but no one said anything; many among them knew, from painful experience, that New York police held no love for Negroes, and that when a New York cop kicked you, you stayed kicked.
Jackie Robinson's shoulders quivered, and his breathing grew heavy, but he didn't say anything. The cop said, "You listenin' to me, boy?"
Two of the kids - the one that Robinson had been pitching to, and the one catching Robinson's pitches - walked forward, still holding on to their "bat" (a lead pipe they'd found in the garbage) and glove, and stood next to the cops. The policeman holding his revolver turned to the two and said, "Back off, kids, this is police business."
The one catching the game, who seemed to be only eight or nine, said, "Gee, Mr. Robinson, aren't policemen supposed to wear their badges on the other side of their uniform?"
The crowd seemed to draw a breath, all at once, and Jackie Robinson straightened up and squared his shoulders, and the teenager holding the lead pipe handed it to Robinson, and the kid with the catcher's glove said, "Golly, you know, I think there's something funny going on here."
The policeman with the gun pointed his gun at the two kids and said, "Last warning, punks - move!"
The teenager said, "Mr. Policeman?"
The policeman turned the gun on him and said, "What?"
The teen said, "Watch out for a hotfoot."
The policeman with the gun looked puzzled for a moment, then dropped his gun and grabbed his heel and began hopping around, howling with pain. The teenager rushed one of the nightstick-wielding policeman while the kid dropped the catcher's glove, let the flames run from his now-ignited hand all over the rest of his body (melting the makeup and wig he'd been wearing), and then leapt forward. From out of the crowd on the fire escape dropped a woman, who landed square on the shoulders and head of the other cop with the nightstick.
Jackie Robinson swung the pipe at the stomach of the cop who'd been talking to him, catching him by surprise and knocking him off his feet and leaving him curled onto the pavement, hands wrapped around his stomach. The kid ducked under a blow from a nightstick and lashed out with his foot, breaking the kneecap of his opponent. The woman picked up the fourth policeman and knocked him cold with a roundhouse, and Toro, hovering some feet above the alley, put a ring of flame around the "police."
The woman took off her wig and wiped off her makeup and revealed herself to be a white woman, and the kid took off his shirt, revealing the uniform of Bucky underneath. The crowd cheered, and even Jackie Robinson smiled, as Bucky, Toro, and Miss America quickly stripped the "police" of their uniforms and disarmed and handcuffed them. Miss America offered a hand to Jackie Robinson, by now joined by Rachel, and said, "Sorry about this, Mister Robinson; I hope this won't happen again." He shook her hand and said, "Me too, Miss America, me too."
Across town, in the Upper West Side apartment of Branch Rickey, reporters were peppering Branch Rickey with questions.
A reporter from the Post said, "Branch, when do you think he's going to make it to the Dodgers?"
Rickey took a puff on his cigar and said, "I have every faith Jackie will be with the Dodgers in a couple of years."
A reporter from the Daily Bugle said, "Mr. Rickey, what do you say to those teams that say they won't play on the same field as the boy?"
Rickey said, "We'll deal with that when the time comes. I don't think they really mean that, though."
A reporter from the Daily News said, "What about other Negro prospects, Branch? Are you going to--"
The door to the apartment opened, and four men entered. Something about them stopped conversation and drew attention to them. Part of it was their size; they were all huge, well over six feet tall and greatly muscled. Part of it were their faces, which bore many scars and seemed to all have some sort of disfigurement - odd lumps, or discolored or misshapen features. And part of it were their expressions; they were all glaring.
They walked forward, right at Branch Rickey, forcing the reporters out of their way. The largest paused in front of Rickey and looked at the reporters and said, "If you want to live, you'll stay and write down what happens." He drew back his fist and said, "Branch Rickey, you--"
He stopped and looked behind him. One of the reporters was holding his fist. The reporter, a blond man whose face was grim, said, "This is your only warning. Surrender now."
The man swung his fist forward, throwing the blond reporter against the wall behind Rickey. He turned to the rest of the reporters and said, "Well? Anyone else wanna play Invader?"
Three other reporters walked forward, all smiling. One said, "Well, yes, actually, I do." He seemed to disappear, and there came a sudden wind, and the other reporters seemed to blur and then vanish, and then the door to the apartment slammed, and the only ones left in the apartment were the four large men and the three reporters. The one who'd just spoken was now wearing a familiar yellow costume.
One of the ugly, large men turned to the leader of the four, the one who'd threatened Rickey, and said in a confused voice, "But, boss, you said we wouldn't have to--"
The leader said, "Shut up, Vito!"
From behind Branch Rickey, who was coolly puffing on his cigar, the reporter thrown against the wall stood and pulled on his hood. He took his shield out from under his clothes. Captain America said, "Mr. Rickey, I'm sorry to say that your apartment is going to take some damage."
Branch Rickey blew out cigar smoke and said, "Quite alright, Captain. Go right ahead."
One of the Night Riders cracked his knuckles and said, "Four dead heroes for the price a'one."
Captain America leaned over and swung his shield against a window, breaking it open. He nodded at one of the "reporters" and said, "Torch, you're set to go."
The leader of the Night Riders snarled, "GET EM!" The three Night Riders leapt at the Torch, the Whizzer, and the Sub-Mariner, while their leader ran at Captain America.
The Torch hit the first of the Night Riders with a fireball in the face, setting his hair and eyebrows on fire. He paused and began beating at the flames on his head and face as the smell of burnt hair filled the apartment. The Torch jumped forward and slugged him hard on the jaw. The Night Rider paused and glared at the Torch, cocking his own fist. The Torch lashed out, kicking him in the groin, and the Night Rider went down in a heap, whimpering.
The second Night Rider ran straight at Namor. Before his punch landed, however, Namor's fist flew forward, the impact knocking the Night Rider out and sending his unconscious body flying through the wall of the apartment and into the street below.
The third Night Rider leapt at the Whizzer and aimed a punch at his head. The Whizzer grabbed the Night Rider in mid-air and spun him around, adding some velocity to the Night Rider's own. The redirected Night Rider followed his unconscious companion out into the street, In the space of a few seconds the Whizzer ran outside Rickey's apartment, tracked the Night Riders' descent, cleared two civilians out from under where the Night Riders were going to land, watched them hit the pavement and drive foot-deep holes in it, made sure they were unconscious, and then ran back to the apartment.
The fourth Night Rider's charge drove Captain America up against the wall of the apartment. The Night Rider threw two quick punches at Captain America, who leaned away from the first one and took the second on his shield. Captain America landed a jab in the gut of the Night Rider, who didn't react, but threw a jab of his own. Captain America flinched away from it, feeling the breeze of the punch on his cheek, and kicked the Night Rider's kneecap. The Night Rider didn't react, but threw a roundhouse, which Captain America took on his shield. Cap feinted at the Night Rider's face, and the Night Rider reflexively jerked backwards. Captain America seemed to freeze, his expression becoming fearful. The Night Rider smirked and drove a full-power punch straight at Captain America's face.
Captain America leaned out of the way, and the Night Rider's hand and arm went into the wall of the apartment and through the brick facade on the outside of the building. As the Night Rider struggled to pull his arm out of the hole he'd made, Captain America pivoted on his right foot, whirling around behind the Night Rider, and struck him on the back on the neck, at the base of the skull, with the side of his shield. The Night Rider dropped, unconscious.
As the sound of police sirens grew closer Branch Rickey walked to the hole in his apartment, glanced down into the street, and then looked back at the All-Winners. "You didn't exaggerate about the damage, did you?"
Both the Torch and Namor glared at him, and the Torch said, "Hey, pal, we just saved your life! How about a little--"
Captain America raised his hand, and the Torch closed his mouth. "Mr. Rickey, we'll see about reimbursing you, but--"
Branch Rickey stubbed out his cigar and said, "You don't have to do that, Captain. I'm grateful, I really am. I was just making an observation, is all."
Captain America smiled and, hearing the pounding on Rickey's door, said, "In that case, Mister Rickey, we'd like you to do one more favor for us."
The reporter from Times glanced at the destruction in Rickey's apartment and said, "So, Captain, what happened?"
Captain America smiled for the camera and said, "We were tipped off by the F.B.I. that an attempt would be made today on the lives of Branch Rickey and Jackie Robinson. We disguised ourselves and followed both around all day, and, thank heaven, were able to stop the attack on time."
The Daily Bugle reporter said, "Why didn't the F.B.I. take care of the attack?"
Captain America said, "Oh, their agents were around; you just didn't see them."
Behind Captain America the Whizzer whispered to the Human Torch, "Let's hope all this attention, and what Rickey agreed to say, keeps Hoover from doing anything."
The Torch whispered back, "He's not gonna let this go, y'know."
The Whizzer muttered, "Deal with that when we have to, firebug."
And in the chronoverse the g'k'r'll drew ever closer to Earth.
Author's Notes:
As usual, I've tried to make this story as historically accurate as possible. Hoover was a racist prick. The F.B.I. was engaging in very dubious practices at this time, and ordering the All-Winners to stay out of this would not at all have been out of character for either Hoover or the Bureau. Reaction among the African-American community in 1945 was mostly positive to the signing of Jackie Robinson, but there were many blacks who felt that Robinson was the wrong choice, since there were, in their view, better and more experienced ballplayers that Rickey could have chosen.
I apologize to anyone offended by the language in this story - but I'm trying to somewhat faithfully recreate the past, and, like it or not, this is how people talked in 1945.
Robinson did sign with Branch Rickey on October 23rd, 1945 (which was a Tuesday). Reaction to him was mixed, but the really hate-filled backlash didn't happen until 1946, when Robinson began touring with the Montreal Royals.
Y'know, they never did establish, during the Golden Age, what Bob Frank did when he wasn't the Whizzer? At least, not so far as I can tell. He was always just the Whizzer. Same with William "Spirit of 76/Captain America II" Nasland.
Technically Jackie Robinson wasn't the first to sign and play for a professional, white baseball team. He was just the first to sign and play in the modern (i.e., post-World War One) era.
"When a New York cop kicks you, you stay kicked" is Conor Cruise O'Brien's line.
The more I read about Jackie Robinson and Branch Rickey, the more admiration I have for the both of them. Jackie Robinson's restraint during those first few years was, literally, super-human.
Next Issue: Guess Who's Coming To Dinner?
