Return the Pharaoh from Time’s Guardian Sands

Batgirl was acutely aware of how perilous her position was. Bound upside down, any sudden movement of her neck or spinal column could cause serious injury or even death. Her circulation was already being effected as the blood flow to her extremities slowed. Yet, as she was suspended on the swinging clapper of a gigantic bell and faced death in a matter of minutes, she thought her diminished circulation and any associated suffering would be the least of her worries.

One solution to the problem of the swinging clapper would theoretically be remaining still, but lack of movement might cause blood to fill her lungs, eventually, and there was also a chance she would suffer a brain aneurysm. Besides, at seven o’clock when the giant bell rang the hour, Batgirl’s motionlessness would not stop the clapper from swinging.

Her adventure had been grueling so far. Following her experience as Doctor Liz Shaw’s human guinea pig, she had stayed up the rest of the night fighting an inhumanly strong robot; a pair of thugs; and a determined, inventive henchwoman. Had she not been facing death, she might have drowsed and given herself a well-deserved respite. Her predicament, however, demanded immediate action.

Batgirl wanted to go on living!

Suddenly, Batgirl was assaulted by a cacophony! The other bells in the tower were playing the Westminster Quarters, signaling fifteen minutes to the hour. The large bell surrounding Batgirl only rang out the hour, so she was not in immediate danger, except from her worsening headache.

‘I’ve always enjoyed hearing Big Benjamin’ Batgirl thought. ‘I doubt I’ll feel quite the same after this!’

Batgirl heard herself fearfully swallow. ‘I wonder if I’ll hear the bell as it kills me, if it kills me?’

In any event, she now knew exactly how much time she had to get free. Batgirl relaxed her arm and leg muscles, which she had hardened while the men put the finishing touches on her bindings. She had taken a deep breath at the same time, hoping this old magician’s trick would yield enough precious slack to enable her escape.

The slack enabled Batgirl to squirm in her bonds and wrap her hands around the cable, exploring it. Feeling the rough, metal strand brought a thin smile to her lips as she began vigorously moving her wrist bindings up and down along the cable. Given time, she would be able to free her hands.

Time, however, was the one commodity she didn’t have in abundance. ‘Will I be able to escape this way in less than fifteen minutes?’ It was unclear whether her hands would be free before the bell bashed in her skull!

After several minutes, Batgirl decided more aggressive action was necessary. So, she slammed one heel into the cable as she continued to work at her wrist bindings. A sharp blade emerged from the toe of one boot with an audible click that echoed in the bell momentarily. The comely captive bent one knee, straining all the ropes encircling both her legs, and drew the blade slowly toward her ankle bindings.

After a moment, Batgirl's sharp blade sliced through the bindings at her ankles. Those bonds fell away, but she was far from finished with the ropes around her wrists. The heroine realized until her hands were free, it would be impossible to reach the bindings at her knees, waist, and upper body. She renewed her efforts to free her wrists and laughed, softly, as she felt rope strands slowly separating.

‘How much time do I have left?’ Batgirl wondered.

She didn’t know for sure, but realized every second counted!

She paused in her efforts to gauge the arc of the clapper as it swung back and forth, growing closer to its hourly destination—the inside of the bell. Batgirl had been vigorously rubbing her wrist bindings against the cable in a desperate struggle to win her freedom, and as her efforts continued, she came to a sudden, horrific realization. ‘It’s possible I’ve effected the bell’s timing. It might ring . . . early!’

In any event, she was certain keeping the gigantic instrument from striking would be impossible . . . and her head was getting very close to the side of the bell!

There was another indicator of how much longer she would go on living. Batgirl’s killers had arranged for her to die close to dawn, and it was not getting any darker outside the tower.

“I’ve got to get out of here!” Batgirl muttered. She hardened the muscles of her arms and pulled hard, trying to separate her hands. A sharp cry accompanied her effort and a snap accompanied the parting of the remaining rope strands. Batgirl’s arms fell away from her sides as their bindings drifted toward the stone floor far below.

Breathing heavily, Batgirl pulled a blade from its place in her glove and reached up to sever the bindings holding her chest against the cable. As the ropes fell away, Batgirl felt her body slide downward until the rope around her waist restrained her, forming a curve resembling a smile between her flaring hips.

‘Of course!’ she elatedly thought. ‘Gravity is on my side. My legs should slide free of the ropes around my knees after the waist restraint is cut . . . but unless I hold onto something, I’ll fall!’

She reached down and gripped the tassel suspended from the bell clapper with her left hand while slicing the rope encircling her hips with her right. A single slash enabled her legs to slide free and she flipped over, simultaneously letting go of her knife. Her free hand gripped the tassel seconds later.

As Batgirl reveled in welcome freedom, her acrobatic maneuver slammed the clapper into the side of the bell, which rang loudly. At the same time, the tassel from which she hung, never having been intended to bear anything weighing nearly what she did, pulled away from the clapper!

Batgirl’s cry as she fell into space was drowned out by the overhead, tolling bell!

Earlier, the Clock King had marveled as his royal blue bikini-clad henchwoman slid out of her fur coat and moved to the middle of the street where she waited for the armored truck with her hands on her hips. “Fascinating,” he said, staring at her.

“With all due respect, your Majesty,” Rhea inquired. “Are you referring to the girl, her method of stopping the truck, or . . . perhaps . . .both?”

“What?” the Clock King asked.

Rhea ignored the question, but slid closer to her employer. “You know,” she thoughtfully said, happily noting her companion’s awareness of her closeness, “Jack O’Shea asked a perceptive question about your identity.”

“You believe I am who I say I am, don’t you, Rhea?”

“Of course, your Majesty. While I didn’t recognize you when you got me out of jail, your ship is one of a kind.”

“Yes. The TARDIS is quite distinctive.”

“You also knew all about how I’d come to be arrested and paid me my million bucks before setting me up in Dr. William Walters' place at the Hyde Towers. I’m not stupid.”

“Hardly.”

“When you hired me, you told me the Clock King’s appearance was a disguise. I bought it then, but I don’t now.”

“Why not?”

“Well, you’re taller, thinner, and younger than you were the first time I met you. I can explain how you would be thinner, but the location of the Fountain of Youth is still a mystery and you ceased to be a growing boy a long time ago–”

“A longer time ago than you could reasonably imagine, my dear Rhea,” Clock King quietly said.

“What did you say?”

“Nothing,” Clock King answered, capturing her gaze and smiling. “I’m terribly sorry, Rhea. What were you saying?”

“I said I can no more easily explain your increased height and newfound youth when your appearance changed than I can your ship.” When Rhea had first met him, Clock King’s white hair had been straight. He had worn a ring on the middle finger of his right hand and carried a walking stick. His dress sense had, however, not changed

“Well, the TARDIS is–”

“Dimensionally transcendental,” she said. “You told me. That only means it’s bigger on the inside than it is on the outside. Anyone can see that. Your explanation reveals nothing about how you achieved the impossible.”

“I didn’t achieve it, my people did, and they have been instrumental in the changes you’ve noted in my appearance.”

“Who are your people?”

“The Time Lords, my dear. I’ve grown rather fond of this appearance, but changing it was their idea. I had grown to really like what I had become the first time it happened.”

“Your appearance has changed before?”

“Oh, yes. Indeed. I was traveling and having thrilling adventures when my original body wore out. I carried on with a new one for some time until I encountered another Time Lord, a rogue like myself. He and I disagreed about some local goings on and when we had finished deciding the matter, the Time Lords had found us and brought us both to our home planet–“

“Your home planet . . . ?!” Rhea practically shouted. “You mean . . . you’re an alien? From outer space?!?”

“Why, yes, my dear, from the planet Gallifrey. Didn’t I mention that?”

“No!”

“Ah, well,” the Clock King shrugged off the fact he was not from Earth, as if the fact was unimportant. “Anyway, needless to say, the Time Lords were less than pleased to see me. I thought they would just make a long, boring speech. They like lecturing. I was wrong. They put me on trial. Oh, and they always called me Doctor, as have most of my traveling companions.”

“You have heard the charge against you,” the Time Lord said, “that you have repeatedly broken our most important law of non-interference in the affairs of other planets. What have you to say? Do you admit these actions?”

“I not only admit them,” the Doctor replied, “I am proud of them! While you have been content merely to observe the evil in the galaxy, I have been fighting against it.”

“It is not we who are on trial here, Doctor, but you.”

“No. No. Of course,” the Doctor gently agreed. “You’re above criticism. Aren’t you?”

“Do you argue that these actions were justified?”

“Yes. Of course I do! Give me a thought channel and I’ll show you some of the evils I’ve been fighting against.”

Finally, the Doctor summarized his defense. “All these evils I have fought, while you have done nothing but observe. True. I am guilty of interference, just as you are guilty of failing to use your great power to help those in need!”

The Time Lords presenting the case against the Doctor looked dubiously at one another. “Is that all you have to say?” one asked.

“Isn’t it enough?” the Doctor demanded.

Later, following the Time Lords’ deliberations, the Doctor asked them the question foremost in his mind. “What about me?”

“We have accepted your plea that there is evil in the universe that must be fought and that you still have a part to play in that battle.”

“What?” the Doctor incredulously asked. Hope sparked within him. “Do you mean you’re going to let me go free?”

The other Time Lords exchanged glances. “Not entirely. We have noted your particular interest in the planet Earth. The frequency of your visits must have given you special knowledge of that world and its problems.”

“Yes,” the Doctor thoughtfully agreed. “I suppose that’s true. The Earth seems more vulnerable than others. Yes.”

“For that reason you will be sent back to that planet.”

“Oh. Good.” He relaxed slightly.

“In exile!”

Instantly, the Doctor tensed again. “In exile?” he suspiciously asked.

“You will be sent to the Earth in the twentieth century and remain there for as long as we deem proper. For the duration of that period, the secret of the TARDIS will be taken from you.”

“You–” the Doctor began, growing more indignant and more vehement as he went on speaking, “–You can’t exile me to one primitive planet in one century in time. Besides, I’m known on the Earth. It might be very awkward for me!”

The Time Lord’s response was utterly calm. “Your appearance has changed before. It will change again and that is part of the sentence.”

The Doctor loudly objected. “You can’t just change what I look like without consulting me!”

The unperturbed Time Lord responded. “You will have an opportunity to chose your appearance.”

“Oh. Well, that’s not so bad, but I warn you, I’m very particular!”

“Here is your first choice.”

The Doctor gazed in dismay at an ancient face. “He’s too old.” The next three choices also were unsatisfactory, for various reasons. “It’s ridiculous,” the Doctor complained.

“You’re wasting time, Doctor.”

“That’s not my fault, is it?” the exile protested. “Is this the best you can do? I’ve never seen such an incredible bunch!”

“Since you refuse to make the decision,” the Time Lord said. “The decision will be made for you.”

“No, no, no!” the Doctor objected. “I never said that.” He pointed at his judges to emphasize his point. “I maintain I have the right to decide what I look like. It could be very important on the Earth. People on Earth attach a great deal of importance to–”

Reality around the Doctor began to transform, seeming to shimmer somehow. “What’s happening?” The Doctor’s perceptions seemed to spin and he struggled to speak. He suddenly seemed to have somehow been diminished, so only his head remained behind. “What happened?”

“The time has come for you to change your appearance, Doctor, and begin your exile,” the Time Lord calmly explained.

Reality spun faster around the Doctor and changed direction. He was able to see copies of his own face, which was about to become his old face, whirling all around him. “Is this some kind of joke?”

The dark-haired, lined faces continued moving around him, growing even faster. The Doctor struggled to speak. “No! I refuse to be treated–”

The spinning took his breath away, but he felt a ray of hope as he became conscious of his body once again. He relaxed slightly, realizing he was once again wearing his familiar, shabby coat; a collared shirt; and his baggy-plaid trousers. He wondered what would happen next with a mixture of eager anticipation and well-founded trepidation.

He did not have long to wait before he felt his facial features begin to melt, transforming. “What are you doing?” he fearfully demanded.

His body began spinning, distracting him from his transforming features. “Stop! You’re making me giddy!” the Doctor demanded after a few short revolutions.

He spun faster and began to fall. “No!” he cried, repeating the word over and over as he fell inevitably into what seemed like the endless void of space. The difference between space and the Doctor’s environment was his ability to hear the echoes of his helpless, repeated cries.

“That’s horrible!” Rhea said. “Who do these Time Lords think they are? They can’t just do that to you!”

“I’m afraid they could, and they did.”

“Wait a minute!” Rhea thought for a moment. “If the Time Lords took the secret of the TARDIS from you, how is it you know how it works?”

“I outsmarted them,” the Clock King said, grinning like a Cheshire cat. “I have a device inside the TARDIS called a Time Space Visualizer. It’s a sort of temporal television.”

“You can see the future?”

“Yes. I can also see into the past, anywhere in the Universe and at any time. Now, I’m not really supposed to look into my own future, and normally would never consider doing such a thing. As you’ve no doubt guessed, messing about with time can be extremely dangerous. Anyway. . . .”

To Rhea, everything Clock King was saying sounded like long-winded, convoluted technobabble. “I,” she began repeatedly before completely giving up on the idea of following his explanation of what seemed like nonsense at best and gobbledygook at worst.

“There, you see,” Clock King concluded, grinning. “It’s all perfectly simple. Isn’t it?"

Before her eyes had glazed over, one inescapable fact had impressed itself upon her and she inhaled, realizing there was only one way to be sure she had grasped her employer’s point. “So,” she hesitantly began, “you knew the Time Lords would exile you?”

“Precisely.”

“With that knowledge, you got around the problem of the secret of the TARDIS being taken from you.”

“Indeed. Speaking of problems. Here comes Batgirl. The test for our new recruits is underway.”

The perfidious pair watched as Batgirl defeated Ace, was subdued, and followed as the captive was taken to the Thomas Wayne Memorial Clock Tower. At the same time, Doctor Liz Shaw removed what was left of Ace, thus leaving only the incapacitated guards to testify the encounter had ever taken place.

“Shall we join the others inside the clock tower?” Rhea asked.

“We’ll have a word with our employees as they emerge,” Clock King decided.

“As you wish, your Majesty,” she replied, resting her head on his shoulder.

A little while later, Clock King leaned out the limousine’s window and motioned for Queenie to come and speak to him. “I’m delighted with your achievements so far.”

“Thank you, your Majesty,” Queenie said.

“Listen. I’m interested in your method of stopping the armored truck, which was nearly as ingenious as it was effective. What possessed you to dress in the . . . fashion . . . you did today? I can’t imagine you knew your assignment ahead of time."

“Well,” Queenie said, “I knew we were working this morning and suspected our boss would be observing us closely. So, naturally, I wanted to make a good impression and to have my complete arsenal available for the job. You wouldn’t want me to come to work ill-equipped and it would be worse if you missed something as you critiqued my performance and technique.”

“I see.” Clock King let his gaze sweep along her long legs, one bent provocatively in front of the other; her flaring hips as she swayed slightly; her bare, flat abdomen; and the swell of her rising and falling breasts. The girl’s open coat framed her figure as it remained draped over her bare shoulders and she smiled engagingly, her eyes twinkling mischievously. ‘You don’t miss a thing,’ he thought. Aloud he said, “Absolutely magnificent!”

The clock struck the quarter hour and might have prevented him from elaborating. “I’m glad you approve,” Queenie said. “Batgirl will perish in fifteen minutes time, just before dawn.”

“Absolutely magnificent,” Clock King repeated. He paused momentarily as though lost in thought. Then, he returned their conversation to business. “I’ve arranged for the Chessman Hotel to launder the money you stole from the Gotham City Transit Authority. Turn the truck over to the valet and check in. Your accommodations should be waiting. You’ll be contacted when your money is available in the casino, and I’ll be in touch when it’s time for you to pull your next job.”

“Thank you, your Majesty. Will you be staying for Batgirl’s finale?”

“I believe Rhea and I can spare the time. Here come your cohorts. You have your instructions.”

Rhea wound her arms around Clock King’s neck, distracting him from Queenie’s picturesque journey across the street. “Now, tell me how you rediscovered the secret of the TARDIS after the Time Lords changed your appearance.”

“I hijacked another time machine ahead of time and studied it with Doctor Liz Shaw’s assistance.”

“Does she understand time travel?”

“Well, not yet.”

“Where did you find another time machine?”

“Another important question is: when?” Clock King remarked. “Remember I mentioned the Daleks?”

“Yes.”

“Well, they spent some time chasing me across time and space after I foiled their invasion of the Earth in the future.” The Clock King could not help frowning as he thought of the inhuman aliens who resembled pepper shakers. After a moment he realized Rhea was staring at him. “What is it, my dear?”

“Did you just say the Earth would be invaded?”

“Yes, by the Daleks,” Clock King casually replied. “Don’t worry, Rhea. I dealt with their future invasion plan a long time ago. It’s of no consequence whatsoever.”

“How soon can I expect them?”

“The invasion will be several decades from now. You needn’t worry about legless, dome-headed conquerors advancing steadily from their home planet of Skaro to establish an interstellar empire in which all opposition to their tyrannical rule will be mercilessly exterminated."

“Oh." Clock King's statement didn't seem to reassure Rhea very much. Then something else occurred to her. "The Daleks would have needed a time machine to follow you, wouldn't they?”

“Precisely. Once I’d dealt with the Daleks again, their time machine was available for two schoolteachers, Ian and Barbara, who had thrust themselves upon me two years earlier. For some reason, I had been unable to convey my companions to their planet at the correct time in the course of our adventures. Ultimately, we all agreed it was time for them to go. So, they went.”

Ian Chesterton paused as he stepped to the street, looking hesitantly and hopefully around. He smiled, staring at the building across the street and leaning eagerly over a car as excitement welled up in him. Happily he retreated to the door from which he emerged, where a dark-haired woman joined him. “Barbara, we made it.”

“I don’t believe it!”

“It’s London in 1965.”

“We’re two years out,” Barbara said.

“What’s two years among friends?” Ian carelessly asked. “We’re home.” He kissed Barbara on the cheek. “I’ll just go press that button.” He ducked back into the building in which they had materialized and emerged a moment later to grip Barbara’s shoulder as a high-pitched beep began sounding at regular intervals. “Run!”

They hurried across the street and took cover around the corner of another building as an explosion reverberated. “Well, we put paid to the Daleks’ time traveling for awhile,” Ian remarked, making no attempt to conceal his satisfaction.

“It will give the Doctor a breather, anyway,” Barbara agreed, removing her hands from her ears and looking happily at her companion.

“Yes. I wonder where he is right now.”

“Doctor,” Barbara said. “Wherever you are–”

“Shh,” Ian warned. “Someone’s coming!”

“Goodbye, Doctor. Thanks for the ride!”

“It was fun, Doctor. Goodbye.” The two hurried away.

The Clock King smiled at Rhea as he explained. “Ian and Barbara still believe the Daleks’ time machine was destroyed. They have no idea my granddaughter, Susan – you remember Susan?”

Rhea nodded.

“Susan and I arrived and removed the bomb the self-destruct mechanism touched off and stole the machine. I gave the Daleks’ machine to Susan who took my youngest Second Hand and flew off. I’ve seen her a couple of times when she needed my help and, of course, she helped Liz and I rediscover the secret of the TARDIS.”

“I would have thought your granddaughter would still be your assistant.”

“Oh, no, not anymore. Susan is quite formidable in her own right.”

“I’d guess she is. Getting her out of jail was the goal behind your plan to kidnap the Cooper woman when you hired me.” Rhea’s recollection led naturally to a question she asked, “So, now Liz helps with your nefarious plans?”

“For the time being.”

“Say, Doctor– err, your Majesty, didn’t you say you told the Time Lords you fought evil?”

“Yes.”

“Well . . . ?”

“Oh, I see what you’re asking. Some time ago, Susan and I chanced to become infected with the Metamorphosis Formula developed by a Professor Yuri Nabakov, which changes a person’s nature to its complete opposite. The effect is permanent on humans, unless counteracted by the antidote. In Time Lords, however, its effects, while long-lasting, are only temporary.”

Rhea recoiled. In horror she asked, “Does that mean, eventually, you’ll turn me in!?”

“Relax, my dear. I’m sure I’ll be this way for some time to come. Besides, I can tell when the effect is about to wear off. You see, my other persona, the Doctor, has complete amnesia about his – well, our . . . err, my – activities while, how shall I say, ‘under the influence?’ Fortunately, I have learned I have *ahem* time to hide any evidence of what I’ve done as Clock King from, well, myself.”

“But, how did you happen to become exposed to the formula a second time?”

“I didn’t. It’s a strange side effect of the drug on Time Lords. Our nature isn’t changed permanently, but the change does occur once during each regeneration.”

"I see. So, after your appearance changes, your personality also changes, twice. The second time everything is normal, like when your appearance changes, but the first time you become your absolute antithesis." With a flash of insight, Rhea came to a conclusion. “When that happens, I bet you use the formula on your other persona’s companions, to adjust their attitudes!”

“Precisely . . . and when I feel the effects about ready to wear off on me, I give them the antidote. I make sure they don’t remember a thing. Now that I think about it, I’m not sure whether the first or second change enables my antithesis to emerge. This uncertainty is probably related to the associated memory loss. Well, never mind about that. I’m sure it isn’t important.”

“Did you use the formula on Liz?”

“Yes,” the Clock King admitted.

“What has it done for her?”

“Well, it’s enabled me to persuade her to join me and to channel her scientific curiosity along lines of which I now approve.”

“Is that all?” Rhea asked, mischievously.

“Whatever do you mean?” Clock King asked. He shrugged. “Listen, Rhea, crime for me is a battle of wits against worthy opponents.”

The big bell in the tower across the street from them rang. “Well,” Rhea lamented, “With Batgirl gone, you now have one fewer of those.” Then she laughed and the Clock King joined her.

Without Rhea noticing, Clock King consulted one of his watches. It had registered with him that the bell had rung without Westminster Quarters having played beforehand. His wristwatch told him the bell had rung early. He decided to keep the information to himself.

“You know, now that your newest assistants have disposed of Batgirl, we have something to celebrate.”

“I might be persuaded,” the Clock King said, regarding his beautiful companion.

“Won’t Liz be horribly jealous?”

“I won’t tell her if you don’t,” the Clock King said, grinning. “Besides, she is busy rebuilding and upgrading Ace.”

Rhea smiled and kissed his neck. Her companion turned his head when the kiss broke and brushed his lips against hers. Eagerly she drew herself closer to him. “Have I told you how attractive I find your new appearance?” Rhea huskily asked.

“Why don’t you drive us back to Hyde Towers,” Clock King suggested. “With the TARDIS, we have all the time in the world.” Rhea pulled away from him with a delighted smile and maneuvered the car into traffic. The Clock King’s hand never left her thigh.

Waiting as Jack O’Shea, Queenie, and Spade pulled the armored truck in front of the Chessman Hotel was a tall, African-American girl, wearing polished jackboots; black short shorts that showed off her long legs magnificently; and a sheer silk blouse that did not hide the leather halter-top, against which her breasts strained. Her outfit was augmented with a scarlet belt, a matching bow tie, and a black, velvet jacket “My name is Puffy,” the girl said, extending three plastic cards. “You’re all expected. The East Castle Suite is ready for you and, if you have no objection, I’ll attend to this truck and all of the associated details.”

“That’s very kind of you, Puffy,” Spade said. “It’s great to see you again and to be back here at the Chessmen Building.”

“Do you know her?” Queenie asked, as they watched the girl drive the truck toward the back of the casino.

“She worked for Catwoman years ago,” Jack O’Shea said.

“You both know her?” Queenie asked.

“Clock King seems to be taking care of us,” Jack O’Shea replied, changing the subject with an engaging smile. “I suggest we take advantage.”

“Do you know where the room is?” Spade asked.

“I think so,” Jack O’Shea said.

“Let’s go,” Queenie eagerly said.

In the room, Queenie let her fur coat slide from her shoulders and promptly began to fill the Jacuzzi. Jack O’Shea tuned the radio watching blue fabric stretch tightly across the girl’s posterior until Big Band softly played throughout the suite. Spade, meanwhile, busied himself at the sideboard, mixing blended whisky; bourbon; sugar cubes; bitters; and water, along with lemon twists he used as garnishes. He poured his potion over ice in three rocks glasses and brought them, along with the pitcher and more ice to a low table near the Jacuzzi. Jack O’Shea was staring at Queenie, who had made herself comfortable in the bubbling, steamy pool. Her bikini seemed to match the paint below the water.

“There is nothing like an Old Fashioned,” she delightedly declared, sipping her drink and nodding. Spade replenished her glass when she set it down. “Hey! You guys don’t have to wait on me hand and foot. Come on in. The water is heavenly.”

“We don’t have bathing suits,” Spade said.

Queenie’s lips curled into an impish smile as she laced he fingers behind her head and relaxed. Her eyes glittered with wicked amusement as she studied her companions. For the first time that day, she was not at all cold and she, as well as the men, all knew in many ways things were about to heat up considerably.

Jack O’Shea obviously knew as he said, “I think she knows that, Spade.”

“You guys look all grown up to me,” she encouraged, nodding. “Don’t be shy.” She made no other movement until the men settled comfortably on either side of her. Then, her arms wound playfully around them, drawing each closer to her. “Now, we have everything we need to celebrate Batgirl’s ultimate fate . . . and you guys are making me feel overdressed.” Four eager hands embarked upon the obvious solution immediately.

Some time later, Batgirl moaned. She lay on her back at the top of the stairs in the Thomas Wayne Memorial Clock Tower with her arms and legs bent. She gasped as she tried to sit up and gritted her teeth, swinging her legs so they stretched along the staircase. “Lucky to be alive,” she muttered, holding her head in her hands. “My back must be one enormous bruise.”

Batgirl took a deep breath and stood. She slowly descended to the next landing and checked for broken bones. Much of the initial pain of consciousness had ebbed away and she made her way to the ground, where she found the Batgirlcycle. Her spare utility belt was beneath the seat and she buckled it into place around her waist.

‘What had the crooks said about the Batgirlcycle?’ she asked herself. She thought for a moment and recalled the conversation. ‘Queenie commented on the distinctiveness of the Batgirlcycle, comparing it to the armored truck or a limousine.’ Between this comment and the fact they had taken her utility belt, along with its tracking device, Batgirl knew she would be able to track the crooks. She, however, felt far from well enough to fight when she caught up with them. Batgirl returned to Barbara Gordon’s apartment and, after calling Myrtle at the library to say she would be in late, crawled gratefully into bed.

“How is our new Ace coming along?” Clock King eagerly asked as he entered the lab at P.R.O.B.E. a few hours later. He found himself staring and smiling appreciatively as his sexy, young assistant bent over a robot lying on an operating table, adjusting something. She turned to regard him as he noted the remains of the Ace she had helped construct the previous night carefully arranged on a table behind her, where heaters continued to defrost them.

“Batgirl destroyed Ace,” the girl fumed. “That little–”

The Clock King held up a hand. “Please, Liz. It’s impolite to speak ill of the dead.”

“Queenie and the others killed her?” Doctor Liz Shaw’s manner brightened and a smile spread slowly across her pretty face. “Really?”

Although Clock King had his doubts, he kept them to himself. “Ace engaged and weakened her considerably before Batgirl employed a line of attack none of us anticipated. The men then attacked and were dispatched after a rather intense struggle.”

“I know! I was there. I saw Queenie clobber Batgirl and spoke to her and the boys when I picked up our Ace. What did they do to Batgirl after I left?”

“My newest employees incorporated Batgirl into the clockworks of Big Benjamin. Our heroine was to be rung out of existence at seven o’clock–”

“I can hear that old clock from here,” Doctor Liz Shaw said, laughing. “It rang a few minutes early at seven, but otherwise has functioned normally. If Batgirl was lashed into the gears and levers that run the clock, she’s quite dead by now.”

“Our associates arranged for her head to be mashed within the bell.”

“Splendidly smashing,” Doctor Liz Shaw enthused, imbuing her voice with amusement. “Literally having her brains bashed in as well.” She laughed again, going on, “Please convey my compliments to the hired help.”

Clock King allowed himself a smile as his assistant’s mirth subsided. “I’m delighted you approve.”

“Oh, I do,” she continued. “Since they’re working out so well, what will you have them do next?”

“Well, that really depends on our Ace. Have you determined how Batgirl destroyed it?”

“I’m not precisely certain, but she froze him and he literally fell apart.”

“So the second model will have to be improved in case our late heroine’s colleagues employ similar tactics.”

“Obviously,” Doctor Shaw agreed. “I’m glad we’ll have more time to work on upgrades. The timetable for preparing the alpha model was a little tight.”

“How soon might the beta model be ready?”

“I won’t even be able to give you an estimate until I’ve figured out exactly how Batgirl did this. Then, I’ll have to come up with countermeasures. I’m going to be busy for awhile.”

“Take a break,” the Clock King advised. “I’m prepared in case the beta model is not ready in time, as long as you arranged the delivery I suggested last week?”

“Of course I did, but I still don’t understand. Didn’t you recruit Queenie and the boys to steal the Methuselah Stone?”

“I did, but they have shown more potential than I could have hoped they would. I may have a different job for them.”

“Eliminating Batgirl does wonders for their resumes,” Doctor Shaw thoughtfully agreed, pacing. “Won’t her death make Batman and the others more interested in our activities once your new helpers lead them to us?”

“That is an interesting point, Liz. A reception for Batman may indeed need to be prepared.”

Both were momentarily lost in thought until the delectable doctor asked, “You still want the Methuselah Stone, don’t you?”

“Of course I do, but I think I can persuade someone else to steal it for us. Batman will never suspect I’m behind the crime if the man who might be described as his oldest enemy commits it.”

Meanwhile, on the campus of Gotham City University, an attractive, dark-skinned coed was surprised to find Doctor William Omaha Mackelroy’s office unlocked.

“Good morning, Sire,” she called, as she crossed the threshold. “ I have coffee.”

No one answered.

She normally arrived at work before her employer and consumed two cups of gourmet coffee while she prepared the pot he would later monopolize. She would then prepare his daily itinerary and deal with any calls or correspondence she could. Once he arrived, her day became less predictable. This morning, she set her coffee down and glanced at the door to the inner office. It was not normally closed first thing in the morning.

When she tried the door, it was unlocked. She found her enormous employer in his desk chair with his feet propped up and eyes closed. The chair had been moved to a spot where he could easily see a television on a cart that had been wheeled into the office. This device, as well as a DVD player, was on and the girl could see the menu for a DVD on the screen. On top of the DVD player was a cardboard box that had contained several season sets of episodes for the television series Stargate SG-1.

An empty pizza box sat beside the sleeping academic. Pyramids of empty, Styrofoam coffee cups had been built inside it.

“Sire, I brought coffee,” the girl repeated.

The fat man moaned. “You were right, Grand Vizier,” he mumbled. He leaned forward and opened his eyes as his feet hit the floor.

“Sire?” the girl inquired.

“A theatrical trick!” her employer almost shouted.

The girl touched his shoulder tentatively, causing him to turn, glaring at her.

“Sire, I have coffee,” the girl repeated again.

“Alexandria?” the professor asked, measuring his tone as he recognized the girl.

“I think you had a dream.”

“No!” he said, turning wide, haunted eyes upon her. “I saw an illusion, but it definitely was not a dream.”

“Sire” Alexandria said, “forgive me for asking, but have you been here since last Friday?”

“Oh yes. Do you remember the package that arrived just before the end of the day?”

“Sure,” she replied. “It was the DVDs and you told me to line up a television and a player for you five minutes before I was supposed to leave for the weekend!”

“Right,” the man confirmed, without seeming to notice the implied complaint.

“I was meaning to mention the timing of interdepartmental requests. I know you’re King Tut and doing that sort of thing is my job, but it would be easier with a little more notice. The audio/visual technician was getting ready to leave when I called him.”

“It’s lucky for him he hadn’t gone yet,” King Tut declared. “Did you say you brought me coffee?”

“Yes, Sire.”

“Do you have some for yourself? I think I finished what we had here.”

“Yes.”

“Good. Bring it in.” Alexandria disappeared and realized the rotund royal had cleared the refuse from his desk when she seated herself across from him. “You know who I am, right?” he asked, regarding her closely.

“Well,” Alexandria said cautiously, “you’re the reincarnation of King Tutankhamen, although you prefer to be called ‘Tut.’ You’ve been engaged by the University to translate and interpret the vast number of ancient Egyptian scrolls in their collection. I transferred to this University just to study Egyptology with you. Anyway, you were also once Professor William Omaha Mackelroy, who taught Egyptology at Yale, until a conk on the head revealed your true identity to you. I also know you consider Gotham City to be the modern equivalent of ancient Thebes.” Her eyes were wide as he regarded her.

“Correct! Now, everybody knows everything you just told me. What everyone doesn’t know is why I applied for this job.” King Tut eyed the girl expectantly.

“Okay,” she said, relaxing, “I’ll bite. Why did you apply for this job?”

“I thought Ra, the sun god, had told me to find a more productive means of winning the favor of Gotham City’s citizens, my royal subjects, than relieving them of my many possessions and threatening their miserable lives.”

“So, you’re telling me that Ra, the sun god, told you to apply for this job?”

“Precisely, in so many words. It’s a longer story, of course.”

“It would be.”

“Pay attention! One night, I was going about my royal business when I was informed of both the symbol of Ra and my own cartouche being projected into the sky like the Batsignal. I therefore led a party to Jefferson Oval Gardens, where Ra himself spoke to me in a great voice that shook his mist-shrouded temple. The night there had turned to day and my Tutlings fled in understandable terror. There I was, Alexandria, the leader of a theocracy, facing his destiny alone. When Ra had finished speaking to me, it was night again and his temple had disappeared.”

“It sounds pretty impressive,” Alexandria commented. “I’m sure I’d feel it was a once in a lifetime experience, had anything remotely like it happened to me.”

The monarch glared at the television and the set of DVDs he had watched the previous weekend. King Tut shouted, “It was all a trick! I want vengeance on those who played it on me!”

Alexandria inhaled and let her breath out slowly. “What does the Stargate SG-1 TV series have to do with this trick?”

“I saw some of the items from Ra’s temple in the show!”

“You’re certain?”

“Of course! I’ve watched it repeatedly. Again and again I compared the images on the screen with those etched in my memory, trying to convince myself I was wrong, but I know I’m not!”

“Listen, I’ve heard there’s some Egyptian imagery in that show, but that was also true of the old Battlestar Galactica. If you want me to rent that for you to watch–”

“Don’t be stupid, Alexandria!” King Tut commanded.

“I’m serious,” the girl protested. “The original series was first released to DVD in a package resembling a Cylon head. Cylons were the alien bad guys. Those packages didn’t fit well on a shelf, so later editions of the series came out in just a standard box.”

“Silence!” King Tut shouted. “I don’t care about Battlestar Galactica.”

“You’re not alone. A second, re-imagined series has been started recently and although it’s very popular, few fans of the old show like it.”

“I know what I saw, Alexandria. Stop tempting my wrath!”

“Okay. I apologize, Sire,” she said, holding her hands before her defensively. “After all, you are Tut, one time Master of Thieves, King of the Nile, Moon god of Thoth–”

“And that’s just on Momma’s side of the family,” the modern day Pharaoh said, calming considerably and favoring his young, attractive employee with a consoling smile.

Alexandria turned to another line of questioning. “Has whoever played this trick on you revealed his hand and let you know he’s been having a tremendous laugh?”

“No. The party who sent the DVDs did not perpetrate the trick,” the reformed criminal king said.

“Okay. I give up. Who sent the DVDs?”

“The Clock King.”

“The Clock King?”

“He wants to meet me. I’m such a celebrity.”

“Why would you want to meet a crook like the Clock King?”

“Clock King has never sought an audience with me before. He sent the DVDs to butter me up for some reason,” King Tut excitedly explained. “He has no idea the episodes would enable me to see through a seven-year-old deception.”

“Why do you suppose the Clock King wants to see you, and why now?”

“I don’t know, but clear my schedule. We’re going to find out.”

“For what time shall I make his appointment?”

“We can’t meet the Clock King here. This office is totally unsuitable! Those cheap bean counters won’t even put my correct name on the door.”

“The door says, ‘DOCTOR WILLIAM OMAHA MACKELROY,’ in gold, block letters,” Alexandria pointed out. Then she saw her employer glance sharply at her and she shrugged helplessly.

“I could see if the faculty lounge is available.”

“No, Alexandria. My nearest subterranean palace would be a much better venue.”

“When was the last time you set foot in that palace and where is it?”

“It’s been awhile, years, in fact,” King Tut replied, writing an address on a piece of paper and handing it to the girl.

“Won’t the whole place have to be cleaned before the meeting?”

“True. You will recruit a staff to attend to those mundane duties.”

“I really think this falls outside my job description.”

“Nonsense! You’re my executive assistant.”

“My duties are strictly associated with your professional life. You can hire your own household staff!”

“I’m a sovereign. My revelation over last weekend has compelled me to take my duties as a ruler more seriously. As, for the moment, you embody my entire staff, you will be a good royal subject and obey my royal commands!”

Alexandria took a deep breath. “Do I get a raise, Sire?”

The rotund royal let his eye travel from her feet, along her legs, across her abdomen, over her chest, where her bare arms were folded, and nod at the pretty face her dark hair framed. “Future salary and benefits are negotiable . . . and that reminds me about a treat I have for you."

“What?” the girl asked eagerly.

“Remember the discovery I made when the Dynamic Dingbats called on me to help them learn more about the Onyx Osprey?”

“I remember.” She remembered how Robin had seemed to enjoy speaking to her when the Dynamic Duo had called upon the faux monarch. She recalled how his eyes had followed her closely as she had stepped into the inner office to arrange the historic meeting between crime fighter and reformed arch-criminal. She had returned the grown-up Boy Wonder’s smile when she had passed him her phone number and been amazed a week later when she had not heard from him. ‘What was his problem?’ she had wondered ever since. There was, however, no need to concern King Tut with these recollections. She said, “You discovered an ancient formula for a supposedly mystical elixir, but I thought you were missing one key ingredient.”

“I was. We needed the venom of an asp.”

“I know you had initiated talks with appropriate University officials to get permission to keep exotic pets here at the office and had spoken to people from the Gotham City Zoo. Still, it’s hard for me to imagine how all of the complex issues you encountered could possibly have been resolved over the weekend.”

"Behold!” King Tut intoned, drawing aside a curtain to reveal a fish tank in which a dozen snakes slithered. “It’s so good to be back. My nocturnal visit to the zoo was so nostalgic. The act of reaching among these slithering beauties with a pair of tongs and extracting the most choice specimens really took me back to the good old days.”

“You stole them?”

“Alexandria, I am the King. That means everything, everywhere in Gotham City belongs to me, whether people realize it or not. I simply took direct possession of my pets here,” King Tut explained. “Following my excursion to the zoo, I brewed up a batch of the elixir for you to try.”

“Could I? I’ve been curious about it ever since you discovered the formula.”

King Tut nodded.

“The experience will be worthwhile for purely academic reasons, even if the elixir turns out to be only snake oil.”

“Good girl,” the King encouraged. Alexandria watched him pull a shot glass and an ornate bottle from a desk drawer. He filled the glass and moved it toward her.

She raised her glass and sniffed, wrinkling her nose. “Bottoms up!” she bravely said.

King Tut leaned toward her, watching expectantly as she tossed down the elixir. “How do you feel, Alexandria?” he asked.

“Why do you ask, Sire?”

“For my own reasons,” the monarch replied. “Answer the question!”

“I feel good. Better than I’ve felt in a few weeks, in fact. The coffee must be waking me up.”

“No,” King Tut disagreed, laughing. “It works!”

“What works?”

“The elixir. At least, the side effects seem to be real. What do you think of our ancient concoction?”

“It’s made me so happy I could kiss you.” King Tut grinned, opened his arms, and folded them around the coed after she moved around the desk and seated herself in the mountainous monarch’s lap. “What do you wish of me, Sire?” she breathlessly asked, once their kiss had broken.

“Wonderful,” King Tut enthused. “The elixir causes euphoria instantly and slowly erodes the will.” He took Alexandria’s face in his hands and gazed into her eyes. After a moment he blinked, realizing he had become momentarily lost in them. “I command you to recruit additional followers for your King and, together with them, prepare my palace for the reception of another sovereign.”

“My roommate, Amber, is meeting her study group for lunch. She took complete charge of the group because the others are all jocks. Those idiots took this particular class for a graduation requirement. I can slip your elixir into their food.”

“Good. Am I to understand you will do your King’s bidding shortly before lunch?”

“Yes, Sire.”

“Is there anything you need to do before that?”

“I should attend my morning classes, Sire.”

“Wouldn’t you rather attend your King?”

“Certainly, Sire,” the girl said, as King Tut slid his hands lightly over her body, drawing her against him more closely. “Fortunately, you have no appointments this morning.” As she spoke, her lips drew ever closer to his.

“Oh, it is good to be king,” the monarch softly said. As Alexandria began responding to her ruler’s touch, he thought, ‘While my palace is being prepared, the nectar placing new Tutlings in my power can be crystallized into a powder and measured into individual doses to be encapsulated. This procedure can then be systematized for mass production. Now, however, I have other much more pressing concerns.’

The sun was near the top if its daily arc when Alexandria reluctantly left her contented ruler to obey his nefarious, royal command. As he watched her step from his office grasping the ornate bottle containing the ancient concoction, he smiled, realizing he had placed the initial steps of his latest criminal campaign in very capable hands. He laughed uproariously.

Barbara Gordon woke well after noon and spent an hour soaking her bruised body in a steaming bath before being willing to consider facing the day. She arrived at work after a light brunch and sequestered herself in her office where she disposed of her entire day’s work with characteristic rapidity.

She then began to concentrate on crimefighting. It seemed to her Queenie had said something significant before leaving Batgirl to die. ‘What exactly was it?’

Barbara reviewed the scene in her mind. Just before the henchwoman’s departure, Queenie had said, “I pulled the Batgirlcycle inside the tower. There’s no point leaving stray clues lying around for the cops. Her bike is even more conspicuous than the truck or the limo. Still, we should be going. Goodbye, Batgirl. Your everlasting end will be music to our ears.”

“The truck or the limo,” Barbara muttered, as she tapped at her computer keyboard. ‘The armored truck would have been cleaned out and abandoned somewhere long ago,’ Barbara reasoned. ‘That leaves a limousine . . . and Clock King won’t be able to avoid leaving a paper trail as long as he chooses to ride in such a vehicle!’

She initiated a computer search of limousines citizens of Gotham City had purchased within the past five years. Barbara also checked any current rentals of limos, as well as any reported thefts. She then narrowed her search further by eliminating citizens who were simply replacing previously-owned limousines and arrived at Doctor William Walters.

Barbara sent the police an e-mail after finding the address Doctor Walters had given when he bought his car. It proved to be the site of a condemned apartment, which had been demolished. Barbara’s other Internet inquiries about the Doctor yielded nothing. “He’s the invisible man,” she muttered.

After work, Barbara underwent her tantalizing transformation and began to follow the homing device in her primary utility belt. Soon, she arrived at the Chessman Hotel and threw a Batrope to the roof.

When she had climbed halfway up the building, a big, white-haired man wearing a blue blazer over a light blue, collared shirt and an Oakland Raiders baseball cap leaned out the window.

“Hey, Al!” the man called into the room, as he took off his cap and threw it onto the bed. “You won’t believe this. I was busy breaking down film for the latest edition of my video game when I heard this strange noise. ZING!

Batgirl was too far away from the conversation to hear the man’s unseen companion’s reply.

“Anyway,” the man continued, “I looked up and out the window in time to see something catch on the roof a few floors above us. Then, I looked down. That’s when it hit me. BOOM! This is incredible! Batgirl is climbing up the outside wall on a rope!”

Once again, Batgirl could not hear the man’s partner reply.

“Hey, Batgirl! Seeing you is the highlight of our trip to Gotham City! Listen, I always wanted to ask you: Do you get any of your crimefighting gear from Ace Hardware?”

Batgirl paused in her climb and smiled. “Well, Coach, to be honest, I have a pretty tight budget. I tend to pick up my more exotic equipment secondhand.”

“I know the feeling. That’s why I used to spend most of my second career working on weekends and holidays. Now, however, I find I myself working most often on Monday nights.”

“I’ve always thought you were the best, Coach.”

“Say, that’s very kind of you. Thanks! You know, if you aren’t too busy later, you’re welcome to swing by for some dinner. I ordered a whole turkey with all the trimmings. We’ll have plenty of food.”

“I’m sure you will. Thank you for the generous invitation. I’m afraid I’ll have to decline. Crimefighting takes more time than one might think and I’d hate to pull you away from researching the Gotham City Gladiators.”

“Hey, I hear the Joker tried to get a job as a broadcaster with the Gladiators. Is that true?”

“It’s true, but they didn’t really have a broadcasting position open at the time.”

“I had no idea the Joker knew anything about football.”

“I don’t think the Gladiators have any idea whether he does to this day. He hasn’t broadcasted a single game.”

“What finally happened?”

“I’m afraid that’s a longer story than I have time to tell right now.”

“Well, look me up when you have more time to talk. You can reach me–”

“You’re John Madden. I’ll be able to find you. Don’t worry.”

“Good luck, Batgirl,” the legendary coach and broadcaster said, waving.

Batgirl continued her climb and smiled, turning back to see the big man gazing after her. She favored him with a winning smile.

‘I’ve never in my life seen a cheerleader who has anything on her,’ Madden thought.

Unaware of Batgirl’s approach, Queenie modeled a short, royal blue dress for her admiring companions. “What do you guys think?”

“I think it’s lovely,” Jack O’Shea said.

“That’s what he said about the last one!” she complained, pointing at Spade.

“How many royal blue dresses do you plan to buy?” Spade curiously asked.

“At least two dozen,” the blonde beauty replied. "I was perfectly happy with the dress I wore yesterday. Something like it would be perfectly suitable for tonight’s audience, but I need to be sure I’ve found the right one. You brutes are lucky I could wear a robe to this exclusive boutique in the hotel.”

“Be fair, Queenie,” Jack O’Shea protested.

"What did you two suppose I would wear shopping after you tore my entire wardrobe to shreds?”

“You told us you felt overdressed in the Jacuzzi,” Spade retorted. “What did you expect?”

“Your ‘entire wardrobe’ was a bikini,” Jack O’Shea pointed out. “You could have been arrested if you wore that shopping.”

Queenie grinned. “In that case, it’s a good thing I’m investing in some new clothes, isn’t it?”

The men shrugged helplessly.

“The fact is, Queenie,” Jack O’Shea diplomatically said, “it all looks good on you.”

“I disagree,” Spade said. “She looks fabulous, dressed or otherwise.”

“You guys are the best!”

A sudden crash interrupted the girl running the boutique, who wheeled another rack of dresses for Queenie to try on. She glanced at the window, which had broken, and promptly fainted.

“I have a new wardrobe in mind for all of you!” Batgirl said, climbing through the window; striding into the room; and facing the criminal trio with hands on her shapely hips. “It’s a complete ensemble in prison stripes!”

The trio stared back at her. “No!” Spade said. “This can’t be happening.”

“You’re dead!” Jack O’Shea said, pointing at her as his jaw went slack. “You’ve been dead all day.”

“It was a nice try, but you failed,” Batgirl confidently said. “Surrender!”

Queenie recovered from her incredulity and swallowed. “Very impressive, Batgirl. I hope we can provide you with an exit to rival your entrance, which really was good. As to your suggestion, black and white stripes won’t work for me at all. Boys, vanquish our uninvited visitor!” As Queenie spoke, she dragged the fainted boutique employee to the nearest wall.

The blonde woman’s command snapped Jack O’Shea and Spade from the shock of discovering Batgirl had survived her brief, unscheduled visit to the Thomas Wayne Memorial Clock Tower that morning. They warily approached her, crouching.

Batgirl considered Spade, who had fought her more often in the past, her more dangerous opponent. She stepped past him and slammed her elbow into the back of his neck. As Batgirl pivoted, Jack O’Shea moved past his partner and walked into one of her famous, Las Vegas showgirl kicks.

As O’Shea fell, Spade pulled Batgirl’s plant leg from beneath her and regretted it as she literally fell on top of him. Her knees pounded his pelvis and her fists did a number on his chin as she straightened, leaving the thug moaning.

Jack O’Shea dove for her as she took up her stance once again. Batgirl caught him by his collar and the seat of his pants, pivoting and flinging the journalist aside. He hit the wall and came at her again, but she was waiting. Her arm caught him across the throat and slammed him to the floor. Batgirl dropped onto him, slamming her knee into his ribs and firing fists into his face each time his head bounced off the floor.

When the fight was over, Batgirl straightened, regarding Queenie. “Then there was one,’ Batgirl said.

“You’re forgetting something, Batgirl.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Oh. Well, in that case, you should be prepared to deal with your own Bat-Gas!” The blonde had moved to a peg in the wall upon which her fur coat hung and pulled a hand from a pocket. She threw something to the floor that exploded into a plume of smoke that quickly enveloped Batgirl.

The Curved Crusader knew her filter mask would be useless and retreated a step. Her only hope was the fresh air coming through the open window. Queenie, however, moved behind Batgirl, having divined her intention, and cut her legs from beneath her.

Queenie’s hands settled onto her hips and a knowing, wicked smile spread across her face as she regarded her fallen enemy. Batgirl tried to rise, but collapsed helplessly at Queenie’s feet. The henchwoman laughed as her male cohorts struggled to stand at her side and she turned Batgirl’s prone body over carelessly with one foot.

“Bat-Gas is very potent,” Jack O’Shea observed. “It really did a job on her.”

“Too bad it wasn’t fatal,” Spade added.

“Batgirl forgot about my experience with utility belts,” Queenie crowed. “Joker once made his own to combat Batman’s and I helped him out of it a few times. Now, we’ll need to compensate for the shortcoming of this gas, which you’ve identified, Spade. Whatever fate we devise for Batgirl can’t be too elaborate,” the henchwoman warned, glancing at the clock on the wall. “Unfortunately, we don’t have much time before the Clock King requires our presence.”

“What about the Jacuzzi up in the room?” Jack O’Shea asked. “If she’s bound in there, helpless, she could cook for hours, or even a week.”

Queenie glanced down at her victim and smiled. “Interesting, Jack. Leaving her simmering sounds simple enough. Now, Spade, do you have an alternative idea for Batgirl’s demise that will keep our happy memories of the hot tub untainted?”

“Well, I once suggested making a street pizza out of Batgirl,” Spade recalled. “My employer at the time, though, felt she deserved some kind of delayed, torturous treatment before the end.”

“Defenestrating her sounds good to me,” Jack O’Shea said, “nice, quick and simple. We tried something lingering and complicated this morning and it failed miserably. I don’t think Batgirls can fly, but the idea of finding out for sure has piqued my scientific curiosity.”

Spade nodded.

“Okay, we’re up high enough to arrange her maiden flight,” Queenie enthused. She took the utility belt from her coat pocket and draped it over one shoulder. As the men picked up their intended victim, the blonde reached down to manipulate Batgirl’s utility belt buckle and added the second to her collection.

Queenie knocked broken glass from the window frame. As she did, Jack O’Shea leaned out the window. “Say,” he said, “there’s a Bat-rope dangling along the wall.”

“See if you can get it loose,” Queenie said. “We don’t want her trying to grab it on the way down after you guys literally throw her out.”

“I can’t do that and hold on to her, too!” Jack O’Shea complained.

“Oh, let me!” Queenie said. “We’ve got to hurry. Rhea will be here soon to pick us up.”

As Queenie jiggled the Batrope, Batgirl moaned. “What’s happening?” she mumbled.

Finally successful in her task, Queenie turned, held up a hand and addressed the captive. “I’ve defeated you again, Batgirl.”

“Queenie?” Batgirl focused on the henchwoman until recognition dawned. “If you work for the Clock King, he’ll eventually get upset with you after another attempt to murder me, particularly after it fails.”

“This time, you’re going down, Batgirl,” Spade confidently said.

“All the way to the ground,” Jack O’Shea concurred. “The fall won’t kill you, but the sudden stop . . .”

“I knew your intentions wouldn’t be honorable,” Batgirl dryly said, once her attackers had stopped laughing.

Batgirl had no illusions about her captors’ plans. She often wondered why no one bent on her destruction hadn’t simply heaved her out of a tall building before. Shooting her was the other straightforward means her enemies might have used against her, but the razor-sharp edge of a Batarang had dissuaded a gunwoman from simply blowing Batgirl away before. On this occasion, Batgirl knew, without her utility belt, she would be doomed if she was thrown from the Chessmen Building.

The Riddler had tried to deal this same fate to Robin, but he had managed to save himself by catching a Batarang in his teeth. No rope would miraculously come streaking to Batgirl’s rescue this day, regardless of her good dental hygiene. She began to struggle fiercely in her captors’ grip. She squirmed, twisted, kicked, and bucked as the men tightened their grip, firmly maintaining their hold on her.

“What a spitfire!” Jack O’Shea said.

“Let’s get to it,” Spade said, beginning to swing the captive.

“Down, down and away--forever,” Queenie dreamily said. “Get rid of her, guys!”

“One!” Spade said. Batgirl’s swinging body gained momentum.

“Two!” Jack O’Shea gleefully said.

“Three!” They let go of Batgirl, who vanished out the window. “Happy landings, Flatgirl!” Queenie called. “She might be Splatgirl in a second. I’m not sure . . . yet.” The blonde laughed and flung their victim’s utility belts out the window. “Out of the way, boys,” she urged. “I want to feast my eyes on Batgirl’s bloody remains before we go.” The two men parted, letting Queenie pass between them. They then crowded on either side to look down out the window.

The murderous trio stood momentarily still, staring silently at the scene below them.

“I don’t believe it!” Jack O’Shea said, shattering the spell.

“What rotten luck!” Spade incredulously exclaimed.

Queenie swore. “I can’t believe we forgot about the pool!” she fumed.

“I wonder how deep that pool is? She might have died, anyway . . . or her head might have hit the water hard enough to induce unconsciousness,” Jack O’Shea mused.

“At the very least, the impact might have stunned her," Spade ventured. “She could drown.”

“If our luck were that good, she’d be dead already,” Queenie snapped, turning from the scene. “Let’s get out of here. This place will be crawling with cops in a matter of minutes.”

Batgirl had noticed the pool when she climbed up the hotel wall, and in midair, desperately used her cape to slow her descent as much as possible, as well as to effect her path. In addition, the acrobatic heroine tried to align her body so she would enter the pool feet first.

Although the hotel had removed its high diving board years ago because of liability issues, the deep end had been left alone. This fact saved Batgirl’s life.

KER-SPLASH!

Pain shocked Batgirl into immobility as her boots slammed into the drain at the bottom of the pool. The impact was jarring, but not damaging. Her high heels, however, impaled the drain covering.

Reaching down, she unzipped her boots and freed her feet before pushing off the bottom of the pool and propelling herself rapidly to the water’s surface. She noticed two golden girdles sinking on either side of her as her legs churned and her arms swept through the water. Batgirl filled her lungs greedily the second her head emerged from the pool. She paused, savoring life briefly, before diving to retrieve her utility belts. These she buckled around her waist so they crisscrossed one another as she first swam and then walked to the shallow end of the pool. She stepped from the water like a purple and gold Venus as awed onlookers stared.

With a wry smile, Batgirl ironically noted the sign prominently on display:

She made her way to the Batgirlcycle as a limousine pulled up in front of the hotel. The Defendress of Gotham quickly pulled her spare boots from the Batgirlcycle’s secret compartment and put them on. She kick-started her vehicle, then followed Jack O’Shea, Queenie, and Spade from a discreet distance.

Presently, Batgirl was aware of the yellow roadster Doctor Liz Shaw had driven that morning pulling behind her as she continued following the limousine. A glance in her rearview mirror told the heroine the shapely scientist sat beside the Clock King, who was driving.

Both criminals had dressed formally, Clock King having donned a frilled, white shirt; a black suit; matching gloves; and an elegant, black cloak with a red lining and Doctor Shaw wearing a warm coat over a brown skirt and red turtleneck. She had curled the hair atop her head, letting the rest frame her face while falling over her shoulders in twin cascades.

Having been caught between the roadster and the limo, Batgirl could not continue to shadow the limousine without the criminals’ knowledge. She therefore accelerated and pulled a tracer from one of her utility belts, passing and flinging it at the ostentatious vehicle. She grinned as the magnetic device remained stuck in place while she quickly circled the block. Behind the roadster, Batgirl remotely monitored the location of the limousine as she followed the well-dressed supervillain and his attractive assistant.

‘How will Clock King react? Can I capture him? How might his employees respond to such a development?’

Clock King responded to Batgirl’s pursuit directly, producing a device vaguely resembling a screwdriver and extending it toward the crossing gate as the car roared over a set of railroad tracks. As Batgirl continued after him, the gate fell across her arms with enough force to pull her hands from the handlebars of the Batgirlcycle. Her chest slammed into the gate an instant later and the bike skidded out from under her.

She fell to the ground in breathless agony, lying still for a full minute as the Clock King approached. Pride demanded Batgirl regain her feet before he reached her and she did so painfully, resting her hands on her knees as her chest heaved. Defiance glinted angrily in her narrowed eyes as she watched Clock King.

He stopped, regarding the heroine as she straightened and rested her hands on her shapely hips.

“I see our truce is over!” Batgirl called. ‘Speaking is not as painful as I feared it might be.’

She and Clock King had agreed their battle of wits would resume upon their next meeting after he had saved her life and given her Riddler on a proverbial silver platter.

“As we agreed, the gloves are off,” Clock King said. “First, I must congratulate you on your survival this morning, and now, I’ll respectfully give you one final chance to walk away from our battle.”

“That’s not going to happen, Clock King!” Batgirl replied.

“I urge you to carefully consider this opportunity. You see–”

“Listen. Your assistant may have used me for a guinea pig yesterday, but her experiments and your plans are coming to an end!”

“Oh, I very much doubt that,” Clock King kindly said. He dipped his hand into a pocket and tossed something to Batgirl, which she instinctively caught. Glancing at her hand, she realized the villain had thrown her a pocket watch.

“What’s this?” Batgirl asked.

“A little something that will tell you your time has come in exactly three seconds,” her enemy replied, matching her pose. “I gave you a chance, my dear.”

A plume of colored gas issued from the pocket watch as Batgirl began her retort. She could not help but inhale it. Batgirl did her best to fight the lightheadedness she instantly experienced, but inevitably collapsed, being dragged helplessly to the ground by her body’s deadweight. Seconds later, the heroine was unconscious.

Doctor Liz Shaw wheeled the Batgirlcycle beside the body. “Well,” she said, “how soon does the next train come?”

“Less than fifteen minutes,” the Clock King replied, consulting his watch. “You seem rather bloodthirsty.”

“Not at all,” Doctor Shaw replied. “Batgirl was one of my test subjects when we last encountered her. What does a scientist usually do with a specimen following the experiment? Besides, she’s supposed to have been killed this morning.”

“I see your point, but I have too much regard for Batgirl to dispose of her while she is utterly unconscious.”

“We could wake her up before we leave. With two utility belts, I’m sure there’s plenty of shackles available to render her helpless. She’ll probably have a few minutes to savor the end before it comes.”

“You may be right, Liz,” the Clock King thoughtfully conceded. “We, however, are behind on our crimetable.”

“Doesn’t Batgirl’s destruction constitute a warranted delay?” Doctor Shaw demanded, settling her hands onto her hips. “She did destroy the first Ace this morning—our Ace.”

“Ace was a mere machine–”

“You just offered her a chance to walk away,” Doctor Liz Shaw pointed out. “She refused. Now, she deserves no mercy.” The villain’s assistant let her voice become husky. “Besides, what criminal has ever had the golden opportunity to arrange for Batgirl to be utterly diced in a matter of seconds before his or her eyes?”

“I believe Falseface–”

“He tried to kill the Dynamic Duo! The time to arrange for Batgirl’s destruction is slipping through our fingers, your Majesty. You did decree her time had come.”

Clock King meditatively stroked his chin, regarding Batgirl solemnly. “I wonder.”

“Just don’t take too long,” Doctor Liz Shaw advised.

“King Tutankhamen ruled Egypt centuries ago. We have a meeting with him for which we’ll be late, unfortunately. Public executions were much more common in the Pharaoh’s day. How do you suppose he would eliminate our enticing enemy if we were to turn her over to his tender mercies?”

“Why would you consider such a course of action, knowing you could dispose of Batgirl so easily? We left her fate in others’ hands this morning and she’s still here. Besides, isn’t employing the public transit system for nefarious purposes just the sort of thing for which you are known?”

“You’re right, of course, Liz. Still, we are behind schedule and Batgirl would be a worthy tribute to our new ally.”

“You want to give Batgirl to Tutankhamen as a tribute?”

“My goal in this competition with Batgirl is to outwit her. Doing as you suggest, while she is so utterly helpless, does nothing to accomplish that goal. King Tutankhamen, however, has a well-known fondness for torture which could set any of several interesting scenarios into motion.”

“So, Tutankhamen likes torture,” Doctor Shaw thoughtfully said. “My experiments with Batgirl are complete, yet some additional observations could be quite beneficial, under the right circumstances. Are you sure King Tutankhamen will kill her?”

“When he does, he will do so much more slowly than the train would. I’ve no idea, however, what he’ll do to her first.”

“Finding out might be interesting,” Liz Shaw decided, folding one arm across her chest and resting her chin in her other hand.

“Shall we put her in the car then?” Clock King eagerly asked.

Doctor Liz Shaw grinned. “By all means.”

“Splendid. Would you like to drive the Batgirlcycle to what will likely be Batgirl’s final destination?”

“Not wearing this skirt I wouldn’t,” the royal rogue’s companion said, as they lifted Batgirl between them.

“What an interesting machine,” the Clock King murmured, mounting the bike moments later and engaging the kick-starter.

Later, when Batgirl revived, she found herself lying on her back looking up into the faces of two women. The first had naturally dark skin and hair as black as night, while the darkness of her companion’s skin was due to the suntan her golden hair showed off to excellent effect. Both were young, pretty, and in marvelous shape, but their garb was the most striking thing about them. Each wore a golden skirt falling from her bare abdomen half way down her calves. These garments covered their lower bodies while concealing none of their comely curves. Their breasts swelled against gold-trimmed, halter tops while equally splendid, golden cloaks augmented with a royal blue, gold-inlaid half circles of cloth extended from each woman’s neck and draped her otherwise bare shoulders. They had accessorized with golden bracelets and tiaras each adorned with a single asp.

“Where am I?” Batgirl weakly asked, recovering from the knockout gas.

The gold-garbed visions separated, giving Batgirl her first glimpse of the bearded, fat monarch seated upon a raised throne, wearing his own Egyptian ensemble. A variety of fruit had been heaped around carafes of various iced beverages on a low table between Batgirl and the enormous Egyptian. Clock King, Doctor Liz Shaw, Queenie, Rhea, Jack O’Shea, and Spade reclined on sumptuous pillows arranged around the table.

“You are in the Pharaoh’s subterranean palace,” the blonde woman softly said.

“The Pharaoh,” Batgirl murmured. “That means Clock King has delivered me into the clutches of—King Tut!”

The brunette darted a warning glance at her blonde companion.

“Silence, Amber!” the man on the throne bellowed. “You have not been given leave to speak!”

The blonde hung her head.

King Tut continued, “You and Alexandria will remove Batgirl’s belts and cape. Bring them to your royal master!”

“Yes, Sire,” the pretty pair simultaneously said. Batgirl felt the buckles of both utility belts disengaged and her cape removed from her shoulders.

As the women retreated, Batgirl realized a tall dome of curved, thin, metal bars surrounded her and this fact was literally slammed home when the dark-skinned brunette closed the cage door loudly and brushed her fingers against something Batgirl could not see.

The women slowly approached the throne, passing the faux Pharaoh’s guests and bowing low to set Batgirl’s possessions at their master’s feet.

“Well done, my succulent slaves!” King Tut bellowed. “Let the royal presentation now take place!”

Clock King stood, moving to a position facing the throne. “Have I your leave to speak, Oh great Pharaoh?” he formally asked.

“Get on with it!” King Tut commanded.

“Right,” Clock King said. Then, he intoned, “I hereby present Batgirl for your Highness’ entertainment, with my most sincere compliments. I hope she proves to be a worthy tribute.”

“Well said, your Highness,” King Tut complimented. “It’s such a pleasant change from the constant adoration and endless groveling I must ordinarily endure for my subjects. As for the tribute, I’m sure she is more versatile than the fruits of a harvest or the average, enormous hunk of cattle, to which I’ve grown accustomed over the centuries.”

Alexandria and Amber glanced at one another and the Clock King smiled benevolently.

“What is the meaning of this, Tut?” Batgirl demanded, pulling herself to her feet inside the locked cage and savagely shaking the bars.

“Alexandria and Amber,” King Tut said, ignoring Batgirl and beckoning the women to rise and flank him before taking up enormous feathers. A gesture from the faux monarch brought both women into his arms as they perched prettily on the arms of his throne. “Tell me, my dears, what would you have me do with yon captive?” King Tut jerked a thumb in Batgirl’s direction. “She is your sovereign’s mortal enemy, yet methinks she shall not be mortal much longer.”

”Sire,” Amber said, “if the great Pharaoh has no use for Batgirl, perhaps she should simply be executed, or your love of torture might be indulged.”

“Would the Pharaoh like his enemy’s woman boiled in oil?” Alexandria asked, casting a baleful glance in Batgirl’s direction.

“You’re both so very practical,” King Tut said, smirking. “Unfortunately, we have bad memories of the Royal Oil Boiling Room at the abandoned boiler works in the old Boyleston section of town. The Bat Brat was once to perish there, but the Cowled Creep literally crashed the proceedings as the countdown concluded. Drat!”

“I am so sorry to have reminded you of the tragedy, Sire,” Alexandria apologized, hanging her head. “You could always have her boiled somewhere else.”

King Tut shook his head. “‘Tis a worthy suggestion, Alexandria.” The girl instantly brightened.

“You know, Sire,” Amber said, “if you would not have boiling oil devour your trophy, perhaps something else would work equally well in its stead. Alexandria, did you feed the asps?”

“Now that you mention it, Amber, I think I may have neglected them.” Both women glanced at Batgirl and turned to the fat Pharaoh, grinning wolfishly.

“I’ve had such inferior queens in the past,” King Tut thought. Aloud, he commanded, “Alexandria, sound the gong!” As he leered after her while she moved to obey him, his thoughts drifted to other matters, ‘The Tutlings should have been summoned earlier! I must decree more Royal ceremonies be held. They’re fun!’

The dark-skinned beauty posed briefly at the instrument against one wall before taking up the royal mallet and striking the gong. Tutlings gathered to form an attentive semicircle around their leader, following the royal summons. Their mountainous master extended one arm and pointed to the floor. “Let yon pit be revealed!” Two of the henchmen moved to a place on the floor beneath the cage and drew back a pair of bolts. They then bent and removed a pair of panels, which had covered a large, dark hole in the floor.

“Amber, my dear, fetch the asps and introduce them into the pit!” the enormous Egyptian emperor commanded.

“As you wish, Sire,” the blonde in Egyptian garb said. Moving away from him, she unveiled the fish tank that had been in Professor Mackelroy’s office and carried it carefully to the edge of the pit. She knelt and set the glass enclosure on the floor before withdrawing one asp at a time with tongs and dropping the hissing creatures into the darkness below. When she had finished, she returned the fish tank to its place.

“Shall I illuminate the diners, Sire?” Amber asked.

“Go right ahead.” Amber moved to a switch beside the pit and threw it. Lights blazed in the darkness below to reveal the occupants of the snake pit slithering around, exploring their new environment.

“All we have to do now is lower the meal to the diners,” Amber excitedly said.

“Delicious,” Alexandria agreed.

“We have a more engaging notion, girls,” King Tut revealed.

Batgirl realized the full extent of her helplessness inside the domed prison. “I asked you a question!” she defiantly said, retreating a step and regarding her captors with her hands on her shapely hips. “Now, what’s going on?”

“Batgirl,” King Tut said, addressing the captive who had been placed in his custody for the first time. “You’re about to provide a tasty meal for my royal asps.”

“I doubt it, Tut!”

The rotund royal held up a hand. “You do, however, have an opportunity to delay their dinner. I’m sure you noticed you’re standing in a cage positioned directly above my snake pit. What is less obvious are the motion sensors rigged to lower the cage. Once I’ve turned the sensors on, as long as you keep moving, you’ll stay right where you are. Otherwise, you’re going down and will be devoured shortly after touching the bottom of the pit.” Everyone in the room except Batgirl laughed. “Four short feet extending from the bottom of the cage will keep it from crushing the diners. The feet will also permit the snakes to join you in the cage and enjoy their tasty meal.”

“What exactly do you mean, I can keep moving to stay where I am?” Batgirl seriously inquired.

King Tut cast a glance at his royal court, then smiled evilly. “I propose to stage an entertainment for my guests. You, my dear Batgirl, shall provide that entertainment, and quite ably, too, I expect!”

“In your dreams, Tut!”

“That’s KING TUT!” The enormous Egyptian bellowed. Composing himself, he continued, “The choice is, of course, yours. You may just stand there and descend into my snake pit immediately, to provide my royal pets with a delicious dinner, or you may shimmy, sway, and shake until you utterly exhaust yourself, at least delaying the inevitable. While you consider your decision, I command that there be music—BAT-MUSIC!”

“You’ll never get away with this, Tut!”

“You think not? Despite your feelings toward me, I imagine you’ll do everything in your power to stay alive. That means when the music starts, you will dance. You will dance and obey me, not because you want to, but because I‘ve given you no other choice.” King Tut’s eyes narrowed as he glared at Batgirl. “My royal commands will be obeyed. I am the master and you will obey me.” King Tut’s voice fell as he murmured, “For that matter, so will the rest of Gotham City before I’ve finished.” After casting a wary look at the Clock King, his voice boomed. “TUTLINGS, DO MY BIDDING!”

After a mere second, pulsating, rhythmic music began.

“Throw the switch, Amber!” King Tut commanded. Without a word, the blonde henchgirl gripped a switch beside the one that had turned on the lights and moved it into the ‘on’ position.

Batgirl instantly felt the cage in which she stood rise infinitesimally and tremble. She took a second step back and encountered the other side of the cage behind her.

King Tut leered eagerly at her and enthused, “DANCE, BATGIRL—DANCE FOR OUR AMUSEMENT!”

“You leave me no choice, King Tut,” the trapped heroine quietly said.

“Respect at last,” King Tut said contentedly, leaning back in his throne. “Fan me!” Instantly, Amber and Alexandria returned, took up their enormous feathers, and obeyed. King Tut and everyone at his court laughed, as Batgirl raised her arms and began swaying her hips in place. As the beat of the music became more intense, she began to incorporate steps into her movements inside the cage. Without her cape, the skin tight lurex of her costume conveyed every movement of her body, however slight, to the tantalized audience, eagerly examining her perfidious plight.

Everyone in the room knew Batgirl had begun a deadly dance. Her movements transfixed the males and the females looked on in ghoulish glee, anticipating the moment when their ravishing rival for male attention exhausted herself. They all wondered how long Batgirl could dance before her inevitable descent into the snake pit. This eagerly-expected event would conclude with Batgirl’s denouement, as King Tut’s asps made a meal of the marvelous-looking morsel the faux monarch had been given.

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