My mom picked me up at the Metropolis airport. I was numb with exhaustion and painkillers, which was probably why the sight of her coiffed red hair and drawn, anxious face inspired more relief than wariness. Any relief was short-lived, however. Mom had never been affectionate or gentle; today was no exception.

"Look at you," she said, taking in my unstyled hair and my pale, makeup-deficient face. "You look awful, Lois Joanne. What in heaven's name have you done? Don't tell me you went back to Kabul without your world-famous bulletproof vest."

"No, Mom," I said, barely able to hold up my heavy duffle bag another second. "I . . . I got hypothermia. I was in Canada and I got hypothermia."

I may not have had much of a relationship with my mom, but it still bothered me, the way I could lie to her so easily.

"You wouldn't have had hypothermia if you had yourself a better coat than that one," Mom said, brushing her hand contemptuously against the coat given to me at the Alert hospital. My parka, with the big bloodstained hole in its side, had never been returned to me. But I kept my mouth shut and didn't argue with my mother; she was the one person in the world who didn't need to know what had really happened to me.

I was glad when she dropped me off at my flat and left. I dropped the duffle bag with a crash on the kitchen's tile floor and dragged myself into my bedroom. I'd been in the air for hours. I was tired, cold, and in pain. I started taking off my clothes, fully intending to get into pajamas and sleep as long as my body wanted.

The bandage covering my wound itched, and as I sat on my bed I carefully peeled it off and stared at the ugly burned place. A thin scab was slowly forming over it. I dared not touch it, afraid to damage the new skin.

I know what I saw. My teeth clenched at the memory of Dr. Bryan scoffing at me. He thought I was out of my head, but I was attacked by that robot, and Joe did save my life. And I didn't thank him.

Tears burned my eyes and I blinked them away hurriedly. No use crying over spilled milk, Dad used to say. Better for me to focus on the assignment I wasn't able to complete on Ellesmere. The only pictures I'd saved onto my computer were of the work site itself and a few of the workers around the meltdown generator. What was I going to write for Perry now? "Oh yes, Mr. White, I walked right into an alien ship before it zoomed up into the sky like a regular Starship Enterprise!"

Well, heck, why not?

The thought made my head jerk up and I stared at myself in the mirror opposite my bed. If anybody was going to believe me, it was Perry White. He'd known me for years; he'd know I wasn't telling some sensational story just for the kicks.

"Fine," I said, throwing back my head and glaring at myself in the mirror. "Tomorrow, I'll just start writing down everything that happened. And when I go back to the bull-pen next week, I'll give it to Perry. At least I'll be able to give him something. I've never disappointed him with an overdue assignment or a half-baked story and I'm not about to start now."

If anyone saw me sitting there in my underwear talking to my reflection, they would've probably thought I needed psychiatric help. I laughed grimly at the thought and roused myself long enough to get into pajamas. I lay down gingerly on my back with the blankets up to my neck and was asleep in minutes.


I wrote the whole story in a rush of adrenaline and caffeine the next morning and spent the next week polishing it. The first thing I did before I ever started writing, however, was call Mr. Eubanks' office. After waiting on hold for a few minutes, I finally heard his voice.

"Jed Eubanks."

"Mr. Eubanks? This is Lois Lane, with the Daily Planet."

"Oh, Miss Lane!" His voice, while still friendly, sounded a little strained. "How are you? I heard you got a little beat up, had to be sent back to the States for medical attention."

"I'm doing better, thanks. I wanted to ask you about the incident with the, umm . . ." I tapped my pencil on my writing desk. "The discovery in the glacier. Whatever you want to call it."

He paused; when he spoke again, it was in a lowered voice. "Miss Lane, I've been asked not to speak of that incident to anyone outside this base."

I took a deep breath. "I understand. Could I ask you about something else, then? I was wondering if you'd heard from one of your foremen, Joe Wilder. I heard from Colonel Hardy that he disappeared from the base."

Again Mr. Eubanks paused, and this time when he got to talking, he sounded irritated—but not with me. "I had high hopes for that young man, Miss Lane. He was a good sort, respectful, clean-cut, a hard worker. We haven't been able to find him, and I'm startin' to think he was in the wrong place at the wrong time, if you know what I mean."

"Oh," I said, "you mean you think he was killed in the 'earthquake.' "

"Yes, ma'am. But I've also discovered in the course of tryin' to contact his next of kin and all that, that there was never any Joe Wilder of Seattle, Washington. Heck, the man didn't even have a d— Social Security card, or at least not a legitimate one. God knows who he really was. I just hope I don't get into a mess with the Defense Department for letting a man with a false identity onto a top-secret government base."

I knew I should've been stunned and horrified, but I could only mumble an "I'm sorry, I hope you get it cleared up soon" and get off the phone as quickly as I could. It didn't surprise me at all that Joe Wilder was a façade.

Ellesmere was briefly in the news on Friday. I stared at the television, biting my thumbnail, while a grim-looking general by the name of Swanwick addressed questions about the mysterious object that had, according to an anonymous tip to CNN, broken free of a glacier on NORTHCOM territory.

"No, there was no ship, alien or otherwise, on that island," General Swanwick said, narrowing his eyes at the reporter in front of him. "All reports from the base on Ellesmere are telling me they now believe it was just an anomaly in the ice caused by the glacier's gradual development. I don't think anyone needs to be worrying about Ice Age-era UFO's or anything like that."

"You weren't there," I snapped at the TV. "Ask Colonel Hardy, he'll tell you what happened. For heaven's sake, ask me! I saw the darned thing before it ever got out of the glacier!"

But then I stopped, gulped. Maybe Colonel Hardy wasn't even on Ellesmere anymore. And I might not have a desk at The Daily Planet pretty soon if the publishers found out their Pulitzer-prize-winning Lois Lane believed this rumor about an alien spaceship.

By Monday morning I was nervous and trying to convince myself I wasn't. My nails were all bitten down to the quick, but I did my hair as nicely as I knew how and even put on a skirt. My article was printed, double-spaced, stapled at the corner. Sticking it a manila folder and giving myself one last look in the mirror, I strode out of the flat with my jaw clenched until it gave my a headache and I had no choice but to relax.

"Come on in, Lois," Perry said when I opened the door of his office. He stood up, shook my hand. "Good to see you again. You don't look any worse for the wear."

I smiled. "Thanks, Perry."

He rubbed his hands together and sat down again. "So . . . you've refused to tell me much of your story over the phone. I'll have you know, I've been dying of curiosity all week long. I hope you have the whole scoop with you today."

"I do," I said, quickly sitting down in front of his desk and opening the manila folder. "I've been working on it all week. I've got pictures of the work site on my computer that we can use, too. Ready?"

"I couldn't be more ready," Perry said, and sat back with his fingertips pressed together.

My mouth was suddenly dry, and I cleared my throat as quietly as I could. This article had the whole story of my two brief days on the NORTHCOM base. Perry knew next to nothing of it beforehand. He was the only person in Metropolis who would soon know every detail I could remember.

I hardly dared look up at him while I read aloud. I could only force my voice to remain calm, concise, professionally soft. I couldn't afford to make this story sound more sensational than it already was with my tone or facial expressions. But as I reached the part about the attacking robot my adrenaline started racing, and I found myself standing up, pacing the floor, unable to sit still a second longer. I still avoided Perry's gaze.

" 'What various military experts surmised to be a Soviet-era submarine was actually something much more exotic. An isotope analysis of the surrounding ice bores suggests that the object had been trapped within the glacier for over 18,000 years. As for my rescuer? He disappeared during the object's departure. He was working with one of the private contractors assisting in the operation, but a subsequent background check revealed that his work history and identity had been falsified.'

" 'The questions raised by my rescuer's existence are frightening to contemplate. But I also know what I saw. And I have arrived at the inescapable conclusion that the object and its occupant did not originate on Earth.' "

I gripped the back of the chair I'd vacated and lifted my eyes to Perry for the first time. He sat on the edge of his desk now, his arms folded over his broad chest. He was silent a moment; then he took his glasses off and pinched his nose between his eyes.

"I can't publish that, Lois," he said quietly. "You might've hallucinated half of it."

A sick feeling settled in the pit of my stomach. "But what about the civilian contractor who corroborated my story? He saw it, Perry, and so did Colonel Hardy!"

"The Pentagon is denying there even was a ship."

"Of course they are!" I cried angrily. "That's what they're supposed to do—it's the Pentagon!"

Perry sighed, stood up, walked back around his desk towards his chair. I followed him, more desperate than I'd been in years for someone to listen to me.

"Come on, Perry, this is me we're talking about. I'm a Pulitzer-prize-winning reporter!"

"Then act like one," Perry snapped.

I glared at him and heard myself say something I never would've dreamed of saying to Perry White. "Print it, or I walk."

"You can't, you're under contract," he retorted. "And I'm not doing a story about aliens walking among us. Not gonna happen."

I clenched my teeth, released a long breath, and tucked the article beneath my arm. "Okay."

"I'm not gonna force you to take on anymore farm bills, but there is a kerfluffle in D.C. over a senator who's under investigation for money laundering." He handed me another manila folder without looking at me. "See if you can untangle that web. As soon as I find something more stimulating, I'll let you know."

"Okay," I said again, feeling a little like an automaton. Perry still avoided my gaze. I clamped my lips together and walked out of his office with my head held high. I wouldn't let any of my co-workers see my disappointment, not if I could help it.


What's the matter with you, Lane? Why are you so upset over this?

I was curled up on my couch, flipping through channels; nothing was on that interested me and so I turned off the television with a disgusted groan. As I checked my email on my phone, the question ran through my head again.

What's the matter? Why did it hurt so bad for Perry to stand there and tell you "No"?

Because he's never told me "No." He's always appreciated my work.

He didn't ever tell you he didn't appreciate this piece. Just that he wouldn't publish it. And you understand why he wouldn't publish it, too. He's protecting your reputation as much as his and the paper's. Not to mention your job and his, if the publishers found out about your story.

I rubbed my forehead. A little of my guilt and hurt softened, only to rear its head again with a new thought.

It's Joe who's really bothering me. I didn't thank him. He saved my life and I never thanked him.

Joe could be dead for all you know. Eubanks may be right: he might've been killed when that generator came down.

My fingers froze over my iPhone screen and I stared up at the ceiling. Joe wasn't dead. He was in that ship when it took off. He was probably the one who called and let Hardy and Company know where I was, because he knew he couldn't take me with him in his real-life Millenium Falcon and yet didn't want me to freeze to death on the ice, hurt and helpless. He was alive and he was out there somewhere, and I was duty-bound to thank him for what he did.

But if he is an alien, who's to say he's not in outer space right now? Even if you published that story, he'd never know.

No, he's not in outer space. He's alive, and he's on this planet.

Oh come on, Lane, how do you know?!

I sat up, wincing a little; the spot in my side was still sore after a week and a half. Every time I saw it, I thought about the ship and those bright-red laser beams honed in on my stomach. I heard Joe's voice, deep and gentle . . . "It's okay, you're going to be okay . . ."

No man had ever treated me with tenderness, not since my father died in a cold hospital room with nobody but me at his side. The only other men I'd ever come into contact with either treated me with professional tact, contempt, or flirtation. For a complete stranger to rescue me, heal me, comfort me, and then leave me without knowing how much I appreciated it—that tormented me.

Joe didn't have to stop and save me. His sneaking into the ice shelf at night lent credence to my assumption that he was trying to keep his whereabouts and actions secret. If he had just let the robot kill me, he wouldn't have risked the possibility of me getting out and telling people about the alien-man and the ship he flew off of Ellesmere Island.

As far as I knew, he saved my life simply because he was compassionate. I couldn't think of any other possible motivation. He'd only just met me; we exchanged words on the observation deck only a few hours before.

I owe him my life. I'm grateful and I have to know that he knows it. I have to get this story out there, even if it kills me. Even if I risk Perry chewing me out—or worse, firing me. It'll be worth knowing I've said "thank you," because it's the right thing to do. I think.


The Spectator was Metropolis' biggest tabloid magazine and its editor, cigarette-smoking, booze-drinking, trendy-glasses-wearing Glen Woodburn, was a former employee of The Daily Planet. I first met him when I was an intern and his arrogance turned me off immediately. When Perry fired him, no one was sorry, not even me. Woodburn had been a little too friendly with me in the coffee room one day and I barely got away without smacking him across the face.

Ten years later, I was a self-confident, well-known reporter and he was relegated to the gossip columns. I'm not saying I was vengeful, but there was a certain satisfaction to it.

And now here I was, walking through a bad part of town at night, in the most inconspicuous clothes I could find in my closet, on my way to meet Glen Woodburn. I even wore sunglasses in the dark and had left my hair down around my shoulders. I couldn't risk being recognized down here. I kept my head lowered as I walked through the doors of a seedy bar.

The smoke and reek of alcohol assaulted me as soon as I walked in. Trashy-looking characters lounged at the counter. I lifted my sunglasses and glanced around. The sight of Glen Woodburn sitting further down the counter eased my mind, and I walked briskly towards him.

"Hey," he said, moving his sports jacket off the stool beside his own. "Saved you a seat."

"Thanks," I said, pushing myself onto the stool.

"You okay?" he asked with a familiarity that made me bristle. "You're looking a little . . . overwraught."

"Well, you're looking a little flabby," I retorted.

He smirked. "Okay, okay. What was it you wanted to talk to me about?"

I leaned my elbows against the counter and glanced up at a television. The annual high-stakes basketball game between Metropolis and Gotham City was raging. Everyone in the bar seemed far more interested in it than in me or Woodburn.

"You heard I was on Ellesmere?" I whispered.

"Yeah . . ."

"I understand you've been publishing a few theories about what the military found there."

Woodburn smirked again. "You've been reading The Spectator? Didn't you once call it 'a creeping cancer of falsehoods?' Or am I misquoting you?"

I narrowed my eyes. "I stand by my words, Woodburn. But I need my story about Ellesmere published, and my editor won't do it."

"How come?"

"I'm about to prove to the world that those theories about a UFO buried beneath the ice are more accurate than anyone think. White won't publish the article because he doesn't want to risk compromising the Planet's integrity. That's fine. The Planet doesn't have to publish it."

With that, I reached into my purse and held up a tiny memory stick. Woodburn's eyebrows shot up.

"You, however, will have an eyewitness account from someone who saw the very ship the Pentagon's now denying ever existed," I whispered. "All I ask is that you publish it two months from now. That'll give me time to prepare for backlash from my publishers . . . and to see if I can't dredge up some more information about the man who saved my life. I have reason to suspect he's intimately connected with the origins of the ship."

"Okay," Woodburn said slowly. He reached for the memory stick, but I jerked it out his reach.

"Two months. Swear it," I hissed.

He nodded, swallowed. "Two months. It'll go in the August issue."

I held him with my eyes for a few seconds more, then extended the drive to him. He stashed it in his wallet.

"You hold to that promise and I'll feed you my story about that man I mentioned, as soon as I get enough info."

Now he was the one to narrow his eyes at me. "Why?"

"Because I want my mystery man to know I know the truth about him," I replied. I snapped my purse shut, forced a tight little smile, and slid off the stool. "See you later, Woodburn."