4.



At eight-thirty a.m. Malcolm Ross was awakened by the doorbell. His head felt as though a Norse giant had borrowed it overnight to use as a football. He stumbled out of bed into the hallway and pressed the 'answer' button before it occurred to him that it could be a reporter.

"Whoesset?"

"Post," said a woman's voice.

"Thanks."

Malcolm grabbed his keys and opened the front door. At the last possible moment he remembered that he was stark naked. He returned to the bedroom for his dressing gown and staggered down into the hallway to the post-box. He was most of the way there when he recalled that it was Sunday. No postal deliveries on Sunday.

Nevertheless there was something in his box. It was a small thin book-shaped something in a padded envelope sealed with adhesive tape. On his way up the stairs Malcolm noticed two things about the packet which were at least as strange as a Sunday delivery. First, it was addressed in large block capitals to Thor Odinsson. Second, the adhesive tape had 'Westminster City Hospital' printed all over it.

Malcolm shrugged. A thought occurred to him; he prodded the package very hard. It felt real; but then, the apparition in the hallway had been solid enough to knock him over backwards. When he returned to the flat there was no sign of his guest, so he left the packet on the coffee table in the living room with a note which explained how it had arrived. He also wrote that he could be back from the hospital any time between twelve and five. He then had a shower, dressed and went out. Even on Sunday there was no escape from ward rounds.


Thor got out of bed finally at eleven a.m. He had slept badly as usual; this time the dreams had involved Jesuits who pursued him with weapons like those used by Surtur's demons. The lead Jesuit, he distinctly recalled, had his father's face.

"You idiot," he berated himself. "You stupid, stupid idiot."

After a shower he felt a little better. He took some toast and coffee through to the living room and sat down to eat. Half way through his breakfast he saw Malcolm's note and the package.

It was sealed with adhesive tape and it bore no stamp; the instruction By Hand' was scrawled in the upper left-hand corner. It was addressed to Thor Odinsson, C/O Mr. Malcolm Ross.

Thor opened the envelope. Inside was a leather folder with two leaves; the sort of thing he had seen on sale for the display of photographs. Unlike most such things it had a little combination lock, but this had been deliberately disabled. Knowing even as he did so that to every instinct he possessed this item felt like trouble, Thor opened the folder and looked at the paper and the photograph within it.

Do you still have your copy? the message said. If so, come and give this one back to me in person. And a telephone number.

"Oh," Thor said aloud. And, a moment or two later, "Oh," again.


Sophie Douglas joined the press corps at about ten-thirty a.m. with the gestalt of a sophisticated SLR camera about her neck and the gestalt of a Press I.D. card in her pocket. She was prepared if necessary to remain in place all day in order to discover something - anything! - about Thor's movements and about what he might intend to do next. Nobody took any notice of her. Certainly she was not one of the regular London news photographers; but from the look of the little group on the mansion block's steps there were journalists present from several different countries. Perhaps she could be a Swedish or Icelandic reporter come to investigate the reappearance of one of the Old Gods. She certainly looked the part. Sophie grinned to herself. She had no idea where this mischievous idea could have come from, but it amused her enormously.

It was not until after three p.m. that her patience, and that of her 'fellow professionals', was rewarded. A black cab carrying Malcolm Ross drew up near the front entrance to the flats. As soon as the surgeon left the vehicle the reporters began to shout.

"Sir, could we have a word...?"

"How long have you known Thor, Mr. Ross? Would you say you were a very close friend?" The journalist who asked this, Sophie considered, just had to work for a certain type of tabloid.

"What are his plans? Does he intend to settle in this country?"

"Why has he been out of public life for so long? Don'cha think that someone with his powers has a dooty to the public?"

The last remark came, in a harsh Chicago accent, from a man with an ID card for one of the East Coast dailies around his neck. Sophie heard these and several even more impertinent questions from the group around her. She pretended to take some photographs, but she was not at all surprised when she saw that Mr. Ross had no intention of talking to anyone. Instead he barged through the group of newsmen and, as he had done the previous day, slammed the lobby door in their faces.

One of the journalists decided to lean on the doorbell of the flat, no doubt to see if he could wear down the surgeon's or the superhero's patience until they agreed to a press conference, or until they grew so irritated that they called the police to move them on. This in itself would be news, of course. Sophie began to lose interest. It was obvious she was getting nowhere with this tactic. Instead she wandered off on her own, turning down a side street alongside the apartment block.

Twenty or thirty yards along the street an alley led off between Ross's block and its neighbour. The alley was small and deserted. As she walked along Sophie could see only the backs of residential buildings, each with its complement of closed windows and its fire-escape stairs. She dismissed the camera and press-pass gestalts; they would only cost her energy for maintenance, though it might have been interesting to see whether the gestalt film in the camera could have produced real photographs. Sophie was fairly confident that it would have done. She gazed upward. From her misadventure of the previous night it was not difficult to determine which of the second-floor windows must belong to Ross's flat.

Right opposite these windows there was a fire escape for one of the neighbouring blocks. Perfect, Sophie thought. A few minutes later she was perched on a little landing half way up the stairway, disguised with the gestalt of brickwork that exactly matched the building. A pair of binoculars was easily produced as well. Through the construct glasses she watched Thor as he sat in the apartment's living room and then as he spoke to someone whom she could not see.


The doorbell rang ferociously. Malcolm decided there was only one thing to be done. He retrieved a screwdriver from a drawer in his kitchen, turned off the mains power supply, opened the case of his entry-phone and disconnected it from the system. He turned the mains back on and went toward the kitchen; then he realised that his guest, assuming he was still present, had not reacted at all to the noise. He went into the living room and found Thor on the sofa, motionless as a statue, staring at a little photographic folder.

"Don?"

The thunder god did not even seem to hear.

"Don! Whatesset?"

"Oh, hello," Thor said. "It's okay, Malcolm. It's nothing."

Malcolm stomped across the room and sat down opposite Thor. "I wouldnae have let you get away with that two days ago," he said; "And I dinna' see why I should let you get away with it now. Nothing, indeed. It's that package, isn't it? What's in it to make you look as though the end of the world has come? Tell me about it, for goodness sake." He grinned to indicate that what he was about to say was a joke, but the expression felt distinctly forced. "I dinna' think I can take the idea of a Norse deeity having a nervous breakdown in ma livin' room."

"Hah." Thor looked up at last. "I don't suppose it will come to that. Here you are. Take a look. But I warn you, it's a long story."

Malcolm gazed at the photograph for a minute or so. "Good grief," he said in the end. "It's a long time since you looked like that. You did well to get rid of the helmet, anyway...What a lovely woman, Don. Who is she?"

Across the street Sophie Douglas grew frustrated. She could see Thor's face as he conversed with someone - presumably with the surgeon Ross, whose guest he appeared to be. She could watch his gestures and she saw him hand something over to the other man, but she could hear not a word he said. She concentrated; so much so that she lost control of her binoculars and they disappeared. It didn't matter.

She knew nothing about electronics; but then, she had been able, only the day before, to produce a full-scale working model, so to speak, of the thunder god himself without any idea of how his powers functioned. If she wanted to, surely she could...

It was easy. With a thought, with the merest wish to do so, she held in her hands a receiver ideally suited to pick up signals from the gestalt microphone and transmitter which had appeared, fully functional and of the highest quality, attached to the window of Malcolm Ross's living room.

Sophie listened in fascination as Thor told Malcolm the whole story, of his disobedience and his exile and the finding of the Hammer; of his early career as a superhero and of the disasters in his private life to which all this had led. Despite herself she found she felt sorry for the thunder god and his erstwhile fiancée. It was like something out of the movies.

"So you see, when this picture was taken I didn't even know who I was. It was long before Odin removed the spell that hid my true memories from me. I thought I was the human physician Donald Blake, a man of Earth who had been given supernatural powers for some purpose I could not guess at."

"All that, just because you annoyed your old man? What a...!"

"You don't know the half of it. But yes, that was the reason...That was the day I revealed my secret identity to Jane and asked her to marry me. It was her idea to go to a photographic studio. I think she must have had some premonition, even then...Malcolm, she is about the only person I have ever met who simply did not care who or what I was. Everybody stared at her, you know; a young mortal woman on the arm of the Mighty Thor. But she never seemed to notice. Never seemed bothered."

"Well, I can understand that. The way she's lookin' at you...Of course she didnae care about the rest of it.

"I know..."

Thor went on to describe how he had felt obliged, despite everything, to obtain Odin's blessing on their union. He told Malcolm of the awful result; of how his father had used magic to separate him from his beloved and to cloud their memories so that afterwards, none of it would seem to matter.

"Looking back, I can't even remember why we were so naive. Why we just assumed everything would be all right. We should have gone ahead and got married straight away. I don't know why we didn't. Though I suppose he would have found some other means of interfering. We both assumed the request would be...a formality. That Odin had nothing to do with Don Blake really. If I'd had my true memories, if I'd known...I would never have made such a mistake. But I didn't. So I did."

"You make it sound as though he used to watch you all the time."

"He did."

Malcolm stared. "Good grief. Just like somethin' outae..."

"Not going to say 1984, are you, Malcolm?"

"Well..."

"It's over now, anyway. Odin is dead..."

"Dead, eh? There's a good deal more tae tell, I can see...But dinna' let me interrupt. Go on..."

"Dead ten years. And so are all his little personal sorceries. That's the only reason I remember all this. I thought Jane was in New Jersey, a happily married woman with a teenage son, probably several other children too. She always loved children...Now I don't know what to think. Why does she want to see me? I suppose I knew the magic must have left her as well. What did that do to her - to her family? I just don't know."

"Good grief, Don," Malcolm Ross said again. Then, "You are goin' tae call her, aren't you?"

Thor hesitated for a second, then he said, "Yes, Malcolm. Yes. Of course I am."

Sophie scrabbled in her pockets. Something told her she would need to write things down and she did not have a pen on her. Fortunately this did not really matter. She wished it; and the gestalts of a reporter's pad and a ballpoint pen appeared in her hands.

"So...?" Malcolm said.

Thor looked hard at his friend. Was he enjoying this? Perhaps it felt like revenge of a sort. "Okay, okay!" he said, and picked up the telephone.

Someone at the other end picked up the handset half way through the first ring.

"Hello?"

"...Hello." Thor's mouth was dry. The word came out almost as a whisper. "Is that you, Jane?"

"Oh my..." There was a muffled thump noise at the other end of the 'phone, as if the woman speaking had sat down abruptly. "It is, isn't it? Thor...!"

"Yes, Jane. It's me. I...Do you really want to meet?"

In the background Malcolm Ross urged him on, mouthing Go on! Go for it! Thor tried to ignore him.

"Yes, of course I do..." Jane replied after a moment. To Thor she sounded more melancholy than anxious to renew their relationship. "When would be...convenient?"

"Jane?" Thor made one decision, at least. He drew a deep breath. "As soon as you like, Jane. I have no other...commitments. What do you...?

Jane hesitated, but she still had some pride. "Not today, Thor. I'm on night duty. Got one more shift to work. But I have a week off after that. Tomorrow I'll sleep for a couple of hours, then...One o'clock suit you?"

"Yes, yes, of course...Tomorrow. Jane, where...?"

Jane gave her address. Thor repeated it to her to ensure that he had it right as he wrote it down.

"Okay...One o'clock, then."

"Fine. Thor, I...I mean, I'll look forward to seeing you."

"And I to seeing you..."

"'Bye. And don't forget to ask the concierge for Jane St. Clair. That's my name now."

"All right...Goodbye..for now..."

Eventually Thor registered the dialling tone in his ear and realised that the call was over. He felt as weak as a child. He was committed; to this call, at least. The outcome could not be predicted. Perhaps she hated him now and wanted to tell him what she thought of him. Perhaps...perhaps not. He could do nothing else. He had to find out.

Sophie heard most of Thor's end of the conversation. She took her gestalt notebook and wrote down the important parts of the address. She dismissed her microphone and her brickwork and crept down the fire escape. Shortly afterward, at Victoria Station, she purchased a real notebook and pen to make a permanent record of the result of her spying. By the next day she would feel ready for battle; and she knew where Thor was going to be and when he would be there. That was all that mattered.


At two a.m. Thor woke from a disturbed sleep. Again, for a few moments, he was not sure where he was. He had dreamed of the Avengers' Mansion disaster and of the death of Asgard for the hundredth or the thousandth time; but this time the slim armoured figure who died before his eyes had red hair; and at the moment of her passing she cried out his name in Jane Foster's well-remembered voice.

He shook his head to rid himself of the vestiges of dream. He realised quickly that he would not sleep again with any ease. He leaped out of bed and almost brained himself on the sloping ceiling; Malcolm's spare bedroom was little more than a cupboard. Then he walked through to the living room naked as he was and sat on Malcolm's sofa for ten minutes or more in the dark, collecting his thoughts. He knew the power that lived in him and he knew what it could do. He fancied already that he could feel the storm build somewhere overhead and hear the thunder that rumbled at the edge of the world; that he could sense the electric tension in the high cloud which might, did he wish it, strike to demolish some great monument, or do something as simple, as devastating, as stop a human heart. On occasions in the past he had cut loose and let everything fall as it might. Almost every time he had lived to regret the outburst. It must not happen; or if it did, it must happen in a place where it could do no harm.

He retrieved Mjolnir from beside his bed. Almost as an afterthought he put on his trousers. He needed no clothing for warmth; he was not capable of feeling the cold as humans did; but he had to respect his adopted world's sensibilities. When he returned it might be daylight and the reporters could be back. It would not help anybody - and certainly not his own state of mind - if he were to appear naked, save for whatever retouching the censor might require, on the front page of the Sun.

Malcolm would never speak to him again...And I thought he was hysterical, he thought. He stood for a moment, clasping Mjolnir to his chest, regaining concentration. Then he went to the window through which he had left for Westminster on Saturday morning. It was still unlocked. He climbed out onto the sill. Moments later he was in flight.

He headed northward, toward the places he had known best in his youth. As he gained height the sharp coastline of Scotland lay beneath him in moonlight as if on a map; moments later the wild fjords of Norway swung into sight and, far to the north-west, Iceland; the last stronghold of his people's religion. He did not dare venture near the place. Instead he headed northward and eastward to the skies above Finland, a country whose legends knew nothing of gods.

In the far heights above the tundra and the lakes he found that which he sought: a thunder-cloud forming. He headed for the heart of it, revelling in the moisture and the vast electrical potential and the icy cold. He entered the storm and he willed himself to become its mind and its focus; and its lightings and its thunders to be the voice of his troubled consciousness.

His father's sorceries had taken this away. Sif, the friend whom long ago he had convinced himself he loved, had insulated him from it. Both were long gone; and he had no protection. He remembered only too well. His father...Odin had enspelled his mind, his thoughts, his heart. But Odin was not, had never been, God; no matter what he had had his people believe. His word was not eternal. His lesser magics were just that: deceits and glamours which depended on their weaver for their existence. And Odin was dead...

"Jane!" he screamed; and his voice was one with the thunder.

He remembered what his father did to them; how they were separated. He could no more have prevented Odin's actions than he could stop the rotation of the galaxy; both were too immense and too inexorable for him. His tongue was stilled, his mouth stopped; it was as though something passed gently across his consciousness, removing the desire for protest. Then she was gone. And later, when he rescued her from the Runestaff, surely he had felt that sorcery again; or its echo. He remembered Jane's baffled and ensorceled manner; his own halting speech; how he had no choice but to turn from her, since the words he yearned to say refused to leave his mouth.

"I thought you were happy, Jane," he murmured. "Far away from me. I could bear it when I believed that."

And she asked if he still had his copy of the photograph. Thor knew precisely where it was. It was in an envelope in a safe-deposit box in the vault of the First National Bank in New York, along with his few other valuables. Along with them it had remained untouched these ten years or more. Jane could be reassured that he still held that memento in high regard; the highest. It lay in one of the most secure places in the city, alongside the little that remained of his ancient wealth.

In his hands Mjolnir glowed white with the storm's rage. Thor felt the hammer shiver with the force it contained; a force which cried out to be loosed. In the heart of the storm-cloud he raised the ancient weapon above his head and commanded it to release its might. "Odin," he cried aloud. "Odin! Wherever you are! Father! What have you done to me?"

Vast energies blazed from hammer to earth and back, splitting the night; thunder rolled from horizon to horizon; but the storm made no reply.

"What have you done to her?