"Superman, dear boy, you are absolutely positive that you can retrieve my lamb if it turns out that it isn't where she wants to go?" Clive's voice was level, but there was a 'no-bullshit-allowed-on-pain-of-severe-punishment' look in his eyes.

Superman took that look very seriously. "I've tried it a couple of times with myself as a guinne pig, Clive. I had the machine locked onto my DNA pattern and on a timer to pull me back in five minutes." He blushed. "It's a good thing, too. I had it set to put me down in what I thought was a perfectly innocent, empty office. I had no way of knowing that the occupants were about to come back from a coffee break, and that it was a talent agency that specialized in supplying actors for *harumph* adult films."

Scribe grinned. "Before it zapped him back they were offering him a three picture deal with an option for a percentage of the gross sales, and that was BEFORE they could coax him into taking the trunks off for a look at the equipment."

Superman looked puzzled. "They were saying something along the lines of, 'It's all right. If we have to play 'where's the beef' we can always get a stunt cock'." He looked at Clive. "Why are you choking?"

"Swallowed my gum, pet." He whispered to Scribe. "That's it. I'm digging out my super 8 and making some memories for my old age."

"I didn't hear that," she whispered back. "So, Supes, are we ready to get this show on the road?"

"Certainly. I'll be here monitoring your travel, of course, but I'll put the automatic timed retrieval on in case anything goes awry."

Clive sighed. "How can I not love a man who can unselfconsciously use the word 'awry'? I'm going, too."

"I'm not sure that's adviseable, Clive."

Clive raised an eyebrow. "Tell me, is it possible to lock onto more than one DNA pattern at a time?"

"Yes."

"I'm going."

"Clive..." Clive stepped up, boot-to-boot, brought his face about two inches from Superman's, and stared into his eyes. Superman blinked first. "Are you sure you're not a secret superhero?"

"Some of my submissives think I am. How do we do this?"

"I'll need a DNA sample for the transporter."

"And how shall we do that?"

"A hair would work, or any type of body fluid."

Clive laid a hand on Superman's chest tracing the S. "Any kind of body fluid?"

"Clive," Scribe was shaking her head.

Clive sighed. "Yes, darling, I know. So many dimensions, so little time." He plucked a hair, kissed it, and handed it to Superman, then looked at Scribe. "I hope you appreciate the sacrifices I'm willing to make for you."

"You're in my will. Of course all you'll inherit is a cat, a computer, and a ton of old, but not really valuable, comics."

Superman went off and did something scientific with the hair, then came back and typed information into the transporter for what seemed like ten minutes. Scribe looked over his should while he was doing it. Clive said, "Well?"

"Strings and strings and strings of numbers. Makes my head hurt. Damn, and I got cranky with my old computer when I had to do a couple of extra mouse clicks."

"I can't get over the fact that so many people own computers in your dimension."

"Yeah. Y'all are just moving out of the 'half a football field, oh m'gawd, don't let any dust in here' stage." She giggled. "When I saw those computer punch cards I had such a flashback! Soooo seventies!" She sighed. "Lord, I hated those things during college registration. I was always tempted to fold, spindle, or mutilate."

"Done." Superman pushed a final button.

"Lovely," Clive said. "What do we do now?"

"You go stand on that platform over there." He pointed.

Scribe looked at the platform. It was a circular dias. "Kinda narrow, isn't it?"

Superman rubbed the back of his neck. "Well, it was designed for one traveler."

"Scribe, darling, it isn't as if we haven't shared less space than that." Clive took her hand and pulled her up onto the dias, giving her a full body hug. "See? We fit nicely."

"And we'll give anyone who sees us arrive something to talk about. Okay, ready when you are, SM. Ouch! Clive, do not pinch my butt! I said SM as in SuperMan, not S and M."

Superman made an adjustment to the screen on the machine. "All right, I have the timer set for five minutes. If you need to come back sooner, just signal me."

"What about if we want to stay longer?" asked Clive. "I may meet someone cute."

"You're with someone cute," said Scribe. "Keep your mind on the matter at hand. C'mon, let's go."

Superman pushed the button.

She wasn't sure exactly what she was expecting. The last time... Okay, the only time this had happened before it had been simply that one moment she was one place, the next she was another. This time it felt like a wave of warm static electricity sweeping over her body. The surroundings seemed to fade, color draining away till everything went transparent--a very weird effect. Then the color faded back in, but the outline was different. Instead of being in the Fortress of Solitude lab, they were on a pretty normal looking street.

Scribe peered around, and noticed an elderly lady giving them the disapproving eye. "Well, the middle class attitudes seem to be right." Clive wiggled his tongue at the woman before he let go of Scribe. She clutched her chest, then hurried away. "Please, Clive. I'm not up on my CPR."

Clive examined a store sign that appeared to have been painted by a chicken on acid. "Does this look familiar?"

"No, but I suppose it could be Arabic or something like that. I'm not familiar with everyone's alphabet. One way to tell--I'll talk to someone." There was a pleasant looking man approaching, and she stopped him. "Excuse me. We're tourists. Can you direct me to the nearest tanning salon?" The man gave her a puzzled look. "Parlez vous French? Sprechen sie Doich? Hablo Espagnol?" She held her hands in front of her, flat and palms down, thumbs together, then pulled them apart with a waving motion. "Sign language?"

The man frowned. Then he began tapdancing and farting. Clive's mouth dropped open. Scribe shook her head. "We've gotten into a Kilgore Trout universe. God bless Kurt Vongut." She raised her voice. "Superman, beam us up."

*crackle* and they were back in the lab. "That wasn't it?" Superman asked.

"Not nearly. Next."

He turned a dial and pushed a button.

*crackle* Another plain street. No disapproving looks at their embrace this time. Someone DID applaud. "It bothers me that we appeared out of thin air and no one is having a fit," Scribe said. "Then again, this could be San Francisco." She looked around.

Clive noticed that her expression suddenly went stiff. "What is it?" She shook her head. Clive was alarmed to see her eyes tearing up. "Scribe, sweetie, what is it?"

Her voice was hushed. "The World Trade Center."

Clive looked over at two enormous, side-by-side skyscrapers. He whistled. "Impressive! Since you recognize it, I guess this must be your place, right?"

"No."

Her lip was trembling. Clive still had an arm around her, and he could feel her trembling. *She's really upset.* "Precious, what's wrong?"

She just buried her face against his shoulder and waved her hand, "Get us out of here, Superman. Please." Clive held her close as they transported again.

Back in the lab Superman was waiting with a chair and a glass of water. Clive made her sit down, and she sipped the water, then accepted a tissue to wipe her eyes and blow her nose. Clive squatted beside her, looking up at her. "Are you ready to tell us what that was all about, love?"

She sighed shakily. "Not now, Clive. If I'm here for much longer, but I'm not up to it right now."

Superman gave her a sympathetic look. "Bad?"

She shuddered, and there was a pain in her eyes that neither man had ever seen, not even after her run in with Luthor. This was not a personal pain--it was an agony for something very big. "Horrific." She put down the glass and stood up. "I'm not stopping after just two tries. I won't get anywhere if I'm a wimp. Let's try that again."

*crackle*

"Mmm... I suppose the Pope could announce the birth of his fifth child in my world, but it would be in The World Weekly News and not Time Magazine."

*crackle*

"Because it's Lincoln on the five and Washington on the one, and Harry Truman never made it onto a monetary unit, much less a fifteen dollar bill."

*crackle*

"No, animals can't talk in my world, and I would prefer not to be able to hear what a cat thought of me. I'd prefer that they remain mysterious so I can admire them without wanting to kick their fuzzy butts."

*crackle*

"Two words: Madame President."

*crackle*

"Clive, have I ever said anything that would lead you to believe that men in my dimension become pregnant on a regular basis?"

*crackle*

"Jerry O'Connell never won an Acadamy Award in my world, but he is a cutie, isn't he? Clive! PUT--HIM--DOWN! No, you cannot take him home! I'm sorry, Jerry. He means nothing but admira... Let go of that!! Clive, you're going to get us arrested! SUPERMAN!" *crackle*

"No Clive, the man walking a lizard on a leash does not necessarily disqualify this world. Neither does the fact that he's totally naked and no one seems to care. However, the fact that he has six nipples and no one is staring pretty much eliminate it from the possible list."

*crackle*

"Because McDonalds is not mentioned in the Michelin Guide at home, much less with a three star rating."

*crackle*

"Because that all natural, fat-free, salt-free, sugar free, high fiber, dietary cookie actually tasted good, that's why."

*crackle*

"They've never heard of Pop Tarts! Good God, man! They aren't civilized!"

*crackle*

"Precious, you mean to tell me that the pointy ears, the ridged noses, and the horseshoe crab foreheads are normal?"

"At a convention, yes."

"But this still isn't your home world because?"

"It's 2002 and the original series is still running."

*crackle*

*gigglegigglegiggle*

*snort* *snicker* "Yes, pet, it is a bit overwhelming. But fucking intriguing."

*titter* *heeheeheeheeheeeeeeeeee* "Om'gawd! Kilts! Nothin' but kilts, as far as the eyes can see! The knees... the knees..."

"Hush, you'll get me started." *sigh* "What I wouldn't give for a good, stiff breeze."

"Stiff being the operative word?"

"I've taught you well."

"Taught me, hell. I was in touch with my inner vulgar broad a long time before we met. Lemme tell you about the Mel Gibson movie, Braveheart. Y'see in olden times these big, brawny Scots all line up to do battle with the English, and they're led by this gorgeous blue eyed guy. You'd love him, Clive. Hair down to here, and face painted half blue."

*coo*

"And he wants to show contempt for the enemy, so he and the entire force just..." *makes a gesture of whipping up a kilt* "And you know what they say about what a Scotsman wears beneath his kilt." Clive fanned himself. "Unfortunately they went to a long shot."

"Damn!"

"That's what I said."

*crackle*

"Stephen King is writing romance novels and Barbara Cartland is writing hardboiled mysteries. Also I saw an album titled 2Live Crew Sings the Best of Broadway. Ain't gonna happen."

*crackle*

"No pop up advertising on the Internet? No Yahell? Mmmmmmm... No. As much as I'd love this to be the place--no."

*crackle*

"That's enough for today, darling. You're exhausted."

Scribe was too tired and depressed to argue. "Sheesh. I feel like I'm trying to chip my way through a brick wall with a toothpick." She held her fingers together, nails a fraction apart in illustration. "One of the flat, cinnamon flavored ones."

"You rest up, Scribe," advised Superman. "I have an idea. I think I can locate Mixedpickles dimension. If we can track him down, maybe I can get him to send you home."

"Superman, from what I've seen of him, he isn't exactly the heart and soul of co-operation."

Clive patted her arm soothingly. "I believe that a combination of Superman and myself could be pretty persuasive."

"No duh. And if that fails," Scribe rubbed her hands together, "Mmmwhaaa haaa haaa!" They stared at her. She spoke matter of factly. "When all else fails, resort to deviousness."

Clive smiled. "Deviance?"

Scribe returned the smile. "That, too."