Batman was not a lesser man.
Ranks and files of phosphorescent green marched up and off the screen. Bruce Wayne’s hands were poised above the keyboard, ready to stop the flow. His eyes were unblinking. His pupils were wide and steady, absorbing the information rather than reading it. Wayne was dressed for comfort and endurance in dark, loose-fitting slacks and a cotton knit shirt. The Batman costume was in its locker at the back of the large, subterranean room they called the Batcave. In the dim light, his clothing blurred with the furniture and the gray stone walls.
Standing at the top of a flight of metal stairs, Alfred saw Bruce’s hands, trembling with caffeine overload, and the flickering green light reflecting off his motionless face. The war paint of a technological primitive.
“I’ve brought a snack, sir.”
No reaction. Alfred descended the steep stairway. he was no longer a young man, but his step was steady. Nothing on the silver tray shook or clattered to give his presence away. He set it on the top of a file cabinet, beside a similar tray bearing the unappetizing remains of an untouched dinner.
“Sir.” Alfred found the tone midway between command and request that distinguished butlers from all other human subspecies. “Sir,” he repeated, “this really has gone on long enough.”
“I’m close, Alfred. I can feel it.”
“You were ‘close’ this morning when I brought breakfast. By now ‘close’ is behind you.”
Bruce Wayne surrendered his concentration with a groan. His hands fell on the keyboard; the marching figures halted. “I’m nailing jelly to a tree,” he admitted, using hacket’s jargon.