MEANWHILE, AT WAYNE MANOR, STATELY HOME OF MILLIONAIRE BRUCE WAYNE AND HIS YOUTHFUL WARD DICK GRAYSON, A SIMILAR RED PHONE FLASHES TO THE ALARM OF TRUSTED BUTLER ALFRED…
“I will retrieve him at once, sir,” Alfred politely answers into the emergency phone.
Gently placing the red receiver down on the desk, the English butler glides over to a chest of drawers, elsewhere in the study. Alfred has a remarkably sprightly gait for a man of his age – and height. At six foot six, the butler is a walking flagpole, decorated with the Union Jack, to be sure.
Alfred searches through the drawers for a suitable prop. What he needs is something that will signal to Master Bruce that “Batman” is needed – without alarming poor Mrs Cooper. Aha! An empty red envelope could be just the thing, he decides. Alfred slips the envelope into his pocket, nimbly exits the study, and crosses through the grand living room.
Any time the Commissioner calls via the Hotline it is an emergency, Alfred knows. But this time he instinctively feels a disturbing level of distress like very few times before. Hearing voices coming from the garden, he heads outside.
“Don’t forget to give those extra fertilizers, dear,” Mrs Cooper instructs her nephew from underneath her best sun hat.
She couldn’t be more proud of her little patch of earth out here in the Gotham sun beside Stately Wayne Manor. Mrs Harriet Cooper’s vegetable garden has blossomed from a yard of pebbles and dirt into a healthful harvest of tomatoes, peas, carrots, and herbs. It is a veritable vegetable salad. A knee-high picket fence buckles as the growth attempts to explore new frontiers. Next year, Mrs Cooper’s plot will need to be expanded. For now, that’s a worry for another season. The only trouble (if there is any) is from the crows, who will tear the whole garden down to the roots, if given the chance.
Ice cubes jingle in the glass of fresh lemonade Aunt Harriet is holding out for Dick Grayson, youthful ward of millionaire Bruce Wayne.
“Holy Bedrock! Who would’ve thought gardening could be such hard work!” Dick thrusts his spade into the fertile earth and kindly thanks his Aunt Harriet for the cooling beverage.
“Oh, but just think of how delicious these tomatoes will be,” the elderly woman fondles the ripe fruits of the vine.
Millionaire Bruce Wayne smiles as Aunt Harriet hands him his own glass of refreshment and then pleasantly continues his task of filling a plaid shirt with straw. He sucks in a deep breath of clean air, grateful to be out of the smog of the city. The perfume of the fresh greenery relaxes him. Bruce is glad to have a peaceful moment away from his other responsibilities to enjoy a bit of leisure. From the look on Dick’s red and sweating face, Bruce assumes that his young ward disagrees.
“Phew,” Dick exhales, resting on the handle of his shovel, “I don’t know, Aunt Harriet. I think I’m worn out!”
“Come now, Dick,” Bruce encourages his young ward. “It’s only when we push ourselves – mentally as well as physically – that we learn what we’re truly capable of. Remember the words of the philosopher: That which does not kill us, only makes us stronger!”
Realizing his mistake, Dick nods in humble agreement.
“Gosh Bruce, yes. I see what you mean. I’ll try to challenge myself more from now on.”
With that, Bruce is pleased to see, the tenacious teenager returns to his shoveling with renewed gusto.
“Won’t our guests be pleased when they taste all the wonderful vegetables we’ve grown for the banquet tonight, Alfred?” Aunt Harriet smiles up at the butler. She is a jovial old woman, grandmotherly in appearance, but Alfred is convinced that Mrs Cooper’s benign nature hides a very perceptive woman.
“I’m sure they’ll be most grateful, Madame,” Alfred agrees as he approaches his friend and employer, millionaire Bruce Wayne.
“There we are,” the millionaire hoists his project upright, “This scarecrow ought to frighten off any unwanted pests.” Bruce stabs his handsome straw man into the earth, a challenge to all crows who dare to take what isn’t theirs. Absentmindedly, he brushes loose straw from the fellow and adds, “What is it, Alfred?”
“Pardon me, sir,” the gentleman fibs, pulling the empty envelope from his pocket, “I couldn’t help but notice these (ahem!) tickets lying on the desk, in the – study.”
Bruce’s jaw tightens at the sight of the red envelope waving in front of his face. He understands Alfred’s message immediately. The Bat-phone. The Emergency Hotline linking Gotham’s police force to their anonymous ally. It isn’t fear running up Bruce’s spine but a kind of anticipation. He quickly regains his cool composure, all too aware of the ever-observant Aunt Harriet’s suspicious glance. Mrs Cooper must be kept in the dark about his, and her nephew’s, secret identity. For her own sake.
“Thank you, for reminding me, Alfred,” Bruce says to his oldest friend. The words, however, are only meant to benefit Mrs Cooper. It’s the look in Bruce’s eyes that shows his very real gratitude to his manservant. “Dick, we better hurry if we want to make it to the hockey game in time.”
“Holy Hockey Pads!” Dick exclaims, releasing his shovel. Excitement gleams in his eye. Like his mentor, he digs the meaning straight away. Also like his mentor, he tells a little white lie to protect his dear Aunt Harriet. “I almost forgot! The Gotham City Giants are playing against the St. Petersburg Bears for a chance at the semifinals!”
The two young men abandon their work gloves, their minds already far away from the tomatoes and greens. A call from Police Headquarters is never to exchange pleasantries. Somewhere in Gotham City, the Dynamic Duo is needed – right now!
“But, boys! What of the banquet?” the troubled aunt attempts to pump the brakes. Aunt Harriet manages to slow them (already a great feat), but nothing can fully rein these two back in once the Bat-phone has been called.
“Don’t worry! The game should be over by then,” the kid telegrams back. He’s already halfway to the Manor and all smiles. “See you later, Aunt Harriet!”
A pair of skeptical eyes squint out from under the brim of Aunt Harriet’s breton. She watches the boys dash across the lawn and shut the patio door behind them.
“Honestly, Alfred,” Aunt Harriet confides once she and the butler are alone. Her voice is dripping with concern, but can Alfred blame her? “I sometimes worry if Bruce is exposing Dick to too much violence…”
Alfred feels his heart skip a beat, but he bites his tongue. At times like these, he’s found it prudent to keep quiet. Instead, he rolls up his sleeves and grabs Dick’s discarded shovel.
“It’s these hockey games,” she explains, relaxing Alfred considerably. The difference in his demeanor is completely invisible to Mrs Cooper, and for that he is glad. “A boy Dick’s age should be learning some work ethic – not glorifying roughhousing!”
The butler nods and agrees. Alfred tries his best not to imagine what Mrs Cooper’s reaction would be if she knew what her nephew and Master Bruce were really up to.
Upon entering the study, Bruce rushes to the red phone on his desk with Dick shortly behind him.
“What is it, Commissioner,” Bruce says into the Hotline. If the sprint from outdoors has winded him any, it doesn’t show in his voice.
There is a tense pause. Bruce hears a rustle on the other end of the line, but still finds himself wondering if there’s been a bad connection. As he opens his mouth to ask Gordon if he’s still there, Bruce is assaulted by an onslaught of syllables, shot in rapid fire.
“Did you happen to be in The First National Bank this morning?”
Bruce shoots a baffled look at Dick, who is equally puzzled. “No…”
“So you weren’t involved in a bank robbery?” Commissioner Gordon drills into the point, not letting up a bit. Chief O’Hara desperately eavesdrops through the back of the red handset.
“Good heavens, Commissioner! What is this about?”
“I think you better get over here, right away!”
“We’ll be right there,” Bruce lays the handset back onto the red base.
“What do you think it means?” Dick furrows his brow.
“I haven’t the slightest…” his mentor replies, and Dick believes him.
A twenty-two second phone conversation is hardly anything to go on, but already Dick can see the gears turning in Bruce’s mighty head. This is going to be a tough case, Dick can figure that much out on his own. Truth be told, he’s kind of looking forward to it – the danger, excitement, and all!
“To the Bat-poles!” our hero proclaims. It’s all it takes to get his youthful ward into action.
Dick flips the secret switch, safely stowed within a bust of William Shakespeare. Behind the two ordinary-looking millionaires a bookshelf rolls away to expose twin poles leading to their hidden Bat-cave.
Bruce and Dick leap toward the secret entrance, each grabbing hold of their personalized Bat-pole. The tricky bookshelf rolls back to its original position as they slide down.
The Dynamic Duo emerges in their high-tech Bat-cave, fully clad in the costumes of Batman and Robin. Their capes twirl about them as they land from their descent.
Deep underneath Wayne Manor lies the secret Bat-cave, an impenetrable fortress of science and technology. Designed and built by Batman and Robin, it serves as the base of operations in their never-ending fight against crime and those who commit it. The Bat-cave is the envy of many police forces, the equal of even the most top-secret government labs, and more than a match for anything a lawbreaker can throw its way. Batman’s own nuclear power source, the Atomic Pile, looms in the shadows, beeping and whirring from out of the crag.
The two dash to the center of the cave, past the flashing lights of the super computer and bubbling concoctions of test tubes, to the Batmobile. If the Bat-cave is the ultimate in crime-lab technology, then the Batmobile is the most fantastical contraption man has dared to put on four wheels. It is packed in all corners with high-tech gadgets and gizmos, stabilizing fins, and turbo-electro accelerators. The Dynamic Duo springs into the aviation-style cockpit and fastens their safety Bat-belts.
“Atomic batteries to power,” Robin says, flipping switches from the passenger seat. “Turbines to speed,” he continues as the jet engine spits flames from the exhaust.
“Roger,” Batman replies, “Ready to move out.”
The Batmobile flashes out of the grotto through a perfectly concealed tunnel, a black rocket of red pinstripes, jet propulsion, and chrome.
The Bright Knight 