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The lock of hair belongs to the University, of course, and before it was placed on display at the Superman Museum, a number of tests were done on it in the School of the Sciencesí laboratories. Evidently it is not human hair, indestructible or otherwise. It is, in fact quite indestructible, as Supermanís hair ought to be, though it can be cut with ordinary scissors when the peculiar radiation of a yellow star, such as Earthís star-sun, are excluded from it. It even has the genetic cell structure that was purportedly had by Superman. Through some highly sophisticated means, however, which is not understood by me, it was found that it is not hair, but some genetic duplicate, probably produced in a laboratory of some sort. Certainly the authorities do not doubt my word that I got the lock from Superman himself and I do not doubt that Superman believed it to be his own hair. It simply is not, and that is the new mystery. No one possesses the technology in the twentieth century to produce a spectrographically and genetically perfect duplicate such as this. No one with the possible exception of Luthor, and that is the theory that the people at the University School of the Sciences are toying with now.
The question is, why would Luthor do such a thing. I have my own theory, and I will make it public with the publication of this journal a year from now, on Miracle Monday, 2859, once I am well beyond my period of time reorientation.
Primarily, I am undergoing an intensive language course, designed to refashion my speaking patterns in a manner more suitable to the twenty-ninth century. The disco slang must be eliminated, the subjects of my sentences must be remove from the beginnings to the end of my clauses and so forth, or I could develop a terrible stuttering problem, I am told. I met a number of actors and scholars in twentieth century Metropolis, though who spoke what amounted to Shakespearean English and they seem to fare well enough. People seemed to like the way they spoke. No one likes the way I speak except me. This may be the last thing I ever write that could be understood by a resident of the outrageous Nineteen Eighties. Alas and alack.
I am typing this last entry, as I typed all the others, but this time Iím doing it on my very own antique Olympia portable typewriter. I bought it with the money I got with my postdoctoral fellowship that I won as a result of my mission in the past. There are no more discos around, so I have decided to take up typing as a hobby. Lord knows where Iíll get anymore carbon ribbons when this one it came with runs out. I understand that these ribbons were once thought to have caused cancer in secretaries.
Here is my secret, and it will not be told until this report is tachyographed through the Galaxy next Miracle Monday. I think Luthor did switch his fake for the real lock of indestructible hair, and he did it precisely because he thought the Devil wanted an artifact of Supermanís body through which he could come to possess the heroís soul. Why, the reader will ask, did Luthor not want this to come about? Remember Hamlet?
In Hamlet, the hero hates his Uncle King Claudius so much that he avoids killing him while Claudius is praying in church, because Hamlet believes that anyone, no matter how sinful, who dies while he is praying, will go to his reward to Heaven, rather than Hell. He hates Claudius enough to let him live, rather than assure him of entry to Heaven, no matter how painful that entry may be.
So listen to how simple this is; Luthor did not hate Superman enough to send him to Hell. Luthor discovered the fact that there was an after life, that there may well be a Hell, and that if he gave C. W. Saturn the real lock of hair, Saturn might have brought Superman to Hell as a sort of Trophy of Profanity.
I believe I have discovered something about Luthor, and by extension, the human spirit, that neither Luthor nor Superman ever learned in their lifetimes. It is that even in the criminalís hatred, there was charity. Superman then, was correct in assuming that even where he could not see it, there was good in all life. Pretty nifty, isnít it?
Not a bad bunch of souls, these Earth humans.
June 1, 2858
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words by Elliot S! Maggin
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