A Story in the Style of Eric Frank Russell
Professor Thaddeus Grimm had always prided himself on being the sort of historian who could extract meaning from a grocery list, provided it was sufficiently ancient. So when the archaeological team on Luna Seven transmitted images of the manuscript cache they’d discovered in the ruins of what had once been called “Cleveland,” Grimm nearly spilled his synthetic coffee over his holodesk.
The documents were remarkably preserved, sealed in what appeared to be a primitive but effective polymer casing. The script was in Old English—that barbaric predecessor to Modern Terran—and the imagery was crude but compelling. Grimm spent three sleepless weeks translating the primary text, cross-referencing it with the fragmented historical records of the early 21st century, that dark period between the Climate Wars and the Great Reconciliation.
What he found changed everything.
The manuscript told of a being of incredible power who had arrived on Earth during humanity’s darkest hour. This figure—called “the Man of Steel” in the ancient tongue—possessed abilities that defied every law of physics known to the primitive peoples of that era. He could fly without mechanical assistance, had strength sufficient to move mountains, possessed vision that could penetrate solid matter, and was seemingly invulnerable to harm. Most remarkably, he used these godlike powers not for conquest, but to serve and protect the weak.
Grimm’s hands trembled as he compiled his research. Here was evidence of divine intervention in human affairs—proof that even in the bleakest periods of pre-Unification history, humanity had not been abandoned. The theological implications were staggering.
He called together his small circle of graduate students and junior faculty for an emergency seminar. The conference room in the Department of Ancient Studies was cramped and smelled faintly of recycled air and academic desperation, but Grimm had never felt more energized.
“My colleagues,” he began, his voice thick with emotion, “we stand on the threshold of a revelation that will reshape our understanding of human history and our place in the cosmos.”
Dr. Sarah Chen, his most promising doctoral candidate, leaned forward with interest. Professor Miles Hartwell, the department’s resident cynic, merely raised an eyebrow—a gesture he had perfected over decades of listening to breathless academic theories crumble under scrutiny.
Grimm activated the holographic display, showing the first page of the manuscript. The image was crude by modern standards—bold lines and primary colors that seemed almost childlike—but the figure depicted was unmistakably powerful: a tall man in a flowing cape, suspended in mid-air above a burning building.
“This document,” Grimm continued, “provides irrefutable evidence of divine intervention during the early 21st century. The being described here—this Man of Steel—possessed abilities that could only be described as miraculous. He saved countless lives, stopped natural disasters, and even turned back time itself on at least one documented occasion.”
Chen’s eyes widened. “Professor, are you suggesting that this figure was… supernatural?”
“I’m suggesting nothing,” Grimm replied firmly. “I’m stating it as historical fact. The evidence is overwhelming. Consider the consistency of the accounts, the detail of the descriptions, the clear moral purpose behind this being’s actions. This was no mere human—this was a divine messenger, sent to guide humanity through its darkest period.”
Young Timothy Walsh, a first-year graduate student with an unfortunate tendency toward earnestness, raised his hand. “Sir, if this is true—if there really was divine intervention—then perhaps we should be asking what this means for us. What lessons can we draw? What… what faith should we have?”
Grimm nodded approvingly. “Precisely, Mr. Walsh. We must examine not just the historical facts, but their spiritual implications. This Man of Steel—notice how the title itself suggests both human nature and divine strength—represents hope incarnate. Even when humanity seemed doomed, when the old records speak of endless wars and environmental collapse, he was there.”
But Professor Hartwell was frowning at the display, his weathered face creased with skepticism. “Thaddeus, I hate to be the voice of reason here, but don’t you think you’re getting a bit carried away? Flying humans? X-ray vision? Moving faster than light? These accounts read more like fantasy than historical record.”
“Fantasy?” Grimm’s voice rose an octave. “Miles, we’re talking about beings capable of interstellar travel during an era when humans could barely manage orbital flight. We have documented cases of this figure lifting objects weighing thousands of tons, surviving nuclear explosions, even breathing in the vacuum of space. The evidence is overwhelming.”
“The evidence is preposterous,” Hartwell countered. “Look at this objectively. Every single one of these ‘miracles’ violates fundamental laws of physics. Conservation of energy, thermodynamics, general relativity—all of it goes out the window. There’s a simpler explanation: these are fictional accounts.”
Chen shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “But Professor Hartwell, doesn’t faith require us to accept that some things transcend natural law? If this being truly was divine…”
“Faith,” Hartwell said the word like it tasted bitter, “is just a polite word for willful ignorance. Timothy, Sarah—you’re both intelligent people. Don’t let romantic notions cloud your scientific judgment.”
Walsh bristled. “With respect, sir, science can’t explain everything. Maybe we need to open our minds to possibilities beyond our current understanding. If Professor Grimm is right—if this really happened—then we’re looking at proof that humanity is watched over, protected. That’s… that’s wonderful.”
“It’s wonderful if it’s true,” Hartwell replied. “But wanting something to be true doesn’t make it so. Thaddeus, you’ve found a cache of documents that describe impossible events performed by an impossible being. The rational explanation is that these are works of fiction—stories created to provide comfort during difficult times.”
Grimm’s face flushed. “Miles, your cynicism is showing. Yes, these events seem impossible to us, but so would a holographic display seem impossible to someone from the 21st century. Perhaps our understanding of physics is simply incomplete. Perhaps—”
“Perhaps,” Hartwell interrupted, “you’re so desperate to find meaning in the past that you’re willing to believe in fairy tales.”
The room fell silent. Chen and Walsh exchanged glances, clearly torn between their respect for both professors and their own growing fascination with Grimm’s discovery.
Walsh cleared his throat tentatively. “Professor Hartwell, I understand your skepticism, but… well, faith isn’t about proof, is it? It’s about believing in something greater than ourselves. If these stories gave hope to people during the dark times, isn’t that valuable in itself?”
“Stories,” Hartwell emphasized. “You said it yourself, Timothy. Stories. Fiction. Made-up tales designed to help people cope with a harsh reality.”
“But what if they’re more than that?” Chen asked quietly. “What if they’re… well, what if Professor Grimm is right? What if there really was a Man of Steel who watched over humanity? What if we’re not alone in the universe?”
Hartwell sighed deeply. “Sarah, I understand the appeal. I really do. The idea that someone powerful and benevolent is looking out for us is comforting. But comfort isn’t truth. These accounts describe a being who could fly without propulsion, who was immune to all forms of harm, who could reverse time itself. Do you really believe that?”
“I’m trying to,” she said softly. “I want to.”
“Faith isn’t about wanting,” Walsh added with growing conviction. “It’s about accepting what can’t be proven but feels true in your heart. The Man of Steel—he represents hope, justice, protection. Even if we can’t understand how he did what he did, the important thing is that he did it. He was there when humanity needed him most.”
Grimm beamed at his students. “Exactly. We may not understand the mechanism, but we can’t deny the evidence. Page after page of consistent accounts, describing not just his abilities but his character. This was a being of perfect moral virtue—someone who never used his power for personal gain, who always fought for truth and justice. Surely such consistency couldn’t be accidental.”
Hartwell rubbed his temples. “Thaddeus, the consistency you’re describing is exactly what you’d expect from fictional accounts. Writers create coherent characters with consistent traits. It’s called good storytelling.”
“This is not storytelling,” Grimm said firmly. “This is historical documentation. The level of detail, the internal consistency, the moral sophistication—these aren’t the products of primitive fiction. They’re accounts of real events.”
For weeks, the debate continued. Grimm and his growing circle of believers held evening seminars, poring over every page of the manuscript, finding new evidence of the Man of Steel’s divine nature. They catalogued his various abilities, analyzed his moral teachings, and developed an increasingly elaborate theological framework around his story.
Walsh became particularly devoted, often staying late into the night to study the texts. “He’s perfect,” he would say, eyes shining with fervor. “In every account, he does exactly the right thing. He saves everyone—humans, animals, even his enemies. He’s what humanity should aspire to be.”
Chen was more reserved but no less convinced. “The scientific impossibilities don’t bother me anymore,” she confided to Grimm. “If anything, they strengthen my faith. Only a truly divine being could transcend natural law so completely.”
But Hartwell remained stubbornly unconvinced, continuing to raise objections that the believers found increasingly easy to dismiss. “Look at the pattern,” he argued during one particularly heated session. “Every single one of these stories follows the same formula: problem arises, man of steel appears, performs impossible feat, everyone is saved. It’s wish fulfillment, pure and simple.”
“It’s consistency,” Grimm countered. “Divine consistency. He never fails because he cannot fail. That’s what divine means.”
“It’s what fictional means too,” Hartwell muttered, but his voice lacked its usual conviction. The enthusiasm of his colleagues was infectious, and he found himself increasingly isolated in his skepticism.
The breakthrough came during the fourth week, when Chen made a discovery that seemed to settle the matter once and for all. She had been examining the manuscript under high-magnification imaging when she noticed something that had been missed in the initial analysis.
“Professor Grimm,” she called excitedly, “you need to see this. There’s additional text on the cover—it was hidden under centuries of grime, but the scanner picked it up.”
Grimm hurried over, followed by Walsh and even Hartwell, whose curiosity had finally overcome his cynicism. The enhanced image revealed faded lettering along the top of the manuscript’s first page.
Chen read the text aloud: “Superman… The Man of Steel… Action Comics… Number One…”
The room fell silent. Grimm stared at the screen, his face cycling through confusion, understanding, and finally, profound embarrassment.
“Action Comics,” Hartwell said quietly. “Comics. As in… comic books. Sequential art. Fiction.”
Walsh looked stricken. “But… but the moral teachings… the consistency… the hope he represented…”
“All written by one man,” Chen continued reading from the newly revealed text, “during what historians now call the Great Depression, a period of economic and social hardship. The character was created by Jerome Siegel and Joseph Shuster in 1938, designed to provide escapist entertainment and inspirational ideals during difficult times.”
Grimm sank into his chair, the weight of scholarly humiliation settling on his shoulders like a lead cape. “A comic book,” he whispered. “I founded a religion based on a comic book.”
“An influential comic book,” Hartwell said, and for once his voice held no mockery. “One that clearly provided comfort and inspiration for generations. The creators were responding to real human needs—the need for hope, for justice, for someone to look out for the innocent. They created a perfect hero for an imperfect world.”
Walsh looked around the room helplessly. “So… none of it was real? The flying, the strength, the moral perfection—all of it was just… made up?”
“Made up with purpose,” Chen said thoughtfully. “Created to show people what they could aspire to be. Maybe that’s not divine intervention, but it’s still remarkable. Two young men, during one of history’s darkest periods, imagined a better world and shared that vision with millions of people.”
Grimm slowly nodded, his scholarly instincts finally reasserting themselves. “You’re right, of course. The impact was real, even if the figure wasn’t. Superman—the Man of Steel—became a symbol of hope precisely because people needed that symbol. The fiction served a vital function.”
“So our faith was misplaced?” Walsh asked, still struggling with the revelation.
“Was it?” Hartwell asked gently. “You believed in justice, in protecting the innocent, in using power responsibly. Those are worthy ideals, regardless of their source. The fact that they came from human imagination rather than divine intervention doesn’t make them less valuable.”
Grimm stood up, straightening his shoulders with renewed purpose. “Professor Hartwell is right. We may have been wrong about the source, but we weren’t wrong about the importance. This Superman character—this fictional creation—influenced human culture for decades, possibly centuries. That’s a form of immortality all its own.”
Chen smiled. “And perhaps that’s the real miracle. Not that someone could fly or lift impossible weights, but that two young men could create something so powerful that it would still inspire people thousands of years later.”
“Faith in fiction,” Walsh mused. “I suppose there are worse things to believe in.”
“Indeed,” Grimm said, looking once more at the colorful image on the holographic display. “Though I do think we’ll need to revise our research proposal significantly. ‘The Cultural Impact of Sequential Art in Early 21st Century Literature’ doesn’t quite have the same ring as ‘Evidence of Divine Intervention in Human History.'”
Hartwell chuckled. “No, but it’s probably more likely to get funding.”
As the group prepared to leave, Chen paused at the door. “Professor? Do you think… do you think the people who first read these stories knew they were fiction? Or did some of them believe it was real?”
Grimm considered the question seriously. “I imagine most knew it was fictional. But I suspect some chose to believe anyway. Sometimes faith isn’t about proof—it’s about hope. And sometimes hope is enough.”
“Even when it’s based on a comic book?” Walsh asked.
“Especially then,” Grimm replied with a wry smile. “After all, we nearly did the same thing. If scholars in the 31st century can be fooled by the power of a good story, imagine how much more powerful that story must have been for people who needed heroes.”
As they filed out of the conference room, leaving the holographic Superman suspended in mid-flight above the projector, Hartwell couldn’t help but admire the elegant simplicity of it all. Two young men, facing an uncertain world, had created something perfect—not because it was real, but because it was exactly what reality needed.
And perhaps, he thought as he turned off the lights, that was the most human miracle of all.
End