Marvel Novel Series 10 - The Avengers - The Man Who Stole Tomorrow

by David Michelinie

  THE MAN WHO STOLE TOMORROW

  IRON MAN:

  The Armored Crusader!

  THOR:

  The Mighty God of Thunder!

  THE VISION:

  The Sensational Synthezoid!

  THE BEAST:

  The Bludgeoning Blue-Furred Berserker!

  QUICKSILVER:

  The World’s Fastest Being!

  THE SCARLET WITCH:

  The Mysterious Mistress of the Hex!

  These six sensational heroes band together to save the life of CAPTAIN AMERICA,

  Living Legend of World War II!

  Travel with them two thousand years into the future—and come face-to-face with the unimaginable villainy of KANG THE CONQUERER!

  An Instant Collector’s Item Classic!

  The Very Heavens

  Trembled . . .

  The door shattered, cracking into fist-sized pieces and exploding inward as Iron Man and Thor crashed through. Pressing against the door, Quicksilver, the Vision, and the Scarlet Witch also tumbled inside in a rain of gray dust and skittering rubble.

  The Beast, however, was not so fortunate. He had also been leaning against the door, but when the resistance had ceased and he had begun to fall backward, the ice block on his head—the ice block that contained a helpless friend and colleague—had tilted forward. Almost as much from instinct as thought, the Beast reached out as he fell, grabbing hold of the block and twisting, hurling the massive weight back into the obelisk. It was only then that he realized that he had pushed himself out of that structure, and that the lemon colored bridge had completely retracted.

  Another Original publication of POCKET BOOKS

  POCKET BOOKS, a Simon & Schuster division of

  GULF & WESTERN CORPORATION

  1230 Avenue of the Americas,

  New York, N.Y. 10020

  Copyright © 1979 by Marvel Comics Group, a division of Cadence Industries Corporation. All rights reserved.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  For information address Marvel Comics Group,

  575 Madison Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10022

  ISBN: 0-671-82093-1

  First Pocket Books printing October, 1979

  Cover Art by Dave Cockrum.

  Printed in Canada

  For my parents:

  Lanelle, Jimmy and Ila

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The author wishes to thank Bob Layton for the spark that became the plot of this novel, and for the help in choreographing certain of the action sequences. He would also like to thank Jim Shooter, Roger Stern and Bill Mantlo for helping him steal the time to write this book.

  One

  No one noticed that the old man cast two shadows. But then, on midwinter Manhattan sidewalks still spotted with residue from the season’s frequent ice and snow storms, few people bothered to notice anything but where next to push their swiftly shuffling, Totes-booted feet. It had been a bleak December, and the reality of a rapidly approaching Christmas, complete with prices that cried for punch lines and crowded stores that smelled as much of body odor as holly and pine, did little to sharpen the sensitivities of the scurrying New Yorkers. They had problems of their own, and none bothered to share even a fragment of his closely guarded attention with the tattered old man on the corner.

  The old man repaid the favor—he didn’t notice them. In fact, his eyes seemed fixed, like unblinking, dirt-brown buttons stuck in the deeply grooved, red-bronze crust of his face. “An American Indian,” an observer would likely have guessed upon seeing that face, had there been an observer. And, indeed, the low-hung necklace of golf-ball-sized gemstones that could occasionally be glimpsed beneath his wind-whipped clothing seemed to add to that image. But this was no desert-bred native American, for the parka he wore was fashioned of thin, unlined animal hide, and even then he seemed uncomfortably warm when the winter wind gusted, sending a fresh squall of icicle-crisp air to bother the hats of the grumbling passersby.

  The old man smiled, a gray-toothed grin that was not altogether unkind, and his head bobbed slightly with anticipation. For he had traveled a continent and a decade to stand on this oh-so-special street corner and now, as one thin, time-dried hand crept to the gemstones about his neck, he knew that the object of that journey was close by, held in the sprawling stone building directly across the street from him. It was a most impressive structure, settled securely as it was behind a strong brick wall and ornate iron gateway, sporting three stories of dark carved granite, high-vaulted windows and a majesty no architect had ever scrawled on a blueprint. To the tax assessors at City Hall, it was listed as an alternate residence for cosmopolitan industrialist, Anthony Stark; while to millions of Manhattanites, it was Avengers Mansion, home of the Earth’s mightiest superheroes.

  But the old man on the corner with the bark-brown eyes and the cracked gray grin and the oddly shaped shadow knew it for what it really was: a shrine.

  And, should unfortunate circumstance require—a tomb!

  “Terrific! We just finish saving the whole world from a marauding bunch of chrome-plated cockroaches, and we get stopped by the elevator in our own headquarters. God help us if the tabloids ever get hold of this!”

  Hank McCoy was hanging upside down by his feet from the lighting fixture in the ceiling of the elevator; under normal circumstances, a situation that would undoubtedly prove alarming to his fellow passengers. However, the other six individuals crowding the confines of the stalled lift were, themselves, far from the norm. For along with the dangling Mr. McCoy, they constituted the world’s greatest fighting team, the Avengers. And the Avengers had long since grown used to the idiosyncrasies of their fellow comrades-at-arms.

  Case in point: no one ever questioned the fact that Hank McCoy seemed more comfortable hanging from chandeliers than sitting on chaise longues, that he eschewed taxi rides in favor of swinging, apelike, from street lamp to street lamp over chronically snarled city traffic. Of course, the elementary observation that the gentleman’s entire body was covered with silky, dark blue fur and that his appearance, mannerisms and reflexes were more simian than human helped that acceptance considerably. In fact, for many it was far easier to accept Hank McCoy as what he was now than as what he had once been: a brilliant, world-renowned scientist who, caught in a freak laboratory accident, had mutated into the nimble, wisecracking hero known to the general populace as simply . . . the Beast.

  On the floor below, a tall, crimson-skinned Avenger turned to address the Beast, moving with a precision more machinelike than human. For, indeed, as a synthezoid construct, the Vision possessed characteristics of both. Many considered that a most unsettling combination.

  “Actually, Beast,” began the Vision, with electronic tones as cold and hard as the ice on the streets outside, “the Darvinians were structured more along the lines of the phylum Formicidae. And their protective coating analyzed as a polymolybdenum compound, rather than common chrome.”

  “Sheesh! I try to cheer everyone up with my endearing boyish wit and the only response I get is Mr. Wizard here with an entomology lesson! Hey, Iron Man, when are you going to get us out of here? I don’t think my fragile ego can take much more.”

  Crouched in one corner of the elevator in front of the exposed circuitry of a recently opened control panel, the armor-clad leader of the Avengers glanced up. “Shouldn’t be long now, Beast. I’ve traced the problem to a shorted-out wire, and I’ll have it all patched up in a jiffy.”

  Turning back to the exposed wirin
g, Iron Man sent a mental command through one of the cybernetic electrodes touching his skull inside his helmet. Instantly, literally with the speed of thought, the command flashed through his sophisticated, metal-mesh armor, causing a tiny aperture at the end of one crimson-gauntleted finger to iris open. Then, responding to a second unspoken command, a needle-thin beam of coherent light shot from the finger receptacle, focusing on a pair of insulation-trimmed wires inside the control panel. Got to be careful, thought Iron Man. If I don’t keep the laser’s intensity within very fine tolerances, I could burn a hole clear through the entire control mechanism!

  Behind Iron Man, five Avengers watched patiently: the Beast, swinging casually to and fro; the Vision, whose pupilless black eyes showed signs of neither life nor death; Captain America, the resurrected red-white-and-blue warrior of World War II; Wanda Frank, the beautiful and aloof European woman called the Scarlet Witch; and Thor, the massively built, blond-tressed hammer bearer whom no one dared dispute as being the living Norse god of thunder.

  However, one less stolid Avenger also watched—a silver-haired, silver-garbed mutant known, for his speed as well as appearance, as Quicksilver. Born Pietro Frank, he was brother to the Scarlet Witch, and though he shared much of his sister’s pride and noble bearing, he had allowed her the bulk of the family forbearance. Now, as was too frequently the case, his patience was fast running out.

  “Come, come, Iron Man. We’ve better things to do than stand around in this sweaty chamber all day. Why don’t you just use your repulsor rays and blast us an entrance to the floor below?”

  “Somehow, Pietro,” answered Iron Man, “I don’t think Mr. Stark would appreciate that. He does own this place, you know, and we’re already over budget for repairs this month.”

  “Bah! If Stark really cared about expenses, he would indulge in a bit more preventive maintenance, so that things like this wouldn’t happen! I wonder how penny-conscious that irresponsible playboy would be if he had to do the repairs you’re doing?”

  Beneath the solemn mask of his helmet, the man in the metal-mesh armor smiled. Unbeknownst to the other Avengers, he was Tony Stark! Having years ago invented the incredible microcircuitry that gave his unique armor its multitude of powers, he had later created the entity of “Iron Man” in order to utilize it. He had even put Iron Man on the payroll of Stark International as his bodyguard, so as to completely separate his adventurous escapades as a super-hero from the much-needed haven of his private life, the relatively sedate world of big business. Apparently, he had succeeded.

  Placing a hand lightly on Quicksilver’s shoulder, Captain America stepped—or more accurately, squeezed—forward.

  “Just take it easy, Pietro. We’re all tired and a bit on edge. We may not like it, but the problem’s a simple one and all we can do about it is wait.”

  “That is correct.” The sepulchral, measured tones of the Vision fairly echoed off the elevator walls. “Protest in the face of logic serves little purpose. We are in no danger, and this chamber holds sufficient air to provide life support for the probable duration of our detention here.”

  “Oh, really?” Eyes narrowing, Quicksilver turned to face the solemn synthezoid. “How very, very comforting that is, coming from something that doesn’t even breathe! Next thing, you’ll be breaking out a case of thirty-weight oil and telling us we’ve sufficient nourishment as well!”

  “Pietro!” The Scarlet Witch’s sharp tone reflected the tension that had crept suddenly into the close air of the elevator. “Please, this isn’t the time or place—!”

  “It is ever the time and place, dear sister, to decry impropriety. I’ve opposed the membership of this walking computer ever since he first came to us. He’s a machine, nothing more; and it galls me to see you all affording him the respect and concern due a real, flesh-and-blood being.

  “How can we trust him? How can we depend on him? Why, he could malfunction, blow a tube, just when we need him the most. Just like this damn-fool conveyance we’re trapped in now!”

  During Pietro’s entire outburst, the Vision had stood unmoving. He continued to do so now, fixing Quicksilver with eyes as dark and deep as a moonless night.

  “I cannot help but wonder, mutant, if your anger is truly directed at my reliability, or at your own shame . . . for allowing your sister to marry this ‘mere machine.’ ”

  The tension had grown, drawing the paneled walls of the elevator closer together, filling the forms and hearts and minds of the seven people stranded there. It was a tension thick with violent potential, yet brittle as paper-thin glass. And thus it was almost surprising when the Vision’s next, carefully chosen words broke only the awkward silence.

  “I have caused embarrassment; that is regrettable. But I fear that walking computers are seldom programmed for social amenities. Now, if you will excuse me . . . ?”

  So saying, the Vision began to change, his green-and-yellow costume fading, his crimson skin growing pale. As a synthetic being, he had complete control over his entire physiology, down to the very molecules of which he was composed. It was within the scope of his power to alter the density of those molecules, and that was exactly what he was doing now. His entire body was rarifying, keeping form but growing dim, almost totally transparent, until at last, he had gained an ethereal, almost unreal quality. It was then that he began to sink.

  His body was now less dense than the floor of the elevator, and he began to drop through that floor, descending slowly, like a weight falling through thick oil. In seconds, the Vision was gone, leaving no mark on the carved tile floor to indicate what he had done, or even that he had ever been there at all.

  “Jesus!” The Beast now clung with all fours to his ceiling perch, staring down at the recently vacated section of the elevator floor. “I wish the Vizh would stick to doors and windows like the rest of us. He gives me the willies every time he pulls that stunt!”

  “Aye,” added Thor, gripping his mystic mallet, Mjolnir, a little tighter. “ ’Tis enow to strike frost to the heart of e’en a Thunder God!”

  “Well, we’ll all be warming ourselves in front of a crackling hearth soon, Thor,” said Iron Man, rising. “The patch-up’s all finished and we’re back in business.” As if to illustrate his point, he touched a pressure-sensitive disk on the replaced control panel and the repaired elevator obediently, if abruptly, resumed its downward journey.

  “Main floor, ladies and gents,” called the Beast. “Sporting goods, household wares, and for those shoppers who’ve just finished saving a world, a handy selection of industrial-strength aspirin!”

  The Beast’s joviality helped to somewhat ease the strained atmosphere within the elevator, but it was only when the lift’s doors opened onto the wide, plushly decorated main hallway of Avengers Mansion that relief washed over the six exiting heroes like a comforting tide. It was a feeling shared by the slight, dignified man who awaited them there.

  “Master Iron Man! Oh, thank heavens you and the others are all right!”

  The man’s name was Jarvis, and from his formal attire and noble bearing he could easily have been mistaken for a diplomat, or possibly one of the more successful wizards of Wall Street. And indeed, his education and recorded IQ would have qualified him for either of those rather lofty situations. However, his temperament and family history had led him, some thirty years before, to seek a position of service. Thus he had spent the last dozen or so of those years serving as butler to the Earth’s mightiest heroes—and the Avengers’ own mothers would have been hard-pressed to show them more loyalty.

  “I was beginning to worry. When the warning monitor indicated a malfunction in the primary lift, I was afraid someone might have been hurt. I was about to call an emergency repair service when—”

  “Thank goodness you didn’t,” interrupted the Beast, climbing nimbly to the top of a nearby hat rack. “J. Jonah Jameson keeps a reporter stationed in the coffee shop across the street twenty-four hours a day. If he’d seen a repair truck pull up, we�
�d be all over the front page of the Daily Bugle’s evening edition!”

  Iron Man chuckled. “Don’t worry, Beast. Your stalwart image remains untarnished. And your concern is appreciated, Jarvis, as always. Were there any messages while we were gone?”

  “Why, yes, sir. A network executive phoned, inquiring as to the availability of Master Thor for an appearance on the Tonight Show. He said that it was in regards to a special episode concerning modern heroes, and asked that I mention that they had already signed John Glenn, Henry Kissinger and some chap named Christopher Reed, or Reeves, or something like that.

  “Oh, and there were a number of calls for Master Beast from young ladies. Nine, I believe.”

  “Aw, geez!” A furry palm slapped an even furrier forehead. “I forgot the weekend was coming up. Decisions, decisions.”

  “Well, you’d better make your return calls fast, Don Juan.” The amusement in Iron Man’s voice was now tinged with a familiar ring of authority. “I’m calling a debriefing session as soon as we’ve caught our second wind. We need to record the details of the Darvinian incident while they’re still fresh in our minds.

  “I’ll see you all in the first-floor lounge in five minutes.”

  “Futz,” murmured the Beast under his breath. Then, springing agilely from the hat rack, he bounded down the hallway toward his private quarters, caroming occasionally off a convenient wall and singing, “La-dum-da-dum-da-dee, a hero’s life for me . . . !”

  Somewhat less enthusiastically, the other, bone-tired Avengers dispersed, each hoping to grab a quick shower or cup of coffee before the necessary debriefing.

  Meanwhile outside, the old man with the anticipating eyes stepped from the curb into the street.

  “Please, darling, don’t hold it inside. I’m your wife, remember? We’re supposed to share things.”

  The blinds were still partially drawn in the large room Wanda Frank and the Vision had shared since their marriage some years before, and only pencil-thin beams of weak winter light filtered in through the slats. The electric lamps had not been lit, and the inadequate natural illumination barely served to define the elegant lines of the stately Victorian decor against the darker shadows of the room. The Scarlet Witch stood stiffly, fingers laced before her, and watched how the light made patterns on the red, synthetic flesh of her husband’s face.