by Len Wein
And the silent man at the opposite side of the clearing was obviously more afraid of this newcomer than of death itself. A fact that did not go unnoticed, even by the usually less than perceptive Hulk.
“Go away, prune face, you are scaring Hulk’s friend,” the green Goliath grumbled. “Go away—or Hulk will smash!” Even as the man-brute spoke, he lumbered across the swampy ground toward the self-proclaimed Collector, who reacted not at all to the Hulk’s snarled threat. Except to laugh.
“If you’re all that anxious for a fight, brute, you’re more than welcome to one . . . but not with me,” the Collector said as he gestured toward the shifting ferns behind him as an impresario might gesture toward a curtain. “You’ll have to face my new champion instead—the latest addition to my ever-expanding collection.
“You’ll have to fight—the Man-Thing!”
Dripping slime in its wake, the murk-dweller shuffled forward through the foliage, to stand awkwardly at the Collector’s side. Even the Hulk, who had seen countless hideous creatures in his wanderings, reacted to the Man-Thing’s presence. But, typically, his reaction was not horror, but rage.
“Carrot-nose is against Hulk, too?”
“Indeed, brute. The Man-Thing is completely under my control,” the Collector said, as he gestured toward the silent swamp creature in wordless command. “And I order him now to strike!”
“Hulk is not afraid of carrot-nose . . . not afraid of prune face,” roared the jade-skinned giant as he braced for the Man-Thing’s assault. “Hulk is not afraid of anything!”
Carrot-nose. Prune face. The names seem almost comical, but as ever, they were highly descriptive of those they were meant to represent. In his primitive fashion, the Hulk had a way of getting to the gist of things. But now the emerald giant’s speech became little more than a guttural growl, as the Man-Thing shambled almost reluctantly toward him. Still, reluctant or not, the blow the murk-dweller’s misshappen claw struck the Hulk was a heavy one.
The man-brute roared as he stumbled backward, more in surprise than in pain. His massive fist drew back to deliver a punch that could shatter a battleship to fragments. And he struck—with no result.
“Huh? Hulk’s fist goes right through carrot-nose?!”
And indeed it had. The unnaturally sculpted slime that gave the Man-Thing form seemed to part as the Hulk’s clenched fist passed through it harmlessly, closing again behind the fist like waters around a dropped stone. No grimace of pain crossed the Man-Thing’s expressionless face, but the creature’s crimson eyes gazed deep into those of his emerald foe, as if searching to find something there.
Then, as the Hulk stared uncomprehendingly at the fist still mired in what should have been the Man-Thing’s stomach, the Collector spoke again. “Swiftly, my slave,” he shouted, “while the Hulk is confused—strike!”
Whether the Man-Thing truly understood the Collector’s words is doubtful, and wholly unimportant. All that matters is that his unique empathic nature was attuned to the myriad emotions raging in the souls of those around him. He sensed the fervor of the Collector’s insatiable need, and the Hulk’s boundless anger and frustration. And, almost despite himself, the Man-Thing brought both of what once had been his hands slamming down upon the Hulk’s shaggy head.
Before, the man-brute’s anger had been focused upon those who wished to take his new found friend from him: the still-dazed pirates and the gloating Collector. But now the Hulk had finally found a foe powerful enough to take the full brunt of his rage. And now the Hulk went mad!
As he rose, the green Goliath reached out, as an ordinary being might reach for support. But the Hulk needed no support. Instead, he was reaching for a weapon, something with which to strike back, something that might hurt the muck-dripping creature that now stood silently before him.
An enormous emerald hand gripped the trunk of a mangrove tree that had stood in the swamp for decades beyond number, his stumpy fingers digging deep gouges as they sunk into the bark. Then, as he turned back to the battle, a muscle flexed on the man-brute’s arm. The twitch of muscle was almost imperceptible, a mere ripple on a sea of vibrant green, but it was enough.
The mangrove tree flew across the clearing at the Man-Thing.
Even as the tree passed through the murk-dweller’s unmoving form as had the Hulk’s brawny fist before it, the Collector turned his attention away from the two monsters. His smile grew twisted, becoming somehow even more evil than it had been before, as his billowing cloak rippled slightly in the breeze the hurtling mangrove had stirred. Then he strode purposefully toward the huddled, frightened form of the Hulk’s mute friend, he who was the cause of the battle now raging.
“Now, my silent friend, while your emerald ally is otherwise occupied, I will finally attend to you,” the Collector said to the cowering figure. “To be truthful, I could almost forgive you your trespasses for having brought such fine new exhibits to my attention: first, the Man-Thing, and now the incredible Hulk.
“But you yourself were such an interesting exhibit before you so thoughtlessly chose to run away from me. And you shall be my exhibit once more, after a touch of the legendary Philosopher’s Stone!”
Again, the Collector’s cloak rippled in the breeze, drifting almost purposefully past his hand, and from a hidden pocket within the cape the enigmatic figure drew forth a simple-looking stone. Though it appeared to be merely the sort of pebble one might find at the side of the road, it was in fact the stuff of which myths are made. For centuries beyond numbering, kings and emperors had sought this petrified promise of boundless riches, this facetless gem capable of changing the very nature of matter.
The Philosopher’s Stone glowed briefly, bathing the Hulk’s mute friend in its unimaginable energies, and beginning a most terrifying transformation.
Slowly, the mute man’s pallid body was beginning to melt, like the clay it so greatly resembled, a living statue gradually being stripped of its very shape and form. The horrified mute said nothing, even as his features were twisted into a grotesque blur, leaving the barest hint of a face, which still mirrored a single expression.
It was an expression of horror and self-loathing beyond description; and it only served to make the Collector’s satisfied smirk grow that much wider.
“You really are far more interesting in your natural form, you know. Why should I, who have Adonis himself among my exhibits, place any value on another creature in humanoid form? Especially when I can have instead a creature unique in all the galaxies—the golem, supernatural defender of the Jews of sixteenth-century Prague, sculpted from unliving clay by the Rabbi Judah Loew Ben Bezalel, and charged to obey its master!
“Well, I am your master now, Golem—and I order you to stop the rampaging Hulk!”
The clay creature lumbered forward, as obedient in its current form as it had been fearful when seemingly human. And while the Hulk pounded away mercilessly at the Man-Thing’s yielding slime, the golem mournfully joined the fray.
The clay creature’s moist fists slammed down on the Hulk’s head like living pile drivers, smashing the green goliath to the ground. But even as the Hulk’s face met the swampy soil, his tortured mind struggled to form a question.
“Who attacks Hulk from behind? Who?”
The emerald titan’s brutish face twisted with rage as the answer lumbered toward him.
“Another one,” snarled the man-brute. “Carrot-nose has a friend. But Hulk does not care how many friends carrot-nose has! Hulk will smash them all!”
“Then smash away, brute! It will not harm the golem,” the Collector said as a jade-hued fist splattered into the clay creature’s chest. “He is as far beyond your power as is the Man-Thing himself!”
The Hulk stared down long and hard at the clay that clung to his ponderous fist where it had struck the golem. “Huh? It is clay. Like carrot-nose is made of slime.
“How can Hulk fight clay and slime?” the man-monster roared, instinctively knowing the answer, even as the Collector sp
oke once more.
“The answer is simple, brute. You can’t!”
And, as if taking their cue from the Collector’s pronouncement, the two misshapen creatures under his thrall slammed into the Hulk at precisely the same second, with enough force to turn a mountain into a gravel pit.
It was enough to knock the man-brute to his knees.
Awkwardly, impossibly, the two misbegotten monsters shambled up to their barely more human opponent. And, in response to a softly spoken command from the Collector, the macabre Man-Thing’s clawlike hand reached out, clutching the stunned Hulk by the back of his head, and driving the man-brute’s face deep into the soggy mire of the murk-dweller’s chest.
For seconds that stretched into eternities, the green Goliath struggled in vain to free himself from the Man-Thing’s grasp, struggles that gradually grew weaker, then grew still. For, even though the Hulk could survive without air far longer than any mere human, even he could not long remain conscious when he had forgotten to hold his breath.
For a moment, a shout of triumph was the only sound that could be heard in the isolated clearing, then there came a gentle plopping noise as the jade-hued giant sprawled to the sward, unconscious.
“You’ve done well, my obedient ones,” nodded the Collector in satisfaction. “And thus do I add yet another wonder to my precious collection.”
“Aye, sir, and an ugly one-indeed,” said Captain Skragg, stroking his beard as if in thought. “Sorry we weren’t more help to ye, sir, but beasties such as these ain’t fit fer the likes of us to cross swords with.”
“I shall take your line of reasoning into account at the proper time,” replied the Collector, casting a baleful glance the pirate’s way. “Now. Captain, if you and your men would be so kind as to pick the Hulk up?”
“All right, ye lubbers, ye heard the man,” Skragg shouted, hoping this sudden show of enthusiasm might somehow balance his earlier cowardice. “Now put yer surly backs into it.”
As one, eight pirates pulled at the Hulk’s inert form, straining with all their strength to lift him from the ground. Three tugged at an arm as thick as the trunk of a young oak tree, raising it off the ground only inches.
“We’re tryin’ to lift ’im, Cap’n, I swear we are,” moaned one of the struggling sailors.
“This bilge rat must weigh a ton!” muttered another under his breath, even as the remainder of the pirate crew moved forward to help.
“Half a ton, to be precise, gentlemen.” the Collector said in measured tones. “But if you all combine your efforts. I’m certain we can begin our journey through this annoying swamp.
“I’ve gotten what I came for,” gloated the ageless enigma, “and now it’s time to go home.”
It was a bizarre procession that moved through the thick of the Everglades, scattering the birds from the trees as it drew closer, sending white ibis, brown mallards. and snowy egrets screaming into the sky: a dozen men garbed as pirates from a vanished era, carrying an unmoving green giant across their shoulders as if he were a statue carved of purest jade: flanked by two humanoid creatures formed of clay and slime respectively: and their swiftly striding master, who led the procession through the tangled undergrowth with the confidence of a man who had walked under the light of a thousand different stars.
They passed swiftly through the swamp, the lush vegetation growing more and more sparse, until they stepped out into another clearing—a far larger clearing than the first, scorched clean by the unnatural fire that had created it. The scars from the flames were orderly, spreading in concentric circles from the very center of the clearing. And, in that center, there sat a great gleaming starship, rising from the muck and mire like a heavenly jewel.
At the Collector’s approach, an entryway suddenly yawned wide in the side of the shining vessel, but not nearly so wide as mortal eyes would have grown if they could have seen into the ship for even an instant. For, though the vessel was several hundred feet long on the outside, on the inside, it seemed to go on forever. Every inch contained a niche that was filled with something more incredible than that which had filled the niche before, a gathering of objects from fact and fable and fantasy.
This then was the home of the Collector, and it was, quite simply, beyond belief.
“This way, my obedient ones. I have a display case all ready and waiting for my newest acquisitions,” the Collector said, looking straight ahead as he strolled past a glass case containing two stone tablets carved with ten sentences in Aramaic that had changed the destiny of the Earth.
“Once this exhibit belonged to the golem alone, but now he can share it with his newfound companions.” The Collector gestured toward a section of the seemingly endless ship where a section of swamp had been recreated, much the way a zoo might furnish the cage of a captured animal with the proper environment. Unlike any zoo, however, no barrier stood between the swamp setting and the rest of the ship, at least none that the eye could see.
“Captain Skragg, if your men would be so kind as to attach the stasis shackles to the ankles of my new guests, and to the ankle of the golem as well, please?”
“Aye, sir. I’m sure ye want ’em to feel right at home,” the pirate captain said, even as his men slipped the great gray shackles around the stumplike legs of the three monsters.
“All right, sir. We’ve done as ye asked of us,” Skragg said as the last shackle snapped into place. “What now?”
“Now, my dear Captain? Now I have a little surprise for you all. You’ve accomplished the task I set for you, at least to the best of your limited ability, so it’s time I put you all back where you belong,” the Collector said, his malevolent smile spreading across his cracked and rutted face once more.
“Master—no! We’ve served ye faithfully an’ well!” The pirate captain who had once razed a city of seven thousand innocent souls now flinched visibly as he stared into the Collector’s unfathomable eyes. “Please, mate,” he begged. “Ye can’t do this to us!”
“Ah, but that is where you are wrong, Captain Skragg.” Even as he spoke, the Collector removed his hand from within the folds of his voluminous cloak, and that which he now held glistened brightly in the light.
“There is nothing I would not do to further my collection,” laughed the ageless entity as his gloved hand moved in an arcane gesture, “and no collection would be complete without a genuine ship-in-a-bottle!”
An unholy light suddenly blossomed around the terrified pirate crew, and then vanished—taking Captain Horatio Skragg and his men with it. Then the Collector looked down contentedly at the bottle he held in his hand, listening with amusement to the tiny, almost imcomprehensible voices screaming up at him.
“Now, now, Captain. Language such as that will certainly do nothing to help your cause,” purred the Collector. “One would think that after spending 300 years in this bottle, you’d have gotten used to it by now.
“Ah, well, after I put you back on your shelf, you’ll have another three centuries to grow accustomed to your situation.”
The Collector hefted the precious bottle and moved off into the ship, his laughter growing deeper with every step he took. He had enriched his collection once more, and now was the time to savor the moment . . . before his roving eye began to seek a new treasure.
As the maniacal laughter faded down a distant corridor, the two misshapen monsters shambled slowly closer to the unconscious Hulk sprawled awkwardly before them. With seemingly limitless patience, they stood immobile, watching the monotonous rising and falling of the man-brute’s brawny chest, totally absorbed by the only movement within their microcosmic cage.
Thus, they were there to bear witness when the unnatural slumber began to work its magic on the Hulk, fading his emerald skin to pale pink flesh, reducing his massive form to mere mortal dimensons, transforming the raging brute once more into the all-too human Bruce Banner.
Almost sympathetically, the Man-Thing’s slimy claw reached out, brushing Banner’s cheek, and the frail physicis
t was awake in an instant, with the chill of the grave sneaking up his spine.
Banner had grown used to awakening in strange surroundings, since he’d begun sharing his life with the incredible Hulk. He had become quite adaptable, unflappable, and resolute in his determination to make the most of his vast intelligence in those brief periods when he was completely himself.
Looking up as his eyes opened, it took Banner only seconds to study his environment, his scientist’s mind swiftly adding up the facts and reaching the inevitable conclusion.
“Right. I’m still in the Everglades somewhere; and, from the look of things, I’ve picked up a couple of traveling companions along the way.”
A calm, reasoned analysis of the situation, though hardly an accurate one.
“Well, since those two oversized uglies aren’t bothering me, I’m certainly not going to bother them. I think I’ll just try to find the nearest possible exit,” Banner said, moving cautiously toward the edge of the swampy clearing. Then suddenly he collided with something that wasn’t there.
“Eh? There’s something barring my path—something I can’t see!” Banner’s field of expertise was nuclear science, the mastery of those same freakish gamma rays that had eventually turned him into the Hulk. He’d seen many strange things since that fateful day of the gamma-bomb test, and thus he knew what was facing him now.
“It’s a force field of some sort. I can’t get past it, and I think I know why. There’s some sort of shackle on my leg, so light I didn’t even notice it when I awoke.
“Since the shackle isn’t chained to anything, it must have another purpose, and I’ll bet eight to five it’s designed to activate the force field. Nothing else makes any sense.
“But any shackle designed to hold the extra-thick ankle of the Hulk should slip over my thinner ankle with very little difficulty.” Banner grinned, as he pulled his bare foot free of the restraining shackle. For an instant, he thought his troubles were over, but as the shackle dropped to the ground and he started forward once more, he began to realize the true dimensions of his problem.
