The Man Who Stole Tomorrow - David Michelinie, ebook, CALIBRE SFF 1970s, Temp 2
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MARVEL NOVEL SERIES #10STAN LEE PRESENTSTHE AVENGERSIN A NOVEL BY DAVID MICHELINIETHE MAN WHO STOLE TOMORROWPocket 82093-1$1.95The 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.THE MAN WHO STOLE TOMORROWBY DAVID MICHELINIEPackaged and edited by Len Wein and Marv Wolfman(cover by Dave Cockrum)PUBLISHED BY POCKET BOOKS NEW YORKAnother Original publication of POCKET BOOKSPOCKET BOOKS, a Simon & Schuster division ofGULF & WESTERN CORPORATION1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, N.Y. 10020Copyright (c) 19T9 by Marvel Comics Group,a division of Cadence Industries CorporationAll rights reserved, including the right to reproducethis book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenueof the Americas, New York, N.Y. 10020ISBN: 0-671-82093-1First Pocket Books printing October, 197910 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1Trademarks registered in the United States and other countries.Printed in the U.S.A.For my parents:Lanelle, Jimmy and IlaACKNOWLEDGMENTSThe 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.THE MAN WHO STOLE TOMORROWChapter OneNO 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 whiter 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 hi 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-alarms.Case in point: no one ever questioned the fact that Hank McCoy seemed more comfortable hanging from chandeliers than sitting on chaise lounges, 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 wiring, 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. 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 t6 the floor below?""Somehow, Pietro," answered Iron Man, "I don't Mr. Stark would appreciate that. He does own this place, you know, and we're already over budget 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 micro-circuitry 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 ...
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