Marvel Novel Series 02 - The Incredible Hulk - Stalker From The Stars

  THE INCREDIBLE HULK

  STALKER FROM THE STARS

  FAR OUT! Who’s this creature Sh’mballah who controls the minds and lives of the people in Crater Falls, North Dakota?

  SHOCKING! He’s not a who—he’s a what. He’s a tentacle-waving, electrified weirdo exiled from his own planet.

  BRUTAL! The Hulk thinks Sh’mballah is cruising for a bruising. But can the green goliath marvelman beat the interplanetary baddie?

  COLOSSAL! General Ross of the Army is doubtful. The Hulk’s faithful sidekick is doubtful. But the Incredible Hulk is sure—he won’t let Sh’mballah control him. No matter what ol’ fettuccine-feelers thinks!

  AN INSTANT COLLECTOR’S ITEM: THE HULK’S FIRST FULL-LENGTH NOVEL!

  IT’S THE HULK!!!—

  IT’S SH’MBALLAH!!!—

  IT’S A DEADLY DUEL

  TO THE DIABOLICAL DEATH!

  “Ugly!”

  The creature’s outer skin was tough and crusted, yet you could see inside, catching glimpses of bloated ribbons of thick purplish entrails. Inside the head an enormous pink brain floated, and there were several eyes, all bulging and yellow, clustered above a jagged mouth hole which was packed with a multitude of spiked teeth.

  “I am Sh’mballah, Emerald One—and you are doomed!”

  The Hulk planted his green fists on his hips and laughed derisively. “Bah! Hulk is not afraid of big jelly fish!”

  Then Sh’mballah did his number and the Hulk was in trouble. Said Sh’mballah:

  “I will own you! You will die!”

  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 © 1978 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: 0-671-82084-2

  First Pocket Books printing November, 1978

  Cover Art by Bob Larkin.

  Printed in Canada

  This one’s for PAUL—

  for hitting us in

  the face with a fish.

  Introduction

  We always knew it! We always knew The Incredible Hulk was one of the most popular of Marvel Comics’ awesome array of comic book stars. But even we were surprised to see our jolly green giant’s television debut catapult him to the very top rank of the highest-rated shows of all.

  Therefore, having proven his popularity in magazines, television, toys, games, and countless novelty items, what could be more natural than for our rascally rampager to do his super-powered thing in the pages of a Pocket Books novel? And, what a novel it is!

  Written so it moves at breakneck speed by Len Wein and Marv Wolfman, Stalker from the Stars goes even a step further than the television show itself. Whereas the Universal Studios’ version has omitted both the characters of Rick Jones and General “Thunderbolt” Ross, Len and Marv take us back to the original magazine concept, wherein the teen-aged Rick Jones, who owes his life to Dr. Bruce Banner, is the only living being to share our hero’s awesome secret; and the irascible tough-as-nails “Thunderbolt” Ross has pledged himself to use all the military resources at his command to put an end to the menace of The Incredible Hulk!

  But there’s even more! Not only will you meet again two of our series’ more colorful characters, but with the launching of this first in a possibly endless series of Hulk novelizations, you’ll also return to the type of plot which originally made ol’ Green-Skin one of the most popular superhero stars of all. Marvel Comics has always been famous for its inimitable blend of fantasy and realism—a mixture which gratifies the reader’s sense of wonder while couching the most outlandish-seeming situation in a blanket of believability. And Stalker from the Stars is no exception.

  In this mile-a-minute hair-raiser, the planet Earth faces one of its greatest supernatural challenges—a challenge which the gargantuan Hulk can barely comprehend, and yet, a challenge which he alone has the power to meet and overcome! It’s bigger than life, daring in concept, and dazzling in execution.

  So, if you, like me, still thrill to a well-told tale of fantasy, mounted in mystery, garnished with action, and swathed in suspense, I congratulate you! You’ve come to the right place.

  Now, let’s take our leave of the workaday world, which is too much with us, as we once again join the most powerful living creature on the face of the earth in his battle to save mankind from a menace from outer space—a menace which transports us back to the days when men dared to dream of dazzling dramas that boggled the mind and stunned the senses! Let’s lose ourselves in the land of high adventure, with only the Hulk to guide us! I’ve a hunch you’ll enjoy the trip!

  Excelsior!

  Stan Lee

  New York City, 1978

  Prologue

  He awoke to find himself in darkness, a cold, oppressive darkness, stinking of damp and decay. He could not remember at first how he had come to be here or how long he had slept, but his body ached with the stiffness of untold years of immobility. He attempted to move, but found he could not. The darkness held him fast like some smothering shroud.

  For a moment, panic threatened to overwhelm him, but cautiously he forced the feeling down. He had survived so much else; he would survive this, as well. With a concentrated effort of will, he gained control of himself, calmed himself. When his spirit was finally at peace, he sent his senses questing, seeking to determine the manner of his imprisonment, and thus, some means of escaping it.

  At first, he could sense nothing, merely the darkness and more darkness beyond it, but then—

  Then he began to sense—

  Others!

  There were others. He could feel them now, out beyond the darkness, could hear them buzzing at one another urgently. He was not alone. Freeing himself of the burden of elation, he called out to them.

  No response.

  He called again, louder now, more desperate. And this time he knew he had been heard. First one, then another, then many more of those beyond the darkness responded unhesitantly to his call. Soon, he would be free once more. Soon, everything would be as it once had been.

  All he need do now was wait.

  One

  A pleasant little town, bright in the afternoon sun. Newly green trees lining the main street, stripes of cool shadow cutting across the clean sidewalks and close-cropped lawns. A small town square, dotted with oak trees. A white town hall facing it.

  He didn’t realize how close he was to Hell, or at least a reasonable facsimile thereof.

  Sweaty and smeared with road dust, he had come tromping into the pleasant little town of Crater Falls in the middle of a hot spring afternoon. He was a lean young man a few months from twenty. His dark hair was worn moderately long; a faded knapsack and a battered guitar case made a sizable hump on his back.

  There was a huge soldier, made of greenish metal, standing in the center of the town square, commemorating some long-ago war. Rick Jones, shifting the weight of his gear, bent and drank from the fountain the tarnished soldier guarded.

  He’d been walking north ever since Aberdeen, hadn’t had much luck in thumbing rides. Maybe around here he looked a shade too freakish, like the advance scout for some unwanted invasion of nomadic hippies.

&nb
sp; Rick grinned, something he hadn’t done much lately, and glanced around the tiny park. All the accepted props were there, birds in the trees, old men on the swayback benches, a lazy dog sprawled in a patch of shade.

  A pleasant little town.

  Nothing showing to warn Rick he ought to turn around and get the hell out of there. Fast.

  This wasn’t his kind of town, not a place he’d want to settle down in. No, he’d never end up decorating one of those faded green benches.

  Of course, he might never get to be an old man.

  This pilgrimage of his, this quest which possessed him, would probably kill him someday.

  “Don’t feel so damned guilty,” he warned himself. “He’s told you not to . . . but, then, what else would he say? It’s the kind of guy he is . . . except when . . .”

  Rick held his hands under the spouting water, washed them longer than necessary, and then wiped them on the sides of his worn jeans.

  “Quit the soul-searching,” he advised himself. “Get on with business.”

  Rick had a reason for being here in this quiet little town. There was a man he had to see, a man who might be able to help Bruce Banner.

  If Bruce could be helped, if he could be cured, then this odyssey of Rick’s could end.

  Yeah, and so could Bruce’s. He’d stop running, stop hiding, stop hating himself.

  Adjusting his burden into a slightly more comfortable position, Rick started out across the square.

  He wondered what he’d do if he did succeed. He had a few friends scattered around the country. But since the band had broken up, there weren’t that many people he was close to. Rick had been an orphan for nearly as long as his memory stretched back, so there wasn’t any family waiting for him anyplace—no candle burning in any window, no one hoping for their wandering boy to return.

  At the grassy edge of the little park, a chunky old man wearing parts of two different suits was talking to some squirrels.

  “This is all you’re going to get today, you little nitwits,” he was informing the three gray squirrels which stood on their hind legs near his bench. “Couldn’t afford no nuts.” Noticing Rick’s approach, he asked him, “If you was a squirrel, wouldn’t you eat pizza?”

  “With or without anchovies?” Rick said as he slowed, then stopped.

  “Is anchovies these squiggly things here?” The old man had a grease-splotched brown bag on his knee, a wedge of cold, old pizza in one plump hand. “I bummed this off of Buscema’s Café. Figure I got to go easy on my nut-buying until my next check shows up. You’re a stranger.”

  “Here, yeah,” Rick admitted. “Maybe you can help me. I’m looking for Tinker Street.”

  “Used to play the mandolin when I was your age,” the old man said, noticing the guitar case. “Young people don’t seem to play the mandolin anymore. Tinker Street?”

  Rick nodded. “I’m looking for Dr. Stern’s house.”

  The old man straightened up, putting the pizza aside. “Doc Stern? Why?”

  After running his tongue over his lips, Rick said, “He’s a friend of mine, sort of, and he told me I might be able to get a job in Crater Falls.”

  Shaking his white-topped head, the old man said, “Ain’t likely. Most young people go away from here. You’re a novelty.”

  “Suppose so.”

  “Some folks in Crater Falls think Doc Stern is . . .” He didn’t finish the sentence.

  “Think Doc Stern is what?” Rick prompted.

  After clearing his throat, the old man said, “Sometimes I get the feeling that this town ain’t what it appears to be at all. Could be I’m just getting goofy in my old age.”

  Rick leaned toward him. “What does all that have to do with Dr. Stern?”

  With a shrug, the old man said, “Nothing, nothing, probably. Go along Main Street here for three blocks and you’ll see Tinker Street. You want to go left and the doc’s place is 232.” He returned his attention to coaxing the squirrels into eating pizza.

  “Thanks.” Rick moved on.

  Was the town anything more than it appeared? Anything more than a dull monument to Middle America? Rick was going to find out very soon.

  The shingle house was covered with vines. They swirled up over its weathered brown front, their deep green leaves tangling and intermingling. The stone path cutting across the dry, brittle lawn to the front veranda was cracked and dotted with weeds.

  “He ain’t to home.”

  Rick gave a start, and his foot hit the top porch step harder than he’d intended. “Dr. Stern, you mean?” he managed to ask after a few seconds.

  Coming toward the doctor’s neglected house and grounds, the young man hadn’t noticed that someone was sitting on the old porch swing, nearly hidden by shadow.

  “That’s who I mean. Who are you?”

  “Friend of his.”

  It was a woman there on the swing, gaunt and immobile, arms stick-thin, hands folded on her narrow lap. “Name of?”

  “I’m Rick Jones,” he replied. “I’ve come a long way to visit Dr. Stern. Do you know when he’ll be—”

  “Never know with him,” the frail woman said. “He’s here sometimes for days on end, in that smelly lab of his. Next thing you know, he’s off—traipsing in the woods, exploring up into the hills beyond the Crater. You just never know.”

  “And you are?”

  “Alma Snell.”

  Nodding, Rick asked, “A friend of his?”

  “Not especially. I’m his housekeeper, part-time. Couldn’t be more than part-time, since I got a family of my own to look after, four children, and that’s a full-time job right there.” She tilted forward, letting a fragment of sunlight touch her pale face. “You come to help him?”

  “Well, actually, I was hoping he’d help me.”

  “Always going off into the woods, poking around in them hills.” She shook her head, causing the wooden swing to rattle. “Why’s he do it?”

  “Got me.” Rick wiped at his perspiring forehead with the back of his hand. “He didn’t mention when he’d be back? It’s sort of important that I see him.”

  “Why?”

  Might as well use the same lie twice. “He told me he might know of a job around here. I’m looking for work.”

  The woman made a clicking sound in her throat. “Probably over at Connelly’s Boardinghouse. Yes, that’s probably where the job is.”

  “Dr. Stern didn’t give me any details—said he’d fill me in when I got here.”

  “Typical of the doctor—he’s spare with his information. Knows more than all of us in Crater Falls put together, but ain’t about to give anything away.”

  “Maybe I’d better check with the boardinghouse.”

  “Linda’s real thick with the doctor,” the woman said, settling back into the shadows. “Works for him part-time, secretarial. And she runs the boardinghouse, too, ever since her Aunt Maud passed away. I believe she’s been thinking about taking on somebody to do odd jobs, not that Linda Connelly confides in me.”

  “Where will I find the boardinghouse?”

  “It’s on Chestnut Street.” One thin hand drifted up off her lap, pointed at him. “You know what the smart thing to do would be?”

  Rick shook his head. “Tell me.”

  “Get out of town,” the woman advised. “Fast as you can.”

  Two

  Green thoughts.

  As the train rattled through the hot, dry Midwestern afternoon, Bruce Banner’s mind drifted back into the past. He sat huddled in a dim corner of the swaying, clattering boxcar, his thin arms hugging his lean chest. In his mind he relived, endlessly, all that had happened to him—the events that led up to his becoming what he was.

  The freight car whined around a curve. Loose straw on the smeared floor danced and crackled.

  Banner had hopped the freight in Detroit yesterday, or maybe it was longer ago than that. Time didn’t much matter. His days were always filled with the same thing. Running. Trying to escape the continu
al pursuit. Fleeing also from himself.

  An impossible thing, yet he was compelled to keep at it. Until he found some answer. Except Banner didn’t believe, when he was at all honest with himself, that there was an answer.

  Despite the bumping, jolting ride, Banner dozed some. And his past life unwound once again . . .

  . . . Glaring yellow desert, stretching away in every direction. So hot it shimmered and seemed unreal. Inside the huge bunker it was cold—the air had a crisp metallic feel. Everything was white and nearly spotless, the control panels gleamed, the observation portholes shone. Computers clicked, hummed, and droned, all with impeccable efficiency. The white-coated technicians moved soundlessly, going about their work with admirable concentration.

  Banner stood in the midst of it all. He was Project Designer and Coordinator, the man in charge. He found himself sweating, perspiration beading on his narrow back. “It’s much too late for that, Igor,” he was saying.

  “It’s too dangerous. You know that as well as I do,” said Igor Drenkov, a wide, rumbling man. His thick dark eyebrows tilted toward each other. “You should—”

  “You still have time to leave the bunker, Igor, and get clear of the test area. If you’re really afraid of—”

  “Oh, no, my friend. I stay.” Drenkov folded his arms across his massive chest. “In Russia, before I . . . slipped away to your country, I was the leading authority on gamma research.”

  There was something about this defector, brilliant as he admittedly was, which rankled. But Banner had a reputation for rarely losing his temper. “I know that, Igor. It’s one reason why I allowed you to work on the Gamma Project.”

  The Russian snorted. “Work? You’ve allowed me, my dear Dr. Banner, to be little more than a flunkie. You should have confided in me, shared the secrets of gamma-ray control. Isn’t that, after all, the scientific spirit which you in the United States do so much to encour—”

  “We’re running late, Igor.” Taking a deep breath, the lean Banner turned away from his angered colleague. He frowned over the clipboard in his head, ticking off items on an intricate imaginary checklist. He started along a row of huddled technicians.