Bruce’s eyebrows went up. “Did she?”
“My, yes. She spoke very highly of you.” She leaned in close to Bruce and whispered conspiratorially. “Frankly, I’m glad she’s finally showing some interest in young men. Shannon’s never seemed very interested in the boys in town.”
Bruce smiled, well aware that he was in for this wonderful little woman’s life story unless he did something fast. “Well, thank you, Mrs. O’Neal. Now, I think I’d like to take a little nap, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course, Mr. Banner. Shall we see you for dinner?”
“Does, eh, Shannon usually eat at home?” he asked casually.
“Oh, yes.”
Bruce smiled. “Then I’m looking forward to it, ma’am.”
After dinner, Bruce Banner sat comfortably back in an overstuffed chair in the warm parlor reading a newspaper from Topeka, supplied by Dan Walsh, the young lawyer and his fellow boarder. Dinner had been as pleasant as he had anticipated, seated across the table from the radiant Shannon, chatting amicably with his new friends in the town of MacDermont Point.
Now, Shannon and her mother were in the kitchen doing the dishes and Mr. O’Neal was locked away in his den with his drugstore’s books. Bruce sat across from Walsh, in the parlor. Walsh was a pudgy young man with a crew cut and a loud bow tie. Across from him sat Miss Daisy Pritchard, a very tidy-looking woman in her mid-thirties who seemed determined to live out her life as the stereotypical schoolmarm. Mrs. Beatrice Taylor, the widow, was a white-faced old lady who wore her silver hair in a tight bun on the top of her head. She dozed next to the radio, dressed in mourning black even though, Mrs. O’Neal had whispered to Bruce in confidence, her husband had been dead for almost twenty years. Finally there was Hank Abernathy, a hardy old gentleman who talked to Bruce enthusiastically throughout dinner about his days in the dry-goods business.
But Bruce had not minded the banal chatter in the least. He was happy with his new job and home and, especially, Shannon O’Neal. After the years he had spent on the run, on his quest for freedom, he realized he missed the security and stability of a home and people he could share a life with. Perhaps here, he could find some of the happiness he craved.
Perhaps.
Shannon came into the room. “You seem to be fitting in nicely, Mr. Banner,” she said, standing over his chair.
“Feel right at home,” he said laying the newspaper in his lap. “And I haven’t had a meal like the one your mother served up in I don’t know how long.”
“She can certainly set a table,” Shannon said. “How would you like to walk off some of that food?”
“Sounds nice,” Bruce said, happy for the opportunity to be alone with her.
“Great. Give me fifteen minutes to help mom finish cleaning up and then I’ll treat you to the fifty-cent tour of the town.”
Bruce watched Shannon O’Neal walk from the parlor with a small, private smile on his lips. He let his mind wander, trying to envision a life in MacDermont Point. It wasn’t a difficult image to conjure. She seemed to be everything he might want in a woman, and beautiful as well. He found it easy to see in his mind’s eye a white picket fence surrounding a wooden frame house—his own—on one of the town’s tree-lined streets. Children played happily in the front yard, rushing to greet Bruce as he came up the walk at night. And Shannon—she came from the house and . . .
He shook his head suddenly, a sad frown creasing his forehead.
How could he think such things? A normal life was forever closed to him. As long as the threat of the fearsome creature within him existed, ready to rear its monstrous head at any instant, his life could never be normal.
With a somber sigh, he closed his mind to those thoughts and returned his concentration to the newspaper. He skimmed through the local section, searching the pages for any items relating to his alter ego’s activities during his last blackout.
The paper mentioned nothing of the Hulk, but a small story on page eighteen caught his attention. He read the small headline twice, not believing his eyes:
RESEARCHERS ANNOUNCE BREAKTHROUGH IN GAMMA-RAY CURE
It was only a few lines, but they were lines that made the young scientist hold his breath in nervous anticipation.
(Chicago) Scientists at the Institute for Radiation Research (IRR) based in Chicago announced today a remarkable new cure for victims of deadly gamma-ray radiation.
The cure, according to IRR spokesman, Dr. Daniel Irvine, is “a major breakthrough in the fight against radiation sickness.” In a paper released this morning, Dr. Irvine said that while they are certain of their research, additional volunteers are still being sought for new studies. Volunteers should contact the IRR at their offices at 823 LaSalle Street in Chicago.
Bruce slowly folded the paper, his eyes staring blankly into space. Was it possible? Could it be true? he wondered. Could some unknown researcher in Chicago have come up with the answer to the question that had plagued him these many years?
Could it be possible that his long nightmare was nearing an end?
“I’ve got to get to Chicago,” he muttered suddenly, almost leaping from his seat. He hurried past the startled boarders in the parlor and started up the stairs. He stopped, his foot hovering in midair. You can’t just leave like this, he told himself; not without telling anyone—without telling Shannon. He turned and went into the kitchen where Shannon and Mrs. O’Neal stood washing dishes.
“Excuse me,” he said. “Mrs. O’Neal. Shannon.”
The two women turned.
“You shouldn’t be in here,” the older woman said with mock sternness. “This is women’s work.”
Bruce stepped forward. “I’m sorry,” he said, looking into Shannon’s sparkling green eyes. “I . . . I have to leave.”
“Leave?” Shannon laughed in surprise. “That’s ridiculous, Bruce. You just got here.”
“I know,” he said miserably. “And I wish I could stay longer, much longer, but it’s imperative I get to Chicago as soon as possible.” He spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “I wish I could explain it to you, but I can’t. Not now. But believe me, it’s terribly important to me.”
Shannon lowered her eyes to the floor. “Oh. I see.”
“Shannon, I don’t like this any more than . . .”
“Oh, this is a shame, Mr. Banner.” Mrs. O’Neal shook her head. “We so enjoy having new people around the house. Don’t we, Shannon?”
The young woman’s eyes rose and locked on Bruce’s. “Yes, Mom,” she said softly. “We do.”
“I hope you understand, Shannon,” Bruce said.
“I know,” she smiled. “You have to.”
“Well.” Bruce cleared his throat, not knowing what else he could say. “I’ll say good-bye, then.” He started to leave but stopped at the door. “I . . . I almost forgot, Mrs. O’Neal. What do I owe you for today?”
The plump woman waved her hand before her, dismissing the subject. “Phsst,” she said. “Forget that, Mr. Banner. I can’t rightly charge you anything without your even having spent the night.”
Bruce smiled fondly. “Thank you, ma’am,” he said. “You’re a nice person. Good-bye.” He looked at Shannon. “Good-bye.”
“ ’Bye.”
Bruce pushed through the kitchen door and hurried up to his room. It only took a minute to toss his few possessions into the overnight bag and shrug into his heavy parka. The young scientist wanted to get out of this house fast, before it became too hard to go.
Shannon was standing by the front door when he came downstairs.
He stopped several feet before her. “Well . . .” This was not the time to say what he really wanted to, he knew. Too much uncertainty still existed in his tumultuous life for him to make any commitment to anyone. Perhaps if his journey to Illinois was successful. But not now.
“I wanted you to know I’m sorry you can’t stay, Bruce,” she said.
He nodded, jamming his hands into his coat pockets. “I wouldn’t go if I didn’t have to, Shan
non. I like it here.”
She looked at him hard. “Whatever’s in Chicago must be awfully important then.”
“It is. It’s what I’ve been looking for for a good many years.”
“I see.” The young woman studied her slender hands for several seconds. She seemed to be having difficulty saying what was on her mind. Finally, she looked up. “Will you be coming back? Someday, I mean?”
Bruce shrugged. Lord, after only twelve hours in town, why did this hurt so much? “Maybe. Maybe if I’m lucky this time and find what I’m looking for. I don’t know.”
She stepped aside and put her hand on the doorknob. “Good luck, Bruce.” Shannon opened the door. The night air blew cold across his face.
“Good-bye, Shannon.” He slowly walked from the house into the dark night. He shivered, but not from the cold.
Bruce walked down the path to the white fence, feeling Shannon’s eyes watching him from the doorway.
“I hope you find it soon,” she called softly and then he heard the door close.
Maybe this time he would.
Six
“Where the hell is Parker, Ms. Grant!” demanded J. Jonah Jameson.
Glory Grant, the Daily Bugle’s red-faced publisher’s secretary, looked up from her typing. “How would I know, Mr. Jameson? I am not my Parker’s keeper.”
“That kid could use a keeper,” Jameson grumbled. “He’s just so typical of the kids these days. Snotty, arrogant, disrespectful. They don’t teach them manners like they did when I was a kid. It’s all that troublemaker Dr. Spock’s fault.” He chewed thoughtfully on the ragged stump of his cigar. “Remind me to write a personal editorial on that, Ms. Grant. It’s a subject that just cries out for the old Jameson flair.”
The attractive black girl nodded and wrote “time for annual juvenile-delinquency editorial” on her pad. “You got it, boss.”
Jameson headed for his office at the rear of the large, open city room. “I want to see that punk shutterbug the second he drags his goldbricking butt into the building,” he shouted over his shoulder. “And get Tim Coswell from Science down here.”
“Yessir!” Glory snapped to attention and saluted Jameson’s back. Her hand moved down from her forehead and her thumb touched her nose. She wiggled her fingers at her boss and stuck out her tongue. “You old slave driver, you,” she mumbled as his door slammed shut.
Glory Grant sighed and returned to work. She picked up the phone and dialed Peter Parker’s number. It was still before noon so it was possible that the young photographer was still asleep, but the phone rang half a dozen times without an answer before she hung up. Peter was probably on his way in.
Next she called Tim Coswell, the Bugle’s science editor. The young reporter was surprised and nervous at receiving a summons from the paper’s publisher and he told Glory he would be right down. As she was replacing the receiver, she looked across the bustling city room and saw Peter Parker, camera bag slung over his shoulder, whistling happily toward her.
“Good morning, Ms. Grant,” he said brightly as he plopped down on the edge of her desk.
“Peter, m’man!” Glory exclaimed. “Why, we’d just about given you up for lost.”
“Now, now,” he said. “There’s a whole lot of that slippery white stuff out there; I think they call it snow. You wouldn’t want me to walk too fast and slip, would you? I could get hurt.”
“You may get hurt anyway,” she said, pointing over her shoulder at Jameson’s office. “If you catch my drift.”
“Is that a snow joke?”
“Yeah. You think I’m shoveling it on too much?”
“Well, your sense of humor’s not gonna set the city room off on a flurry of laughter.”
“Enough!” Glory shrieked. “One more pun and I swear I’ll beat myself to death with a rubber chicken!”
Peter jumped to his feet. “Right! Besides, the lion awaits this poor Daniel in his den.”
“You were scheduled to be eaten fifteen minutes ago, Daniel,” she grinned. “And the lion’s gettin’ hungrier every second you waste out here.”
Peter flinched. “Gotcha. See you later, Glory.”
“Good luck, Daniel.”
Peter pushed open the door to the inner office. I really need this? After playing superhero and ace news photographer all night, I still had to spend a couple of hours with the physics books. Then, after two whole hours of sleep, I spend the better part of the morning filling out little blue examination booklets with theories and calculations I’m still not sure I understand.
And now, to top it all off, I gotta worry about Jameson when he’s ticked off at me. Thank goodness I’ve had plenty of practice at it. Jolly Jonah’s never not angry at me!
“Where’ve you been, Parker?” Jameson barked in greeting. The grizzled newspaper publisher was seated behind his desk, puffing angry clouds of blue smoke into the air around his head.
“All kinds of places,” Peter grinned.
“Don’t mouth off to me, kid. You almost missed the damn boat,” Jameson growled.
Peter looked at his boss, confused. “If not the boat, at least your point. What boat are you referring to?”
“The navy ship.” Jameson jabbed a finger at the buttons on his intercom. “Ms. Grant,” he bellowed.
“He’s coming now, Mr. Jameson,” she barked back.
“What navy? Which ship? Who’s coming?” Peter scratched his head. “Where am I?”
“I wonder about that myself sometimes,” Jameson said.
There was a hesitant knock at the door.
“Come in, damn it!”
The door opened and Tim Coswell stuck his head in. “Er, Mr. Jameson,” he said, clearing his throat. “You wanted to see . . .”
Jameson frowned in annoyance and waved the tall, blond man in. “Not wanted, Coswell. Had to. What do you know about StarLab I?”
Coswell stepped inside and gently closed the door. He reached up and pushed his wire-framed glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Oh, well . . . ah, StarLab . . .”
“Don’t you know?” Jameson growled, leaning forward in his chair to fix a cold stare on the nervous man. “I mean, we do pay you to edit the science section, don’t we, Mr. Coswell?”
Coswell blushed and nervously chewed on his lower lip. “Yessir,” he said, his voice cracking. He cleared his throat again. “Of course I know . . . ah, I know about StarLab . . . sir. Mr. Jameson.”
“Then why the hell aren’t you telling us about it?” Jameson yelled.
The nervous science editor flushed even deeper. Hooboy! Jameson’s really got this one cowed. I suppose it is my duty as a fellow cowee to jump in and lend the poor slob a helping hand.
“Isn’t that the satellite that’s supposed to be falling from its orbit?” Peter asked Jameson.
“Yes!” Coswell nodded almost convulsively, flashing the young photographer a look of gratitude. “Yes,” he repeated, seeming to compose himself. “NASA sent StarLab into orbit three years ago as their first step in establishing orbiting space stations. It was inhabited by three separate crews of three for about a year and a half. It’s been circling the Earth, its systems shut down, since then.
“About six months ago, NASA noticed that StarLab’s orbit was decaying.” He glanced over at Jameson. “That’s when an orbiting body in space, so close to the planet that it never completely escapes its gravitational influence, is pulled closer and closer with each orbit by the drag of the upper atmosphere until it finally hits the atmosphere in an uncontrolled reentry. In theory, the object burns up in reentry.”
“I know that,” Jameson snarled with contempt.
“Oh, right,” Coswell agreed, nodding quickly. He hurried on, “Anyway, they tried correcting the satellite’s orbit with small maneuvering jets on board, but that was only a temporary solution. Those jets didn’t have enough power or fuel to do the job and prevent an uncontrolled reentry. And when that does happen, it could be big trouble for NASA and some select portion of the wor
ld.”
“Why? Does somebody, somewhere collect rent on the place?” Peter asked. He fiddled restlessly with the zipper on his camera case.
Coswell started to giggle but caught himself before Jameson noticed. “Ahem. No, Peter,” he said. “You see, small objects will burn up completely in reentry, but larger things, especially something the size of StarLab, won’t. Part of it will burn, but a large part of those 100 tons will make it through.
“And it’s got to fall somewhere!”
Peter nodded.
“Remember what happened in Canada in 1978 when that Soviet satellite crashed there. They were lucky that it fell in an unpopulated area, but there was still the problem of the nuclear materials used to power the satellite contaminating the area with radiation. It’s the same thing in this case, especially since several of StarLab’s experimental and equipment packages contain nuclear isotopes.”
“That’s all real interesting,” Peter said. “But you’ll pardon me if I ask so what? What am I supposed to do, take pictures of Tim telling us about it?”
“No, wiseass,” Jameson snapped. “The thing’s coming down and you’re supposed to take pictures of the navy catching it.”
Peter smiled in sudden understanding. “Ohh, that navy ship.”
“If you’d pay attention once in a while instead of flapping your gums all the time you’d have heard me say that, Parker,” Jameson said. “NASA can’t keep their blasted tin can up there any longer and they figure it’ll come down early tomorrow morning.”
“Where?”
“That they haven’t figured yet. You’d think with all of the money they waste on their blasted computers they’d know where a stupid hunk of tin was going to fall,” the Bugle publisher grumbled. “They say it’ll either be somewhere in Asia or a couple of hundred miles due east of here in the Atlantic. Damned eggheads!”
“That narrows it down,” Coswell muttered.
“It becomes clear to me now, Tim,” Peter said, rising to his feet. “You and I have drawn sea duty.”
“That’s almost intelligent, Parker,” Jameson said, spitting the soggy stump of his cigar into the wastebasket by his desk. “The aircraft carrier USS Alexander Hamilton is docked at the Port of Jersey in Newark. You two have just enough time to get there before she sets sail.”
Marvel Novel Series 11 - The Hulk and Spider-Man - Murdermoon Page 5