大电影双语阅读. Iron Man 钢铁侠 1(赠英文音频、电子书及核心词讲解)(txt+pdf+epub+mobi电子书下载)

作者：美国漫威公司

出版社：华东理工大学出版社有限公司

格式: AZW3, DOCX, EPUB, MOBI, PDF, TXT

大电影双语阅读. Iron Man 钢铁侠 1(赠英文音频、电子书及核心词讲解)试读：

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著　　者 / 美国漫威公司

责任编辑 / 王心怡

制作发行 / 华东理工大学出版社有限公司

书　　号 / ISBN　97

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6

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9

In a packed auditorium, Lieutenant Colonel James Rhodes, Tony Stark’s best friend, stood at the podium and narrated as a film about Tony’s life played on a huge screen behind him. “Tony Stark. Visionary. Genius. American patriot. Even from an early age, the son of legendary weapons developer Howard Stark quickly stole the spotlight with his brilliant and unique mind. At age four, he built his first circuit board. At age six, his first engine.”

“And at seventeen, he graduated summa cum laude from MIT.”

A picture of a smiling young Tony dissolved into a funeral portrait of his father, Howard. Rhodey went on, his tone somber. “Then, the passing of a titan. Howard Stark’s lifelong friend and ally, Obadiah Stane, steps in to help fill the gap left by the legendary founder, until, at age twenty-one, the prodigal son returns and is anointed the new CEO of Stark Industries.”

Another series of pictures showed Tony’s incredible successes at Stark Industries. “With the keys to the kingdom,” Rhodey went on, “Tony ushers in a new era for his father’s legacy, creating smarter weapons, advanced robotics, satellite targeting. Today, Tony Stark has changed the face of the weapons industry by ensuring freedom and protecting America and her interests around the globe.”

Rhodey paused as the slide show ended. “As liaison to Stark Industries,” he said, “I’ve had the unique privilege of serving with a real patriot. He is my friend and he is my great mentor. Ladies and gentlemen,” Rhodey finished, pointing off to one side, “this year’s Apogee Award winner ... Mr. Tony Stark.”

The crowd broke into thunderous applause. A spotlight moved across the stage and landed on ... an empty chair. The applause quickly faded into surprised murmurings.

Rhodey gritted his teeth as Obadiah Stane, Stark Industries’s second-in-command, strode out onto the stage and took the podium. The spotlight shone on his shaven head.

“Thank you, Colonel,” he said, accepting the award statuette.

“Thanks for the save,” Rhodey said, away from the microphone so the crowd wouldn’t hear.

Stane nodded and stepped to the podium. “This is beautiful. Thank you,” he said. “Thank you all very much. This is wonderful.”

He looked at the statuette for a long moment and then said, “Well, I’m not Tony Stark. But if I were, I’d tell you how honored I am and ... what a joy it is to receive this award.” He took a deep breath and forced a grin. “The best thing about Tony is also the worst thing—he’s always working.”

Tony was not working. Rhodey found that out right away.

In a nearby Las Vegas casino, Tony sat at a gaming table, betting enormous amounts of money. He paused and threw the dice, turning up another winner. The crowd around the table cheered.

Tony spotted Rhodey across the casino floor striding toward him. “You are unbelievable,” Rhodey said when he reached the table.

“Oh no!” Tony exclaimed. “Did they rope you into this awards thing?”

Rhodey scowled at him. “Nobody roped me into anything. But they said you’d be deeply honored if I presented the award.”

“Of course I’d be deeply honored,” Tony said. “And it’s you. That’s great. So when do we do it?”

Rhodey plopped the Apogee Award down on the gaming table. “Here you go.”

Tony stared at it, surprised. “There it is,” he said. “That was easy.” When he saw that Rhodey was still irritated, he got a little more serious. “I’m so sorry.”

Rhodey waved the apology away. “Yeah, it’s okay.”

Tony held up his dice to one of the beautiful women next to him at the table. “Give me a hand, will you?” he asked. “Give me a little something-something.”

She smiled and blew on the dice for good luck.

Tony held the dice out to Rhodey then. “Okay, you too.”

“I don’t blow on a man’s dice,” Rhodey said.

But Tony talked him into making the roll instead. He picked up the dice, shook them, and rolled—but they came up losers. The crowd around the table sighed and glared at Rhodey. Tony didn’t seem bothered, though. He collected a huge stack of chips from the table and headed for the door with Rhodey. People gawked and took pictures of him with their cell phones.

“A lot of people would kill to have their name on that award,” Rhodey said angrily. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Hold that thought,” Tony said, and strode toward the restroom. Once inside, he splashed water on his face.

“A thousand people came here tonight to honor you, and you didn’t even show up,” Rhodey said, following him. “Now you’re going into a war zone tomorrow just for an equipment demo. We should be doing that here in Nevada.”

Tony sighed. “This system has to be demonstrated under true field conditions.”

Just then, the door to the restroom swung open and an attractive redhead in her late twenties walked in. Rhodey recognized Virginia “Pepper” Potts, Tony’s executive assistant. She wasn’t the kind of person who let a MEN’S ROOM sign get in the way of doing her job.

“Tony, you’re leaving the country for a week,” she said, following him as he dropped the Apogee Award in the tip basket and went back onto the casino floor. “I just need five minutes of your time.”

Before Tony could answer, an attractive young woman holding a digital voice recorder pushed her way through the crowd. “Mr. Stark!” she called. “Christine Everhart, journalist. Can I ask you a few questions?”

“Can I ask you a few back?” Tony replied, slowing down to talk.

“You’ve been described as the da Vinci of our times,” Ms. Everhart said. “What do you say to that?”

“Ridiculous,” Tony said. “I don’t paint.”

“And what do you have to say about your other nickname: the Merchant of Death?”

Tony shrugged. “That’s not bad.” He sized her up, figuring from her appearance and accent that she was one of those do-gooder journalists who came from a privileged background and had never spent a day in the real world. “Let me guess,” he said. “Berkeley?”

“Brown, actually,” she said.

“Well,” he said, “it’s an imperfect world, but it’s the only one we’ve got. The day that weapons are no longer needed to keep the peace, I’ll start manufacturing bricks and beams to make hospitals.”

“Rehearse that much, Mr. Stark?” Ms. Everhart asked.

“Every night in front of the mirror. But call me Tony.”

She frowned. “All I want is a serious answer.”

“Okay, here’s serious,” he said. “My old man had a philosophy: Peace means having a bigger stick than the other guy.”

“That’s a great line, coming from the guy selling the sticks,” she shot back.

Now Tony was starting to lose his patience. “My father helped defeat the Nazis. He worked on the Manhattan Project. A lot of people, including your professors at Brown, would call that being a hero.”

She didn’t bat an eyelash. “And a lot of people would also call that war profiteering.”

“When do you plan to report on the millions of people we’ve saved by advancing medical technology? Or the millions more we’ve kept from starving with our intellicrops? All those breakthroughs came from military funding, honey.”

“Did you ever lose an hour of sleep in your whole life?” she asked him. Now her temper was up, too.

Tony winked. It was time to defuse the situation. “I’d be prepared to lose a few with you,” he said.2

Tony Stark’s home was a sprawling, ultramodern mansion atop a tall bluff on the edge of the Pacific Ocean, with a commanding view of the surf far below. Tony wasn’t admiring the view, though. As usual, he was working in the huge laboratory-garage beneath the mansion. This morning, his project was tuning up one of the cars in his collection, an old ’

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“Boss,” she said, “you still owe me five minutes—”

“Just five?” he asked, cutting in. “We really should spend more quality time together.” He smiled at her, but she merely sighed.

“Focus,” she said. “I need to leave on time today.”

“Why the rush?” he asked. Tony gazed into her eyes. “You have plans tonight, don’t you?”

Pepper lifted her perfect nose just slightly. “I’m allowed to have plans on my birthday.”

“It’s your birthday again?” Tony said.

“Yep,” she replied. “Funny—same day as last year.”

“Well, get yourself something nice from me,” he said.

“I already did,” Pepper said, smiling indulgently. “Thank you, Mr. Stark.”

“You’re welcome, Ms. Potts.”

James Rhodes paced the tarmac. “Where is he?” he grumbled. Behind him, Tony’s private jet sat waiting.

Just then, a sports car roared up, a limousine right beside it. Tony’s chauffeur, Happy Hogan, popped open the trunk and pulled out Tony’s overnight suitcase. Tony hopped out of the car and headed directly toward the jet. “You’re good,” he said to Happy. “Thought I lost you back there.”

“You did,” Happy said. “I had to cut across Mulholland.”

Rhodey followed Tony to the plane, fuming. “I was standing out there for three hours!”

Tony stopped at the top of the stairs to his plane, a custom-built jet bearing the company slogan: STARK INDUSTRIES—TOMORROW TODAY. “Waiting on you now,” he said. “Let’s go. Wheels up! Rock and roll!”

Shaking his head, Rhodey followed Tony.

The flight attendant shut the cabin door as Tony and Rhodey settled into the jet’s plush leather seats.

After dinner, Rhodey and Tony got into another argument. “You just don’t get it,” Rhodey said, annoyed. “I don’t work for the military because they paid for my education; it’s a responsibility to our country.”

Tony regarded his friend coolly. “All I said was, with your smarts and your engineering background, you could write your own ticket in the private sector.” He flashed a smile. “And working as a civilian,” Tony continued, “you wouldn’t have to wear that military straitjacket.”

“Straitjacket?” Now Rhodey wasn’t just annoyed. He was angry. He unbuckled himself and got up to move away from Tony. “You know, the heck with you,” Rhodey said. “I’m not talking to you anymore.”

“Hot sake?” Tony asked as one of the flight attendants brought a tray with a bottle and two glasses.

“We’re not drinking,” Rhodey insisted. “We’re working right now.”

“I’m just talking about a nightcap,” Tony said. Rhodey accepted. After a while, he wasn’t as angry anymore. Tony was Tony; what could you do?

The next morning, they touched down in Bagram Air Force Base in Afghanistan. Once there, a convoy of Humvees took them from the base to a fortified test site in the desert. As Rhodey settled in among the generals and VIPs, Tony went to work. He walked up and down the makeshift stage, boasting the virtues of Stark Industries’s latest equipment.

“The age-old question,” Tony said, “is whether it’s better to be feared or respected. I say, is it too much to ask for both?”

His eyes gleamed as he walked over to a Jericho missile perched atop a mobile launcher.

“With that in mind,” Tony continued, “I present the crown jewel of Stark Industries’s Freedom Line of armaments. This is the first missile to incorporate my proprietary Repulsor Technology—or RT, as we like to call it. A breakthrough in energy control and guidance.”

He pressed a button on a remote, and the missile streaked into the air. The rocket arced gracefully toward a nearby rocky mountain peak.

“Fire off one of these babies,” Tony said, “and I guarantee the enemy is not going to leave their caves. For your consideration ... the power of Jericho.”

He pointed as the Jericho missile divided from a single weapon into a swarm of minimissiles. The missiles smashed into the nearby peak. With a deafening roar, the mountain exploded into a shower of debris.

Dust washed over Tony and the generals. Tony continued smiling, unfazed by the sudden blast. When the smoke cleared, much of the mountaintop was gone. The generals and Afghan officials nodded and muttered among themselves, impressed.

“Gentlemen,” Tony said, “Stark Industries operators are standing by to take your orders.” He walked off the stage to where Rhodey stood waiting.

“I think that went well,” Tony whispered to his friend.

Rhodey started to say something, but Tony was already answering his satellite videophone. He punched a button and Obadiah Stane’s weary face appeared on the screen.

“Obie, what are you doing up so late?” Tony asked.

“I couldn’t sleep until I found out how it went,” Stane replied. “How did it go?”

Stark grinned. “I think we’ve got an early Christmas coming.”

“Way to go, my boy,” Stane replied blearily.

“Why aren’t you wearing those pajamas I got you?” Tony asked.

“Good night, Tony,” Stane said, and hung up.

Tony passed the phone to Rhodey, and then walked over to a row of soldiers waiting by the group’s Humvees. “All right,” Tony said, “who wants to ride with me?” Reading the name tag of a young soldier nearby, he asked, “Jimmy?”

Jimmy’s young face lit up. “Me?” The two soldiers with him—Ramirez and Pratt, according to their name tags—nodded as well. Tony and the three soldiers piled into the vehicle. Rhodey was about to get in as well, but Tony stopped him.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “This is the Fun-Vee. The Hum-Drum-Vee is back there.”

The look he got from Rhodey was part bemusement and part irritation. “Nice job,” Rhodey said.

Tony accepted the compliment like he deserved it. “See you back at base,” he said.

As Rhodey headed for another vehicle, Tony slammed the door shut. Ramirez cranked up the stereo, and their Humvee roared off into the desert.3

Tony watched as the bleak landscape of Afghanistan rushed past the Humvee’s window. The vehicle was cramped, sweaty, and hot—a far cry from the air-conditioned luxury Tony had known all his life. He adjusted the collar of his expensive suit and glanced at the soldiers riding with him. None of them seemed bothered by the heat or the bumpy road. Buried under their gear, all three soldiers looked alike to Tony.

“Oh, I get it,” Tony said after a time. “You guys aren’t allowed to talk. Is that it?”

“No,” Jimmy replied. “We’re allowed to talk.”

Ramirez flashed Tony a smile. “I think these boys are just intimidated.”

Tony nearly jumped. “You’re a woman!” he blurted.

The other soldiers chuckled.

Tony’s face reddened as he straightened up in his seat. “I would apologize for not realizing, but isn’t that what we’re fighting here for? The right of all people to be equal?” He smiled back at her, but Ramirez merely shook her head.

“Mr. Stark, sir?” Pratt asked. “Is it cool if I take a picture with you?”

“Yes. It’s very cool,” Tony said. Then he added, “I don’t want to see this on your page.”

Grinning, Pratt crowded next to Tony as Jimmy framed them in a digital camera. Tony unbuckled his seat belt and put his arm around Pratt’s shoulder. One of them was making a peace sign.

Just then, a huge explosion rocked the truck. Tony watched through the windshield as an enormous ball of fire knocked the Humvee ahead of them off the dirt road.

Tony slammed into the side of the Humvee. His gaze fell on the right side-view mirror just as the Humvee behind them blew up.

Trapped between two burning vehicles, Tony’s Humvee skidded to a stop. The sound of gunfire rattled the Humvee’s windows. Rhodey was right, Tony thought. We should have done this in Nevada.

“Stay here!” Pratt commanded. He, Ramirez, and Jimmy piled out of the Humvee, ready to fight. As they left, another explosion filled the air with dust.

Tony peered out the window, trying to see what was happening. The soldiers took up defensive positions, firing through the clouds of dust kicked up by the bomb. One of them ran into the billowing cloud, trying to secure the Humvee’s position.

As Tony ducked down, yet another explosion rocked the vehicle, shattering the window above his head. A shower of glass rained down on Tony’s two-hundred-dollar haircut. He knew he was doomed if he stayed in the Humvee. So he scrambled across the seat and out the far door.

Tony stumbled across the rugged landscape, looking for cover. Smoke stung his eyes and the sound of gunfire echoed in his head. The whole convoy had ground to a halt. They were trapped.

Something landed nearby with a soft thud—an unexploded rocket-propelled grenade. Tony gaped at the info stenciled on the side of the explosive: USM 116

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The enemy was shooting at him with weapons made by his company. Tony turned and ran. Please let it be a dud! he thought. Please let it be—

A blaze of blinding white light surrounded him as the grenade went off. The blast hurled Tony through the air and he landed hard on the ground. The air rushed out of his lungs, and the world around him faded away.

When Tony came to, he found himself tied to a chair in a dark cave. Ragged, makeshift bandages covered his body. Every part of him hurt—especially his chest. It was all he could do to stay conscious.

Two scruffy guards, armed with machine guns, stood nearby. On the other side of the cave, a video camera focused on a tall man who seemed to be the leader of these people. Tony realized the men must be insurgents—the rebel fighters who had attacked his convoy. The tall man read a prepared statement for the camera in a language Tony didn’t understand, probably Arabic or Pashto. Next to him stood a line of armed, hooded men holding up a banner showing ten interlocking rings—a sign Tony had seen before on the news. It was the symbol of a well-known insurgent faction.

The leader finished reading and thrust a huge knife into the air. The others cried their approval. The camera-man turned the camera toward Tony. The leader stepped forward, his knife gleaming in the semidarkness. Thankfully, Tony passed out.

When Tony opened his eyes again, he was in some kind of emergency room—though it didn’t look like a very good one. He was strapped to a bed and connected to numerous wires and tubes. Everything around him, even the medical equipment, looked dirty and ill-repaired. An aging man in a dirty doctor’s smock stood by a nearby sink, shaving. He didn’t notice that Tony had woken up.

Feeling thirsty, Tony reached for a pitcher of water on a nearby table, but the tubes and wires connecting him to the medical machines wouldn’t let him stretch that far. He grabbed hold of the wires and pulled, trying to rip them out. Somehow, he didn’t have the strength. His chest ached terribly.

The doctor noticed his efforts. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he said in slightly accented English. His dark eyes strayed meaningfully down the wires to a nearby car battery. A chill rushed down Tony’s spine. Who were these people? What had they done to him?

He put his hand on his bandaged chest and remembered he was in the hands of the enemy. He’d been taken prisoner—and they’d done something to his heart.4

Tony faded in and out of consciousness for a long time. When he could finally focus again, he was in a cave. The doctor stood a dozen yards away, stirring a bubbling pot over a small gas-fired furnace. It looked like he was working on an experiment. Flickering fluorescent lights dangled overhead. A closed metal door seemed to be the room’s sole exit. Dirt, grease, and blood stained the doctor’s yellowed smock. He had a tanned, wrinkled face, gray hair, and thick glasses. He glanced over as Tony stirred.

Tony looked at his chest and gasped. Some kind of bulky metal machine protruded from beneath his fresh bandages.

“What have you done to me?” he asked.

The doctor stopped stirring the pot. “My name is Yinsen, and what I did is to save your life. I removed all the shrapnel I could, but there’s a lot left and it’s headed into your atrial septum.” He picked up a jar from a nearby shelf and tossed it to Tony. “Here, want to see? I have a souvenir.”

Tony, who was no longer strapped down, caught the jar and winced. It was full of shrapnel. His chest felt very, very strange.

“What is this?” he asked, looking down at his chest.

“That is an electromagnet, hooked up to a car battery, and it’s keeping the shrapnel from entering your heart.” Tony looked at his wound and suddenly felt sick. He looked away from it at the nearby car battery. Then he noticed a security camera perched high on the cave wall.

Yinsen nodded. “That’s right. Smile.”

Somehow, Tony didn’t feel like smiling.

“We’ve met once before,” Yinsen continued, stirring the pot, “at a technical conference in Bern, Switzerland.”

“I don’t remember,” Tony said.

“You wouldn’t,” Yinsen replied. “If I’d been that drunk, I wouldn’t have been able to stand.”

Tony brushed this off. “Where are we?” he asked. Before Yinsen could answer, a metal slat in the middle of the door slid back, revealing two menacing eyes.

Yinsen stopped stirring. “Stand up!” he hissed at Tony. “Do as I do. Now!”

Tony tried to stand, but couldn’t manage it. Yinsen dropped his spoon and helped Tony up. Before Tony could ask what was happening, the door swung open and a tall, powerful-looking man entered, flanked by two armed henchmen.

The man began speaking in Arabic and Yinsen translated. “Abu Bakar says, ‘Welcome, Tony Stark, the greatest mass murderer in the history of America. It is a great honor.’ ”

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