"We can only theorize at this point as to the details. I don't have nearly the facilities to do more than that. What I believe happens during the takeover process is that the original thing injects a certain quantity of its own DNA into the cells of the animal it wishes to control." He held up a gooey dog leg that had been part of the Norwegian animal
"For instance, this isn't dog at all. It looks like dog, but the cell structure bears no resemblance to normal canine cellular architecture. The cell walls, as in the original creature," and he waved with the leg, a gruesome baton, "are incredibly flexible. Controlled by the patterns in the DNA, they can conform to any pattern the creature wishes, provided it can obtain a DNA 'blueprint' to copy. In this case, dog DNA. Get me a good electron miscroscope and in a few hours I won't be guessing at that, I'll be proving it.
"The critical requirement is DNA to copy. Apparently the thing's incapable of duplicating a living creature out of nothing. It needs the control information contained in a subject's nuclear material to merge with. Fortunately, we got to it before it had time to finish."
"Finish what?" Nauls muttered.
Blair indicated the remains of the camp's sled dog. "Finish taking control of our animal." His hand rested on the furry skull. "The merging activity which occurs among the cells of the brain is particularly rapid and insidious. Like I said, I don't really have the right equipment here for this kind of work, but from what I've seen so far, brain tissue from that animal," and he indicated the bloated corpse of the Norwegian dog, "contains some of the damnedest synaptic connections any biologist ever imagined. Combinations and linkages that haven't got shit to do with canine evolution.
"So you see, in addition to taking control of existing cell structures and patterns, the original creature is also able to create new ones to its own requirements."
Copper frowned down at the table. "A body is only designed to support so much cellular material. If the invasion by this creature creates new matter in addition to taking over existing structures, how does the body's life support system cope with the extra load?"
Blair's voice remained even, tutorial. "As you say, the body is only designed to keep so much organic material alive and functioning. Portions of this dog's brain, for example, have been blocked off by new structures. The flow of oxygenated blood has been redirected."
"In other words," Copper said quietly, "part of its brain has been turned off?"
Blair nodded. "Certain cerebral regions were dead before this animal died, having been supplanted in importance by new activity elsewhere."
"What regions were kill . . . were turned off?"
"Difficult to say. There was massive parasitic invasion. Some of those which control portions of the memory, intelligence, and in particular individuality. Hard to tell with a dog, of course, be it dead or alive." He turned his gaze back to the interlocked bodies.
"I think the whole process would have taken about an hour. Maybe more. I've no way of knowing for certain, of course. There's nothing comparable in the literature. I'm extrapolating as best I can from what little we've been able to find out."
"And when that hour was up?" Garry asked pointedly.
The biologist looked over at him. "The conduits supplying connective material . . . these tendon things . . . would vanish and you'd have two normal-looking dogs again. Only they wouldn't be normal anymore, and they'd be dogs only in appearance."
"I'll buy that," agreed Palmer fervently. "That thing in the ice the Norwegians dug up sure weren't no dog."
"Of course not." Blair tried to control his impatience. These men are not scientists, he reminded himself, except for Bennings, Norris, and Fuchs. "If nothing else, the size of the missing portion of the excavated ice block points to a much larger creature.
"How much larger we've no way of knowing. As I've said, the altered cell structure is remarkably flexible. It's capable of a good deal of expansion or contraction."
"What do you think happened?" Garry asked him.
The biologist considered the question carefully. "Whenever the original thing was thawed out, revived . . . well, it was certainly disoriented. If its memory was intact, it must have realized it couldn't survive for long in our atmosphere in its orginal state. Being the incredibly adaptive creature that it is, it tried to become something that could"
Once again he indicated the recumbent mass on the table.
"Before the Norwegians killed it, it somehow got to this dog."
"What do you mean, 'got' to the dog?" Clark asked.
Blair tried to be patient. "I've tried to make this simple. That may be impossible. This thing was a life form that was able to take control of any creature it got a hold of, cell for cell, neuron for neuron. The concept is staggering. The closest terrestrial analog I can think of is the lichen, which is not really an individual creature but an association of two very different kinds of life, algae and fungi.
"But this is much more complex and complete, and it's certainly not in the least symbiotic. The invading thing acts like a true parasite, taking complete control of the host for its own advantage. There's no mutual assistance, insofar as I've been able to determine. I . . . I don't pretend to completely understand all the ramifications myself."
"You're saying," Childs broke in, pointing skeptically at the Norwegian intruder on the table, "that big mother in the ice those guys chipped out became that dog?"
Blair nodded. "And there was no reason for it to stop there. As we can see here, it tried to take control of one of our dogs as well. I don't see what its limits would be. It could have become as many dogs as it wanted to, without surrendering control of its original host body. It doesn't take much organic material to alter DNA, though I'm not sure about the other large-scale changes.
"One cell is enough. The DNA pattern of the new host is irrevocably altered. And so on and so on, each animal it takes over becoming a duplicate of the original thing."
"You been into Childs's weed, Blair?" Norris muttered.
Blair's fist slammed onto the table. "Look, I know it's hard to accept! I know it's difficult to picture an enemy you can't see. But if that stuff gets into your system, in about an hour—"
"It takes you over," Fuchs finished for him.
"It's more than that, more than you becoming a part of it. The 'you' is gone, wiped out, shunted aside permanently by a new set of cellular instructions. It retains only what it needs of the original, the way it used the memory patterns of the Norwegian dog to make certain it acted in a recognizably doglike manner."
"It licked my hand," Norris murmured, "as it was being chased by those guys in the helicopter. It came right up to me and licked my hand and whined for help."
Blair nodded. "Sure it did. It keeps anything useful. This organism is highly efficient, not wasteful. And it's clever. Much too clever for my liking."
"So what's the problem?" Garry wanted to know. He indicated the two bodies lying unthreateningly on the table. "The torch crisped it pretty good."
The biologist turned to stare down at the canine forms. "There's still some cell activity. Clinically speaking, it's nor entirely dead yet . . ."
Clark jumped backward and stumbled over a waste can. The reaction from the rest of the men was similar if not as extreme.
"Take it easy," Blair told them, hiding the glimmerings of a smile.
"You said one cell was enough to take control," Norris murmured, his eyes on the suddenly malignant corpses.
"To imprint a pattern, yes," Blair admitted, "but not to initiate the takeover procedure. That requires a much greater quantity of protoplasmic material. The tendon structures which seem so important to the process, for one thing. They're composed of millions of cells." But the men shuffled uneasily, still uncertain, still fearful.
"Look." Blair tried to reassure them. "If there were any kind of danger d'you think I'd be standing here running my hands over the thing?" The men relaxed slightly. Blair looked down at the two bodies. "As far as I'm concerned, however, any cell
activity, however minimal, is too much."
"What do you recommend?" Garry asked him.
Blair glanced at his assistant. They'd discussed the possibilities previously, when Blair had detected the minimal remaining cell activity. Still, Fuchs's eyes widened when he saw in his superior's expression which choice had been made.
"You can't. You can't do this!" Fuchs was screaming into the night.
It was very dark outside. The wind had let up and there was no snow in the air to obscure the vision of the heavily bundled-up men trudging out of the compound. Their purpose was equally clear.
Macready and Copper dumped the two dog corpses onto a cleared patch of ground. Childs upended the big can he was carrying and soaked the two bodies. The smell of gasoline was sharp in the perfectly clean air. He used the entire contents of the can, shaking the last few drops onto the rigid bodies.
"You can't do it," Fuchs was arguing violently with his companions. "You can't burn these last remains!" He was beside himself with a mixture of frustration and fury. But he didn't know what to do about it.
Childs put the gas can aside and picked up the big industrial torch while Macready emptied the contents of a second can onto the bodies. They were going to be as thorough as their orders allowed.
"And the horse you rode in on, Fuchs." The pilot stepped back and tossed the can after its mate. The empty containers ran loudly in the darkness when they struck. "Light it up," he told Childs.
The mechanic activated the torch. Fuchs started toward him, suddenly determined.
"Well, I'm not going to let this happen."
Childs struggled with him for a moment, then tossed him aside. Copper intercepted the angry Fuchs and sat astride the younger man's chest.
"Take it easy, Fuchs. Doctor's orders," he added gently. "This is necessary."
There was a roar in the dim light as the torch sprang to life. Unhesitantingly, Childs turned the jet of flame toward the corpses. They exploded impressively when the fire touched them. Snow melted around the bodies, which burned furiously. The mechanic kept the torch on them even after the gasoline caught.
Fuchs lay on the snow and turned his head away in disgust. "I just can't believe this. The greatest biological discovery in hundreds of years, and we incinerate it down to the last cell. We're going to go down in the books as the biggest bunch of assholes in scientific history."
"Fuck history," said Macready tersely, watching the corpses burn. "I'd rather go down as an ignorant old asshole than an enlightened zombie." He looked over his shoulder at the assistant biologist, his expression grim.
"I don't suppose I should have expected anything like a scientific attitude from you, Macready. But to get that from Mr. Blair, and Norris." He looked up at the man sitting on his chest, a hurt look on his face. "And from you too, Doc. And you call yourself a scientist."
"No, I call myself a physician, though I have a few research projects of my own. My primary concern, however, has to be the health of the men at this station. That's why I agreed with Blair's decision to destroy every last remnant of this thing." He rose, moved to one side and gave the younger man a hand up. Fuchs brushed ice particles from his back and pants legs, saying nothing.
"I'm sorry, Fuchs," the doctor continued. "Sometimes you have to be satisfied just to know that cobra venom is deadly. Its not always efficacious to study the snake face to face. You have to balance what you might learn against the known chance of getting bit."
Childs had finally switched off the torch. The corpses continued to blaze away for several more minutes.
When they started back toward the compound there was nothing left on the ground but some fine powder and a few fragments of carbonized bone . . .
Blair was taking blood samples from the three healthy dogs who remained in the kennel. He'd already checked out those caged in the infirmary. Nearby, Clark was dishing out the evening meal. The kennel seemed empty with only three inhabitants and the handler's melancholy was palpable.
Blair's face had been reflecting conflicting thoughts ever since he'd entered the kennel. Something had been bothering him for quite a while now.
"Say, Clark, did you notice anything strange about that Norwegian dog? I know it was a perfect imitation of dog reality, but wasn't there anything at all that piqued your curiosity about it? Any little thing?"
Clark finished dishing out the food, wiping his hands as he considered the biologist's questions. The three surviving animals swarmed around the food trough, tussling and fighting for position with their usual enthusiasm. The absence of their companions seemed not to concern them.
"No. Just that he recovered real quick. That night when I found him in the recreation room, he'd already scraped off his bandage. I redressed the wound before I put him back in with the others. Noticed that it had healed up real good, but I didn't think it was anything extraordinary. Not at the time, anyway."
Blair was suddenly attentive. "You said, when you found him in the rec room 'that night'?"
The handler moved toward the trough and affectionately scratched the ears of one of the dogs. "Yeah."
"What was he doing in the rec room?"
"After I worked on him, I thought I'd let him rest a while. Be traumatic enough to shove him in with a whole kennelful of new mates if he'd been healthy. I left the room for a bit, and when I came back he was gone."
"Well, where was he?" The biologist sounded funny, as though each word was a strain. "Where did he go?"
Clark shrugged. "Hell, I don't know. I looked around for him a couple of minutes and couldn't find him. I figured he'd be okay by himself. He couldn't get outside, and Nauls keeps the food locked up. So I didn't worry about him."
Blair hesitated a moment, then asked, "You're saying that he wasn't put into the kennel until late that night?"
Something in the biologist's expression made Clark suddenly uneasy. "Well . . . yeah, that's right."
Blair seemed to have forgotten his instruments, the testing, the two little vials full of fresh red dog blood. He see to have forgotten everything except Clark.
"How long were you with the dog? Alone, I mean?"
"Ah . . . he was hurt bad. Bullet nicked the artery in the hip. I can't say for sure. An hour, hour and a half." Blair kept staring at him, moon-eyed. "What the hell are you looking at me like that for?"
"No reason," the biologist muttered, "no reason at all." He was backing out of the kennel.
When he'd vanished down the corridor the puzzled Clark turned back to his feeding animals, shaking his head in wonder. "Now what d'you suppose got into him?" The irony of his words didn't register on the dog handler.
Blair finally located the station manager walking down the hallway near the south main entrance. He had to hurry to match strides with Garry as he headed purposefully toward communications. The biologist's face was pale, his expression filled with worry.
"I'm telling you," he was saying urgently, "that in the time it was wandering around the station all by itself it could have gotten to somebody. And I'm not talking about one of the surviving dogs."
"Anybody sick?"
"No, no, I don't mean that kind of infection. You know damn well what I mean."
Garry stopped outside the door to the communications room. For a change, every piece of equipment inside was on line, including the operator.
"Any luck yet?"
Sanders shrugged, glancing back at the two men in the hallway. "Nothing from McMurdo, if that's what you mean. Couple seconds of an Argentine disco station."
Garry tried to hide his disappointment. "Well, stick with it. I want you at it round the clock. Get Copper to prescribe something for you if you need it. We've got to get some help in here."
"No, no!" Blair was suddenly alarmed. "You can't bring anyone in here. That dog was all over the camp."
Garry frowned at him. "You said yourself you don't understand what's been happening here, that you need better equipment and experienced advice. We need to get some experts in here. N
othing personal, but . . ."
"Hell with that, I don't give a damn about that," Blair shouted, "I'm telling you we can't . . ."
Bennings turned a corner, interrupting them. As he talked he referred to a complex plastic chart filled with hastily scrawled meteorological symbols. Arrows and X's and readings in millibars covered the continent as thoroughly as ice.
"What'd you come up with?" Garry asked him.
"Travelwise, tomorrow may be okay," the weatherman told him. "But after that some pretty nasty northeasterly shit's supposed to be coming in. It is becoming winter down here, after all. We could be socked in for several days at least."
"Goddamn fools . . ." A new voice joined them, accompanied by a blast of icy air as the door at the far end of the corridor opened and Fuchs came stomping into the hall. "The discovery of the ages, papers in every journal, maybe even a Nobel . . ." He glanced accusingly over a shoulder. "All thrown away in a moment of panic."
Garry looked past him. Childs was removing his heavy outside gloves. He'd already stowed the torch. Macready and Copper moved past him. The chopper pilot noticed Garry staring expectantly at him and nodded once.
"You sure?"
Macready unbuttoned his outer coat. "Nothing left but residue, chief. And damn little of that."
Garry nodded his approval. Blair was tugging at his arm. "Listen to me, Garry. Please, you've got to—"
But the station manager was talking with Macready. "If the weather clears enough before Sanders can contact anybody, I'm sending you and the doc over to McMurdo."
"No!" Blair was horrified. "You can't let anybody leave the camp!"
"I ain't going anywhere in anything over forty knots, Garry. No matter how 'clear' it is. Especially not all the way down to McMurdo."
"The hell you won't, Macready!"
Blair stepped between them, desperately trying to gain the station manager's attention. "Don't you understand? Didn't anything I said earlier make any impression on you? That thing became a dog because it had to. Because there wasn't anything else available at the time. It didn't want to become a dog."