The Thing

  Garry whirled on him, his iron self-control finally cracking slightly. "Damn you, Blair! You've already got everybody half hysterical around here. Why don't you shut up for a while?

  "I remember what you said and I think I understand the ramifications as well as anyone else. But I'm station manager and I've got to make the hard decisions. And it's my decision that we need some expert help in here, and the sooner the better.

  "I'm sorry if that doesn't square with your personal theories, but kindly keep in mind that I have to do what I think is best for everyone involved, and that's just what I'm going to do."

  "But you can't let anybody leave!" Blair insisted emphatically. "You can't . . ."

  "Look, I'm just about fed up with this whole business, Blair." The station manager was restraining himself with an effort. "I've got six dead Norwegians on my hands, a destroyed research station belonging to a friendly nation, a burned-up flying saucer, and according to Fuchs I've just ordered the scientific find of the century cremated. How do you think I feel. Now fuck off!"

  He turned deliberately away from the biologist and resumed his conversation with the phlegmatic Macready. Blair went silent, ashen-faced and suddenly suspicious. And more than that.

  He was terrified.

  It was deep night outside the station, the sky obscured by the racing clouds that were the harbingers of the storm Bennings had forecast. No stars shone through the gathering clouds, no eerily beautifuly aurora decorated the heavens with its delicate pastel strokes.

  There was no sound save the wind and the pattering of ice particles against corrugated metal siding. A faint flare of lightning, wild and distant, momentarily threw the camp buildings into ghostly silhouette.

  It was toasty warm inside Macready's shack. The glare from the single naked light bulb fell equally on unclad pinups and garish travel posters.

  At the moment, the pilot was leaning over the one table, carefully setting a tiny screw in place on the side of his recently mended, oversized chessboard.

  Across the table his busty, inflatable companion occupied the other chair. She was the ideal chess partner—quiet, not argumentative, and she didn't guzzle his secret stock of booze. His sombrero hung down her back, keeping her in place. Hawaiian music, as authentically Polynesian as the Volkswagens choking Waikiki, rose melodiously from the stereo.

  "All set," he informed his companion. "About time, too. I was getting sick of that little board they have in the rec room." He put the screwdriver aside, lifted his glass and offered a toast, a wide grin on his face.

  "To us, my dear." The inflatable figure moved slightly in the warm air blowing from Macready's wall heater. He clinked his glass against the one he'd prepared for her, then took a long slug from his own.

  Settling down in his chair he turned the renovated machine on. A red "ready" light winked to life in one corner and he let out a grunt of satisfaction.

  "Now go easy on me, Esperanza," he told the figure across the table. "Remember, I'm just a beginner. And remember what happened last time." He entered his first move.

  The set answered for Esperanza, whose bloated plastic lips could not move. "Rook takes bishop at queen four, rook takes pawn at queen two, rook takes queen at queen one. Check-mate-mate-mate."

  "Aw shit." Macready turned the machine off and flipped up the panel concealing the intricate programming circuitry. A screwdriver and several printed circuits got tossed onto the board, without consideration for the pieces they dislodged. Macready grabbed his drink and summarily downed the rest of the shot glass' amber contents.

  "Sorry, hon," he apologized to the plastic diva. "I know you did your best. You've got to lay off the hard stuff. It blows your game all to hell." He looked around. "We'll try again in a few minutes. First we lubricate your opponent, then the board." He reached inside the nearby ice bucket and brought his fingers out, dripping.

  "Never any damn ice around here," he muttered disconsolately. He pushed back in his chair, rose resignedly and headed for the door. A small ice pick of the kind favored by Norris for more important excavations hung from a hook nailed into the wall.

  The pilot removed the instrument and unlatched the door. He let the wind blow it inward about a foot before kicking the wedge into position at its base.

  Five minutes outside in the Antarctic night, dressed in light clothes as he was, and you'd freeze to death. But be would only be outside for a minute. A large bank of ice crested against the side of the cabin. He started chipping at it with the pick, holding the ice bucket underneath. He grumbled as he worked, the skin on the back of his neck already turning numb.

  "Now in Mexico, in Tahiti, they got ice. They got ice coming out of their ears." He hammered away with the pick. The ice was being stubborn.

  Ah, Tahiti, he thought to himself as he worked, trying to warm himself with memories. Now there was a place to run a chopper. Which he had, for a year, until a falling out with the owner of the scenic flight service had shattered that relationship and sent him packing in search of another job.

  Green and warm, that was Tahiti. No snakes, no scorpions, lots of good food, plenty of happy tourist ladies wanting company and consoling (tourist ladies only because the local vahines were all married or engaged, despite what the travel brochures implied). Flowers and warmth all year round. Now if they could only do something about the French . . .

  A clanking sound interrrupted his reverie. He frowned, turning away from the ice bank. His fingers were slightly numb at the tips, but that didn't bother him. He hadn't been outside long enough to be damaged. He pushed his ice into the bucket and took a step toward the open door.

  There it was again: metal rubbing against metal. That was funny. It would take a real idiot to be working outside this late at night.

  Sometimes the door catches in the main building failed, their special lubricating oil having frozen up or a leak having deceptively sapped the protective fluid. In that case a door could freeze shut, trapping someone outside.

  Macready hesitated. Probably something had gone bust in the electrical system. That happened a lot. But that kind of damage was nearly always repairable from inside, safe from the weather.

  Of course, somebody might have gotten bored with the attractions of the rec room and decided to run a private check on an outside experiment or piece of equipment. Maybe Childs was out checking some machinery, or even a sleepless Norris his seismographs.

  If the door had gone tight on one of them, they might be pounding to alert someone inside. And if the others were off in their quarters or the recreation area, well, the wind was loud and it would be tough to hear someone flailing at a door.

  Damn. Just when he and Esperanza were about to get it on. Oh well. The lady would just have to wait.

  Reentering the shack, he removed the wedge and pushed the door shut. Putting the fresh ice reluctantly aside, he wiggled into his outside clothes and downed a last swallow of warming liquor.

  He pulled the door carefully shut behind him. Using the steadying guide ropes he started toward the main building. Snow scudded across the planks of the walkway.

  There was the sound again, near the rear of the main structure. He changed direction, then stopped. The noise had vanished and wasn't repeated. He cursed silently. If he'd bundled up and gone outside this time of night for nothing . . .

  He turned a slow circle in the darkness. The dim outlines of the two helicopters glimmered in the light of the overhead outside lamps. He had a sudden thought.

  Maybe the noise he'd heard hadn't been caused by anyone. The wind was blowing hard now and getting stronger as the anticipated storm rolled in off the Ross Ice Shelf. It was possible that one of the guy wires holding the copters in place had come loose. The end of a cable blowing around in the wind would cause an intermittent metallic banging like the one he'd heard.

  Hell. The birds were his responsibility. As long as he was dressed for it he might as well make a quick check and make sure everything was okay. He'd save himself a lot of t
rouble if something had come loose by fixing it now, before the full winter storm struck the outpost.

  Changing direction, he started down another walkway, heading toward the machines. He checked the nearest guy wires first. Everything looked tight, the wires thrumming softly in the wind.

  He was slogging around the nearest copter when he noticed that the door to the cockpit was ajar. Now that was odd. Also dangerous. He walked over and opened the door cautiously.

  The cockpit was empty (of course it's empty, you idiot). He traced his anxiety to Blair's hysteria that afternoon in the hallway, when he'd been talking with Garry. It was all the biologist's fault, getting everyone on edge the way he had. Garry was right about that. Damn inconsiderate egghead. Ought to keep his crazier speculations to himself.

  He fumbled for a flashlight, switched it on and scanned the cockpit interior.

  The control board was a mess. Dials were shattered, instrumentation hammered to bits, the console itself cracked in several places. Shards of broken heavy-duty plastic filled the floor of the cockpit like olive-hued snow. The two steering columns were bent. Exposed wires were everywhere, having been snipped and shredded. Their exposed copper tips reminded Macready, unpleasantly, of the tendon things that had bound the two dogs together.

  In disbelief he played the beam from the flashlight over the destruction, trying to assess the extent of the damage. Then another unexpected sound interrupted him.

  The explosion came from somewhere near the main part of camp. It was soft, muffled by the wind, but he could still recognize the report of a gun.

  Oh Christ, be thought wildly, what now? He left the flashlight and the copter, making sure the door was locked tight, and stumbled down the walkway back toward the central compound.

  Once inside he followed the voices of confusion, the shouts of men only half awake. Rounding a turn he nearly ran over Palmer and Bennings.

  "Mac, you okay?" his assistant shouted at him. Palmer ran past him without waiting for an answer, looking far soberer than normal. Bennings kept pace with him and Macready chased them both.

  "Yeah, I'm fine. What the hell's going on? I thought I heard a gun."

  "It's Blair," the younger man told him as they raced through the corridor. "He's gone berserk."

  "He's in the communications room," Bennings added. "Got a gun, all right. I hear he beat on Sanders something fierce."

  They rounded another turn, Macready shredding outer clothing as he ran.

  Nervous men flanked the entrance to the communications room. Macready slowed; he noticed that no one was standing anywhere near the open doorway.

  Garry leaned around the corner and peeked inside. A gunshot, startlingly loud in the narrow corridor, forced him back. In its wake came the sound of breaking plastic. The station manager dropped to his knees. This time he was able to peer inside.

  Sanders lay on the floor close by. He was groaning and holding his head with both hands. There was some blood. Blair's edgy glances hallward were at eye level and he didn't see the floor-hugging Garry. The biologist was trying to focus a small pistol on the doorway with one hand. The other gripped a fire axe that Blair wielded awkwardly but with considerable effect against the complex telecommunications equipment.

  Garry winced at the sight of the damage. Sanders didn't appear badly injured, but the tone of the biologist's voice combined with the crazed expression on his face convinced the station manager it would be prudent not to make any hasty moves.

  "Anybody interferes, I'll kill!" the scientist was screaming toward the hall. Whammm . . . the high-gain amplifier became scrap. "Nobody's getting in or out of this camp."

  Macready addressed his companions. "I heard something funny so I went out to investigate. He smashed one of the choppers up good. Childs, go check the other one and the tractor. Maybe we can do something with the one he smashed up if he got to the other as well."

  The big mechanic nodded and sped off down the corridor.

  The axe descended on the main radio once more, further reducing its delicate parts to electronic mush. "You think I'm crazy!" Blair shouted at them, his gun hovering over the entrance. "Fine! Think whatever the hell you want. Most of you don't know what's going on, but I'm damned sure some of you do!"

  Another vicious crunch echoed through the hallway.

  "The back window," Norris suggested softly. "A couple of us could maybe surprise him."

  "And maybe not," argued Macready, thinking fast. "Too damn dangerous."

  "I hear you whispering out there!" Blair yelled. "Go ahead and whisper, but for God's sake listen to me.

  "You think this thing wants to become animals? Dogs can't make it a thousand miles to the sea. No skuas to imitate this time of year, no penguins this far inland. Nothing. Except us. Don't you understand? It wanted to become us!" He brought the axe down one more time on something delicate and irreparable.

  A gust of cool air preceded Childs's return. He pulled up behind Macready, panting hard. Snow flecked his beard. His report was grim.

  "He got both choppers and the tractor."

  "Not the tractor too?" Bennings said in disbelief.

  Childs nodded vigorously. "I don't know how bad yet. The tractor looks like it's in better shape than the chopper. Tougher construction, simpler controls. I didn't stick around to check if he got under the hood. Figured I might be able to help back here." He gestured with a finger. "Course in a minute it might not make any difference."

  Macready saw the station manager readying his Magnum. "Garry . . . wait a minute." The other man glanced up at him, pistol at the ready.

  "You got something in mind, Mac?"

  The pilot looked over at Norris. "Fuse box."

  The geophysicist glanced toward the station manager. Garry considered briefly, then nodded his assent. Norris took off down the hall, moving fast.

  Macready went the other way. The recreation room was deserted. He picked up one of the card tables, folded its legs beneath the top, and double-timed it back to the communication room.

  Blair was still babbling, still swinging the axe. "Can't you see?" he was raving at no one in particular. "If one cell of this thing got out in a decent carrier host it could infect every living thing oh Earth. Nothing could stop it, nothing! All it needs is any creature with a halfway competent brain. A bird, a mouse, anything.

  "Of course, a man would be better. Much better. More efficient." A high giggling came from the distraught biologist. "And this thing, oh, it's very efficient."

  Macready balanced the table against his belt buckle, moved close to the doorjamb and tried to make his voice sound understanding.

  "It's me, Blair. Macready. Look, maybe you're right about all this. Maybe we aren't understanding you. But you've got to remember that we're not trained scientists, most of us. We're hewers of wood and drawers of water for you research boys. So you've got to try and make us understand.

  "But not like this. We've got to talk it over, face to face, like reasonable men. How can you expect us to act sensibly if you don't?" His grip on the table tightened. "I'm unarmed, Blair, and I'm coming in."

  "No you're not!" There was naked panic in the biologist's voice. "Nobody's coming in. I don't trust any of you!"

  Macready was counting seconds. Norris ought to have reached the circuit breakers by now. Since the chief still had his Magnum that meant Blair couldn't have anything bigger than one of the little target twenty-twos. The table wouldn't stop a twenty-two short, but it might deflect it or at least slow it down some. And the moving table would make a lousy target.

  "If you're right," he said toward the opening, "we've all got to stick together."

  " 'Stick together,' " Blair repeated. "Ha ha, that's a good one, Mac. That's real funny. Stick together. Sure we do. Like the dogs. Remember the dogs, Mac?" His voice turned threatening. "I'm not going to end up like that."

  The lights went out. Macready crouched and charged into the suddenly black room as Blair's pistol roared. In the instant before darknes
s had descended on the camp Macready had caught a glimpse of the biologist standing defiantly in front of the ruined communications console, gun in one hand and fire axe waving in the other.

  Then the table struck something hard but moveable and they went down in a heap. Macready flailed away with his right hand, groping with the other. He struck something yielding and was rewarded with a grunt of pain. His other hand crept up an arm until it reached something metallic.

  By then there were half a dozen other bodies helping him as the rest of the men piled onto the screaming, deranged biologist.

  Macready, Fuchs, and Dr. Copper half-carried, half-escorted the glassy-eyed Blair toward the tool shed, which lay some seventy-five yards from the main compound. Blair stumbled along unresistingly and gave them no trouble.

  The clouds had merged into a solid mass that obliterated all the stars from view. It looked as if Bennings's forecast was coming to pass. The wind hadn't picked up much, but the air was definitely colder. Soon they'd have to wear masks in addition to snow goggles if they wanted to go outside.

  The shed was larger than Macready's and boasted two windows, triple-paned like those in the compound. Childs had switched on a portable electric heater earlier and the temperature in the shed was comfortable. Its workbench would not be used for a while. Not while Blair was occupying the room.

  Fuchs and Macready eased the biologist down onto the single cot. If anything, Blair seemed more stunned by what he'd done than any of his companions.

  Copper helped remove his outer clothing. Without parka, gloves, and down vest the biologist wouldn't try to go anywhere. Then Copper rolled up the man's right sleeve and swabbed his arm with disinfectant. There was no protest from the recipient as the sedative entered his bloodstream.

  The doctor removed the needle, swabbed the puncture site a second time and slipped the empty hypo back into its holding case. He took hold of Blair's wrist and checked a watch as the biologist blinked up at him.

  "Why am I here?"

  "It's for your own protection, Blair," Copper told him sternly, still eyeing the watch.