The Thing

  They waited. Nauls sat next to Norris's motionless form. He stared accusingly at Macready. "He's not breathing. You killed him, man."

  "Shut up, Nauls. You talk too much."

  Palmer was back in a hurry, supporting the doctor with an arm around his back. Garry and Clark had recovered enough to stagger unsteadily along behind.

  Copper glanced once at Macready, took in the pilot's belligerent stance, the flare, the box of dynamite. "Mac, what in . . .?"

  "Never mind the cheery greetings, Doc. Save it for later." He gestured toward Norris.

  Copper nodded understandingly and knelt over the geophysicist's body. Nauls moved to one side. The doctor checked the recumbent man's eyes, listened to his chest, then looked back up at Macready.

  "Get him to the infirmary. Fast. Only chance."

  Macready nodded in agreement, looked at the others. "Childs, Sanders, Nauls . . . pick him up and let's go. And everyone stay in front of me and in clear view, got it? I don't want anybody ducking into any open doorways and waiting for me to come up next to them. I might trip, or get nervous, or both."

  Norris's body was laid out on the examination table. The refrigerator and its legacy of ruined blood stood mutely nearby, reminding everyone of the last time they'd gathered in this room.

  Copper turned to reach for something and nearly fell. He was still woozy from the morphine. Palmer and Sanders steadied him. Macready stood in a corner with his back against the wall and watched.

  Copper slipped an oxygen mask over Norris's face, then. made a couple of passing grabs at the regulator attached to the cylinder before finally getting a hand on it. He twisted the valve control and a hissing sound filled the room. The dial on the regulator came alive.

  Bending over Norris, the doctor ripped the man's shirt open and yanked apart the stained undershirt. He worked laboriously, inhibited by the aftereffects of the drug still coursing through his system. He didn't look up at Macready when the pilot spoke, instead continued working on his patient.

  "So you sweethearts had yourselves a little trial. I may, just have to kill you on general principles, Nauls." The cook spat at him.

  "You might already have done that to Norris." Behind him, Copper was swathing the geophysicist's chest with a gleaming oleaginous substance.

  Macready allowed himself a mild sneer. "Did it ever occur to the jury that anybody could have gotten to some of my clothes and fixed them up to look nice and incriminating like?" His tone was casual but his attitude was not. The flare still hovered dangerously close to the dynamite.

  "We ain't buying that," said the surly Childs.

  "Dammit, quit the bickering and give me a hand!" Copper yelled at them. "Somebody wheel that fibrillator over here."

  "The what?" Childs asked.

  "The machine, there, and fast!" Copper replied exasperatedly.

  Keeping a cautious eye on the pilot and moving deliberately so as not to alarm him, Sanders grabbed the handles of the cart and pushed it close to the table. Copper promptly climbed onto the table and straddled Norris's chest.

  With Copper and the motionless Norris occupying the table and with Sanders standing close by the fibrillator, Clark was screened from Macready's sight. Casually he let his right hand drift toward the tray of surgical instruments on the second shelf of the cart. He quietly sorted through them, discarding shining forceps, a delicate clamp, a pair of tweezers, while keeping a close watch on Macready and the drama taking place on the table.

  No one saw his fingers close around the haft of the gleaming scalpel. He slowly reversed it, pointing the blade up his sleeve, the handle hidden in his palm.

  Copper spun to his right. "Palmer, turn the oxygen up another notch . . . to nine, and hold the mask down over his face so he can't throw it off." The assistant pilot hurried to comply. "Childs, you grab his shoulders."

  "Right." The mechanic moved around to the front of the table, careful not to get too close to Macready. He put massive hands on either side of Norris's head and leaned forward, using his weight.

  Copper reached toward the cart and grabbed a pair of palm-sized pads. They were attached to the machine by thick cords. While Childs waited he took the opportunity to smile meaningfully at Macready.

  "You're going to have to sleep sometime."

  Copper glanced over at him. "Quiet down." He nodded to Sanders. "Turn that thing on."

  Sanders's fingers nudged the "on" button forward. A warning light located just below the switch came to life and a low hum rose from the machine.

  "Now hold him down. Push hard, if you have to," Copper instructed the mechanic.

  "I'm a real light sleeper, Childs." Macready returned the smile easily.

  "Shut up, Macready!" Busy as he was, Copper still found the energy to be angry.

  Leaning forward, he pressed the two padded contact plates to the geophysicist's chest. Norris's body heaved upward as the current shot through him. There was a slight crackling sound and an odd chirp from behind the oxygen mask.

  Copper removed the pads. Norris's chest did not move. The doctor spoke urgently to Sanders. "Again. More current this time." The radio operator stared blankly at the complex instrument.

  Copper leaned back and pointed. "There's a dial next to the "on" switch. It's set on three. Turn it up to six." Sanders nodded, and did as directed.

  Another buzz from the machine. Copper gave the bare, treated skin several jolts. Sanders watched anxiously. So did Clark, the scalpel completely hidden by his hand and shirtsleeve. He started to work his way as inconspicuously as he could around the table. No one paid him any attention.

  "And if anyone tries to wake me," Macready was saying easily, "my little alarm here's liable to go off and put everybody back to sleep." He patted the side of the dynamite box with the still-burning flare. Palmer winced.

  "Damn you, Macready, that's enough!" Copper berated him. He touched the contacts to Norris's chest again.

  And this time there was a reaction. It was as explosive and violent as it was unexpected. Norris's body arched off the table and nearly threw the doctor to the floor. The doctor looked like a bull rider, bouncing crazily on the geophysicist's heaving body.

  A new crackling sound filled the room, and it didn't come from the fibrillator. Norris's sternum cracked like a lake bed in the Sahara. The skin peeled back and flaked off in fleshy strips. The oxygen mask was blown toward the ceiling as Palmer back-pedaled to get away from the unnaturally contorting corpse.

  A sound came out of Norris's mouth, but it wasn't produced by the man they'd known as Norris. It was a hideous, grating, angry mewing noise.

  Copper threw himself off the bucking body and landed hard on the floor. No one moved to give him a hand. They were all mesmerized by the transformation that was coming over the geophysicist's suddenly active form.

  Sanders had abandoned the fibrillator and pressed himself back against the nearest wall. "Madre de dios, what . . ."

  The thing that had been Norris was changing in front of their eyes. This wasn't like that time in the dark kennel, or that horrible night out on the ice sheet. The infirmary lights were bright and efficient. They could clearly see every detail of the noisome metamorphosis.

  Clothing tore as organic matter beneath it swelled past restraining polyester bonds. A shoe split like a melon and fell from the table. A single talon became visible inside the expanding, more flexible sock. Other appendages rapidly began to take shape, a gruesome assortment of hooks and bulges and knobby growths that owed their development to no line of earthly evolution.

  Macready had put the dynamite and flare on the floor. He charged the table with one of the blowtorches, pushing everyone else aside.

  "Get out of the way!"

  A stream of fire unloaded on the thing dancing on the infirmary table. The body seemed unable to dodge, whether because it was still incomplete or because the repeated charges from the fibrillator had inhibited its abilities. Macready couldn't tell—not that he gave a damn. The fire spread to
the table, which burned merrily.

  Belching and hissing, the barely recognizable remnants of Norris's body tumbled to the floor. Macready backed off a step, continued to play the nozzle of the blowtorch across it.

  Somehow the flaming, indistinct mass of protoplasm managed to straighten up. It towered over him for a moment, then turned and staggered a couple of feet toward the doorway on things that weren't legs. A black and yellow ooze exploded through the shredded trousers and squirted all over the floor. Macready methodically turned the fire on it.

  The monstrosity staggered backward and collapsed onto the fibrillator. It lay there, writhing with horrid, alien life, and burning furiously.

  The men watched as it melted into a molten, shapeless mass of burning protoplasm. It smoked intensely. Macready was reminded of a magnesium flare, or the white phosphorus AP bombs the military occasionally used back in 'Nam.

  Fire extinguishers were pulled from their holders and brought into play. The fibrillator was a wreck, scorched and blackened, the plastic plates over its readouts melted away. The infirmary table wasn't in much better shape.

  While they worked they had to avoid smoking puddles of black goo that still burned on the floor, twitching agitatedly in their tiny agony. Eventually they died, too, their tiny mews fading away into silence.

  All eyes traveled to Macready, who'd backed away and was once more standing with the box of dynamite. The flare had finally burnt itself out, but he held the torch ready. That would be slower, but not slow enough.

  "Everybody into the rec room," he told them, breaking the stunned silence. "Nobody steps out of anybody else's sight, got that? I've got an idea."

  They shuffled out of the room in a body, occasionally turning for a glance back at the smoking surgical table. No one said anything or objected to Macready's order. Their initial anger at the pilot had been replaced by a dull terror that Norris's unmasking did nothing to alleviate.

  Macready waited until he was certain that everyone who'd been in the infirmary had moved into the rec room. Then he edged in behind them, always keeping his back against a wall. Putting down the box of dynamite, he used his free hand to draw Garry's Magnum from a jacket pocket.

  The rest of the crew milled around on the other side of the room and watched him. He set the dynamite on one of the card tables where everyone could see it clearly.

  "What you got in mind, Macready?" Clark wondered aloud. "It better be good."

  "Oh, it's nothing elaborate." The pilot grinned at him. "Just a little test I've thought up. Sometimes experience can be more enlightening than a Ph.D."

  "What the hell are you raving about, Macready?" Copper muttered disconsolately.

  "You'll see, Doc, just like everybody else." He carefully adjusted the aperture of the torch he was holding, setting it for a short, intense throw.

  "What kind of test?" Palmer asked. He was subdued after the episode in the infirmary. A kind of dull despair had settled over the men. It wasn't quite hopelessness. Net yet. It was more of a feeling that they'd finally lost all control over their chances for survival, that their destiny lay in the hands of something not human.

  Only Macready was still defiant and unresigned. Given their present opinion of him, that only left the others feeling more discouraged than ever.

  "What kind of test?" he repeated grimly. "I'm sure some of you already know."

  There was plenty of rope in the room, cut segments of varying length plus the rest of the large spool they'd been pared from. The rope had been brought in and used to bind Clark, Garry, and Copper. Macready kicked it toward his reluctant assistant. It rolled to a halt at the younger man's feet.

  "Palmer, you and Copper tie everyone else down. Real tight. I'll be watching you."

  "What for?" Childs had considered taking a leap at the pilot, but the proximity of dynamite and blowtorch restrained him. Someone was going to have to try something pretty soon, though. No telling what Macready was up to.

  "For your health," the pilot told him. He didn't sound sarcastic, either.

  Garry looked at the others. "Let's rush him. He's not going to blow us up."

  "Damned if I won't," Macready said brightly.

  Childs took a step forward. "You ain't tying me up."

  "Then I'll have to kill you."

  Childs glared evenly back at the other man, nodding curtly. "Then kill me."

  Macready raised the muzzle of the .44 until it was pointing straight at Childs's forehead. "I mean it." The click of the hammer going back was loud in the room.

  "I guess you do," said Childs quietly.

  The pilot hesitated, his finger tense on the trigger. There was movement out of the corner of his eye. An instant in which his brain registered several events simultaneously.

  Clark—light on metal—scalpel—coming . . .

  He spun and fired twice in rapid succession. The force of the powerful Magnum sent the dog handler spinning backward. He clutched at himself, bounced off a nearby chair, and collapsed to the floor.

  Almost as quickly Macready had the gun turned on the rest. The torch hovered dangerously over the dynamite.

  "Don't," he warned them. A couple of the men had taken steps toward him. "Palmer, get to work."

  The assistant pilot dazedly took up the rope and after a disbelieving glance at his boss began securing the others to couches and chairs. It was slow going and he apologized to each of them in turn as he drew the knots tight. Copper worked in silence.

  "Finished," both men finally announced.

  "Not quite." Macready gestured with the Magnum. "Tie up Copper, and then Clark."

  Palmer frowned bemusedly as he looked down at the dog handler. Clark lay where he'd fallen, bleeding and unmoving. "What for? He's dead."

  Macready shook his head. "You forget fast, don't you, Palmer? Norris looked pretty dead himself. Bullets don't kill these things, they just inconvenience 'em. Tie him up."

  When that final gruesome task was completed he motioned Palmer over to the doorway and smiled at the others. "Don't anybody try anything. I'll be right back. In much less than an hour," he added significantly.

  The two men were gone only a few minutes. The returning Palmer put another case of dynamite on the table, then backed away from Macready and awaited further orders.

  "Okay, now untie the doc." Palmer complied. The doctor stood, rubbing his wrists where the rope had begun to cut "Sorry, Doc. I think you're okay. You blew Norris's cover, made the thing reveal itself. I don't think you'd have used that fibrillator if you were one of them. But I can't be a hundred percent certain. Not yet."

  Copper smiled wanly at him, walked over and peered curiously into the small box the pilot had put down next to the two cases of explosive.

  As he watched, Macready removed a Bunsen burner from the box and attached its long rubber tubing to a gas outlet. He used the blowtorch to light the burner. Sanders closed his eyes when the torch came alive. It was still close to the dynamite. Macready seemed not to care.

  Putting down the Magnum he used a pocket knife to cut the multiplug fixture off the end of an extension cord. Then he stripped the insulation back to expose the wire. This was done while still keeping the torch under one arm and a careful eye on the rest of them. Finally he instructed Copper to tie up Palmer.

  "We should have jumped his ass." Childs was angry at his own timidity.

  "Maybe," muttered Sanders. "Too late now."

  Macready finished his work. The Bunsen burner hissed steadily.

  "What're you up to, Mac?" Palmer looked uncomfortable. Probably the ropes were hurting him.

  "We're going to draw a little bit of everybody's blood," the pilot informed him.

  Nauls let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Right. What are you going to do, drink it?"

  Macready ignored him. "Watching what happened to Norris back in there," he gestured toward the infirmary, "plus what I remember from the night out on the ice when one of these things killed Bennings gave me the idea that maybe every par
t of these bastards is a whole. Every piece is self-sufficient and can act independently if the need arises. An animal unto itself.

  "When a man bleeds it's just fluid loss, but blood from one of these things doesn't just lie dormant. Remember what Blair said about each cell being taken over independently? Each one becomes a newly activated individual life form, with the usual built-in desire to protect itself from harm.

  "Remember those little pieces of Norris, how they squirmed around and gave off that mewling noise? When attacked, it looks like even a fragment of one of these things will try to survive as best it's able. Even a sample of its blood.

  "Of course, there's no higher nervous system, no brain to suppress a natural instinct like that if it's in the best interests of the larger whole to do so. The cells have to act instinctively instead of intelligently. Protect themselves from freezing, say. Or from incineration. The kind that might be caused by a hot needle, for instance." He turned to face the doctor.

  "Copper, you do the honors."

  "You said you thought I was safe because of what had happened in the infirmary," Copper said.

  Macready nodded affirmatively. "I said that I think you are. I want to be sure."

  Copper noted that the nozzle of the blowtorch had been focused on his midsection ever since he'd tied up Palmer, but he chose not to say anything about it. Obviously Macready had no intention of trusting him until he'd run his little test. There was no point in arguing with him.

  "All right, I'll do as you ask, Mac." He picked up the scalpel Clark had dropped and moved over to a chair.

  "Sorry, Sanders. I've got no choice."

  "That's okay, Doc." The radio operator grimaced as Copper pressed gently against one bound finger. Blood beaded up on the skin and dropped into the petri dish the doctor held beneath the cut. The others stared.

  "Now the rest," Macready said impatiently. The box he'd carried the Bunsen burner in also contained a dish for everyone in the room.

  Copper moved among them, drawing a small quantity of blood from each and returning the dishes to the table where he labeled each with a marking pen.

  He finished with Garry, marked the dish and wiped the blade off on a now red-streaked cloth. "That's the last of them."