Frozen Hell

by John W. Campbell Jr.

  Kinner’s arms had developed a queer, scaly fur, and the flesh had twisted. The fingers had shortened, the hand rounded, the finger-nails become three-inch long things of dull red horn, keened to steel-hard, razor-sharp talons.

  McReady raised his head, looked vaguely at the knife in his hand, and dropped it. His laugh was shaky, almost a laugh of relief. “Well, whoever did it can speak up now. He was an inhuman murderer at that—in that he murdered an inhuman. I swear by all that’s holy, Kinner was a lifeless corpse on the floor here when we arrived—but when it found we were going to jab it with the power gadget there—it changed.

  “Oh, Lord, those Things can act. My God—sitting in here for hours, mouthing prayers to a God it hated! Shouting hymns in a cracked voice—hymns about a Church it never knew. Driving us mad with its ceaseless howling—

  “Well. Speak up, whoever did it. You didn’t know it, but you did the camp a favor. And I want to know how in blazes you got out of that room without anyone seeing you. It might help in guarding ourselves.”

  “His screaming—his singing. Even the sound projector couldn’t drown it.” Dwight shivered. “It was a monster.”

  “Oh,” said Van Wall in sudden comprehension. “You were sitting right next to the door, weren’t you. And almost behind the projection screen already.”

  Dwight nodded dumbly. “He—it’s quiet now. It’s a dead—Mac—your test’s no damn good. It was dead anyway, monster or man, it was dead.”

  McReady chuckled softly. “Boys, meet Dwight, the only one we know is human! Meet Dwight, the guy who proves he’s human by trying to commit murder—and failing. Will the rest of you please refrain from trying to prove you’re human for a while? I think we may have another test.”

  “A test!” Connant snapped joyfully, then his face sagged in disappointment. “I suppose it’s another either-way-you-want-it.”

  “No,” said McReady sharply. “Look sharp and be careful. Come into the Ad Building. Barclay, bring your electrocuter—and, by God, somebody—Button—stand with Barclay to make sure he does it. Watch every neighbor, for by the Hell these monsters came from, I’ve got something, and they know it. They’re going to get dangerous!”

  The group tensed abruptly. An air of crushing menace entered into every man’s body, sharply they looked at each other. More keenly than ever before—is that man next to me an inhuman monster?

  “What is it?” Garry asked, as they stood again in the main room. “How long will it take?”

  “I don’t know, exactly,” said McReady, his voice brittle with angry determination,” but I know it will work, and no two ways about it. It depends on a basic quality of the monsters, not on us. ‘Kinner’ just convinced me.”

  “This,” said Barclay hefting the wooden-handled weapon, tipped with its two sharp-pointed, charged conductors, ”is going to be rather necessary, I take it. Is the power plant assured?”

  Dutton nodded sharply. “The automatic stoker bin is full. The gas power plant is on stand-by. I set it for the movie operation and—we’ve checked it over rather carefully several times, you know. Anything those wires touch, dies,” he assured them grimly. “I know that.”

  Dr. Copper stirred vaguely in his bunk, rubbed his eyes with a fumbling hand. He sat up slowly, blinked eyes blurred widened with an unutterable horror of drug-ridden nightmares with sleep and drugs.

  “Garry,” he mumbled, “Garry—listen. Selfish—from hell they came, and hellish shellfish—I mean self—do I?—what do I mean?” He sank back in his bunk and snored softly.

  McReady looked at him thoughtfully. “We’ll know presently, my friend,” he nodded slowly, “But selfish is what you mean, all right. You may have thought of that, half-sleeping, dreaming there. I didn’t stop to think what a sweet collection of dreams you might be having—but that’ s all right. Selfish is the word. They must be, you see,” He turned to the men in the cabin, tense, silent men staring with wolfish eyes each at his neighbor. “Selfish, and as Dr. Copper said—every part is a whole, every piece is self-sufficient, an animal in itself.

  “That, and one other thing, tell the story. There’s nothing mysterious about blood; it’s just as normal a body tissue as a piece of muscle, or a piece of liver. But it hasn’t so much connective tissue, though it has millions, billions of life-cells.”

  McReady’s lips twisted in a wolfish smile. “This is fun, in a way. I’m pretty sure we humans still outnumber you—others. Others standing here. And we have what you, your other-world race, evidently doesn’t. Not an imitated, but a bred-in-the-bone instinct, a driving, unquenchable fire that’s genuine. We’ll fight, fight with a ferocity you may attempt to imitate, but you’ll never equal! We’re human—we’re real—you’re a bunch of imitations, false to the core of your every cell.

  “All right. It’s a showdown now. You know—you, with your mind reading, you’ve lifted the idea from my brain—you can’t do a thing about it.

  “Standing here—”

  “Let it pass. Blood is tissue. They have to bleed, if they don’t bleed when cut, then by God, they’re phoney, phoney from hell! If they bleed—then that blood, separated from them, is an individual—a newly formed individual in its own right, just as they—split, all of them, from one original—are individuals!

  “Get it, Van? See the answer, Bar?”

  Van Wall laughed very softly. “The blood—the blood will not obey. It’s a new individual, with all the desire to protect its own life that the original—the main mass from which it was split—has. The blood will live—and try to crawl away from a hot needle, say!”

  McReady picked up the scalpel from the table. From the cabinet, he took a rack of test-tubes, a tiny alcohol lamp, and a length of platinum wire set in a little glass rod. A grin of piercing satisfaction rode his lips. For a moment he glanced up at those around him. Barclay and Dutton moved toward him slowly, the wooden handled electric instrument alert.

  “Dutton,” said McReady, “suppose you stand over there by the splice where you’ve connected that in. Just make sure no—thing pulls it loose.”

  Dutton moved away. “Now, Van, suppose you be first on this.”

  White-faced, Van Wall stepped forward. With a delicate precision, McReady made a small cut on the man’s thumb. Van Wall winced slightly, then held steady as a half inch of bright blood collected in the tube. McReady put the tube in the rack, gave Van Wall a bit of alum, and indicated the iodine bottle.

  Van Wall stood motionlessly watching. McReady heated the platinum wire in the alcohol lamp flame, then dipped it into the tube. It hissed softly. Five times he repeated the test. “Human, I’d say.” McReady sighed, and straightened. “As yet, my theory hasn’t been actually proved—but I have hopes—I have hopes.

  “Don’t, by the way, get too damned interested in this. We have with us some unwelcome ones, no doubt. Van, will you relieve Barclay at the switch? Thanks. O.K. Barclay, and may I say I hope you stay with us? You’re a hell of a good guy.”

  Barclay grinned uncertainly; winced under the keen edge of the scalpel. Presently, smiling widely, he retrieved his long-handled weapon.

  “Mr. Samuel Dutt—Bar!”

  The tension was released in that second. Whatever of hell the monsters may have had within them, the men in that instant matched it. Barclay had no chance to move his weapon as a score of men poured down on the Thing that had seemed Dutton. It mewed, and spat, and tried to grow fangs—and was a hundred broken, torn pieces. Without knives, or any weapon save the brute-given strength of a staff of picked men, the Thing was crushed, rent.

  Slowly they picked themselves up, their eyes smoldering, very quiet in their motions. A curious wrinkling of their lips betrayed a species of nervousness.

  Barclay went over with the electric weapon. Things smoldered and stank; the caustic acid Van Wall dropped on each spilled drop of blood gave off tickling, cough-provoking fumes.

  McReady grinned, his eyes alight and dancing. “Maybe,” he said softly, “I underrated ma
n’s abilities when I said nothing human could have the ferocity in the eyes of that Thing we found. I wish we could have the opportunity to treat in a more befitting manner these things we find. Something with boiling oil, or melted lead in it, or maybe slow roasting in the power boiler. When I think what a man Dutton was—

  “Never mind. My theory is confirmed by—shall we say by one who knew? Well, Van Wall and Barclay are proven. I think, then, that I’ll try to show you what I already know—that I too, am human.” McReady swished the scalpel in the absolute alcohol, burned it off the metal blade, and cut the base of his thumb expertly.

  Twenty seconds later he looked up from the desk at the waiting men. There were more grins out there now, friendly grins, yet withal, something else in the eyes.

  “Connant,” McReady laughed softly, “was right. The huskies watching that thing in the corridor bend had nothing on you boys. Wonder why we think only the wolf blood has the right to ferocity? Maybe on spontaneous viciousness a wolf takes tops, but after these seven days—abandon all hope, ye wolves who enter here!

  “Maybe we can save some time. Connant, would you step for—”

  Again Barclay was too slow. There were more grins, less tensity still, when Barclay and Van Wall finished their work.

  Garry spoke in a low, bitter voice. “Connant was one of the finest men we had here—and five minutes ago, I’d have sworn he was. God in Heaven—those damnable Things are more than imitation.” Garry shuddered and sat back in his bunk.

  And thirty seconds later, his blood shrank from the hot platinum wire, and struggled to escape the tube, struggled as frantically as a suddenly feral, red-eyed dissolving imitation of Garry struggled to dodge the snake-tongue weapon. Barclay advanced at him, white-faced and sweating. The Thing in the test-tube screamed with a tiny, tinny voice as McReady dropped it into the glowing coal of the galley stove. A wave of foul, stinking smoke puffed up.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “The last of it?” Dr. Copper looked down from his bunk with blood-shot, saddened eyes. “Fourteen of them—”

  McReady nodded shortly. “In some ways—if only we could have permanently prevented their spreading—I’d like to have even the imitations back. Commander Garry—Connant—Dutton—” McReady laughed bitterly. “Even Dwight. Dwight who we thought we knew was human. What in blazes could have been his motive—the monster’s motive?”

  Copper shook his head slowly. “I’m too headachy. What theory did you have?”

  “Van Wall suggested more selfishness—and too good imitation. Perhaps, imitating Dwight so exactly, it felt his feelings. In the background, was the selfishness that each, though part of one original, was yet an entire individual, with its own individual ambitions. The ambition to reproduce. By ‘killing’ Kinner, it forced the other monster to assume an inactive role, finally it turned out, killed it. Forcing it to inactivity, would have given ‘Dwight’ more freedom to operate.”

  “Where are they taking those—things?” Copper nodded to the stretcher Barclay and Powell were carrying out.

  “Outside. Outside on the ice, where they’ve got fifteen smashed crates, half a ton of coal, and presently will add 10 gallons of kerosene. We’ve dumped acid on every spilled drop, every torn fragment. We’re going to incinerate those.”

  “Sounds like a good play.” Copper nodded wearily. “I wonder, you haven’t said whether Blair—”

  McReady started. “We forgot him! We had so much else! I wonder—do you suppose we can cure him now?”

  “If—” began Dr. Copper, and stopped meaningfully.

  McReady started a second time. “Even a madman. It imitated Kinner and his praying hysteria—” McReady turned toward Van Wall at the long table. “Van—we’ve got to make an expedition to Blair’s shack.”

  Van looked up sharply, the frown of worry faded for an instant in surprised remembrance. Then he rose, nodding. “Barclay better go along. He applied the lashings, and may figure how to get in without frightening Blair too much.”

  Three quarters of an hour, through -37° cold, while the Aurora curtains bellied overhead. The twilight was nearly 12 hours long, flaming in the north, on snow like white, crystalline sand under their skis. A 15 mile wind piled it in drift-lines pointing off to the north-west. Three quarters of an hour to reach the snow-buried shack. No smoke came from the little stack, and the men hastened.

  “Blair!” Barclay roared into the wind when he was still a hundred yards away. “Blair!”

  “Shut up,” said McReady softly, “And hurry. He may be trying a lone hike. If we have to go after him—no planes, the tractors disabled—”

  “Would a monster have the stamina a man has?”

  “A broken leg wouldn’t stop it for more than a minute.” McReady pointed out.

  Barclay gasped suddenly and pointed aloft. Dim in the twilit sky, a winged thing circled in curves of indescribable grace and ease. Great white wings tipped gently, and the bird swept over them in silent curiosity.

  “Albatross—” Barclay said softly. “First of the season, and wandering way inland for some reason. If a monster’s loose—”

  Powell bent down on the ice and tore hurriedly at his heavy windproof clothing. He straightened, his coat flapping open, a grim blue-metaled weapon in his hand. It roared a challenge to the white silence of Antarctica.

  The thing in the air screamed hoarsely. Its great wings worked frantically as a dozen feathers floated down from its tail. Powell fired again. The bird was moving swiftly now, but in an almost straight line of retreat. It screamed again, more feathers dropped, and with beating wings it soared behind a ridge of pressure ice, to vanish.

  Powell hurried after the others. “It won’t—come back.” he panted.

  Barclay cautioned him to silence, pointing. A curiously, fiercely blue light beat out from the cracks of the shack’s door. A very low, soft humming sounded inside, a low, soft humming and a clink and click of tools, the very sounds somehow bearing a message of frantic haste.

  McReady’s face paled. “God help us if that Thing has—” He grabbed Barclay’s shoulder, and made snipping motions with his fingers, pointing toward the lacing of control-cables that held the door.

  Barclay drew the wire-cutters from his pocket, and kneeled soundlessly at the door. The snap and twang of cut wires made an unbearable racket in the utter quiet of the Antarctic hush. There was only that strange, sweetly soft hum from within the shack, and the queerly, hectically clipped clicking and rattling of tools to drown their noises—

  McReady peered through a crack in the door. His breath sucked in huskily and his fingers clamped cruelly on Barclay’s shoulder. The meteorologist backed down. “It isn’t,” he explained very softly, ”Blair. It’s kneeling on something on the bunk—something that keeps lifting. Whatever it’s working on is a thing like a knapsack—and it lifts.”

  “All at once,” Barclay said grimly. “No, Powell, hang back, and get that iron of yours out. It may have—weapons.”

  Together Barclay’s powerful body and McReady’s lean strength struck the door. Inside, the bunk jammed against the door screeched madly, and crackled into kindling. The door flung down from broken hinges, the patched lumber of the doorpost dropping inward.

  Like a blue-rubber ball, a Thing bounced up. One of its four tentacle-like arms looped out like a striking snake; in a seven-tentacled hand was a six-inch pencil of winking, shining metal that glinted and swung upward to face them. Its line-thin lips twitched back from snake-fangs in a grin of hate, red eyes blazing.

  Powell’s revolver thundered in the confined space. The hate-washed face twitched in agony, the looping tentacle snatched back, the silvery thing in its hand a smashed ruin of metal, the seven-tentacled hand a mass of mangled flesh oozing greenish-yellow ichor. The revolver thundered three times more, dark holes drilled each of the three eyes before Powell hurled the empty weapon against its face.

  The Thing screamed in feral hate, a lashing tentacle wiping at blinded eyes. For a moment
it crawled on the floor, savage tentacles lashing out, the body twitching. Then it staggered up again, blinded eyes working, boiling hideously, the crushed flesh sloughing away in sodden gobbets.

  Barclay lurched to his feet and dove forward with an ice axe. The flat of the weighty blade crushed against the side of the head. Again the unkillable monster went down. The tentacles lashed out, and suddenly Barclay fell to his feet in the grip of a living, livid rope. The rope dissolved as he held it, becoming a white-hot band that burned the flesh of his hands like living fire. Frantically he tore the stuff from him, held his hands where they could not be reached. The blind Thing felt and ripped at the tough, heavy wind-proof cloth, seeking flesh—flesh it could convert—

  The huge blowtorch McReady had brought coughed solemnly. Abruptly it rumbled disapproval throatily. Then it laughed gurglingly, and thrust out a blue-white three-foot tongue. The Thing on the floor shrieked, flailed out blindly with tentacles that writhed and withered in the bubbling wrath of the blowtorch. It crawled and turned on the floor, it shrieked and hobbled madly, but always McReady held the blowtorch on the face, the dead eyes burning and bubbling uselessly. Frantically the Thing crawled and howled.

  A tentacle sprouted a savage talon—and crisped in the flame. Steadily McReady moved with a planned, grim campaign. Helpless, maddened, the Thing retreated from the guttering torch, the caressing, licking tongue. For a moment it rebelled, squalling in inhuman hatred at the touch of the icy snow. Then it fell back before the charring breath of the torch, the stench of its flesh bathing it. Hopelessly it retreated—on and on across the Antarctic snow. The bitter wind swept over it, twisting the torch tongue; vainly it flopped, a trail of oily, stinking smoke bubbling away from it—

  McReady walked back toward the shack silently. Barclay met him at the door. “No more?” the meteorologist asked grimly.

  Barclay shook his head. “No more. It didn’t split?”