Blair hovered over the microscope. He put a new slide under the clips, examined it carefully, and frowned. Pulling away, he rubbed his eyes, then pressed the right one to the eyepiece for a second look.
"Doc. Come here a second."
Copper walked over and took the biologist's place at the instrument as Blair stepped aside. The doctor gazed at the slide for a long time, then stood back and shrugged.
"I don't understand. What's that supposed to be?" he said, gesturing at the microscope and its contents.
By way of reply Blair stepped around him and walked over to the badly disfigured corpse, which now lay on the center table. As Copper followed him, Fuchs took the opportunity to look into the microscope.
Blair indicated one of the stiff, tendonlike growths that protruded from the central mass of dark, viscous material and partially dissolved flesh, then pointed back toward the microscope.
"It's tissue from one of these sinewy rods."
Copper accepted that. "What did you stain it with?"
"Nothing." He looked over to his assistant.
Fuchs glanced back at them, as thoroughly befuddled by what he saw through the eyepiece as his associates were. "What in the world kind of cell structure is this?"
"Precisely my point," Blair said grimly.
"You posed a question, not a point."
"Can't they be the same?"
Copper interrupted the two scientists. "I don't follow you, Blair. What are you trying to say?"
"That I'm not sure it's any kind of cell structure. Biologically speaking."
"If it's a tissue sample, there has to be cell structure," said Copper.
"Does there?"
"If there isn't, then the material is inorganic."
"Is it?"
"You can't have organic material devoid of cell structure," the doctor added exasperatedly.
"Can't you?"
Copper gave up. "Look, this really isn't my field, Blair. I'm a simple GP. I do my best to repair the known, not decipher the exotic. Let's wrap it up for the day. I'm tired of cutting."
"So am I," added Fuchs wholeheartedly.
Copper unbuttoned his coat, which was no longer clean and white but instead resembled a Jackson Pollock canvas. He tossed it into the laundry bin on his way out the door. Fuchs followed him, disposing of his gloves. His lab coat was still relatively elean.
Blair held back, returning to his desk to take one last look through the microscope. The peculiar pattern under the eyepiece hadn't changed, hadn't in the absence of attention metamorphosed into something comfortingly familiar. Copper's confusion was understandable.
The biologist was badly mixed up himself.
The weather had warmed slightly and the blowing snow melted a little faster when it struck something warm. It battered the outpost and spanged off the corrugated metal walls of the shed.
Inside the main compound, monitors kept the hallways and rooms pleasantly warm and moist. The humidifier was a necessity. It was a paradox that, despite the presence of frozen water everywhere, the air of Antarctica was bitingly dry. Chapped skin was a constant problem and Copper was always prescribing something for it.
After every shower the men oiled themselves as thoroughly as they did their machines, because the cascading hot water washed away body oils that were only slowly replaced. Dandruff was an irritatingly persistent, if not serious problem.
The wall clocks in the complex read four-thirty. Only night-lights illuminated the corridors and storage areas, the empty rec room, and the deserted kitchen. Snoring issued softly from behind closed doors. Sleep came easily in the white land.
Only one section was still occupied. As dazed as he was determined, Macready sat in the little pub and continued staring at the television screen. He was on the last of the Norwegian videotapes.
At the moment he was keeping one eye on the screen while inflating a roughly irregular flesh-toned balloon. This mysterious object soon took on the crude outline of a life-sized woman. Macready's wind was weak and he was having a hard time of it. His polyethylene paramour's proportions fluctuated with his unsteady breathing.
Something on the tape caught his attention and he stopped suddenly. Holding the filler tube clamped shut with one hand he reached up and hit the reverse. Pictures streaked the wrong way like a bad movie until he touched "play" again. He squinted at the screen.
There were the Norwegians again, working against a pale sky. No blowing snow obscured the picture. They were dressed for heavy outdoor work.
As he watched they separated and spread out. The picture momentarily showed waving sky as the cameraman changed his position without turning off the camera. When it steadied again it showed the team of foreign researchers standing on flat, wind-scoured ice. Their arms were outstretched toward one another as if they were trying to measure something.
Within the circumference of their outstretched arms was a huge, dark stain on the ice. The perimeter they'd formed with their bodies encompassed only one small section of a sweeping curve.
That was what had attracted Macready's faltering attention. The dark stain seemed to lie beneath the surface rather than on top of it.
The picture went to black, then came to life again. He could hear the Norwegians mumbling in the background.
The location hadn't changed but time had passed. In the background the sky showed blue rather than white. The Norwegians could be seen moving around the dark, roughly oval shape. They had its boundaries clearly marked off with little flags set on ice probes.
Again the scene faded. When the picture returned Macready found himself watching three men with ice drills boring holes in a little triangle above the center of the dark oval. The camera swayed as its operator moved in close to shoot downward.
Black, then picture again. The camera was shooting down into a large hole in the ice. Something dark and metallic showed at the bottom. Macready leaned closer, now more than slightly curious.
The next sequence showed the men using the drills to sink small, widely scattered holes into the ice at various points above the oval, using new flags as positioning marks. Others moved around the drill sites, working on their hands and knees with small boxes.
Macready frowned, mumbling to himself. "Too much to drill out. Decanite, maybe? Or thermite charges?"
The next time the picture cleared the little flags were hanging limply from their staffs. The view was from far away and there wasn't a Norwegian in sight. Several small explosions kicked up clouds of powdered ice, confirming the pilot's guess as to what the men on their knees had been doing while temporarily obscuring the view of the oval.
Suddenly the view yawed wildly. Something rumbled over the monitor. Then the camera seemed to be thrown through the air as a tremendous explosion strained the bass range of the television's tiny speaker. A startled Macready jumped out of the chair. Suddenly he was awake.
"What in . . ."
The tape continued to play, the picture now badly distorted, showing only white ground. A jagged dark line ran the length of the picture. It took Macready a couple of seconds to realize that the line represented a crack in the camera lens.
Forgetting his airy companion, Macready jabbed the rewind button. The rejected mannequin went sputtering around the pub until it ran out of air and crumpled limply on the floor.
It was as quiet in the kennel as in the rest of the outpost. Perhaps quieter, for none of the sled dogs snored.
Not all of them were asleep. A few lounged lazily in corners and against companions—licking paws, yawning, scratching their backs against the hard floor, or simply gazing out of half-lidded eyes at nothing in particular.
Only one of them was fully awake. The bandage was missing from the husky's hip again. It studied its somnolent companions with quiet intensity.
After several minutes of this it trotted over to a cluster of five dogs, sat down in front of them and continued its uncharacteristically intense watch, more catlike than canine. Gradually the five dogs became
aware . . . of something. One moaned. They began to awaken, aware that something peculiar was in their midst. An uncertain whine came from a second animal as it rolled to it feet.
None of this activity altered the posture of the kennel's most recent arrival. It continued to sit motionless and stare at the others. Its back was abnormally rigid. It did not pant.
And there was something else, something more. The other dogs were aware of it only as a barely sensed unpleasantness in the stranger's stare, a not-rightness. A man would have noticed it immediately.
The new dog no longer possessed pupils. The eyes had become solid, lusterless black spheres.
Bewildered, several of those subjected to this unflinching gaze started to pace the kennel floor. As yet, they were still more confused than frightened. Several began to growl at the newcomer.
Still the new dog remained frozen in place. The growling around it began to get louder. Several of the other dogs awoke and started to join in the pacing and grumbling. They instinctively began circling the stranger. Growls turned to angry, frustrated snarls. This newcomer was not reacting as a proper dog should. The lack of any kind of response was beginning to infuriate the other inhabitants of the kennel.
One barked at the husky, then a second. The circling became faster, the growling more frenzied. With one mind, three of the pacing animals stopped circling and turned to face the stranger. They jumped it simultaneously.
A fascinated and thoroughly absorbed Macready was running through the footage immediately preceding the violent explosion and subsequent shattering of the camera lens when the far-off clamor from the kennel reached him. Reluctantly he dragged himself away from the monitor, after shutting it down with the freeze-frame control, and stalked out of the pub.
It was silent in the deserted corridor as he made his way toward the sleeping rooms, silent save for the constant din the dogs were raising. He stopped outside one of the cubicles. The door was unlocked and he let himself in.
Clark lay beneath light blankets on his back, snoring. Macready hesitated, listening. If anything the dogs sounded more upset now than when he'd left the pub.
"Clark. Hey Clark."
There was no response. Macready moved close to the bed and reached down to nudge the handler's arm. Annoyed, Clark turned onto his side and pulled the blankets higher around his shoulders.
Macready reached over and pinched the handler's nostrils, cutting off his air. That made Clark sit up quickly. He blinked at the intruder, too groggy to be really mad.
"What's the idea, Mac? What's up?"
"Can't you hear?" Macready jabbed a finger toward the doorway. The cacophony from the kennel was clearly audible. "Dogtown's going nuts. I was up and it didn't bother me, but if you let those mutts wake everybody, the rest of the guys will make dog food out of you. Take care of it."
"Well, hell." Clark swung his legs out of the bed, bent over and rubbed his eyes as Macready disappeared into the corridor. Having discharged his responsibility, the pilot was anxious to get back to the videotape.
Clark fumbled for his pants. He liked his animals, but sometimes even the best sled teams could be a pain. High-strung creatures, the slightest argument was enough to set the whole bunch of them off. A fight over who was going to be lead dog, over a particular morsel of food, over anything except mating privileges (all the females were spayed) was enough to send them into mindless frenzy.
He didn't mind that and wasn't surprised when it happened. It was the nature of sled dogs. But did they have to prove it at five in the morning? He had to break it up of course, and not just because the noise might interrupt someone's beauty sleep. The dogs were valuable. Childs and Palmer and Macready took care of their machines. It was up to Clark to take care of his four-legged ones.
The heat in the corridor was automatically turned down during sleeping periods. His bed-warmed body protested at being dragged out so early. You could hear the wind whistling hungrily overhead.
Sleepy and annoyed, he turned a corridor corner that faced the kennel. The noise from within was louder now, much louder than he'd expected. He hurried toward the door. It sounded like tapes he'd heard of sled dogs attacking a bear.
Confused, he fumbled tiredly with the door, slipping the latch. "Now what's got into—"
Just as the door opened something hit him in the chest hard enough to send him staggering backward, his arms flailing for balance. He felt the same way he had one summer afternoon when Childs had accidentally blind-sided him during a game of touch iceball. The breath was knocked out of him as his diaphragm was compressed.
The two dogs who'd struck him got to their feet slowly and dragged themselves back into the kennel whimpering. From within there came a roaring straight from hell, a grotesque symphony of barks and snarls, growls and frantic whining.
And an unearthly screeching . . .
Macready was in the kitchen, having made a detour prior to returning to the pub and the waiting videotape. He had the big refrigerator open and was taking out a couple of beers to replenish the bar's stock when the far-off wailing reached him.
For an instant he stood there, frozen by the eerie sound, shocked into listening. Then he turned and sprinted out of the kitchen, forgetting to close the refrigerator door.
He used a beer can to smash the glass exterior of the fire alarm out in the hall, reached inside heedless of the broken glass still adhering to the box and pulled hard on the lever. Bells began to ring throughout the camp, startlingly loud in the silent, insulated corridors.
Macready and Norris followed the station manager and Clark toward the kennel. Macready carried a shotgun from the small armory while Garry hefted his Magnum. None of them were fully dressed. Clark carried a fire axe.
"I don't know what the hell's in there," he was telling them as they moved forward, "but it's weird and loud and pissed off, whatever it is. Sure as hell ain't no dog."
"What makes you so sure of that?" Garry asked him.
Clark's voice was solemn. "I've worked with animals most of my life, chief. No dog ever made a sound like that."
Far behind them, the hallway outside the sleeping cubicles was rapidly filling up with the rest of the outpost's personnel. Men stumbled half-naked into each other, into doors, hopping on one foot as they tried to shove the other hastily into pants' legs. Feet were jammed into shoes, heedless of possible damage to heels. The peaceful night had turned into a violent morning of confusion.
Childs was fighting with his belt buckle, which refused to tighten. He still wasn't fully awake. Bennings shouted at him from a nearby doorway.
"Mac wants what?" The camp's chief mechanic sought clarification.
"That's what he said. And he wants it now." Bennings whirled and vanished up the corridor before Childs could think to question him further.
Clark and his armed companions approached the kennel door. After the two dogs had come flying out at him the handler had reflexively thrown himself against the half-opened door and relocked it. Garry eyed him questioningly.
"I couldn't think of anything else to do," the handler told him. "And in any case, I didn't want to try anything by myself."
The two dogs who'd been locked out were barking hysterically as they clawed at the steel door in frantic attempts to get back into the fight. One of them was badly bloodied, and not from the collision with Clark.
The melee continued unabated inside, the noise giving the shivers to the men standing outside.
Garry reached for the handle, then hesitated. "How do you want to handle this? This is your department."
"I'm not sure it's anybody's department anymore," Clark replied. "You and Norris hang onto these two." He indicated the impatient dogs. "Macready and I will flank the opening. If nothing comes out, we'll go in."
Garry mulled it over briefly, then nodded agreement. He and Norris each grabbed a dog by the collar and wrestled them away from the door. Macready took up a position to the right of the doorway, readied the shotgun and looked tense. Where t
he hell was Childs?
Clark moved to the other side and put a hand on the latch. He looked over at the pilot. "Ready?" Mac thought of a sarcastic reply, bit it back and nodded affirmatively. The handler gave the other two a glance, saw that they were too busy trying to control the raging dogs to comment.
Clark took a deep breath and flipped open the latch. The heavy door swung outward. The noise inside the kennel was deafening. When nothing showed itself he nodded to Macready. The two men entered side by side.
The interior light had burnt out or been broken. It was coldly, unexpectedly dark. Macready cradled the shotgun and snapped on a flashlight, but before he could shine it around the chamber something hit him from behind and knocked him sprawling.
The moment the two men disappeared inside, the two dogs had broken free of Norris and Garry. Unused to handling anything as powerful as a sled dog, Norris had gone flat on his face. One of the dogs had raced up against Macready's legs and upended him.
"Mac, where are you!" Clark was shouting. If anything, the decibel level of the snarling and screeching and howling they'd stepped into had doubled.
"Here, dammit!" The pilot lay on the floor, groping for his flashlight. It had rolled from his grasp when he'd fallen but rested on the floor nearby, still glowing brightly thanks to the tough housing of aircraft aluminum.
Righting himself, Macready raised the end of the shotgun and hunted with the light. Clark quickly came up to stand next to him. Very little light entered from the dimly illuminated corridor outside. Macready moved the light around, trying to get his bearings in the unfamiliar chamber.
The far corner of the kennel was a seething mass of flashing teeth and ferocious snarls. The latter alternated with that high-pitched, bone-chilling screech. Something periodically threw dogs out of the pile with considerable force, but each time they were tossed aside they struggled back to their feet and rushed back in to rejoin the battle.
The Thing Page 7
