The Thing

by Alan Dean Foster

  Childs reached out with one hand, grabbed the handler by the collar, and lifted him out of the chair. The mechanic was right on the edge, had been ever since they'd returned to camp. He was still thinking of Bennings and wondering if they'd managed to kill him while he was still Bennings.

  "Don't you be telling me—"

  Nauls stepped between them and spoke sharply to the mechanic.

  "Lighten your load, sucker. You ain't the judge and executioner around here."

  Childs reluctantly let go of the dog handler. Clark slumped back in his chair, keeping a wary eye on the mechanic as he spoke to Nauls.

  "Thanks," he said gratefully.

  Childs turned his frustration and anger on the peacemaker. "Who you trying to protect, mutherfucker? I'm trying to tell you that this son of a bitch could be one of them. You want one of those things that could be anybody messing around in your kitchen, man?"

  Garry separated them. No one noticed Macready out in the hallway, watching the confrontation. He'd been outside, rummaging around in the trash dump. He had a bundle tucked under one arm.

  "Now hold on, dammit," the station manager told the two combatants. He struggled to keep his voice level. "We're getting nowhere acting like this. Fighting and arguing isn't going to prove anything. If this bit of Blair's theory about this thing taking over cellular structures all the way up to the brain is correct, then that dog could have gotten to anybody. It had enough time. A whole night."

  "And if it got to Clark, or anyone else," put in Copper quietly from his seat near the big card table, "then Clark, or anyone else, could have gotten to somebody else."

  That's about right, Macready decided. A few eyes turned to him as he stepped into the room. But the attention was still on the speculating doctor.

  Copper cleared his throat. "What I'm saying is that, theoretically, any of us could now be whatever the hell this thing was. It learns fast. Too damn fast. It can be subtle when it has to, can bide its time. Like those two changed dogs did."

  Norris shook his head, rubbing his chest and grimacing at the slight but persistent pain there.

  "It's too much to absorb all at once, Doc. I can buy the business about the dogs. I saw that. But taking over several of us and keeping it a secret from the rest? Hell, we all know each other. If some alien whatsis had gained control of Clark—" the handler stiffened at the sound of his name—"or Childs, or me, or anyone else, wouldn't it give itself away somehow? Wouldn't it make a mistake, do something obviously wrong that the rest of us would pick up on?"

  Copper smiled humorlessly. "If it can become enough of a dog to fool another dog, with its acute canine senses, then why not a man? This thing arrived here in an extraterrestrial vehicle. It's not an animal. It's highly intelligent as well as extremely adaptable. All it needs to survive is an organic host to take control of. Why not a man instead of a dog?"

  "It's just too damn wild," Norris argued weakly. "I can't believe it. Not without stronger evidence than some overcome sled dogs."

  Macready pushed back the sombrero he was wearing. "Well, you can believe it now." He dumped the dirty bundle he was carrying onto the card table. It was the shredded pair of long johns that Nauls had found in the kitchen waste bin.

  "Nauls found this yesterday. Remember? It's ripped just like the clothing on the Norwegian we brought back. The same thing was happening to Bennings's clothes when Childs and I got to him. Seems these things don't imitate clothes. Just flesh and blood."

  "Anything organic," Copper was muttering. He pulled up one leg of his own pants and checked the long underwear beneath it. "Damart. Artificial. Not wool. If it was wool, the thing might be able to imitate that, too."

  The men looked from one to another, silent, thinking. Macready picked up the ruined clothing and checked the label on the waistband.

  "It's Damart too, Doc, but there's more important information here than that."

  "For instance?" said Norris challengingly.

  "For instance, the size. Large, in this case." He grinned maliciously and studied the nervous cluster of men. His gaze settled on the one sitting in their midst.

  "What size do you wear, Clark?"

  The dog handler shifted uncomfortably in his Chair. His lower lip showed blood.

  "So what if I do?" he snapped back.

  "Yeah," Norris added, "what if he does? I wear a large size, too."

  "Extra large," said Childs smugly.

  "Large," said Copper.

  "And me too." Macready's gaze traveled around the room. "Most of us do." The feeling of unease in the room intensified. Macready let them stew over this new thought a while before continuing.

  "I doubt if it got to more than one or two of us. Two at the most. It didn't have enough time for more than that. Besides, if it had I don't think we'd be standing here debating it right now. We'd all be trying to blow each other's heads off, like those poor damn Norwegians. Or else we wouldn't be trying to, which'd be worse.

  "But it definitely got to someone." He let that sink in before adding, "Somebody in this room ain't who it claims on his driver's license."

  Sanders didn't even try to conceal his fright. "Then what are we going to do?"

  Norris turned to Copper. Fuchs was standing next to the doctor, looking thoughtful.

  "Can there be some kind of test?" the geophysicist asked. "Surely if this things alters cell structure and other biological functions as radically as Blair seems to think it does, there ought to be some way of detecting the changes. Some way of finding out who's what."

  "Possibly a serum test," Copper finally whispered. "Yes, that should work."

  "Right!" Fuchs's enthusiasm was genuine. "Why not?"

  "What's a serum test," the station manager wanted to know, "and how much work's involved?"

  "It's a simple blood-typing test," Copper explained. The men crowded around him to listen. "As Blair explained, the thing engenders severe alterations in the cell structure of its hosts. I think that would show up in a check of any basic bodily fluid, such as lymph or blood. Or urine, for that matter. But a blood test would be easier, and harder to 'fix.'

  "As to what's involved," he told Garry, "we mix someone's blood with uncontaminated human blood, blood we know to be the real thing. If we don't get the proper serum reaction, it's at least a good indication that the person the blood was drawn from is something other than normal."

  "But this thing's takeover is complete down to mustache hairs," Macready argued.

  "But not down to follicular cells, if we could analyze one of those hairs properly. I don't see how it could alter its new cell structure enough to fool so basic a test. It's worth a try, anyway it's simple and fast. If it doesn't work we can always try something else."

  "Sounds good to me, Doc, except for one thing," said Childs.

  "What's that?"

  Childs looked at the assembled, anxious faces. "Whose 'uncontaminated' blood we going to use?"

  Copper smiled. "That's where we've got it. We've got whole blood in storage." He sought the station manager's approval. "What about it, Garry? Shall I go ahead and set it up? Fuchs can assist me."

  Garry mulled the proposition over, then turned to the eager assistant biologist. "What's your opinion, Fuchs?"

  "I think it's a helluva smart idea, chief. Blair would be the first to approve."

  The station manager looked slightly uneasy. "Unfortunately, our senior biologist isn't in a position to be making rational evaluations of test procedures or anything else right now. But if you go along with the doc . . ."

  "I certainly do." Fuchs nodded vigorously.

  ". . . then we'll give it a shot. Like you say, Doc, we can always try something else next if this test turns out inconclusive. How long will it take you to get ready?"

  Copper considered, then ventured a conservative estimate. "A couple of hours should be enough. Provided that I'm not . . . interfered with."

  "There'll be somebody with the two of you at all times. Get going." He took a key
off the ring hanging from his belt and handed it to the doctor. Copper and the young biologist headed for the infirmary.

  The rest of the men milled around, chatting amiably. Now that they were going to find out who was real and who was faking it, they relaxed visibly.

  "How'd that thing ever get to those three dogs?" Palmer asked Macready. "I thought we stopped it in time."

  "Copper isn't sure, but he thinks they may have swallowed functioning pieces of it during the fight in the kennel."

  "And that's enough?"

  "I don't see why not." The pilot was enjoying his assistant's queasiness. "No reason why it can't take you over from the inside out. I'd think it'd be a lot easier. The tendon-like organs wouldn't have to reach nearly as far, if they began growing inside your stomach instead of—"

  Palmer turned away, adding weakly, "Never mind. Sorry I asked. I'll take Copper's word for it."

  "At least now maybe we'll find out if those dogs were the last thing it got to," Macready muttered darkly. "Maybe it didn't have time that night to get to anything else."

  "Garry!" The shout came from down the corridor, faint but imperative. "The rest of you too, come here!"

  Macready looked sharply at Palmer. The latter's bilious expression had vanished.

  "That's Copper!"

  As one man, the crew rushed down the hallway and turned the bend into the infirmary. Fuchs and Copper were there, standing in front of the open storage refrigerator.

  The interior was a disaster area. Broken glass and dried blood caked the porcelain. Every bottle and container had been opened, dumped, and then shattered.

  Copper was gaping in disbelief at the destruction. His normal composure was gone; his face was pale.

  "Somebody got inside, got to the blood. Sabotaged it. There isn't an ounce left that's usable."

  "Oh my God," Nauls was muttering. He looked around at his companions. "No dog could do something like this. Opening a kennel latch, that was one thing, sure, but breaking into a locked refrigerator, uh-uh. And that meant that . . ."

  Macready pushed his way through the horrified silence and examined the open door. "How was it broken into?"

  "That's just it," Copper told him slowly, "it wasn't. Somebody opened it. Closed it up after they finished their work so's it wouldn't show, and then locked it again. If it had been broken into, I would have noticed it before now."

  Sanders had backed away from the refrigerator as though it were a live thing, until he'd come up against the far wall. He kept his back against it, whispering in Spanish and trying to keep space between himself and his nearest neighbor.

  Something had to be done, and fast, Macready knew. Maybe this was how it had started at the Norwegian camp. The thing didn't even have to show itself. All it had to do was let you know it was around. Complete paranoia would soon take control of the human survivors and they'd reduce themselves to a manageable level. He wondered if the thing had a sense of irony, of humor, and decided it probably did not.

  Talk, he told himself. Say something, say anything, but stay calm. Keep their minds working and their thoughts off shadowy suspicions.

  He stepped forward. "Well, let's break this down logically. Who's got access to the lock? The refrigerator's."

  Copper thought a moment. "I guess I'm the only one with authorization, outside of Garry."

  The station manager nodded his agreement. "And I've got the only key. That's regulations." He indicated the refrigerator. "Drugs kept in there, too."

  Eyes began to shift around to focus on the station manager, but no one voiced what their owners were thinking . . . yet.

  "Would that serum test really have worked?" Macready asked the doctor.

  "I think so. Wouldn't have suggested it if I didn't. I wasn't using it as a ploy to try and force this thing to reveal itself, if that's what you're driving at."

  "Somebody else sure as hell thought it would work." Norris glared at his companions as he gestured at the ravaged refrigerator. "If we needed any proof that it would've worked, we've got it now."

  Macready was still thinking "Who else could have used that key, chief?"

  "Ahh . . . no one I can think of, offhand," Garry replied slowly. "Like I said, the doc and I are the only ones authorized to unlock that cold storage unit. I give the key to Copper when he needs something inside. It's safer that way."

  "I'm beginning to wonder." The pilot glanced at Copper. "Could anyone have gotten it away from you, Doc?"

  "I don't see how. When I'm finished with it I return it to Garry right away." He smiled slightly. "I'm always afraid I'll lose it or put it down someplace and forget what I did with it. Since it's the only key, I'm especially careful to see that Garry gets it back."

  "When was the last time you used it?"

  Copper shuffled his feet, and stared at the floor as he tried to remember. "A day or so ago . . . I guess."

  Garry began to notice the inquiring, suspicious eyes turned on him. "I suppose . . . it's possible someone might have lifted it from me."

  "That key ring of yours is always hooked to your belt," Childs pointed out accusingly. "Now, how could somebody get to it without you knowing?"

  The station manager sounded uncharacteristically flustered. "I suppose that when I was asleep . . . look, I haven't been near that refrigerator."

  No one said anything. They continued to stare at the outpost's chief administrator. Sanders edged off into a corner, perspiring heavily.

  "Copper's the only one who has any business with it," Garry added.

  The men's attention momentarily shifted to the doctor. "Now wait a second, Garry. You've been in the infirmary on several occasions."

  Fuchs was trying to be rational amid a rising tide of panic. "I think we can eliminate the doc from suspicion. He's the one who thought of the test."

  "Maybe the thing would propose it just so it could reveal this," Norris pointed toward the refrigerator, "and turn suspicion away from itself." He was looking hard at Copper.

  Macready sounded doubtful. "Unnecessary. Better not to propose the test at all. Fuchs is right. Would you have thought of it?"

  The younger man shook his head. "Human physiology isn't my field."

  "So that leaves the doc out. For now, anyway. Because he brought the whole business up."

  "So what?" Childs looked like he wanted to torch something. "Is that supposed to leave him in the clear? Bullshit! Maybe Norris is right. Maybe this thing's always going to be two mental steps ahead of us. It'll keep us going around and around in circles until some time late at night it decides to end it all by—"

  An inarticulate moan rose from the back of the room. The men turned in time to see Sanders's back disappearing into the hallway. Everyone took off after him.

  "Hey, Sanders," Garry shouted after the fleeing radio operator, "don't panic! We have to stay together, get this figured out. It wants us separated!"

  Sanders didn't stop or slow down. Just then he wasn't thinking too straight. He wished fervently he was back home in Los Angeles, back at the university. Anywhere but where he was, trapped at the bottom of the world with a thing that could be your best friend.

  He sped along the corridors, opening doors ahead and slamming them in his wake. Shouts rose from behind.

  They were coming for him. The things. Maybe they'd all been taken over by now and they'd just been toying with him. Certimento, that was it! They'd been feasting on his fear, toying with him until the right moment came.

  Then they'd all gather around, all of them, trapping him helplessly in their midst, and as he watched they would change. Thin white ropes would come out of them, like the dog, and they'd enter his hapless body while the men who weren't men any more would smile down at him, smile while something slipped into him and pushed Sanders aside, took over his brain and body cell by cell by cell by—

  He was screaming as he burst into the little storage room. The glass case hanging on the near wall contained the guns that were allocated to the station. They'd been p
rovided in case the men felt like doing some recreational shooting or the biologists needed to bring down a specimen.

  Among the casually arrayed weapons were the three shotguns Macready, Bennings, and Childs had taken with them on their recent dog hunt. Now they were back in their slots, cleaned and ready for use next summer. Only summer was six long, black months away and Sanders needed a gun now.

  He tried the case handle, found it locked. The clamor of approaching voices was louder now, accompanied by the pounding of many feet. Sanders looked wildly around the room, and pounced on the heavy duty stapler on the desk. The glass cracked with the third blow, shattered at the fourth. He fumbled inside the case and extricated one of the shotguns, then a large box of shells.

  Frantically he fought to load the single-barreled weapon. It was a twelve-gauge, big-mouthed and lethal. Powerful enough to stop even a thing at close range. His shaking hand yanked back the lid on the box and turned it over. Shells fell into his palm, and bounced all over the floor. Somehow he jammed one after another of the plastic-tipped bullets into the gun.

  The men arrived. Garry pulled out his omnipresent Magnum and pointed it squarely at the radio operator.

  "Sanders! Put that down. Right . . . now."

  Sanders looked up at him, his eyes wide. He was trembling violently. A shell fell from his fingers, bounced on the floor and rolled over to Garry's feet.

  "No. I won't."

  "I'll put this right through your head." The station manager spoke slowly so that the radio operator would be sure to understand. The tip of the Magnum never wavered.

  No one doubted Garry's sincerity.

  Sanders' gaze traveled past the station manager to the men grouped behind him in the corridor.

  "You guys going to let him give orders? I mean, he could be one of those things. What about the refrigerator lock?" He looked fearfully back at Garry. "How about it, man? How do you explain that away?"

  A few heads turned Garry's way, the shotgun momentarily forgotten. None of them were oblivious to the fact that Sanders just might be right.

  "Put the gun away," the station manager said again. His tone was soothing. "Just put the gun away, then we'll talk about the refrigerator. But we can't talk as friends if we're all pointing guns at each other, can we? Please put it away, Sanders. I know how you're feeling. We're all confused. But we're also all in this together."