by D. F. Jones
It took all of Freedman’s self-control to press the shutter release. Xeno resembled no larva he had ever seen or heard of. Instinctively he pulled back, his face twisted in a shocked grimace. The closest approximation to Xeno he could make among earthly species was a fully mature scorpion. But there were differences.
Scorpions are arthropods, not true insects, but like insects they have six legs. Xeno had twelve. Freedman watched in growing horror as he saw what he thought were short legs uncurl in an unearthly manner, and as they did so, straighten, jointing themselves like sections of a fishing rod. The process complete, the legs shook off traces of the nurturing serous fluid, pair by pair, with a fastidiously obscene action, testing themselves — as if they had no relation to the motionless, muddy-white body they supported.
The body was unlike that of a scorpion: smooth, unsegmented, it ended in a long tail, a smooth whiplike structure that flexed from side to side.
And then, in a movement that should have warned him, the tail arched upwards and forwards over the back.
It had to be now.
With a swift, stabbing motion Freedman struck, grasping the parasite around the body. Through the steel to his fingers, from fingers to brain, came the sensation of a softness that repulsed him. Then, with stupifying speed, he felt a swift resistance, a hardening, a fantastic transformation from butter to rock.
He lifted it clear of the girl’s arm. It remained rigid, tail arched, legs splayed. Holding it under the brilliant light, he forced himself to lean forward, to observe, to learn.
But scientific observation vanished as the insect gave a sudden and incredibly strong wriggle. He tightened his grip, nauseated by the powerful, writhing motion; the strength, the boneless, snakelike movement was unnatural, frightening in its own right. Suddenly it was still, stiff, the expressionless eyes, not black but a very dark brown with a hint of gold, staring directly at him.
It took all of Freedman’s willpower to control his revulsion, his fear, to go on observing. He was aware of two things. Through the forceps he felt a regular, rapid pulsation. Synchronous with it, two minute apertures in the masklike face opened and closed.
The revelation almost made him lose his grip on the forceps. It would have been better for him if he had.
Xeno breathed! No insect could — not like this.
Staggered, he failed to observe the slight movement, the adjustment of the tail as the creature centered it down its line of sight. He saw the tail pulsate and half guessed the reason. But he was far too late. Something splashed on the left lens of his glasses. He felt a tiny warm spot on one side of his nose — warmth that grew in milliseconds to intense heat, blinding pain. Then darkness fell.
*
The telephone jolted Scott from an uneasy sleep, his head resting on arms at his desk. He fumbled for the receiver. What he heard cleared his sleep-drugged mind instantly.
Forgetting his jacket, he stumbled out into the cold predawn blackness. The ambulance driver, leaning against his car, tossed away a cigarette.
“Where to, doc?”
Scott stared at him, glassy-eyed. “Where? … No, no! Take over in there, the phone.” He dug out his keys, dropped them. He swore, fighting hysteria as he searched frantically.
The driver found them. “You okay, doc?”
The cold, wet gravel bit into his knees. He scrambled up unsteadily. “Yeah. Hospital — guard the phone.”
The driver watched him go. Scott’s car lurched, stalled, started again, and sprayed gravel as it shot down the driveway without headlights. The man headed for the brightly lit doorway. This was certainly one helluva night.
Scott’s wild appearance passed unnoticed in the chaos at the hospital. Nurses screamed orders, white-coated figures ran in every direction. The air was electric with panic. He ran, too — straight to Shane’s room.
Freedman lay on a stretcher, Slim bent over him. Light filled the room. Shane lay as he had left her, but a swift glance at the EKG machine reassured him.
The surgeon looked up, his face shiny with sweat. He was still in his green O.R. clothes, mask around his neck. Scott took in the fallen stool, the scattered instruments and dishes.
“For Christ’s sake — what’s happened?”
“How the hell do I know!” snarled the surgeon.
“Mark — is he dead?”
“No.”
Jaimie dropped beside the still figure. Mark’s face, without his glasses, looked strangely unfamiliar, defenseless.
“There,” said Slim, moving closer. “Don’t touch!” he added sharply.
Slightly to one side and above the bridge of Mark’s nose, at the beginning of his left eyebrow, was a small red spot, the surrounding hairs frizzled, burned.
“What makes you think — ” Jaimie stopped, mesmerized by the spot.
Slim mopped his face with his mask. “A guess. I was on my way to see Mark; I heard a horrible scream from Carter’s room — he was on the same camera watch. I ran in — ” he shuddered. “Carter was on the floor — dead! Right eye practically burned out!” His mouth trembled. “Jesus! Just one scream, and he was dead in seconds!”
“But what — ”
“Christ! How should I know!” Slim checked himself. “Something — don’t ask me what — must have spurted out.” He shrugged helplessly. “It has to be that. Mark was lucky — his glasses saved him.” He nodded in the direction of the table. The familiar spectacles lay in a dish, the left lens discolored. “Analysis may give us some idea.”
Scott looked from Mark to Shane and back to the surgeon. “Guess we’d better move Mark.”
“Yeah?” Slim laughed disbelievingly. “Where to? All rooms are full! The nurse watching three of your people collapsed an hour back — exhaustion, hysteria — she got the last spare room.” He rubbed his face wearily. “Leave him — unless you’ve a better idea.”
He picked up a pair of forceps, lifted the spectacles carefully into a jar, and capped it. “They’re your patients now.”
“Yeah,” said Scott helplessly. Two very tired, frightened men searched each other’s eyes.
“You have any idea what the hell’s going on? I mean, what’s hit us?”
Jaimie could only shake his head.
XXII.
For nearly an hour he worked. Shane had improved since he last saw her at midnight. At least he was sure she was no worse; the crisis had to be over.
To look at the cyst, now blackening round its periphery, almost made him sick, but it matched the description Tatyana had given of the copilot’s, and the Russian had recovered.
He transferred the EKG machine to Mark. The readings were better than he’d dared to hope for. He was struck by the similarity of their conditions, although he could see no reason for it.
With both patients comfortable, he turned reluctantly to the camera and recorder, dreading what he would find. Forty exposures had been made. Only then did he realize that he should complete the record. When — if — Mark recovered, he’d be angry if Scott had failed him. He rang for the photographer and, while waiting, concentrated on the recorder.
Someone had switched it off. He rewound it, listening to a lot of blank tape until a high-pitched gabble told him he had reached Mark’s last entry.
But he did not want to hear it right then. Trying hard to sound unconcerned, he read in the time, a brief, disjointed account of events, and the condition of both his patients.
The photographer peered around the door, scared and jumpy after his experience with the second camera and the dead doctor. Scott explained that he wanted a final, professional shot of the collapsed cyst, another of Mark’s injury, and then some very fast action in processing the film.
Alone once more, he rewound the tape back to midnight, then quickly forward to the first signs of the cyst’s activity.
The next twenty minutes were the worst in Jaimie’s young life. He listened, picturing the scene, as Mark’s voice lost its customary calm objectivity when the rupture of the cyst
began. He heard Mark’s quick indrawn breath as the Xeno appeared, the tremor in his voice as he described its astonishing breathing system. Listening, Scott could not take his eyes off the cyst, as if the whole awful scene were being reenacted before him.
Then the clink of steel on glass, the scrape of the stool on the floor. The last description, Mark speaking rapidly, as if he sensed that time was short. A sudden cry, itself cut short; a crash — then silence.
Malin found Scott hunched on the stool, head buried in hands. The sight infuriated the FBI man; he shook the young doctor’s shoulder roughly.
“C’mon — snap out of it! Is Freedman going to make it?”
Slowly Jaimie came back, the nightmare still lingering in his eyes.
“Malin … ” He spoke in a dull, flat voice. “Yes, I guess he’ll survive.”
Malin flared up. “Well, you should sure as Christ be doing something, not just sitting here!”
“Wait a minute, Mr. FBI Man. Let me tell you something.” Jaimie stiffened with anger. “We don’t know what is responsible for his state — or Shane’s. Both are improving under their own power. Neither I nor anybody else is going to try anything fancy, understood?” He continued less aggressively. “Meanwhile, we’re not sitting around. Tests are being run right now, the film’s being developed. As for me sitting on my ass, you just listen to what I’ve heard on Mark’s recording.”
“Save it,” said Malin hastily, “we have a meeting.” His anger had receded. “Can you leave them?”
Scott got off his stool and contemplated the recumbent figures, the two most important people in his life. “Yes,” he said heavily, “there’s little else I can do right now.” As he walked to the conference room Scott noticed the time: five thirty. He wasn’t sure whether that was A.M. or P.M.
Slim was there, still in his operating clothes, along with another doctor, the head nurse — looking ten years older — and two senior nurses, one pouring coffee. All appeared uncertain, tense, leaderless.
Malin took charge. Although he too had been up all night, he had not been involved in this first battle with Xeno. His audience listened quietly to the news: Four Army doctors would join them by mid-morning, and a dozen nurses were flying in. Additional equipment was on the way. It made little impression on these, the walking wounded, who were more concerned with their one dead doctor, a senior nurse whose mad screaming had only been stilled by a hypodermic needle, and Freedman, whose fate hung in the balance.
Slim spoke. Three non-Abderan passengers of Papa Kilo had been brought in, bringing the ICARUS admission total to thirty-four. One patient had died, cause not yet known. At least twenty-two cysts had ruptured, and two had been removed in an embryonic state.
Scott asked if any parasites had been obtained. Slim exploded. There had been precious little time, he said bitterly — moving patients around, clearing wards, getting the newcomers settled. And anyway, he continued angrily, how could they expect results from his hard-pressed staff when the five cases under close observation resulted in the death of one doctor, Freedman’s collapse, and a nurse going crazy?
“Okay,” said Malin. “Let’s cool it, shall we? No one’s blaming anyone. We have to work out where to go from here. I’ll be frank. My problem is to restrict the knowledge of ICARUS to a minimum number of people; so far as I can, I’ve done it. This hospital is covered by my boys, and in another four hours no one will cough within a mile of here without my knowing about it. But the real problem is yours — to handle all ICARUS cases. If you need more staff and equipment than we’re providing, say so. What you do is your business. It’s a major setback that Dr. Freedman is out of action, but we all know he attached great importance to getting hold of one of — one of these things. I think that priority still stands. Any comments?”
“Sure,” said Slim impatiently, “we need a specimen more than ever, but let’s just take a look at what we know. We’ve had twenty-two ruptures and gotten nowhere. In the process we have one dead and two out of action. I think the substance on Mark’s glasses will give us a lead, and the lab’s on it right now.” He paused. “Whatever, the thing’s damned dangerous and mighty fast on its feet.”
Malin suppressed a shudder. “We don’t even know what it looks like — ”
“I do,” said Scott. In a harsh, strained voice he gave Mark’s description.
Malin looked as if he would faint. Slim broke the appalled silence. “Jesus Christ! You say he said six pairs of legs — not six legs?”
“Mark said it two ways: six pairs and, a little later, twelve legs.” He added, “He held the thing in a pair of forceps before it struck.”
Slim brooded on that for a moment, then he held out his arm, imitating the action. It was too much for Malin; he made some excuse about other problems and left. No one noticed. “It’s reasonable to assume Mark held it at arm’s length,” said Slim, contemplating his extended arm. “Make it close to a meter from his face.” He tried to sound casual. “Two shots known to have been fired; one victim hit square in the eye and the other saved by his glasses. That’s pretty sharp spitting.”
“It comes to this. We’ve got the two embryos safely dead in alcohol, but we need a full term specimen.”
“I’ll get it.” Scott hardly recognized his own voice.
“Okay,” said Slim, “but we don’t want any more trouble. Full protective clothing.” His stare stiffened the head nurse. “Break out a decontamination suit — the whole bit, including respirator.” He eyed Jaimie. “Make that two outfits.”
*
Even as they talked, cysts were rupturing. A hysterical nurse had thought she saw something jump off a bed, moving incredibly fast. She thought it went under a door.
Only two cases remained, one fast approaching the crisis point, giving Scott little time to indulge his personal fear. Suited-up, booted, and gloved, he shuffled into the room. There would be no EKG, no camera — and no Slim. At the last moment, an urgent message from the lab had called him away. He’d clapped Scott on the shoulder: “Sorry, Jaimie; it’s all yours.”
He stood uncertainly at the foot of the bed. A nurse dosed the door behind him, increasing his sense of alienation. He stared at the patient, an elderly man with a fast-growing cyst on his wrist; the patient would simply have to take his chances — recovery of the specimen was crucial. Ever practical, Slim had ruled out fooling with a kidney dish; Scott carried a chrome-steel bucket with a close-fitting lid. Inside, a liter of formalin sloshed around.
Sweat steamed up his respirator lenses, but Scott had neither the time nor the inclination to do much about it. A finger behind the cheek-piece improved his vision quickly. He peered down, breathing heavily, a nightmare figure in his own right, feeling scared and alone. To him the patient was part of the thing he sought, not a human being.
But he had little time for thought. Events moved with terrifying speed. The spot of fluid was already there, growing, pulsing, then welling out. For the first time he saw the alien head, triangular, deadly. He screamed within himself, clinging desperately to Mark’s clear description, hearing again his calm voice. He forced himself to hold on, to wait.
Momentarily the head froze as the tiny eyes, black and shining, took in the surroundings, eying Scott malevolently. Suddenly — although he expected it, the action still made him jump — the awful arching of the back as it slid out, the sinuous flip, the disgusting splat — and the alien lay fully exposed on the man’s arm.
Scott struck without hesitation, but his grasp of the forceps was less than perfect. For one heart-stopping second he thought he had failed; he gripped with all his strength and lifted.
That was the most horrible moment. The creature seemed weightless; it might have been made of polystyrene. But God, what strength.
Like Freedman before him, he felt the reaction to his steel grip, the body hardening, wriggling with unbelievable energy. Scott fought his rising panic. Shaken by the Xeno’s writhing, he turned his wrist so that he had a safe view from the side,
out of range of the creature’s deadly venom. It struggled desperately to face him, to turn its whole body. The tail curved forward above the dirty-white, glistening back.
Moving his hand toward the bucket lid, he must have relaxed fractionally, his mad urge to be rid of the creature making his mind run ahead of events. The Xeno made one great effort, straining its head one way, its tail the other. He had a photographic image of the creature, head and tail in alignment. Something splashed on his mask: He cried out, his grip failed.
Fortunately, his hand was above the bucket. The creature dropped, clawing at the rim; its undeveloped legs failed to find a grip on the smooth steel.
Scott slammed down the lid, nearly spilling the bucket, and pressed with all his strength. For several seconds he gave way to panic, half sobbing, half laughing. When he had recovered his composure he found he was on his knees, both gloved hands holding the lid down. The bucket was shaking, and he had no idea if the motion was due to him or his captive.
*
The trees beyond the hospital lawns were black silhouettes, sharply etched against the pink dawn sky. Slim Lewis, pausing in the main entrance, could just make out the unfamiliar shape of an army-type command vehicle parked in the driveway. He took a deep breath of the cold, clean air, which penetrated his cotton operating greens and sent a chill through his body. He shivered, but made no move to go back inside. Never had he been so grateful to see a new day. He felt lightheaded with fatigue, although it was by no means the first time he had worked through a night. But there had never been a night like this last one. He hoped against hope that there never would be again.
His tired brain made no attempt to grapple with the wider implications of what had happened, concentrating instead on what lay immediately before him. That was enough; more than enough.
Five bodies, including the hapless doctor’s, lay in the mortuary, and the eighty-odd patients, he thought grimly, don’t look much different. To avoid panic and to keep them quiet, they were all under heavy sedation. Most of the staff, meanwhile, had been powered by pep pills for some time.
