The Thing

by Alan Dean Foster

  "Not quite," Macready said, sliding a fresh dish toward the doctor. "Now you."

  Copper obligingly nicked his thumb, and watched as the blood dribbled into the glass.

  "Slide it back here," Macready directed him. The doctor did as ordered. "Now step back. Way back, over there with the others."

  Copper complied. Sweat was beginning to collect on his forehead. He nearly tripped over Childs's feet.

  "And lastly, yours truly." Macready used the scalpel on his own thumb, collected the blood in a last dish. Then he put the bare copper wire protruding from the stripped end of the extension cord into the flame from the Bunsen burner.

  The men watched intently as the wire began to glow. Macready held it steady in the bluest part of the flame, keeping the torch aimed at the doctor. Both of them were perspiring freely now.

  When it was ready the pilot took the wire out of the flame and brought it toward the nearest plate, the one containing the sample of Copper's blood. His eyes were fixed on the staring doctor and a finger was tense on the trigger of the blowtorch.

  A soft hiss rose from the petri dish. Macready reheated the wire and repeated the experiment. Again the hissing, and that was all. The blood in the dish had reacted normally. Both men let out a sigh of relief.

  "I guess you're okay, Doc."

  Copper's relief was palpable and his reply was only slightly facetious. "Thank you." He was trembling.

  "Like I said," Macready reiterated, "I didn't think you'd have used that current on Norris's body if you were one of them." He favored the older man with a weak smile. "It's nice to know for sure again that somebody's nothing more than they're supposed to be.

  "Here. Give me a hand." He handed over the torch. "Watch them. And don't forget the dynamite."

  Copper nodded, resolutely training the unfamiliar instrument on the bound men while Macready moved his own dish to the edge of the table where everyone could see it clearly.

  "Now I'll show you all what I already know and what you can't seem to believe." He heated the wire and stuck the tip into his blood. The same harmless hissing that had risen from Copper's dish now rose from his own. As with Copper, he repeated the action. Same result.

  Childs turned away, unable to meet the pilot's gaze. "Doesn't mean anything. Load of bullshit."

  "Yeah? We'll see." He studied the dishes, chose another. "Let's try Clark." He heated the wire again, placed it in the handler's dish. More hissing . . . and nothing else.

  Childs glanced up at him. "So according to your figuring, that means Clark was human, right?" Macready nodded slowly. "So that makes you a murderer."

  Macready ignored him, looked over the group. "Palmer now." He pulled out the proper dish and put the wire into the steady flame from the burner.

  Garry was shifting uncomfortably on the couch. His arms were cramping. "Pure nonsense, like Childs says. This won't prove a damn thing."

  "That's just what it's supposed to prove." Macready gave the station manager a nasty grin. "I thought you'd feel that way, Garry. You were the only one who could have gotten at the blood in the infirmary refrigerator." He put the wire into Palmer's dish. "We'll do you last."

  A horrible screech filled the room, sharp and piercing . . . and unexpected.

  It came from the red liquid in the petri dish, which was making an amoeba-like attempt to crawl up the vertical walls of the glass . . .

  With incredible force Palmer exploded out of his seat straight toward Macready, dragging the couch with Garry and Childs still tied to it along with him. His face was splintering as something fought to get out from behind the fleshy human mask. He barreled into Macready and knocked him clear over the other card table.

  "Copper!" the pilot screamed as he went over backward. The room was filled with shouts and curses as men fought their restraints. Shouts and curses and a deep, inhuman bellowing.

  The doctor tried to fire, but mishandled the unfamiliar controls of the blowtorch. By that time the steadily changing thing that had been Palmer had burst its bonds and jumped on the older man.

  Macready dove onto Palmer's back and the three of them went rolling across the floor. He pounded at the head until a huge, not quite formed arachnid arm split out of the shirt and sent the pilot skidding across the linoleum.

  The distraction allowed Copper to regain control of the torch. He swung it around, trying to aim it. There was an awful crackling like the splintering of heavy plastic.

  Palmer's mouth split from chin to forehead. A new mouth, dark and vitreous and horrible, moved forward and inhaled the entirety of the doctor's head.

  The torch went flying, bouncing off a wall. Climbing to its feet the Palmer-thing wrapped lengthening arms around the dangling, twitching body of the unfortunate doctor. The rest of the men were hysterical. Sanders was crying and praying, refusing to open his eyes, hoping that if he didn't look upon the horror it might go away.

  Macready shook the cobwebs out of his brain and scrambled across the floor to grab up the torch. He raised it, aimed and fired.

  Nothing happened. The blow against the wall had damaged it. Frustrated, he got behind Palmer and began hammering on the shifting, changing skull.

  The shirt on Palmer's back erupted in the pilot's face, exposing not an arm this time but the beginnings of a second set of jaws. Something like a tentacle lunged out of the widening maw, reaching for Macready. He managed to dodge it, throwing himself backward. He bumped into the overloaded table and howled as the Bunsen burner scorched one hand.

  Burner . . . he fought for balance, dug at the nearest box of dynamite and pulled out three sticks. He passed the short fuses over the hissing burner. They caught instantly.

  Palmer was turning in awkward circles. The body of the doctor hung limply from the contracted mouth, swinging and throwing the thing off balance as it turned to advance on Macready. The second mouth was spitting and snarling as it continued to take shape.

  The pilot dodged and ducked, almost knocked sideways by the whirling body of Copper as the thing tried to decide what to do with the doctor while simultaneously focusing on Macready and changing into its natural form. Macready waited until it was barely a yard from him before tossing the lit roll of explosives into the ever-evolving orifice that sought for him.

  There was nothing left of the fuse as the pilot turned and flung himself toward the couch, covering Garry and Childs with his body.

  There came a muffled boom. Parts of limbs and skin and half-formed organs of unknown purpose and peculiar design went flying in all directions. There was surprisingly little blood or any other kind of fluid, for that matter.

  But there was a lot of something else.

  As they dried out, droplets of cremated flesh continued to slough off the ceiling and rain down on the benumbed men. Macready climbed off his two helpless charges. It took him longer than normal because he was shaking so badly.

  "You two okay? Childs? Garry?" Both of them nodded.

  After regaining his bearings Macready pulled one of the remaining torches from the box on the table. Then he spent a gratifying if disgusting ten minutes frying every fragment of the thing that still showed signs of life. When that was done, he sat down in a battered chair and waited.

  Eventually he'd calmed down enough to resume the testing. Copper wasn't around to help him now. His hand still trembled slightly as he heated the wire in the burner. Thank God, he mused, it hadn't been snuffed out during the fight, or the tubing pulled out of the wall. If that had happened the room would have filled up with gas, which the explosion would have ignited, and all their troubles would have been over. Because all of us would've been all over, he thought.

  He checked the dish's identification: Nauls. Copper had written that. Copper was gone now.

  Quit thinking about it, he ordered himself. It's not over yet. He looked over toward the cook.

  Nauls closed his eyes and tensed as Macready touched the hot wire to the dish. It generated a mild, unthreatening hiss. Macready exhaled slowly and
Nauls opened his eyes.

  He didn't even bother with the obligatory second try. That didn't seem necessary anymore, not after the way Palmer's blood had reacted. Moving around the table he untied the cook, keeping a torch aimed at the others. Nauls accepted the torch and took up the guard duties while the pilot returned to the burner and reheated the wire.

  Sanders next. Macready ran the test, was rewarded with another hissing. The radio operator lost control of himself and sobbed on his knees.

  Macready nodded to Nauls, who walked over and untied the distraught Sanders. "Come on, man," he told him, "get yourself together. We ain't got time for this. You're clear, but we ain't finished yet."

  Sanders nodded, wiped his face with his freed hands and was given another of the small blowtorches.

  Childs looked stoical as the two younger men moved to cover him. His gaze was on Macready.

  "Let's do it, man."

  The wire dipped into the dish, was followed by the familiar, harmless hissing. The muscles of the mechanic's face melted into a relieved smile.

  "Muthafu . . ." He couldn't finish the word. It trailed off into the wheeze of the Bunsen burner.

  Suddenly it struck him who or what he might be sitting next to. He started trying to pull away, his eyes wide with the realization.

  "Get me . . . get me the hell away from . . . cut me loose, damn it! Somebody, cut me loose!"

  Nauls hurried to comply, and began sawing at the ropes with the scalpel as Sanders and Macready stood guard. Garry, ignoring the mechanic's hysteria, didn't move. Childs nearly fell in his haste to get off the couch and away from the station manager.

  "Gasoline," Macready said stolidly. Sanders hurried out of the room, returned in minutes with a two-gallon can whose contents be proceeded to dump over Garry's head. Garry continued to sit motionless on the couch, staring straight ahead. The radio operator backed off, raising his torch, his face full of fright but ready nonetheless.

  Nobody breathed. Childs had picked up a torch. His finger was tense on the trigger as he stared expectantly at Garry. Macready readied himself as he slowly brought the heated wire down into the last dish.

  It produced the comforting hiss of evaporating blood. The pilot frowned and tried it a second time, got the same result. The blood boiled away freely and did nothing to hint that it could be anything except normal human blood.

  Everyone let out a sigh of relief. Sanders cracked up again, this time out of happiness. Childs flopped exhaustedly into an empty chair a Macready wiped his face. There was a long silence.

  "I know you gentlemen have been through a lot," the station manager finally said quietly, "but when you find the time, I'd rather not spend the rest of the winter tied to this couch."

  Childs started to giggle. For the first time in days, the strain began to slip from Macready's face. Nauls scowled at Childs's uncontrollable laughter.

  The wind howled overhead, tearing ineffectually at the roof. It had never stopped, but during the past anxious hours it had been completely forgotten. Now it was a familiar, friendly reminder of threats that were quite normal. The men welcomed it.

  The cook put aside his torch and walked over to untie the station manager, grumbling at Childs.

  "Okay, man, we're all happy. That's enough."

  Childs choked back his remaining laughter and wiped tears from his eyes. He sat up and grinned at Macready.

  The grin vanished immediately. The pilot was staring, silent and stone-faced, out the window. Snow and ice battered at the triple-paned glass. Childs frowned, connecting the stare with some long-forgotten thoughts. His eyes grew wide as he remembered.

  Macready had remembered first. "Blair," he whispered.

  The wind roared and clutched at the three men who pulled themselves forward along the guide ropes. Each man carried a flashlight, a flare, and a blowtorch. In addition, Macready's parka was filled with enough dynamite to demolish the entire outpost.

  The flares flickered weakly in the gale, but still far outshone the beams from the flashlights. Ice formed on warm beards, stung the men's faces and tried to freeze over their snow goggles.

  It wasn't far to the toolshed where they'd imprisoned Blair, but the storm made it seem like ten miles. Icy wind ripped at them, trying to tear their gloved hands away from the life-saving guide ropes so it could send them spinning blindly off into the Antarctic night. Twenty yards from the compound the orange smear provided by its external lights was wiped out by blowing snow. Without the flares and flashlights the trio making their way up toward the shed would have been completely blind.

  Macready and Childs readied themselves as they neared the shed. Nauls banged into them from behind and the men exchanged irritated looks, but no one said anything.

  They could see the shed clearly now. The heavy boards that had sealed off the entrance lay scattered about in the snow. They'd been broken or torn from their nails. The door flapped in the gale, banging against the front wall of the building.

  They paused in front of the doorway, trying to steady themselves against the wind. Macready and Childs had their torches out and the flares held in front of them.

  "See anything?" Childs shouted. The wind made his voice seem to come from far away, though they were standing next to each other.

  "No." Macready gestured with his flare and Childs nodded his understanding. They entered together.

  It was much quieter inside the shed. Unlike at Macready's old shed the roof was still intact here. They strolled around the single room. Nauls checked the portajohn chamber. The table still stood in the center of the room. Off to one side was the single cot. There were two stacks of canned goods, a neat pile of spare blankets, and a large can full of drinking water. Heat poured from the portable propane radiator.

  Everything appeared normal, undisturbed, except . . . the door had been broken open, and there was no sign of Blair.

  Childs tumbled in the darkness and uttered a soft curse. He looked down to see what had tripped him, and suddenly he was on his knees.

  "Hey Mac, Nauls . . . come here."

  They joined him, staring downward. The loose floorboard that had caught his boot came up easily. So did those immediately around it.

  Nauls turned his flashlight downward while Childs and Macready held their flares over the opening. Instead of dull ice there was a large hole. The cook moved his light around but was unable to locate a side wall.

  There was something in the hole, something large and inorganic. It reflected the light.

  Macready's voice was hushed. "Let's get the rest of these boards up." Childs bent to lend a hand.

  It didn't take long to remove the rest of the floor. All the boards had been loosened, the nails removed, and then had carefully been laid back in place. Only a loose plank like the one that had tripped up Childs would have warned an observer that something was amiss in the toolshed.

  When they finally finished they found themselves standing in the shed's doorway. The excavation occupied the entire interior of the shed. The metallic object nearly filled it.

  It was crudely fashioned, but streamlined. Sheets of corrugated steel lay piled in one corner. The corrugations had been smoothed out and the sheets sandwiched together to form thick plates. There was no sign of bolts or welding.

  Enough gaps and rough places showed in the object to indicate that it was still incomplete.

  "What is it?" Nauls muttered, trying to make sense out of the peculiar angles and ridges.

  "Everything that's been missing," Macready told him. "The magnetos, electronic components, other supplies. I'll bet your food processor's in there somewhere, too. The motor, anyway." He nodded at the construction. "All of that missing stuff's been worked into . . . this."

  "Spaceship of some kind," Childs whispered in awe.

  "I hope to hell not," Macready countered. "If it's that smart maybe we ought to just give ourselves up and let it take over. But I wouldn't bet on it." He leaned into the hole and moved his flare around, illuminating dif
ferent portions of the incomplete vehicle.

  "I'm sure as hell no engineer, but I know a little bit about flying machinery. I don't see how it could make the walls thick enough, or where it would get the compounds to make a powerful enough propellant. Of course, maybe it doesn't need thick walls. Maybe it uses some kind of energy shield instead. Hell, maybe it just climbs aboard and wishes itself elsewhere.

  "But I'd bet against the spacecraft theory."

  "What then?" Childs asked.

  Macready continued to scan it with the flare. "It's some kind of ship, for sure. Since it doesn't need a spaceship, I'd bet on some kind of aircraft. Or a short-range rocket-booster. Smart son of a bitch. He put it together piece by piece. And all this time we've been worrying about poor, cooped-up, crazy Blair. I'll bet he hasn't been 'Blair' for some time." He pulled his head out of the hole and nodded back in the direction of the main compound.

  "All the others—Palmer and the dogs, they were just decoys to keep us away from here, keep us occupied so the thing could work on this in peace. Almost worked, too, would have, if we hadn't come up with that new test."

  Nauls stared into the hole. "Where was he trying to go?"

  "Anyplace but here," Macready replied. He unsnapped his parka and searched inside, extricating a bundle of taped dynamite. "But he ain't going to make it."

  A screeching. Piercing and far away, smothered by the gale blowing outside, but it made Macready twitch nonetheless.

  "Hurry," Childs urged him.

  Macready nodded, then used his lighter to ignite the fuse. They backed out of the doorway and he tossed it into the excavation.

  They were a minute down the walkway, clutching the guide ropes for support as well as guidance, when the ice heaved behind them. Even in the storm it was satisfyingly loud. Fragments of metal and wood showered past them.

  "That's that, then," muttered Nauls.

  "Yeah." Childs tapped him on the shoulder. "Watch where you're going." A gust of wind knocked him sideways as he tried to step around the cook. His boots spun on the slick surface and he grabbed the rope with both hands as he went down on his knees, trying to steady himself.