Джон Кэмпбелл - Frozen Hell

“I wonder if we ever saw its natural form.” Blair looked at the covered mass. “It may have been imitating the beings that built that ship—but I don’t think it was. I think that was its true form. Those of us who were up near the bend saw the Thing in action; the corpse on the table is the result. When it got loose, apparently, it started looking around. Antarctica is still as frozen as it was those ages ago when the creature first saw it—and froze. From my observations while it was thawing out, and the bits of tissue I cut and hardened then, I think it was native to a hotter planet than Earth. It couldn’t, in its natural form, stand the temperature. There is no life form on Earth that can live in Antarctica during the winter, but the best compromise is the dog. It found the dogs and somehow got near enough to Charnauk to get him. The others smelled it—or heard it, I don’t know. Anyway, they went wild and broke chains and attacked it before it was finished. The Thing we found was part Charnauk, queerly only half-dead, part Charnauk half digested by the jellylike protoplasm of that creature, and part the remains of the Thing we originally found, sort of melted down to its basic protoplasm.

“When the dogs attacked it, it turned into the best fighting thing it could think of—some otherworld beast apparently.”

“Turned,” snapped Garry. “How?”

“Every living thing is made up of jelly—protoplasm—and minute, submicroscopic things called nuclei, which control the bulk, the protoplasm. This Thing was just a modification of that same world-wide plan of Nature, cells made up of protoplasm, controlled by infinitely tinier nuclei. You physicists might compare it—an individual cell of any living thing—with an atom; the bulk of the atom, the space-filling part, is made up of the electron orbits, but the character of the thing is determined by the atomic nucleus.

“This isn’t wildly beyond what we already know. It’s just a modification we haven’t seen before. It’s as natural, as logical, as any other manifestation of life, and it obeys exactly the same laws. The cells are made of protoplasm, their character determined by the nucleus.

“Only in this creature, the cell-nuclei can control those cells at will . It digested Charnauk, and as it digested him, it studied every cell of his tissue and shaped its own cells to imitate them exactly. Parts of it—parts that had time to finish changing—are dog-cells. But they don’t have dog-cell nuclei.” Blair lifted a fraction of the tarpaulin. A dog’s torn leg with stiff grey fur protruded. “That, for instance, isn’t dog at all; it’s imitation. Some parts I’m uncertain about; the nucleus was hiding itself, covering up with a dog-cell imitation nucleus. In time, not even a microscope would have shown the difference.”

“Suppose,” asked McReady, “it had had lots of time?”

“Then it would have been a dog. The other dogs would have accepted it. We would have accepted it. I don’t think anything could have distinguished it, not microscope, nor X-ray, nor any other means. This is a member of a supremely intelligent race, a race that has learned the deepest secrets of biology and turned them to its use.”

“What was it planning to do?” Barclay looked at the humped tarpaulin.

Blair grinned unpleasantly. His lips twitched with suppressed nervousness. “Take over the world, I imagine.”

“Take over the world! Just it, all by itself?” Connant gasped. “Set itself up as a lone dictator?”

“No.” Blair shook his head. The scalpel he had been fumbling in his fingers dropped; he bent to pick it up, so that his face was hidden as he spoke. “It would become the population of the world.”

“Become—populate the world? Does it reproduce asexually?”

Blair shook his head and gulped. “It’s—it doesn’t have to. It weighed 85 pounds. Charnauk weighed about 90. It would have become Charnauk and had 85 pound left to become—oh Jack, for instance, or Chinook. It can imitate anything—that is, become anything. If it had reached the Antarctic Sea, it would have become a seal, maybe two seals. They might have attacked a killer whale, and become either killers, or a herd of seals. Or maybe it would have caught an albatross, or a skua gull, and flown to South America.’

Powell cursed softly. “And every time it digested something, and imitated it—”

“It would have had its original bulk left, to start again.” Blair finished. “Nothing would kill it. It has no natural enemies, because it becomes whatever it wants to. If a killer whale attacked it, it would become a killer whale. If it was an albatross and an eagle attacked, it would become an eagle. God, it might become a female eagle. Go back—build a nest—lay eggs!”

“Are you sure that Thing from hell is dead?” Dr. Copper asked softly.

“Yes, thank God,” the little biologist gasped. “After they drove the dogs off, I stood there poking Bar’s electrocution thing into it for five minutes. It’s dead and—cooked.”

“Then we can only give thanks that this is Antarctica, where there is not one single, solitary living thing for it to imitate, except these animals in camp.’

“Us,” Blair giggled. “It can imitate us. Dogs can’t make 400 miles to the sea; there’s no food. There aren’t any skua gulls to imitate at this season. There aren’t any penguins this far inland. There’s nothing that can reach the sea from this point—except us. We’ve got brains—we can do it. Don’t you see—it’s got to imitate us—its got to be one of us—that’s the only way it can fly an airplane—fly a plane for two hours, and rule— all Earth’s inhabitants. A world for the taking— if it imitates us !

“It didn’t know yet. It hadn’t had a chance to learn. It was rushed—hurried—took the thing nearest its own size. Look—I’m Pandora! I opened the box! And the only hope that can come out is that nothing can come out. You didn’t see me. I did it. I fixed it. I smashed every magneto. Not a plane can fly. Nothing can fly.” Blair giggled and lay down on the floor crying.

Chief Pilot Van Wall made a dive for the door. His feet were fading echoes in the corridors as Dr. Copper bent unhurriedly over the little man on the floor. Then from his office at the end of the room Copper brought a needle and injected a solution into Blair’s arm.

“He may come out of it when he wakes up,” he said with a sigh, rising. McReady helped him lift the biologist onto a nearby bunk. “It all depends on whether we can convince him that Thing is dead.”

Van Wall ducked into the shack, brushing his hands absently. “I didn’t think a biologist could do a thing like that up thoroughly. He missed the spares in the second cache. It’s all right, I smashed them.”

Commander Garry nodded, “I was wondering about radio.”

Dr. Copper snorted, “You don’t think it can leak out on a radio wave, do you? You’d have five rescue attempts in the next three months if you stop the broadcasts. The thing to do is talk loud and not make a sound. Now I wonder—”

McReady looked speculatively at the doctor. “It might be like an infectious disease. Everything that drank any of its blood—?”

Copper shook his head. “Blair missed something. Imitate it may, but it has, to a certain extent, its own body chemistry, its own metabolism. If it didn’t, it would become a dog—and be a dog and nothing more. It has to be an imitation dog. Therefore you can detect it by serum tests. And its chemistry, since it comes from another world, must be so wholly, radically different, that a few cells, such as gained by drops of blood, would be treated as disease germs by a dog, or a human body.”