Джон Кэмпбелл - Frozen Hell

McReady picked up the scalpel from the table. From the cabinet, he took a rack of test-tubes, a tiny alcohol lamp, and a length of platinum wire set in a little glass rod. A grin of piercing satisfaction rode his lips. For a moment he glanced up at those around him. Barclay and Dutton moved toward him slowly, the wooden handled electric instrument alert.

“Dutton,” said McReady, “suppose you stand over there by the splice where you’ve connected that in. Just make sure no—thing pulls it loose.”

Dutton moved away. “Now, Van, suppose you be first on this.”

White-faced, Van Wall stepped forward. With a delicate precision, McReady made a small cut on the man’s thumb. Van Wall winced slightly, then held steady as a half inch of bright blood collected in the tube. McReady put the tube in the rack, gave Van Wall a bit of alum, and indicated the iodine bottle.

Van Wall stood motionlessly watching. McReady heated the platinum wire in the alcohol lamp flame, then dipped it into the tube. It hissed softly. Five times he repeated the test. “Human, I’d say.” McReady sighed, and straightened. “As yet, my theory hasn’t been actually proved—but I have hopes—I have hopes.

“Don’t, by the way, get too damned interested in this. We have with us some unwelcome ones, no doubt. Van, will you relieve Barclay at the switch? Thanks. O.K. Barclay, and may I say I hope you stay with us? You’re a hell of a good guy.”

Barclay grinned uncertainly; winced under the keen edge of the scalpel. Presently, smiling widely, he retrieved his long-handled weapon.

“Mr. Samuel Dutt— Bar !”

The tension was released in that second. Whatever of hell the monsters may have had within them, the men in that instant matched it. Barclay had no chance to move his weapon as a score of men poured down on the Thing that had seemed Dutton. It mewed, and spat, and tried to grow fangs—and was a hundred broken, torn pieces. Without knives, or any weapon save the brute-given strength of a staff of picked men, the Thing was crushed, rent.

Slowly they picked themselves up, their eyes smoldering, very quiet in their motions. A curious wrinkling of their lips betrayed a species of nervousness.

Barclay went over with the electric weapon. Things smoldered and stank; the caustic acid Van Wall dropped on each spilled drop of blood gave off tickling, cough-provoking fumes.

McReady grinned, his eyes alight and dancing. “Maybe,” he said softly, “I underrated man’s abilities when I said nothing human could have the ferocity in the eyes of that Thing we found. I wish we could have the opportunity to treat in a more befitting manner these things we find. Something with boiling oil, or melted lead in it, or maybe slow roasting in the power boiler. When I think what a man Dutton was—

“Never mind. My theory is confirmed by—shall we say by one who knew? Well, Van Wall and Barclay are proven. I think, then, that I’ll try to show you what I already know—that I too, am human.” McReady swished the scalpel in the absolute alcohol, burned it off the metal blade, and cut the base of his thumb expertly.

Twenty seconds later he looked up from the desk at the waiting men. There were more grins out there now, friendly grins, yet withal, something else in the eyes.

“Connant,” McReady laughed softly, “was right. The huskies watching that thing in the corridor bend had nothing on you boys. Wonder why we think only the wolf blood has the right to ferocity? Maybe on spontaneous viciousness a wolf takes tops, but after these seven days—abandon all hope, ye wolves who enter here!

“Maybe we can save some time. Connant, would you step for—”

Again Barclay was too slow. There were more grins, less tensity still, when Barclay and Van Wall finished their work.

Garry spoke in a low, bitter voice. “Connant was one of the finest men we had here—and five minutes ago, I’d have sworn he was. God in Heaven—those damnable Things are more than imitation.” Garry shuddered and sat back in his bunk.

And thirty seconds later, his blood shrank from the hot platinum wire, and struggled to escape the tube, struggled as frantically as a suddenly feral, red-eyed dissolving imitation of Garry struggled to dodge the snake-tongue weapon. Barclay advanced at him, white-faced and sweating. The Thing in the test-tube screamed with a tiny, tinny voice as McReady dropped it into the glowing coal of the galley stove. A wave of foul, stinking smoke puffed up.

“The last of it?” Dr. Copper looked down from his bunk with blood-shot, saddened eyes. “Fourteen of them—”

McReady nodded shortly. “In some ways—if only we could have permanently prevented their spreading—I’d like to have even the imitations back. Commander Garry—Connant—Dutton—” McReady laughed bitterly. “Even Dwight. Dwight who we thought we knew was human. What in blazes could have been his motive—the monster’s motive?”

Copper shook his head slowly. “I’m too headachy. What theory did you have?”

“Van Wall suggested more selfishness—and too good imitation. Perhaps, imitating Dwight so exactly, it felt his feelings. In the background, was the selfishness that each, though part of one original, was yet an entire individual, with its own individual ambitions. The ambition to reproduce. By ‘killing’ Kinner, it forced the other monster to assume an inactive role, finally it turned out, killed it. Forcing it to inactivity, would have given ‘Dwight’ more freedom to operate.”

“Where are they taking those—things?” Copper nodded to the stretcher Barclay and Powell were carrying out.

“Outside. Outside on the ice, where they’ve got fifteen smashed crates, half a ton of coal, and presently will add 10 gallons of kerosene. We’ve dumped acid on every spilled drop, every torn fragment. We’re going to incinerate those.”

“Sounds like a good play.” Copper nodded wearily. “I wonder, you haven’t said whether Blair—”

McReady started. “We forgot him! We had so much else! I wonder—do you suppose we can cure him now?”

“If—” began Dr. Copper, and stopped meaningfully.

McReady started a second time. “Even a madman. It imitated Kinner and his praying hysteria—” McReady turned toward Van Wall at the long table. “Van—we’ve got to make an expedition to Blair’s shack.”

Van looked up sharply, the frown of worry faded for an instant in surprised remembrance. Then he rose, nodding. “Barclay better go along. He applied the lashings, and may figure how to get in without frightening Blair too much.”

Three quarters of an hour, through -37° cold, while the Aurora curtains bellied overhead. The twilight was nearly 12 hours long, flaming in the north, on snow like white, crystalline sand under their skis. A 15 mile wind piled it in drift-lines pointing off to the north-west. Three quarters of an hour to reach the snow-buried shack. No smoke came from the little stack, and the men hastened.

“Blair!” Barclay roared into the wind when he was still a hundred yards away. “Blair!”

“Shut up,” said McReady softly, “And hurry. He may be trying a lone hike. If we have to go after him—no planes, the tractors disabled—”

“Would a monster have the stamina a man has?”

“A broken leg wouldn’t stop it for more than a minute.” McReady pointed out.

Barclay gasped suddenly and pointed aloft. Dim in the twilit sky, a winged thing circled in curves of indescribable grace and ease. Great white wings tipped gently, and the bird swept over them in silent curiosity.

“Albatross—” Barclay said softly. “First of the season, and wandering way inland for some reason. If a monster’s loose—”