Who Goes There by John W. Campbell Read Free Book Online Page B

Captain Forsythe to bring a stock of magnetos with him when he comes down. But—never mind that.”
    “You mean if we don’t come out?” asked Barclay. “I was wondering if a nice running account of an eruption or an earthquake via radio—with a swell windup by using a stick of decanite under the microphone—would help. Nothing, of course, will entirely keep people out. One of those swell, melodramatic last-man-alive scenes might make ‘em go easy though.”
    Garry smiled with genuine humor. “Is everybody in camp trying to figure that out, too?”
    Copper laughed. “What do you think, Garry? We’re confident we can win out. But not too easy about it, I guess.”
    Clark grinned up from the dog he was petting into calmness. “Confident, did you say, Doc?”

VIII
    Blair moved restlessly around the small shack. His eyes jerked and quivered in vague, fleeting glances at the four men with him: Barclay, six feet tall and weighing over 190 pounds; McReady, a bronze giant of a man; Dr. Copper, short, squatly powerful; and Benning, five-feet-ten of wiry strength.
    Blair was huddled up against the far wall of the East Cache cabin, his gear piled in the middle of the floor beside the heating-stove, forming an island between him and the four men. His bony hands clenched and fluttered, terrified. His pale eyes wavered uneasily as his bald, freckled head darted about in birdlike motion.
    “I don’t want anybody coming here. I’ll cook my own food,” he snapped nervously. “Kinner may be human now, but I don’t believe it. I’m going to get out of here, but I’m not going to eat any food you send me. I want cans. Sealed cans.”
    “Okay, Blair, we’ll bring ‘em tonight,” Barclay promised. “You’ve got coal, and the fire’s started. I’ll make a last—” Barclay started forward.
    Blair instantly scurried to the farthest corner. “Get out! Keep away from me, you monster!” the little biologist shrieked, and tried to claw his way through the wall of the shack. “Keep away from me—keep away—I won’t be absorbed—I won’t be—”
    Barclay relaxed and moved back. Dr. Copper shook his head. “Leave him alone, Bar. It’s easier for him to fix the thing himself. We’ll have to fix the door, I think—”
    The four men let themselves out. Efficiently, Benning and Barclay fell to work. There were no locks in Antarctica; there wasn’t enough privacy to make them needed. But powerful screws had been driven in each side of the door frame, and the spare aviation control cable, immensely strong woven steel wire, was rapidly caught between them and drawn taut. Barclay went to work with a drill and a keyhole saw. Presently he had a trap cut in the door through which goods could be passed without unlashing the entrance. Three powerful hinges from a stock crate, two hasps, and a pair of three-inch cotterpins made it proof against opening from the other side.
    Blair moved about restlessly inside. He was dragging something over to the door with panting gasps, and muttering frantic curses. Barclay opened the hatch and glanced in, Dr. Copper peering over his shoulder. Blair had moved the heavy bunk against the door. It could not be opened without his co-operation now.
    “Don’t know but what the poor man’s right, at that,” McReady sighed. “If he gets loose, it is his avowed intention to kill each and all of us as quickly as possible, which is something we don’t agree with. But we’ve something on our side of that door that is worse than a homicidal maniac. If one or the other has to get loose, I think I’ll come up and undo these lashings here.”
    Barclay grinned. “You let me know, and I’ll show you how to get these off fast. Let’s go back.”
    The sun was painting the northern horizon in multicolored rainbows still, though it was two hours below the horizon. The field of drift swept off to the north, sparkling under its flaming colors in a million reflected glories. Low mounds of rounded white on