The Thing Read Online Free Page A

the winds into account I figure less than an hour there, hour back."
    Garry mulled the idea over, not liking it much. But he desperately wanted some explanations before both the weather and official inquiries started to come in. Besides which, as Copper had pointed out, there might be injured needing help at the Norwegian station. What would the official reaction be if he didn't make an effort to help them?
    Palmer took the last hit off his joint. "Shit, doc. I'll give you a lift if—"
    Garry interrupted him sharply. "Forget it, Palmer." He turned back to Copper, who was waiting patiently for a decision. "Doc, you're a pain in the ass."
    "Only when I'm giving certain injections."
    "Oh hell." The station manager turned away to hide his smile. "Norris, go get Macready."
    A few easy laughs filled the room. Norris grinned at superior. "Macready ain't going nowhere. Bunkered in 'til spring. Who says humans can't hibernate?"
    "Neveready Macready," Bennings adde
    Garry looked bored. "Just go and get him."
    "You're the boss, boss." Norris headed toward the door. "Anyway, he's probably ripped. Palmer'll have to go anyhow."
    Despite familiarity bred of constant repetition, it took Norris several minutes to prepare himself to go outside. Slogging along beneath sixty-five pounds of extra clothing, he made his way toward the outside door.
    Wind hammered at his face as he pulled the door aside. Instinctively, he held his lips apart so the saliva in his mouth wouldn't freeze them together. Ice particles rattled on his snow goggles.
    Maybe Bennings was right. It seemed as he started up the stairs that the wind had let up slightly. Windchill factor had fallen from the rapidly fatal to the merely intimidating. Of course they had yet to experience a real winter storm. They were still basking in comparatively mild autumn weather.
    His destination was a shack one hundred yards from the main compound, connected to it by guide ropes and a wooden walkway. A hundred yards on foot in the Antarctic seems like a hundred miles, even when the hiker is blessed by the presence of a visible destination.
    He emerged from the stairs leading down into the central building and started along the boardwalk, his gloved hands sliding easily on the familiar slickness of the guide rope. A few icicles drooped from it and broke off as his sliding fingers made contact with them. He used the rope not only to guide himself but to pull his way up the slight slope. Here arms had to compliment legs that had a tendency to go on strike after even brief exposure to the bitter cold.
    It was comfortably warm inside the shack, which had double walls and radiant electric heat. Macready kept it as tropical as regulations would allow. He hated the cold, hated it even worse than Sanders. Isolation he didn't mind. The mitigating factor was the pay, which was astounding.
    He took the ice cubes from the little refrigerator and dropped them into the glass. Amber liquid of impressive potency sloshed around the cubes.
    "Bishop to knight four," said a calm voice that wasn't his.
    He sipped at the whiskey and walked over to the table holding the game. A large gaily colored Vera Cruz sombrero hung from his neck and bounced gently against his back. He bent to duck the naked light bulb hanging from the ceiling.
    The shack was small, individualistic, and furnished in contemporary unkempt. Garry called it a pigsty. Macready preferred the description "lived-in". It was a point the station manager didn't press. Macready did his work. Usually.
    Several large posters of warm places provided interior color. Naples, Rio, Jamaica, Acapulco, one blonde, and two redheads. It was hot enough in the shack to make you sweat.
    The electronic chessboard on the table was larger than the average model. Macready sat down and chuckled over his opponent's bad move.
    "Poor little son of a bitch. You're starting to lose it, aren't you?"
    He thought a moment, then tapped in his move. The machine's response was