As Marshall turned around, he saw Hulce pull the front wall of the vault ajar. A thick shaft of brilliant yellow light flooded out. Conti gestured for them to step inside.
Marshall followed Sully, Faraday, and Barbour up the steps and into the vault. Conti and the tech came last, closing the door behind them. There was very little room to stand: the block of ice took up almost all of the vault’s space. The only other items inside were the bank of painfully bright lights set into the ceiling and a portable heater set into the rear wall, which-Marshall knew-would be turned on when the time came to thaw the carcass and reveal it to the world.
The floor felt too yielding to be steel. Looking down, Marshall noticed with surprise that, except for two steel I beams spaced about four feet apart, the floor was made of wood-wood painted silver to resemble metal. It was riddled with tiny drill holes that, no doubt, would help meltwater escape when the thawing began. He shook his head: another Hollywood contrivance, just like the superfluous padlocks. The cameras would never see the floor, so there had been no need for the expense of extra steel beyond the supporting I beams.
Conti nodded at the tech to remove the tarp. Then he turned to the scientists. “Remember. Five minutes.”
Hulce reached over and, with some effort, pulled the heavy tarp across the top of the ice block, letting it fall to the back. Immediately, Marshall caught his breath, almost staggering in surprise.
“Jesus,” Sully muttered in a strangled voice.
Although the sides of the block remained rough-edged and frosted, the upper face of the ice had apparently rubbed against the insulating tarp during the trek down the mountain. Now it was polished to a glassy sheen. This was the side that faced forward, toward the vault door. Within the ice, the huge black-and-yellow eyes stared out at Marshall implacably. But that was not what caused him such a powerful shock.
As a child, he had been plagued by a recurring dream. In it, he would awaken at home, in his bed. He was alone: his parents, his older sister, inexplicably gone. It was late; the power was off; all the windows were open to the night. The house was full of fog. He would draw back the covers and get up, again and again with each new dream, even after he knew better. Everything about the dream was painfully, unforgettably tangible: the chill of the mist on his face, the hard smooth wood of the floorboards beneath his feet. He walked out of his bedroom and began heading down the stairs. The landing below was thick with soupy gray vapor. Halfway down, he stopped. Because creeping up the steps toward him was a terrifying beast: huge, feline, with burning eyes and sharp fangs and massive forepaws studded with cruel talons. He stood, staring, rooted by horror. Slowly, very slowly, more of the creature emerged from the mist: a lank, greasy mane; shoulders rippling with muscle. It stared at him unblinking as it came forward, and a sound emerged from deep within its chest, a sound more sensed and felt than heard: an ineffable primal growl of hatred, hunger, desire…and that was when the paralysis would break and he’d turn, running, screaming, back up toward his room, the stairs shaking under the weight of the creature and the crash of its bulk coming ever nearer and the stink of its breath warming the small of his neck…
Marshall shook his head, drew a hand across his eyes. Despite the arctic chill of the vault, a close, oppressive warmth flooded his limbs.
The dead thing in the ice was, in size and general shape, the precise creature of his nightmare. Even the murkiness of the vast block resembled the fog of his dream. He swallowed as he stared. Only the top half of the head and the forequarters of the beast were visible-emerging out of a storm of frozen mud-but that was enough to convince him instantly this was no saber-toothed tiger.
He turned to the others. They were all staring into the ice, their faces registering shock, disbelief, and-in the case of Hulce, the tech-something like naked fear. Even Conti seemed at a loss, shaking his head.
“We’re going to need a wider lens,” he muttered.
“That’s a nasty piece of work, and no mistake,” said Barbour.
“What is it?” asked Sully.
“I can tell you what it isn’t,” said Faraday. “It’s no Smilodon. And it’s no mammoth.”
Marshall struggled to push his childhood terrors away, to examine the corpse as clinically as possible. “That’s hair on the forelegs,” he said. “Hair. And they’re too thickly muscled-the talons are too long.”
“Too long for what?” Conti asked.
“For anything.” Marshall shrugged as his pretense at scientific detachment fell away. He exchanged glances with the other scientists. He wondered if they shared his thoughts. Even though relatively little of the creature was visible, it nevertheless looked like nothing else on earth, past or present.
For a long moment, nobody spoke. Finally, Sully broke the silence. “So what are you saying?” he asked. “That we’re looking at a life-form unknown to the fossil record?”
“Maybe. But whatever it is, I think it’s of vital importance to the fossil record,” Faraday said.
Marshall frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I mean the theory of evolutionary turbulence.” Faraday cleared his throat. “It’s something that comes up now and then in biology. According to the theory, when animal populations grow too numerous for the ecosphere to support, or when a certain species becomes too comfortably adapted and loses evolutionary vigor, a new creature comes along to prune back the population blooms, force new changes.”
“A killing machine,” Barbour said with a glance at the ice block.
“Precisely. Except if the killing machine is too successful, it will depopulate its environment, lose its food source, and ultimately turn on others of its own kind.”
“You’re talking about the Callisto Effect,” Marshall said. “The alternate theory for what killed off the dinosaurs.”
Faraday nodded, glasses flashing in the brilliant light.
“That was championed by Frock of the New York Museum of Natural History,” Marshall said. “But since he vanished, I didn’t think anyone else had come forward to support it.”
“Perhaps our Wright is the new champion,” Barbour said with a grim smile.
“Sounds highly dubious to me,” said Sully. “In any case, even if you’re right, this corpse is no longer a threat to anybody, let alone an entire species.”
Conti stirred. Most of the shock had faded from his face, and his remote, faintly disdainful expression had returned. “I don’t know what you’re all getting so worked up about,” he said. “You can only see its head and shoulders-and a paw.”
“Ecce signum,” replied Marshall, jerking a thumb toward the ice.
“Well, we’ll all find out soon enough,” Conti replied. “For now, it stays a tiger. Meanwhile, your five minutes are up.” He turned to the tech. “Mr. Hulce, give Dr. Faraday back his camera. Then cover this up and make sure all the locks are secure. I’ll escort our friends here inside the base.”