“Back!” Gonzalez yelled.

They scrambled back into the second room.

“Take up positions in the corners!” Gonzalez ordered. “Phillips, Marcelin, cover the door! Careful of crossfire!”

He retreated to the rear left corner of the second room and hunkered down, using the end cap of the last storage rack for cover, aiming his M16 at the darkened doorway. His heart was beating faster than it ever had in his life.

Creel was jabbering beside him. “Oh, God. Oh, God.”

“Get behind me,” Gonzalez said. “If it comes for us, aim at the door. The door, you hear me? If you shoot my men by accident, I’ll shoot you.”

But Creel didn’t seem to hear. “Oh, God…”

“Ready yourselves!” Gonzalez shouted to the soldiers. There was no response from the far side of the room save a faint whimper that was probably Marcelin.

He sighted down the barrel of his M16, struggling to control the sudden, unfamiliar panic that had at first almost overwhelmed him. A dreadful minute passed, then two. Gonzalez tried to blink away the sweat coursing down his forehead. The low sound he’d noticed before was louder now, filling his ears and even his head with a dull ache that…

A headache. Marcelin had mentioned that, too-

Gonzalez went rigid. In the darkness of the doorway, something moved.

He blinked again, passed a hand quickly over his eyes. It was some trick of the dim light. But no: there was movement in the shadows, gray against gray. For a moment, it stopped. Then it started again and-slowly, slowly-the head slid out. A low noise, like the gargle of a drowning man, began to sound in Creel’s throat. Gonzalez stared, paralyzed like the rest. Christ, it just seemed to keep on coming, dark and bullet-shaped, with a massive crest of bone at the rear leading to a set of incredibly powerful, high-set shoulders. It was like nothing Gonzalez had ever seen. It was magnificent. It was terrifying.

The head was fully through the doorway now, staring in the direction of Marcelin and Phillips. As Gonzalez watched, the head moved again and-with an agonizing, insolent slowness-turned to look at him. The yellow eyes seemed to hold his own eyes in thrall. Then the jaw opened and Gonzalez’s gaze dropped to it and-sweet Jesus, what the hell were those…

Abruptly he felt the hinges of his sanity begin to loosen. His finger twitched spasmodically against the trigger guard.

The gargle in Creel’s throat changed to a low keening, then rose abruptly to a ragged scream.

And then the thing leapt toward them.

Everything happened at once. Creel yelled incoherently, falling backward instinctively while simultaneously raising his weapon. Phillips and Marcelin opened fire from the far corner, their bullets ripping along the wall and ricocheting over Gonzalez’s head with sharp whines. Gonzalez felt himself brutally knocked to one side as the thing fell upon Creel: there was a low crunching, like the sound of a chicken joint giving way, and the foreman gave another terrible scream-this time of pain. Gonzalez leapt to his feet, room spinning, grabbed his gun, and whirled around, taking aim. He saw right away it was too late for Creel. The creature was taking him apart like a rag doll, coronas of blood and gore rising in a red mist. The others had stopped firing. As Gonzalez stared, the thing looked up at him, its face a mask of red. In the faint light, Gonzalez thought he saw the edges of its mouth raise in what could only have been a smile. And then he was running, running, past the storage racks and out the door in the wake of Phillips and Marcelin, through the first room and into the corridor and on, running, running…

41

The air in the life-sciences lab seemed to freeze. For a long moment, everybody in the room simply stared at Usuguk. For his part, the Tunit stood close to the doorway, motionless, his sealskin boots and his parka of caribou skin and blanket cloth in stark contrast to the drab metal walls and prosaic instruments.

“You,” said Marshall, surprise thickening his voice. “You’re the eighth scientist.”

“That is what they called me,” replied Usuguk.

Across the room, Logan frowned. “What do you mean?”

For a long time, Usuguk said nothing. His dark eyes looked at each of them in turn. Then they focused on a spot beyond all of them, a spot that to Marshall seemed far, far away. “I am an old man,” he said. “May I sit?”

“Of course.” Marshall hurried to get him a chair. The shaman lowered himself onto it, placed his medicine bundle on his knees.

“I was a specialist,” he said in his uninflected accent. “Army specialist. I grew up a hundred miles from here. In the old days, my people lived in a settlement near Kaktovik. I lived with my cousin’s family. My mother died giving birth to me, and my father starved to death when I was six, out on the ice, looking for caribou. I grew up foolish, full of quiniq. Back then, sitting for hours at a breathing hole, waiting to spear a seal-it was not enough for me. I did not respect the old ways. I did not understand the circle of beauty, the glamour of the snow. An army recruiter came through Kaktovik once a year, full of talk of far places. I had learned your language; my arm was strong. So I enlisted.” He shook his head slowly. “But I spoke Inuit; I spoke Tunit. So after six months at Fort Bliss they sent me back here, to this base.”

“Was the base operational?” Marshall asked.

“Ahylah.” The Tunit nodded. “All except the north wing. That was still being completed. It had to be built below the level of the snow.”

“Why?” Logan asked.

“I do not know. It was a secret. For tests. Some experiments with sonar.” Usuguk paused. “The army put several of us Tunits to work, digging out the ice for the north wing and placing supports. All Tunits knew the mountain to be a bad place where the evil gods dwell. But we were few, and poor, and the money of the kidlatet-white man-was hard to resist. My uncle was one of the workers. It was he who found it.”

“Found what?” asked Marshall.

“Kurrshuq,” Usuguk said. “Fang of the Gods. The Devourer of Souls.”

The others exchanged glances.

“What exactly is kurrshuq?” Logan asked.

“It is that which you have awakened.”

“What?” Sully spoke up. “The same creature? That can’t be.”

The Tunit shook his head. “Not the same. Another.”

Marshall felt surprise burn its way through him. Was this possible?

Silence settled briefly over the group. “Go on,” Sully said at last.

“It was encased in ice in a small crevasse at the base of the wing,” Usuguk continued.

“Probably frozen by the same phenomenon,” Faraday murmured.

“My uncle was very agitated. He came to me. And I went to Colonel Rose.”

“The base commander,” said Logan.

Usuguk nodded. “No one else was to know. My uncle had me tell the colonel that the army must leave the spot at once. It was forbidden ground. And the kurrshuq was its guardian.” He paused. “But they did not leave. Instead the colonel sealed off the crevasse and summoned them.”

“Them?” Marshall repeated.

“The special scientists. The secret scientists. They arrived before the new moon. Two cargo planes, their bellies full of strange instruments. These were all placed in the north wing, under darkness.”

“So the north wing was re-tasked,” Logan said. “Its original purpose set aside while the new discovery was examined.”

“Yes.”

“What of your uncle?” Logan continued. “The other Tunits?”

“They left immediately.”

“But you stayed.”

Usuguk bowed his head. “Yes. To my everlasting shame. I told you I had little use for the ways of my tribe. And the scientists needed a helper, someone who understood the operations of the base. Someone who could also act as-as protection. Since I already knew of the kurrshuq, I was selected. They were kind to me, included me in their work. They called me ‘the little scientist.’ One of them, the kidlatet called Williamson, was interested in…” He paused, apparently hunting for the word. “In sociology. I shared with him some of the legends of my people, our history and beliefs.”