same way."
“Have to be properly introduced some time. Could this be due to catastrophic failure of insulation?"
Fowler shook his head, still smiling. This was a little better—introducing another human being to the unknown was much more agreeable than facing it alone. It was almost fun, in the same way scaring the shit out of each other had been fun as kids.
“Down to forty-five, inside and out,” Fowler said, looking at the graph as it crept through the chart recorder. “Microwave emissions up and at a plateau."
“Mind if I smoke?"
“If you can get your match lit, go ahead."
Prohaska struck a match and watched it flicker in his hands and go out. “Something wrong with the oxygen around here?"
“No. I don't know what causes it. Look at the fireplace.” The flames were darkening, just as they had the night before. “It's sucking all heat out, radiant heat, heat in the air, in the ground, the wood. Everything."
“How the hell could it do that?"
Fowler shrugged. “Okay—now look at this. I want you to see everything I'm doing.” He set up the camera in the window and recorded the shutter speed and film type—infrared. “I'm going to make a scan of the front yard around our cars."
He snapped the pictures and turned the camera between each shot. Then he brought out another camera and shot pictures inside the cabin with regular Tri-X film. “I've also got pieces of black-and-white negatives in my camera bag.” He removed several small sheets pre-wrapped in black plastic. He proceeded to pin them to the walls around the cabin. “Radiation streaks will show up on them, if there are any."
“And on your film in the camera, too."
“Maybe."
Prohaska bent over the chart recorder and looked at the digital display on the thermometers. “Down to thirty. It's below freezing."
“Yeah. The air's very moist, too. Pretty soon you'll have frost all over you. Careful you don't get chilled.” Fowler handed him another coat and suggested he put on ear muffs.
“This is incredible,” Prohaska said, huddled on the couch, trembling uncontrollably. “H-how much longer?"
“I don't know. Maybe it's hungry."
Prohaska shook his head. “Stop being funny,” he said.
“Funny, hell. What other kinds of m-motivation could it have?"
“Maybe it's after our souls. Out to scare us to death. Maybe it j-just hates human beings, can't stand being around them."
The chart record levelled off at twenty-nine degrees Fahrenheit, about two degrees below zero Celsius. “Okay,” Fowler said. “It has enough now."
“Enough for what?"
“Patience."
Something slammed against the door. They both jumped. “There are two of us,” Prohaska said. “If it doesn't like people, now it's twice as mad as when just you were here."
“Might have been a bird. An owl."
“Flying into the door in the dark. Jesus, there's frost on the logs in the fireplace!"
“I told you about that,” Fowler said.
“Now I believe you."
The thump on the door came again. Fowler brought up the camera loaded with infrared and snapped two pictures of the door.
“Maybe we should answer,” Prohaska suggested.
“You answer."
“I'm not insured for that sort of thing."
This time, the thump became regular, insistent.
“It's the old problem,” Fowler said. “Do you keep the door closed and stay afraid, wondering what it is, or do you open it and know for sure?"
“Neither."
Fowler laughed grimly. “A man after my own heart. But that isn't a very scientific attitude. Maybe someone wants in.” In a louder voice, he called out, “Who is it?"
Prohaska yelped. “In the window,” he said. “There's something in the window!"
Behind the curtains, Fowler could see two points of light, like eyes, moving back and forth on the other side of the glass. He started to move closer, hesitated, then forced himself to look at the lights squarely. He was barely a yard from whatever was outside. Behind the curtains, he could see the two spots were moths,
“Have to be properly introduced some time. Could this be due to catastrophic failure of insulation?"
Fowler shook his head, still smiling. This was a little better—introducing another human being to the unknown was much more agreeable than facing it alone. It was almost fun, in the same way scaring the shit out of each other had been fun as kids.
“Down to forty-five, inside and out,” Fowler said, looking at the graph as it crept through the chart recorder. “Microwave emissions up and at a plateau."
“Mind if I smoke?"
“If you can get your match lit, go ahead."
Prohaska struck a match and watched it flicker in his hands and go out. “Something wrong with the oxygen around here?"
“No. I don't know what causes it. Look at the fireplace.” The flames were darkening, just as they had the night before. “It's sucking all heat out, radiant heat, heat in the air, in the ground, the wood. Everything."
“How the hell could it do that?"
Fowler shrugged. “Okay—now look at this. I want you to see everything I'm doing.” He set up the camera in the window and recorded the shutter speed and film type—infrared. “I'm going to make a scan of the front yard around our cars."
He snapped the pictures and turned the camera between each shot. Then he brought out another camera and shot pictures inside the cabin with regular Tri-X film. “I've also got pieces of black-and-white negatives in my camera bag.” He removed several small sheets pre-wrapped in black plastic. He proceeded to pin them to the walls around the cabin. “Radiation streaks will show up on them, if there are any."
“And on your film in the camera, too."
“Maybe."
Prohaska bent over the chart recorder and looked at the digital display on the thermometers. “Down to thirty. It's below freezing."
“Yeah. The air's very moist, too. Pretty soon you'll have frost all over you. Careful you don't get chilled.” Fowler handed him another coat and suggested he put on ear muffs.
“This is incredible,” Prohaska said, huddled on the couch, trembling uncontrollably. “H-how much longer?"
“I don't know. Maybe it's hungry."
Prohaska shook his head. “Stop being funny,” he said.
“Funny, hell. What other kinds of m-motivation could it have?"
“Maybe it's after our souls. Out to scare us to death. Maybe it j-just hates human beings, can't stand being around them."
The chart record levelled off at twenty-nine degrees Fahrenheit, about two degrees below zero Celsius. “Okay,” Fowler said. “It has enough now."
“Enough for what?"
“Patience."
Something slammed against the door. They both jumped. “There are two of us,” Prohaska said. “If it doesn't like people, now it's twice as mad as when just you were here."
“Might have been a bird. An owl."
“Flying into the door in the dark. Jesus, there's frost on the logs in the fireplace!"
“I told you about that,” Fowler said.
“Now I believe you."
The thump on the door came again. Fowler brought up the camera loaded with infrared and snapped two pictures of the door.
“Maybe we should answer,” Prohaska suggested.
“You answer."
“I'm not insured for that sort of thing."
This time, the thump became regular, insistent.
“It's the old problem,” Fowler said. “Do you keep the door closed and stay afraid, wondering what it is, or do you open it and know for sure?"
“Neither."
Fowler laughed grimly. “A man after my own heart. But that isn't a very scientific attitude. Maybe someone wants in.” In a louder voice, he called out, “Who is it?"
Prohaska yelped. “In the window,” he said. “There's something in the window!"
Behind the curtains, Fowler could see two points of light, like eyes, moving back and forth on the other side of the glass. He started to move closer, hesitated, then forced himself to look at the lights squarely. He was barely a yard from whatever was outside. Behind the curtains, he could see the two spots were moths,
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