Phantoms

saw them. Her message had been properly interpreted. There were also three aerosol tank sprayers similar in size and appearance to those used to spread weed killer and insecticide on a lawn, except that these were not powered by a hand pump but by cylinders of compressed air. Each tank was equipped with a harness that made it easy to carry on the back. A flexible rubber hose, ending in a four-foot metal extension with a high-pressure nozzle, made it possible to stand twelve to fourteen feet from the target that you wished to spray.

Sara lifted one of the pressurized tanks. It was heavy, already filled with the same fluid that was in the two spare, blue cannisters.

The helicopter dwindled into the Western sky, and Lisa said, “Sara, this isn't everything you asked for — is it?”

“This is everything we need,” Sara said evasively.

She looked around nervously, expecting to see the shape changer rushing toward them. But there was no sign of it.

She said, “Bryce, Tal, if you'd take two of these tanks…”

The sheriff and his deputy grabbed two of the units, slipped their arms through the harness loops, buckled the chest straps, shrugged their shoulders to settle the tanks as comfortably as possible.

Without having been told, both men clearly realized the tanks contained a weapon that might destroy the shape-changer. Sara knew they must be eaten by curiosity, and she was impressed that they asked no questions.

She had intended to handle the third sprayer herself, but it was considerably heavier than she'd expected. Straining, she would be able to carry it, but she wouldn't be able to maneuver quickly. And during the next hour or so, survival would depend on speed and agility.

Someone else would have to use the third unit. Not Lisa; she was no bigger than Sara. Not Flyte; he had some arthritis in his hand, of which he'd complained last night, and he seemed frail. That left Jenny. She was only three or four inches taller than Sara, only fifteen or twenty pounds heavier, but she appeared to be in excellent physical condition. She almost certainly would be able to handle the sprayer.

Flyte protested but then relented after trying to heft the tank. “I must be older than I think,” he said wearily.

Jenny agreed that she was the one best suited, and Sara helped her get into the harness, and they were ready for the battle.

Still no sign of the shape-changer.

Sara wiped sweat from her brow. “All right. The instant it shows itself, spray it. Don't waste a second. Spray it, saturate it, keep backing away if possible, try to draw more of it out of hiding, and spray, spray, spray.”

“Is this some sort of acid — or what?” Bryce asked.

“Not acid,” Sara said, “Although the effect will be something very like acid — if it works at all.”

“So if it's not an acid,” Tal said, “what is it?”

“A unique, highly specialized microorganism,” Sara said.

“Germs?” Jenny asked, eyes widening in surprise.

“Yes. They're suspended in a liquid growth culture.”

“We're gonna make the shape-changer sick?” Lisa asked, frowning.

“I sure to God hope so,” Sara said.

Nothing moved. Nothing. But something was out there, and it was probably listening. With the ears of the cat. With the ears of the fox. With highly sensitive ears of its own special design.

“Very, very sick, if we're lucky,” Sara said, “Because disease would seem to be the only way to kill it.”

Now their lives were at risk because it knew they had tricked it.

Flyte shook his head. “But the ancient enemy's so utterly alien, so different from man and animals… diseases dangerous to other species would have no effect whatsoever on it.”

“Right,” Sara said, “But this microbe isn't an ordinary disease. In fact, it isn't a disease-causing organism at all.”

Snowfield shelved down the mountain, still as a postcard painting.

Looking around uneasily, alert for movement in and around the buildings, Sara told them about Ananda Chakrabarty and his discovery.

In 1972, on behalf of Dr. Chakrabarty, his employer — the General Electric Corporation — applied for the first-ever patent on a man-made bacterium. Using sophisticated cell fusion techniques, Chakrabarty had created a microorganism that could feed upon, digest, and thereby transform the hydrocarbon compounds of crude oil.

Chakrabarty's bug had at least one obvious commercial application: It could be used to clean up oil spills at sea. The bacteria literally ate an oil slick, rendering it harmless to the environment.

After a series of vigorous legal challenges from many sources, General Electric won the right to patent Chakrabarty's discovery. In June, 1980, the Supreme Court handed down a landmark decision, ruling that Chakrabarty's discovery was “not nature's handiwork, but his own; accordingly, it's patentable subject matter.”

“Of course,” Jenny said, “I read about the case. It was a big story that June — man competing with God and all that.”

Sara said, “Originally, GE didn't intend to market the bug. It was a fragile organism that couldn't survive outside of strictly controlled lab conditions. They applied for a patent to test the legal question, to settle the matter before other experiments in genetic engineering produced more usable and more valuable discoveries. But after the court's decision, other scientists spent a few years working with the organism, and now they have a hardier strain that'll stand up outside the lab for twelve to eighteen hours. In fact it's been on the market under the trade name Biosan-4, and it's been used successfully to clean up oil slicks all over the world.”

“And that's what's in these tanks?” Bryce asked.

“Yes. Biosan-4. In a sprayable solution.”

The town was funereal. The sun beat down from an azure sky, but the air remained chilly. In spite of the uncanny silence, Sara had the unshakable feeling that it was coming, that it had heard and was coming and was very, very near, indeed.

The others felt it, too. They looked around uneasily.

Sara said, “Do you remember what we discovered when we studied the shape-changer's tissue?”

“You mean the high hydrocarbon values,” Jenny said.

“Yes. But not just hydrocarbons. All forms of carbon. Very high values all across the board.”

Tal said, “You told us something about it being like petrolatum.”

“Not the same. But reminiscent of petrolatum in some respects,” Sara said. “What we have here is living tissue, very alien but complex and alive. And with such extraordinarily high carbon content… Well, what I mean is, this thing's tissue seems like an organic, metabolically active cousin of petrolatum. So I'm hoping Chakrabarty's bug will…”

Something is coming.

Jenny said, “You're hoping it'll eat into the shape-changer the same way it would eat into an oil slick.”

Something… something…

“Yes,” Sara said nervously, “I'm hoping it'll attack the carbon and break down the tissue. Or at least interfere with the delicate chemical balance enough to-”

Coming, coming…

“… uh, enough to destabilize the entire organism,” Sara finished, weighed down by a sense of impending doom.

Flyte said, “Is that the best chance we have? Is it really?”

“I think it is.”

Where is it? Where's it coming from? Sara wondered, looking at the deserted buildings, the empty street, the motionless this.

“Sounds awfully thin to me,” Flyte said doubtfully.

“It is awfully thin,” Sara said, “It's not much of a chance, but it's the only one we've got.”

A noise. A chittering, hissing, hair-raising sound.

They froze. Waited.