Dreamcatcher(126)

'Shit-weasels, that's good. I like that. They spring from the byrus, then reproduce by laying eggs. They spread, lay more eggs, spread again. That's the way it's supposed to work, anyway. Here, most of the eggs go dead. I have no idea if it's the cold weather, the atmosphere, or something else. But in our environment, Underhill, it's all about the byrus. It's all they've got that works.'

'The stuff of life.'

'Uh-huh, but listen: the grays are having big problems here, which is probably why they hung around so long  -  half a century  -  before making their move. The weasels, for instance. They're supposed to be saprophytes . . . do you know what that means?'

'Henry . . . that's you, right? Henry? . . . Henry, does this have any bearing on our present - '

It has plenty of bearing on our present situation. And unless you want to own a large part of the responsibility for the end of all life on Spaceship Earth  -  except for a lot of interstellar kudzu, that is  -  I advise you to shut up and listen.'

A pause. Then: 'I'm listening.'

'Saprophytes are beneficial parasites. We have them living in our guts, and we deliberately swallow more in some dairy products. Sweet acidophilus milk, for instance, and yogurt. We give the bugs a place to live and they give us something in return. In the case of dairy bacteria, improved digestion. The weasels, under normal circumstances  -  normal on some other world, I guess, where the ecology differs in ways I can't even guess at  -  grow to a size maybe no bigger than the bowl of a teaspoon. I think that in females they may interfere with reproduction, but they don't kill. Not normally. They just live in the bowel. We give them food, they give us telepathy. That's supposed to be the trade. Only they also turn us into televisions. We are Grayboy TV.'

'And you know all this because you have one living inside you?' There was no revulsion in Underhill's voice, but Henry felt it clearly in the man's mind, pulsing like a tentacle. 'One of the quote-unquote normal weasels?'

'No.' At least, he thought, I don't think so.

'Then how do you know what you know? Or are you maybe just making it up as you go along? Trying to write yourself a pass out of here?'

'How I know is the least important thing of all, Owen  -  but you know I'm not lying. You can read me.'

'I know you think you're not lying. How much more of this mind-reading shit can I expect to get?'

'I don't know. More if the byrus spreads, probably, but not in my league.'

'Because you're different.' Skepticism, both in Underhill's voice and in Underhill's thoughts.

'Pal, I didn't know how different until today. But never mind that for a minute. For now, I just want you to understand that the grays are in a shitpull here. For maybe the first time in their history, they're in an actual battle for control. First, because when they get inside people, the weasels aren't saprophytic but violently parasitic.

They don't stop eating and they don't stop growing. They're cancer, Underhill.

'Second, the byrus. It grows well on other worlds but poorly on ours, at least so far. The scientists and the medical experts who are running this rodeo think the cold is slowing it down, but I don't think that's it, or not all of it. I can't be positive because they don't know, but - '

'Whoa, whoa.' There was a brief cupped flame as Underhill lit another cigarette for the wind to smoke. 'You're not talking about the medical guys, are you?'

'No.'

'You think you're in touch with the grayboys. Telepathically in touch.'

'I think . . . with one of them. Through a link.'

'This Jonesy you spoke of?'

'Owen, I don't know. Not for sure. The point is, they're losing. Me, you, the men who went out there to the Blue Boy with you today, we might not be around to celebrate Christmas. I won't kid you about that. We got high, concentrated doses. But - '

'I've got it, all right,' Underhill said. 'Edwards, too  -  it showed up on him like magic.'

'But even if it really takes hold on you, I don't think you can spread it very far. It's not just that catchable. There are people in that barn who'll never get it, no matter how many byrus-infected people they mingle with. And the people who do catch it like a cold come down with Byrus Secondary . . . or Ripley, if you like that better.'

'Let's stick to byrus.'

'Okay. They might be able to pass it on to a few people, who would have a very weak version we could call Byrus Three. It might even be communicable beyond that, but I think once you got to Byrus Four you'd need a microscope or a blood-test to pick it up. Then it's gone.

'Here's the instant replay, so pay attention.

'Point one. The grays  -  probably no more than delivery - systems for the byrus  -  are gone already. The ones the environment didn't kill, like the microbes finally killed the Martians in War of the Worlds, were wiped out by your gunships. All but one, that is, the one  -  yeah, must be  -  that I got my information from. And in a physical sense, he's gone, too.

'Point two. The weasels don't work. Like all cancers, they ultimately eat themselves to death. The weasels that escape from the lower intestine or the bowel quickly die in an environment they find hostile.