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"Who Goes There?" is the novella that formed the basis of John Carpenter's film "The Thing." John W. Campbell's classic tells of an antarctic research base that discovers and thaws the ancient, frozen body of a crash-landed alien -- with terrifying results!
A distant, remote scientific expedition taking place at the North Pole is invaded by a space alien who has reawakened after lying dormant for centuries after a crash landing. A cunning, intelligent alien who can shape-shift, thereby assuming the personality and form of anything and anyone it destroys. Soon, it is among the men of the expedition, killing each in turn and replacing them by assuming their shape, lulling the scientists one by one into inattention (and trust) and eventually, their destruction. The shape-shifting, transformed alien can pass every effort at detection, and the expedition seems doomed until the scientists discover the secret vulnerability of the alien and are able to destroy it. ccording to science fiction historian Sam Moskowitz (1920-1997), Who Goes There? had a autobiographical impetus: Campbell’s mother and aunt were identical twins and enjoyed teasing him in a game of substituting one for the other while in his care when they were infants and young children, thereby confusing him again and again with false (switched) identities. Moskowitz theorized that it was this game which lead to uncertainty of identity and clever masquerade which lead to feelings of helplessness and terror that Campbell funneled into what would be his greatest novel. This word is regarded as one of the greatest horror stories to emerge in the field of science fiction writing. It was also the basis for one of the great early science fiction films and its remake decades later.
A group of scientists. An object buried under the ice. A terrifying fight for survival. When a group of scientific researchers, isolated in Antarctica, stumble across an alien spaceship buried in the ice it seems like an incredible opportunity. The alien pilot can just be seen - a shadowy figure frozen just a short depth into the ice. It looks as though he survived the crash only to be flash-frozen on the Antarctic plateau. The team fight the frozen conditions to free the ship from the ice - with disastrous consequences - and rescue the alien. As they transport the corpse, one of their greatest finds, out on the ice back to their camp, several scientists begin to experience extraordinary, vivid and unsettling dreams. They're dismissed as the product of stress and the harsh conditions ... but the nightmare is only beginning.
"Who Goes There!" by Robert W. Chambers. Published by Good Press. Good Press publishes a wide range of titles that encompasses every genre. From well-known classics & literary fiction and non-fiction to forgotten−or yet undiscovered gems−of world literature, we issue the books that need to be read. Each Good Press edition has been meticulously edited and formatted to boost readability for all e-readers and devices. Our goal is to produce eBooks that are user-friendly and accessible to everyone in a high-quality digital format.
Princess Diana, John Ritter, Saddam Hussein, Mother Teresa, Chris Farley… Does it seem reasonable to guess where each of these people ended up after they died? While it is comforting to suppose that everyone who’s “good” goes to a better place when they die, and everyone who’s “bad” doesn’t, on what is that hope based? To adequately understand how these thoughts influence us today, Rebecca Price Janney goes back to the colonization and founding of the United States. From the Great Awakening to the American Revolution, through the tumultuous 19th century, and all the way past two world wars and a technological revolution, Who Goes There? pieces together a thoughtful narrative of American beliefs about the afterlife.
They had selected for their business the outer face of an old garden wall. There were red tiles on the coping; dusty roadside vines half covered the base. Where plaster had peeled off a few weather-beaten bricks showed. Bees hummed in the trampled herbage. Against this wall they backed the first six men. One, a mere boy, was crying, wiping his frightened eyes on his shirt-sleeve. The dry crash of the volley ended the matter; all the men against the wall collapsed. Presently one of them, the boy who had been crying, moved his arm in the grass. A rifle spoke instantly, and he moved no more. There came a low-spoken word of command, the firing squad shouldered rifles, wheeled, and moved off; and out of the sea-grey masses of infantry another squad of execution came marching up, smartly. A dozen men, some in sabots, trousers, and dirty collarless shirts, some in well-cut business suits and straw hats, and all with their wrists tied behind them, stood silently awaiting their turns. One among them, a young man wearing a golf-cap, knickerbockers, heather-spats, and an absolutely colourless face, stood staring at the tumbled heaps of clothing along the foot of the wall as though stupified. Six peasants went first; the men more smartly attired were to wait a little longer it appeared. The emotionless and methodical preparations, the brisk precision of the operation, the cheerful celerity of the firing squad made it the more terrifying, stunning the victims to immobility. The young man in the golf-cap and knickerbockers clenched his tied hands. Not an atom of colour remained in cheeks or lips, and he stood with face averted while the squad of execution was busy with its business. There seemed to be some slight disorder along the wall—a defiant voice was raised hoarsely cursing all Germans; another, thin and hysterical, cheered for Belgium and the young King. Also this firing squad must have aimed badly, for bayonet and rifle-butt were used afterward and some delay occurred; and an officer, revolver swinging, prowled along the foot of the wall, kicking inquiringly at the dead heaps of heavy flesh that had collapsed there. Houses lining the single village street began to leak smoke; smoke writhed and curled behind closed window-panes. Here and there a mounted Uhlan forced his big horse up on the sidewalk and drove his lance butt through the window glass. Already the street was swimming in thin strata of smoke; the sea-grey uniforms of the German infantry seemed part of the haze; only the faces of the soldiery were visible—faces without bodies, thousands of flat, detached faces, thousands of little pig eyes set in a blank and foggy void. And over everything in the close, heavy air brooded the sour stench of a sweat-soaked, unwashed army. A third squad of execution came swinging up, apparently out of nowhere, their heavy half-boots clumping in unison on the stony street.

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