MacReady and Norris stare blankly, but relievedly at the fallen man.
MacReady rushes to Bennings to check on him.
MACREADY: George, are you okay?
BENNINGS: Yea, yea I'm okay. Yea, what's going on there?
MacReady runs to the burning helicopter, he leaves the bottle of Scotch with Bennings. He takes a swig. Other men rush out of the compound with fire extinguishers.
Station Manager Garry steps out and looks over his kill.
CUT TO - BURNING COPTER: MacReady and Childs at the burn site. Windows, Fuchs, and Nauls show up with fire extinguishers. Others kicks snow on the burning wreckage. There is no hope for the Norwegian.
Clark comes out and comforts the dog.
CLARK: Easy, easy . . . easy, yea.
MACREADY: First God damn week of winter.
INFIRMARY: Dr. Copper works on the outstretched leg of Bennings, the meteorologist. Clark, the dog handler, is mending the hip of the wounded dog scene in the background in the other room. Bennings lets out with an ouch.
COPPER: Aww, come on . . . four stitches, barely grazed ya.
BENNINGS: What were they doing flying that low? Shooting at a dog, at us?
COPPER: Oh, stir crazy . . . cabin fever, who knows.
RADIO ROOM: Blair, senior biologist, fifty, balding, enters the radio room. He looks on as the young, bored-looking radio operator, Windows, trying to reach anyone on the radio. Bursts of static.
WINDOWS: U.S. number 31, calling McMurtle, come in, over. . . U.S. number 31, calling McMurtle, urgent, come in, over. . . Great.
BLAIR: Come on, come on
WINDOWS: Nobody!
BLAIR: Nobody. Get a hold of somebody. Get a hold of anybody, we go to report this mess.
WINDOWS: Look, I haven't been able to reach shit in two weeks! I doubt if anybody's talk to anybody on this entire continent, and you want me to reach somebody!
HALLWAY: Nauls, the cook, glides along on his roller stakes down one of the many narrow hallways that connect the various compartments of the main compound. He is black, a little mischievous, about twenty-two.
He comes to a flashy skidding stop at one of the entrances to the rec room area, where the men are gathered with the dead Norwegian.
NAULS: Maybe we're at war with Norway.
Close on the pallid face of the Scandinavian intruder, placed on the ping pong table. A neat round bloody hole is set in his eye. They cover him with a sheet.
Palmer, a spacy, twenty-seven year old, novice pilot and mechanic, grins as he lights a joint. He directs a remark to station manager Garry.
PALMER: I was wondering when "El Capitan" was going to get a chance to use his pop gun.
Garry rebukes him with a stern look and then turns to Fuchs.
GARRY: How long have they been stationed there?
Fuchs leafing through a pile of papers.
FUCHS: Says here only eight weeks.
GARRY: Well that's not enough time for guys to go bonkers.
NAULS: Bullshit, Bwana. Five minutes is enough to put a man over down here.
PALMER: Damn straight.
NAULS: I mean look at Palmer. He been the way he is since the first day.
Palmer smiles and flips the cook a makeshift bird with his lighter.
GARRY: How many in their party?
FUCHS (referring): They started with ten. There'd be eight others left.
Dr. Copper enters the room. Bennings limping after him slightly.
COPPER: How do we know? . . . Guys as crazy as that could have done a lot of damage to their own before they got to us.
GARRY: Nothing we can do about that.
COPPER: Oh yes, there is. I want to go up.
GARRY: In this weather?
COPPER (turns to): Bennings?
BENNINGS: Winds are going to let up a tad, next couple of hours.
GARRY: A tad?
BENNINGS: Can't condone it much myself. But it is a short haul. An hour there, an hour back.
Garry still does not much like the idea. Palmer takes another hit off his joint.
PALMER: Shit, Doc, I'll give you a lift, no problem.
GARRY: Forget it, Palmer.
PALMER: Hey thanks for thinking about it though.
| 
