That was what Luc himself had thought when he’d first seen the creature that crouched behind the bars. But it had proved to be the real thing. That dark reptilian skin bled when punctured; the talons on the ends of those thick fingers were sharp and deadly.

But Luc was dismayed that tonight it took only two of Prather’s roustabouts to steady the creature’s arm. These identical, vaguely canine fellows looked even odder than Prather—muscular, neckless hulks with close-cropped hair, big square teeth, tiny ears, and dark, deep-set eyes. When Luc had begun taking samples last year, five of them had had difficulty restraining the thrashing Sharkman.

He squinted past them into the shadows of the cage but could make out only a darker blot within. He didn’t need to see the creature to know it was failing. At first he hadn’t been sure, but now with each visit it was more and more apparent that it was fading away. Another month, perhaps—certainly no more than two—and it would be dead. The wellspring of the molecule would be gone.

And then what would he do?

The precipitous drop in cash flow would be the least of Luc’s problems.

He did his best to shake off the sick feeling crawling through the pit of his stomach and withdrew the veni-puncture kit from his coat pocket.

Macintosh said, “This is some sort of joke, right?”

Feeling very tired all of a sudden, Luc shook his head. “No, Tom. No joke.”

He unwrapped and inserted the short end of an eighteen-gauge double-pointed phlebotomy needle into the plastic sheath; with two serum separation tubes ready, he approached the arm.

“W-what are you going to do?” Macintosh said.

“What does it look like? I’m going to draw some blood.”

The rank smell of the creature mixed with the wet-dog stink of the roustabouts, making him a little queasy. Holding his breath, Luc didn’t prep the dark skin, simply trapped a ropy vein between two fingers and worked the needle point through the gritty epidermis—like stabbing through layers of sandpaper. As soon as he was into the vein he snapped the vacuum tube home and watched it fill with dark fluid, much darker than human blood.

When the second tube was full—always an extra, just in case—he backed away and the roustabouts released the thing’s arm. The creature snatched it back through the bars, then rolled over onto its side, facing away from them.

Luc held the tube up to the light.

“That’s blood?” Macintosh said, leaning over his shoulder. “Looks more like tar.”

Although as black, the fluid was nowhere near as thick as tar. In fact, this sample was noticeably thinner than the last. When Luc had started drawing the creature’s blood, the tubes would fill slowly despite the eighteen-gauge needle. Tonight a twenty-two-gauge would have been sufficient. Another depressing sign that the source was failing.

Macintosh straightened and stepped closer—but not too close—to the cage. He peered into the shadowy interior.

“What is it?” he said, his voice hushed.