John Thomas said, “Mum? I’m going to fix my breakfast. Shall I fix some for you, too?”
She glanced at Dreiser, then back at her son and bit her lip. “Never mind,” she said grudgingly. “I’ll get breakfast. Mr. Dreiser, will you have coffee with us?”
“Eh? That’s kind of you, ma’am. I don’t mind if I do. I’ve been up all night.”
John Thomas looked at them. “I’ll run out and take a quick look at Lummox.” He hesitated, then added, “I’m sorry I was rude, Mum.”
“We’ll say no more about it, then,” she answered coldly.
He had been intending to say several things, in self-justification, but he thought better of it and left. Lummox was snoring gently, stretched half in and half out of his house. His sentry eye was raised above his neck, as it always was when he was asleep; it swiveled around at John Thomas’s approach and looked him over, but that portion of Lummox that stood guard for the rest recognized the youth; the star creature did not wake. Satisfied, John Thomas went back inside.
The atmosphere mellowed during breakfast; by the time John Thomas had two dishes of oatmeal, scrambled eggs and toast, and a pint of cocoa inside him, he was ready to concede that Chief Dreiser had been doing his duty and probably didn’t kick dogs for pleasure. In turn, the Chief, under the influence of food, had decided that there was nothing wrong with the boy that a firm hand and an occasional thrashing would not cure…too bad his mother had to raise him alone; she seemed like a fine woman. He pursued a bit of egg with toast, captured it, and said, “I feel better, Mrs. Stuart, I really do. It’s a treat to a widower to taste homecooking…but I won’t dare tell my men.”
Mrs. Stuart put a hand to her mouth. “Oh, I forgot about them!” She added, “I can have more coffee in a moment. How many are there?”
“Five. But don’t bother, ma’am; they’ll get breakfast when they go off duty.” He turned to John Thomas. “Ready to go, young fellow?”
“Uh…” He turned to his mother. “Why not fix breakfast for them, Mum? I’ve still got to wake Lummox and feed him.”
By the time Lummox had been wakened and fed and had had matters explained to him, by the time five patrolmen had each enjoyed a second cup of coffee after a hot meal, the feeling was more that of a social event than an arrest. It was long past seven before the procession was on the road.
It was nine o’clock before they got Lummox backed into the temporary cage outside the courthouse. Lummox had been delighted by the smell of steel and had wanted to stop and nibble it; John Thomas was forced to be firm. He went inside with Lummox and petted him and talked to him while the door was welded shut. He had been worried when he saw the massive steel cage, for he had never got around to telling Chief Dreiser that steel was less than useless against Lummox.
Now it seemed too late, especially as the Chief was proud of the pen. There had been no time to pour a foundation, so the Chief had ordered an open-work box of steel girders, top, bottom, and sides, with one end left open until Lummox could be shut in.
Well, thought John Thomas, they all knew so much and they didn’t bother to ask me. He decided simply to warn Lummox not to eat a bite of the cage, under dire threats of punishment…and hope for the best.
Lummox was inclined to argue; from his point of view it was as silly as attempting to pen a hungry boy by stacking pies around him. One of the workmen paused, lowered his welding torch and said, “You know, it sounded just like that critter was talking.”
“He was,” John Thomas answered briefly.
“Oh.” The man looked at Lummox, then went back to work. Human speech on the part of extra-terrestrials was no novelty, especially on stereo programs; the man seemed satisfied. But shortly he paused again. “I don’t hold with animals talking,” he announced. John Thomas did not answer; it did not seem to be a remark to which an answer could be made.
Now that he had time John Thomas was anxious to examine something on Lummox which had been worrying him. He had first noticed the symptoms on the morning following Lummox’s disastrous stroll-two swellings located where Lummox’s shoulders would have been had he been so equipped. Yesterday they had seemed larger, which disturbed him, for he had hoped that they were just bruises…not that Lummox bruised easily.
But they fretted him. It seemed possible that Lummox had hurt himself during the accidental gymkhana he had taken part in. The shot that Mr. Ito had taken at him had not damaged him; there had been a slight powder burn where the explosive charge had struck him but that was all; a charge that would destroy a tank was to Lummox about like a hearty kick to a mule…startling, but not harmful.
Lummox might have bruised himself in plunging through the greenhouses, but that seemed unlikely. More probably he had been hurt in falling off the viaduct. John Thomas knew that such a fall would kill any Earth animal big enough to have an unfavorable cube-square ratio, such as an elephant. Of course Lummox, with his unearthly body chemistry, was not nearly as fragile as an elephant…still, he might have bruised himself badly.
Dog take it! the swellings were bigger than ever, real tumors now, and the hide over them seemed softer and thinner, not quite the armor that encased Lummox elsewhere. John Thomas wondered if a person like Lummox could get cancer, say from a bruise? He did not know and he did not know anyone who would. Lummox had never been ill as far back as John Thomas could remember, nor had his father ever mentioned Lummox having anything wrong with him. Lummox was the same today, yesterday, and always—except that he kept getting bigger.
He would have to look over his grandfather’s diary tonight and his great grandfather’s notes. Maybe he had missed something…
He pressed one of the swellings, trying to dig his fingers in; Lummox stirred restlessly. John Thomas stopped and said anxiously, “Does that hurt?”
“No,” the childish voice answered, “it tickles.”
The answer did not reassure him. He knew that Lummox was ticklish, but it usually took something like a pickaxe to accomplish it. The swellings must be very sensitive. He was about to investigate farther when he was hailed from behind.
“John! Johnnie!”
He turned. Betty Sorenson was outside the cage. “Hi, Slugger,” he called to her. “You got my message?”
“Yes, but not until after eight o’clock. You know the dorm rules. Hi, Lummox. How’s my baby?”
“Fine,” said Lummox.
“That’s why I recorded,” John Thomas answered. “The idiots rousted me out of bed before daylight. Silly.”
“Do you good to see a sunrise. But what is all this rush? I thought the hearing was next week?”
“It was supposed to be. But some heavyweight from the Department of Space is coming out from Capital. He’s going to try it,”
“What?”
“What’s the matter?”
“The matter? Why, everything! I don’t know this man from Capital. I thought I was going to deal with Judge O’Farrell… I know what makes him tick. This new judge…well, I don’t know. In the second place, I’ve got ideas I haven’t had time to work out yet.” She frowned. “We’ll have to get a postponement.”
“What for?” asked John Thomas. “Why don’t we just go into court and tell the truth?”
“Johnnie, you’re hopeless. If that was all there was to it, there wouldn’t be any courts.”
“Maybe that would be an improvement.”
“But… Look, Knothead, don’t stand there making silly noises. If we have to appear in less than an hour…” She glanced up at the clock tower on the ancient courthouse. “A good deal less. We’ve got to move fast. At the very least, we’ve got to get that homestead claim recorded.”
“That’s silly. They won’t take it, I tell you. We can’t homestead Lummox. He’s not a piece of land.”
“A man can homestead a cow, two horses, a dozen pigs. A carpenter can homestead his tools. An actress can homestead her wardrobe.”
“But that’s not ‘homesteading.’ I took the same course in commerci
al law that you did. They’ll laugh at you.”
“Don’t quibble. It’s section II of the same law. If you were exhibiting Lummie in a carnival, he’d be the ‘tools of your trade,’ wouldn’t he? It’s up to them to prove he isn’t. The thing is to register Lummox as exempt from lien before somebody gets a judgment against you.”
“If they can’t collect from me, they’ll collect from my mother.”
“No, they won’t. I checked that. Since your father put the money in a trust, legally she hasn’t got a dime.”
“Is that the law?” he asked doubtfully.
“Oh, hurry up! The law is whatever you can convince a court it is.”
“Betty, you’ve got a twisted mind.” He slid out between the bars, turned and said, “Lummie, I’ll only be gone a minute. You stay right here.”
“Why?” asked Lummox.
“Never mind ‘why.’ You wait for me here.”
“All right.”
There was a crowd on the courthouse lawn, people gawking at Lummox in his new notoriety. Chief Dreiser had ordered rope barriers erected and a couple of his men were present to see that they were respected, The two young people ducked under the ropes and pushed through the crowd to the courthouse steps. The county clerk’s office was on the second floor; there they found his chief deputy, an elderly maiden lady.
Miss Schreiber took the same view of registering Lummox as free from judgment that John Thomas did. But Betty pointed out that it was not up to the county clerk to decide what was an eligible chattel under the law, and cited an entirely fictitious case about a man who homesteaded a multiple echo. Miss Schreiber reluctantly filled out forms, accepted the modest fee, and gave them a certified copy.
It was almost ten o’clock. John Thomas hurried out and started downstairs. He stopped when he saw that Betty had paused at a penny weighing machine. “Come on, Betty,” he demanded. “This is no time for that.”
“I’m not weighing myself,” she answered while staring into the mirror attached to it. “I’m checking my makeup. I’ve got to look my best.”
“You look all right.”
“Why, Johnnie, a compliment!”
“It wasn’t a compliment. Hurry up. I’ve got to tell Lummox something.”
“Throttle back and hold at ten thousand. I’ll bring you in.” She wiped off her eyebrows, painted them back in the smart Madame Satan pattern, and decided that it made her look older. She considered adding a rolling-dice design on her right cheek, but skipped it as Johnnie was about to boil over. They hurried down and outdoors.
More moments were wasted convincing a policeman that they belonged inside the barrier. Johnnie saw that two men were standing by Lummox’s cage. He broke into a run. “Hey! You two! Get away from there!”
Judge O’Farrell turned around and blinked. “What is your interest, young man?” The other man turned but said nothing.
“Me? Why, I’m his owner. He’s not used to strangers. So go back of the rope, will you?” He turned to Lummox. “It’s all right, baby. Johnnie’s here.”
“Howdy, Judge.”
“Oh. Hello, Betty.” The judge looked at her as if trying to decide why she was present, then turned to John Thomas. “You must be the Stuart boy. I’m Judge O’Farrell.”
“Oh. Excuse me, Judge,” John Thomas answered, his ears turning pink. “I thought you were a sightseer.”
“A natural error. Mr. Greenberg, this is the Stuart boy… John Thomas Stuart. Young man, this is the Honorable Sergei Greenberg, Special Commissioner for the Department of Spatial Affairs.” He looked around. “Oh yes…this is Miss Betty Sorenson, Mr. Commissioner. Betty, why have you done those silly things to your face?”
She ignored him with dignity. “Honored to meet you, Mr. Commissioner.”
“Just ‘Mr. Greenberg,’ please, Miss Sorenson.” Greenberg turned to Johnnie. “Any relation to the John Thomas Stuart?”
“I’m John Thomas Stuart the Eleventh,” Johnnie answered simply. “I suppose you mean my great-great-great grandfather.”
“I guess that would be it. I was born on Mars, almost within sight of his statue. I had no idea your family was mixed up in this. Perhaps we can have a gab about Martian history later.”
“I’ve never been to Mars,” Johnnie admitted.
“No? That’s surprising. But you’re young yet.”
Betty listened, ears almost twitching, and decided that this judge, if that was what he was, would be an even softer mark than Judge O’Farrell. It was hard to remember that Johnnie’s name meant anything special…especially since it didn’t. Not around Westville.
Greenberg went on, “You’ve made me lose two bets, Mr. Stuart.”
“Sir?”
“I thought this creature would prove not to be from ‘Out There.’ I was wrong; that big fellow is certainly not native to Earth. But I was equally sure that, if he was e.-t., I could attribute him, I’m not an exotic zoologist, but in my business one has to keep skimming such things…look at the pictures at least. But I’m stumped. What is be and where did he come from?”
“Uh, why, he’s just Lummox. That’s what we call him. My great grandfather brought him back in the Trail Blazer…her second trip.”
“That, long ago, eh? Well, that clears up some of the mystery; that was before DepSpace kept records…in fact before there was such a department. But I still don’t see how this fellow could have missed making a splash in the history books. I’ve read about the Trail Blazer and I remember she brought back many exotica. But I don’t remember this fellow…and, after all, extra-terrestrials were news in those days.”
“Oh, that… Well, sir, the captain didn’t know Lummox was aboard. Great-granddad brought him aboard in his jump bag and sneaked him off the ship the same way.”
“In his jump bag?” Greenberg stared at Lummox’s out-sized figure.
“Yes, sir. Of course Lummie was smaller then.”
“So I am forced to believe.”
“I’ve got pictures of him. He was about the size of a collie pup. More legs of course.”
“Mmmm, yes. More legs. And he puts me, more in mind of a triceratops than a collie. Isn’t he expensive to feed?”
“Oh, no, Lummie eats anything. Well, almost anything,” John Thomas amended hastily, glancing self-consciously at the steel bars. “Or he can go without eating for a long time. Can’t you, Lummie?”
Lummox had been lying with his legs retracted, exhibiting the timeless patience which he could muster when necessary. He was listening to his chum and Mr. Greenberg while keeping an eye on Betty and the judge. He now opened his enormous mouth. “Yes, but I don’t like it.”
Mr. Greenberg raised his eyebrows and said, “I hadn’t realized that he was a speech-center type.”
“A what? Oh, sure. Lummie’s been talking since my father was a boy; he just sort of picked it up. I meant to introduce you. Here, Lummie… I want you to meet Mr. Commissioner Greenberg.”
Lummox looked at Greenberg without interest and said, “How do you do, Mr. Commissioner Greenberg,” saying the formula phrase clearly but not doing so well on the name and title.
“Uh, how do you do, Lummox.” He was staring at Lummox when the courthouse clock sounded the hour. Judge O’Farrell turned and spoke to him.
“Ten o’clock, Mr. Commissioner. I suppose we had better get started.”
“No hurry,” Greenberg answered absent-mindedly, “since the party can’t start until we get there. I’m interested in this line of investigation. Mr. Stuart, what is Lummox’s R.I.Q. on the human scale?”
“Huh? Oh, his relative intelligence quotient. I don’t know, sir.”
“Good gracious, hasn’t anyone ever tried to find out?”
“Well, no, sir… I mean ‘yes, sir.’ Somebody did run some tests on him back in my grandfather’s time, but granddad got so sore over the way they were treating Lummie that he chucked them out. Since then we’ve kept strangers away from Lummie, mostly. But he’s real bright. Try him.”
Judge O’Farrell whispered to Greenberg, “The brute isn’t as bright as a good bird dog, even if he can parrot human speech a little. I know.”
John Thomas said indignantly, “I heard that, Judge. You’re just prejudiced!”
The judge started to answer but Betty cut across him. “Johnnie! You know what I told you… I’ll do the talking.”
Greenberg ignored the interruption. “Has any attempt been made to learn his language?”
“Sir?”
“Mmm, apparently not. And he may have been brought here before he was old enough to talk…his own language I mean. But he must have had one; it’s a truism among xenists that speech centers are found only in nervous systems that use them. That is to say, he could not have learned human speech as speech even poorly, unless his own breed used oral communication. Can he write?”
“How could he, sir? He doesn’t have hands.”
“Mmm, yes. Well, taking a running jump with the aid of theory, I’ll bet on a relative score of less than 40, then. Xenologists have found that high types, equivalent to humans, always have three characteristics: speech centers, manipulation, and from these two, record keeping. So we can assume that Lummox’s breed was left at the post. Studied any xenology?”
“Not much, sir,” John Thomas admitted shyly, “except books I could find in the library. But I mean to major in xenology and exotic biology in college.”
“Good for you. It’s a wide open field. You’d be surprised how difficult it is to hire enough xenists just for DepSpace. But my reason for asking was this: as you know, the department has intervened in this case. Because of him.” Greenberg gestured at Lummox. “There was a chance that your pet might be of a race having treaty rights with us. Once or twice, strange as it may seem, a foreigner visiting this planet has been mistaken for a wild animal, with…shall we say ‘unfortunate’ results?” Greenberg frowned, recalling the terrible hushed-up occasion when a member of the official family of the Ambassador from Llador had been found, dead and stuffed-in a curiosity shop in the Virgin Islands. “But no such hazard exists here.”
The Star Beast Page 4