Thunder and Roses

by Theodore Sturgeon

  “It was down at the sugar mill,” he told Alistair, after he had become fully acquainted with the incredible dog’s actions and they were trying to determine the why and the how. “He called me over to the chute where cane is loaded into the conveyors.

  “ ‘Bahss,’ he told me, ‘dat t’ing dere, it not safe, sah.’ And he pointed through the guard over the bull gears that drove the conveyor. Great big everlahstin’ teeth it has, Miss Alistair, a full ten inches long, and it whirlin’ to the drive pinion. It’s old, but strong for good. Debbil, what he saw was a bit o’ play on the pinion shaf’.

  “ ‘Now, you’re an old fool,’ I told him.

  “ ‘No, bahss,’ ” he says. ‘Look now, sah, de t’ing wit’ de teet’—dem, it not safe, sah. I mek you see,’ and before I could move meself or let a thought trickle, he opens the guard up and thrus’ his han’ inside! Bull gear, it run right up his arm and nip it off, neat as ever, at the shoulder. I humbly beg your pardon, Miss Alistair.”

  “G-go on,” said Alistair, through her handkerchief.

  “Well, sir, old Debbil was an idiot for true, and he only died the way he lived, rest him. He was old and he was all eaten out with malaria and elephantiasis and the like, that not even Dr. Thetford could save him. But a strange thing happened. As he lay dyin’, with the entire village gathered roun’ the door whisperin’ plans for the wake, he sent to tell me come quickly. Down I run, and for the smile on his face I glad him when I cross the doorstep.”

  As Alec spoke, he was back in the Spanish-wall hut, with the air close under the palm-thatch roof and the glare of the pressure lantern set on the tiny window ledge to give the old man light to die by. Alec’s accent deepened. “ ‘How you feel, mon?’ I ahsk him. ‘Bahss, I’m a dead man now, but I got a light in mah hey-yud.’

  “ ‘Tell me then, Debbil.’

  “ ‘Bahss, de folk-dem say, ol’ Debbil, him cyahn’t remembah de taste of a mango as he t’row away de skin. Him cyahn’t remembah his own house do he stay away t’ree day.’

  “ ‘Loose talk, Debbil.’

  “ ‘True talk, Bahss. Foh de Lahd give me a leaky pot fo’ hol’ ma brains. But Bahss, I do recall one t’ing now, bright an’ clear, and you must know. Bahss, de day I go up the wahtah line, I see a great jumbee in de stones of de gov’nor palace dere.’ ”

  “What’s a jumbee?” asked Mrs. Forsythe.

  “A ghost, ma’am. The Crucians carry a crawlin’ heap of superstitions. Tiny! What eats you, mon?”

  Tiny growled again. Alec and Alistair exchanged a look. “He doesn’t want you to go on.”

  “Listen carefully. I want him to get this. I am his friend. I want to help you help him. I realize that he wants as few people as possible to find out about this thing. I will say nothing to anybody unless and until I have his permission.”

  “Well, Tiny?”

  The dog stood restlessly, swinging his great head from Alistair to Alec. Finally he made a sound like an audible shrug, then turned to Mrs. Forsythe.

  “Mother’s part of me,” said Alistair firmly. “That’s the way it’s got to be. No alternative.” She leaned forward. “You can’t talk to us. You can only indicate what you want said and done. I think Alec’s story will help us to understand what you want and help you to get it more quickly. Understand?”

  Tiny gazed at her for a long moment, said, “Whuff,” and lay down with his nose between his paws and his eyes fixed on Alec.

  “I think that’s the green light,” said Mrs. Forsythe, “and I might add that most of it was due to my daughter’s conviction that you’re a wonderful fellow.”

  “Mother!”

  “Well, pare me down and call me Spud! They’re both blushing!” said Mrs. Forsythe blatantly.

  “Go on, Alec,” choked Alistair.

  “Thank you. Old Debbil told me a fine tale of the things he had seen at the ruins. A great beast, mind you, with no shape at all, and a face ugly to drive you mad. And about the beast was what he called a ‘feelin’ good.’ He said it was a miracle, but he feared nothing. ‘Wet it was, Bahss, like a slug, an’ de eye it have is whirlin’ an’ shakin’, an’ I standin’ dar feelin’ like a bride at de altar step an’ no fear in me.’ Well, I thought the old man’s mind was wandering, for I knew he was touched. But the story he told was that clear, and never a single second did he stop to think. Out it all came like a true thing.

  “He said that Tiny walked to the beast and that it curved over him like an ocean wave. It closed over the dog, and Debbil was rooted there the livelong day, still without fear, and feelin’ no smallest desire to move. He had no surprise at all, even at the thing he saw restin’ in the thicket among the old stones.

  “He said it was a submarine, a mighty one as great as the estate house and with no break nor mar in its surface but for the glass part let in where the mouth is on a shark.

  “And then when the sun begun to dip, the beast gave a shudderin’ heave and rolled back, and out walked Tiny. He stepped up to Debbil and stood. Then the beast began to quiver and shake, and Debbil said the air aroun’ him heavied with the work the monster was doing, tryin’ to talk. A cloud formed in his brain, and a voice swept over him. ‘Not a livin’ word, Bahss, not a sound at all. But it said to forget. It said to leave dis place and forget, sah.’ And the last thing old Debbil saw as he turned away was the beast slumping down, seeming all but dead from the work it had done to speak at all. ‘An’ de cloud live in mah hey-yud, Bahss, f’om dat time onward. I’m a dead man now, Bahss, but de cloud gone and Debbil know de story.’ ” Alec leaned back and looked at his hands. “That was all. This must have happened about fifteen months pahst, just before Tiny began to show his strange stripe.” He drew a deep breath and looked up. “Maybe I’m gullible. But I knew the old man too well. He never in this life could invent such a tale. I troubled myself to go up to the governor’s palace after the buryin’. I might have been mistaken, but something big had lain in the deepest thicket, for it was crushed into a great hollow place near a hundred foot long. Well, there you are. For what it’s worth, you have the story of a superstitious an’ illiterate old man, at the point of death by violence and many years sick to boot.”

  There was a long silence, and at last Alistair threw her lucent hair back and said, “It isn’t Tiny at all. It’s a … a thing outside Tiny.” She looked at the dog, her eyes wide. “And I don’t even mind.”

  “Neither did Debbil, when he saw it,” said Alec gravely.

  Mrs. Forsythe snapped, “What are we sitting gawking at each other for? Don’t answer; I’ll tell you. All of us can think up a story to fit the facts, and we’re all too self-conscious to come out with it. Any story that fit those facts would really be a killer.”

  “Well said.” Alec grinned. “Would you like to tell us your idea?”

  “Silly boy,” muttered Alistair.

  “Don’t be impertinent, child. Of course I’d like to tell you, Alec. I think that the good Lord, in His infinite wisdom, has decided that it was about time for Alistair to come to her senses, and, knowing that it would take a quasi-scientific miracle to do it, dreamed up this—”

  “Some day,” said Alistair icily, “I’m going to pry you loose from your verbosity and your sense of humor in one fell swoop.”

  Mrs. Forsythe grinned. “There is a time for jocularity, kidlet, and this is it. I hate solemn people solemnly sitting around being awed by things. What do you make of all this, Alec?”

  Alec pulled his ear and said, “I vote we leave it up to Tiny. It’s his show. Let’s get on with the work and just keep in mind what we already know.”

  To their astonishment, Tiny stumped over to Alec and licked his hand.

  The blowoff came six weeks after Alec’s arrival. (Oh, yes, he stayed six weeks, and longer. It took some fiendish cogitation for him to think of enough legitimate estate business that had to be done in New York to keep him that long, but after six weeks he was so much one of the family that he needed no excuse.) He had devised a
code system for Tiny, so that Tiny could add something to their conversations. His point: “Here he sits, ma’am, like a fly on the wall, seeing everything and hearing everything and saying not a word. Picture it for yourself, and you in such a position, full entranced as you are with the talk you hear.” And for Mrs. Forsythe particularly, the mental picture was altogether too vivid. It was so well presented that Tiny’s research went by the board for four days while they devised the code. They had to give up the idea of a glove with a pencil pocket in it, with which Tiny might write a little, or any similar device. The dog was simply not deft enough for such meticulous work; and besides, he showed absolutely no signs of understanding any written or printed symbolism. Unless, of course, Alistair thought about it.

  Alec’s plan was simple. He cut some wooden forms—a disk, a square, a triangle to begin with. The disk signified “yes” or any other affirmation, depending on the context; the square was “no” or any negation; and the triangle indicated a question or a change of subject. The amount of information Tiny was able to impart by moving from one to another of these forms was astonishing. Once a subject for discussion was established, Tiny would take a stand between the disk and the square, so that all he had to do was to swing his head to one side or the other to indicate a “yes” or a “no.” No longer were there those exasperating sessions in which the track of his research was lost while they back-trailed to discover where they had gone astray. The conversations ran like this:

  “Tiny, I have a question. Hope you won’t think it too personal. May I ask it?” That was Alec, always infinitely polite to dogs. He had always recognized their innate dignity.

  Yes, the answer would come, as Tiny swung his head over the disk.

  “Were we right in assuming that you, the dog, are not communicating with us, that you are the medium?”

  Tiny went to the triangle. “You want to change the subject?”

  Tiny hesitated, then went to the square. No.

  Alistair said, “He obviously wants something from us before he will discuss the question. Right, Tiny?”

  Yes.

  Mrs. Forsythe said, “He’s had his dinner, and he doesn’t smoke. I think he wants us to assure him that we’ll keep his secret.”

  Yes.

  “Good. Alec, you’re wonderful,” said Alistair. “Mother, stop beaming. I only meant—”

  “Leave it at that, child. Any qualification will spoil it for the man.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” said Alec gravely, with that deep twinkle of amusement around his eyes. Then he turned back to Tiny. “Well, what about it, sah? Are you a superdog?”

  No.

  “Who … no, he can’t answer that. Let’s go back a bit. Was old Debbil’s story true?”

  Yes.

  “Ah.” They exchanged glances. “Where is this—monster? Still in St. Croix?”

  No.

  “Here?”

  Yes.

  “You mean here, in this room or in the house?”

  No.

  “Nearby, though?”

  Yes.

  “How can we find out just where, without mentioning the countryside item by item?” asked Alistair.

  “I know,” said Mrs. Forsythe. “Alec, according to Debbil, that ‘submarine’ thing was pretty big, wasn’t it?”

  “That it was, ma’am.”

  “Good. Tiny, does he … it … have the ship here, too?”

  Yes.

  Mrs. Forsythe spread her hands. “That’s it, then. There’s only one place around here where you could hide such an object.” She nodded her head at the west wall of the house.

  “The river!” cried Alistair. “That right, Tiny?”

  Yes. And Tiny went immediately to the triangle.

  “Wait!” said Alec. “Tiny, beggin’ your pardon, but there’s one more question. Shortly after you took passage to New York, there was a business with compasses, where they all pointed to the west. Was that the ship?”

  Yes.

  “In the water?”

  No.

  “Why,” said Alistair, “this is pure science fiction! Alec, do you ever get science fiction in the tropics?”

  “Ah, Miss Alistair, not often enough, for true. But well I know it. The space ships are old Mother Goose to me. But there’s a difference here. For in all the stories I’ve read, when a beast comes here from space, it’s to kill and conquer; and yet—and I don’t know why—I know that this one wants nothing of the sort. More, he’s out to do us good.”

  “I feel the same way,” said Mrs. Forsythe thoughtfully. “It’s sort of a protective cloud which seems to surround us. Does that make sense to you, Alistair?”

  “I know it from ’way back,” said Alistair with conviction. She looked at the dog thoughtfully. “I wonder why he … it … won’t show itself. And why it can communicate only through me. And why me?”

  “I’d say, Miss Alistair, that you were chosen because of your metallurgy. As to why we never see the beast, well, it knows best. Its reason must be a good one.”

  Day after day, and bit by bit, they got and gave information. Many things remained mysteries, but, strangely, there seemed no real need to question Tiny too closely. The atmosphere of confidence and good will that surrounded them made questions seem not only unnecessary but downright rude.

  And day by day, little by little, a drawing began to take shape under Alec’s skilled hands. It was a casting with a simple enough external contour, but inside it contained a series of baffles and a chamber. It was designed, apparently, to support and house a carballoy shaft. There were no openings into the central chamber except those taken by the shaft. The shaft turned; something within the chamber apparently drove it. There was plenty of discussion about it.

  “Why the baffles?” moaned Alistair, palming all the neatness out of her flaming hair. “Why carballoy? And in the name of Nemo, why tungsten?”

  Alec stared at the drawing for a long moment, then suddenly clapped a hand to his head. “Tiny! Is there radiation inside that housing? I mean, hard stuff?”

  Yes.

  “There you are, then,” said Alec. “Tungsten to shield the radiation. A casting for uniformity. The baffles to make a meander out of the shaft openings—see, the shaft has plates turned on it to fit between the baffles.”

  “And nowhere for anything to go in, nowhere for anything to come out—except the shaft, of course—and besides, you can’t cast tungsten that way! Maybe Tiny’s monster can, but we can’t. Maybe with the right flux and with enough power—but that’s silly. Tungsten won’t cast.”

  “And we cahn’t build a space ship. There must be a way!”

  “Not with today’s facilities, and not with tungsten,” said Alistair. “Tiny’s ordering it from us the way we would order a wedding cake at the corner bakery.”

  “What made you say ‘wedding cake’?”

  “You, too, Alec? Don’t I get enough of that from Mother?” But she smiled all the same. “But about the casting—it seems to me that our mysterious friend is in the position of a radio fiend who understands every part of his set, how it’s made, how and why it works. Then a tube blows, and he finds he can’t buy one. He has to make one if he gets one at all. Apparently old Debbil’s beast is in that kind of spot. What about it, Tiny? Is your friend short a part which he understands but has never built before?”

  Yes.

  “And he needs it to get away from Earth?”

  Yes.

  Alec asked, “What’s the trouble? Can’t get escape velocity?”

  Tiny hesitated, then went to the triangle. “Either he doesn’t want to talk about it or the question doesn’t quite fit the situation,” said Alistair. “It doesn’t matter. Our main problem is the casting. It just can’t be done. Not by anyone on this planet, as far as I know; and I think I know. It has to be tungsten, Tiny?”

  Yes.

  “Tungsten for what?” asked Alec. “Radiation shield?”

  Yes.

  He turned to Alistair.
“Isn’t there something just as good?”

  She mused, staring at his drawing. “Yes, several things,” she said thoughtfully. Tiny watched her, motionless. He seemed to slump as she shrugged dispiritedly and said, “But not anything with walls as thin as that. A yard or so of lead might do it, and have something like the mechanical strength he seems to want, but it would obviously be too big. Beryllium—” At the word, Tiny went and stood right on top of the square, a most emphatic no.

  “How about an alloy?” Alec asked.

  “Well, Tiny?”

  Tiny went to the triangle. Alistair nodded. “You don’t know. I can’t think of one. I’ll take it up with Dr. Nowland. Maybe—”

  The following day Alec stayed home and spent the day arguing cheerfully with Mrs. Forsythe and building a grape arbor. It was a radiant Alistair who came home that evening. “Got it! Got it!” she caroled as she danced in. “Alec, Tiny! Come on!”

  They flew upstairs to the study. Without removing the green “beanie” with the orange feather that so nearly matched her hair, Alistair hauled out four reference books and began talking animatedly. “Auric molybdenum, Tiny, what about that? Gold and molyb III should do it! Listen!” And she launched forth into a spatter of absorption data, Greek-letter formulae, and strength-of-materials comparisons that made Alec’s head swim. He sat watching her without listening. Increasingly, this was his greatest pleasure.

  When Alistair was quite through, Tiny walked away from her and lay down, gazing off into space.

  “Well, strike me!” said Alec. “Look yonder, Miss Alistair. The very first time I ever saw him thinking something over.”

  “Sh-h! Don’t disturb him, then. If that is the answer, and if he never thought of it before, it will take some figuring out. There’s no knowing what fantastic kind of science he’s comparing it with.”

  “I see the point. Like—well, suppose we crashed a plane in the Brazilian jungle and needed a new hydraulic cylinder on the landing gear. Now, then, one of the natives shows us ironwood, and it’s up to us to figure out if we can make it serve.”