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 desk 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 can’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.”
“That’s about it,” breathed Alistair. “I—” She was interrupted by Tiny, who suddenly leaped up and ran to her, kissing her hands, committing the forbidden enormity of putting his paws on her shoulders, running back to the wooden forms and nudging the disk, the yes symbol. His tail was going like a metronome without its pendulum.
Mrs. Forsythe came in in the midst of all this rowdiness and demanded, “What goes on? Who made a dervish out of Tiny? What have you been feeding him? Don’t tell me. Let me...You don’t mean you’ve solved his problem for him? What are you going to do, buy him a pogo stick?”
“Oh, Mum, we’ve got it! An alloy of molybdenum and gold. I can get it alloyed and cast in no time.”
“Good, honey, good. You going to cast the whole thing?” She pointed to the drawing.
“Why, yes.”
“Humph!”
“Mother! Why, if I may ask, do you ‘humph’ in that tone of voice?”
“You may ask, Chicken, who’s going to pay for it?”
“Why, that will—I—oh. Oh!” she said, aghast, and ran to the drawing. Alec came and looked over her shoulder. She figured in the corner of the drawing, oh-ed once again and sat down weakly.
“How much?” asked Alec.
“I’ll get an estimate in the morning,” she said faintly. “I know plenty of people. I can get it at cost—maybe.” She looked at Tiny despairingly. He came and laid his head against her knee, and she pulled at his ears. “I won’t let you down, darling,” she whispered.
She got the estimate the next day. It was a little over thirteen thousand dollars.
Alistair and Alec stared blankly at each other and then at the dog.
“Maybe you can tell us where we can raise that much money?” said Alistair, as if she expected Tiny to whip out a wallet.
Tiny whimpered, licked Alistair’s hand, looked at Alec, and then lay down.
“Now what?” mused Alec.
“Now we go and fix something to eat,” said Mrs. Forsythe, moving toward the door. The others were about to follow, when Tiny leaped to his feet and ran in front of them. He stood in the doorway and whimpered. When they came closer, he barked.
“Sh-h! What is it, Tiny? Want us to stay here a while?”
“Say, who’s the boss around here?” Mrs. Forsythe wanted to know.
“He is,” said Alec, and he knew he was speaking for all of them. They sat down, Mrs. Forsythe on the studio couch, Alistair. at her desk, Alec at the drawing table. But Tiny seemed not to. approve of the arrangement. He became vastly excited, running to Alec, nudging him hard, dashing to Alistair, taking her wrist very gently in his jaws and pulling gently toward Alec.
“What is it, fellow?”
“Seems like matchmaking to me,” remarked Mrs. Forsythe.
“Nonsense, Mum,” said Alistair, coloring. “He wants Alec and me to change places, that’s all.”
Alec said, “Oh,” and went to sit beside Mrs. Forsythe. Alistair sat at the drawing table. Tiny put a paw up on it, poked at the large tablet of paper. Alistair looked at him curiously, then tore off the top sheet. Tiny nudged a pencil with his nose.
Then they waited. Somehow, no one wanted to speak. Perhaps no one could, but there seemed to be no reason to try. And gradually a tension built up in the room. Tiny stood stiff and rapt in the center of the room. His eyes glazed, and when he finally keeled over limply, no one went to him.
Alistair picked up the pencil slowly. Watching her hand, Alec was reminded of the movement of the pointer on a ouija board. The pencil traveled steadily, in small surges, to the very top of the paper and hung there. Alistair’s face was quite blank.
After that no one could say what happened, exactly. It was as if their eyes had done what their voices had done. They could see, but they did not care to. And Alistair’s pencil began to move. Something, somewhere, was directing her mind—not her hand. Faster and faster her pencil flew, and it wrote what was later to be known as the Forsythe Formulae.
There was no sign then, of course, of the furore that they would cause, of the millions of words of conjecture that were written when it was discovered that the girl who wrote them could not possibly have had the mathematical background to write them. They were understood by no one at first, and by very few people ever. Alistair certainly did not know what they meant.
An editorial in a popular magazine came startlingly close to the true nature of the formulae when it said: “The Forsythe Formulae, which describe what the Sunday supplements call the ‘Something-for-Nothing Clutch,’ and the drawing that accompanies them, signify little to the layman. As far as can be deter-mined, the formulae are the description and working principles of a device. It appears to be a power plant of sorts, and if it is ever understood, atomic power will go the way of gaslights.
“A sphere of energy is enclosed in a shell made of neutron-absorbing material. This sphere has inner and outer ‘layers.’ A shaft passes through the sphere. Apparently a magnetic field must be rotated about the outer casing of the device. The sphere of energy aligns itself with this field. The inner sphere rotates with the outer one and has the ability to turn the shaft. Unless the mathematics used are disproved—and no one seems to have come a
nywhere near doing that, unorthodox as they are—the aligning effect between the rotating field and the two concentric spheres, as well as the shaft, is quite independent of any load. In other words, if the original magnetic field rotates at 3000 r.p.m., the shaft will rotate at 3000 r.p.m., even if there is only 1/16 horsepower turning the field while there is 10,000 braking stress on the shaft.
“Ridiculous? Perhaps. And perhaps it is no more so than the apparent impossibility of IS watts of energy pouring into the antenna of a radio station, and nothing coming down. The key to the whole problem is in the nature of those self-contained spheres of force inside the shell. Their power is apparently inherent, and consists of an ability to align, just as the useful property of steam is an ability to expand. If, as is suggested by Reinhardt in his ‘Usage of the Symbol β in the Forsythe Formulae,’ these spheres are nothing but stable concentrations of pure binding energy, we have here a source of power beyond the wildest dreams of mankind. Whether or not we succeed in building such devices, it cannot be denied that whatever their mysterious source, the Forsythe Formulae are an epochal gift to several sciences, including, if you like, the art of philosophy.”
After it was over, and the formulae written, the terrible tension lifted. The three humans sat in their happy coma, and the dog lay senseless on the rug. Mrs. Forsythe was the first to move, standing up abruptly. “Well!” she said.
It seemed to break a spell. Everything was quite normal. No hang-overs, no sense of strangeness, no fear. They stood looking wonderingly at the mass of minute figures.
“I don’t know,” murmured Alistair, and the phrase covered a world of meaning. Then, “Alec—that casting. We’ve got to get, it done. We’ve just got to, no matter what it costs us!”
“I’d like to,” said Alec. “Why do we have to?”
She waved toward the drawing table. “We’ve been given that.”
“You don’t say!” said Mrs. Forsythe. “And what is that?”
Alistair put her hand to her head, and a strange, unfocused look came into her eyes. That look was the only part of the whole affair that ever really bothered Alec. It was a place she had gone to, a little bit; and he knew that no matter what happened, he would never be able to go there with her.
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