The Star Beast

by Robert A. Heinlein

  John Thomas stayed while the police chief went back to the house. Now was the time to give Lummox what for, but he did not have the heart for it. Not just then.

  CHAPTER II

  The Department of Spatial Affairs

  TO John Thomas Stuart XI the troubles of himself and Lummox seemed unique and unbearable, yet he was not alone, even around Westville. Little Mr. Ito was suffering from an always fatal disease—old age. It would kill him soon. Behind uncounted closed doors in Westville other persons suffered silently the countless forms of quiet desperation which can close in on a man, or woman, for reasons of money, family, health, or face.

  Farther away, in the state capital, the Governor stared hopelessly at a stack of papers—evidence that would certainly send to prison his oldest and most trusted friend. Much farther away, on Mars, a prospector abandoned his wrecked sandmobile and got ready to attempt the long trek back to Outpost. He would never make it.

  Incredibly farther away, twenty-seven light years, the Starship Bolivar was entering an interspatial transition. A flaw in a tiny relay would cause that relay to operate a tenth of a second later than it should. The S.S. Bolivar would wander between the stars for many years…but she would never find her way home.

  Inconceivably farther from Earth, half way across the local star cloud, a race of arboreal crustaceans was slowly losing to a younger, more aggressive race of amphibians. It would be several thousands Earth years before the crustaceans were extinct, but the issue was not in doubt. This was regrettable (by human standards) for the crustacean race had mental and spiritual abilities which complemented human traits in a fashion which could have permitted a wealth of civilized cooperation with them. But when the first Earth-humans landed there, some eleven thousand years in the future, the crustaceans would be long dead.

  Back on Earth at Federation Capital His Excellency the Right Honorable Henry Gladstone Kiku, M.A. (Oxon,) Litt.D. honoris causa (Capetown), O.B.E., Permanent Under Secretary for Spatial Affairs, was not worried about the doomed crustaceans because he would never know of them. He was not yet worried about S.S. Bolivar but he would be. Aside from the ship, the loss of one passenger in that ship would cause a chain reaction of headaches for Mr. Kiku and all his associates for years to come.

  Anything and everything outside Earth’s ionosphere was Mr. Kiku’s responsibility and worry. Anything which concerned the relationships between Earth and any part of the explored universe was also his responsibility. Even affairs which were superficially strictly Earthside were also his concern, if they affected or were in any way affected by anything which was extra-terrestrial, interplanetary, or interstellar in nature—a very wide range indeed.

  His problems included such things as the importation of Martian sand grass, suitably mutated, for the Tibetan plateau. Mr. Kiku’s office had not approved that until after a careful mathematical examination of the possible effect on the Australian sheep industry—and a dozen other factors. Such things were done cautiously, with the gruesome example of Madagascar and the Martian berryroot always before them. Economic decisions did not upset Mr. Kiku, no matter how many toes he stepped on; other sorts kept him awake nights—such as his decision not to give police escorts to Goddard exchange students from Procyon VII despite the very real danger to them from provincial Earthmen with prejudices against beings having unearthly arrangements of limbs or eyes or such—the cephalopods of that planet were a touchy people and something very like a police escort was their own usual punishment for criminals.

  Mr. Kiku had an extremely large staff to help him, of course, and, also of course, the help of the Secretary himself. The Secretary made speeches, greeted Very Important Visitors, gave out interviews, and in many other ways eased for Mr. Kiku an otherwise unbearable load—Mr. Kiku would be first to admit this. As long as the current Secretary behaved himself, minded his business, took care of public appearances, and let the Under Secretary get on with the department’s work, he had Mr. Kiku’s approval. Of course, if he failed to pull his load or threw his weight around, Mr. Kiku was capable of finding ways to get rid of him. But it had been fifteen years since he had found it necessary to be so drastic; even the rawest political appointee could usually be broken to harness.

  Mr. Kiku had not made up his mind about the current Secretary, but was not now thinking about him. Instead he was looking over the top-sheet synopsis for Project Cerberus, a power proposal for the research station on Pluto. A reminder light on his desk flashed and he looked up to see the door between his office and that of the Secretary dilate. The Secretary walked in, whistling Take Me Out to the Ball Game; Mr. Kiku did not recognize the tune.

  He broke off. “Greetings, Henry. No, don’t get up.”

  Mr. Kiku had not started to get up. “How do you do, Mr. Secretary? What can I do for your”

  “Nothing much, nothing much.” He paused by Mr. Kiku’s desk and picked up the project folder. “What are you swotting now? Cerberus, eh? Henry, that’s an engineering matter. Why should we worry about it?”

  “There are aspects,” Mr. Kiku answered carefully, “that concern us.”

  “I suppose so. Budget and so forth.” His eye sought the bold-faced line reading: ESTIMATED COST: 3.5 megabucks and 7.4 lives. “What’s this? I can’t go before the Council and ask them to approve this. It’s fantastic.”

  “The first estimate,” Mr. Kiku said evenly, “was over eight megabucks and more than a hundred lives.”

  “I don’t mind the money, but this other… You are in effect asking the Council to sign death warrants for seven and four-tenths men: You can’t do that, it isn’t human. Say, what the deuce is four-tenths of a man anyway? How can you kill a fraction of a man?”

  “Mr. Secretary,” his subordinate answered patiently, “any project bigger than a schoolyard swing involves probable loss of life. But that hazard factor is low; it means that working on Project Cerberus will be safer, on the average, than staying Earthside. That’s my rule of thumb.”

  “Eh?” The Secretary looked again at the synopsis. “Then why not say so? Put the thing in the best light and so forth?”

  “This report is for my eyes…for our eyes, only. The report to the Council will emphasize safety precautions and will not include an estimate of deaths—which, after all, is a guess.”

  “Mmm, ‘a guess.’ Yes, of course.” The Secretary put the report down, seemed to lose interest.

  “Anything else, sir?”

  “Oh, yes! Henry, old man, you know that Rargyllian dignitary I am supposed to receive today? Dr. What’s-his-name?”

  “Dr. Ftaeml.” Mr. Kiku glanced at his desk control panel. “Your appointment is, uh, an hour and seven minutes from now.”

  “That’s just it. I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to substitute. Apologies to him and so forth. Tell him I’m tied up with affairs of state.”

  “Sir? I wouldn’t advise that. He will expect to be received by an official of your rank…and the Rargyllians are extremely meticulous about protocol.”

  “Oh, come now, this native won’t know the difference.”

  “But he will, sir.”

  “Well, let him think that you’re me… I don’t care. But I won’t be here and that’s that The Secretary General has invited me to go to the ball game with him—and an invitation from the S. G. is a ‘must,’ y’know.”

  Mr. Kiku knew that it was nothing of the sort, had the commitment been explained. But he shut up. “Very well, sir.”

  “Thanks, old chap.” The Secretary left, again whistling.

  When the door closed, Mr. Kiku with an angry gesture slapped a row of switches on the desk panel He was locked in now and could not be reached by phone, video, tube, autowriter, or any other means, save by an alarm button which his own secretary had used only once in twelve years. He leaned elbows on his desk, covered his head with his hands and rubbed his fingers through his woolly pate.

  This trouble, that trouble, the other trouble…and always some moron to jiggle his elbo
w! Why had he ever left Africa? Where came this itch for public service? An itch that had long, since turned into mere habit…

  He sat up and opened his middle drawer. It was bulging with real estate prospectuses from Kenya; he took out a handful and soon was comparing relative merits of farms. Now here was a little honey, if a man had the price—better than eight hundred acres, half of it in cultivation, and seven proved wells on the property. He looked at map and photographs and presently felt better. After a while he put them away and closed the drawer.

  He was forced to admit that, while what he had told the chief was true, his own nervous reaction came mostly from his life-long fear of snakes. If Dr. Ftaeml were anything but a Rargyllian…or if the Rargyllians had not been medusa humanoids, he wouldn’t have minded. Of course, he knew that those tentacles growing out of a Rargyllian’s head were not snakes—but his stomach didn’t know it. He would have to find time for a hypnotic treatment before—no, there wasn’t time; he’d have to take a pill instead.

  Sighing, he flipped the switches back on. His incoming basket started to fill up at once and all the communication instruments showed lights. But the lights were amber rather than blinking red; he ignored them and glanced through the stuff falling into his basket. Most of the items were for his information only: under doctrine his subordinates or their subordinates had taken action. Occasionally he would check a name and a suggested action and drop the sheet in the gaping mouth of the outgoing basket.

  A radiotype came in that was not routine, in that it concerned a creature alleged to be extra-terrestrial but unclassified as to type and origin. The incident involved seemed unimportant—some nonsense in one of the native villages in the western part of the continent. But the factor of an extra-terrestrial creature automatically required the local police to report it to Spatial Affairs, and the lack of classification of the e.-t. prevented action under doctrine and resulted in the report being kicked upstairs.

  Mr. Kiku had never seen Lummox and would have had no special interest if he had. But Mr. Kiku knew that each contact with “Out There” was unique. The universe was limitless in its variety. To assume without knowledge, to reason by analogy, to take the unknown for granted, all meant to invite disaster.

  Mr. Kiku looked over his list to see whom he could send. Any of his career officers could act as a court of original and superior jurisdiction in any case involving extra-terrestrials, but who was on Earth and free? Hmm…

  Sergei Greenberg, that was the man. System Trade Intelligence could get along without a chief for a day or two. He flipped a switch. “Sergei?”

  “Yes, boss?”

  “Busy?”

  “Well, yes and no. I’m paring my nails and trying to figure a reason why the taxpayers should pay me more money.”

  “Should they, now? I’m sending a bluesheet down.” Mr. Kiku checked Greenberg’s name on the radiotype, dropped it in his outgoing basket, waited a few seconds until he saw Greenberg pick it out of his own incoming basket. “Read it.”

  Greenberg did so, then looked up. “Well, boss?”

  “Phone the local justice that we are assuming tentative jurisdiction, then buzz out and look into it.”

  “Thy wish is my command, O King. Even money the critter is terrestrial after all, two to one I can identify if it isn’t.”

  “No wager, not at those odds. You’re probably right. But it might be a ‘special situation’; we can’t take chances.”

  “I’ll keep the local yokels in line, boss. Where is this hamlet? Westville? Or whatever it is?”

  “How would I know? You have the sheet in front of you.”

  Greenberg glanced at it. “Hey! What do you know? It’s in the mountains…this may take two or three weeks, boss. Hot enough for you?”

  “Take more than three days and I’ll charge it off your annual leave.” Mr. Kiku switched off and turned to other matters. He disposed of a dozen calls, found the bottom of his incoming basket and lost it again, then noticed that it was time for the Rargyllian. Goose flesh crawled over him and he dug hastily into his desk for one of the special pills his doctor had warned him not to take too frequently. He had just gulped it when his secretary’s light started blinking.

  “Sir? Dr. Ftaeml is here.”

  “Show him in.” Mr. Kiku muttered in a language his ancestors had used in making magic—against snakes, for example. As the door dilated he hung on his face the expression suitable for receiving visitors.

  CHAPTER III

  “—An Improper Question”

  THE intervention by the Department of Spatial Affairs in the case of Lummox did not postpone the hearing; it speeded it up. Mr. Greenberg phoned the district judge, asked for the use of his courtroom, and asked him to have all parties and witnesses in court at ten o’clock the next morning—including, of course, the extra-terrestrial that was the center of the fuss. Judge O’Farrell questioned the last point.

  “This creature…you need him, too?”

  Greenberg said that he most decidedly wanted the e.-t. present, since his connection with the case was the reason for intervention. “Judge, we people in DepSpace don’t like to butt into your local affairs. After I’ve had a look at the creature and have asked half a dozen questions, I can probably bow out…which will suit us both. This alleged e.-t. is my only reason for coming out. So have the beastie present, will you?”

  “Eh, he’s rather too large to bring into the courtroom. I haven’t seen him for several years and I understand he has grown a bit…but he would have been too large to bring indoors even then. Couldn’t you look at him where he is?”

  “Possibly, though I admit to a prejudice for having everything pertinent to a hearing in one spot. Where is he?”

  “Penned up where he lives, with his owner. They have a suburban place a few miles out”

  Greenberg thought about it. Although a modest man, one who cared not where he ate or slept, when it came to DepSpace business he operated on the rule of making the other fellow do the running around; otherwise the department’s tremendous load of business would never get done. “I would like to avoid that trip out into the country, as I intend to hold my ship and get back to Capital tomorrow afternoon, if possible. It’s rather urgent…a matter of the Martian treaty.” This last was Greenberg’s standard fib when he wanted to hurry someone not in the department.

  Judge O’Farrell said that he would arrange it. “We’ll rig a temporary pen on the lawn outside the courthouse.”

  “Swell! See you tomorrow, Judge. Thanks for everything.”

  Judge O’Farrell had been on a fishing trip two days earlier when Lummox had gone for his walk. The damage had been cleaned up by his return and, as a fixed principle, he avoided hearing or reading news reports or chitchat concerning cases he might have to try. When he phoned Chief-of-Safety Dreiser he expected no difficulty about moving Lummox.

  Chief Dreiser went through the roof. “Judge, are you out of your head?”

  “Eh? What’s ailing you, Deacon?”

  Dreiser tried to explain; the judge shrugged off his objections. Whereupon they both phoned the mayor. But the mayor had been on the same fishing trip; he threw his weight on O’Farrell’s side. His words were: “Chief, I’m surprised at you. We can’t have an important Federation official thinking that our little city is so backwoods that we can’t handle a small thing like that.” Dreiser groaned and called the Mountain States Steel & Welding Works.

  Chief Dreiser decided to move Lummox before daylight, as he wished to get him penned up before the streets were crowded. But nobody had thought to notify John Thomas; he was awakened at four in the morning with a sickening shock; the wakening had interrupted a nightmare, he believed at first that something dreadful had happened to Lummox.

  Once the situation was clear he was non-cooperative; he was a “slow starter,” one of those individuals with a low morning blood-sugar count who is worth nothing until after a hearty breakfast—which he now insisted on.

  Chief Dreise
r looked angry. Mrs. Stuart looked mother-knows-best and said, “Now, dear, don’t you think you had better…”

  “I’m going to have my breakfast. And Lummox, too.”

  Dreiser said, “Young man, you don’t have the right attitude. First thing you know you’ll be in eyen worse trouble. Come along. You can get breakfast downtown.”

  John Thomas looked stubborn. His mother said sharply, “John Thomas! I won’t have it, do you hear? You’re being difficult, just like your father was.”

  The reference to his father rubbed him even more the wrong way. He said bitterly, “Why don’t you stand up for me, Mum? They taught me in school that a citizen can’t be snatched out of his home any time a policeman gets a notion. But you seem anxious to help him instead of me. Whose side are you on?”

  She stared at him, astounded, as he had a long record of docile obedience. “John Thomas! You can’t speak to your mother that way!”

  “Yes,” agreed Dreiser. “Be polite to your mother, or I’ll give you the back of my hand—unofficially, of course. If there is one thing I can’t abide it’s a boy who is rude to his elders.” He unbuttoned his tunic, pulled out a folded paper. “Sergeant Mendoza told me about the quibble you pulled the other day…so I came prepared. There’s my warrant. Now, will you come? Or will I drag you?”

  He stood there, slapping the paper against his palm, but did not offer it to John Thomas. But when John Thomas reached for it, he let him have it and waited while he read it. At last Dreiser said, “Well? Are you satisfied?”

  “This is a court order,” John Thomas said, “telling me to appear and requiring me to bring Lummox.”

  “It certainly is.”

  “But it says ten o’clock. It doesn’t say I can’t eat breakfast first…as long as I’m there by ten.”

  The Chief took a deep breath, expanding visibly. His face, already pink, got red, but he did not answer.