by Vernor Vinge
“Sanda Beauchamp.”
“Oh, yeah. You’re the girl staying with the old English lady.”
“She is not an old lady. She’s my grandmother.”
He was silent for a moment, the baby-face expressionless. “I’m Larry O’Malley. Your grandmother is okay. Last summer I did her lawn.”
Sanda untangled herself from the bicycle and they walked their bikes back the way she had come. “She has regular gardeners now.”
“I know. She’s very rich. Even more than last year.”
Grandma wasn’t rich. It was on the tip of her tongue to contradict him, but his second statement made her pause, puzzled. Even more than last year?
They had walked all the way back to Grandmother’s before Sanda knew it. Larry wasn’t really sullen. She wasn’t sure yet if he was smart or stupid; she knew he wasn’t as old as he looked. His father was a real lumberjack, which was neat. Most of Sanda’s parents’ friends were geologists and things like that.
They parked their bikes at the steps, and Sanda took him in to see Grandmother. As she had expected, the elder Beauchamp was not thrilled with Sanda’s plans for the afternoon.
She looked uncertainly at the boy. “But, Larry, isn’t that a long ride?”
Sanda was not about to let Larry blow it. “Oh no, Grandma, it’s not much farther than the library. Besides, I haven’t been to a movie in so long,” which was true, though Grandmother’s television did a great job of dragging in old movies from the only available station.
“What’s the film? It’s such a nice day to waste inside a theater.”
“Oh, they’re playing movies from the early fifties.” That sounded safe. Grandma had complained more than once about the immorality of today’s shows. Besides, if she heard the title, she would be sure to refuse.
Grandmother seemed almost distraught. Then she agreed, and walked out to the screened porch with them. “Come back before four.”
“We will. We will.” And they were off. She didn’t know if it was the weather, or meeting Larry, or the prospect of the movie, but suddenly she felt wonderful.
THE THING FROM OUTER SPACE. That’s what it said on the marquee. She felt a little guilty deceiving Grandma about the title. It wasn’t really the sort of show her parents would want her to see. But just seeing a movie was going to be fun. It was like home. This theater reminded her a lot of the Cove in La Jolla. After they got their tickets they drifted down to the movie posters.
And Sanda began to feel a chill that was not in the air and that was not the vicarious thrill of watching a scary show. This Thing was supposed to be from outer space, yet the posters showed arctic wastes…
She found herself walking more slowly, for the first time letting the boy do most of the talking. Then they were inside, and the movie had begun.
It was a terrible thing, almost as if God had created a personal warning, a personal explanation for Sanda Rachel Beauchamp, The Thing was what had been after her all these weeks. Oh, a lot of the details were different. The movie took place in the arctic; the alien monster—the Thing—was crudely man-shaped. Sanda sat, her face slack, all but hypnotized by these innocently filmed revelations. About halfway through the movie, Larry nudged her and asked if she were okay. Sanda just nodded.
The Thing had been stranded. In the polar wastes the temperature and lack of predators allowed it to survive a very long time. The dry antarctic valleys Grandpa discovered might be even better; Things from long, long ago would be right at the surface, not hidden beneath hundreds of feet of ice. The creature would be like a time bomb waiting to be discovered. When exposed to light and warmth—as Grandma had done by putting it in the sunny terrarium—it would come to life. The movie Thing looked for blood. Sanda’s Thing seemed after something more subtle, more terrible.
Sanda was scarcely aware when the movie ended, so perfectly did its story merge with the greater terror she now felt. It was still middle afternoon, but the berglike clouds had melded together, thick and deep and dark. The wind was picking up, driving through her sweater and carrying occasional drops of wet. They recovered their bikes, Sanda dazed, Larry O’Malley silently observant.
It was uphill most of the way back, but now the wind was behind them. The forests beyond the town were blackish green, sometimes turned gray by passing mist. The scene didn’t register with her. All she could think of was the cold and the ice and the thing waiting for her up ahead.
Larry reached out to grab her handlebars as the bike angled toward the ditch. “Really. What’s the matter?”
And Sanda told him. About the strangely mottled antarctic rock and the terrarium. About its movement and the desolation it broadcast.
The boy didn’t say anything when she finished. They worked laboriously up a hill past neat houses, some of them Victorian, none as beautiful as Grandmother’s. As usual, traffic was light—nonexistent by the standards of home. They rode side by side with the entire road to themselves. Finally they reached the top and started down a gentle slope. Still Larry hadn’t said anything. Sanda’s haze of terror was broken by sudden anger. She pedaled just ahead of him and waved her hand in his face. “Hey! I was talking to you. Don’t you believe me?”
Larry blinked, his wide face expressionless. He didn’t seem to take offense. He spoke, but didn’t directly answer her question. “I think your Grandma is a smart person. And I always thought she had some strange things in that house. She put the rock up there; she must know something about it. You should ask her straight out. Or do you think she wants to hurt you, too?”
Sanda lagged back even with Larry and felt a little bit ashamed. She should have brought this up with Grandma weeks ago. She knew why she had not. After all the little conflicts and misunderstandings, she had been afraid that a fearful story like this would have weakened her position even further, would have reinforced Grandma’s view of her as a child. Saying these things out loud seemed to make them smaller. But having said them, she could also see that there was something real here, something to fear, or at least to be concerned about. She looked at Larry and smiled with some respect. Perhaps he wasn’t very imaginative—after all, nothing seemed to disturb him—but being with him was like suddenly finding the ground in the surf, or waking up from a bad dream.
BLOCKS OF MIST CHASED back and forth around them, but they were still dry when they got home. They stood for a moment on the grassy shoulder of the road.
“If you want to go to the sand dunes tomorrow, we should start early. It’s a long ride from here.” She couldn’t tell if he had already forgotten her story, or if he was trying to reassure her.
“I’ll have to ask Grandmother,” about that and certain other things. “I’ll see you tomorrow, anyway.”
Larry pedaled off toward his house, and Sanda walked the bike around to the toolshed. Grandma came out to the back porch, and worried over the damp on Sanda’s sweater. She seemed nervous, and relieved to see Sanda back.
“My, you’ve been gone so long. I’ve got some sandwiches made up in the kitchen.” As they walked into the house, Grandma asked her about the movie and about Larry. “You know, Sanda, I think the O’Malley boy is nice enough. But I’m not sure your mum and dad would want you spending so much time with him. Your interests are so different, don’t you think?”
Sanda was not really listening. She took the other’s hand. It was a childlike gesture that stopped the older woman short. “Grandma, there’s something I’ve got to talk to you about. Please.”
“Of course, Sanda.”
They sat down, and the girl told her of the terror that soaked the upstairs every night so strongly that she must sleep on the balcony.
Grandma smiled tentatively and patted Sanda’s hand. “I’ll wager it’s those Maori statues. They would scare anyone, especially in the dark. I shouldn’t have told you all those stories about them. They’re just wood and—”
“It’s not them, Grandmother.” Sanda tried to keep the frustration out of her voice. She looked out of
the kitchen, down the hall into the living room. She could see one of the statues there, sticking its tongue at her. It was lovely, and frightening in a fun sort of way, but that was all. “It’s the terrarium, and especially one rock there. When I’m near it, I can feel the cold get stronger.”
“Oh, dear.” Grandmother looked down at her hands and avoided Sanda’s eyes. For a moment she seemed to be talking only to herself. “You must be very sensitive.”
Sanda’s eyes widened. Even after all this time, she hadn’t really expected anyone to believe. And now she saw that Grandma had known something about this all along.
“Oh, Sanda, I’m so sorry. If I thought you could sense it, I would never have put you up there.” She reached out to touch Sanda, and smiled. “There really is nothing to fear. That’s my, uh, Gemstone.” She stumbled on the name, looked faintly worried. “It has always been a little secret of your grandfather’s and mine. If I tell you about it, will you keep the secret, too?”
The girl nodded.
“Let’s go up there, and I’ll show you. You’re right that the stone can make you feel things…”
AS GRANDMA HAD TOLD HER before, Rex Beauchamp had found the Gemstone on one of the first expeditions into the dry valleys. He probably should have turned his discovery over to the expedition’s collection. But in those early days there was a more casual attitude about individual finds, and besides, Grandfather was continually shunted aside from the credit he deserved. He was simply the fellow who fixed all the little things that went wrong. After retirement he hoped to set up his own small lab here, to look into this and several other mysteries he had come across over the years.
Grandfather had kept the Gemstone in a special locker down in the lab/basement. He hoped to imitate its original environment. At first Grandpa thought the rock was some special crystal that stored and reflected back the emotions of those around it. When he held it in his hand, he could feel the winds and desolation of the antarctic. If he touched it an hour later, he felt vague reflections of his mood at the time of the previous encounter.
When he cut it with a lapidary saw, the mental shriek of pain showed both of them the Gemstone was not psychic mineral, but a living thing.
“We never told anyone what we had discovered. Not even your father. Rex kept it in the basement, and as cold as possible. He was so afraid that it would die.” They had reached the second floor and were walking down the short hallway toward the terrarium. The skylight was pale gray, and rain was beginning to splatter off it. The cold and loneliness were not quite as sharp as after dark, but it took an effort for Sanda to approach the rock.
“I looked at it differently. It seemed to me that if the Gemstone could survive all those centuries of no food, no water—well then, maybe it was tough. Maybe even it would like light and warmth. After your grandfather died, I took the stone and put it in this nice aquarium box up here where there is light. I know it is alive; I think it likes it up here.”
Sanda looked down at the black and grey whorls that marked its rough exterior. The shape was not symmetrical, but it was regular. Even without the chill beating against her mind she should have known it was alive. “What…what does it eat?”
“Um.” Grandma paused for just a second. “Some of the rocks. Even those flowers. I have to replace them now and again. But it’s mindless. It’s never done much more than what Rex originally noticed. It’s just that now—up here in the light—it does them a bit more often.” She saw the pain on Sanda’s face. “You can feel the stone even that far away?” she asked wonderingly.
Grandma reached down and touched the top of the Gemstone with the palm of her hand. She winced. “Ah, it is projecting that old cold-and-desolate pattern. I can see why that bothers you. But it’s not intended to be hurtful. I think it’s just the creature’s memory of the cold. Now just wait. It takes a minute or so for it to change. In some ways it’s more like a plant than an animal.”
The psychic chill faded. What remained was not threatening, but—with her present sensitivity—was unsettling. Grandma motioned her closer. “Here. Now you put your hand on it, and you’ll see what I mean.”
Sanda advanced slowly, her eyes on her grandmother’s face. Above them, the rain droned against the skylight. What if it’s all a lie? thought Sanda. Could the creature take people over and make them go after others?
But now that the mental pressure was gone, it seemed just a little bit unbelievable. She touched the Gemstone first with her fingertips and then with the flat of her hand. Grandmother’s hand was still on the rock, though not quite touching hers. Nothing happened. It was cold as any rock might be in this room. The surface was rough, though regular. The seconds passed and slowly she felt it: It was Grandma! Her smile, a wave of affection—and behind that, disappointment and an emptiness more muted than the stone usually broadcast. Still, there was a warmth where before there had been only cold.
“Oh, Grandmother!” The older woman put her arm across Sanda’s shoulders, and for the first time in weeks, the girl thought there might be a lasting reconciliation. Sanda’s hand strayed from the Gemstone and brushed through the pebbles that were its bed. They were ordinary. The Gemstone was the only strange thing in the terrarium. Wait. She picked up a smallish pebble and held it in the light, scarcely noticing the sudden tension in Grandma’s arm. The tiny rock might have been glassy except for the milky haze on its surface. It felt almost greasy. “This isn’t a real rock, is it, Grandma?”
“No. It’s plastic. Like the flowers. I just think it’s pretty.”
“Oh.” She dropped it back into the terrarium. Another time, she might have been more curious. For now, everything was swamped by her relief in discovering that what had terrorized her for so long was not a threat but something very wonderful. “Thank you. I was so afraid.” She laughed a little ruefully. “I really made a fool of myself this afternoon, telling Larry I thought the Gemstone was some kind of monster.”
Grandmother’s arm slipped away from her shoulder. “Sanda, you mustn’t—” she began sharply. “Really, Sanda, you mustn’t be going out with the O’Malley boy. He’s simply too old for you.”
Sanda’s reply was casually argumentative; she was still immersed in a rosy feeling of relief. “Oh, Gran. He’s going into ninth grade this fall. He’s just big for his age.”
“No. I’m sure your mother and dad would be very upset with me if I let you be off alone with him.”
The sharpness of her tone finally came through to Sanda. Grandma had on her determined look. And suddenly the girl felt just as determined. There was no valid reason for her not to see Larry O’Malley. Grandma had hinted around at this before: she thought her neighbors up the road were lower class, both in background and present accomplishment. If there was one thing really wrong with Grandmother it was that she looked down on some people. Sanda even suspected that she was racially prejudiced. For instance, she called Negroes “colored people.”
The double injustice of Grandma’s demand was too much. Sanda thrust out her quivering jaw. “Grandmother, I’ll go out with him if I want. You just don’t want me to see him because he’s poor…because he’s Irish.”
“Sanda!” The older woman seemed to shrink in upon herself. Her voice was choked, hard to understand. “I had so looked forward to this summer with you. B-but you’re not the nice little girl you once were.” She stepped around Sanda and hurried down the stairs.
Sanda looked after her, open-mouthed. Then she felt tears turning into sobs, and rushed into her bedroom.
SHE SAT ON THE bedroom balcony and looked out into the gloom and the rain. The pine trees along the street were great dark shadows, swaying and talking in the dusk. From a hundred yards away, the light of a single streetlamp found its way through the pines to make tiny glittering reflections off the slick street. She hunched down in her oversized jacket and let the driven mist wash at the tears that trickled down her face. Daddy and Mom would be here in six days. Six days. Sanda unclenched her jaws and tried to
relax her face. How could she last?
She had sat here for hours, going around and around with these questions, never quite getting the pain rationalized, never quite finding a course of action that would not be still more painful. She wondered what Grandma was doing now. There had been no call to supper, or to help with supper. But there had been no sounds of cooking either. She was probably in her room, going through the same thing Sanda was. Grandma’s last words…they almost described her own grief all these weeks.
Grandmother had looked so small, so frail. Sanda was almost as tall as she, but rarely thought about it. It must have been hard for Grandma to have a guest she thought of as a child, a guest to whom she must always show the most cheerful face, a guest with whom every disagreement was a tiny failure.
And even this vacation had not been all bad. There had been the evenings when the weather was nice and they had stayed out on the screened porch to play caroms or Scrabble. Those had been just as good as before—better in some ways, now that she could understand Grandma’s little jokes and appreciate her impish grin when she made some clever countermove.
The girl sighed. She had been through these thoughts several times in the last hours. Each time she returned to them, they seemed to gain strength over the recriminations. She knew that in the end she would go downstairs, and try to make up. And maybe…maybe this time it could really work. This break had gone so deep and hurt so much that maybe they could start out in a new way.
She stood up and breathed the clean, cold, wet air. The keening of the Gemstone in the back of her mind was a prod now. There was more than cold in the Gemstone’s call; there was a loneliness she knew came in part from those around it.
As Sanda turned to enter the bedroom, a flash of headlights made her look back. A car was driving slowly by…It looked like a ’54 Ford. She stayed very still until it was out of sight, then dropped to her knees so that just her head was above the balcony. If this were like the other visitations…
