The Star Beast (10 page)

“You hush up, Betty. You’ve talked enough.” Betty hushed up. “Mr. Greenberg, everybody else has been talking. Can I say something?”

“Go ahead.”

“I’ve listened to a lot of stuff all day. People trying to make out that Lummox is dangerous, when he’s not People trying to have him killed, just for spite, yes, I mean you, Mrs. Donahue!”

“Address the court, please,” Greenberg said quietly.

“I’ve heard you say a lot of things, too. I didn’t follow all of them but, if you will pardon me, sir, some of them struck me as pretty silly. Excuse me.”

“No contempt intended, I’m sure.”

“Well…take this about whether Lummox is or isn’t a chattel. Or whether he’s bright enough to vote. Lummox is pretty bright, I guess nobody but me knows just how bright. But he’s never had any education and he’s never been anywhere. But that hasn’t anything to do with who he belongs to. He belongs to
me
. Just the way I belong to him…we grew up together. Now I know I’m responsible for that damage last Monday…will you keep quiet, Betty! I can’t pay for it now, but I’ll pay for it. I…”

“Just a moment, young man. The court will not permit you to admit liability without counsel. If that is your intention, court will appoint counsel.”

“You said I could have my say.”

“Continue. Noted for the record that this is not binding.”

“Sure, it’s binding, because I’m going to do it. Pretty soon my education trust comes due and it would about cover it. I guess I can…”

“John Thomas!” his mother called out sharply. “You’ll do no such thing!”

“Mother, you had better keep out of this, too. I was just going to say…”

“You’re not to say anything. Your honor, he is…”

“Order!” Greenberg interrupted. “None of this is binding. Let the lad speak.”

“Thank you, sir. I was through, anyway. But I’ve got something to say to
you
, sir, too. Lummie is timid. I can handle him because he trusts me—but if you think I’m going to let a lot of strangers poke him and prod him and ask him silly questions and put him through mazes and things, you’d just better think again—because I won’t stand for it! Lummie is sick right now. He’s had more excitement than is good for him. The poor thing…”

Lummox had waited for John Thomas longer than he liked because he was not sure where John Thomas had gone. He had seen him disappear in the crowd without being sure whether or not Johnnie had gone into the big house nearby. He had tried to sleep after he woke up the first time, but people had come poking around, and he had had to wake himself up repeatedly because his watchman circuit did not have much judgment. Not that he thought of it that way; he was merely aware that he had come to with his alarms jangling time after time.

At last he decided that it was time he located John Thomas and went home. Figuratively, he tore up Betty’s orders; after all, Betty was not Johnnie.

So he stepped up his hearing to “search” and tried to locate Johnnie. He listened for a long time, heard Betty’s voice several times—but he was not interested in Betty. He continued to listen.

There was Johnnie now! He tuned out everything else and listened. He was in the big house all right. Hey! Johnnie sounded just the way he did when he had arguments with his mother. Lummox spread his hearing a little and tried to find out what was going on.

They were talking about things he knew nothing about. But one thing was clear: somebody was being mean to Johnnie. His mother? Yes, be heard her once and he knew that she had the privilege of being mean to Johnnie, just as Johnnie could talk mean to him and it didn’t really matter. But there was somebody else…several others, and not a one of them had any such privilege.

Lummox decided that it was time to act. He heaved to his feet.

John Thomas got no farther in his peroration than “The poor thing…” There were screams and shouts from outside; everybody in court turned to look. The noises got rapidly closer and Mr. Greenberg was just going to send the bailiff to find out about it when suddenly it became unnecessary. The door to the courtroom bulged, then burst off its hinges. The front end of Lummox came in, tearing away part of the wall, and ending with him wearing the door frame as a collar. He opened his mouth. “Johnnie!” he piped.

“Lummox!” cried his friend. “Stand still. Stay right where you are. Don’t move an inch!”

Of all the faces in the room, that of Special Commissioner Greenberg presented the most interesting mixed expression.

CHAPTER V

A Matter of Viewpoint

THE
Right Honorable Mr. Kiku, Under Secretary for Spatial Affairs, opened a desk drawer and looked over his collection of pills. There was no longer any doubt; his stomach ulcer was acting up again. He selected one and turned wearily back to his tasks.

He read an order from the departmental Bureau of Engineering grounding all
Pelican
-class interplanetary ships until certain modifications were accomplished. Mr. Kiku did not bother to study the attached engineering report, but signed approval, checked “
EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY
” and dropped the papers in the outgoing basket. Engineering safety in space was the responsibility of BuEng; Kiku himself knew nothing of engineering and did not wish to; he would back up the decisions of his chief engineer, or fire him and get another one.

But he realized glumly that the financial lords who owned the
Pelican
-class ships would soon be knocking the ear of the Secretary…and, shortly thereafter, the Secretary, out of his depth and embarrassed by the political power wielded by those fine gentlemen, would dump them in his lap.

He was beginning to have his doubts about this new Secretary; he was not shaping up.

The next item was for his information only and had been routed to him because of standing orders that anything concerning the Secretary must reach his desk, no matter how routine. This item appeared routine and unimportant: according to the synopsis an organization calling itself “The Friends of Lummox” and headed by a Mrs. Beulah Murgatroyd was demanding an audience with the Secretary of Spatial Affairs; they were being shunted to the Special Assistant Secretary (Public Relations).

Mr. Kiku read no farther. Wes Robbins would kiss them to death and neither he nor the Secretary would be disturbed. He amused himself with the idea of punishing the Secretary by inflicting Mrs. Murgatroyd on him, but it was merely a passing fantasy; the Secretary’s time must be reserved for really important cornerstone-layings, not wasted on crackpot societies. Any organization calling itself “The Friends of This or That” always consisted of someone with an axe to grind, plus the usual assortment of prominent custard heads and professional stuffed shirts. But such groups could be a nuisance…therefore never grant them the Danegeld they demanded.

He sent it to files and picked up a memorandum from BuEcon: a virus had got into the great yeast plant at St. Louis; the projection showed a possibility of protein shortage and more drastic rationing. Even starvation on Earth was no direct interest to Mr. Kiku. But he stared thoughtfully while the slide rule in his head worked a few figures, then he called as assistant. “Wong, have you seen BuEcon Ay0428?”

“Uh, I believe so, boss. The St. Louis yeast thing?”

“Yes. What have you done about it?”

“Er, nothing. Not my pidgin, I believe.”

“You believe, eh? Our out-stations are your business, aren’t they? Look over your shipping schedules for the next eighteen months, correlate with Ay0428, and project. You may have to buy Australian sheep…and actually get them into our possession. We can’t have our people going hungry because some moron in St Louis dropped his socks in a yeast vat.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mr. Kiku turned back to work. He realized unhappily that he had been too brusque with Wong. His present frame of mind, he knew, was not Wong’s fault, but that of Dr. Ftaeml.

No, not Ftaeml’s fault…his own! He knew that he should not harbor race prejudice, not in this job. He was aware intellectually that he himself was relatively safe from persecution that could arise from differences of skin and hair and facial contour for the one reason that weird creatures such as Dr. Ftaeml had made the differences between breeds of men seem less important.

Still, there it was…he hated Ftaeml’s very shadow. He could not help it.

If the so-and-so would wear a turban, it would help…instead of walking around with those dirty snakes on his head wiggling like a can of worms. But oh no! the Rargyllians were proud of them. There was a suggestion in their manner that anyone without them was not quite human.

Come now!… Ftaeml was a decent chap. He made a note to invite Ftaeml to dinner, not put it off any longer. After all, he would make certain of deep-hypnotic preparation; the dinner need not be difficult. But his ulcer gave a fresh twinge at the thought.

Kiku did not hold it against the Rargyllian that he had dropped an impossible problem in the department’s tired lap; impossible problems were routine. It was just…well, why didn’t the monster get a haircut?

The vision of the Chesterfieldian Dr. Ftaeml with a shingle cut, his scalp all lumps and bumps, enabled Mr. Kiku to smile; he resumed work feeling better. The next item was a brief of a field report…oh yes! Sergei Greenberg. Good boy, Sergei. He was reaching for his pen to approve the recommendation even before he had finished reading it.

Instead of signing, he stared for almost half a second, then punched a button. “Files! Send up the full report of Mr. Greenberg’s field job, the one he got back from a few days ago.”

“Do you have the reference number, sir?”

“That intervention matter…you find it. Wait…it’s, uh, Rt0411, dated Saturday. I want it right now.”

He had only time to dispose of half a dozen items when, seconds later, the delivery tube went
thwong!
and a tiny cylinder popped out on his desk. He stuck it into his reading machine and relaxed, with his right thumb resting on a pressure plate to control the speed with which the print fled across the screen.

In less than seven minutes he had zipped through not only a full transcript of the trial but also Greenberg’s report of all else that had happened. Mr. Kiku could read at least two thousand words a minute with the aid of a machine; oral recordings and personal interviews he regarded as time wasters. But when the machine clicked off he decided on an oral report, He leaned to his interoffice communicator and flipped a switch. “Greenberg.”

Greenberg looked up from his desk. “Howdy, boss.”

“Come here, please.” He switched off without politenesses.

Greenberg decided that the bossman’s stomach must be bothering him again. But it was too late to find some urgent business outside the departmental building; he hurried upstairs and reported with his usual cheery grin. “Howdy, Chief.”

“Morning. I’ve been reading your intervention report.”

“So?”

“How old are you, Greenberg?”

“Eh? Thirty-seven.”

“Hmm. What is your present rank?”

“Sir? Diplomatic officer second class…acting first.” What the deuce? Uncle Henry knew the answers…he probably knew what size shoes he wore.

“Old enough to have sense,” Kiku mused. “Rank enough to be assigned as ambassador…or executive deputy to a politically-appointed ambassador. Sergei, how come you are so confounded stupid?”

Greenberg’s jaw muscles clamped but he said nothing.

“Well?”

“Sir,” Greenberg answered icily, “you are older and more experienced than I am. May I ask why you are so confounded rude?”

Mr. Kiku’s mouth twitched but he did not smile. “A fair question. My psychiatrist tells me that it is because I am an anarchist in the wrong job. Now sit down and we’ll discuss why you are so thick-headed. Cigarettes in the chair arm.” Greenberg sat down, discovered that he did not have a light, and asked for one.

“I don’t smoke,” answered Kiku. “I thought those were the self-striking kind. Aren’t they?”

“Oh. So they are.” Greenberg lit up.

“See? You don’t use your eyes and ears. Sergei, once that beast talked, you should have postponed the hearing until we knew all about him.”

“Mmmm… I suppose so.”

“You
suppose
so! Son, your subconscious alarms should have been clanging like a bed alarm on Monday morning. As it is, you let the implications be sprung on you when you thought the trial was over. And by a girl, a mere child. I’m glad I don’t read the papers; I’ll bet they had fun.”

Greenberg blushed. He did read the papers.

“Then when she had you tangled up like a rangtangtoo trying to find its own feet, instead of facing her challenge and meeting it… Meeting it how? By adjourning, of course, and ordering the investigation you should have ordered to start with, you…”

“But I
did
order it.”

“Don’t interrupt me; I want you browned on both sides. Then you proceeded to hand down a decision the like of which has not been seen since Solomon ordered the baby sawed in half. What mail-order law school did you attend?”

“Harvard,” Greenberg answered sullenly.

“Hmm… Well, I shouldn’t be too harsh on you; you’re handicapped. But by the seventy-seven seven-sided gods of the Sarvanchil, what did you do next? First you deny a petition from the local government itself to destroy this brute in the interest of public safety…then you reverse yourself, grant the prayer and tell them to kill him…subject only to routine approval of this department. All in ten minutes. Exeunt omnes, laughing. Son, I don’t mind you making a fool of yourself, but must you include the department?”

“Boss,” Greenberg said humbly, “I made a mistake. When I saw the mistake, I did the only thing I could do; I reversed myself. The beast really is dangerous and there are no proper facilities for confining it in Westville. If it had not been beyond my power, I would have ordered it destroyed at once, without referring back for the department’s approval…for your approval.”

“Hummph!”

“You weren’t sitting where I was, sir. You didn’t see that solid wall bulge in. You didn’t see the destruction.”

“I’m not impressed. Did you ever see a city that had been flattened by a fusion bomb? What does one courthouse wall matter?…probably some thieving contractor didn’t beef it up.”