LITMIR.BIZ

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enough power—but that’s silly. Tungsten won’t cast.”

      “And we cahn’t build a spaceship. 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 formulas, and strength-of-materials comparisons that quite 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 forbidding 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,

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