LITMIR.BIZ

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about time for Alistair to come to her senses, and, knowing that it would take a quasi-scientific miracle to do it, dreamed up this—”

      “Some day,” said Alistair icily, “I’m going to pry you loose from your verbosity and your sense of humor in one fell swoop.”

      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.”

      And 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 that 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 conversation. 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. He 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 disk 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 in 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.

      “Are 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 spaceships 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, of good will that surrounded them made questions seem not only unnecessary but downright rude.

      And day by day, and 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

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