The Star Beast by Robert A. Heinlein

Now it seemed too late, especially as the Chief was proud of the pen. There had been no time to pour a foundation, so the Chief had ordered an open-work box of steel girders, top, bottom, and sides, with one end left open until Lummox could be shut in.

Well, thought John Thomas, they all knew so much and they didn’t bother to ask me. He decided simply to warn Lummox not to eat a bite of the cage, under dire threats of punishment. . . and hope for the best.

Lummox was inclined to argue; from his point of view it was as silly as attempting to pen a hungry boy by stacking pies around him. One of the workmen paused, lowered his welding torch and said, “You know, it sounded just like that critter was talking.”

“He was,” John Thomas answered briefly.

“Oh.” The man looked at Lummox, then went back to work. Human speech on the part of extra-terrestrials was no novelty, especially on stereo programs; the man seemed satisfied. But shortly he paused again. “I don’t hold with animals talking,” he announced. John Thomas did not answer; it did not seem to be a remark to which an answer could be made.

Now that he had time John Thomas was anxious to examine something on Lummox which had been worrying him. He had first noticed the symptoms on the morning following Lummox’s disastrous stroll-two swellings located where Lummox’s shoulders would have been had he been so equipped. Yesterday they had seemed larger, which disturbed him, for he had hoped that they were just bruises. . . not that Lummox bruised easily.

But they fretted him. It seemed possible that Lummox had hurt himself during the accidental gymkhana he had taken part in. The shot that Mr. Ito had taken at him had not damaged him; there had been a slight powder burn where the explosive charge had struck him but that was all; a charge that would destroy a tank was to Lummox about like a hearty kick to a mule-startling, but not harmful.

Lummox might have bruised himself in plunging through the greenhouses, but that seemed unlikely. More probably he had been hurt in falling off the viaduct. John Thomas knew that such a fall would kill any Earth animal big enough to have an unfavorable cube-square ratio, such as an elephant. Of course Lummox, with his unearthly body chemistry, was not nearly as fragile as an elephant. . . still, he might have bruised himself badly.

Dog take it! the swellings were bigger than ever, real tumors now, and the hide over them seemed softer and thinner, not quite the armor that encased Lummox elsewhere. John Thomas wondered if a person like Lummox could get cancer, say from a bruise? He did not know and he did not know anyone who would. Lummox had never been ill as far back as John Thomas could remember, nor had his father ever mentioned Lummox having anything wrong with him. Lummox was the same today, yesterday, and always-except that he kept getting bigger.

He would have to look over his grandfather’s diary tonight and his great grandfather’s notes. Maybe he had missed something. . .

He pressed one of the swellings, trying to dig his fingers in; Lummox stirred restlessly. John Thomas stopped and said anxiously, “Does that hurt?”

“No,” the childish voice answered, “it tickles.”

The answer did not reassure him. He knew that Lummox was ticklish, but it usually took something like a pickaxe to accomplish it. The swellings must be very sensitive. He was about to investigate farther when he was hailed from behind.

“John! Johnnie!”

He turned. Betty Sorenson was outside the cage. “Hi, Slugger,” he called to her. “You got my message?”

“Yes, but not until after eight o’clock. You know the dorm rules. Hi, Lummox. How’s my baby?”

“Fine,” said Lummox.

“That’s why I recorded,” John Thomas answered. The idiots rousted me out of bed before daylight. Silly.”

“Do you good to see a sunrise. But what is all this rush? I thought the hearing was next week?”

“It was supposed to be. But some heavyweight from the Department of Space is coming out from Capital. He’s going to try it,”