The Star Beast by Robert A. Heinlein

Johnnie looked at her sharply. “Why, thanks, Mum uh, thanks.”

“How is Lummie?”

“Uh, he’s all right, I guess.”

“That’s good.”

He stared after her as she went in. Mum angry was bad enough, but Mum with that secret, catlike look, all sweetness and light, he was even more wary of. Nevertheless he polished off the excellent dinner, not having eaten since breakfast. She came out again a half hour later and said, “Finished, dear?”

“Uh, yes. . . thanks, it was good.”

“Thank you, dear. Will you bring the tray in? And come in yourself; there is a Mr. Perkins coming to see you at eight.”

“Mr. Perkins? Who’s he?” But the door was closing behind her.

He found his mother downstairs, resting and knitting socks. She smiled and said, “Well? How are we now?”

“All right. Say, Mum, who is this Perkins? Why does he want to see me?’

“He phoned this afternoon for an appointment. I told him to come at eight.”

“But didn’t he say what he wanted?”

“Well. . . perhaps he did, but mother thinks it is better for Mr. Perkins to explain his errand himself.”

“Is it about Lummox?”

“Don’t cross-examine Mum. You’ll know quickly enough.”

“But, look here, I. . .”

“We’ll say no more about it, do you mind? Take off your shoe, dear. I want to measure for the foot.”

Baffled, he started to remove his shoe. Suddenly he stopped. “Mum, I wish you wouldn’t knit socks for me.

“What, dear? But mother enjoys doing it for you.”

“Yes, but.. . Look, I don’t like hand-knit socks. They make creases on the soles of my feet . . . I’ve showed you often enough!”

“Don’t be silly! How could soft wool do your feet any harm? And think what you would have to pay for real wool, real handwork, if you bought it. Most boys would be grateful.”

“But I don’t like it, I tell you!”

She sighed. “Sometimes, dear, I don’t know what to do with you, I really don’t.” She rolled up her knitting and put it aside. “Go wash your hands. . . yes, and your face, too. . . and comb your hair. Mr. Perkins will be here any moment.”

“Say, about this Mr. Perkins. . .”

“Hurry, dear. Don’t make things difficult for mother.” Mr. Perkins turned out to be pleasant; John Thomas liked him despite his supiscions. After a few polite inanities, with coffee served for ritual hospitality, he came to the point.

He repesented the Exotic Life Laboratory of the Museum of Natural History. As a result of the news picture of Lummox in connection with the story of the trial the beast had come to the attention of the Museum. . . which now wanted to buy him.

‘To my surprise,” he added, “in searching the files I discovered that on another occasion the Museum attempted to buy this specimen. . . from your grandfather, I believe. The name was the same as yours and the date fitted. Are you any relation to. . .”

“My great great great grandfather. . . sure,” John Thomas interrupted. “And it was probably my grandfather they tried to buy Lummox from. But he was not for sale then-and he’s not for sale now!”

His mother looked up from knitting and said, “Be reasonable, dear. You are in no position to take that attitude.”

John Thomas looked stubborn. Mr. Perkins went on with a warm smile, “I sympathize with your feelings, Mr. Stuart. But our legal department looked into the matter before I came out here and I am familiar with your present problems. Believe me, I’m not here to make them worse; we have a solution that will protect your pet and clear up your troubles.”

“I’m not going to sell Lummox,” John Thomas persisted.

“Why not? If it turns out to be the only solution?”

“Well. . . because I can’t. Even if I wanted to. He wasn’t left to me to sell, he was left to me to keep and take care of. He was in this family before I was. . . before my mother was, for that matter.” He looked sternly at his mother. “Mum, I don’t know what’s gotten into you.”