The Star Beast by Robert A. Heinlein

Up ahead a grove of lodgepole pines came down to the bank. It seemed dense enough; even if Lummox were not invisible in it, nevertheless holding still he would look like a big, mountain-country boulder. It would have to do; there was no time to pick a better place. “Up the bank and into those trees, Luni, and don’t, break the bank down. Step easy.”

They entered the grove and stopped; Johnnie dismounted. Lummox tore down a branch of pine and started to eat. It reminded John Thomas that he himself had ,not eaten lately but he was so dead tired that he was not hungry. He wanted to sleep, really sleep not half awake and clutching a safety line.

But he was afraid that if he let Lummox graze while he slept the big stupid lunk would wander into the open and be spotted. “Lummie? Let’s take a nap before we have breakfast.”

“Why?”

“Well, Johnnie’s awful tired. You just lie down here and I’ll put my sleeping bag beside you. Then when we wake up, we’ll eat.”

“Not eat until you wake up?”

“That’s it.”

“Well. .. all right,” Lummox said regretfully.

John Thomas took his sleeping bag out of his picket, flipped the light membrane open, and plugged in the power pack. He set the thermostat and switched it on, then while it heated he inflated the mattress side. The thin mountain air made it heavy work; he stopped with it only partly blown up and peeled off all his clothes. Shivering in the frosty air he slid inside, closed it to a nose hole. “G’night, Lunimie.”

“G’night, Johnme.”

Mr. Kiku slept badly and was up early. He breakfasted without disturbing his wife and went to the Spatial Affairs hall, arriving while the great building was quiet except for the handful on night duty. Seated at his desk, he tried to think.

His subconscious had been nagging him all night, telling him that he had missed something important. Mr. Kiku had high respect for his subconscious, holding a theory that real thinking was never done at the top of the mind, which he regarded merely as a display window for results arrived at elsewhere, like the “answer” windows in a calculator.

Something young Greenberg had said. . . something about the Rargyllian believing that the Hroshii, with only one ship, were a serious menace to Earth. Mr. Kiku had discounted it as a clumsy attempt by the snake boy to bluff from weakness. Not that it mattered; the negotiation was about over. . . the one remaining detail being to set up permanent relations with the Hroshii.

His subconscious had not thought so.

He leaned to his desk and spoke to the night communications supervisor. “Kiku. Call the Hotel UniversaL There’s a Dr. Ftaeml there, a Rargyllian. As soon as he orders breakfast I want to talk a him. No, don’t wake him, a man is entitled to his rest.”

Having done what could be done, he turned to the mind-soothing routine of clearing up accumulated work.

His incoming basket was empty for the first time in some days and the building was beginning to stir when his desk communicator showed a blinking red light.

“Kiku here.”

“Sir,” the face said anxiously, “on that call to Hotel Universal. Dr. Ftaeml did not order breakfast”

“Sleeping late perhaps. His privilege.”

“No, sir. I mean he skipped breakfast. He’s on his way to space port.”

“How long ago?”

“Five to ten minutes. I just found out.”

“Very well.” Call space port, tell them not to clear his ship. Make certain that they understand that it has diplomatic clearance and that they must actually do something. . . not just scratch its clearance on the board and go back to sleep. Then reach Dr. Ftaeml himself-my compliments to the Doctor and will he do me the honor of waiting a few minutes to see me? I am on my way to the port”

“Yes, sir!”

“That done, there is a matter of a special efficiency report for you. . . uh, Znedov, is it? Make out the form and grade yourself; I want to see your opinion of yourself.”

“Yes, sir.”