Gordon Dickson - The Right to Arm Bears

He was nudged by the grandfather adjoining. The grandfathers conferred, for the most part in low voices. Then they all sat back on their bench, and the central one waggled a finger at the head axman, who stepped out into the open space before the ledge and turned to the crowd.

“Clan Hollows is now meeting in open session!” he shouted. “No fighting! Everybody listen!”

The crowd muttered, grumbled, and took about forty seconds to subside to a passably low level of noise.

“Ahem!” The central grandfather, a heavy Dilbian whose hair was showing the rusty color of age, cleared his throat. “The grandfathers have called this meeting to discuss a matter of Clan honor. In short: is the honor of Clan Hollows involved in the ruckus that one of the Clan Members, the Streamside Terror, has got himself into?”

“Yes!” spoke up Boy Is She Built.

“Who said that?” said the central grandfather.

“She did,” said an axman, pointing at Boy Is She Built.

“Keep her quiet,” said the grandfather.

“Shut up!” said the axman to Boy Is She Built.

“I apologize for my daughter to Clan Hollows,” said Shaking Knees.

“You ought to,” said the center Clan Hollows grandfather.

“What’d she say? Hey?” said the grandfather on the end. And they started all over again.

Three minutes later, approximately, things were fairly well straightened out and the meeting underway.

“It seems,” said the center grandfather, “that the Terror, wanting this female that just interrupted your grandfather, here, got himself involved with a couple of different types of characters, who may or may not be real people, ended up coming back here with one of the types of characters, known as a Shorty, hot after him, and killing one of the other types of characters, known as a Fatty. Everybody agree to this?”

There was a stir in the forefront of the crowd and Gulark- ay spoke up.

“If the grandfathers will allow a stranger to speak—”

“Go ahead,” said the center grandfather. “You’re the Fatty top man from Humrog, aren’t you?”

“I am.”

“You don’t agree?” said the center grandfather.

“I just,” said Gulark- ay in a voice that reminded John of heavy maple syrup being poured from a five-gallon can, “wished to point out to the grandfathers of Clan Hollows that the Fatty in question is not quite killed. The Terror apparently left him for dead; but it seems now he will recover.”

“Well, then, there’s no blood feud involved there!” said the grandfather, sharply. “Why aren’t we informed properly about these things?”

“I don’t know,” said the chief axman.

“Speak when you’re spoken to,” said the center grandfather. He looked out over the crowd. “Where’s the Terror? I don’t see the Terror.”

“He’s waiting at Glen Hollow,” said Boy Is She built.

“Shut up,” said the axman who had spoken to her before.

“Let her speak now,” said the center grandfather. “Unless somebody else can tell us why the Terror’s at Glen Hollow instead of here? I didn’t think so. Go on, girl!”

“The Terror says the Clan can’t force a man to dishonor himself. If he’d known the Half-Pint Posted, this Shorty here, had been after him, he wouldn’t have moved a step after taking Greasy Face to avenge his honor against Little Bite—”

“Hold on!” said the center grandfather. “Hold on. Let’s get things straightened out here. Who’s Greasy Face?”

Boy Is She Built pointed down at Ty Lamorc, beside her.

“This Shorty female, here.”

The crowd muttered among itself and craned its necks, looking over the shoulders of those in front of it to get a look at Ty.

“Female!” the grandfather next to him was shouting in the ear of the deaf grandfather on the end. “Shorty FE- male !”

“They come in pairs?” the deaf grandfather said, interestedly.

Boy Is She Built went on to explain. It was approximately the same story Joshua had given John originally, except that in Boy Is She Built’s version she and the Terror were reported as invariably speaking in tones of great calm and reasonableness; while Shaking Knees, Joshua, and all others sneered, whined, bellowed, and generally used the nastiest voices they were capable of using, when they were quoted.

“That still doesn’t explain,” said the center grandfather when she was through, “why the Terror isn’t here to speak for himself.”

“He says it already looks as if he had been dodging a fight with Half-Pint. He’s not going to have it look as if he was hiding behind the grandfathers. He’s there waiting for the Shorty now, in Glen Hollow for all the world to see. And if the Shorty doesn’t reach him, it isn’t his fault!”

“Hmph!” said the center grandfather, thoughtfully. He conferred with the other grandfathers. “Hey? What say?” the deaf grandfather could be heard demanding at intervals. Finally, they all sat back on their bench and the center grandfather spoke out again.

“As far as the grandfathers of the Clan can see,” he said, “there’s no reason this shouldn’t be a personal matter between The Terror and the Half-Pint, here—except for one thing.”

He paused and cleared his throat. It was like banging a gavel for order. The crowd became the quietest it had so far become.

“The facts are these,” he said. “The Terror has had his mug spilt by a Shorty who is a guest in Humrog.” He glanced at Shaking Knees. “Right?”

“Right,” replied Shaking Knees, inclining his head as one gentleman of substance to another.

“To hit back, the Terror has tried to spill the mug of the guest Shorty by stealing away a member of the guest’s household. That little Shorty female, there, Greasy Face.”

Everybody looked at Ty.

“All right. Now, along comes a male Shorty—Half-Pint Posted here—having a claim on Greasy Face, and chases after the Terror to get his female back. And the grandfathers of your clan aren’t such unfeeling old geezers—” he paused to glare at the audience “—even though you all seem to think so most of the time, that they’d require him to give her back. So why not let the Terror and the Half-Pint meet? Well, there’s only one hitch.”

The center grandfather leaned back, readjusting the creases in his large belly and looked right and left for approval. With nods and grunts, his fellow grandfathers gave it to him. Even the deaf grandfather seemed to be fully briefed and in favor as he nodded with one hand cupped about his ear.

“The hitch is this,” said the center grandfather. “Now the rules and customs of real men are not set up at random. There is always a purpose behind them. And the purpose behind affairs of honor is to enable real men to live honorably and safely, one with another.”

“ I think it’s absolutely ridiculous!” muttered Boy Is She Built. “What I think, is—”

“Shut up!” said the axman.

“Therefore, it is not just the honors of two individuals at stake in such instances, but the whole structure of custom by which we live. In this instance, now, it may well be honorable for man to fight with man; but is it honorable for man to fight a Shorty—considering all that a Shorty is, in the way of size and differentness? In short, if we let this Shorty fight the Terror it’s the same thing as admitting he’s as much a man as any real man among us. And is he? What kind of proof have we got that he deserves to be treated like one of us, like a real man?” The center grandfather paused and looked out over the crowd. “Anybody who has anything they want to say on this question can now speak up.”

“Ahem!” said Shaking Knees.

“Mayor?” said the center grandfather. Shaking Knees rolled forward a couple of ponderous paces.