Gordon Dickson - The Right to Arm Bears

“Oh, by the way, I ran into him as I was coming out from Humrog, this morning,” said Joshua. “He told me he was due shortly for rotation to a post back on Chakaa—the second of the Hemnoid home worlds. If you and Ty dropped by, be sure to look him up and he’d show you around.”

“No thanks,” said John, grimly.

“My dear boy!” said Joshua, in tones of mild shock. “You mustn’t confuse what a person does in his official capacity with his character as a private citizen. Drop in on Chakaa as a tourist or on official business, and I’m sure you’d find Gulark- ay a superb host. In fact, take my advice and take him up on the invitation. I assure you, you’ll enjoy yourselves immensely.” He interrupted himself to glance over at the building. “That Dilbian who’s going with you two should be here by now. But pardon me for interrupting you. You say you only suspected—?”

“The story was too good to be true,” said John, again. “What cooked it, to my mind however, was Tark- ay conveniently setting out his knife and going to sleep so I could escape. He and Gulark- ay wanted me to get away. I was no use to him in pieces. He wanted me to stand up in front of the Clan Hollows meeting and admit to everybody I was scared spitless of fighting the Terror.”

“Lucky for us you weren’t,” said Joshua. “Actually, Ty and I never intended matters to go so far.”

“We estimated that the emotional value of your simply coming after me would have a good effect on the Dilbian group opinion where humans were concerned,” put in Ty. “We wouldn’t have blamed you a bit if you had let Joshua take the blame of Gulark- ay ’s story and let the grandfathers send us back without a fight. We didn’t expect that kind of courage.”

“What do you mean—courage?” said John. “If I hadn’t thought of the belt trick, and at that, it was a crazy fool stunt because I’d gotten so used to the Dilbians I’d forgotten how strong they could be. Don’t ask me to try it again.” He thought of something, suddenly. “The Terror never said anything about being beaten by a weapon, like my belt?” Joshua shook his head.

“He’s got his own reason, perhaps,” said Ty. “The Dilbian personality—oh, look!”

John and Joshua looked and saw One Man approaching, enormous in the morning light.

“Is he the one going with us?” said John. But One Man joined them before Joshua could answer.

“Greetings to you all,” rumbled One Man.

“Greetings to you as well,” replied Joshua. They smiled at each other, it was rather like a mouse and an orangutan exchanging the time of day.

“Uh—” said John to Ty, “how’d you get that smudge on your nose?”

“Smudge?” said Ty. “Nose?” She effected some feminine sleight of hand which caused a large compact to appear and open in her fingers. She peered into the mirror inside its lid. “Where? I don’t see it.”

“On the side of your nose there,” said John. “It looks,” he added, “sort of greasy…”

“Greasy!” Ty Lamorc snapped the compact shut indignantly and headed toward the terminal building. “Just a minute—tell the shuttle to wait,” she called over her shoulder. The two human men and the single Dilbian one watched her go.

“Attractive girl,” murmured Joshua.

“Is she?” inquired One Man.

“By our Shorty standards, very,” replied Joshua. “Our young friend here, the Half-Pint—”

“Oh, well,” said John, and cleared his throat meaningfully. He looked at One Man. “If I could have a word with you—”

“Excuse me,” said Joshua; and discreetly wandered off toward the far fence of the port.

“I wanted to thank you,” said John.

“Thank me?” rumbled One Man, in mild basso astonishment.

“For your help.”

“Help? Why, Half-Pint,” said One Man. “I can’t take any credit for helping you. I’m too old to go engaging in help to anyone, and if I did, of course it would be one of my own people. I can’t guess what you could be talking about.”

“I think you know,” said John.

“Not at all. Of course, now that you’ve given my people a clearer picture of what Shorties are like— Nothing wins like a winner, you know,” said One Man, pontifically. “In fact, I’m surprised it took you Shorties so long to realize that. As I said to you once before, who asked you all to come barging into our world, anyway?”

“Well—” said John, uncomfortably.

“And what made you think we all had to like you, and welcome you, and want to be like you? Why, if when you were a pup, some new kid had moved into your village; and he was half your size but had a lot of playthings you didn’t have, but came up and tapped you on the shoulder and said from now on I’m going to be your leader, and we’ll play my games, how would you have felt?”

He eyed John shrewdly out of his huge, hairy face.

“I see,” said John, after a moment. “Then why did you help me?”

“I tell you I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said One Man. “How could I help a Shorty, even if I wanted to?”

“Well, I’ll tell you how,” said John. “Back home where I come from, we’ve got a trick with something called a city directory. It’s about this thick,” John measured several inches between finger and thumb, “and it’s about as much a job for one of us Shorties to tear it in half as it is for one of you Dilbians to break that stick of yours. So—”

“Well, now, I can believe it,” broke in One Man in a judicious tone. “Directories, sticks of wood, or first class hill-and-alley scrappers; there’s a trick, I imagine, to handle almost any one of them. Of course,” said One Man, gazing off at the pure snow of the far mountain peaks, “nobody like you or I would stoop to using such tricks, even in a good cause.”

There was a moment’s dead silence between them.

“I guess,” said John at last, “I’ll never make a diplomat.”

“No,” said One Man, still gazing at the mountain peaks. “I don’t believe you ever will, Half-Pint.” He returned his gaze to John’s face. “If you take my advice, you’ll stick to your own line of Shorty work.”

“I just thought,” said John awkwardly, “since you were coming back to earth with us—”

“I?” said One Man. “What an idea, Half-Pint! An old man like me, exposed to all those new-fangled contrivances and being taught to act like a Shorty so I could come back and tell people about it? Why, I’d be just no good at all at something like this.”

“Not you?” John stared. “Then who—?”

“I thought you knew,” said One Man; and looked past John toward the terminal building. “Look; here he comes now.”

John turned and blinked. Coming toward them from the terminal and holding his pace down to accommodate his stride to that of Ty, who was walking alongside him, was none other than the Streamside Terror.

“But—” said John. “I thought he—”

“Appearances,” said One Man, “are often deceiving. If you were somebody with brains, among us real people on this world here, and nothing much else but a good set of reflexes, what would you do? Particularly if you were ambitious? Unfortunately, our society is a physically-oriented one, where muscles win more attention than wisdom. Streamside is the very boy to visit your Shorty worlds and begin to set up connections. Temperamentally, I can admit to you now, I suppose, you Shorties are a lot more akin to us than those Fatties. But you know how it is,” One Man paused and sighed, “close relatives squabble more often than strangers do.”

The Terror and Ty were almost to them. There was only time for a private word or two more.