Gordon Dickson: The Right to Arm Bears

John blinked. He glanced incredulously from the imperturbable Joshua to these oversize clowns in fur. What kind of goof-up, he wondered, could have put Guy in an ambassadorial post like this. A sharply tailored, fastidious little dandy of a man—and these lolling, shouting, belching, king-sized, frontier-type aliens. It was past belief.

For the first time there crept into John’s mind the awful suspicion that the whole thing—Joshua Guy being ambassador in a post like this, the kidnapping of the female sociologist, and his being drafted to do a job that he was in no way experienced or prepared for—all this just part of one monstrous blunder that had its beginnings in the Alien Relations Office, back in Governmental Headquarters on Earth.

“Haven’t laughed like that since old Souse Nose fell into the beer vat in the Mud Hollow Inn!” Two Answers was snorting, as he got himself back under control. “All right, Bright Top, what’ve you got to say for yourself? Think you can take the Streamside Terror with one paw tied behind your back?”

“I beg your pardon?” said John. “I understood I was here to bring back—er—Greasy Face, but—”

“Streamside won’t just hand her over. Will he, Knees?” Two Answers jogged his companion with a massive elbow.

“Not that boy!” Shaking Knees shook his head, slowly. “Little Bite, I ought never have let you talk me out of a son-in-law like that. Tough. Rough. Tricky. My little girl’d do all right with a buck like that.”

“I merely,” said Joshua, “suggested you make them wait a bit, if you remember. Boy Is She Built is still rather young.”

“And, boy is she built!” said her father, fondly. “Yep, I know it made sense the way you put it then.” He shook his head a little. “You sure got the knack for coming up on the right side of the argument with a man. Still, now I look back on it, it’s hard to see how that little girl of mine could do better.” He peered suddenly at Joshua. “You sure you ain’t got something hidden between your claws on this?”

Joshua spread his hands expressively.

“Would I risk one of my own people?” he said. “Maybe two, counting John, here? All for nothing but the fun of making the Terror mad at me?”

“Don’t make sense, does it?” rumbled Shaking Knees. “But you Shorties are tricky little characters.” His words rang with an honest admiration.

“Now, you people are pretty sly yourselves,” said Joshua. They both turned and spat over their left shoulders. “Well, now,” went on Joshua, “compliments aside, anybody know where the Terror is?”

“He headed west through the Cold Mountains,” put in Two Answers. “He was spotted yesterday a half day’s hike north, pointed toward Sour Ford and the Hollows. He probably nighted at Brittle Rock Inn, there.”

“Good,” said Joshua. “We’ll have to find a guide to there for my friend here.”

“Guide? Ho!” chortled Shaking Knees. “Wait’ll you see what we got for your friend.” He shouldered past Two Answers, opened the door and bellowed. “Bluffer! In here!”

There was a moment’s wait. And then a Dilbian even leaner and taller than Shaking Knees shouldered his way through the outer doorway into the office, which with this new addition, and in spite of its original size, began to take on the air of being decidedly crowded.

“Here you are, Shorties!” said Shaking Knees, waving an expansive furry hand at the newcomer. “What more could you ask for? Walk all day, climb all night, and start out fresh next morning after breakfast. Right, Hill Bluffer?”

“Right as rooftops in raintime!” sonorously proclaimed the newcomer, rattling the windows about the walls. “Hill Bluffer, that’s my name and trade! Anything on two feet walk away from me? Not over solid ground or living rock! When I look at a hill, it knows it’s beat; and it lays out flat for my trampling feet!”

“Well, how do you like that, Little Bite? Eh? How?” boomed Shaking Knees.

“Mighty impressive, Knees,” replied Joshua. “But I don’t know about my friend keeping up if the Hill Bluffer here moves like that.”

“Keep up? Hah!” guffawed Shaking Knees. “No, no, Little Bite, don’t you recognize the Hill Bluffer? He’s the government postman from Humrog to Wildwood Peak. We’re going to mail your Shorty friend here to the Terror. Guaranteed delivery. Postage: five pounds of nails.”

“Nobody stops the mail.” The Hill Bluffer swept the room with a glare that had a professional quality about it. “Nobody monkeys with the mail in transit!”

“Well…” said Joshua, thoughtfully. “Five pounds, of course, is out of the question.”

“Out of the question?” roared Shaking Knees. “A guaranteed, absolutely safe government mailman—!”

“I can hire five strong porters off the street for that.”

“Sure you can. Sure!” jeered Shaking Knees. “But can any of them catch up with the Terror?”

“Can the Bluffer catch up?”

The Hill Bluffer bellowed like a struck bull.

“Well,” said Joshua, “a pound and a half. That’s fair.”

The bargaining continued. John began to get a headache. He wondered how Joshua had kept from going deaf all these months in the embassy, or however long he had been billeted here. Then he noticed the older man was wearing a sound dampening coil behind each ear. It had not of course, thought John a trifle bitterly, occurred to him to suggest the same protection for John.

The price was finally settled at three and a quarter pounds of steel nails, size and type to be at Shaking Knees’ discretion, at some future date.

“Well, now,” said Joshua, “the next thing is—how’s the Bluffer going to carry him?”

“Who? Him?” boomed the Bluffer, focusing down on John. “Why, I’ll handle him like he was a week-old pup. Wrap him up real careful in some soft straw, tuck him in the bottom of my mail pouch and—”

“Hey!” cried John.

“I’m afraid,” said Joshua, “my friend’s right. We’re going to have to find some way he can ride more comfortably.”

The meeting adjourned to the embassy warehouse adjoining, to see what could be rigged up in the way of a saddle.

“I won’t wear it!” the Hill Bluffer was trumpeting, two hours later. They were all standing in the Humrog main street by this time, in front of the warehouse; and the cause of the Bluffer’s upset, a system of straps and pads arranged into a sort of shoulder harness to carry John, lay on the cobblestones before them. A small number of local Dilbian bystanders had gathered; and their freely offered basso comments were not of a sort to bring the Hill Bluffer to a more reasonable frame of mind.

“Now, that’s a real good system for my old lady to tote the youngest pup around,” one Dilbian with a grey scar jaggedly across his black nose, was saying.

“Good training for the Bluffer, too,” put in another blackfurred monster. “Have pups of his own, one of these days.”

“Unless,” said the scar-nosed one, judiciously, “this here little feller actually is a pup of the Hill Bluffer’s, already.”

“You don’t mean to actually tell me!” said the other. He squinted at John. “Yep, there’s a resemblance all right.”

“You want your ear tore off,” roared the infuriated Bluffer, pausing in the midst of his hot argument with Shaking Knees and Two Answers. “This here piece of mail’s a Shorty!”

John backed off a little from the bellowing group and tried to shut the voices out of his mind, even if shutting them out of his ears was somewhat impractical. He was in that stage of helplessly worn-out exasperation which often results when naturally independent and strong-willed people are pushed around without explanation and without the chance for natural protest.