Gordon Dickson - The Right to Arm Bears

“Go on, Pick-and-Shovel,” said More Jam. “Here the third brother was inside his house made of stone, and there was a Cobbly outside knowing he was in there. What happened next?”

“Well, I suppose you can guess,” said Bill, “that Cobbly just didn’t turn around and go away and leave the third brother alone.”

The villagers hummed their understanding and hearty agreement. It would be no sort of Cobbly at all, they obviously thought, who having gobbled up two of three brothers should leave the third brother in peace.

“The Cobbly knocked at the door—it was a wooden door but three bars held it securely on the inside—” began Bill, but this time he was interrupted from the front rank of the audience.

“ Soheknockedonthedoorandsaidhewasatravelerand-askedifhecouldcome-inandthebrothersaidno— ” exploded Perfectly Delightful, plainly unable to stand the suspense any longer.

“That’s right,” said Bill quickly, before the rest of the audience could jump on the excited Perfectly Delightful for interrupting. “And, of course, the Cobbly replied the same way he had to the first two brothers, saying he’d huff and he’d puff and he’d blow the house over. And do you know what the third brother said?”

Shaking their heads, his audience replied almost as one Dilbian that they did not—not without some hard glances thrown in Perfectly Delightful’s direction, although she was insisting on her ignorance as loudly as the rest of them.

“The third brother said,” said Bill, ” ‘You may huff and puff as long as you want, Cobbly, but you won’t be able to blow this house over!’ And with that, he turned back to his work, which was putting some final clay around the fireplace he had built into one wall of his house.”

“Well,” went on Bill, “the Cobbly huffed, and he puffed, and he Huffed and he Puffed! And he HUFFED! But he wasn’t able to move that house of stone at all.”

Spontaneous cheers rose from the inhabitants of Muddy Nose Village at this information.

“But that Cobbly wasn’t giving up—” said Bill when the cheering had died down somewhat. Instantly, a new, complete hush prevailed. He felt the Dilbian eyes hard upon him.

“The Cobbly looked at the door and knew he could never get in there,” said Bill. “But then the Cobbly looked up at the roof—and what did he see up there? It was the chimney of a fireplace that the third brother had just built. And in the top of it, was an opening leading right down to the inside of the house. So he jumped up on the roof—”

The audience groaned in new dismay.

“He crept up the logs of the roof until he was at the base of the chimney. He climbed up the chimney. He saw the hole was there. And, without stopping to look, he dived right down it!”

The villagers gasped. Bill stood where he was, in silence, letting the image of the Cobbly’s springing down the chimney on a defenseless third brother build itself in their minds. Then he spoke again very slowly.

“But—” he said, and paused again, “the third brother had expected something like this. He had already had some twigs and wood ready in the fireplace underneath his cooking pot, and he had the cooking pot, which was a very large one, full of water. When he heard the Cobbly sneaking around the roof and beginning to investigate the chimney, he had lit the fire under the cooking pot. When the Cobbly dived down the chimney, he dived right into the cooking pot, right into the water and drowned. And the third brother cooked him and had him for dinner, instead!”

It must have been doubtful whether Muddy Nose Village in the Lowlands of Dilbia had ever witnessed such a reaction over the happy ending of a story as took place then. Even Bill himself, half-deafened on top of his barrel, where he deemed it prudent to remain—could hardly believe in his own success as storyteller.

“There’s just one thing, Pick-and-Shovel,” said More Jam, when order was restored. “Didn’t you say something about all this having something to do with your grandfather? How does your grandfather come into it?”

“Actually,” said Bill, “he was my grandfather several times removed. And he actually didn’t come into it until quite a few years later. You see, after the story of the three brothers got around, a lot of us Shorties started building houses out of stone. It was back at a time called the ‘Middle Ages,’ back where I come from. They built some stone houses that were as big as this village, and you just couldn’t get into them.”

There was a momentary mutter of puzzlement from the crowd at this unfamiliar name, but it quieted quickly. Bill found that their attention was still with him.

“Some Shorties,” said Bill, with a heavy emphasis “some,” “began to take advantage off these big stone houses of theirs that nobody could get into—sort of the way the outlaws and Bone Breaker take advantage of that valley of theirs. So ways had to be found to get into those stone houses, somehow. So my grandfather came up with an idea. You couldn’t walk up too close to one of the walls of the stone houses because they’d throw big rocks and things like that down on you from windows high up in them. There were even some houses that had extra walls around them with platforms inside so that people could throw things down on anyone trying to get over the wall from the outside—”

“That’s what those outlaws do,” muttered a voice from the crowd.

“But you say your grandfather figured a way around that sort of thing?” put in More Jam mildly. The crowd quieted down, waiting for Bill’s answer.

“As a matter of fact, he did,” said Bill. “He got to thinking, why not make a sort of big shield you could push ahead of you to keep the rocks off and push it up close to the wall, and then start digging inside the shield and dig down and underneath both the shield and the wall and come up on the inside!”

Bill ended on a bright, emphatic note. Then he waited. But there was no reaction from the villagers. They merely stood, staring at him as the seconds slid away into silence. Bill saw More Jam stir and sneak glances to his right and left, but the fat Dilbian held his silence. It was Flat Fingers, who finally broke it.

“Well, I’ll be chopped!” exclaimed the blacksmith. “Why didn’t we think of that!”

Flat Fingers’ words suddenly released the tongues of the individuals in the staring audience—it was as if a plug had suddenly been pulled out of a full barrel—comment and exclamation gushed forth. Suddenly, all the villagers were talking at once—more than this, they were breaking up into small groups to argue and discuss the matter among themselves.

A crowd of villagers surrounded Flat Fingers, who was hoarsely giving directions and expounding upon the practical steps that could be taken to build such a shield.

Bill felt a sudden punch on his elbow that staggered him. He turned swiftly and found himself facing Sweet Thing, who was apparently trying to get his attention.

“Pick-and-Shovel, listen!” said Sweet Thing urgently. “I came up here to tell you but you were talking to everybody at the time, so I had to wait until you were through!”

“Tell me what?” asked Bill.

“What I saw, of course!” said Sweet Thing. “What do you think?”

Bill took a strong grip on his patience.

“What did you see, then,” he inquired in as calm a tone as possible.

“Him, of course!” said Sweet Thing exasperatedly. “Aren’t I telling you? And he was sneaking out of the Residency. Well, I knew he wasn’t supposed to be in there when you weren’t in there, so I came right up here to tell you about it. But you were so busy talking I had to wait. So I’m telling you now. That Fatty was up to something, as sure as I’m More Jam’s daughter!”