William Tenn - Of Men And Monsters

“There won’t be,” the girl pouted. “I know what you’re like. There won’t be hardly anything left.”

Eric was shoved at the small burrow entrance again. The moment he was inside it, one of his guards planted a foot in his back, knocking the breath out of him. The kick propelled him forward, staggering wildly for balance, until he smashed into the opposite wall. As he fell, unable to use his arms to cushion himself, he heard laughter behind him in the great central burrow. He rolled on his side dirrily. There was a fresh flow of blood coming down from his cheek.

This wasn’t the homecoming he’d imagined after his Theft—not in the slightest! What was going on?

He knew where he was. A tiny, blind-alley burrow off Mankind’s major meeting place, a sort of little vault used mostly for storage. Excess food and goods stolen from Monster territory were kept here until there was enough accumulated for a trading expedition to the back burrows. Occasionally, also, a male Stranger, taken prisoner in battle, might be held in this place until Mankind found out if his tribe valued him enough to pay anything substantial for his recovery.

And if they didn’t …

Eric remembered the unusual structure that the women had been building near the Royal Mound—and shivered. The memory that he’d suppressed had now come alive in his mind. And it fitted with the way Harriet had acted and with what her mother, Rita the Record-Keeper, had said.

They couldn’t be planning that for him! He was a member of Mankind, almost a full warrior. They didn’t even do that to Strangers captured in battle—not normal Strangers. A warrior was always respected as a warrior: at the worst, he deserved a decent execution, quietly done. Except for—Except for—

“No!” he screamed. “No!”

The single guard who’d been left on duty at the entrance turned around and regarded him humorously.

“Oh, yes,” he said. “Oh, definitely yes! We’re going to have a lot of fun with both of you as soon as the women say they’re ready.” He nodded with ominous, emphatic slowness and turned back to miss none of the preparations.

Both of you? For the first time, Eric looked around the little storage burrow. The place was almost empty of goods, but off to one side, in the light of his forehead glow lamp (how proud he had been when it had been bestowed on him at the doorway to Monster territory!) he now saw another man lying against the wall.

His uncle.

Eric brought his knees up and wriggled rapidly over to him. It was a painful business: his belly and sides were not calloused and inured to the rough burrow floor like his feet. But what did a few scratches, more or less, matter any more?

The Trap-Smasher was barely conscious. He had been severely handled, and he looked almost as bad as his wives. There was a thick crust of dried blood on his hair: the haft of a spear, Eric guessed, had all but cracked his head open. And in several places on his body, his right shoulder, just above his left hip, deep in his thigh, were the oozing craters of serious spear wounds.

“Uncle Thomas,” Eric urged. “What happened? Who did this to you?”

The wounded man opened his eyes and shuddered. He looked around stupidly as if he had expected to find the walls talking to him. And his powerful arms struggled with the knots that held them firmly behind his back. When he finally located Eric, he smiled.

It was a bad thing to do. Someone had also smashed in most of his front teeth.

“Hello, Eric,” he mumbled. “What a fight, eh? How did the rest of the band do—anybody get away?”

“I don’t know. That’s what I’m asking you! I came back from my Theft—you were gone—the band was gone. I got here, and everyone’s crazy! There are Strangers out there, walking around with weapons in our burrows. Who are they?”

Thomas the Trap-Smasher’s eyes had slowly darkened. They were fully in focus now, and long threads of agony swam in them. “Strangers?” he asked in a low voice.

“Yes, there were Strangers fighting in Stephen the Strong-Armed’s band. Fighting against us. That chief of ours—Franklin—he got in touch with Strangers after we left. They compared notes: they must have been working together, been in touch with each other, for a long time. Mankind, Strangers, what difference does it make when their lousy Ancestor-Science is threatened? I should have remembered.”

“What?” Eric begged. “What should you have remembered?”

“That’s the way they put down Alien-Science in the other rising, long ago. A chief’s a chief; he’s got more in common with another chief—even a chief of Strangers—than with his own people. You attack Ancestor-Science, and you’re attacking their power as chiefs. They’ll work together then. They’ll give each other men, weapons, information—they’ll do everything they can against the common enemy. Against the only people who really want to hit back at the Monsters. I should have remembered! Damn it all,” the Trap-Smasher groaned through his ruined mouth, “I saw that the chief and Ottilie were suspicious. I should have realized how they were going, to handle it. They were going to call in Strangers, exchange information—and unite against us!”

Eric stared at his uncle, dimly understanding. Just as there was a secret organization of Alien-Scienccrs that cut across tribal boundaries, so there was a tacit, rarely used understanding among the chiefs, based on the Ancestor-Science religion that was the main prep of their power. And the power of the leaders of the Female Society, come to think of it. All special privileges were derived from their knowledge of Ancestor-Science: take that away from them, and they’d be ordinary women with no more magical abilities than was necessary to tell edible food from Monster poison.

Grunting with pain, Thomas the Trap-Smasher wormed his way up to a sitting position against the wall. He kept shaking his head as if to jar recollection loose.

“They came up to us,” he said heavily, “Stephen the Strong-Armed and his band came up to us just after you’d gone into Monster territory. A band from Mankind with a message from the chief—who suspected anything? They might be coming to tell us that the home burrows. were under attack by Strangers. Strangers!” he gave a barking laugh, and some blood splashed out of his mouth. “They had Strangers with them, hidden all the way behind in the corridors. Mobs and mobs of Strangers.”

Eric began to visualize what had happened.

“Then, when they were among us, when most of us had reslung our spears, they hit us. Eric, they hit us real good. They had us so much by surprise that they didn’t even need outside help. I don’t think there was much left of us by the time the Strangers came running up. I was down, fighting with my bare hands—and so was the rest of the band. The Strangers did the mopping up. I didn’t see “most of it—somebody handed me one hell of a wallop—I never expected to wake up alive.” His voice got even lower and huskier. “I’d have been lucky not to.”

The Trap-Smasher’s chest heaved: a strange, long noise came out of it. “They brought me back here. My wives—they were working on my wives. Those bitches from the Female Society—Ottilie, Rita—this part of it is their business—they had my wives pegged out and they worked on them in front of me. I was blanking out and coming to, blanking out and coming to: I was conscious while they—”

He dropped to a bloody mumble again, his head falling forward loosely. His voice became clear- for a moment, but not entirely rational. “They were good women,” he muttered. “Both of them. Good, good girls. And they loved me. They had their chance to become more important—a dozen times Franklin must have offered to impregnate them, and they turned him down every time. They loved me, they really loved me.”