“Give him some beer,” interjected the halitosis one, hoarsely.
A mug was thrust at John, who in prudence took it and tilted it to his mouth.
“Don’t drink much,” said Halitosis, after John had set the mug down, his already somewhat alcoholized head swimming after what had actually been a healthy human-sized draft of the liquid. “Like a bird. Like a little bird.”
“Built man-shape, though,” commented the one with the broken nose. “I wonder if he…” The question was of purely physiological significance.
“Not likely, at that size,” said the drunken one. “Here he’s chasing this here Shorty female the Terror’s got, though. You reckon…?”
One of the others—it was Halitosis again—hoarsely regretted the fact that they did not have the Shorty female there as well. It would, in his opinion, provide an opportunity for interesting and educative experimentation.
“Go to hell!” said John, instinctively in Basic Human.
“What?” asked the one with the pouch, drunkenly, behind him.
John made the most forceful translation into Dilbian that he could manage. The three Dilbians exploded into laughter.
“Have another drink,” said Broken Nose; and a further pint or so of the beer was forced down John’s throat. Broken Nose turned to his friends. “He better not get too tough with me, though!” He made a few humorous swipes with one huge hand in the air over John’s head. John felt his hair fanned by the blows, which would have had little trouble splitting his skull wide open if they had connected.
Everybody laughed.
“I wonder, can he do tricks?” asked Halitosis.
“How about it, Shorty?” demanded the drunken Dilbian with the pouch, who seemed to have adopted an air of ownership toward John.
“Sure,” said John.
“Show ‘em one!”
“Give me a full mug of beer, then,” said John. The three contributed from other mugs until one was brimming full—amongst guesses, polite and impolite—as to what the trick might require the beer for. When the mug was full, John reached down and hefted the gallon and a half container in his arms, taking a good grip on it.
“Now, watch closely,” he said. “I take a firm hold here, rock back on my heels like this, and—”
He spun suddenly on one heel, swinging the mug around and sloshing a wave of beer into all three faces. As they ducked and pawed at their eyes, he leaped off the table, dodged under the nearest bench, and continued in a sort of broken-field run for the door. At any minute, he expected a large hand to reach down and capture him; but although he found himself forced to give opportunities for this, no one else seemed inclined to halt him. The rest of the common room of the inn was roaring with laughter at the three belonging to the table he had just left. And these were cursing, rooting around and overturning nearby benches under the evident impression that John was still in their immediate area. The door to the outside loomed before John. He ducked gratefully under its hide curtain and into the safety of the outer darkness.
He did not immediately halt on gaining the security of the night, but continued around the side of the inn toward the bare patch of trashyard behind it that stood between the inn and the dropoff into the gorge, down in which he could hear the unseen mountain river even now, brawling on its nighttime way.
He wanted room. Once behind the inn, he dropped into a sitting position in the shelter of some empty kegs that, with other junk, filled the area. Off to his right, a rectangle of light framed the hide curtain covering a door to the inn. From that door came the odors of cooking and the sound of quarreling voices. A back kitchen entrance, apparently.
John sat, breathing heavily and trying to pull himself together. To his annoyance, he was more than a little drunk. The quart or so that the three at the table had forced him to drink on top of what he had already had, was now piling up inside him to give him a noticeable fuzziness. It would not last too long since it was the result of fast, rather than heavy, drinking. But for the moment it put him at a definite disadvantage in any contest where his only defense against overwhelming size and strength would be his natural speed and alertness. He decided to sit still where he was until his head was clear again, even if that took a couple of hours or so. Then carefully reconnoiter the place for the Hill Bluffer, in whose shadow he could enjoy some security.
He had just made up his mind to this, and was beginning to get his breath back, when there was a sudden flash of light from the hide curtain. Looking up, he caught sight for a moment of a female Dilbian figure, a small one, framed in silhouette for a second against the glare within. Then, swiftly, the curtain fell back into place, leaving only its pencil outline of yellow illumination.
But John had a sudden, uncomfortable feeling that the female he had seen had remained outside, rather than within. Quickly and quietly, he got to his feet in the darkness.
No sound from the direction of the door reached his ears; but he remembered how quietly the Tree Weeper had gone off through the woods as he left John and the Bluffer. And there had been no reason for the woodsman to hide the noise of his passage. If that was any index, and the Dilbian he had seen in the doorway was actually out there hunting him for any reason, John would have to rely on more than his ears for warning of any approach.
He lifted his nose and sniffed, cautiously. The kitchen odors had pretty much taken charge of the night air, but… yes, he was sure he caught a whiff of the peculiar Dilbian body odor.
And just at that moment, not ten feet from him, he heard clearly the sound of a double sniff.
Mentally kicking himself for his stupidity in forgetting that where human and Dilbian were concerned, two could play at this nose game, John moved speedily and silently away from the spot where he had been resting. The thing to do now, he thought, was to get upwind of his hunter, or huntress—if indeed it was the small female he had seen silhouetted, and then try to dodge past and get around once more to the front of the inn. Even Halitosis and his friends would be safer company than he was enjoying out here.
John began to move cautiously around to his right, toward the unseen and sounding river below the edge of the dropoff. No noise followed him; and this silence by itself was disturbing. John breathed shallowly and quietly, straining his eyes against the obsidian dark. He thought he saw something moving—black against black—but he was not sure. With the utmost possible silence, he began to back away, crouching. If he could find the edge of the cliff without falling over it, and work back along to a point level with the end of the inn, perhaps a quick dash from that spot for the inn’s front door—
The odds were against him. Just at that moment, he tripped and fell over a broken hoop from a keg.
The thud and clatter of his fall cried out in the tense silence. There was a sudden, tearing rush at him by something large and invisible; he rolled frantically free, stood up and ran.
There was no moon showing over this part of Dilbia in this season of the year, and the starlight gave little illumination. Still, what there was was enough to show him the ragged edge of the dropoff. He skidded to a halt, just short of tumbling headlong into the canyon. He stopped and turned, half-crouched, holding his breath and listening.
His heart hammered. There was no other sound.
End of round one, his brain suggested idiotically. And beginning of round two. Seconds out of the corners.
He held his breath and went on listening. For a long minute or two he heard nothing. Then, at some short distance behind him, he heard again the faint but unmistakable sound of sniffing. He froze. He was between the wind blowing up over the edge of the dropoff, and whoever hunted him. That sniffing nose would lead the pursuer straight to him.
Step by step, like a cat cautiously crossing a basket of eggs, he began to back up along the lip of the cliff. He had been blocked off from escape around the near end of the inn. Possibly he could retreat and make another try, this time around the far end. That is, if the hunter didn’t catch up with him befor
e he got that far, as was more than likely.
John took a moment now to wish that he had picked up a piece of barrel hoop, or some sort of a weapon from the trash lying about the yard. The female he had seen framed in the doorway was not so much bigger than he that something in the way of a club might not give him a fighting chance. He stretched out his hands as he went, sweeping the ground, in hopes of encountering something that could be put to use defensively.
His fingers trailed over the stones of the ground; then touched something hard, but a moment’s feeling about showed it to be the end of a complete keg, and useless for his purposes. A little farther, he encountered a barrel hoop, but it was complete and roundly harmless. It was not until the third try, that he found something useful.
It was a chunk of what was probably kindling wood to one Dilbian size, a length of split, dried log about four inches thick and about two and a half feet long. It was better than nothing and John’s hand closed gratefully about it, taking it with him.
He was three-quarters of the way to the far end of the inn, now. A little farther, and perhaps he would not need the chunk of kindling after all. A little farther…
He had backed clear to a point level with the end of the inn, and its front side was less than thirty yards away. One quick dash and he would be safe. John froze and sniffed silently. He listened.
Silence held the night.
John turned his head slowly from right to left, scanning the darkness behind him and the darkness between him and the inn. Over the rushing of the waters far below he could hear, through the bones of his inner ear, the creak of his tense neck muscles moving in the ringing silence of the waiting hush.
Nothing could be seen. Nothing moved. End of round three, whispered his brain. Beginning of round four. Seconds out of their corners. Still holding the club, he got up on his toes and knuckles like a sprinter about to start.
There was a sudden movement. A rearing up in the darkness before him. He tried to dodge, felt his feet slipping in the loose gravel and rock, struck out with the club and felt it connect…
And something indescribably hard smashed down onto his head, sending him swirling down and away, into starshot blackness.
CHAPTER 6
John opened his eyes to bright sunlight.
Dilbia’s sun, just above the snow-gilt peaks of the mountain horizon, was shining its first clear rays of the day directly into his eyes. He blinked sleepily, and started to roll over onto his side, turning his back to the penetrating dazzle of the light—
—and grabbed with every ounce of strength he could summon at the rough trunk of a stubby tree growing sideways out of the granite rock beside him.
For a long second, he hung there sweating. Then he wriggled back a ways, but without releasing his grip on the little tree, until he felt himself firmly wedged in among the rocks around him. Then—but still not letting go of the tree—he risked another look.
He lay on a narrow ridge several hundred feet above a mountain river and eternity. The water was far below. How far, he did not take the time or trouble to estimate. It was far enough.
He turned over and looked up. Just above him, a slight overhang came to an end, than there was about fifteen feet of jagged rock cliffside, then a steep slope, and some small sweaty distance beyond that, the haven that was the edge of the inn’s backyard. A bit of rusty hoop overhanging the edge identified it as such.
Swallowing a little convulsively, John relaxed his grip on the tree.
He was wide awake now, and in condition to notice a number of scrapes and gouges. There was one plowed groove that started up from his wrist and almost made it to his elbow. For a second John almost regretted not being back comfortably asleep again. Then he remembered the gorge below and was glad he was not. He looked up at the cliff face above him once more, and began to pick out a route by which he could ascend it.
He found it easily enough. The climb was not one which called for mountaineering experience, though John had that, along with other sports qualifications. But, thought John as he climbed, it was not exactly what everybody would pick for exercise before breakfast.
He made it up over the lip of the yard and lay there for a second, panting. In the daylight, the yard looked very small and ordinary. It was hard to believe that it had been the lengthy and dangerous arena where he skulked and fought for his life the night before. John got to his feet, brushed himself off, and limped around to the front of the inn, where some commotion seemed to be in process, and stumbled upon a scene that made him blink.
The entire populace of the inn, guests and help alike, were drawn up in the road before it. They stood in fairly orderly ranks before an open space in which a grizzled and lean old Dilbian sat on a bench placed on top of a table. Between this individual and the crowd—among which John recognized the inkeeperess in a clean apron—were John’s three tormentors of the night before, looking hangdog between two large Dilbians carrying axes over their shoulders. What, from its stained and gouged appearance looked ominously like a chopping block, was in position a little in front of the prisoners.
Across from the prisoners, the Hill Bluffer was windmilling his arms and orating in tones of outrage.
“The mail!” he was roaring, as John tottered around the corner of the inn into the full sight of everybody. “The mail is sacred. Anyone laying hands upon the mail in transit—”
At that moment, he caught sight of John; and broke off. The total assemblage, including the judge, turned and stared at John as he limped forward into their midst.
“There!” burst out the inkeeperess. “Didn’t I say it? The poor little fellow—probably frightened out of his wits. Been up a tree all this time, no doubt. No reason at all for chopping three poor men who’re just having a friendly drink. But, that’s it for you, a man can’t get beyond his middle years but he has to be playing judge at every opportunity. And every man who ever wore a mail pouch ranting and raving as if there wasn’t anything in the world but letters—much good letters do anyone, anyway. And those who can’t wait to waste their good time standing around at a trial and an execution not much better. Poor little Shorty.” She swooped down on John, fluttering her apron at him. “Now you just get right inside there and have your morning beer. Men!”
John let himself be herded inside. In addition to all his other aches and pains, he had just discovered himself to be the possessor of a walking hangover. And the Dilbian beer was at present the quickest—and only—cure for that.
Later, after John had drunk his breakfast and washed off a certain amount of dried blood, he and the Hill Bluffer got under way again. The long-legged Dilbian had fizzed and popped with the effervescence of throttled outrage for the first fifteen minutes or so following John’s return. But on being shut up by the inkeeperess, he had lapsed into a thoughtful silence, and he continued to be silent during the first few hours of their trip.
Meanwhile, thanks to a generally good physical condition and possibly in some measure to the beer and the food concentrates, John was recovering rapidly. Their way from Brittle Rock led through the highlands toward Knobby Gorge, the Bluffer had informed John, earlier. After that they would begin the gradual descent down the far, forested side of the Cold Mountains to Sour Ford and the Hollows. The Hollows was clan-country for the Streamside Terror, and their hope was to catch up with him before he reached it.
The first part of the day’s trailing after they left Brittle Rock led by narrow mountainside paths and across swinging suspension bridges over deep cuts in the rock that ended, far below, in rushing currents of white water. The Hill Bluffer trod this way for the first couple of hours, not merely with the casualness of someone well-used to it, but with the actual absent-mindedness of a person in deep thought.
“Hey!” said John, finally, when for the fifth time that morning the Hill Bluffer had shown signs of intending to walk off the path on to several hundred feet of thin air.
“Huh? What?” grunted the Hill Bluffer, saving them both with
a practiced twist of an ankle. “What’s that? Something on your mind, Half-Pint?”
As a matter of fact, thought John, there was. The notion born out of the fumes of the beer the previous evening when he had sat in what he thought was momentary safety in the inn’s backyard—before whoever it was had come out the kitchen door to hunt him—had returned to mind this morning as not a bad idea after all. Why not, he thought again, find out an honest Dilbian point of view about the human-Hemnoid struggle to make friends with the natives of this world? It was something that might not only rate him a commendation after all this was over; but might furnish him some valuable pointers on his present situation. These first two hours of no conversation had given him a chance to turn the matter over in his mind and try to think of how to frame the question.
He had finally come to the conclusion that, considering the Dilbian character, a direct approach was probably the best.
“Yes,” he said to the Hill Bluffer now. “I’ve been trying to figure out why you Dilbians like the Hemnoids better than us Shorties.”
The Bluffer did not rise to the bait, as John had half-hoped by immediately denying that the Dilbians played favorites.
“Oh, that,” said the Hill Bluffer, as calmly as if they were talking about a law of nature. “Why, it stands to reason, Half-Pint. Take the Beer-Guts Bouncer, now; or that new little one—”
“What new little one?” asked John, sharply, remembering the Hemnoid back in the woods when they had stopped to talk to Tree Weeper.
“What’s his name—Tark-ay, I guess they call him. The one who’s supposed to have been quite a scrapper back on his own home territory. You take someone like him, for example.”
“What about him?” asked John.
“Well, now,” said the Bluffer, judiciously, “he’s nowhere near the proper size of a man, of course. But he’s not ridiculous, like you Shorties. Why, two of you wouldn’t make a half-grown pup. And if people don’t lie, he’s strong enough to stand up to a man and holler for his rights—yes and back them up, too, if he had to, win or lose.”
The Right to Arm Bears (dilbia) Page 4