“Never mind that now, Perfectly Delightful!” snapped the older female. “We aren’t here to talk about Bone Breaker. We’re here to settle this Shorty’s hash. Bear in mind, both of you, if you please, that it’s the ancient and honorable customs of our village that’s at stake here. We’re not going to keep this Shorty from helping Sweet Thing get Bone Breaker, just to please you, Perfectly Delightful!”
“Hey, never mind that!” broke in Grandpa Squeaky, jittering with what appeared to be eagerness. “Let me at him, hey? I’ll judge him! I’ll rule on what’s to be done with him!”
Grandpa Squeaky approached Bill and bent down until his breath fanned the hair on Bill’s forehead. Bill held his breath—for Grandpa Squeaky, it seemed, had a rather bad case of halitosis.
“Hey, you Shorty! Pick-and-Shovel!” demanded Grandpa Squeaky.
“What is it?” demanded Bill, turning his face away. To his relief, the aged Dilbian stood upright, removing both his face and his breath to a bearable distance.
“Answers to his name, all right,” commented Grandpa Squeaky to the two females. “That takes care of the part about who he is.”
“Why don’t we find a rock and hit him on the head?” queried Perfectly Delightful, in a pleasant tone of voice.
“Go on, I say!” insisted Thing-or-Two to Grandpa Squeaky. Grandpa Squeaky swallowed, and obeyed.
“Here, you, Pick-and-Shovel,” he said, “you come in here, helping Dirty Teeth and the Tricky Teacher upset all our honorable old ways of living. We let you get away with that, and you think you can get away with even worse. Now, didn’t you take Sweet Thing’s side against a fine young buck like Bone Breaker, encouraging a young female to dispute where her husband-to-be wants her to live? Didn’t you interfere, hey, in something that wasn’t your concern? And besides, didn’t you go and challenge our village blacksmith to a weightlifting contest at noon today?”
“Certainly I did!” retorted Bill. “And I was just about to head for his forge—”
“Never mind about that!” interrupted Thing-or-Two. “Go on, Grandpa Squeaky.”
“I’ll find a rock in a minute, and then we can shut him up,” put in Perfectly Delightful brightly. She was searching around among the grassy open area of the dell.
“Sure you did!” said Grandpa Squeaky. “And then you sneaked off to the woods here and hid out, so you wouldn’t have to face him—I mean Flat Fingers—thereby injuring the honor of our village.”
“Hey!” shouted Bill. “What do you mean, sneaked off? Can’t you see my hands are tied behind me here?”
“Nonsense! Go on,” said Thing-or-Two. “You can’t see his hands from where you’re standing, can you? So you’ve only got his word for it, haven’t you? And you aren’t going to take the word of a moral wrecker, who thinks our young women can start telling their future husbands how to come and go and where they’re supposed to live after they’re married? Well, are you?”
“Of course not,” said Grandpa Squeaky. He straightened up, squared his shoulders, and addressed Bill once more in a rather more grand manner. “This acting Grandfather—me, that is—finds you guilty as all get out on all counts. Accordingly, he sentences you—this acting Grandfather, who’s me—to have your head chopped and your body left at that Residency building for the next Shorty that comes along to take care of.”
He dropped his grand manner for a more colloquial one.
“I left the axes back in the woods a-ways. I’ll go get them now.”
Grandpa Squeaky turned away toward the brush, just as Perfectly Delightful came up with a rock the size of a small cantaloupe.
“Knock him on the head with this,” she suggested helpfully, “that way he can’t dodge around—”
“No, we don’t!” snapped Thing-or-Two. “Grandpa Squeaky’s got to chop him, and nobody’ll believe it was a fair fight if we’ve got a dead Shorty with a large bump on his head—”
“Wait!” shouted Bill, desperation adding volume to his voice. “Are you crazy? You can’t go killing me, just like that—”
“Why, sure we can, Pick-and-Shovel,” interrupted Grandpa Squeaky, staggering back under the double load of a pair of heavy Dilbian axes, massive, with triangular heads made of gray, native iron. “It’s not as if you don’t have a chance. Seeing I’m just an acting Grandfather, I’m giving you a chance to fight for your life, instead of just chopping you like that. I’ll take one ax and you can have the other. Here!”
He dropped one ax in front of Bill, and its handle thudded to the earth six inches from Bill’s crossed legs.
“What do you mean?” cried Bill. “I told you, I’m tied up! Can’t you see my hands are tied—”
“What do you mean, tied?” demanded Thing-or-Two. Looking at the older Dilbian female, Bill discovered that she had her eyes tightly shut. “I don’t see any ropes on his hands. Do you, Perfectly Delightful?”
“Neither do I!” exclaimed Perfectly Delightful, shutting her own eyes. “You know what I think? I think the Shorty’s scared. He’s just scared—that’s why he won’t pick up the ax.”
“All right, Pick-and-Shovel!” piped Grandpa Squeaky, doing a kind of feeble war dance, tottering around with his own ax. “What’s the matter, hey? Scared of me, hey? Come on and face up to me like a man! The witnesses don’t see any ropes on your hands—” Hastily, he shut his own eyes. “Neither do I! Grab your ax, if you’ve got the guts to face me, or I’ll start to chop you anyway. This is your last chance, Pick-and-Shovel—”
At that moment, however, he was interrupted by a voice. It burst upon them all like a shout of thunder.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH MY SHORTY?”
For a second the three Dilbians facing Bill stiffened in mid-movement. Then they spun about to face in the direction from which the voice had come, and, in turning, moved enough apart so that Bill could see between them.
Breaking into the clearing through the brush at its edge was another Dilbian, a female, shorter than either Perfectly Delightful or Thing-or-Two. For a moment, he had no idea who this was, though the voice that had just shouted at them rang on his ear with accents of familiarity. He was suddenly aware, however, that he seemed to have found a friend, if not a rescuer, and that was all that was important at the moment.
Then Thing-or-Two unconsciously, if conveniently, came to his aid.
“Sweet Thing!” the other Dilbian female exploded, on an indrawn, snarling note.
“You just bet it’s me!” snarled Sweet Thing in return, advancing into the clearing. She stopped some fifteen feet from the other three. She did not put her hands on her hips, but Bill got the strong impression that if this had been a Dilbian gesture, she certainly would have done so. “And here you are with my Shorty!” Her eyes scorched them all, but ended upon Grandpa Squeaky. “You!”
“Hey, now,” protested Grandpa Squeaky, with a perceptible quaver in his voice. A quaver of tremulous old age which contrasted markedly with his energy of a moment before.
“What were you doing to Pick-and-Shovel?”
“None of your business!” snapped Thing-or-Two.
“Pick-and-Shovel!” called Sweet Thing. “What were they doing to you here?”
“They seemed to be putting me on trial—or something,” shouted Bill back. He found himself wondering how he could have originally have wondered, on first seeing Sweet Thing, what made her attractive to the outlaw. Right now she was looking decidedly beautiful to him. In fact, the only individual who could have looked much more beautiful would have been Lafe Greentree, himself, with a cast on his broken leg if necessary, but with a handgun in his fist. “This Grandfather here—”
He tried to point at Grandpa Squeaky with his head, but both the pointing and the finishing of the sentence were unnecessary.
“Grandfather!” cried Sweet Thing, scorching Grandpa Squeaky with her eyes again. “You, a Grandfather!” She laughed scornfully. “A fine, squeaking Grandfather you’d make, with your nose in a beer cup all day long! You, a Grandf
ather! Wait’ll I tell my father! I’ll just tell More Jam that you’ve been pretending to be a Grandfather—”
“No!” cried Squeaky Grandpa, agonized. “Sweet Thing, you wouldn’t do that to an old man? You wouldn’t tell your father about a little harmless joke like this? You wouldn’t—”
“You better get out of here fast, then,” said Sweet Thing ominously.
“I’m going—I’m going—” Squeaky Grandpa lost no time in putting his words into action. He was across the clearing and into the brush, in a sort of tottering rush before he had finished repeating himself the second time. Sweet Thing’s eye swung to the other two females. These, however, did not show the satisfactory sort of response that Grandpa Squeaky had exhibited.
“For your information, Sweet Thing,” said Thing-or-Two grimly, “you can tell your father about this every day and twice on Sunday, and much it’ll mean to me!”
“How much will it mean to you, though,” said Sweet Thing, in a surprisingly gentle voice, “when my father tells the whole village how you’ve been making fun of them by putting up poor old Grandpa Squeaky to act like he’s the sort they might pick for a Grandfather? Don’t you think that might bother you just the least little bit?”
“Why—” Thing-or-Two broke off sharply. She hesitated. “Why, they’d never believe such a thing. Never in a lifetime!”
Nonetheless, Bill noted, a good deal of the fire had gone out of her tone of voice.
“They won’t believe it?” echoed Sweet Thing in a voice filled with innocent wonder. “Not even when More Jam tells them he saw it with his own two eyes?”
“Saw it?” Thing-or-Two darted a sudden, nervous glance around her at the silent brush enclosing the dell. Her voice stiffened. “More Jam wouldn’t lie to the whole village. He wouldn’t do such a thing!”
“Not if I just refused to cook for him until he did?” queried Sweet Thing, in the same innocent and wondering tone. “Of course, Thing-or-Two, you’re a lot older than I am and you know best. But I should think that if I really told my father I wouldn’t do any more cooking for him, that he wouldn’t hesitate about telling everybody what he really saw with his own two eyes here in this clearing.”
Thing-or-Two stared angrily back at the younger female. But after a second, the stiffness seemed to leak out of her. She snorted angrily—but also she began to move. With her head in the air, she marched across the clearing and into the brush, and Bill heard her moving away from them. He looked back at Sweet Thing, who was now facing Perfectly Delightful, the only one of the original three conspirators left in the dell.
“You can go, too,” said Sweet Thing, in a voice that suddenly had become very ugly.
“Oh, I don’t know,” replied Perfectly Delightful lightly. “Everybody knows what an obedient young girl I am. Naturally I had to do what my elders said—like when Thing-or-Two and Grandpa Squeaky told me to come along here.”
“They aren’t telling you what to do now,” said Sweet Thing.
“Oh, I don’t know,” repeated Perfectly Delightful, gazing absently at the same white clouds drifting overhead that had earlier interested Mula-ay—but without failing to watch Sweet Thing at the same time out of the corners of her eyes. “They told me earlier to see that Pick-and-Shovel, here, didn’t get loose and run away. They haven’t told me anything to change that. They’ve just gone off. Maybe they’re going to be back a little later. Or maybe they figure I’d stay here and guard the Shorty for them. I really don’t know what else I can do,” said Perfectly Delightful, helplessly withdrawing her eyes from the clouds at last and fixing them firmly on Sweet Thing, “but stay right here and see that nobody tampers with this Shorty.”
As Perfectly Delightful had been talking, Sweet Thing had begun to move forward slowly. However, as she came to just beyond arm’s reach of the other young Dilbian female, she began to circle to her right. So it was that Perfectly Delightful, while still speaking, began to turn so as to face Sweet Thing. Gradually, they were beginning to circle each other like a couple of wrestlers, and after Perfectly Delightful had stopped talking, they continued to circle in silence for a number of seconds.
Bill, watching in fascination with his hands tied behind the tree trunk, was made suddenly aware of the fact that he was unable to get out of the way in case trouble should erupt. It was true that Perfectly Delightful, though tall for a female, would hardly have been able to raise the crown of her head above the point of the Hill Bluffer’s shoulder, and that Sweet Thing was a head and a half shorter than her opponent. Nonetheless, either one would have considerably outweighed and outmuscled any two good-sized professional human wrestlers, and they seemed to possess the same willingness as Dilbian males to get down to physical brass tacks when a question was in dispute. Added to this was the fact that the nails on their hands and feet were rather more like bear claws, and their teeth rather more like the teeth of grizzlies than those of humans. So that in sum, the situation was one that made Bill devoutly wish he was on the other side of the tree to which he was tied.
The two had been circling for some little time, shoulders hunched, heads outthrust, arms half flexed at the elbow, when Perfectly Delightful broke the tense silence with a musical laugh.
“So you think this is funny?” inquired Sweet Thing lightly, but without at all pausing in her movement, or relaxing her attitude.
“Oh this? Not necessarily,” replied Perfectly Delightful merrily—but equally without pausing or relaxing. “It just crossed my mind what a stubby little thing you are, and I imagined how you must look through the Bone Breaker’s eyes.”
“Oh, I don’t think he finds me so stubby,” replied Sweet Thing conversationally. “Maybe you won’t find me so stubby either.” And she laughed merrily in her turn.
They continued to circle, now almost within arm’s reach of each other.
“But, really,” protested Perfectly Delightful. “To be stubby is bad enough, but can you imagine what you’ll look like with an ear torn off, too?”
For the first time, Bill became uncomfortably aware of how much taller and heavier Perfectly Delightful was than Sweet Thing. Up until now, he had been concerned with himself mainly as an anchored spectator of what might happen. Now, suddenly, his imagination galloped ahead a little further and began to consider what should happen if Perfectly Delightful should end up the victor in any combat that should occur.
“But I plan to keep my ears, both of them,” Sweet Thing was saying sweetly. “I expect to have both my ears for many years after today—pardon me, I meant to say, after you have lost your teeth. You know, I’ve often heard my father and other men talking about how funny a woman looks with her teeth knocked out.”
“Oh, you have, have you!” retorted Perfectly Delightful shortly. Evidently, in the contest between the two to see who should lost her temper first, Perfectly Delightful was beginning to crack. “If you get close enough to my teeth to try knocking them out, you’ll wish you hadn’t!”
Meanwhile, in a cold sweat, Bill was struggling for the first time and seriously to see if he could not wriggle his hands loose from the rather thick rope that seemed to be tying them together. He had been tied rather tightly, but he now discovered the thickness of the rope was such in comparison with the size of his wrists that it might be possible for him to slide his right hand free. Evidently, the smallness of the human wrist compared to the Hemnoid one was something that Mula-ay had not taken into account. He managed to get his right hand halfway out through its bonds—but there it stuck.
* * *
Agonizedly, he looked back at the center of the dell, where the two were still circling each other and trading insults. The tempers of both were sparkling now and sarcasm had given way to direct, untranslatable Dilbian epithets.
“Snig!” Perfectly Delightful was hissing at Sweet Thing.
“Pilf!” Sweet Thing was snarling back at Perfectly Delightful.
Suddenly, far off in the woods, came the sound of possible rescue, falling sweetly upon
Bill’s ears. It was the stentorian shout of a male Dilbian. It was more than that. It was the voice of the Hill Bluffer, shouting.
“Pick-and-Shovel! Pick-and-Shovel—where are you?”
“Here!” roared back Bill, with all the volume his chest and throat could muster. “Here! This way! I’m over here!”
“I hear you!” floated back the shout of the Bluffer. “Keep yelling, Pick-and-Shovel, and I’ll get there in a moment! Just keep shouting!”
Bill opened his mouth to do so. But before he had the chance to make a sound, his shouting to the Bluffer had become as impossible as it was unnecessary as a source of sound to guide the postman to him.
The period of insults between Sweet Thing and Perfectly Delightful had come to an end. With a sound like that of an old-fashioned Western movie brawl between at least half-a-dozen homesteaders and as many cattlemen, Sweet Thing and Perfectly Delightful had closed in battle in the center of the clearing.
Chapter 12
Bill shrank back against his tree. There was little else he could do but make himself as small as possible and watch the action. The action, however, turned out to be wonderful to behold.
Not at first. At first, all Bill saw was a rolling tangle of furry bodies, arms and legs, glinting claws and flashing teeth, rolling this way and that on the ground—and occasionally threatening to roll in his direction. But then the whole tangle rolled over the bank of a little stream running through the clearing and splashed into the water; at which point it immediately separated into two individuals. But the battle was not ended. Sweet Thing and Perfectly Delightful wasted no time climbing out onto the bank and joining in combat again.
Only this time there was a difference. Apparently, the first time around, Sweet Thing had been too worked up to use whatever knowledge she had about fighting. Now, cooled off by her dip in the stream, she proceeded to demonstrate something very like a judo chop to the lower ribs, a forearm smash to Perfectly Delightful’s jaw, a knee in the stomach, and finally a shoulder throw that flipped Perfectly Delightful completely over in the air and brought her down flat with an earth-shaking thud on her back in the grass.
The Right to Arm Bears (dilbia) Page 22