Spacepaw

by Gordon R. Dickson

  The villagers bummed 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.

  “Soheknockedonthedoorandsaidhewasatravelerandaskedifhecouldcomeinandthebrothersaidno—” 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 a 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 of 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!”

  “Fatty?” echoed Bill jolted. “You saw Mula—I mean Barrel Belly coming out of the Residency just now?”

  “Just a little while ago, while you were talking. Probably just after you started talking.”

  Bill felt a sudden, grim uneasiness clutch at him just under his breastbone.

  “I’d better go take a look—” he said, and began to head out through the crowd and down the hill. He discovered that Sweet Thing was coming along with him, and thought briefly of telling her to let him investigate alone. Then it occurred to him that it might be handy to have her along in case there was more information about the sighting of Mula-ay at the Residency, which she had not yet managed to get out.

  At any rate, she stayed beside him as they reached the Residency, and went in throug
h the front door. Nothing seemed amiss in the reception room, so Bill proceeded to go through the rest of the building. Room after room, he found nothing wrong, no evidence of any reason that would explain a visit by the Hemnoid to the human Residency.

  It was not until they got clear back into the warehouse and the workshop corner where the program lathe and other tools were racked and hung on the walls that Bill got his first feeling that something was wrong. He stopped, facing the workshop corner, and slowly ran his eyes over it. What was different about what he was seeing now from what he had seen when he was last here? For a long moment he was unable to identify that difference. Then suddenly an empty space on one of the tool-hung walls seemed to leap at him.

  Where the empty space was, the hand-laser welding torch had hung. It hung there no longer.

  “What’s the matter, Pick-and-Shovel?” demanded Sweet Thing, almost crossly, in his right ear. “What are you just standing there like that for?”

  He hardly heard her. Understanding had leaped upon him like a wolf from the underbrush. Mula-ay knew that Bill had gone down into the valley the night before. He also knew that now all the village Dilbians also knew it, and shortly the whole countryside would know it. The connection between that knowledge and the missing laser torch flashed suddenly white and clear upon Bill’s mind. That torch could kill, its murderous beam slicing through the bone and muscle of a Dilbian back to a Dilbian heart, from as much as fifteen feet away. With that torch, this coming night, back in the valley, Mula-ay could find a moment when Bone Breaker was out between the houses, alone in the darkness. He could torch the outlaw chief from behind, and leave him there with the obviously Shorty-made weapon beside him. After that no one could blame the Dilbians for believing that Bill had once more reentered the valley and avoided a duel by killing his opponent in the most cowardly and treaty-breaking way possible.

  Bill jerked suddenly out of his thoughts and spun on one heel. He had to catch Mula-ay before Mula-ay could get back into the outlaw valley.

  Then his shoulders sagged, and his spirits with them. He remembered now how long he had gone on talking after first spotting Sweet Thing in the crowd, standing beside More Jam. Mula-ay would have too much of a head start. There was no hope of Bill catching him before he was safe back behind the gates and the stockade of Outlaw Valley. And the villagers would never be able to finish making their shield, get it up against the outlaw wall, and dig in to the valley under the stockade wall before night would put a halt to that operation.

  Mula-ay would be left safely behind that stockade wall in Outlaw Valley as night came down. And a word from him to Bone Breaker would be enough to set sentinels on watch, so that Bill could not safely climb down the cliffs a second time to warn the outlaw chief.

  Chapter 22

  Sweet Thing was still demanding to know what was wrong with him. Bill collected his wits. He pointed at the empty space on the wall.

  “There’s a thing gone,” he said to her. “A sort of a Shorty thing, but if Mula-ay uses it, he could hurt somebody. And he’s already got a head start toward the valley so that we couldn’t catch up with him and get it back from him.”

  “But what’ll we do now?” said Sweet Thing.

  “Why don’t you tell your father to wander out and into the outlaw camp,” suggested Bill. “He can keep an eye on Mula-ay without letting anyone know what’s up, and if Mula-ay tries to do anything with the thing, he can set up an alarm.”

  “Set up an alarm, huh!” said Sweet Thing scornfully. “If Barrel Belly tries anything with that thing, whatever it is, my dad would just jump him—from behind, of course, so as not to get hurt by the thing—and squash him!”

  “Ah—yes,” agreed Bill warily. Personally, he had little faith that any Dilbian, even Bone Breaker himself, would come close to being a match with the massive, heavy-gravity muscles of the Hemnoid. More Jam may have been something of a terror in his youth, but he was old now, and he was fat—there was no gainsaying those two points. Bill did not share Sweet Thing’s daughterly confidence in More Jam’s physical abilities. But on the other hand, More Jam was as wily as anyone among the Dilbians, and not likely to let himself be trapped into a match with somebody who could easily overpower him.

  “I’ll go right away,” said Sweet Thing, and not wasting any time about it, she turned and barreled out of the room. Well, he thought, that was that. But it was not much. The situation called for move active measures than simply sending More Jam to keep an eye on Mula-ay.

  It was still only midmorning, but there was no hope of getting the villagers up to and under the stockade barring the entrance to the valley before night fell. And once night had fallen, it was an odds-on chance that Mula-ay would be able to evade More Jam long enough to kill Bone Breaker.

  Something must be done—and it must be done before sundown. Bill thought about the plan of attack on which he had sold the villagers, running over it in his mind to see if there was not some way by which it might be speeded up so that they could take the valley this same day, while daylight lasted. But it was just not possible.

  Suddenly he jumped to his feet with an almost Dilbian-like snort of triumph. It was true the mantelet and sapping operation … which was the technical, military term for the tactic he had explained to the villagers—would not breach the Outlaw Valley’s defenses before nightfall. But he had forgotten entirely that the Middle Ages had had other, even simpler ways of taking castles by storm. He had forgotten, in fact, the most obvious one of them all.

  He turned and hurried out of the Residency, and back up the road to the blacksmith shop, which was now a-swarm with male Dilbians from the village and the farms around, most of them with weapons of some sort—ranging from actual swords down to axes, or heavy-handled native scythes. The Bluffer was looking on interestedly as Flat Fingers supervised the construction of the mantelet, or shield, which Bill had described. Bill slowed his headlong pace and sauntered up to the group. As usual, it was a few seconds before the Dilbians looked down and noticed him standing there.

  “Oh, there you are, Pick-and-Shovel,” said the blacksmith. “What do you think—shouldn’t the skids be longer, there, under the back of the shield?”

  Bill examined the structure. It looked to his human eye to be nearly as tall, wide, and heavy as the actual stockade fence of the outlaws themselves. Only the brute muscles of the Dilbians could entertain the thought of using such a thing, let alone transporting it through the several miles of woods that separated the village from the valley entrance. It was evidently designed to be moved on three pointed logs which served as its base and would operate as skids or runners on which the weight of the shield would bear, as it would push toward the wall. The shield was set just behind the points of these logs, sloping backward, and was heavily braced, towering to perhaps fifteen feet above the logs at its upper edge. Bill smiled agreeably at the sight of it, and nodded his head vigorously.

  “That’s just fine, Flat Fingers,” he said. “The men pushing it certainly ought to be safe behind that, as they go up to the wall. Yes, it’ll be good protection, that shield. There’s nothing like being safe, when you attack a bunch like those outlaws.”

  “Well, it’ll get us in close all right,” said the blacksmith, though he frowned a little at Bill’s second repetition on the word “safe.” “Then once we’re close, we’ll dig under and tear into them.”

  “That’s the spirit!” said Bill enthusiastically. “Guard yourself as much as possible until you get inside, and then tear into them. Don’t be disappointed if it takes a little while to dig under the wall. Better to be safe than sorry, I always say.”

  By this time the rest of the Dilbians working on the shield had abandoned their jobs and clustered around. Like Flat Fingers, they were all frowning now.

  “Oh, we won’t be disappointed, Pick-and-Shovel,” rumbled Flat Fingers grimly. “We’ve been waiting to tangle with those outlaws too long to cool down, just because we have to do a little digging to get at them.
”

  “Good, good!” said Bill strongly. “I know you are. But it doesn’t do any harm to play safe, does it?”

  “What do you mean ‘play safe’?” exploded the village blacksmith. “What’s all this about, ‘playing safe’ you keep talking about. We’re going in there to tangle with those outlaws, the sooner the better!”

  “Of course you are!” replied Bill hastily. He saw the Bluffer’s face approach and peer interestedly down at him over the left shoulder of the blacksmith. Bill went on. “There’s just no point in getting any more men hurt than have to be. That’s why I suggested this way of getting into the valley. After all, it’s the safest way, even if it does take a longer time than some other ways.”

  “What other ways?” roared Flat Fingers. “You mean to say there’s other ways—quicker ways? Ways you didn’t tell us about because you thought we were worried about keeping safe?”

  “There’s lots of other ways, of course,” said Bill. “But after all, as I understand it, man for man those outlaws are a lot tougher than you are—”

  “Who says so?” roared one of the Dilbians who had been working on the shield. He was holding an ax which he flourished in Bill’s direction in a way that made Bill’s throat go dry. Suddenly there was bedlam, all of the village males shouting at Bill. Flat Fingers bellowed them all back into silence, then turned ominously back to face Bill.

  “Now, you listen to me, Pick-and-Shovel!” said Flat Fingers. “We’re all Muddy Nosers, here—the sort of men here who’d tear that wall down with our bare hands, if we thought it could be done that way! Are you trying to start trouble— or something?”

  “Why, no—of course not!” said Bill hastily. “Why, I’ll be glad to tell you of quicker ways to get in through the gates in that stockade. As I say, there’s lots of them—”

  “What’s the quickest?” demanded Flat Fingers.

  “The quickest?” echoed Bill. “Well, the quickest would b£ to use a tree trunk.”