The Right to Arm Bears

by Gordon R. Dickson

  John turned and dived deep into the pool.

  He had expected the Terror to attack immediately. He had even counted on it, reasoning that the Dilbian was too much the professional fighter to take chances with any opponent—even one as insignificant as a red-headed Shorty. John had planned that the Terror should follow him into the water.

  But not that the Terror should follow so quickly.

  Even as John shot for the dark depths of the pool, he heard and felt the water-shock of the big body plunging in after him, so close that it felt as if the Terror's great nailed hands were clawing at John's heels.

  John stroked desperately for depth and distance. He had a strategy of battle; but it all depended on a certain amount of time and elbow room. He changed direction underwater, shot off at an angle up to the surface; and, flinging water from his eyes with a backward jerk of his head, looked around him.

  The Terror, looking in the other direction, broke the surface fifteen feet away.

  Rapidly, John dived again. Well underwater, he reached for his belt buckle, unsnapped it and pulled the belt from the loops of his trousers. In the process, he had come to the surface again. He broke water almost under the nose of the Terror; and was forced to dive again immediately with half a lungful of air and his bulky enemy close behind him.

  Once more, in the space and dimness of underwater, he evaded the Dilbian; and this time he came up cleanly, a good ten feet from where the back of the Terror's big head broke the water. Turning, John stroked for distance and breathing room, the length of his belt still trailing from one fist like a dark stem of water-weed.

  Confidence was beginning to warm in John as he dove again. He had had time, now, to prove an earlier guess that, effective as the Terror might be against other Dilbians in the water, his very size made him more slow and clumsy than a human in possibly anything but straight-away swimming. John had gambled on this being true—just as he had gambled on the fact that, true to his reputation, the Terror would pick a battleground alongside some stream or other. Now, John told himself, it was time to switch to the attack, choose the proper opening and make his move.

  Turning about, John saw the Terror had spotted him and was churning the water in his direction. John filled his lungs and dived, as if to hide again. But underneath the surface he changed direction and swam directly toward his opponent. He saw the heavy legs and arms churning toward him overhead; and, as they passed in the water, he reached up, grabbed one flailing foot and pulled.

  The Terror reacted with powerful suddenness. He checked; and dived. John, flung surfacewards by the heel he had caught, released it and dived also, so that he shot downwards, behind and above the back of the Dilbian. He saw the wide shoulders, the churning arms; and then, as the Terror—finding no quarry—turned upwards again toward the surface, John closed in.

  He passed the thin length of his belt around the Terror's thick neck, wrapped it also around his own wrists and twisted the large loop tight.

  At this the Terror, choking, should have headed toward the surface, giving John a chance to breathe. The Dilbian did. But there and then the combat departed from John's plan, entirely. John got the breath of air he had been expecting at this moment—the one breath he had counted on to give him an advantage over the strangling Terror. But then Streamside plunged down again, turning and twisting to get at the human who was riding his back and choking him. And finally, and after all, John came at last to understand what sort of an opponent he had volunteered to deal with.

  It is always easy to be optimistic; and even easier to underrate an enemy. John, in spite of all the evidence, in spite of all his experiences of the last three days, had simply failed to realize how much greater the Terror's strength could be than his own. Physically, the Terror in sheer weight and muscle was a match for any two full-grown male Earthly gorillas. And, in addition to this, he had human intelligence and courage.

  John clung like a fresh-water leech, streaming out in the wake of the Terror, as the Terror thrashed and twisted, trying to get a grip with his big fingers on the thin belt, sunk in the fur of his neck. While with the other nineteen-inch hand he beat backwards through the water, trying to knock John from his hold.

  John was all but out of reach, stretched at arms-length by his grip on the belt. But now and again, the blind blows of the Terror's flailing hand brushed him. Only brushed him—awkwardly, and slowly, slowed by the water—but each impact tossed John about like a chip in a river current. He felt like a man rolling down a cliff side and being beaten all over by baseball bats at the same time.

  His head rang. The water roared in his ear. He gulped for air and got half a mouthful of foam and water. His shoulder numbed to one blow and his ribs gave to another. His senses began to leave him; he thought—through what last bit of semiconsciousness that remained as the fog closed about his mind—that it was no longer a matter of proving his courage in facing the Terror. His very life now lay in the grip of his hands on the twisted belt. It was, in the end, kill or be killed. For it was very clear that if he did not manage to strangle the Terror before he, himself, was drowned or killed, the Terror would most surely do for him.

  Choking and gasping, he swam back to blurred consciousness. His mouth and nose were bitter with the taste of water and he was no longer holding the belt. The edge of the bank loomed like a raft to the survivor of a sunken ship, before him. Instinctively, no longer thinking of the Terror, or anything but light and air, he scrabbled like a half-drowned animal at the muddy edge of earth. His arms were leaden and weak, too weak to lift him ashore. He felt hands helping him. He helped to pull himself onto slippery grass. The hands urged him a little farther. His knees felt ground beneath him.

  He coughed water. He retched. The hands urged him a little farther; and finally, at last completely out on solid land, he collapsed.

  * * *

  He came around after a minute or two to find his head in someone's lap. He blinked upwards and a watery blur of color slowly resolved itself into the face of Ty Lamorc, taut and white above him. Tears were rolling down her cheeks.

  "What—?" he croaked. He tried again. "What're you doing here?"

  "Oh, shut up!" she said, crying harder than ever.

  She began wiping his face with a piece of cloth nearly as wet as he was.

  "No," he said. "I mean—what're you doing here?" He tried to sit up.

  "Lie down," she said.

  "No. I'm all right." He struggled up into a sitting position. He was still in Glen Hollow, he saw, groggily. And the place was aswarm with Dilbians. A short way down the bank a knot of them were clustered around something.

  "What—?" he said, looking in that direction.

  "Yep, it's the Terror, Half-Pint," said a familiar voice above him. He looked up to see the enormously looming figure of the Hill Bluffer. "He's still out and here you're kicking your heels and sitting up already. That makes it your fight. I'll go tell them." And he strode off toward the other group, where John could hear him announcing the winner in a loud and self-justified voice.

  John blinked and looked over at Ty.

  "What happened?" he asked her.

  "They had to pull him out. You made it to shore on your own." She produced a disposable tissue from somewhere—John had almost forgotten such things existed during the last three days—wiped her eyes and blew her nose vigorously. "You were wonderful."

  "Wonderful!" said John, still too groggy for subtlety. "I was out of my head to even think of it. Next time I'll try tangling with a commuter rocket, instead!" He felt his ribs, gently. "I better get back to the embassy in Humrog and have a picture taken of this side."

  "Oh! Are your ribs—"

  "Maybe just bruised. Wow!" said John, coming on an especially tender spot.

  "Oh!" Ty choked up again. "You might have been killed. And it's all my fault!"

  "All your fault—" began John. The dapper, small figure of Joshua Guy loomed suddenly over him.

  "How are you, my boy?" inquired J
oshua. "Congratulation, by the way. Oh, you must let me explain—"

  "Not now," said John. He clutched at the small man's wrist. "Help me up. Now," he said, turning to face Ty, who had also risen. "What do you mean, it was all your fault?"

  "Well, it was!" she wailed, miserably, twisting the tissue to shreds. "It was my off-official recommendation. The Contacts Department sent me out here to survey the situation and recommend means for beating the Hemnoids to the establishment of primary relations with the Dilbians."

  "What's that got to do with me?"

  "Well, I—I recommended they send out a man who conformed as nearly as possible to the Dilbian psychological profile and we worked out a Dilbian emotional situation so as to convince them we weren't the absolute little toylike creatures they thought we were—but people just like themselves. We needed to prove to them we're as good men as they are, aside from our technology, which they thought was sissy."

  "Me?" said John. "Dilbian emotional profile?"

  "But you are, you know. Extroverted, l-lusty—. They've got a very unusual culture here, they really have. They're really much more similar to us humans when we were in the pioneering stages of culture than they are to the Hemnoids. We had to prove it to them that we could be the kind of people they could treat with on a level. The truth is, they've got chips on their shoulders because we and the Hemnoids are more advanced. But they can't admit to themselves they're more primitive than we are because their culture—anyway," wound up Ty, seeing John was getting red in the face, "it would have been fine except for Boy Is She Built trying to throw you over that cliff. She was only supposed to take your wrist phone. And that altered the emotional constants of the sociological equations involved. And Gulark-ay almost got it all twisted to go his own way, and—"

  "I see," interrupted John. "And why," he asked, very slowly and patiently, "wasn't I briefed on the fact that this was all a sort of sociological power politics bit?"

  "Because," wept Ty, "we wanted you to react like the Dilbians in a natural, extroverted, un—unthinking way!"

  "I see," said John, again. They were still standing beside the pool. He picked her up—she was really quite light and slender—and threw her in. There was a shriek and a satisfying splash. The Dilbians nearby looked around interestedly. John turned and walked off.

  "Of course, she didn't know you then," said Joshua, thoughtfully.

  John snorted, Dilbian fashion. He walked on. But after half a dozen steps more he slowed down, turned, and went back.

  "Here," he said, gruffly, extending his hand as she clung to the bank.

  "Thag you," Ty said humbly, with her nose full of water. He hauled her out.

  CHAPTER 18

  "I hope," said Joshua Guy, "you still don't consider that I—"

  "Not at all," said John. He, Ty Lamorc, and the little ambassador, once more freshly cleaned and dressed, were waiting at the small spaceport near Humrog for the shuttle ship to descend from the regular courier spacer and take John and Ty back to Earth to be debriefed by the Contacts Department, there. It was early morning of a sunny mountain day and a light cool breeze was slipping across the concrete apron of the spaceport and plucking at the cuffs of John's trousers. A few curious Dilbian faces could be seen looking out the wide observation window of the spaceport terminal building, whose white roof glittered in the early sunlight about forty yards off.

  "I got suspicious," said John, "when Gulark-ay gave me that long story about you when he, and Tark-ay and Boy Is She Built had me prisoner there in the woods. It was a little too good to be true—too good for Gulark-ay, that is."

  "Oh, by the way, I ran into him as I was coming out from Humrog, this morning," said Joshua. "He told me he was due shortly for rotation to a post back on Chakaa—the second of the Hemnoid home worlds. If you and Ty dropped by, be sure to look him up and he'd show you around."

  "No thanks," said John, grimly.

  "My dear boy!" said Joshua, in tones of mild shock. "You mustn't confuse what a person does in his official capacity with his character as a private citizen. Drop in on Chakaa as a tourist or on official business, and I'm sure you'd find Gulark-ay a superb host. In fact, take my advice and take him up on the invitation. I assure you, you'll enjoy yourselves immensely." He interrupted himself to glance over at the building. "That Dilbian who's going with you two should be here by now. But pardon me for interrupting you. You say you only suspected—?"

  "The story was too good to be true," said John, again. "What cooked it, to my mind however, was Tark-ay conveniently setting out his knife and going to sleep so I could escape. He and Gulark-ay wanted me to get away. I was no use to him in pieces. He wanted me to stand up in front of the Clan Hollows meeting and admit to everybody I was scared spitless of fighting the Terror."

  "Lucky for us you weren't," said Joshua. "Actually, Ty and I never intended matters to go so far."

  "We estimated that the emotional value of your simply coming after me would have a good effect on the Dilbian group opinion where humans were concerned," put in Ty. "We wouldn't have blamed you a bit if you had let Joshua take the blame of Gulark-ay's story and let the grandfathers send us back without a fight. We didn't expect that kind of courage."

  "What do you mean—courage?" said John. "If I hadn't thought of the belt trick, and at that, it was a crazy fool stunt because I'd gotten so used to the Dilbians I'd forgotten how strong they could be. Don't ask me to try it again." He thought of something, suddenly. "The Terror never said anything about being beaten by a weapon, like my belt?" Joshua shook his head.

  "He's got his own reason, perhaps," said Ty. "The Dilbian personality—oh, look!"

  John and Joshua looked and saw One Man approaching, enormous in the morning light.

  "Is he the one going with us?" said John. But One Man joined them before Joshua could answer.

  "Greetings to you all," rumbled One Man.

  "Greetings to you as well," replied Joshua. They smiled at each other, it was rather like a mouse and an orangutan exchanging the time of day.

  "Uh—" said John to Ty, "how'd you get that smudge on your nose?"

  "Smudge?" said Ty. "Nose?" She effected some feminine sleight of hand which caused a large compact to appear and open in her fingers. She peered into the mirror inside its lid. "Where? I don't see it."

  "On the side of your nose there," said John. "It looks," he added, "sort of greasy . . ."

  "Greasy!" Ty Lamorc snapped the compact shut indignantly and headed toward the terminal building. "Just a minute—tell the shuttle to wait," she called over her shoulder. The two human men and the single Dilbian one watched her go.

  "Attractive girl," murmured Joshua.

  "Is she?" inquired One Man.

  "By our Shorty standards, very," replied Joshua. "Our young friend here, the Half-Pint—"

  "Oh, well," said John, and cleared his throat meaningfully. He looked at One Man. "If I could have a word with you—"

  "Excuse me," said Joshua; and discreetly wandered off toward the far fence of the port.

  "I wanted to thank you," said John.

  "Thank me?" rumbled One Man, in mild basso astonishment.

  "For your help."

  "Help? Why, Half-Pint," said One Man. "I can't take any credit for helping you. I'm too old to go engaging in help to anyone, and if I did, of course it would be one of my own people. I can't guess what you could be talking about."

  "I think you know," said John.

  "Not at all. Of course, now that you've given my people a clearer picture of what Shorties are like— Nothing wins like a winner, you know," said One Man, pontifically. "In fact, I'm surprised it took you Shorties so long to realize that. As I said to you once before, who asked you all to come barging into our world, anyway?"

  "Well—" said John, uncomfortably.

  "And what made you think we all had to like you, and welcome you, and want to be like you? Why, if when you were a pup, some new kid had moved into your village; and he was half your size bu
t had a lot of playthings you didn't have, but came up and tapped you on the shoulder and said from now on I'm going to be your leader, and we'll play my games, how would you have felt?"

  He eyed John shrewdly out of his huge, hairy face.

  "I see," said John, after a moment. "Then why did you help me?"

  "I tell you I don't know what you're talking about," said One Man. "How could I help a Shorty, even if I wanted to?"

  "Well, I'll tell you how," said John. "Back home where I come from, we've got a trick with something called a city directory. It's about this thick," John measured several inches between finger and thumb, "and it's about as much a job for one of us Shorties to tear it in half as it is for one of you Dilbians to break that stick of yours. So—"

  "Well, now, I can believe it," broke in One Man in a judicious tone. "Directories, sticks of wood, or first class hill-and-alley scrappers; there's a trick, I imagine, to handle almost any one of them. Of course," said One Man, gazing off at the pure snow of the far mountain peaks, "nobody like you or I would stoop to using such tricks, even in a good cause."

  There was a moment's dead silence between them.

  "I guess," said John at last, "I'll never make a diplomat."

  "No," said One Man, still gazing at the mountain peaks. "I don't believe you ever will, Half-Pint." He returned his gaze to John's face. "If you take my advice, you'll stick to your own line of Shorty work."

  "I just thought," said John awkwardly, "since you were coming back to earth with us—"

  "I?" said One Man. "What an idea, Half-Pint! An old man like me, exposed to all those new-fangled contrivances and being taught to act like a Shorty so I could come back and tell people about it? Why, I'd be just no good at all at something like this."

  "Not you?" John stared. "Then who—?"

  "I thought you knew," said One Man; and looked past John toward the terminal building. "Look; here he comes now."

  John turned and blinked. Coming toward them from the terminal and holding his pace down to accommodate his stride to that of Ty, who was walking alongside him, was none other than the Streamside Terror.