"Well," answered Bill, "as you know, we Shorties have an agreement with the Fatties not to go talking out of turn about things back on our home world. If the Fatties don't talk out of turn we don't—and vice versa. So that kind of stops me from telling you plain out what I know."
"You mean, Pick-and-Shovel," More Jam's voice held a strangely silky note that rang a sharp warning bell in the back of Bill's head, "you know something that would help us, here in this village, and you're refusing to tell us what it is?"
"Sorry," said Bill. A low mutter of annoyance began in the crowd, and deepened toward anger. Bill hurried hastily on. "I've given my word not to—just like all the Shorties and Fatties that come here to know you people. But,"—Bill paused, took a deep breath, mentally kicked the Human-Hemnoid Non-Interference Treaty out of the window, and borrowed a page from Anita's book, as he had observed her in Outlaw Valley through the crack in the hide curtain—"let me tell you all a story about my grandfather."
Chapter 21
"It all began because of a story there used to be among us Shorties—" Bill had barely gotten the first words out, when he was interrupted.
"I'll just bet it did!" cried someone in the front of the crowd—and looking down, Bill saw several females standing in a group there, together. He recognized the speaker as Thing-or-Two, flanked by the tall form of Perfectly Delightful. "And it's another story you're going to be telling us all now, we can bet on that too. It's a shame, that's what it is—an absolute shame, the way the men of this village stand around and let the wool be pulled over their eyes by Shorties like you, with no regard for customs and manners and traditions! Why don't some of you speak up and tell this Shorty what he can do with his stories?"
"You shut up!" snapped a new female voice. Looking, Bill saw that Sweet Thing had appeared beside More Jam and was now looking around his enormous stomach at the older Dilbian female, like a rat terrier growling around the edge of a half-opened door at an intruder. "You just can't wait to get me out of the Inn, so you and Tin Ear can move in on Daddy. Well, I'm not leaving! You let Pick-and-Shovel talk—"
"Did you hear her!" shrieked Thing-or-Two, turning to the crowd. "Did you hear what she said to me—me, a woman old enough to be her mother! This is what things have come to! It's a good thing I'm not her mother, I'd—"
"You'd what?" demanded Sweet Thing belligerently, starting around her father toward the older woman. More Jam interposed a heavy arm.
"Now, now, daughter," he rumbled peaceably. "Manners, manners . . ."
Still growling, but complying, Sweet Thing allowed herself to be pushed back to the opposite side of More Jam.
"At the same time," went on More Jam, lifting his voice over that of Thing-or-Two, as she began to speak again, "as I remember it, Pick-and-Shovel was about to tell us something. And I guess I'm probably speaking for most of us when I say that, since he did something pretty interesting in going down into Outlaw Valley to get that gong handle, we ought to at least listen to what he has to say now. Besides, it sounds kind of interesting."
"Well," Bill began, "as I was starting to say, this whole thing came about because of a story we Shorties have. It concerns a sort of Cobbly we Shorties used to have—they've nearly all disappeared nowadays, back where I come from, but we used to have them. The story's about this Cobbly and three brothers."
The crowd had stilled amazingly. Bill was suddenly conscious of all eyes being fixed on him with the particular type of open, fascinated gaze he had occasionally seen in children hearing a story or watching a play.
"This Cobbly—" he stopped to clear his throat, then went on, "had one real powerful habit. He was able to blow rocks—even big boulders—right out of his way. He could even puff hard enough to blow a tree down, the way a storm might do. Well, these three brothers started out to set up their own home. None of them was married yet, so they headed off into the woods, and each one of them picked himself a place to build a house."
Bill paused for a moment to see if he still had the rapt attention of his audience. Gazing down at them, he decided that if anything it was more rapt than ever. He went on.
"You see, they all knew about the Cobbly who lived in this wood, and could blow down trees and things like that, so they were all particularly concerned to build a Cobbly-proof house."
Bill took a breath.
"Well, the first brother was the laziest of the bunch. He thought it would be good enough if he just took a lot of twigs and small branches, wove them together, and made himself a house that way. So he went to work and ran himself up a house in about a day and a half. The only thing he did that didn't call for light branches was to put a stout bar on the inside of the front door—a bar anchored to two doorposts that were set deep in the earth.
" `Let's see that Cobbly break through that bar!' he said, and rolled himself up for the night.
"Meanwhile, the other two brothers, not having finished their building, had gone back to the nearest village where they'd be safe. Well, the moon came up, and the Cobbly came out and prowled around the woods, and pretty soon he smelled the brother in his house and he chuckled to himself—because our type of Cobblies used to like to eat people alive, taking their time at it."
Bill uttered this last sentence in the most impressive and blood-curdling tone that he could manage. He was gratified to receive in answer a sort of low moan of suspense and terror, particularly from the females in the crowd.
"Yes," went on Bill, in an even firmer and more impressive tone of voice, "this Cobbly was just as hungry as a Cobbly had ever been. So he went up to the door of the house made of woven branches and he tried to open the door—"
Another, somewhat louder, low moan of suspense and anguish from the crowd before him.
"But the door held—" said Bill.
There was a grunt, almost of disappointment, from the crowd this time.
"But the Cobbly," said Bill, fixing his audience with his best glittering eye, "wasn't stopped by that. He knocked at the door—" Bill reached up and sounded his knuckles against a log rafter overhead. The crowd of village Dilbians shivered.
"He knocked again. And again," said Bill. "Finally the sound of his knocking woke the brother who was inside the house.
" `Who's that, knocking?' asked the brother.
" `It's just a late traveler, asking if you can't put me up for the night,' answered the Cobbly—"
There was a new moan of excitement from the crowd at the duplicity of this answer. Bill continued.
" `You can't fool me,' answered the brother. `I know you're the Cobbly that lives in these woods, and that you'd like to get in so that you could eat me up. But I've put too stout a bar on my door, and you can't get through it. And I'm not going to let you in, either. So go about your business and let me sleep.'
" `Let me in, I tell you!' shouted the Cobbly at that. `Let me in—or I'll huff, and puff, and I'll blow your house over!'
"At that, the first brother was very much afraid, and he covered his head with his blanket. But the Cobbly outside began to huff and puff—and before you could wink, he'd blown the house over, snatched up the first brother and eaten him!"
The crowd groaned.
"Well," went on Bill. "The Cobbly, full after the meal he'd just had, went home to sleep until the next night. That next night he went hunting again. The third brother had not yet finished building and he'd gone back into town. But the second brother had finished building his house. And he'd built a pretty good house of logs. So when the Cobbly came up and tested that door, he knew by the feel of it that there was no point even in trying to break in that way. So he called out to the second brother, just as he'd called out to the first, saying he was a traveler who'd like to be put up for the night.
" `You can't fool me!' shouted the second brother. `I know you're the Cobbly who lives in this woods and who's already eaten one of my brothers. But you can't get in at my front door.'
" `In that case,' answered the Cobbly, `I'll just have to huff and puff unt
il I blow your house down, too.'
" `You can't blow down a house made of logs!' cried the second brother—but in spite of his brave words, he was afraid, and he covered up his head with his blanket just like the first brother had done.
"Meanwhile the Cobbly took a big lung full of air and began to huff, and puff, and huff, and puff—until at last, bang—a log flew out of the wall in front of him, and then another, and then another—and the next thing you knew he'd blown to pieces the house made of logs, and he got in and gobbled up the second brother!"
The groan that arose from the crowd at this point in the story was the deepest and most sincere tribute that tale had received so far.
"The next night," said Bill, and paused dramatically, "the Cobbly went hunting again. He hunted and he hunted, and though he was sure the third brother was there in the forest, he couldn't seem to find where his house had been built. At last, a little ray of light shining out through the darkness led him to it. It was no wonder the Cobbly hadn't been able to recognize it as a house. He had passed it two or three times already. Because this house was made—" Bill paused again and his audience held its breath, "of stone!"
For a long moment the villagers continued to hold their breath in automatic anticipation. But then, slowly, expressions of puzzlement grew on their faces. They began to breathe again. Many of them were casting sidelong glances at each other, and a muttering began which spread through the whole group. Finally, from the rear somebody spoke up.
"Did you say of stone, Pick-and-Shovel?"
"That's right," said Bill.
"You mean, of pieces of rock?" asked More Jam from the front ranks.
"That's exactly right," replied Bill. "The third brother made his walls by starting with large boulders at the bottom, and working up to smaller and smaller rocks, fitting them together as he went and packing them tight with wet clay that dried hard after a little while. He bedded his rafters in the stone walls at each end and then built a roof of heavy timbers sloping down from a rooftree mounted on four posts lined up and sunk in the earth inside."
As far as Bill knew, no Dilbian had ever thought of making a house with walls of stone. Apparently, he noted now as he watched and listened from the top of his barrel, the idea was equally as novel to the villagers. It took some little time for the buzzings of incredulity and amazement to die down. But at last, they all quieted like interested children, and he saw their eyes back on him once again.
"Go on, Pick-and-Shovel," said More Jam. "Here the third brother was inside his house made of stone, and there was a Cobbly outside knowing he was in there. What happened next?"
"Well, I suppose you can guess," said Bill, "that Cobbly just didn't turn around and go away and leave the third brother alone."
The villagers hummed 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.
"Soheknockedonthedoorandsaidhewasatravelerand-
askedifhecouldcome-inandthebrothersaidno—" 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 as 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 off 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?"
The Right to Arm Bears Page 29
