The Right to Arm Bears (25 page)

The Bluffer muttered something, but not loudly enough, or in a tone disbelieving enough, to emerge as obvious challenge to the innkeeper's statement.

"But there you have it, Pick-and-Shovel," said More Jam sadly, turning back to Bill. "That story of mine, of how I had my chance at One Man and then missed out on it—through no fault of my own—has been preying on my mind for a couple of days, now. I just figured I had to step up here and tell you about it, so it could be a caution to you. I know you can't hardly wait to get at Bone Breaker, just like I couldn't hard wait to get at One Man, and vice-versa. But things you wouldn't believe can crop up to interfere with the most promising tangle in the world."

He sighed heavily, apparently remembering Shale River Ford.

"So I just wanted to put you on your guard," he went on. "Something just might come up that'd threaten to keep you from meeting Bone Breaker for that duel. But if it does, let me tell you, you only have to turn and call for More Jam for anything his old carcass can manage by way of help. Because it means a lot to me, your taking Bone Breaker, it really does."

"It does?" said Bill puzzled. "Why to you, in particular?"

"Why, because of this delicate stomach of mine," said More Jam, patting the stomach in question tenderly. "Oh, I know some folks in Muddy Nose think I'm going against tradition, when I back up my little daughter in refusing to let herself be taken off to Outlaw Valley to live. But if Bone Breaker takes her away, who's going to cook for poor old More Jam? I can't move out there with her and turn outlaw at my time of life—even if my old bones would stand the hardships. On the other hand, if he'd do like she wants and settle down here in Muddy Nose, I know I'd always have a bench at their table. Or maybe he'd even want to go into the inn business with me. So, as I say, if you ever find yourself in a position where you have to think about not tangling with Bone Breaker—for his sake, of course—just stop and think instead about More Jam, and see if it doesn't help!"

He closed his eyes, patted his mountainous stomach again, very tenderly, and fell silent. Bill stared at him, baffled.

"All right, Pick-and-Shovel!" said the blacksmith's voice.

Bill turned to find Flat Fingers stooping over him with a leather cord in his two, huge furry hands.

"Hold your arm out, there," rumbled the big Dilbian, "and I'll get you measured for your little blade and buckler—though much good they're likely to be to you—"

Bill's mind had been whirling ever since More Jam had finished talking. What it was spinning about, mostly, was the strange glances the rotund Dilbian had kept shooting at him while telling the story about his own near-fight with the mountain champion, One Man. Clearly, More Jam had been trying to convey some sort of message. But what was it? Bill tried to make some kind of connection between the story of the near-duel and what Anita Lyme had said to him the evening before. Maybe there was more to this business of organizing the villagers to defy the outlaws than he had thought. On the other hand, clearly More Jam was offering to be an ally of some sort. But just how was he supposed to do that? Flat Fingers obviously had a pretty low opinion of Shorties, physically at least. The blacksmith was not likely to accept as a leader someone with whom he was not impressed, and how could Bill impress him—particularly, physically? Offhand, he could think of nothing in which he could even begin to put up a showing against one of the huge, male Dilbians. He certainly could not outrun them, nor outjump them, nor—

Bill's mind broke off in mid-thought. A bit of information about the level of Dilbian science and technology from the hypnoed information had just sat up and clamored for attention in the back of his head. Dilbians, he remembered suddenly, had never heard of a block-and-tackle. He turned to the blacksmith, and taking advantage of a split-second pause in the argument between that individual and the Bluffer, he threw in a few words of his own.

"So you don't think much of me?" he said.

The attention of both Dilbians returned to him. The blacksmith burst into sudden, thunderous laughter.

"No offense to you either, Pick-and-Shovel," he said, still laughing. "But you really don't expect me to take you for being the equal of a real full-grown man. Now, do you?"

"Well, no," retorted Bill, drawling the words out. "I kind of hoped you'd take me for something better than a real man—one like you, for instance!"

The blacksmith stared at him. For a moment, Bill thought that he had overdone the brashness and insult, which, the hypnoed information in his head had informed him, passed for everyday manners of conversation among the Dilbians. Then the Hill Bluffer broke the silence in his turn with a booming and triumphant laugh.

"Hor, hor, hor!" bellowed the Hill Bluffer, giving the blacksmith a mighty slap between the shoulder blades. "How do you like that? I told you! I told you!—and here you were thinking he was just as meek and mild as some little kid's pet!"

The swat on the back, which would probably have broken Bill in two, plus the Hill Bluffer's words, apparently woke the blacksmith out of the stunned condition into which Bill's words had thrown him.

"You?" he said incredulously. "Better than
me
?"

"Well, we don't have to fight about it to find out," said Bill, with the best show of indifference he could manage. "I suppose you think you can lift something pretty heavy?"

"Me? Lift?" Flat Fingers' hoarse voice almost stuck in his throat under the combination of his astonishment and outrage. "Why I could lift twenty times what you could lift, Shorty!"

"I don't think so," said Bill calmly.

"Why, you—" stuttered the blacksmith, balling a huge furry fist ominously. The Hill Bluffer shouldered between him and Bill. "You actually want to try—" words failed Flat Fingers. He tried again. "You want to try to outlift me?"

Bill had a sudden inspiration—born of the fact of the Dilbians being strict about the letter of the law, while playing free and loose with the spirit of it.

"Well, of course," said Bill in a deprecating voice, and borrowing a page from More Jam's technique, "I'm just a Shorty, and I'd never have the nerve to suggest that I might be able to
outlift
you ordinarily. But I just might be able to
outdo
you at it if I had to, and I'm ready to prove it by moving something you can't move!"

Flat Fingers stared at him again.

"Why, he's sick!" said the blacksmith in a hushed voice, at last turning to the Hill Bluffer. "The poor little feller's gone completely out of his head!"

"Think so, do you?" said the Hill Bluffer smugly. "Suppose we all just go up to that forge of yours, get something heavy, and find out!"

"Uh—not right away," said Bill hastily. "I've got a few things to do around here, first. How about just after lunch?"

"Suits me . . ." said the blacksmith, shaking his head and still looking at Bill peculiarly, as if Bill had come down with some strange disease. "After lunch will do fine, Pick-and-Shovel. Just wander up to the forge, and you'll find me there. Now, hold out your arm."

Shaking his head, he proceeded to measure Bill, making knots in the cord to mark the various lengths he took. Then, without a further word, he turned toward the door and went out.

"Don't worry about a thing, Pick-and-Shovel!" said the Hill Bluffer reassuringly, as he turned to follow the blacksmith. "I'm out to spread the word, myself. I'll see that the whole village is there to watch; as well as everybody else who's close enough to get here by midday."

He, in his turn, went out. The door crashed shut behind him and Bill found himself left alone with More Jam, who seemed to have fallen asleep on his bench. He turned swiftly and went back through the inner door to the rear rooms of the Residency.

He wasted no time—for the moment, even on the matter of his upcoming weight-lifting contest with the blacksmith. Instead, he went directly to the communications room and bent to work removing the console panel. Once it was off, he started the process of checking the components of the equipment, one by one.

Dismantling and checking took time. Bill began to perspire gently as that time crawled by, and unit after unit that he examined had its small quartz window intact. The perspiration did not cease when he finally reached the end of his checking without finding any unit out of order.

It was impossible—but there was only one other place to look.

As rapidly as possible, he reassembled the equipment units and replaced the console panel. Then he started to trace the power cable leading from the wall beside the console.

His search led him out and down the corridor until at last he stepped into a large room in the rear of the Residency, packed with storage cases. The cables there led to a so-called lifetime battery set. It was simply not possible that one such battery set could fail, or have its stored power exhausted in the ordinary lifetime of a project like this one at Muddy Nose—and Bill's hypnoed information told him that this project was less than three years old. But when he came close to the battery set, he saw why the communications equipment was not working.

The power cable leading to the communications equipment had been disengaged from its battery set terminals.

It had not been wrenched or broken off. Someone had used a power wrench to unscrew the heavy connection clamps.

—And no Dilbian would know how to operate a power wrench, even if he or she recognized the purpose for which the tool had been designed.

Hastily, Bill found a power wrench among a rack of tools in one corner of the storage room which seemed to have been fitted up as a workshop area. There were not only hand tools there, but a hand-laser welding torch and a programmed, all-purpose lathe. With the wrench, he reconnected the power cable and ran back to the Communications Room. This time, when he sat down before the control console and keyed it into action, the ready light glowed amber on the panel in front of him. A second later, a computer's mechanical voice, somewhat blurred by static, spoke to him from the overhead grill of the speaker.

"Station MRK-3, Station MRK-3 . . ." said the voice. "This is Overseer Unit Station 49. Repeat, this is Overseer Unit Station 49. I am receiving your signal, Station MRK-3. I am receiving your signal. Is this the Resident at Muddy Nose Village, Dilbia?"

"Overseer Unit Station 49, this is Station MRK-3," replied Bill, speaking into the microphone grill of the console before him. "This is the Residency at Muddy Nose Village, Dilbia. But I am not the Resident. Repeat, not the Resident. I am trainee-assistant William Waltham, just arrived at this Residency yesterday. The only other Trainee-Assistant here is unavailable, and I understand the Resident has been taken off-planet for medical attention for a broken leg. Can you locate him, please? I would like to talk to him over this relay. If he cannot be located will you connect me with my next available superior? Will you connect me with the Resident or my next available superior officer? Over to you, Overseer Unit Station 49."

"This is Overseer Unit Station 49. This is Overseer Unit Station 49. Your message received, Station MRK-3, Trainee-Assistant William Waltham. We can relay your communication only to Hospital Spaceship Paar. Repeat, communication from your transmitting point can be relayed only to Spaceship Paar. Please hold. Repeat, please hold. We are relaying your call to Hospital Spaceship Paar."

Overhead, the voice ceased. Bill settled back to wait.

"Station MRK-3, Muddy Nose Village, Dilbia, Trainee-Assistant William Waltham, this is Hospital Spaceship Paar, Information Center, accepting your call on behalf of Patient Lafe Greentree. This is Hospital Spaceship Paar—" It repeated the statement several more times. Then it continued. "Are you there, William Waltham at Station MRK-3?"

"This is Trainee-Assistant William Waltham at Station MRK-3," replied Bill. "Receiving you clearly, Hospital Spaceship Paar, Information Center. Please go on."

"This is Hospital Spaceship Paar Information Center Computer Unit, answering for Patient Lafe Greentree."

"May I speak to Mr. Greentree, please?" asked Bill.

There was a slightly longer than usual time lag, before the Computer Unit answered again. "Patient Greentree," it announced, "is not able to communicate at the moment. Repeat, the patient is not able to communicate. You may speak with the Computer Unit which now addresses you."

"But I have to speak with him," protested Bill. "If I can't speak with him, will you relay my call to my next nearest superior?"

"Patient Greentree is unable to speak," replied the voice after the usual pause. "I have no authority to relay your call to anyone else. You may speak with the Computer Unit now addressing you."

"Computer Unit! Listen!" said Bill desperately. "Listen to me. This is an emergency.
Emergency! Mayday! Emergency!
Please bypass normal programming, and connect me at once with my nearest superior. If you cannot connect me with my nearest superior, please connect me with any other human aboard the Hospital Spaceship! I repeat, this is an emergency. Bypass your usual programming!"

Again, there was a longer than usual pause. Then the Computer Unit's voice replied once more.

"Negative. I regret, but the response must be negative. This is a military ship. I cannot bypass programming without instructions from proper authority. You show no such authority. I cannot, therefore, bypass programming. I cannot let you speak to Patient Greentree. If you wish, I can give you the latest bulletin on Patient Greentree's condition. That is all."

Bill stared, tight-jawed, at the communications equipment. Like any other trainee-assistant he had been taught to operate such sub-time communicators. But of course he had not yet been informed on local code calls and bypass authorization procedures. That information would have to come to him in the normal course from the Resident himself. He was exactly in the position of a man who picks up a phone and finds himself connected with an automatic answering service, stubbornly repeating its recorded message over and over again.

"All right," he said, finally, defeated. "Tell me how Resident Greentree is, and how soon he'll be coming back to his duty post, here."