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About this Episode
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Transcript
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Destroying the spirit of the enemy is the goal of war,
and the aliens had the best way.
They never did discover whose fault it was.
Fanny appointed out that if Donought had had the brains of Anox
as well as the build, he would have remembered to check the tanks.
Donought, although twice as big as him, wasn't quite as fast with an insult.
He intimated after a little thought that Fanny's nose might have
obstructed his reading of the fuel gauge.
This still left them 20 light years from fetus with a cup full of
transformer fuel in the emergency tank.
All right, Fanny is said presently.
What's done is done. We can squeeze about three light years out of the fuel
before we're back on Atomics.
Hand me the Galactic Pilot, unless you forgot that too.
Donought dragged the bulky microfilm volume out of its locker,
and they explored its pages.
The Galactic Pilot told them they were in a sparse, seldom-visited section of space,
which they already knew. The nearest planetary system was
Hatterfield, no intelligent life there.
Sources had a native population, but no refueling facilities.
The same with the lead, hung, and porterine.
Ah-ha, Fanny is said.
Read that, Donought. If you can read that is.
Cassela, Donought read slowly and clearly following the line with a thick four finger.
Type M. Sun, three planets, intelligent AA3C human type life on second.
Oxygen breathers, non-mechanical, religious, friendly, unique social structure,
described in the Galactic Survey Report 33877242.
Population estimate, stable at 3 billion.
Basic Cassela and Vocabulary taped under CAS 33B2.
Scheduled for Reserve 2375AD.
Cash of Transformer Fuel Left.
Being Coordinate 8741KGL.
Physical Description. Unoccupied Flatland.
Transformer Fuel Boy.
Fanny is said gleefully.
I believe we will get to fetus after all.
Eat, punch the new direction on the ship's tape.
If that fuel's still there,
should we read up on the unique social structure?
Donought asked.
Still pouring over the Galactic Pilot.
Certainly, Fanny is said, just step over to the main Galactic base on Earth and buy me a copy.
I forgot, Donought admitted slowly.
Let me see, Fanny is said, dragging out the ship's language library.
Cassela and Cassela, here it is.
Be good while I learn the language.
He set the tape in the Hypnophone and switched it on.
Another useless tongue in my overstuffed head.
He murmured, and then the Hypnophone took over.
Coming out of Transformer Drive with at least a drop of fuel left,
they switched to Atomics.
Fanny erode the beam right across the planet,
locating the slender metal spire of the Galactic Survey Cash.
The plane was no longer unoccupied, however.
The Casselons had built a city around the cash, and the spire dominated the crude wood and mud buildings.
Hang on, Fanny is said, and brought the ship down on the outskirts of the city in a field of stubble.
Now look, Fanny is said, unfastening his seatbelt.
We're just here for fuel, no souvenirs, no side trips, no fraternizing.
Through the port, they could see a cloud of dust from the city.
As it came closer, they made out figures running toward their ship.
What do you think this unique social structure is?
Donut asked, pensively checking the charge in a needle or gun.
I know not and care less.
Fanny is said, struggling into space armor.
Get dressed.
The air is breathable.
Look, Packaderm, for all we know, these Casselons think the proper way to greet visitors is to
chop off their heads and stuff them with green apples.
If Galactic says unique, it probably means unique.
Galactic said they were friendly.
That means they haven't got atomic bombs.
Come on, get dressed.
Donut put down the needle or instructed into an oversized suit of space armor.
Both men strapped on needles, paralyzers, and a few grenades.
I don't think we have anything to worry about.
Fanny is said, tightening the last knot on his helmet.
Even if they get rough, they can't crack space armor.
And if they're not rough, we won't have any trouble.
Maybe these geagaws will help.
He picked up a box of trading articles, mirrors, toys, and the like.
Helmeted and armored, Fanny has slid out the port and raised one hand to the Casselons.
The language hypnotically placed in his mind leaped to his lips.
We come as friends and brothers.
Take us to the chief.
The natives clustered around, gaping at the ship and the space armor.
Although they had the same number of eyes, ears, and limbs as humans,
they completely missed looking like them.
If they're friendly, Donut asked, climbing out of the port, why all the hardware?
The Casselons were dressed predominantly in a collection of knives, swords, and daggers.
Each man had at least five, and some had eight or nine.
Maybe Galactic got their signals crossed.
Fanny is said as the natives spread out in an escort.
Or maybe the natives just used the knives for mumbly peg.
The city was typical of a non-mechanical culture.
Naro packed dirt streets twisted between ramshackle huts.
A few two-story buildings threatened to collapse at any minute.
Each stench filled the air so strong that Fanny's filter couldn't quite eradicate it.
The Casselons bounded ahead of the heavily laden earthmen dashing around like a pack of playful
puppies. Their knives glittered and clanked. The chief's house was the only three-story building
in the city. The tall spire of the cache was right behind it.
If you come in peace, the chief said when they entered.
You are welcome. He was a middle-aged Casselon with at least fifteen knives
strapped to various parts of his person. He squatted cross-legged on a raised deist.
We are privileged, Fanny is said. He remembered from the hypnotic language lesson that chief
on Cassela meant more than it usually did on earth. The chief here was a combination of
king, high priest, deity, and bravest warrior. We have a few simple gifts here.
Fanny added, placing the giggos at the king's feet. Will his majesty accept?
No, the king said. We accept no gifts. Was that the unique social structure? Fanny wondered.
It certainly was not human. We are a warrior race. What we want, we take.
Fanny has set cross-legged in front of the deists and exchanged conversation with the king while
Donut played with the spurned toys. Trying to overcome the initial bad impression,
Fanny had told the chief about the stars and other worlds, since simple people usually liked
fables. He spoke of the ship, not mentioning yet that it was out of fuel. He spoke of Cassela,
telling the chief how its fame was known throughout the galaxy.
That is as it should be, the chief said proudly. We are a race of warriors, the like of which has
never been seen. Every man of us dies fighting. You must have fought some great wars.
Fanny has said politely, wondering what idiot had written up the galactic report.
I have not fought in a war for many years, the chief said. We are united now and all our
enemies have joined us. Bit by bit, Fanny led up to the matter of the fuel.
What is this fuel? The chief asked haltingly because there was no equivalent for it in the
Casselon language. It makes our ship go. And where is it? In the metal spire, Fanny has said,
if you would just allow us in the holy shrine, the chief exclaimed shocked.
The tall metal church which the gods left here long ago.
Yeah, Fanny has said sadly, knowing what was coming. I guess that's it.
It is sacrilege for an outworlder to go near it. The chief said, I forbid it.
We need the fuel. Fanny was getting tired of sitting cross-led.
Space armor wasn't built for complicated postures. The spire was put here for such emergencies.
Strangers know that I am God of my people as well as their leader. If you dare approach the sacred
temple, there will be war. I was afraid of that. Fanny has said getting to his feet.
And since we are a race of warriors, the chief said, at my command, every fighting man on the
planet will move against you. More will come from the hills and from across the rivers.
Abruptly the chief drew a knife. It must have been a signal because every native in the room
did the same. Fanny had dragged Donut away from the toys. Look, Lumix, these friendly warriors
can't do a damn thing to us. Those knives can't cut space armor, and I doubt if they have anything
better. Don't let them pile up on you, though. Use the paralyzer first, the needle or if they
really get thick. Right. Donut whisked down and primed a paralyzer in a single coordinated movement.
With weapons, Donut was fast and reliable, which was virtue enough for Fanny to keep him as a partner.
We'll cut around this building and grab the fuel. Two cans ought to be enough. Then we'll beat it
fast. They walked out of the building, followed by the Cassellans. Four carriers lifted the chief who
was barking orders. The narrow street outside was suddenly jammed with armed natives. No one tried
to touch them yet, but at least a thousand knives were flashing in the sun. In front of the cash
was a solid failings of Cassellans. They stood behind a network of ropes that probably marked the
boundary between sacred and profane ground. Get set for it, Fanny has said, and stepped over the
ropes. Immediately the foremost temple guard raised his knife. Fanny brought up the paralyzer,
not firing it yet, still moving forward. The foremost native shouted something and the knife
swept across in a glittering arc. The Cassellan gurgled something else, staggered and fell,
bright blood oozed from his throat. I told you not to use the needle or yet. Fanny has said.
I didn't, Donald protested. Glancing back, Fanny has saw that Donald's needle or was still
holstered. Then I don't get it, said Fanny, bewilderedly. Three more natives bounded forward.
Their knives held high. They tumbled to the ground also. Fanny has stopped and watched as a platoon
of natives advanced on them. Once they were within stabbing range of the earthmen, the natives were
slitting their own throats. Fanny was frozen for a moment, unable to believe his eyes.
Donald halted behind him. Natives were rushing forward by the hundreds now. Their knives poised,
screaming at the earthmen. As they came within range, each native stabbed himself,
tumbling on a quickly growing pile of bodies. It minutes the earthmen were surrounded by a heap
of bleeding cassellan flesh, which was steadily growing higher. All right, Fanny has shouted,
stop it. He act, Donald, back with him to profane ground. Truce, he yelled in cassellan.
The crowd parted and the chief was carried through. With two knives clenched in his fists,
he was panting from excitement. We have won the first battle. He said proudly, the might of our
warriors frightens even such aliens as yourselves. You shall not profane our temple while a man is
alive on cassella. The natives shouted their approval and triumph. The two aliens dazedly stumbled
back to their ship. So that's what galactic meant by a unique social structure. Fanny has said
merosely. He stripped off his armor and laid down on his bunk. Their way of making war is to
suicide their enemies into capitulation. They must be nuts. Donald grumbled. That's no way to fight.
It works, doesn't it? Fanny got up and stared out of porthole. The sun was setting,
painting the city of charming red in its glow. The beams of light glistened off the
spire of the galactic cache. Through the open doorway they could hear the boom and rattle of drums.
Tribal called arms. Fanny has said. I still say it's crazy. Donald had some definite ideas on
fighting. It ain't human. All by that the idea seems to be that if enough people slaughter
themselves the enemy gives up out of sheer guilty conscience. What if the enemy doesn't give up?
Before these people united they must have fought it out. Tribe to tribe. Suiciting until someone gave
up. The losers probably joined the victors. The tribe must have grown until it could take over the
planet by sheer weight of numbers. Fanny looked carefully at Donald trying to see if he understood.
It's anti-survival of course if someone didn't give up the race would probably kill themselves.
He shook his head. But war of any kind is anti-survival. Perhaps they've got rules.
Couldn't we just barge in and grab the fuel quick? Donald asked and get out before they all killed
themselves? I don't think so. Fanny has said. They might go on committing suicide for the next
10 years figuring they were still fighting us. He looked thoughtfully at the city.
It's that chief of theirs. He's their god and he'd probably keep them
suiciding until he was the only man left. Then he'd grin and say we are great warriors and kill
himself. Donald shrugged his big shoulders and discussed. Why don't we knock him off?
They'd just elect another god. The sun was almost below the horizon now.
I've got an idea though. Fanny has said. He scratched his head. It might work.
All we can do is try. At midnight the two men sneaked out of the ship moving silently into
the city. They were both dressed in space armor again. Donald carried two empty fuel cans.
Fanny had his paralyzer out. The streets were dark and silent as they slid along walls and
round posts keeping out of sight. A native turned a corner suddenly, but Fanny apparelized him
before he could make a sound. They crouched in the darkness in the mouth of an alley facing the
cash. Have you got it straight? Fanny asked. I paralyze the guards. You bolt in and fill up those
cans. We get the hell out of here quick. When they check they'll find the cans still there.
Maybe they won't commit suicide then. The men moved across the shadowy steps in front of
the cash. There were three cassellans guarding the entrance. Their knives stuck in their loincloths.
Fanny has stunned them with a medium charge and Donald broke into a run. Torches instantly flared,
natives boiled out of every alleyway shouting, waving their knives.
We've been ambushed. Fanny has shouted. Get back here, Donald.
Donald, herodly, retreated. The natives had been waiting for them, screaming, yowling,
they rushed at the earthmen, slitting their own throats at five-foot range.
Bodies tumbled in front of Fanny almost tripping him as he backed up. Donald caught him by an arm
and yanked him straight. They ran out of the sacred area.
Truce dammit. Fanny called out. Let me speak to the chief. Stop it. Stop it. I want a truce.
Reluctantly the cassellans stopped their slaughter.
This is war. The chief said, striding forward. His almost human face was stern under the torch
lid. You have seen our warriors. You know now that you cannot stand against them. The word has
spread to all our lands. My entire people are prepared to do battle. He looked proudly at his
fellow-cassellans, then back to the earthmen. I, myself, will lead my people into battle now.
There will be no stopping us. We will fight until you surrender yourselves completely,
stripping off your armor. Wait, chief. Fanny had panted, sick at the sight of so much blood.
The clearing was obscene out of the inferno. Hundreds of bodies were sprawled around. The streets were
muddy with blood. Let me confer with my partner tonight. I will speak with you tomorrow.
No, the chief said. You started the battle. It must go to its conclusion. Brave men wish to die in
battle. It is our fondest wish. You are the first enemy we have had in many years since we subdued
the mountain tribes. Sure, Fanny has said, but let's talk about it. I, myself, will fight you.
The chief said holding up a dagger. I will die for my people as a warrior must.
Hold it, Fanny has shouted. Granted as a truce, we are allowed to fight only by sunlight.
It is a tribal taboo. The chief thought for a moment, then said, very well, until tomorrow.
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Electronic Payments Coalition. The beaten earth men walked slowly back to their ship amid the
jeers of the victorious populace. Next morning, Fanny is still didn't have a plan. He knew that he had
to have fuel. He wasn't planning on spending the rest of his life on Kassala or waiting until
the Galactic Survey sent another ship in fifty years or so. On the other hand, he hesitated at the
idea of being responsible for the death of anywhere up to three billion people. It wouldn't be a very
good record to take to Thetis. The Galactic Survey might find out about it anyway. He just wouldn't do
it. He was stuck both ways. Slowly the two men walked out to meet the chief. Fanny was still
searching wildly for an idea while listening to the drums booming. If there was only someone we
could fight, Donald mourned, looking at his useless blasters. That's the deal, Fanny has said.
Guilty conscience is making sinners of us all or something like that. They expect us to give in
before the carnage gets out of hand. He considered for a moment. It's not so crazy actually,
on earth armies don't usually fight until every last man is slaughtered on one side,
someone surrenders when they've bad enough. If they just fight us,
yeah, if they only, he stopped, will fight each other, he said. These people look at suicide as
war. Wouldn't they look upon war, but real fighting as suicide? What good would that do us,
Donald asked. They were coming into the city now and the streets were lined with armed natives
around the city. There were thousands more. Natives were filling the plane as far as the I could see.
Evidently they had responded to the drums and were here to do battle with the aliens,
which meant of course a wholesale suicide. Look at it this way, Fanny has said. If a guy plans on
suiciding on earth, what do we do? Arrest him? Donald asked. Not at first. We offer him anything
he wants if he just won't do it. People offer the guy money, a job, their daughters, anything,
just so he won't do it. It's taboo on earth. So, so, Fanny went on, maybe fighting is just
his taboo here. Maybe they'll offer us fuel if we'll just stop. Donald looked dubious,
but Fanny felt it was worth a try. They pushed their way through the crowded city to the entrance
of the cash. The chief was waiting for them, beaming on his people like a jovial war god.
Are you ready to do battle? He asked, or to surrender. Sure, Fanny has said. Now, Donald,
he swung and his mailed fist caught Donald in the ribs. Donald blinked. Come on, you idiot,
hit me back. Donald swung and Fanny has staggered from the force of the blow. In a second,
they were added like a pair of blacksmiths, mailed blows ringing from their armored hides.
A little lighter, Fanny a gasp, picking himself up from the ground. You're denting my ribs.
He belted Donald viciously on the helmet.
Stop it, the chief cried. This is disgusting.
It's working, Fanny a-panted. Now, let me strangle you. I think that might do it.
Donald obliged by falling to the ground. Fanny clamped both hands around Donald's armored neck
and squeezed. Make believe you're an agony idiot, he said. Donald groaned and moaned as convincingly
as he could. You must stop the chief screamed. It is terrible to kill another.
Then let me get some fuel, Fanny has said, tightening his grip on Donald's throat.
The chief thought it over for a little while. Then he shook his head. No.
What? You are aliens if you want to do this disgraceful thing, do it, but you shall not
profane our religious relics. Donald and Fanny has staggered to their feet.
Fanny was exhausted from fighting in the heavy space armor. He barely made it up.
Now, the chief said, surrender at once. Take off your armor or do battle with us.
The thousands of warriors, possibly millions because they were arriving every second,
shouted their blood wrath. The cry was taken up on the outskirts and echoed to the hills where
more fighting men were pouring down into the crowded plain. Fanny's face contorted. He couldn't
give himself and don't add up to the castelands, they might be cooked at the next church supper.
For a moment he considered going after the fuel and letting the damned fool suicide, all they
pleased. His mind and angry blank, Fanny has staggered forward and hit the chief in the face with
a mailed glove. The chief went down and the natives backed away in horror. Quickly, the chief
snapped out a knife and brought it up to his throat. Fanny's hands closed on the chief's wrists.
Listen to me, Fanny accroped. We're going to take that fuel if any man makes a move. If anyone
kills himself, I'll kill your chief. The natives milled around uncertainly. The chief was struggling
wildly and Fanny's hands trying to get a knife to his throat so he could die honorably.
Get it, Fanny had told Donut, and hurry up. The natives were uncertain just what to do.
They had their knives poised at their throats ready to plunge if battle was joined.
Don't do it, Fanny warned. I'll kill the chief and then he'll never die a warrior's death.
The chief was still trying to kill himself. Desperately, Fanny held on knowing he had to keep him from
suicide in order to hold the threat of death over him. Listen, chief, Fanny said,
eyeing the uncertain crowd. I must have your promise there'll be no more war between us,
either I get it or I kill you. Warriors, the chief roared. Choose a new ruler.
Forget me and do battle. The cacellans were still uncertain, but knives started to lift.
If you do it, Fanny is shouted into spare. I'll kill your chief. I'll kill all of you.
That's not them. I have powerful magic in my ship. I can kill every last man and then you won't be
able to die a warrior's death or get to heaven. The chief tried to free himself with a mighty surge
that almost tore one of his arms free, but Fanny held on pinging both arms behind his back.
Very well. The chief said, tears springing into his eyes. A warrior must die by his own hand.
You have won, alien. The crowd shouted curses as the earthmen carried the chief and the cans of
fuel back to the ship. They waved their knives and danced up and down in a frenzy of hate.
Let's make it fast. Fanny said after Donut had fueled the ship. He gave the chief a push and
leaped in. In a second they were in the air heading for Thetis and the nearest bar at top speed.
The natives were hot for blood, their own. Every man of them pledged his life to wiping out the
insult to their bleeder and god and to their shrine. But the aliens were gone. There was nobody to fight.
And of warrior race by Robert Sheckley.
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