The Right to Arm Bears by Gordon R. Dickson

himself, he had not been completely sure, even then. But evidently, even that was true.
    "Actually," the Bluffer was saying in a calmer tone, "nearly everybody down at Humrog and through the mountains thinks all right of Little Bite. He's a guest at Humrog, now; and nobody'd dare touch him. But this was back in the first days after he came here—"
    A chuckle erupted momentarily into the Bluffer's story.
    "—Old Hammertoes, down at Humrog. That old coot's always getting hot about something. Well, he was talking about the good old days, one day. He was drinking some, too . . ."
    John, after the night before at the inn, found himself with a rather graphic mental image of what "drinking a little" might amount to in the case mentioned.
    "He was about half loaded, and got himself all riled up over the thought that we had foreigners like Shorties and Fatties all over the place, nowadays. The old world was going to pot, he said; there ought to be a law. He was about half-drunk and he headed uptown."
    John's graphic mental image staggered out into the cobblestone street of Humrog as he remembered it.
    "He was all set to put Little Bite—only everybody called him just the Shorty, in those days—back in his shell and kick him clear back into the sky where he came from. Well, he went up and knocked on Little Bite's door. Little Bite opens it; and Hammertoes leans down and shouts in his face:
    " `All right, Shorty! I'm packing you off to your own hole, now!'
    "And he made a grab at Little Bite through the door. But Little Bite had this sort of chain on the door so it wouldn't open up all the way; and Hammertoes couldn't get much more than one arm inside. So there he is, half-drunk, hollering `Come here, you Shorty! You can't get away. I'll get you; and when I get hold of you—' "
    John winced. His mental image was becoming so graphic as to be almost painful.
    "Then Little Bite, who's picked up something sharp, takes good aim at that big hand of Hammertoes, and cuts Hammertoes a couple times across the knuckles, practically to the bone. Old Hammertoes yells bloody murder and yanks his hand back." The Bluffer began to laugh. "Little Bite slams the door."
    The Bluffer was laughing so hard he could not go on. He slowed down and stopped, leaning against the cliff side with one hand while he whooped at the memory. His whole body shook. John held on to his saddle with both hands. It was very disconcerting to be bucked around by the equivalent of a horse that was telling him a funny story at the same time.
    "Any—anyway," gasped the Bluffer, getting himself partially back under control, "Old Hammertoes comes back up to the bar, there, dripping blood and sucking on his knuckles.
    " `Why, what happened?' says everybody else at the bar.
    " `Nothing,' says Hammertoes.
    " `Something must've happened. Look at your hand,' says everybody.
    " `I tell you, nothing happened!' yells Hammertoes. `He wouldn't let me in there where I could grab a hold on him. So I come away. And as for my hand—that's got nothing to do with it. He didn't hurt my hand, hardly at all. All he done was to give it a little bite!' "
    The Bluffer went off into another fit of laughter that necessitated stopping and leaning against the cliff. But this time, John found himself laughing too. The story was funny—or it seemed funny to John, at least. They laughed together; and when they had both run down, rested a moment in a silence that was almost companionable.
    "You know," said the Bluffer, after a moment's silence. "You aren't too bad, for a Shorty."
    "You're all right, yourself—for a man," said John.
    The Bluffer fell silent again. But he did not move on. After a moment, he sat down on a nearby boulder.
    "Climb down," he said, over his shoulder. "I got something to talk to you about; and I can do it better if I'm looking at you while I'm at it."
    John frowned, hesitated; but climbed down. He walked around in front of the Dilbian and found that, with the Bluffer seated, and