The Right to Arm Bears by Gordon R. Dickson Page A

himself standing, they were as close to eye to eye as they would normally ever expect to be.
    "What is it?" asked John.
    "You know," said the Bluffer with an effort, "you're not bad for a Shorty as I say and—"
    However, having got this far, he was stuck. It was rather hard for a human like John to read embarrassment on a Dilbian face; but if such a thing was possible, John thought he spotted that emotion on the Hill Bluffer now. He avoided the postman's eyes and simply waited. Looking off past the big head, he saw, far beyond the sharp mountain peaks, a few white puffs of clouds, looking peaceful and innocent.
    "What I mean is," said the Bluffer finally, after an apparent inner struggle. "The Streamside Terror's had his drinking mug spilt."
    * * *
    For a moment, John did not understand. And then he did, his hypno training coming once more to the rescue. To have one's drinking mug silt, in Dilbian terms, was to endure a deadly affront to personal honor. In short, someone had given the Streamside Terror reason for starting a blood feud. John had a sinking feeling as to whom it might be.
    "By me?" said John. "But he's never seen me."
    "No. By Little Bite," said the Bluffer. "But you're sort of hauled into it. It's real peculiar."
    "I'll bet," said John, thinking about the small ambassador back at Humrog.
    "You see," said the Bluffer, "Little Bite's a guest at Humrog nowadays."
    "I know. You told me," said John.
    "Let me finish. Now, since he's a guest, his fights are Humrog's fights. But Little Bite shamed the Terror, when he told old Shaking Knees the Terror shouldn't have Boy Is She Built. Because that meant the Terror was being called not worthy. Well, now what's the Terror going to do? He can't get mad at Shaking Knees for not letting him have Boy Is She Built. A man's got a right to look out for his daughter. He could get mad at Little Bite; but nobody in his right mind—even somebody like Streamside—is going to start a blood feud with a town of five thousand.
    "I mean, Clan Hollows could back him up, and that's more of a match; but Clan Hollows would be crazy if they did—when most of the stuff they sell gets sold in and to Humrog. No, what'd happen is that the grandfathers of Clan Hollows'd declare it a personal matter and Streamside'd have a choice of hiding out in Clan Hollows territory for the rest of his life, or being up by the heels before the year was out."
    "I see," said John. And he did. He was thinking deeply. Up until this point he had simply refused to accept the notion that Joshua could be deliberately at fault in sending him out on this mission. Mistakenly so, that was imaginable. But to plan to draft a man and send him out to cover up what had evidently been a diplomatic error on the little man's part—it was staggering. Men of sufficient stature to be appointed ambassadors, particularly to posts like this, did just not descend to such unethical tactics to hide their dirty linen. The job Joshua had given John to do was absolutely illegal; and John was under absolutely no compulsion to go through with it.
    He opened his mouth to say so, to tell the Bluffer that they should return immediately to Humrog—and closed it again, slowly, without having uttered a word. He had suddenly remembered how cleverly Joshua had him trapped. The Bluffer would certainly not just turn around on John's say-so and head back for the town. He had contracted to deliver a piece of mail to the Streamside Terror; and his Dilbian honor was at stake.
    The Hill Bluffer had been waiting the several seconds it took John to think this out. Now, he opened his large mouth again, and put a further aspect of the matter out for John's consideration.
    "You know," said the Bluffer. "You can't get Greasy Face back from the Terror without fighting him?"
    The words went in John's ears and knocked the problem of Joshua clear back out of sight.
    " Fighting him??" he echoed.
    "Yes," said the Bluffer. "Man-to-man. No weapons. No holds