They went through the village, which under the bright early afternoon sun seemed to have a fiesta air about it, and to the amphitheater. The main road up which they traveled was alive with Dilbians of all ages moving in the same direction and many questions were thrown at the guard around John and the Bluffer. The guard, marching stiffly, with axes over their shoulders, looked straight ahead to a Dilbian and refused to answer.
They came at last to a long, meter-high ledge of rock on which five very ancient-looking male Dilbians sat on one low bench. The one on the far right was a skinny oldster who seemed slightly deaf, since as they came up he was cupping one ear with a shaky hand and shouting at the Dilbian next to him to speak up. As the Bluffer and John were brought to a halt before them, John was astonished to notice the number of other familiar faces in the forefront of the gathering. One Man was there, seated on a sort of camp stool. Ty Lamorc and Boy Is She Built stood not far from the giant Dilbian. And Gulark-ay and Joshua Guy were flanking old Shaking Knees, who—whether in his capacity as mayor of Humrog, or father to Boy Is She Built—was looking important.
“Hey!” cried John, trying to attract the attention of the little human ambassador.
Joshua Guy looked up, spotted John, and gave him a large smile and a cheery wave of one hand.
“Beautiful day, isn’t it?” called the ambassador; he went back to chatting in a friendly manner with Gulark-ay and Shaking Knees.
“I can’t see him. Where is he? Get him out in the open!” the deaf grandfather on the end of the bench was snapping fretfully.
“Sit here,” said an axman. The Bluffer sat down on a bench. John climbed down from the saddle and sat beside him.
“There he is!” said the deaf grandfather. “Why didn’t someone point him out to me before. What? Hey? Speak up!”
He was nudged by the grandfather adjoining. The grandfathers conferred, for the most part in low voices. Then they all sat back on their bench, and the central one waggled a finger at the head axman, who stepped out into the open space before the ledge and turned to the crowd.
“Clan Hollows is now meeting in open session!” he shouted. “No fighting! Everybody listen!”
The crowd muttered, grumbled, and took about forty seconds to subside to a passably low level of noise.
“Ahem!” The central grandfather, a heavy Dilbian whose hair was showing the rusty color of age, cleared his throat. “The grandfathers have called this meeting to discuss a matter of Clan honor. In short: is the honor of Clan Hollows involved in the ruckus that one of the Clan Members, the Streamside Terror, has got himself into?”
“Yes!” spoke up Boy Is She Built.
“Who said that?” said the central grandfather.
“She did,” said an axman, pointing at Boy Is She Built.
“Keep her quiet,” said the grandfather.
“Shut up!” said the axman to Boy Is She Built.
“I apologize for my daughter to Clan Hollows,” said Shaking Knees.
“You ought to,” said the center Clan Hollows grandfather.
“What’d she say? Hey?” said the grandfather on the end. And they started all over again.
Three minutes later, approximately, things were fairly well straightened out and the meeting underway.
“It seems,” said the center grandfather, “that the Terror, wanting this female that just interrupted your grandfather, here, got himself involved with a couple of different types of characters, who may or may not be real people, ended up coming back here with one of the types of characters, known as a Shorty, hot after him, and killing one of the other types of characters, known as a Fatty. Everybody agree to this?”
There was a stir in the forefront of the crowd and Gulark-ay spoke up.
“If the grandfathers will allow a stranger to speak—”
“Go ahead,” said the center grandfather. “You’re the Fatty top man from Humrog, aren’t you?”
“I am.”
“You don’t agree?” said the center grandfather.
“I just,” said Gulark-ay in a voice that reminded John of heavy maple syrup being poured from a five-gallon can, “wished to point out to the grandfathers of Clan Hollows that the Fatty in question is not quite killed. The Terror apparently left him for dead; but it seems now he will recover.”
“Well, then, there’s no blood feud involved there!” said the grandfather, sharply. “Why aren’t we informed properly about these things?”
“I don’t know,” said the chief axman.
“Speak when you’re spoken to,” said the center grandfather. He looked out over the crowd. “Where’s the Terror? I don’t see the Terror.”
“He’s waiting at Glen Hollow,” said Boy Is She built.
“Shut up,” said the axman who had spoken to her before.
“Let her speak now,” said the center grandfather. “Unless somebody else can tell us why the Terror’s at Glen Hollow instead of here? I didn’t think so. Go on, girl!”
“The Terror says the Clan can’t force a man to dishonor himself. If he’d known the Half-Pint Posted, this Shorty here, had been after him, he wouldn’t have moved a step after taking Greasy Face to avenge his honor against Little Bite—”
“Hold on!” said the center grandfather. “Hold on. Let’s get things straightened out here. Who’s Greasy Face?”
Boy Is She Built pointed down at Ty Lamorc, beside her.
“This Shorty female, here.”
The crowd muttered among itself and craned its necks, looking over the shoulders of those in front of it to get a look at Ty.
“Female!” the grandfather next to him was shouting in the ear of the deaf grandfather on the end. “Shorty FE-male!”
“They come in pairs?” the deaf grandfather said, interestedly.
Boy Is She Built went on to explain. It was approximately the same story Joshua had given John originally, except that in Boy Is She Built’s version she and the Terror were reported as invariably speaking in tones of great calm and reasonableness; while Shaking Knees, Joshua, and all others sneered, whined, bellowed, and generally used the nastiest voices they were capable of using, when they were quoted.
“That still doesn’t explain,” said the center grandfather when she was through, “why the Terror isn’t here to speak for himself.”
“He says it already looks as if he had been dodging a fight with Half-Pint. He’s not going to have it look as if he was hiding behind the grandfathers. He’s there waiting for the Shorty now, in Glen Hollow for all the world to see. And if the Shorty doesn’t reach him, it isn’t his fault!”
“Hmph!” said the center grandfather, thoughtfully. He conferred with the other grandfathers. “Hey? What say?” the deaf grandfather could be heard demanding at intervals. Finally, they all sat back on their bench and the center grandfather spoke out again.
“As far as the grandfathers of the Clan can see,” he said, “there’s no reason this shouldn’t be a personal matter between The Terror and the Half-Pint, here—except for one thing.”
He paused and cleared his throat. It was like banging a gavel for order. The crowd became the quietest it had so far become.
“The facts are these,” he said. “The Terror has had his mug spilt by a Shorty who is a guest in Humrog.” He glanced at Shaking Knees. “Right?”
“Right,” replied Shaking Knees, inclining his head as one gentleman of substance to another.
“To hit back, the Terror has tried to spill the mug of the guest Shorty by stealing away a member of the guest’s household. That little Shorty female, there, Greasy Face.”
Everybody looked at Ty.
“All right. Now, along comes a male Shorty—Half-Pint Posted here—having a claim on Greasy Face, and chases after the Terror to get his female back. And the grandfathers of your clan aren’t such unfeeling old geezers—” he paused to glare at the audience “—even though you all seem to think so most of the time, that they’d require him to give her back. So why not let the Terror and the Half-Pint meet? Well, there’s only one hitch.”