“We need the fuel.” Fanna was getting tired of sitting cross-legged. 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,” Fannia said, getting to his feet.
“And since we are a race of warriors,” the chief said, “at my command, every fighting man of 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.
Fannia dragged Donnaught away from the toys. “Look, lummox. 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 needler if they really get thick.”
“Right.” Donnaught whisked out and primed a paralyzer in a single coordinated movement.
With weapons, Donnaught was fast and reliable, which was virtue enough for Fannia 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 the building, follow by the Cascellans. 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 cache was solid phalanx of Cascellans. The stood behind a network of ropes that probably marked the boundary between sacred and profane ground.
“Get set for it,” Fannia said, and stepped over the ropes.
Immediately the foremost temple guard raised his knife. Fannia 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 Cascellan gurgled something else, staggered and fell. Bright blood oozed from his throat.
“I told you not to use the needler yet!” Fannia said.
“I didn’t,” Donnaught protested. Glancing back, Fannia saw that Donnaught’s needler was till holstered.
“Then I don’t get it,” said Fannia bewilderedly.
Three more natives bounded forward, their knives held high. They tumbled to the ground also. Fannia 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!
Fannia was frozen for a moment, unable to believe his eyes. Donnaught 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. In minutes the Earthmen were surrounded by a heap of bleeding Cascellan flesh, which was steadily growing higher.
“All right!” Fannia shouted. “Stop it.” He yanked Donnaught back with him, to profane ground. “Truce!” he yelled in Cascellan.
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 Cascella!”
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,’ ” Fannie said morosely. He stripped off his armor and lay down on his bunk. “Their way of making war is to suicide their enemies into capitulation.”
“They must be nuts,” Don-naught grumbled. “That’s no way to fight.”
“It works, doesn’t it?” Fannia got up and stared out a porthole. The sun was setting, painting the city a 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 call to arms,” Fannia said.
“I still say it’s crazy.” Donnaught had some definite ideas on fighting. “It ain’t human.”
“I’ll buy 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, suiciding 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.” Fannia looked carefully at Donnaught, 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?” Donnaught asked. “And get out before they all killed themselves?”
“I don’t think so,” Fannia said. “They might go on committing suicide for the next ten years, figuring they were still fighting us.” He looked thoughtfully at the city. “It’s that chief of their. He’s their god and he’d probably keep them suiciding until he was the only man left. Then he’d grin, say, ‘We are great warriors,’ and kill himself.”
Donnaught shrugged his big shoulders in disgust. “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,” Fannia 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. Donnaught carried two empty fuel cans. Fannia had his paralyzer out.
The streets were dark and silent as they sped along walls and around posts, keeping out o sight. A native turned a corner suddenly, but Fannia paralyzed him before he could make a sound.
They crouched in the darkness,, in the mouth of an alley facing the cache.
“Have you got it straight?” Fannia 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 find the cans still there. Maybe they won’t commit suicide then.”
The men moved across the shadowy steps in front of the cache. There were three Cascellans guarding the entrance, their knives stuck in their loincloths. Fannia stunned them with a medium charge, and Donnaught broke into a run.
Torches instantly flared, natives boiled out of every alleyway, shouting, waving their knives.
“We’ve been ambushed!” Fannia shouted. “Get back here, Donnaught!”
Donnaught hurriedly 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 Fannia, almost tripping him as he backed up. Donnaught caught him by an arm and yanked him straight. They ran out of the sacred area.
“Truce, damn it!” Fannia called out. “Let me speak to the chief. Stop it! Stop it! I want a truce!”
Reluctantly, the Cascellans stopped their slaughter.
“This is war,” the chief said, striding forward. His almost human face was stern under the torchlight. “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 Cascellans, 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.”