"Tell us what, Beer-Guts?" inquired the center grandfather.

"Well, now," said Gulark-ay, scuffing the earth with one sandal toe, and turning red in the face. "Nobody likes Little Bite better than I do, but it's a fact, he's getting old."

"Something wrong with that?" inquired the center grandfather, sharply.

"No-no," said Gulark-ay. "Nothing wrong with it at all. But you know, Little Bite doesn't say much; but I happen to know he's been wanting to leave his job here and get back to his home on that other world, for a long time."

"What," said the center grandfather, "has all that got to do with us?"

"Well, Little Bite, he wanted to go home. But his people back there, they wanted him to stay here. Well, some little time ago he figured maybe he better just mess things up here a little; and then his people back home would send someone else out to do the job right and he could quit. Well now," said Gulark-ay,"I don't blame him. A Shorty his age, with nothing but real people twice his size around him all the time, it's not the sort of thing that would bother me, myself. But I can see how something like that would be for someone his size-like asking a kid to go out and do a full day's work in the fields, same as a man. And, of course, around here he doesn't have his machines and gadgets to make life easier for him. So, as I say, I don't blame him; all the same I wouldn't have done what he did. Didn't seem right."

Gulark-aystopped to mop his face with a corner of his robe.

"Sure is thirsty, standing out here talking like this," he said. "I could go for a drink."

He got a good laugh from the crowd. But the grandfathers did not join in.

"What do you mean-'done what he did?' What did Little Bite do?" demanded the center grandfather.

"Well, he just thought he'd kick up a little ruckus by mixing into the Terror's business. Then Terror-any real person would have figured on it, of course-took off with Greasy Face and it got a whole lot more serious than Little Bite had bargained for. So he had to call in the Half-Pint there. Well, now, the truth is, the Half-Pint never saw Greasy Face before in his little life. It's all a story about him wanting her back from the Terror, like a real man might."

The center grandfather turned. His eyes focused on Joshua Guy.

"Little Bite?" he said.

"I'm right here," said Joshua, standing up.

"Is what the Beer-Guts Bouncer's telling us, the truth?"

Joshua brushed some pine needles from a fold in his jacket with a casual flick of his hand.

"With all due respect to the grandfathers of Clan Hollows, and the people of Clan Hollows," he said, "I am a guest in Humrog, and a representative of the Shorty people. Accordingly, to dignify the Beer-Guts Bouncer's accusation by taking any notice of it would be beneath my official dignity."

Joshua smiled winningly at the Clan Hollows grandfathers.

"Accordingly," he said, "I must refuse to discuss it."

And sat down.

CHAPTER 16.

There was a moment's dead silence and then the closest thing to a collective gasp that John had ever heard uttered by Dilbians. Being the type of people they were, it was more grunt than gasp-rather the sort of sound that comes from a punch in the stomach.

Then, a knowing babble arose.

The grandfathers sat back on their bench, looking grim. The center grandfather consulted to his left and to his right. Then he addressed the assemblage.

"Quiet down!"

They quieted, eagerly listening.

"Beer-Guts," said the center grandfather, to Gulark-ay. "You said Half-Pint here never even knew about Greasy Face until Little Bite got in touch with him. Then maybe you can tell us just why he'd come chasing after her, wanting to fight the Terror."

"He didn't," said Gulark-ay.

"He what?"

"Half-Pint," said Gulark-ay, "never even knew he'd have to fight the Terror, maybe, to get Greasy back.

Little Bite never let on that might happen. If he had, he'd never have got Half-Pint to go after her. You don't think any Shorty would seriously consider tangling bare-handed with-what was it One Man said?-even a toothless old grandmother. Half-Pint wouldn't have been willing at all." He threw a grin at John. "He's not willing now. Find out for yourself. Ask him."

"Hey-" said the Hill Bluffer, shooting suddenly to his feet.

"Sit down!" said the center grandfather.

"Are you giving the government mail orders?" roared the Bluffer.

"Yes, I'm giving the government mail orders!" snapped the center grandfather. "On Clan Hollows ground, in full Clan Hollows meeting, I'm giving the government mail order. Sit down!"

The Bluffer, growling, sat down.

The grandfathers went into session together. They talked for a minute or two, then sat back. The center grandfather spoke out.

"Here's the decision of the grandfathers," he said. "With all respect to One Man and others, this whole business smells a little too fishy to your grandfathers. Accordingly, it's our ruling that Greasy Face be sent back with Little Bite, and Half-Pint along with them. No affair of honor to be allowed between the Terror and the Half-"

"NOW YOU LISTEN TO ME!" thundered the Hill Bluffer, rising like a stone from a catapult. "Clan Hollows or no Clan Hollows. Grandfather or no grandfathers. And if the Beer-Guts Bouncer doesn't like it, he knows where to find the government mail, any time. You think this Shorty here isn't willing to tangle with the Terror?"

"Sit down!" yelled the center grandfather.

"I won't sit down!" the Bluffer yelled back. "None of you know the Half-Pint. I do.Not willing! Listen, when a bunch of drunks at Brittle Rock tried to make him do tricks like a performing animal, he fooled them all and got away. Then Boy Is She Built tried to drop him over a cliff. Does he look dropped? On our way here the bridge at Knobby Gorge was rucked up out of our reach. He climbed up a straight cliff with nothing to hang on to, to get it down and let us over after the Terror."

The Bluffer swung around and flung out a pointing arm at the chief axman.

"And what happened when you and four of the boys tried to take us in just outside the valley here? Who wanted to help me clean up on the five of you? And who didn't have any doubts about the two of us being able to do it, either?" He glared at the chief axman. "Huh?"

He swung around back to John.

"How about it, Half-Pint?" he roared. "The hell with the Clan Hollows and their grandfathers! The hell with anybody but you and me and the Terror? You want to be delivered or not? Say the word!"

John heard the Bluffer, and the swelling roar of the crowd rising behind him. All this time he had been sitting with one thumb rubbing pensively back and forth along the top edge of his belt buckle, listening to what was being said, and thinking deeply. He had time to figure out what was behind most of what was happening; and when the Bluffer had leaped up just now and gone into his impassioned speech, it had rung a bell clear and strong inside John Tardy.

So when the Bluffer bawled his question, John had his answer ready. The words were still in the air when John was on his feet himself, and shouting.

"Show me this skulking Terror!" he shouted. "Lead me to him! Who hides behind his grandfathers and his clan and won't stand and fight like a man!"

CHAPTER 17.

The words barely had time to pass John's lips before things began happening. He felt himself snatched from the ground and the whole scene whirled wildly about him as he found himself being carried like a sack of grain away from the amphitheater and the meeting, and toward the forest beyond the valley.

The Hill Bluffer had grabbed him in two large hands and was running with him toward the forest the way a football player runs with a football. A roar of voices surged up and beat behind them. Looking back over the Bluffer's boulder-like shoulder, John saw that the whole mass of people involved in the meeting of Clan Hollows was now at their heels.

The free air whistled past John's face. He was being jolted about with every jarring footfall of the Bluffer; but the landscape was reeling past them both at a rate that must be close to thirty miles an hour; and the crowd behind was not gaining on them. In fact, John hesitated to believe it, considering that the Bluffer was carrying John's extra one hundred and eighty-five pounds in such an awkward fashion, but as the forest wall drew near he was forced to, they were actually running away from their pursuers. Their lead got bigger with each stride of the Bluffer. John felt the glow of competition as he had felt it on the sports field many times before. For the first time, a spark of kinship glowed to life inside him for the Bluffer.

They might be worlds apart, biologically, thought John, but by heaven they both had what it took to outdo the next man when the chips were stacked and wagered.

Abruptly, the shadow of the forest closed about them. The Bluffer ran on a carpet of tree needles, easing back his pace to a steady lope. He lifted John, pushing him back around to the saddle. John climbed into the saddle and hung on. With John's weight properly distributed, the Bluffer ran more easily.

The surf-sound of pursuit behind them began to be muffled by the forest. Moreover it was dropping further behind yet, and fading. The Bluffer ran down the side of one small hollow, and coming up the other, dropped for the first time back into his usual stalking stride of a walking pace. When he reached the crest of the further side, he ran again down the slope to the next hollow. And so he continued, alternately running and walking as the slope permitted.

"How far to the Terror?" asked John, during one of these spells of walking.

"Glen Hollow," said the Bluffer, economically. "Half a-" he gave the answer in terms of Dilbian units.

John worked it out in his head to come to just about three miles more.

A little more than ten minutes later, they broke through a small fringe of the birchlike trees to emerge over the lip of a small, cuplike valley containing a nearly treeless, grassy meadow split by a stream, which in the valley's center spread out into a pool some forty feet across at its widest and showing enough dark blueness to its waters to indicate something more than ordinary depth.

By the side of those waters, waited the Streamside Terror.

John leaned forward and spoke quietly into that same ear of the Bluffer's that he had bitten an hour or so earlier, as the Bluffer started down the slope toward the meadow.

"Put me down," said John, "beside the deepest part of that pond."

The Bluffer grunted agreeably and continued his descent. He came down to a point by the wider part of the pool and stopped while he was still about thirty feet from the waiting Dilbian.

"Hello, postman," said the Terror.

"Hello, Streamside," grunted the Bluffer. "Mail for you here."

The Streamside Terror looked curiously past the Hill Bluffer's shoulders and met John's eye.

"That's the Half-Pint Posted, is it?" he said. "I thought he'd be bigger. So the old ones let you come?"

"Nope," said the Bluffer. "We just came on our own."

While the Terror had been peering at John, John had been closely examining the Terror. John had gotten a fair look at the Dilbian scrapper back while he was escaping from Tark-ay, but from some little distance. And for most of that time, the Terror had been in pretty constant motion. Now John had a chance to make sure of the picture he had carried away from the Hemnoid camp before.

Once more, John was struck by the fact that the Terror did not seem particularly large, for a Dilbian.

The Bluffer was nearly a good head taller. And the impressive mass of One Man would have made two of the younger battler. Streamside was good sized for a male, but nothing more than that. John noted, however, the unusually thick and bulky forearms, the short neck and-more revealing perhaps than anything else-the particularly poised stance and balance of the Dilbian.

It was as if the whole weight of the Terror's body was so easily and lightly carried that the whole effort of moving it into action could be ignored.

John threw one quick glance at the water alongside. The bank seemed to drop directly off into deep water. He slid down from the saddle and stepped around the Dilbian postman, kicking off his boots and shrugging out of his jacket as he did so. His hands went to his belt buckle; and in the same moment, with no further pause for amenities, the Streamside Terror charged.

John turned and dived deep into the pool.

He had expected the Terror to attack immediately. He had even counted on it, reasoning that the Dilbian was too much the professional fighter to take chances with any opponent-even one as insignificant as a red-headed Shorty. John had planned that the Terror should follow him into the water.

But not that the Terror should follow so quickly.

Even as John shot for the dark depths of the pool, he heard and felt the water-shock of the big body plunging in after him, so close that it felt as if the Terror's great nailed hands were clawing at John's heels.

John stroked desperately for depth and distance. He had a strategy of battle; but it all depended on a certain amount of time and elbow room. He changed direction underwater, shot off at an angle up to the surface; and, flinging water from his eyes with a backward jerk of his head, looked around him.

The Terror, looking in the other direction, broke the surface fifteen feet away.

Rapidly, John dived again. Well underwater, he reached for his belt buckle, unsnapped it and pulled the belt from the loops of his trousers. In the process, he had come to the surface again. He broke water almost under the nose of the Terror; and was forced to dive again immediately with half a lungful of air and his bulky enemy close behind him.

Once more, in the space and dimness of underwater, he evaded the Dilbian; and this time he came up cleanly, a good ten feet from where the back of the Terror's big head broke the water. Turning, John stroked for distance and breathing room, the length of his belt still trailing from one fist like a dark stem of water-weed.

Confidence was beginning to warm in John as he dove again. He had had time, now, to prove an earlier guess that, effective as the Terror might be against other Dilbians in the water, his very size made him more slow and clumsy than a human in possibly anything but straight-away swimming. John had gambled on this being true-just as he had gambled on the fact that, true to his reputation, the Terror would pick a battleground alongside some stream or other. Now, John told himself, it was time to switch to the attack, choose the proper opening and make his move.

Turning about, John saw the Terror had spotted him and was churning the water in his direction. John filled his lungs and dived, as if to hide again. But underneath the surface he changed direction and swam directly toward his opponent. He saw the heavy legs and arms churning toward him overhead; and, as they passed in the water, he reached up, grabbed one flailing foot and pulled.

The Terror reacted with powerful suddenness. He checked; and dived. John, flung surfacewards by the heel he had caught, released it and dived also, so that he shot downwards, behind and above the back of the Dilbian. He saw the wide shoulders, the churning arms; and then, as the Terror-finding no quarry-turned upwards again toward the surface, John closed in.

He passed the thin length of his belt around the Terror's thick neck, wrapped it also around his own wrists and twisted the large loop tight.

At this the Terror, choking, should have headed toward the surface, giving John a chance to breathe.

The Dilbian did. But there and then the combat departed from John's plan, entirely. John got the breath of air he had been expecting at this moment-the one breath he had counted on to give him an advantage over the strangling Terror. But then Streamside plunged down again, turning and twisting to get at the human who was riding his back and choking him. And finally, and after all, John came at last to understand what sort of an opponent he had volunteered to deal with.

It is always easy to be optimistic; and even easier to underrate an enemy. John, in spite of all the evidence, in spite of all his experiences of the last three days, had simply failed to realize how much greater the Terror's strength could be than his own. Physically, the Terror in sheer weight and muscle was a match for any two full-grown male Earthly gorillas. And, in addition to this, he had human intelligence and courage.

John clung like a fresh-water leech, streaming out in the wake of the Terror, as the Terror thrashed and twisted, trying to get a grip with his big fingers on the thin belt, sunk in the fur of his neck. While with the other nineteen-inch hand he beat backwards through the water, trying to knock John from his hold.

John was all but out of reach, stretched at arms-length by his grip on the belt. But now and again, the blind blows of the Terror's flailing hand brushed him. Only brushed him-awkwardly, and slowly, slowed by the water-but each impact tossed John about like a chip in a river current. He felt like a man rolling down a cliff side and being beaten all over by baseball bats at the same time.

His head rang. The water roared in his ear. He gulped for air and got half a mouthful of foam and water.

His shoulder numbed to one blow and his ribs gave to another. His senses began to leave him; he thought-through what last bit of semiconsciousness that remained as the fog closed about his mind-that it was no longer a matter of proving his courage in facing the Terror. His very life now lay in the grip of his hands on the twisted belt. It was, in the end, kill or be killed. For it was very clear that if he did not manage to strangle the Terror before he, himself, was drowned or killed, the Terror would most surely do for him.

Choking and gasping, he swam back to blurred consciousness. His mouth and nose were bitter with the taste of water and he was no longer holding the belt. The edge of the bank loomed like a raft to the survivor of a sunken ship, before him. Instinctively, no longer thinking of the Terror, or anything but light and air, he scrabbled like a half-drowned animal at the muddy edge of earth. His arms were leaden and weak, too weak to lift him ashore. He felt hands helping him. He helped to pull himself onto slippery grass. The hands urged him a little farther. His knees felt ground beneath him.

He coughed water. He retched. The hands urged him a little farther; and finally, at last completely out on solid land, he collapsed.