“And we’ve got news for you—not that ye’ll ever have the chance to spread it about—”
“Us come to tip you folks off,” the Ween persisted. “They a mob of mean-looking Voion on the way! Less you wants to tangle with ’em, you better head for the brush!”
“Don’t try to put us off with wild tales, Ween!”
“It’s the truth, if I ever told it.”
“Why would ye tell us—if t’were true?”
“It beat me; it were Tief-tief here had the idea.”
“What kind o’ Quoppina is he?” the Zilk called. “I’ve seen no Stilter wi’ half the length o’ member that one shows.”
“He a out-of-town boy; just passing through.”
“T’is a trick, Wikker,” a Zilk beside the spokesman hooted. “I’d not trust the little butchers as far as I could kick ’em—nor the big Stilter, neither.”
“The Voion are looking for a friend of theirs,” Retief said. “They have an idea you’ll help them look.”
“We’ll help ’em off our land,” a Zilk stated. “I seen a mort o’ the scoundrels about the acreage lately, running in packs and trampling the crops—”
“They’re armed and they mean business,” Retief said. “Better get ready.”
The Zilk were closing in now; the three Ween crowded up against Retief, their fighting claws clicking like castanets. Retief drew his sword.
“You’re making a mistake,” he told the advancing Zilk leader. “They’ll be here any minute.”
“A sly trick, ye heathens—but we Zilk are too shrewd for ye—”
“Hey!” A Zilk called. The others turned. The lead elements of the Voion column were just emerging from the forest. At once, the Zilk formation broke, fell back in confusion toward the town.
“Get the females and grubs clear,” the Zilk chief honked, and dashed away with the rest. The Voion colonel, seeing the tribesmen in confusion, barked an order; his troops rolled forward through the fields, clubs ready.
“Let them have the town.” Retief seized the arm of the chief as he shot by. “Disperse in the jungle and you can reform for a counterattack!”
The Zilk jerked free. “Well—maybe. Who’d ha’ thought a crowd of Ween were telling the truth?” He rushed away.
The Voion were well into the village now; startled Zilk, caught short, dashed from the huts and wheeled for cover burdened with hastily salvaged possessions, only to drop them and veer off, with hoots of alarm, as fast-wheeling Voion intercepted them.
“Us better back off,” Jik-jik proposed from the shelter of a hut on the sidelines.
“Scout around and try to round up the survivors,” Retief said. “Pin-pin, you make it back to Weensville and bring up reinforcements. The Voion need a little lesson in intertribal cooperation before their success goes to their heads.”
* * *
Half an hour later, from a screen of narrow pink leaves that tinkled in the light breeze, Retief, several dozen Zilk, and seventy-odd Ween watched by the waning light of the fast-sinking Joop as a swarm Retief estimated at three hundred Voion, a few showing signs of a brisk engagement, prodded their captives into a ragged lineup.
“I don’t know what’s got into them babies,” Jik-jik said. “Used to be they garbage-pickers, slipping around after Second Joop, looking for what they could pick up; now here they is, all shined up and acting like they rule the roost.”
“They’ve gotten a disease called ambition,” Retief said. “The form they have causes a severe itch in the acquisitive instinct.”
“Not much meat on a Zilk,” someone mused. “What you reckon they want over here? Can’t be they just looking for they boy; them Voion never frets over no trifles like that.”
“Hoo!” Fut-fut said, coming to Retief’s side. “Look what they up to now!”
The Voion, having arranged the captive Zilk in two columns of a dozen or so individuals of both sexes, were busy with strips of flexible metallo-plastic, welding shackles to the arms of the first in line, while others of their number poised with raised clubs to punish any resistance. The lead Zilk, seeing the chain about to be linked to him, lashed out suddenly with his scythe, severing a Voion arm at the first joint, then plunged through the circle around him, dashed for the jungle. A Voion wheeled into his path, brought his club around in a whistling arc—and bounced aside as the Zilk snapped out an overlong digging arm, just as two more Voion closed from the off side, brought their clubs down in unison. The Zilk skidded aside, arms whirling, crashed in a heap and lay still.
“Nice try, Wikker,” the Zilk chief muttered. “Don’t reckon I’d endure chains on me, either.”
“That’s what happens when you play it their way,” Retief said. “I suggest we work out some new rules. We’ll decoy them into the jungle, break up their formation, and take them one at a time.”
“What you mean, Tief-tief? Us going to tackle them ugly babies?”
“Sure, why not?”
“Well, I guess you is right. Us ain’t got nothing else scheduled for the evening.”
“Good,” Retief said. “Now, here’s what I’ve got in mind . . .”
* * *
Three Voion working busily to pry the lid from the Zilk town grain bin paused in their labors. Again the thin cry sounded from the forest near at hand.
“Sounds like a lost grub,” one said. “A little tender roast meat wouldn’t go bad now; pounding in the skullplates of farmers is hard work.”
“Let’s take a look. The colonel’s busy overseeing the looting; he won’t notice us.”
“Let’s go.” The three dropped their pry-bars, wheeled briskly across to the deep shadow of the thicket whence the sound emanated. The first in line thrust branches aside, rolled slowly forward, peering through the shadows. There was a dull snack! and he seemed to duck down suddenly. The Voion behind him hurried forward. “Find it?” he inquired, then skidded to a halt. “Juz!” he whistled. “Where’s your head . . . ?” Something small and blue-green sprang up before him, a huge claw opening—
At the sound—a sharp whock!—the third Voion halted. “Huj?” he called. “Juz? What’s go—” A scythe swung in a whistling arc, and his head bounced off to join those of his comrades. Jik-jik and Tupper, the Zilk leader, emerged from the brush.
“Work like a charm,” the Ween said. “Let’s do it again.”
Behind him, Retief turned from surveying the work in progress in the town.
“I think the colonel’s beginning to suspect something; he’s falling his men in for a roll call. How many have we given haircuts to so far?”
“Half a six of sixes, maybe.”
“We’ll have to stage a diversion before he figures out what’s going on. Tell Fut-fut and his group to wait five minutes, then kick up a disturbance on the far side of the trail we came in on.”
Jik-jik keened orders to a half-grown Ween who darted away to spread the word.
“Now we’ll string out along the trail. They’ll probably come out in single file. Keep out of sight until their lead unit’s well past our last man; at my signal, we’ll hit them all together and pull back fast.”
“It sounds slick. Let’s roll.”
Three minutes later, as a Voion sergeant continued to bark out names, the small messenger darted up to the position where Retief and Jik-jik waited beside the trail. “Old Fut-fut, he ready, he say,” the lad chirped breathlessly. “Hey, Jik-jik, can I get me one?”
“You ain’t got the chopper for it, Ip-ip; but you can scout around the other side of the town, and soon as you hear them policemen’s heads popping, you set up a ruckus. That’ll keep ’em guessing—them that still has guessing equipment. Now scat; it’s time for the fun to begin.”
A shrill yell sounded from Fut-fut’s position, then an angry yammer of Ween voices, accompanied by sounds of scuffling. From his concealment behind a yard-wide tree with a trunk like pale blue glass, Retief saw a stirring in the Voion ranks as they looked toward the outcry. The colonel barked an order. A squad of Voion fell out, rolled quickly to the trail mouth. There was a moment of confusion as the troops milled, not liking the looks of the dark tunnel; then, at a shrill command from a sergeant, they formed a single file and started in. The first rolled past Retief’s position, his club swinging loosely in his hand; he was followed closely by another, and another. Retief counted twenty before they stopped coming. He stepped from behind the tree, glanced toward the village; the roll call went on. He drew his sword, put two fingers in his mouth, and gave a shrill blast. At once, there was a crash of underbrush, a staccato volley of snicks and snaps, followed in an instant by a lone Voion yell, quickly cut off. The last Voion in the column, ducking back from the attacking Ween, spun, found himself confronting Retief. He brought his club up, gave a shrill yelp as Retief, with a roundhouse stroke, cut through the weapon near the grip.