“Don’t fight it. They’ve got us.”
Eight figures poured out of the door of the ship. They looked not human, being covered head to foot with heavy metal mesh. Each wore a helmet resembling a fencer’s mask and carried as a back pack a field antigenerator. They trotted confidently in open double file toward the passage through the trees; as they struck the field they slowed slightly, sparks flew, and a violet nimbus formed around each. But on they came.
The second four were carrying a large metal-net cylinder, high as a man and of equal width. They balanced it easily up in the air. The man in the lead called out, “Swing wide of the beast. We’ll get the kids out first, then dispose of him.” He sounded quite cheerful.
The squad came up to the odd group of three, cutting around without passing close to Lummox. “Easy! Catch them both,” the leader called out. The barrellike cage was lowered over Betty and John Thomas, setting slowly until the man giving orders reached inside and flipped a switch-whereupon it struck sparks and dropped to the ground.
He gave them a red-faced grin. “Feels good to get the molasses off you, doesn’t it?”
Johnnie glared at him with his chin quivering, and replied insultingly while he tried to rub cramps out of his leg muscles. “Now, now!” the officer answered mildly. “No good to feel that way. You made us do it.” He glanced up at Lummox. “Good grief! He is a big beast, isn’t he? I’d hate to meet him in a dark alley, without weapons.”
Johnnie found that tears were streaming down his face and that he could not stop them. “Go ahead!” he cried, his voice misbehaving. “Get it over with!”
“He never meant any harm! So kill him quickly . . . don’t play cat-and-mouse with him.” He broke down and sobbed, covering his face with his hands. Betty put her hands on his shoulders and sobbed with him.
The officer looked distressed. “What are you talking about, son? We aren’t here to hurt him. We have orders to bring him in without a scratch on him-even if we lost men in the process. Craziest orders I ever had to carry out.
XII. Concerning Pidgie-Widgie
Mr. Kiku was feeling good. Breakfast was not a burning lump in his middle; he felt no need to shop in his pill drawer, nor even a temptation to get out his real estate folders. The Triangular Conference was going well and the Martian delegates were beginning to talk sense. Ignoring the various amber lights on his desk he began singing: “Frankie and Johnnie were lovers. . . and oh boy how they could love. . . swore to be true to each other. . .”
He had a fair baritone voice and no sense of pitch.
Best of all that silly, confused Hroshian affair was almost over. . . and no bones broken. Good old Doc Ftaeml seemed to think that there was an outside chance of establishing diplomatic relations, so delighted the Hroshii had been at recovering their missing Hroshia.
With a race as powerful as the Hroshii diplomatic relations were essential. . . they must be allies, though that might take a while. Perhaps not too long, he decided; they certainly did nip-ups at the sight of Lummox. . . almost idolatrous.
Looking back, the things that had confused them were obvious. Who would have guessed that a creature half as big as a house and over a century old was a baby? Or that this race attained hands only when old enough to use them? For that matter, why was this Hroshia so much bigger than its co-racials? Its size had misled Greenberg and himself as much as anything. Interesting point. . . he’d have the xenologists look into it.
No matter. By now Lummox was on his. . . her way to the Hroshian ship. No fuss, no ceremony, no publicity, and the danger was over. Could they actually have volatilized Terra? Just as well not to have found ouj. All’s well that ends well. He went back to singing.
He was still singing when the “urgent” light began jiftering and he delivered the last few bars into Greenberg’s face: “. . . just as true as the stars above!” He added. “Sergei, can you sing tenor?”