Bron stopped and turned. "My," he said, "this town must shore be boomin' if it can afford to support so many young fellers who don't have jobs.”
There were angry mumbles at this, and their self-appointed spokesman stepped forward and shouted, "You think you're smart or something?"
Bron didn't answer. He just smiled coldly and smacked his closed fist into the palm of his hand. It made a loud, splatting sound, and it was obviously a large and hard fist. The men leaned back against the wall and began to talk among themselves, ignoring him.
"He's a troublemaker, boys, and you ought to teach him a lesson," a voice called from inside the barbershop. Bron stepped up and looked through the open door. The man who had kicked one of his pigs at the spaceport was sitting in the chair with the robot barber buzzing happily behind him.
"Now, you shouldn't say that, friend, seein' as how you don't know anythin' really about me."
"No, and I don't intend to find out," the man said angrily. "You can just take your pigs and—"
Bron, still smiling, leaned over and pressed the HOT TOWEL button, and a steaming towel muffled the rest of the man's words. The robot snipped off a strip of toweling before its emergency light flashed on and it jerked to a stop, humming loudly. Bron left, and no one barred his way.
"Not a very friendly town," he said to himself. "But why shouldn't it be?" A sign said EAT, and he turned into a small cafe.
"All out of steak," the counterman said. "Coffee, just coffee is what I want," Bron told him, sitting down on one of the stools. "Nice town you got here," he said when the coffee arrived.
The man mumbled something inaudible and took Bron's money. Bron tried again.
"I mean you got real good farmin' land here, and plenty of minerals and mines. The Space Settlement Commission is staking me to my homestead. Must have staked everyone else here. It's a nice planet."
"Mister," the counterman said, "I don't talk to you, so you don't talk to me. Okay?" He turned away without waiting for an answer and began polishing the dials on the automatic chef.
"Friendly," Bron said as he walked back down the road. "They have everything here they could possibly need — yet no one seems very happy about it. And that girl was crying. What is wrong with this planet?" Hands in pockets, whistling lightly through his teeth, he strolled along, looking about him as he went. It was not too far to the spaceport, which was situated a little beyond the town — just a cleared area and a control tower.
As he came near the grove where he had left his animals, he heard a shrill, angry squealing. He quickened his pace, then broke into a ground-consuming run as other squeals joined the first. Some of the pigs were still rooting unconcernedly, but most of them were gathered about a tall tree that was entwined with creepers and studded with short branches. A boar reared his head out of the milling herd and slashed at the tree, peeling away a yard-long strip of bark. From high in the tree a hoarse voice called for help.
Bron whistled instructions, pulled on tails, and pushed on fat flanks and finally got the pigs moving about again. As soon as they began rooting and stripping the berries from the bushes, he called up into the tree.
"Whoever's there can come down now. It's safe." The tree shook and a patter of bits of bark fell, and a tall, skinny man climbed down slowly into view. He stopped above Bron's head, holding tightly to the trunk. His trousers were torn and the heel was gone from one boot.
"Who are you?" Bron asked.
"Are these your beasts?" the man said angrily. "They ought to all be shot. They attacked me, viciously; would have killed me if I hadn't got to this tree."
"Who are you?" Bron repeated.
"… Vicious and uncontrolled. If you don't take care of them, I will. We have laws here on Trowbri."
"If you don't shut up and tell me who you are, Mister, you can just stay in that tree until you rot," Bron said quietly. He pointed to the large boar, who was lying down about ten feet from the tree and glaring at it out of tiny red eyes. "I don't have to do anything and these pigs will take care of you all by themselves. It's in their blood. Peccaries in Mexico will tree a man and then take turns standing guard below until he dies or falls out. These animals here don't attack no one without reason. I say the reason is you came by and tried to grab up one of the sucklings because you had a sudden yearning for fresh pork. Who are you?"
"You calling me a liar?" the man shouted.
"Yes. Who are you?"
The boar came over and butted against the tree and made a deep grumbling noise. The man clutched the tree with both arms, and all the air went out of him.
"I'm Reymon, the radio operator here. I was in the tower landing the tender. When it left I grabbed my cycle and started back to town. I saw these pigs here and I stopped, just to have a look, and that's when I was attacked. Without reason…"
"Shore, shore," Bron said. He dug his toe into the boar's side and scraped it up and down on the heavy ribs. The boar flapped his ears atid rumbled a happy grunt. "You like it up in that tree, Mr. Reymon?"
"All right, then, I bent down to touch one of your filthy animals— don't ask me why. Then I was attacked."
"That sounds more like it, and I'm not gonna bother you with foolish questions as to why you had a sudden urge to pet a filthy pig. You can come down now and get on your red wagon and get moving."
The boar flicked his twist of a tail, then vanished into the undergrowth. Reymon shakily dropped to the ground and brushed off his clothes. He was a darkly handsome man whose features were spoiled by the angry tightness of his mouth.
"You'll hear more about this.” he said over his shoulder as he stumbled away.
"I doubt it.” Bron told him. He went to the road and waited until the electrobike whizzed by in the direction of the city. Only then did he go back and whistle his flock together.
A tiny metallic clanging sounded in Bron's ear, growing louder and louder when he ignored it. Yawning, he reached up and detached the earring alarm from the lobe of his ear, switched it off with his fingernail, and dropped it into his belt pouch. The night air was cool on his hand as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Above him the strange constellations of stars shone crisply in the clear air. Dawn was still some hours away and the forest was dark and silent, with only an occasional wheeze or a muffled grunt sounding from a sleeping pig.
Otherwise completely dressed, Bron unsealed the sleeping bag and pulled on his boots, which he had left carefully upended to keep them dry. He leaned against Queeny to do this. The eight-hundred-pound sow, a dim and mountainous shape in the darkness, lifted her head and grunted an interrogation. Bron bent over and lifted the flap of her ear so he could whisper into it.
"I'm going away, but I'll be back by dawn. I'm taking Jasmine with me. You look after things."
Queeny grunted a very human sound of agreement and lay back down. Bron whistled softly, and there was a rustle of sharp hooves as little Jasmine trotted up. "Follow me," he told her. She came to heel and walked behind him away from the camp, both of them now silent as shadows.
It was a moonless night, and Trowbri City was lightless and asleep. No one was aware of the shadows that moved through the town and slipped behind the municipal building. No one heard when a window slid soundlessly open and the shadows vanished from sight.
Governor Haydin sat up suddenly as the lights came on in his bedroom. The first thing he saw was a small pink pig sitting on the rug by his bed. It turned its head to look him directly in the eye — then winked. It had lovely, long white eyelashes.
"Sorry to disturb you at this hour.” Bron said from the window, as he made sure the curtains were completely drawn, "but I didn't want anyone to see us meeting."