Warrior Race
by Robert Sheckley
They never did discover whose fault it was. Fannia pointed out that if Donnaught had had the brains of an ox, as well as the build, he would have remembered to check the tanks. Donnaught, although twice as big as him, wasn’t quite as fast with an insult. He intimated, after a little thought, that Fannia’s nose might have obstructed his reading of the fuel guage.
This still left them twenty light-years from Thetis, with a cupful of transformer fuel in the emergency tank.
“All right,” Fannia said presitly. “What’s done is done. We can squeeze about three light years out of the fuel before we’re back on atomics. Hand me The Galactic Pilot—unless you forgot that, too.”
Donnaught dragged the bulky microfilm volume out of its locker, and they explored its pages.
The Galactic Pilot told them they were in a sparse, seldom-visited section of space, which they already knew. The nearest planetary system was Hatterfield; no intelligent life there. Sersus had a native population, but no refueling facilities. The same with Illed, Hung and Porderai.
“Ah-ha!” Fannia said. “Read that, Donnaught. If you can read, that is.”
“Cascella,” Donnaught read, slowly and clearly, following the line with a thick forefinger. “Type M sun. Three planets, intelligent (AA3C) human-type life on second. Oxygen-breathers. Non-mechanical. Religious. Friendly. Unique social structure, described in Galactic Survey Report 33877242. Population estimate: stable at three billion. Basic Cascellan vocabulary taped under Cas33b2. Scheduled for resurvey 2375 A.D. Cache of transformer fuel left, beam coordinate 8741 kgl. Physical descript.: Unocc. flatland.”
“Transformer fuel, boy!” Fannia said gleefully. “I believe we will get to Thetis, after all.” He punched the new direction on the ship’s tape. “If that fuel’s still there.”
“Should we read up on the unique social structure?” Donnaught asked, still poring over The Galactic Pilot.
“Certainly,” Fannia said. “Just step over to the main galactic base on Earth and buy me a copy.”
“I forgot,” Donnaught admitted slowly.
“Let me see,” Fannia said, dragging out the ship’s language library. “Cascellan, Cascellan… Here it is. Be good while I learn the language.” He set the tape in the hypnophone and switched it on. “Another useless tongue in my overstuffed head,” he murmured, and then the hypnophone took over.
Coming out of transformer with at least a drop of fuel left, they switched to atomics. Fannia rode the beam right across the planet, locating the slender metal spire of the Galactic Survey cache. The plain was no longer unoccupied, however, The Cascellans had built a city around the cache, and the spire dominated the crude wood-and-mud buildings.
“Hang on,” Fannia said, and brought the ship down on the outskirts of the city, in a field of stubble.
“Now look,” Fannia said, unfastening his safety belt. “We’re just here for fuel. No souvenirs, no side-trips, no fraternizing.”
Through the port, they could see a cloud of dust from the city. As it came closer, they made out figures running toward their ship.
“What do you think this unique social structure is?” Donnaught asked, pensively checking the charge in a needler gun.
“I know not and care less,” Fannia said, struggling into space armor. “Get dressed.”
“The air’s breathable.”
“Look, pachyderm, for all we know, these Cascellans think the proper way to greet visitors is to chop off their heads and stuff them with green apples. If Galactic says unique, it probably means unique.”
“Galactic said they were friendly.”
“That means they haven’t got atomic bombs. Come on, get dressed.” Donnaught put down the needler and struggled into an oversize suit of space armor. Both men strapped on needlers, paralyzers, and a few grenades.
“I don’t think we have anything to worry about,” Fannia said, tightening the last nut on his helmet. “Even if they get rough, they can’t crack space armor.
And if they’re not rough, we won’t have any trouble. Maybe these gewgaws will help.” He picked up a box of trading articles —mirrors, toys and the like.
Helmeted and armored, Fannia slid out the port and raised one hand to the Cascellans. The language, hypnotically placed in his mind, leaped to his lips.
“We come as friends and brothers. Take us to the chief.”
The natives clustered around, gaping at the ship and the space armor. Although they had the same number of eyes, ears and limbs as humans, they completely missed looking like them.
“If they’re friendly,” Donnaught asked, climbing out of the port, “why all the hardware?” The Cascellans were dressed predominantly in a collection of knives, swords and daggers. Each man had at least five, and some had eight or nine:
“Maybe Galactic got their signals crossed,” Fannia said, as the natives spread out in an escort. “Or maybe the natives just use the knives for mumblypeg.”
The city was typical of a non-mechanical culture. Narrow, packed-dirt streets twisted between ramshackle huts. A few two-story buildings threatened to collapse at any minute. A stench filled the air, so strong that Fannia’s filter couldn’t quite eradicate it. The Cascellans bounded ahead of the heavily laden Earthmen, dashing around like a pack of playful puppies. Their knives glittered and clanked.
The chief’s house was the only three-story building in the city. The tall spire of the cache was right behind it.
“If you come in peace,” the chief said when they entered, “you are welcome.” He was a middle-aged Cascellan with at least fifteen knives strapped to various parts of his person. He squatted cross-legged on a raised dais.
“We are privileged,” Fannia said. He remembered from the hypnotic language lesson that “chief” on Cascella meant more than it usually did on Earth. The chief here was a combination of king, high priest, deity and bravest warrior.
“We have a few simple gifts here,” Fannia added, placing the gewgaws at the king’s feet. “Will his majesty accept?”
“No,” the king said. “We accept no gifts.” Was that the unique social structure? Fannia wondered. It certainly was not human. “We are a warrior race. What we want, we take.”
Fannia sat cross-legged in front of the dais and exchanged conversation with the king while Donnaught played with the spurned toys. Trying to overcome the initial bad impression, Fannia told the chief about the stars and other worlds, since simple people usually liked fables. He spoke c the ship, not mentioning yet that it was out of fuel. He spoke Cascella, telling the chief how its fame was known throughout the Galaxy.
“That is as it should be,” the chief said proudly. “We are a race of warriors, the like of which has never been seen. Every man of us dies fighting.”
“You must have fought some great wars,” Fannia said politely, wondering what idiot had written up the galactic report.
“I have not fought a war for many years,” the chief said. “We are united now, and all our enemies have joined us.”
Bit by bit, Fannia led up to the matter of the fuel.
“What is this ‘fuel?’ ” the chief asked, haltingly because there was no equivalent for it in the Cascellan language.
“It makes our ship go.”
“And where is it?”
“In the metal spire,” Fannia said. “If you would just allow us—”
“In the holy shrine?” the chief exclaimed, shocked. “The tall metal church which the gods left here long ago?”
“Yeah,” Fannia said sadly, knowing what was coming. “I guess that’s it.”
“It is sacrilege for an outworlder to go near it,” the chief said. “I forbid it.”