“I still say it’s crazy.” Donnaught had some definite ideas on fighting. “It ain’t human.”
“I’ll buy that. The idea seems to be that if enough people slaughter themselves, the enemy gives up out of sheer guilty conscience.”
“What if the enemy doesn’t give up?”
“Before these people united, they must have fought it out tribe to tribe, suiciding until someone gave up. The losers probably joined the victors; the tribe must have grown until it could take over the planet by sheer weight of numbers.” Fannia looked carefully at Donnaught, trying to see if he understood. “It’s anti-survival, of course; if someone didn’t give up, the race would probably kill themselves.” He shook his head. “But war of any kind is anti-survival. Perhaps they’ve got rules.”
“Couldn’t we just barge in and grab the fuel quick?” Donnaught asked. “And get out before they all killed themselves?”
“I don’t think so,” Fannia said. “They might go on committing suicide for the next ten years, figuring they were still fighting us.” He looked thoughtfully at the city. “It’s that chief of theirs. He’s their god and he’d probably keep them suiciding until he was the only man left. Then he’d grin, say, ‘We are great warriors,’ and kill himself.”
Donnaught shrugged his big shoulders in disgust. “Why don’t we knock him off?”
“They’d just elect another god.” The sun was almost below the horizon now. “I’ve got an idea, though,” Fannia said. He scratched his head. “It might work. All we can do is try.”
At midnight, the two men sneaked out of the ship, moving silently into the city. They were both dressed in space armor again. Donnaught carried two empty fuel cans. Fannia had his paralyzer out.
The streets were dark and silent as they slid along walls and around posts, keeping out of sight. A native turned a corner suddenly, but Fannia paralyzed him before he could make a sound.
They crouched in the darkness, in the mouth of an alley facing the cache.
“Have you got it straight?” Fannia asked. “I paralyze the guards. You bolt in and fill up those cans. We get the hell out of here, quick. When they check, they find the cans still there. Maybe they won’t commit suicide then.”
The men moved across the shadowy steps in front of the cache. There were three Cascellans guarding the entrance, their knives stuck in their loincloths. Fannia stunned them with a medium charge, and Donnaught broke into a run.
Torches instantly flared, natives boiled out of every alleyway, shouting, waving their knives.
“We’ve been ambushed!” Fannia shouted. “Get back here, Donnaught!”
Donnaught hurriedly retreated. The natives had been waiting for them. Screaming, yowling, they rushed at the Earthmen, slitting their own throats at five-foot range. Bodies tumbled in front of Fannia, almost tripping him as he backed up. Donnaught caught him by an arm and yanked him straight. They ran out of the sacred area.
“Truce, damn it!” Fannia called out. “Let me speak to the chief. Stop it! Stop it! I want a truce!”
Reluctantly, the Cascellans stopped their slaughter.
“This is war,” the chief said, striding forward. His almost human face was stern under the torchlight. “You have seen our warriors. You know now that you cannot stand against them. The word has spread to all our lands. My entire people are prepared to do battle.”
He looked proudly at his fellow-Cascellans, then back to the Earthmen. “I myself will lead my people into battle now. There will be no stopping us. We will fight until you surrender yourselves completely, stripping off your armor.”
“Wait, Chief,” Fannia panted, sick at the sight of so much blood. The clearing was a scene out of the Inferno. Hundreds of bodies were sprawled around. The streets were muddy with blood.
“Let me confer with my partner tonight. I will speak with you tomorrow.”
“No,” the chief said. “You started the battle. It must go to its conclusion. Brave men wish to die in battle. It is our fondest wish. You are the first enemy we have had in many years, since we subdued the mountain tribes.”
“Sure,” Fannia said. “But let’s talk about it—”
“I myself will fight you,” the chief said, holding up a dagger. “I will die for my people, as a warrior must!”
“Hold it!” Fannia shouted. “Grant us a truce. We are allowed to fight only by sunlight. It is a tribal taboo.”
The chief thought for a moment, then said, “Very well. Until tomorrow.”
The beaten Earthmen walked slowly back to their ship amid the jeers of the victorious populace.
Next morning, Fannia still didn’t have a plan. He knew that he had to have fuel; he wasn’t planning on spending the rest of his life on Cascella, or waiting until the Galactic Survey sent another ship, in fifty years or so. On the other hand, he hesitated at the idea of being responsible for the death of anywhere up to three billion people. It wouldn’t be a very good record to take to Thetis. The Galactic Survey might find out about it. Anyway, he just wouldn’t do it.
He was stuck both ways.
Slowly, the two men walked out to meet the chief. Fannia was still searching wildly for an idea while listening to the drums booming.
“If there was only someone we could fight,” Donnaught mourned, looking at his useless blasters.
“That’s the deal,” Fannia said. “Guilty conscience is making sinners of us all, or something like that. They expect us to give in before the carnage gets out of hand.” He considered for a moment. “It’s not so crazy, actually. On Earth, armies don’t usually fight until every last man is slaughtered on one side. Someone surrenders when they’ve had enough.”
“If they’d just fight us!”
“Yeah, if they only—” He stopped. “We’ll fight each other!” he said. “These people look at suicide as war. Wouldn’t they look upon war—real fighting—as suicide?”
“What good would that do us?” Donnaught asked.
They were coming into the city now
