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“It’s working,” Fannia panted. “Now let me strangle you. I think that might do it.”

Donnaught obliged by falling to the ground. Fannia clamped both hands around Donnaught’s armored neck, and squeezed.

“Make believe you’re in agony, idiot,” he said.

Donnaught groaned and moaned as convincingly as he could.

“You must stop!” the chief screamed. “It is terrible to kill another!”

“Then let me get some fuel,” Fannia said, tightening his grip on Donnaught’s throat.

The chief thought it over for a little while. Then he shook his head.

“No.”

“What?”

“You are aliens. If you want to do this disgraceful thing, do it. But you shall not profane our religious relics.”

* * * * *

Donnaught and Fannia staggered to their feet. Fannia was exhausted from fighting in the heavy space armor; he barely made it up.

“Now,” the chief said, “surrender at once. Take off your armor or do battle with us.”

The thousands of warriors–possibly millions, because more were arriving every second–shouted their blood-wrath. The cry was taken up on the outskirts and echoed to the hills, where more fighting men were pouring down into the crowded plain.

Fannia’s face contorted. He couldn’t give himself and Donnaught up to the Cascellans. They might be cooked at the next church supper. For a moment he considered going after the fuel and letting the damned fools suicide all they pleased.

His mind an angry blank, Fannia staggered forward and hit the chief in the face with a mailed glove.

The chief went down, and the natives backed away in horror. Quickly, the chief snapped out a knife and brought it up to his throat. Fannia’s hands closed on the chief’s wrists.

“Listen to me,” Fannia croaked. “We’re going to take that fuel. If any man makes a move–if anyone kills himself–I’ll kill your chief.”

The natives milled around uncertainly. The chief was struggling wildly in Fannia’s hands, trying to get a knife to his throat, so he could die honorably.

“Get it,” Fannia told Donnaught, “and hurry it up.”

The natives were uncertain just what to do. They had their knives poised at their throats, ready to plunge if battle was joined.

“Don’t do it,” Fannia warned. “I’ll kill the chief and then he’ll never die a warrior’s death.”

The chief was still trying to kill himself. Desperately, Fannia held on, knowing he had to keep him from suicide in order to hold the threat of death over him.

“Listen, Chief,” Fannia said, eying the uncertain crowd. “I must have your promise there’ll be no more war between us. Either I get it or I kill you.”

“Warriors!” the chief roared. “Choose a new ruler. Forget me and do battle!”

The Cascellans were still uncertain, but knives started to lift.

“If you do it,” Fannia shouted in despair, “I’ll kill your chief. I’ll kill all of you!”

That stopped them.

“I have powerful magic in my ship. I can kill every last man, and then you won’t be able to die a warrior’s death. Or get to heaven!”

The chief tried to free himself with a mighty surge that almost tore one of his arms free, but Fannia held on, pinning both arms behind his back.

“Very well,” the chief said, tears springing into his eyes. “A warrior must die by his own hand. You have won, alien.”

The crowd shouted curses as the Earthmen carried the chief and the cans of fuel back to the ship. They waved their knives and danced up and down in a frenzy of hate.

“Let’s make it fast,” Fannia said, after Donnaught had fueled the ship.

He gave the chief a push and leaped in. In a second they were in the air, heading for Thetis and the nearest bar at top speed.

The natives were hot for blood–their own. Every man of them pledged his life to wiping out the insult to their leader and god, and to their shrine.

But the aliens were gone. There was nobody to fight.

–ROBERT SHECKLEY