“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!”