“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 d 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.