Free Spacepaw by Gordon R. Dickson Page A

risen up on their hind legs, put on armor, and begun a sort of medieval tournament which he was being compelled to join. Then he became more fully awake and realized that the thunder was the roaring of a Dilbian voice, shouting Bill’s own Dilbian name of Pick-and-Shovel, and that the nightmare was no dream but merely the dream-twisted facts of his previous day on Dilbia.
    He opened his eyes to the sight of one of the Residency’s spare bedrooms. Scrambling out of bed, he pulled on his pants and stumbled down the hall in his bare feet to open a door and step into the reception room at the front of the Residency. Standing in the middle of the room and still shouting for him was a Dilbian. But it was not the Hill Bluffer, as Bill had automatically assumed it would be. Instead, it was the strangest-looking member of Dilbia’s native race that Bill had so far encountered.
    He was the widest being on two legs that Bill had ever seen, in the flesh or in any reproduction of any alien race humans had discovered. Bill had so far adjusted to the size of the Dilbians in his one day among them that he had felt prepared for anything the race might present him with. But the individual he looked at now was beyond belief.
    He was a Dilbian who made Mula- ay look skinny. This, in spite of the fact that he must have been a good head taller than the Hemnoid. What he must weigh was beyond the power of Bill’s imagination to guess. Certainly, at least double the poundage of the ordinary Dilbian male. So furry and round was he, that he had a jovial, if monstrous teddy-bear look to him; but this impression was immediately diluted by the fact that, hearing Bill come through the door, the fat Dilbian whirled to face him, literally on tiptoe, like a ballet dancer, as if his enormous weight was nothing at all.
    “Well, well, there you are, Pick-and-Shovel!” he beamed, chortling in a voice like the booming of some enormous kettledrum. “I had a hunch if I just stood still and yelled about for you, a bit, you’d come running sooner or later.”
    “Grnpf!” growled Bill, deep in his throat. He was only half awake, and he had never been one to wake up in an immediate good humor. On top of this, having been summoned from sleep, and down the long cold floor of a hallway in his bare feet, by someone who seemed to be using the same technique a human might use to call a dog or cat to him, did not improve his morning temper. “I thought you were the Bluffer!”
    “The postman?” the laughter of the roly-poly Dilbian shook the rafters. “Do I look like that skinny mountain cat? No, no—” His laughter subsided, his humor fled, and his voice took on a wistful note. “No bluffing of hills for me, Pick-and-Shovel. Not these many years. It’s all I can do to waddle from place to place, nowadays. You see why?”
    He gazed down at his vast stomach and patted it tenderly, heaving a heavy sigh.
    “I suppose you’d guess from the looks of me that I enjoyed my food, wouldn’t you, Pick-and-Shovel?” he said sadly.
    Bill scowled at him. Then, remembering the duty he owed as a trainee-assistant assigned to this area, he managed to check the instinctive agreement that was about to burst from his lips.
    “Well, I—ah—” he began uncomfortably.
    “No, no,” sighed the Dilbian. “I know you what you think. And I don’t blame you. People herebouts have probably told you about poor old More Jam.”
    “More Jam?” echoed Bill frowning. He had heard that name somewhere before.
    “That’s right. I’m the innkeeper here,” said More Jam. “You’ve already talked to my little girl. Yes, that’s exactly who I am, Sweet Thing’s poor old father; a widower these last ten years—would you believe it?”
    “Sorry to hear it,” muttered Bill, caught between confusion and embarrassment.
    “An old, worn-out widower,” mourned More Jam, sitting down disconsolately on one of the room’s benches that were designed for Dilbians—which, however, in