Rufo was facing this picket line, ten feet this side and opposite a particularly large and uncouth citizen. About then that paper cup came apart and scalded my fingers.

"Want some more?" Star asked.

I blew on my fingers. "No, thanks. This is Igli?"

"Just the one in the middle that Rufo is baiting. The rest have come to see the fun, you can ignore them."

"Some of them look hungry."

"Most of the big ones are like Cuvier's devil, herbivorous. Those outsized lions would eat us—if Igli wins the argument. But only then. Igli is the problem."

I looked Igli over more carefully. He resembled that scion of the man from Dundee, all chin and no forehead, and he combined the less appetizing features of giants and ogres in ‘The Red Fairy Book'. I never liked that book much.

He was vaguely human, using the term loosely. He was a couple of feet taller than I am and outweighed me three or four hundred pounds but I am much prettier. Hair grew on him in clumps, like a discouraged lawn; and you just knew, without being told, that he had never used a man's deodorant for manly men. The knots of his muscles had knots on them and his toenails weren't trimmed.

"Star," I said, "what's the nature of the argument we have with him?"

"You must kill him, milord."

I looked back at him. "Can't we negotiate a peaceful coexistence? Mutual inspection, cultural exchange, and so forth?"

She shook her head. "He's not bright enough for that. He's here to stop us from going down into the valley—and either he dies, or we die."

I took a deep breath. "Princess, I've reached a decision. A man who always obeys the law is even stupider than one who breaks it every chance. This is no time to worry about that local Sullivan Act. I want the flame-thrower, a bazooka, a few grenades, and the heaviest gun in that armory. Can you show me how to dig them out?"

She poked at the fire. "My hero," she said slowly, "I'm truly sorry—but it isn't that simple. Did you notice, last night when we were smoking, that Rufo lighted our cigarettes from candles? Not using even so much as a pocket lighter?"

"Well...no. I didn't give it any thought."

"This rule against firearms and explosives is not a law such as you have back on Earth. It is more than that; it is impossible to use such things here. Else such things would be used against us."

"You mean they won t work?"

"They will not work. Perhaps ‘hexed' is the word."

"Star. Look at me. Maybe you believe in hexes. I don't. And I'll give you seven to two that Tommy guns don't, either. I intend to find out. Will you give me a hand in unpacking?"

For the first time she looked really upset. "Oh, milord, I beg of you not to!"

"Why not?"

"Even the attempt would be disastrous. Do you believe that I know more about the hazards and dangers—and laws—of this world than you do? Will you believe me when I say that I would not have you die, that in solemn truth my own life and safety depend on yours? Please!"

It is impossible not to believe Star when she lays it on the line. I said thoughtfully, "Maybe you're right—or that character over there would be carrying a six-inch mortar as a side arm. Uh, Star, I've got a still better idea. Why don't we high tail it back the way we came and homestead that spot where we caught the fish? In five years well have a nice little farm. In ten years, after the word gets around, we'll have a nice little motel, too, with a free-form swimming pool and a putting green."

She barely smiled. "Milord Oscar, there is no turning back."

"Why not? I could find it with my eyes closed."

"But they would find us. Not Igli but more like him would be sent to harry and kill us."

I sighed again. "As you say. They claim motels off the main highway are a poor risk anyhow. There's a battle-axe in that duffel. Maybe I can chop his feet off before he notices me."

She shook her head again. I said, "What's the matter now? Do I have to fight him with one foot in a bucket? I thought anything that cut or stabbed—anything I did with my own muscles—was okay?"

"It is okay, milord. But it won't work."

"Why not?"

"Igli can't be killed. You see, he is not really alive. He is a construct, made invulnerable for this one purpose. Swords or knives or even axes will not cut him; they bounce off. I have seen it."

"You mean he is a robot?"

"Not if you are thinking of gears and wheels and printed circuits. ‘Golem' would be closer. The Igli is an imitation of life." Star added, "Better than life in some ways, since there is no way—none that I know of—to kill him. But worse, too, as Igli isn't very bright nor well balanced. He has conceit without judgment. Rufo is working on that now, warming him up for you, getting him so mad he can't think straight."

"He is? Gosh! I must be sure to thank Rufo for that. Thank him too much. I think. Well, Princess, what am I supposed to do now?"

She spread her hands as if it were all self-evident. "When you are ready, I will loose the wards—and then you will kill him."

"But you just said—" I stopped. When they abolished the French Foreign Legion very few cushy billets were left for us romantic types. Umbopa could have handled this. Conan, certainly. Or Hawk Carse. Or even Don Quixote, for that thing was about the size of a windmill. "All right. Princess, let's get on with it. Is it okay for me to spit on my hands? Or is that cheating?"

She smiled without dimpling and said gravely, "Milord Oscar, we will all spit on our hands; Rufo and I will be fighting right beside you. Either we win...or we all die."

We walked over and joined Rufo. He was making donkeys ears at Igli and shouting, "Who's your father, Igli? Your mother was a garbage can but who's your father? Look at him! No belly button! Yaaa!"

Igli retorted, "Your mother barks! Your sister gives green stamps!"—but rather feebly, I thought. It was plain that that remark about belly buttons had cut him to the quick—he didn't have one. Only reasonable, I suppose.

The above is not quite what either of them said, except the remark about the belly button. I wish I could put it in the original because, in the Nevian language, the insult is a high art at least equal to poetry. In fact the epitome of literary grace is to address your enemy (publicly) in some difficult verse form, say the sestina, with every word dripping vitriol.

Rufo cackled gleefully. "Make one, Igli! Push your finger in and make one. They left you out in the rain and you ran. They forgot to finish you. Call that thing a nose?" He said in an aside to me, in English, "How do you want him. Boss? Rare? Or well done?"

"Keep him busy while I study the matter. He doesn't understand English?"

"Not a bit."

"Good. How close can I go to him without getting grabbed?"

"Close as you like as long as the wards are up. But, Boss—look. I'm not supposed to advise you—but when we get down to work, don't let him get you by the plums."

"I'll try not to."

"You be careful." Rufo turned his head and shouted, "Yaaa! Igli picks his nose and eats it!" He added, "She is a good doctor, the best, but just the same, you be careful."

"I will." I stepped closer to the invisible barrier, looked up at this creature. He glared down at me and made growling noises, so I thumbed my nose at him and gave him a wet, fruity Bronx cheer. I was downwind and it seemed likely that he hadn't had a bath in thirty or forty years; he smelled worse than a locker room at the half.

It gave me a seed of an idea. "Star, can this cherub swim?"

She looked surprised. "I really don't know."

"Maybe they forgot to program him for it. How about you, Rufo?"

Rufo looked smug. "Try me, just try me. I could teach fish. Igli! Tell us why the sow wouldn't kiss you!"

Star could swim like a seal. My style is more like a ferryboat but I get there. "Star, maybe that thing can't be killed but it breathes. It's got some sort of oxygen metabolism, even if it burns kerosene. If we held his head underwater for a while—as long as necessary—I'll bet the fire would go out."