“Oh, no chance of that—but you might get trampled.”

Brightly colored figures rose over the ridge, and came closet Sam stiffened. “The natives?”

Dar nodded. “The Wolmen.”

“Purple skin?”

“No, that’s a dye they use to decorate their bodies. I think the chartreuse loincloths go rather well with it, don’t you?”

The warriors drew up in a ragged line, shaking white-tipped poles at the walled town and shouting.

“Bareskins go down today! Jailers of poor natives! Wolmen break-um free today! Bareskins’ Great Father lose-um papooses!”

“It’s traditional,” Dar explained.

“What? The way they talk?”

“No, just the threats.”

“Oh.” Sam frowned. “But that dialect! I can understand why they’d speak Terrese, but why the pidgin grammar and all those ‘ums’?”

Dar shrugged. “Don’t know, actually. There’re some of us have been wondering about that for a few years now. The best we can come up with is that they copped it from some stereotyped presentation of barbarians, probably in an entertainment form. Opposition cultures tend to be pretty romantic.”

The soldiers began to file out of the main gate, lining up a hundred yards away from the Wolmen in a precise line. Their bright green uniforms were immaculately clean, with knife-edge creases; their boots gleamed, and their metal work glistened. They held their white-tipped sticks at order arms, a precise forty-five degree angle across their bodies.

“Shacklar’s big on morale,” Dar explained. “Each soldier gets a two-BTU bonus if his boots are polished; another two if his uniform’s clean; two more if it’s pressed; and so on.”

The soldiers muttered among themselves out of the corners of their mouths. Dar could catch the odd phrase:

“Bloody Wolmen think they own the whole planet! Can’t tell us what t’ do! They think they c’n lord it over us, they got another think comin’!”

Sam looked up at Dar, frowning. “What’s that all about? It almost sounds as though they think the Wolmen are the government!”

“They do.” Dar grinned.

Sam scanned the line of troops, frowning. “Where’re their weapons?”

“Weapons!” Dar stared down at net scandalized. “What do you think we are—a bunch of savages?”

“But I thought you said this was a …”

BR-R-R-R-ANK! rolled a huge gong atop the wall, and the officers shouted, “Charge!”

The Wolmen chiefs whooped, and their warriors leaped down toward the soldiers with piercing, ululating war cries.

The soldiers shouted, and charged them.

The two lines crashed together, and instantly broke into a chaotic melee, with everyone yelling and slashing about them with their sticks.

“This is civilized warfare?” Sam watched the confusion numbly.

“Very,” Dar answered. “There’s none of this nonsense about killing or maiming, you see. I mean, we’re short enough on manpower as it is.”

Sam looked up at him, unbelieving. “Then how do you tell who’s won?”

“The war-sticks.” Dar pointed. “They’ve got lumps of very soft chalk in the ends. If you manage to touch your opponent with it, it leaves a huge white blotch on him.”

A soldier ran past, with a Wolman hot on his heels, whooping like a Saturday matinee. Suddenly the soldier dropped into a crouch, whirled about and slashed upward. The stick slashed across the Wolman’s chest, leaving a long white streak. The Wolman skidded to a stop, staring down at his new badge, appalled. Then his face darkened, and he advanced toward the soldier, swinging his stick up.

“Every one loses his temper now and then,” Dar murmured.

A whistle shrilled, and a Terran officer came running up. “All right, that’ll do! You there, tribesman—you’re out of the war, plain as the chalk on your chest! On your way, now, or I’ll call one o’ yer own officers.”

“Oppressor of poor, ignorant savages!” the Wolman stormed. “We rise-um up! We beat-um you down!”

“Ayuh, well, tomorrow, maybe. Move along to the sidelines, now, there’s a good chap!” The officer made shooing motions.

The Wolman stood stiffly, face dark with rebellion. Then he threw down his chalk-stick with a snarl and went stalking off toward a growing crowd of men, soldiers and Wolmen alike, standing off to the east, well clear of the “battle.”

The officer nodded. “That’s well done, then.” And he ran off, back toward the thick of the melee.

The soldier swaggered toward Dar; grinning and twirling his stick. “Chalk up one more for the good guys, eh?”

“And another ten BTUs in your account!” Dar called back. “Well done, soldier!”

The soldier grinned, waved, and charged back into the thick of the chaos.

“Ten credits?” Sam gasped, blanching. “You don’t mean your General pays a bounty?”

“No, of course not. I mean, it’s not the General who let himself get chalked up, is it? It’s the Wolman who pays.”

“What?”

“Sure. After the battle’s over; the officers’ll transfer ten credits from that Wolman’s account to the soldier’s. I mean, there’s got to be some risk involved.”

“Right,” she agreed. “Sure. Risk.” Her eyes had glazed. “I, uh, notice the, uh, ‘casualties’ seem to be having a pretty good time over there.”

“Mm?” Dar looked up at the group over to the east. Wolmen and soldiers were chatting amicably over tankards. A couple of privates and three warriors wove in and out through the crowd with trays of bottles and cups, dispensing cheer and collecting credits.

He turned back to Sam. “Why not? Gotta fill in the ‘dead’ time somehow.”

“Sure,” she agreed. “Why not?”

Suddenly whistles shrilled all over the field, and the frantic runners slowed to a walk, lowering their chalk sticks. Most of them looked pretty disgusted. “Cease!” bellowed one officer. “Study war no more!” echoed a Wolman chief. The combatants began to circulate; a hum of conversation swelled.

“Continual warfare,” Sam muttered.

Dar leaned back against the wall and began whistling through his teeth.

Two resplendent figures stepped in from the west—an I.D.E. colonel in full dress uniform and a Wolman in a brightly patterned cloak and elaborate headdress.

“The top-ranking officers,” Dar explained. “Also the peace commission.”

“Referees?” Sam muttered.

“Come again?”

“I’d rather not.”

Each officer singled out those of his own men who had chalk marks on them, but who hadn’t retired to the sidelines. Most of them seemed genuinely surprised to find they’d been marked. A few seemed chagrined.

The officers herded them over to join the beerfest, then barked out orders, and the “casualties” lined up according to side in two ragged lines, still slurping beer. The officers walked down each other’s line, counting heads, then switched and counted their own lines. Then they met and discussed the situation.

“Me count-um twenty-nine of mine, and thirty-two of yours.”

“Came to the same count, old chap. Wouldn’t debate it a bit.”

The Wolman grinned, extending a palm. “Pay up.”

The I.D.E. colonel sighed, pulled out a pad, and scribbled a voucher. The Wolman pocketed it, grinning.

A lieutenant and a minor Wolman stepped up from the battlefield, each holding out a sheaf of papers. The two chief officers took them and shuffled through, muttering to each other, comparing claims.

“That’s the lot.” The colonel tapped his sheaf into order, squaring it off. “Only this one discrepancy, on top here.”

The Wolman nodded. “Me got same.”

“Well, let’s check it, then … O’Schwarzkopf!”

“Sir!” A corporal stepped forward and came to attention with a click of his heels, managing not to spill his tankard in the process.

“This warrior, um, ‘Xlitplox,’ claims he chalked you. Valid?”

“Valid, sir.”

“Xlitplox!” the Wolman officer barked.

“Me here.” The Wolman stepped forward, sipping.

“O’Schwarzkopf claim-um him chalk you.”