The Fellowship of the Talisman by Clifford D. Simak Page A

lot of time staring at a candle flame, and I’m not sure, in my own mind, whether that is the way to go about it if one should feel the compulsion to be holy. Although, you understand, I’m not an expert at this sort of thing.”
    â€œYou seem to be a more reasonable person than this dried-up apple of a hermit,” said the goblin. “If you give me your word that you’ll hold him off me and will prevail upon him to keep his foul mouth shut, I shall proceed upon what I came to do.”
    â€œI shall do all that I am able to restrain him,” Duncan said. “So how about you telling me what you came to do.”
    â€œI came in the thought that I might be of some small assistance to you.”
    â€œPay no attention to him,” counseled Andrew. “Any assistance you may get from him would turn out to be equivalent to a swift punch in the nose.”
    â€œPlease,” said Duncan, “let me handle this. What harm can it do to listen to what he has to say?”
    â€œThere you see,” said Snoopy. “That’s the way it goes. The man has no sense of decency.”
    â€œLet’s not belabor the past differences between the two of you,” said Duncan. “If you have information we would be glad to hear it. It seems to me we stand in some need of it. But there is one thing that troubles me and you’ll have to satisfy us on that point.”
    â€œWhat is this thing that troubles you?”
    â€œI presume you know that we intend to travel farther into the Desolated Land, which at the moment is held by the Harriers.”
    â€œThat I do know,” said Snoopy, “and that is why I’m here. I can acquaint you with what would be the best route and what you should be watching for.”
    â€œThat, precisely, is what troubles me,” said Duncan. “Why should you be willing to assist us against the Harriers? It would seem to me that you might feel more kinship toward them than you feel toward us.”
    â€œIn some ways you may be correct in your assumption,” said Snoopy, “but your reasoning is not too astute, perhaps because you are not fully acquainted with the situation. We have no grounds to love the humans. My people—those folk you so insultingly speak of as the Little People—were residents of this land, of the entire world, for that matter, long before you humans came, thrusting your way so unfeelingly among us, not even deigning to recognize us, looking upon us as no more than vermin to be swept aside. You did not look upon us as a legitimate intelligent life form, you ignored our rights, you accorded us no courtesy or understanding. You cut down our sacred woods, you violated our sacred places. We had a willingness to accommodate our way of life with your way, to live in harmony among you. We held this willingness even when you came among us as arrogant invaders. We had powers we would have been willing to share with you, perhaps in an exchange that would have given us something of value to us. But you had a reluctance to stoop, as you felt, to the point of communicating with us. You thrust yourself upon us, you kicked us out of the way, you forced us to live in hidden places. So, at long last, we turned against you, but because of your ferocity and unfeeling violence, there was little that we could do against you; we have never been a match for you. I could go on for a much longer length of time cataloguing our grievances against you, but that, in summary, my dear sir, is why we cannot love you.”
    â€œYou present a good case,” said Duncan, “and, without admitting it to be the truth in all regards, which I am in no position to do and would not do in any case, I must admit that there is some merit in the words you’ve spoken. Which proves my point, exactly. Hating us as you must, why are you willing to offer us assistance? Knowing your feelings about us, how can we reconcile ourselves to trusting