Long tentacles reached out and seized the red-clad warriors, bearing full loads of them back into the city.
Long tentacles reached out and seized the red-clad warriors, bearing full loads of them back into the city.
Long tentacles reached out and seized the red-clad warriors, bearing full loads of them back into the city.
Stevens swung wide of a head that bobbed, and a red club came down on his head, while another crashed into his ear. The world spun around, then the ground reached up and struck him sharply. And, suddenly, it was night.
"Hold your head up," said a voice.
Stevens opened his eyes. "Markett," he whispered. "What is it?"
"Concussion. You've been unconscious for three days. And what days!" She rolled her eyes.
"Exciting? What happened?"
"We were on the verge of losing the battle—they had us outnumbered—when the pursuit machines attacked the Rightmen—that's what the red-clad fighters are called. That completely demoralized them, and they broke and fled back toward the city. We were almost too amazed to know what to do, but Isral ordered us on, so we advanced after them. When we were almost upon the entrance, a voice came through calling me."
"You?"
"Yes. The council was watching the whole affair through tele-screens in the control room. They asked us what we wanted, who we were, and so forth. Isral and I explained, and they offered to take us in if we would lay down our weapons and promise to come peacefully; if we did not, they said they had a sort of gas which would make us all lose consciousness."
"So you agreed?"
"Certainly. You see, they explained about the Rightmen, too. The people we were fighting are not the city's army; they were a sort of club taking orders from Dr. Alfreed. A historian told me that it was what you call a dictatorship. They had seized control of the city (although the council had escaped and continued to work opposition, preparing the pursuit machines, etc.) and were beating down the people, not allowing any freedom of speech, so when they saw that we were losing, the people came out and attacked the Rightmen from behind. At the same time the pursuit machines came out, because, of course, no one except the council knew that there was a weapon which could be used against Alfreed's army.
"It was really the citizens who won because there were not enough of the pursuit machines to beat the Rightmen; all they could do was to create confusion in the Rightmen ranks, and work demoralization by carrying off fighters."
Stevens was silent for a moment, then: "What happened to the Rightmen—those who weren't killed?"
"They were Regulated, Alfreed among them, and all came out sane again."
"And Isral—the Hebers?"
"Doing fine; they're going into arts and crafts, something which the Chief Historian says has been a lost function with us. We needed them badly."
He scratched his head. "Somehow," he said, "I feel different. I'm not the old, frightened Clark Stevens that I once was; and I'm not the man I was when I first ran away with you.
"I want to live here, in the city. Yet I'm still not satisfied with it. It has to be changed."
He broke off as the Neuro-specialist came in. "Hello," he said, "what's up?"
"'Lo, Stevens," replied the man. "Feeling all right?"
"Yes."
"We want you on the council. There was a faction that wanted to regulate you again, but most of us agree that we need men of your kind here, so long as they're not extremists. You seem to have levelled off to just the right point to make you valuable."
He nodded. "Strange, Clement, but I feel the same about you fellows. At one time, I thought you were all fit for scrapping, but now I see that the city needs you as much as it does me. I think that's the answer: we need all kinds of people; no one kind can be permitted to dominate, but no one kind can be suppressed, either."
"Of course," said Markett. "After that one big burst of violent battle, you worked the ego of Roald the Viking almost completely out of your psychology. Only the part that I like, that I love, is left—and I think that will stay put."
Stevens reached out and took her hand.
"I—I'd like to wear cloth again instead of leather, Clark." Markett said—and both men laughed.