Part 3

A tent camp for women, children and the animals had been pitched far outside the city, and the forty-thousand armed men of Heber were swinging down one of the great, out-moded superhighways which led into the city. Overhead circled spotting planes, a vivid red in hue, marked with symbols strange to the Hebers, and even to Markett and Stevens. "Something must have happened in the city," the girl hazarded. They could see it not far off, and from it issued along the highway men marching in ragged file, with none of the snap and precision of the Hebers.

"Fools!" spat Stevens. "If they want to reduce our numbers why don't they drop weights from those planes?" Markett was shocked. "That's a very clever idea," she said. "I wonder that nobody's thought of it before."

"They haven't the military mind," said Stevens. "Such things do not occur to them." The men from the city were drawing nearer; calmly the Hebers unshipped their weapons, front ranks armed with spring-bows, rear ranks with throwing darts and the savage backswords that could cut down a grizzly bear in midcharge.

An especially large plane roared overhead, and, from it, thundered a great voice. "Halt your forces!"

"Dr. Alfreed!" cried Markett. "That little fool's trying to order us around."

"Ignore that," advised Stevens. "Go straight ahead. Meet that mob and you won't find any resistance worth speaking of."

"I have arranged for everything," said Isral serenely. "Quarter will be given when asked; corpses will not be mutilated, and no vengeance for our own casualties will be taken once resistance has stopped. We will accept them as equals once we have the city in our hands." He fell silent and the tension grew as the two armies marched toward one another at a steady gait. The huge red plane of Dr. Alfreed yawped hysterical injunctions at the advancing Hebers, who didn't even look up.

Then, suddenly, there was a brief exchange of throwing-weapons and the armies made contact. Automatically they split up into groups, clubbing and slashing. Stevens waded into the thick of it, swinging a broadsword He was startled to see that all the enemy were wearing vivid red shorts and bandoliers and were uniformly armed with heavy, short clubs. Remembering the timorous party that had first sought to kill him, he was dazed at the savagery with which the city men came to attack, with a suicidal disregard for their own safety and lives.

Further speculation he could not indulge in, for he was hard-pressed by a piquet of men who charged with strange cries of "_Right for Alfreed!_" One he spitted on his point; another's legs were cut away from beneath him, and a third landed a wild blow on Stevens' shoulder before the sizzling sweep of the backsword cut him down.

Stevens' head was curiously clear in the midst of the turmoil. With a mental start, he realized that something had happened; that this sort of thing no longer seemed glorious. He was not afraid; he saw it as a necessity, but now he realized that his only desire was to get it over with as soon as possible and have done with violence and fighting fellow men. Mechanically he fell in line with a spearhead of Hebers and worked his way along it to the apex; there he stayed, slashing and parrying till a concerted attack from behind dissolved it into skirmishing knots of men.

But now, from the city, came forth things that made the warriors gasp in amazement. Metal cylinders, upright, wheeled, each equipped with tentacle-like projections. They bore down upon the fray, plunging into the ranks of the red-clad fighters. For a moment, Stevens thought them to be reinforcements, but, now, he saw that the machines were for another purpose. The tentacles lashed out and seized the red-clad warriors firmly, yet, it appeared, carefully, so as not to do them harm, and, when their arms were full, turned and made back for 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.