* * * * *
Far to the north, where sane men did not go, where enormous trees
guarded the silent paths of animals to the water-hole, there was a
fire, man-built, cunningly piled against the bole of a tree and slanted
away from the wind so that it would burn through the long night as a
bed of glowing embers, little tongues of blue flame leaping up now and
again to warn off any bear or wildcat that might seek easy pickings
among the silent forms huddled in a circle. Men they were, big men with
gnarled beards and knotted shoulder-muscles, sleeping restlessly and
lightly, with one hand lying near cunningly constructed spring-guns and
flat, gleaming backswords, into whose steel blades had been let threads
of blue and red enamel in glowing, wide designs.
The crack of a twig broke the stillness of the forest night. With a
grunt, the largest of the men sat up, his fist closing tight around the
hardwood hilt of his sword.
"Hibron?" he called softly. "Is it you?"
Through the dusk strode a figure--a huge-boney male whose hair and
beard were like twisted, golden wires, whose loins were girded in the
pelt of a lynx, and who carried a hardwood staff a weaker man could not
have lifted. He thundered: "Who're you and who d'ye take me for?"
Around the fire men sprang to their feet, gripping weapons and raising
bows. Their leader held his sword at guard and eyed the stranger
coldly. "I mistook you for a missing member of our party," he said.
"Name yourself, stranger." There was an angry growl from the men around
the fire; they advanced, their weapons twitching.
"Are you Fotchy?" spoke up a man in the background.
"Not Hibron nor Fotchy nor any of your people," answered the stranger,
surveying them. "I'm Clark Stevens, wildman and sworn enemy of the city
people. Who are you?"
The bearded man lowered his sword. "Come by the fire, enemy of the
Fotchy, for their enemies are our friends. Are you alone?"
Stevens beckoned into a brush and a slim, firm-muscled woman dressed
briefly in patched remnants of cloth came forth. "Markett, my wife," he
explained. Then to her: "These men are our friends, but who they are,
I do not know. They are honest people, I think. Let us sit by their
fire."
He and the woman crossed their legs before the blaze, and one of the
band piled wood on top. As the flames rose, the forest shadows were
driven back, and every pebble in the little clearing cast its long
shadow on the ground. The black-bearded man seated himself before the
two strangers and his people arranged themselves in council behind him.
"Selim, Stevens," began the leader. "I am Isral, one of the judges
of the clan of Hebers, expelled and hunted down by the accursed
Fotchy these seven generations and more. Are you, too, hounded by the
murderous, invading swine?" The firelight gleamed on his nose and
played about his curly beard and hair.
"These Fotchy," said Stevens slowly. "I have never heard of them. But
I am hounded by another kind, perhaps. I have forsworn the cities of
gleaming metal and glass, with their tasteless water and pulpy food.
This I have left to live in the wilderness with my wife, and for that
reason, they seek to kill me. These Fotchy--who were they?"
Isral spat. "They came from over the ocean and conquered all things.
They imprisoned women and tortured men. Their leaders grew fat and
luxurious while the common people were ground into the earth. The
Hebers (those who we are) were singled out for destruction, though no
one seems to know why. All this have I heard from my father, and there
is much in the story that is strange.
"The Hebers were driven into the wilderness one winter to die, but even
then we were a hardy people and most of us survived the snow and sleet
of the first season. There was trouble as the isolated people met and
formed clans, and much struggling for power. In the midst of this they
neglected to store up sufficient food for the next winter and many
died. For years--twenty, thirty, perhaps--they lived as brutes, with
little more than fire to aid them. But, as a new generation grew up,
they learned to make things with their hands, to build crude machines,
and to turn the laws of nature to the common welfare. And from this
time, we have risen in numbers and the enjoyment of life."
Isral held up a gleaming sword. "We work with iron and pottery and
wood, as well as such metals as we can find in the mountains of the
north; we have flocks of goats, sheep and bison. Although we live close
to nature, we are not helpless before natural forces, though wholly
dependent upon them. We whom you see here are a hunting party sent far
south to capture living deer for breeding purposes."
He fell silent and stared inquiringly at Stevens, who cast his eyes
over the man, and solemnly extended his hands. The gold-bearded man
grinned and said: "You are a _real_ people. I will be your friend."
From the group behind Isral was a pleased murmur. "Then," said Isral,
"you will come with us to the North and live with us, and tell us all
you can about the world you have left. There may be much that we can
put to good use."
"I will," said Stevens. And he was thinking, "These men can fight!"
* * * * *
Dr. Alfreed had begun by discussing the Stevens affair hotly in the
Medicos Club; a colleague had mildly objected to his neglect of duty.
Alfreed had flared up and called the colleague a dirty name. From then
onward Alfreed's progress was spectacular. There was a challenge to
debate the question, and Alfreed had won hands down. His opponent had
presented his case clearly and logically, then retired from the stage.
Alfreed had walked on with a sneer, the subconscious necessity of
defending himself boiling in his breast.
His speech was like nothing that had been heard from the debating
platform for a hundred years or more, for he began by lashing out
bitterly at the private life of his opponent. Patiently the audience
waited for him to get around to the issue in question, finding
themselves strangely stirred by the wild denunciation. One man yelled
from the floor: "He's right! I'm for Alfreed!" and the cry was repeated
in the hall.
At this the doctor frowned heavily on the audience. "Enough of this!"
he barked. "You, my friend, have seen the menace of this wildman loose
in our midst. I say to you: '_Hunt him down! Clark Stevens must be
destroyed!_'"
The abrupt switch in logic disturbed the crowd not at all. For a
hundred years or more they had lain fallow, ready for the first
demagogue who came along with a phony cause and a platform technique.
In a tremendous burst of enthusiasm the doctor was cheered off
the platform and carried through the streets in a spontaneous
demonstration, and the cry of the first man to rise had been mutilated
into "Right for Alfreed!" which rang all over the city by nightfall.
Deposited at his doorstep the doctor made a gracious speech, referring
to the menace of Clark Stevens, and, passing a hand before his eyes,
begged to be excused. Once in his apartment, Alfreed fell into a
chair, astonished at himself. As he analyzed the matter there had
been a psychological necessity to excuse his own mistake by violence
misdirected, or not directed at all. But it was a good thing at any
rate. Knowing in his heart of hearts that what he told himself was not
true, he pledged himself to release what he already thought of as "his
men" as soon as the menace of Stevens was eliminated. Then he went to
bed. But all night there rang beneath his window the cry or challenge:
"Right for Alfreed!"
When he woke, it was to find that his men had been working fast,
ranging over the city, spreading the news to their friends--news of
this wonderful Dr. Alfreed who had emerged from public obscurity to
denounce the dangerous maniac who had been permitted to menace the city
by the softlings in administrative control.
His door-signal flashed. "Come," he called luxuriously from his bed.
"'Lo, Winters," he greeted an agitated colleague who strode into the
room.
"Alfreed," snapped Winters, "how did you do it? And how are you going
to stop them? It isn't healthy, this concentration on the death of one
man."
"One ruthless, murdering maniac," said the doctor coldly. "Do you call
unhealthy the operation that removes a cancer?" He sat up in bed and
brought his fist down emphatically on his knee. "No! The day that Clark
Stevens dies I shall rest from my labors, but until then it must and
shall be my only thought--and not mine alone but all the people in the
city. And those who say otherwise shall be _crushed_!"
Winters stared him in the eye. "If you're not mad," he said, "you're
giving a very accurate imitation of megalomania. But, for the sake of
the record, I assure you that I shall never be a Rightman, and that
many others have told me the same. Alfreed, you'll never get a majority
in any election, so why continue a futile opposition?"
The doctor frowned. "Get out," he said. "You will see how a _man_ gets
what he wants. He _takes_ it!"
As the door closed on Winters' back he relaxed in bed. "_Rightman_,"
did the old fool say? Not bad. Not bad at all. He leaped out of bed
and dressed. He was nervous, almost hysterically so. As he strode down
the corridor of the dwelling, his friends greeted him with cries of
"Right!" They were on his side, he thought.
He had to make a speech in the breakfast room of the dwelling and
left with the cry of "Right for Alfreed!" crashing in his ears. Time
to organize now, he thought. The enthusiasm must not be allowed to
die down, for once cold reason was permitted to set in, his cause
was lost. There could be no such thing as full debate; he must imbue
his followers with such a sense of their truth and right that they
would, unthinkingly, stamp on the first murmur of opposition, without
listening to what the opposer had to say. Had he really been fooling
when he intimated to Winters that he would take over by force? Maybe.
He didn't know yet. First thing the Rightmen would need, he decided,
would be some sort of identification. Badges--stars? No, these were
too flimsy; they might get lost easily, or then some scoundrel who had
no right to them, who did not swear allegiance to the cause, might get
hold of them.
What was needed was an ensign more substantial--a staff, perhaps. How
about a rod, he thought. A nice, heavy one, of course--it'd look better
that way--and it should be painted with bright colors. They could even
wear bandoliers and shorts of the same color. Red, of course. Red stood
out, attracted attention, and was the color of enthusiasm and violence.
The sight of solid red ranks would at once intimidate opposition and
attract recruits. "Right Red," it should be called. "Right Red" for the
"Rightmen." It is the duty, he thought, of the Rightman to defend his
person against irresponsible attacks, that he may be preserved for the
good of the state.
And, a few hours later, these same words thundered through a microphone
to all parts of the city: "It is the Duty of the Rightman to defend
his person against irresponsible attacks that he may be preserved for
service to the state!" And a thousand bright Red staffs swung up in
salute, while from the throats of the bearers came the chant: "Right
for Alfreed! _Right! Right! RIGHT!_"
* * * * *
Isral pointed. "See, Stevens, the sharpened tops of the stockade; logs
half buried, upright, ten feet out of the ground showing, so close
together that a rabbit couldn't squeeze through. We're safe here from
any animal or man, I think."
"I see," said Stevens, shifting his rucksack. "It's most ingenious. But
shouldn't you have sentries posted there by the gates?"
"We usually do," said Isral, puzzled. "I don't understand--" He broke
off sharply as his eyes caught something. "Thundering heavens! _The
gate's open!_ Somebody's going to catch hell from the judges for this.
Come on!" he shouted at the straggling column of men carrying, in a
sort of palanquin cage, the live deer they had gone so far South to
capture. "I can't understand it," he mused fretfully as he and Stevens
and Markett ran on the double. They halted before the picketed gate and
Markett wrinkled her nose. "What's that smell?" she asked.
Stevens grimaced at the foul stench that drifted over the high
palisade, and turned to Isral for an answer. The Heber had forced his
face into lines of composure, but beneath his weather-beaten tan, his
skin was white with shock. "Fever," he said, pushing open the gate.
"But twice before it has come, and both times we were able to combat
it. Now--look--" Hopelessly he stretched forth his hand, and Stevens
turned his head.
There was a long street of neat little houses, log houses, punctuated
here and there by little shops of artisans. At the end of the street
was a meeting-hall on which, in wood contrasting with the rough,
unfinished logs on the outside, was nailed the six-pointed star, tribal
symbol of the Hebers. But the pottery wheels and grindstones and forges
before the shops were untended, and there was no smoke of cooking from
the neat little chimneys of the houses. Lying in the street, or half
hidden in doorways, were drawn, gaunt figures, women, children and old
people.
With a little cry of alarm, Markett bent over the form of a child and
felt its pulse and skin. "Still alive," she said anxiously. "How do you
combat this?"
"A kind of berry," replied Isral. "But there were none growing this
year when we left. They were small and bitter."
"I know the general type," said Markett. "The bark does just as well,
if you soak it in water. Have you any of the wood about?"
"Here," replied the Heber, pointing to a bush outside the gate. "This
is the kind that grows the berries. And there are others in the
forest." He turned to the bearers. "You!" he barked. "Go pull up every
fever-bush you can find and bring it here. You, Samel, draw clean water
from the Old Well and fill some tubs. Wash them first. You three, dig a
trench. Some of our people are past any service save that."
"That settles it," broke in Stevens grimly. "You can't live here any
longer."
"Why not, friend?" asked Isral, his eyes on the men who were carrying
out his orders.
"This sort of thing might strike you any moment. To save those who are
still here, we have to kill every fever-bush by uprooting and stripping
the bark. How many people live here?"
"There are about two thousand in this suburb. Of these, one thousand
may already have died; others have fled to our other cities and towns.
In them, if the plague has not been spread; and we have means of
keeping it down if there is time for warning; we have seventy thousands
in all."
"Seventy thousand," Stevens whispered to himself. Then, with a great
roar, he cried: "We'll do it!"
"What?"
"Go South--all of us, men, women and children. We can do it
easily--take the city from which I fled and live there, peacefully and
healthily."