"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.