The Psychological Regulator

by C. M. Kornbluth

As though he were slowly turning he saw the landscape move, and a walled city came into view. What a walled city was he couldn't say, but the words were in his brain; and quivering with rage, he wanted to tear down the massive bastions with his own hands, and rend the mailed men who were pacing the ramparts. He clenched his right fist, and felt the hilt of Al Azaaf, his scimitar. Slowly Roald stood up from the grass and settled his greaves about his thighs. "Rouse up, sons of Yggdrasil," he hissed fiercely, and his men—his terrible Norse, scourge of the coast—appeared from bushes and brakes, drawing axes from belts and fitting pikes to shafts.

"Seventy-and-nine of us there be," growled Roald without preamble, "and of them an hundred and eighty or more. Who complains?" There was silence on the moor, save for the clank of metal as when dirk touched against breastplate.

Roald grinned savagely and swept aside his long red beard to spit. "The less men the more booty," he snarled. "Eh? And women—?" He laughed tremendously. Then, whirling his sword he roared, "By the hammer of Thor—Come on!" Roaring wildly Roald and his red-bearded band made across the common at a dead run.

There were screams from the city, and much blowing of horns. Arrows began to smack into the clayey soil about them, and Roald raised his buckler. He saw the gates of the city swinging shut; yelling inarticulately he tore a blazing torch from the fist of a companion and hurled it into the knot of porters and marketmen that was struggling with the heavy bar and hinges; they scattered in terror, only a second before the red demons were within the gates, slashing and clubbing with keen swords and murderous axes.

Roald was the spearhead of the attack, and as he and his men plowed contemptuously through the rabble ... tradesmen and shopkeepers ... he laughed wildly. "Guard ho!" he yelled. "Who will come to do battle with the chosen of Odin. The curse of Cornwall and the damned, stinking Isle of Britain? Guard ho!" Slash! through the shoulder of a boy with a pike. He drove a mailed fist into the face of a gammer who was struggling aside, unwilling to leave her heavy basket of turnips behind.

Roald grinned savagely in the eyes of an archer. "Draw," he shouted, and as the Englishman reached he spitted him on the curve of Al Azaaf. A new blade crossed his, and with dirk and sword he ranged up and down the length of a square with his foe, a dark-eyed young man who fought precisely and quietly. Behind him he felt the spearhead break into bits and the body of the guard charged the Norse. The youth extended his body in a strange thrust, and Roald cursed the queer, slim weapon he used—a thing like a dart with a hilt. The Viking slashed once, and the youth parried. Roald slashed again, and there was the shock known to swordsmen as steel clashed steel. The youth was weaponless, and Roald cut him down where he stood, kicked the body in the ribs, then spun to defend himself against an assault from a clumsy pike.

The Viking grinned savagely, and swept aside his beard. "With this draught," he roared to his men, "I name this city fief to the Vikings and to Roald, and all its values, be they goods or women or children, fief also to their conquerors." He glared about him from the eminence in the walled city's central square, on the scene of desolation and butchery. He stood among his Norse having left not one of the hundred and eighty defenders. "Skoal!" he roared, and drank.

And Six-six-twenty-five, otherwise known as Clark Stevens (M-3972677-234a-150N-190), shuddered violently, stared at the screen that had just run blank. "What—?" he began, sitting erect. "Damn!" said Stevens, finding himself strangely trammeled by webworks of pure copper. He wrenched his hands free and tore the wires from his ankles and head. "You!" he roared at a couple snuggled in an easy chair.

"Quite recovered?" smiled Dr. Alfreed, unfastening the plastic bands that were restraining Stevens. "A little dizzy?"

Stevens glared at him, and the Doctor backed away. There was a blinding flash about three inches away from the doctor's chin, and he went down and out. The patient, rubbing his fist, squinted through the gloom and perceived Miss Travenor. "Ah," he said gutturally. He stepped out of his improvised shirt and trousers; Markett saw with relief that he was wearing the conventional shorts and bandolier beneath. More unconventional than his former attire, however, was the patient's new behavior. He spurned the doctor's body with one foot and picked up the nurse. "Excuse me—" she began plaintively.