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.