"No," said the doctor. "We'll just turn the stuff on and see what happens. It's as strong as they come--you wouldn't understand it; I've studied ancient history, so it's a little clearer to me." "Well," said Markett, uncertainly, as the doctor turned off the lights and started the projector. She settled herself in a comfortable double seat, and the doctor joined her, while Experimental Reel Seven, Full Power, went clicking through the camera and onto the screen. But they, being otherwise absorbed, paid little or no attention to it. The patient--sixty-six-twenty-five--whimpered and tried to scrape off the copper bus-bars that confined him. Then his eyes drifted to the screen, and he beheld a marvelously real landscape, not frozen in paint on canvas but quivering with life. A rabbit started, and the patient, who had never seen a rabbit, recognized the little creature, and worked his jaws. There was an unfamiliar taste in his mouth, as though he were champing something tough-fibred, like a woven cloth or bit of soft wood. He had never eaten meat, so to the still-dominant presence of his ego there was no connotation. 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.