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want that."
        "You may have it already. He is a remarkable warrior, and he wants an empire." He refrained again from reminding her what that name could not provide.
        "Yes." She did not sound happy.
        "What is your song?"
        "'Red River Valley.' I think there was such a place, before the Blast."
        "There was. In Texas, I believe."
        Without further urging she began singing. Her voice, untrained, was better than his.
     
    Come and sit by my side if you love me
    Do not hasten to bid me adieu
    But remember the Red River Valley
    And the girl who has loved you so true.
     
        "How did you get to be a scholar?" she asked him then, as though retreating from the intimacy of the song.
        "The crazies run a school in the east," he explained. "I was always ,curious about things. I kept asking questions nobody could answer, like what was the cause of the Blast, and finally my folks turned me over to the crazies for service, provided they educated me. So I carried their slops and cleaned their equipment, and they taught me to read and figure."
        "It must have been awful."
        "It was wonderful. I had a strong back, so the work didn't bother me, and when they saw that I really wanted to learn they put me in school full time. The old books they contained incredible things. There was a whole history of the world, before the Blast, going back thousands of years. There used to be nations, and empires, much bigger than any of the tribes today, and so many people thee wasn't enough food to feed them. They were even building ships to go into space, to the other planets we see in the sky.
        "Oh," she said, uninterested. "Mythology."
        He gave it up as a bad job. Almost nobody, apart fron the crazies, cared about the old times. To the average person the world began with the Blast, and that was as far a curiosity extended. Two groups existed upon the globe: the warriors and the crazies, and nothing else that mattered The former were nomad families and tribes, travelling from cabin to cabin and camp to camp, achieving individual status and rearing children. The latter were thinker and builders who were said to draw their numbers from retired or unsuccessful warriors; they employed great pre Blast machines to assemble cabins and clear paths through the forests. They distributed the weapons and clothing and other supplies, but did not produce them, they claimed; no one knew where such things came from, or worried par ticularly about it. People cared only for the immediacies so long as the system functioned, no one worried about it Those who involved themselves with studies of the past and similarly useless pursuits were crazy. Hence the "crazies" men and women very like the nomads, if the truth were known, and not at all demented.
        Sos had come to respect them sincerely. The past lay with the crazies-and, he suspected, the future, too. They alone led a productive existence. The present situation was bound to be temporary. Civilization always displaced anarchy, in time, as the histories had clearly shown.
        "Why aren't you a-" she cut herself off. The last light from the fire had gone and only her voice betrayed hei location. He realized that his sitting posture cut off eves more of the, heat from her, though she had not compIained.
        "A crazy?" He had often wondered about that matter himself. Yet the nomad life had its rough appeal and tender moments. It was good to train the body, too, and to trust in warrior honor. The books contained marvels-but so did the present world. He wanted both. "I suppose I find it natural to fight with a man when I choose, and to love a woman the same way. To do what I want, when I want, and be beholden to no one else, only to the power of my right arm in the circle."
        But that wasn't true any more. He had been deprived of his rights in the circle, and the woman he would have clasped had given herself to another man.