"Just what, Mr. Kimmensen, would you like me to do?" Messerschmidt looked at him in fury. "I don't have time to train an army of our own. They've got us cold." "Messerschmidt, I see eight men here with weapons." "As far as anything we can accomplish goes, we might as well use them to toast sandwiches." "We can scour that mountainside. Down to bare rock." Messerschmidt blanched. "You're joking." "I am _not_!" "There are people of ours up there." "There are people of ours all through this area. When the Northwesters are finished up there, they'll fan out and burn them all down, a little bit at a time." Messerschmidt looked at Kimmensen incredulously. "I can't do it. There's a chance some of our people up there'll be able to slip out." "By that time, the Northwesters'll be down here and dispersed." Messerschmidt started to answer, and stopped. "Messerschmidt, if you're going to do anything, you'd best do it immediately." Messerschmidt was shaking his head. "I can't do it. It's murder." "Something much more important than human life is being murdered on that mountain at this moment." "All right, Kimmensen," Messerschmidt exploded, "if you're so hot for it, _you_ give the order! There're something like a hundred League families up there. Half of them're still alive, I'd say. If the election's void, you're still president. You take the responsibility, if you can." "I can." "Just like that." "Messerschmidt, the defense of freedom is instantaneous and automatic." "All right, Mr. Kimmensen," Messerschmidt sighed. He turned to his men. "You heard him. It's his order. Aim at the mountain." He bared his teeth in a distorted laugh. "In freedom's name--fire!" * * * * * Kimmensen watched it happen. He kept his face motionless, and he thought that, in a way, it was just as well he hadn't long to live. But it was done, and, in a way, his old dream was still alive. In a way, Messerschmidt's hands were tied now, for in the end the Freemen defeated the trained armies and no one could forget the lesson in this generation. He looked down at the ground. And in a way, Messerschmidt had won, because Kimmensen was dying and Messerschmidt had years. That seemed to be the way of it. And Messerschmidt would someday die, and other revolutions would come, as surely as the Earth turned on its axis and drifted around the sun. But no Messerschmidt--and no Kimmensen--ever quite shook free of the past, and no revolution could help but borrow from the one before. Well, Bausch, Kimmensen thought to himself as the face of the mountain slowly cooled and lost color, I wonder what we'll have to say to each other?