The Centurion nodded and left.
"Sit ... sit down in that chair, Jay, and do your best to relax."
Jay sat down. A bomber roared overhead. There was a blast nearby.
"What will you do now, Kevin?"
Ilaria shrugged. "Fight 'em 'til they come in and we're sunk. Then
I'll join 'em. Why--why die a martyr's death?"
Of course, Jay told himself. Logical. But Kevin had been so convinced.
So utterly sure. Now he looked and sounded like a disillusioned old man.
"Kevin, I'm not trying to rub it in. But--"
"I know what you're going to say. I was so sure. Paradise. I was a firm
disciple. Convinced. I believed in all of it. I--thought it would last
forever. The perfect government. A permanently _workable_ government."
Jay sat quietly. Ilaria reached for the switch.
"For God's sake," came the voice of 1954, "what _is_ the perfect
workable government?"
Ilaria closed the switch and the light blinded Jay. He felt as if
someone had slugged him in the stomach. Slowly the machine prepared to
send him back one-hundred years. It warmed up like a jet on a runway.
The light faded and Jay opened his eyes. The building rocked. There was
a terrific explosion and part of the steel wall buckled. Somewhere a
woman screamed. A squadron of fighters hurtled past, spitting fire and
death. A bomber fell, exploding as it crashed into a tall apartment
building. Jay's stomach twisted and he knew he was on his way. Ilaria
took his gun from his holster and calmly placed its ugly snout against
his own face.
"... the perfect workable government?" Jay's question of a moment ago
reached his ears as he began to slip back, minute by minute, picking up
momentum. Ilaria's reply came dimly.
"There is none."