Ostrander turned to him, for once not incensed at being needled.
"Possibly more than you'd think," he rapped. He turned back again to
Homer Crawford. "The question becomes, why do you think that _you_ are
the man for the job? Who gave _you_ the go-ahead?"
Bey, who had settled down into a folding camp chair, now came to his
feet, his tired face angry.
But Homer waved him to silence. "Hold it," he said. Then to Ostrander.
"It doesn't work that way. It's not something you decide to do because
you're thirsty for power, or greedy for money. You're pushed into it.
Do you think Washington, a retired Virginian planter wrapped up in his
estate and his family, wanted to spend years leading the revolutionary
armies through the wilderness that was America in those days? He was
thrust into the job, there was no one else more competent to take it.
Men make the times, Ostrander, but the times also make the men. Look
at Lenin and Trotsky. Three months before the October Revolution,
Lenin wrote that he never expected to see in his lifetime the
Bolsheviks come to power. Within those months he was at the head of
government and Trotsky, a former bookworm who had never fired a gun in
his life, was head of the Red Army and being proclaimed a military
genius."
Ostrander was scowling at him, but his face was thoughtful.
Homer said quietly, "It's not always an easy thing, to have power thrust
into your hands. Not always a desirable thing." His voice went quieter
still. "Only a short time ago it led me to the necessity of ...
killing ... my best friend."
"And mine," Isobel said softly, almost under her breath.
Dave Moroka said, "Abe Baker," before he caught himself.