Whitlaw stabbed at us with one long bony finger, making his points in the air like a shrike impaling its prey on a thornbush. "So the conclusion is inescapable. You are responsible for the actions of your government. It acts in your name. It is your employee. If you don't properly supervise the actions of your employee, you're not owning your responsibility. You'll deserve what you get. Do you know why the government is in the shape it is today? Because you aren't doing your job. After all, who else's responsibility could it be? I mean, can you imagine anyone in his right mind deliberately designing such a system? No-no one in his right mind would! The system is continually falling into the hands of those who are willing to manipulate it for short-term gain-because we let them."

Someone raised his hand. Whitlaw waved it down. "No, not now." He grinned. "I'm not through `brainwashing' you. I know that's what some of you think this is-I've seen the editorials in the newspapers too, the ones calling for the end of `political indoctrination classes.' Let me just say this about that: you'll notice I'm not telling you what you should be doing. Because I don't know what that is. It's your responsibility to determine it for yourselves-you get to create your own form of participation. Because that's the only real choice you ever get in your whole life -whether or not you're going to participate. You might want to notice that not participating is also a decision-it's a decision to be a victim of the consequences. Refuse to handle your own responsibilities and you will get the consequences. Every time! You can count on it.

"So here's the punch line-pay attention. `Let George do it' is not just the slogan of a lazy man-it's the credo of the slave. If you want to be taken care of and not have to worry, that's fine; you can join the rest of the cattle. Cattle are comfortable-that's how you recognize them. Just don't complain when they ship you off to the packing plant. They've bought and paid for the privilege. You sold it to them. Now if you want to be free, then get this: freedom is not about being comfortable. It's about seizing and using opportunities-and using them responsibly. Freedom is not comfort. It's commitment. Commitment is the willingness to be uncomfortable. The two aren't incompatible, but there are damn few free men on welfare.

"The free man, class, doesn't just survive-he challenges!" Whitlaw was right, of course. He usually was. If he'd ever been wrong, none of us had ever caught him at it. And after a while, we'd gotten pretty good.

I knew what he would say. The choice was mine. Even if I could have asked him for advice, he would have only said, "I can't answer that question for you, son. You already know the answer. You're just looking for agreement."

Right.

I couldn't depend on the good will of the universe any more. Five big plagues and a score of little ones had seen to that. My coffee had gone cold.

So I went looking for Shorty.

SHORTY TOWERED over me like a wall.

"Here," he said and thrust a flamethrower into my arms. "Don't flinch," he grinned. "There's nothing to be afraid of. It's not charged."

"Oh," I said, not at all reassured. I tried to figure out how to hold it.

"Watch it," he warned. "That'd be a good way to burn off your-here, hold it like this. One hand on the flame control there, the other on the stock-see that handle? That's right. Now, hold still while I fix your straps. We'll work without the tanks until you get the feel of it. You know, you're lucky-"

"Oh?"

"That torch is a Remington. Almost new. Designed for the war in Pakistan, but never used. Didn't need to-but it's perfect for us now because it'll take anything that burns and flows. See, the trick is this: you can shoot a stream of pure fuel alone-jellied gasoline is best-or you can shoot a barrage of exploding pellets, soaked in the fuel. Or you can shoot both at once. The pellets are pressure-loaded in this chamber here. Because they're pellets, you have a greater range, and because they explode on impact, you get a larger splash. The effect is terrific-don't point that at the ground, or you'll take off."

"Uh, Shorty . . ."

"Something wrong?"

"Napalm was outlawed almost ten years before the Pakistan conflict. What was the government doing with flamethrowers?" He let go of the straps he was adjusting. "You're gonna need shoulder pads." He turned away. I thought he wasn't going to answer the question, but as he came back from the jeep, carrying the pads, he said, "Same thing they were doing with A-bombs, nerve bombs, bacteriological weapons, hallucinogenic gases, nerve gases and poison vectors. Stockpiling them." He stopped my next question before I could ask it. "I know, they're illegal. That's why we had to have them-because the other side had them too. Letting them know was the guarantee. That's why the treaty worked."

"But-I thought the purpose of the whole thing was to outlaw inhumane weapons."

"Nope. Just to keep 'em from bein' used. There's always a difference between what you say and what you really want. If you're sharp enough to know what you really want, then it's easy to figure out what to say to get it. That's what that whole conference was about." He paused sourly. "I oughta know. I was there."

"Huh?"

Shorty looked like he wanted to say something, but he stopped himself. "Never mind. Some other time. Let me ask you this: what is it that makes a weapon inhumane?"

"Uh . . ." I thought about it.

"Let me make it easier for you. Tell me a humane weapon."

"Um-I see your point."

"Right. There's no such thing. It's like Christmas-it's not the gift, it's the thought that counts." He came around behind me and started fitting the pads under the straps. "A weapon, Jimnever forget this, lift your arms-is a tool for stopping the other fellow. That's the purpose-stopping him. The so-called humane weapons merely stop a man without permanently injuring him. The best weapons-you can put your arms down now-are the ones that work by implication, by threat, and never have to be used at all. The enemy stops himself.

"It's when they don't stop"-he turned me around to adjust the fittings in front-"that the weapons become inhumane, because that's when you have to use them. And so far, the most effective ones are the ones that kill-because they stop the guy permanently." He had to drop to his knees to cinch the waist strap. "Although ... there's a lot to be said for maiming-"

"Huh?" I couldn't see his eyes, so I didn't know if he was joking or not.

"-but that's asking too much of both the weapon and its user." He straightened again and rapped the buckle in the center of my chest. "Okay, that's the quick-release latch. Flip that up and the whole thing falls apart. That's in case you have a sudden need to run like hell. And if you do, you'd better. Five seconds after you drop that, it blows itself to bits. All right, I'm gonna hang the tanks on you now."

"You were going to say something about the Moscow Treaties before, weren't you?" I prompted.

"Nope." He headed for the jeep.

I flexed my arms. The harness was stiff, but it wasn't uncomfortable. I guess Shorty knew what he was doing.

He came back with the tanks. They sloshed lightly. "They're only half full. I don't want you starting any forest fires. Turn around."

As he hung the tanks on my shoulders, he said, "You want to know about the treaties? They were dishonorable. To make false rules about `I won't use this if you won't use that' may seem civilized because it lessens the brutality-but it isn't. It just makes the brutality tolerable for a longer time. And that's not civilized at all. If we're in a situation where we have to stop the other fellow, then let's just stop him. It's more efficient. There, how does that feel?"