On he walked into the cement lined room. The General stood there, oblivious to the noise about him. The hair on the crown of his head parted violently as the bullet from the gun in Buckmaster's hand hit its mark.
The gun became a weight too heavy for Buckmaster's lifeless fingers and dropped to the floor. The last spark of life flickered for a brief moment where it had fled in some inner recess of his brain and he felt the Force for the last time. Two words it spoke. "Well done," and he knew that at last his job was finished. Now he would return home!
Buckmaster had reasoned well, considering his natural limitations. But the truth he had discovered was, like most truths, only part of a greater truth.
In the far reaches of infinity, beyond the outermost boundaries of space, a thought-voice spoke. "Am I going to die?" it asked.
"Not now," a second entity answered. "The crisis is past."
"Will the sickness come again?"