He lay there, face pressed into the snow, until the muscles of his legs started tensing of their own accord. Then he was up again, and running for dear life.
Gun fire was bursting all around now, a seemingly solid screen of lead pouring down from the caves. But the men were getting through the barrier; one slammed into the rock wall beside a cave mouth and started unlimbering grenades, tossing them in as quickly as he could pull the pins. Seconds later a vast tongue of fire roared out, melting the snow and scorching the barren earth beneath.
The fire probed down the hill as the side around the cave shook and roared. The fire reached and passed over Art Johnson, lying in the snow, fingers digging at the rock beneath.
By its orange light, the spreading circle of red around the soldier blended into the artificial coloring of the snow.
"Just think of it!" Cavendish pounded his hand on the desk. "The chance to go back and correct our mistakes, live our lives over again. The opportunities missed, the chances passed up, the decisions made wrong—all can be changed."
The man in the chair swirled the dregs of the whisky in the bottom of the glass. "Go on, Cavendish," he said. "You're keeping my interest."
Cavendish flushed. "Thank you, Mr. Blackwell. I knew a man of your position would not pass up an opportunity like this. Why, this is another chance to make the world! A second chance!"
THE END