“How many times have they jockeyed our politicians into a peace mood? Fifty? Then snatched something. It’s got so the people of the United States are scared to say or do anything that sounds hostile, even disagree, for fear they’ll spoil some new ‘chance’ at ‘world peace.’
Makes a man sick! Can you imagine, twenty years ago, Senators pussyfooting around, trying to stop free men from freely saying what they think for fear Russia would be ‘antagonized’ or made ‘suspicious’? I say—the more suspicious they are the better, and the more antagonized the better.”
“Then why print in the Transcript that Civil Defense preparations in America discourage honest peace desires in the Kremlin?”
“Minerva Sloan.”
“Who does she think she is,” Hank asked enragedly, “Mrs. God?”
“You’ve hit it. Yes. Mrs. God.”
“If I could only be sure,” Hank murmured. He got up, went to the window, saw the moonlight and murmured, “Pretty view.”
“I like it,” the editor said and switched out the fluorescent lamps in the office. That allowed Henry Conner to absorb, as his eyes grew accustomed to the soft silver outdoors, the same panorama that so frequently held Coley fixed at his window.
“Be a shame,” Henry said at last, in a quiet tone, “to wreck it.”
“Lot of lives. Lot of work.”