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"Why in bell not?" the big, bearded man glared at Georgos. "For Chrissakes! All you do now is let off some pissant firecrackers, then laze around here for a goddam month's vacation."
Their discussion, which had quickly developed into an argument, was taking place in the basement workshop of the rented east-side house the Friends of Freedom hideaway. As usual the workshop was cluttered with tools and hardware of destruction-wires, metal parts, chemicals, timing mechanisms, and explosives. Birdsong had arrived ten minutes ago after taking his usual precautions against being followed.
"I told you before, there's enough bread for whatever you need," the p& Ifp leader continued. The trace of a smile lighted his face. "And I just got more."
“The money is important" Georgos conceded. "But we take the risks here.
You don't."
"Goddammiti-you're supposed to take risks. You're a soldier of the revolution, aren't you? And I take risks too-of a different kind."
Georgos shifted uncomfortably. He resented this entire dialogue, just as be did the increasing dominance of Birdsong, which had happened since Georgos' own source of funds dried up and Birdsong's replaced it. More than ever Georgos bated his movie-actress mother, who, without knowing it, had financed Friends of Freedom in the beginning, then had ceased to do so with the ending of Georgos' allowance through the Athens law firm.
He had read in a newspaper recently that she was seriously ill. He hoped it was something painful and terminal.
“The last attack on the enemy," Georgos declared stiffly, "was our most successful. We caused a power failure over one hundred square miles."
"Sure. And what effect did it have?" Contemptuously, Birdsong answered his own question. "Nil! Were any of our demands met? No! You killed two lousy pig security guards. Who cares? Nobody!”
"I'll admit it was surprising and disappointing that none of our demands. . ."
Birdsong cut him off. “They won't be met! Not until there are bodies in the streets. Blood-drenched, putrefying piles of bodies. Not until the dead cause panic among the living. That's the lesson of every revolution! It's the only message the docile, moronic bourgeois understand."
"I know all that." then, sarcastically, "Perhaps you have some better ideas for .
"You're damn right I do! Now listen to me."
Birdsong lowered his voice; his anger and contempt appeared to dissipate. It was as if, like a schoolmaster, he had impressed the need to learn upon a pupil. Now the lesson itself, in lower key, would follow.
"First," he said, "we state some articles of faith. We ask ourselves: Why are we doing what we are? And the answer is: Because the existing system in this country is stinking, rotten, corrupt, oppressive, spiritually bankrupt. What's more, the system can't be changed-that's been tried-, it doesn't work. So everything existing, the whole geared-to-the rich, grind-the-poor capitalist system, has to be destroyed to allow us the true believers, we who love our fellow men-to build anew and decently. The revolutionary is the only one who sees that clearly. And the destruction, piece by piece, is what Friends of Freedom-along with others like us-are beginning to do."
While he talked, Davey Birdsong sbowed-as he had elsewhere-his chameleon quality. In part he had become the university lecturer-persuasive, eloquent; in part he was a mystic, speaking to his own inner soul as much as to Georgos.
He continued, "So where does the destruction begin? Ideally, everywhere. But because, so far, we are few in numbers, we choose a common denominator-electricity. It affects all the populace. It lubricates the wheels of capitalism. It makes the bloated rich more bloated still. It allows minor comforts-palliatives-to the proletariat, deluding the masses into believing they are free. It is capitalism's tool, an opiate. Cut off the electricity, disrupt the core of its system, and you thrust a dagger in capitalism's heart!"
Brightening, Georgos injected, "Lenin said, 'Communism is Soviet government plus the electrification of . . ."'
"Don't interrupt! I know exactly what Lenin said, and it was in another context."
Georgos subsided. This was a new and different Birdsong from the several variants he had seen before. Also there seemed little doubt, at this moment, about who was in command.
"But," the big man resumed-be had risen and was striding back and forth-"we have seen that more is required than disruption of electricity alone. We must draw greater attention to Friends of Freedom, and our objectives, by disrupting-destroying-electricity's people."
"We already did some of that," Georgos pointed out. "When we blew up their La Mission plant; then the letter bombs. We killed their chief engineer, their president . . ."
"Piddling numbers! Penny antel I mean something big, where the killing will not be in ones and twos but hundreds. Where bystanders will be wiped out too, proving there's no safety on the sidelines of a revolution. Then our aims get attention! That's when fear will set in, followed by panic. When all in authority and below, everyone, will be scurrying to do exactly what we want!"
Davey Birdsong's eyes were focused on the distance, clearly far beyond the dismal, disordered basement. It was as if he were seeing a dream, a vision, Georgos thought-and found the experience heady and infectious.
The prospect of more killing excited Georgos. The night of the bombing at Millfield, after he had slain the two security guards, he had been briefly sickened; it was, after all, the first time he had killed another human being face to face. But the feeling quickly passed, to be replaced by a sense of elation and-curiously, he thought-sexual arousement. He had taken Yvette that night and used her savagely, reliving, while he did, the powerful upward knife thrust with which he had killed the first guard. And now, remembering, listening to Birdsong's talk about mass killings, Georgos felt his sexual organs stir again.
Birdsong said quietly, “The opportunity we need is coming soon."
He produced a folded newspaper page. It was from the California Examiner of two days earlier and a single-paragraph item had been ringed in red crayon.
POWER GROUP TO MEET
Possible nationwide shortages of electric power will be discussed next month when the National Electric Institute holds a four-day convention in the city's Christopher Columbus Hotel. A thousand delegates from public utilities and electrical manufacturers are expected to attend.
"I scratched around for more details," Birdsong said. "Here are the exact dates of the convention and a preliminary program." He tossed two typewritten sheets on the workshop table. "It will be easy to get the final program later. That way we'll know where everybody is, and when."
Georgos' eyes were agleam with interest, his resentment of a few minutes earlier forgotten. He gloated, "All those big wheels from power outfits-social criminals! We can mail letter bombs to selected delegates. If I begin work now . . ."
"No! At best you'd kill half a dozen-probably not that many because after the first explosion they'd get wise and take precautions."
Georgos conceded, "Yes, that's true. Then what do you . . . ?"
"I have a better idea. Much, much better; also bigger." Birdsong permitted himself a thin, grim smile. "During the second day of that convention, when everybody has arrived, you and your people will plant two series of bombs in the Christopher Columbus Hotel. The first set of bombs will be exactly timed to go off during the night-say at 3 am That stage of bombing will concentrate on the main floor and mezzanine. The objective will be to block or destroy all exits from the building as well as every stairway, every elevator. So no one can escape from the floors above when the second stage begins."
Georgos nodded his understanding, listening intently as Birdsong continued.
"A few minutes after the first bombs have exploded, other bombs also exactly timed-will go off on the floors above. Those will be fire bombs-as many as you can plant and all containing gasoline, so as to set the hotel on fire and keep it burning."
A wide, anticipatory smile spread over Georgos' face. He said breathlessly, "It's brilliant! Magnificent! And we can do it."
"If you do it right," Birdsong said, "not one person on those upper floors will leave that building alive. And at three in the morning, even those who stayed out late will be in bed. We will execute everybody: Those convention delegates-our main target for punishment-and their women, children, and all others in the hotel who have chosen to get in the way of a just revolution."
