Quidley, watching him, was thinking, this is the real Sawyer. The other was a pose, a sham. The man was smart, just as Norris had said. Clever enough to fool them all, right up till it was too late.
And the way he swaggered and the way he talked reminded him of someone.
Reminded him of Baylor.
"You're a Kuklos," he said.
"And damn proud of it," said Sawyer aggressively. He bent to wave the pistol in his face. "There's thousands of us, Major. Hundreds of thousands. In the Army, the police, the patrollers, just plain citizens — all over. We been waitin' a long time. We're sick of Richmond and them niggerlovin' English queers they call a government. We're takin' over, Major. And when that there shell goes off — set off by the nigras, right in the capital — why, that'll be the signal." He paused to breathe. "That's when we'll see all the uppity educated nigras and all their friends in hell, Major. We'll purify the South at last — by the gun, the rope, and by fire. The Kuklos League will rule and the white race will be supreme." He swayed, chuckled, then added, "'Course, you all will have to take what I been sayin' on faith."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, well, I can't let you two fine people tell the gov'ment all that. I mean, we want this all to be a surprise."
"But why, Earl?"
"We been a puppet of the Empire too long, Aubrey. Now we goin' to be a nation, by God. One party — the Kuklos League. One leader. One flag, and one aim: that the South is gonna be free of niggers at last, forever."
He sat stunned. The vision of it was too shattering.
Because it could be done.
Sawyer was right — and Hunt and the Railroad people were wrong. The men he knew in Richmond would never give in to Railroad threats. They couldn't. The country, led by the braying Kuklos reactionaries, would never forgive them.
And if they didn't give in, and the shell went off… it can't go off, he reassured himself.
But the government would not know that. So they'd would be caught between the Railroad and the League, between the forces of change and reaction. They'd have to play for time, make concessions… and in the meanwhile, the League would strike. And with Richmond immobilized, they might well succeed in taking power. It would mean a full-scale revolution. Lynching, burning. Followed, no doubt, by war. The North could never tolerate a League-ruled Confederacy. And a revolution-torn South would be an easy target for invasion. The Empire, the Allies, would they interfere, faced with the awesome new weapon?
One way or another, the South was lost. No, he thought, I can't let it happen. I've got to talk him out of it. Convince him to let me call Norris and stop it from reaching Richmond.
"Look, Earl," he began.
"Shut up," said Sawyer, waving the gun drunkenly.
"Earl, you have to listen to me. What you're proposing means war with the North."
"One a' us can lick ten Yankees. Proved that twice. Let 'em come."
"It's not that easy anymore."
But Sawyer was no longer listening. Instead he was staring at the ceiling. Then looking slowly around the room, at the expensive furniture, the tasteful decorations, the deep-piled carpet. "Shut up, Major," he said again. "Get up. Both of you."
"What are you going to do?" said Sharon, and he heard the first note of fear in her voice.
"Get up. Outside." He gestured with the pistol, and they moved in front of him to the door.
"Outside. And don't run. I don't mind shootin' traitors."
Quidley bit his lips. To be called a traitor, by a low person like this… the Bentley stood outside. He glanced around but saw no sign of Roberts. Sawyer must have driven here himself. He suddenly missed the slovenly little sergeant.
"Stand there. Against the house."
Sawyer fumbled in his pockets and finally succeeded in finding the keys and opening the trunk. He pulled out one of the two five-gallon cans of gasoline that were kept, already filled, in every Army vehicle.
"Earl, look—"
"Inside, you," he said thickly. "Both of you blue-blooded nigger-lovers. Get back inside. Sit down where you was."
"Aubrey, what's he going to do?"
"I don't know, Sharon Sue." He patted her hand; it was pale and cold. "I'm sure he won't hurt us, though."
"Shit, no, I won't hurt you," Sawyer sneered. He had the cap off the can, was sloshing the pink fluid over drapes, over the carpet, against the walls.
Quidley felt her hand grip his, hard. The rich raw smell of gasoline filled the room. Sawyer, pistol in one hand, can in the other, staggered toward them. Petrol splashed over the sofa, over Quidley's uniform, over Sharon's red dress. He started up, but sat back down as Sawyer made a wild swing at him with the can, sending a dark stain down the colonel's sleeve.
"Earl — you're drunk."
"Drunk, hell. I'm just warmin' up." He grinned, pouring gasoline in a wide train back into the dining room. "Like you will be, folks. Real soon."
Quidley blinked. The fumes were making him dizzy. They were so thick the air shimmered between him and Sawyer, now in the next room. The can splashed busily. Sharon Sue stiffened. "My table! Aubrey — he's going to burn the place down!"
"I can't believe that. He's just trying to frighten us."
"He's a Kuklos! Don't you understand? He hates us worse than he does the coloreds. You heard him talk. Aubrey" — her voice rose, terrified — "we've got to do something!"
He felt his heart pounding, shaking his chest. The fumes — her fear — Sawyer's drunken threats — maybe she was right. At any rate he couldn't sit here any longer. No, he'd definitely taken too much from this boor, colonel or not. He stood.
Sawyer, busy in the next room, caught the movement and looked up. "Better sit down, Major. You got a couple of minutes yet 'fore I get to you."
"Earl, I can't sit here and let you carry on like this," he said firmly. The carpet squished under his boots. He saw the telephone, and his first impulse, so long thwarted, returned. He had to let Norris know. He'd call Sawyer's bluff once and for all.
"Sit down, I said. Or I'll kill you now, Quid," said Sawyer warningly.
He paused as the unthinkable took shape in his brain.
Sawyer meant what he said.
"Sit down, I said." Sawyer's eyes seemed to glow in the dimness of the dining room. Quidley saw wet patches on his uniform where the gasoline he'd been tossing about had slopped over.
And something happened inside him. All his anger and fear and bewilderment exploded and he said, "All right, you trash," almost in a whisper.
And began to run.
The colonel's head jerked up, eyes widening as he saw him coming. He brought the pistol up.
Time seemed to stop. He felt himself hurtling forward, but too slowly, far too slowly. He saw the vast dark hole of Sawyer's .455 rise slowly into line with his eyes. Saw the barrel dip as he thumbed the hammer back. And saw that he wasn't going to reach him in time.
"Aubrey!"
Something caught at his arm and he began to turn, falling, thrown off-balance. But his eyes were still welded to the gun… to Sawyer's face, mottled, enraged, behind it… as yellow flame burst from the muzzle….
The room beyond was suddenly a white-hot hell, and something struck his face and chest and hurled him backwards. He hit the wall so hard his head swam. He waggled it and pulled himself up, shielding his face instinctively with his arms against the terrible heat.
The dining room was like the heart of a furnace.
Drapes, furniture — including her prized table — the walls, all were covered by fluttering yellow-white sheets of flame. Tentacles of it groped out into the living room, toward him, even as he squinted into the heat.