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I
hate
this
feeling
of
thinking
I
m
doing
right
when
I
m
not
really
certain
I
am
.
Who
are
we
,
anyway
?
The
majority
?
Is
that
the
answer
?
The
majority
is
always
holy
,
is
it
not
?
Always
,
always
;
just
never
wrong
for
one
little
insignificant
tiny
moment
,
is
it
?
Never
ever
wrong
in
ten
million
years
?
He
thought
:
What
is
this
majority
and
who
are
in
it
?
And
what
do
they
think
and
how
did
they
get
that
way
and
will
they
ever
change
and
how
the
devil
did
I
get
caught
in
this
rotten
majority
?
I
don
t
feel
comfortable
.
Is
it
claustrophobia
,
fear
of
crowds
,
or
common
sense
?
Can
one
man
be
right
,
while
all
the
world
thinks
they
are
right
?
Let
s
not
think
about
it
.
Let
s
crawl
around
and
act
exciting
and
pull
the
trigger
.
There
,
and
there
!
The
men
ran
and
ducked
and
ran
and
squatted
in
shadows
and
showed
their
teeth
,
gasping
,
for
the
air
was
thin
,
not
meant
for
running
;
the
air
was
thin
and
they
had
to
sit
for
five
minutes
at
a
time
,
wheezing
and
seeing
black
lights
in
their
eyes
,
eating
at
the
thin
air
and
wanting
more
,
tightening
their
eyes
,
and
at
last
getting
up
,
lifting
their
guns
to
tear
holes
in
that
thin
summer
air
,
holes
of
sound
and
heat
.
Spender
remained
where
he
was
,
firing
only
on
occasion
.
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"
Damned
brains
all
over
!
"
Parkhill
yelled
,
running
uphill
.
The
captain
aimed
his
gun
at
Sam
Parkhill
.
He
put
it
down
and
stared
at
it
in
horror
.
"
What
were
you
doing
?
"
he
asked
of
his
limp
hand
and
the
gun
.
He
had
almost
shot
Parkhill
in
the
back
.
"
God
help
me
.
"
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He
saw
Parkhill
still
running
,
then
falling
to
lie
safe
.
Spender
was
being
gathered
in
by
a
loose
,
running
net
of
men
.
At
the
hilltop
,
behind
two
rocks
,
Spender
lay
,
grinning
with
exhaustion
from
the
thin
atmosphere
,
great
islands
of
sweat
under
each
arm
.
The
captain
saw
the
two
rocks
.
There
was
an
interval
between
them
of
some
four
inches
,
giving
free
access
to
Spender
s
chest
.
"
Hey
,
you
!
"
cried
Parkhill
.
"
Here
s
a
slug
for
your
head
!
"