“There ain’t nobody here but us bombers,” Smith said.

“Who can be sure? The State may have its sensors anywhere.”

“Naw,” Hayduke said. “They’re not bugging the canyons. Not yet anyhow. But who says we have to start with dams? There’s plenty of other work to do.”

“Good work,” the doctor said. “Good, wholesome, constructive work.”

“I hate that dam,” Smith said. “That dam flooded the most beautiful canyon in the world.”

“We know,” Hayduke said. “We feel the same way you do. But let’s think about easier things first. I’d like to knock down some of them power lines they’re stringing across the desert. And those new tin bridges up by Hite. And the goddamned road-building they’re doing all over the canyon country. We could put in a good year just taking the fucking goddamned bulldozers apart.”

“Hear, hear,” the doctor said. “And don’t forget the billboards. And the strip mines. And the pipelines. And the new railroad from Black Mesa to Page. And the coal-burning power plants. And the copper smelters. And the uranium mines. And the nuclear power plants. And the computer centers. And the land and cattle companies. And the wildlife poisoners. And the people who throw beer cans along the highways.”

“I throw beer cans along the fucking highways,” Hayduke said. “Why the fuck shouldn’t I throw fucking beer cans along the fucking highways?”

“Now, now. Don’t be so defensive.”

“Hell,” Smith said, “I do it too. Any road I wasn’t consulted about that I don’t like, I litter. It’s my religion.”

“Right,” Hayduke said. “Litter the shit out of them.”

“Well now,” the doctor said. “I hadn’t thought about that. Stockpile the stuff along the highways. Throw it out the window. Well…why not?”

“Doc,” said Hayduke, “it’s liberation.”

The night. The stars. The river. Dr. Sarvis told his comrades about a great Englishman named Ned. Ned Ludd. They called him a lunatic but he saw the enemy clearly. Saw what was coining and acted directly. And about the wooden shoes, les sabots. The spanner in the works. Monkey business. The rebellion of the meek. Little old ladies in oaken clogs.

“Do we know what we’re doing and why?”

“No.”

“Do we care?”

“We’ll work it all out as we go along. Let our practice form our doctrine, thus assuring precise theoretical coherence.”

The river in its measureless sublimity rolled softly by, whispering of time. Which heals, they say, all. But does it? The stars looked kindly down. A lie. A wind in the willows suggested sleep. And nightmares. Smith pushed more drift pine into the fire, and a scorpion, dormant in a crack deep in the wood, was horribly awakened, too late. No one noticed the mute agony. Deep in the solemn canyon, under the fiery stars, peace reigned generally.

“We need a guide,” the doctor said.

“I know the country,” Smith said.

“We need a professional killer.”

“That’s me,” Hayduke said. “Murder’s my specialty.”

“Every man has his weakness.” Pause. “Mine,” added Doc, “is Baskin-Robbins girls.”