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Fortunately the decision did not have to be rendered that day. His work was complete. Every step had been considered. Every move had been planned. Every stage of it had been timed and put before him, but by whom? He felt that he had become but a tool.
He realized that the final decision wouldn't have to be made until the moment when the siren signaled the next alert. Maybe there would not be another alert until the construction project was finished. Maybe that dreaded decision would never have to be made.
He slowed his activity some more, but didn't quite stop it. He just rested more and attended to trivial tasks. As the time drew on, the agonies of the waiting increased and his mind became once again burdened with weighing the risks of the plan against the merits of his hope. He had time now to contemplate in the quiet of the night.
In earlier days he would go to bed tired from his work, but now, he found it hard to sleep. One night, after doing virtually nothing at the pit, which became more and more difficult to conceal, he stayed up until morning. He walked through the forest surrounding the base. He walked until the dawn broke, all the while pondering. He slept briefly, had breakfast and then went back to his normal post where he promptly drifted off into a deep sleep. He slept half way through his period of duty. As it was, the infraction was graciously excused since he had spent all his spare time at the construction pit.
When the siren finally did sound the next night, a great relief came over him, though he was no more ready to make a decision than he was on the very first day. He was awake, rested, and alert. The timing was ideal. It was midnight. He was alone. All preparations were finished.
The idea was very strong now that the entire game had been set in motion in Moscow, but it wasn't imposed. It was a 'floating' request that he was invited to honor, or disregard if he could. It was an order without any direct authority backing it, something that was totally foreign to him. It had become a plan that has taken over his life. The game had become real, he could feel it, and he was powerless to stop it. It had become his game, his plan. Or more correctly, he had become a prisoner of the game and the plan.
The plan had become an entity of its own that had invaded him and had taken control of his mind and body as though he were a machine, an instrument, a tool for a purpose. He, himself, had been reduced to the role of a spectator. He consciously observed his own actions as though they were someone else's actions, actions that he loathed deep in his soul, but which he performed faithfully as he was demanded to do, by the plan. Not the tears of Tania or the cries of humanity, or his own feelings could override what drove his compliance with the plan.
+ + +
Five meters before the trough of loose dirt was reached he snaps out of his confused stupor and forces his fingers against the lever that lowers the blade. He closes his eyes. That's all he can do. He lets his fingers push the lever down. He feels the hydraulics kick in and thrust the plow blade with its worn down hook towards the earth. This simple task had been done a thousand times before to break up the brittle sand stone formation. Now the blade has been engaged for a different task. Oh, how easily it was done! The last step had been performed without hesitation.
He leans back now as he withdraws his hand from the lever, and shudders. For the first time in two weeks he feels a deep emptiness creep into his soul.
He is alone, totally alone. The task has been performed that was imposed on him, though no one had demanded it. He performed it by his own volition, but now, it can no longer be undone. What he does from this moment on is no longer a factor in the plan. He is riding the machine like a spectator viewing a sequence of a familiar movie. He is aware of everything that is happening, of every step and of every movement. He knows the outcome, but like viewing a movie he cannot alter it, -- not anymore.
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