She sharpens her weapon as she waits.
Her name is Annie. She is an orphan and the color of her hair is red. She is preparing for the hunt.
“It is not the warbuck,” she says, tying back her hair, “that is the enemy. I must remember this. The enemy is the principle of nihilism for which the warbucks stand.”
The interior of the zeppelin is a dull blue-grey.
There is a door. Beyond it there is a ladder. Below are the Rapparte Plains.
“It is natural that they should lose sight of the essential power of life,” she says. “They are clouded by the values that they hold. They expect the wrong things and so become inevitably disappointed by their absence. This is what we fight against.”
She is stripping down to her underthings—a white tee and knee-length bloomers. She is pulling on a military grey jumpsuit. She is checking its pockets and its parachute. She is examining and loading her rifle.
“They have lost sight of the fundamental desires of life. They do not recognize the natural beauty of the world and so their striving inevitably breeds more sorrow.”
She is ready.
She inhales. She exhales. She assumes a calm mind. Then she goes to the door, opens it, and stands in the wind.
Below her are the Rapparte Plains. There are two warbucks in sight, and smoke to the east.
“A rational philosopher,” she says, “understands that dolor must give way to spunk.”
There is sun.