The windows swung open, and balmy Spring air rushed through the congested room. Dozens of stacks of papers gave way to the wind, and left the floor strewn with creased and beaten manila folders full of mail and numbers detailing communism’s successes. The success was measured, he thought, the classroom he was told to keep as his meeting room was now scoured of choking dust, and he could work clear of mind, as close to fresh air as possible. He waited for the particulates to settle on his roughsewn cotton uniform, and resumed organizing the cluttered dossiers that NEPA had sent him and his cadre. His eyes searched for the red stamp of confidentiality in the pile, and immediately grabbed for it and stuffed the folder in some cabinet; away from prying eyes.

Sherbrooke, High Risk. Was all he was being told by the NEPA. He had no sense of danger since crossing the border into Magog, where hundreds of French peasants simply looked on at them with neither disgust nor gaiety, but cloudy-eyed complaisance; uncaring about the greater world around them. He equated it to fearful ignorance, but recognized their situation. These people had no formal education, no law, or government, or prosperity — they were to worry about toil, and nothing else. He knew that his impact would be wide throughout Quebec, regardless of what he did. Comrade Ron’s light would shine down on them as it had on him, and his people, and the people would be liberated, educated, and pursue a livelihood beyond toil.

High Risk was nothing compared to what he could be volunteering for in New Hampshire. He wanted nothing of that deadly conflict. Hours of pleasant silence, listening to the birds chirp outside the window in the afternoon sun, and briefly using his personal radio to hear a report regarding the recent evacuation of the NEPA to Caribou, to be hosted by the CMLA. What a mess. It was surely never the intention of the Party to be forced into such a grueling situation again. He flipped channels and eventually turned the machine off, placing it gently in some cabinet in the room; away from prying eyes. He went back to sorting through his constant flow of mail. Comrade Malo, your service is requested in — Coaticook, Magog, Granby, Bromont. All the same towns, governed by idiots that he had to sort through to find promise. It was a process that would take months, surely, but it was a better job than clearing trees for the siege guns.

[EXPANDING TO NE069, NE068, AND NE067 as NERCQ]