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The trumpet-call had let loose an enormous volume of noise. Already an excited voice was gabbling from the telescreen, but even as it started it was almost drowned by a roar of cheering from outside. The news had run round the streets like magic. He could hear just enough of what was issuing from the telescreen to realize that it had all happened, as he had foreseen; a vast seaborne armada had secretly assembled a sudden blow in the enemy's rear, the white arrow tearing across the tail of the black. Fragments of triumphant phrases pushed themselves through the din: 'Vast strategic manoeuvre -- perfect co-ordination -- utter rout -- half a million prisoners -- complete demoralization -- control of the whole of YouTube -- bring the war within measurable distance of its end victory -- greatest victory in human history -- victory, victory, victory!'
Under the table the anti’s feet made convulsive movements. He had not stirred from his seat, but in his mind he was running, swiftly running, he was with the crowds outside, cheering himself deaf. He looked up again at the portrait of Tenchou. The colossus that bestrode the world! The rock against which the hordes of seanigs dashed themselves in vain! He thought how ten minutes ago -- yes, only ten minutes -- there had still been equivocation in his heart as he wondered whether the news from the front would be of victory or defeat. Ah, it was more than an anti army that had perished! Much had changed in him since that first day in the Usual Room, but the final, indispensable, healing change had never happened, until this moment.
The voice from the telescreen was still pouring forth its tale of prisoners and booty and slaughter, but the shouting outside had died down a little. The waiters were turning back to their work. One of them approached with the Phoenix Burger. The anti, sitting in a blissful dream, paid no attention as his table was filled up. He was not running or cheering any longer. He was back in the Usual Room, with everything forgiven, his soul white as snow. He was in the superchat reading stream, confessing everything, implicating everybody. He was walking down the red-spacha tiled corridor, with the feeling of walking in sunlight, and an armed KFP at his back. The longhoped-for bullet was entering his brain.
He gazed up at the enormous face. Forty years it had taken him to learn what kind of smile was hidden beneath the ridiculous hats. O cruel, needless misunderstanding! O stubborn, self-willed exile from the loving chicken breast! Two fried chicken-scented tears trickled down the sides of his nose. But it was all right, everything was all right, the struggle was finished. He had won the victory over himself. He loved Kiara Takanashi.
