After a few whiny gasps, Stallman shifts the
car into reverse and begins executing his own U-turn.
By the time we are back on the main drag, his face is
as impassive as it was when we left the hotel 30
minutes earlier.
It takes less than five minutes to reach the next
cross-street. This one offers easy highway access, and
within seconds, we are soon speeding off toward Pa'ia
at a relaxing rate of speed. The sun that once loomed
bright and yellow over Stallman's left shoulder is now
burning a cool orange-red in our rearview mirror. It
lends its color to the gauntlet wili wili trees flying
past us on both sides of the highway.
For the next 20 minutes, the only sound in our vehicle,
aside from the ambient hum of the car's engine and
tires, is the sound of a cello and a violin trio
playing the mournful strains of an Appalachian folk
tune. Endnote
Continuing the Fight
For Richard Stallman, time may not heal all wounds, but
it does provide a convenient ally.
Four years after " The Cathedral and the Bazaar,"
Stallman still chafes over the Raymond critique.
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