Driscol

change the rules."
Ross looked out the window. It was a gray and cloudy day, as was common for this time of year in New Orleans. "Do you really think your Americans can manage that?"
"Not easily, no. Certainly not quickly—and there's no chance at all it'll happen without bloody conflict. There will be at least one civil war waged on this continent before it's done. Of that much I'm certain. And I suppose, in a way, it'll never be entirely done. I suspect class arises naturally, like weeds in a field. The key is to develop a society that knows how to pull up weeds before they take over the garden. That's what Thomas Jefferson meant, I think, when he once said that the price of freedom is eternal vigilance."
Ross chuckled again. "So you see yourself here as a knight leveling his lance against the inequities of class, do you? Forgive me, Patrick, but I'm afraid that reminds me more than anything else of Cervantes's man from La Mancha. He was the Spanish knight who tilted at windmills, if you've never read Don Quixote."
"Please!" Driscol snorted. "I'm no knight of any sort. Certainly not a snooty Spaniard one. I'm a sergeant, General.