When you're a pilot you can see the ground curve away, the way the world goes around and around. The flat Earth goes round on you, and you've gained a whole dimension to play in. Pawns move this way and that way, hedged in by the rules -- sometimes diagonal, sometimes en passant, like sleepers -- but not queens. It tastes like apples.
Kara swears to sleeping Sam that he'll be fine; "You got a room full of rabid Cylon-types that can't wait to hear the next chapter of their life story. Think they're hoping for a musical. So you better hurry up and get better. They're starting to look a little mean..." She smiles down at him sweetly. Ishay tells her not to bother: he's not in there anymore. And Bill, finally drunk enough, calls the Chief, with liquor dripping from his chin. "Do whatever you have to do to save our girl." The Chief looks around, and agrees. Tom Wolfe says it best, again, about everyone and everything we've just witnessed:
Now they saw it -- its newness, its raw crudeness, and its strength -- and turned their shuddering eyes away. "Give us back our well-worn husk," they said, "where we were so snug and comfortable." And then they tried word magic. "Conditions are fundamentally sound," they said -- by which they meant to reassure themselves that nothing now was really changed, that things were as they always had been, and as they always would be, forever and ever, amen. But they were wrong. They did not know that you can't go home again.
America had come to the end of something and to the beginning of something else. But no one knew what that something else would be and out of the change and uncertainly and the wrongness of the leaders grew fear and desperation and before long hunger stalked the streets. Through it all there was still only one certainty, though no one saw it yet. America was still America, and whatever new thing came of it would be American.