Outside, it is crisp, gray. We move down the steps in a hard, dark formation. The mourners follow behind, their brief, visible breaths issuing forth in the simple parlance of grief. I remember one morning, we were out at the gates of that weapons plant outside Schenectady, huddled close. It was Spring, similarly gray, and cold. Near the end, although Reagan had not yet met with Gorbachev; the MX was still, I believe, in production. We had been out at this place every weekday morning for months, handing out flyers--