Three women, with a portfolio filled with antinuclear leaflets behind their backs, have reached the door of Hendaia's central store. The supermarket, which everyone calls Champion txiki, but which since it has a new owner is Carrefour, is usually in the mornings the center of the city, a dance place for seniors of an age, a meeting place for social life. Even more today, Saturday of the beginning of the month.

In the lateral fold there are usually guards that appear attached to the wall: Arcachon's oyster salesman, two or three vagabunds who don't want to calm down, his exhausted dog and the piece next to the ATM, mistress of the thugs, who consider a particular seat. They do not appear today. The rain would have frightened them.

Three women armed with leaflets have occupied the place militarily, or at least the leader of the group, a veteran leftist activist learned in the old manners who long ago gave full time to militancy for the environment. Supported in the central corridor, it encourages the other two members, of a more humble nature and responsibility, to, while lengthening the pamphlet, cast some chorus out loud to work more effectively, more “professionally” in raising people’s awareness. It's not easy.

The astonished walkers, suspecting that in the first blow they will fall into the claws of the Witnesses of the Lord, improvise disguised manoeuvres to prevent the encounter. For example, to walk transversally like crab, even if this increases the chances of stumbling. For example, moving to the trot with life-and-death haste. For example, take out the phone and pretend to be a busy minister.

The timid of the three, who have long lost the motivation to save the world and have not heard the dogmatic murmurs of the leader of the group, will make a cheap sociology and will drown the anguish that will continue throughout the day. A simple game is proposed, sitting at the edge of the door, in which each of the approaching victims can guess what group they are and, depending on it, know how they will behave in front of the pamphlet.

If he is Euskaldun, he will take the role with an open smile and very grateful, even though he will care a little bit about the theme that is presented to him, as soon as they hear him “good morning”. If he is a Castilian speaking, he repels the daring by saying “I don’t understand” dry, accelerating the passage, blackening the front, and if he wants to give continuity in his language, adding “yes but I am not from here”, as if that saved him from the nuclear holocaust as well.

The Frenchman will speak of “merci” and, in general, of the hand sheet. Among them, some old, women, will signal him to take the coin bag in case, and a tranquilizing blow from behind, when they hear there is no tip. Others will give you back the folio. Looking in the eye, the French nuclear lobby remembers the arguments they put forward in their favour. He will not dislike anything. Out!

The surprise of the day, however, has been given by the reviewer of his cataloguing system, which should complete a subset. As he pulls a pencil out of his pocket and picks up a kind of schema at the corner of the pamphlet he just received, he talks to him about the dinamo of bicycles, about the electricity that is generated through the dynamo.

“Here’s one of the keys to avoiding nuclear,” he said, showing the pictorial work that has just ended. “Let’s put all the prisoners pedalling on the static bikes for five or six hours. Let's guess that this effort gets to the electricity grid, and that's the free light. Let them do it for the planet, because they live at the expense of society.”