Гарри Гаррисон - There Won't Be War

Vargas thought for a while, then shrugged and said, “You got it right, Galactic Effectuator. But how do we end it?”

“That’s always the difficult part,” the Effectuator said. “Maybe, with some luck, you can find some other planet that’ll be crazy enough to take over both your planet and Magellenic. That’s the only way you’re going to get off the hook.”

That is how, upon entering Galactic Civilization, Earth gave up war forever. And that is why there are Earthmen on all the civilized planets of the galaxy. They can be found on the street corners of dusty alien cities. They speak all languages. They sidle up to you and say, “Listen, Mister, would you like to take over a planet with no trouble at all?”

Naturally, no one pays them the slightest attention. Even the newer civilizations have learned that war costs too much and charity begins at home.

The eggs were just the way he liked them. Mark ate slowly, enjoying the luxury of a leisurely breakfast. Outside his window the city was beginning to stir. Rain had been programmed for last night and the streets were still damp. Across the room his cat was curled up in a patch of sunlight on the sofa, his tail swishing back and forth. The apartment was quiet and he dragged breakfast out as long as he could. Finally he got up, set his plate on the floor for the cat to lick, and walked across the room to his desk.

“Good morning,” he said automatically.

“GOOD MORNING, MARK. DID YOU SLEEP WELL?”

Mark looked at the words as they danced across the screen. “Kind of a bad night,” he said. “My arthritis is cting up again.”

“THAT’S TOO BAD, MARK. WAS IT YOUR KNEES?”

“No, just my hands this time.” He looked at his swollen knuckles and ran them through his thinning gray hair. There were worse things.

“THAT’S THE THIRD TIME THIS MONTH. DO YOU WANT ME TO FLASH DR. CROMWELL?”

“No, that’s okay. I’ll be seeing him next week.”

“DO YOU KNOW WHAT TODAY IS, MARK?”

“Saturday.” It couldn’t be his birthday. He’d told the desk to stop reminding him of those several years ago.

“TODAY IS APRIL 15TH.”

“So what?”

“THIS IS TAX DAY. WE HAVE TO FILE BY MIDNIGHT.”

“I forgot,” he said.

“YOU HAVE BEEN PUTTING THIS OFF FOR MONTHS. SHALL WE START?”

Mark looked around the room. The cat was busily licking the plate. He felt old. You could block out birthdays, but not the IRS. “I guess we might as well get it over with,” he said.

“THIS IS A PATRIOTIC OBLIGATION, MARK. YOU SHOULD FEEL PRIVILEGED TO DO YOUR PART.”

“Can the pep talk. Let’s go.”

“DO YOU WANT THE SHORT FORM OR THE LONG FORM?”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“I AM REQUIRED BY LAW TO ASK YOU THAT.’

“Does anybody use the short form?”

“CERTAIN CONVICTED FELONS MUST USE THE SHORT FORM, HAVING SACRIFICED FREEDOM OF CHOICE.”

“I’m not a convicted felon and I’m not an idiot. Let’ have the long form.”

“VERY WELL, MARK. BASED ON LAST YEAR’

INCOME OF $52,753.68 YOU HAVE AN ADJUSTED TAX OF $4,963.47. WOULD YOU LIKE TO SEE THE CALCULATIONS?”

“Yes.”

Mark scanned the figures as they rolled by. His income was higher than he’d thought, but not much more than comfortable what with the prices these days. Semi-retired, he did occasional projects for a variety of ecological organizations. He worked at home. He didn’t get out much anymore.

“They look okay,” he said.

“DO YOU WISH TO ITEMIZE THE ALLOCATION OF YOUR TAX MONEY?”

“Now you’re being stupid again. Why else would I use the long form? Doesn’t everybody?”

“PLEASE DON’T BE HARD ON ME, MARK, I’M ONLY DOING MY JOB. I HAVE TO ASK YOU THAT. IN RESPONSE TO YOUR QUESTION, ROUGHLY 99.987% OF THE ELIGIBLE TAXPAYERS USE THE LONG, ITEMIZED FORM.”

Mark nodded. A person would have to be crazy to pass up the chance to say how his money would be spent.

“AID TO DEPENDENT CHILDREN.”

Mark was old enough to remember the hungry times, the children who had grown up without hope. “One hundred dollars,” he said.

“OFFSHORE DRILLING SUBSIDY.”

“Zero.” They were almost all gone now, much to Mark’s relief.

“RE-EMPLOYMENT TRAINING PROGRAM.”

“Fifty.”

“NATIONAL ENDOWMENT FOR THE ARTS.”

“Fifty.” He tried to imagine a life without music, without the sculptures and paintings all over town. He remembered how much Mary had liked the weekly concerts by the river and he recalled that day in the park with the kids and the dancers. “Make that seventy-five,” he said.

“NEUTRON BOMB RESEARCH AND DEVELOPMENT.”

Mark laughed. They tried to slip that old chestnut by every year. “Zero,” he said. A bomb that killed people and left buildings intact was crazy, pure and simple. If they could refine it so it only killed generals he might be interested.

Mark relaxed and let the categories roll by. He always put his taxes off until the last minute. A lot of people did.

Alice Thompson was an actress. At forty-three her career was just peaking. She had worked her way up through the ranks from community theater to stage productions to Hollywood, from ingenue roles to character parts. She had a comfortable income, good investment advice, a secure career. She portioned out her calculated tax with good humor: the Actors’ Old Folks Home, a theater scholarship at her alma mater, the Playwrights’ Association, two summer camps specializing in drama, the National Repertory Theatre. She had little interest in the mundane affairs of state and saw no reason to spend any money on them. She had a little left over.

Erik Hesse was a janitor. He was sixty-three and had been a janitor for over forty years, from the day he got married. It hadn’t been a bad life, especially after the union came in. These days it was hard to get someone to do nontechnical work, so he made a pretty decent wage. When the time came, Erik went to a tax prepare to fill out how much money he had to allocate. He put in off-track betting, weather control (he hated shoveling snow off the sidewalk), the sports cable network, to research projects that concerned beer, and women gymnastics. Erik had a granddaughter who was into somersaults. Even so, he had a little left over when he finished and no place to put it.

Raymond Montonero was a Supreme Court Justice. There was less and less for him to do, however. People were working their problems out together in an aura of optimism that astounded him. It seemed that the more control people had over the government, the more control they used in their daily lives. He carefully allocated his tax bite to the Congressional Library, scientific research and social programs. He worried over the remaining balance for a long time.

Tom Hanna was a red-dirt farmer in the Oklahoma panhandle. His family had worked the same land for five generations and even though it wasn’t a large spread, it was theirs. He was a proud man, and when he came in from the fields that Saturday he took his taxes seriously. He allocated the bulk of it to the Farm Bureau and the County Agriculture Commission. The rest he parceled out to the two state universities for operating expenses. He had a boy down at OU playing football and studying to be a veterinarian. Still, he had a little left over.

And so it went that day, all over the country. People put money into the programs that touched their lives and ignored the rest. They turned out to be excellent judges of the things they needed. The quality of life in the country had improved tremendously since the introduction of the Uniform Tax Act.

It had all started with a box on the tax form to support Presidential campaigns. The next box to come along allocated money for the space program. Within two years he Mars project was completely funded. That unexpected success had lobbyists descending on Washington ke a plague. Everyone wanted a special box on the tax >rm. Eventually they all got it.