Гарри Гаррисон - There Won't Be War

Edward Reindrop Horvat never had any illusions that he was an important person. His work as a restorer of Martian relics had no direct influence on the history of mankind; in fact, his influence was really quite negligible. The policy of Isolation had cut off all links between the Earth and Mars but, even without any further flow of artifacts from the Red Planet to Earth, there were still enough so that Edward had no fear that he would have to pass the years before retirement in another profession. The question was whether he would make it to retirement at all.

He was among the first conscripts yet the war did not interest him at all. At the obligatory political education classes during basic training they told him there were twenty reasons for war. The first two were so obviously ridiculous that he didn’t bother to listen to the rest. He slept through them instead since the officer who gave the lectures obviously didn’t care whether anyone listened to him or not.

By the time Edward arrived at the front the bitterness he had acquired in basic training had grown considerably. It bothered him that there was no one whom he could address with any conviction as “Sir” (the only man he knew was worthy of his “Good Morning, Sir” was killed in the first bombardment). It maddened him that instead of engaging in the highest sort of intellectual pursuits he was now forced to carry a rifle. It annoyed him that the only women he met were mindless automations of neurotic sexual compulsives who wanted to have one last orgasm before the end. These were the members of women’s battalions with whom they were ordered to couple in the interests of “reducing psychic tension” among the troops.

But more than anything else it drove him into a rage that he was being forced to kill people who also had no interest in the war, who, if they were lucky, slept during political education lectures, just as he did. His dissatisfaction, however, did not last long. The physical exertions, the constant uncertainty and the everyday presence of death quickly extinguished every emotion. He became an automation which was fine since nothing more was expected of him.

Ten years went by, and death ignored him.

Anthony Sever would have been a soldier in any era and under any regime. Under Caeser, Joan of Arc or Rommel, he would certainly have risen no further than non-commissioned officer, a rank he certainly would have attained. However, his personal traits and the exigencies of the times in which he lived had made him general—and the head of the High Command at that.

He was always happiest at the front, in the thick of battle. Nevertheless his rank and position demanded that he put in an occasional appearance in the rear, whenever this was required by higher powers, or by the Great Leader. This time he had to go to the base “Q” in the delta.

Edward Reindrop Horvat had quickly, and despite his lack of ambition, risen to the rank of lieutenant. Soon after this, during attack, he had shown superhuman bravery. A cadet at any military academy in the world who had pronounced such an action feasible would have failed all his exams. It was no wonder that the commander of that sector of the front had rushed up to Edward and, tearing a medal from his own chest, had pinned it to him on the spot. Nor was it any wonder that Edward told the commander to shove the medal up his ass, to give him first aid instead since he was wounded. The commander believed that he was a reasonable man. He did not have Edward court-martialed, but he did strip him of all his rank and issued orders that he was never to be promoted again.

Though now only a private soldier, Edward often carried out missions which as a rule were only given to officers. Thus it came about that he was assigned to carry some documents to the base “Q” in the delta.

On his arrival in the delta General Anthony Sever had immediately ordered the execution of a guard for unmilitary bearing, demoted two officers to Private because he was dissatisfied with the cleanliness of the base, and sent a sergeant from communications center to the neuropsy-chiatric ward for stuttering. Colonel Liezovski, the commander of the base, hurried to meet the general before any really serious incident could take place.

“General, sir, I would like to inform you that the garrison of this base ...”

“Fine, fine,” said the general. “What’s the problem, Colonel?”

“The new offensive weapons the enemy have been using lately calls for ...”

“Keep it short,” interrupted the general. “Keep it short.”

“Yes, sir!”

“Good God,” sighed the general, “you’re incompetent, Captain Liezovski. If you keep on like this I’ll kick you down to buck private, one rank at a time. And then I’ll have you shot for sabotage. Is that clear?”

“... the ultimate defensive weapon, the Defender EFI/1. More commonly known as the real black box. It’s the invention of Colonel Doctor Levi from this base.”

“Excellent,” said the general. “That’s what I like. You are a major now, so talk fast. I don’t believe in your real black box. There’s no such thing as a perfect defensive weapon.”

“General, sir, the real black box creates a protective field around the soldier so that nothing can harm him.”

“What about poison gases?”

“The protective field is selective, sir. It only lets in molecules of nitrogen and oxygen, in a ration of 3.5 to 1.5.”

“And what about all those rays and waves? Lasers for example?”

“Absolute protection, General.”

“It can’t work,” the general frowned. “I know that much physics. If this field doesn’t let in waves—then how can the soldier see what’s going on outside? Light consists of sort of waves doesn’t it?”

“In the region of the eyes, sir, but ...”

“Enough detail!” the general snarled. “I’m not interested in theory. Let’s see how the damned thing works.”

“General, permit me to introduce the inventor of the real black box, Colonel Levi.”

Colonel Levi popped up from somewhere and marched smartly up to the general and saluted him. At his side hung a small, inconspicuous black box.

“Good, let’s see if it works!” said the general, drawing his pistol and emptying the whole clip at the colonel, who went down like an empty sack.

“And you call this the ultimate defensive weapon, Sergeant Liezovski?” raged the general.

“Sir, you didn’t tell Colonel Levi to turn on the real black box.”

“Why didn’t he turn it on himself? You see what happens to incompetent soldiers.”

“General, I am afraid that Colonel Levi was the only one who knew how to build the real black box, and as a precaution against possible espionage I forbade him to put anything down on paper.”

“Nonsense,” roared the general, “anything can be analyzed and duplicated once it’s been built. But before we take it apart let’s see whether this stupid gadget works.”

“Yes, sir. We’re going to fire artillery rounds at the person wearing the real black box. The test will take place on the firing range. We can watch from the communications center.”

Edward Reindrop Horvat was on duty in the communications center when General Anthony Sever and Colonel Liezovski arrived, accompanied by an entourage of officers. He gave the general a snappy salute which was not returned: the general paid no attention to him. Instead, he went straight over to a television screen where the image of the sandy whiteness of the firing range could be seen. In a few moments a staff officer appeared on the range.

“It’s no damned good,” said the general. “Look at him glowing. He’ll attract the enemy’s attention.”