Гарри Гаррисон - There Won't Be War

“That’s really immaterial, sir. What good does it do the enemy to see him if they can’t harm him?”

“Well—they might be able to get him by closing him in somehow.”

“No, sir. You could pour a ton of concrete on his head and still not capture him. The field can be used as ...” The colonel searched for the proper word. “... as an icebreaker, if you see what I mean.”

“If I didn’t see what you mean, I wouldn’t be a general,” said Sever angrily. “Now let’s get started.”

“Begin!” ordered the colonel. “First we’ll subject him to machine gun fire.”

The field glowed even brighter in the place where it had been struck by bullets.

“You see, General?” the colonel said eagerly. “It’s been repelling the bullets for a whole minute already!”

“Then why is he standing there like an old woman?” snapped the enraged general. “Why doesn’t he act like a soldier? He ought to be running, crawling, fighting, taking cover. The damned box of yours is supposed to be for combat and I want to see how a real soldier behaves when he’s wearing it.”

The colonel reluctantly gave an order. The officer on the firing range started to walk about, but the general wasn’t satisfied.

“Damn it! I said soldier, not a ballerina! Get that idiot out of there and give me a real soldier. Someone from the front lines!”

“General, you must realize that this is a base for scientific research,” said the colonel, not without some pride. “The entire garrison is made up of scientists and technicians. Why, the unit in charge of guarding us has just come from basic training. I’m sorry, but we just don’t have any cannon fodder.”

“Colonel Liezovski—if you don’t get a real soldier out on that firing range in two minutes I’ll have you shot for high treason!”

Edward Reindrop Horvat realized, more instinctively than rationally, that his moment had come. He stepped forward and saluted again.

“General, sir, permit me to say something. I arrived yesterday from the front.”

“You came here to take it easy, eh?” snarled the general.

“I came under orders, sir.”

“I don’t like shirkers, but at least you’ve had a taste of battle. You have one minute to get to the firing range. Move!”

“Yes, sir!”

They raked Edward Reindrop Horvat with mortar fire, then light recoilless cannon and howitzers before he finally realized that he was indeed invulnerable, that they could do nothing to harm him. He smiled and started to move off.

“Private Reindrop, you’ve moved too far to the left,” he could hear the voice of Colonel Liezovski say through the loudspeaker. “You’re out of view of cameras.”

“You’re incompetent, Captain Liezovski,” said the general’s voice. “Right, MARCH Soldier! Ten paces forward, MARCH!”

“Get lost, you idiot!” said Edward, still smiling.

For a time there was silence as they stopped firing antitank rockets at him.

“Drop an atom bomb on the goddamn deserter! A hydrogen bomb!” the general shrieked in Edward’s headphones. It was so unpleasant that he took them off and threw them beyond the field of real black box. The temperature from the napalm was so high that they were instantly vaporized.

Several years passed before the front reached the river. The fighting thundered and exploded all around, but a lone civilian sat on the riverbank, glowing brightly. He fished calmly, showing no interest in the inferno which surrounded him.

By order number 15895-1, issued by General Anthony Sever in the interest of reassuring the populace, the man was declared an apparition.

Translated from the Serbo-Croatian by Dick Williams

That was the day Plunkett heard his wife screaming guardedly to their youngest boy.

He let the door of the laying house slam behind him, forgetful of the nervously feeding hens. She had, he realized, cupped her hands over her mouth so that only the boy would hear.

“Saul! You, Saul! Come back, come right back this instant. Do you want your father to catch you out there on the road? Saul!”

The last shriek was higher and clearer, as if she had despaired of attracting the boy’s attention without at the same time warning the man.

Poor Ann!

Gently, rapidly, Plunkett she’d his way through the bustling and hungry hens to the side door. He came out facing the brooder run and broke into a heavy, unathletic trot.

They have the responsibility after Ann and me, Plunkett told himself. Let them watch and learn again. He heard the other children clatter out of the feed house. Good!

“Saul!” his wife’s voice shrilled unhappily. “Saul, your father’s coming!”

Ann came out of the front door and paused. “Elliot,” she called at his back as he leaped over the flush well-cover. “Please. I don’t feel well.”

A difficult pregnancy, of course, and in her sixth month. But that had nothing to do with Saul. Saul knew better.

At the last frozen furrow of the truck garden Plunkett gave himself a moment to gather the necessary air for his lungs. Years ago, when Von Rundstedt’s Tigers roared through the Bulge, he would have been able to dig a foxhole after such a run. Now, he was just winded. Just showed you: such a short distance from the far end of the middle chicken house to the far end of the vegetable garden—merely crossing four acres—and he was winded. And consider the practice he’d had.

He could just about see the boy idly lifting a stick to throw for the dog’s pleasure. Saul was in the further ditch, well past the white line his father had painted across the road.

“Elliot,” his wife began again. “He’s only six years old. He—”

Plunkett drew his jaws apart and let breath out in a bellyful of sound. “Saul! Saul Plunkett!” he bellowed. “Start running!”

He knew his voice had carried. He clicked the button on his stopwatch and threw his right arm up, pumping his clenched fist.

The boy had heard the yell. He turned, and, at the sight of the moving arm that meant the stopwatch had started, he dropped the stick. But, for the fearful moment, he was too startled to move.

Eight seconds. He lifted his lids slightly. Saul had begun to run. But he hadn’t picked up speed, and Rusty skipping playfully between his legs threw him off his stride.

Ann had crossed the garden laboriously and stood at his side, alternately staring over his jutting elbow at the watch and smiling hesitantly sidewise at his face. She shouldn’t have come out in her thin house-dress in November. But it was good for Ann. Plunkett kept his eyes stolidly on the unemotional second hand.

One minute forty.

He could hear the dog’s joyful barks coming closer, but as yet there was no echo of sneakers slapping the highway. Two minutes. He wouldn’t make it.

The old bitter thoughts came crowding back to Plunkett. A father timing his six-year-old son’s speed with the best watch he could afford. This, then, was the scientific way to raise children in Earth’s most enlightened era. Well, it was scientific ... in keeping with the very latest discoveries ....

Two and a half minutes. Rusty’s barks didn’t sound so very far off. Plunkett could hear the desperate pad-pad-pad of the boy’s feet. He might make it at that. If only he could!

“Hurry, Saul,” his mother breathed. “You can make it.”

Plunkett looked up in time to see his son pound past, his jeans already darkened with perspiration. “Why doesn’t he breathe like I told him?” he muttered. “He’ll be out of breath in no time.”

Halfway to the house, a furrow caught at Saul’s toes. As he sprawled, Ann gasped. “You can’t count that, Elliot. He tripped.”