David Gerrold - A Matter for Men

"Sir," I said stiffly, "with all due respect, when a wave of fire from a flamethrower hits you, there isn't time to feel either the heat or the pain. It's a sudden descent into unconsciousness." Fromkin looked skeptical.

"I was there, sir. I saw how quickly it happened. There wasn't any time for pain."

He studied that thought for a long moment. "How about guilt?" he asked finally. "Was there time for that?"

"Huh?"

"Do you feel guilty about what you did?"

"Guilt? I did what I had to do! What I was told to do! I never questioned it! Hell, yes, I feel guilty! And ashamed and shitty and a thousand other things that don't have names!" Something popped for me. "What's-this all about anyway? Are you judging me too? Listen, I have enough trouble living up to my own standards-don't ask me to live up to yours! I'm sure your answers are better than mine-after all, your integrity is still unsullied by the brutal facts of practicality! You've been sitting around eating strawberries and lox! I'm the guy who had to pull the trigger! If there is a better answer, don't you think I want to know? Don't you think I have the first right to know? Come up to the hills and show me! I'd be glad to find you're right. But if you don't mind, I'll keep my torch all charged and ready-just in case you're wrong!"

He waited patiently until I ran down. And even then, he didn't answer immediately. He got up, went to the kitchen and got a bottle of water from the refrigerator. He took a glass, filled it with ice and came back into the living room, slowly pouring the water over the cubes. He eased himself back down into his chair, took a drink and studied me over the glass. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and calm. "Are you through?"

"Yeah. For now."

"Good. I want to ask you some questions now. I want you to consider a couple of things. All right?"

I nodded. I folded my arms across my chest.

"Thank you. Now, tell me this. What difference does it make? Maybe it's a kindness to burn a man, maybe it isn't. Maybe he doesn't feel a thing-and maybe it's the purest form of pain, a moment of exquisite hell. What difference does it make, Jim, if a man dies crushed in the mouth of a Chtorran or burned by napalm? He's still dead. Where does it make a difference?"

"You want me to answer?"

Fromkin said, "Go ahead. Take a crack at it."

I said, "It doesn't make a difference-not the way you ask it."

"Wrong," he said. "It does. It makes a lot of difference to the person who has to pull the trigger."

I looked at that. "I'm sorry. I don't see how."

"Good. So look at it this way. What's more important? Killing Chtorrans or saving lives?"

"I don't know."

"So? Who do I have to ask to find out?"

Huh? Whitlaw used to ask the same question. If I didn't know what I thought, who did? I said, "Saving lives."

"Good. So what do we have to do to save lives?"

I grinned. "Kill Chtorrans."

"Good. So what happens if a human being gets in the way? No, let me rephrase that. What would have happened if you had tried to save-what was his name, Shorty?"

"We'd have both bought the farm."

Fromkin nodded. "Good. So what's more important? Killing Chtorrans or saving lives?"

"In this case, killing Chtorrans."

"Uh huh. So does it matter what justification you use?"

"Huh?"

"Does it matter whether you believe that a man dies painlessly under the flame or not?"

"Well, no, I guess not."

He nodded. "So how do you feel about it now?"

I shook my head. "I don't know." I felt torn up inside. I opened my mouth to speak, then closed it again.

He gave me another raised eyebrow. "I don't know," I repeated.

"All right," he said. "Let me ask it this way. Would you do it again?"

"Yes." I said it without hesitation.

"You're sure of that?"

"Yes."

"Thank you. And how would you feel about it?"

I met his gaze unashamedly. "Shitty. About like I feel now. But I'd still do it. It doesn't matter what the policy is." I added, "The important thing is killing Chtorrans."

"You're really adamant about that, aren't you?"

"Yeah, I guess so."

He took a long breath, then switched off his recorder. "Okay, I'm through."

"Did I pass?"

"Say again?"

"Your test-this was no interview. This was an attitude check. Did I pass?"

He looked up from his recorder, straight into my eyes. "If it were an attitude check, what you just asked would probably have flunked you."

"Yeah, well." My arms were still folded across my chest. "If my attitude leaves something to be desired, so does the way I've been treated. So we're even."

He stood up and I stood with him. "Answer me something. Are there peaceful Chtorrans?"

He looked at me blankly. "I don't know. What do you think?" I didn't answer, just followed him to the door. He slid his card into the lock-slot and the door slid open for him. I started to follow him out, but there were two armed guards waiting in the hall.

"Sorry," said Fromkin. For the first time, he looked embarrassed.

"Yeah," I said, and stepped back. The door slid shut in front of me.

I STOOD there staring at that goddamned door for thirty seconds without saying a word.

I put my hands on it and pressed. The metal was cold.

I rested my head against the solid wallness of it. My hands clenched into fists.

"Shit!"

And then I said a whole bunch of other words too.

I swore as long as I could without repeating myself, then switched to Spanish and kept on going.

And when I finally wound down, I felt no better than when I had started.

I felt used. Betrayed. And stupid.

I began to pace around the apartment again. I kicked the terminal every time I passed it. Useless hunk of junk. I couldn't even use it to call room service.

I wandered into the kitchen and opened the fridge-it was surprisingly well stocked. But I wasn't hungry. I was angry. I started opening drawers. Someone had thoughtfully removed all of the carving and steak knives.

And swearing didn't do any good anymore. It only left my throat dry. And me feeling foolish. The minute you stop, you start to realize how silly it looks.

What I really wanted to do was get even.

I walked back into the living room of the suite and gave the terminal another kick. A good one-it nearly toppled off the stand, but I caught it in time. And then I found myself wondering why. The damn thing wouldn't communicate with me-I didn't owe it any favors.

I shoved it off the stand and onto the floor. It hit with a dull thud.

I picked it up and shook it. It didn't even sound broken.

"I know-" I carried it out to the balcony and threw it over the side.

It bounced and scraped down the sloping side of the building and shattered on the concrete below with a terrifically satisfying smash.

I threw the stand after it. And then a chair.

And a lamp.

And a small table.

The TV screen was bolted to the wall. I hit it with the second chair-it took three tries to smash it-and then threw the chair after its companion.

Bounce, bounce, scrape, slide, crash, smash. Great. What else?

The microwave oven.

The nightstand from the bedroom. Three more chairs.

Two more lamps.

The dining-nook table. A hassock.

All the hangers from the closet. Most of the towels and sheets.

A king-size mattress and box spring. Those last were particularly difficult.

It was while I was struggling with the box spring that I realized a crowd had gathered below-at a safe distance, of course. They were applauding each new act of destruction. The more outrageous it was, the louder the cheers.

The bedframe and headboard drew a standing ovation.

I wondered what I could do to top it. I began to clean out the kitchen.