Future Wars . . . and Other Punchlines Page 17

  Only the drunken lieutenant in Siberia failed to appear in public. He persisted in telling his colleagues in the First Disciplinary and Re-Education Unit (Iodized Division): “Ya glad. Ya ochen pleased with myself. Sure it was a mistake (oshibka), but it was one of those slips which reveal one’s unconscious thoughts (Rus., micl; Fr., pensées). My analyst tells me that deep within my semi-Tartar soul I hate Boston (BocmoH), I have always hated Boston (BocmoH), I even hate the memory of Boston (BocmoH), ever since I failed my Regents on the question where was the tea party at which the proletarian masses refused to serve the colonial imperialists. Now I am free, free, free!”*

  He was given occupational therapy, including modern dance, during the rest periods from his duties in the salt mine. It was not actually a “salt mine”; it now produced, as part of the five-year plan to upgrade consumer products, an all-purpose seasoning called Tangh! (TaHk!).

  The first crisis passed. Our advanced missile bases, our round-the-clock air fleets, our ICBM installations held back their Sunday punch. It was Tuesday, and they waited. “Halt! Stop! Whoa there fellas!” went out the order. Their Leader’s emotional display reached us in time and made contact with the true, big-hearted America, which loves person-to-person contact. The Buffalo Red Sox were hastily but reverently appointed to play out the American League schedule. Surrounding areas in Massachusetts were quarantined. The moral question about whether the former Radcliffe girls, miraculously spared but radically altered, could be permitted to carry out their new impulses—this was debated in every surviving pulpit of New England. Some claimed the transmogrification as an instance of divine punishment, others thought it a logical triumph of feminism, still others felt that we should live and let live, of whatever sex might develop . . . Under the pressure of world events, a decision was postponed about the appropriateness of the Spring Dance at Wellesley. As its contribution to rehabilitation therapy, the Aqua-Velva company sent a tank car of after shave to the Radcliffe dormitories.

  Meanwhile, back in Washington and Moscow, the lights burned late. High-level negotiations proceeded with deliberate haste. “Who’s practicing brinkmanship now?” jeered our Secretary of State.

  Their Man hung his head. He was genuinely abashed. He declared that he was “sorry” and “ashamed,” but what he really meant in American was “humble” and “sincere.” As a matter of fact, his son had been visiting at Harvard on the night of the Regrettable Incident, catching a revival of “Alexander Nevsky” at an art movie in Cambridge, and this happenstance, of great personal significance to the Ambassador, was often recalled at difficult moments in the continuing negotiations.

  It was clear that neither our national pride, nor the opinion of the rest of the world, nor—and this new factor surprised all commentators—the swelling sense of guilt within the Soviet Union, would allow the disaster to pass without some grave consequences. To an astonishing degree, a wave of fellowship spread between the two nations. In Kamenetz-Podolsk it was recalled that a Russian had fought by the side of our General Vashinktohn. In Palo Alto it was recalled that Herbert Hoover had personally fed millions of starving moujiks in 1919, and had returned to America with badly nibbled fingers.

  “All right,” said their Ambassador, in secret session, “since you feel that way, we’ll give you Kharkov. We have a major university there, too.”

  “No,” said our people, “not big enough. Harvard was recognized as tops here. We want Moscow. We need Moscow. There was a beautiful modern library, entirely air conditioned, at Harvard. Moscow it must be.”

  “Impossible,” said their man. “That would be like doing Washington, D.C. Justice is one thing, but that’s our capital and it’s got to come out even, give or take a million. My son, my son (sob).” He pulled himself together and continued, “Don’t forget, our Asiatic, subhuman, totalitarian population is got feelings of national pride, too. How about Kharkov plus this list of small towns in Biro-Bidjan, pick any one of three?”

  Our Men shook their heads. (By dint of prolonged fret and collaboration, plus the prevailing wind out of Massachusetts, our team had only one head. Radcliffe-like changes were being worked as far south as Daytona, Florida. The Radcliffe situation was causing riots in girls’ schools of the mid-south. They also wanted some.)

  At any rate, Kharkov was definitely out. It meant too little to the irate citizens of Rifle City, and the small towns of Biro-Bidjan meant too much to certain minority groups important in electing the Republican senator from New York.

  Vladivostok?

  “No,” we said. (Nyet.) A mere provincial center.

  Stalingrad?

  “No.” Big enough, but the university could only be said to equal Michigan State. And what are Stalingrad Baked Beans to the Russian national cuisine?

  “Ah,” said their man, kissing his joined fingertips, “mais le kasha de Stalingrad!”

  No. They were mere buckwheat groats to us.

  “Leningrad?” they finally offered in desperation. “We understand how you feel. It is our second city, and it was founded by Peter the Great in a thrilling moment well described by Eisenstein in a movie of the same name. We want to do anything we can! . . .”

  Wires hummed, diplomatic pouches were stuffed, the matter was settled with extraordinary unanimity and good feeling. Our people and theirs celebrated by drinking a toast to the memory of Boston, another to the memory of Leningrad—

  —although their bereaved Ambassador, who also, as luck would have it, happened to have a son studying Fine Arts at the University of Leningrad, stealthily emptied his glass in a potted palm . . .

  And at that moment, according to agreement and plan, the City of Leningrad disappeared from this earth. We used a type of hydrogen engine previously only tested in the south Pacific. It exploded as brilliantly in the frozen north as it did under the soft flowered breezes of the southern trade routes. (Our Air Force was careful to avoid the mistake which had caused so many unsuccessful launchings in the past. They put Winter Weight Lube in the rocket motors.)

  The wails of Russian mothers could be heard the world round, also live on tape.

  Abruptly the citizens of Rifle City, Colorado, began to have solemn afterthoughts. The Sheriff made a speech, declaring, “No manne is an islande, entire of theirselfe. Everie manne is a part of the maine, including Slim over there. Them Russkies got feelings of sibling affection, too.” Dozens of quilts thrown together by the mothers of Rifle City were air-lifted to the environs of Leningrad. Gallant little Finland, which had been destroyed by mistake, also received our apologies and a couple of quilts. (In honor of Sibelius, Finland would be accorded diplomatic representation equal with that given nationalist China. Most of the surviving Finns were already in their ministries scattered about the world.)

  Our President went on the air to plead through his tears, “Don’t Re . . . Don’t Re . . .” The teleprompter was eventually cranked by hand. “Taliate,” he sobbed.

  Their Leader also went on the air to explain to the grief-stricken mass that this act of national propitiation had been fully discussed by proper authority in both nations. Calm, he urged. Pax Vobiscum, pronounced a puppet head of the Russian Orthodox Church. “Thank you for that comment,” said their Leader.

  Murmurings of nepotism made his position insecure for a time. His nephew had been recalled from duty in Leningrad only a scant twenty-four hours before the American missile struck (exactly on target, by the way). However, he pointed out that both his aged mother and his sister had been residents of the departed Flower of the North, and Freudian science was so poorly developed that this explanation silenced the rabble.

  For a time, peace and world fellowship. A new cooperation, decontamination, courtesy. Parades, requiem masses, memorial elegies. Historians, poets, and painters, both objective and non-objective, were kept busy assimilating the new subject matter. “potlatch for the millions” was the title of a popular exposition of the theoretical bases of the new method of handling international disputes. In sch
ools of International Relations, this science began to earn course credit as Potlatch 101 (The Interlinked Destruction of Cities) and Potlatch 405 (Destruction of Civilizations, open only to graduate students).

  President DeGaulle warned that France could not consent to being left out of any solution aiming to resolve international tension. The gothic (or romanesque, as the case might be) cities of France the Immortel, united in purpose, were ready to be weighed by Justice on her scale of the future as they had been hefted in her hands in the marketplace of history. From the right came a concrete proposal: “Wow, let ’em take Algeria, Mon Cher.”

  The state of beatitude was of brief duration, for hard is the way of Man on earth.

  A Russian malcontent wrote a letter to the editor of Pravda signed, “Honored Artist of the Republic,” and soon the word had passed all the way to their highest authority. Certainly, the intention on both sides had been honorable, with the highest consideration for basic human values.

  Both Boston and Leningrad had been major ports. Fine.

  Both Boston and Leningrad had housed major universities. Excellent.

  Both Boston and Leningrad, metropoli of the north, gave summer arts festivals on the green. Beautiful.

  With relation to historical memories, real estate values, and cultural expectations, they were perhaps as similar in importance as could be found. However . . .

  And a full delegation from their Presidium of Trade Unions urged that negotiations be reopened on this question. Leningrad had also been, unlike Boston, a center of the Soviet cinema industry.

  “Perhaps,” they suggested, timidly at first, “you could give us South California, too?”

  Of course, soon they would begin to insist.

  THE GENTLE EARTH

  by Christopher Anvil

  With their advanced military technology, the invaders were sure that their conquest of Earth would be a straightforward operation. But they hadn’t taken human nature into account. Worse, they hadn’t taken Mother Nature into account.

  Christopher Anvil was the pseudonym under which Harry C. Crosby, Jr. (1925-2009) published all but his first two short stories, which appeared in the magazine Imagination in 1952 and 1953. His story, ‘The Prisoner,” appeared in Astounding Science-Fiction. That was the beginning of an avalanche of stories for Astounding (and Analog, as the magazine was retitled in 1960) which combined fast-paced adventure plots with a pointed satirical sensibility, puncturing dogmas and bureaucracies, both human and alien. His stories in Astounding/Analog frequently took first place in the magazine’s reader polls, and were nominated for Hugo and Nebula awards. His work also appeared in such SF magazines as Galaxy and Amazing Stories. “The Gentle Earth” appeared in Astounding in 1957 and is one of his best.

  Tlasht Bade, Supreme Commander of Invasion Forces, drew thoughtfully on his slim cigar. “The scouts are all back?”

  Sission Runckel, Chief of the Supreme Commander’s Staff, nodded. “They all got back safely, though one or two had difficulties with some of the lower life forms.”

  “Is the climate all right?”

  Runckel abstractedly reached in his tunic, and pulled out a thing like a short piece of tarred rope. As he trimmed it, he scowled. “There’s some discomfort, apparently because the air is too dry. But on the other hand, there’s plenty of oxygen near the planet’s surface, and the gravity’s about the same as it is back home. We can live there.”

  Bade glanced across the room at a large blue, green, and brown globe, with irregular patches of white at top and bottom. “What are the white areas?”

  “Apparently, chalk. One of our scouts landed there, but he’s in practically a state of shock. The brilliant reflectivity in the area blinded him, a huge white furry animal attacked him, and he barely got out alive. To cap it all, his ship’s insulation apparently broke down on the way back, and now he’s in the sick bay with a bad case of space-gripe. All we can get out of him is that he had severe prickling sensations in the feet when he stepped out onto the chalk dust. Probably a pile of little spiny shells.”

  “Did he bring back a sample?”

  “He claims he did. But there’s only water in his sample box. I imagine he was delirious. In any case, this part of the planet has little to interest us.”

  Bade nodded. “What about the more populous regions?”

  “Just as we thought. A huge web of interconnecting cities, manufacturing centers, and rural areas. Our mapping procedures have proved to be accurate.”

  “That’s a relief. What about the natives?”

  “Erect, land-dwelling, ill-tempered bipeds,” said Runckel. “They seem to have little or no planet-wide unity. Of course, we have large samplings of their communications media. When these are all analyzed, we’ll know a lot more.”

  “What do they look like?”

  “They’re pink or brown in color, quite tall, but not very broad or thick through the chest. A little fur here and there on their bodies. No webs on their hands or feet, and their feet are fantastically small. Otherwise, they look quite human.”

  “Their technology?”

  Runckel sucked in a deep breath and sat up straight. “Every bit as bad as we thought.” He picked up a little box with two stiff handles, squeezed the handles hard, and touched a glowing wire on the box to his piece of black rope. He puffed violently.

  Bade turned up the air-conditioning. Billowing clouds of smoke drew away from Runckel in long streamers, so that he looked like an island looming through heavy mist. His brow was creased in a foreboding scowl.

  “Technologically,” he said, “they are deadly. They’ve got fission and fusion, indirect molecular and atomic reaction control, and a long-reaching development of electron flow and pulsing devices. So far, they don’t seem to have anything based on deep rearrangement or keyed focusing. But who knows when they’ll stumble on that? And then what? Even now, properly warned and ready they could give us a terrible struggle.”

  Runckel knocked a clinker off his length of rope and looked at Bade with the tentative, judging air of one who is not quite sure of another’s reliability. Then he said, loudly and with great firmness, “We have a lot to be thankful for. Another five or ten decades delay getting the watchships up through the cloud layer, and they’d have had us by the throat. We’ve got to smash them before they’re ready, or we’ll end up as their colony.”

  Bade’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve always opposed this invasion on philosophical grounds. But it’s been argued and settled. I’m willing to go along with the majority opinion.” Bade rapped the ash off his slender cigar and looked Runckel directly in the eyes. “But if you want to open the whole argument up all over again—”

  “No,” said Runckel, breathing out a heavy cloud of smoke. “But our micromapping and radiation analysis shows a terrific rate of progress. It’s hard to look at those figures and even breathe normally. They’re gaining on us like a shark after a minnow.”

  “In that case,” said Bade, “let’s wake up and hold our lead. This business of attacking the suspect before he has a chance to commit a crime is no answer. What about all the other planets in the universe? How do we know what they might do some day?”

  “This planet is right beside us!”

  “Is murder honorable as long as you do it only to your neighbor? Your argument is self-defense. But you’re straining it.”

  “Let it strain, then,” said Runckel angrily. “All I care about is that chart showing our comparative levels of development. Now we have the lead. I say, drag them out by their necks and let them submit, or we’ll thrust their heads underwater and have done with them. And anyone who says otherwise is a doubtful patriot!”

  Bade’s teeth clamped, and he set his cigar carefully on a tray.

  Runckel blinked, as if he only appreciated what he had said by its echo.

  Bade’s glance moved over Runckel deliberately, as if stripping away the emblems and insignia. Then Bade opened the bottom drawer of his desk, and pulled out a pad of du
n-colored official forms. As he straightened, his glance caught the motto printed large on the base of the big globe. The motto had been used so often in the struggle to decide the question of invasion that Bade seldom noticed it any more. But now he looked at it. The motto read:

  Them Or Us

  Bade stared at it for a long moment, looked up at the globe that represented the mighty planet, then down at the puny motto. He glanced at Runckel, who looked back dully but squarely. Bade glanced at the motto, shook his head in disgust, and said, “Go get me the latest reports.”

  Runckel blinked. “Yes, sir,” he said, and hurried out.

  Bade leaned forward, ignored the motto, and thoughtfully studied the globe.

  Bade read the reports carefully. Most of them, he noted, contained a qualification. In the scientific reports, this generally appeared at the end:

  “ . . . Owing to the brief time available for these observations, the conclusions presented herein must be regarded as only provisional in character.”

  In the reports of the scouts, this reservation was usually presented in bits and pieces:

  “ . . . And this thing, that looked like a tiny crab, had a pair of pincers on one end, and I didn’t have time to see if this was the end it got me with, or if it was the other end. But I got a jolt as if somebody squeezed a lighter and held the red-hot wire against my leg. Then I got dizzy and sick to my stomach. I don’t know for sure if this was what did it, or if there are many of them, but if there are, and if it did, I don’t see how a man could fight a war and not be stung to death when he wasn’t looking. But I wasn’t there long enough to be sure . . .”

  Another report spoke of a “Crawling army of little six-legged things with a set of oversize jaws on one end, that came swarming through the shrubbery straight for the ship, went right up the side and set to work eating away the superplast binder around the viewport. With that gone, the ship would leak air like a fishnet. But when I tried to clear them away, they started in on me. I don’t know if this really proves anything, because Rufft landed not too far away, and he swears the place was like a paradise. Nevertheless, I have to report that I merely set my foot on the ground, and I almost got marooned and eaten up right on the spot.”