frightened. In short, E-waves are necessary again, but this time they
signal fear. As soon as anyone becomes afraid of the tank, it opens
fire. The principle here, if I may so put it, is that the victim must
summon the executioner.’
The major sighed. ‘Perhaps we ought to eat lunch first?’ He was
the heaviest man there and suffered more than the others from
hunger.
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‘Good’, agreed the general. ‘First, lunch; then more tests. We’ve got
something to think about here.’
It was a good distance to the barracks with the double roof. The
members of the commission were strung out along the path, with the
inventor, the general and the colonel bringing up the rear.
‘By the way’, said the general, as the inventor stopped to tie his
shoelace, ‘you’ve turned off the tank, haven’t you?’
‘It can’t be turned off; there’s no mechanism for that.’
‘Why not?’, asked the colonel with the jutting jaw.
‘Simple: I didn’t think of it.’
‘Then when does it stop operating?’
‘Never. It’s a self-loading machine and is powered by the rays of the
sun. If it runs out of ammunition, it crushes the enemy with its treads.
But it has a good deal of ammunition.’
‘Pleasant thought’, said the general. ‘And how do we take the tank
away from here if it keeps on firing? How do we get near it?’
‘We don’t take it away’, said the inventor, who was still tying his
shoelace. ‘It will destroy us all.’
The two officers looked down at him and said nothing.
‘Come, colonel’, said the general at last.
They went a few steps ahead. The general shrugged and said:
‘Damned if I can understand these civilians. ‘‘It will destroy us all’’
A learned fool’s remark? Too bad; but we can’t get along without
them at the moment.’
‘It is too bad’, sighed the colonel.
3
They drank fruit juice provided by the general’s orderly and chatted
about golf and the weather. The general defended tennis. Despite his
fifty-two years he had an excellent digestion and first-rate health. In
almost every situation, even during highly important sessions at the
War Office, he was aware of his rugged, taut body with its constant
eagerness for movement and nourishment.
They drank potato soup and chatted about mountain climbing. The
general lamented the fact that today’s young officers had so little
interest in the noble sport of horseback riding. Even now as he was
speaking, he was continuously aware of his body. He remembered
how three months earlier he had occasionally suffered from lumbago:
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207
at his doctor’s suggestion he had added some exercises to his morning
workout and the pains had disappeared.
They ate the main course and reminisced about how they had been
boarded and lodged on various long-distance journeys, service trips
and campaigns. The general told how difficult it had been for a while to
get supplies in the Congo; a quite different situation from Vietnam. He
was the only man present who had taken part in military operations in
both countries, and, though war was being considered primarily from
a gastronomic viewpoint, everyone listened attentively to him.
The inventor took no part in the conversation during the meal but
sat there making bread pellets on the table cloth. When the commis-
sion members had finished their coffee and were beginning to smoke,
he took a spoon and tapped it against his cup.
Everyone turned to him.
‘I ask your attention for a moment.’ He leaned forward. ‘I’d like to
tell you that along with the tests on the self-defending tank, I’ve
determined to conduct another little test. I intend to study the
reactions of men who are certainly doomed to death. But I also
want to tell you briefly why I’ve undertaken this modest bit of
research. The point is that all of you here are soldiers and, if I may
so put it, professional dealers in death. You, General, for example,
worked out the plans for Operation Murder and Operation Noose in
that ‘‘banana republic’’ down there (as you call it), and similar
operations as well. Incidentally, my second son fell in the part of
the world where we now are.’
‘You have my sympathy’, said the general.
The civilian made a gesture of refusal.
‘No, thank you. You plan wars, but they involve you only indirectly,
don’t they? On maps, in plans, orders, cost estimates: so many missing
in action, so many wounded, so many killed. In short, it’s all quite
abstract. So I’ve made it my business to make you feel what it’s like to
lie in a trench with a bullet in your belly or to feel burning napalm on
your back. It will complete your education and allow you, at least this
once, to carry a task through to its logical conclusion.’
He stood up and shoved his chair back.
‘Remember that the tank is not turned off. Try not to be afraid.
Keep in mind that the tank reacts to E-waves of fear.’
He quickly left the dining room.
The telephone rang. The curly-crested, blond captain, lowest
ranking officer present, automatically lifted the receiver.
‘The captain here.’
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Sever Gansovsky
Everyone could hear the gunnery sergeant’s voice quite clearly.
‘Can we leave now, sir? We’re ready to leave, but is that thing turned
off?’
‘You can leave’, said the Captain. ‘Eat your lunch and be back in
position in half an hour.’
He hung up the receiver and stared at it. Then his lips began to
move, fright filled his eyes, and he seized the receiver again.
‘Sergeant! Who’s there?’ He spoke so loudly that the veins in his
neck swelled. ‘Hello, Sergeant!’
He let the receiver drop and looked in confusion at the others.
‘Perhaps you’d better not go outside, under the circumstances.’ But
he himself sprang up and hurried out of the barracks. The others also
stood up.
The sun bathed the island in a glowing white light. It was as though
everything were afloat in a veil of mist that was tinted blue by
reflection from the ocean. Two figures emerged from the dugout
and started across the sand. ‘Sergeant! Danger!’, shouted the captain.
He waved in the vain hope that the gunners might take the signal as
an order to return to the dugout.
‘Just a moment!’, said the colonel. His jaw dropped: ‘What about
us?’
The general, napkin still in hand, looked at him in terror. He grew
pale, and his pallor communicated itself to the others. Suddenly the
colonel sprang from his place and with unbelievable quickness threw
himself under a bamboo bush.
In the next instant there was a sharp whistle. A flash of flame, the
crack of a shot and the thunder of an explosion all merged together.
The bitter smell of powder hung in the air: the signal of war, suffering
a
nd misfortune.
4
The colonel had been wounded by shrapnel. He now crouched, curled
up, in the trench and listened to the drone of the nearby tank. He
shivered and swallowed. Tears ran down his thin face with its manly
chin. They were not tears of pain: both wounds were slight and had
quickly stopped bleeding. They were tears of grief and raging hatred.
At the age of forty he had never in his life done anything despicable;
he had always obeyed his superiors’ orders and never even thought of
introducing any novelty of his own into the world. From his point of
The Proving Ground
209
view he was perfect: yet suddenly his superiors had turned him into a
victim. The tank that was meant to kill others was hunting for him.
He shook with bitter grief. As the first of the commission members
to reach the entrance to the barracks, he had become aware of the
situation and rushed blindly, like an animal, into the bamboo thicket.
Behind him he had heard the explosions and heard two shells strike
among the gunners who obviously had taken fright. From the thicket
he had seen how a single shell knocked the cutter to pieces at the
shore and sank it along with the boatmen who, at the first dis-
turbance, had quickly started the motors.
Then the tank began to hunt for him.
Leaping from trench to trench, the colonel moved steadily forward
and several times avoided a direct hit. Then he saw that he must
reach the blind angle of the tank, where it could not hit him. He
manoeuvred closer to it and leaped into a trench. The tank was now
about thirty yards away and had stopped firing.
The colonel knew that the only reason the tank was holding its fire
was that it could not hit him. Here, precisely, was the demonic power
of the machine: the victim must summon his executioner. He chewed
his lip and then peered over the breastworks. The tank was standing
nearby, peaceful and indifferent. The hatch for the crew was welded
shut and the usual searchlights on either side under the turret were
missing. This lifeless creature did not need them in order to see before
it; it was directed by the anxious thoughts of those it hunted.
The tank waited, squat and grey.
The colonel swallowed several times. He was comparatively safe
here, and he reflected, spitefully, that he alone had thought of
running toward the tank instead of away from it. Then it came to
him, sluggishly, that the others hadn’t been in a position to realize
where they should flee to. The first shell had bowled them over.
He looked toward the ruined barracks, then back to the tank; he
suddenly became aware of its treads. The inventor had said, hadn’t
he, that the tank could use these too for destruction?
Immediately the tank roared into action, obediently moving its
treads and surging forward. The colonel sank to the bottom of the
trench. The tank came screeching up, the treads appeared over the
breastworks, descended—and rested on the opposite edge of the
trench. The bottom of the tank was directly over the colonel’s head.
He curled up, to make himself as small as possible, and then thought,
with a sense of relief: it can’t catch me. Immediately the motor
switched off.
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Supposing the tank were to turn? the colonel asked himself.
The motor roared again, the treads moved, and the tank began to
turn above the trench in an effort to reach him. But the walls of the
trench were shored up with heavy beams and the relieved colonel
told himself the manoeuvre wouldn’t work. The thought was still in
his mind when the motor shut off again and the tank stood motion-
less.
Damn! The colonel ground his teeth.
All was still, as if the whole island had died. He touched his
shoulder; the bleeding had stopped and the wound wasn’t even
painful. But the heat was getting worse. The air was close, sweat
was running down his brow, and his back was soaking wet. He lay
there and saw how the sky was changing colour and becoming
strangely overcast: bluer and a bit reddish.
The colonel tried to think, as uncontrollable sobs racked him from
time to time. Here he lay. How long would that last? After a while, the
party’s absence would surely rouse concern back at the supply point
from which they had sailed. But not very soon. The whole operation
was so secret that no one knew exactly where they were and when
they should be returning. The commission was not under the
command of the supply base officer. He would first have to get in
touch with the War Office back in the capital, initiate a discussion,
seek out the proper authorities, send cables; and then, perhaps two
weeks from now, other cutters would arrive at the island. Two weeks.
He could not last two days without food and water.
And even if he did hold out, what then? If help came and men
landed and searched the island, they were safe as long as they did not
know what was up and begin to fear the tank. But if someone came
near him, he, the colonel, would call out that the tank had him
pinned down in the trench. That someone would immediately grow
fearful and the tank would open fire and kill the whole landing party.
But he could handle it differently: say nothing of the tank and have
a radio transmitter brought to him in the trench. Then he could
establish contact with the supply base and explain the situation. But
the landing party would surely sense that something was wrong: they
would leave him there and beat a retreat.
No. No escape that way—especially since he wouldn’t be alive
when the cutter arrived.
Once again, his hatred of the general flared up. It was surely all up
with him already, and he deserved it. How could anyone be such a
fool?
The Proving Ground
211
The colonel stared at the belly of the tank. If only I had a
handgrenade! — The tank came suddenly alive, as the motor switched
on.—But he had no handgrenade.—The motor shut off.
Suppose I crawl out of the trench behind the tank and climb on to the
turret. He got up on all fours and raised his head cautiously. If only the tank doesn’t move off now and turn around!
Immediately the motor roared, and the tank rumbled off and
turned around to face the trench. The colonel groaned and sat
down again. No escape! He looked up. Suppose the tank now
moved further off and shot at him from a sufficient distance? The
trench wouldn’t save him then. He thought this, and immediately
another thought came: he shouldn’t let such thoughts in! The tank
would shudder, its motor would roar, and it would roll off in reverse.
That was the terrible thing about it: the tank did exactly what you
feared and didn’t want.
Pressing a hand to his shoulder, he sprang up. He knew he couldn’t
stay here it he wanted to live any longer. As soon as he would see the
tank in a position to fire at him, he would be terrified at the thought
and the tank would
indeed fire.
The tank moved more quickly, and the colonel hurried after it. The
years of comfortable living would now exact their toll. The tank
moved faster and faster, because the colonel was afraid it would.
*
*
*
*
*
The fat major and the general’s orderly were blown to pieces by the
first shell.
The captain, all of twenty-nine years old, was severely wounded.
But he had felt no fear and this protected him from further fire. He lay
bleeding in the sand, pinned beneath the collapsed roof of the
barracks, and thought only of his wife and two daughters. With a
clarity of mind that surprised him he calculated how much of a
pension his family would receive; this involved his years of duty, his
rank, his branch of service and even the circumstances of his death
(whether fallen in battle or not). The pension would be large enough,
and the thought left him peaceful. Then it struck him what a good
thing it was that this exercise had miscarried. If such a weapon came
into use, even his own daughters would not be spared.
Better I than they, he thought with relief, and in his last faint
glimmerings of consciousness he told himself that back at the
beginning he would never have chosen such an end to his life.
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Sever Gansovsky
Rainbow-coloured circles moved before his eyes, his brain reeled
under the lack of oxygen, and the captain slept forever.
The general died slowly. His first feeling after the shell blast was of
pain. He didn’t know where he was wounded, for the pain bathed his
whole body. Like the colonel, he felt sharply the injustice of what had
happened. He didn’t belong to the type of people who could and must
be killed!
Then the pain abated and was replaced by weakness and an
upsetting disquiet. It became ever stronger, and the general even
tried to raise his head a bit to order it stopped.
He raised his head—and saw the inventor crouching near him. The
man’s face was as calm and indifferent as ever. He extended his arm
and laid something on the general’s chest.
‘That’s the medal for outstanding service that was posthumously
conferred on my son in 1965. You gave it to me yourself.’
The medal felt as heavy as a mountain on the general’s chest. He
didn’t understand the inventor’s words, but only felt that the end was
View from Another Shore : European Science Fiction Page 34
