War and Peace

by Stanley Schmidt (ed)

  Jerry eBooks

  No copyright 2012 by Jerry eBooks

  No rights reserved. All parts of this book may be reproduced in any form and by any means for any purpose without any prior written consent of anyone.

  Copyright © 1983 by Davis Publications, Inc.

  All rights reserved.

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 80-69078

  Printed in the U. S. A.

  INTRODUCTION

  Stanely Schmidt

  E FOR EFFORT

  T.L. Sherred

  THE WEAPON SHOP

  A.E. Van Vogt

  THE WABBLER

  Murray Leinster

  CONQUEST BY DEFAULT

  Vernor Vinge

  WARRIOR

  Gordon R. Dickson

  HAWK AMONG THE SPARROWS

  Dean McLaughlin

  THE MERCENARY

  Jerry Pournelle

  NO SHOULDER TO CRY ON

  Hank Davis

  THE BULLY AND THE CRAZY BOY

  Marc Stiegler

  THUNDER AND ROSES

  Theodore Sturgeon

  LATE NIGHT FINAL

  Eric Frank Russell

  In 1944—in the thick of World War II and a little before Hiroshima and Nagasaki —Analog’s earlier self, Astounding Science Fiction, published a story called “Deadline,” by Cleve Cartmill. A key element of the story was a description of an atomic bomb—which in reality was still top secret—sufficiently accurate to bring FBI agents to the Astounding office to find out where the security leak was. Editor John W. Campbell told them there was no leak: anyone who had been following even nonclassified developments in atomic physics could see the possibility, and in fact Astounding had been publishing stories and articles about that and related matters for quite some time. When the agents suggested that it should stop, Campbell pointed out that the sudden dropping of a very hot topic would arouse far more suspicion than continuing a line of speculation and discussion already well established.

  The atomic bomb and its direct and indirect descendants have been an important area of science fictional speculation ever since—and reality hasn’t been far behind. We (or our governments, which may not be quite the same thing) now have nuclear fusion bombs which make the fission devices of World War II look like damp firecrackers, to say nothing of self-guiding long-range missiles, high-powered lasers, and the imminent possibility of orbiting weaponry which can pose an ever-present threat to huge areas of Earth. Science fiction writers have foreseen all these things and many others, and have been busy exploring the possible ramifications of the problems—and possible solutions—because they haven’t been kidding about any of them. The rest of the world has been gradually realizing that the weapons we already have, and their descendants to come, constitute a danger of such unprecedented magnitude and character that we must try to learn how to neutralize it.

  There have been many anthologies of war stories, both in science fiction and in literature at large. This is hardly surprising. War has always been a fertile ground for stories, because it throws people into conflicts of such intensity that it brings out their best and worst qualities as do few situations in everyday life.

  But this is not just an anthology of war stories. It is no mere collection of battle adventures for those who see such things as light entertainment and would rather not think beyond the physical action on the battlefield. There is plenty of action and entertainment here, but these writers have looked beyond the front line to explore various aspects of the causes of war—and possible alternatives to it, which we sorely need. These are, as the title says, stories about both war and peace; and I know of few, if any, other books which have approached the subject in quite this way. You can read the stories in any order you like, of course, but I recommend the order in which they appear, and have written the introductions accordingly.

  I don’t think you will ‘like’ all these stories. I do hope you will enjoy reading them all, but I don’t think you can comfortably agree with all the ideas they present. I know I can’t, the range they cover is too broad, and if you happen to agree with everything in one, you’ll find another that clashes. That is as it should be If a few of these stories make you uneasy enough to take a fresh look at some ideas you have always taken for granted, the experience may nudge you a little closer to some solution that you and your fellow sentient beings urgently need.

  My first hope for anything I edit or write is that you will enjoy reading it and feel, when you finish, that your time was well spent. In this case I hope that you will also find these stories thought-provoking, and that you will come away from the book not only entertained, but perhaps a little wiser.

  We need all the help we can get.

  Human history has been a turbulent succession of wars and interludes of more or less shaky peace, and what we know of both has been heavily filtered, not only through historians, but through barriers deliberately built into original sources. The wheelings and dealings of politics, diplomacy, and finance, which often lead to armed conflict, are commonly conducted in secret, with a great deal of effort expended on creating semi fictitious accounts of those dealings to shape public opinion. But suppose the reality could be got out in the open—that what really went on behind closed doors in history both ancient and very recent could be laid bare for all to see. Could not that unprecedented understanding of historical reality be used to nip the causes of war in the bud?

  THE CAPTAIN was met at the airport by a staff car. Long and fast it sped. In a narrow, silent room the general sat. ramrod backed, tense The major waited at the foot of the gleaming steps shining frostily in the night air Tires screamed to a stop and together the captain and the major raced up the steps No words of greeting were spoken The general stood quickly, hand outstretched The captain ripped open a dispatch case and handed over a thick bundle of papers. The general flipped them over eagerly and spat a sentence at the major. The major disappeared and his harsh voice rang curtly down the outside hall. The man with glasses came in and the general handed him the papers. With jerky fingers the man with glasses sorted them out. With a wave from the general the captain left, a proud smile on his weary young face The general tapped his fingertips on the black glossy surface of the table The man with glasses pushed aside crinkled maps, and began to read aloud.

  Dear Joe:

  I started this just to kill time, because I got tired of just looking out the window. But when I got almost to the end I began to catch the trend of that’s going on You’re the only one I know that can come through for me, and when you finish this you’ll know why you must.

  I don’t know who will get this to you. Whoever it is won’t want you to identify a face later. Remember that, and please, Joe—hurry!

  Ed.

  It all started because I’m lazy. By the time I’d shaken off the sandman and checked out of the hotel every seat in the bus was full. I stuck my bag in a dime locker and went out to kill the hour I had until the next bus left. You know the bus terminal: right across from the Book-Cadillac and the Statler, on Washington Boulevard near Michigan Avenue. Michigan Avenue. Like Main in Los Angeles, or maybe Sixty-third in its present state of decay in Chicago, where I was going. Cheap movies, pawnshops and bars by the dozens, a penny arcade or two, restaurants that feature hamburg steak, bread and butter and coffee for forty cents. Before the War, a quarter.

  I like pawnshops. I like cameras, I like tools, I like to look in windows crammed with everything from electric razors to sets of socket wrenches to upper plates. So, with an hour to spare, I walked out Michigan to Sixth and back on the other side of the street. There are a lot of Chinese and Mexicans around that part of town, the Chinese running the restaurants and the Mexicans eating Southern Home Cooking. Bet
ween Fourth and Fifth I stopped to stare at what passed for a movie. Store windows painted black, amateurish signs extolling in Spanish “Detroit premiere … cast of thousands … this week only … ten cents—” The few 8x10 glossy stills pasted on the windows were poor blowups, spotty and wrinkled; pictures of mailed cavalry and what looked like a good-sized battle. All for ten cents. Right down my alley. Maybe it’s lucky that history was my major in school. Luck it must have been, certainly not cleverness, that made me pay a dime for a seat in an undertaker’s rickety folding chair imbedded solidly—although the only other customers were a half-dozen Sons of the Order of Tortilla—in a cast of second-hand garlic. I sat near the door. A couple of hundred-watt bulbs dangling naked from the ceiling gave enough light for me to look around. In front of me, in the rear of the store, was the screen, what looked like a white-painted sheet of beaverboard, and when over my shoulder I saw the battered sixteen-millimeter projector I began to think that even a dime was no bargain. Still, I had forty minutes to wait.

  Everyone was smoking. I lit a cigarette and the discouraged Mexican who had taken my dime locked the door and turned off the lights, after giving me a long, questioning look. I’d paid my dime, so I looked right back. In a minute the old projector started clattering. No film credits, no producer’s name, no director, just a tentative flicker before a close-up of a bewhiskered mug labeled Cortez. Then a painted and feathered Indian with the title of Guatemotzin, successor to Montezuma; an aerial shot of a beautiful job of model-building tagged Ciudad de Mejico, 1521. Shots of old muzzle-loaded artillery banging away, great walls spurting stone splinters under direct fire, skinny Indians dying violently with the customary gyrations, smoke and haze and blood. The photography sat me right up straight. It had none of the scratches and erratic cuts that characterize an old print, none of the fuzziness, none of the usual mugging at the camera by the handsome hero. There wasn’t any handsome hero. Did you ever see one of these French pictures, or a Russian, and comment on the reality and depth brought out by working on a small budget that can’t afford famed actors? This, what there was of it, was as good, or better.

  It wasn’t until the picture ended with a pan shot of a dreary desolation that I began to add two and two. You can’t, for pennies, really have a cast of thousands, or sets big enough to fill Central Park. A mock-up, even, of a thirty-foot wall costs enough to irritate the auditors, and there had been a lot of wall. That didn’t fit with the bad editing and lack of sound track, not unless the picture had been made in the old silent days. And I knew it hadn’t by the color tones you get with pan film. It looked like a well-rehearsed and badly-planned newsreel.

  The Mexicans were easing out and I followed them to where the discouraged one was rewinding the reel. I asked him where he got the print.

  “I haven’t heard of any epics from the press agents lately, and it looks like a fairly recent print.”

  He agreed that it was recent, and added that he’d made it himself. I was polite to that, and he saw that I didn’t believe him and straightened up from the projector.

  “You don’t believe that, do you?” I said that I certainly did, and I had to catch a bus. “Would you mind telling me why, exactly why?” I said that the bus—“I mean it. I’d appreciate it if you’d tell me just what’s wrong with it.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with it,” I told him. He waited for me to go on. “Well, for one thing, pictures like that aren’t made for the sixteen-millimeter trade. You’ve got a reduction from a thirty-five-millimeter master,” and I gave him a few of the other reasons that separate home movies from Hollywood. When I finished he smoked quietly for a minute.

  “I see.” He took the reel off the projector spindle and closed the case. ”I have beer in the back.” I agreed beer sounded good, but the bus—well, just one. From in back of the beaverboard screen he brought paper cups and a Jumbo bottle. With a whimsical “Business suspended” he closed the open door and opened the bottle with an opener screwed on the wall. The store had likely been a grocery or restaurant. There were plenty of chairs. Two we shoved around and relaxed companionably. The beer was warm.

  “You know something about this line,” tentatively.

  I took it as a question and laughed. “Not too much Here’s mud.” and we drank. “Used to drive a truck for the Film Exchange.” He was amused at that.

  “Stranger in town?”

  “Yes and no. Mostly yes. Sinus trouble chased me out and relatives bring me back. Not any more, though; my father’s funeral was last week.” He said that was too bad, and I said it wasn’t. “He had sinus, too.” That was a joke, and he refilled the cups. We talked awhile about Detroit climate.

  Finally he said, rather speculatively, “Didn’t I see you around here last night? Just about eight. ” He got up and went after more beer.

  I called after him. “No more beer for me.” He brought a bottle anyway, and I looked at my watch. “Well, just one.”

  “Was it you?”

  “Was it me what?” I held out my paper cup.

  “Weren’t you around here—”

  I wiped foam off my mustache. “Last night? No, but I wish I had. I’d have caught my bus. No, I was in the Motor Bar last night at eight. And I was still there at midnight.”

  He chewed his lip thoughtfully. “The Motor Bar. Just down the street?” And I nodded. “The Motor Bar. Hm-m-m.” I looked at him. “Would you like … sure, you would.” Before I could figure out what he was talking about he went to the back and from behind the beaverboard screen rolled out a big radio-phonograph and another Jumbo bottle. I held the bottle against the light. Still half full. I looked at my watch. He rolled the radio against the wall and lifted the lid to get at the dials.

  “Reach behind you, will you? The switch on the wall.” I could reach the switch without getting up, and I did. The lights went out. I hadn’t expected that, and I groped at arm’s length. Then the lights came on again, and I turned back, relieved. But the lights weren’t on; I was looking at the street!

  Now, all this happened while I was dripping beer and trying to keep my balance on a tottering chair—the street moved, I didn’t and it was day and it was night and I was in front of the Book-Cadillac and I was going into the Motor Bar and I was watching myself order a beer and I knew I was wide awake and not dreaming. In a panic I scrabbled off the floor, shedding chairs and beer like an umbrella while I ripped my nails feeling frantically for that light switch. By the time I found it—and all the while I was watching myself pound the bar for the barkeep—I was really in fine fettle, just about ready to collapse. Out of thin air right into a nightmare. At last I found the switch.

  The Mexican was looking at me with the queerest expression I’ve ever seen, like he’d baited a mousetrap and caught a frog. Me? I suppose I looked like I’d seen the devil himself. Maybe I had. The beer was all over the floor and I barely made it to the nearest chair.

  “What,” I managed to get out, “what was that?”

  The lid of the radio went down. “I felt like that too, the first time. I’d forgotten.”

  My fingers were too shaky to get out a cigarette, and I ripped off the top of the package. “I said, what was that?”

  He sat down. “That was you, in the Motor Bar, at eight last night.” I must have looked blank as he handed me another paper cup. Automatically I held it out to be refilled.

  “Look here—” I started.

  “I suppose it is a shock. I’d forgotten what I felt like the first time I … I don’t care much any more. Tomorrow I’m going out to Phillips Radio.” That made no sense to me, and I said so. He went on.

  “I’m licked. I’m flat broke. I don’t give a care any more. I’ll settle for cash and live off the royalties.” The story came out, slowly at first, then faster until he was pacing the floor. I guess he was tired of having no one to talk to.

  His name was Miguel Jose Zapata Laviada. I told him mine; Lefko. Ed Lefko. He was the son of sugar beet workers who had emigrated from Mexi
co somewhere in the Twenties. They were sensible enough not to quibble when their oldest son left the back-breaking Michigan fields to seize the chance provided by a NYA scholarship. When the scholarship ran out, he’d worked in garages, driven trucks, clerked in stores, and sold brushes door-to-door to exist and learn. The Army cut short his education with the First Draft to make him a radar technician, the Army had given him an honorable discharge and an idea so nebulous as to be almost merely a hunch. Jobs were plentiful then, and it wasn’t too hard to end up with enough money to rent a trailer and fill it with Army surplus radio and radar equipment. One year ago he’d finished what he’d started, finished underfed, underweight, and overexcited. But successful, because he had it.

  “It” he installed in a radio cabinet, both for ease in handling and for camouflage. For reasons that will become apparent, he didn’t dare apply for a patent. I looked “it” over pretty carefully. Where the phonograph turntable and radio controls had been were vernier dials galore. One big one was numbered 1 to 24, a couple were numbered I to 60, and there were a dozen or so numbered 1 to 25, plus two or three with no numbers at all. Closest of all it resembled one of these fancy radio or motor testers found in a super super-service station. That was all, except that there was a sheet of heavy plywood hiding whatever was installed in place of the radio chassis and speaker A perfectly innocent cache for—

  Daydreams arc swell. I suppose we’ve all had our share of mental wealth or fame or travel or fantasy. Hut to sit in a chair and drink warm beer and realize that the dream of ages isn’t a dream any more, to feel like a god, to know that just by turning a few dials you can see and watch anything, anybody, anywhere, that has ever happened—it still bothers me once in a while.