Donald Westlake - SH1 - Don't You Know There's A War On

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Don't You Know There's A War On?

by Donald Westlake

In 1981, I have no idea why, I started a series of oddball science fiction short stories; I mean, every once

in a while those people warped through my brain again, until, by 1988, I'd done 5 of them. Then I

stopped, and again I have no idea why; they'd been fun to write. All 5 were published in Playboy. When

I sent in the first one, Alice Turner, the wonderful fiction editor there - one of the best, recently no longer

there, which is Playboy's loss - said she'd buy the story if I would send her, in a plain wrapper, whatever

I'd been smoking or ingesting while writing it.

Herewith, "Don't You Know There's A War On?" the first of the starship Hopeful stories.

From the beginning of Time, Man has been on the move, ever outward. First he spread over his

own planet, then cross the Solar System, then outward to the Galaxies, all of them dotted,

speckled, measled with the colonies of Man.

Then, one day in the year eleven thousand four hundred and six (11,406), an incredible discovery

was made in the Master Imperial Computer back on Earth. Nearly 500 years before, a clerical

error had erased from the computer's memory more than 1000 colonies, all in Sector F.U.B.A.R.3.

For half a millennium, those colonies, young and struggling when last heard from, had had no

contact with the rest of Humanity. The Galactic Patrol Interstellar Ship Hopeful, Captain

Gregory Standforth commanding, was at once dispatched to reestablish contact with the

Thousand Lost Colonies and return them to the bosom of Mankind.

The two armies were massed in terrible array, banners flying, the hosts facing each other across the

verdant valley. The tents of the generals were magnificently bedecked, pennons whipping in the breeze.

Down below, clergymen in white and black blessed the day and the pounded grass and the generals and

the banners and the archers and the horses and those who sweep up behind the horses. Filled with a

good breakfast, the soldiers on the slopes stood comfortably, happy to be a part of this historic moment,

while the supreme commanders of both forces marched with their aides and their scribes down through

their respective armies and out across the green sweep of neutral territory toward the table and the altar

set up in the very center of the valley under a yellow flag of truce.

This was the first time these two supreme commanders had met, and they studied each other with a

pardonable curiosity while the various aides exchanged documents and provided signatures. Is he

fiercer-looking than me? the supreme commanders wondered as they eyed each other. Is his jaw firmer

and leaner? Do his eyes flash more coldly and cruelly? Is his backbone more ramrod-stiff?

The ministers sprinkled holy water over the papers. The supreme commanders firmly shook hands - very

firmly shook hands - and a great cheer went up from the multitudes on the slopes. The ceremony was

complete. The name had been changed. The 300 Years' War was now officially the 400 Years' War.

"Look out!" someone shouted.

Soldiers gaped. Horses neighed and pawed the ground. Clergy and aides fled with cassocks and tunics

flapping, Supreme commanders took to their heels and the great long silver bullet of the spaceship settled

slowly, delicately, almost lazily into the very center of the valley, the massive base of the thing gently

mashing the main altar into a dinner mat.

"Remember, Councilman," Ensign Kybee Benson said, pacing the councilman's cabin, "these are

intelligent and subtle people, the descendants of philosophers."

"Hardly a problem," Councilman Morton Luthguster responded. "I'm something of a philosopher myself."

Ensign Benson and Councilman Luthguster meshed imperfectly. Ensign Benson was almost painfully

aware that the reason the councilman had been chosen to represent the Galactic Council on this endless,

trivial, boring mission to the universal boondocks was simply that nobody at the Galactic Council could

stand the man's porposities anymore. Luthguster didn't realize that; nor did he realize that it was Ensign

Benson's sharp-nosed personality that had won him a berth on the Hopeful (neither did Ensign Benson);

but he'd certainly noticed that all his conversations with Ensign Benson left him with the sense that his fur

had been rubbed the wrong way.

Ensign Benson's face now wore the expression of a man eating a lemon. "Councilman, would you like to

know which particular philosophy these philosophers philosophized about?"

"You're the social engineer," Luthguster pointed out, getting a bit prickly himself. "It's your job to

background me on these colonies."

"Dualists," Ensign Benson said. "They were dualists."

"You mean they fought each other.

Lieutenant Billy Shelby, the Hopeful's young second in command, knocked on the open door and

entered the cabin, saying, "Sir, the ship has landed."

"Just a second, Billy." Taking a deep breath, displaying his patience, Ensign Benson said, "Not duelists,

Councilman, dualists. They believed in the philosophy of dualism. Simply stated, the idea that there are

two sides to every story."

"At the very least," Luthguster said. "Back in the Galactic Coun-"

"Gemini," Ensign Benson interrupted. "That's what they named their colony, after the twins of the zodiac.

They'd originally considered Janus, after the two-faced god, but that suggested a duplicity they didn't

intend. Discussion and debate; that's the core of their approach to life."

"A civilized and cultured people, obviously." Luthguster preened himself, patting his big round belly. "We

shall get along famously."

"No doubt," Ensign Benson said. "Shall we begin?"

They followed Billy Shelby down to the main hatch, where the ladder had already been extruded, but the

door was not yet open. Waiting beside' it was Captain Standforth, tall and thin and vague, his stun gun

ready in his hand. Pointing to the weapon, Luthguster said, "We won't be needing that, Captain. These

are peaceful scholars."

"I thought I might shoot some birds," said the captain. "For stuffing." Bird taxidermy was the only thing in

life the captain really cared about. Seven generations of Standforths had, unfortunately, made such

magnificent careers in the Galactic Patrol that this Standforth had had no choice but to sign up when he'd

attained the proper age, but the whole thing had been a ghastly mistake, which everybody now knew -

and which was why he had been assigned to the Hopeful.

"Shoot birds later," Luthguster said, somewhat stiffly. "Let us begin peacably. Open the door, Billy."

Billy pushed the button, the door opened and Luthguster stepped out onto the platform at the head of the

ladder. 'Fellow thinkers," he cried out and fell back into the ship with seven arrows stuck in him.

"Rotten aim," Chief Engineer Hester Hanshaw said, wiping her hands on a greasy rag, then dropping it

onto the cluster of pulled arrows. "You'll live."

"At least you could sound happier about it," Luthguster told her. Lying here on the engine-room table, he

was so enswathed in bandages that he looked like a gift-wrapped beach ball.

"It's mostly all that blubber protected you," Hester said unsympathetically. "You're a very inefficient

design."

"Well, thank you very much."

There was no doctor on the Hopeful, there being room for only five crew members and the councilman.

Hester Henshaw, 40ish, blunt of feature and speech and hand and mind, had taken a few first-aid

courses before departure, with the attitude that the human body was merely a messier-than-usual kind of

machine and that most of its ills could be repaired with a few turns of a screwdriver or taps of a hammer.

(Pliers had been useful in the current case, plucking the arrows out of the councilman.) Hester never gave

her engines sympathy while banging away at them, so why should she give sympathy to Luthguster? "I'll

give you some coffee," she offered grudgingly.

Luthguster knew Hester's coffee from hearsay. "No, thank you!"

"Don't worry, you won't leak. I plugged all the holes."

Luthguster closed his eyes. A moan leaked out.

Lieutenant Billy Shelby, handsome, romantic, idealistic, bright as a bowling ball, clutched the microphone

in his left hand, white flag in his right, and said, "Ready, sir."

The captain hesitated. "Are you sure, Billy?"

"He already volunteered, Captain," Ensign Benson pointed out. "Obviously we have to make contact with

the Geminoids somehow."

"I'm sure, Captain," Billy said.

So the captain pushed the button, the door opened and Billy marched out onto the platform with the

white flag high and the loud-speaker microphone to his mouth: "People of-" his voice boomed out over

the valley, and a cannon ball ripped through the white flag to carom off the silver hull.

Billy gaped at the hole in the flag. "Gee whizz," his amplified voice told the sunny day. "Don't you guys

believe in a flag of truce?"

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摘要：

Don'tYouKnowThere'sAWarOn?byDonaldWestlakeIn1981,Ihavenoideawhy,Istartedaseriesofoddballsciencefictionshortstories;Imean,everyonceinawhilethosepeoplewarpedthroughmybrainagain,until,by1988,I'ddone5ofthem.ThenIstopped,andagainIhavenoideawhy;they'dbeenfuntowrite.All5werepublishedinPlayboy.WhenIsentinth...

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Donald Westlake - SH1 - Don't You Know There's A War On

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