A voice said, “If you try to use that on me, you are going to be very sorry.”
Vargas peered out and saw, standing in the middle of his office, the characteristic metal skin and flashing eyes of the Galactic Effectuator.
“Oh, it’s you,” Vargas said, getting out from under the table with as much dignity as circumstances allowed. He reholstered his firearm, took his seat at his desk again, and said, “Sorry about that, Galactic Effectuator. I thought it might be an assassination team. Can’t be too careful, you know. Now, what can I do for you?”
“The first thing,” the Galactic Effectuator said, “is not to try zapping me again. We let you get away with it once. Try again and the Galactic Forces will nuke you back to the Stone Age. If you think I’m kidding, take a look out the window.”
Vargas looked. The sky was dark with ships. They were big ships, as you’d expect of a Galactic force.
“I want to apologize for zapping you earlier,” Vargas said. “I was acting on bad advice. I’m glad you’ve come. You’re just in time to hear me declare the end of Earth’s occupation. Maybe you’d like to watch us get out of here and go home.”
“I know that is what you are planning,” the Effectuator said. “I’m here to tell you it’s not going to be quite as easy as that.”
“Why not?”
“Galactic policy is to keep the status quo, whatever it is. We were unable to prevent you from declaring war on Magellenic. That is the one mistake you’re allowed. You’ve got this place, now you have to keep it.”
“Believe me,” Vargas said, “this sort of thing will never happen again. Can’t we just apologize and forget it?”
“No,” said the Effectuator. “You can’t get out of it as easily as that. War was your idea, not ours. Now you’re stuck with it.”
“But the war’s over!”
“According to Galactic Rules, the war is only over when those you attacked say it’s over. And I can assure you, the Magellenics are very satisfied with things as they are.”
“I’m starting to get the feeling,” Vargas said, “that these Magellenics tricked us. That Hurtevert and his story! It reminds me of something to do with a bird. But I can’t quite remember what.”
“Permit me to refresh your memory,” the Effectuator said. “I have made a study of birdlife throughout the galaxy, so I know there is a bird called the cuckoo on your planet. It lays its egg in other birds’ nests and they take care of it. That is what the Magellenics have done to you Earth folks.”
“What in hell are you talking about?” Vargas said, his voice blustery but shaky.
“They get you to take over their planet. They get you to take their surplus workforce to your own world. Once there, you can’t get rid of them. But that’s what you get for trying to practice charity without taking thought for the consequences.”
“Charity, hell! We were doing war!”
“In the Galactic view,” the Effectuator said, “war is a form of charity.”
“How do you figure?”
“We believe that war entails a number of selfless and exemplary actions. First there’s the duty of rapine, which we define as the willingness to transfer large quantities of your planet’s best sperm to a civilization that badly needs it. Your troops have done well that way. Next there’s the duty of pillage, which is the act of cleansing the artistic life of a conquered people by carting away vast quantities of their inferior art treasures in order to unblock their creative self-expression and allow them to produce newer, better works. Finally we have the duty of education and self-improvement, which you have performed by taking in large numbers of Magellenic’s surplus and idle population to your own planet, where you support them until they are smart enough to put your own people out of work.”
Vargas thought for a while, then shrugged and said, “You got it right, Galactic Effectuator. But how do we end it?”
“That’s always the difficult part,” the Effectuator said. “Maybe, with some luck, you can find some other planet that’ll be crazy enough to take over both your planet and Magellenic. That’s the only way you’re going to get off the hook.”
That is how, upon entering Galactic Civilization, Earth gave up war forever. And that is why there are Earthmen on all the civilized planets of the galaxy. They can be found on the street corners of dusty alien cities. They speak all languages. They sidle up to you and say, “Listen, Mister, would you like to take over a planet with no trouble at all?”
Naturally, no one pays them the slightest attention. Even the newer civilizations have learned that war costs too much and charity begins at home.
We, the People
Jack C Haldeman II
The eggs were just the way he liked them. Mark ate slowly, enjoying the luxury of a leisurely breakfast. Outside his window the city was beginning to stir. Rain had been programmed for last night and the streets were still damp. Across the room his cat was curled up in a patch of sunlight on the sofa, his tail swishing back and forth. The apartment was quiet and he dragged breakfast out as long as he could. Finally he got up, set his plate on the floor for the cat to lick, and walked across the room to his desk.
“Good morning,” he said automatically.
“GOOD MORNING, MARK. DID YOU SLEEP WELL?”
Mark looked at the words as they danced across the screen. “Kind of a bad night,” he said. “My arthritis is cting up again.”
“THAT’S TOO BAD, MARK. WAS IT YOUR KNEES?”
“No, just my hands this time.” He looked at his swollen knuckles and ran them through his thinning gray hair. There were worse things.
“THAT’S THE THIRD TIME THIS MONTH. DO YOU WANT ME TO FLASH DR. CROMWELL?”
“No, that’s okay. I’ll be seeing him next week.”
“DO YOU KNOW WHAT TODAY IS, MARK?”
“Saturday.” It couldn’t be his birthday. He’d told the desk to stop reminding him of those several years ago.
“TODAY IS APRIL 15TH.”
“So what?”
“THIS IS TAX DAY. WE HAVE TO FILE BY MIDNIGHT.”
“I forgot,” he said.
“YOU HAVE BEEN PUTTING THIS OFF FOR MONTHS. SHALL WE START?”
Mark looked around the room. The cat was busily licking the plate. He felt old. You could block out birthdays, but not the IRS. “I guess we might as well get it over with,” he said.
“THIS IS A PATRIOTIC OBLIGATION, MARK. YOU SHOULD FEEL PRIVILEGED TO DO YOUR PART.”
“Can the pep talk. Let’s go.”
“DO YOU WANT THE SHORT FORM OR THE LONG FORM?”
“Don’t be stupid.”
“I AM REQUIRED BY LAW TO ASK YOU THAT.’
“Does anybody use the short form?”
“CERTAIN CONVICTED FELONS MUST USE THE SHORT FORM, HAVING SACRIFICED FREEDOM OF CHOICE.”
“I’m not a convicted felon and I’m not an idiot. Let’ have the long form.”
“VERY WELL, MARK. BASED ON LAST YEAR’
INCOME OF $52,753.68 YOU HAVE AN ADJUSTED TAX OF $4,963.47. WOULD YOU LIKE TO SEE THE CALCULATIONS?”
“Yes.”
Mark scanned the figures as they rolled by. His income was higher than he’d thought, but not much more than comfortable what with the prices these days. Semi-retired, he did occasional projects for a variety of ecological organizations. He worked at home. He didn’t get out much anymore.
“They look okay,” he said.
“DO YOU WISH TO ITEMIZE THE ALLOCATION OF YOUR TAX MONEY?”
“Now you’re being stupid again. Why else would I use the long form? Doesn’t everybody?”
“PLEASE DON’T BE HARD ON ME, MARK, I’M ONLY DOING MY JOB. I HAVE TO ASK YOU THAT. IN RESPONSE TO YOUR QUESTION, ROUGHLY 99.987% OF THE ELIGIBLE TAXPAYERS USE THE LONG, ITEMIZED FORM.”