from stories by
Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.

He did not like to speak of the warlike uses of space. It was Alexei who liked to speak of such things, of the glory of spying on earth from baby moons, of guiding missiles to their targets from baby moons, of mastering the earth with weapons fired from the moon itself. Alexei expected Stepan to share his excitement about thoughts of such childish violence.

Stepan smiled, but only because he loved Alexei. He did not smile about war, or the things a man in a baby moon or on the moon itself could do to an enemy. “It is a use of science that we may be forced to make, Alexei,” he said. “But if such a war happens, nothing will matter any more. Our world will become less fit for life than any other in the solar system.”

Alexei has not spoken well of war since.

“Eternal vigilance is the price of freedom,” said the general heavily.

Mr. Cuthrell threw the general a look of mild distaste. “Unfortunately, the general is right in his own way,” he said. “I wish to Heaven the world were ready for ideals like yours, but it simply isn’t. We aren’t surrounded by brothers, but by enemies. It isn’t a lack of food or resources that has us on the brink of war—it’s a struggle for power. Who’s going to be in charge of the world, our kind of people or theirs?”

“For the love of God—” she began.

Pi Ying interrupted angrily: “Is it for the love of God that Americans make bombs and jet planes and tanks?”

The cold resolve deserted Kelly for an instant, and he saw the utter pathos of his position—a dilemma as old as mankind, as new as the struggle between East and West. When human beings are attacked, x, multiplied by hundreds or thousands, must die—sent to death by those who love them most. Kelly’s profession was the choosing of x.

I deal mostly with old ladies—the meek, who by dint of cast-iron constitutions have inherited sizable portions of the earth. I thumb through the clients’ lists of securities, and relay our experts’ suggestions for ways of making their portfolios—or bonanzas or piles—thrive and increase. I can speak of tens of thousands of dollars without a catch in my throat, and look at a list of securities worth more than a hundred thousand with no more fuss than a judicious “Mmmmm, uh-huh.”

Since I don’t have a portfolio, my job is a little like being a hungry delivery boy for a candy store.

“In my naïve, idealistic youth, Potter, I sold ads to feed stores, gathered gossip, set type, and wrote editorials that were going to save the world, by God.”

David smiled admiringly. “What a circus, eh?”

“Circus?” said Flammer. “Freak show, maybe. It’s a good way to grow up fast. Took me about six months to find out I was killing myself for peanuts, that a little guy couldn’t even save a village three blocks long, and that the world wasn’t worth saving anyway. So I started looking out for Number One.”