Jag försöker hitta en kort science-fiction-historia där ett krig kämpas mellan två väsentligen utbytbara fraktioner. Efter åtgärd socialiseras medlemmar av motstående sidor som typiska suburbanites.
I slutet slår en av papporna sitt barn i sängen och säger något som ...
"blues is good reds is bad"
Kort historia där ett krig kämpas mellan två väsentligen utbytbara fraktioner. Efter att åtgärdsmedlemmar på motstående sidor har socialiserat sig som typiska suburbanites.
"Slagfält" , kort berättelse av Harlan Ellison ; först publicerad som "Hans första dag i krig" på Space Travel , november 1958 , tillgängligt på Internetarkiv . De svarta och vita arméerna pendlar mellan den fredliga jorden och slagfälten på månen:
At day's end, at 1630 hours, the death toll was slightly below average for a weekend. Dead: 5,886. Wounded: 4. Damages: twelve billion dollars, rounded off by the Finance & Reclamation Clerk. The batteries were silent, the crabs back in their depots and pools, the airless dead face of the moon left to the reclamation teams, who worked through the "night," preparing for Monday morning, when the war would resume.
The commuters were racked, and as the Blacks filed into their ships, as the Whites boarded theirs, the humming of great atomic motors rolled through the shining corridors of the commuters. Inside, men read newspapers and clung to the acceleration straps for the ride down.
Down to Earth.
For a quiet evening at home, and a quiet Sunday . . . before the war started again.
I slutet slår en av papporna sitt barn i sängen och säger att något som blues är bra, reds är dåligt.
All but Polikushka, the children ran laughing to the dining hall which ran parallel to the tiled front hall of the house. The dark-haired Polikushka clung to her daddy's hand and walked slowly with him. "Daddy, are you goin' to the moon tomorra'?"
"That's right, baby. Why?"
"Cause Stacy Garmonde down the block says her old ma—"
"Father, not old man!" he corrected her.
"—her father's gonna shoot you good tomorra'. He says all Blacks is bad, and he's gonna shoot you dead. Tha's what Stacy says, an' she's a big old stink!"
Donnough stopped walking and kneeled beside the wide, dark eyes. "Honey, you remember one thing, no matter what anybody tells you:
"Blacks are good. Whites are bad. That's the truth, sweetie. And nobody's going to kill daddy, because he's going to rip it up come tomorrow. Now do you believe that?"
She bobbled her head very quickly.
"Blacks is good, an' Whites is big stinks."
He patted her head with affection. "The grammar is lousy, baby, but the sentiment is correct. Now, let's eat."
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