Non-violent resistance: a paradox in terms. Yet
all mankind knows that, with another war sure
to sound the death-knell of the race, that an
effective non-violent means of settling disputes
must be found. Here is an original approach to
what may be the most important problem of our time.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Amazing Stories June 1962.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Lights out, the convoy crept away from the Institute. MacFarland rode
in the lead car with a driver and his chief psych technician, Crawford
Bell. Three flat decked personnel carriers, flying the colors of a
mercenary band, Sabo's Own Highland Regiment, patrolled their flanks.
The scientists rode in the third and fourth cars in the line.
Crawford Bell had hooked a computer and a full communications set to
the rear of the front seat. Now he pressed a button on the commo unit.
"Fourteen," a voice said over the loudspeaker.
"What's happening in town?" Crawford Bell asked. He spoke with the
slow, gentle accents of Tennessee.
"They're turning everybody out. There must be fifty guys stirring
everybody up, telling them their country's in danger and they'd better
fight. There's a mob coming your way."
MacFarland looked across the plain to the city. He could see thousands
of hand lights and a dark shape sprawled across the plain. The sound of
the crowd was so faint he decided it was still a couple of miles away.
His hands tingled with excitement. This was only his third raid. He
still hadn't lost his zest for modern warfare. War was a contest played
for high stakes, the fortunes of nations, and it used every aptitude a
man could have. Moving into battle under an African sky, he felt glad
he didn't live in an earlier age. War was so interesting it would be a
shame to spoil it with the agony and guilt of killing.
His objective was the airport. He was supposed to put Doctor Warren's
team of biochemists on the midnight plane to Israel. An agent of the
Department of Commerce, he had been sent to Belderkan to talk Doctor
Warren into becoming a US citizen. It had been a tricky job. Doctor
Warren hadn't been anxious to change countries. Only the offer of a
lab on the star ship being built by the United States had tempted him.
"I'll accept your offer, Mr. MacFarland--if the other members of my
team accept it. Talk to them. I won't leave without them."
* * * * *
Harassed by the Belderkan Department of Trade using every weapon in the
Twenty-First Century arsenal of persuasion, MacFarland had wrested a
grudging decision from the other four scientists. Now all he had to do
was get them out of the country. But Doctor Warren's wife had warned
the Belderkan government her husband was switching his allegiance.
MacFarland studied the crowd through his glasses. They must have half
the city out there. He knew the scientists weren't deeply committed
to leaving. If the Belderkans managed to keep them off the plane, they
would probably change their minds.
"We're in for a night's work," Crawford Bell said.
To reach the airport, they had to make a half circle around the city.
"We haven't lost yet," MacFarland said. "We're going fast enough to cut
in front of them before they get between us and the airport."
Standing up in the moving car, he comforted himself by looking at his
troops. Crawford Bell was a first-rate technician. His psych team was
one of the best in the world. Sabo's mercenary "Regiment" had a global
reputation, too. So did the band of mercenaries hiding in ambush.
If the quality of an army counted for anything, they had a fighting
chance. The position was bad but the men were superb.
He was a soldier. He thought of himself as a soldier and he planned to
conduct himself like a soldier and win a victory for his country. But
he couldn't use physical violence.
Thirty-eight years before, the governments of the world had finally
realized international violence could no longer be tolerated. Any
violence between nations, even a fist fight between private citizens
from different countries, could trigger Earth's destruction.
He knew the consequences to all mankind of any physical violence. He
knew it like he knew he had two legs. He also knew that if he twisted
the little finger of a Belderkan citizen, the UN Inspector Corps would
arrest him within hours. The World Court would sentence him to five
years in prison and fine the United States far more than it could
possibly gain from Albert Warren's work.
* * * * *
A helicopter whined above them. A spotlight pinned them from the air.
"Masks," MacFarland yelled. Seconds later he peered at the night from
inside a plastic hood. His mustache, rubbing against the inside of the
mask, tickled his upper lip.
The helicopter didn't drop psycho-active gas. Instead, it marked them
with its light so that far off the crowd would know where its quarry
was. A loudspeaker begged the scientists to remember the humble people
of Belderkan.
_We taxed the labor of our people to give you luxury. We built you
beautiful homes. We gave you women, if you wanted them, and all the
laboratory equipment you desired. We gave you old age pensions.
Remember the labors of our people!_
A line of automobile headlights raced across the plain. MacFarland
gave an order. The lights of the convoy jumped on.
The line of enemy cars was long and moving fast. He couldn't go around
their rear and they were moving fast enough to head him off and hold
him for as long as the crowd needed to surround the convoy.