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- Herausgeber: Wildside Press
- Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
- Sprache: Englisch
"Fifth Freedom" is a classic science fiction story originally published in John W. Campbell's Astounding Science-Fiction, May 1943 issue.
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Seitenzahl: 44
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021
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Table of Contents
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
FIFTH FREEDOM
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
Copyright © 1943 by Street &Smith, renewed 1971.
Originally published Astounding, May 1943, under the pseudonym “John Alvarez.”
Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.
Published by Wildside Press LLC.
wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com
FIFTH FREEDOM
LESTER DEL REY
—to be found in the final war of the twentieth century none of the lighter elements present to some extent in all former struggles. It was a grimly determined fight against extinction from the first few months.
America presented the paradox of an absolute dictatorship with full popular approval, and there was no place in the public mind for anything but the maximum effort from each individual. Conscientious objectors, while regarded as within their rights—
“The Period of Discovery”
Roget’s History of Man, Vol. III
* * * *
Wearily, Tommy pulled the hard pillow farther under him, doubling it over in an attempt to find some support that would let him read in the dim light without carrying his weight on an aching arm. But it was no use. The pillow oozed out from under him, letting him down again, and the arm trembled as it took up the load. Soft living, without work and with his every want provided, had left him without the stamina to stand up under the enforced grueling grind of the machine through the long ten-hour stretch, even yet. He was too tired to harbor resentment against the government that had tagged him and probed him, then ordered him out here into the labor camp, away from his comforts, to do such unskilled work as was required of him, along with a motley collection of people of vague abilities and numerous reasons that made them unsuitable for military service.
War! Always and eternally, man went to war not only to destroy the aggressors but to ruin the lives of those whose only crime was a hatred of that war. They’d taken his rocket plane for civilian patrol, filled the newspapers with a hysterical frenzy of hatred, and pressed his favorite music off the air to make room for the propaganda of lust and savagery that seemed their glory; and the little people around him, who’d mostly prayed against it, now seemed to take pride in it, and to talk of nothing else.
He tried again to cut the blaring radio out, with its news and propaganda that neither interested nor impressed him, but dinned remorselessly into his ears, and turned back to the latest Astounding; it had arrived for him only today, and as yet he’d only glanced at the cover and readers’ corner. Hopefully, he began on the cover story:
Major Elliot glanced up from the papers as the captain entered, nodded, and went on reading through the reports.
“Centralia’s moving up; big offensive at midnight tomorrow, Captain Blake. I want you to take six volunteers—”
Damn! The boy’s lips tightened and he threw the magazine under his bunk, his raw nerves whipped by the fresh insult; even there, war! All day, he’d been counting the hours and minutes until his shift went off and he could find release from the horrible reality, only to find science fiction as filled with it as all else. He jerked the lumpy pillow up, threw his head against it, and tried to drown out the mutter of voices behind him and rest. It was an hour yet until dinner, and perhaps in that time he could catch a brief nap.
Under him, there was a rustle in the lower bunk, the thunk of a bag on the floor, followed by the sound of the built-in locker being opened. Newcomer, he decided, wondering whether to look down or go on minding his own business. Then Bull Travis’ voice cut in, already beginning to blur with the “smoke” he obtained somewhere.
“Hey, Bub, there’s a bunk tother side of the room. Whyn’t you go over there?”
“What’s wrong with this one?”
“Conchy on top, that’s what! Sniveling ’cause Mamma isn’t there to protect it!”
“Thanks, but I’m not carrying this bag another step.” Tommy looked over then, surprised, to see a thin blond man of about twenty-four packing his duffel into the hamper under the bunk. Beyond him, Bull was staring at the kid with a sour frown.
“You a damned yellow conchy, too?”
“Nope. Red card, they won’t take me. But right now, I wouldn’t care if a cobra had the bunk over me.”
Bull grunted something, then started out to the washroom, where he hid his hooch. Tommy turned over again, the words burning into his brain. Conchy! Conchy, damned yellow conchy! Was a conscientious objector any less of a human being?
To the others, he was; there was no question left on that score. Since he’d come, there’d been only two civil sentences spoken to him, and both of them before the speakers knew he carried the little blue card of a conchy. Bull might get drunk and beat up some weakened oldster, or swear all night in a profane stupor, but he had four sons in the war; Tommy was only a thing that had crawled among them to avoid doing his rightful part. And this was a democracy!
