3. Tea no longer available, nor in the foreseeable future.

  4. Total decomposition of the fabric of British society.

  5. This peculiarly-depraved act of war is currently being litigated at Geneva and before the World Court as a Crime Against Humanity, but we have reason to believe that our suit is not being well-received.

  6. Expulsion of England from the Common Market.

  7. The world’s opprobrium.

  8. Economic embargo and naval blockade by a task force of seventy-three countries. Only the London Airlift and the United States Navy maintained England as a viable state.

  9. Dwindling supplies of French wine. Blackmarket, and concomitant problems.

  10. After a few months confusion, unexpected and absolute unification of the French people in the face of adversity.

  11. As the world’s now-largest importer of wine, France is directly responsible for the sudden Economic Miracles in Italy and Algeria, both of which have doubled their vineyard acreage under production. Algeria has joined the Common Market and is considering becoming once again an integral part of France. German, Spanish, and Greek wine production has also benefited greatly.

  12. To further promote this rapidly-rising spiral of prosperity, France and the other members of the Common Market are nearing Economic Union and hope shortly to achieve Political Union. It is felt that France will dominate and direct this nation of 250 million people.

  13. To counter the cost of wine importation and the subsequent balance of payments deficit, France has already donated its armed forces (and expenses) to a United European Command.

  14. Millions of acres of tea-producing land and millions of people in sixty-eight countries suddenly have become available for other forms of agricultural production. With the vast market unexpectedly open in France and other countries to the importation of wine, most of this acreage has been given over to wine production.

  15. Some 4.6 million Frenchmen have spread to all corners of the world to aid the undeveloped countries in their effort to produce potable wine.

  16. Due to the high professionalism of the French Secret Service, it is accepted unhesitatingly throughout the world that the American CIA was responsible for the mass destruction of the tea plant. Spurred by the efforts of 4.6 million ambassadors of goodwill, French has completely replaced English as the secondary language being taught in the world’s schools. It has, of course, become once again the standard language of diplomacy. It is thought that these factors will result in the emigration of at least half-a-million teachers from France, and a corresponding momentum will be given to the mission civilisatrice francaise.

  17. The first wine-fair has opened in China. It was attended by Chairman Deng, who pronounced his unqualified approval of a Nuits-St.-Georges ‘66.

  18. It is entirely foreseeable that with the accelerating rate of spread of French culture and influence, and the eventual leader of a United Europe, within a decade France will be the world’s dominant power.

  “Rather gripping, don’t you think?” said the Permanent Secretary.

  “Quite,” replied Colonel Christie dryly.

  “Interesting, the amenities of your… er… suite,” said the Permanent Secretary as he strolled about the room in unabashed fascination. “One had no idea such comfort obtained in the Tower. One naturally thinks of dungeons, dank and durance vile, that sort of thing, eh?”

  “Quite,” said Colonel Christie. “Oh, quite.”

  Editor's Introduction to:

  THE BATTLE

  by Robert Sheckley

  Robert Sheckley is responsible for some of the most trenchent satire in the field of science fiction. Often his most amusing stories bite deeper than you think.

  THE BATTLE

  by Robert Sheckley

  Supreme General Fetterer barked “At ease!” as he hurried into the command room. Obediently, his three generals stood at ease.

  “We haven’t much time,” Fetterer said, glancing at his watch. “We’ll go over the plan of battle again.”

  He walked to the wall and unrolled a gigantic map of the Sahara desert.

  “According to our best theological information, Satan is going to present his forces at these coordinates.” He indicated the place with a blunt forefinger. “In the front rank there will be the devils, demons, succubi, incubi, and the rest of the ratings. Bael will command the right flank, Buer the left. His Satanic Majesty will hold the center.”

  “Rather medieval,” General Dell murmured.

  General Fetterer’s aide came in, his face shining and happy with thought of the Coming.

  “Sir,” he said, “the priest is outside again.”

  “Stand at attention, soldier,” Fetterer said sternly. “There’s still a battle to be fought and won.”

  “Yes, sir,” the aide said, and stood rigidly, some of the joy fading from his face.

  “The priest, eh?” Supreme General Fetterer rubbed his fingers together thoughtfully. Even since the Coming, since the knowledge of the imminent Last Battle, the religious workers of the world had made a complete nuisance of themselves. They had stopped their bickering, which was commendable. But now they were trying to run military business.

  “Send him away,” Fetterer said. “He knows we’re planning Armageddon.”

  “Yes, sir,” the aide said. He saluted sharply, wheeled, and marched out.

  “To go on,” Supreme General Fetterer said. “Behind Satan’s first line of defense will be the resurrected sinners, and various elemental forces of evil. The fallen angels will act as his bomber corps. Dell’s robot interceptors will meet them.”

  General Dell smiled grimly.

  “Upon contact, MacFee’s automatic tank corps will proceed toward the center of the line. MacFee’s automatic tank corps will proceed toward the center,” Fetterer went on, “supported by General Ongin’s robot infantry. Dell will command the H bombing of the rear, which should be tightly massed. I will thrust with the mechanized cavalry, here and here.”

  The aide came back, and stood rigidly at attention. “Sir,” he said, “the priest refuses to go. He says he must speak with you.”

  Supreme General Fetterer hesitated before saying no. He remembered that this was the Last Battle, and that the religious workers were connected with it. He decided to give the man five minutes.

  “Show him in,” he said.

  The priest wore a plain business suit, to show that he represented no particular religion. His face was tired but determined.

  “General,” he said, “I am a representative of all the religious workers of the world, the priests, rabbis, ministers, mullahs, and all the rest. We beg of you, General, to let us fight in the Lord’s battle.”

  Supreme General Fetterer drummed his fingers nervously against his side. He wanted to stay on friendly terms with these men. Even he, the Supreme Commander, might need a good word, when all was said and done…

  “You can understand my position,” Fetterer said unhappily. “I’m a general. I have a battle to fight.”

  “But it’s the Last Battle,” the priest said. “It should be the people’s battle.”

  “It is,” Fetterer said. “It’s being fought by their representatives, the military.”

  The priest didn’t look at all convinced.

  Fetterer said, “You wouldn’t want to lose this battle, would you? Have Satan win?”

  “Of course not,” the priest murmured.

  “Then we can’t take any chances,” Fetterer said. “All the governments agreed on that, didn’t they? Oh, it would be very nice to fight Armageddon with the mass of humanity. Symbolic, you might say. But could we be certain of victory?”

  The priest tried to say something, but Fetterer was talking rapidly.

  “How do we know the strength of Satan’s forces? We simply must put forth our best foot, militarily speaking. And that means the automatic armies, the robot interceptors and tanks, the H bombs.”

  The priest looked very unhappy. “But it isn’t right,” he said. “Certainly you can find some place in your plan for people?”

  Fetterer thought about it, but the request was impossible. The plan of battle was fully developed, beautiful, irresistible. Any introduction of a gross human element would only throw it out of order. No living flesh could stand the noise of that mechanical attack, the energy potentials humming in the air, the all-enveloping fire power. A human being who came within a hundred miles of the front would not live to see the enemy.

  “I’m afraid not,” Fetterer said.

  “There are some,” the priest said sternly, “who feel that it was an error to put this in the hands of the military.”

  “Sorry,” Fetterer said cheerfully. “That’s defeatist talk. If you don’t mind—” He gestured at the door. Wearily, the priest left.

  “These civilians,” Fetterer mused. “Well, gentlemen, are your troops ready?”

  “We’re ready to fight for Him,” General MacFee said enthusiastically. “I can vouch for every automatic in my command. Their metal is shining, all relays have been renewed, and the energy reservoirs are fully charged. Sir, they’re positively itching for battle!”

  General Ongin snapped fully out of his daze. “The ground troops are ready, sir!”

  “Air arm ready,” General Dell said.

  “Excellent,” General Fetterer said. “All other arrangements have been made. Television facilities are available for the total population of the world. No one, rich or poor, will miss the spectacle of the Last Battle.”

  “And after the battle—” General Ongin began, and stopped. He looked at Fetterer.

  Fetterer frowned deeply. He didn’t know what was supposed to happen after The Battle. That part of it was presumably in the hands of the religious agencies.

  “I suppose there’ll be a presentation or something,” he said vaguely.

  “You mean we will meet—Him?” General Dell asked.

  “Don’t really know,” Fetterer said. “But I should think so. After all—I mean, you know what I mean.”

  “But what should we wear?” General MacFee asked, in a sudden panic. “I mean, what does one wear?”

  “What do the angels wear?” Fetterer asked Ongin.

  “I don’t know,” Ongin said.

  “Robes, do you think?” General Dell offered.

  “No,” Fetterer said sternly. “We will wear dress uniform, without decorations.”

  The generals nodded. It was fitting.

  And then it was time.

  Gorgeous in their battle array, the legions of Hell advanced over the desert. Hellish pipes skirled, hollow drums pounded, and the great ghost moved forward.

  In a blinding cloud of sand, General MacFee’s automatic tanks hurled themselves against the satanic foe. Immediately, Dell’s automatic bombers screeched overhead, hurling their bombs on the massed horde of the damned. Fetterer thrust valiantly with his automatic cavalry.

  Into this melee advanced Ongin’s automatic infantry, and metal did what metal could.

  The hordes of the damned overflowed the front, ripping apart tanks and robots. Automatic mechanisms died, bravely defending a patch of sand. Dell’s bombers were torn from the skies by the fallen angels, led by Marchocias, his griffin’s wings beating the air into a tornado.

  The thin, battered line of robots held, against gigantic presences that smashed and scattered them, and struck terror into the hearts of television viewers in homes around the world. Like men, like heroes the robots fought, trying to force back the forces of evil.

  Astaroth shrieked a command, and Behemoth lumbered forward. Bael, with a wedge of devils behind him, threw a charge at General Fetterer’s crumbling left flank. Metal screamed, electrons howled in agony at the impact.

  Supreme General Fetterer sweated and trembled, a thousand miles behind the firing line. But steadily, nervelessly, he guided the pushing of buttons and the throwing of levers.

  His superb corps didn’t disappoint him. Mortally damaged robots swayed to their feet and fought. Smashed, trampled, destroyed by the howling fiends, the robots managed to hold their line. Then the veteran Fifth Corps threw in a counterattack, and the enemy front was pierced.

  A thousand miles behind the firing line, the generals guided the mopping up operations.

  “The battle is won,” Supreme General Fetterer whispered, turning away from the television screen. “I congratulate you, gentlemen.”

  The generals smiled wearily.

  They looked at each other, then broke into a spontaneous shout. Armageddon was won, and the forces of Satan had been vanquished.

  But something was happening on their screens.

  “Is that—is that—” General MacFee began, and then couldn’t speak.

  For The Presence was upon the battlefield, walking among the piles of twisted, shattered metal.

  The generals were silent.

  The Presence touched a twisted robot.

  Upon the smoking desert, the robots began to move. The twisted, scored, fused metals straightened.

  The robots stood on their feet again.

  “MacFee,” Supreme General Fetterer whispered. “Try your controls. Make the robots kneel or something.”

  The general tried, but his controls were dead.

  The bodies of the robots began to rise in the air. Around them were the angels of the Lord, and the robot tanks and soldiers and bombers floated upward, higher and higher.

  “He’s saving them!” Ongin cried hysterically. “He’s saving the robots!”

  “It’s a mistake!” Fetterer said. “Quick. Send a messenger to—no! We will go in person!”

  And quickly a ship was commanded, and quickly they sped to the field of battle. But by then it was too late, for Armageddon was over, and the robots gone, and the Lord and his host departed.

  Editor's Introduction to:

  MERCENARIES AND MILITARY VIRTUE

  by Jerry Pournelle

  This essay was originally written as the introduction to HAMMER’S SLAMMERS by David Drake. I thought the points worth making again, and with very little change it could have served as the introduction to this book.

  MERCENARIES AND MILITARY VIRTUE

  by Jerry Pournelle

  In Europe and especially in England, military history is a respected intellectual discipline. Not so here. I doubt there are a dozen U.S. academic posts devoted to the study of the military arts.

  The public esteem of the profession of arms is at a rather low ebb just now—at least in the United States. The Soviet Union retains the pomp and ceremony of military glory, and the officer class is highly regarded, if not by the public (who can know the true feelings of Soviet citizens?) then at least by the rulers of the Kremlin. Nor did the intellectuals always despise soldiers in the United States. Many of the very universities which delight in making mock of uniforms were endowed by land grants and were founded in the expectation that they would train officers for the state militia. It has not been all that many years since US combat troops were routinely expected to take part in parades; when soldiers were proud to wear uniform off post, and when my uniform was sufficient for free entry into movie houses, the New York Museum of Modern Art, the New York Ballet, and as I recall the Met (as well as to other establishments catering to the less cultural needs of the soldier).

  But now both the military and anyone who studies war are held in a good deal of contempt.

  I do not expect this state of affairs to last—in fact, I am certain that it cannot. A nation which despises its soldiers will all too soon have a despicable army.

  The depressing fact is that history is remarkably clear on one point: wealthy republics do not last long. Time after time they have risen to wealth and freedom; the citizens become wealthy and sophisticated; unwilling to volunteer to protect themselves, they go to conscription; this too becomes intolerable; and soon enough they turn to mercenaries.

  Machiavelli understood that, and things have not much changed since his time—except that Americans know far less history than did the rulers of Florence and Milan and Venice.

  For mercenaries are a dangerous necessity. If they are incompetent, they will ruin you. If they are competent there is always the temptation to rob the paymaster.

  Why should they not? They know their employers will not fight. They may, if recruited into a national army, retain loyalty to the country—but if the nation despises them, and takes every possible opportunity to let them know it, then that incentive falls as well—and they have a monopoly on the means of violence. Their employers won’t fight—if they would, they needn’t have hired mercenaries.

  The result is usually disastrous for the wealthy republic.

  After all, it should be fairly clear than no one fights purely for money; that anyone who does is probably not worth hiring. As Montesquieu put it, “a rational army would run away.” To stand on the firing parapet and expose yourself to danger; to stand and fight a thousand miles from home when you’re all alone and outnumbered and probably beaten; to spit on your hands and lower the pike, to stand fast over the body of Leonidas the King, to be rear guard at Kunu-ri; to stand and be still to the Birkenhead drill; these are not rational acts.

  They are often merely necessary.

  Through history, through painful experience, military professionals have built up a specialized knowledge: how to induce men (including most especially themselves) to fight, aye, and to die. To charge the guns at Breed’s Hill and New Orleans, at Chippewa and at Cold Harbor; to climb the wall of the Embassy Compound at Peking; to go ashore at Betio and Saipan; to load and fire with precision and accuracy while the Bon Homme Richard is sinking; to fly in that thin air five miles above a hostile land and bring the ship straight and level for thirty seconds over Regensberg and Ploesti; to endure at Heartbreak Ridge and Porkchop Hill and the Iron Triangle and Dien Bien Phu and Hue and Firebase 34 and a thousand nameless hills and villages.

  It’s a rather remarkable achievement, when you think about it. It’s even more remarkable when you look closer and see just how many mercenary units have performed creditably, honorably, even gallantly; how many of those who have changed history on the battlefield have been professional soldiers. For despite the silly sayings about violence never settling anything, history IS changed on the battlefield: ask the National Socialist German Workers’ Party, the Continental Congress, the Carthaginians, the Israelis, the Confederate State of America, Pompey and Caesar and Richard III and Harold of Wessex, Don Juan of Austria and Aetius the last Roman. Yet you could search through the armies of history and you would find few competent troopers who fought for money and money alone.