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unflattering photo, and one in which he looks unusually menacing. The picture slowly zooms in. “The Caliph has stated that he would accept his citizens eating grass if it meant his country could acquire the hydrogen bomb. His brutal regime has slaughtered thousands of his own people. Just imagine what he would do to others outside the borders of his ever-expanding empire.” By now the eyes of the Caliph fill the wall. Cold eyes, digitally retouched to remove any white glints from the pupils.
The final scene. Mary, returned to her pre-explosion state, is cycling home from school. She pulls up to the door and her mother and father run to embrace her. The girl looks into the camera and smiles. “Every parent puts the safety of their children above all else. Your country feels the same. That is why we must take every effort not to see nuclear weapons in the hands of terrorists. Support our efforts to keep our world a peaceful one. For Mary’s sake.”
The lights went up. Rainbow, who had been doodling on a notepad, returned to an upright posture. I rubbed my eyes. It was schlock. Total rubbish. But we had the read-outs and it worked. In fact we had several versions of the film. This one was for parents with young daughters. There were others for those with sons, or no kids. Versions with different races, versions with same-sex couples welcoming the child home. This was a relatively recent change. We had screened the same version our subject had just seen to another man some weeks before and he had suddenly run off. It had subsequently transpired that he was impotent and had been left by his wife as he could not give her any children. Poor record-checking on our part. A wasted interview and one more report to our superiors.
“I trust that you paid proper attention to that film. Tell me. Do you believe that Mesopotamia possesses and wishes to use a thermonuclear device against us?”
“Yes.”
“What do you believe our response should be?”
“We need to... by any means necessary, take action. Straight away.”
“Would you support an immediate invasion of Mesopotamia?”
“Yes.”
“A pre-emptive nuclear strike?”
“Yes. Anything.”
“Thank you. I wonder if you would take the time to fill out a short questionnaire. This is a list of possible emergency measures that our government could take in response to this threat. I would like you simply to read each suggestion, and then make a mark next to each in these boxes, ‘Yes’ or ‘No’, as to whether you believe they could be justified.”
The man skimmed through all the items as though looking at a shopping list. Then he quickly ticked ‘Yes’ to each.
“Thank you very much. You've been very helpful.” Miller offered his hand; after a while of looking at it the man shook it. “It’s been a pleasure. If you could just show yourself out of this door, please.”
--
9:59. I jiggled my fingers, raised both shoulders in turn. Inhaled, exhaled. I’ve never liked presentations. They said that they would get easier. Maybe they have; I can’t really remember the earlier ones. You start, you finish. In the middle there is a blank. You must have done it, because people ask you about it and they seem to understand. But that half hour has gone down the memory hole.
Fantastic scenarios played out in my head, all of them ending disastrously. The projector broke; I stopped mid-sentence, unable to speak; I accidentally made a terrible mistake and was shouted down by everyone in the room. For all that, my body stayed calm. There was no ball of heat in my throat, no sickness in my stomach, no sweat when I wiped my hand on my forehead. That was why I took the atenolol, I guess. Somewhere, in another room, was another me, a body screaming to get out of there. And here I was, just a doppelgänger. Virtual, a ghost. You could put your hand through me. The room could fade out, at any moment, to a grid of green lines on a black background, and I would fade with it.
The clock clicked round to 10. I cleared my throat. Around me, the chatter died down and stopped. Someone came in from outside, turned down the lights, and disappeared, closing the door behind him. I paused and smiled, just as I should have.
“Ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for coming. I hope you will allow me to present to you the results of our recent study: ‘A Just Cause? Public Opinion and Proportional Response to the Mesopotamian Question.’” I clicked onto the first slide. To my relief, it displayed.
I talked through the methodology of our study. People nodded, made notes. This was the easy bit. As I became calmer, I looked at the faces around me. There were the military ones, of course. One general, five others. A few who I recognised as behavioural scientists. A smattering of civil servants and a couple of politicians. There were some I didn’t know. While most had an identifying sheet of cardboard in front, folded in half and raised to a triangle, there were a few who had none. There always were.
“The survey was, of course, designed to reflect the demands of the New Popular Democratic system. The pool size was 2,300, more than 50% above the minimum for NPD validity, and was scrupulously selected with regards to age, gender, geography and so on in line with the Gleissman formula. Under these conditions, we estimate the opinions demonstrated to be those of the nation at large to an accuracy of greater than 99%.” I waited a couple of seconds before continuing as pens jotted down the numbers.
“The results were striking. While we hypothesised that a majority of subjects would support some degree of pre-emptive retaliation, what we in fact found was that more than 90% answered ‘Yes’ to one or more of the options that we surveyed them on. For every possibility given except one, the ‘Yes’ response was greater than the 67% supermajority needed to authorise immediate action by the government under the aegis of the NPD. The only option to fall short of this supermajority was an all-out nuclear strike, although even this was supported by more than 60%.”
I again waited while the present company noted the responses. The general raised his hand and I took his question.
“Thank you. This one here, ‘Indefinite detention of Mesopotamian nationals on domestic soil’. Would we be required to apply the terms of the Geneva Convention to such people?”
“No sir, we would not. A very strong majority of respondents supported the temporary suspension of the Geneva Convention in such times of emergency. This will be on the next slide.” The general nodded and returned to his notepad.
There were no more questions until the end of the presentation. Then it was Dr Burrhus’ turn to quiz me. It was all procedural stuff, experimental validity. Bread and butter really. I could see a few of those present getting impatient, but I didn’t mind. She was thorough, and she had to convince her paymasters that all the Ts had been crossed. Otherwise no funding for us, and no more surveys for them. Eventually she finished and sat back, seeming satisfied.
There was a silence for a few seconds, and then a man in a sharp suit started to speak. I had never seen him before, nor did he have any stationery to identify him. He looked in some way insubstantial, camouflaged, and I cannot recall his face now.
“Tell me, this Miller, the leader of your study. Is he good? One of the best?”
“Oh yes, absolutely.” I could feel something vague rising in me, something that the chemical dam between heart and brain couldn’t quite keep down. “Yes, the best. The very best.”
--
We were getting towards the end of the follow-up study. Re-interviewing the same people. I looked through the notes on this one. Average explorativeness... average-to-high degree of threat anxiety. Two young daughters. I vaguely remembered him.
As the film played I looked at Miller. He was leaving in two weeks. Where, I did not know. He wouldn’t tell me. He said that it was a matter of state security, but that was probably just an excuse. Would he ever be back? Probably not.
The lights went up. Miller smiled and fixed his eyes on the subject. The same tricks as usual.
“Tell me, having seen that film. Would you say that the invasion of Mesopotamia has been a success?”
“Yes.” Positive response, tick, patterns of colours
on a screen. The same old thing all over again. A cup of coffee in ten minutes and then another braindead interviewee. “Yes, a total success.”
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The final scene. Mary, returned to her pre-explosion state, is cycling home from school. She pulls up to the door and her mother and father run to embrace her. The girl looks into the camera and smiles. “Every parent puts the safety of their children above all else. Your country feels the same. That is why we must take every effort not to see nuclear weapons in the hands of terrorists. Support our efforts to keep our world a peaceful one. For Mary’s sake.”
The lights went up. Rainbow, who had been doodling on a notepad, returned to an upright posture. I rubbed my eyes. It was schlock. Total rubbish. But we had the read-outs and it worked. In fact we had several versions of the film. This one was for parents with young daughters. There were others for those with sons, or no kids. Versions with different races, versions with same-sex couples welcoming the child home. This was a relatively recent change. We had screened the same version our subject had just seen to another man some weeks before and he had suddenly run off. It had subsequently transpired that he was impotent and had been left by his wife as he could not give her any children. Poor record-checking on our part. A wasted interview and one more report to our superiors.
“I trust that you paid proper attention to that film. Tell me. Do you believe that Mesopotamia possesses and wishes to use a thermonuclear device against us?”
“Yes.”
“What do you believe our response should be?”
“We need to... by any means necessary, take action. Straight away.”
“Would you support an immediate invasion of Mesopotamia?”
“Yes.”
“A pre-emptive nuclear strike?”
“Yes. Anything.”
“Thank you. I wonder if you would take the time to fill out a short questionnaire. This is a list of possible emergency measures that our government could take in response to this threat. I would like you simply to read each suggestion, and then make a mark next to each in these boxes, ‘Yes’ or ‘No’, as to whether you believe they could be justified.”
The man skimmed through all the items as though looking at a shopping list. Then he quickly ticked ‘Yes’ to each.
“Thank you very much. You've been very helpful.” Miller offered his hand; after a while of looking at it the man shook it. “It’s been a pleasure. If you could just show yourself out of this door, please.”
--
9:59. I jiggled my fingers, raised both shoulders in turn. Inhaled, exhaled. I’ve never liked presentations. They said that they would get easier. Maybe they have; I can’t really remember the earlier ones. You start, you finish. In the middle there is a blank. You must have done it, because people ask you about it and they seem to understand. But that half hour has gone down the memory hole.
Fantastic scenarios played out in my head, all of them ending disastrously. The projector broke; I stopped mid-sentence, unable to speak; I accidentally made a terrible mistake and was shouted down by everyone in the room. For all that, my body stayed calm. There was no ball of heat in my throat, no sickness in my stomach, no sweat when I wiped my hand on my forehead. That was why I took the atenolol, I guess. Somewhere, in another room, was another me, a body screaming to get out of there. And here I was, just a doppelgänger. Virtual, a ghost. You could put your hand through me. The room could fade out, at any moment, to a grid of green lines on a black background, and I would fade with it.
The clock clicked round to 10. I cleared my throat. Around me, the chatter died down and stopped. Someone came in from outside, turned down the lights, and disappeared, closing the door behind him. I paused and smiled, just as I should have.
“Ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for coming. I hope you will allow me to present to you the results of our recent study: ‘A Just Cause? Public Opinion and Proportional Response to the Mesopotamian Question.’” I clicked onto the first slide. To my relief, it displayed.
I talked through the methodology of our study. People nodded, made notes. This was the easy bit. As I became calmer, I looked at the faces around me. There were the military ones, of course. One general, five others. A few who I recognised as behavioural scientists. A smattering of civil servants and a couple of politicians. There were some I didn’t know. While most had an identifying sheet of cardboard in front, folded in half and raised to a triangle, there were a few who had none. There always were.
“The survey was, of course, designed to reflect the demands of the New Popular Democratic system. The pool size was 2,300, more than 50% above the minimum for NPD validity, and was scrupulously selected with regards to age, gender, geography and so on in line with the Gleissman formula. Under these conditions, we estimate the opinions demonstrated to be those of the nation at large to an accuracy of greater than 99%.” I waited a couple of seconds before continuing as pens jotted down the numbers.
“The results were striking. While we hypothesised that a majority of subjects would support some degree of pre-emptive retaliation, what we in fact found was that more than 90% answered ‘Yes’ to one or more of the options that we surveyed them on. For every possibility given except one, the ‘Yes’ response was greater than the 67% supermajority needed to authorise immediate action by the government under the aegis of the NPD. The only option to fall short of this supermajority was an all-out nuclear strike, although even this was supported by more than 60%.”
I again waited while the present company noted the responses. The general raised his hand and I took his question.
“Thank you. This one here, ‘Indefinite detention of Mesopotamian nationals on domestic soil’. Would we be required to apply the terms of the Geneva Convention to such people?”
“No sir, we would not. A very strong majority of respondents supported the temporary suspension of the Geneva Convention in such times of emergency. This will be on the next slide.” The general nodded and returned to his notepad.
There were no more questions until the end of the presentation. Then it was Dr Burrhus’ turn to quiz me. It was all procedural stuff, experimental validity. Bread and butter really. I could see a few of those present getting impatient, but I didn’t mind. She was thorough, and she had to convince her paymasters that all the Ts had been crossed. Otherwise no funding for us, and no more surveys for them. Eventually she finished and sat back, seeming satisfied.
There was a silence for a few seconds, and then a man in a sharp suit started to speak. I had never seen him before, nor did he have any stationery to identify him. He looked in some way insubstantial, camouflaged, and I cannot recall his face now.
“Tell me, this Miller, the leader of your study. Is he good? One of the best?”
“Oh yes, absolutely.” I could feel something vague rising in me, something that the chemical dam between heart and brain couldn’t quite keep down. “Yes, the best. The very best.”
--
We were getting towards the end of the follow-up study. Re-interviewing the same people. I looked through the notes on this one. Average explorativeness... average-to-high degree of threat anxiety. Two young daughters. I vaguely remembered him.
As the film played I looked at Miller. He was leaving in two weeks. Where, I did not know. He wouldn’t tell me. He said that it was a matter of state security, but that was probably just an excuse. Would he ever be back? Probably not.
The lights went up. Miller smiled and fixed his eyes on the subject. The same tricks as usual.
“Tell me, having seen that film. Would you say that the invasion of Mesopotamia has been a success?”
“Yes.” Positive response, tick, patterns of colours
on a screen. The same old thing all over again. A cup of coffee in ten minutes and then another braindead interviewee. “Yes, a total success.”
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Just War