influential people he spoke before now were-one would think-more the Henry Luce type. Yet they were visibly impressed.
"Moving, very moving," Groteschele said. "But somewhat dangling, a bit suspended, no indication of how we get from war to peace. No one wants war, Foster.' But the possibility of war just happens to be a reality. I want us to face realities."
"All right, Groteschele, look at it from the view-
point of the anthropologist," Foster said. "What is war's function?"
"The resolution of conflict," Groteschele snapped.
"In primitive societies how do men resolve their conflicts?" Foster asked.
"By individual combat," Groteschele said. He had pulled his shoulders back and was somewhat more tense. This type of dialogue where his opponent turned Socrates made him restless.
"And when they become organized into tribes?" Foster said.
"Then the fighting becomes collective," Groteschele said.
"And when they become nation-states?"
"It is still violence, damn it, Foster," Groteschele said. "What is irresponsible is to suggest that as groups become bigger and the power of weapons more immense that anything is changed."
Foster cut in rudely. "Are you suggesting that a spear thrown and a nuclear bomb dropped are comparable? Just a difference in degree? Nonsenset Is it not possible, Groteschele, that war itself has become obsolete? Your superbly reasoned Counter-Escalation indicates that in any possible war the overwhelming majority of citizens are going to be killed. Does this suggest to you still that war is a resolution of conflicts?"
"Foster, you are hopelessly sentimental," Groteschele said. "The situation is no different than it was a thousand years igo. There were primitive wars in which populations were totally destroyed. The point is, who is going to be the victor and who the victim? It is still a question of the survival of a culture."
Foster rocked on his heels.
"A culture," he said slowly, his voice full of wonder.
"A culture with most of its people dead, the rotting smell of death in the air for years, its vegetation burned off, the germ plasm of survivors contaminated. You say I am the utopian and you are the realist. Do you really think that this world you describe is a culture?"
Groteschele was familiar' with every gambit. His reply was reasonable, quietly uttered, and difficult to refute. He drew it out to great length. The spectators listened respectfully.
It was Betty who broke the spell. Before Black realized it, she had moved from his side, drunk, yet at the same time rigidly controlled.
"It is hopeless," she said, staring at the two men. "You are both romantics caught up in your fantasy world of logic and reason and that is why it is so damned hopeless. Because man himself has become obsolete. He is like the dodo and the dinosaur but for the opposite reason. His damned brain has gotten us into this mess because of its sophistication and we cannot get out of it because of his pride. Man has calculated himself into so specialized a braininess that he has gone beyond reality. And he cannot tap the truth of his viscera because that, for a specialist, is the ultimate sin."
Black had not heard her speak with such overcontrol for years. Her 'words fell like a pall on the group. Even Groteschele was at a loss for the right thing to say. He went through a ritual of taking a Philippine cigar from a small leather cigar case in his pocket. Since the Bay of Pigs episode he had stopped smoking Cuban cigars.
"You think I've overdone it?" As Betty spoke a new quality seemed to come over her. Black looked at her with increasing concern. An inner intensity was flow-
big from her, almost visibly. It acted like a powerful magnet on everyone present, drawing their eyes to her, holding their rapt attention.
"The world," Betty continued, her voice now edged with despair, "is no longer man's theater. Man has been made into a helpless spectator. The two evil forces he has created-science and the state-have combined
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