Perhaps it was the extra mug of synthbeer the recruiters gave Melvin.  Perhaps it was the chance to leave the massive cube called a cityment that he had spent his entire life in.  Perhaps it was the promise of adventure in the army.  Most likely, Melvin enlisted because he was unable to say no to anyone in authority.  Whatever the reason, Melvin found himself on a hoverbus en route to a basic training camp within an hour of putting his name on a piece of paper.

Regimentation did not bother Melvin.  He had already been living in an environment where every moment of his day was planned by the cityment leaders.  What he did find disturbing was the alien feeling of sun on his skin.  Like everything else in his life, however, he adjusted to this the first day, then did not ever think about it again.

Life in the camp was a series of evaluations.  One by one, the recruits would be sent to a specialized training facility.  Except Melvin.  The day finally came when the last of his fellow recruits, having failed every test to that point, finally showed aptitude in the mop and broom practical exam.  Melvin continued his daily routine, blissfully incapable of realizing his level of incompetence.

One day, about a week after his solitary life in the barracks began, Melvin was called to the commander’s office.

“Sit down”, private, said the colonel.  “I have been looking at your record.  You have failed every diagnostic test the army has devised.  You are totally lacking in imagination, initiative and intelligence.  You have no introspective ability and cannot plan past your next meal.  In short, you are exactly what the army needs.”

Had the colonel spoken a word that was not true, Melvin would have been enraged.  Since the colonel had nailed his man, Melvin had no more reaction than if the colonel had said, “Private, you are wearing black socks”.

“Tomorrow you will start your training,” continued the officer.  “We have thousands of soldiers in hundreds of occupational specialties.  They range all the way from communications to intelligence to planning to procurement..well, you get the idea,” he said to Melvin, who predictably did not get the idea.

“What we do not have is a combat soldier, one to actually do the fighting.  That will be you.  Our military might is invested in a single machine.  One so powerful that no nation on earth would contemplate attacking us.  There is a problem with it.  Once activated, it must be unstoppable.  There must be no recall, no changing of minds, if it is to be an effective deterrent.  If it is started from the outside, it is possible that a way could be devised by an enemy to turn it off.  If it is started from the inside, a rogue operator could disable it before escaping.  Therefore, the man who starts it must be someone totally unable to even contemplate disobeying orders, who does not even understand that starting it will be his death sentence.  You fit the bill perfectly, private.”

Melvin then started his intensive training.  He was introduced to a simulator for the army’s weapon.  It consisted of a chair with a panel in front of it.  On the panel was a single red button.  The sole action required of him was to wait until he had been sealed into the machine, then push the button when he was given the code words “push the button”.

Over the next few years, Melvin was assigned to numerous bases.  His tasks were few, mainly showing up at the mess hall for meals.  Once a year, he was transported to the simulator to rehearse his vital role in the next war. 

Inevitably, the dreaded day arrived.  Melvin was awakened from a deep sleep and loaded onto a ramrocket for his short flight to his rendezvous with history.  A general accompanied Melvin to the entrance to his craft.  They entered the cramped quarters that would be Melvin’s very temporary quarters. 

“I’m proud of you, private,” said the high ranking officer.  “I envy you and I salute you.  I have one more thing for you.  After you activate the weapon, take this capsule.  It will grant you a merciful end, since there is no way you can ever exit your assignment.  Goodbye and give them hell, soldier!”

Melvin heard the clanging of numerous hatches, closed and sealed forever.  A few minutes later, he heard the fateful command, “push the button”.  He complied and deep within the massive framework, relays were tripped, circuits closed, motors engaged.  Then a cooling fan that had been incorrectly wired allowed an overheated wire to melt which led to a small fire in a critical panel and the unstoppable weapon stopped, becoming the world’s most dangerous junkpile.

Melvin knew nothing about this, of course.  Sealed in the most high tech mausoleum in history, he tried to remember what the general had told him before he left, and realized he had something in his hand.  It was the capsule.  He put it in his mouth and swallowed it.  For probably the first, and certainly the last, time in his life, Melvin wondered about something.

“How odd,” he thought.  “The capsule was green, but it tasted like chocolate.  Why did they make chocolate green?”

“Mr. Hagstrom will see you now.”

Hagstrom.  The Secretary for Interstellar Affairs himself.  Harold knew he was in serious trouble if Hagstrom himself was conducting his debriefing.

“Sit down, Harold.  You don’t mind if I call you Harold, do you?”

“Actually, sir, I prefer…”

“Fine, Harold.   Now, let’s see” said Hagstrom, pretending to look at Harold’s file for the first time.  “Hmm, you were sent on a mission to the planet *G&&7F# to mediate a long-simmering dispute, but instead you started a war.  Not a very promising start to your diplomatic career.  What do you have to say for yourself?”

“Well, sir, the assignment started well enough.  I was met at the spaceport by our local contact, Mr. Wa$@%.  He briefed me on the situation.  Two ancient tribes inhabited planet *G&&7F#.  They were called the AO5T&* and the L++!? tribes.  The root of the conflict was verbal.  The AO..”

“For goodness sake, Harold, please refer to them as the A’s and L’s.  How on earth can you possibly pronounce that language?”

“It’s a gift, sir.  At any rate, the A’s incorporate many vowels in their dialect, whereas the L’s worship a god named AEIOU and consider it a sacrilege to pronounce any part of his name.  On my way to the chambers where I was to conduct the sessions, I witnessed several fights break out because A youths had yelled vowel-laced obscenities at L’s.  As we drove, Mr. Wa$, pardon me, Mr. W explained the protocol for the talks.  I would first meet with the A’s.  They would introduce themselves, and I was to repeat their names PRECISELY, since the A’s consider their names to be a gift of the gods.  Any mispronunciation or slurring would be seen as a grave insult.”

“With your ability to handle exotic languages, you should have been able to breeze through that.”

“I thought so too.  Well, we arrived and the members of the A delegation lined up to meet me.  As each one stepped forward, he stated his name.

‘H*%po.

‘H*%po, I am honored to meet you.

‘7h>>&e.

‘7h>>&e, may we all walk in peace together.

‘Abraham Li’incoln.

‘What kind of stupid joke is that?

‘I knew as soon as I had said it that I had made a grievous error.  Mr. Li’incoln reached for some sort of weapon on his belt, but was restrained by the rest of his clan.  I stammered an apology, but the damage was done.  Mr. W hurried me out of the hall, and said he would try to smooth the ruffled feathers.”

Hagstrom shook his head and said “I guess I can see that you were truly blindsided.  Abraham Lincoln!  How odd.”

“Actually, sir, it was Li’incoln.  Well, Mr. W came for me in the morning, explaining that he had calmed things down.  Mr. L, well I guess I can call him Li’incoln, would accept my apology if I would simply pronounce his name at our first session that morning.  I was quite relieved that my faux pas could be so easily resolved.  When we got to the hall, however, I discovered that the L delegation had arrived early, and their leader, Mr. ^2w.., that is, Mr. ^ was waiting to meet me.  I greeted him. 

‘Gd mrnng, ^2wd@.  Shll w fnd cmmn grnd fr pc?’

‘Grtngs, Mbsdr.  W cm t nd cnflct btwn trbs.’

‘Then I turned to talk to Mr. Li’incoln, hoping Mr. ^ would rejoin his delegation, but he stayed by my side.  Now I was in a real pickle.  How could I say Abraham Li’incoln without arousing the fury of Mr. ^?  So, I tried a compromise.

‘aBRaHaM Li’iNCoLN’ I said.

‘It turned out that A’s meant it when they said their names must be pronounced PRECISELY and also that poor hearing was not a trait of the L’s.  Both Mr. Li’incoln and Mr. ^ produced weapons.  I prepared to die, due either to blasphemy or dishonor.  They suddenly realized that I was no immediate threat, while a sworn enemy was armed and standing 5 feet away. They fired simultaneously.  Their concurrent vaporizations allowed me and Mr.W to flee as the two peace delegations exchanged murderous volleys.  I ran to the spaceport and escaped.  I don’t know what happened to Mr. W.”

“Mr. W survived and has been sending us reports” Hagstrom volunteered.  “The fighting has spread and thousands are dead.  However, I find it impossible to lay the blame at your feet.  You were placed in a situation that may not have been resolvable for our most experienced ambassadors.  I’m willing to give you another chance.”

“That is very understanding of you, sir.  I truly appreciate it.”

“I intend to send you to the planet Gelnar.  Two factions have a long-standing dispute over, of all things, and animal.”

“An animal, sir?”

“Yes” continued Hagstrom.  “It seems there is a large carnivore named a koorlang that is indigenous to the tropical regions of Gelnar.  One tribe, the, oh for heaven’s sake, let’s call them the A tribe, worships this animal as a minor god.  The other tribe, the B’s, consider it necessary to kill a koorlang and present its meat at a feast in order to advance into warrior status.  The A’s are naturally indignant over what they consider deicide.  The B’s resent having their traditional menu abridged.  I guess you could call this a food fight.”

Harold failed to even smile at Hagstrom’s jest, instead saying through gritted teeth “So I guess I’ll meet both delegations at some sort of hall where we will have a welcoming banquet?”

“Well, of course, you would be expected to preside at a traditional dinner meeting…Oh, I see where you’re going with this.  Yes, the choice of entrée could pose a problem.  Harold, where are you going?  Harold, we’re not finished here.”

Harold stopped at the front desk long enough to scribble a resignation, then ran from the building.  He never returned to diplomatic duty, becoming a midlevel manager at a WorldMart store on Mars. He lived a quite unremarkable life.  They only thing that anyone ever found unusual about him was his curious habit of always signing his name “HaRoLD GRuBeR”.