Isso soa como o Ato de Desaparecimento de Alfred Bester .
O cenário é alguma forma de guerra não especificada. As demandas da guerra exigem que todos treinem como alguma forma de técnico:
"We must dig in against the hordes of barbarism," General Carpenter said. "Give me a thousand engineers."
One thousand engineers were forthcoming, and a hundred cities were dug and hollowed out beneath the rubble.
"Give me five hundred sanitation experts, three hundred traffic managers, two hundred air-conditioning experts, one hundred city managers, one thousand communication chiefs, seven hundred personnel experts . .."
The list of General Carpenter's demand for technical experts was endless. America did not know how to supply them.
"We must become a nation of experts," General Carpenter informed the National Association of American Universities. "Every man and woman must be a specific tool for a specific job, hardened and sharpened by your training and education to win the fight for the American Dream."
E assim por diante.
Os jovens não ficam loucos e atacam as pessoas. Em vez disso, encontraram uma maneira de desaparecer em outros mundos para escapar dos horrores da guerra. Eles deixam para trás seus corpos comatosos, que são mantidos na Ala T.
Em um esforço para entender como eles fazem isso, vários especialistas são recrutados, incluindo o historiador Dr. Scrim:
But there was trouble locating a first-class Historian until the Federal Penitentiary operated with the army and released Dr. Bradley Scrim from his twenty years at hard labor. Dr. Scrim was acid and jagged. He had held the chair of Philosophic History at a Western university until he spoke his mind about the war for the American Dream. That got him the twenty years hard.
Scrim é como você diz um tanto desdenhoso do meio militar - foi o que o levou à prisão. Scrim eventualmente diz ao General Carpenter que eles precisam de um poeta para entender o que os homens estão fazendo (eu irei esconder o final, já que você diz que não se lembra dele):
Carpenter snapped up his intercom. "Send me a poet," he said.
He waited, and waited ... and waited ... while America sorted feverishly through its two hundred and ninety millions of hardened and sharpened experts, its specialized tools to defend the American Dream of beauty and poetry and the Better Things in Life. He waited for them to find a poet, not understanding the endless delay, the fruitless search; not understanding why Bradley Scrim laughed and laughed and laughed at this final, fatal disappearance.