"Campo de batalha" , conto por Harlan Ellison ; publicado pela primeira vez como "Seu primeiro dia na guerra" em Viagens Espaciais , novembro 1958 , disponível no Arquivo da Internet ; previamente identificado como a resposta para a pergunta conto de ficção científica onde 'blues é bom vermelho é ruim '.
O jantar é apenas uma pequena parte da história, que começa na lua. Aqui está uma conversa de jantar:
Then the forks went into the food, and mouths opened, and dinner was underway. As they sat and discussed what was what, and who had gotten his, and wasn't it wonderful how the moon was the battlefield, while the Earth was saved from more destruction like those 20th Century barbarians had dealt it.
"Listen, Bill," Massaro jabbed the fork into the air, punctuating his words, "next Sunday you and Yo and the kids come on over to our hovel. It'll cost you for a robo-sitter next week. We're sick of laying out the credits."
They smiled and nodded and the dinner date for next Sunday was firmed up.
De volta ao trabalho na segunda-feira:
The commuter platforms. The ships racked one past another, pointed toward the faint light they could not see. The light of the dead battlefield. Moon. The Blacks in their regal uniforms queueing up to enter the vessels, the Whites in splendid array, about to board ship.
A Black ship lay beside a White ship.
Bill Donnough boarded one as he caught a glance at the ship beside. Massaro was in line there.
"Go to hell, you White bastard!" he yelled. There was no friendliness there. No camaraderie.
"Die, you slob-creepin' Black! Drop!" he was answered.
O final:
Later that evening, Bill Donnough would start looking for another home to attend, the following Sunday.
Who said war was hell? It had been a good day on the line.