=1 "Peace on earth"

Peace on earth

by Medhananda

The first step had been taken by a yogi sitting on the inner equivalent of a snowy peak in the Himalayas. He smiled.
That had been the first step.

Professor Imi Noa, with a group of fellow scientists, was looking at a big colony of rats in his laboratory. “You see, as I said in my last paper, it is the end of the B branch of the Y chromosome, the male chromosome, which is destroyed by the radioactive antaretium isotope. These rats have been exposed to only 2.5 millirontgen. Two microns at the end of the B branch of the chromosome have disappeared, and as you can see, along with them all the aggressiveness of the animals themselves.”

The third step involved the almost miraculous cures of a number of male convicts, doing long-term prison sentences for crimes of violence, who volunteered for the experiment.

In consequence of these steps there was held a Pugwash conference of the top geneticians of the world. For a considerable time there was a discussion about rats, and then about monkeys. But at the end of the conference the presiding Russian academician, Andreas Rouratoff, spoke:

“We all agree, therefore, that the human gene Y-265-B has to be changed, and that this change, this mutation engineering, will take place on the 21st of September at exactly 6:00 a.m. GMT.” His American counterpart nodded.

“Yes,” he said, and added, “The fall-out of course will have its effects on all the vertebrates of the planet, even the sharks and the reptiles. There won't be a Y-265-B left on earth.” That had been the definitive step.

On the 22nd of September at 6:00 a.m. C.S.T. in Leavenworth, Kansas, prison warden no. 73 opened cell 305 and told the prisoner, no. 5973, “Have your breakfast and go home. You are the last one. The others have all left.”

For a moment the warden had the feeling that this was against the rules, but then again he could find no reason why he should not say that. After all, the fellow obviously wanted to go home. And the prisoner, as he left, had the vague feeling of having promised himself long ago to kick the warden while going out, but he suppressed the feeling as utterly undignified. Instead he simply said, “Goodbye and good luck,” and went out.

Afterwards, in the street, as he passed C. B. Rosenbladt, Gentlemen Tailors, Mr. Rosenbladt standing in the doorway recognized him. Their professional acquaintance had begun several years before when our prisoner had burgled the clothing store. Now Mr. Rosenbladt called out:

“Hello, Johnnie. You need a new suit. Come in and choose one. I know you don't have any money now.” A quarter of an hour later he met an old acquaintance, Herbie McCracker, the 47th Street patrolman.

“Hello, Johnnie.”
“Hello, Herbie, nice to see you.”
“You know,” said Herbie, “the jeweller down the street, Stern & Company, says he has something for you, as you like sparklers. Take my car if you wish.”

Johnnie had the feeling that something must be terribly wrong, or rather terrifyingly right for the first time in his life, but he didn't know what. Perhaps it was that everybody knew his secret thoughts. After only a fleeting desire to bust Herbie in the nose, he discovered only the friendliest feeling in his heart for everybody.

“No, Herbie,” he said, “I won't take your car, you might need it, and walking is good exercise for me after my long stretch in the clink.”

At 10 a.m. in the Pentagon, Five-Star-General Snyder, Chief of Staff, who had invited the top brass for their weekly conference, instead of opening the folder before him with the agenda of the conference, heard himself saying: “Gentlemen, for a long time I have wanted to retire to my little farm in the Poughkeepsie Mountains, and just now I have decided to do it. I am fifty years old, and I have the feeling that men of my age should lead a quiet life of meditation dedicated to peace and to poetry. There is nothing urgent on the agenda, so I wish you all good morning.”

In Moscow it was 4:00 in the afternoon, and the Presidium had been called together by Party Secretary Smirnoff. He stood before them.
“Comrades, I have decided to resign and go to India, to retire in the ashram of my friend, Yogi Gompananda. I know that your good wishes will accompany me.” And he kissed them all farewell.

In Pillbox 29 on the road from Ismaila to Suez, Ibrahim Ben Yussuf, a soldier of the Egyptian army, said to his sergeant: “Look, what's the use of sitting here? Have you seen a single officer in the last week? Everybody has gone home. I want to go home too.” They looked across the canal where the ships had started moving up and down again, and finally Yussuf said: “I'll leave my gun with you. I wouldn't need one. I couldn't even shoot a rat.”
After a while the sergeant said thoughtfully: “Have you seen the rats lately? How tame they have become?”
“Yes, they too have stopped fighting among themselves,” said Ibrahim.
“Go along,” said the sergeant. “I like it here. It's a peaceful place. And somebody has to tend to the morning glories on the pillbox. The sweet peas are coming nicely too.”
“Salaam alaikam,” said Ibrahim.
“And with you too,” replied the sergeant. “Va alaikam assalaam.”

Professor Imi Noa looked at his radiation detection meter and nodded. The last dust of radioactive antaretium had sifted down through the atmosphere. He smiled. It had done its work. Y-265-B in animal genes had disappeared, and with it all excessive male aggressiveness.