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Chapter no 5

Slaughterhouse Five

BILLY PILGRIMย says that the Universe does not look like a lot of bright little dots to the creatures from Tralfamadore. The creatures can see where each star has been and where it is going, so that the heavens are filled with rarefied, luminous spaghetti. And Tralfamadorians donโ€™t see human beings as two-legged creatures, either. They see them as great millepedesโ€”โ€with babiesโ€™ legs at one end and old peopleโ€™s legs at the other,โ€ says Billy Pilgrim.

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Billy asked for something to read on the trip to Tralfamadore. His captors had five million Earthling books on microfilm, but no way to project them in Billyโ€™s cabin. They had only one actual book in English which would be placed in a Tralfamadorian museum. It wasย Valley of the Dolls, by Jacqueline Susann.

Billy read it, thought it was pretty good in spots. The people in it certainly had their ups and downs, ups and downs. But Billy didnโ€™t want to read about the same ups and downs over and over again. He asked if there wasnโ€™t, please, some other reading matter around.

โ€œOnly Tralfamadorian novels, which Iโ€™m afraid you couldnโ€™t begin to understand,โ€ said the speaker on the wall.

โ€œLet me look at one anyway.โ€

So they sent him in several. They were little things. A dozen of them might have had the bulk ofย Valley of the Dollsโ€”with all its ups

and downs, ups and downs.

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Billy couldnโ€™t read Tralfamadorian, of course, but he could at least see how the books were laid outโ€”in brief clumps of symbols separated by stars. Billy commented that the clumps might be telegrams.

โ€œExactly,โ€ said the voice. โ€œTheyย areย telegrams?โ€

โ€œThere are no telegrams on Tralfamadore. But youโ€™re right: each clump of symbols is a brief, urgent messageโ€”describing a situation, a scene. We Tralfamadorians read them all at once, not one after the other. There isnโ€™t any particular relationship between all the messages, except that the author has chosen them carefully, so that, when seen all at once, they produce an image of life that is beautiful and surprising and deep. There is no beginning, no middle, no end, no suspense, no moral, no causes, no effects. What we love in our books are the depths of many marvelous moments seen all at one time.โ€

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Moments after that, the saucer entered a time warp, and Billy was flung back into his childhood. He was twelve years old, quaking as he stood with his mother and father on Bright Angel Point, at the rim of the Grand Canyon. The little human family was staring at the floor of the canyon, one mile straight down.

โ€œWellโ€”โ€ said Billyโ€™s father, manfully kicking a pebble into space, โ€œthere itย is.โ€ They had come to this famous place by automobile. They had had seven blowouts on the way.

โ€œIt was worth the trip,โ€ said Billyโ€™s mother raptly. โ€œOh, Godโ€” was it everย worthย it.โ€

Billy hated the canyon. He was sure that he was going to fall in.

His mother touched him, and he wet his pants.

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There were other tourists looking down into the canyon, too, and a ranger was there to answer questions. A Frenchman who had come all the way from France asked the ranger in broken English if many people committed suicide by jumping in.

โ€œYes, sir,โ€ said the ranger. โ€œAbout three folks a year.โ€ So it goes.

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And Billy took a very short trip through time, made a peewee jump of only ten days, so he was still twelve, still touring the West with his family. Now they were down in Carlsbad Caverns, and Billy was praying to God to get him out of there before the ceiling fell in.

A ranger was explaining that the Caverns had been discovered by a cowboy who saw a huge cloud of bats come out of a hole in the ground. And then he said that he was going to turn out all the lights, and that it would probably be the first time in the lives of most people there that they had ever been in darkness that was total.

Out went the lights. Billy didnโ€™t even know whether he was still alive or not. And then something ghostly floated in air to his left. It had numbers on it. His father had taken out his pocket watch. The watch had a radium dial.

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Billy went from total dark to total light, found himself back in the war, back in the delousing station again. The shower was over. An unseen hand had turned the water off.

When Billy got his clothes back, they werenโ€™t any cleaner, but all the little animals that had been living in them were dead. So it goes. And his new overcoat was thawed out and limp now. It was much too small for Billy. It had a fur collar and a lining of crimson

silk, and had apparently been made for an impresario about as big as an organ-grinderโ€™s monkey. It was full of bullet holes.

Billy Pilgrim dressed himself. He put on the little overcoat, too. It split up the back, and, at the shoulders, the sleeves came entirely free. So the coat became a fur-collared vest. It was meant to flare at its ownerโ€™s waist, but the flaring took place at Billyโ€™s armpits. The Germans found him to be one of the most screamingly funny things they had seen in all of World War Two. They laughed and laughed.

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And the Germans told everybody else to form in ranks of five, with Billy as their pivot. Then out of doors went the parade, and through gate after gate again. There were more starving Russians with faces like radium dials. The Americans were livelier than before. The jazzing with hot water had cheered them up. And they came to a shed where a corporal with only one arm and one eye wrote the name and serial number of each prisoner in a big, red ledger. Everybody was legally alive now. Before they got their names and numbers in that book, they were missing in action and probably dead.

So it goes.

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As the Americans were waiting to move on, an altercation broke out in their rear-most rank. An American had muttered something which a guard did not like. The guard knew English, and he hauled the American out of ranks, knocked him down.

The American was astonished. He stood up shakily, spitting blood. Heโ€™d had two teeth knocked out. He had meant no harm by what heโ€™d said, evidently, had no idea that the guard would hear and understand.

โ€œWhy me?โ€ he asked the guard.

The guard shoved him back into ranks. โ€œVy you? Vy anybody?โ€ he said.

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When Billy Pilgrimโ€™s name was inscribed in the ledger of the prison camp, he was given a number, too, and an iron dogtag in which that number was stamped. A slave laborer from Poland had done the stamping. He was dead now. So it goes.

Billy was told to hang the tag around his neck along with his American dogtags, which he did. The tag was like a salt cracker, perforated down its middle so that a strong man could snap it in two with his bare hands. In case Billy died, which he didnโ€™t, half of the tag would mark his body and half would mark his grave.

After poor Edgar Derby, the high school teacher, was shot in Dresden later on, a doctor pronounced him dead and snapped his dogtag in two. So it goes.

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Properly enrolled and tagged, the Americans were led through gate after gate again. In two daysโ€™ time now their families would learn from the International Red Cross that they were alive.

Next to Billy was little Paul Lazzaro, who had promised to avenge Roland Weary. Lazzaro wasnโ€™t thinking about vengeance. He was thinking about his terrible bellyache. His stomach had shrunk to the size of a walnut. That dry, shriveled pouch was as sore as a boil.

Next to Lazzaro was poor, doomed old Edgar Derby, with his American and German dogs displayed like a necklace, on the outside of his clothes. He had expected to become a captain, a company commander, because of his wisdom and age. Now here he was on the Czechoslovakian border at midnight.

โ€œHalt,โ€ said a guard.

The Americans halted. They stood there quietly in the cold. The sheds they were among were outwardly like thousands of other sheds they had passed. There was this difference, though: the sheds had tin chimneys, and out of the chimneys whirled constellations of sparks.

A guard knocked on a door.

The door was flung open from inside. Light leaped out through the door, escaped from prison at 186,000 miles per second. Out marched fifty middle-aged Englishmen. They were singing โ€œHail, Hail, the Gangโ€™s All Hereโ€ from theย Pirates of Penzance.

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These lusty, ruddy vocalists were among the first English- speaking prisoners to be taken in the Second World War. Now they were singing to nearly the last. They had not seen a woman or a child for four years or more. They hadnโ€™t seen any birds, either. Not even sparrows would come into the camp.

The Englishmen were o cers. Each of them had attempted to escape from another prison at least once. Now they were here, dead- center in a sea of dying Russians.

They could tunnel all they pleased. They would inevitably surface within a rectangle of barbed wire, would find themselves greeted listlessly by dying Russians who spoke no English, who had no food or useful information or escape plans of their own. They could scheme all they pleased to hide aboard a vehicle or steal one, but no vehicle ever came into their compound. They could feign illness, if they liked, but that wouldnโ€™t earn them a trip anywhere, either. The only hospital in the camp was a six-bed affair in the British compound itself.

The Englishmen were clean and enthusiastic and decent and strong. They sang boomingly well. They had been singing together every night for years.

The Englishmen had also been lifting weights and chinning themselves for years. Their bellies were like washboards. The muscles of their calves and upper arms were like cannonballs. They were all masters of checkers and chess and bridge and cribbage and dominoes and anagrams and charades and Ping-Pong and billiards, as well.

They were among the wealthiest people in Europe, in terms of food. A clerical error early in the war, when food was still getting through to prisoners, had caused the Red Cross to ship them five hundred parcels every month instead of fifty. The Englishmen had hoarded these so cunningly that now, as the war was ending, they had three tons of sugar, one ton of coffee, eleven hundred pounds of chocolate, seven hundred pounds of tobacco, seventeen hundred pounds of tea, two tons of flour, one ton of canned beef, twelve hundred pounds of canned butter, sixteen hundred pounds of canned cheese, eight hundred pounds of powdered milk, and two tons of orange marmalade.

They kept all this in a room without windows. They had ratproofed it by lining it with flattened tin cans.

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They were adored by the Germans, who thought they were exactly what Englishmen ought to be. They made war look stylish and reasonable, and fun. So the Germans let them have four sheds, though one shed would have held them all. And, in exchange for coffee or chocolate or tobacco, the Germans gave them paint and lumber and nails and cloth for fixing things up.

The Englishmen had known for twelve hours that American guests were on their way. They had never had guests before, and they went to work like darling elves, sweeping, mopping, cooking, bakingโ€”making mattresses of straw and burlap bags, setting tables, putting party favors at each place.

Now they were singing their welcome to their guests in the winter night. Their clothes were aromatic with the feast they had

been preparing. They were dressed half for battle, half for tennis or croquet. They were so elated by their own hospitality, and by all the goodies waiting inside, that they did not take a good look at their guests while they sang. And they imagined that they were singing to fellow o cers fresh from the fray.

They wrestled the Americans toward the shed door affectionately, filling the night with manly blather and brotherly rodomontades. They called them โ€œYank,โ€ told them โ€œGood show,โ€ promised them that โ€œJerry was on the run,โ€ and so on.

Billy Pilgrim wondered dimly who Jerry was.

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Now he was indoors, next to an iron cookstove that was glowing cherry red. Dozens of teapots were boiling there. Some of them had whistles. And there was a witchesโ€™ cauldron full of golden soup. The soup was thick. Primeval bubbles surfaced it with lethargical majesty as Billy Pilgrim stared.

There were long tables set for a banquet. At each place was a bowl made from a can that had once contained powdered milk. A smaller can was a cup. A taller, more slender can was a tumbler. Each tumbler was filled with warm milk.

At each place was a safety razor, a washcloth, a package of razor blades, a chocolate bar, two cigars, a bar of soap, ten cigarettes, a book of matches, a pencil, and a candle.

Only the candles and the soap were of German origin. They had a ghostly, opalescent similarity. The British had no way of knowing it, but the candles and the soap were made from the fat of rendered Jews and Gypsies and fairies and communists, and other enemies of the State.

So it goes.

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The banquet hall was illuminated by candlelight. There were heaps of fresh-baked white bread on the tables, gobs of butter, pots of marmalade. There were platters of sliced beef from cans. Soup and scrambled eggs and hot marmalade pie were yet to come.

And, at the far end of the shed, Billy saw pink arches with azure draperies hanging between them, and an enormous clock, and two golden thrones, and a bucket and a mop. It was in this setting that the eveningโ€™s entertainment would take place, a musical version ofย Cinderella, the most popular story ever told.

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Billy Pilgrim was on fire, having stood too close to the glowing stove. The hem of his little coat was burning. It was a quiet, patient sort of fireโ€”like the burning of punk.

Billy wondered if there was a telephone somewhere. He wanted to call his mother, to tell her he was alive and well.

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There was silence now, as the Englishmen looked in astonishment at the frowsy creatures they had so lustily waltzed inside. One of the Englishmen saw that Billy was on fire. โ€œYouโ€™re on fire, lad!โ€ he said, and he got Billy away from the stove and beat out the sparks with his hands.

When Billy made no comment on this, the Englishman asked him, โ€œCan you talk? Can you hear?โ€

Billy nodded.

The Englishman touched him exploratorily here and there, filled with pity. โ€œMy Godโ€”what have they done to you, lad? This isnโ€™t a man. Itโ€™s a broken kite.โ€

โ€œAre you really an American?โ€ said the Englishman. โ€œYes,โ€ said Billy.

โ€œAnd your rank?โ€

โ€œPrivate.โ€

โ€œWhat became of your boots, lad?โ€ โ€œI donโ€™t remember.โ€

โ€œIs that coat aย joke?โ€ โ€œSir?โ€

โ€œWhere did you get such a thing?โ€

Billy had to think hard about that. โ€œThey gave it to me,โ€ he said at last.

โ€œJerry gave it to you?โ€ โ€œWho?โ€

โ€œThe Germans gave it to you?โ€ โ€œYes.โ€

Billy didnโ€™t like the questions. They were fatiguing.

โ€œOhhhhโ€”Yank, Yank, Yankโ€”โ€ said the Englishman, โ€œthat coat was anย insult.โ€

โ€œSir?โ€

โ€œIt was a deliberate attempt to humiliate you. You mustnโ€™t let Jerry do things like that.โ€

Billy Pilgrim swooned.

Billy came to on a chair facing the stage. He had somehow eaten, and now he was watchingย Cinderella. Some part of him had evidently been enjoying the performance for quite a while. Billy was laughing hard.

The women in the play were really men, of course. The clock had just struck midnight, and Cinderella was lamenting:

โ€œGoodness me, the clock has struckโ€”ย Alackday, and fuck my luck.โ€

Billy found the couplet so comical that he not only laughedโ€”he shrieked. He went on shrieking until he was carried out of the shed

and into another, where the hospital was. It was a six-bed hospital. There werenโ€™t any other patients in there.

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Billy was put to bed and tied down, and given a shot of morphine. Another American volunteered to watch over him. This volunteer was Edgar Derby, the high school teacher who would be shot to death in Dresden. So it goes.

Derby sat on a three-legged stool. He was given a book to read. The book wasย The Red Badge of Courage, by Stephen Crane. Derby had read it before. Now he read it again while Billy Pilgrim entered a morphine paradise.

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Under morphine, Billy had a dream of giraffes in a garden. The giraffes were following gravel paths, were pausing to munch sugar pears from tree-tops. Billy was a giraffe, too. He ate a pear. It was a hard one. It fought back against his grinding teeth. It snapped in juicy protest.

The giraffes accepted Billy as one of their own, as a harmless creature as preposterously specialized as themselves. Two approached him from opposite sides, leaned against him. They had long, muscular upper lips which they could shape like the bells of bugles. They kissed him with these. They were female giraffesโ€” cream and lemon yellow. They had horns like doorknobs. The knobs were covered with velvet.

Why?

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Night came to the garden of the giraffes, and Billy Pilgrim slept without dreaming for a while, and then he traveled in time. He woke up with his head under a blanket in a ward for nonviolent

mental patients in a veteransโ€™ hospital near Lake Placid, New York. It was springtime in 1948, three years after the end of the war.

Billy uncovered his head. The windows of the ward were open. Birds were twittering outside. โ€œPoo-tee-weet?โ€ one asked him. The sun was high. There were twenty-nine other patients assigned to the ward, but they were all outdoors now, enjoying the day. They were free to come and go as they pleased, to go home, even, if they likeโ€” and so was Billy Pilgrim. They had come here voluntarily, alarmed by the outside world.

Billy had committed himself in the middle of his final year at the Ilium School of Optometry. Nobody else suspected that he was going crazy. Everybody else thought he looked fine and was acting fine. Now he was in the hospital. The doctors agreed: Heย wasย going crazy.

They didnโ€™t think it had anything to do with the war. They were sure Billy was going to pieces because his father had thrown him into the deep end of the Y.M.C.A. swimming pool when he was a little boy, and had then taken him to the rim of the Grand Canyon.

The man assigned to the bed next to Billyโ€™s was a former infantry captain named Eliot Rosewater. Rosewater was sick and tired of being drunk all the time.

It was Rosewater who introduced Billy to science fiction, and in particular to the writings of Kilgore Trout. Rosewater had a tremendous collection of science-fiction paperbacks under his bed. He had brought them to the hospital in a steamer trunk. Those beloved, frumpish books gave off a smell that permeated the wardโ€” like flannel pajamas that hadnโ€™t been changed for a month, or like Irish stew.

Kilgore Trout became Billyโ€™s favorite living author, and science fiction became the only sort of tales he could read.

Rosewater was twice as smart as Billy, but he and Billy were dealing with similar crises in similar ways. They had both found life meaningless, partly because of what they had seen in war. Rosewater, for instance, had shot a fourteen-year-old fireman,

mistaking him for a German soldier. So it goes. And Billy had seen the greatest massacre in European history, which was the fire- bombing of Dresden. So it goes.

So they were trying to re-invent themselves and their universe.

Science fiction was a big help.

โ€ข โ€ข โ€ข

Rosewater said an interesting thing to Billy one time about a book that wasnโ€™t science fiction. He said that everything there was to know about life was inย The Brothers Karamazov, by Feodor Dostoevsky. โ€œBut that isnโ€™tย enoughย any more,โ€ said Rosewater.

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Another time Billy heard Rosewater say to a psychiatrist, โ€œI think you guys are going to have to come up with a lot of wonderfulย newย lies, or people just arenโ€™t going to want to go on living.โ€

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There was a still life on Billyโ€™s bedside tableโ€”two pills, an ashtray with three lipstick-stained cigarettes in it, one cigarette still burning, and a glass of water. The water was dead. So it goes. Air was trying to get out of that dead water. Bubbles were clinging to the walls of the glass, too weak to climb out.

The cigarettes belonged to Billyโ€™s chain-smoking mother. She had sought the ladiesโ€™ room, which was off the ward for WACS and WAVES and SPARS and WAFS who had gone bananas. She would be back at any moment now.

Billy covered his head with his blanket again. He always covered his head when his mother came to see him in the mental wardโ€”always got much sicker until she went away. It wasnโ€™t that she was ugly, or had bad breath or a bad personality. She was a perfectly nice, standard-issue, brown-haired, white woman with a high-school education.

She upset Billy simply by being his mother. She made him feel embarrassed and ungrateful and weak because she had gone to so much trouble to give him life, and to keep that life going, and Billy didnโ€™t really like life at all.

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Billy heard Eliot Rosewater come in and lie down. Rosewaterโ€™s bedsprings talked a lot about that. Rosewater was a big man, but not very powerful. He looked as though he might be made out of nose putty.

And then Billyโ€™s mother came back from the ladiesโ€™ room, sat down on a chair between Billyโ€™s and Rosewaterโ€™s bed. Rosewater greeted her with melodious warmth, asked how she was today. He seemed delighted to hear that she was fine. He was experimenting with being ardently sympathetic with everybody he met. He thought that might make the world a slightly more pleasant place to live in. He called Billyโ€™s mother โ€œdear.โ€ He was experimenting with calling everybody โ€œdear.โ€

โ€œSome day,โ€ she promised Rosewater, โ€œIโ€™m going to come in here, and Billy is going to uncover his head, and do you know what heโ€™s going to say?โ€

โ€œWhatโ€™s he going to say, dear?โ€

โ€œHeโ€™s going to say, โ€˜Hello, Mom,โ€™ and heโ€™s going to smile. Heโ€™s going to say, โ€˜Gee, itโ€™s good to see you, Mom. How have you been?โ€™โ€

โ€œToday could be the day.โ€ โ€œEvery night I pray.โ€

โ€œThatโ€™s aย goodย thing to do.โ€

โ€œPeople would be surprised if they knew how much in this world was due to prayers.โ€

โ€œYou never said a truer word, dear.โ€

โ€œDoes your mother come to see you often?โ€

โ€œMy mother is dead,โ€ said Rosewater. So it goes.

โ€œIโ€™m sorry.โ€

โ€œAt least she had a happy life as long as it lasted.โ€ โ€œThatโ€™s a consolation, anyway.โ€

โ€œYes.โ€

โ€œBillyโ€™s father is dead, you know,โ€ said Billyโ€™s mother. So it goes.

โ€œA boyย needsย a father.โ€

And on and on it wentโ€”that duet between the dumb, praying lady and the big, hollow man who was so full of loving echoes.

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โ€œHe was at the top of his class when this happened,โ€ said Billyโ€™s mother.

โ€œMaybe he wasย workingย too hard,โ€ said Rose-water. He held a book he wanted to read, but he was much too polite to read and talk, too, easy as it was to give Billyโ€™s mother satisfactory answers. The book wasย Maniacs in the Fourth Dimension, by Kilgore Trout. It was about people whose mental diseases couldnโ€™t be treated because the causes of the diseases were all in the fourth dimension, and three-dimensional Earthling doctors couldnโ€™t see those causes at all, or even imagine them.

One thing Trout said that Rosewater liked very much was that there reallyย wereย vampires and werewolves and goblins and angels and so on, but that they were in the fourth dimension. So was William Blake, Rosewaterโ€™s favorite poet, according to Trout. So were heaven and hell.

โ€ข โ€ข โ€ข

โ€œHeโ€™s engaged to a very rich girl,โ€ said Billyโ€™s mother.

โ€œThatโ€™s good,โ€ said Rosewater. โ€œMoney can be a great comfort sometimes.โ€

โ€œIt reallyย can.โ€

โ€œOf course it can.โ€

โ€œIt isnโ€™t much fun if you have to pinch every penny till it screams.โ€

โ€œItโ€™s nice to have a little breathing room.โ€

โ€œHer father owns the optometry school where Billy was going. He also owns six o ces around our part of the state. He flies his own plane and has a summer place up on Lake George.โ€

โ€œThatโ€™s a beautiful lake.โ€

Billy fell asleep under his blanket. When he woke up again, he was tied to the bed in the hospital back in prison. He opened one eye, saw poor old Edgar Derby readingย The Red Badge of Courageย by candlelight.

Billy closed that one eye, saw in his memory of the future poor old Edgar Derby in front of a firing squad in the ruins of Dresden. There were only four men in that squad. Billy had heard that one man in each firing squad was customarily given a rifle loaded with blank cartridge. Billy didnโ€™t think there would be a blank cartridge issued in a squad that small, in a war that old.

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Now the head Englishman came into the hospital to check on Billy. He was an infantry colonel captured at Dunkirk. It was he who had given Billy morphine. There wasnโ€™t a real doctor in the compound, so the doctoring was up to him. โ€œHowโ€™s the patient?โ€ he asked Derby.

โ€œDead to the world.โ€ โ€œBut not actually dead.โ€ โ€œNo.โ€

โ€œHow niceโ€”to feel nothing, and still get full credit for being alive.โ€

Derby now came to lugubrious attention.

โ€œNoโ€”noโ€”pleaseโ€”as you were. With only two men for each o cer, and all the men sick, I think we can do without the usual

pageantry between o cers and men.โ€

Derby remained standing. โ€œYou seem older than the rest,โ€ said the colonel.

Derby told him he was forty-five, which was two years older than the colonel. The colonel said that the other Americans had all shaved now, that Billy and Derby were the only two still with beards. And he said, โ€œYou knowโ€”weโ€™ve had to imagine the war here, and we have imagined that it was being fought by aging men like ourselves. We had forgotten that wars were fought by babies. When I saw those freshly shaved faces, it was a shock. โ€˜My God, my Godโ€”โ€™ I said to myself, โ€˜Itโ€™s the Childrenโ€™s Crusade.โ€™โ€

The colonel asked old Derby how he had been captured, and Derby told a tale of being in a clump of trees with about a hundred other frightened soldiers. The battle had been going on for five days. The hundred had been driven into the trees by tanks.

Derby described the incredible artificial weather that Earthlings sometimes create for other Earthlings when they donโ€™t want those other Earth-lings to inhabit Earth any more. Shells were bursting in the treetops with terrific bangs, he said, showering down knives and needles and razorblades. Little lumps of lead in copper jackets were crisscrossing the woods under the shellbursts, zipping along much faster than sound.

A lot of people were being wounded or killed. So it goes.

Then the shelling stopped, and a hidden German with a loudspeaker told the Americans to put their weapons down and come out of the woods with their hands on the top of their heads, or the shelling would start again. It wouldnโ€™t stop until everybody in there was dead.

So the Americans put their weapons down, and they came out of the woods with their hands on top of their heads, because they wanted to go on living, if they possibly could.

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Billy traveled in time back to the veteransโ€™ hospital again. The blanket was over his head. It was quiet outside the blanket. โ€œIs my mother gone?โ€ said Billy.

โ€œYes.โ€

Billy peeked out from under his blanket. His fiancรฉe was out there now, sitting on the visitorโ€™s chair. Her name was Valencia Merble. Valencia was the daughter of the owner of the Ilium School of Optometry. She was rich. She was as big as a house because she couldnโ€™t stop eating. She was eating now. She was eating a Three Musketeers Candy Bar. She was wearing tri-focal lenses in harlequin frames, and the frames were trimmed with rhinestones. The glitter of the rhinestones was answered by the glitter of the diamond in her engagement ring. The diamond was insured for eighteen hundred dollars. Billy had found that diamond in Germany. It was booty of war.

Billy didnโ€™t want to marry ugly Valencia. She was one of the symptoms of his disease. He knew he was going crazy when he heard himself proposing marriage to her, when he begged her to take the diamond ring and be his companion for life.

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Billy said, โ€œHello,โ€ to her, and she asked him if he wanted some candy, and he said, โ€œNo, thanks.โ€

She asked him how he was, and he said, โ€œMuch better, thanks.โ€ She said that everybody at the Optometry School was sorry he was sick and hoped he would be well soon, and Billy said, โ€œWhen you see โ€™em, tell โ€™em, โ€˜Hello.โ€™โ€

She promised she would.

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She asked him if there was anything she could bring him from the outside, and he said, โ€œNo. I have just about everything I want.โ€

โ€œWhat about books?โ€ said Valencia.

โ€œIโ€™m right next to one of the biggest private libraries in the world,โ€ said Billy, meaning Eliot Rosewaterโ€™s collection of science fiction.

Rosewater was on the next bed, reading, and Billy drew him into the conversation, asked him what he was reading this time.

So Rosewater told him. It wasย The Gospel from Outer Space, by Kilgore Trout. It was about a visitor from outer space, shaped very much like a Tralfamadorian, by the way. The visitor from outer space made a serious study of Christianity, to learn, if he could, why Christians found it so easy to be cruel. He concluded that at least part of the trouble was slipshod storytelling in the New Testament. He supposed that the intent of the Gospels was to teach people, among other things, to be merciful, even to the lowest of the low.

But the Gospels actually taught this:

Before you kill somebody, make absolutely sure he isnโ€™t well connected. So it goes.

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The flaw in the Christ stories, said the visitor from outer space, was that Christ, who didnโ€™t look like much, was actually the Son of the Most Powerful Being in the Universe. Readers understood that, so, when they came to the crucifixion, they naturally thought, and Rosewater read out loud again:

Oh, boyโ€”they sure picked the wrong guy to lynch that time!

And that thought had a brother: โ€œThere areย right peopleย to lynch.โ€ Who? People not well connected. So it goes.

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The visitor from outer space made a gift to Earth of a new Gospel. In it, Jesus reallyย wasย a nobody, and a pain in the neck to a lot of people with better connections than he had. He still got to say all the lovely and puzzling things he said in the other Gospels.

So the people amused themselves one day by nailing him to a cross and planting the cross in the ground. There couldnโ€™t possibly be any repercussions, the lynchers thought. The reader would have to think that, too, since the new Gospel hammered home again and again what a nobody Jesus was.

And then, just before the nobody died, the heavens opened up, and there was thunder and lightning. The voice of God came crashing down. He told the people that he was adopting the bum as his son, giving him the full powers and privileges of The Son of the Creator of the Universe throughout all eternity. God said this:ย From this moment on, He will punish horribly anybody who torments a bum who has no connections!

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Billyโ€™s fiancรฉe had finished her Three Musketeers Candy Bar.

Now she was eating a Milky Why.

โ€œForget books,โ€ said Rosewater, throwing that particular book under his bed. โ€œThe hell with โ€™em.โ€

โ€œThat sounded like an interesting one,โ€ said Valencia.

โ€œJesusโ€”if Kilgore Trout could onlyย write!โ€ Rosewater exclaimed. He had a point: Kilgore Troutโ€™s unpopularity was deserved. His prose was frightful. Only his ideas were good.

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โ€œI donโ€™t think Trout has ever been out of the country,โ€ Rosewater went on. โ€œMy Godโ€”he writes about Earthlings all the time, and theyโ€™re all Americans. Practically nobody on Earth is an American.โ€

โ€œWhere does he live?โ€ Valencia asked.

โ€œNobody knows,โ€ Rosewater replied. โ€œIโ€™m the only person who ever heard of him, as far as I can tell. No two books have the same publisher, and every time I write him in care of a publisher, the letter comes back because the publisher has failed.โ€

He changed the subject now, congratulated Valencia on her engagement ring.

โ€œThank you,โ€ she said, and held it out so Rosewater could get a close look. โ€œBilly got that diamond in the war.โ€

โ€œThatโ€™s the attractive thing about war,โ€ said Rosewater. โ€œAbsolutely everybody gets a little something.โ€

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With regard to the whereabouts of Kilgore Trout: he actually lived in Ilium, Billyโ€™s hometown, friendless and despised. Billy would meet him by and by.

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โ€œBillyโ€”โ€ said Valencia Merble. โ€œHm?โ€

โ€œYou want to talk about our silver pattern?โ€ โ€œSure.โ€

โ€œIโ€™ve got it narrowed down pretty much to either Royal Danish or Rambler Rose.โ€

โ€œRambler Rose,โ€ said Billy.

โ€œIt isnโ€™t something we shouldย rushย into,โ€ she said. โ€œI meanโ€” whatever we decide on, thatโ€™s what weโ€™re going to have to live with the rest of our lives.โ€

Billy studied the pictures. โ€œRoyal Danish,โ€ he said at last. โ€œColonial Moonlight is nice, too.โ€

โ€œYes, it is,โ€ said Billy Pilgrim.

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And Billy traveled in time to the zoo on Tralfamadore. He was forty-four years old, on display under a geodesic dome. He was reclining on the lounge chair which had been his cradle during his

trip through space. He was naked. The Tralfamadorians were interested in his bodyโ€”allย of it. There were thousands of them outside, holding up their little hands so that their eyes could see him. Billy had been on Tralfamadore for six Earthling months now. He was used to the crowd.

Escape was out of the question. The atmosphere outside the dome was cyanide, and Earth was 446,120,000,000,000,000 miles away.

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Billy was displayed there in the zoo in a simulated Earthling habitat. Most of the furnishings had been stolen from the Sears Roebuck warehouse in Iowa City, Iowa. There was a color television set and a couch that could be converted into a bed. There were end tables with lamps and ashtrays on them by the couch. There was a home bar and two stools. There was a little pool table. There was wall-to-wall carpeting in federal gold, except in the kitchen and bathroom areas and over the iron manhole cover in the center of the floor. There were magazines arranged in a fan on the coffee table in front of the couch.

There was a stereophonic phonograph. The phonograph worked. The television didnโ€™t. There was a picture of one cowboy killing another one pasted to the television tube. So it goes.

There were no walls in the dome, no place for Billy to hide. The mint green bathroom fixtures were right out in the open. Billy got off his lounge chair now, went into the bathroom and took a leak. The crowd went wild.

โ€ข โ€ข โ€ข

Billy brushed his teeth on Tralfamadore, put in his partial denture, and went into his kitchen. His bottled-gas range and his refrigerator and his dishwasher were mint green, too. There was a picture painted on the door of the refrigerator. The refrigerator had come that way. It was a picture of a Gay Nineties couple on a bicycle built for two.

Billy looked at that picture now, tried to think something about the couple. Nothing came to him. There didnโ€™t seem to beย anythingย to think about those two people.

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Billy ate a good breakfast from cans. He washed his cup and plate and knife and fork and spoon and saucepan, put them away. Then he did exercises he had learned in the Armyโ€”straddle jumps, deep knee bends, sit-ups and push-ups. Most Tralfamadorians had no way of knowing Billyโ€™s body and face were not beautiful. They supposed that he was a splendid specimen. This had a pleasant effect on Billy, who began to enjoy his body for the first time.

He showered after his exercises and trimmed his toenails. He shaved, and sprayed deodorant under his arms, while a zoo guide on a raised platform outside explained what Billy was doingโ€”and why. The guide was lecturing telepathically, simply standing there, sending out thought waves to the crowd. On the platform with him was the little keyboard instrument with which he would relay questions to Billy from the crowd.

Now the first question cameโ€”from the speaker on the television set: โ€œAre you happy here?โ€

โ€œAbout as happy as I was on Earth,โ€ said Billy Pilgrim, which was true.

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There were five sexes on Tralfamadore, each of them performing a step necessary in the creation of a new individual. They looked identical to Billyโ€”because their sex differences were all in the fourth dimension.

One of the biggest moral bombshells handed to Billy by the Tralfamadorians, incidentally had to do with sex on Earth. They said their flying-saucer crews had identified no fewer thanย sevenย sexes on Earth, each essential to reproduction. Again: Billy couldnโ€™t possibly

imagine what five of those seven sexes had to do with the making of a baby, since they were sexually active only in the fourth dimension.

The Tralfamadorians tried to give Billy clues that would help him imagine sex in the invisible dimension. They told him that there could be no Earthling babies without male homosexuals. Thereย couldย be babies without female homosexuals. There couldnโ€™t be babies without women over sixty-five years old. Thereย couldย be babies without men over sixty-five. There couldnโ€™t be babies without other babies who had lived an hour or less after birth. And so on.

It was gibberish to Billy.

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There was a lot that Billy said that was gibberish to the Tralfamadorians, too. They couldnโ€™t imagine what time looked like to him. Billy had given up on explaining that. The guide outside had to explain as best he could.

The guide invited the crowd to imagine that they were looking across a desert at a mountain range on a day that was twinkling bright and clear. They could look at a peak or a bird or a cloud, at a stone right in front of them, or even down into a canyon behind them. But among them was this poor Earthling, and his head was encased in a steel sphere which he could never take off. There was only one eyehole through which he could look, and welded to that eyehole were six feet of pipe.

This was only the beginning of Billyโ€™s miseries in the metaphor. He was also strapped to a steel lattice which was bolted to a flatcar on rails, and there was no way he could turn his head or touch the pipe. The far end of the pipe rested on a bi-pod which was also bolted to the flatcar. All Billy could see was the little dot at the end of the pipe. He didnโ€™t know he was on a flatcar, didnโ€™t even know there was anything peculiar about his situation.

The flatcar sometimes crept, sometimes went extremely fast, often stoppedโ€”went uphill, downhill, around curves, along

straightaways. Whatever poor Billy saw through the pipe, he had no choice but to say to himself, โ€œThatโ€™s life.โ€

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Billy expected the Tralfamadorians to be bamed and alarmed by all the wars and other forms of murder on Earth. He expected them to fear that the Earthling combination of ferocity and spectacular weaponry might eventually destroy part or maybe all of the innocent Universe. Science fiction had led him to expect that.

But the subject of war never came up until Billy brought it up himself. Somebody in the zoo crowd asked him through the lecturer what the most valuable thing he had learned on Tralfamadore was so far, and Billy replied, โ€œHow the inhabitants of a whole planet can live in peace! As you know, I am from a planet that has been engaged in senseless slaughter since the beginning of time. I myself have seen the bodies of schoolgirls who were boiled alive in a water tower by my own countrymen, who were proud of fighting pure evil at the time.โ€ This was true. Billy saw the boiled bodies in Dresden. โ€œAnd I have lit my way in a prison at night with candles from the fat of human beings who were butchered by the brothers and fathers of those schoolgirls who were boiled. Earthlings must be the terrors of the Universe! If other planets arenโ€™t now in danger from Earth, they soon will be. So tell me the secret so I can take it back to Earth and save us all: How can a planet live at peace?โ€

Billy felt that he had spoken soaringly. He was bamed when he saw the Tralfamadorians close their little hands on their eyes. He knew from past experience what this meant: He was being stupid.

โ€ข โ€ข โ€ข

โ€œWouldโ€”would you mind telling meโ€”โ€ he said to the guide, much deflated, โ€œwhat was so stupid about that?โ€

โ€œWe know how the Universe endsโ€”โ€ said the guide, โ€œand Earth has nothing to do with it, except thatย itย gets wiped out, too.โ€

โ€œHowโ€”howย doesย the Universe end?โ€ said Billy.

โ€œWe blow it up, experimenting with new fuels for our flying saucers. A Tralfamadorian test pilot presses a starter button, and the whole Universe disappears.โ€ So it goes.

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โ€œIf you know this,โ€ said Billy, โ€œisnโ€™t there some way you can prevent it? Canโ€™t you keep the pilot fromย pressingย the button?โ€

โ€œHe hasย alwaysย pressed it, and he alwaysย will. Weย alwaysย let him and we alwaysย willย let him. The moment isย structuredย that way.โ€

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โ€œSoโ€”โ€ said Billy gropingly, โ€œI suppose that the idea of preventing war on Earth is stupid, too.โ€

โ€œOf course.โ€

โ€œBut youย doย have a peaceful planet here.โ€

โ€œToday we do. On other days we have wars as horrible as any youโ€™ve ever seen or read about. There isnโ€™t anything we can do about them, so we simply donโ€™t look at them. We ignore them. We spend eternity looking at pleasant momentsโ€”like today at the zoo. Isnโ€™t this a nice moment?โ€

โ€œYes.โ€

โ€œThatโ€™s one thing Earthlings might learn to do, if they tried hard enough: Ignore the awful times, and concentrate on the good ones.โ€

โ€œUm,โ€ said Billy Pilgrim.

Shortly after he went to sleep that night, Billy traveled in time to another moment which was quite nice, his wedding night with the former Valencia Merble. He had been out of the veteransโ€™ hospital for six months. He was all well. He had graduated from the Ilium School of Optometryโ€”third in his class of forty-seven.

Now he was in bed with Valencia in a delightful studio apartment which was built on the end of a wharf on Cape Ann,

Massachusetts. Across the water were the lights of Gloucester. Billy was on top of Valencia, making love to her. One result of this act would be the birth of Robert Pilgrim, who would become a problem in high school, but who would then straighten out as a member of the famous Green Berets.

Valencia wasnโ€™t a time-traveler, but she did have a lively imagination. While Billy was making love to her, she imagined that she was a famous woman in history. She was being Queen Elizabeth the First of England, and Billy was supposedly Christopher Columbus.

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Billy made a noise like a small, rusty hinge. He had just emptied his seminal vesicles into Valencia, had contributed his share of the Green Beret. According to the Tralfamadorians, of course, the Green Beret would have seven parents in all.

Now he rolled off his huge wife, whose rapt expression did not change when he departed. He lay with the buttons of his spine along the edge of the mattress, folded his hands behind his head. He was rich now. He had been rewarded for marrying a girl nobody in his right mind would have married. His father-in-law had given him a new Buick Roadmaster, an all-electric home, and had made him manager of his most prosperous o ce, his Ilium o ce, where Billy could expect to make at least thirty thousand dollars a year. That was good. His father had been only a barber.

As his mother said, โ€œThe Pilgrims are coming up in the world.โ€

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The honeymoon was taking place in the bittersweet mysteries of Indian Summer in New England. The loversโ€™ apartment had one romantic wall which was all French doors. They opened onto a balcony and the oily harbor beyond.

A green and orange dragger, black in the night, grumbled and drummed past their balcony, not thirty feet from their wedding bed. It was going to sea with only its running lights on. Its empty holds were resonant, made the song of the engines rich and loud. The wharf began to sing the same song, and then the honeymoonersโ€™ headboard sang, too. And it continued to sing long after the dragger was gone.

โ€œThank you,โ€ said Valencia at last. The headboard was singing a mosquito song.

โ€œYouโ€™re welcome.โ€ โ€œIt was nice.โ€

Then she began to cry. โ€œWhatโ€™s the matter?โ€

โ€œIโ€™m so happy.โ€

โ€œGood.โ€

โ€œI never thought anybody would marry me.โ€ โ€œUm,โ€ said Billy Pilgrim.

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โ€œIโ€™m going to lose weight for you,โ€ she said. โ€œWhat?โ€

โ€œIโ€™m going to go on a diet. Iโ€™m going to become beautiful for you.โ€

โ€œI like you just the way you are.โ€ โ€œDo youย really?โ€

โ€œReally,โ€ said Billy Pilgrim. He had already seen a lot of their marriage, thanks to time-travel, knew that it was going to be at least bearable all the way.

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A great motor yacht named theย Scheherezadeย now slid past the marriage bed. The song its engines sang was a very low organ note. All her lights were on.

Two beautiful people, a young man and a young woman in evening clothes, were at the rail in the stern, loving each other and their dreams and the lake. They were honeymooning, too. They were Lance Rumfoord, of Newport, Rhode Island, and his bride, the former Cynthia Landry, who had been a childhood sweetheart of John F. Kennedy in Hyannis Port, Massachusetts.

There was a slight coincidence here. Billy Pilgrim would later share a hospital room with Rumfoordโ€™s uncle, Professor Bertram Copeland Rumfoord of Harvard, o cial Historian of the United States Air Force.

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When the beautiful people were past, Valencia questioned her funny-looking husband about war. It was a simple-minded thing for a female Earthling to do, to associate sex and glamor with war.

โ€œDo you ever think about the war?โ€ she said, laying a hand on his thigh.

โ€œSometimes,โ€ said Billy Pilgrim.

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โ€œI look at you sometimes,โ€ said Valencia, โ€œand I get a funny feeling that youโ€™re just full of secrets.โ€

โ€œIโ€™m not,โ€ said Billy. This was a lie, of course. He hadnโ€™t told anybody about all the time-traveling heโ€™d done, about Tralfamadore and so on.

โ€œYou must have secrets about the war. Or, not secrets, I guess, but things you donโ€™t want to talk about.โ€

โ€œNo.โ€

โ€œIโ€™mย proudย you were a soldier. Do you know that?โ€

โ€œGood.โ€

โ€œWas it awful?โ€

โ€œSometimes.โ€ A crazy thought now occurred to Billy. The truth of it startled him. It would make a good epitaph for Billy Pilgrimโ€” and for me, too.

โ€œWould you talk about the war now, if Iย wantedย you to?โ€ said Valencia. In a tiny cavity in her great body she was assembling the materials for a Green Beret.

โ€œIt would sound like a dream,โ€ said Billy. โ€œOther peopleโ€™s dreams arenโ€™t very interesting, usually.โ€

โ€œI heard you tell Father one time about a German firing squad.โ€ She was referring to the execution of poor old Edgar Derby.

โ€œUm.โ€

โ€œYou had to bury him?โ€ โ€œYes.โ€

โ€œDid he see you with your shovels before he was shot?โ€ โ€œYes.โ€

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โ€œDid heย sayย anything?โ€ โ€œNo.โ€

โ€œWas heย scared?โ€

โ€œThey had him doped up. He was sort of glassy-eyed.โ€ โ€œAnd they pinned a target to him?โ€

โ€œA piece of paper,โ€ said Billy. He got out of bed, said, โ€œExcuse me,โ€ went into the darkness of the bathroom to take a leak. He groped for the light, realized as he felt the rough walls that he had traveled back to 1944, to the prison hospital again.

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The candle in the hospital had gone out. Poor old Edgar Derby had fallen asleep on the cot next to Billyโ€™s. Billy was out of bed, groping along a wall, trying to find a way out because he had to take a leak so badly.

He suddenly found a door, which opened, let him reel out into the prison night. Billy was loony with time-travel and morphine. He delivered himself to a barbed-wire fence which snagged him in a dozen places. Billy tried to back away from it, but the barbs wouldnโ€™t let go. So Billy did a silly little dance with the fence, taking a step this way, then that way, then returning to the beginning again.

A Russian, himself out in the night to take a leak, saw Billy dancingโ€”from the other side of the fence. He came over to the curious scarecrow, tried to talk with it gently, asked it what country it was from. The scarecrow paid no attention, went on dancing. So the Russian undid the snags one by one, and the scarecrow danced off into the night again without a word of thanks.

The Russian waved to him, and called after him in Russian, โ€œGood-bye.โ€

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Billy took his pecker out, there in the prison night, and peed and peed on the ground. Then he put it away again, more or less, and contemplated a new problem: Where had he come from, and where should he go now?

Somewhere in the night there were cries of grief. With nothing better to do, Billy shumed in their direction. He wondered what tragedy so many had found to lament out of doors.

Billy was approaching, without knowing it, the back of the latrine. It consisted of a one-rail fence with twelve buckets underneath it. The fence was sheltered on three sides by a screen of scrap lumber and flattened tin cans. The open side faced the black tarpaper wall of the shed where the feast had taken place.

Billy moved along the screen and reached a point where he could see a message freshly painted on the tarpaper wall. The words were written with the same pink paint which had brightened the set forย Cinderella. Billyโ€™s perceptions were so unreliable that he saw the words as hanging in air, painted on a transparent curtain, perhaps. And there were lovely silver dots on the curtain, too. These were really nailheads holding the tarpaper to the shed. Billy could not imagine how the curtain was supported in nothingness, and he supposed that the magic curtain and the theatrical grief were part of some religious ceremony he knew nothing about.

Here is what the message said:

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Billy looked inside the latrine. The wailing was coming from in there. The place was crammed with Americans who had taken their pants down. The welcome feast had made them as sick as volcanoes. The buckets were full or had been kicked over.

An American near Billy wailed that he had excreted everything but his brains. Moments later he said, โ€œThere they go, there they go.โ€ He meant his brains.

That was I. That was me. That was the author of this book.

Billy reeled away from his vision of Hell. He passed three Englishmen who were watching the excrement festival from a distance. They were catatonic with disgust.

โ€œButton your pants!โ€ said one as Billy went by.

So Billy buttoned his pants. He came to the door of the little hospital by accident. He went through the door, and found himself

honeymooning again, going from the bathroom back to bed with his bride on Cape Ann.

โ€œI missed you,โ€ said Valencia.

โ€œI missedย you,โ€ said Billy Pilgrim.

โ€ข โ€ข โ€ข

Billy and Valencia went to sleep nestled like spoons, and Billy traveled in time back to the train ride he had taken in 1944โ€”from maneuvers in South Carolina to his fatherโ€™s funeral in Ilium. He hadnโ€™t seen Europe or combat yet. This was still in the days of steam locomotives.

Billy had to change trains a lot. All the trains were slow. The coaches stunk of coal smoke and rationed tobacco and rationed booze and the farts of people eating wartime food. The upholstery of the iron seats was bristly, and Billy couldnโ€™t sleep much. He got to sleep soundly when he was only three hours from Ilium, with his legs splayed toward the entrance of the busy dining car.

The porter woke him up when the train reached Ilium. Billy staggered off with his duffel bag, and then he stood on the station platform next to the porter, trying to wake up.

โ€œHave a good nap, did you?โ€ said the porter. โ€œYes,โ€ said Billy.

โ€œMan,โ€ said the porter, โ€œyou sure had a hard-on.โ€

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At three in the morning on Billyโ€™s morphine night in prison, a new patient was carried into the hospital by two lusty Englishmen. He was tiny. He was Paul Lazzaro, the polka-dotted car thief from Cicero, Illinois. He had been caught stealing cigarettes from under the pillow of an Englishman. The Englishman, half asleep, had broken Lazzaroโ€™s right arm and knocked him unconscious.

The Englishman who had done this was helping to carry Lazzaro in now. He had fiery red hair and no eyebrows. He had

been Cinderellaโ€™s Blue Fairy Godmother in the play. Now he supported his half of Lazzaro with one hand while he closed the door behind himself with the other. โ€œDoesnโ€™t weigh as much as a chicken,โ€ he said.

The Englishman with Lazzaroโ€™s feet was the colonel who had given Billy his knock-out shot.

The Blue Fairy Godmother was embarrassed, and angry, too. โ€œIf Iโ€™d known I was fighting a chicken,โ€ he said, โ€œI wouldnโ€™t have fought soย hard.โ€

โ€œUm.โ€

The Blue Fairy Godmother spoke frankly about how disgusting all the Americans were. โ€œWeak, smelly, self-pityingโ€”a pack of sniveling, dirty, thieving bastards,โ€ he said. โ€œTheyโ€™re worse than the bleeding Russians.โ€

โ€œDoย seem a scruffy lot,โ€ the colonel agreed.

A German major came in now. He considered the Englishmen as close friends. He visited them nearly every day, played games with them, lectured to them on German history, played their piano, gave them lessons in conversational German. He told them often that, if it werenโ€™t for their civilized company, he would go mad. His English was splendid.

He was apologetic about the Englishmenโ€™s having to put up with the American enlisted men. He promised them that they would not be inconvenienced for more than a day or two, that the Americans would soon be shipped to Dresden as contract labor. He had a monograph with him, published by the German Association of Prison O cials. It was a report on the behavior in Germany of American enlisted men as prisoners of war. It was written by a former American who had risen high in the German Ministry of Propaganda. His name was Howard W. Campbell, Jr. He would later hang himself while awaiting trial as a war criminal.

So it goes.

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While the British colonel set Lazzaroโ€™s broken arm and mixed plaster for the cast, the German major translated out loud passages from Howard W. Campbell, Jr.โ€™s monograph. Campbell had been a fairly well-known playwright at one time. His opening line was this one:

America is the wealthiest nation on Earth, but its people are mainly poor, and poor Americans are urged to hate themselves. To quote the American humorist Kin Hubbard, โ€œIt ainโ€™t no disgrace to be poor, but it might as well be.โ€ It is in fact a crime for an American to be poor, even though America is a nation of poor. Every other nation has folk traditions of men who were poor but extremely wise and virtuous, and therefore more estimable than anyone with power and gold. No such tales are told by the American poor. They mock themselves and glorify their betters. The meanest eating or drinking establishment, owned by a man who is himself poor, is very likely to have a sign on its wall asking this cruel question: โ€œIf youโ€™re so smart, why ainโ€™t you rich?โ€ There will also be an American flag no larger than a childโ€™s handโ€”glued to a lollipop stick and flying from the cash register.

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The author of the monograph, a native of Schenectady, New York, was said by some to have had the highest I.Q. of all the war criminals who were made to face a death by hanging. So it goes.

Americans, like human beings everywhere, believe many things that are obviously untrue, the monograph went on. Their most destructive untruth is that it is very easy for any American to make money. They will not acknowledge how in fact hard money is to come by, and, therefore, those who have no money blame and blame and blame themselves. This inward blame has been a treasure for the rich and powerful, who have had to do less for their poor, publicly and privately, than any other ruling class since, say, Napoleonic times.

Many novelties have come from America. The most startling of these, a thing without precedent, is a mass of undignified poor. They do not love one another because they do not love themselves. Once this is

understood, the disagreeable behavior of American enlisted men in German prisons ceases to be a mystery.

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Howard W. Campbell, Jr., now discussed the uniform of the American enlisted in World War Two:ย Every other army in history, prosperous or not, has attempted to clothe even its lowliest soldiers so as to make them impressive to themselves and others as stylish experts in drinking and copulation and looting and sudden death. The American Army, however, sends its enlisted men out to fight and die in a modified business suit quite evidently made for another man, a sterilized but unpressed gift from a nose-holding charity which passes out clothing to drunks in the slums.

When a dashingly-clad officer addresses such a frumpishly dressed bum, he scolds him, as an officer in any army must. But the officerโ€™s contempt is not, as in other armies, avuncular theatricality. It is a genuine expression of hatred for the poor, who have no one to blame for their misery but themselves.

A prison administrator dealing with captured American enlisted men for the first time should be warned: Expect no brotherly love, even between brothers. There will be no cohesion between the individuals. Each will be a sulky child who often wishes he were dead.

Campbell told what the German experience with captured American enlisted men had been. They were known everywhere to be the most self-pitying, least fraternal, and dirtiest of all prisoners of war, said Campbell. They were incapable of concerted action on their own behalf. They despised any leader from among their own number, refused to follow or even listen to him, on the grounds that he was no better than they were, that he should stop putting on airs.

And so on. Billy Pilgrim went to sleep, woke up as a widower in his empty home in Ilium. His daughter Barbara was reproaching him for writing ridiculous letters to the newspapers.

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โ€œDid you hear what I said?โ€ Barbara inquired. It was 1968 again.

โ€œOf course.โ€ He had been dozing.

โ€œIf youโ€™re going to act like a child, maybe weโ€™ll just have toย treat

you like a child.โ€

โ€œThat isnโ€™t what happens next,โ€ said Billy.

โ€œWeโ€™llย seeย what happens next.โ€ Big Barbara now embraced herself. โ€œItโ€™s awfully cold in here. Is the heat on?โ€

โ€œTheย heat?โ€

โ€œThe furnaceโ€”the thing in the basement, the thing that makes hot air that comes out of these registers. I donโ€™t think itโ€™s working.โ€

โ€œMaybe not.โ€ โ€œArenโ€™t you cold?โ€ โ€œI hadnโ€™t noticed.โ€

โ€œOh my God, youย areย a child. If we leave you alone here, youโ€™ll freeze to death, youโ€™ll starve to death.โ€ And so on. It was very exciting for her, taking his dignity away in the name of love.

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Barbara called the oil-burner man, and she made Billy go to bed, made him promise to stay under the electric blanket until the heat came on. She set the control of the blanket at the highest notch, which soon made Billyโ€™s bed hot enough to bake bread in.

When Barbara left, slamming the door behind her, Billy traveled in time to the zoo on Tralfamadore again. A mate had just been brought to him from Earth. She was Montana Wildhack, a motion picture star.

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Montana was under heavy sedation. Tralfamadorians wearing gas masks brought her in, put her on Billyโ€™s yellow lounge chair;

withdrew through his airlock. The vast crowd outside was delighted. All attendance records for the zoo were broken. Everybody on the planet wanted to see the Earthlings mate.

Montana was naked, and so was Billy, of course. He had a tremendous wang, incidentally. You never know whoโ€™ll get one.

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Now she fluttered her eyelids. Her lashes were like buggy whips. โ€œWhereย amย I?โ€ she said.

โ€œEverything is all right,โ€ said Billy gently. โ€œPlease donโ€™t be afraid.โ€

Montana had been unconscious during her trip from Earth. The Tralfamadorians hadnโ€™t talked to her, hadnโ€™t shown themselves to her. The last thing she remembered was sunning herself by a swimming pool in Palm Springs, California. Montana was only twenty years old. Around her neck was a silver chain with a heart- shaped locket hanging from itโ€”between her breasts.

Now she turned her head to see the myriads of Tralfamadorians outside the dome. They were applauding her by opening and closing their little green hands quickly.

Montana screamed and screamed.

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All the little green hands closed tight, because Montanaโ€™s terror was so unpleasant to see. The head zoo keeper ordered a crane operator, who was standing by, to drop a navy blue canopy over the dome, thus simulating Earthling night inside. Real night came to the zoo for only one Earthling hour out of every sixty-two.

Billy switched on a floor lamp. The light from the single source threw the baroque detailing of Montanaโ€™s body into sharp relief. Billy was reminded of fantastic architecture in Dresden, before it was bombed.

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In time, Montana came to love and trust Billy Pilgrim. He did not touch her until she made it clear that she wanted him to. After she had been on Tralfamadore for what would have been an Earth- ling week, she asked him shyly if he wouldnโ€™t sleep with her. Which he did. It was heavenly.

And Billy traveled in time from that delightful bed to a bed in 1968. It was his bed in Ilium, and the electric blanket was turned up high. He was drenched in sweat, remembered groggily that his daughter had put him to bed, had told him to stay there until the oil burner was repaired.

Somebody was knocking on his bedroom door. โ€œYes?โ€ said Billy.

โ€œOil-burner man.โ€ โ€œYes?โ€

โ€œItโ€™s running good now. Heatโ€™s coming up.โ€ โ€œGood.โ€

โ€œMouse ate through a wire from the thermostat.โ€ โ€œIโ€™ll be darned.โ€

Billy sniffed. His hot bed smelled like a mushroom cellar. He had had a wet dream about Montana Wildhack.

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On the morning after that wet dream, Billy decided to go back to work in his o ce in the shopping plaza. Business was booming as usual. His assistants were keeping up with it nicely. They were startled to see him. They had been told by his daughter that he might never practice again.

But Billy went into his examining room briskly, asked that the first patient be sent in. So they sent him oneโ€”a twelve-year-old boy who was accompanied by his widowed mother. They were

strangers, new in town. Billy asked them a little about themselves, learned that the boyโ€™s father had been killed in Vietnamโ€”in the famous five-day battle for Hill 875 near Dakto. So it goes.

โ€ข โ€ข โ€ข

While he examined the boyโ€™s eyes, Billy told him matter-of- factly about his adventures on Tralfamadore, assured the fatherless boy that his father was very much alive still in moments the boy would see again and again.

โ€œIsnโ€™t that comforting?โ€ Billy asked.

And somewhere in there, the boyโ€™s mother went out and told the receptionist that Billy was evidently going crazy. Billy was taken home. His daughter asked him again, โ€œFather, Father, Fatherโ€”whatย areย we going toย doย with you?โ€

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