Three slips of paper on the Secretary's desk,
each one a ballot for the death of billions.
The man from Mars stood patient by the window,
one alien appendage raised like a blessing,
while headlines screamed of famine, plague, and war
from the newspaper at his elbow.
"I'm only here to help you," said the visitor,
and in six weeks he'd proved it--no more rabies,
no common cold, each cure a gift freely given.
Now he offered peace, at half the cost
of every living soul upon the Earth.
The Secretary scribbled his decision
without meeting anyone's eyes. The officer
turned to press his paper flat against the wall.
The Assistant lettered his vote upon a book,
face drawn, gaze fixed on nothing.
"Two to one," the man from Mars announced,
and crushed the ballots into small white pellets
tossed out the open window like spent seeds.
"By noon tomorrow it will all be finished."
They sat in silence when he left the room.
They did not look each other in the face.
At twelve-oh-seven the next day, the officer
burst through the door, shaking with laughter
that was not laughter. "Done," he choked.
"At noon, every woman and girl on Earth
dropped dead."
And not one of them could say who voted yes.