Various Fiction

by Robert Sheckley

  “Puts out enough to satisfy me.

  The man shook his head wonderingly. “I guess I’ll never understand you pioneers,” he said, and left.

  THEY tried to resume their life. But lights were beginning to wink on from neighboring asteroids, and the Lunar television was jammed with local signals. The mail rocket began to make weekly stops and a travel bureau started trips into the Belt.

  The familiar, dissatisfied look came over Dirk’s face. He studied the sky around him. It was closing in. He was losing his elbow room, and the silence of his farm was broken by the flame of passing rockets.

  But he had promised Amelia and he was going, to keep that promise if it killed him. His face grew gaunt and he began to work six, seven—sometimes actually eight—hours a day.

  A sewing machine salesman called, and a bright, determined woman tried to sell Dirk the Solar Encyclopedia. The ship routes were established now and the long, dangerous trail had become a superhighway.

  One night, while Dirk and Amelia were sitting on their porch, they saw an immense sign light up the sky. It stretched over miles of space, and read: ROSEN’S SHOPPING CENTER. STORES, RESTAURANT, BEST DRINKS IN THE ASTEROIDS.

  “Stores,” Amelia murmured. “And a restaurant! Oh, Dirk, couldn’t we go?”

  “Why not?” he said, with a helpless shrug of his shoulders.

  The next day, Amelia put on her new dress and made Dirk wear his one custom-tailored suit. They got into the old spaceship and set out.

  Rosen’s Center, a bustling frontier town sprawling across four linked asteroids, was struggling valiantly to become a city. Already driftways had been installed on all the streets. The town was filled with noisy, eager people, and robots clumped down the ways, loaded with gear.

  Amelia took Dirk into a restaurant, where they were served a real Earthside dinner. Dirk didn’t enjoy it. He was slightly nauseous from breathing other people’s air and the food was too delicate to stick to one’s ribs.

  The meal ended with Dirk ordering the wrong wine and trying to tip the robot waiter.

  Thoroughly miserable, he allowed himself to be dragged from one store to another. The only time he showed any interest was when they entered a heavy-tools shop.

  He examined a new antigravity engine. It was a model he had never seen.

  “Just the thing for canceling heavy-planet effects,” the robot clerk told him. “We believe this machine would work splendidly on the moons of Jupiter, for example.”

  “The moons of Jupiter?”

  “Just an example, sir,” the robot said. “No one’s ever been there. It’s completely unexplored territory.”

  DIRK nodded absently, rubbing his hand along the machine’s burnished surface.

  “Look, Amelia,” he said. “Do you suppose that job on Earth is still open?”

  “It might be,” she answered. “Why?”

  “Might as well be on Earth as here. These people are playing at pioneering.”

  “Do you think you’d be happy on Earth?”

  “Might.”

  “I doubt it,” Amelia said. She was remembering how contented they had been on the asteroid. Their life had been full and complete, just the two of them, pushing back the wilderness with their rude tools—doing without—improvising.

  That had been before people came, before Earth’s noisy, elbowing civilization had crowded up to their doorstep.

  Her mother had learned the hard way and had tried to tell her. Dirk would never be happy on Earth. And happiness for her was impossible if he fretted his life away as her father had, working on a job he hated and dreaming of another more satisfying one.

  “We’ll take the anti-grav engine,” she told the robot. She turned to Dirk. “We’ll need that out Jupiter way.”

  THE ACADEMY

  It was a dark, misty, mysterious institution with an awesome record of cures . . . Just the place, in fact, for one who wanted to know: if society is to be protected against the individual, why can’t the individual be protected against society?

  INSTRUCTION SHEET FOR USE WITH THE CAHILL-THOMAS SANITY METER, SERIES JM-14 (MANUAL):

  The Cahill-Thomas Manufacturing Company is pleased to present our newest Sanity Meter. This beautiful, rugged instrument, small enough for any bedroom, kitchen or den, is in all respects an exact replica of the larger C-T Sanity Meters used in most places of business, recreation, transportation, etc. No pains have been spared to give you the best Sanity Meter possible, at the lowest possible price.

  1. OPERATION. At the lower right-hand comer of your Meter is a switch. Turn it to On position, and allow a few seconds for warming up. Then switch from On position to Operate position. Allow a few seconds for reading.

  2. READING. On the front of your Meter, above the operating switch, is a transparent panel, showing a straight-line scale numbered from zero to ten. The number at which the black indicator stops shows your Sanity Reading, in relation to the present statistical norm.

  3. EXPLANATION OF NUMBERS ZERO TO THREE. On this model, as on all Sanity Meters, zero is the theoretically perfect sanity point. Everything above zero is regarded as a deviation from the norm. However, zero is a statistical rather than an actual idea. The normalcy range for our civilization lies between zero and three. Any rating in this area is considered normal.

  4. EXPLANATION OF NUMBERS FOUR TO SEVEN. These numbers represent the sanity-tolerance limit. Persons registering in this area should consult their favorite therapy at once.

  5. EXPLANATION OF NUMBERS EIGHT TO TEN. A person who registers above seven is considered a highly dangerous potential to his millieu. Almost certainly he is highly neurotic, prepsychotic or psychotic. This individual is required by law to register his rating, and to bring it below seven within a probationary period. (Consult your state laws for periods of probation.) Failing this, he must undergo Surgical Alteration, or may submit voluntarily to therapy at The Academy.

  6. EXPLANATION OF NUMBER TEN. At ten on your Meter there is a red line. If a sanity-reading passes this line, the individual so registered can no longer avail himself of the regular commercial therapies. This individual must undergo Surgical Alteration immediately, or submit at once to therapy at The Academy.

  WARNING:

  A. THIS IS NOT A DIAGNOSTIC MACHINE. DO NOT ATTEMPT TO DETERMINE FOR YOURSELF WHAT YOUR AILMENT IS. THE NUMBERS ZERO TO TEN REPRESENT INTENSITY QUALITIES, NOT ARBITRARY CLASSIFICATIONS OF NEUROTIC, PREPSYCHOTIC, PSYCHOTIC, ETC. THE INTENSITY SCALE IS IN REFERENCE ONLY TO AN INDIVIDUAL’S POTENTIAL FOR HARM TO HIS SOCIAL ORDER. A PARTICULAR TYPE OF NEUROTIC MAY BE POTENTIALLY MORE DANGEROUS THAN A PSYCHOTIC, AND WILL SO REGISTER ON ANY SANITY METER. SEE A THERAPIST FOR FURTHER INSIGHT.

  B. THE ZERO-TO-TEN READINGS ARE APPROXIMATE. FOR AN EXACT THIRTY DECIMAL RATING, GO TO A COMMERCIAL MODEL C-T METER.

  C. REMEMBER—SANITY IS EVERY ONE’S BUSINESS. WE HAVE COME A LONG WAY SINCE THE GREAT WORLD WARS, ENTIRELY BECAUSE WE HAVE FOUNDED OUR CIVILIZATION ON THE CONCEPTS OF SOCIAL SANITY, INDIVIDUAL RESPONSIBILITY, AND PRESERVATION OF THE STATUS QUO. THEREFORE, IF YOU RATE OVER THREE, GET HELP. IF YOU RATE OVER SEVEN, YOU MUST GET HELP. IF YOU RATE OVER TEN, DO NOT WAIT FOR DETECTION AND ARREST. GIVE YOURSELF UP VOLUNTARILY IN THE NAME OF CIVILIZATION.

  Good Luck—

  The Cahill-Thomas Company

  AFTER finishing his breakfast, Mr. Feerman knew he should leave immediately for work. Under the circumstances, any tardiness might be construed unfavorably. He went so far as to put on his neat gray hat, adjust his tie and start for the door. But, his hand on the knob, he decided to wait for the mail.

  He turned away from the door, annoyed with himself, and began to pace up and down the living room. He had known he was going to wait for the mail; why had he gone through the pretense of leaving? Couldn’t he be honest with himself, even now, when personal honesty was so important?

  His black cocker spaniel Speed, curled up on the couch, looked curiously at him. Feerman patted the dog’s head, reached for a cigarette, and changed
his mind. He patted Speed again, and the dog yawned lazily. Feerman adjusted a lamp that needed no adjusting, shuddered for no reason, and began to pace the room again.

  Reluctantly, he admitted to himself that he didn’t want to leave his apartment, dreaded it in fact, although nothing was going to happen. He tried to convince himself that this was just another day, like yesterday and the day before. Certainly if a man could believe that, really believe it, events would defer indefinitely, and nothing would happen to him.

  Besides, why should anything happen today? He wasn’t at the end of his probationary period yet.

  He thought he heard a noise outside his apartment, hurried over and opened the door. He had been mistaken; the mail hadn’t arrived. But down the hall his landlady opened her door and looked at him with pale, unfriendly eyes.

  Feerman closed the door and found that his hands were shaking. He decided that he had better take a sanity reading. He entered the bedroom, but his robutler was there, sweeping a little pile of dust toward the center of the room. Already his bed was made; his wife’s bed didn’t require making, since it had been unoccupied for almost a week.

  “Shall I leave, sir?” the robutler asked.

  Feerman hesitated before answering. He preferred taking his reading alone. Of course, his robutler wasn’t really a person. Strictly speaking, the mechanical had no personality; but he had what seemed like a personality. Anyhow, it didn’t matter whether he stayed or left, since all personal robots had sanity-reading equipment built into their circuits. It was required by law.

  “Suit yourself,” he said finally.

  The robutler sucked up the little pile of dust and rolled noiselessly out of the room.

  Feerman stepped up to the Sanity Meter, turned it on and set the operating control. He watched morosely as the black indicator climbed slowly through the normal twos and threes, through the deviant sixes and sevens, and rested finally on eight-point-two.

  One tenth of a point higher than yesterday. One tenth closer to the red line.

  Feerman snapped off the machine and lighted a cigarette. He left the bedroom slowly, wearily, as though the day were over, instead of just beginning.

  “The mail, sir,” the robutler said, gliding up to him. Feerman grabbed the letters from the robutler’s outstretched hand and looked through them.

  “She didn’t write,” he said involuntarily.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the robutler responded promptly.

  “You’re sorry?” Feerman looked at the mechanical curiously. “Why?”

  “I am naturally interested in your welfare, sir,” the robutler stated. “As is Speed, to the extent of his intelligence. A letter from Mrs. Feerman would have helped your morale. We are sorry it didn’t come.”

  Speed barked softly and cocked his head to one side. Sympathy from a machine, Feerman thought, pity from a beast. But he was grateful all the same.

  “I don’t blame her,” he said. “She couldn’t be expected to put up with me forever.” He waited, hoping that the robot would tell him that his wife would return, that he would soon be well. But the robutler stood silently beside Speed, who had gone to sleep again.

  Feerman looked through the mail again. There were several bills, an advertisement, and a small, stiff letter. The return address on it was The Academy, and Feerman opened it quickly.

  Within was a card, which read, “Dear Mr. Feerman, your application for admission has been processed and found acceptable. We will be happy to receive you at any time. Thank You, the Directors.”

  Feerman squinted at the card. He had never applied for admission to The Academy. It was the last thing in the world he wanted to do. “Was this my wife’s idea?” he asked.

  “I do not know, sir,” the robutler said.

  Feerman turned the card over in his hand. He had always been vaguely aware of the existence of The Academy, of course. One couldn’t help but be aware of it, since its presence affected every strata of life. But actually, he knew very little about this important institution, surprisingly little.

  “What is The Academy?” he asked.

  “A large low gray building,” his robutler answered. “It is situated in the Southwest corner of the city, and can be reached by a variety of public conveyances.”

  “But what is it?”

  “A registered therapy,” the robutler said, “open to anyone upon application, written or verbal. Moreover. The Academy exists as a voluntary choice for all people of plus ten rating, as an alternative to Surgical Personality Alteration.”

  Feerman sighed with exasperation “I know all that. But what is their system? What kind of therapy?”

  “I do not know, sir,” the robutler said.

  “What’s their record of cures?”

  “One hundred percent,” the robutler answered promptly.

  Feerman remembered something else now, something that struck him as rather strange. “Let me see,” he said. “No one leaves The Academy. Is that right?”

  “There has been no record of anyone leaving after physically entering,” the robutler said.

  “Why?”

  “I do not know, sir.”

  Feerman crumpled the card and dropped it into an ashtray. It was all very strange. The Academy was so well known, so accepted, one never thought to ask about it. It had always been a misty place in his mind, far-away, unreal. It was the place you went to if you became plus ten, since you didn’t want to undergo lobotomy, topectomy, or any other process involving organic personality loss. But of course you tried not to think of the possibility of becoming plus ten, since the very thought was an admission of instability, and therefore you didn’t think of the choices open to you if it happened.

  For the first time in his life, Feerman decided he didn’t like the setup. He would have to do some investigating. Why didn’t anyone leave The Academy? Why wasn’t more known of their therapy, if their cures were really one hundred percent effective?

  “I’d better get to work,” Feerman said. “Make me anything at all for supper.”

  “Yes, sir. Have a good day, sir.”

  Speed jumped down from the couch and followed him to the door. Feerman knelt down and stroked the dog’s sleek black head. “No, boy, you stay inside. No burying bones today.”

  “Speed does not bury bones,” the robutler said.

  “That’s right.” Dogs today, like their masters, rarely had a feeling of insecurity. No one buried bones today. “So long.” He hurried past his landlady’s door and into the street.

  FEERMAN was almost twenty minutes late for work. As he entered the building, he forgot to present his probationary certificate to the scanning mechanism at the door. The gigantic commercial Sanity Meter scanned him, its indicator shot past the seven point, lights flashed red. A harsh metallic voice shouted over the loudspeaker, “Sir! Sir! Your deviation from the norm has passed the safety limit! Please arrange for therapy at once!” Quickly Feerman pulled his probationary certificate out of his wallet. But perversely, the machine continued to bellow at him for a full ten seconds longer. Everyone in the lobby was staring at him. Messenger boys stopped dead, pleased at having witnessed a disturbance. Businessmen and office girls whispered together, and two Sanity Policemen exchanged meaningful glances. Feerman’s shirt, soaked with perspiration, was plastered against his back. He resisted an urge to run from the building, instead walked toward an elevator. But it was nearly full, and he couldn’t bring himself to enter.

  He trotted up a staircase to the second floor, and then took an elevator the rest of the way up. By the time he reached the Morgan Agency he had himself under control. He showed his probationary certificate to the Sanity Meter at the door, mopped his face with a handkerchief, and walked in.

  Everyone in the agency knew what had happened. He could tell by their silence, their averted faces. Feerman walked rapidly to his office, closed the door and hung up his hat.

  He sat down at his desk, still slightly out of wind, filled with resentment at the Sanity M
eter. If only he could smash all the damned things! Always prying, setting off their alarms in your ear, unstabilizing you . . .

  Feerman cut off the thought quickly. There was nothing wrong with the Meters. To think of them as active persecuting agents was paranoidal, and perhaps a symptom of his present unsane status. The Meters were mere extensions of man’s will. Society as a whole, he reminded himself, must be protected against the individual, just as a human body must be protected against malfunction of any of its parts. As fond as you might be of your gall bladder, you would sacrifice it mercilessly if it were going to impair the rest of you.

  He sensed something shaky in this analogy, but decided not to pursue it any farther. He had to find out more about The Academy.

  After lighting a cigarette he dialed the Therapy Reference Service.

  “May I help you, sir?” a pleasant-voiced woman asked.

  “I’d like to get some information about The Academy,” Feerman said, feeling a trifle foolish. The Academy was so well known, so much a part of everyday life, it was tantamount to asking what form of government your country had. “The Academy is located—”

  “I know where it’s located,” Feerman said. “I want to know what sort of therapy they administer.”

  “That information is not available, sir,” the woman said, after a pause.

  “No? I thought all data on commercial therapies was available to the public.”

  “Technically, it is,” the woman answered slowly. “But the Academy is not, strictly, a commercial therapy. It does accept money; however, it admits charity cases as well, without quota. Also, it is partially supported by the government.”

  Feerman tapped the ash off his cigarette and said impatiently, “I thought all government projects were open to the public.”

  “As a general rule, they are. Except when such knowledge will be harmful to the public.”

  “Then such knowledge of The Academy would be harmful?” Feerman said triumphantly, feeling that he was getting to the heart of the matter.

  “Oh, no sir!” The woman’s voice became shrill with amazement. “I didn’t mean to imply that! I was just stating the general rules for withholding of information. The Academy, although covered by the laws, is, to some extent, extra-legal. This status is allowed because of The Academy’s one hundred percent record of cures.”