Various Fiction

by Robert Sheckley

  Goodman smiled a beatific smile. “A Utopia,” he said.

  MARVIN Goodman had lived most of his life in Seakirk, New Jersey, a town controlled by one political boss or another for close to fifty years. Most of Seakirk’s inhabitants were indifferent to the spectacle of corruption in high places and low, the gambling, the gang wars, the teenage drinking. They were used to the sight of their roads crumbling, their ancient water mains bursting, their power plants breaking down, their decrepit old buildings falling apart, while the bosses built bigger homes, longer swimming pools and warmer stables. People were used to it. But not Goodman.

  A natural-born crusader, he wrote expose articles that were never published, sent letters to Congress that were never read, stumped for honest candidates who were never elected, and organized the League for Civic Improvement, the People Against Gangsterism, the Citizen’s Union for an Honest Police Force, the Association Against Gambling, the Committee for Equal Job Opportunities for Women, and a dozen others.

  Nothing came of his efforts. The people were too apathetic to care. The politicoes simply laughed at him, and Goodman couldn’t stand being laughed at. Then, to add to his troubles, his fiancee jilted him for a noisy young man in a loud sports jacket who had no redeeming feature other than a controlling interest in the Seakirk Construction Corporation.

  It was a shattering blow. The girl seemed unaffected by the fact that the SCC used disproportionate amounts of sand in their concrete and shaved whole inches from the width of their steel girders. As she put it, “Gee whiz, Marvie, so what? That’s how things are. You gotta be realistic.” Goodman had no intention of being realistic. He immediately repaired to Eddie’s Moonlight Bar, where, between drinks, he began to contemplate the attractions of a grass shack in the green hell of Venus.

  An erect, hawk-faced old man entered the bar. Goodman could tell he was a spacer by his gravity-bound gait, his pallor, his radiation scars and his far-piercing gray eyes.

  “A Tranai Special, Sam,” the old spacer told the bartender.

  “Coming right up, Captain Savage, sir,” the bartender said.

  “Tranai?” Goodman murmured involuntarily.

  “Tranai,” the captain said. “Never heard of it, did you, sonny?”

  “No, sir,” Goodman confessed.

  “Well, sonny,” Captain Savage said, “I’m feeling a. mite wordy tonight, so I’ll tell you a tale of Tranai the Blessed, out past the Galactic Whirl.” The captain’s eyes grew misty and a smile softened the grim line of his lips.

  “We were iron men in steel ships in those days. Me and Johnny Cavanaugh and Frog Larsen would have blasted to hell itself for half a load of terganium. Aye, and shanghaied Beelzebub for a wiper if we were short of men. Those were the days when space scurvey took every third man, and the ghost of Big Dan McClintock haunted the spaceways. Moll Gann still operated the Red Rooster Inn out on Asteroid 342-AA, asking five hundred Earth dollars for a glass of beer, and getting it too, there being no other place within ten billion miles. In those days, the Scarbies were still cutting up along Star Ridge and ships bound for Prodengum had to run the Swayback Gantlet. So you can imagine how I felt, sonny, when one fine day I came upon Tranai.”

  GOODMAN listened as the old captain limned a picture of the great days, of frail ships against an iron sky, ships outward bound, forever outward, to the far limits of the Galaxy.

  And there, at the edge of the Great Nothing, was Tranai.

  Tranai, where The Way had been found and men were no longer bound to The Wheel! Tranai the Bountiful, a peaceful, creative, happy society, not saints or ascetics, not intellectuals, but ordinary people who had achieved Utopia. For an hour, Captain Savage spoke of the multiform marvels of Tranai. After finishing his story, he complained of a dry throat. Space throat, he called it, and Goodman ordered him another Tranai Special and one for himself. Sipping the exotic, green-gray mixture, Goodman too was lost in the dream. Finally, very gently, he asked, “Why don’t you go back, Captain?”

  The old man shook his head. “Space gout. I’m grounded for good. We didn’t know much about modern medicine in those days. All I’m good for now is a landsman’s job.”

  “What job do you have?”

  “I’m a foreman for the Seakirk Construction Corporation,” the old man sighed.

  “Me, that once commanded a fifty-tube clipper. The way those people make concrete . . . Shall we have another short one in honor of beautiful Tranai?” They had several short ones. When Goodman left the bar, his mind was made up. Somewhere in the Universe, the modus vivendi had been found, the working solution to Man’s old dream of perfection.

  He could settle for nothing less.

  The next day, he quit his job as designer at the East Coast Robot Works and drew his life savings out of the bank.

  He was going to Tranai.

  HE BOARDED the Constellation Queen for Legis II and took the Galactic Splendor to Oume. After stopping at Machang, Inchang, Pankang, Lekung and Oyster—dreary little places—he reached Tung-Bradar IV. Without incident, he passed the Galactic Whirl and finally reached Bellismoranti, where the influence of Terra ended.

  For an exorbitant fee, a local spaceline took him to Dvasta II. From there, a freighter transported him past Seves, Olgo and Mi, to the double planet Mvanti. There he was bogged down for three months and used the time to take a hypnopedic course in the Tranaian language. At last he hired a bush pilot to take him to Ding.

  On Ding, he was arrested as a Higastomeritreian spy, but managed to escape in the cargo of an ore rocket bound for g’Moree. At g’Moree, he was treated for frostbite, heat poisoning and superficial radiation burns, and at last arranged passage to Tranai.

  He could hardly believe it when the ship slipped past the moons Doe and Ri, to land at Port Tranai.

  After the airlocks opened, Goodman found himself in a state of profound depression. Part of it was plain letdown, inevitable after a journey such as his. But more than that, he was suddenly terrified that Tranai might turn out to be a fraud.

  He had crossed the Galaxy on the basis of an old spaceman’s yarn. But now it all seemed less likely. Eldorado was a more probable place than the Tranai he expected to find.

  He disembarked. Port Tranai seemed a pleasant enough town. The streets were filled with people and the shops were piled high with goods. The men he passed looked much like humans anywhere. The women were quite attractive. But there was something strange here, something subtly yet definitely wrong, something alien. It took a moment before he could puzzle it out. Then he realized that there were at least ten men for every woman in sight. And stranger still, practically all the women he saw apparently were under eighteen or over thirty-five.

  What had happened to the nineteen-to-thirty-five age group? Was there a taboo on their appearing in public? Had a plague struck them?

  He would just have to wait and find out.

  He went to the Idrig Building, where all Tranai’s governmental functions were carried out, and presented himself at the office of the Extraterrestrials Minister. He was admitted at once.

  The office was small and cluttered, with strange blue blotches on the wallpaper. What struck Goodman at once was a high-powered rifle complete with silencer and telescopic sight, hanging ominously from one wall. He had no time to speculate on this, for the minister bounded out of his chair and vigorously shook Goodman’s hand.

  THE MINISTER was a stout, jolly man of about fifty. Around his neck he wore a small medallion stamped with the Tranian seal—a bolt of lightning splitting an ear of corn. Goodman assumed, correctly, that this was an official seal of office.

  “Welcome to Tranai,” the minister said heartily. He pushed a pile of papers from a chair and motioned Goodman to sit down.

  “Mister Minister—” Goodman began, in formal Tranian.

  “And therefore no police force or courts, no judges, sheriffs, marshals, executioners, truant officers or government investigators. No prisons, reformatories or other places of detention.�
��

  “We have no need of them,” Melith explained, “since we have no crime.”

  “I have heard,” said Goodman, “that there is no poverty on Tranai.”

  “None that I ever heard of,” Melith said cheerfully. “Are you sure you won’t have a cigar?”

  “No, thank you,” Goodman was leaning forward eagerly now. “I understand that you have achieved a stable economy without resorting to socialistic, communistic, fascistic or bureaucratic practices.”

  “Certainly,” Melith said.

  “That yours is, in fact, a free enterprise society, where individual initiative flourishes and governmental functions are kept to an absolute minimum.”

  MELITH nodded. “By and large, the government concerns itself with minor regulatory matters, care of the aged and beautifying the landscape.”

  “Is it true that you have discovered a method of wealth distribution without resorting to governmental intervention, without even taxation, based entirely upon individual choice?” Goodman challenged.

  “Oh, yes, absolutely.”

  “Is it true that there is no corruption in any phase of the Tranaian government?”

  “None,” Melith said. “I suppose that’s why we have a hard time finding men to hold public office.”

  “Then Captain Savage was right!” Goodman cried, unable to control himself any longer. “This is Utopia!”

  “We like it,” Melith said.

  Goodman took a deep breath and asked, “May I stay here?”

  “Why not?” Melith pulled out a form. “We have no restrictions on immigration. Tell me, what is your occupation?”

  “On Earth, I was a robot designer.”

  “Plenty of openings in that.” Melith started to fill in the form. His pen emitted a blob of ink. Casually, the minister threw the pen against the wall, where it shattered, adding another blue blotch to the wallpaper.

  “We’ll make out the paper some other time,” he said. “I’m not in the mood now.” He leaned back in his chair. “Let me give you a word of advice. Here on Tranai, we feel that we have come pretty close to Utopia, as you call it. But ours is not a highly organized state. We have no complicated set of laws. We live by observance of a number of unwritten laws, or customs, as you might call them. You will discover what they are. You would be advised—although certainly not ordered—to follow them.”

  “Of course I will,” Goodman exclaimed. “I can assure you, sir, I have no intention of endangering any phase of your paradise.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t worried about us,” Melith said with an amused smile. “It was your own safety I was considering. Perhaps my wife has some further advice for you.”

  HE PUSHED a large red button on his desk. Immediately there was a bluish haze. The haze solidified, and in a moment Goodman saw a handsome young woman standing before him.

  “Good morning, my dear,” she said to Melith.

  “It’s afternoon,” Melith informed her. “My dear, this young man came all the way from Earth to live on Tranai. I gave him the usual advice. Is there anything else we can do for him?”

  Mrs. Melith thought for a moment, then asked Goodman, “Are you married?”

  “No, ma’am,” Goodman answered.

  “In that case, he should meet a nice girl,” Mrs. Melith told her husband.

  “Bachelordom is not encouraged on Tranai, although certainly not prohibited. Let me see . . . How about that cute Driganti girl?”

  “She’s engaged,” Melith said.

  “Really? Have I been in stasis that long? My dear, it’s not too thoughtful of you.”

  “I was busy,” Melith said apologetically.

  “How about Mihna Vensis?”

  “Not his type.”

  “Janna Vley?”

  “Perfect!” Melith winked at Goodman. “A most attractive little lady.” He found a new pen in his desk, scribbled an address and handed it to Goodman. “My wife will telephone her to be expecting you tomorrow evening.”

  “And do come around for dinner some night,” said Mrs. Melith.

  “Delighted,” Goodman replied, in a complete daze.

  “It’s been nice meeting you,” Mrs. Melith said. Her husband pushed the red button. The blue haze formed and Mrs. Melith vanished.

  “Have to close up now,” said Melith, glancing at his watch. “Can’t work overtime—people might start talking. Drop in some day and we’ll make out those forms. You really should call on Supreme President Borg, too, at the National Mansion. Or possibly he’ll call on you. Don’t let the old fox put anything over on you. And don’t forget about Janna.” He winked roguishly and escorted Goodman to the door.

  In a few moments, Goodman found himself alone on the sidewalk. He had reached Utopia, he told himself, a real, genuine, sure-enough Utopia. But there were some very puzzling things about it.

  GOODMAN ate dinner at a small restaurant and checked in at a nearby hotel. A cheerful bellhop showed him to his room, where Goodman stretched out immediately on the bed. Wearily he rubbed his eyes, trying to sort out his impressions.

  So much had happened to him, all in one day! And so much was bothering him. The ratio of men to women, for example. He had meant to ask Melith about that. But Melith might not be the man to ask, for there were some curious things about him. Like throwing his pen against the wall. Was that the act of a mature, responsible official? And Melith’s wife . . .

  Goodman knew that Mrs. Melith had come out of a derrsin stasis field; he had recognized the characteristic blue haze. The derrsin was used on Terra, too. Sometimes there were good medical reasons for suspending all activity, all growth, all decay. Suppose a patient had a desperate need for a certain serum, procurable only on Mars. Simply project the person into stasis until the serum could arrive.

  But on Terra, only a licensed doctor could operate the field. There were strict penalties for its misuse.

  He had never heard of keeping one’s wife in one.

  Still, if all the wives on Tranai were kept in stasis, that would explain the absence of the nineteen-to-thirty-five age group and would account for the ten-to-one ratio of men to women.

  But what was the reason for this technological purdah?

  And something else was on Goodman’s mind, something quite insignificant, but bothersome all the same.

  That rifle on Melith’s wall.

  Did he hunt game with it? Pretty big game, then. Target practice? Not with a telescopic sight. Why the silencer? Why did he keep it in his office?

  But these were minor matters, Goodman decided, little local idiosyncrasies which would become clear when he had lived a while on Tranai. He couldn’t expect immediate and complete comprehension of what was, after all, an alien planet.

  HE WAS JUST beginning to doze off when he heard a knock at his door.

  “Come in,” he called.

  A small, furtive, gray-faced man hurried in and closed the door behind him.

  “You’re the man from Terra, aren’t you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I figured you’d come here,” the little man said, with a pleased smile. “Hit it right the first time. Going to stay on Tranai?”

  “I’m here for good.”

  “Fine,” the man said. “How would you like to become Supreme President?”

  “Huh?”

  “Good pay, easy hours, only a one-year term. You look like a public-spirited type,” the man said sunnily. “How about it?” Goodman hardly knew what to answer. “Do you mean,” he asked incredulously, “that you offer the highest office in the land so casually?”

  “What do you mean, casually?” the little man spluttered. “Do you think we offer the Supreme Presidency to just anybody? It’s a great honor to be asked.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “And you, as a Terran, are uniquely suited.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, it’s common knowledge that Terrans derive pleasure from ruling. We Tranians don’t, that’s all. Too much trouble.�
�

  As simple as that. The reformer blood in Goodman began to boil. Ideal as Tranai was, there was undoubtedly room for improvement. He had a sudden vision of himself as ruler of Utopia, doing the great task of making perfection even better. But caution stopped him from agreeing at once. Perhaps the man was a crackpot.

  “Thank you for asking me,” Goodman said. “I’ll have to think it over. Perhaps I should talk with the present incumbent and find out something about the nature of the work.”

  “Well, why do you think I’m here?” the little man demanded. “I’m Supreme President Borg.”

  Only then did Goodman notice the official medallion around the little man’s neck.

  “Let me know your decision. I’ll be at the National Mansion.” He shook Goodman’s hand, and left.

  Goodman waited five minutes, then rang for the bellhop. “Who was that man?”

  THE NEXT morning, Goodman listed the various robot factories of Port Tranai in alphabetical order and went out in search of a job. To his amazement, he found one with no trouble at all, at the very first place he looked. The great Abbag Home Robot Works signed him on after only a cursory glance at his credentials.

  His new employer, Mr. Abbag, was short and fierce-looking, with a great mane of white hair and an air of tremendous personal energy.

  “Glad to have a Terran on board,” Abbag said. “I understand you’re an ingenious people and we certainly need some ingenuity around here. I’ll be honest with you, Goodman—I’m hoping to profit by your alien viewpoint. We’ve reached an impasse.”

  “Is it a production problem?” Goodman asked.

  “I’ll show you.” Abbag led Goodman through the factory, around the Stamping Room, Heat-Treat, X-ray Analysis, Final Assembly and to the Testing Room. This room was laid out like a combination kitchen-living room. A dozen robots’ were lined up against one wall.

  “Try one out,” Abbag said.

  Goodman walked up to the nearest robot and looked at its controls. They were simple enough; self-explanatory, in fact. He put the machine through a standard repertoire: picking up objects, washing pots and pans, setting a table. The robot’s responses were correct enough, but maddeningly slow. On Earth, such sluggishness had been ironed out a hundred years ago. Apparently they were behind the times here on Tranai.