“Seems pretty slow,” Goodman commented cautiously.
“You’re right,” Abbag said. “Damned slow. Personally, I think it’s about right. But Consumer Research indicates that our customers want it slower still.”
“Huh?”
“Ridiculous, isn’t it?” Abbag asked moodily. “We’ll lose money if we slow it down any more. Take a look at its guts.”
Goodman opened the back panel and blinked at the maze of wiring within. After a moment, he was able to figure it out. The robot was built like a modern Earth machine, with the usual inexpensive high-speed circuits. But special signal-delay relays, impulse-rejection units and step-down gears had been installed.
“Just tell me,” Abbag demanded angrily, “how can we slow it down any more without building the thing a third bigger and twice as expensive? I don’t know what kind of a disimprovement they’ll be asking for next.”
GOODMAN was trying to adjust his thinking to the concept of disimproving a machine.
On Earth, the plants were always trying to build robots with faster, smoother, more accurate responses. He had never found any reason to question the wisdom of this. He still didn’t.
“And as if that weren’t enough,” Abbag complained, “the new plastic we developed for this particular model has catalyzed or some damned thing. Watch.”
He drew back his foot and kicked the robot in the middle. The plastic bent like a sheet of tin. He kicked again. The plastic bent still further and the robot began to click and flash pathetically. A third kick shattered the case. The robot’s innards exploded in spectacular fashion, scattering over the floor. “Pretty flimsy,” Goodman said.
“Not flimsy enough. It’s supposed to fly apart on the first kick. Our customers won’t get any satisfaction out of stubbing their toes on its stomach all day. But tell me, how am I supposed to produce a plastic that’ll take normal wear and tear—we don’t want these things falling apart accidentally—and still go to pieces when a customer wants it to?”
“Wait a minute,” Goodman protested. “Let me get this straight. You purposely slow these robots down so they will irritate people enough to destroy them?” Abbag raised both eyebrows. “Of course!”
“Why?”
“You are new here,” Abbag said. “Any child knows that. It’s fundamental.”
“I’d appreciate it if you’d explain.”
Abbag sighed. “Well, first of all, you are undoubtedly aware that any mechanical contrivance is a source of irritation. Humankind has a deep and abiding distrust of machines. Psychologists call it the instinctive reaction of life to pseudo-life. Will you go along with me on that?”
MARVIN Goodman remembered all the anxious literature he had read about machines revolting, cybernetic brains taking over the world, androids on the march, and the like. He thought of humorous little newspaper items about a man shooting his television set, smashing his toaster against the wall, “getting even” with his car. He remembered all the robot jokes, with their undertone of deep hostility.
“I guess I can go along on that,” said Goodman.
“Then allow me to restate the proposition,” Abbag said pedantically. “Any machine is a source of irritation. The better a machine operates, the stronger the irritation. So, by extension, a perfectly operating machine is a focal point for frustration, loss of self-esteem, undirected resentment—”
“Hold on there!” Goodman objected. “I won’t go that far!”
“—and schizophrenic fantasies,” Abbag continued inexorably. “But machines are necessary to an advanced economy. Therefore the best human solution is to have malfunctioning ones.”
“I don’t see that at all.”
“It’s obvious. On Terra, your gadgets work close to the optimum, producing inferiority feelings in their operators: But unfortunately you have a masochistic tribal tabu against destroying them. Result? Generalized anxiety in the presence of the sacrosanct and unhumanly efficient Machine, and a search for an aggression-object, usually a wife or friend. A very poor state of affairs. Oh, it’s efficient, I suppose, in terms of robot-hour production, but very inefficient in terms of long-range health and well-being.”
“I’m not sure—”
“The human is an anxious beast. Here on Tranai, we direct anxiety toward this particular point and let it serve as an outlet for a lot of other frustrations as well. A man’s had enough—blam! He kicks hell out of his robot. There’s an immediate and therapeutic discharge of feeling, a valuable—and valid—sense of superiority over mere machinery, a lessening of general tension, a healthy flow of adrenin into the bloodstream, and a boost to the industrial economy of Tranai, since he’ll go right out and buy another robot. And what, after all, has he done? He hasn’t beaten his wife, suicided, declared a war, invented a new weapon, or indulged in any of the other more common modes of aggression-resolution. He has simply smashed an inexpensive robot which he can replace immediately.”
“I guess it’ll take me a little time to understand,” Goodman admitted.
“Of course it will. I’m sure you’re going to be a valuable man here, Goodman. Think over what I’ve said and try to figure out some inexpensive way of disimproving this robot.”
Goodman pondered the problem for the rest of the day, but he couldn’t immediately adjust his thinking to the idea of producing an inferior machine. It seemed vaguely blasphemous. He knocked off work at five-thirty, dissatisfied with himself, but determined to do better—or worse, depending on view-point and conditioning.
AFTER A quick and lonely supper, Goodman decided to call on Janna Vley. He didn’t want to spend the evening alone with his thoughts and he was in desperate need of finding something pleasant, simple and uncomplicated in this complex Utopia. Perhaps this Janna would be the answer.
The Vley home was only a dozen blocks away and he decided to walk. The basic trouble was that he had had his own idea of what Utopia would be like and it was difficult adjusting his thinking to the real thing. He had imagined a pastoral setting, a planetful of people in small, quaint villages, walking around in flowing robes and being very wise and gentle and understanding. Children who played in the golden sunlight, young folk danced in the village square . . .
Ridiculous! He had pictured a tableau rather than a scene, a series of stylized postures instead of the ceaseless movement of life. Humans could never live that way, even assuming they wanted to. If they could, they would no longer be humans.
He reached the Vley house and paused irresolutely outside. What was he getting himself into now? What alien—although indubitably Utopian—customs would he run into?
He almost turned away. But the prospect of a long night alone in his hotel room was singularly unappealing. Gritting his teeth, he rang the bell. A red-haired, middle-aged man of medium height opened the door. “Oh, you must be that Terran fellow. Janna’s getting ready. Come in and meet the wife.” He escorted Goodman into a pleasantly furnished living room and pushed a red button on the wall. Goodman wasn’t startled this time by the bluish derrsin haze. After all, the manner in which Tranaians treated their women was their own business.
A handsome woman of about twenty-eight appeared from the haze.
“My dear,” Vley said, “this is the Terran, Mr. Goodman.”
“So pleased to meet you,” Mrs. Vley said. “Can I get you a drink?” Goodman nodded. Vley pointed out a comfortable chair. In a moment, Mrs. Vley brought in a tray of frosted drinks and sat down.
“So you’re from Terra,” said Mr. Vley. “Nervous, hustling sort of place, isn’t it? People always on the go?”
“Yes, I suppose it is,” Goodman replied.
“Well, you’ll like it here. We know how to live. It’s all a matter of—” There was a rustle of skirts on the stairs. Goodman got to his feet.
“Mr. Goodman, this is our daughter Janna,” Mrs. Vley said.
GOODMAN noted at once that Janna’s hair was the exact color of the supernova in Circe, her eyes were that deep, unbelievable bl
ue of the autumn sky over Algo II, her lips were the tender pink of a Scarsclott-Turner jet stream, her nose—
But he had run out of astronomical comparisons, which weren’t suitable anyhow. Janna was a slender and amazingly pretty blond girl and Goodman was suddenly very glad he had crossed the Galaxy and come to Tranai.
“Have a good time, children,” Mrs. Vley said.
“Don’t come in too late,” Mr. Vley told Janna.
Exactly as parents said on Earth to their children.
There was nothing exotic about the date. They went to an inexpensive night club, danced, drank a little, talked a lot.
Goodman was amazed at their immediate rapport. Janna agreed with everything he said. It was refreshing to find intelligence in so pretty a girl. She was impressed, almost overwhelmed, by the dangers he had faced in crossing the Galaxy. She had always known that Terrans were adventurous (though nervous) types, but the risks Goodman had taken passed all understanding. She shuddered when he spoke of the deadly Galactic Whirl and listened wide-eyed to his tales of running the notorious Swayback Gantlet, past the bloodthirsty Scarbies who were still cutting up along Star Ridge and infesting the hell holes of Prodengum. As Goodman put it, Terrans were iron men in steel ships, exploring the edges of the Great Nothing.
Janna didn’t even speak until Goodman told of paying five hundred Terran dollars for a glass of beer at Moll Gann’s Red Rooster Inn on Asteroid 342-AA.
“You must have been very thirsty,” she said thoughtfully. “Not particularly,” Goodman said. “Money just didn’t mean much out there.”
“Oh. But wouldn’t it have been better to have saved it? I mean someday you might have a wife and children—” She blushed.
Goodman said coolly, “Well, that part of my life is over. I’m going to marry and settle down right here on Tranai.”
“How nice!” she cried.
It was a most successful evening.
Goodman returned Janna to her home at a respectable hour and arranged a date for the following evening. Made bold by his own tales, he kissed her on the cheek. She didn’t really seem to mind, but Goodman didn’t try to press his advantage.
“Till tomorrow then,” she said, smiled at him, and closed the door.
HE WALKED away feeling light-headed. Janna! Janna! Was it conceivable that he was in love already? Why not? Love at first sight was a proven psycho-physiological possibility and, as such, was perfectly respectable. Love in Utopia! How wonderful it was that here, upon a perfect planet, he had found the perfect girl!
A man stepped out of the shadows and blocked his path. Goodman noted that he was wearing a black silk mask which covered everything except his eyes. He was carrying a large and powerful-looking blaster, and it was pointed steadily at Goodman’s stomach.
“Okay, buddy,” the man said, “gimme all your money.”
“What?” Goodman gasped.
“You heard me. Your money. Hand it over.”
“You can’t do this,” Goodman said, too startled to think coherently. “There’s no crime on Tranai!”
“Who said there was?” the man asked quietly. “I’m merely asking you for your money. Are you going to hand it over peacefully or do I have to club it out of you?”
“You can’t get away with this! Crime does not pay!”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” the man said. He hefted the heavy blaster.
“All right. Don’t get excited.” Goodman pulled out his bill-fold, which contained all he had in the world, and gave its contents to the masked man. The man counted it, and he seemed impressed. “Better than I expected. Thanks, buddy. Take it easy now.”
He hurried away down a dark street.
Goodman looked wildly around for a policeman, until he remembered that there were no police on Tranai. He saw a small cocktail lounge on the corner with a neon sign saying Kitty Kat Bar. He hurried into it.
Inside, there was only a bartender, somberly wiping glasses.
“I’ve been robbed!” Goodman shouted at him.
“So?” the bartender said, not even looking up.
“But I thought there wasn’t any crime on Tranai.”
“There isn’t.”
“But I was robbed.”
“You must be new here,” the bartender said, finally looking at him.
“I just came in from Terra.”
“Terra? Nervous, hustling sort of—”
“Yes, yes,” Goodman said. He was getting a little tired of that stereotype.
“But how can there be no crime on Tranai if I was robbed?”
“That should be obvious. On Tranai, robbery is no crime.”
“But robbery is always a crime!”
“What color mask was he wearing?”
Goodman thought for a moment. “Black. Black silk.” The bartender nodded. “Then he was a government tax collector.”
“That’s a ridiculous way to collect taxes,” Goodman snapped.
THE BARTENDER set a Tranai Special in front of Goodman. “Try to see this in terms of the general welfare. The government has to have some money. By collecting it this way, we can avoid the necessity of an income tax, with all its complicated legal and legislative apparatus. And in terms of mental health, it’s far better to extract money in a short, quick, painless operation than to permit the citizen to worry all year long about paying at a specific date.”
Goodman downed his drink and the bartender set up another.
“But,” Goodman said, “I thought this was a society based upon the concepts of free will and individual initiative.”
“It is,” the bartender told him. “Then surely the government, what little there is of it, has the same right to free will as any private citizen, hasn’t it?”
Goodman couldn’t quite figure that out, so he finished his second drink.
“Could I have another of those? I’ll pay you as soon as I can.”
“Sure, sure,” the bartender said good-naturedly, pouring another drink and one for himself.
Goodman said, “You asked me what color his mask was. Why?”
“Black is the government mask color. Private citizens wear white masks.”
“You mean that private citizens commit robbery also?”
“Well, certainly! That’s our method of wealth distribution. Money is equalized without government intervention, without even taxation, entirely in terms of individual initiative.” The bartender nodded emphatically. “And it works perfectly, too. Robbery is a great leveler, you know.”
“I suppose it is,” Goodman admitted, finishing his third drink. “If I understand correctly, then, any citizen can pack a blaster, put on a mask, and go out and rob.”
“Exactly,” the bartender said. “Within limits, of course.” Goodman snorted. “If that’s how it works, I can play that way. Could you loan me a mask? And a gun?”
The bartender reached under the bar. “Be sure to return them, though. Family heirlooms.”
“I’ll return them,” Goodman promised. “And when I come back, I’ll pay for my drinks.”
He slipped the blaster into his belt, donned the mask and left the bar. If this was how things worked on Tranai, he could adjust all right. Rob him, would they? He’d rob them right back and then some!
HE FOUND a suitably dark street corner and huddled in the shadows, waiting. Presently he heard footsteps and, peering around the corner, saw a portly, well-dressed Tranaian hurrying down the street.
Goodman stepped in front of him, snarling, “Hold it, buddy.” The Tranaian stopped and looked at Goodman’s blaster. “Hmmm. Using a wide-aperture Drog 3, eh? Rather an old-fashioned weapon. How do you like it?”
“It’s fine,” Goodman said. “Hand over your—”
“Slow trigger action, though,” the Tranaian mused. “Personally, I recommend a Mils-Sleeven needier. As it happens, I’m a sales representative for Sleeven Arms. I could get you a very good price on a trade-in—”
“Hand over your money,” Goodman barked.
&
nbsp; The portly Tranaian smiled. “The basic defect of your Drog 3 is the fact that it won’t fire at all unless you release the safety lock.” He reached out and slapped the gun out of Goodman’s hand. “You see? You couldn’t have done a thing about it.” He started to walk away.
Goodman scooped up the blaster, found the safety lock, released it and hurried after the Tranaian.
“Stick up your hands,” Goodman ordered, beginning to feel slightly desperate.
“No, no, my good man,” the Tranaian said, not even looking back. “Only one try to a customer. Mustn’t break the unwritten law, you know.” Goodman stood and watched until the man turned a corner and was gone. He checked the Drog 3 carefully and made sure that all safeties were off. Then he resumed his post.
After an hour’s wait, he heard footsteps again. He tightened his grip on the blaster. This time he was going to rob and nothing was going to stop him.
“Okay, buddy,” he said, “hands up!”
The victim this time was a short, stocky Tranaian, dressed in old workman’s clothes. He gaped at the gun in Goodman’s hand.
“Don’t shoot, mister,” the Tranaian pleaded.
THAT WAS more like it! Goodman felt a glow of deep satisfaction.
“Just don’t move,” he warned. “I’ve got all safeties off.”
“I can see that,” the stocky man said cringing. “Be careful with that cannon, mister. I ain’t moving a hair.”
“You’d better not. Hand over your money.”
“Money?”
“Yes; your money, and be quick about it.”
“I don’t have any money,” the man whined. “Mister, I’m a poor man. I’m poverty-stricken.”
“There is no poverty on Tranai,” Goodman said sententiously.
“I know. But you can get so close to it, you wouldn’t know the difference. Give me a break, mister.”
“Haven’t you any initiative?” Goodman asked. “If you’re poor, why don’t you go out and rob like everybody else?”
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