The Government Marriage Council had considered these simple attractions sufficient and hadn’t bothered putting in a golf course, swimming pool, horse track or shuffleboard court. It was felt that once a couple desired these things, the honey-moon was over. Goodman and his bride spent an enchanted week on Doe and at last returned to Tranai.
AFTER carrying his bride across the threshold of their new home, Goodman’s first act was to unplug the derrsin generator.
“My dear,” he said, “up to now, I have followed all the customs of Tranai, even when they seemed ridiculous to me. But this is one thing I will not sanction. On Terra, I was the founder of the Committee for Equal Job Opportunities for Women. On Terra, we treat our women as equals, as companions, as partners in the adventure of life.”
“What a strange concept,” Janna said, a frown clouding her pretty face.
“Think about it,” Goodman urged. “Our life will be far more satisfying in this companionable manner than if I shut you up in the purdah of the derrsin field. Don’t you agree?”
“You know far more than I, dear. You’ve traveled all over the Galaxy, and I’ve never been out of Port Tranai. If you say it’s the best way, then it must be.” Past a doubt, Goodman thought, she was the most perfect of women. He returned to his work at the Abbag Home Robot Works and was soon deep in another disimprovement project. This time, he conceived the bright idea of making the robot’s joints squeak and grind. The noise would increase the robot’s irritation value, thereby making its destruction more pleasing and psychologically more valuable. Mr. Abbag was overjoyed with the idea, gave him another pay raise, and asked him to have the disimprovement ready for early production.
Goodman’s first plan was simply to remove some of the lubrication ducts. But he found that friction would then wear out vital parts too soon. That naturally could not be sanctioned.
He began to draw up plans for a built-in squeak-and-grind unit. It had to be absolutely life-like and yet cause no real wear. It had to be inexpensive and it had to be small, because the robot’s interior was already packed with disimprovements.
But Goodman found that small squeak-producing units sounded artificial. Larger units were too costly to manufacture or couldn’t be fitted inside the robot’s case. He began working several evenings a week, lost weight, and his temper grew edgy.
JANNA became a good, dependable wife. His meals were always ready on time and she invariably had a cheerful word for him in the evenings and a sympathetic ear for his difficulties. During the day, she supervised the cleaning of the house by the Home Robots. This took less than an hour and afterward she read books, baked pies, knitted, and destroyed robots.
Goodman was a little alarmed at this, because Janna destroyed them at the rate of three or four a week. Still, everyone had to have a hobby. He could afford to indulge her, since he got the machines at cost. Goodman had reached a complete impasse when another designer, a man named Dath Hergo, came up with a novel control. This was based upon a counter-gyroscopic principle and allowed a robot to enter a room at a ten-degree list. (Ten degrees, the research department said, was the most irritating angle of list a robot could assume.) Moreover, by employing a random-selection principle, the robot would lurch, drunkenly, annoyingly, at irregular intervals—never dropping anything, but always on the verge of it.
This development was, quite naturally, hailed as a great advance in disimprovement engineering. And Goodman found that he could center his built-in squeak-and-grind unit right in the lurch control. His name was mentioned in the engineering journals next to that of Dath Hergo. The new line of Abbag Home Robots was a sensation.
At this time, Goodman decided to take a leave of absence from his job and assume the Supreme Presidency of Tranai. He felt he owed it to the people. If Terran ingenuity and know-how could bring out improvements in disimprovements, they would do even better improving improvements. Tranai was a near-utopia. With his hand on the reins, they could go the rest of the way to perfection. He went down to Melith’s office to talk it over.
“I suppose there’s always room for change,” Melith said thoughtfully. The immigration chief was seated by the window, idly watching people pass by. “Of course, our present system has been working for quite some time and working very well. I don’t know what you’d improve. There’s no crime, for example—”
“Because you’ve legalized it,” Goodman declared. “You’ve j simply evaded the issue.”
“We don’t see it that way. There’s no poverty—”
“Because everybody steals. And there’s no trouble with old people because the government turns them into beggars. Really, there’s plenty of room for change and improvement.”
“Well, perhaps,” Melith said. “But I think—” he stopped suddenly, rushed over to the wall and pulled down the rifle. “There he is!”
GOODMAN looked out the window. A man, apparently no different from anyone else, was walking past. He heard a muffled click and saw the man stagger, then drop to the pavement.
Melith had shot him with the silenced rifle.
“What did you do that for?” Goodman gasped.
“Potential murderer,” Melith said.
“What?”
“Of course. We don’t have any out-and-out crime here, but, being human, we have to deal with the potentiality.”
“What did he do to make him a potential murderer?”
“Killed five people,” Melith stated.
“But—damn it, man, this isn’t fair! You didn’t arrest him give him a trial, the benefit of counsel—”
“How could I?” Melith asked, slightly annoyed. “We don’t have any police to arrest people with and we don’t have any legal system. Good Lord, you didn’t expect me to just let him go on, did you? Our definition of a murderer is a killer of ten and he was well on his way. I couldn’t just sit idly by. It’s my duty to protect the people. I can assure you, I made careful inquiries.”
“It isn’t just!” Goodman shouted.
“Who ever said it was?” Melith shouted back. “What has justice got to do with Utopia?”
“Everything!” Goodman had calmed himself with an effort, “Justice is the basis of human dignity, human desire—”
“Now you’re just using words,” Melith said, with his usual good-natured smile. “Try to be realistic. We have created a Utopia for human beings, not for saints who don’t need one. We must accept the deficiencies of the human character, not pretend they don’t exist. To our way of thinking, a police apparatus and a legal-judicial system all tend to create an atmosphere for crime and an acceptance of crime. It’s better, believe me, not to accept the possibility of crime at all. The vast majority of the people will go along with you.”
“But when crime does turn up as it inevitably does—”
“Only the potentiality turns up,” Melith insisted stubbornly. “And even that is much rarer than you would think. When it shows up, we deal with it, quickly and simply.”
“Suppose you get the wrong man?”
“We can’t get the wrong man. Not a chance of it.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” Melith said, “anyone disposed of by a government official is, by definition and by unwritten law, a potential criminal.”
MARVIN Goodman was silent for a while. Then he said, “I see that the government has more power than I thought at first.”
“It does,” Melith said. “But not as much as you now imagine.” Goodman smiled ironically. “And is the Supreme Presidency still mine for the asking?”
“Of course. And with no strings attached. Do you want it?” Goodman thought deeply for a moment. Did he really want it? Well, someone had to rule. Someone had to protect the people. Someone had to make a few reforms in this Utopian madhouse.
“Yes, I want it,” Goodman said.
The door burst open and Supreme President Borg rushed in. “Wonderful!
Perfectly wonderful! You can move into the National Mansion today. I’ve been packed
for a week, waiting for you to make up your mind.”
“There must be certain formalities to go through—”
“No formalities,” Borg said, his face shining with perspiration. “None whatsoever. All we do is hand over the Presidential Seal; then I’ll go down and take my name off the rolls and put yours on.”
Goodman looked at Melith. The immigration minister’s round face was expressionless.
“All right,” Goodman said.
Borg reached for the Presidential Seal, started to remove it from his neck—
It exploded suddenly and violently.
Goodman found himself staring in horror at Borg’s red, ruined head. The Supreme President tottered for a moment, then slid to the floor. Melith took off his jacket and threw it over Borg’s head. Goodman backed to a chair and fell into it. His mouth opened, but no words came out.
“It’s really a pity,” Melith said. “He was so near the end of his term. I warned him against licensing that new spaceport. The citizens won’t approve, I told him. But he was sure they would like to have two spaceports. Well, he was wrong.”
“Do you mean—I mean—how—what—”
“All government officials,” Melith explained, “wear the badge of office, which contains a traditional amount of tessium, an explosive you may have heard of. The charge is radio-controlled from the Citizens Booth. Any citizen has access to the Booth, for the purpose of expressing his disapproval of the government.” Melith sighed. “This will go down as a permanent black mark against poor Borg’s record.”
“YOU LET the people express their disapproval by blowing up officials?” Goodman croaked, appalled.
“It’s the only way that means anything,” said Melith “Check and balance. Just as the people are in our hands, so we are in the people’s hands.”
“And that’s why he wanted me to take over his term. Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
“You didn’t ask,” Melith said, with the suspicion of a smile, “Don’t look so horrified. Assassination is always possible, you know, on any planet, under any government. We try to make it a constructive thing. Under this system, the people never lose touch with the government, and the government never tries to assume dictatorial powers. And, since everyone knows he can turn to the Citizens Booth, you’d be surprised how sparingly it’s used. Of course, there are always hotheads—”
Goodman got to his feet and started to the door, not looking at Borg’s body.
“Don’t you still want the Presidency?” asked Melith.
“No!”
“That’s so like you Terrans,” Melith remarked sadly. “You want responsibility only if it doesn’t incur risk. That’s the wrong attitude for running a government.”
“You may be right,” Goodman said. “I’m just glad I found out in time.” He hurried home.
His mind was in a complete turmoil when he entered his house. Was Tranai a Utopia or a planetwide insane asylum? Was there much difference? For the first time in his life, Goodman was wondering if Utopia was worth having. Wasn’t it better to strive for perfection than to possess it? To have ideals rather than to live by them? If justice was a fallacy, wasn’t the fallacy better than the truth?
Or was it? Goodman was a sadly confused young man when he shuffled into his house and found his wife in the arms of another man.
THE SCENE had a terrible slow-motion clarity in his eyes. It seemed to take Janna forever to rise to her feet, straighten her disarranged clothing and stare at him open-mouthed. The man—a tall, good-looking fellow whom Goodman had never before seen—appeared too startled to speak. He made small, aimless gestures, brushing the lapel of his jacket, pulling down, his cuffs. Then, tentatively, the man smiled.
“Well!” Goodman said. It was feeble enough, under the circumstances, but it had its effect. Janna started to cry.
“Terribly sorry,” the man murmured. “Didn’t expect you home for hours. This must come as a shock to you. I’m terribly sorry.”
The one thing Goodman hadn’t expected or wanted was sympathy from his wife’s lover. He ignored the man and stared at the weeping Janna.
“Well, what did you expect?” Janna screamed at him suddenly. “I had to! You didn’t love me!”
“Didn’t love you! How can you say that?”
“Because of the way you treated me.”
“I loved you very much, Janna,” he said softly.
“You didn’t!” she shrilled, throwing back her head. “Just look at the way you treated me. You kept me around all day, every day, doing housework, cooking, sitting. Marvin, I could feel myself aging. Day after day, the same weary, stupid routine. And most of the time, when you came home, you were too tired to even notice me. All you could talk about was your stupid robots! I was being wasted, Marvin, wasted!”
It suddenly occurred to Goodman that his wife was unhinged. Very gently he said, “But, Janna, that’s how life is. A husband and wife settle into a companionable situation. They age together side by side. It can’t all be high spots—”
“But of course it can! Try to understand, Marvin. It can, on Tranai—for a woman!”
“It’s impossible,” Goodman said.
“On Tranai, a woman expects a life of enjoyment and pleasure. It’s her right, just as men have their rights. She expects to come out of stasis and find a little party prepared, or a walk in the moonlight, or a swim, or a movie.” She began to cry again. “But you were so smart. You had to change it. I should have known better than to trust a Terran.”
The other man sighed and lighted a cigarette.
“I know you can’t help being an alien, Marvin,” Janna said.
“But I do want you to understand. Love isn’t everything. A woman must be practical, too. The way things were going, I would have been an old woman while all my friends were still young.”
“STILL YOUNG?” Goodman repeated blankly.
“Of course,” the man said. “A woman doesn’t age in the derrsin field.”
“But the whole thing is ghastly,” said Goodman. “My wife would still be a young woman when I was old.”
“That’s just when you’d appreciate a young woman,” Janna said.
“But how about you?” Goodman asked. “Would you appreciate an old man?”
“He still doesn’t understand,” the man said.
“Marvin, try. Isn’t it clear yet? Throughout your life, you would have a young and beautiful woman whose only desire would be to please you. And when you died—don’t look shocked, dear; everybody dies—when you died, I would still be young, and by law I’d inherit all your money.”
“I’m beginning to see,” Goodman said. “I suppose that’s another accepted phase of Tranaian life—the wealthy young widow who can pursue her own pleasures.”
“Naturally. In this way, everything is for the best for everybody. The man has a young wife whom he sees only when he wishes. He has his complete freedom and a nice home as well. The woman is relieved of all the dullness of ordinary living and, while she can still enjoy it, is well provided for.”
“You should have told me,” Goodman complained.
“I thought you knew,” Janna said, “since you thought you had a better way. But I can see that you would never have understood, because you’re so nai’ve—though I must admit it’s one of your charms.” She smiled wistfully.
“Besides, if I told you, I would never have met Rondo.” The man bowed slightly. “I was leaving samples of Greah’s Confections. You can imagine my surprise when I found this lovely young woman out of stasis. I mean it was like a story-book tale come true. One never expects old legends to happen, so you must admit that there’s a certain appeal when they do.”
“Do you love him?” Goodman asked heavily.
“Yes,” said Janna. “Rondo cares for me. He’s going to keep me in stasis long enough to make up for the time I’ve lost. It’s a sacrifice on his part, but Rondo has a gene’rous nature.”
“If that’s how it is,” Goodman said glumly, “
I certainly won’t stand in your way. I am a civilized being, after all. You may have a divorce.”
HE FOLDED his arms across his chest, feeling quite noble. But he was dimly aware that his decision stemmed not so much from nobility as from a sudden, violent distaste for all things Tranaian.
“We have no divorce on Tranai,” Rondo said.
“No?” Goodman felt a cold chill run down his spine. A blaster appeared in Rondo’s hand. “It would be too unsettling, you know, if people were always swapping around. There’s only one way to change a marital status.”
“But this is revolting!” Goodman blurted, backing away. “It’s against all decency!”
“Not if the wife desires it. And that, by the by, is another excellent reason for keeping one’s spouse in stasis. Have I your permission, my dear?”
“Forgive me, Marvin,” Janna said. She closed her eyes. “Yes!” Rondo leveled the blaster. Without a moment’s hesitation, Goodman dived head-first out the nearest window. Rondo’s shot fanned right over him.
“See here!” Rondo called. “Show some spirit, man. Stand up to it!” Goodman had landed heavily on his shoulder. He was up at once, sprinting, and Rondo’s second shot scorched his arm. Then he ducked behind a house and was momentarily safe. He didn’t stop to think about it. Running for all he was worth, he headed for the spaceport.
Fortunately, a ship was preparing for blastoff and took him to g’Moree. From there he wired to Tranai for his funds and bought passage to Higastomeritreia, where the authorities accused him of being a Ding spy. The charge couldn’t stick, since the Dingans were an amphibious race, and Goodman almost drowned proving to everyone’s satisfaction that he could breathe only air. A drone transport took him to the double planet Mvanti, past Seves, Olgo and Mi. He hired a bush pilot to take him to Bellismoranti, where the influence of Terra began. From there, a local spaceline transported him past the Galactic Whirl and, after stopping at Oyster, Lekung, Pankang, Inchang and Machang, arrived at Tung-Bradar IV.
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