Various Fiction

by Robert Sheckley

  “Yeah,” Barrent said sourly.

  “Nothing wrong with that,” Foeren said. “Didn’t you hear what the man said? This is our planet!”

  “With an average life expectancy of three years,” Barrent reminded him.

  “That’s probably just scare talk,” Foeren said. “I wouldn’t believe stuff like that from a cop. The big thing is, we have our own planet. You heard what the guy said. ‘Earth rejects us.’ So to hell with Earth, who needs her? We’ve got our own planet here. A whole damned planet, Barrent! We’re free!”

  Another man said, “That’s right, friend.” He was small, furtive-eyed, beak-nosed, and ingratiatingly friendly. “My name is Joe,” he told them. “I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation, and I agree most heartily with our red-haired friend. Gentlemen, consider the possibilities! Earth has cast us aside? Excellent, we are better off without her. We are all equal here, free men in a free society. No uniforms, no fancy titles, no guards, no cops, no yes, sir, no, sir. Just repentant former criminals who want to live out our years in peace.”

  “What did they get you for?” Barrent asked.

  “They said I was a credit thief,” Joe said. “I’m ashamed to admit that I can’t remember what a credit thief is. But perhaps it’ll come back to me.”

  “Maybe the authorities here have some sort of memory retraining system,” Foeren said.

  “Authorities?” Joe said indignantly. “What do you mean, authorities? This is our planet. We’re all equal here. By definition, there can’t be any authorities. No, friends, we left all that nonsense behind on Earth. Here we just go our merry—”

  He stopped abruptly. The barracks’ door had opened and a man walked in. He was evidently an older resident of Omega since he didn’t wear the gray prison ship uniform. He was very fat, and dressed in garish yellow and blue clothing. On a belt around his ample waist he carried a holstered pistol and a knife. He stood just inside the doorway, his hands on his hips, glaring at the new arrivals.

  “Well?” he said. “Don’t you new guys recognize a Quaestor? Don’t you even stand up?”

  He waited. None of the men moved.

  The Quaestor’s face went scarlet. “Bunch of wise guys,” he said. “I guess I’ll have to teach you a little respect.”

  Even before he had taken his gun from its holster, the new men had scrambled to their feet. The Quaestor looked at them, and with a faintly regretful air pushed the weapon back in its holster. His fingers lingered on the butt.

  “The first thing you guys gotta learn,” the Quaestor said, “is where you stand on Omega. And where you stand is nowhere. You’re peons, and that means you’re nothing. Get it?”

  He waited until all the new men had grunted yes. Then he said, “I oughta kill a couple of you guys just to make sure the rest get the idea. But I guess it can wait. Pay attention, peons. You are about to be instructed in your duties.”

  CHAPTER 3

  THE Quaestor seemed to be some sort of minor official. He drew up a roster of duties in which he assigned the tasks of sweeping the barracks, washing windows, and policing the area of Square A-2. He told the men how to locate the latrines, the mess hall, and the Quaestorial office. He instructed them in elementary protocol; how to recognize members of the superior classes, the proper form of address to use when talking to a Free Citizen, how to show respect when meeting a Hadji. He taught them how to think of themselves: as peons, the lowest members of the lowest class—except for the untouchable Mutants, of course, who were classless.

  “Over the next few days,” the Quaestor said, “you’ll all be assigned to various jobs. Some of you will go to the germanium mines, some to the fishing fleet, some will be apprenticed to various trades, and so on. In the meantime, you’re free to look around Tetrahyde.”

  When the men looked blank, the Quaestor explained, “Tetrahyde is the name of the city you’re in. It’s the largest city on Omega.” He thought for a moment. “In fact, it’s the only city on Omega.”

  “What does the name Tetrahyde mean?” Joe asked.

  “How the hell should I know?” the Quaestor said, scowling. “I suppose it’s one of those old Earth names the skrenners are always coming up with. Anyhow, it’s your city. Just watch your step when you enter it.”

  “Why?” Barrent asked.

  The Quaestor grinned nastily. “That, peon, is something you’ll have to find out for yourself.” He turned and stamped out of the barracks.

  When he had gone, Barrent went to the window. From it he could see a deserted square, and past that were the streets of Tetrahyde.

  “You thinking of going out there?” Joe asked.

  “Certainly I am,” Barrent said. Coming with me? I could use company.”

  The little credit thief shook his head. “I don’t think it’s safe.”

  “Foeren, how about you?”

  “I don’t like it either,” Foeren said. “Something’s wrong with this setup. I don’t understand all that stuff about classes. Might be better to stay around the barracks for a while.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Barrent said. “It’s our city now. Isn’t anyone coming with me?”

  Looking uncomfortable, Foeren hunched his big shoulders and shook his head. Joe shrugged and lay back on his cot. The rest of the new men didn’t even look up.

  “O.K.,” Barrent said. “I’ll give you a full report later.” He waited a moment longer in case someone changed his mind, then went out the door.

  The city of Tetrahyde was a collection of ramshackle buildings sprawled along a narrow peninsula which jutted into a sluggish gray sea. The peninsula’s landward side was contained by a high stone wall, pierced with gates and guarded by sentries. Its largest building was the Arena, used once a year for the holiday Games. Near the Arena was a small cluster of government buildings.

  Barrent walked along the narrow streets, staring around him, trying to get some idea of what his new home was like. The winding, unpaved roads and dark, weatherbeaten houses stirred an elusive tag-end of memory in him. He had seen a place like this on Earth, but he couldn’t remember anything about it. The recollection was as tantalizing as an itch; but he couldn’t locate its source.

  Past the Arena, he came into the main business district of Tetrahyde. Fascinated, he read the store signs: UNLICENSED DOCTOR—ABORTIONS PERFORMED WHILE-U-WAIT. Further on, DISBARRED LAWYER. POLITICAL PULL! This seemed vaguely wrong to Barrent. He walked further, past stores advertising stolen goods, past a little shop that announced, MIND READING! FULL STAFF OF SKRENNING MUTANTS! YOUR PAST ON EARTH REVEALED!

  Barrent was tempted to go in. But he remembered that he didn’t have any money; and Omega seemed like the sort of place that put a high value on money.

  He turned down a side street, walked by several restaurants, and came to a large building called THE POISON INSTITUTE. (Easy Terms. Up to 3 Years to Pay. Satisfaction Guaranteed or Your Money Back). And just past that was a place called THE VICTIM’S PROTECTIVE SOCIETY.

  Next door to it was THE ASSASSIN’S GUILD, LOCAL 452.

  On the basis of the indoctrination talk on the prison ship, Barrent had expected Omega to be dedicated to the rehabilitation of criminals. To judge by the store signs, this simply wasn’t so; or if it was, rehabilitation took some very strange forms. He walked on more slowly, deep in thought.

  Then he noticed that people were moving out of his way. They glanced at him and ducked into doorways and stores. An elderly woman took one look at him, gulped, and ran.

  What was wrong? Could it be his prison uniform? No, the people of Omega had seen many of those. What was it, then?

  The street was almost deserted. A shopkeeper near him was hurriedly swinging steel shutters over his display of fencing equipment.

  “What’s the matter?” Barrent asked him. “What’s on going?”

  “Are you out of your head?” the shopkeeper said. “It’s Landing Day!”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Landing Day!” the shopke
eper said. “The day the prison ship landed. Get back to your barracks, you idiot!”

  He slammed the last steel shutter into place and locked it. Barrent felt a sudden cold touch of fear. Something was very wrong. He had better get back in a hurry. It had been stupid of him not to find out more about Omegan customs before . . .

  Three men were walking down the street toward him. They were well dressed, and each wore the small golden Hadji earring in his left ear. All three men carried sidearms.

  Barrent started to walk away from them. One of the men shouted, “Stop, peon!”

  Barrent saw that the man’s hand was dangling near his gun. He stopped and said, “What’s the matter?”

  “It’s Landing Day,” the man said. He looked at his friends. “Well, who gets him first?”

  “We’ll choose.”

  “Here’s a coin.”

  “No, a show of fingers.”

  “Ready? One, two, three!”

  “He’s mine,” said the Hadji on the left. His friends moved back as he drew his sidearm.

  “Wait!” Barrent called out. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m going to shoot you,” the man said.

  “But why?”

  The man smiled. “Because it’s a Hadji privilege. On every Landing Day, we have the right to shoot down any new peon who leaves his barracks area. And that’s what you’ve done.”

  “But I wasn’t told!”

  “Of course not,” the man said. “If you new men were told, none of you would leave your barracks on Landing Day. And that would spoil all the fun.”

  He took aim.

  Barrent reacted instantaneously. He threw himself to the ground as the Hadji fired, heard a hiss, and saw a jagged heatburn score the brick building next to which he had been standing.

  “My turn now,” one of the men said.

  “Sorry, old man, I believe it’s mine.”

  “Seniority, dear friend, has its privileges. Stand clear.”

  Before the next man could take aim, Barrent was on his feet and running. The sharply winding street protected him for the moment, but he could hear the sounds of his pursuers behind him. They were running at an easy stride, almost a fast walk. Barrent couldn’t understand this until he put on a burst of speed, turned a corner, and found himself facing a dead end. The Hadjis, moving at an easy pace, were coming up behind him.

  Barrent looked wildly around. The store fronts were all locked and shuttered. There was nowhere he could climb, no place to hide.

  And then he saw an open door halfway down the block in the direction of his pursuers. He had run right by it. It was the entrance to The Victim’s Protective Society.

  That’s for me, Barrent thought.

  He sprinted for it, running almost under the noses of the startled Hadjis. A single gun blast scorched the ground under his heels; then he had reached the doorway and flung himself inside.

  He scrambled to his feet. His pursuers had not followed him; he could still hear their voices in the street, amiably arguing questions of precedence. Barrent realized he had entered some sort of sanctuary.

  He was in a large, brightly lighted room. Several ragged men were sitting on a bench near the door, laughing at a private joke. A little further down, a dark-haired girl sat and watched Barrent with wide, unblinking green eyes. At the far end of the room was a desk with a man sitting behind it. The man beckoned to Barrent.

  He walked up to the desk. The man behind it was short and bespectacled. He smiled encouragingly, waiting for Barrent to speak.

  “This is the Victim’s Protective Society?” Barrent asked.

  “Quite correct, sir,” the man said. “I am Rondolp Frendlyer, president of this non-profit organization. Could I be of service?”

  “You certainly could,” Barrent said. “I’m practically a victim.”

  “I knew that just by looking at you,” Frendlyer said, smiling warmly. “You have a certain victim look; a mixture of fear and uncertainty with just a suggestion of vulnerability thrown in. It’s quite unmistakable.”

  “That’s very interesting,” Barrent said, glancing toward the door and wondering how long his sanctuary would be respected. “Mr. Frendlyer, I’m not a member of your organization—”

  “That doesn’t matter,” Frendlyer said. “Membership in our group is necessarily spontaneous. One joins when the occasion arises. Our intention is to protect the inalienable rights of all victims.”

  “Yes, sir. Well, there are three men outside trying to kill me.”

  “I see,” Mr. Frendlyer said. He opened a drawer and took out a large book. He flipped through it quickly and found the reference he wanted. “Tell me, did you ascertain the status of these men?”

  “I believe they were Hadjis,” Barrent said. “Each of them had a little gold earring in his left ear.”

  “Quite right,” Mr. Frendlyer said. “And today is Landing Day. You came off the ship that landed today, and have been classified a peon. Is that correct? “

  “Yes, it is,” Barrent said.

  “Then I’m happy to say that everything is in order. The Landing Day Hunt ends at sundown. You can leave here with the knowledge that everything is correct and that your rights are in no way being violated.”

  “Leave here? After sundown, you mean.”

  Mr. Frendlyer shook his head and smiled sadly. “I’m afraid not. According to the law, you must leave here at once.”

  “But they’ll kill me!”

  “That’s very true,” Frendlyer said. “Unfortunately, it can’t be helped. A victim, by definition, is one who is to be killed.”

  “I thought this was a protective organization.”

  “It is. But we protect rights, not victims. Your rights are not being violated. The Hadjis have the privilege of killing you on Landing Day, at any time before sundown, if you are not in your barracks area. You, I might add, have the right to kill anyone who tries to kill you.”

  “I don’t have a weapon,” Barrent said.

  “Victims never do,” Frendlyer said. “It makes all the difference, doesn’t it? But weapon or not, I’m afraid you’ll have to leave now.”

  Barrent could still hear the Hadjis’ lazy voices in the street. He asked, “Have you got a rear door?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Then I’ll be damned if I’ll leave.”

  Still smiling, Mr. Frendlyer opened a drawer and took out a gun. He pointed it at Barrent, and said, “You really must leave. You can take your chances with the Hadjis, or you can die right here with no Chance at all.”

  “Loan me your gun,” Barrent said.

  “It isn’t allowed,” Frendlyer told him. “Can’t have victims running around with weapons, you know. It would upset things.” He clicked off the safety. “Are you leaving?”

  Barrent calculated his chances of diving across the desk for the gun, and decided he would never make it. He turned and walked slowly to the door. The ragged men were still laughing together. The dark-haired girl had risen from the bench and was standing near the doorway. As he came close to her, Barrent noticed that she was very lovely. He wondered what crime had dictated her expulsion from Earth.

  As he passed her, he felt something hard pressed into his ribs. He reached for it, and found he was holding a small, efficient-looking gun.

  “Good luck,” the girl said. “I hope you know how to use it.”

  Barrent nodded his thanks. He wasn’t sure he knew how; but he was going to find out. This was no time to doubt his self-protective powers. If there was any chance of beating the Hadji’s to the trigger he’d do it.

  CHAPTER 4

  THE street was deserted except for the three Hadjis, who stood about twenty yards away, conversing quietly. As Barrent came through the doorway, two of the men moved back; the third, his sidearm negligently lowered, stepped forward. When he saw that Barrent was armed he quickly brought his gun into firing position.

  Barrent flung himself to the ground and pressed the trigger of his unfamiliar
weapon. He felt it vibrate in his hand, and saw the Hadji’s head and shoulders turn black and begin to crumble. Before he could take aim at the other men, Barrent’s gun was wrenched violently from his hand. The Hadji’s dying shot had creased the end of the muzzle.

  Desperately Barrent dived for the gun, knowing he could never reach it in time. His skin pricked in expectation of the killing shot. He rolled to his gun, still miraculously alive, and took aim at the nearest Hadji.

  Just in time, he checked himself from firing. The Hadjis had holstered their weapons. One of them was saying, “Poor old Draken. He simply could not learn to draw a quick bead.”

  “Lack of practice,” the other man said. “Draken never spent much time on the firing range.”

  “Well, if you ask me, it’s a very good object-lesson. One mustn’t get out of practice.”

  “And,” the other man said, “one mustn’t underestimate even a peon.” He looked at Barrent. “Nice shooting, my friend.”

  “Yes, very nice indeed,” the other man said. “It’s damned hard to fire a handgun accurately while you’re in motion.”

  Barrent got to his feet shakily, still holding the girl’s gun, prepared to fire at the first suspicious movement from the Hadjis. But they weren’t moving suspiciously. They seemed to regard the entire incident as closed.

  “What happens now?” Barrent asked.

  “Nothing,” one of the Hadjis said. “On Landing Day, one kill is all that any man or hunting party is allowed. After that, you’re out of the Hunt.”

  “It’s really a very unimportant holiday,” the other man said. “Not like the Games or the Lottery.”

  “All that remains for you to do,” the first man said, “is to go to the Registration Office and collect your inheritance.”

  “My what?”

  “Your inheritance,” the Hadji said patiently. “You’re entitled to the entire estate of your victim. In Draken’s case, I’m sorry to say, it doesn’t amount to very much.”

  “He never was a good businessman,” the other said sadly. “Still, it’ll give you a little something to start life with. And since you’ve made an authorized kill—even though a highly unusual one—you move upward in status. You become a Free Citizen.”