He didn’t know what was meant by a full decontamination procedure. But since the crew was emphatically ordered to leave, a respirator might not provide much safety. Of the two dangers, leaving the ship seemed the lesser.
The members of Group Two had given a good deal of thought to the clothing Barrent would wear when he left the ship. Those first minutes on Earth might be crucial. No cunning could help him if his clothing were obviously strange, outlandish, alien. Typical Earth clothing was the answer; but the Group wasn’t sure what the citizens of Earth wore. One part of the Group had wanted Barrent to dress in their reconstructed approximation of civilian dress. Another part felt that guard’s uniform was safer. Barrent himself had agreed with a third opinion, which felt that a mechanic’s one-piece coverall would be least noticeable around a spacefield, and suffer the least change of style over the years. In the towns and cities, this disguise might put him at a disadvantage; but he had to meet one problem at a time.
Dressed in coveralls, his needlebeam concealed under them, a collapsible lunch box in his hand, Barrent walked down the corridor to the landing stage. He hesitated for a moment, wondering if he should leave his gun on the ship. He decided not to part with it. An inspection would reveal him anyhow; and with the gun, he would have a chance of breaking away from the police.
He took a deep breath and marched out of the ship and down the landing stage.
There were no guards, no inspection party, no police, no army units, and no customs officials. There was no one at all. Far to one side of the wide field he could see rows of spaceships glistening in the sun. Straight ahead of him was a fence, and in it was an open gate.
Barrent walked across the field, quickly but without obvious haste. He had no idea what this meant. Perhaps the secret police of Earth had more subtle means of checking on passengers from the starships.
He reached the gate. There was no one there except a bald, middle-aged man and a boy of perhaps ten. They seemed to be waiting for him. Barrent found it hard to believe that these were government officials; still, who knew the ways of Earth? He passed through the gate.
Barrent walked for fifty yards, his spine tingling, expecting momentarily to feel the blow of a needlebeam or a heatgun. But when he looked back, the man and the boy were turned away from him, earnestly observing the spaceship.
The road from the spaceport led past a row of storage sheds to a section of woods. Barrent walked until he was out of sight of the spaceport. Then he left the road and went into the woods. He didn’t want to stretch his luck. He wanted to think things over, sleep in the woods for the night, and then in the morning go to a city or town.
He pushed his way past dense underbrush into the forest proper. Here he walked through shaded groves of giant oaks. All around him was the chirp and bustle of unseen bird and animal life. Far in front of him was a large white sign nailed to a tree. Barrent reached it, and read: Forestdale National Park. Picnickers and Campers Welcome.
Barrent was a little disappointed, even though he realized there would be no virgin wilderness so near a spaceport. In fact, on a planet as old and as highly developed as Earth, there was probably no virgin land at all, except what had been preserved in national forests.
The sun was low on the horizon, and there was a chill in the long shadows thrown across the forest floor. Barrent found a comfortable spot under a gigantic oak, arranged leaves for a bed, and lay down. He had a great deal to think about. Why, for example, hadn’t guards been posted at Earth’s most important contact point—an interstellar spaceport? Did security measures start later, at the towns and cities? Or was he already under some sort of surveillance, some infinitely subtle spy system that followed his every movement and apprehended him only when it was ready? Or was that too fanciful. Could it be that—
“Good evening,” a voice said, close to his right ear.
Barrent flung himself away from the voice in a spasm of nervous reaction, his hand diving for his needlebeam.
“And a very pleasant evening it is,” the voice continued, “here in Forestdale National Park. The temperature is 78.2 degrees Fahrenheit, humidity 23 percent, barometer steady at 29.9. Old campers, I’m sure, already recognize my voice. For the new nature-lovers among you, let me introduce myself. I am Oaky, your friendly oak tree. I’d like to welcome all of you, old and new, to your friendly national forest.”
Sitting upright in the gathering darkness, Barrent peered around, wondering what kind of a trick this was. The voice really did seem to come from the giant oak tree.
“The enjoyment of nature,” said Oaky, “is now easy and convenient for everyone. You can enjoy complete seclusion and still be no more than a ten-minute walk from public transportation. For those who do not desire seclusion, we have guided tours at nominal cost through these ancient glades. Remember to tell your friends about your friendly national park. The full facilities of this park are waiting for all lovers of the great outdoors.”
A panel in the tree opened. Out slid a bedroll, a thermos bottle, and a box supper.
“I wish you a pleasant evening,” said Oaky, “amid the wild splendor of nature’s wonderland. And now the National Symphony Orchestra under the direction of Otter Krug brings you “The Upland Glades,” by Ernesto Nestrichala, recorded by the National North American Broadcasting Company. This is your friendly oak tree signing off.”
Music emanated from several hidden speakers. Barrent scratched his head; then, deciding to take matters as they came, he ate lunch, drank coffee from the thermos, unrolled the bedroll and lay down.
Sleepily he contemplated the notion of a forest wired for sound, equipped with food and drink, and containing no point more than ten minutes from public transportation. Earth certainly did a lot for her citizens. Presumably they liked this sort of thing.
He tossed and turned for a while, trying to get used to the music. After a while it blended into the background of windblown leaves and creaking branches. Barrent went to sleep.
CHAPTER 25
IN THE morning, the friendly oak tree dispensed breakfast and shaving equipment. Barrent ate, washed and shaved, and set out for the nearest town. He had his objectives firmly in mind. He had to establish some sort of foolproof disguise, and he had to make contact with the Earth underground. When this was accomplished, he had to find out as much as he could about Earth’s secret police, military dispositions, space fleet, and the like.
Group Two had worked out a procedure for accomplishing these objectives. As Barrent came to the outskirts of a town, he hoped that the Group’s methods would work. So far, the Earth he was on had very little resemblance to the Earth which the Group had reconstructed.
He walked down interminable streets lined with small white cottages. At first, he thought every house looked the same. Then he realized that each had one or two small architectural differences. But instead of making the houses more individual, these niggling differences produced an even more monotonously similar effect. There were hundreds of these cottages, stretching as far as he could see, each of them set upon a little plot of carefully tended grass. Their genteel sameness depressed him. Unexpectedly he missed the ridiculous, clumsy, makeshift individuality of Omegan buildings.
He reached a shopping center. The stores repeated the pattern set by the houses. They were low, discreet, and very similar. Only a close inspection of their window displays revealed differences between a food store and a sports shop. He passed a small building with a sign that read, Robot Confessional. Open 24 hours a day. It seemed to be some sort of church.
The procedure set by Group Two for locating the underground on Earth was simple and straightforward. Revolutionaries, he had been told, are found in greatest quantity among a civilization’s most depressed elements. Poverty breeds dissatisfaction; the have-nots want to take from those who have. Therefore, the logical place to look for subversion is in the slums.
It was a good theory. The trouble was, Barrent couldn’t find any slums. He walked for hours, past neat sto
res and pleasant little homes, playgrounds and parks, scrupulously tended farms, and then past more houses and stores. Nothing looked much better or worse than anything else.
By evening, he was tired and footsore. As far as he could tell, he had discovered nothing of significance. Before he could penetrate any deeper into the complexities of Earth, he would have to question the local citizens. It was a dangerous step, but one which he could not avoid.
He stood near a clothing store in the gathering dusk and decided upon a course of action. He would pose as a foreigner, a man newly arrived in North America from Asia or Europe. In that way, he should be able to ask questions with a measure of safety.
A man was walking toward him, a plump, ordinary-looking fellow in a brown business suit. Barrent stopped him. “I beg your pardon,” he said. “I’m a stranger here, just arrived from Rome.”
“Really?” the man said.
“Yes. I’m afraid I don’t understand things over here very well,” Barrent said, with an apologetic little laugh. “I can’t seem to find any cheap hotels. If you could direct me—”
“Mister, what are you trying to pull?” the man asked, his face hardening.
“Nothing at all! As I said, I’m a foreigner, and I’m just looking—”
“Now look,” the man said, “you know as well as I do that there aren’t any foreigners any more.”
“There aren’t?”
“Of course not. I’ve been in Rome. It’s just like here in Wilmington. Same sort of houses and stores. Nobody’s a foreigner any more.”
Barrent couldn’t think of anything to say. He smiled nervously.
“Furthermore,” the man said, “there are no cheap hotels anywhere on Earth. Why should there be? Who would stay in them?”
“Who indeed?” Barrent said. “I guess I’ve had a little too much to drink.”
“Nobody drinks anymore,” the man said. “I don’t understand this. What are you trying to do? What sort of a game is this?”
“What sort of a game do you think it is?” Barrent asked, falling back on a technique which the Group had recommended.
The man stared at him, frowning. “I think I get it,” he said. “You must be an Opinioner.”
“Mmm,” Barrent said, noncommittally.
“Sure, that’s it,” the man said. “You’re one of those guys goes around asking people’s opinions on things. For surveys and that sort of thing Right?”
“You’ve made a very intelligent guess,” Barrent said.
“Well, I don’t guess it was too hard. Opinioners are always walking around trying to get people’s attitudes on things. I would have spotted you right away if you’d been wearing regular Opinioner’s clothing.” The man started to frown again. “How come you aren’t dressed like an Opinioner?”
“I just graduated,” Barrent said. “Haven’t had a chance to get the clothes.”
“Oh. Well, you should get the right clothes,” the man said. “Also, you shouldn’t sneak up on people with questions.”
“I get better answers that way,” Barrent said.
“Well, you don’t have to sneak up on me. Go ahead, ask me. I’ll answer your questions.”
“This was just a test sampling,” Barrent said. “Thank you for your cooperation, sir. Perhaps I’ll have a chance to interview you again the near future.”
“Any time,” the man said. He nodded politely and walked off.
Barrent thought about it, and decided that the occupation of Opinioner was perfect for him. It would give him the all-important right to ask questions, to meet people, to find out how Earth lived. He would have to be careful, of course, not to reveal his ignorance. But working with circumspection, he should have a general knowledge of this civilization in a few days.
First, he would have to buy Opinioner’s clothing. That seemed to be important. The trouble was, he had no money with which to pay for it. The Group had been unable to duplicate Earth money; they couldn’t even remember what it looked like.
But they had provided him with a means of overcoming even that obstacle. Barrent turned and went into the nearest clothing store.
The owner of the store was a short man with china-blue eyes and a salesman’s ready smile. He welcomed Barrent and asked how he could be of service.
“I need an Opinioner’s suit,” Barrent told him, “I’ve just graduated.”
“Of course, sir,” the owner said. “And you’ve come to the right place for it. Most of the smaller stores don’t carry the clothing for anything but the more common professions. But here at Jules Wonderson’s, we have ready-wears for all of the five hundred and twenty major professions listed in the Civil Service Almanac. I am Jules Wonderson.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Barrent said. “Do you have a ready-wear in my size?”
“I’m sure I do,” Wonderson said. “Would you like a Regular or a Special?”
“A Regular will do nicely.”
“Most new Opinioners prefer the Special,” Wonderson said. “The little extra simulated handmade touches increase the public’s respect.”
“In that case I’ll take the Special.”
“Yes sir. Though if you could wait a day or two, we will be having it in a new fabric—a simulated Home Loom, complete with natural weaving mistakes. It looks exactly as if you or your loved ones made the suit at home. A real prestige item.”
“Perhaps I’ll come back for that,” Barrent said. “Right now, I need a ready-wear.”
“Of course sir,” Wonderson said, disappointed but hiding it bravely. “If you’ll wait just one little minute . . .”
After several fittings, Barrent was wearing a black business suit with a thin edge of white piping around the lapels. To his inexperienced eye it looked almost exactly like the other suits Wonderson had on display for bankers, stock brokers, grocers, accountants, and the like. But for Wonderson, who talked about the banker’s lapel and the insurance agent’s drape, the differences were as clear as the gross status-symbols of Omega. Barrent decided it was just a question of training.
“There, sir!” Wonderson said. “A perfect fit, and a fabric guaranteed for a lifetime. All for thirty-nine ninety-five.”
“Excellent,” Barrent said. “Now, about the money—”
“Yes sir?”
Barrent took the plunge. “I don’t have any.”
“You don’t, sir? That’s quite unusual.”
“Yes, it is,” Barrent said. “However, I do have certain articles of value.” From his pocket he took three diamond rings with which the Group on Omega had supplied him. “These stones are genuine diamonds, as any jeweler will be glad to attest. If you would take one of them until I have the money for payment—”
“But sir,” Wonderson said, “diamonds and such have no intrinsic value. They haven’t since ’23, when Von Blon wrote the definitive work destroying the concept of scarcity value.”
“Of course,” Barrent said, at a loss for words.
Wonderson looked at the rings. “I suppose these have a sentimental value, though.”
“Certainly. We’ve had them in the family for generations.”
“In that case,” Wonderson said, “I wouldn’t want to deprive you of them. Please, no arguments, sir! Sentiment is the most priceless of emotions. I couldn’t sleep nights if I took even one of these family heirlooms from you.”
“But there’s the matter of payment.”
“Pay me at your leisure.”
“You mean you’ll trust me, even though you don’t know me?”
“Most certainly,” Wonderson said. He smiled archly. “Trying out your Opinioner’s methods, aren’t you? Well, even a child knows that our civilization is based upon trust, not collateral. It is axiomatic that even a stranger is to be trusted until he has conclusively and unmistakably proven otherwise.”
“Haven’t you ever been cheated?”
“Of course not. Crime is nonexistent these days.”
“In that case,” Barrent said, “what about O
mega?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Omega, the prison planet You must have heard of it.”
“I think I have,” Wonderson said cautiously. “Well, I should have said that crime is almost non-existent. I suppose there will always be a few congenital criminal types, easily recognizable as such. But I’m told they don’t amount to more than ten or twelve individuals a year out of a population of nearly two billion.” He smiled broadly. “My chances of meeting one are exceedingly rare.”
Barrent thought about the prison ships constantly shuttling back and forth between Earth and Omega, dumping their human cargo and going back for more. He wondered where Wonderson got his statistics. He would have liked to ask, but it seemed wiser to discontinue that line of questioning.
“Thank you very much for the credit,” Barrent said. “I’ll be back with the payment as soon as possible.”
“Of course you will,” Wonderson said, warmly shaking Barrent’s hand. “Take your time, sir. No rush at all.”
Barrent thanked him again and left the store.
He had a profession now. And if other people believed as Wonderson did, he had unlimited credit. He was on a planet that seemed, at first glance, to be a Utopia. The Utopia presented certain contradictions, of course.
He hoped to find out more about them over the next few days.
Down the block, Barrent found a hotel called The Bide-A-Bit Home. He engaged a room for the week, on credit.
CHAPTER 26
IN THE morning, Barrent asked directions to the nearest branch of the public library. He decided that he needed as much background out of books as he could get. With a knowledge of the history and development of Earth’s civilization, he would have a better idea of what to expect and what to watch out for.
His Opinioner’s clothing allowed him access to the closed shelves where the history books were kept. But the books themselves were disappointing. Most of them were Earth’s ancient history, from earliest beginnings to the dawn of atomic power. Barrent skimmed through them. As he read, some memories of prior reading returned to him. He was able to jump quickly from Periclean Greece to Imperian Rome, to Charlemagne and the Dark Ages, from Norman Conquest to the Thirty Years’ War, and then to a rapid survey of the Napoleonic Era. He read with more care about the World Wars. The book ended with the explosion of the first atom bombs. The other books on the shelf were simply amplifications of various stages of history he had found in the first book.
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