Various Fiction

by Robert Sheckley

  The days went by, and everything went along beautifully. The monitors moved around like gentle maiden aunts. Traffic flowed evenly without the tie-ups or frayed nerves. The million automatic systems brought in vital products and took away wastes. The people strolled along, delighting in each other’s company, and pursuing various art forms. Every last mother’s son of them seemed to be an artist of some sort, and all of them seemed to be good at it.

  No one worked at a paying job, no one felt guilty about it. Work was for machines, not people.

  And they were all so reasonable about everything! And so accommodating! And so sweet-natured! And so highly intelligent and attractive.

  Yes, it was paradise all right. Even Johnny Bezique had to admit that. And that made his increasingly bad mood even more difficult to understand, unless you happen to be an Earth person yourself.

  Put a man like Johnny in a place like Loris and you have to get trouble. Johnny behaved himself for nearly two weeks. Then one day he was out for a drive. He had the car on manual control, and he made a left turn without signaling.

  A car behind him and on his left had just moved up to pass. Johnny’s abrupt turn almost beat the other vehicle’s automatic reflexes. Not quite, but it was a near thing. The cars slewed around and ended up nose to nose. Johnny and the other driver both got out.

  The other driver said mildly, “Well, old man, it seems we have had a mix-up here.”

  “Mix-up hell,” Johnny said, “you cut me off.”

  The other driver laughed a gentle laugh. “I think not,” he said. “Though, of course, I’m aware of the possibility that . . .”

  “Look,” Johnny said, “you cut me off and you could have killed us both.”

  “But surely you can see that since you were ahead of me, and since you began to make an unauthorized left turn . . .” Johnny put his face within an inch of the other driver’s face. In a low, unpleasant snarl, he said, “Look, mac, you were in the wrong. How many times I gotta tell you that?” The other driver laughed again, a little shakily now. “Suppose we leave the matter of guilt to the judgment of the witnesses,” he said. “I’m sure that these good people standing here . . .”

  Johnny shook his head. “I don’t need no witnesses,” he said. “I know what happened. I know you were in the wrong.”

  “You seem very sure about that.”

  “Sure I’m sure,” Johnny said. “I’m sure because I know.”

  “Well, in that case, I . . .”

  “Yeah?” Johnny said.

  “Well,” the man said, “in that case, I guess there’s nothing for me to do but apologize.”

  “I think it’s the least you could do,” Johnny said, and stalked to his car and drove away at an illegal speed.

  After that, Bezique felt a little better, but more stubborn and recalcitrant than ever. He was sick of the superiority of the Lorians, sick of their reasonableness, sick of their virtues.

  He went back to his room with two bottles of Lori an medicinal brandy. He drank and brooded for several hours. A social adjustment counselor came to call on him and pointed out that Johnny’s behavior concerning the near-accident had been provocative, impolite, dominating and barbaric. The counselor said all of that in a very nice way.

  Johnny told him to get lost. He was not being especially unreasonable—for a Terran. Left alone, he would probably have apologized in a few days.

  The counselor continued to remonstrate. He advised social-adjustment therapy. In fact, he insisted upon it: Johnny was too subject to angry and aggressive moods, he was a risk to citizens at large.

  Johnny told the counselor to leave. The counselor refused to leave with the situation still unresolved. Johnny resolved the situation by punching him out.

  Violence offered to a citizen is serious; violence actually performed is grave indeed. The shocked counselor picked himself off the floor and told Johnny that he would have to accept restraint until the case was cleared.

  “Nobody’s going to restrain me,” Johnny said.

  “Make it easy on yourself,” the counselor said. “The restraint will not be unpleasant or of long duration. We are aware of the cultural discrepancies between your ways and ours. But we cannot permit unchecked and unmotivated violence.”

  “If people don’t bug me I won’t pop off again,” Johnny said. “In the meantime, make it easy on yourself and don’t try to lock me up.”

  “Our rules are clear on this,” the counselor said. “A monitor will be here soon. I advise you to go along quietly with him.”

  “You really do want trouble,” Johnny said. “Okay, baby, you do what you have to do and I’ll do what I have to do.”

  The counselor left. Johnny brooded and drank. A monitor came. As an official of the law, the monitor expected Johnny to go along voluntarily, as requested. He was baffled when Johnny refused. No one refuses! He went away for new orders.

  Johnny continued drinking. The monitor returned in an hour and said he was now empowered to take Johnny by force, if necessary.

  “Is that a fact?” Johnny said.

  “Yes, it is. So please don’t force me to—” Johnny punched him out, thus sparing the monitor from being forced to do anything.

  Bezique left his room a little unsteadily. He knew that assault on a monitor was probably very bad stuff indeed. There was no easy way of getting out of this one. He thought he had better get to his ship and get out. True, they could prevent his take off, or blow him out of the sky. But perhaps, once he was actually aboard, they wouldn’t bother. They’d probably be glad to get rid of him.

  Bezique was able to reach his ship without incident. He found about twenty workmen swarming over it. He told their foreman that he wanted to take off at once. The foreman was desolated by his inability to oblige. The ship’s main drive had been removed and was being cleaned and modernized—a gift of friendship from the Lorian people.

  “Give us five more days and you’ll have the fastest ship west of Orion,” the foreman told him.

  “A hell of a lot of good that does me now,” Johnny snarled. “Look, I’m in a hurry. What’s the quickest you can give me some sort of propulsion?”

  “Working around the clock and going without meals, we can have the job done in three and a half days.”

  “That’s just great,” Bezique snarled. “Who told you to touch my ship, anyhow?”

  The foreman apologized. That got Bezique even angrier. Another act of senseless violence was averted by the arrival of four monitors.

  Bezique shook off the monitors in a maze of winding streets, got lost himself and came out in a covered arcade.

  The monitors appeared behind him. Bezique ran down narrow stone corridors and found his way blocked by a closed door.

  He ordered it to open. The door remained closed—presumably ordered so by the monitors. In a fury, Bezique demanded again. His mental command was so strong that the door burst open, as did all doors in the immediate vicinity. Johnny outran the monitors, and finally stopped to catch his breath in a mossy piazza.

  He couldn’t keep on rushing around like this. He had to have some plan. But what plan could possibly work for one Earthman pursued by a planetful of Lorians? The odds were too high, even for a conquistador type like Johnny.

  Then, all on his own, Johnny came up with an idea that Cortez had used, and that had saved Pizarro’s bacon. He decided to find the ruler of this place and threaten to kill him unless people were willing to calm down and listen to reason.

  There was only one flaw in the plan: these people didn’t have any ruler. It was the most inhuman thing about them.

  However, they did have one or two important officials. A man like Veerhe, Chief of the Future Projections Bureau, seemed to be the nearest thing the Lorians had to an important man. A big shot like that ought to be guarded, of course; but on a crazy place like Loris, they just might not have bothered.

  A friendly native supplied him with the address. Johnny was able to get within four blocks of the Future
Projections Bureau before he was stopped by a posse of twenty monitors.

  They demanded that he give himself up. But they seemed unsure of themselves. It occurred to Bezique that even though arresting people was their job, this was probably the first time they had actually had to perform it. They were reasonable, peaceful citizens, and cops only secondarily.

  “Who did you want to arrest?” he asked.

  “An alien named Johnny Bezique,” the leading monitor said.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Johnny said. “He’s been causing me considerable embarrassment.”

  “But aren’t you—”

  Johnny laughed. “Aren’t I the dangerous alien? Sorry to disappoint you, but I am not. The resemblance is close, I know.”

  The monitors discussed the situation. Johnny said, “Look, fellows, I was bom in that house right over there. I can get twenty people to identify me, including my wife and four children. What more proof do you want?”

  The monitors conferred again.

  “Furthermore,” Johnny said, “can you honestly believe that I really am this dangerous and uncontrolled alien? I mean, common sense ought to tell you—”

  The monitor apologized. Johnny went on, got within a block of his destination and was stopped by another group of monitors. His former guide, Helmis, was with them.

  They called on him to surrender.

  “There’s no time for that now,” Bezique said. “Those orders have been countermanded. I am now authorized to reveal my true identity.”

  “We know your true identity,” Helmis said.

  “If you did, I wouldn’t have to reveal it now, would I? Listen closely. I am a Lorian of Planner Classification. I received special aggression-training years ago to fit me for my mission. It is now accomplished. I returned—as planned—and performed a few simple tests to see if everything on Loris was as I had left it, psychologically. You know the results, which, from a galactic survival standpoint, are not good. I must now report on this and various other high matters to the Chief Planner at the Future Projections Bureau. I can tell you, informally, that our situation is grave and there is no time to spare.”

  The monitors were confused. They asked for confirmation of Johnny’s statements.

  “I told you that the matter is urgent,” Bezique said. “Nothing would please me better than to give you confirmation—if there were only time.”

  Another conference. “Sir, without orders, we can’t let you go.”

  “In that case, the probable destruction of our planet rests on your own heads.”

  A high monitor officer asked, “Sir, what rank do you hold?”

  “It is higher than yours,” Johnny said promptly.

  The officer reached a decision. “In that case, what are your orders, sir?”

  Johnny smiled. “Keep the peace. Calm any worried citizens. More detailed orders will be forthcoming.”

  Bezique went on confidently. He reached the door of the Planning Office and ordered it to open. It opened. He was about to walk through . . .

  “Put up your hands and step away from that door!” a hard voice behind him said.

  Bezique turned and saw a group of monitors. There were ten of them, they were dressed in black and they were holding weapons.

  “We are empowered to shoot to kill if need be,” one of them said. “You needn’t try any of your lies on us. Our orders are to ignore anything you say and take you in.”

  “No sense in my trying to reason with you, huh?”

  “No chance at all. Come along.”

  “Where?”

  “We’ve put one of the ancient prisons into service just for you. You will be held there and given every amenity.

  A judge will hear your case. Your alienness and low level of civilization will be taken into consideration. Beyond doubt you will get off with a warning and a request to leave Loris.”

  “That doesn’t sound so bad. Do you really think it’ll go like that?”

  “I’ve been assured of it,” the monitor said. “We are a reasonable and compassionate people. Your gallant resistance to us was, indeed, exemplary.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But it is all over now. Will you come along peacefully?”

  “No,” Johnny said.

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “There’s a lot you don’t understand about me or about Terrans. I’m going through that door.”

  “If you try, we will shoot.”

  There is an infallible way of telling the true conquistador type, the genuine berserker, the pure and unadulterated kamikaze or crusader, from ordinary people. Ordinary people faced with an impossible situation tend to compromise, to wait for a better day to fight. But not your Pizarros or Godfreys of Bouillon or Harold Hardradas or Johnny Beziques. They are gifted with great stupidity, or great courage, or both.

  “All right,” Bezique said. “So shoot, and the hell with you.”

  Johnny walked through the door. The special monitors did not shoot. He could hear them arguing as he went down the corridors of the Future Projections Bureau.

  Soon he came face to face with Veerhe, the Chief Planner. Veerhe was a calm little man with an aging pixy face.

  “Hello,” the Chief Planner said. “Take a seat. I’ve completed the projection on Earth vis-a-vis Loris.”

  “Save it,” Johnny said. “I’ve got one or two simple requests to make, which I’m sure you won’t mind doing. But if you do—”

  “I think you’ll be interested in this forecast,” Veerhe said. “We’ve extrapolated your racial characteristics and matched them against ours. It looks like there’s sure to be a conflict between our peoples over preeminence. Not on our part, but definitely on yours. You Earth people simply won’t rest until you rule us or we rule you. The situation is inevitable, given your level of civilization.”

  “I didn’t need any office or fancy title to figure out that one,” Johnny said. “Now look—”

  “I’m not finished,” Veerhe said. “Now, from a purely technological standpoint, you Terrans haven’t got a chance. We could blow up anything you sent against us.”

  “So you haven’t anything to worry about.”

  “Technology doesn’t count for as much as psychology. You Terrans are advanced enough not to simply throw yourselves against us. There will be discussions, treaties, violations, more discussions, aggressions, explanations, encroachments, clashes and all of that. We can’t act as if you don’t exist, and we can’t refuse to cooperate with you in a search for reasonable and even-handed solutions. That would be impossible for us, just as it would be impossible for you simply to leave us alone. We are a straightforward, stable, reasonable and trusting people. You are an aggressive, unbalanced race, and capable of amazing deviousness. You are unlikely to present us with clear-cut and sufficient reasons for us to destroy you. Failing that, and all factors remaining constant, you are sure to take us over, and we are sure to be psychologically unable to do anything about it. In your terms, it is what happens when an extreme Apollonian culture meets an extreme Dionysian culture.”

  “Well, hell,” Johnny said. “That’s a hell of a thing to lay on me. I feel sort of stupid offering you advice—but look, if you know all that, why not adapt yourselves to the situation? Make yourselves become what you have to become?”

  “As you did?” Veerhe asked.

  “Well, okay, I didn’t adapt. But I’m not as smart as you Lorians.”

  “Intelligence has nothing to do with it,” the Chief Planner said. “One doesn’t change one’s culture by an act of will. Besides, suppose we could change ourselves? We would have to become like you. Frankly, we wouldn’t like that.”

  “I don’t blame you,” Johnny said truthfully.

  “And even if we did bring off this miracle and made ourselves more aggressive, we could never reach in a few years the level you have reached after tens of thousands of years of aggressive development. Despite our advantages in armament, we would probably lose if
we tried to play your game by your rules.”

  Johnny blinked. He had been thinking along the same lines. The Lorians were simply too trusting, too gullible. It wouldn’t be difficult to work up some kind of a peace parlay, and then take over one of their ships by surprise. Maybe two or three ships. Then . . .

  “I see that you’ve reached the same conclusion,” Veerhe said.

  “I’m afraid you’re right,” Johnny said. “The fact is, we want to win much harder than you do. When you get right down to it, you Lorians won’t go all out. You’re nice people and you play everything by rules, even life and death games. But we Terrans aren’t very nice, and we’ll stop at nothing to win.”

  “That is our extrapolation,” Veerhe said. “So we thought it would only be reasonable to save a lot of time and trouble and put you in charge of us now.”

  “How was that?”

  “We want you to rule us.”

  “Me personally?”

  “Yes. You personally.”

  “You gotta be kidding,” Johnny said.

  “There is nothing here to joke about,” Veerhe said. “And we Lorians do not lie. I’ve told you my extrapolation of the situation. It is only reasonable that we should save ourselves a great deal of unnecessary pain and hardship by accepting the inevitable immediately. Will you rule us?”

  “It’s one hell of a nice offer,” Bezique said. “I’m really not qualified . . . But what the hell, no one else is, either. Sure, I’ll take over this planet. And I’ll do a good job for you people because I really do like you.”

  “Thank you,” Veerhe said. “You will find us easy to manage, as long as your orders are within our psychological capabilities.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” Johnny said. “Everything’s going to continue just as before. Frankly, I can’t improve on this set-up. I’m going to do a good job for you people, just as long as you cooperate.”

  “We will cooperate,” Veerhe said. “But your own people may not prove so amenable. They may not accept the situation.”