A Galaxy Of Strangers

by Lloyd Biggle Jr

  Eleanor drawled, “Think nothing of it. This is Walter’s ninth assignment in four years. You might say he’s used to failing.”

  They drove on in silence.

  The atmosphere of Maylor’s capital city, when they finally reached it, was a nerve-shattering blend of dirt and noise and confusion. Factories vomited smoke, groundcar traffic was deafening, and the low buildings were hideous. Dudley appraised the shoddy frame dwellings with the eye of an insurance expert and shuddered.

  “Fire insurance?”

  “One policy in force,” Bakr said. “Mine.”

  The architecture improved markedly as they approached the center of the city. Buildings were of brick, some of them two or three stories high. The traffic situation became increasingly disorganized. Pedestrians and vehicles shared the narrow street, the foot traffic usually, but not always, keeping to the sides. Buildings fronted directly on the street. It was possible to take one cautious step from one’s doorway and be struck by a groundcar.

  “Hazards like this and no insurance?” Dudley asked incredulously.

  Bakr did not answer.

  Directly ahead of them, chaos swirled. Construction work was under way on one of the buildings. The workers and their equipment were scattered about in the street, and pedestrians and groundcars recklessly maneuvered among them.

  “That’s the place,” Bakr said. “I might as well stop here.” He edged to the side of the street, nudging pedestrians out of the way, and came to a stop almost grazing a building. “We’ll get your stuff upstairs, and then I’ll show you the office.”

  “What are they doing to the place?” Eleanor asked.

  “They’re adding another story.”

  “And we’re supposed to live there with that racket on all sides?” she exclaimed.

  “They only work during the day. It isn’t a bad place, really. It’s a luxury apartment, and it’s within walking distance of the office—if you have the nerve to walk, that is. It could be a lot worse.”

  “I believe you,” Dudley said gloomily.

  Bakr and Dudley carried up the trunks and suitcases, and then, because Dudley wanted to look in at the office, they left Eleanor fuming in the three cramped rooms that constituted a luxury apartment on the world of Maylor. Back in the street, Dudley paused to watch the construction workers.

  A man was hauling on a slender rope, which fed through a complex of pulleys and slowly raised an enormous load of brick. Pedestrians strolled indifferently beneath the swaying load. Dudley turned away, genuinely frightened. “Don’t they take any safety precautions at all?”

  “Sure. There’s another workman standing by in case the one with the rope gets tired. If you’d ask them, they’d say they very rarely have an accident.”

  “Liability insurance?”

  “They don’t even understand what it is,” Bakr said. “When you have a chance, take a close look at that rope. The hemp is of poor quality, and the rope only has two strands. If one parted, the other couldn’t hold the load. Shall we go?”

  Dudley nodded, and they climbed into Bakr’s ‘car.

  “They’re a fine-looking people, these Maylorites,” Dudley observed. They were a sturdy, blond race, handsome and cheerful. Smiles greeted Dudley and Bakr from all sides.

  “They are that,” Bakr agreed. “Maylor is the abode of beautiful women. Good-looking men, too. But they’re much too virtuous for my taste.”

  The Maylor office of Galactic Insurance was a small third-story room. It contained a desk, two chairs, and a row of empty filing cabinets. Unopened cartons of policy, endorsement, and record forms were stacked in a corner.

  “No staff?” Dudley asked.

  “No work,” Bakr said. “I fired the one employee the day I took over.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “Three months. I was on my way back to the home office for reassignment when the Maylor resident manager was fired, and McGivern asked me to hold the fort until he assigned a new one. I’ve been recommending twice a week that the office be closed. I was afraid McGivern might promote me and give me the job. You have my sympathy, but there isn’t much else I can do for you.”

  “You can fill me in on the situation. I understand that this office did very well when it first opened.”

  “Business was sensational. Galactic was the first insurance company on Maylor. Now it’s the last. A couple of hundred others have come and gone.”

  “Stubbornness has made Galactic great,” Dudley murmured.

  “That’s home office propaganda, and you know it. Stubbornness doesn’t accomplish a thing on Maylor except to lose money. Business was sensational for the first six months. Then the claims started to come in, and in another six months the only policies in force were those of Galactic’s employees.”

  “What happened? Were the claims rejected?”

  Bakr shook his head. “A native holding a fire insurance policy had a fire. The company offered a generous settlement, but he wouldn’t accept it. He demanded—and got—his premium refunded. Then he proceeded to scream long and loudly that Galactic’s insurance was no good.”

  “If we offered to pay the claim, I don’t understand why—” “He’d insured himself against fire, and he had a fire anyway. Why carry fire insurance if it doesn’t keep you from having fires?”

  Dudley protested, “But surely if the principles of insurance were properly explained—”

  “Not on Maylor. People here don’t want money. They want to not have fires. Same thing happened with our life insurance. A native insured his life with Galactic, and he died anyway. Clearly the insurance policy wasn’t worth the paper it was printed on, and the offer of money in the face of such an obvious failure constituted a form of bribery. I could go on and on. When a native of Maylor insures his life, he expects not to die. When he insures his groundcar against accidents, he expects not to have accidents. If the insurance won’t keep him from dying or from having accidents or from anything else it claims to insure him against, why carry insurance? There are perfectly sound reasons for this attitude. You can study the legal and social and historical backgrounds if you like—you will study them—but all you’ll get out of it will be a slightly better understanding of why you can’t sell insurance.”

  “I see,” Dudley said.

  “I’m leaving on the next ship. I’d suggest that you come along.”

  “I can’t do that. I’ve had some miserable luck, and I’ve been relieved of my last eight assignments, but I’ve never quit. And McGivern—”

  Dudley turned away morosely. The mere recollection of that last interview with McGivern was enough to cost him a night’s sleep.

  “Damn McGivern,” Bakr said. “Damn Galactic, if it holds you responsible for things beyond your control. There are other insurance companies.”

  “Which don’t hire failures. Not in positions of responsibility.” “Did McGivern give you a time limit?”

  “Three months, which means nothing at all. Once he gave me six months, and then he showed up on his private space yacht, the Indemnity, when I’d only been on the job for two weeks, hung around for a couple of days looking over my shoulder, and relieved me. It wouldn’t surprise me if he turned up tomorrow wanting to know why the problem isn’t solved yet.”

  Bakr got to his feet. “That’s what can happen when the boss has a private yacht. Well, you know what you’re up against. Any help I can give you in the next seven days you’re welcome to.”

  “I’ll need a groundcar, I suppose.”

  “You can rent one. I’ll take care of it for you.”

  “And insurance on it.”

  Bakr grinned. “Certainly. Fire insurance on your personal property, too. Liability, accident, theft, health—write yourself a batch of policies. You can double Galactic’s business your first day on the job.

  When I leave I’ll be canceling my policies, but for a week you’ll have a sensational record.”

  From the room’s one window Dudley watched h
im drive away. At the corner his car brushed the robe of a woman pedestrian, and she halted in the midst of traffic to smile after him sweetly. Shaking his head, Dudley retreated to the desk.

  He had three months—maybe. He had no advertising budget and wouldn’t have one until he produced a volume of business to support it. Within those limitations he had to contrive nothing less than a massive campaign to educate the people of Maylor to the value of insurance.

  Personal salesmanship was the only answer, and he’d have to apply it quickly—pinpoint the area of most obvious need, devise a dramatic gimmick to catch people’s attention, and hammer away with it. He could begin by tabulating recent losses. A rash of fires always put the public in a wonderfully receptive state of mind for fire insurance, and a series of break-ins never failed to soften a merchant’s resistance to theft insurance.

  He walked down the three flights of stairs to the general store that occupied the ground floor of the building and asked the clerk where he could buy a newspaper.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the young man said. “We have none left.”

  “Is there someone else who’d have one?”

  “I very much doubt it, sir. It’s been out more than a week, you see.”

  “When will the next issue be available?”

  The clerk looked surprised. “Why—not until next month!”

  “Thank you.”

  Dudley introduced himself, and the clerk said blankly, “Galactic-Insurance? Oh, Galactic. You’re upstairs.”

  Dudley agreed that when he was in his office he was upstairs. “Has this neighborhood been troubled by burglaries lately?” he asked.

  “Burglaries? What is that?”

  “Thefts, stealing-“

  The clerk pondered this. “I’ll ask,” he said finally. He entered an office at the rear of the store. Through the open door Dudley watched him converse guardedly with an older man. A moment later the two of them bent over a book, the older man energetically flipping pages. Dudley moved closer and managed to identify the book. It was a dictionary.

  The clerk returned and shook his head apologetically. “No, sir. We’ve never had anything like that.”

  On his way out, Dudley verified what he’d thought was a faulty observation when he entered. The store’s street door had no lock. Neither were there locks on the entrances to the adjoining stores. Neither, now that he thought about it, was there a lock on the door of his office.

  No insurance company managed by sane men would underwrite theft insurance on a business establishment that had no lock on its door, but the clerk claimed there were no losses by theft. He did not even know what the word meant!

  Dudley dropped the subject of theft insurance and went back to his office to stand at the window and meditate on the perilous groundcar traffic.

  Bakr returned, settled himself comfortably in the desk chair, and announced that Dudley’s groundcar would be ready for him in a couple of days. “That’s fast service for Maylor,” he said.

  “I’ll need lessons,” Dudley said. “I’ve never driven one before.”

  “That needn’t worry you. The natives don’t know how to drive, either.”

  “Even so-“

  “Right. I’ll supervise your instruction myself. It’ll give me something to do. And tonight I want you and Eleanor to be my guests for dinner. Afterward I’ll take you on a comprehensive tour of Maylor City’s nightlife. About twenty minutes will do the job. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  “I’d like to see a newspaper.”

  Bakr scowled. “That is a problem. The thing only publishes once a month. I’ll try to dig one up.”

  “I’ve never heard of a city of this size without a daily paper. Is there a shortage of newsprint?”

  “There’s a shortage of news. Nothing happens on Maylor.”

  “What about advertising?”

  “It’s limited to disgustingly polite announcements,” Bakr said. ” ‘Thomas Peawinkle and Son are pleased to announce that they will have no imported shoes for sale until the next consignment arrives.’ That sort of thing.”

  “I’m beginning to understand why you call the situation impossible.”

  “My friend, even now you have absolutely no idea how impossible it is!”

  “I’ll have to do some thinking.”

  “If you’re a religious man, you might pray for divine guidance. That’s the only thing that’s likely to help. I’ll call for you and Eleanor at seven.”

  He left Dudley to his despondent window gazing.

  The restaurant was so spotlessly clean and so starkly unadorned that Dudley was reminded of a hospital ward. The young waitresses had a rosy, freshly scrubbed appearance.

  “Bland is the word for it,” Bakr said. “Everything and everybody on Maylor is bland. That includes the food.”

  “It smells delicious,” Eleanor remarked, as a waitress moved gracefully past their table with a steaming tray.

  “Wait’ll you taste it. I come forearmed, though, and you’re welcome to share.” Bakr placed a small flask on the table in front of him.

  “What is it?” Eleanor asked.

  “Sauce. It’s a special blend mixed to my specifications. It’s hot. Most people think it blisters their mouths, but that’s the way I like it.”

  He unscrewed the cap and passed the flask to Eleanor, who sniffed cautiously. “It smells—interesting.”

  She handed it to Dudley, and one quick whiff brought tears to his eyes. “Whew! Do you eat this stuff?”

  Bakr laughed. “If you think it’s strong, you should see how the natives react to it. For all their sturdy appearances, every one of them has a weak stomach. I suppose that accounts for the bland food.”

  Their order arrived, a large tureen of a thick, creamy stew. It had dumplings floating in it, and it looked and smelled delicious. Bakr deftly served the three of them, and then he applied his custom-made sauce to his portion with gusto. Dudley tasted the food, grimaced, and agreed that it lacked something.

  “The commissary out at the port has some imported spices and sauces,” Bakr said. “I should have told you to stock up. You can’t buy such things anywhere else. Try a little of this.”

  Eleanor added a light dash of Bakr’s sauce and praised the result enthusiastically. Dudley took the flask, miscalculated as he tilted it, and spilled a gush of sauce into his bowl. He regarded it with dismay as it stained the food an unappetizing brown.

  “Clumsy!” Eleanor snapped.

  Dudley shrugged, stirred the stew, tasted it. Instantly he doubled up, eyes watering, choking, gasping for breath, while Bakr pounded him on the back.

  “You put twice as much on!” he said accusingly to Bakr.

  “But I’m used to the stuff,” Bakr said. “And I like it. You’d better have a fresh bowl and try again.”

  Dudley permitted Bakr to serve him a second time, but he flatly refused a second offer of the sauce. He ate glumly and finished his meal in silence. Eleanor mockingly added more sauce to her food and devoted her full attention to Bakr.

  “Now, then,” Bakr said, when they had finished eating. “A nightspot or two. Some dancing such as you’ve never seen before, where the partners exchange affectionate glances from across the room. Singing to a weird musical scale that approximates a banshee’s howling. Comedians who have contests to see who can tell the most pointless story, and the more pointless it is, the louder the natives laugh. Nonalcoholic liquor that tastes like water laced with extract of prunes. Maylorian nightlife is about as wide open as a prison camp, but you might as well sample it now and see what you’re in for.”

  “No, thank you,” Dudley said. “I want to work on this insurance problem.”

  “I vote for the nightlife,” Eleanor said. Dudley glared at her.

  “We’ll drop Walter at the apartment,” Eleanor told Bakr. “He works better when I’m not around.” “I can understand that,” Bakr said.

  Bakr stopped his ‘car at the apartment entrance, and Dudle
y walked away without a backward glance. His anger at Eleanor’s transgressions long since had dulled to indifference. He was thinking, rather, about McGivern. How would McGivern go about selling insurance to the citizens of Maylor? Better—how would McGivern expect Dudley to proceed?

  He made himself comfortable on the narrow sofa, his inhalator at his elbow, and confronted the problem through fragrant puffs of smoke. His objective, as he saw it, was to condition the natives to think of personal injury or property loss in monetary terms. Once they grasped the concept of financial compensation, their awareness of the need for insurance would follow inevitably. One claim, properly settled, would establish a precedent; two would set a pattern.

  But how could he properly settle a claim if there was no insurance in force?

  He dug Galactic’s Underwriting Handbook from a suitcase and began listing endorsements to standard policy forms that might make them more appealing to the Maylorites. He found so few that seemed appropriate that he began to create his own endorsements. When Bakr and Eleanor finally returned, potently trailing alcoholic fumes, the floor of the small living room was littered with paper, and Dudley was nursing a headache.

  “I thought there was no alcohol on Maylor,” he said sourly.

  “Officially there isn’t,” Bakr said. “It does such appalling things to those delicate Maylorian stomachs that it’s banned as a poison. Fortunately the Maylorites are such innocent, trusting souls that smuggling is child’s play. I brought my private stock with me. How are you making out?”

  “I’m not,” Dudley admitted.

  “You’ll have to face the facts, old man. Insurance, and the Maylorites, are absolutely incompatible. They’re a disgustingly ethical race. They not only don’t want something for nothing, but they positively refuse to accept it. They’re also disgustingly well balanced. There isn’t a mental hospital or a psychiatrist on Maylor. They aren’t afraid of the future, or of fate, or of the so-called ‘acts of God.’ They aren’t even superstitious. Take away greed and fear, and what motives do you have left for buying insurance?”

  “That takes us back to lesson number one in the sales manual,” Dudley mused. “Motivation. If the old standbys won’t work, we’ll have to think up some new motives.”