A Galaxy Of Strangers

by Lloyd Biggle Jr

  “You’ll have to think them up, old man. I resigned from thinking about the Maylor situation a long time ago. Naturally I wish you luck, and if I can help in any way except by thinking, let me know.”

  For the next two days Dudley spent most of his waking moments in futile thinking. He thought lying on the sofa, hands clapped to his ears to filter out some of the racket caused by the construction work going on just above his head. He thought leaning from the window, watching the tangle of traffic in the street below and waiting with bated breath for a load of brick to snap the slender rope and crush an innocent passerby. The load passed his window, and on one ascent he noticed that it bumped the side of the building frequently and that the bumping had frayed the rope sling on all four sides. If one strand parted—he turned away, shaking his head. No conscientious insurance underwriter would accept coverage on such a risk, and yet he would have to do so if he wanted to sell insurance on Maylor. There were no better risks.

  When he tired of the apartment, he went to the Galactic office and spent tedious hours contemplating the lockless door. Bakr helped tremendously by entertaining Eleanor, but by the end of that second day she was complaining that she had seen all of Maylor City that she wanted or intended to see.

  On the third day Dudley’s rented groundcar was delivered, and Dudley and Bakr took it out for a driving lesson. Dudley drove slowly, horrified at the risks taken by the nonchalant pedestrians, and Bakr chuckled repeatedly at his discomfiture.

  “How are you doing with the insurance situation?” Bakr asked.

  “I haven’t been able to come up with anything,” Dudley confessed. “If I could manage a proper settlement of just one claim, I’d have a strong selling point to work with. But how can I settle a claim if there’s no insurance in force?”

  “One claim,” Bakr said thoughtfully. “Yes, a claim would be a help—if you could talk the claimant into being a claimant.”

  They had turned into a quiet residential section, and the ‘car was bouncing wildly on the irregular cobblestones. “One claim,” Bakr said again. “You have insurance on yourself, don’t you? Didn’t you write a liability policy on this groundcar?”

  “Of course. But a claim involving myself—”

  “A claim is a claim, no matter who it involves. And—” Bakr grabbed at the steering wheel, “—here it is!”

  The ‘car veered crazily. A woman screamed, and Dudley frantically dug at the brake pedal. He brought the ‘car to a halt inches short of a flimsy wood dwelling and leaped out to bend over the young woman who lay pinned under it.

  “Why didn’t you use your brake?” Bakr hissed. “You’ve killed her!”

  Dudley turned his back on the crushed body, valiantly trying not to be sick. “Is she dead?”

  “They don’t come any deader,” Bakr said grimly. “Look—I’ll have to get to Eleanor right away. Hide her somewhere.”

  “Eleanor?”

  “Leave it to me. I’ll take care of it.”

  He pushed through the gathering crowd of spectators and broke into a run. Dudley leaned against the car and miserably contemplated the still form that lay beneath its ponderous wheels.

  A young doctor arrived from somewhere. With the help of the spectators he pulled the body from under the ‘car, clucked his tongue sadly, and sacrificed his white robe to cover the dead woman. Three police officers trotted up looking ridiculously gay in their checkered robes. One took charge of the situation and sent the other two hurrying off on urgent errands. He accepted Dudley’s identification and recorded the information on a report form. The crowd of spectators continued to grow. Dudley searched the circle of faces for indications of the indignation he expected, and to his intense surprise he found them regarding him with polite sympathy.

  The police officer patted him on the shoulder. “The judge should be here soon.”

  “Judge?” Dudley exclaimed.

  “Why don’t you wait in the ‘car?”

  Dudley swallowed his protest and staggered to the ‘car. His knees had been on the verge of collapse since he first saw the woman’s body. He eased himself into the rear seat and waited, and soon the woman’s husband appeared, escorted by a police officer, and the judge arrived from the opposite direction in a flurry of scarlet robes. The husband, a sturdy, honest-looking young man in a tradesman’s robe, bent resignedly over his dead wife and then quietly stepped aside. The judge, a robust old man with formidably sagging jowls, studied Dudley’s papers with a scowl.

  “An Alien! Now we shall have all manner of tiresome complications. Have you a wife, Alien Dudley?”

  “Certainly,” Dudley said.

  “You have a wife but no manners at all!” the judge snapped.

  “You must stand before the judge,” the police officer whispered.

  Dudley scrambled from the car and faced the judge.

  “And you must say, ‘Your Wisdom,’ when you answer,” the police officer whispered.

  “Now, then,” the judge said. “It would be entirely too much to expect that your wife would be here on Maylor. Where is she?”

  “Here on Maylor,” Dudley said, belatedly remembering to add, “Your Wisdom.”

  “Excellent!” The judge’s glum expression vanished. He flashed a plump smile at Dudley and examined the papers again. “Then we can settle this matter before lunch. Is your wife at this address?”

  “She was there when I left this morning, Your Wisdom.”

  “Excellent!”

  “Do you wish her to be brought here, Your Wisdom?” the police officer asked.

  “We shall go there. At once.”

  “In the violator’s ‘car, Your Wisdom?”

  “Of course. Otherwise, I shall be late for lunch.”

  Dudley rode in the rear seat with the bereaved husband; the judge rode in front beside the police officer, who drove. Dudley uneasily watched the husband, who had not spoken. If the young man was not dazed by shock, his composure was truly heroic.

  Dudley turned away and sought to convince himself that he had nothing to worry about. He had insurance—very good insurance. He said, “Your-Wisdom?”

  The judge turned.

  “I have insurance, Your Wisdom.”

  The judge considered this. “What is insurance?” he asked. “It’s—well—it’s insurance, you see, and when there’s an accident—” He broke off lamely. The judge had returned his attention to the clutter of traffic that surrounded them. They continued the trip in silence.

  The police officer parked the ‘car a short distance from the apartment entrance, and they moved toward it in single file, Dudley making a cautious circuit of the area beneath an ascending load of brick. The judge stoically marched straight ahead.

  They climbed the stairs. Dudley opened the door of the apartment —which, like his office, had no lock—and called, “Eleanor!”

  There was no answer. The apartment was empty. Dudley examined the luggage and noted that a suitcase was missing.

  “She isn’t here, Your Wisdom,” he told the judge.

  “Indeed. She is visiting a neighbor, perhaps? Or gone purchasing?”

  “I guess she’s just—gone. She took a suitcase.”

  “Indeed.” The judge seated himself on the sofa and looked at Dudley severely. “It seems that I shall after all be late for lunch.” He nodded at the police officer. “You will make inquiries. At once.”

  “Yes, Your Wisdom.”

  “And you.” The judge pointed at Dudley. “I warn you. If this case is not settled promptly, I intend to charge my maximum fee.”

  “I don’t mind paying your maximum fee, Your Wisdom,” Dudley said. “I don’t really see what Eleanor has to do with this. After all, I do have insurance.”

  “Eleanor is your wife’s name? She has everything to do with it. On this world we follow the Rule of Justice.”

  “But my insurance—”

  “You have deprived this man of his wife. You must give him your wife. If he is willing to accept her, th
at is. It is only simple justice.” “Eleanor might not consent to that,” Dudley protested. “She has no choice in the matter.” “But my insurance—” “What is this insurance?”

  “It will pay him a cash settlement for his loss, Your Wisdom.”

  “Cash!” the judge screamed. “You would substitute money for justice? What barbarous customs you Aliens have!”

  The return of the police officer saved the judge from the attack of apoplexy that seemed imminent. The two conferred in whispers, and the judge’s expression gradually changed from one of anger to amazement. “A conspiracy?” he demanded.

  “It would appear so, Your Wisdom.”

  “But the Alien Dudley could not have warned his wife. He did not even know our Rule of Justice.” “The fact remains, Your Wisdom—”

  “True. The fact remains. And if the Alien Dudley is involved in the conspiracy, I shall be harsh with him. What are we to do with him in the meantime, if I am not to miss my lunch altogether?” “I don’t know, Your Wisdom.”

  “You should know. Justice is your profession, too. We must incarcerate him. That is the Rule—incarceration after the event and before the judgment. The question is where? In all of my judicial experience such a thing has never happened. Do you have any knowledge of a judge incarcerating a violator?”

  “No, Your Wisdom.”

  “We once had special places of incarceration, but because of our present commendable efficiency in applying the Rule of Justice, they are no longer needed. Several legal histories mention them. They don’t assist us in the present dilemma, however. I leave the entire problem in your hands, officer. Incarcerate the violator!”

  “Yes, Your Wisdom.”

  “And continue your search for the wife, of course. For the next three hours I shall be at lunch.”

  After a lengthy conference with his colleagues, the police officer decided to incarcerate Dudley in his own apartment. The only other place available, it seemed, was his own home, and he saw no reason to take a violator into his home when the violator had a home of his own to be incarcerated in.

  “You must not leave until the judge orders your release,” the police officer said. He left, taking the bereaved husband with him, and Dudley found himself officially incarcerated by an unlocked door. The remainder of the day he paced the small apartment, counted the bricks that were hoisted past his window, cursed Hamal Bakr’s thoughtless blundering, and, when he could force himself to concentrate, gave fleeting thought to the insurance problem.

  What Maylor needed, he decided, was an entirely different concept of the insurance claim settlement: a type of barter arrangement where the insurance company restored a loss without reference to money. It would create endless complications, and it would require the training of an entirely new breed of claims adjustor, but he thought he could, given sufficient time, develop claim procedures that would meet the requirements of Maylor’s strange Rule of Justice.

  Thaddeus McGivern was not in the habit of allowing anyone sufficient time for anything. The plaque on his office wall read, “RESULTS-NOW!”

  The police officer called again the next day—not to see if Dudley had escaped his incarceration, which possibility evidently had not even occurred to him, but to see if Eleanor had returned.

  “The judge is becoming impatient,” he announced. “I apologize for the reflection on your honesty, but he has asked me to determine if you are hiding your wife.”

  “Certainly not,” Dudley said. “Eleanor isn’t the kind of wife one would hide when there’s a good chance of getting rid of her. I haven’t the vaguest notion of where she is. Unless—you might ask an Alien named Hamal Bakr. He probably knows.”

  “We have asked Alien Bakr. He says he does not know.”

  “Did you search his apartment?”

  “What would be the point of that when he has said she is not there?”

  “I have a feeling.” Dudley said, “that this is going to be a long incarceration.”

  The following morning Dudley was awakened by a violent pounding on his door. Sleepily he stumbled to open it, and the enraged apparition that greeted him shocked him into instant, terrified wakefulness. “McGivern!” he gasped.

  The apparition remained—as large as life and several degrees angrier. McGivern’s purple suit was immaculate, but he’d crushed his hat in his hand. He pointed with it. “Dudley!” he bellowed. “Why aren’t you at the office?”

  “Where did you—I mean, how—”

  “I just arrived. On the Indemnity, of course, and my first stop was the Galactic office to see how my special troubleshooter was proceeding with the revitalization of our business on this planet. I’d like to hear about this new technique that enables you to sell insurance while in bed.”

  “There’s been some trouble,” Dudley said lamely.

  “Nonsense! Get dressed, man, and come along. There’s work to do!”

  “I can’t come,” Dudley said. “I’ve been—well—arrested.”

  “Arrested? Have you let this bunch of hicks—” McGivern waddled across the room and sank his weight into the protesting sofa. “I’ve been patient with you, Dudley, far too patient, but I’ve reached the end. You won’t learn. You have enough ability to fill even my shoes, someday, but you lack gumption, and without gumption your ability isn’t worth a damn. What sort of trouble?”

  “It’s rather complicated.”

  “I’ll bet it is. You’re under house arrest, I take it.” He scratched fretfully at the polished dome of his bald head. “I’d hate to let you go, Dudley, but you just won’t learn. Take that situation on Himil. All you had to do was bribe a few legislators, and you funked it.” “I thought I could find an honest way—”

  “Dudley, we are not moralists or philosophers. We’re practical businessmen.” He pointed his hat again. “Be ruthless, Dudley. Chart your objective and smash anyone that gets in the way. You aren’t playing school games, Dudley. You don’t give back the marbles you win at the end of the day. Here’s an entire planet without insurance. It’s an opportunity to make any ambitious resident manager drool. What have you done about it?”

  “I’ve worked out a plan for an entirely new—”

  “Bah! What have you done? Galactic can’t pay stockholders’ dividends with plans.” He struggled out of the cavity in the sofa and thrust a fistful of money at Dudley. “Here—fix this arrest thing. I’m going to nose around and get the feel of the situation.”

  “I don’t think-“

  “Good. You waste entirely too much time thinking. Stop it and start doing a few things. The hotels in this town stink, so I’ll be staying on the Indemnity. As soon as you’ve fixed the police, report there. I can’t give you more than a couple of days, Dudley. If you aren’t straightened out by then, you’re through.”

  He left Dudley nervously fingering the bribery money.

  Dudley spent the remainder of the day alternately pondering the insurance problem and wondering what the police officer would do if he left the apartment. He had no intention of offering a bribe, either to the police or to the judge. The only thing that would secure his prompt release was finding Eleanor. She’d never consent to being ordered into a marriage, but if she were found, the police would have no further claim on Dudley. Their problem would be with Eleanor, and they were welcome to it.

  He wondered, though, if he would be ruthless enough to turn her over to the police even if he did locate her. She was not to blame for Bakr’s muddled attempt to create an insurance claim.

  He went to bed early that night, and he slept very badly.

  The next morning the police officer came with the startling news that Eleanor had surrendered voluntarily. Her marriage to the dead woman’s husband had been recorded, and Dudley’s incarceration was terminated. The judge would, when he got around to it, bill Dudley for his fee.

  “Am I divorced—legally separated—from Eleanor?” Dudley demanded.

  “Certainly not! What if her new husband should divorce her? J
ust because you have deprived that man of his wife is no reason for your wife to be deprived of a husband. In order to be separated from her, you would have to divorce her yourself.”

  “Thank you for explaining it so clearly,” Dudley said.

  He drove his groundcar to the spaceport. McGivern’s yacht, the Indemnity, was parked in a choice location near the terminal building where a sign said, “No Landing Permitted in This Area.” McGivern was having breakfast. His temper had not improved since the previous day. The steward set a place for Dudley, and McGivern said, snarling around a mouthful of toast, “I’ve been up all night. Did you know that this crummy planet doesn’t even have an underworld?”

  “No,” Dudley said, “but it doesn’t surprise me.”

  “All I need is an arsonist and a few thieves. With organization, they could create an overwhelming need for insurance within a week.” He raised a steaming cup of beverage to his lips, drained it, and slammed it down again. “Nothing. I can import them, of course, but I’d much prefer to patronize the local underworld. What do you have?”

  “What is needed,” Dudley said, “is an entirely different concept of claim settlement. A type of barter arrangement that would replace a lost object without reference to money. For example, where the liability insuring clause reads, ‘The Company will pay in behalf of the insured,’ we could change it to read, The Company will furnish in behalf of the insured.’”

  “I don’t like it,” McGivern said. “These people are basically no different from people anywhere. Get them accustomed to the idea, and they’ll gladly take money. You won’t be able to stop them. But I agree that there are two aspects to this problem. The fire rate is unbelievably low. There aren’t any thefts at all. There are hardly any groundcar accidents, and that isn’t just unbelievable, it’s impossible. We’ll have to bring about enough losses to make insurance necessary, and we’ll have to establish a precedent or two for settling losses with money. You take the second one. I’ll look in on you tomorrow and see what you’ve done with it.”