In a few moments, Goodman found himself alone on the sidewalk. He had reached Utopia, he told himself, a real, genuine, sure-enough Utopia.
But there were some very puzzling things about it
Goodman ate dinner at a small restaurant and checked in at a nearby hotel. A cheerful bellhop showed him to his room, where Goodman stretched out immediately on the bed. Wearily he rubbed his eyes, trying to sort out his impressions.
So much had happened to him, all in one day! And so much was bothering him. The ratio of men to women, for example. He had meant to ask Melith about that.
But Melith might not be the man to ask, for there were some curious things about him. Like throwing his pen against the wall. Was that the act of a mature, responsible official? And Melith’s wife.
Goodman knew that Mrs. Melith had come out of a derrsin stasis field; he had recognized the characteristic blue haze. The derrsin was used on Terra, too. Sometimes there were good medical reasons for suspending all activity, all growth, all decay. Suppose a patient had a desperate need for a certain serum, procurable only on Mars. Simply project the person into stasis until the serum could arrive.
But on Terra, only a licensed doctor could operate the field. There were strict penalties for its misuse.
He had never heard of keeping one’s wife in one.
Still, if all the wives on Tranai were kept in stasis, that would explain the absence of the nineteen-to-thirty-five age group and would account for the ten-to-one ratio of men to women.
But what was the reason for this technological purdah?
And something else was on Goodman’s mind, something quite insignificant, but bothersome all the same.
That rifle on Melith’s wall.
Did he hunt game with it? Pretty big game, then. Target practice? Not with a telescopic sight. Why the silencer? Why did he keep it in his office?
But these were minor matters, Goodman decided, little local idiosyncrasies which would become clear when he had lived a while on Tranai. He couldn’t expect immediate and complete comprehension of what was, after all, an alien planet.
He was just beginning to doze off when he heard a knock at his door.
“Come in,” he called.
A small, furtive, gray-faced man hurried in and closed the door behind him. “You’re the man from Terra, aren’t you?”
“That’s right.”
“I figured you’d come here,” the little man said, with a pleased smile. “Hit it right the first time. Going to stay on Tranai?”
“I’m here for good.”
“Fine,” the man said. “How would you like to become Supreme President?”
“Huh?”
“Good pay, easy hours, only a one-year term. You look like a public-spirited type,” the man said sunnily. “How about it?”
Goodman hardly knew what to answer. “Do you mean,” he asked incredulously, “that you offer the highest office in the land so casually?”
“What do you mean, casually?” the little man spluttered. “Do you think we offer the Supreme Presidency to just anybody? It’s a great honor to be asked.”
“I didn’t mean…”
“And you, as a Terran, are uniquely suited.”
“Why?”
“Well, it’s common knowledge that Terrans derive pleasure from ruling. We Tranians don’t, that’s all. Too much trouble.”
As simple as that. The reformer blood in Goodman began to boil. Ideal as Tranai was, there was undoubtedly room for improvement. He had a sudden vision of himself as ruler of Utopia, doing the great task of making perfection even better. But caution stopped him from agreeing at once. Perhaps the man was a crackpot.
“Thank you for asking me,” Goodman said. “I’ll have to think it over. Perhaps I should talk with the present incumbent and find out something about the nature of the work.”
“Well, why do you think I’m here?” the little man demanded. “I’m Supreme President Borg.”
Only then did Goodman notice the official medallion around the little man’s neck.
“Let me know your decision. I’ll be at the National Mansion.” He shook Goodman’s hand, and left.
Goodman waited five minutes, then rang for the bellhop. “Who was that man?”
“That was Supreme President Borg,” the bellhop told him. “Did you take the job?”
Goodman shook his head slowly. He suddenly realized that he had a great deal to learn about Tranai.
The next morning, Goodman listed the various robot factories of Port Tranai in alphabetical order and went out in search of a job. To his amazement, he found one with no trouble at all, at the very first place he looked. The great Abbag Home Robot Works signed him on after only a cursory glance at his credentials.
His new employer, Mr. Abbag, was short and fierce-looking, with a great mane of white hair and an air of tremendous personal energy.
“Glad to have a Terran on board,” Abbag said. “I understand you’re an ingenious people and we certainly need some ingenuity around here. I’ll be honest with you, Goodman — I’m hoping to profit by your alien viewpoint. We’ve reached an impasse.”
“Is it a production problem?” Goodman asked.
“I’ll show you.” Abbag led Goodman through the factory, around the Stamping Room, Heat-Treat, X-ray Analysis, Final Assembly and to the Testing Room. This room was laid out like a combination kitchen-living room. A dozen robots’ were lined up against one wall.
“Try one out,” Abbag said.
Goodman walked up to the nearest robot and looked at its controls. They were simple enough; self-explanatory, in fact. He put the machine through a standard repertoire: picking up objects, washing pots and pans, setting a table. The robot’s responses were correct enough, but maddeningly slow. On Earth, such sluggishness had been ironed out a hundred years ago. Apparently they were behind the times here on Tranai.
“Seems pretty slow,” Goodman commented cautiously.
“You’re right,” Abbag said. “Damned slow. Personally, I think it’s about right. But Consumer Research indicates that our customers want it slower still.”
“Huh?”
“Ridiculous, isn’t it?” Abbag asked moodily. “We’ll lose money if we slow it down any more. Take a look at its guts.”
Goodman opened the back panel and blinked at the maze of wiring within. After a moment, he was able to figure it out. The robot was built like a modern Earth machine, with the usual inexpensive high-speed circuits. But special signal-delay relays, impulse-rejection units and step-down gears had been installed.
“Just tell me,” Abbag demanded angrily, “how can we slow it down any more without building the thing a third bigger and twice as expensive? I don’t know what kind of a disimprovement they’ll be asking for next.”
Goodman was trying to adjust bis thinking to the concept of disimproving a machine.
On Earth, the plants were always trying to build robots with faster, smoother, more accurate responses. He had never found any reason to question the wisdom of this. He still didn’t.
“And as if that weren’t enough,” Abbag complained, “the new plastic we developed for this particular model has catalyzed or some damned thing. Watch.”
He drew back his foot and kicked the robot in the middle. The plastic bent like a sheet of tin. He kicked again. The plastic bent still further and the robot began to click and flash pathetically. A third kick shattered the case. The robot’s innards exploded in spectacular fashion, scattering over the floor. “Pretty flimsy,” Goodman said.
“Not flimsy enough. It’s supposed to fly apart on the first kick. Our customers won’t get any satisfaction out of stubbing their toes on its stomach all day. But tell me, how am I supposed to produce a plastic that’ll take normal wear and tear — we don’t want these things falling apart accidentally — and still go to pieces when a customer wants it to?”
“Wait a minute,” Goodman protested. “Let me get this straight. You purposely slow these robots d
own so they will irritate people enough to destroy them?”
Abbag raised both eyebrows. “Of course!”
“Why?”
“You are new here,” Abbag said. “Any child knows that. It’s fundamental.”
“I’d appreciate it if you’d explain.”
Abbag sighed. “Well, first of all, you are undoubtedly aware that any mechanical contrivance is a source of irritation. Human-kind has a deep and abiding distrust of machines. Psychologists call it the instinctive reaction of life to pseudo-life. Will you go along with me on that?”
Marvin Goodman remembered all the anxious literature he had read about machines revolting, cybernetic brains taking over the world, androids on the march, and the like. He thought of humorous little newspaper items about a man shooting his television set, smashing his toaster against the wall, “getting even” with his car. He remembered all the robot jokes, with their undertone of deep hostility.
“I guess I can go along on that,” said Goodman.
“Then allow me to restate the proposition,” Abbag said pedantically. “Any machine is a source of irritation. The better a machine operates, the stronger the irritation. So, by extension, a perfectly operating machine is a focal point for frustration, loss of self-esteem, undirected resentment…”
“Hold on there!” Goodman objected. “I won’t go that far!”
“ — and schizophrenic fantasies,” Abbag continued inexorably. “But machines are necessary to an advanced economy. Therefore the best human solution is to have malfunctioning ones.”
“I don’t see that at all.”
“It’s obvious. On Terra, your gadgets work close to the optimum, producing inferiority feelings in their operators. But unfortunately you have a masochistic tribal tabu against destroying them. Result? Generalized anxiety in the presence of the sacrosanct and unhumanly efficient Machine, and a search for an aggression-object, usually a wife or friend. A very poor state of affairs. Oh, it’s efficient, I suppose, in terms of robot-hour production, but very inefficient in terms of long-range health and well-being.”
“I’m not sure…”
“The human is an anxious beast. Here on Tranai, we direct anxiety toward this particular point and let it serve as an outlet for a lot of other frustrations as well. A man’s had enough — blam! He kicks hell out of his robot. There’s an immediate and therapeutic discharge of feeling, a valuable — and valid — sense of superiority over mere machinery, a lessening of general tension, a healthy flow of adrenalin into the bloodstream, and a boost to the industrial economy of Tranai, since he’ll go right out and buy another robot. And what, after all, has he done? He hasn’t beaten his wife, suicided, declared a war, invented a new weapon, or indulged in any of the other more common modes of aggression-resolution. He has simply smashed an inexpensive robot which he can replace immediately.”
“I guess it’ll take me a little time to understand,” Goodman admitted.
“Of course it will. I’m sure you’re going to be a valuable man here, Goodman. Think over what I’ve said and try to figure out some inexpensive way of disimproving this robot.”
Goodman pondered the problem for the rest of the day, but he couldn’t immediately adjust his thinking to the idea of producing an inferior machine. It seemed vaguely blasphemous. He knocked off work at five-thirty, dissatisfied with himself, but determined to do better — or worse, depending on viewpoint and conditioning.
After a quick and lonely supper, Goodman decided to call on Janna Vley. He didn’t want to spend the evening alone with his thoughts and he was in desperate need of finding something pleasant, simple and uncomplicated in this complex Utopia. Perhaps this Janna would be the answer.
The Vley home was only a dozen blocks away and he decided to walk.
The basic trouble was that he had had his own idea of what Utopia would be like and it was difficult adjusting his thinking to the real thing. He had imagined a pastoral setting, a planetful of people in small, quaint villages, walking around in flowing robes and being very wise and gentle and understanding. Children who played in the golden sunlight, young folk danced in the village square…
Ridiculous! He had pictured a tableau rather than a scene, a series of stylized postures instead of the ceaseless movement of life. Humans could never live that way, even assuming they wanted to. If they could, they would no longer be humans.
He reached the Vley house and paused irresolutely outside. What was he getting himself into now? What alien — although indubitably Utopian — customs would he run into?
He almost turned away. But the prospect of a long night alone in his hotel room was singularly unappealing. Gritting his teeth, he rang the bell.
A red-haired, middle-aged man of medium height opened the door. “Oh, you must be that Terran fellow. Janna’s getting ready. Come in and meet the wife.”
He escorted Goodman into a pleasantly furnished living room and pushed a red button on the wall. Goodman wasn’t startled this time by the bluish derrsin haze. After all, the manner in which Tranaians treated their women was their own business.
A handsome woman of about twenty-eight appeared from the haze.
“My dear,” Vley said, “this is the Terran, Mr. Goodman.”
“So pleased to meet you,” Mrs. Vley said. “Can I get you a drink?”
Goodman nodded. Vley pointed out a comfortable chair. In a moment, Mrs. Vley brought in a tray of frosted drinks and sat down.
“So you’re from Terra,” said Mr. Vley. “Nervous, hustling sort of place, isn’t it? People always on the go?”
“Yes, I suppose it is,” Goodman replied.
“Well, you’ll like it here. We know how to live. It’s all a matter of…”
There was a rustle of skirts on the stairs. Goodman got to his feet.
“Mr. Goodman, this is our daughter Janna,” Mrs. Vley said.
Goodman noted at once that Janna’s hair was the exact color of the supernova in Circe, her eyes were that deep, unbelievable blue of the autumn sky over Algo II, her lips were the tender pink of a Scarsclott-Turner jet stream, her nose —
But he had run out of astronomical comparisons, which weren’t suitable anyhow. Janna was a slender and amazingly pretty blond girl and Goodman was suddenly very glad he had crossed the Galaxy and come to Tranai.
“Have a good time, children,” Mrs. Vley said.
“Don’t come in too late,” Mr. Vley told Janna.
Exactly as parents said on Earth to their children.
There was nothing exotic about the date. They went to an inexpensive night club, danced, drank a little, talked a lot.
Goodman was amazed at their immediate rapport. Janna agreed with everything he said. It was refreshing to find intelligence in so pretty a girl.
She was impressed, almost overwhelmed, by the dangers he had faced in crossing the Galaxy. She had always known that Terrans were adventurous (though nervous) types, but the risks Goodman had taken passed all understanding.
She shuddered when he spoke of the deadly Galactic Whirl and listened wide-eyed to his tales of running the notorious Swayback Gantlet, past the bloodthirsty Scarbies who were still cutting up along Star Ridge and infesting the hell holes of Prodengum. As Goodman put it, Terrans were iron men in steel ships, exploring the edges of the Great Nothing.
Janna didn’t even speak until Goodman told of paying five hundred Terran dollars for a glass of beer at Moll Gann’s Red Rooster Inn on Asteroid 342-AA.
“You must have been very thirsty,” she said thoughtfully.
“Not particularly,” Goodman said. “Money just didn’t mean much out there.”
“Oh. But wouldn’t it have been better to have saved it? I mean someday you might have a wife and children…” She blushed.
Goodman said coolly, “Well, that part of my life is over. I’m going to marry and settle down right here on Tranai.”
“How nice!” she cried.
It was a most successful evening.
Goodm
an returned Janna to her home at a respectable hour and arranged a date for the following evening. Made bold by his own tales, he kissed her on the cheek. She didn’t really seem to mind, but Goodman didn’t try to press his advantage.
“Till tomorrow then,” she said, smiled at him, and closed the door.
He walked away feeling light-headed. Janna! Janna! Was it conceivable that he was in love already? Why not? Love at first sight was a proven psycho-physiological possibility and, as such, was perfectly respectable. Love in Utopia! How wonderful it was that here, upon a perfect planet, he had found the perfect girl!
A man stepped out of the shadows and blocked his path. Goodman noted that he was wearing a black silk mask which covered everything except his eyes. He was carrying a large and powerful-looking blaster, and it was pointed steadily at Goodman’s stomach.
“Okay, buddy,” the man said, “gimme all your money.”
“What?” Goodman gasped.
“You heard me. Your money. Hand it over.”
“You can’t do this,” Goodman said, too startled to think coherently. “There’s no crime on Tranai!”
“Who said there was?” the man asked quietly. “I’m merely asking you for your money. Are you going to hand it over peacefully or do I have to club it out of you?”
“You can’t get away with this! Crime does not pay!”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” the man said. He hefted the heavy blaster.
“All right. Don’t get excited.” Goodman pulled out his billfold, which contained all he had in the world, and gave its contents to the masked man.
The man counted it, and he seemed impressed. “Better than I expected. Thanks, buddy. Take it easy now.”
He hurried away down a dark street.
Goodman looked wildly around for a policeman, until he remembered that there were no police on Tranai. He saw a small cocktail lounge on the corner with a neon sign saying Kitty Kat Bar. He hurried into it.
A Ticket to Tranai Page 2