A Ticket to Tranai

by Robert Sheckley

  Melith laughed. “My dear friend, are you preaching the doctrine of equality of the sexes? Really, it’s a completely disproved theory. Men and women just aren’t the same. They’re different, no matter what you’ve been told on Terra. What’s good for men isn’t necessarily — or even usually — good for women.”

  “Therefore you treat them as inferiors,” Goodman said, his reformer’s blood beginning to boil.

  “Not at all. We treat them in a different manner from men, but not in an inferior manner. Anyhow, they don’t object.”

  “That’s because they haven’t been allowed to know any better. Is there any law that requires me to keep my wife in the derrsin field?”

  “Of course not. The custom simply suggests that you keep her out of stasis for a certain minimum amount of time every week. No fair incarcerating the little woman, you know.”

  “Of course not,” Goodman said sarcastically. “Must let her live some of the time.”

  “Exactly,” Melith said, seeing no sarcasm in what Goodman said. “You’ll catch on.”

  Goodman stood up. “Is that all?”

  “I guess that’s about it. Good luck and all that.”

  “Thank you,” Goodman said stiffly, turned sharply and left.

  That afternoon, Supreme President Borg performed the simple Tranaian marriage rites at the National Mansion and afterward kissed the bride with zeal. It was a beautiful ceremony and was marred by only one thing.

  Hanging on Borg’s wall was a rifle, complete with telescopic sight and silencer. It was a twin to Melith’s and just as inexplicable.

  Borg took Goodman to one side and asked, “Have you given any further thought to the Supreme Presidency?”

  “I’m still considering it,” Goodman said. “I don’t really want to hold public office…”

  “No one does.”

  “…but there are certain reforms that Tranai needs badly. I think it may be my duty to bring them to the attention of the people.”

  “That’s the spirit,” Borg said approvingly. “We haven’t had a really enterprising Supreme President for some time. Why don’t you take office right now? Then you could have your honeymoon in the National Mansion with complete privacy.”

  Goodman was tempted. But he didn’t want to be bothered by affairs of state on his honeymoon, which was all arranged anyhow. Since Tranai had lasted so long in its present near-utopian condition, it would undoubtedly keep for a few weeks more.

  “I’ll consider it when I come back,” Goodman said.

  Borg shrugged. “Well, I guess I can bear the burden a while longer. Oh, here.” He handed Goodman a sealed envelope.

  “What’s this?”

  “Just the standard advice,” Borg said. “Hurry, your bride’s waiting for you!”

  “Come on, Marvin!” Janna called. “We don’t want to be late for the spaceship!”

  Goodman hurried after her, into the spaceport limousine. “Good luck!” her parents cried. “Good luck!” Borg shouted.

  “Good luck!” added Melith and his wife, and all the guests. On the way to the spaceport, Goodman opened the envelope and read the printed sheet within:

  ADVICE TO A NEW HUSBAND

  You have just been married and you expect, quite naturally, a lifetime of connubial bliss. This is perfectly proper, for a happy marriage is the foundation of good government. But you must do more than merely wish for it. Good marriage is not yours by divine right. A good marriage must be worked for!

  Remember that your wife is a human being. She should be allowed a certain measure of freedom as her inalienable right. We suggest you take her out of stasis at least once a week. Too long in stasis is bad for her orientation. Too much stasis is bad for her complexion and this will be your loss as well as hers.

  At intervals, such as vacations and holidays, it’s customary to let your wife remain out of stasis for an entire day at a time, or even two or three days. It will do no harm and the novelty will do wonders for her state of mind.

  Keep in mind these few common-sense rules and you can be assured of a happy marriage.

  — By the Government Marriage Council

  Goodman slowly tore the card into little bits, and let them drop to the floor of the limousine. His reforming spirit was now thoroughly aroused. He had known that Tranai was too good to be true. Someone had to pay for perfection. In this case, it was the women.

  He had found the first serious flaw in paradise.

  “What was that, dear?” Janna asked, looking at the bits of paper.

  “That was some very foolish advice,” Goodman said. “Dear, have you ever thought — really thought — about the marriage customs of this planet of yours?”

  “I don’t think I have. Aren’t they all right?”

  “They are wrong, completely wrong. They treat women like toys, like little dolls that one puts away when one is finished playing. Can’t you see that?”

  “I never thought about it.”

  “Well, you can think about it now,” Goodman told her, “because some changes are going to be made and they’re going to start in our home.”

  “Whatever you think best, darling,” Janna said dutifully. She squeezed his arm. He kissed her.

  And then the limousine reached the spaceport and they got aboard the ship.

  Their honeymoon on Doe was like a brief sojourn in a flawless paradise. The wonders of Tranai’s little moon had been built for lovers, and for lovers only. No businessman came to Doe for a quick rest; no predatory bachelor prowled the paths. The tired, the disillusioned, the lewdly hopeful all had to find other hunting grounds. The single rule on Doe, strictly enforced, was two by two, joyous and in love, and in no other state admitted.

  This was one Tranaian custom that Goodman had no trouble appreciating.

  On the little moon, there were meadows of tall grass and deep, green forests for walking and cool black lakes in the forests and jagged, spectacular mountains that begged to be climbed. Lovers were continually getting lost in the forests, to their great satisfaction; but not too lost, for one could circle the whole moon in a day. Thanks to the gentle gravity, no one could drown in the black lakes, and a fall from a mountaintop was frightening, but hardly dangerous.

  There were, at strategic locations, little hotels with dimly lit cocktail lounges run by friendly, white-haired bartenders. There were gloomy caves which ran deep (but never too deep) into phosphorescent caverns glittering with ice, past sluggish underground rivers in which swam great luminous fish with fiery eyes.

  The Government Marriage Council had considered these simple attractions sufficient and hadn’t bothered putting in a golf course, swimming pool, horse track or shuffleboard court. It was felt that once a couple desired these things, the honeymoon was over.

  Goodman and his bride spent an enchanted week on Doe and at last returned to Tranai.

  After carrying his bride across the threshold of their new home, Goodman’s first act was to unplug the derrsin generator.

  “My dear,” he said, “up to now, I have followed all the customs of Tranai, even when they seemed ridiculous to me. But this is one thing I will not sanction. On Terra, I was the founder of the Committee for Equal Job Opportunities for Women. On Terra, we treat our women as equals, as companions, as partners in the adventure of life.”

  “What a strange concept,” Janna said, a frown clouding her pretty face.

  “Think about it,” Goodman urged. “Our life will be far more satisfying in this companionable manner than if I shut you up in the purdah of the derrsin field. Don’t you agree?”

  “You know far more than I, dear. You’ve traveled all over the Galaxy, and I’ve never been out of Port Tranai. If you say it’s the best way, then it must be.”

  Past a doubt, Goodman thought, she was the most perfect of women.

  He returned to his work at the Abbag Home Robot Works and was soon deep in another disimprovement project. This time, he conceived the bright idea of making the robot’s joints sque
ak and grind. The noise would increase the robot’s irritation value, thereby making its destruction more pleasing and psychologically more valuable. Mr. Abbag was overjoyed with the idea, gave him another pay raise, and asked him to have the disimprovement ready for early production.

  Goodman’s first plan was simply to remove some of the lubrication ducts. But he found that friction would then wear out vital parts too soon. That naturally could not be sanctioned.

  He began to draw up plans for a built-in squeak-and-grind unit. It had to be absolutely lifelike and yet cause no real wear. It had to be inexpensive and it had to be small, because the robot’s interior was already packed with disimprovements.

  But Goodman found that small squeak-producing units sounded artificial. Larger units were too costly to manufacture or couldn’t be fitted inside the robot’s case. He began working several evenings a week, lost weight, and his temper grew edgy.

  Janna became a good, dependable wife. His meals were always ready on time and she invariably had a cheerful word for him in the evenings and a sympathetic ear for his difficulties. During the day, she supervised the cleaning of the house by the Home Robots. This took less than an hour and afterward she read books, baked pies, knitted, and destroyed robots.

  Goodman was a little alarmed at this, because Janna destroyed them at the rate of three or four a week. Still, everyone had to have a hobby. He could afford to indulge her, since he got the machines at cost.

  Goodman had reached a complete impasse when another designer, a man named Dath Hergo, came up with a novel control. This was based upon a counter-gyroscopic principle and allowed a robot to enter a room at a ten-degree list. (Ten degrees, the research department said, was the most irritating angle of list a robot could assume.) Moreover, by employing a random-selection principle, the robot would lurch, drunkenly, annoyingly, at irregular intervals — never dropping anything, but always on the verge of it.

  This development was, quite naturally, hailed as a great advance in disimprovement engineering. And Goodman found that he could center his built-in squeak-and-grind unit right in the lurch control. His name was mentioned in the engineering journals next to that of Dath Hergo.

  The new line of Abbag Home Robots was a sensation.

  At this time, Goodman decided to take a leave of absence from his job and assume the Supreme Presidency of Tranai. He felt he owed it to the people. If Terran ingenuity and know-how could bring out improvements in disimprovements, they would do even better improving improvements. Tranai was a near-utopia. With his hand on the reins, they could go the rest of the way to perfection.

  He went down to Melith’s office to talk it over.

  “I suppose there’s always room for change,” Melith said thoughtfully. The immigration chief was seated by the window, idly watching people pass by. “Of course, our present system has been working for quite some time and working very well. I don’t know what you’d improve. There’s no crime, for example…”

  “Because you’ve legalized it,” Goodman declared. “You’ve simply evaded the issue.”

  “We don’t see it that way. There’s no poverty…”

  “Because everybody steals. And there’s no trouble with old people because the government turns them into beggars. Really, there’s plenty of room for change and improvement.”

  “Well, perhaps,” Melith said. “But I think…” he stopped suddenly, rushed over to the wall and pulled down the rifle. “There he is!”

  Goodman looked out the window. A man, apparently no different from anyone else, was walking past. He heard a muffled click and saw the man stagger, then drop to the pavement.

  Melith had shot him with the silenced rifle.

  “What did you do that for?” Goodman gasped.

  “Potential murderer,” Melith said.

  “What?”

  “Of course. We don’t have any out-and-out crime here, but, being human, we have to deal with the potentiality.”

  “What did he do to make him a potential murderer?”

  “Killed five people,” Melith stated.

  “But — damn it, man, this isn’t fair! You didn’t arrest him, give him a trial, the benefit of counsel…”

  “How could I?” Melith asked, slightly annoyed. “We don’t have any police to arrest people with and we don’t have any legal system. Good Lord, you didn’t expect me to just let him go on, did you? Our definition of a murderer is a killer of ten and he was well on his way. I couldn’t just sit idly by. It’s my duty to protect the people. I can assure you, I made careful inquiries.”

  “It isn’t just!” Goodman shouted.

  “Who ever said it was?” Melith shouted back. “What has justice got to do with Utopia?”

  “Everything!” Goodman had calmed himself with an effort. “Justice is the basis of human dignity, human desire…”

  “Now you’re just using words,” Melith said, with his usual good-natured smile. “Try to be realistic. We have created a Utopia for human beings, not for saints who don’t need one.

  We must accept the deficiencies of the human character, not pretend they don’t exist. To our way of thinking, a police apparatus and a legal-judicial system all tend to create an atmosphere for crime and an acceptance of crime. It’s better, believe me, not to accept the possibility of crime at all. The vast majority of the people will go along with you.”

  “But when crime does turn up as it inevitably does…”

  “Only the potentiality turns up,” Melith insisted stubbornly. “And even that is much rarer than you would think. When it shows up, we deal with it, quickly and simply.”

  “Suppose you get the wrong man?”

  “We can’t get the wrong man. Not a chance of it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because,” Melith said, “anyone disposed of by a government official is, by definition and by unwritten law, a potential criminal.”

  Marvin Goodman was silent for a while. Then he said, “I see that the government has more power than I thought at first.”

  “It does,” Melith said. “But not as much as you now imagine.”

  Goodman smiled ironically. “And is the Supreme Presidency still mine for the asking?”

  “Of course. And with no strings attached. Do you want it?”

  Goodman thought deeply for a moment. Did he really want it? Well, someone had to rule. Someone had to protect the people. Someone had to make a few reforms in this Utopian madhouse.

  “Yes, I want it,” Goodman said.

  The door burst open and Supreme President Borg rushed in. “Wonderful! Perfectly wonderful! You can move into the National Mansion today. I’ve been packed for a week, waiting for you to make up your mind.”

  “There must be certain formalities to go through…”

  “No formalities,” Borg said, his face shining with perspiration. “None whatsoever. All we do is hand over the Presidential Seal; then I’ll go down and take my name off the rolls and put yours on.”

  Goodman looked at Melith. The immigration minister’s round face was expressionless.

  “All right,” Goodman said.

  Borg reached for the Presidential Seal, started to remove it from his neck…

  It exploded suddenly and violently.

  Goodman found himself staring in horror at Borg’s red, ruined head. The Supreme President tottered for a moment, then slid to the floor.

  Melith took off his jacket and threw it over Borg’s head. Goodman backed to a chair and fell into it. His mouth opened, but no words came out.

  “It’s really a pity,” Melith said. “He was so near the end of his term. I warned him against licensing that new spaceport. The citizens won’t approve, I told him. But he was sure they would like to have two spaceports. Well, he was wrong.”

  “Do you mean — I mean — how — what…”

  “All government officials,” Melith explained, “wear the badge of office, which contains a traditional amount of tessium, an explosive you may have heard of. The
charge is radio-controlled from the Citizens Booth. Any citizen has access to the Booth, for the purpose of expressing his disapproval of the government.” Melith sighed. “This will go down as a permanent black mark against poor Borg’s record.”

  “You let the people express their disapproval by blowing up officials?” Goodman croaked, appalled.

  “It’s the only way that means anything,” said Melith “Check and balance. Just as the people are in our hands, so we are in the people’s hands.”.

  “And that’s why he wanted me to take over his term. Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

  “You didn’t ask,” Melith said, with the suspicion of a smile, “Don’t look so horrified. Assassination is always possible, you know, on any planet, under any government. We try to make it a constructive thing. Under this system, the people never lose touch with the government, and the government never tries to assume dictatorial powers. And, since everyone knows he can turn to the Citizens Booth, you’d be surprised how sparingly it’s used. Of course, there are always hotheads…”

  Goodman got to his feet and started to the door, not looking at Borg’s body.

  “Don’t you still want the Presidency?” asked Melith.

  “No!

  “That’s so like you Terrans,” Melith remarked sadly. “You want responsibility only if it doesn’t incur risk. That’s the wrong attitude for running a government.”

  “You may be right,” Goodman said. “I’m just glad I found out in time.”

  He hurried home.

  His mind was in a complete turmoil when he entered his house. Was Tranai a Utopia or a planetwide insane asylum? Was there much difference? For the first time in his life, Goodman was wondering if Utopia was worth having. Wasn’t it better to strive for perfection than to possess it? To have ideals rather than to live by them? If justice was a fallacy, wasn’t the fallacy better than the truth?

  Or was it? Goodman was a sadly confused young man when he shuffled into his house and found his wife in the arms of another man.

  The scene had a terrible slow-motion clarity in his eyes. It seemed to take Janna forever to rise to her feet, straighten her disarranged clothing and stare at him open-mouthed. The man — a tall, good-looking fellow whom Goodman had never before seen — appeared too startled to speak. He made small, aimless gestures, brushing the lapel of his jacket, pulling down, his cuffs.