The Robot Who Looked Like Me

by Robert Sheckley

  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 Office of Future Projections, 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 Office of Future Projections 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 born 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 Office of Future Projections. 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 on
e 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 Goeffry of Bouillons 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 Office of Future Projections.

  Soon he came face to face with Veerhe, the Chief Planner. Veerhe was a calm little man with an aging pixie 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 discussion, 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 evenhanded 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 clearcut and sufficient reasons for us to destroy you. Failing that, and all other 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 parley, 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 the 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 setup. I’m going to do a good job for your 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.”

  “That’s the understatement of the century,” Johnny said. “This’ll give the governments of Earth the biggest psychic bellyache in recorded history. They’ll do their damnedest to pull me down and put in one of their own boys. But you Lorians will back me, right?”

  “You know what we are like. We will not fight for you, since we will not fight for ourselves. We will obey whoever actually has the power.”

  “I guess I can’t expect anything more,” said Bezique. “But I guess I’m going to have some problems bringing this off. I guess I’ll bring in a few buddies to help me, set up an organization, do some lobbying, play off one group against the other...”

  Johnny paused. Veerhe waited. After a while Johnny said, “I’m leaving something out. I’m not being logical. There’s more to this than I thought. I haven’t gone all the way in my reasoning.”

  “I cannot help you,” the Chief Planner said. “Frankly, I am out of my depth.”

  Johnny frowned and rubbed his eyes. He scratched his head. Then he said, “Yeah. Well, it’s clear enough what I gotta do. You see it, don’t you?”

  “I suppose there are many promising avenues of application. “

  “There’s only one,” Johnny said. “Sooner or later, I gotta conquer Earth. Either that, or they’re going to conquer me. Us, I mean. Can you see that?”

  “It seems a highly probable hypothesis.”

  “It’s God’s own truth. Me or them. There’s room for just one Number One.”

  The Planner didn’t comment. Johnny said, “I never dreamed of an
ything like this. From spaceship driver to Emperor of an advanced alien planet in less than two weeks. And now I gotta take over Earth, and that’s a weird feeling. Still, it’ll be the best thing for them. We’ll bring some civilization to those monkeys, teach them how things should really be done. Someday they’ll thank us for it.”

  “Do you have any orders for me?” Veerhe asked.

  “I’ll want to review all the data about the Ancient Dynasty fleet. But first I think a coronation would be in order. No, first a referendum electing me Emperor, then a coronation. Can you arrange all that?”

  “I shall begin at once,” the Chief Planner said.

  For Earth, the standard nightmare had finally taken place. An advanced alien civilization was about to impose its culture upon Earth. For Loris, the situation was different. The Lorians, previously defenseless, had suddenly acquired an aggressive alien general, and soon would have a group of mercenaries to operate their spacefleet. All of which was not so good for Earth, but not bad at all for Loris.

  It was inevitable, of course. For the Lorians were a really advanced and intelligent people. And what is the purpose of being really intelligent if not to have the substance of what you want without mistaking it for the shadow?

  On the other hand, Von Heingletz has calculated the odds against a successful alien conquest of Earth as 1013 - 74. So we can all take comfort in that.

  THE NEVER-ENDING WESTERN MOVIE

  The name is Washburn: just plain Washburn to my friends, Mister Washburn to enemies and strangers. Saying that I’ve said everything, because you’ve seen me a thousand times, on the big screen in your neighborhood theater or on the little pay-TV screen in your living room, riding through Cholla cactus and short grass, my famous derby pulled down over my eyes, my famous Colt .44 with the 7 1/2-inch barrel strapped down to my right leg. But just now I’m riding in a big air conditioned Cadillac, sitting between my agent-manager Gordon Simms, and my wife, Consuela. We’ve turned off State Highway 101 and we’re bouncing along a rutted dirt road which will end presently at the Wells Fargo Station that marks one of the entrances to The Set. Simms is talking rapidly and rubbing the back of my neck like I was a fighter about to enter the ring, which is more or less the situation. Consuela is quiet. Her English isn’t too good yet. She’s the prettiest little thing imaginable, my wife of less than two months, a former Miss Chile, a former actress in various Gaucho dramas filmed in Buenos Aires and Montevideo. This entire scene is supposed to be off-camera. It’s the part they never show you: the return of the famous gunfighter, all the way from Bel Air in the jolly jittery year of 2031 to the Old West of the mid-1900s.