He took a deep breath and marched out of the ship and down the landing stage.
There were no guards, no inspection party, no police, no army units and no customs officials. There was no one at all. Far to one side of the wide field he could see rows of starcraft glistening in the sun. Straight ahead of him was a fence, and in it was an open gate.
Barrent walked across the field, quickly but without obvious haste. He had no idea why it was all so simple. Perhaps the secret police on Earth had more subtle means of checking on passengers from starships.
He reached the gate. There was no one there except a bald, middle-aged man and a boy of perhaps ten. They seemed to be waiting for him. Barrent found it hard to believe that these were government officials; still, who knew the ways of Earth? He passed through the gate.
The bald man, holding the boy by the hand, walked over to him. “I beg your pardon,” the man said.
“Yes?”
“I saw you come from the starship. Would you mind if I ask you a few questions?”
“Not at all,” Barrent said, his hand near the coverall zipper beneath which lay his needlebeam. He was certain now that the bald man was a police agent. The only thing that didn’t make sense was the presence of the child, unless the boy was an agent-in-training.
“The fact of the matter is,” the man said, “my boy Ronny here is doing a thesis for his Tenth Grade Master’s Degree. On starships.”
“So I wanted to see one,” Ronny said. He was an undersized child with a pinched, intelligent face.
“He wanted to see one,” the man explained. “I told him it wasn’t necessary, since all the facts and pictures are in the encyclopedia. But he wanted to see one.”
“It gives me a good opening paragraph,” Ronny said.
“Of course,” Barrent said, nodding vigorously. He was beginning to wonder about the man. For a member of the secret police, he was certainly taking a devious route.
“You work on the ships?” Ronny asked.
“That’s right.”
“How fast do they go?”
“In real or subspace?” Barrent asked.
This question seemed to throw Ronny off his stride. He pushed out his lower lip and said, “Gee, I didn’t know they went in subspace.” He thought for a moment. “As a matter of fact, I don’t think I know what subspace is.”
Barrent and the boy’s father smiled understandingly.
“Well,” Ronny said, “how fast do they go in real space?”
“A hundred thousand miles an hour,” Barrent said, naming the first figure that came into his head.
The boy nodded, and his father nodded. “Very fast,” the father said.
“And much faster in subspace of course,” Barrent said.
“Of course,” the man said. “Starships are very fast indeed. They have to be. Quite long distances involved. Isn’t that right, sir?”
“Very long distances,” Barrent said.
“How is the ship powered?” Ronny asked.
“In the usual way,” Barrent told him. “We had triplex boosters installed last year, but that comes more under the classification of auxiliary power.”
“I’ve heard about those triplex boosters,” the man said. “Tremendous things.”
“They’re adequate,” Barrent said judiciously. He was certain now that this man was just what he purported to be: a citizen with no particular knowledge of spacecraft simply bringing his son to the starport.
“How do you get enough air?” Ronny asked.
“We generate our own,” Barrent said. “But air isn’t any trouble. Water’s the big problem. Water isn’t compressible, you know. It’s hard to store in sufficient quantities. And then there’s the navigation problem when the ship emerges from subspace.”
“What is subspace?” Ronny asked.
“In effect,” Barrent said, “it’s simply a different level of real space. But you can find all that in your encyclopedia.”
“Of course you can, Ronny,” the boy’s father said. “We mustn’t keep the pilot standing here. I’m sure he has many important things to do.”
“I am rather rushed,” Barrent said. “Look around all you want. Good luck on your thesis, Ronny.”
Barrent walked for fifty yards, his spine tingling, expecting momentarily to feel the blow of a needlebeam or a shotgun. But when he looked back, the father and son were turned away from him, earnestly studying the great vessel. Barrent hesitated a moment, deeply bothered. So far, the whole thing had been entirely too easy. Suspiciously easy. But there was nothing he could do but go on.
The road from the starport led past a row of storage sheds to a section of woods. Barrent walked until he was out of sight. Then he left the road and went into the woods. He had had enough contact with people for his first day on Earth. He didn’t want to stretch his luck. He wanted to think things over, sleep in the woods for the night, and then in the morning go to a city or town.
He pushed his way past dense underbrush into the forest proper. Here he walked through shaded groves of giant oaks. All around him was the chirp and bustle of unseen bird and animal life. Far in front of him was a large white sign nailed to a tree. Barrent reached it, and read: FORESTDALE NATIONAL PARK. PICNICKERS AND CAMPERS WELCOME.
Barrent was a little disappointed, even though he realized that there would be no virgin wilderness so near a starport. In fact, on a planet as old and as highly developed as Earth, there was probably no virgin land at all, except what had been preserved in national forests.
The sun was low on the horizon, and there was a chill in the long shadows thrown across the forest floor. Barrent found a comfortable spot under a gigantic oak, arranged leaves for a bed, and lay down. He had a great deal to think about. Why, for example, hadn’t guards been posted at Earth’s most important contact point, an interstellar terminus? Did security measures start later at the towns and cities? Or was he already under some sort of surveillance, some infinitely subtle spy system that followed his every movement and apprehended him only when ready? Or was that too fanciful? Could it be that—?
“Good evening,” a voice said, close to his right ear.
Barrent flung himself away from the voice in a spasm of nervous reaction, his hand diving for his needlebeam.
“And a very pleasant evening it is,” the voice continued, “here in Forestdale National Park. The temperature is seventy-eight point two degrees Fahrenheit, humidity 23 per cent, barometer steady at twenty-nine point nine. Old campers, I’m sure, already recognize my voice. For the new nature-lovers among you, let me introduce myself. I am Oaky, your friendly oak tree. I’d like to welcome all of you, old and new, to your friendly national forest.”
Sitting upright in the gathering darkness, Barrent peered around, wondering what kind of a trick this was. The voice really did seem to come from the giant oak tree.
“The enjoyment of nature,” said Oaky, “is now easy and convenient for everyone. You can enjoy complete seclusion and still be no more than a ten-minute walk from public transportation. For those who do not desire seclusion, we have guided tours at nominal cost through these ancient glades. Remember to tell your friends about your friendly national park. The full facilities of this park are waiting for all lovers of the great outdoors.”
A panel in the tree opened. Out slid a bedroll, a Thermos bottle, and a box supper.
“I wish you a pleasant evening,” said Oaky, “amid the wild splendor of nature’s wonderland. And now the National Symphony Orchestra under the direction of Otter Krug brings you ‘The Upland Glades,’ by Ernesto Nestrichala, recorded by the National North American Broadcasting Company. This is your friendly oak tree signing off.”
Music emanated from several hidden speakers. Barrent scratched his head; then, deciding to take matters as they came, he ate the food, drank coffee from the Thermos, unrolled the bedroll, and lay down.
Sleepily he contemplated the notion of a forest wired for sound, equipped with food and drink, and none of it
more than ten minutes from public transportation. Earth certainly did a lot for her citizens. Presumably they liked this sort of thing. Or did they? Could this be some huge and subtle trap which the authorities had set for him?
He tossed and turned for a while, trying to get used to the music. After a while it blended into the background of windblown leaves and creaking branches. Barrent went to sleep.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
In the morning, the friendly oak tree dispensed breakfast and shaving equipment. Barrent ate, washed and shaved, and set out for the nearest town. He had his objectives firmly in mind. He had to establish some sort of foolproof disguise, and he had to make contact with Earth’s underground. When this was accomplished, he had to find out as much as he could about Earth’s secret police, military dispositions, and the like.
Group Two had worked out a procedure for accomplishing these objectives. As Barrent came to the outskirts of a town, he hoped that the Group’s methods would work. So far, the Earth he was on had very little resemblance to the Earth which the Group had reconstructed.
He walked down interminable streets lined with small white cottages. At first, he thought every house looked the same. Then he realized that each had one or two small architectural differences. But instead of distinguishing the houses, these niggling differences simply served to point up the monotonous similarities. There were hundreds of these cottages, stretching as far as he could see, each of them set upon a little plot of carefully tended grass. Their genteel sameness depressed him. Unexpectedly he missed the ridiculous, clumsy, make-shift individuality of Omegan buildings.
He reached a shopping center. The stores repeated the pattern set by the houses. They were low, discreet, and very similar. Only a close inspection of window displays revealed differences between a food store and a sports shop. He passed a small building with a sign that read, ROBOT CONFESSIONAL—Open 24 hours a day. It seemed to be some sort of church.
The procedure set by Group Two for locating the underground on Earth was simple and straightforward. Revolutionaries, he had been told, are found in greatest quantity among a civilization’s most depressed elements. Poverty breeds dissatisfaction; the have-nots want to take from those who have. Therefore, the logical place to look for subversion is in the slums.
It was a good theory. The trouble was, Barrent couldn’t find any slums. He walked for hours, past neat stores and pleasant little homes, playgrounds and parks, scrupulously tended farms, and then past more houses and stores. Nothing looked much better or worse than anything else.
By evening, he was tired and footsore. As far as he could tell, he had discovered nothing of significance. Before he could penetrate any deeper into the complexities of Earth, he would have to question the local citizens. It was a dangerous step, but one which he could not avoid.
He stood near a clothing store in the gathering dusk and decided upon a course of action. He would pose as a foreigner, a man newly arrived in North America from Asia or Europe. In that way, he should be able to ask questions with a measure of safety.
A man was walking toward him, a plump, ordinary-looking fellow in a brown business tunic. Barrent stopped him. “I beg your pardon,” he said. “I’m a stranger here, just arrived from Rome.”
“Really?” the man said.
“Yes. I’m afraid I don’t understand things over here very well,” Barrent said, with an apologetic little laugh. “I can’t seem to find any cheap hotels. If you could direct me—”
“Citizen, do you feel all right?” the man asked, his face hardening.
“As I said, I’m a foreigner, and I’m looking—”
“Now look,” the man said, “you know as well as I do that there aren’t any outlanders any more.”
“There aren’t?”
“Of course not. I’ve been in Rome. It’s just like here in Wilmington. Same sort of houses and stores. No one’s an outlander any more.”
Barrent couldn’t think of anything to say. He smiled nervously.
“Furthermore,” the man said, “there are no cheap lodgings anywhere on Earth. Why should there be? Who would stay in them?”
“Who indeed?” Barrent said. “I guess I’ve had a little too much to drink.”
“No one drinks any more,” the man said. “I don’t understand. What sort of a game is this?”
“What sort of a game do you think it is?” Barrent asked, falling back on a technique which the Group had recommended.
The man stared at him, frowning. “I think I get it,” he said. “You must be an Opinioner.”
“Mmm,” Barrent said, noncommittally.
“Sure, that’s it,” the man said. “You’re one of those citizens goes around asking people’s opinions. For surveys and that sort of thing. Right?”
“You’ve made a very intelligent guess,” Barrent said.
“Well, I don’t suppose it was too hard. Opinioners are always walking around trying to get people’s attitudes on things. I would have spotted you right away if you’d been wearing Opinioners’ clothing.” The man started to frown again. “How come you aren’t dressed like an Opinioner?”
“I just graduated,” Barrent said. “Haven’t had a chance to get the clothes.”
“Oh. Well, you should get the proper wear,” the man said sententiously. “How can a citizen tell your status?”
“Just a test sampling,” Barrent said. “Thank you for your cooperation, sir. Perhaps I’ll have a chance to interview you again in the near future.”
“Any time,” the man said. He nodded politely and walked off.
Barrent thought about it, and decided that the occupation of Opinioner was perfect for him. It would give him the all-important right to ask questions, to meet people, to find out how Earth lived. He would have to be careful, of course, not to reveal his ignorance. But working with circumspection, he should have a general knowledge of this civilization in a few days.
First, he would have to buy Opinioners’ clothing. That seemed to be important. The trouble was, he had no money with which to pay for it. The Group had been unable to duplicate Earth money; they couldn’t even remember what it looked like.
But they had provided him with a means of overcoming even that obstacle. Barrent turned and went into the nearest costumer’s.
The proprietor was a short man with china-blue eyes and a salesman’s ready smile. He welcomed Barrent and asked how he could be of service.
“I need Opinioners’ clothing,” Barrent told him. “I’ve just graduated.”
“Of course, sir,” the owner said. “And you’ve come to the right place for it. Most of the smaller stores don’t carry the clothing for anything but the more…ah…common professions. But here at Jules Wonderson’s, we have ready-wears for all of the five hundred and twenty major professions listed in the Civil Status Almanac. I am Jules Wonderson.”
“A pleasure,” Barrent said. “Have you a ready-wear in my size?”
“I’m sure I have,” Wonderson said. “Would you care for a Regular or a Special?”
“A Regular will do nicely.”
“Most new Opinioners prefer the Special,” Wonderson said. “The little extra simulated handmade touches increase the public’s respect.”
“In that case I’ll take the Special.”
“Yes, sir. Though if you could wait a day or two, we will be having in a new fabric—a simulated Home Loom, complete with natural weaving mistakes. For the man of status discrimination. A real prestige item.”
“Perhaps I’ll come back for that,” Barrent said. “Right now, I need a ready-wear.”
“Of course, sir,” Wonderson said, disappointed but hiding it bravely. “If you’ll wait just one little minute.…”
After several fittings, Barrent found himself wearing a black business suit with a thin edge of white piping around the lapels. To his inexperienced eye it looked almost exactly like the other suits Wonderson had on display for bankers, stock brokers, grocers, accountants, and the like. But for Wonde
rson, who talked about the banker’s lapel and the insurance agent’s drape, the differences were as clear as the gross status-symbols of Omega. Barrent decided it was just a question of training.
“There, sir!” Wonderson said. “A perfect fit, and a fabric guaranteed for a lifetime. All for thirty-nine ninety-five.”
“Excellent,” Barrent said. “Now, about the money—”
“Yes, sir?”
Barrent took the plunge. “I haven’t any.”
“You haven’t, sir? That’s quite unusual.”
“Yes, it is,” Barrent said. “However, I do have certain articles of value.” From his pocket he took three diamond rings with which the Group on Omega had supplied him. “These stones are genuine diamonds, as any jeweler will be glad to attest. If you would take one of them until I have the money for payment—”
“But, sir,” Wonderson said, “diamonds and such have no intrinsic value. They haven’t since ’23, when Von Blon wrote the definitive work destroying the concept of scarcity value.”
“Of course,” Barrent said, at a loss for words.
Wonderson looked at the rings. “I suppose these have a sentimental value, though.”
“Certainly. We’ve had them in the family for generations.”
“In that case,” Wonderson said, “I wouldn’t want to deprive you of them. Please, no arguments, sir! Sentiment is the most priceless of emotions. I couldn’t sleep nights if I took even one of these family heirlooms from you.”
“But there’s the matter of payment.”
“Pay me at your leisure.”
“You mean you’ll trust me, even though you don’t know me?”
“Most certainly,” Wonderson said. He smiled archly. “Trying out your Opinioner’s methods, aren’t you? Well, even a child knows that our civilization is based upon trust, not collateral. It is axiomatic that even a stranger is to be trusted until he has conclusively and unmistakably proven otherwise.”
“Haven’t you ever been cheated?”
“Of course not. Crime is nonexistent these days.”
The Robert Sheckley Megapack Page 15