Is That What People Do?

by Robert Sheckley

  “Was it real love?” Mr. Tate asked.

  “Yes!”

  “And was everything satisfactory?”

  “Yes! It was love, it was the real thing! But why did she insist on returning?”

  “Posthypnotic command,” Mr. Tate said.

  “What?”

  “What did you expect’ Everyone wants love, but few wish to pay for it. Here is your bill, sir.”

  Simon paid, fuming. “This wasn’t necessary,” he said. “Of course I would pay you for bringing us together. Where is she now? What have you done with her?”

  “Please,” Mr. Tate said soothingly. “Try to calm yourself.”

  “I don’t want to be calm!” Simon shouted. “I want Penny!”

  “That will be impossible,” Mr. Tate said, with the barest hint of frost in his voice. “Kindly stop making a spectacle of yourself.”

  “Are you trying to get more money out of me?” Simon shrieked. “All right, I’ll pay. How much do I have to pay to get her out of your clutches?” And Simon yanked out his wallet and slammed it on the desk.

  Mr. Tate poked the wallet with a stiffened forefinger. “Put that back in your pocket,” he said. “We are an old and respectable firm. If you raise your voice again, I shall be forced to have you ejected.”

  Simon calmed himself with an effort, put the wallet back in his pocket and sat down. He took a deep breath and said, very quietly, “I’m sorry.”

  “That’s better,” Mr. Tate said. “I will not be shouted at. However, if you are reasonable, I can be reasonable too. Now, what’s the trouble?”

  “The trouble?” Simon’s voice started to lift. He controlled it and said, “She loves me.”

  “Of course.”

  “Then how can you separate us?”

  “What has the one thing got to do with the other?” Mr. Tate asked. “Love is a delightful interlude, a relaxation, good for the intellect, for the ego, for the hormone balance, and for the skin tone. But one would hardly wish to continue loving, would one?”

  “I would,” Simon said. “This love was special, unique—”

  “They all are,” Mr. Tate said. “But as you know, they are all produced in the same way.”

  “What?”

  “Surely you know something about the mechanics of love production?”

  “No,” Simon said. “I thought it was—natural.”

  Mr. Tate shook his head. “We gave up natural selection centuries ago, shortly after the Mechanical Revolution. It was too slow, and commercially unfeasible. Why bother with it, when we can produce any feeling at will with conditioning and proper stimulation of certain brain centers? The result? Penny, completely in love with you! Your own bias, which we calculated, in favor of her particular somatotype, made it complete. We always throw in the dark sea-beach, the lunatic moon, the pallid dawn—”

  “Then she could have been made to love anyone,” Simon said slowly.

  “Could have been brought to love anyone,” Mr. Tate corrected.

  “Oh, lord, how did she get into this horrible work?” Simon asked.

  “She came in and signed a contract in the usual way,” Tate said. “It pays very well. And at the termination of the lease, we return her original personality—untouched! But why do you call the work horrible? There’s nothing reprehensible about love.”

  “It wasn’t love!” Simon cried.

  “But it was! The genuine article! Unbiased scientific firms have made qualitative tests of it, in comparison with the natural thing. In every case, our love tested out to more depth, passion, fervor, and scope.”

  Simon shut his eyes tightly, opened them and said, “Listen to me. I don’t care about your scientific tests. I love her, she loves me, that’s all that counts. Let me speak to her! I want to marry her!”

  Mr. Tate wrinkled his nose in distaste. “Come, come, man! You wouldn’t want to marry a girl like that! But if it’s marriage you’re after, we deal in that too. I can arrange an idyllic and nearly spontaneous love-match for you with a guaranteed government-inspected virgin—”

  “No! I love Penny! At least let me speak to her!”

  “That will be quite impossible,” Mr. Tate said.

  “Why?”

  Mr. Tate pushed a button on his desk. “Why do you think? We’ve wiped out the previous indoctrination. Penny is now in love with someone else.”

  And then Simon understood. He had realized that even now Penny was looking at another man with that passion he had known, feeling for another man that complete and bottomless love that unbiased scientific firms had shown to be so much greater than the old-fashioned, commercially unfeasible natural selection, and that upon that same dark sea-beach mentioned in the advertising brochure—

  He lunged for Tate’s throat. Two attendants, who had entered the office a few moments earlier, caught him and led him to the door.

  “Remember!” Tate called. “This in no way invalidates your own experience.”

  Hellishly enough, Simon knew that what Tate said was true.

  And then he found himself on the street.

  At first, all he desired was to escape from Earth, where the commercial impracticalities were more than a normal man could afford. He walked very quickly, and his Penny walked beside him, her face glorified with love for him, and him, and him, and you, and you.

  And of course he came to the shooting gallery.

  “Try your luck?” the manager asked.

  “Set ’em up,” said Alfred Simon.

  ALL THE THINGS YOU ARE

  There are regulations to govern the conduct of First Contact spaceships, rules drawn up in desperation and followed in despair, for what rule can predict the effect of any action upon the mentality of an alien people?

  Jan Maarten was gloomily pondering this as he came into the atmosphere of Durell IV. He was a big, middle-aged man with thin ash-blond hair and a round worried face. Long ago, he had concluded that almost any rule was better than none. Therefore he followed his meticulously, but with an ever-present sense of uncertainty and human fallibility.

  He circled the planet, low enough for observation, but not too low, since he didn’t want to frighten the inhabitants. He noted the signs of a primitive-pastoral civilization and tried to remember everything he had learned in Volume 4, Projected Techniques for First Contact on So-called Primitive-pastoral Worlds, published by the Department of Alien Psychology. Then he brought the ship down on a rocky, grass-covered plain, near a typical medium-sized village, but not too near, using the Silent Sam landing technique.

  “Prettily done,” commented Croswell, his assistant, who was too young to be bothered by uncertainties.

  Chedka, the Eborian linguist, said nothing. He was sleeping, as usual.

  Maarten grunted something and went to the rear of the ship to run his tests. Croswell took up his post at the viewport.

  “Here they come,” Croswell reported half an hour later. “About a dozen of them, definitely humanoidal.” Upon closer inspection, he saw that the natives of Durell were flabby, dead-white in coloration, and deadpan in expression. Croswell hesitated, then added, “They’re not too handsome.”

  “What are they doing?” Maarten asked.

  “Just looking us over,” Croswell said. He was a slender young man with an unusually large and lustrous mustache which he had grown on the long journey out from Terra. He stroked it with the pride of a man who has been able to raise a really good mustache.

  “They’re about twenty yards from the ship now,” Croswell reported. He leaned forward, flattening his nose ludicrously against the port, which was constructed of one-way glass.

  Croswell could look out, but no one could look in. The Department of Alien Psychology had ordered the change last year, after a Department ship had botched a first contact on Carella II. The Carellans had stared into the ship, become alarmed at something within, and fled. The Department still didn’t know what had alarmed them, for a second contact had never been successfully established.
<
br />   That mistake would never happen again.

  “What now?” Maarten called.

  “One of them’s coming forward alone. Chief, perhaps. Or sacrificial offering.”

  “What is he wearing?”

  “He has on a—a sort of—will you kindly come here and look for yourself?”

  Maarten, at his instrument bank, had been assembling a sketchy picture of Durell. The planet had a breathable atmosphere, an equitable climate, and gravity comparable to that of Earth. It had valuable deposits of radioactives and rare metals. Best of all, it tested free of the virulent microorganisms and poisonous vapors which tended to make a Contacter’s life feverishly short.

  Durell was going to be a valuable neighbor to Earth, provided the natives were friendly—and the Contacters skillful.

  Maarten walked to the viewport and studied the natives. “They are wearing pastel clothing. We shall wear pastel clothing.”

  “Check,” said Croswell.

  “They are unarmed. We shall go unarmed.”

  “Roger.”

  “They are wearing sandals. We shall wear sandals as well.”

  “To hear is to obey.”

  “I notice they have no facial hair,” Maarten said, with the barest hint of a smile. “I’m sorry, Ed, but that mustache—”

  “Not my mustache!” Croswell yelped, quickly putting a protective hand over it.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “But, Jan, I’ve been six months raising it!”

  “It has to go. That should be obvious.”

  “I don’t see why,” Croswell said indignantly.

  “Because first impressions are vital. When an unfavorable first impression has been made, subsequent contacts become difficult, sometimes impossible. Since we know nothing about these people, conformity is our safest course. We try to look like them, dress in colors that are pleasing, or at least acceptable to them, copy their gestures, interact within their framework of acceptance in every way—”

  “All right, all right,” Croswell said. “I suppose I can grow another on the way back.”

  They looked at each other; then both began laughing. Croswell had lost three mustaches in this manner.

  While Croswell shaved, Maarten stirred their linguist into wakefulness. Chedka was a lemur-like humanoid from Eboria IV, one of the few planets where Earth maintained successful relations. The Eborians were natural linguists, aided by the kind of associative ability found in nuisances who supply words in conversation—only the Eborians were always right. They had wandered over a considerable portion of the Galaxy in their time and might have attained quite a place in it were it not that they needed twenty hours sleep out of twenty-four.

  Croswell finished shaving and dressed in pale green coveralls and sandals. All three stepped through the degermifier. Maarten took a deep breath, uttered a silent prayer and opened the port.

  A low sigh went up from the crowd of Durellans, although the chief—or sacrifice—was silent. They were indeed humanlike, if one overlooked their pallor and the gentle sheep-like blandness of their features—features upon which Maarten could read no trace of expression.

  “Don’t use any facial contortions,” Maarten warned Croswell.

  Slowly they advanced until they were ten feet from the leading Durellan. Then Maarten said in a low voice, “We come in peace.”

  Chedka translated, then listened to the answer, which was so soft as to be almost undecipherable.

  “Chief says welcome,” Chedka reported in his economical English.

  “Good, good,” Maarten said. He took a few more steps forward and began to speak, pausing every now and then for translation. Earnestly, and with extreme conviction, he intoned Primary Speech BB-32 (for humanoid, primitive-pastoral, tentatively nonaggressive aliens).

  Even Croswell, who was impressed by very little, had to admit it was a fine speech. Maarten said they were wanderers from afar, come out of the Great Nothingness to engage in friendly discourse with the gentle people of Durell. He spoke of green and distant Earth, so like this planet, and of the fine and humble people of Earth who stretched out hands in greeting. He told of the great spirit of peace and cooperation that emanated from Earth, of universal friendship, and many other excellent things.

  Finally he was done. There was a long silence.

  “Did he understand it all?” Maarten whispered to Chedka.

  The Eborian nodded, waiting for the chiefs reply. Maarten was perspiring from the exertion and Croswell couldn’t stop nervously fingering his newly shaven upper lip.

  The chief opened his mouth, gasped, made a little half turn, and collapsed to the ground.

  It was an embarrassing moment and one uncovered by any amount of theory.

  The chief didn’t rise; apparently it was not a ceremonial fall. As a matter of fact, his breathing seemed labored, like that of a man in a coma.

  Under the circumstances, the Contact team could only retreat to their ship and await further developments.

  Half an hour later, a native approached the ship and conversed with Chedka, keeping a wary eye on the Earthmen and departing immediately.

  “What did he say?” Croswell asked.

  “Chief Moreri apologizes for fainting,” Chedka told them. “He said it was inexcusably bad manners.”

  “Ah!” Maarten exclaimed. “His fainting might help us, after all—make him eager to repair his ‘impoliteness.’ Just as long as it was a fortuitous circumstance, unrelated to us—”

  “Not,” Chedka said.

  “Not what?”

  “Not unrelated,” the Eborian said, curling up and going to sleep.

  Maarten shook the little linguist awake. “What else did the chief say? How was his fainting related to us?”

  Chedka yawned copiously. “The chief was very embarrassed. He faced the wind from your mouth as long as he could, but the alien odor—”

  “My breath?” Maarten asked. “My breath knocked him out?”

  Chedka nodded, giggled unexpectedly and went to sleep.

  Evening came, and the long dim twilight of Durell merged imperceptibly into night. In the village, cooking fires glinted through the surrounding forest and winked out one by one. But lights burned within the spaceship until dawn. And when the sun rose, Chedka slipped out of the ship on a mission into the village. Croswell brooded over his morning coffee, while Maarten rummaged through the ship’s medicine chest.

  “It’s purely a temporary setback,” Croswell was saying hopefully. “Little things like this are bound to happen. Remember that time on Dingoforeaba VI—”

  “It’s little things that close planets forever,” Maarten said.

  “But how could anyone possibly guess—”

  “I should have foreseen it,” Maarten growled angrily. “Just because our breath hasn’t been offensive anywhere else—here it is!”

  Triumphantly he held up a bottle of pink tablets. “Absolutely guaranteed to neutralize any breath, even that of a hyena. Have a couple.”

  Croswell accepted the pills. “Now what?”

  “Now we wait until—aha! What did he say?”

  Chedka slipped through the entry port, rubbing his eyes. “The chief apologizes for fainting.”

  “We know that. What else?”

  “He welcomes you to the village of Lannit at your convenience. The chief feels that this incident shouldn’t alter the course of friendship between two peace-loving, courteous peoples.”

  Maarten sighed with relief. He cleared his throat and asked hesitantly, “Did you mention to him about the forthcoming ah—improvement in our breaths?”

  “I assured him it would be corrected,” Chedka said, “although it never bothered me.”

  “Fine, fine. We will leave for the village now. Perhaps you should take one of these pills?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with my breath,” the Eborian said complacently.

  They set out at once for the village of Lannit.

  When one deals with a primitive-pas
toral people, one looks for simple but highly symbolic gestures, since that is what they understand best. Imagery! Clear-cut and decisive parallels! Few words but many gestures! Those were the rules in dealing with primitive-pastorals.

  As Maarten approached the village, a natural and highly symbolic ceremony presented itself. The natives were waiting in their village, which was in a clearing in the forest. Separating forest from village was a dry stream bed, and across that bed was a small stone bridge.

  Maarten advanced to the center of the bridge and stopped, beaming benignly on the Durellans. When he saw several of them shudder and turn away, he smoothed out his features, remembering his own injunction on facial contortions. He paused for a long moment.

  “What’s up?” Croswell asked, stopping in front of the bridge.

  In a loud voice, Maarten cried, “Let this bridge symbolize the link, now eternally forged, that joins this beautiful planet with—” Croswell called out a warning, but Maarten didn’t know what was wrong. He stared at the villagers; they had made no movement.

  “Get off the bridge!” Croswell shouted. But before Maarten could move, the entire structure had collapsed under him and he fell bone-shakingly into the dry stream.

  “Damnedest thing I ever saw,” Croswell said, helping him to his feet. “As soon as you raised your voice, the stone began to pulverize. Sympathetic vibration, I imagine.”

  Now Maarten understood why the Durellans spoke in whispers. He struggled to his feet, then groaned and sat down again.

  “What’s wrong?” Croswell asked.

  “I seem to have wrenched my ankle,” Maarten said miserably.

  Chief Moreri came up, followed by twenty or so villagers, made a short speech and presented Maarten with a walking stick of carved and polished black wood.

  “Thanks,” Maarten muttered, standing up and leaning gingerly on the cane. “What did he say?” he asked Chedka.

  “The chief said that the bridge was only a hundred years old and in good repair,” Chedka translated. “He apologizes that his ancestors didn’t build it better.”

  “Hmm,” Maarten said.

  “And the chief says that you are probably an unlucky man.”