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 Citizen’s 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.
Then, tentatively, the man smiled.
“Well!” Goodman said. It was feeble enough, under the circumstances, but it had its effect. Janna started to cry.
“Terribly sorry,” the man murmured. “Didn’t expect you home for hours. This must come as a shock to you. I’m terribly sorry.”
The one thing Goodman hadn’t expected or wanted was sympathy from his wife’s lover. He ignored the man and stared at the weeping Janna.
“Well, what did you expect?” Janna screamed at him suddenly. “I had to! You didn’t love me!”
“Didn’t love you! How can you say that?”
“Because of the way you treated me.”
“I loved you very much, Janna,” he said softly.
“You didn’t!” she shrilled, throwing back her head. “Just look at the way you treated me. You kept me around all day, every day, doing housework, cooking, sitting. Marvin, I could feel myself aging. Day after day, the same weary, stupid routine. And most of the time, when you came home, you were too tired to even notice me. All you could talk about was your stupid robots! I was being wasted, Marvin, wasted!”
It suddenly occurred to Goodman that his wife was unhinged. Very gently he said, “But, Janna, that’s how life is. A husband and wife settle into a companionable situation. They age together side by side. It can’t all be high spots—”
“But of course it can! Try to understand, Marvin. It can, on Tranai—for a woman!”
“It’s impossible,” Goodman said.
“On Tranai, a woman expects a life of enjoyment and pleasure. It’s her right, just as men have their rights. She expects to come out of stasis and find a little party prepared, or a walk in the moonlight, or a swim, or a movie.” She began to cry again. “But you were so smart. You had to change it. I should have known better than to trust a Terran.”
The other man sighed and lighted a cigarette.
“I know you can’t help being an alien, Marvin,” Janna said. “But I do want you to understand. Love isn’t everything. A woman must be practical, too. The way things were going, I would have been an old woman while all my friends were still young.”
“Still young?” Goodman repeated blankly.
“Of course,” the man said. “A woman doesn’t age in the derrsin field.”
“But the whole thing is ghastly,” said Goodman. “My wife would still be a young woman when I was old.”
“That’s just when you’d appreciate a young woman,” Janna said.
“But how about you?” Goodman asked. “Would you appreciate an old man?”
“He still doesn’t understand,” the man said.
“Marvin, try. Isn’t it clear yet? Throughout your life, you would have a young and beautiful woman whose only desire would be to please you. And when you died—don’t look shocked, dear; everybody dies—when you died, I would still be young, and by law I’d inherit all your money.”
“I’m beginning to see,” Goodman said. “I suppose that’s another accepted phase of Tranaian life—the wealthy young widow who can pursue her own pleasures.”
“Naturally. In this way, everything is for the best for everybody. The man has a young wife whom he sees only when he wishes. He has his complete freedom and a nice home as well. The woman is relieved of all the dullness of ordinary living and, while she can still enjoy it, is well provided for.”
“You should have told me,” Goodman complained.
“I thought you knew,” Janna said, “since you thought you had a better way. But I
can see that you would never have understood, because you’re so naive—though I must admit it’s one of your charms.” She smiled wistfully. “Besides, if I told you, I would never have met Rondo.”
The man bowed slightly. “I was leaving samples of Greah’s Confections. You can imagine my surprise when I found this lovely young woman out of stasis. I mean it was like a storybook tale come true. One never expects old legends to happen, so you must admit that there’s a certain appeal when they do.”
“Do you love him?” Goodman asked heavily.
“Yes,” said Janna. “Rondo cares for me. He’s going to keep me in stasis long enough to make up for the time I’ve lost It’s a sacrifice on his part, but Rondo has a generous nature.”
“If that’s how it is,” Goodman said glumly. “I certainly won’t stand in your way. I am a civilized being, after all. You may have a divorce.”
He folded his arms across his chest, feeling quite noble. But he was dimly aware that his decision stemmed not so much from nobility as from a sudden, violent distaste for all things Tranaian.
“We have no divorce on Tranai,” Rondo said.
“No?” Goodman felt a cold chill run down his spine.
A blaster appeared in Rondo’s hand. “It would be too unsettling, you know, if people were always swapping around. There’s only one way to change a marital status.”
“But this is revolting!” Goodman blurted, backing away. “It’s against all decency!”
“Not if the wife desires it And that, by the by, is another excellent reason for keeping one’s spouse in stasis. Have I your permission, my dear?”
“Forgive me, Marvin,” Janna said. She closed her eyes. “Yes!”
Rondo leveled the blaster. Without a moment’s hesitation, Goodman dived headfirst out the nearest window. Rondo’s shot fanned right over him.
“See here!” Rondo called. “Show some spirit, man. Stand up to it!”
Goodman had landed heavily on his shoulder. He was up at once, sprinting, and Rondo’s second shot scorched his arm. Then he ducked behind a house and was momentarily safe. He didn’t stop to think about it. Running for all he was worth, he headed for the spaceport.
Fortunately, a ship was preparing for blastoff and took him to g’Moree. From there he wired to Tranai for his funds and bought passage to Higastomeritreia, where the authorities accused him of being a Ding spy. The charge couldn’t stick, since the Dingans were an amphibious race, and Goodman almost drowned proving to everyone’s satisfaction that he could breathe only air.
A drone transport took him to the double planet Mvanti, past Seves, Olgo and Mi. He hired a bush pilot to take him to Bellismo-ranti, where the influence of Terra began. From there, a local spaceline transported him past the Galactic Whirl and, after stopping at Oyster, Lekung, Pankang, Inchang and Machang, arrived at Tung-Bradar IV.
His money was now gone, but he was practically next door to Terra, as astronomical distances go. He was able to work his passage to Oume, and from Oume to Legis II. There the Interstellar Travelers Aid Society arranged a berth for him and at last he arrived back on Earth.
Goodman has settled down in Seakirk, New Jersey, where a man is perfectly safe as long as he pays his taxes. He holds the post of Chief Robotic Technician for the Seakirk Construction Corporation and has married a small, dark, quiet girl, who obviously adores him, although he rarely lets her out of the house.
He and old Captain Savage go frequently to Eddie’s Moonlight Bar, drink Tranai Specials, and talk of Tranai the Blessed, where The Way has been found and Man is no longer bound to The Wheel. On such occasions, Goodman complains of a touch of space malaria—because of it, he can never go back into space, can never return to Tranai.
There is always an admiring audience on these nights.
Goodman has recently organized, with Captain Savage’s help, the Seakirk League to Take the Vote from Women. They are its only members, but as Goodman puts it, when did that ever stop a crusader?
The Battle
Supreme General Fetterer barked “At ease!” as he hurried into the command room. Obediently, his three generals stood at ease.
“We haven’t much time,” Fetterer said, glancing at his watch. “We’ll go over the plan of battle again.”
He walked to the wall and unrolled a gigantic map of the Sahara desert.
“According to our best theological information, Satan is going to present his forces at these coordinates.” He indicated the place with a blunt forefinger. “In the front rank there will be the devils, demons, succubi, incubi, and the rest of the ratings. Bael will command the right flank, Buer the left. His Satanic Majesty will hold the center.”
“Rather medieval,” General Dell murmured.
General Fetterer’s aide came in, his face shining and happy with thought of the Coming.
“Sir,” he said, “the priest is outside again.”
“Stand at attention, soldier,” Fetterer said sternly. “There’s still a battle to be fought and won.”
“Yes sir,” the aide said, and stood rigidly, some of the joy fading from his face.
“The priest, eh?” Supreme General Fetterer rubbed his fingers together thoughtfully. Ever since the Coming, since the knowledge of the imminent Last Battle, the religious workers of the world had made a complete nuisance of themselves. They had stopped their bickering, which was commendable. But now they were trying to run military business.
“Send him away,” Fetterer said. “He knows we’re planning Armageddon.”
“Yes sir,” the aide said. He saluted sharply, wheeled, and marched out
“To go on,” Supreme General Fetterer said, “behind Satan’s first line of defense will be the resurrected sinners, and various elemental forces of evil. The fallen angels will act as his bomber corps. Dell’s robot interceptors will meet them.”
General Dell smiled grimly.
“Upon contact, MacFee’s automatic tank corps will proceed toward the center of the line. MacFee’s automatic tank corps will proceed toward the center,” Fetterer went on, “supported by General Ongin’s robot infantry. Dell will command the H bombing of the rear, which should be tighdy massed. I will thrust with the mechanized cavalry, here and here.”
The aide came back, and stood rigidly at attention. “Sir,” he said, “the priest refuses to go. He says he must speak with you.”
Supreme General Fetterer hesitated before saying no. He remembered that this was the Last Battle, and that the religious workers were connected with it He decided to give the man five minutes.
“Show him in,” he said.
The priest wore a plain business suit, to show that he represented no particular religion. His face was tired but determined.
“General,” he said, “I am a representative of all the religious workers of the world, the priests, rabbis, ministers, mullahs, and all the rest. We beg of you, General, to let us fight in the Lord’s battle.”
Supreme General Fetterer drummed his fingers nervously against his side. He wanted to stay on friendly terms with these men. Even he, the Supreme Commander, might need a good word, when all was said and done….
“You can understand my position,” Fetterer said unhappily. “I’m a general. I have a battle to fight.”
“But it’s the Last Battle,” the priest said. “It should be the people’s battle.”
“It is,” Fetterer said. “It’s being fought by their representatives, the military.”
The priest didn’t look at all convinced.
Fetterer said, “You wouldn’t want to lose this battle, would you? Have Satan win?”
“Of course not,” the priest murmured.
“Then we can’t take any chances,” Fetterer said. “All the governments agreed on that, didn’t they? Oh, it would be very nice to fight Armageddon with the mass of humanity. Symbolic, you might say. But could we be certain of victory?”
The priest tried to say something, but Fetterer was talking rapidly.
“How do
we know the strength of Satan’s forces? We simply must put forth our best foot, militarily speaking. And that means the automatic armies, the robot interceptors and tanks, the H bombs.”
The priest looked very unhappy. “But it isn’t right,” he said. “Certainly you can find some place in your plan for people?”
Fetterer thought about it, but the request was impossible. The plan of battle was fully developed, beautiful, irresistible. Any introduction of a gross human element would only throw it out of order. No living flesh could stand the noise of that mechanical attack, the energy potentials humming in the air, the all-enveloping fire power. A human being who came within a hundred miles of the front would not live to see the enemy.
“I’m afraid not,” Fetterer said.
“There are some,” the priest said sternly, “who feel that it was an error to put this in the hands of the military.”
“Sorry,” Fetterer said cheerfully. “That’s defeatist talk. If you don’t mind—” He gestured at the door. Wearily, the priest left.
“These civilians,” Fetterer mused. “Well, gentlemen, are your troops ready?”
“We’re ready to fight for Him,” General MacFee said enthusiastically. “I can vouch for every automatic in my command. Their metal is shining, all relays have been renewed, and the energy reservoirs are fully charged. Sir, they’re positively itching for battle!”
General Ongin snapped fully out of his daze. “The ground troops are ready, sir!”
“Air arm ready,” General Dell said.
“Excellent,” General Fetterer said. “All other arrangements have been made. Television facilities are available for the total population of the world. No one, rich or poor, will miss the spectacle of the Last Battle.”
“And after the battle—” General Ongin began, and stopped. He looked at Fetterer.
Fetterer frowned deeply. He didn’t know what was supposed to happen after The Battle. That part of it was presumably, in the hands of the religious agencies.
“I suppose there’ll be a presentation or something,” he said vaguely.
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