The body, former possession of Alistair Crompton, tenanted for a time by Edgar Loomis, Dan Stack and Barton Finch, stood up. It realized it would have to find a new name for itself.
TRIPLICATION
Oaxe II was a small, dusty, backward planet out near Orion. Its people were of Earth stock, and still adhered to Earth customs. Judge Abner Low was the sole source of justice upon the little planet. Most of his cases involved property lines and the ownership of pigs and geese, for the citizens of Oaxe II had little flair for crime.
But one day a spaceship landed containing the notorious Timothy Mont and his lawyer, who had come to Oaxe II for sanctuary and justice. And another spaceship came, containing three policemen and a Public Prosecutor.
The Public Prosecutor stated, “Your Honor, this fiend has perpetrated a heinous crime. Timothy Mont, Your Honor, burned down an orphanage! Furthermore, he pleaded guilty before he fled. I have his signed confession.”
Mont’s lawyer, a pallid man with cold fish eyes, rose. “I request that you put aside sentence.”
“I’ll do no such thing,” Judge Low said. “Burning an orphanage is a horrible crime.”
“It is,” the lawyer agreed, “in most places. But my client committed his act upon the planet Altira III. Is your Honor conversant with the customs of that planet?”
“No,” said the judge.
“On Altira III,” the lawyer said, “all orphans are trained in the art of assassination, for the purpose of reducing the population of neighboring planets. By burning the orphanage, my client saved thousands, perhaps millions of innocent lives. Therefore he must be considered a hero of the people.”
“Is this true about Altira III?” the judge asked the court clerk.
The clerk looked up the facts in the Encyclopedia of Planetary Customs and Folklore, and found that it was indeed true.
Judge Low said, “Then I dismiss this case.”
Mont and his lawyer left, and life droned peacefully on, on Oaxe II, disturbed only by an occasional lawsuit involving property lines, or the ownership of pigs and geese. But within a year Timothy Mont and his lawyer were back in court, with the Public Prosecutor following close behind them.
The charge again concerned the burning of an orphanage.
“However,” the pale lawyer pointed out, “guilty though my client is, the court must remember that the orphanage in question was on the planet Deegra IV. As is well known, all orphans on Deegra IV are adopted into the torturer’s guild, for the performance of certain abominable rites abhorred in all the civilized galaxy.”
Finding this to be true, Judge Low again dismissed the case.
In fifteen months, Timothy Mont and his lawyer were again in court, to stand trial on the same charge.
“Dear, dear,” Judge Low said. “A reformer’s zeal…Where did the crime take place?”
“On Earth,” stated the Public Prosecutor.
“On Earth?” said the judge.
“I fear it is true,” the lawyer said sadly. “My client is guilty.”
“But what possible reason did he have this time?”
“Temporary insanity,” the lawyer said promptly. “And I have 12 psychiatrists to prove it, and request a suspended sentence as provided under law for such circumstances.”
The judge turned purple with wrath. “Timothy Mont, why did you do this?”
Before his lawyer could silence him, Mont stood up and said, “Because I like to burn orphanages!”
That day Judge Low passed a new law, one which has been noted throughout the civilized galaxy, and studied in such diversified places as Droma I and Aos X. Low’s Law states that the defendant’s lawyer shall serve concurrently whatever sentence is imposed upon his client.
Many consider this unfair. But the incidence of lawyers on Oaxe II has diminished remarkably.
Edmond Dritche, a tall, sallow, misanthropic scientist, had been brought to trial by the General Products Corporation for Downbeatedness, Group Disloyalty and Negativism. These were serious charges, and they were substantiated by Dritche’s colleagues. The magistrate had no choice but to discharge Dritche dishonorably. The usual jail sentence was waived in recognition of his 19 years of excellent work for General Products; but no other corporation would ever hire him.
Dritche, sallower and more misanthropic than ever, turned his back on General Products and its endless stream of automobiles, toasters, refrigerators, TV sets, and the like. He retired to his Pennsylvania farm and experimented in his basement laboratory.
He was sick of General Products and all it stood for, which was practically everything. He wanted to found a colony of people who thought as he did, felt as he did, looked like he did. His colony would be a utopia, and to hell with the rest of the cheerful, gadget-ridden world.
There was only one way to achieve this. Dritche and his wife Anna toiled night and day toward the great goal.
At last he met with success. He adjusted the unwieldy device he had built and turned the switch.
From the device stepped an exact Duplicate of Edmond Dritche.
Dritche had invented the world’s first Duplicator.
He produced five hundred Dritches, then held a policy meeting. The five hundred pointed out that, for a successful colony, they needed wives.
Dritche 1 considered his own Anna a perfect mate. The five hundred Duplicates agreed, of course. So Dritche produced five hundred exact copies of her for the five hundred prototype Dritches, and the colony was founded.
Contrary to popular prediction, the Dritche colony did well at first. The Dritches enjoyed each other’s company, never quarrelled, and never wished for visitors. They comprised a satisfied little world in themselves. India sent a delegation to study their method, and Denmark wrote laws to ensure Duplication rights.
But, as in all other utopian attempts, the seeds of disaster were present in simple human frailty. First, Dritche 49 was caught in a compromising position with Mrs. Dritche 5. Then Dritche 37 fell suddenly and passionately in love with Anna 142. This in turn led to the uncovering of the secret love nest built by Dritche 10 for Anna 498, with the connivance of Anna 3.
In vain Dritche 1 pointed out that all were equal and identical. The erring couples told him he knew nothing about love, and refused to give up their new arrangements.
The colony might still have survived. But then it was found that Dritche 77 was maintaining a harem of eight Dritche women, Annas 12, 13, 77, 187, 303, 336, 489 and 500. These women declared him absolutely unique, and refused to leave him.
The end was in sight. It was hastened when Dritche l’s wife ran away with a reporter.
The colony disbanded, and Dritches 1, 19, 32 and 433 died of broken hearts.
It was probably just as well. Certainly the original Dritche could never have stood the shock of seeing his utopian Duplicator used to turn out endless streams of General Products automobiles, toasters, refrigerators, and the like.
Professor Bolton, the noted philosopher, left Earth to deliver a series of lectures at Mars University. He took his trusted robot valet Akka, a change of underwear, and eight pounds of notes. Aside from the crew, he was the only human passenger.
Somewhere near the Point of No Return, the ship sent out an emergency message: STARBOARD JETS BLOWING SHIP OUT OF CONTROL.
The citizens of Earth and Mars waited anxiously. Another message came: ENTIRE CREW KILLED BY FLASHBACK SHIP CRASHING IN ASTEROID BELT HELP BOLTON.
Rescue ships swept toward the area between Mars and Jupiter where the asteroids are strewn. They had a hazy fix from Bolton’s last message-, but the area to be searched was tremendous, and the chance of rescue was very small.
Three days later, this message was received: CANNOT SURVIVE MUCH LONGER ON ASTEROID I FACE DEATH WITH SERENE DIGNITY BOLTON.
Newspapers spoke of the indomitable spirit of this man, a modern-day Robinson Crusoe, struggling for life on an airless, foodless, waterless world, his supplies running low, ready—as he had taught in his books and l
ectures—to meet death with serene dignity.
The search was intensified.
The last message read: ALL SUPPLIES GONE SMILING DEATH AWAITS ME BOLTON.
Homing in on his final signal, a patrol boat located the asteroid and landed beside the gutted ship. They found the charred remains of the crew. And they found ample supplies of food, water and oxygen. But strangely, there was no sign of Bolton.
In the very rear of the ship they found Bolton’s robot.
“The professor is dead,” the robot said through rusted jaws. “I sent the last messages in his name, knowing you wouldn’t come just for me.”
“But how did he die?”
“With the greatest regret I killed him,” the robot said grimly. “I can assure you that his death was painless.”
“But why did you kill him? And where is his body?”
The robot tried to speak, but his corroded jaws refused to function. A squirt of oil brought him around.
“Lubrication,” Akka said, “is a robot’s greatest problem. Gentlemen, have you ever considered the problem of rendering a human body into its essential fats and oils without adequate equipment?”
The rescuers considered it with mounting horror, and the story was suppressed. But it was heard by the patrol ship’s robot, who pondered it and passed it on to another robot, and then another.
Only now, since the triumphant revolt of the robot forces, can this inspiring saga of a robot’s fight against space be openly told. Hail, Akka, our liberator!
THE MINIMUM MAN
Everybody has his song, thought Anton Perceveral. A pretty girl is like a melody, and a brave spaceman like a flurry of trumpets. Wise old men on the Interplanetary Council make one think of richly blended woodwinds. There are geniuses whose lives are an intricate counterpoint endlessly embellished, and scum of the planets whose existence seems nothing more than the wail of an oboe against the inexorable pounding of a brass drum.
Perceveral thought about this, loosely gripping a razor blade and contemplating the faint blue lines in his wrist.
For if everybody has his song, his would be likened to a poorly conceived and miserably executed symphony of errors.
There had been muted horns of gladness at his birth. Bravely, to the sound of muffled drums, young Perceveral had ventured into school. He had excelled and been promoted to a small workshop class of five hundred pupils, where he could receive a measure of individual attention. The future had looked promising.
But he was congenitally unlucky. There was a constant series of small accidents which overturned inkwells, lost books and misplaced papers. Things had a damnable propensity for breaking under his fingers; or sometimes his fingers broke under things. To make matters worse, he caught every possible childhood disease, including proto-Measles, Algerian Mumps, Impetigo, Foxpox, Green Fever and Orange Fever.
These things in no way reflected upon Perceveral’s native ability; but one needs more than ability in a crowded and competitive world. One needs considerable luck, and Perceveral had none. He was transferred to an ordinary class of ten thousand students, where his problems were intensified and his opportunities for catching disease expanded.
He was a tall, thin, bespectacled, good-hearted, hard-working young man whom the doctors early diagnosed as accident-prone, for reasons which defied their analysis. But whatever the reasons, the facts remained. Perceveral was one of those unhappy people for whom life is difficult to the point of impossibility.
Most people slip through the jungle of human existence with the facility of prowling panthers. But, for the Perceverals, the jungle is continually beset with traps, snares and devices, sudden precipices and unfordable streams, deadly fungus and deadlier beasts. No way is safe. All roads lead to disaster.
Young Perceveral won his way through college in spite of his remarkable talent for breaking his leg on winding staircases, twisting his ankle on curbstones, fracturing his elbow in revolving doors, smashing his glasses against plate-glass windows, and all the rest of the sad, ludicrous, painful events which beset the accident-prone. Manfully he resisted the solace of hypochondria and kept trying.
Upon graduation from college, Perceveral took himself firmly in hand and tried to reassert the early clear theme of hope set by his stalwart father and gentle mother. With a ruffle of drums and a thrilling of chords, Perceveral entered the island of Manhattan, to forge his destiny. He worked hard to conquer his unhappy predisposition, and to stay cheerful and optimistic in spite of everything.
But his predisposition caught up with him. The noble chords dissolved into vague mutterings, and the symphony of his life degenerated to the level of opera-bouffe. Perceveral lost job after job in a snarl of broken voxwriters and smeared contracts, forgotten file cards and misplaced data sheets; in a mounting crescendo of ribs wrenched in the subway rush, ankles sprained on gratings, glasses smashed against unseen projections, and in a bout of illnesses which included Hepatitis Type J, Martian Flu, Venusian Flu, Waking Sickness and Giggling Fever.
Perceveral still resisted the lure of hypochondria. He dreamed of space, of the iron-jawed adventurers advancing Man’s frontier, of the new settlements on distant planets, of vast expanses of open land where, far from the hectic plastic jungles of Earth, a man could really find himself. He applied to the Planetary Exploration & Settlement Board, and was turned down. Reluctantly he pushed the dream aside and tried a variety of jobs. He underwent Analysis, Hypnotic Suggestion, Hypnotic Hypersuggestion and Countersuggestion Removal—all to no avail.
Every man has his limits and every symphony has its end. Perceveral gave up hope at the age of thirty-four when he was fired, after three days, from a job he had sought for two months. That, as far as he was concerned, provided the final humorous off-key cymbal clash to something which probably shouldn’t have been started in the first place.
Grimly he took his meager paycheck, accepted a last wary handshake from his former employer, and rode the elevator to the lobby. Already vague thoughts of suicide were crossing his mind in the form of truck wheels, gas pipes, tall buildings and swift rivers.
The elevator reached the great marble lobby with its uniformed riot policemen and its crowds waiting admittance to the midtown streets. Perceveral waited in line, idly watching the Population Density Meter fluctuate below the panic line, until his turn came. Outside, he joined a compact body of people moving westward in the direction of his housing project.
Suicidal thoughts continued to flow through his mind, more slowly now, taking more definite forms. He considered methods and means until he reached home. There he disengaged himself from the crowd and slipped in through an entry port.
He struggled against a flood of children pouring through corridors, and reached his city-provided cubicle. He entered, closed and locked the door, and took a razor blade from his shaving kit. He lay down on the bed, propping his feet against the opposite wall, and contemplated the faint blue lines of his wrist.
Could he do it? Could he do it cleanly and quickly, without error and without regret? Or would he bungle this job, too, and be dragged screaming to a hospital, a ludicrous sight for the interns to snicker about’
As he was thinking, a yellow envelope was slipped under his door. It was a telegram, arriving pat on the hour of decision, with a melodramatic suddenness which Perceveral considered quite suspect. Still, he put down the razor blade and picked up the envelope.
It was from the Planetary Exploration & Settlement Board, the great organization that controlled every Earthman’s movements in space. With trembling fingers, Perceveral opened the envelope and read:
Mr. Anton Perceveral
Temporary Housing Project 1993
District 43825, Manhattan 212, N.Y.
Dear Mr. Perceveral:
Three years ago you applied to us for a position in any off-Earth capacity. Regretfully we had to turn you down at that time. Your records have been kept on file, however, and have recently been brought up to date. I am happy to inform you that
a position is immediately available for you, one which I consider well suited to your particular talents and qualifications. I believe this job will meet with your approval, carrying, as it does, a salary of $20,000 a year, all government fringe benefits, and an unexcelled opportunity for advancement.
Could you come in and discuss it with me?
Sincerely,
William Haskell
Asst. Placement Director WH/ibm3dc
Perceveral folded the telegram carefully and put it back in its envelope. His first feeling of intense joy vanished, to be replaced by a sense of apprehension.
What talents and qualifications did he have for a job commanding twenty thousand a year and benefits? Could they be confusing him with a different Anton Perceveral?
It seemed unlikely. The Board just wouldn’t do that sort of thing. And presuming that they knew him and his ill-starred past—what could they possibly want from him? What could he do that practically any man, woman, or child couldn’t do better?
Perceveral put the telegram in his pocket and replaced the razor blade in his shaving kit. Suicide seemed a little premature now. First he would find out what Haskell wanted.
At the headquarters of the Planetary Exploration & Settlement Board, Perceveral was admitted at once to William Haskell’s private office. The Assistant Placement Director was a large, blunt-featured, white-haired man who radiated a geniality which Perceveral found suspicious.
“Sit down, sit down, Mr. Perceveral,” Haskell said. “Cigarette? Care for a drink? Awfully glad you could make it.”
“Are you sure you have the right man?” Perceveral asked.
Haskell glanced through a dossier on his desk. “Let’s see. Anton Perceveral; age thirty-four; parents, Gregory James Perceveral and Anita Swaans Perceveral, Laketown, New Jersey. Is that right?”
“Yes,” Perceveral said. “And you have a job for me?”
“We have indeed.”
“Paying twenty thousand a year and benefits?”
“Perfectly correct.”
“Could you tell me what the job is?”
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