This World Is Taboo

by Murray Leinster

  Produced by Greg Weeks, Sankar Viswanathan, and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

  Transcriber's note: Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the copyright on this publication was renewed.

  THIS WORLD IS TABOO

  by MURRAY LEINSTER

  ACE BOOKS, INC. 23 West 47th Street, New York 36, N. Y.

  * * * * *

  THIS WORLD IS TABOO

  1

  The little Med Ship came out of overdrive and the stars were strangeand the Milky Way seemed unfamiliar. Which, of course, was because theMilky Way and the local Cepheid marker-stars were seen from anunaccustomed angle and a not-yet-commonplace pattern of varyingmagnitudes.

  But Calhoun grunted in satisfaction. There was a banded sun off toport, which was good. A breakout at no more than sixty light-hoursfrom one's destination wasn't bad, in a strange sector of the galaxyand after three light-years of journeying blind.

  "Arise and shine, Murgatroyd," said Calhoun. "Comb your whiskers. Getset to astonish the natives!"

  A sleepy, small, shrill voice said: "_Chee!_"

  Murgatroyd the _tormal_ came crawling out of the small cubbyhole whichwas his own. He blinked at Calhoun.

  "We're due to land shortly," Calhoun observed. "You will impress thelocal inhabitants. I will get unpopular. According to the records,there's been no Med Ship inspection here for twelve standard years.And that was practically no inspection, to judge by the report."

  Murgatroyd said: "_Chee-chee!_"

  He began to make his toilet, first licking his right-hand whiskers andthen his left. Then he stood up and shook himself and lookedinterestedly at Calhoun. _Tormals_ are companionable small animals.They are charmed when somebody speaks to them. They find great, deepsatisfaction in imitating the actions of humans, as parrots andmynahs and parakeets imitate human speech. But _tormals_ have certainvaluable, genetically transmitted talents which make them much morevaluable than mere companions or pets.

  Calhoun got a light-reading for the banded sun. It could hardly be anaccurate measure of distance, but it was a guide.

  "Hold on to something, Murgatroyd!" he said.

  Murgatroyd watched. He saw Calhoun make certain gestures whichpresaged discomfort. He popped back into his cubbyhole. Calhoun threwthe overdrive switch and the Med Ship flicked back into thatquestionable state of being in which velocities of hundreds of timesthat of light are possible. The sensation of going into overdrive wasunpleasant. A moment later, the sensation of coming out was no lessso. Calhoun had experienced it often enough, and still didn't like it.

  The sun Weald burned huge and terrible in space. It was close, now.Its disk covered half a degree of arc.

  "Very neat," observed Calhoun. "Weald Three is our port, Murgatroyd.The plane of the ecliptic would be ... Hm...."

  He swung the outside electron telescope, picked up a nearby brightobject, enlarged its image to show details, and checked it against thelocal star-pilot. He calculated a moment. The distance was too shortfor even the briefest of overdrive hops, but it would take time to getthere on solar-system drive.

  He thumbed down the communicator button and spoke into a microphone.

  "Med Ship _Aesclipus Twenty_ reporting arrival and asking coordinatesfor landing," he said matter-of-factly. "Purpose of landing isplanetary health inspection. Our mass is fifty tons, standard. Weshould arrive at a landing position in something under four hours.Repeat. Med Ship _Aesclipus Twenty_...."

  He finished the regular second transmission and made coffee forhimself while he waited for an answer. Murgatroyd came out for a cupof coffee for himself. Murgatroyd adored coffee. In minutes he held atiny cup in a furry small paw and sipped gingerly at the hot liquid.

  A voice came out of the communicator:

  "_Aesclipus Twenty_, repeat your identification."

  Calhoun went to the control board.

  "_Aesclipus Twenty_," he said patiently, "is a Med Ship, sent by theInterstellar Medical Service to make a planetary health inspection onWeald. Check with your public health authorities. This is the firstMed Ship visit in twelve standard years, I believe--which isinexcusable. But your health authorities will know all about it. Checkwith them."

  The voice said truculently:

  "What was your last port?"

  Calhoun named it. This was not his home sector, but Sector Twelve hadgotten into a very bad situation. Some of its planets had goneunvisited for as long as twenty years, and twelve between inspectionswas almost commonplace. Other sectors had been called on to help itcatch up.

  Calhoun was one of the loaned Med Ship men, and because of theemergency he'd been given a list of half a dozen planets to beinspected one after another, instead of reporting back to sectorheadquarters after each visit. He'd had minor troubles before withlanding-grid operators in Sector Twelve.

  So he was very patient. He named the planet last inspected, the onefrom which he'd set out for Weald Three. The voice from thecommunicator said sharply:

  "What port before that?"

  Calhoun named the one before the last.

  "Don't drive any closer," said the voice harshly, "or you'll bedestroyed!"

  Calhoun said coldly, "Listen, my fine feathered friend! I'm from theInterstellar Medical Service. You get in touch with planetary healthservices immediately! Remind them of the Interstellar MedicalInspection Agreement, signed on Tralee two hundred and forty standardyears ago. Remind them that if they do not cooperate in medicalinspection that I can put your planet under quarantine and your spacecommerce will be cut off like that!

  "No ship will be cleared for Weald from any other planet in the galaxyuntil there has been a health inspection! Things have pretty well goneto pot so far as the Med Service in this sector is concerned, but it'sbeing straightened up. I'm helping straighten it! I give you twentyminutes to clear this! Then I am coming in, and if I'm not landed aquarantine goes on! Tell your health authorities that!"

  Silence. Calhoun clicked off and poured himself another cup of coffee.Murgatroyd held out his cup for a refill. Calhoun gave it to him.

  "I hate to put on an official hat, Murgatroyd," he said, annoyed, "butthere are some people who demand it. The rule is, never get officialif you can help it, but when you must, out-official the official who'sofficialing you."

  Murgatroyd said "_Chee!_" and sipped at his cup.

  Calhoun checked the course of the Med Ship. It bore on through space.There were tiny noises from the communicator. There were whisperingsand rustlings and the occasional strange and sometimes beautifulmusical notes whose origin is yet obscure, but which, since they arecarried by electromagnetic radiation of wildly varying wave lengths,are not likely to be the fabled music of the spheres.

  In fifteen minutes a different voice came from the speaker.

  "Med Ship _Aesclipus_! Med Ship _Aesclipus_!"

  Calhoun answered and the voice said anxiously:

  "Sorry about the challenge, but we have the blueskin problem alwayswith us. We have to be extremely careful! Will you come in, please?"

  "I'm on my way," said Calhoun.

  "The planetary health authorities," said the voice, more anxiouslystill, "are very anxious to be cooperative. We need Med Service help!We lose a lot of sleep over the blueskin! Could you tell us the nameof the last Med Ship to land here, and its inspector, and when thatinspection was made? We want to look up the record of the event to beable to assist you in every possible way."

  "He's lying," Calhoun told Murgatroyd, "but he's more scared thanhostile."
<
br />   He picked up the order folio on Weald Three. He gave the informationabout the last Med Ship visit.

  "What?" he asked, "is a blueskin?"

  He'd read the folio on Weald, of course, but as the ship swam onwardthrough emptiness he went through it again. The last medicalinspection had been only perfunctory. Twelve years earlier--instead ofthree--a Med Ship had landed on Weald. There had been officialconferences with health officials. There was a report on the birthrate, the death rate, the anomaly rate, and a breakdown of allreported communicable diseases. But that was all. There were nospecial comments and no overall picture.

  Presently Calhoun found the word in a Sector dictionary, where wordsof only local usage were to be found:

  "_Blueskin: Colloquial term for a person recovered from a plague which left large patches of blue pigment irregularly distributed over the body. Especially, inhabitants of Dara. The condition is said to be caused by a chronic, nonfatal form of Dara plague and has been said to be noninfectious, though this is not certain. The etiology of Dara plague has not been worked out. The blueskin condition is hereditary but not a genetic modification, as markings appear in non-Mendelian distributions_."

  Calhoun puzzled over it. Nobody could have read the entire Sectordirectory, even with unlimited leisure during travel between solarsystems. Calhoun hadn't tried. But now he went laboriously throughindices and cross-references while the ship continued to travelonward.

  He found no other reference to blueskins. He looked up Dara. It waslisted as an inhabited planet, some four hundred years colonized, witha landing-grid and, at the time the main notice was written out, aflourishing interstellar commerce. But there was a memo, evidentlyadded to the entry in some change of editions: "_Since plague, speciallicense from Med Service is required for landing._"

  That was all. Absolutely all.

  The communicator said suavely:

  "Med Ship _Aesclipus Twenty_! Come in on vision, please!"

  Calhoun went to the control board and threw on vision.

  "Well, what now?" he demanded.

  His screen lighted. A bland face looked out at him.

  "We have--ah--verified your statements," said the third voice fromWeald. "Just one more item. Are you alone in your ship?"

  "Of course," said Calhoun, frowning.

  "Quite alone?" insisted the voice.

  "Obviously!" said Calhoun.

  "No other living creature?" insisted the voice again. "Of--oh!" saidCalhoun, annoyed. He called over his shoulder. "Murgatroyd! Comehere!"

  Murgatroyd hopped to his lap and gazed interestedly at the screen. Thebland face changed remarkably. The voice changed even more.

  "Very good!" it said. "Very, very good! Blueskins do not have_tormals_! You are Med Service! By all means come in! Your coordinateswill be...."

  Calhoun wrote them down. He clicked off the communicator again andgrowled to Murgatroyd, "So I might have been a blueskin, eh? Andyou're my passport, because only Med Ships have members of your tribeaboard! What the hell's the matter, Murgatroyd? They act like theythink somebody's trying to get down on their planet with a load ofplague germs!"

  He grumbled to himself for minutes. The life of a Med Ship man is notexactly a sinecure, at best. It means long periods in empty space inoverdrive, which is absolute and deadly tedium. Then two or three daysaground, checking official documents and statistics, and askingquestions to see how many of the newest medical techniques havereached this planet or that, and the supplying of information aboutsuch as have not arrived.

  Then the lifting out to space for long periods of tedium, to repeatthe process somewhere else. Med Ships carry only one man because twocould not stand the close contact without quarreling with each other.But Med Ships do carry _tormals_, like Murgatroyd, and a _tormal_ anda man can get along indefinitely, like a man and a dog. It is a highlyunequal friendship, but it seems to be satisfactory to both.

  Calhoun was very much annoyed with the way the Med Service had beenoperated in Sector Twelve. He was one of many men at work to correctthe results of incompetence in directing Med Service in this sector.But it is always disheartening to have to labor at making up forsomebody else's blundering, when there is so much new work that needsto be done.

  The condition shown by the landing-grid suspicions was a case inpoint. Blueskins were people who inherited a splotchy skinpigmentation from other people who'd survived a plague. Weald plainlymaintained a one-planet quarantine against them. But a quarantine isnormally an emergency measure. The Med Service should have taken over,wiped out the need for a quarantine, and then lifted it. It hadn'tbeen done.

  Calhoun fumed to himself.

  The world of Weald Three grew brighter and brighter and became a disk.The disk had icecaps and a reasonable proportion of land and watersurface. The ship decelerated, voices notifying observation from thesurface, and the little ship came to a stop some five planetarydiameters out from solidity. The landing field's force-field locked onto it, and its descent began.

  The business of landing was all very familiar, from the blue rim whichappeared at the limb of the planet from one diameter out, to thesingular flowing-apart of the surface features as the ship sank stilllower. There was the circular landing-grid, rearing skyward for nearlya mile. It could let down interstellar liners from emptiness and liftthem out to emptiness again, with great convenience and economy foreveryone.

  It landed the Med Ship in its center, and there were officials togreet Calhoun, and he knew in advance the routine part of his visit.There would be an interview with the planet's chief executive, bywhatever title he was called. There would be a banquet. Murgatroydwould be petted by everybody. There would be painful efforts toimpress Calhoun with the splendid conduct of public health matters onWeald. He would be told much scandal.

  He might find one man, somewhere, who passionately labored to advancethe welfare of his fellow humans by finding out how to keep them wellor, failing that, how to make them well when they got sick. And in twodays, or three, Calhoun would be escorted back to the landing-grid,and lifted out to space, and he'd spend long empty days in overdriveand land somewhere else to do the whole thing all over again.

  It all happened exactly as he expected, with one exception. Everyhuman being he met on Weald wanted to talk about blueskins. Blueskinsand the idea of blueskins obsessed everyone. Calhoun listened withoutasking questions until he had the picture of what blueskins meant tothe people who talked of them. Then he knew there would be no useasking questions at random.

  Nobody mentioned ever having seen a blueskin. Nobody mentioned aspecific event in which a blueskin had at any named time taken part.But everybody was afraid of blueskins. It was a patterned, aninculcated, a stage-directed fixed idea. And it found expression inshocked references to the vileness, the depravity, the monstrousnessof the blueskin inhabitants of Dara, from whom Weald must at all costsbe protected.

  It did not make sense. So Calhoun listened politely until he found anundistinguished medical man who wanted some special information aboutgene selection as practised halfway across the galaxy. He invited thatman to the Med Ship, where he supplied the information not hithertoavailable. He saw his guest's eyes shine a little with that joyous awea man feels when he finds out something he has wanted long and badlyto know.

  "Now," said Calhoun, "tell me something? Why does everybody on thisplanet hate the inhabitants of Dara? It's light-years away. Nobodyclaims to have suffered in person from them. Why make a point ofhating them?"

  The Wealdian doctor grimaced.

  "They've blue patches on their skins. They're different from us. Sothey can be pictured as a danger and our political parties can make anelection issue out of competing for the privilege of defending us fromthem. They had a plague on Dara, once. They're accused of still havingit ready for export."

  "Hm," said Calhoun. "The story is that they want to spread contagionhere, eh? Doesn't anybody"--his tone was sardonic--"doesn't anybodyurge that they be massacred as an a
ct of piety?"

  "Yes-s-s-s," admitted the doctor reluctantly. "It's mentioned inpolitical speeches."

  "But how's it rationalized?" demanded Calhoun. "What's the argument tomake pigment-patches involve moral and physical degradation, as I'massured is the case?"

  "In the public schools," said the doctor, "the children are taughtthat blueskins are now carriers of the disease they survived--threegenerations ago! That they hate everybody who isn't a blueskin. Thatthey are constantly scheming to introduce their plague here so most ofus will die and the rest will become blueskins. That's beyondrationalizing. It can't be true, but it's not safe to doubt it."

  "Bad business," said Calhoun coldly. "That sort of thing usually costslives in the end. It could lead to massacre!"

  "Perhaps it has, in a way," said the doctor unhappily. "One doesn'tlike to think about it." He paused. "Twenty years ago there was afamine on Dara. There were crop failures. The situation must have beenvery bad: They built a spaceship.

  "They've no use for such things normally, because no nearby planetwill deal with them or let them land. But they built a spaceship andcame here. They went in orbit around Weald. They asked to trade forshiploads of food. They offered any price in heavy metals--gold,platinum, irridium, and so on. They talked from orbit by visioncommunicators. They could be seen to be blueskins. You can guess whathappened!"

  "Tell me," said Calhoun.

  "We armed ships in a hurry," admitted the doctor. "We chased theirspaceship back to Dara. We hung in space off the planet. We told themwe'd blast their world from pole to pole if they ever dared take tospace again. We made them destroy their one ship, and we watched onvisionscreens as it was done."

  "But you gave them food?"

  "No," said the doctor ashamedly. "They were blueskins."

  "How bad was the famine?"

  "Who knows? Any number may have starved! And we kept a squadron ofarmed ships in their skies for years--to keep them from spreading theplague, we said. And some of us believed it!"

  The doctor's tone was purest irony.

  "Lately," he said, "there's been a move for economy in our government.Simultaneously, we began to have a series of overabundant crops. Thegovernment had to buy the excess grain to keep the price up. Retiredpatrol ships, built to watch over Dara, were available for storagespace. We filled them up with grain and sent them out into orbit.They're there now, hundreds of thousands or millions of tons ofgrain!"

  "And Dara?"

  The doctor shrugged. He stood up.

  "Our hatred of Dara," he said, again ironically, "has produced onething. Roughly halfway between here and Dara there's a two-planetsolar system, Orede. There's a usable planet there. It was proposed tobuild an outpost of Weald there, against blueskins. Cattle were landedto run wild and multiply and make a reason for colonists to settlethere.

  "They did, but nobody wants to move near to blueskins! So Orede stayeduninhabited until a hunting party, shooting wild cattle, found anoutcropping of heavy-metal ore. So now there's a mine there. Andthat's all. A few hundred men work the mine at fabulous wages. You maybe asked to check on their health. But not Dara's!"

  "I see," said Calhoun, frowning.

  The doctor moved toward the Med Ship's exit port.

  "I answered your questions," he said grimly. "But if I talked toanyone else as I've done to you, I'd be lucky only to be driven intoexile!"

  "I shan't give you away," said Calhoun. He did not smile.

  * * * * *

  When the doctor had gone, Calhoun said deliberately, "Murgatroyd, youshould be grateful that you're a _tormal_ and not a man. There'snothing about being a _tormal_ to make you ashamed!"

  Then he grimly changed his garments for the full-dress uniform of theMed Service. There was to be a banquet at which he would sit next tothe planet's chief executive and hear innumerable speeches about thesplendor of Weald. Calhoun had his own, strictly Med Service opinionof the planet's latest and most boasted-of achievement. It was a domedcity in the polar regions, where nobody ever had to go outdoors.

  He was less than professionally enthusiastic about the moving streets,and much less than approving of the dream broadcasts which suppliedhypnotic, sleep-inducing rhythms to anybody who chose to listen tothem. The price was that while asleep one would hear high praise ofcommercial products, and might believe them when awake.

  But it was not Calhoun's function to criticize when it could beavoided. Med Service had been badly managed in Sector Twelve. So atthe banquet Calhoun made a brief and diplomatic address in which hetemperately praised what could be praised, and did not mentionanything else.

  The chief executive followed him. As head of the government he paidsome tribute to the Med Service. But then he reminded his hearersproudly of the high culture, splendid health, and remarkableprosperity of the planet since his political party took office. This,he said, despite the need to be perpetually on guard against thegreatest and most immediate danger to which any world in all thegalaxy was exposed.

  He referred to the blueskins, of course. He did not need to tell thepeople of Weald what vigilance, what constant watchfulness wasnecessary against that race of deprived and malevolent deviants fromthe norm of humanity. But Weald, he said with emotion, held aloft thetorch of all that humanity held most dear, and defended not alone thelives of its people against blueskin contagion, but their nobleheritage of ideals against blueskin pollution.

  When he sat down, Calhoun said very politely, "It looks as if some dayit should be practical politics to urge the massacre of all blueskins.Have you thought of that?"

  The chief executive said comfortably, "The idea's been proposed. It'sgood politics to urge it, but it would be foolish to carry it out.People vote against blueskins. Wipe them out, and where'd you be?"

  Calhoun ground his teeth--quietly.

  There were more speeches. Then a messenger, white-faced, arrived witha written note for the chief executive. He read it and passed it toCalhoun. It was from the Ministry of Health. The spaceport reportedthat a ship had just broken out from overdrive within the Wealdiansolar system. Its tape-transmitter had automatically signaled itsarrival from the mining planet Orede.

  But, having sent off its automatic signal, the ship lay dead in space.It did not drive toward Weald. It did not respond to signals. Itdrifted like a derelict upon no course at all. It seemed ominous, andsince it came from Orede, the planet nearest to Dara of the blueskins,the health ministry informed the planet's chief executive.

  "It'll be blueskins," said that astute person firmly. "They're nextdoor to Orede. That's who's done this. It wouldn't surprise me ifthey'd seeded Orede with their plague, and this ship came from thereto give us warning!"

  "There's no evidence for anything of the sort," protested Calhoun. "Aship simply came out of overdrive and didn't signal further. That'sall!"

  "We'll see," said the chief executive ominously. "We'll go to thespaceport. There we'll get the news as it comes in, and can frameorders on the latest information."

  He took Calhoun by the arm. Calhoun said sharply, "Murgatroyd!"

  During the banquet, Murgatroyd had been visiting with the wives of thehigher-up officials. They had enough of their husbands normally,without listening to their official speeches. Murgatroyd was brought,his small paunch distended with cakes and coffee and such delicaciesas he'd been plied with. He was half comatose from overfeeding andoverpetting, but he was glad to see Calhoun.

  Calhoun held the little creature in his arms as the official groundcarraced through traffic with screaming sirens claiming the right of way.It reached the spaceport, where enormous metal girders formed amonster frame of metal lace against a star-filled sky. The chiefexecutive strode magnificently into the spaceport offices. There wasno news; the situation remained unchanged.

  A ship from Orede had come out of overdrive and lay dead in emptiness.It did not answer calls. It did not move in space. It floated eerilyin no orbit, going nowhere, doing nothing. And panic was theconseque
nce.

  It seemed to Calhoun that the official handling of the matteraccounted for the terror that he could feel building up. Theunexplained bit of news was on the air all over the planet Weald.There was nobody awake of all the world's population who did notbelieve that there was a new danger in the sky. Nobody doubted that itcame from blueskins. The treatment of the news was preciselycalculated to keep alive the hatred of Weald for the inhabitants ofthe world Dara.

  Calhoun put Murgatroyd into the Med Ship and went back to thespaceport office. A small spaceboat, designed to inspect the circlinggrain ships from time to time, was already aloft. The landing-grid hadthrust it swiftly out most of the way. Now it droned and drove onsturdily toward the enigmatic ship.

  Calhoun took no part in the agitated conferences among the officialsand news reporters at the spaceport. But he listened to the talk abouthim. As the investigating small ship drew nearer to the deathly-stillcargo vessel, the guesses about the meaning of its breakout andfollowing silence grew more and more wild.

  But, singularly, there was no single suggestion that the mystery mightnot be the work of blueskins. Blueskins were scape-goats for all thefears and all the uneasiness a perhaps over-civilized world developed.

  Presently the investigating spaceboat reached the mystery ship andcircled it, beaming queries. No answer. It reported the cargo shipdark. No lights anywhere on or in it. There were no induction-surgesfrom even pulsing, idling engines. Delicately, the messenger craftmaneuvered until it touched the silent vessel. It reported thatmicrophones detected no motion whatever inside.

  "Let a volunteer go aboard," commanded the chief executive. "Let himreport what he finds."

  A pause. Then the solemn announcement of an intrepid volunteer's name,from far, far away. Calhoun listened, frowning darkly. This pompousheroism wouldn't be noticed in the Med Service. It would be routinebehavior.

  Suspenseful, second-by-second reports. The volunteer had rocketedhimself across the emptiness between the two again separated ships. Hehad opened the airlock from outside. He'd gone in. He'd closed theouter airlock door. He'd opened the inner. He reported--

  The relayed report was almost incoherent, what with horror andincredulity and the feeling of doom that came upon the volunteer. Theship was a bulk-cargo ore-carrier, designed to run between Orede andWeald with cargos of heavy-metal ores and a crew of no more than fivemen. There was no cargo in her holds now, though.

  Instead, there were men. They packed the ship. They filled thecorridors. They had crawled into every space where a man could findroom to push himself. There were hundreds of them. It was insanity.And it had been greater insanity still for the ship to have taken offwith so preposterous a load of living creatures.

  But they weren't living any longer. The air apparatus had beendesigned for a crew of five. It would purify the air for possiblytwenty or more. But there were hundreds of men in hiding as well as inplain view in the cargo ship from Orede. There were many, many timesmore than her air apparatus and reserve tanks could possibly havetaken care of. They couldn't even have been fed during the journeyfrom Orede to Weald.

  But they hadn't starved. Air-scarcity killed them before the ship cameout of overdrive.

  A remarkable thing was that there was no written message in the ship'slog which referred to its takeoff. There was no memorandum of thetaking on of such an impossible number of passengers.

  "The blueskins did it," said the chief executive of Weald. He waspale. All about Calhoun men looked sick and shocked and terrified. "Itwas the blueskins! We'll have to teach them a lesson!" Then he turnedto Calhoun. "The volunteer who went on that ship--he'll have to staythere, won't he? He can't be brought back to Weald without bringingcontagion."

  Calhoun raged at him.

  * * * * *