by Robert Bloch
Dr. Placebo sensed that he was nodding in reply.
"Good. Then, this world."
The panorama of impressions expanded, on a multi-leveled basis, so that Dr. Placebo was aware of sweeping generalization and specific example simultaneously. And slowly, a picture evolved. Dr. Placebo sensed and surveyed it with growing horror.
"But it can't be!" he heard himself muttering. "No Freud—and Havelock Ellis entering a monastery at twenty-two—no psychiatrists—no wonder you all became disturbed."
"You're disturbed," Maya's voice told him, calmly. "We're not. Look again."
Dr. Placebo looked again.
He looked at a world in which society was conditioned by biological principles, with Kinsey-like overtones; a world which lived in accordance with certain basic postulates. And as the examples expanded, Maya's voice provided accompaniment.
"As in your world, the sexual drive in the human male reaches its height between the ages of 16 and 26, whereas in the females the sex-urge is highest between 28 and 40. The only difference is that in our world this biological fact is accepted, and acted upon.
"Accordingly, our young men, at 16, are permitted to establish relationships with women of 28 or older, for any period of time up to 10 years. During this decade of association, there is no procreation—and, of course, no domestic or emotional responsibilities.
"At 26, the males are permitted to establish another relationship, again for a decade or so, with the females aged 16 and upwards. During this time, reproduction is encouraged, for the females are young and healthy and the males are fully mature; they lavish affection upon their offspring, who are—of course—turned over to the care of the state when they reach the age of 6.
"As both males and females reach 40 or thereabouts, they can again change their partners and seek permanent or temporary companionship within a domestic relationship but without reproducing.
"Thus the sex-drive is fully satisfied during its period of maximum intensity, the reproductive urge is given full sway at a time likely to be most beneficial to both parents and offspring, and the social needs of later life are gratified without the rancor, tensions, frustrations, and naggingly permanent obligations which are the fruit of most monogamous marriages in your world. Simple enough, isn't it?"
Dr. Placebo sat up. He was once again in full possession of his faculties, all of which were strained beyond credulity.
"It's absurd!" he shouted. "You're going against all natural instinct—"
"Are we?"
Maya smiled. "Our society is actually founded on a realistic basis—pure biology. In the animal kingdom, 'fatherhood' as we know it does not exist. The male may protect its spawn for a time and feed the pregnant female, but it does not safeguard or exhibit affection for its young over any extended period of time, except in your 'moral' textbooks for children or the cinematic fantasies of your Mr. Disney. In many species, the male does not even secure food for the female, let alone 'support a family.' This is an artificial concept, yet your whole society is based upon it and everyone seems to believe that it's 'natural.'
"And when your poets and writers and philosophers envision an 'ideal' society, it is merely an extension of the same basic misconceptions with an attempt to put a little more of what you call 'justice' into them—even though one of your own writers, Archibald MacLeish, in his play J.B., so wisely observes: 'There is no justice; there is only love.' Ours is a world founded on love, and it begins by setting aright the biological basis of love."
"Monstrous!" Dr. Placebo exploded. "You've destroyed the fundamentals of civilization—the home—the family—"
"The so-called home and so-called family have destroyed the fundamentals of your civilization," Maya told him. "That's why you therapists flourish, in a sick world of emotionally-twisted youngsters who grow up as overly-frustrated or overly-aggressive adults; a world of prurience and poverty, of sin without atonement and atonement without sin, a world of bombs without balms. Don't look at your prejudices and your theories; look at the results. Are the people of your world truly happy, Doctor? Are they?"
"I suppose your way is better?" Dr. Placebo permitted himself a slight sneer.
"See for yourself," Maya suggested. "Look into my eyes—"
Dr. Placebo found himself staring and sharing; it was all a matter of viewpoint, he told himself.
He saw a world in which there was no transference of aggressions, due to sexual problems; a world devoid of jealousy and fear and secret guilts.
There was, to begin with, a complete change in the pattern of courtship; the element of rivalry, of competition, was almost eliminated. Male and female paired first for mutual pleasure, without the necessity of seeking the almost impossible combination of perfect lover, ideal helpmate, good provider, wise companion, and social prize which dogs most young people in their choice.
Later on, male and female paired for the purpose of reproduction; children born of the union of these matings were given a healthy environment of genuine love during the years when they were most lovable—and most subject to lasting psychological impressions. Then, at the time when they became encumbrances in a complex social order, they were turned over to well-organized state establishments for education and proper development.
Finally, male and female allied on the basis of fully matured judgments; as companions with mutual tastes and interests. Their early sexual drives fully satisfied, their reproductive drive fulfilled, their responsibilities in these areas ended, they were free to seek permanent or temporary liaisons on a fully-realistic basis of compatibility.
Inevitably, there were other—and far-reaching—results.
For one thing, a change in personality-values—the notion of what constituted a "good" or a "bad" individual differed greatly from those prevalent in Dr. Placebo's world.
Less time was wasted, by young and old alike, in false and exaggerated emphasis upon presumably "masculine" or "feminine" attributes. A 16-year-old boy could honestly prove his masculinity, with full approval and satisfaction, on a biological basis, instead of spending most of his energy on football, juvenile delinquency, surreptitious indulgence in alcohol and narcotics and the assumption of an outward brutality designed to impress the female. A 16-year-old girl could fulfill her biological function in maternity instead of retreating into narcissism, virginity-fantasies, or a rebellious and unsatisfactory promiscuity.
The young man found sympathy and understanding with an older woman during his initial relationship, and learned to appreciate these qualities. The young woman found steadiness and strength in an older man, and was not impressed by reckless exhibitionism and irresponsible behavior. When the age-patterns of later relationships were reversed, an even greater mutual understanding prevailed; in the final maturity, there was a peace and a satisfaction born of genuine love and respect. In this world, men and women actually enjoyed one another's company, and there was no rivalry.
As a result, there was no fear of the domestic situation; it was not a life-long trap in which both parties became enslaved to a consumer economy because they had to "preserve" a so-called home at all costs. Because there was no set and permanent family status, the element of economic competition virtually vanished; there was no need to pile up great accretions of consumer-goods for conspicuous consumption or as substitutes for genuine satisfactions. And there was no "Inheritance." The state regulated employment and recompense but did so benevolently—for there was no familial tension-source to spawn the guilt, hate, frustration, and aggression which resulted in individual crime and mass warfare. Hence a "police state" proved unnecessary. Simple miscegenation had done away with national, racial, and religious strife. And the limited 12-year breeding span had done away with population pressure; there was abundance for everyone. Social and economic freedom followed as a matter of course.
Perhaps most important of all, there was a great increase in creativity and the development of aesthetics.
Dr. Placebo began to realize why, when he lo
oked out the window, there were no advertising displays—why there was no need of automotive traffic or "quick communication" devices, or any variety of artificial stimulants, escape-devices, or gilded carrots designed to keep the donkeys in perpetual harness as they tugged their cartloads of woe along the road of life.
There was actually plenty of time to live in this world; no claws were squeezing; within this hourglass lay no danger of an eruption or explosion.
All this Maya showed him, and much more. Until at last, Dr. Placebo hurled himself upright again and tore his gaze away.
"Fine!" he commented. "Wonderful! Now I know why you found a youthful hostess for Ray Connors and a young host for Cookie. And maybe it does work, at that."
"I'm glad you think so," Maya said. "Because that was Armond's plan, you see."
"I don't see," Dr. Placebo confessed.
"For some time Armond and others have used the capsules to visit worlds in other time-vectors. Most of them were either too alien in their patterns or too dangerous to explore, but yours seemed most similar to our own.
"Somewhere along the line, your world went wrong in the area of social-sexual relationships, but we have studied your mores and folkways and decided to make a radical experiment. Armond believed we could, if necessary, live in your world—but of course, we wouldn't want to. He then determined to discover if you could live in our world. That's why he went down to hand out a limited number of sample pills—in the hopes of getting a representative assortment of specimens here for observation. One week should be long enough to determine your reaction—"
Dr. Placebo stood up.
"One minute is all it takes," he announced. "At least, as far as I'm concerned."
"You are a wise man, Dr. Placebo," Maya said. "It didn't take you long to see how sensibly we live, how sanely we have ordered our lives."
"That is correct," Dr. Placebo murmured, and then his voice swept upwards shrilly. "And that's just why I want out of here! I'm a psychiatrist, and a highly successful one. What place have I in a world where nobody is emotionally disturbed or maladjusted? Why, I'd starve to death in a month! I tell you, all this sanity is crazy—"
Suddenly he doubled up and fell back upon the couch.
"Why, whatever is the matter?" Maya cried.
"Ulcer," Dr. Placebo groaned. "Kicks up on me every once in a while. Purely psychosomatic, but it hurts like hell."
"Wait just a minute," Maya soothed. "I'll get you some milk."
And in exactly a minute, she was back with a glass. Dr. Placebo drank it slowly and gradually relaxed. It was good milk—damned good milk, he reflected bitterly, and no wonder. In a lousy, perfect world like this, the cows were probably more contented than any back on Earth . . . It figured!
"All right," said Ray Connors, pausing in his restless pacing to face Cookie and Dr. Placebo. "I got to talk fast because there's not much time. For a whole week I've been figuring out how to get a chance to see you two alone here in the office without Maya or any of the rest of these squares butting in. Because I got a billion-dollar idea by the tail and all I need is your help."
"How's Lona?" Cookie inquired.
"The chick?" Ray Connors smiled. "Okay, okay. But that's not important."
"Isn't it?" Cookie frowned. "You know, this guy Terry is the greatest. He's so—so sweet. Treats me like I was some kind of princess—"
"Never mind that jazz," Connors interrupted. "We got no time."
"Your idea?" Dr. Placebo inquired.
"Okay, now hear this. This is a square setup, dig? Both of you must have noticed what I did—everybody gets along with everyone else, there's no muscle, no sweat. Strictly Loveville."
"Yeah, isn't it wonderful?" Cookie sighed. "That Terry—"
"I'll say it's wonderful!" Connors exulted. "The whole setup is a pushover for a couple of hip operators like us. I started to figure things out, and you know, I think the three of us could really do it?"
"Do what?" inquired Dr. Placebo.
"Why, take over, of course!" Connors eyed him elatedly. "Look, we each got our own racket, and all we need to do is start working. Cookie here knows how to turn on the glamour. Me, I'm the best combination agent and flack in the business. You're a skull-specialist, you know about psychology and all that crud. Suppose we just team up and go to work?
"Remember that old gag about Helen of Troy, or whoever—the gal whose face launched a thousand flips, something like that? Started a big war over her, didn't they? Well, we got Cookie here. Suppose I started beating the drums, working up a little publicity, spreading the word about how this chick is the hottest dish in the whole pantry? And you coach me on the psychology, Doc.
"You know the way they, got things rigged here—young gals with middle-aged guys, middle-aged guys with young gals, old folks at home together. Well, it would be the easiest thing in the world to upset the whole applecart. Get the kids excited about Cookie, and the old daddy-types, too. Teach 'em something about sex-appeal. You know what'll happen. Inside of a month we can start opening up schools—regular courses to give all the chicks lessons on how to really land a man and hang on to him. Give 'em all the techniques on how to play hard-to-get. And that means the works—we bring out a line of cosmetics, fashions, beauty-parlor treatments, promote jewelry and perfume and luxury items.
"We'll have the men flipping, too. They don't use money in this crazy system, but we ought to be able to take our cut in land and services. I tell you, they're so innocent it'll be like taking candy from a baby. Inside of a year we can work our way up so that we'll be running the whole world! Think of it—no police, no army, nothing to stop us! Wait until we bring in advertising, and juke-boxes, and hot-rods, and pro football and falsies—"
"You intend to transform this world into a reasonable reproduction of our own, is that correct?" asked Dr. Placebo.
"Reasonable is right," Connors snapped. "What's to stop us?"
"I am," said Cookie. "I don't buy it."
"You don't—what?"
"I like it just the way it is," she murmured. "Look, Ray, let's face it. I'm pushing thirty, dig? And for the past fifteen years I been knocking around, getting my jollies in just the kind of a world you want to turn this into. Well, I had it, and no thanks. What good did it ever do me? I ended up a second-rate stripper, tied to a second-rate nogoodnik like you and spending all my extra loot on Doc's couch.
"I don't need to be Helen of Troy here. I'm just Cookie, and that's good enough for Terry—and believe me, he's good enough for me. I never had it so nice as this past week, believe me. Why louse it up?"
"Okay, so who's begging? You think you're the only chick I can promote? I got Lona. She's plenty square—one of those real sick, good-hearted types—but I can twist her around my little finger. So I'll slap a little makeup on her, teach her a few tricks, and we're off and running." Connors wheeled to face Dr. Placebo.
"How about it, Doc? You want in, don't you?"
"You're quite sure you can do all this?" Dr. Placebo murmured. "It's a big program for one man to tackle."
"Yeah, but we got a natural. No competition. No opposition. Nobody that's hip. They'll never know what hit 'em. In fact, they all love each other so damned much they don't suspect anyone could ever pull a fast one, and they'll cooperate just for asking."
Connors walked over to the open window and gazed out at the sunlit city.
"Look at it, Doc," he said. "All laid out and waiting for us to carve. Like the old saying, the world's our oyster."
"That's right." Dr. Placebo moved to his side, nodding thoughtfully. "And the more I think it over, the more I believe you. You could do it, quite easily."
"I damn' well will do it," Connors asserted. "And if you and Cookie chicken out, I'll make it alone."
Dr. Placebo hesitated, shrugged, and glanced at Cookie. She nodded. He put his hand on Connors' shoulder and smiled.
"A good idea," he muttered. "Make it alone, then."
And with an agile dexterity somewhat sur
prising in an older man, he pushed Connors out of the window.
The press-agent fell forth into the world that was his oyster; Dr. Placebo and Cookie leaned out and watched as he landed in the oyster-bed below.
"Nice work, Doc," Cookie commented.
He frowned. "That's the last time I'll ever do anything like that," he sighed. "Still, it was necessary to use violence to end violence."
"Yeah. Well, I got to be running along. Terry's waiting for me. We're going to the beach. See you around, Doc?"
"I hope so. I intend to be here for a long, long time." Dr. Placebo turned, staring past the girl, as Maya entered the room.
"Your conference is over?" the plump woman inquired. "Your friend left?"
Cookie nudged Doc in time for him to match her sudden look of consternation.
"A terrible thing just happened," she gasped. "He fell out of the window!"
"Oh, no—" Maya gasped and rushed to the open window, staring down. "How awful! And just when he could have joined you in returning home—"
"Home?"
"Yes. Armond is back. The week is up, and he'll be able to supply you with Time Capsules now. You're free to return to your own world."
"Do we have to go?" Cookie's voice quavered. "I—I want to stay here. Terry and I talked things over, and we hit it off so good together, I was hoping I could just sort of like settle down."
"And what about you?" Maya confronted Dr. Placebo.
"Why—uh—I agree with Cookie. Since that first day, I haven't had the slightest twinge from my ulcer. Something about the milk you serve, I suppose."
"But what about your profession?" Maya asked. "You said yourself that there's no need for a psychiatrist here. And, of course, there's no way of making money."
"I've been thinking about that," Dr. Placebo said. "Couldn't I assist you in your sociological experiments?"
Maya permitted herself a small smile. "Standing up or lying down?" she demanded.
"Er—both." A slow blush spread over the bald expanse of Dr. Placebo's forehead. "I mean, each of us is past forty, and under the existing order of things—well—"
