Citizen in Space

by Robert Sheckley

  “Yes, I suppose it is,” Goodman replied.

  “Well, you’ll like it here. We know how to live. It’s all a matter of—”

  There was a rustle of skirts on the stairs. Goodman got to his feet.

  “Mr. Goodman, this is our daughter Janna,” Mrs. Vley said.

  Goodman noted at once that Janna’s hair was the exact color of the supernova in Circe, her eyes were that deep, unbelievable blue of the autumn sky over Algo II, her lips were the tender pink of a Scarsclott-Turner jet stream, her nose—

  But he had run out of astronomical comparisons, which weren’t suitable anyhow. Janna was a slender and amazingly pretty blond girl and Goodman was suddenly very glad he had crossed the Galaxy and come to Tranai.

  “Have a good time, children,” Mrs. Vley said.

  “Don’t come in too late,” Mr. Vley told Janna.

  Exactly as parents said on Earth to their children.

  There was nothing exotic about the date. They went to an inexpensive night club, danced, drank a little, talked a lot Goodman was amazed at their immediate rapport. Janna agreed with everything he said. It was refreshing to find intelligence in so pretty a girl.

  She was impressed, almost overwhelmed, by the dangers he had faced in crossing the Galaxy. She had always known that Terrans were adventurous (though nervous) types, but the risks Goodman had taken passed all understanding.

  She shuddered when he spoke of the deadly Galactic Whirl and listened wide-eyed to his tales of running the notorious Swayback Gaundet, past the bloodthirsty Scarbies who were sdll cutting up along the Star Ridge and infesting the hell holes of Prodengum. As Goodman put it, Terrans were iron men in steel ships, exploring the edges of the Great Nothing.

  Janna didn’t even speak until Goodman told of paying five hundred Terran dollars for a glass of beer at Moll Gann’s Red Rooster Inn on Asteroid 342-AA.

  “You must have been very thirsty,” she said thoughtfully.

  “Not particularly,” Goodman said “Money just didn’t mean much out there.”

  “Oh. But wouldn’t it have been better to have saved it? I mean someday you might have a wife and children—” She blushed.

  Goodman said coolly, “Well, that part of my life is over. I’m going to marry and setde down right here on Tranai.”

  “How nice!” she cried.

  It was a most successful evening.

  Goodman returned Janna to her home at a respectable hour and arranged a date for the following evening. Made bold by his own tales, he kissed her on the cheek. She didn’t really seem to mind, but Goodman didn’t try to press his advantage.

  “Till tomorrow, then,” she said, smiled at him, and closed the door.

  He walked away feeling lightheaded. Janna! Janna! Was it conceivable that he was in love already? Why not? Love at first sight was a proven psycho-physiological possibility and, as such, was perfectly respectable. Love in Utopia! How wonderful it was that here, upon a perfect planet, he had found the perfect girl!

  A man stepped out of the shadows and blocked his path. Goodman noted that he was wearing a black silk mask which covered everything except his eyes. He was carrying a large and powerful-looking blaster, and it was pointed steadily at Goodman’s stomach.

  “Okay, buddy,” the man said, “gimme all your money.”

  “What?” Goodman gasped.

  “You heard me. Your money. Hand it over.”

  “You can’t do this,” Goodman said, too startled to think coherently. “There’s no crime on Tranai!”

  “Who said there was?” the man asked quietly. “I’m merely asking you for your money. Are you going to hand it over peacefully or do I have to club it out of you?”

  “You can’t get away with this! Crime does not pay!”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” the man said. He hefted the heavy blaster.

  “All right. Don’t get excited.” Goodman pulled out his billfold, which contained all he had in the world, and gave its contents to the masked man.

  The man counted it, and he seemed impressed. “Better than I expected. Thanks, buddy. Take it easy now.”

  He hurried away down a dark street.

  Goodman looked wildly around for a policeman, until he remembered that there were no police on Tranai. He saw a small cocktail lounge on the corner with a neon sign saying Kitty Kat Bar. He hurried into it.

  Inside, there was only a bartender, somberly wiping glasses.

  “I’ve been robbed!” Goodman shouted at him.

  “So?” the bartender said, not even looking up.

  “But I thought there wasn’t any crime on Tranai.”

  “There isn’t.”

  “But I was robbed.”

  “You must be new here,” the bartender said, finally looking at him.

  “I just came in from Terra.”

  “Terra? Nervous, hustling sort of—”

  “Yes, yes,” Goodman said. He was getting a little tired of that stereotype. “But how can there be no crime on Tranai if I was robbed?”

  “That should be obvious. On Tranai, robbery is no crime.”

  “But robbery is always a crime!”

  “What color mask was he wearing?”

  Goodman thought for a moment. “Black. Black silk.”

  The bartender nodded. “Then he was a government tax collector.”

  “That’s a ridiculous way to collect taxes,” Goodman snapped.

  The bartender set a Tranai Special in front of Goodman. “Try to see this in terms of the general welfare. The government has to have some money. By collecting it this way, we can avoid the necessity of an income tax, with all its complicated legal and legislative apparatus. And in terms of mental health, it’s far better to extract money in a short, quick, painless operation than to permit the citizen to worry all year long about paying at a specific date.”

  Goodman downed his drink and the bartender set up another.

  “But,” Goodman said, “I thought this was a society based upon the concepts of free will and individual initiative.”

  “It is,” the bartender told him. “Then surely the government, what little there is of it, has the same right to free will as any private citizen, hasn’t it?”

  Goodman couldn’t quite figure that out, so he finished his second drink. “Could I have another of those? I’ll pay you as soon as I can.”

  “Sure, sure,” the bartender said good-naturedly, pouring another drink and one for himself.

  Goodman said, “You asked me what color his mask was. Why?”

  “Black is the government mask color. Private citizens wear white masks.”

  “You mean that private citizens commit robbery also?”

  “Well, certainly! That’s our method of wealth distribution. Money is equalized without government intervention, without even taxation, entirely in terms of individual initiative.” The bartender nodded emphatically. “And it works perfectly, too. Robbery is a great leveler, you know.”

  “I suppose it is,” Goodman admitted, finishing his third drink. “If I understand correctly, then, any citizen can pack a blaster, put on a mask, and go out and rob.”

  “Exactly,” the bartender said. “Within limits, of course.”

  Goodman snorted. “If that’s how it works, I can play that way. Could you loan me a mask? And a gun?”

  The bartender reached under the bar. “Be sure to return them, though. Family heirlooms.”

  “I’ll return them,” Goodman promised. “And when I come back, I’ll pay for my drinks.”

  He slipped the blaster into his belt, donned the mask and left the bar. If this was how things worked on Tranai, he could adjust all right Rob him, would they? He’d rob them right back and then some!

  He found a suitably dark street comer and huddled in the shadows, waiting. Presently he heard footsteps and, peering around the comer, saw a portly, well-dressed Tranaian hurrying down the street.

  Goodman stepped in front of him, snarling, “Hold it, buddy.”

>   The Tranaian stopped and looked at Goodman’s blaster. “Hmmm. Using a wide-aperture Drog 3, eh? Rather an old-fashioned weapon. How do you like it?”

  “It’s fine,” Goodman said. “Hand over your—”

  “Slow trigger action, though,” the Tranaian mused. “Personally, I recommend a Mils-Sleeven needier. As it happens, I’m a sales representative for Sleeven Arms. I could get you a very good price on a trade-in—”

  “Hand over your money,” Goodman barked.

  The portly Tranaian smiled. “The basic defect of your Drog 3 is the fact that it won’t fire at all unless you release the safety lock.” He reached out and slapped the gun out of Goodman’s hand. “You see? You couldn’t have done a thing about it.” He started to walk away.

  Goodman scooped up the blaster, found the safety lock, released it and hurried after the Tranaian.

  “Stick up your hands,” Goodman ordered, beginning to feel slightly desperate.

  “No, no, my good man,” the Tranaian said, not even looking back. “Only one try to a customer. Mustn’t break the unwritten law, you know.”

  Goodman stood and watched until the man turned a comer and was gone. He checked the Drog 3 carefully and made sure that all the safeties were off. Then he resumed his post.

  After an hour’s wait, he heard footsteps again. He tightened his grip on the blaster. This time he was going to rob and nothing was going to stop him.

  “Okay, buddy,” he said, “hands up!”

  The victim this time was a short, stocky Tranaian, dressed in old workman’s clothes. He gaped at the gun in Goodman’s hand.

  “Don’t shoot, mister,” the Tranaian pleaded.

  That was more like it! Goodman felt a glow of deep satisfaction.

  “Just don’t move,” he warned. “I’ve got all safeties off.”

  “I can see that,” the stocky man said, cringing. “Be careful with that cannon, mister. I ain’t moving a hair.”

  “You’d better not. Hand over your money.”

  “Money?”

  “Yes, your money, and be quick about it.”

  “I don’t have any money,” the man whined. “Mister, I’m a poor man. I’m poverty-stricken.”

  “There is no poverty on Tranai,” Goodman said sententiously.

  “I know. But you can get so close to it, you wouldn’t know the difference. Give me a break, mister.”

  “Haven’t you any initiative?” Goodman asked. “If you’re poor, why don’t you go out and rob like everybody else?”

  “I just haven’t had a chance. First the kid got the whooping cough and I was up every night with her. Then the derrsin broke down, so I had the wife yakking at me all day long. I say there oughta be a spare derrsin in every house! So she decided to clean the place while the derrsin generator was being fixed and she put my blaster somewhere and she can’t remember where. So I was all set to borrow a friend’s blaster when—”

  “That’s enough,” Goodman said. “This is a robbery and I’m going to rob you of something. Hand over your wallet.”

  The man snuffled miserably and gave Goodman a worn billfold. Inside it, Goodman found one deeglo, the equivalent of a Terran dollar.

  “It’s all I got,” the man snuffled miserably, “but you’re welcome to it. I know how it is, standing on a drafty street corner all night—”

  “Keep it,” Goodman said, handing the billfold back to the man and walking off.

  “Gee, thanks, mister!”

  Goodman didn’t answer. Disconsolately, he returned to the Kitty Kat Bar and gave back the bartender’s blaster and mask. When he explained what had happened, the bartender burst into rude laughter.

  “Didn’t have any money! Man, that’s the oldest trick in the books. Everybody carries a fake wallet for robberies—sometimes two or even three. Did you search him?”

  “No,” Goodman confessed.

  “Brother, are you a greenhorn!”

  “I guess I am. Look, I really will pay you for those drinks as soon as I can make some money.”

  “Sure, sure,” the bartender said. “You better go home and get some sleep. You had a busy night.”

  Goodman agreed. Wearily he returned to his hotel room and was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

  He reported at the Abbag Home Robot Works and manfully grappled with the problem of disimproving automata. Even in unhuman work such as this, Terran ingenuity began to tell.

  Goodman began to develop a new plastic for the robot’s case. It was a silicone, a relative of the “silly putty” that had appeared on Earth a long while back. It had the desired properties of toughness, resiliency and long wear; it would stand a lot of abuse, too. But the case would shatter immediately and with spectacular effect upon receiving a kick delivered with an impact of thirty pounds or more.

  His employer praised him for this development, gave him a bonus (which he sorely needed), and told him to keep working on the idea and, if possible, to bring the needed impact down to twenty-three pounds. This, the research department told them, was the average frustration kick.

  He was kept so busy that he had practically no time to explore further the mores and folkways of Tranai. He did manage to see the Citizen’s Booth. This uniquely Tranaian institution was housed in a small building on a quiet back street.

  Upon entering, he was confronted by a large board, upon which was listed the names of the present officeholders of Tranai, and their titles. Beside each name was a button. The attendant told Goodman that, by pressing a button, a citizen expressed his disapproval of that official’s acts. The pressed button was automatically registered in History Hall and was a permanent mark against the officeholder.

  No minors were allowed to press the buttons, of course.

  Goodman considered this somewhat ineffectual; but perhaps, he told himself, officials on Tranai were differently motivated from those on Earth.

  He saw Janna almost every evening and together they explored the many cultural aspects of Tranai: the cocktail lounges and movies, the concert halls, the art exhibitions, the science museum, the fairs and festivals. Goodman carried a blaster and, after several unsuccessful attempts, robbed a merchant of nearly five hundred deeglo.

  Janna was ecstatic over the achievement, as any sensible Tranaian girl would be, and they celebrated at the Kitty Kat Bar. Janna’s parents agreed that Goodman seemed to be a good provider.

  The following night, the five hundred deeglo—plus some of Goodman’s bonus money—was robbed back, by a man of approximately the size and build of the bartender at the Kitty Kat, carrying an ancient Drog 3 blaster.

  Goodman consoled himself with the thought that the money was circulating freely, as the system had intended.

  Then he had another triumph. One day at the Abbag Home Robot Works, he discovered a completely new process for making a robot’s case. It was a special plastic, impervious even to serious bumps and falls. The robot owner had to wear special shoes, with a catalytic agent imbedded in the heels. When he kicked the robot, the catalyst came in contact with the plastic case, with immediate and gratifying effect.

  Abbag was a little uncertain at first; it seemed too gimmicky. But the thing caught on like wildfire and the Home Robot Works went into the shoe business as a subsidiary, selling at least one pair with every robot.

  This horizontal industrial development was very gratifying to the plant’s stockholders and was really more important than the original catalyst-plastic discovery. Goodman received a substantial raise in pay and a generous bonus.

  On the crest of his triumphant wave, he proposed to Janna and was instandy accepted. Her parents favored the match; all that remained was to obtain official sanction from the government, since Goodman was still technically an alien.

  Accordingly, he took a day off from work and walked down to the Idrig Building to see Melith. It was a glorious spring day of the sort that Tranai has for ten months out of the year, and Goodman walked with a light and springy step. He was in love, a success i
n business, and soon to become a citizen of utopia.

  Of course, utopia could use some changes, for even Tranai wasn’t quite perfect. Possibly he should accept the Supreme Presidency, in order to make the needed reforms. But there was no rush….

  “Hey, mister,” a voice said, “can you spare a deeglo?”

  Goodman looked down and saw, squatting on the pavement, an unwashed old man, dressed in rags, holding out a tin cup.

  “What?” Goodman asked.

  “Can you spare a deeglo, brother?” the man repeated in a wheedling voice. “Help a poor man buy a cup of oglo? Haven’t eaten in two days, mister.”

  “This is disgraceful! Why don’t you get a blaster and go out and rob someone?”

  “I’m too old,” the man whimpered. “My victims just laugh at me.”

  “Are you sure you aren’t just lazy?” Goodman asked sternly.

  “I’m not, sir!” the beggar said. “Just look how my hands shake!”

  He held out both dirty paws; they trembled.

  Goodman took out his billfold and gave the old man a deeglo. “I thought there was no poverty on Tranai. I understood that the government took care of the aged.”

  “The government does,” said the old man. “Look.” He held out his cup. Engraved on its side was: GOVERNMENT AUTHORIZED BEGGAR, NUMBER DR-43241-3.

  “You mean the government makes you do this?”

  “The government lets me do it,” the old man told him. “Begging is a government job and is reserved for the aged and infirm.”

  “Why, that’s disgraceful!”

  “You must be a stranger here.”

  “I’m a Terran.”

  “Aha! Nervous, hustling sort of people, aren’t you?”

  “Our government does not let people beg,” Goodman said.

  “No? What do the old people do? Live off their children? Or sit in some home for the aged and wait for death by boredom? Not here, young man. On Tranai, every old man is assured of a government job, and one for which he needs no particular skill, although skill helps. Some apply for indoor work, within the churches and theaters. Others like the excitement of fairs and carnivals. Personally, I like it outdoors. My job keeps me out in the sunlight and fresh air, gives me mild exercise, and helps me meet many strange and interesting people, such as yourself.”