Citizen in Space

by Robert Sheckley

  “But begging!”

  “What other work would I be suited for?”

  “I don’t know. But—look at you! Dirty, unwashed, in filthy clothes—”

  “These are my working clothes,” the government beggar said. “You should see me on Sunday.”

  “You have other clothes?”

  “I certainly do, and a pleasant little apartment, and a season box at the opera, and two Home Robots, and probably more money in the bank than you’ve seen in your life. It’s been pleasant talking to you, young man, and thanks for your contribution. But now I must return to work and suggest you do likewise.”

  Goodman walked away, glancing over his shoulder at the government beggar. He observed that the old man seemed to be doing a thriving business.

  But begging!

  Really, that sort of thing should be stopped. If he ever assumed the Presidency—and quite obviously he should—he would look into the whole matter more carefully.

  It seemed to him that there had to be a more dignified answer.

  At the Idrig Building, Goodman told Melith about his marriage plans.

  The immigrations minister was enthusiastic.

  “Wonderful, absolutely wonderful,” he said. “I’ve known the Vley family for a long time. They’re splendid people. And Janna is a girl any man would be proud of.”

  “Aren’t there some formalities I should go through?” Goodman asked. “I mean being an alien and all—”

  “None whatsoever. I’ve decided to dispense with the formalities. You can become a citizen of Tranai, if you wish, by merely stating your intention verbally. Or you can retain Terran citizenship, with no hard feelings. Or you can do both, be a citizen of Terra and Tranai. If Terra doesn’t mind, we certainly don’t.”

  “I think I’d like to become a citizen of Tranai,” Goodman said.

  “It’s entirely up to you. But if you’re thinking about the Presidency, you can retain Terran status and still hold office. We aren’t at all stuffy about that sort of thing. One of our most successful Supreme Presidents was a lizard-evolved chap from Aquarella XI.”

  “What an enlightened attitude!”

  “Sure, give everybody a chance, that’s our motto. Now as to your marriage—any government employee can perform the ceremonies. Supreme President Borg would be happy to do it, this afternoon if you like.” Melith winked. “The old codger likes to kiss the bride. But I think he’s genuinely fond of you.”

  “This afternoon?” Goodman said. “Yes, I would like to be married this afternoon, if it’s all right with Janna.”

  “It probably will be,” Melith assured him. “Next, where are you going to live after the honeymoon? A hotel room is hardly suitable.” He thought for a moment. “Tell you what—I’ve got a little house on the edge of town. Why don’t you move in there, until you find something better? Or stay permanently, if you like it.”

  “Really,” Goodman protested, “you’re too generous—”

  “Think nothing of it. Have you ever thought of becoming the next immigrations minister? You might like the work. No red tape, short hours, good pay—No? Got your eye on the Supreme Presidency, eh? Can’t blame you, I suppose.”

  Melith dug in his pockets and found two keys. “This is for the front door and this is for the back. The address is stamped right on them. The place is fully equipped, including a brand-new derrsin field generator.”

  “A derrsin?”

  “Certainly. No home on Tranai is complete without a derrsin stasis field generator.”

  Clearing his throat, Goodman said carefully, “I’ve been meaning to ask you—exactly what is the stasis field used for?”

  “Why, to keep one’s wife in,” Melith answered. “I thought you knew.”

  “I did,” said Goodman. “But why?”

  “Why?” Melith frowned. Apparently the question had never entered his head. “Why does one do anything? It’s the custom, that’s all. And very logical, too. You wouldn’t want a woman chattering around you all the time, night and day.”

  Goodman blushed, because ever since he had met Janna, he had been thinking how pleasant it would be to have her around him all the time, night and day.

  “It hardly seems fair to the women,” Goodman pointed out.

  Melith laughed. “My dear friend, are you preaching the doctrine of equality of the sexes? Really, it’s a completely disproved theory. Men and women just aren’t the same. They’re different, no matter what you’ve been told on Terra. What’s good for men isn’t necessarily—or even usually—good for women.”

  “Therefore you treat them as inferiors,” Goodman said, his reformer’s blood beginning to boil.

  “Not at all. We treat them in a different manner from men, but not in an inferior manner. Anyhow, they don’t object.”

  “That’s because they haven’t been allowed to know any better. Is there any law that requires me to keep my wife in the derrsin field?”

  “Of course not. The custom simply suggests that you keep her out of stasis for a certain minimum amount of time every week. No fair incarcerating the little woman, you know.”

  “Of course not,” Goodman said sarcastically. “Must let her live some of the time.”

  “Exactly,” Melith said, seeing no sarcasm in what Goodman said. “You’ll catch on.”

  Goodman stood up. “Is that all?”

  “I guess that’s about it. Good luck and all that.”

  “Thank you,” Goodman said stiffly, turned sharply and left.

  That afternoon, Supreme President Borg performed the simple Tranaian marriage rites at the National Mansion and afterward kissed the bride with zeal. It was a beautiful ceremony and was marred by only one thing.

  Hanging on Borg’s wall was a rifle, complete with telescopic sight; and silencer. It was a twin to Melith’s and just as inexplicable.

  Borg took Goodman to one side and asked, “Have you given any further thought to the Supreme Presidency?”

  “I’m still considering it,” Goodman said. “I don’t really want to hold public office—”

  “No one does.”

  “—but there are certain reforms that Tranai needs badly. I think it may be my duty to bring them to the attention of the people.”

  “That’s the spirit,” Borg said approvingly. “We haven’t had a real enterprising Supreme President for some time. Why don’t you take office right now? Then you could have your honeymoon in the National Mansion with complete privacy.”

  Goodman was tempted. But he didn’t want to be bothered by affairs of state on his honeymoon, which was all arranged anyhow. Since Tranai had lasted so long in its present near-utopian condition, it would undoubtedly keep for a few weeks more.

  “I’ll consider it when I come back,” Goodman said.

  Borg shrugged. “Well, I guess I can bear the burden a while longer. Oh, here.” He handed Goodman a sealed envelope.

  “What’s this?”

  “Just the standard advice,” Boig said. “Hurry, your bride’s waiting for you.”

  “Come on, Marvin!” Janna called. “We don’t want to be late for the spaceship!”

  Goodman hurried after her, into the spaceport limousine.

  “Good luck!” her parents cried.

  “Good luck!” Borg shouted.

  “Good luck!” added Melith and his wife, and all the guests.

  On the way to the spaceport, Goodman opened the envelope and read the printed sheet within:

  ADVICE TO A NEW HUSBAND

  You have just been married and you expect, quite naturally, a lifetime of connubial bliss. This is perfectly proper, for a happy marriage is the foundation of good government. But you must do more than merely wish for it. Good marriage is not yours by divine right. A good marriage must be worked for!

  Remember that your wife is a human being. She should be allowed a certain measure of freedom as her inalienable right. We suggest you take her out of stasis at least once a week. Too long in stasis is bad for her orienta
tion. Too much stasis is bad for her complexion and will be your loss as well as hers.

  At intervals, such as vacations and holidays, it’s customary to let your wife remain out of stasis for an entire day at a time, or even two or three days. It will do no harm and the novelty will do wonders for her state of mind.

  Keep in mind these few common-sense rules and you can be assured of a happy marriage.

  —By the Government Marriage Council

  Goodman slowly tore the card into little bits, and let them drop to the floor of the limousine. His reforming spirit was now thoroughly aroused. He had known that Tranai was too good to be true. Someone had to pay for perfection. In this case, it was the women.

  He had found the first serious flaw in paradise.

  “What was that, dear?” Janna asked, looking at the bits of paper.

  “That was some very foolish advice,” Goodman said “Dear, have you ever thought—really thought—about the marriage customs of this planet of yours?”

  “I don’t think I have. Aren’t they all right?”

  “They are wrong, completely wrong. They treat women like toys, like little dolls that one puts away when one is finished playing. Can’t you see that?”

  “I never thought about it.”

  “Well, you can think about it now,” Goodman told her, “because some changes are going to be made and they’re going to start in our home.”

  “Whatever you think best, darling,” Janna said dutifully. She squeezed his arm. He kissed her.

  And then the limousine reached the spaceport and they got aboard the ship.

  Their honeymoon on Doé was like a brief sojourn in a flawless paradise. The wonders of Tranai’s little moon had been built for lovers, and for lovers only. No businessman came to Doe for a quick rest; no predatory bachelor prowled the paths. The tired, the disillusioned, the lewdly hopeful all had to find other hunting grounds. The single rule on Doe, stricdy enforced, was two by two, joyous and in love, and in no other state admitted.

  This was one Tranaian custom that Goodman had no trouble appreciating.

  On the little moon, there were meadows of tall grass and deep, green forests for walking and cool black lakes in the forests and jagged, spectacular mountains that begged to be climbed. Lovers were continually getting lost in the forests, to their great satisfaction; but not too lost, for one could circle the whole moon in a day. Thanks to the gende gravity, no one could drown in the black lakes, and a fall from a mountaintop was frightening, but hardly dangerous.

  There were, at strategic locations, little hotels with dimly lit cocktail lounges run by friendly, white-haired bartenders. There were gloomy caves which ran deep (but never too deep) into phosphorescent caverns glittering with ice, past sluggish underground rivers in which swam great luminous fish with fiery eyes.

  The Government Marriage Council had considered these simple attractions sufficient and hadn’t bothered putting in a golf course, swimming pool, horse track or shuffleboard court

  It was felt that once a couple desired these things, the honeymoon was over.

  Goodman and his bride spent an enchanted week on Doe and at last returned to Tranai.

  After carrying his bride across the threshold of their new home, Goodman’s first act was to unplug the derrsin generator.

  “My dear,” he said, “up to now, I have followed all the customs of Tranai, even when they seemed ridiculous to me. But this is one thing I will not sanction. On Terra, I was the founder of the Committee for Equal Job Opportunities for Women. On Terra, we treat our women as equals, as companions, as partners in the adventure of life.”

  “What a strange concept,” Janna said, a frown clouding her pretty face.

  “Think about it,” Goodman urged. “Our life will be far more satisfying in this companionable manner than if I shut you up in the purdah of the derrsin field. Don’t you agree?”

  “You know far more than I, dear. You’ve traveled all over the Galaxy, and I’ve never been out of Port Tranai. If you say it’s the best way, then it must be.”

  Past a doubt, Goodman thought, she was the most perfect of women.

  He returned to his work at the Abbag Home Robot Works and was soon deep in another disimprovement project. This time, he conceived the bright idea of making the robot’s joints squeak and grind. The noise would increase the robot’s irritation value, thereby making its destruction more pleasing and psychologically more valuable. Mr. Abbag was overjoyed with the idea, gave him another pay raise, and asked him to have the disimprovement ready for early production.

  Goodman’s first plan was simply to remove some of the lubrication ducts. But he found that friction would then wear out vital parts too soon. That naturally could not be sanctioned.

  He began to draw up plans for a built-in squeak-and-grind unit. It had to be absolutely lifelike and yet cause no real wear. It had to be inexpensive and it had to be small, because the robot’s interior was already packed with disimprovements.

  But Goodman found that small squeak-producing units sounded artificial. Larger units were too cosdy to manufacture or couldn’t be fitted inside the robot’s case. He began working several evenings a week, lost weight, and his temper grew edgy.

  Janna became a good, dependable wife. His meals were always ready on time and she invariably had a cheerful word for him in the evenings and a sympathetic ear for his difficulties. During the day, she supervised the cleaning of the house by the Home Robots. This took less than an hour and afterward she read books, baked pies, knitted, and destroyed robots.

  Goodman was a little alarmed at this, because Janna destroyed them at the rate of three or four a week. Still, everyone had to have a hobby. He could afford to indulge her, since he got the machines at cost.

  Goodman had reached a complete impasse when another designer, a man named Dath Hergo, came up with a novel control. This was based on a counter-gyroscopic principle and allowed a robot to enter a room at a ten-degree list. (Ten degrees, the research department said, was the most irritating angle of list a robot could assume.) Moreover, by employing a random-selection principle, the robot would lurch, drunkenly, annoyingly, at irregular intervals—never dropping anything, but always on the verge of it.

  This development was, quite naturally, hailed as a great advance in disimprovement engineering. And Goodman found that he could center his built-in squeak-and-grind unit right in the lurch control. His name was mentioned in the engineering journals next to that of Dath Hergo.

  The new line of Abbag Home Robots was a sensation.

  At this time, Goodman decided to take a leave of absence from his job and assume the Supreme Presidency of Tranai. He felt he owed it to the people. If Terran ingenuity and know-how could bring out improvements in disimprovements, they would do even better improving improvements. Tranai was a near-utopia. With his hand on the reins, they could go the rest of the way to perfection.

  He went down to Melith’s office to talk it over.

  “I suppose there’s always room for change,” Melith said thoughtfully. The immigration chief was seated by the window, idly watching people pass by. “Of course, our present system has been working for quite some time and working very well. I don’t know what you’d improve. There’s no crime, for example.”

  “Because you’ve legalized it,” Goodman declared. “You’ve simply evaded the issue.”

  “We don’t see it that way. There’s no poverty—”

  “Because everybody steals. And there’s no trouble with old people because the government turns them into beggars. Really, there’s plenty of room for change and improvement.”

  “Well, perhaps,” Melith said. “But I think—” he stopped suddenly, rushed over to the wall and pulled down the rifle. “There he is!”

  Goodman looked out the window. A man, apparently no different from anyone else, was walking past. He heard a muffled click and saw the man stagger, then drop to the pavement

  Melith had shot him with the silenced rifle.
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br />   “What did you do that for?” Goodman gasped.

  “Potential murderer,” Melith said.

  “What?”

  “Of course. We don’t have any out-and-out crime here, but, being human, we have to deal with the potentiality.”

  “What did he do to make him a potential murderer?”

  “Killed five people,” Melith stated.

  “But—damn it, man, this isn’t fair! You didn’t arrest him, give him a trial, the benefit of counsel—”

  “How could I?” Melith asked, slightly annoyed. “We don’t have any police to arrest people with and we don’t have any legal system. Good Lord, you didn’t expect me to just let him go on, did you? Our definition of a murderer is a killer of ten and he was well on his way. I couldn’t just sit idly by. It’s my duty to protect the people. I can assure you, I made careful inquiries.”

  “It isn’t just!” Goodman shouted.

  “Who ever said it was?” Melith shouted back. “What has justice got to do with utopia?”

  “Everything!” Goodman had calmed himself with an effort. “Justice is the basis of human dignity, human desire—”

  “Now you’re just using words,” Melith said, with his usual good- natured smile. “Try to be realistic. We have created a utopia for human beings, not for saints who don’t need one. We must accept the deficiencies of the human character, not pretend they don’t exist. To our way of thinking, a police apparatus and a legal-judicial system all tend to create an atmosphere for crime and an acceptance of crime. It’s better, believe me, not to accept the possibility of crime at all. The vast majority of the people will go along with you.”

  “But when crime does turn up as it inevitably does—”

  “Only the potentiality turns up,” Melith insisted stubbornly. “And even that is much rarer than you would think. When it shows up, we deal with it, quickly and simply.”

  “Suppose you get the wrong man?”

  “We can’t get the wrong man. Not a chance of it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because,” Melith said, “anyone disposed of by a government official is, by definition and by unwritten law, a potential criminal.”