one to.However, if Earth wanted to send an observer of some kind....
Earth did.
Fine. A statement of passenger fares was forthcoming; naturally, therewere no regular passenger ships stopping at Earth and there would notbe in the foreseeable future, but doubtless arrangements could be madeto charter a vessel. It would be expensive, but....
If a New Guinea savage wants to take passage aboard a Qantas airliner,what is the fare in cowrie shells?
As far as McLeod knew, his book was the first thing ever produced onEarth that the Galactics were even remotely interested in. He had ahigher opinion of the ethics of the Galactics than Jackson did, but athousandth of a per cent seemed like pretty small royalties. And hecouldn't for the life of him see why his book would interest aGalactic. Clem had explained that it gave Galactics a chance to seewhat they looked like through the eyes of an Earthman, but that seemedrather weak to McLeod.
Nevertheless, he knew he would take Clem's offer.
* * * * *
Eight months later, a shipload of Galactic tourists arrived. For awhile, it looked as though Earth's credit problem might be solved.Tourism has always been a fine method for getting money from othercountries--especially if one's own country is properly picturesque.Tourists always had money, didn't they? And they spend it freely,didn't they?
No.
Not in this case.
Earth had nothing to sell to the tourists.
Ever hear of _baluts_? The Melanesians of the South Pacific considerit a very fine delicacy. You take a fertilized duck egg and you buryit in the warm earth. Six months later, when it is nice and overripe,you dig it up again, knock the top off the shell the way you would asoft-boiled egg, and eat it. Then you pick the pinfeathers out of yourteeth. _Baluts._
Now you know how the greatest delicacies of Earth's restaurantsaffected the Galactics.
Earth was just a little _too_ picturesque. The tourists enjoyed thesights, but they ate aboard their ship, which was evidently somewhatlike a Caribbean cruise ship. And they bought nothing. They justlooked.
And laughed.
And of course they all wanted to meet Professor John Hamish McLeod.
When the news leaked out and was thoroughly understood by Earth'spopulation, there was an immediate reaction.
Editorial in _Pravda_:
The stupid book written by the American J. H. McLeod has made Earth a laughingstock throughout the galaxy. His inability to comprehend the finer nuances of Galactic Socialism has made all Earthmen look foolish. It is too bad that a competent Russian zoologist was not chosen for the trip that McLeod made; a man properly trained in the understanding of the historical forces of dialectic materialism would have realized that any Galactic society must of necessity be a Communist State, and would have interpreted it as such. The petty bourgeois mind of McLeod has made it impossible for any Earthman to hold up his head in the free Socialist society of the galaxy. Until this matter is corrected....
News item Manchester _Guardian_:
Professor James H. McLeod, the American zoologist whose book has apparently aroused a great deal of hilarity in Galactic circles, admitted today that both Columbia University and the American Museum of Natural History have accepted his resignation. The recent statement by a University spokesman that Professor McLeod had "besmirched the honor of Earthmen everywhere" was considered at least partially responsible for the resignations. (See editorial.)
Editorial, Manchester _Guardian_:
... It is a truism that an accepted wit has only to say, 'Pass the butter,' and everyone will laugh. Professor McLeod, however, far from being an accepted wit, seems rather to be in the position of a medieval Court Fool, who was laughed _at_ rather than _with_. As a consequence, all Earthmen have been branded as Fools....
Statement made by the American Senator from Alabama:
"He has made us all look like jackasses in the eyes of the Galactics, and at this precarious time in human history it is my considered opinion that such actions are treasonous to the human race and to Earth and should be treated and considered as such!"
Book review, _Literary Checklist_, Helvar III, Bornis Cluster:
"Interstellar Ark, an Earthman's View of the Galaxy," translated from the original tongue by Vonis Delf, Cr. 5.00. This inexpensive little book is one of the most entertainingly funny publications in current print. The author, one John McLeod, is a member of a type 3-7B race inhabiting a planet in the Outer Fringes.... As an example of the unwitting humor of the book, we have only to quote the following:
"I was shown to my quarters shortly before takeoff. Captain Benarly had assigned me a spacious cabin which was almost luxurious in its furnishings. The bed was one of the most comfortable I have ever slept in."
Or the following:
"I found the members of the crew to be friendly and co-operative, especially Nern Cronzel, the ship's physician."
It is our prediction that this little gem will be enjoyed for a long time to come and will be a real money-maker for its publishers.
* * * * *
_They haven't hanged me yet_, McLeod thought. He sat in his apartmentalone and realized that it would take very little to get him hanged.
How could one book have aroused such wrath? Even as he thought it,McLeod knew the answer to that question. It wasn't the book. No onewho had read it two and a half years before had said anything againstit.
No, it wasn't the book. It was the Galactic reaction to the book.Already feeling inferior because of the stand-offish attitude of thebeings from the stars, the Homeric laughter of those same beings hadbeen too much. It would have been bad enough if that laughter had beengenerated by one of the Galactics. To have had it generated by anEarthman made it that much worse. Against an Earthman, their rage wasfar from impotent.
Nobody understood _why_ the book was funny, of course. The joke wasover their heads, and that made human beings even angrier.
He remembered a quotation from a book he had read once. A member ofsome tribal-taboo culture--African or South Pacific, he forgotwhich--had been treated at a missionary hospital for something orother and had described his experience.
"The white witch doctor protects himself by wearing a little roundmirror on his head which reflects back the evil spirits."
Could that savage have possibly understood what was humorous aboutthat remark? No. Not even if you explained to him why the doctor usedthe mirror that way.
_Now what?_ McLeod thought. He was out of a job and his bank accountwas running low. His credit rating had dropped to zero.
McLeod heard a key turn in the lock. The door swung open and Jacksonentered with his squad of U.B.I. men.
"Hey!" said McLeod, jumping to his feet. "What do you think this is?"
"Shut up, McLeod," Jackson growled. "Get your coat. You're wanted atheadquarters."
McLeod started to say something, then thought better of it. There wasnothing he could say. Nobody would care if the U.B.I. manhandled him.Nobody would protest that his rights were being ignored. If McLeod gothis teeth knocked in, Jackson would probably be voted a medal.
McLeod didn't say another word. He followed orders. He got his coatand was taken down to the big building on the East River which hadbegun its career as the United Nations Building.
He was bundled up to an office and shoved into a chair.
Somebody shoved a paper at him. "Sign this!"
"What is it?" McLeod asked, finding his voice.
"A receipt. For two thousand dollars. Sign it."
McLeod looked the paper over, then looked up at the burly man who hadshoved it at him. "_Fifty thousand Galactic credits!_ What is thisfor?"
"The royalty check for your unprintably qualified book has come in,Funny Man. The Government is taking ninety-e
ight per cent for incometaxes. Sign!"
McLeod pushed the paper back across the desk. "No. I won't. You canconfiscate my money. I can't stop that, I guess. But I won't give itlegal sanction by signing anything. I don't even see the two thousanddollars this is supposed to be a receipt for."
Jackson, who was standing behind McLeod, grabbed his arm and twisted."Sign!" His voice was a snarl in McLeod's ear.
Eventually, of course, he signed.
* * * * *
"'Nother beer, Mac?" asked the bartender with a friendly smile.
"Yeah, Leo; thanks." McLeod pushed his quarter across the bar with onehand and scratched negligently at his beard with the fingers of theother. Nobody questioned him in this neighborhood. The beard, whichhad taken two months to grow, disguised his face, and he had given hisname as McCaffery, allowing his landlord and others who heard it tomake the natural assumption that
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