Store of the Worlds: The Stories of Robert Sheckley (23 page)

“Many of us will be killed,” Danton said stonily. “We do not care. Every New Tahitian will fight like a lion. We are a thousand to your one. We have cousins on the other islands who will join us. No matter what the cost in human life and misery, we will drive you into the sea. I have spoken.”

He turned and started back into the jungle, walking with stiff dignity.

“Shall I pop him now, sir?” the sentry begged.

“Put down that rifle, you fool!” Simeon snapped. “Wait, Danta! Surely we can come to terms. Bloodshed is senseless.”

“I agree,” Danton said soberly.

“What do you want?”

“Equal rights!”

The Elders went into an immediate conference. Simeon listened to them, then turned to Danton.

“That may be possible. Is there anything else?”

“Nothing,” Danton said. “Except, naturally, an alliance between the ruling clan of the Hutters and the ruling clan of the New Tahitians, to seal the bargain. Marriage would be best.”

After going into conference again, the Elders gave their instructions to Simeon. The military chief was obviously disturbed. The cords stood out on his neck, but with an effort he controlled himself, bowed his agreement to the Elders, and marched up to Danton.

“The Elders have authorized me,” he said, “to offer you an alliance of blood brotherhood. You and I, representing the leading clans of our peoples, will mingle our blood together in a beautiful and highly symbolic ceremony, then break bread, take salt—”

“Sorry,” Danton said. “We New Tahitians don't hold with that sort of thing. It has to be marriage.”

“But damn it all, man—”

“That is my last word.”

“We'll never accept! Never!”

“Then it's war,” Danton declared and walked into the jungle.

He was in a mood for making war. But how, he asked himself, does a single native fight against a spaceship full of armed men?

He was brooding on this when Simeon and Anita came to him through the jungle.

“All right,” Simeon said angrily. “The Elders have decided. We Hutters are sick of running from planet to planet. We've had this problem before, and I suppose we'd just go somewhere else and have it again. We're sick and tired of the whole native problem, so I guess—” he gulped hard, but manfully finished the sentence—“we'd better assimilate. At least, that's what the Elders think. Personally, I'd rather fight.”

“You'd lose,” Danton assured him, and at that moment he felt he could take on the Hutters single-handed and win.

“Maybe so,” Simeon admitted. “Anyhow, you can thank Anita for making the peace possible.”

“Anita? Why?”

“Why, man, she's the only girl in the camp who'd marry a naked, dirty, heathen savage!”

And so they were married, and Danta, now known as the White Man's Friend, settled down to help the Hutters conquer their new land. They, in turn, introduced him to the marvels of civilization. He was taught Twelve-hand Bridge and Mass Dancing. And soon the Hutters built their first Subway—for a civilized people must release their aggressions—and that game was shown to Danta, too.

He tried to master the spirit of the classic Earth pastime, but it was obviously beyond the comprehension of his savage soul. Civilization stifled him, so Danta and his wife moved across the planet, always following the frontier, staying far from the amenities of civilization.

Anthropologists frequently came to visit him. They recorded all the stories he told his children, the ancient and beautiful legends of New Tahiti—tales of sky gods and water demons, fire sprites and woodland nymphs, and how Katamandura was ordered to create the world out of nothingness in just three days, and what his reward for this was, and what Jevasi said to Hootmenlati when they met in the underworld, and the strange outcome of this meeting.

The anthropologists noted similarities between these legends and certain legends of Earth, and several interesting theories were put forth. And they were interested in the great sandstone statues on the main island of New Tahiti, weird and haunting works which no viewer could forget, clearly the work of a pre–New Tahitian race, of whom no trace could ever be found.

But most fascinating of all for the scientific workers was the problem of the New Tahitians themselves. Those happy, laughing, bronzed savages, bigger, stronger, handsomer, and healthier than any other race, had melted away at the coming of the white man. Only a few of the older Hutters could remember having met them in any numbers, and their tales were considered none too reliable.

“My people?” Danta would say, when questioned. “Ah, they could not stand the white man's diseases, the white man's mechanical civilization, the white man's harsh and repressive ways. They are in a happier place now, in Valhoola beyond the sky. And someday I shall go there, too.”

And white men, hearing this, experienced strangely guilty feelings and redoubled their efforts to show kindness to Danta, the Last Native.

A
LFRED
Simon was born on Kazanga IV, a small agricultural planet near Arcturus, and there he drove a combine through the wheat fields, and in the long, hushed evenings listened to the recorded love songs of Earth.

Life was pleasant enough on Kazanga, and the girls were buxom, jolly, frank, and acquiescent, good companions for a hike through the hills or a swim in the brook, staunch mates for life. But romantic—never! There was good fun to be had on Kazanga, in a cheerful open manner. But there was no more than fun.

Simon felt that something was missing in this bland existence. One day, he discovered what it was.

A vendor came to Kazanga in a battered spaceship loaded with books. He was gaunt, white-haired, and a little mad. A celebration was held for him, for novelty was appreciated on the outer worlds.

The vendor told them all the latest gossip; of the price war between Detroit II and III, and how fishing fared on Alana, and what the president's wife on Moracia wore, and how oddly the men of Doran V talked. And at last someone said, “Tell us of Earth.”

“Ah!” said the vendor, raising his eyebrows. “You want to hear of the mother planet? Well, friends, there's no place like old Earth, no place at all. On Earth, friends, everything is possible, and nothing is denied.”

“Nothing?” Simon asked.

“They've got a law against denial,” the vendor explained, grinning. “No one has ever been known to break it. Earth is different, friends. You folks specialize in farming? Well, Earth specializes in impracticalities such as madness, beauty, war, intoxication, purity, horror, and the like, and people come from light-years away to sample these wares.”

“And love?” a woman asked.

“Why, girl,” the vendor said gently, “Earth is the only place in the galaxy that still has love! Detroit II and III tried it and found it too expensive, you know, and Alana decided it was unsettling, and there was no time to import it on Moracia or Doran V. But as I said, Earth specializes in the impractical, and makes it pay.”

“Pay?” a bulky farmer asked.

“Of course! Earth is old, her minerals are gone, and her fields are barren. Her colonies are independent now, and filled with sober folk such as yourselves, who want value for their goods. So what else can old Earth deal in, except the nonessentials that make life worth living?”

“Were you in love on Earth?” Simon asked.

“That I was,” the vendor answered, with a certain grimness. “I was in love, and now I travel. Friends, these books ...”

For an exorbitant price, Simon bought an ancient poetry book, and reading, dreamed of passion beneath the lunatic moon, of dawn glimmering whitely upon lovers' parched lips, of locked bodies on a dark sea-beach, desperate with love and deafened by the booming surf.

And only on Earth was this possible! For, as the vendor told, Earth's scattered children were too hard at work wrestling a living from alien soil. The wheat and corn grew on Kazanga, and the factories increased on Detroit II and III. The fisheries of Alana were the talk of the Southern star belt, and there were dangerous beasts on Moracia, and a whole wilderness to be won on Doran V. And this was well, and exactly as it should be.

But the new worlds were austere, carefully planned, sterile in their perfections. Something had been lost in the dead reaches of space, and only Earth knew love.

Therefore, Simon worked and saved and dreamed. And in his twenty-ninth year he sold his farm, packed all his clean shirts into a serviceable handbag, put on his best suit and a pair of stout walking shoes, and boarded the Kazanga-Metropole Flyer.

At last he came to Earth, where dreams must come true, for there is a law against their failure.

He passed quickly through Customs at Spaceport New York, and was shuttled underground to Times Square. There he emerged blinking into daylight, tightly clutching his handbag, for he had been warned about pickpockets, cutpurses, and other denizens of the city.

Breathless with wonder, he looked around.

The first thing that struck him was the endless array of theatres, with attractions in two dimensions, three or four, depending upon your preference. And what attractions!

To the right of him a beetling marquee proclaimed: LUST ON VENUS! A DOCUMENTARY ACCOUNT OF SEX PRACTICES AMONG THE INHABITANTS OF THE GREEN HELL! SHOCKING! REVEALING!

He wanted to go in. But across the street was a war film. The billboard shouted, THE SUN BUSTERS! DEDICATED TO THE DARE-DEVILS OF THE SPACE MARINES! And further down was a picture called TARZAN BATTLES THE SATURNIAN GHOULS!

Tarzan, he recalled from his reading, was an ancient ethnic hero of Earth.

It was all wonderful, but there was so much more! He saw little open shops where one could buy food of all worlds, and especially such native Terran dishes as pizza, hot dogs, spaghetti, and knishes. And there were stores which sold surplus clothing from the Terran spacefleets, and other stores which sold nothing but beverages.

Simon didn't know what to do first. Then he heard a staccato burst of gunfire behind him, and whirled.

It was only a shooting gallery, a long, narrow, brightly painted place with a waist-high counter. The manager, a swarthy fat man with a mole on his chin, sat on a high stool and smiled at Simon.

“Try your luck?”

Simon walked over and saw that, instead of the usual targets, there were four scantily dressed women at the end of the gallery, seated upon bullet-scored chairs. They had tiny bulls'-eyes painted on their foreheads and above each breast.

“But do you fire real bullets?” Simon asked.

“Of course!” the manager said. “There's a law against false advertising on Earth. Real bullets and real gals! Step up and knock one off!”

One of the women called out, “Come on, sport! Bet you miss me!”

Another screamed, “He couldn't hit the broad side of a spaceship!”

“Sure he can!” another shouted. “Come on, sport!”

Simon rubbed his forehead and tried not to act surprised. After all, this was Earth, where anything was allowed as long as it was commercially feasible.

He asked, “Are there galleries where you shoot men, too?”

“Of course,” the manager said. “But you ain't no pervert, are you?”

“Certainly not!”

“You an outworlder?”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“The suit. Always tell by the suit.” The fat man closed his eyes and chanted, “Step up, step up and kill a woman! Get rid of a load of repressions! Squeeze the trigger and feel the old anger ooze out of you! Better than a massage! Better than getting drunk! Step up, step up and kill a woman!”

Simon asked one of the girls, “Do you stay dead when they kill you?”

“Don't be stupid,” the girl said.

“But the shock—”

She shrugged her shoulders. “I could do worse.”

Simon was about to ask how she could do worse, when the manager leaned over the counter, speaking confidentially.

“Look, buddy. Look what I got here.”

Simon glanced over the counter and saw a compact submachine gun.

“For a ridiculously low price,” the manager said, “I'll let you use the tommy. You can spray the whole place, shoot down the fixtures, rip up the walls. This drives a .45 slug, buddy, and it kicks like a mule. You really know you're firing when you fire the tommy.”

“I am not interested,” Simon said sternly.

“I've got a grenade or two,” the manager said. “Fragmentation, of course. You could really—”

“No!”

“For a price,” the manager said, “you can shoot me, too, if that's how your tastes run, although I wouldn't have guessed it. What do you say?”

“No! Never! This is horrible!”

The manager looked at him blankly. “Not in the mood now? OK. I'm open twenty-four hours a day. See you later, sport.”

“Never!” Simon said, walking away.

“Be expecting you, lover!” one of the women called after him.

Simon went to a refreshment stand and ordered a small glass of cola-cola. He found that his hands were shaking. With an effort he steadied them, and sipped his drink. He reminded himself that he must not judge Earth by his own standards. If people on Earth enjoyed killing people, and the victims didn't mind being killed, why should anyone object?

Or should they?

He was pondering this when a voice at his elbow said, “Hey, bub.”

Simon turned and saw a wizened, furtive-faced little man in an oversize raincoat standing beside him.

“Out-of-towner?” the little man asked.

“I am,” Simon said. “How did you know?”

“The shoes. I always look at the shoes. How do you like our little planet?”

“It's—confusing,” Simon said carefully. “I mean I didn't expect—well—”

“Of course,” the little man said. “You're an idealist. One look at your honest face tells me that, my friend. You've come to Earth for a definite purpose. Am I right?”