Robert Sheckley: A Ticket to Tranai

Finally, very gently, he asked, “Why don’t you go back, Captain?”

The old man shook his head. “Space gout. I’m grounded for good. We didn’t know much about modern medicine in those days. All I’m good for now is a landsman’s job.”

“What job do you have?”

“I’m a foreman for the Seakirk Construction Corporation,” the old man sighed. “Me, that once commanded a fifty-tube clipper. The way those people make concrete… Shall we have another short one in honor of beautiful Tranai?”

They had several short ones. When Goodman left the bar, his mind was made up. Somewhere in the Universe, the modus vivendi had been found, the working solution to Man’s old dream of perfection.

He could settle for nothing less.

The next day, he quit his job as designer at the East Coast Robot Works and drew his life savings out of the bank.

He was going to Tranai.

He boarded the Constellation Queen for Legis II and took the Galactic Splendor to Oume. After stopping at Machang, Inchang, Pankang, Lekung and Oyster — dreary little places — he reached Tung-Bradar IV. Without incident, he passed the Galactic Whirl and finally reached Bellismoranti, where the influence of Terra ended.

For an exorbitant fee, a local spaceline took him to Dvasta II. From there, a freighter transported him past Seves, Olgo and Mi, to the double planet Mvanti. There he was bogged down for three months and used the time to take a hypno-pedic course in the Tranaian language. At last he hired a bush pilot to take him to Ding.

On Ding, he was arrested as a Higastomeritreian spy, but managed to escape in the cargo of an ore rocket bound for g’Moree. At g’Moree, he was treated for frostbite, heat poisoning and superficial radiation burns, and at last arranged passage to Tranai.

He could hardly believe it when the ship slipped past the moons Doe and Ri, to land at Port Tranai.

After the airlocks opened, Goodman found himself in a state of profound depression. Part of it was plain letdown, inevitable after a journey such as his. But more than that, he was suddenly terrified that Tranai might turn out to be a fraud.

He had crossed the Galaxy on the basis of an old spaceman’s yarn. But now it all seemed less likely. Eldorado was a more probable place than the Tranai he expected to find.

He disembarked. Port Tranai seemed a pleasant enough town. The streets were filled with people and the shops were piled high with goods. The men he passed looked much like humans anywhere. The women were quite attractive.

But there was something strange here, something subtly yet definitely wrong, something alien. It took a moment before he could puzzle it out.

Then he realized that there were at least ten men for every woman in sight. And stranger still, practically all the women he saw apparently were under eighteen or over thirty-five.

What had happened to the nineteen-to-thirty-five age group? Was there a taboo on their appearing in public? Had a plague struck them?

He would just have to wait and find out.

He went to the Idrig Building, where all Tranai’s governmental functions were carried out, and presented himself at the office of the Extraterrestrials Minister. He was admitted at once.

The office was small and cluttered, with strange blue blotches on the wallpaper. What struck Goodman at once was a high-powered rifle complete with silencer and telescopic sight, hanging ominously from one wall. He had no time to speculate on this, for the minister bounded out of his chair and vigorously shook Goodman’s hand.

The minister was a stout, jolly man of about fifty. Around his neck he wore a small medallion stamped with the Tranian seal — a bolt of lightning splitting an ear of corn. Goodman assumed, correctly, that this was an official seal of office.

“Welcome to Tranai,” the minister said heartily. He pushed a pile of papers from a chair and motioned Goodman to sit down.

“Mister Minister…” Goodman began, in formal Tranian.

“Den Melith is the name. Call me Den. We’re all quite informal around here. Put your feet up on the desk and make yourself at home. Cigar?”

“No, thank you,” Goodman said, somewhat taken back. “Mister — ah — Den, I have come from Terra, a planet you may have heard of.”

“Sure I have,” said Melith. “Nervous, hustling sort of place, isn’t it? No offense intended, of course.”

“Of course. That’s exactly how I feel about it. The reason I came here…” Goodman hesitated, hoping he wouldn’t sound too ridiculous. “Well, I heard certain stories about Tranai. Thinking them over now, they seem preposterous. But if you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you…”

“Ask anything,” Melith said expansively. “You’ll get a straight answer.”

“Thank you. I heard that there has been no war of any sort on Tranai for four hundred years.”

“Six hundred,” Melith corrected. “And none in sight.”

“Someone told me that there is no crime on Tranai.”

“None whatsoever.”

“And therefore no police force or courts, no judges, sheriffs, marshals, executioners, truant officers or government investigators. No prisons, reformatories or other places of detention.”

“We have no need of them,” Melith explained, “since we have no crime.”

“I have heard,” said Goodman, “that there is no poverty on Tranai.”

“None that I ever heard of,” Melith said cheerfully. “Are you sure you won’t have a cigar?”

“No, thank you,” Goodman was leaning forward eagerly now. “I understand that you have achieved a stable economy without resorting to socialistic, communistic, fascistic or bureaucratic practices.”

“Certainly,” Melith said.

“That yours is, in fact, a free enterprise society, where individual initiative flourishes and governmental functions are kept to an absolute minimum.”

Melith nodded. “By and large, the government concerns itself with minor regulatory matters, care of the aged and beautifying the landscape.”

“Is it true that you have discovered a method of wealth distribution without resorting to governmental intervention, without even taxation, based entirely upon individual choice?” Goodman challenged.

“Oh, yes, absolutely.”

“Is it true that there is no corruption in any phase of the Tranaian government?”

“None,” Melith said. “I suppose that’s why we have a hard time finding men to hold public office.”

“Then Captain Savage was right!” Goodman cried, unable to control himself any longer. “This is Utopia!”

“We like it,” Melith said.

Goodman took a deep breath and asked, “May I stay here?”

“Why not?” Melith pulled out a form. “We have no restrictions on immigration. Tell me, what is your occupation?”

“On Earth, I was a robot designer.”

“Plenty of openings in that.” Melith started to fill in the form. His pen emitted a blob of ink. Casually, the minister threw the pen against the wall, where it shattered, adding another blue blotch to the wallpaper.

“We’ll make out the paper some other time,” he said. “I’m not in the mood now.” He leaned back in his chair. “Let me give you a word of advice. Here on Tranai, we feel that we have come pretty close to Utopia, as you call it. But ours is not a highly organized state. We have no complicated set of laws. We live by observance of a number of unwritten laws, or customs, as you might call them. You will discover what they are. You would be advised — although certainly not ordered — to follow them.”

“Of course I will,” Goodman exclaimed. “I can assure you, sir, I have no intention of endangering any phase of your paradise.”

“Oh, I wasn’t worried about us,” Melith said with an amused smile. “It was your own safety I was considering. Perhaps my wife has some further advice for you.”