Robert Sheckley: A Ticket to Tranai

He pushed a large red button on his desk. Immediately there was a bluish haze. The haze solidified, and in a moment Goodman saw a handsome young woman standing before him.

“Good morning, my dear,” she said to Melith.

“It’s afternoon,” Melith informed her. “My dear, this young man came all the way from Earth to live on Tranai. I gave him the usual advice. Is there anything else we can do for him?”

Mrs. Melith thought for a moment, then asked Goodman, “Are you married?”

“No, ma’am,” Goodman answered.

“In that case, he should meet a nice girl,” Mrs. Melith told her husband. “Bachelordom is not encouraged on Tranai, although certainly not prohibited. Let me see… How about that cute Driganti girl?”

“She’s engaged,” Melith said.

“Really? Have I been in stasis that long? My dear, it’s not too thoughtful of you.”

“I was busy,” Melith said apologetically.

“How about Mihna Vensis?”

“Not his type.”

“Janna Vley?”

“Perfect!” Melith winked at Goodman. “A most attractive little lady.” He found a new pen in his desk, scribbled an address and handed it to Goodman. “My wife will telephone her to be expecting you tomorrow evening.”

“And do come around for dinner some night,” said Mrs. Melith.

“Delighted,” Goodman replied, in a complete daze.

“It’s been nice meeting you,” Mrs. Melith said. Her husband pushed the red button. The blue haze formed and Mrs. Melith vanished.

“Have to close up now,” said Melith, glancing at his watch. “Can’t work overtime — people might start talking.. Drop in some day and we’ll make out those forms. You really should call on Supreme President Borg, too, at the National Mansion. Or possibly he’ll call on you. Don’t let the old fox put anything over on you. And don’t forget about Janna.” He winked roguishly and escorted Goodman to the door.

In a few moments, Goodman found himself alone on the sidewalk. He had reached Utopia, he told himself, a real, genuine, sure-enough Utopia.

But there were some very puzzling things about it

Goodman ate dinner at a small restaurant and checked in at a nearby hotel. A cheerful bellhop showed him to his room, where Goodman stretched out immediately on the bed. Wearily he rubbed his eyes, trying to sort out his impressions.

So much had happened to him, all in one day! And so much was bothering him. The ratio of men to women, for example. He had meant to ask Melith about that.

But Melith might not be the man to ask, for there were some curious things about him. Like throwing his pen against the wall. Was that the act of a mature, responsible official? And Melith’s wife.

Goodman knew that Mrs. Melith had come out of a derrsin stasis field; he had recognized the characteristic blue haze. The derrsin was used on Terra, too. Sometimes there were good medical reasons for suspending all activity, all growth, all decay. Suppose a patient had a desperate need for a certain serum, procurable only on Mars. Simply project the person into stasis until the serum could arrive.

But on Terra, only a licensed doctor could operate the field. There were strict penalties for its misuse.

He had never heard of keeping one’s wife in one.

Still, if all the wives on Tranai were kept in stasis, that would explain the absence of the nineteen-to-thirty-five age group and would account for the ten-to-one ratio of men to women.

But what was the reason for this technological purdah?

And something else was on Goodman’s mind, something quite insignificant, but bothersome all the same.

That rifle on Melith’s wall.

Did he hunt game with it? Pretty big game, then. Target practice? Not with a telescopic sight. Why the silencer? Why did he keep it in his office?

But these were minor matters, Goodman decided, little local idiosyncrasies which would become clear when he had lived a while on Tranai. He couldn’t expect immediate and complete comprehension of what was, after all, an alien planet.

He was just beginning to doze off when he heard a knock at his door.

“Come in,” he called.

A small, furtive, gray-faced man hurried in and closed the door behind him. “You’re the man from Terra, aren’t you?”

“That’s right.”

“I figured you’d come here,” the little man said, with a pleased smile. “Hit it right the first time. Going to stay on Tranai?”

“I’m here for good.”

“Fine,” the man said. “How would you like to become Supreme President?”

“Huh?”

“Good pay, easy hours, only a one-year term. You look like a public-spirited type,” the man said sunnily. “How about it?”

Goodman hardly knew what to answer. “Do you mean,” he asked incredulously, “that you offer the highest office in the land so casually?”

“What do you mean, casually?” the little man spluttered. “Do you think we offer the Supreme Presidency to just anybody? It’s a great honor to be asked.”

“I didn’t mean…”

“And you, as a Terran, are uniquely suited.”

“Why?”

“Well, it’s common knowledge that Terrans derive pleasure from ruling. We Tranians don’t, that’s all. Too much trouble.”

As simple as that. The reformer blood in Goodman began to boil. Ideal as Tranai was, there was undoubtedly room for improvement. He had a sudden vision of himself as ruler of Utopia, doing the great task of making perfection even better. But caution stopped him from agreeing at once. Perhaps the man was a crackpot.

“Thank you for asking me,” Goodman said. “I’ll have to think it over. Perhaps I should talk with the present incumbent and find out something about the nature of the work.”

“Well, why do you think I’m here?” the little man demanded. “I’m Supreme President Borg.”

Only then did Goodman notice the official medallion around the little man’s neck.

“Let me know your decision. I’ll be at the National Mansion.” He shook Goodman’s hand, and left.

Goodman waited five minutes, then rang for the bellhop. “Who was that man?”

“That was Supreme President Borg,” the bellhop told him. “Did you take the job?”

Goodman shook his head slowly. He suddenly realized that he had a great deal to learn about Tranai.

The next morning, Goodman listed the various robot factories of Port Tranai in alphabetical order and went out in search of a job. To his amazement, he found one with no trouble at all, at the very first place he looked. The great Abbag Home Robot Works signed him on after only a cursory glance at his credentials.

His new employer, Mr. Abbag, was short and fierce-looking, with a great mane of white hair and an air of tremendous personal energy.

“Glad to have a Terran on board,” Abbag said. “I understand you’re an ingenious people and we certainly need some ingenuity around here. I’ll be honest with you, Goodman — I’m hoping to profit by your alien viewpoint. We’ve reached an impasse.”

“Is it a production problem?” Goodman asked.

“I’ll show you.” Abbag led Goodman through the factory, around the Stamping Room, Heat-Treat, X-ray Analysis, Final Assembly and to the Testing Room. This room was laid out like a combination kitchen-living room. A dozen robots’ were lined up against one wall.

“Try one out,” Abbag said.

Goodman walked up to the nearest robot and looked at its controls. They were simple enough; self-explanatory, in fact. He put the machine through a standard repertoire: picking up objects, washing pots and pans, setting a table. The robot’s responses were correct enough, but maddeningly slow. On Earth, such sluggishness had been ironed out a hundred years ago. Apparently they were behind the times here on Tranai.