Robert Sheckley: A Ticket to Tranai

“Yes, I suppose it is,” Goodman replied.

“Well, you’ll like it here. We know how to live. It’s all a matter of…”

There was a rustle of skirts on the stairs. Goodman got to his feet.

“Mr. Goodman, this is our daughter Janna,” Mrs. Vley said.

Goodman noted at once that Janna’s hair was the exact color of the supernova in Circe, her eyes were that deep, unbelievable blue of the autumn sky over Algo II, her lips were the tender pink of a Scarsclott-Turner jet stream, her nose —

But he had run out of astronomical comparisons, which weren’t suitable anyhow. Janna was a slender and amazingly pretty blond girl and Goodman was suddenly very glad he had crossed the Galaxy and come to Tranai.

“Have a good time, children,” Mrs. Vley said.

“Don’t come in too late,” Mr. Vley told Janna.

Exactly as parents said on Earth to their children.

There was nothing exotic about the date. They went to an inexpensive night club, danced, drank a little, talked a lot.

Goodman was amazed at their immediate rapport. Janna agreed with everything he said. It was refreshing to find intelligence in so pretty a girl.

She was impressed, almost overwhelmed, by the dangers he had faced in crossing the Galaxy. She had always known that Terrans were adventurous (though nervous) types, but the risks Goodman had taken passed all understanding.

She shuddered when he spoke of the deadly Galactic Whirl and listened wide-eyed to his tales of running the notorious Swayback Gantlet, past the bloodthirsty Scarbies who were still cutting up along Star Ridge and infesting the hell holes of Prodengum. As Goodman put it, Terrans were iron men in steel ships, exploring the edges of the Great Nothing.

Janna didn’t even speak until Goodman told of paying five hundred Terran dollars for a glass of beer at Moll Gann’s Red Rooster Inn on Asteroid 342-AA.

“You must have been very thirsty,” she said thoughtfully.

“Not particularly,” Goodman said. “Money just didn’t mean much out there.”

“Oh. But wouldn’t it have been better to have saved it? I mean someday you might have a wife and children…” She blushed.

Goodman said coolly, “Well, that part of my life is over. I’m going to marry and settle down right here on Tranai.”

“How nice!” she cried.

It was a most successful evening.

Goodman returned Janna to her home at a respectable hour and arranged a date for the following evening. Made bold by his own tales, he kissed her on the cheek. She didn’t really seem to mind, but Goodman didn’t try to press his advantage.

“Till tomorrow then,” she said, smiled at him, and closed the door.

He walked away feeling light-headed. Janna! Janna! Was it conceivable that he was in love already? Why not? Love at first sight was a proven psycho-physiological possibility and, as such, was perfectly respectable. Love in Utopia! How wonderful it was that here, upon a perfect planet, he had found the perfect girl!

A man stepped out of the shadows and blocked his path. Goodman noted that he was wearing a black silk mask which covered everything except his eyes. He was carrying a large and powerful-looking blaster, and it was pointed steadily at Goodman’s stomach.

“Okay, buddy,” the man said, “gimme all your money.”

“What?” Goodman gasped.

“You heard me. Your money. Hand it over.”

“You can’t do this,” Goodman said, too startled to think coherently. “There’s no crime on Tranai!”

“Who said there was?” the man asked quietly. “I’m merely asking you for your money. Are you going to hand it over peacefully or do I have to club it out of you?”

“You can’t get away with this! Crime does not pay!”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” the man said. He hefted the heavy blaster.

“All right. Don’t get excited.” Goodman pulled out his billfold, which contained all he had in the world, and gave its contents to the masked man.

The man counted it, and he seemed impressed. “Better than I expected. Thanks, buddy. Take it easy now.”

He hurried away down a dark street.

Goodman looked wildly around for a policeman, until he remembered that there were no police on Tranai. He saw a small cocktail lounge on the corner with a neon sign saying Kitty Kat Bar. He hurried into it.

Inside, there was only a bartender, somberly wiping glasses.

“I’ve been robbed!” Goodman shouted at him.

“So?” the bartender said, not even looking up.

“But I thought there wasn’t any crime on Tranai.”

“There isn’t.”

“But I was robbed.”

“You must be new here,” the bartender said, finally looking at him.

“I just came in from Terra.”

“Terra? Nervous, hustling sort of…”

“Yes, yes,” Goodman said. He was getting a little tired of that stereotype. “But how can there be no crime on Tranai if I was robbed?”

“That should be obvious. On Tranai, robbery is no crime.”

“But robbery is always a crime!”

“What color mask was he wearing?”

Goodman thought for a moment. “Black. Black silk.”

The bartender nodded. “Then he was a government tax collector.”

“That’s a ridiculous way to collect taxes,” Goodman snapped.

The bartender set a Tranai Special in front of Goodman. “Try to see this in terms of the general welfare. The government has to have some money. By collecting it this way, we can avoid the necessity of an income tax, with all its complicated legal and legislative apparatus. And in terms of mental health, it’s far better to extract money in a short, quick, painless operation than to permit the citizen to worry all year long about paying at a specific date.”

Goodman downed his drink and the bartender set up another.

“But,” Goodman said, “I thought this was a society based upon the concepts of free will and individual initiative.”

“It is,” the bartender told him. “Then surely the government, what little there is of it, has the same right to free will as any private citizen, hasn’t it?”

Goodman couldn’t quite figure that out, so he finished his second drink. “Could I have another of those? I’ll pay you as soon as I can.”

“Sure, sure,” the bartender said good-naturedly, pouring another drink and one for himself.

Goodman said, “You asked me what color his mask was. Why?”

“Black is the government mask color. Private citizens wear white masks.”

“You mean that private citizens commit robbery also?”

“Well, certainly! That’s our method of wealth distribution. Money is equalized without government intervention, without even taxation, entirely in terms of individual initiative.” The bartender nodded emphatically. “And it works perfectly, too. Robbery is a great leveler, you know.”

“I suppose it is,” Goodman admitted, finishing his third drink. “If I understand correctly, then, any citizen can pack a blaster, put on a mask, and go out and rob.”

“Exactly,” the bartender said. “Within limits, of course.”

Goodman snorted. “If that’s how it works, I can play that way. Could you loan me a mask? And a gun?”

The bartender reached under the bar. “Be sure to return them, though. Family heirlooms.”

“I’ll return them,” Goodman promised. “And when I come back, I’ll pay for my drinks.”

He slipped the blaster into his belt, donned the mask and left the bar. If this was how things worked on Tranai, he could adjust all right. Rob him, would they? He’d rob them right back and then some!

He found a suitably dark street corner and huddled in the shadows, waiting. Presently he heard footsteps and, peering around the corner, saw a portly, well-dressed Tranaian hurrying down the street.