Robert Sheckley: A Ticket to Tranai

Goodman stepped in front of him, snarling, “Hold it, buddy.”

The Tranaian stopped and looked at Goodman’s blaster. “Hmmm. Using a wide-aperture Drog 3, eh? Rather an old-fashioned weapon. How do you like it?”

“It’s fine,” Goodman said. “Hand over your…”

“Slow trigger action, though,” the Tranaian mused. “Personally, I recommend a Mils-Sleeven needler. As it happens, I’m a sales representative for Sleeven Arms. I could get you a very good price on a trade-in…”

“Hand over your money,” Goodman barked.

The portly Tranaian smiled. “The basic defect of your Drog 3 is the fact that it won’t fire at all unless you release the safety lock.” He reached out and slapped the gun out of Goodman’s hand. “You see? You couldn’t have done a thing about it.” He started to walk away.

Goodman scooped up the blaster, found the safety lock, released it and hurried after the Tranaian.

“Stick up your hands,” Goodman ordered, beginning to feel slightly desperate.

“No, no, my good man,” the Tranaian said, not even looking back. “Only one try to a customer. Mustn’t break the unwritten law, you know.”

Goodman stood and watched until the man turned a corner and was gone. He checked the Drog 3 carefully and made sure that all safeties were off. Then he resumed his post.

After an hour’s wait, he heard footsteps again. He tightened his grip on the blaster. This time he was going to rob and nothing was going to stop him.

“Okay, buddy,” he said, “hands up!”

The victim this time was a short, stocky Tranaian, dressed in old workman’s clothes. He gaped at the gun in Goodman’s hand.

“Don’t shoot, mister,” the Tranaian pleaded.

That was more like it! Goodman felt a glow of deep satisfaction.

“Just don’t move,” he warned. “I’ve got all safeties off.”

“I can see that,” the stocky man said cringing. “Be careful with that cannon, mister. I ain’t moving a hair.”

“You’d better not. Hand over your money.”

“Money?”

“Yes; your money, and be quick about it.”

“I don’t have any money,” the man whined. “Mister, I’m a poor man. I’m poverty-stricken.”

“There is no poverty on Tranai,” Goodman said sententiously.

“I know. But you can get so close to it, you wouldn’t know the difference. Give me a break, mister.”

“Haven’t you any initiative?” Goodman asked. “If you’re poor, why don’t you go out and rob like everybody else?”

“I just haven’t had a chance. First the kid got the whooping cough and I was up every night with her. Then the derrsin broke down, so I had the wife yakking at me all day long. I say there oughta be a spare derrsin in every house! So she decided to clean the place while the derrsin generator was being fixed and she put my blaster somewhere and she can’t remember where. So I was all set to borrow a friend’s blaster when…”

“That’s enough,” Goodman said. “This is a robbery and I’m going to rob you of something. Hand over your wallet.”

The man snuffled miserably and gave Goodman a worn billfold. Inside it, Goodman found one deeglo, the equivalent of a Terran dollar.

“It’s all I got,” the man snuffled miserably, “but you’re welcome to it. I know how it is, standing on a drafty street corner all night…”

“Keep it,” Goodman said, handing the billfold back to the man and walking off.

“Gee, thanks, mister!”

Goodman didn’t answer. Disconsolately, he returned to the Kitty Kat Bar and gave back the bartender’s blaster and mask. When he explained what had happened, the bartender burst into rude laughter.

“Didn’t have any money! Man, that’s the oldest trick in the books. Everybody carries a fake wallet for robberies — sometimes two or even three. Did you search him?”

“No,” Goodman confessed.

“Brother, are you a greenhorn!”

“I guess I am. Look, I really will pay you for those drinks as soon as I can make some money.”

“Sure, sure,” the bartender said. “You better go home and get some sleep. You had a busy night.”

Goodman agreed. Wearily he returned to his hotel room and was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

He reported at the Abbag Home Robot Works and manfully grappled with the problem of disimproving automata. Even in unhuman work such as this, Terran ingenuity began to tell.

Goodman began to develop a new plastic for the robot’s case. It was a silicone, a relative of the “silly putty” that had appeared on Earth a long while back. It had the desired properties of toughness, resiliency and long wear; it would stand a lot of abuse, too. But the case would shatter immediately and with spectacular effect upon receiving a kick delivered with an impact of thirty pounds or more.

His employer praised him for this development, gave him a bonus (which he sorely needed), and told him to keep working on the idea and, if possible, to bring the needed impact down to twenty-three pounds. This, the research department told them, was the average frustration kick.

He was kept so busy that he had practically no time to explore further the mores and folkways of Tranai. He did manage to see the Citizen’s Booth. This uniquely Tranaian institution was housed in a small building on a quiet back street.

Upon entering, he was confronted by a large board, upon which was listed the names of the present officeholders of Tranai, and their titles. Beside each name was a button. The attendant told Goodman that, by pressing a button, a citizen expressed his disapproval of that official’s acts. The pressed button was automatically registered in History Hall and was a permanent mark against the officeholder.

No minors were allowed to press the buttons, of course. Goodman considered this somewhat ineffectual; but perhaps, he told himself, officials on Tranai were differently motivated from those on Earth.

He saw Janna almost every evening and together they explored the many cultural aspects of Tranai: the cocktail lounges and movies, the concert halls, the art exhibitions, the science museum, the fairs and festivals. Goodman carried a blaster and, after several unsuccessful attempts, robbed a merchant of nearly five hundred deeglo.

Janna was ecstatic over the achievement, as any sensible Tranaian girl would be, and they celebrated at the Kitty Kat Bar. Janna’s parents agreed that Goodman seemed to be a good provider.

The following night, the five hundred deeglo — plus some of Goodman’s bonus money — was robbed back, by a man of approximately the size and build of the bartender at the Kitty Kat, carrying an ancient Drog 3 blaster.

Goodman consoled himself with the thought that the money was circulating freely, as the system had intended.

Then he had another triumph. One day at the Abbag Home Robot Works, he discovered a completely new process for making a robot’s case. It was a special plastic, impervious even to serious bumps and falls. The robot owner had to wear special shoes, with a catalytic agent imbedded in the heels. When he kicked the robot, the catalyst came in contact with the plastic case, with immediate and gratifying effect.

Abbag was a little uncertain at first; it seemed too gimmicky. But the thing caught on like wildfire and the Home Robot Works went into the shoe business as a subsidiary, I selling at least one pair with every robot.

This horizontal industrial development was very gratifying to the plant’s stockholders and was really more important than the original catalyst-plastic discovery. Goodman received a substantial raise in pay and a generous bonus.

On the crest of his triumphant wave, he proposed to Janna and was instantly accepted. Her parents favored the match; all that remained was to obtain official sanction from the government, since Goodman was still technically an alien.