Robert Silverberg - Starman's Quest

“They can’t see it, Alan. All they can see is that you have the stars and they don’t. They resent it.”

Alan shrugged. “Let them go to space, then, if they don’t like it here. No one’s stopping them.”

They walked on silently for a while. Alan continued to revolve the incident in his mind. He realized he had a lot to learn about people, particularly Earther people. He could handle himself pretty well aboard ship, but down on Earth he was a rank greenhorn and he’d have to step carefully.

He looked gloomily at the maze of streets before him and half-wished he had stayed in the Enclave, where starmen belonged. But somewhere out ahead of him was Steve. And somewhere, too, he might find the answer to the big problem, that of finding the hyperspace drive.

But it was a tall order. And he had no idea where to begin. First thing to do, he thought, is find someone halfway friendly-looking and ask if there’s a central directory of citizens. Track down Steve, if possible. Time’s running out. The Valhalla pulls out in a couple of days.

There were plenty of passersby—but they all looked like the kind that would keep on moving without answering his question. He stopped.

“ Come right in here! ” a cold metallic voice rasped, almost back of his ear. Startled, Alan looked leftward and saw a gleaming multiform robot standing in front of what looked like a shop of some sort.

“Come right in here!” the robot repeated, a little less forcefully now that it had caught Alan’s attention. “One credit can win you ten; five can get you a hundred. Right in here, friend.”

Alan stepped closer and peered inside. Through the dim dark blue window he could vaguely make out long rows of tables, with men seated before each one. From inside came the hard sound of another robot voice, calling off an endless string of numbers.

“Don’t just stand there staring, friend,” the robot urged. “Go right on through the door.”

Alan nudged Rat quizzically. “What is it?”

“I’m a stranger here too. But I’d guess it was some sort of gambling place.”

Alan jingled the few coins he had in his pocket. “If we had time I’d like to stop off. But—”

“Go ahead, friend, go ahead,” the robot crooned, his metallic tones somehow managing to sound almost human in their urgent pleading. “Go on in. One credit can win you ten. Five can get you a hundred.”

“Some other time,” Alan said.

“But, friend—one credit can win you—”

“I know.”

“—ten,” the robot continued, undismayed. “Five can get you a hundred.” By this time the robot had edged out into the street, blocking Alan’s path.

“Are we going to have trouble with you too? It looks like everybody in this city is trying to sell something.”

The robot pointed invitingly toward the door. “Why not try it?” it cooed. “Simplest game ever devised. Everybody wins! Go on in, friend.”

Alan frowned impatiently. He was getting angrier and angrier at the robot’s unceasing sales pitch. Aboard ship, no one coaxed you to do anything; if it was an assigned job, you did it without arguing, and if you were on free time you were your own master.

“I don’t want to play your stupid game!”

The robot’s blank stainless vanadium face showed no display of feeling whatsoever. “That’s not the right attitude, friend. Everyone plays the game.”

Ignoring him, Alan started to walk ahead, but the robot skipped lithely around to block him. “Won’t you go in just once?”

“Look,” Alan said. “I’m a free citizen and I don’t want to be subjected to this sort of stuff. Now get out of my way and leave me alone before I take a can opener to you.”

“That’s not the right attitude. I’m just asking you as a friend—”

“And I’m answering you as one. Let me go!”

“Calm down,” Rat whispered.

“They’ve got no business putting a machine out here to bother people like this,” Alan said hotly. He took a few more steps and the robot plucked at his sleeve.

“Is that a final refusal?” A trace of incredulity crept into the robot’s voice. “Everyone plays the game, you know. It’s unconsumerlike to refuse. It’s uncitylike. It’s bad business. It’s unrotational. It’s—”

Exasperated, Alan pushed the robot out of the way—hard. The metal creature went over surprisingly easily, and thudded to the pavement with a dull clanking sound.

“Are you sure—” the robot began, and then the voice was replaced by the humming sound of an internal clashing of unaligned gears.

“I guess I broke it.” Alan looked down at the supine robot. “But it wasn’t my fault. It wouldn’t let me pass.”

“We’d better move on,” Rat said. But it was too late. A burly man in a black cloak threw open the door of the gambling parlor and confronted Alan.

“What sort of stuff is this, fellow? What have you done to our servo?”

“That thing wouldn’t let me pass. It caught hold of me and tried to drag me inside your place.”

“So what? That’s what he’s for. Robohucksters are perfectly legal.” Disbelief stood out on the man’s face. “You mean you don’t want to go in?”

“That has nothing to do with it. Even if I did want to go in, I wouldn’t—not after the way your robot tried to push me.”

“Watch out, kid. Don’t make trouble. That’s unrotational talk. You can get in trouble. Come on inside and have a game or two, and I’ll forget the whole thing. I won’t even bill you for repairs on my servo.”

“Bill me? I ought to sue you for obstructing the streets! And I just got through telling your robot that I didn’t plan to waste any time gambling at your place.”

The other’s lips curled into a half-sneer, half-grin. “Why not?”

“My business,” Alan said stubbornly. “Leave me alone.” He stalked angrily away, inwardly raging at this Earther city where things like this could happen.

“Don’t ever let me catch you around here again!” the parlor man shouted after him. Alan lost himself once again in the crowd, but not before he caught the final words: “You filthy spacer!”

Filthy spacer. Alan winced. Again the blind, unreasoning hatred of the unhappy starmen. The Earthers were jealous of something they certainly wouldn’t want if they could experience the suffering involved.

Suddenly, he realized he was very tired.

He had been walking over an hour, and he was not used to it. The Valhalla was a big ship, but you could go from end to end in less than an hour, and very rarely did you stay on your feet under full grav for long as an hour. Working grav was .93 Earth-normal, and that odd .07% made quite a difference. Alan glanced down at his boots, mentally picturing his sagging arches.

He had to find someone who could give him a clue toward Steve. For all he knew, one of the men he had brushed against that day was Steve—a Steve grown older and unrecognizable in what had been, to Alan, a few short weeks.

Around the corner he saw a park—just a tiny patch of greenery, two or three stunted trees and a bench, but it was a genuine park. It looked almost forlorn surrounded by the giant skyscrapers.

There was a man on the bench—the first relaxed-looking man Alan had seen in the city so far. He was about thirty or thirty-five, dressed in a baggy green business suit with tarnished brass studs. His face was pleasantly ugly—nose a little too long, cheeks hollow, chin a bit too apparent. And he was smiling. He looked friendly.

“Excuse me, sir,” Alan said, sitting down next to him. “I’m a stranger here. I wonder if you—”

Suddenly a familiar voice shouted, “There he is!”

Alan turned and saw the little fruit vender pointing accusingly at him. Behind him were three men in the silver-gray police uniforms. “That’s the man who wouldn’t buy from me. He’s an unrotationist! Damn Spacer!”