Robert Sheckley - Pilgrimage to Earth

“No! Never! This is horrible!”

The manager looked at him blankly. “Not in the mood now? OK. I'm open twenty-four hours a day. See you later, sport.”

“Never!” Simon said, walking away.

“Be expecting you, lover!” one of the women called after him.

Simon went to the refreshment stand and ordered a small glass of coca-cola. He found that his hands were shaking. With an effort he steadied them, and sipped his drink. He reminded himself that he must not judge Earth by his own standards. If people on Earth enjoyed killing people, and the victims didn't mind being killed, why should anyone object?

Or should they?

He was pondering this when a voice at his elbow said, “Hey, bub.”

Simon turned and saw a wizened, furtive-faced little man in an oversize raincoat standing beside him.

“Out-of-towner?” the little man asked.

“I am,” Simon said. “How did you know?”

“The shoes. I always look at the shoes. How do you like our little planet?”

“It's — confusing,” Simon said carefully. “I mean I didn't expect — well —”

“Of course”, the little man said. “You're an idealist. One look at your honest face tells me that, my friend. You've come to Earth for a definite purpose. Am I right?”

Simon nodded. The little man said, “I know your purpose, my friend. You're looking for a war that will make the world safe from something, and you've come to the right place. We have six major wars running at all times, and there's never any waiting for an important position in any of them.”

“Sorry, but —”

“Right at this moment,” the little man said impressively, “the downtrodden workers of Peru are engaged in a desperate struggle against a corrupt and decadent monarchy. One more man could swing the contest! You, my friend, could be that man! You could guarantee the socialist victory!”

Observing the expression on Simon's face, the little man said quickly, “But there's a lot to be said for an enlightened aristocracy. The wise old king of Peru (a philosopher-king in the deepest Platonic sense of the word) sorely needs your help. His tiny corps of scientists, humanitarians, Swiss guards, knights of the realm and royal peasants is sorely pressed by the foreign-inspired. A single man, you know —”

“I'm not interested,” Simon said.

“In China, the Anarchists —”

“No.”

“Perhaps you'd prefer Communists in Wales? Or the Capitalists in Japan? Or if your affinities lies with a splinter group such as the Feminists, Prohibitionists, Free Silverists or the like, we could probably arrange —”

“I don't want a war,” Simon said.

“Who could blame you?” the little man said, nodding rapidly. “War is hell. In that case, you've come to Earth for love.”

“How did you know?” Simon asked.

The little man smiled modestly. “Love and war,” he said, “are Earth's two staple commodities. We've been turning them both out in bumper crops since the beginning of time.”

“Is love very difficult to find,” Simon asked.

“Walk uptown two blocks,” the little man said briskly. “Can't miss it. Tell'em Joe sent you.”

“But that's impossible! You can't just walk out and —”

“What do you know about love?” Joe asked.

“Nothing.”

“Well, we're experts on it.”

“I know what the books say,” Simon said. “Passion beneath the lunatic moon —”

“Sure, and bodies on a dark sea-beach desperate with love and deafened by the booming surf.”

“You've read that book?”

“It's the standard advertising brochure. I must be going. Two blocks uptown. Can't miss it.”

And with a pleasant nod, Joe moved into the crowd. Simon finished his coca-cola and walked slowly up Broadway, his brow knotted in thought, but determined not to form any premature judgements.

When he reached 44th Street he saw a tremendous neon sign flashing brightly. It said LOVE, INC.

Smaller neon letters read, Open 24 Hours a Day!

Beneath that it read, Up One Flight.

Simon frowned, for a terrible suspicion had just crossed his mind. Still, he climbed the stairs and entered a small, tastefully furnished reception room. From there he was sent down a long corridor to a numbered room.

Within the room was a handsome gray-haired man who rose from behind an impressive desk and shook his hand, saying, “Well! How are things on Kazanga?”

“How did you know I was from Kazanga?”

“That shirt. I always look at the shirt. I'm Mr. Tate, and I'm here to serve you to the best of my ability. You are —”

“Simon, Alfred Simon.”

“Please be seated, Mr. Simon. Cigarette? Drink? You won't regret coming to us, sir. We're the oldest love-dispensing firm in the business, and much larger than our closest competitor, Passion Unlimited. Moreover, our fees are far more reasonable, and bring you an improved product. Might I ask how you heard of us? Did you see our full page ad in the Times? Or —”

“Joe sent me,” Simon said.

“Ah, he's an active one,” Mr. Tate said, shaking his head playfully. “Well, sir, there's no reason to delay. You've come a long way for love, and love you shall have.” He reached for a button on his desk, but Simon stopped him.

Simon said, “I don't mean to be rude or anything, but…”

“Yes?” Mr. Tate said, with an encouraging smile.

“I don't understand this,” Simon blurted out, flushing deeply, beads of perspiration standing out on his forehead. “I think I'm in the wrong place. I didn't come all the way to Earth just for … I mean, you can't really sell love, can you? Not love! I mean, then it isn't really love, is it?”

“But of course!” Mr. Tate said, half rising from his chair in astonishment. “That's the whole point! Anyone can buy sex. Good lord, it's the cheapest thing in the universe, next to human life. But love is rare, love is special, love is found only on Earth. Have you read our brochure?”

“Bodies on a dark sea-beach?” Simon asked.

“Yes, that one. I wrote it. Gives something of the feeling, doesn't it? You can't get that feeling from just anyone, Mr. Simon. You can get that feeling only from someone who loves you.”

Simon said dubiously, “It's not genuine love, though is it?”

“Of course it is! If we were selling simulated love, we'd label it as such. The advertising laws on Earth are strict, I can assure you. Anything can be sold, but it must be labelled properly, That's ethics, Mr. Simon!”

Tate caught his breath, and continued in a calmer tone. “No, sir, make no mistake, our product is not a substitute. It is the exact self-same feeling that poets and writers have raved about for thousands of years. Through the wonders of modern science we can bring this feeling to you at your convenience, attractively packaged, completely disposable, and for a ridiculously low price.”

Simon said, “I pictured something more — spontaneous.”

“Spontaneity has its charm,” Mr. Tate agreed. “Our research labs are working on it. Believe me, there's nothing science can't produce, as long as there's a market for it.”

“I don't like any of this,” Simon said, getting to his feet. “I think I'll just go see a movie.”

“Wait!” Mr. Tate cried. “You think we're trying to put something over on you. You think we'll introduce you to a girl who will act as though she loved you, but who in reality will not. Is that it?”

“I guess so,” Simon said.

“But it just isn't so! It would be too costly for one thing. For another, the wear and tear on the girl would be tremendous. And it would be psychologically unsound for her to attempt living a lie of such depth and scope.”

“Then how do you do it?”