Is That What People Do? (21 page)

They coalesced! Energy flared, and the battle was joined.

Six minutes, human time. Hours for the electronically fast chess player. He checked his pieces for an instant, deducing the pattern of attack.

There was no pattern!

Half of the opposing chess player’s pieces shot out into space, completely out of the battle. Whole flanks advanced, split, rejoined, wrenched forward, dissolved their formation, formed it again.

No pattern? There
had
to be a pattern. The chess player knew that everything had a pattern. It was just a question of finding it, of taking the moves already made and extrapolating to determine what the end was supposed to be.

The end was—chaos!

The dots swept in and out, shot away at right angles to the battle, checked and returned, meaninglessly.

What did it mean, the chess player asked himself with the calmness of metal. He waited for a recognizable configuration to emerge.

Watching dispassionately as his pieces were swept off the board.

“I’m letting you out of your room now,” Ellsner called, “but don’t try to stop me. I think I’ve won your battle.”

The lock released. The two officers ran down the corridor to the bridge, determined to break Ellsner into little pieces.

Inside, they slowed down.

The screen showed the great mass of Earth dots sweeping over a scattering of enemy dots.

What stopped them, however, was Nielson, laughing, his hands sweeping over switches and buttons on the great master control board.

The CPC was droning the losses. “Earth—eighteen percent. Enemy—eighty-three. Eighty-four. Eighty-six. Earth, nineteen percent.”

“Mate!” Ellsner shouted. He stood beside Nielson, a Stillson wrench clenched in his hand. “Lack of pattern. I gave their CPC something it couldn’t handle. An attack with no apparent pattern. Meaningless configurations!”

“But what are they doing?” Branch asked, gesturing at the dwindling enemy dots.

“Still relying on their chess player,” Ellsner said. “Still waiting for him to dope out the attack pattern in this madman’s mind. Too much faith in machines, general. This man doesn’t even know he’s precipitating an attack.”

...And push three that’s for dad on the olive tree I always wanted to two two two Danbury fair with buckle shoe brown all brown buttons down and in, sin, eight red for sin—

“What’s the wrench for?” Margraves asked.

“That?” Ellsner weighed it in his hand. “That’s to turn off Nielson here, after the attack.”

...And five and love and black, all blacks, fair buttons in I remember when I was very young at all push five and there on the grass ouch—

PILGRIMAGE TO EARTH

Alfred Simon was born on Kazanga IV, a small agricultural planet near Arcturus, and there he drove a combine through the wheat fields, and in the long, hushed evenings listened to the recorded love songs of Earth.

Life was pleasant enough on Kazanga, and the girls were buxom, jolly, frank and acquiescent, good companions for a hike through the hills or a swim in the brook, staunch mates for life. But romantic—never! There was good fun to be had on Kazanga, in a cheerful open manner. But there was no more than fun.

Simon felt that something was missing in this bland existence. One day, he discovered what it was.

A vendor came to Kazanga in a battered spaceship loaded with books. He was gaunt, white-haired, and a little mad. A celebration was held for him, for novelty was appreciated on the outer worlds.

The vendor told them all the latest gossip; of the price war between Detroit II and III, and how fishing fared on Alana, and what the president’s wife on Moracia wore, and how oddly the men of Doran V talked. And at last someone said, “Tell us of Earth.”

“Ah!” said the vendor, raising his eyebrows. “You want to hear of the mother planet? Well, friends, there’s no place like old Earth, no place at all. On Earth, friends, everything is possible, and nothing is denied.”

“Nothing?” Simon asked.

“They’ve got a law against denial,” the vendor explained, grinning. “No one has ever been known to break it. Earth is
different,
friends. You folks specialize in farming? Well, Earth specializes in impracticalities such as madness, beauty, war, intoxication, purity, horror, and the like, and people come from light-years away to sample these wares.”

“And love?” a woman asked.

“Why girl,” the vendor said gently, “Earth is the only place in the galaxy that still has love! Detroit II and III tried it and found it too expensive, you know, and Alana decided it was unsettling, and there was no time to import it on Moracia or Doran V. But as I said, Earth specializes in the impractical, and makes it pay.”

“Pay?” a bulky farmer asked.

“Of course! Earth is old, her minerals are gone and her fields are barren. Her colonies are independent now, and filled with sober folk such as yourselves, who want value for their goods. So what else can old Earth deal in, except the nonessentials that make life worth living?”

“Were you in love on Earth?” Simon asked.

“That I was,” the vendor answered, with a certain grimness. “I was in love, and now I travel. Friends, these books...”

For an exorbitant price, Simon bought an ancient poetry book, and reading, dreamed of passion beneath the lunatic moon, of dawn glimmering whitely upon lovers’ parched lips, of locked bodies on a dark sea-beach, desperate with love and deafened by the booming surf.

And only on Earth was this possible! For, as the vendor told, Earth’s scattered children were too hard at work wresting a living from alien soil. The wheat and corn grew on Kazanga, and the factories increased on Detroit II and III. The fisheries of Alana were the talk of the Southern star belt, and there were dangerous beasts on Moracia, and a whole wilderness to be won on Doran V. And this was well, and exactly as it should be.

But the new worlds were austere, carefully planned, sterile in their perfections. Something had been lost in the dead reaches of space, and only Earth knew love.

Therefore, Simon worked and saved and dreamed. And in his twenty-ninth year he sold his farm, packed all his clean shirts into a serviceable handbag, put on his best suit and a pair of stout walking shoes, and boarded the Kazanga-Metropole Flyer.

At last he came to Earth, where dreams
must
come true, for there is a law against their failure.

He passed quickly through Customs at Spaceport New York, and was shuttled underground to Times Square. There he emerged blinking into daylight, tightly clutching his handbag, for he had been warned about pickpockets, cutpurses, and other denizens of the city.

Breathless with wonder, he looked around.

The first thing that struck him was the endless array of theaters, with attractions in two dimensions, three or four, depending upon your preference. And what attractions!

To the right of him a beetling marquee proclaimed: LUST ON VENUS! A DOCUMENTARY ACCOUNT OF SEX PRACTICES AMONG THE INHABITANTS OF THE GREEN HELL! SHOCKING! REVEALING!

He wanted to go in. But across the street was a war film. The billboard shouted, THE SUN BUSTERS! DEDICATED TO THE DAREDEVILS OF THE SPACE MARINES! And further down was a picture called TARZAN BATTLES THE SATURNIAN GHOULS!

Tarzan, he recalled from his reading, was an ancient ethnic hero of Earth.

It was all wonderful, but there was so much more! He saw little open shops where one could buy food of all worlds, and especially such native Terran dishes as pizza, hot dogs, spaghetti, and knishes. And there were stores that sold surplus clothing from the Terran spacefleets, and other stores which sold nothing but beverages.

Simon didn’t know what to do first. Then he heard a staccato burst of gunfire behind him, and whirled.

It was only a shooting gallery, a long, narrow, brightly painted place with a waist-high counter. The manager, a swarthy fat man with a mole on his chin sat on a high stool and smiled at Simon.

“Try your luck?”

Simon walked over and saw that, instead of the usual targets, there were four scantily dressed women at the end of the gallery, seated upon bullet-scored chairs. They had tiny bulls-eyes painted on their foreheads and above each breast.

“But do you fire real bullets?” Simon asked.

“Of course!” the manager said. “There’s a law against false advertising on Earth. Real bullets and real gals! Step up and knock one off!”

One of the women called out, “Come on, sport! Bet you miss me!”

Another screamed, “He couldn’t hit the broad side of a spaceship!”

“Sure he can!” another shouted. “Come on, sport!”

Simon rubbed his forehead and tried not to act surprised. After all, this was Earth, where anything was allowed as long as it was commercially feasible.

He asked, “Are there galleries where you shoot men, too?”

“Of course,” the manager said. “But you ain’t no pervert, are you?”

“Certainly not!”

“You an outworlder?”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“The suit. Always tell by the suit.” The fat man closed his eyes and chanted, “Step up, step up and kill a woman! Get rid of a load of repressions! Squeeze the trigger and feel the old anger ooze out of you! Better than a massage! Better than getting drunk! Step up, step up and kill a woman!”

Simon asked one of the girls, “Do you stay dead when they kill you?”

“Don’t be stupid,” the girl said.

“But the shock—”

She shrugged her shoulders. “I could do worse.”

Simon was about to ask how she could do worse, when the manager leaned over the counter, speaking confidentially.

“Look, buddy. Look what I got here.”

Simon glanced over the counter and saw a compact submachine gun.

“For a ridiculously low price,” the manager said, “I’ll let you use the tommy. You can spray the whole place, shoot down the fixtures, rip up the walls. This drives a .45 slug, buddy, and it kicks like a mule. You really know you’re firing when you fire the tommy.”

“I am not interested,” Simon said sternly.

“I’ve got a grenade or two,” the manager said. “Fragmentation, of course. You could really—”

“No!”

“For a price,” the manager said, “you can shoot
me,
too, if that’s how your tastes run, although I wouldn’t have guessed it. What do you say?”

“No! Never! This is horrible!”

The manager looked at him blankly. “Not in the mood now? Okay. 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 a refreshment stand and ordered a small glass of cola-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 for 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 loyal peasants is sorely pressed by the foreign-inspired socialist conspiracy. A single man, now—”

“I’m not interested,” Simon said.

“In China, the Anarchists—”

“No.”

“Perhaps you’d prefer the Communists in Wales? Or the Capitalists in Japan? Or if your affinities lie with a splinter group such as 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 cola-cola and walked slowly up Broadway, his brow knotted in thought, but determined not to form any premature judgments.

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