Store of the Worlds: The Stories of Robert Sheckley (33 page)

“I still find it hard to believe,” Sven said, interrupting what promised to be a long dissertation on Chinese country life. “And there's simply no excuse for it. Every community everywhere has a heritage of some sort of racial feeling. But it's every individual's responsibility to rid himself of that when he enters the mainstream of Terran life. Others have. Why not Forbes? Why must he inflict his problems on us? Wasn't he taught anything about the Great Cooperation?”

Hao shrugged his shoulders. “Would you care to speak to him, Captain?”

“Yes. Wait, I'll speak to Angka first.”

The chief engineer left the bridge. Sven remained deep in thought until he heard a knock at the door.

“Come in.”

Angka entered. He was cargo foreman, a tall, splendidly proportioned man with skin the color of a ripe plum. He was a full-blooded Negro from Ghana, and a first-class guitar player.

“I assume,” Sven said, “you know all about the trouble.”

“It's unfortunate, sir,” Angka said.

“Unfortunate? It's downright catastrophic! You know the risk involved in taking the ship up in this condition. I'm supposed to blast off in less than three hours. We can't sail without a radioman, and we need the replacement, too.”

Angka stood impassively, waiting.

Sven flicked an inch of white ash from his cigar. “Now look, Angka, you must know why I called you here.”

“I can guess, sir,” Angka said, grinning.

“You're Forbes's best friend. Can't you do something with him?”

“I've tried, Captain, Lord knows I've tried. But you know Georgians.”

“I'm afraid I don't.”

“Good men, sir, but stubborn as mules. Once they've made up their minds, that's it. I've been talking to Forbes for two days about this. I got him drunk last night—strictly in line of duty, sir,” Angka added hastily.

“It's all right. Go on.”

“And I talked to him like I'd talk to my own son. Reminded him how good the crew got along. All the fun we'd had in all the ports. How good the Cooperation felt. Now look, Jimmy, I said to him, you keep on like this, you kill all that. You don't want that, do you, I asked him. He bawled like a baby, sir.”

“But he wouldn't change his mind?”

“Said he
couldn't
. Told me I might as well quit trying. There was one and only one race in this galaxy he wouldn't serve with, and there was no sense talking about it. Said his pappy would spin in his grave if he were to do so.”

“Is there any chance he'll change his mind?” Sven asked.

“I'll go on trying, but I don't think there's a chance.”

He left. Captain Sven sat, his jaw cradled in one big hand. He glanced again at the ship's chronometer. Less than three hours before blastoff!

He lifted the receiver of the intercom and asked for a direct line to the spacefield tower. When he was in contact with the officer in charge he said, “I'd like to request permission to stay a few days longer.”

“Wish I could grant it, Captain Sven,” the officer said. “But we need the pit. We can only handle one interstellar ship at a time here. An ore boat from Calayo is due in five hours. They'll probably be short of fuel.”

“They always are,” Sven said.

“Tell you what we can do. If it's a serious mechanical difficulty, we could find a couple cranes, lower your ship to horizontal, and drag it off the field. Might be quite a while before we could set it up again, though.”

“Thanks, but never mind. I'll blast on schedule.” He signed off. He couldn't allow his ship to become laid up like that. The Company would have his hide, not a doubt about it.

But there
was
a course of action he could take. An unpleasant one, but necessary. He got to his feet, discarded the dead cigar stump, and marched out of the bridge.

He came to the ship's infirmary. The doctor, in his white coat, was seated with his feet on a desk, reading a three-month-old German medical journal.

“Welcome, Cap. Care for a shot of strictly medicinal brandy?”

“I could use it,” Sven said.

The young doctor poured out two healthy doses from a bottle marked
Swamp Fever Culture
.

“Why the label?” Sven asked.

“Discourages the men from sampling. They have to steal the cook's lemon extract.” The doctor's name was Yitzhak Vilkin. He was an Israeli, a graduate of the new medical school at Beersheba.

“You know about the Forbes problem?” Sven asked.

“Everybody does.”

“I wanted to ask you, in your capacity as medical officer aboard this ship: Have you ever observed any previous indications of racial hatred in Forbes?”

“Not one,” Vilkin answered promptly.

“Are you sure?”

“Israelis are good at sensing that sort of thing. I assure you, it caught me completely by surprise. I've had some lengthy interviews with Forbes since, of course.”

“Any conclusions?”

“He's honest, capable, straightforward, and slightly simple. He possesses some antiquated attitudes in the form of ancient traditions. The Mountain-Georgians, you know, have a considerable body of such customs. They've been much studied by anthropologists from Samoa and Fiji. Haven't you read
Coming of Age in Georgia?
Or
Folkways of Mountain-Georgia?
”

“I don't have time for such things,” Sven said. “My time is pretty well occupied running this ship without me having to read up on the individual psychology of the entire crew.”

“I suppose so, Cap,” the doctor said. “Well, those books are in the ship's library, if you'd care to glance at them. I don't see how I can help you. Re-education takes time. I'm a medical officer anyhow, not a psychologist. The plain fact is this: There is one race that Forbes will not serve with, one race which causes him to enact all his ancient racial hostilities. Your new man, by some mischance, happens to be from that race.”

“I'm leaving Forbes behind,” Sven said abruptly. “The communications officer can learn how to handle the radio. Forbes can take the next ship back to Georgia.”

“I wouldn't recommend that.”

“Why not?”

“Forbes is very popular with the crew. They think he's damned unreasonable, but they wouldn't be happy sailing without him.”

“
More
disharmony,” Sven mused. “Dangerous, very dangerous. But damn it, I can't leave the new man behind. I won't. It isn't fair! Who runs this ship, me or Forbes?”

“A very interesting question,” Vilkin observed, and ducked quickly as the irate captain hurled his glass at him.

Captain Sven went to the ship's library, where he glanced over
Coming of Age in Georgia
and
Folkways of Mountain-Georgia
. They didn't seen to help much. He thought for a moment, and glanced at his watch. Two hours to blastoff! He hurried to the Navigation Room.

Within the room was Ks'rat. A native of Venus, Ks'rat was perched on a stool inspecting the auxiliary navigating instruments. He was gripping a sextant in three hands, and was polishing the mirrors with his foot, his most dexterous member. When Sven walked in the Venusian turned orange-brown to show his respect for authority, then returned to his habitual green.

“How's everything?” Sven asked.

“Fine,” said Ks'rat. “Except for the Forbes problem, of course.” He was using a manual soundbox, since Venusians had no vocal cords. At first, these sound boxes had been harsh and metallic; but the Venusians had modified them until now, the typical Venusian “voice” was a soft, velvety murmur.

“Forbes is what I came to see you about,” said Sven. “You're non-Terran. As a matter of fact, you're nonhuman. I thought perhaps you could throw a new light on the problem. Something I may have overlooked.”

Ks'rat pondered, then turned gray, his “uncertain” color. “I'm afraid I can't help much, Captain Sven. We never had any racial problems on Venus. Although you might consider the
sclarda
situation a parallel—”

“Not really,” Sven said. “That was more a religious problem.”

“Then I have no further ideas. Have you tried reasoning with the man?”

“Everyone else has.”

“You might have better luck, Captain. As an authority symbol, you might tend to supplant the father symbol within him. With that advantage, try to make him aware of the true basis for his emotional reaction.”

“There
is
no basis for racial hatred.”

“Perhaps not in terms of abstract logic. But in human terms, you might find an answer and a key. Try to discover what Forbes fears. Perhaps if you can put him in better reality-contact with his own motives, he'll come around.”

“I'll bear all that in mind,” said Sven, with a sarcasm that was lost on the Venusian.

The intercom sounded the captain's signal. It was the first mate. “Captain! Tower wants to know whether you're blasting on schedule.”

“I am,” Sven said. “Secure the ship.” He put down the phone.

Ks'rat turned a bright red. It was the Venusian equivalent of a raised eyebrow.

“I'm damned if I do and damned if I don't,” Sven said. “Thanks for your advice. I'm going to talk to Forbes now.”

“By the way,” Ks'rat said, “of what race is the man?”

“What man?”

“The new man that Forbes won't serve with.”

“How the hell should I know?” shouted Sven, his temper suddenly snapping. “Do you think I sit on the bridge inspecting a man's racial background?”

“It might make a difference.”

“Why should it? Perhaps it's a Mongolian that Forbes won't serve with, or a Pakistani, or a New Yorker or a Martian. What do I care what race his diseased, impoverished little mind picks on?”

“Good luck, Captain Sven,” Ks'rat said as Sven hurried out.

James Forbes saluted when he entered the bridge, though it was not customary aboard Sven's ship. The radioman stood at full attention. He was a tall, slender youth, tow-headed, light-skinned, freckled. Everything about him looked pliant, malleable, complaisant. Everything except his eyes, which were dark blue and very steady.

Sven didn't know how to begin. But Forbes spoke first.

“Sir,” he said, “I want you to know I'm mighty well ashamed of myself. You've been a good Captain, sir, the very best, and this has been a happy ship. I feel like a worthless no-account for doing this.”

“Then you'll reconsider?” asked Sven, with a faint glimmer of hope.

“I wish I could, I really do. I'd give my right arm for you, Cap'n, or anything else I possess.”

“I don't want your right arm. I merely want you to serve with the new man.”

“That's the one thing I can't do,” Forbes said sadly.

“Why in hell can't you?” Sven roared, forgetting his determination to use psychology.

“You just don't understand us Georgia mountain boys,” Forbes said. “That's how my pappy, bless his memory, raised me. That poor little old man would spin in his grave if I went against his dying wish.”

Sven stifled a curse and said, “You know the situation that leaves me in, Forbes. Do you have any suggestions?”

“Only one thing to do, sir. Angka and me'll leave the ship. You'll be better off short-handed than with an uncooperative crew, sir.”

“Angka is leaving with you? Wait a minute! Who's
he
prejudiced against?”

“No one, sir. But him and me's been shipmates for close to five years now, ever since we met on the freighter
Stella
. Where one goes, the other goes.”

A red light flickered on Sven's control board, indicating the ship's readiness for blastoff. Sven ignored it.

“I can't have both of you leaving the ship,” Sven said. “Forbes, why won't you serve with the new man?”

“Racial reasons, sir,” Forbes said tightly.

“Now listen closely. You have been serving under me, a Swede. Has that disturbed you?”

“Not at all, sir.”

“The medical officer is an Israeli. The navigator is a Venusian. The engineer is Chinese. There are Russians, New Yorkers, Melanasians, Africans, and everything else in this crew. Men of all races, creeds, and colors. You have served with them.”

“Of course I have. From earliest childhood us Mountain-Georgians expect to serve with all different races. It's our heritage. My pappy taught me that. But I will not serve with Blake.”

“Who's Blake?”

“The new man, sir.”

“Where's he from?” Sven asked wearily.

“Mountain-Georgia.”

For a moment, Sven thought he hadn't heard right. He stared at Forbes, who stared nervously back.

“From the mountain country of Georgia?”

“Yes, sir. Not too far, I believe, from where I was born.”

“This man Blake, is he white?”

“Of course, sir. White English-Scottish ancestry, same as me.”

Sven had the sensation of discovering a new world, a world no civilized man had ever encountered. He was amazed to discover that weirder customs could be found on Earth than anywhere else in the galaxy.

He said to Forbes, “Tell me about the custom.”

“I thought
everybody
knew about us Mountain-Georgians, sir. In the section I come from, we leave home at the age of sixteen and we don't come back. Our customs teach us to work with any race, live with any race ... except our own.”

“Oh,” said Sven.

“This new man Blake is a white Mountain-Georgian. He should have looked over the roster and not signed for this ship. It's all his fault, really, and if he chooses to overlook the custom, I can't help that.”

“But
why
won't you serve with your own kind?” Sven asked.

“No one knows, sir. It's been handed down from father to son for hundreds of years, ever since the Hydrogen War.”