[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Galaxy Science Fiction September 1952.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Visiting a society is tougher than being born
into it. A 40 credit tour is no substitute!
The picture changed on the illuminated panel that filled the forward
end of the shelf on which Michael lay. A haggard blonde woman sprawled
apathetically in a chair.
"Rundown, nervous, hypertensive?" inquired a mellifluous voice. "In
need of mental therapy? Buy Grugis juice; it's not expensive. And they
swear by it on Meropé."
A disembodied pair of hands administered a spoonful of Grugis juice to
the woman, whereupon her hair turned bright yellow, makeup bloomed on
her face, her clothes grew briefer, and she burst into a fast Callistan
clog.
"I see from your hair that you have been a member of one of the
Brotherhoods," the passenger lying next to Michael on the shelf
remarked inquisitively. He was a middle-aged man, his dust-brown hair
thinning on top, his small blue eyes glittering preternaturally from
the lenses fitted over his eyeballs.
Michael rubbed his fingers ruefully over the blond stubble on his scalp
and wished he had waited until his tonsure were fully grown before
he had ventured out into the world. But he had been so impatient to
leave the Lodge, so impatient to exchange the flowing robes of the
Brotherhood for the close-fitting breeches and tunic of the outer world
that had seemed so glamorous and now proved so itchy.
"Yes," he replied courteously, for he knew the first rule of universal
behavior, "I have been a Brother."
"Now why would a good-looking young fellow like you want to join a
Brotherhood?" his shelf companion wanted to know. "Trouble over a
female?"
Michael shook his head, smiling. "No, I have been a member of the
Angeleno Brotherhood since I was an infant. My father brought me when
he entered."
The other man clucked sympathetically. "No doubt he was grieved over
the death of your mother."
Michael closed his eyes to shut out the sight of a baby protruding its
fat face at him three-dimensionally, but he could not shut out its
lisping voice: "Does your child refuse its food, grow wizened like a
monkey? It will grow plump with oh-so-good Mealy Mush from Nunki."
"No, sir," Michael replied. "Father said that was one of the few
blessings that brightened an otherwise benighted life."
Horror contorted his fellow traveller's plump features. "Be careful,
young man!" he warned. "Lucky for you that you are talking to someone
as broad-minded as I, but others aren't. You might be reported for
violating a tabu. An Earth tabu, moreover."
"An Earth tabu?"
"Certainly. Motherhood is sacred here on Earth and so, of course, in
the entire United Universe. You should have known that."
* * * * *
Michael blushed. He should indeed. For a year prior to his leaving the
Lodge, he had carefully studied the customs and tabus of the Universe
so that he should be able to enter the new life he planned for himself,
with confidence and ease. Under the system of universal kinship, all
the customs and all the tabus of all the planets were the law on all
the other planets. For the Wise Ones had decided many years before
that wars arose from not understanding one's fellows, not sympathizing
with them. If every nation, every planet, every solar system had the
same laws, customs, and habits, they reasoned, there would be no
differences, and hence no wars.
Future events had proved them to be correct. For five hundred years
there had been no war in the United Universe, and there was peace and
plenty for all. Only one crime was recognized throughout the solar
systems--injuring a fellow-creature by word or deed (and the telepaths
of Aldebaran were still trying to add _thought_ to the statute).
Why, then, Michael had questioned the Father Superior, was there any
reason for the Lodge's existence, any reason for a group of humans to
retire from the world and live in the simple ways of their primitive
forefathers? When there had been war, injustice, tyranny, there had,
perhaps, been an understandable emotional reason for fleeing the
world. But now why refuse to face a desirable reality? Why turn one's
face upon the present and deliberately go back to the life of the
past--the high collars, vests and trousers, the inefficient coal
furnaces, the rude gasoline tractors of medieval days?
The Father Superior had smiled. "You are not yet a fully fledged
Brother, Michael. You cannot enter your novitiate until you've achieved
your majority, and you won't be thirty for another five years. Why
don't you spend some time outside and see how you like it?"
Michael had agreed, but before leaving he had spent months studying
the ways of the United Universe. He had skimmed over Earth, because
he had been so sure he'd know its ways instinctively. Remembering his
preparations, he was astonished by his smug self-confidence.
* * * * *
A large scarlet pencil jumped merrily across the advideo screen. The
face on the eraser opened its mouth and sang: "Our pencils are finest
from point up to rubber, for the lead is from Yed, while the wood comes
from Dschubba."
"Is there any way of turning that thing off?" Michael wanted to know.
The other man smiled. "If there were, my boy, do you think anybody
would watch it? Furthermore, turning it off would violate the spirit of
free enterprise. We wouldn't want that, would we?"
"Oh, no!" Michael agreed hastily. "Certainly not."
"And it might hurt the advertiser's feelings, cause him ego injury."
"How could I ever have had such a ridiculous idea?" Michael murmured,
abashed.
"Allow me to introduce myself," said his companion. "My name is
Pierce B. Carpenter. Aphrodisiacs are my line. Here's my card." He
handed Michael a transparent tab with the photograph of Mr. Carpenter
suspended inside, together with his registration number, his name, his
address, and the Universal seal of approval. Clearly he was a character
of the utmost respectability.
"My name's Michael Frey," the young man responded, smiling awkwardly.
"I'm afraid I don't have any cards."
"Well, you wouldn't have had any use for them where you were. Now,
look here, son," Carpenter went on in a lowered voice, "I know you've
just come from the Lodge and the mistakes you'll make will be through
ignorance rather than deliberate malice. But the police wouldn't
understand. You know what the sacred writings say: 'Ignorance of The
Law is no excuse.' I'd be glad to give you any little tips I can. For
instance, your hands...."
Michael spread his hands out in front of him. They were perfectly good
hands, he thought. "Is there something wrong with them?"
Carpenter blushed and looked away. "Didn't you know that on Electra it
is forbidden for anyone to appear in public with his hands bare?"
"Of course I know that," Michael said impatiently. "But what's that got
to do with me?"
The salesman was wide-eyed. "But if it is forbidden on Electra, it
becomes automatically prohibited here."
"But Electrans have eight fingers on each hand," Michael protested,
"with two fingernails on each--all covered with green scales."
Carpenter drew himself up as far as it was possible to do so while
lying down. "Do eight fingers make one a lesser Universal?"
"Of course not, but--"
"Is he inferior to you then because he has sixteen fingernails?"
"Certainly not, but--"
"Would you like to be called guilty of--" Carpenter paused before the
dreaded word--"_intolerance_?"
"No, no, _no_!" Michael almost shrieked. It would be horrible for him
to be arrested before he even had time to view Portyork. "I have lots
of gloves in my pack," he babbled. "Lots and lots. I'll put some on
right away."
* * * * *
With nervous haste, he pressed the lever which dropped his pack down
from the storage compartment. It landed on his stomach. The device had
been invented by one of the Dschubbans who are, as everyone knows,
hoop-shaped.
Michael pushed the button marked _Gloves A_, and a pair of yellow
gauntlets slid out.
Carpenter pressed his hands to his eyes. "Yellow is the color of death
on Saturn, and you know how morbid the Saturnians are about passing
away! No one _ever_ wears yellow!"
"Sorry," Michael said humbly. The button marked _Gloves B_ yielded a
pair of rose-colored gloves which harmonized ill with his scarlet tunic
and turquoise breeches, but he was past caring for esthetic effects.
"The quality's high," sang a quartet of beautiful female humanoids,
"but the price is meager. You _know_ when you buy Plummy Fruitcake from
Vega."
The salesman patted Michael's shoulder. "You staying a while in
Portyork?" Michael nodded. "Then you'd better stick close to me for a
while until you learn our ways. You can't run around loose by yourself
until you've acquired civilized behavior patterns, or you'll get into
trouble."
"Thank you, sir," Michael said gratefully. "It's very kind of you."
He twisted himself around--it was boiling hot inside the jet bus
and his damp clothes were clinging uncomfortably--and struck his
head against the bottom of the shelf above. "Awfully inconvenient
arrangement here," he commented. "Wonder why they don't have seats."
"Because this arrangement," Carpenter said stiffly, "is the one that
has proved suitable for the greatest number of intelligent life-forms."
"Oh, I see," Michael murmured. "I didn't get a look at the other
passengers. Are there many extraterrestrials on the bus?"
"Dozens of them. Haven't you heard the Sirians singing?"
A low moaning noise had been pervading the bus, but Michael had thought
it arose from defective jets.
"Oh, yes!" he agreed. "And very beautiful it is, too! But so sad."
"Sirians are always sad," the salesman told him. "Listen."
* * * * *
Michael strained his ears past the racket of the advideo. Sure enough,
he could make out words: "Our wings were unfurled in a far distant
world, our bodies are pain-racked, delirious. And never, it seems, will
we see, save in dreams, the bright purple swamps of our Sirius...."